Don't Avoid the Hills

One of my all-time favorite movies is "The Princess Bride". In this classic fairy tale saga one of the antagonists, Vizzini, declares to the captured Princess, "Life is pain, Princess."

I thought about this line often as I struggled to complete the final few miles of the Big Cottonwood Canyon Marathon near Salt Lake City in mid September. The question popped into my mind more than once of, "Why?" Coworkers, friends, and family have on multiple occasions asked of my long-distance running, "Why? Why subject yourself to that pain?"

The answer to that question is the subject of another day and another post. But during a morning run last summer in Rexburg, Idaho I reflected upon the 'why' and the 'pain' of running. As I struggled up a rather steep incline wishing I had chosen an easier route, a simple phrase popped into my mind that resonated not just with that particular run, but with life in general:

Don't Avoid the Hills

My family was visiting cousins in Rexburg and I had escaped the commotion of a house full of 9 kids--5 of which were mine--and all under the age of 10. This was the second morning I had gone running and was a little more familiar with the local terrain. I followed the same route as the day before, but as I approached the top of a mild incline on one of the main city streets I came to a bend in the road. I suddenly had a choice to make. I could continue on the same path as the day before; it would lead me to the center of town and to the university. I knew the route, I knew what to expect, and I would be comfortable with the run. It was the safe decision.

Or, instead of following the bend of the road, I could, as Robert Frost penned, take the road less traveled. The road to the right was a picturesque country setting, lined with large oak trees and peaceful looking homes. Because of the large trees and the increasing incline, I couldn't see too far down the road, so I didn't know where it led to. I assumed I could eventually make a large loop around town and wind up back where I started, but I wasn't totally sure. And, of more immediate consequence for the runner in me, this new route looked a little more "hilly". Was it worth trying this new route at the risk of getting lost or tackling more hills?

And that's where the phrase popped into my mind:

Don't Avoid the Hills

As the road turned left, I turned right and followed the new, uncertain path. The road was as pretty and peaceful as I suspected. It also led to hills far steeper than I anticipated. But I didn't turn back. I pushed myself up the daunting inclines, enjoyed the beautiful vistas, and relished the satisfaction of making it to the top. I eventually was able to make a large loop around the town and back to our cousin's home, a round trip of just over 10 miles. Back at the house I felt the inner satisfaction of accomplishing something difficult. I was a better runner for taking the road less traveled.

Yes, life is pain. But not fruitless or meaningless--and there is joy to be found. Undoubtedly we grow the most when we're pushed the hardest. Rarely, if ever, is something important or meaningful accomplished without adversity, struggle, and, challenge.

There are also naysayers at every turn. Most people don't want you to try something difficult because you might succeed. Better to play it safe, they'll say, and not take the risk of failure.

But you know what, don't buy that line of thinking. 

The next time you come to a bend in the road of your life, don't automatically stay on the path of least resistance. Don't be too quick to dismiss the notion that you could accomplish something great, regardless the level of difficulty. Don't assume that you aren't the outlier of success. 

Embrace the challenges of life, don't dismiss them. Conquer the hills, don't avoid them.

Tomorrow, I Run

Nearly two years ago I was getting ready to run the St. George Marathon. It turned out to be a race for the ages . . . but for all the wrong reasons.

At mile 24.9 I collapsed.

Six hours later, with breathing tubes down my throat and multiple IVs in my arms, I awoke, finding myself in the Intensive Care Unit of the St. George hospital. My wife and parents rushed down after hearing my plight as I spent the night in the ICU. After stabilizing I was transferred to a regular patient recovery room where I then spent the next six days undergoing blood tests, a heart analysis, and countless other medical procedures that tested my patience and ultimately our wallet.

Contrary to what you may have thought, I had trained diligently for the race and I was in pretty good shape. I hydrated properly beforehand and was very conscientious of my diet in the days and weeks leading up to the event. But once the race began I let my adrenaline get the best of me. I ran the first 10 miles or so at much too quick of a pace for my level of running. By mile 18 I was running out of gas. Around mile 21 I began getting cramps in my calves. I would stop and stretch, but I kept going. My stubborn competitive streak was too strong, though, so I pushed through the pain.

