If I Have to Crawl

The cold, damp weather chased me indoors this morning for my Thunder Road Half Marathon training. I'm a fan of running in the cold, but not the rain. So I bundled up and headed to the YMCA, where I hit the 1/12 mile-long track with my heart set on completing 120 laps, or 10 miles.

The first mile felt good - nice and easy.

The second mile was better; my muscles were warm, I was into the heart of my playlist, and I coasted.

Near the end of the third mile, I thought about how if I was Taylor running one of her 5Ks, I'd be close to the finish line. When I'm running a race, I like to sprint the rest of the way as soon as the finish line comes into my field of vision. But Taylor never got a glimpse of the finish lines she crossed. She had to get her last burst of energy from somewhere else - somewhere deeper, somewhere purer.

Two laps into the fourth mile, an invisible demon struck a match inside my shoes, and the balls of my feet caught on fire. My achilles whined. Everything else felt good, though. So I pushed on.

Partially to push my very real physical pain out of my mind, I thought about how if I was Taylor, I would be running in darkness. I was too scared to close my eyes on one of the turns, so I closed them for an instant on a straightaway. I felt the presence of other runners and walkers on the tiny track and knew that I would never be able to make it to the far end. I opened my eyes.

Seven laps later, I glanced down and discovered that the entire toe area of the shoe on my right foot was soaked with blood. I never stop in the middle of a mile, though. I had three laps left. Just a quarter of a mile.

As I rounded the third corner of lap 60, I sprinted the length of the last straightaway and right into a chair by the water fountains. I was only halfway through my 10-mile run. But I knew I was done.

I've been injury-prone since I was 15 years old. I've never gotten through a single soccer season without getting hurt. In my mid-20s, I made the inexplicable decision to turn myself into a distance runner. I never really thought about why until this very moment, right here. But I know instantly, without question, that I became a distance runner because of my sister.

In the months after Taylor's diagnosis, I ran to get away from Batten disease. No matter what, running always felt better than crying. I still cried. But I ran more. And after I discovered that I just might have a say in how the story turned out, I ran harder than ever.

Blood-soaked shoes and all, I'll never stop running. Next Saturday, December 11, I'll cross the finish line of my second half marathon, even if I have to crawl. I could never let myself quit. That's not Taylor's style, and it's not my style either. So, to bloody feet and weak ankles and Batten disease, I say bring it on. You may knock me down. But you'll never knock me out.

I'm not only running for myself - I'm running to save Taylor's life. Please consider supporting my efforts through Miles to a Miracle, a new campaign inspired by Taylor's great courage on the race course and in life. Email me to learn how.

.1 to Go

In July 2007, one year after T's diagnosis, I began training for my first marathon, which I planned to run in her honor. That September, I set a new personal record for distance with a 17-mile training run. Two weeks later, I pulled out of December's Thunder Road Marathon with a foot injury.

One year later, I took it down a notch and registered for the half marathon. A series of family crises that fall affected my training; a month before the race, another injury led me to pull out of the half. On the morning of the Thunder Road events, I instead started the Jingle Jog 5K with my sister and her Girls on the Run team. 20-odd minutes later, I arrived at the finish line; 30 minutes after that, a triumphant Taylor crossed the finish line carrying the Fletcher School team sign with her coach, a few teammates and her running buddy, Mary-Kate.

This year, I again registered for the half marathon, but nagging pain in both feet, chronically weak ankles and a hectic autumn prevented me from training the way I would have liked. This time, though, I was determined to stay the course, even when a podiatrist plainly told me the morning prior to the race that my feet and ankles were a train wreck, and he didn't want to tell me not to run, but...And so it was that I found myself giddy in the crowd of 9,000 runners at 7:50 a.m. this past Saturday.

I started out at a moderate pace, as I always do. God didn't build me like a long-distance runner - I'm a more natural sprinter - and I have to constantly remind myself to conserve energy. After the first few miles, though, my happy little endorphins took over, and I coasted for awhile. Then, at around mile 5, the pain set in - throbbing pain and a fire burning in the balls of my feet (which take constant punishment, as I run on my toes) and tightness in my arches. By mile 8, I was the runner the onlookers lining the streets of Charlotte had to encourage to grind it out.

At mile 12, I split off from the marathoners to run the last 1.1 miles of the half course. It helped me to think about that last mile in terms of laps around a track. I told myself I only had four laps to go - easy. After what felt like two laps, my eyes began searching in vain for Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd., where I knew the race ended.

The mile 13 marker was within sight when I first considered walking. Then, I remember, a woman - no, an angel - standing on the sidewalk told me, "Once you turn the corner, you'll be able to see the finish line." And at that very moment, I remembered what Mary-Kate, Taylor's running buddy, had said to me one year prior at the Jingle Jog finish line. When my blind sister fell and scraped her knees on the city streets, Mary-Kate told me, she asked her if she wanted to walk for a bit. Taylor, though, just shook her head, pulled herself up off the ground and started to run again. She didn't set any records that day, but when my sister crossed the finish line, she was running - just as she was at the completion of the Girls on the Run 5K this past May.

As those visions of Taylor running flickered through my mind, I turned that corner and, just as the woman had said I would, I saw the white banner stretched out above the finish line.

Even as my body begged me to stop, I shook off its pleas and, feeling Taylor's courageous spirit coursing through me, I sprinted the last .1 mile to the finish.

Like T that day at the Jingle Jog, I didn't set any records in the running of my first half marathon - my fourth road race ever and, by eight miles, the longest. But that feeling I got over the past .1 mile was something I'll have for the rest of my life.