The last thing I really remember as the race course crossed the street diagonally is looking at some of the spectators on the side and nearly asking them for water. It was somewhere near that point of the home stretch where I fell suppine (face first according to the ambulance report) and unconcious.

It turns out I had extreme heat stroke. That lead to renal failure and respiratory failure. All of that led to rhabdomyolysis. Basically my muscles were breaking down too fast and the waste was going into my blood system too quickly. If my CK levels (which tracks the amount of waste in the blood) rose too much more then kidney failure was a distinct possibility. So I was stuck in the hospital until my levels came back down. A normal person's CK levels are 500; a normal person after a marathon is around 5,000. Mine were at 10,000 and rose past 50,000. But, thankfully, they subsided and normalized.

Oh, and half way through my hospital stay, after another middle-of-the-night blood test, the nurse told me I had pneumonia.

Luckily all of that passed. With huge support and prayers from my wife, parents, family, friends, and neighbors, I was able to go home and get back to a normal life.

Which brings me to tomorrow.

I never did lose my stubborn competitive streak. What's worse is that after gradually getting back into the sport, I am an openly-admitted running addict. I run four or five times a week. I have run three half marathons since St. George. And a year ago I finished the Utah Valley Marathon even (though it was at a slower pace aiming just to finish with a friend).

In the back of my mind, though—and at probably at the forefront of my running subconscious—has been the goal to run another marathon at my race pace (about 9 min/mile) and finish strong. Almost nothing in this world feels quite so good, nothing quite so fulfilling or joyful, as pushing yourself to the max (either mentally, physically, or spiritually) and achieving something great.

No, running a marathon doesn't equal to so many other great accomplishments in life. Marriage, children, family, and a multitude of other events top the priority list. At the same time, though, there is something special about race day—the excitement of a cold autumn morning, high in the tops of the towering mountains, with thousands of other runners gearing up for this physical and mental test of strength, endurance, and fortitude;  the almost palpable feeling of anxiety as you approach starting line, realizing the grueling voyage you are about to embark; the hope and anticipation of crossing the finish line after giving all you had physically and all you could muster mentally.

Now tomorrow, in just a few short hours and much to the chagrin of my wife, I get that chance to race again, this time at the Big Cottonwood Marathon.

I won't be crossing the finish line with the first group of participants. I won't qualify for the Boston Marathon. I probably won't even be in the top half of all runners.

But nearly two years after that hot and humbling day in St. George, I will finish the race. And I will finish strong.

Tomorrow, I run.

The Hope of Achieving Greatness

There's something exciting about September 1.

The unofficial beginning of Fall. A new school year. The end of summer heat. The nostalgia of our glorious (or not-so-glorious) high school years. The chill of a new dawn. The foray of bright new colored leaves. The crispness of autumn afternoons and lengthened fall shadows. And of course, the return of football.

All of these factors add to the bubbling anticipation of Fall. But I think there's something bigger, something more profound about this time of the year.

The calendar tells us that January 1 is the New Year. Nature shows its rebirth and revival in Spring. But for man, Fall is the time our internal clocks reset and subconsciously begin anew. 

The circadian rhythm of the school year—whether we're actually in school or not—gives us a natural starting and stopping point every year; a distinct, measurable time period of activity. Within these defined parameters we are tasked with projects to accomplish and assignments to complete. Gone are the ambiguity of lazy summer days—both figuratively speaking or literal. Ready or not, we are forced into the arena of life and given actual responsibilities. It's sink-or-swim time.

Every year millions and millions of students complete a grade, graduate from school, or move onto a new stage of life. Accomplishments will be celebrated next Spring as a finale, but the beginning is now, this Fall. And even if we already graduated from the highest levels of our education ladder, the memory and feelings of beginning again are to one degree or another relit within us. We feel the excitement of the season and the energy of the new beginning.

In all reality Fall is our "New Year". Our team is undefeated; our scores are unblemished; our slates are blank. We stand at the precipice of life with a chance to start something new and accomplish something meaningful, something great.

We have a renewed hope of achieving greatness.

Welcome to Fall!