The Muscled – Page 3 – Reed All About It

Posted on February 27, 2015October 27, 2015 by Jennifer Reed

With the men away, in Madison we’ll play

I’ve seldom met a hair-brained idea I didn’t like. Most of them I let slide, but every now and again you just need to yell a hearty, “Why not?!” This was how my daughter and I ended up in Madison, Wisconsin, earlier this week.

It was totally impromptu and I blame it partly on the people I train with, and partly on lack of sleep due to Sunday night’s storm. The day was supposed to be fairly normal beginning with an early-morning training run. While storms usually lull me to sleep, the massive thunder and light show allowed me to see every hour until 3 when I messaged my running buddy and cancelled.

After a couple more hours of tossing and turning, I watched my husband ready and leave for a day trip to Ames. With our son departing later in the morning to join buddies for a few days at the Dells, I began weighing a thought that flickered to life a couple weeks ago: Madison.

Why? Because the area offers a great selection of triathlon shops and I’m actually beginning to enjoy this tri business. Though I refuse to purchase a tri bike and am certain I’ll NEVER want an aero helmet, I’m pretty excited about the regular swimming and biking that’s been added to my training.

I’ve been squeezing more open water swims into my schedule and though I’m comfortable in a one-piece swimsuit and Lava pants (capri pants made of buoyant Neoprene) I was recently reminded the water conditions of my next triathlon will be significantly different than the lakes and ponds of Clinton and Scott counties.

Later this month I’m doing the Racine half Ironman and the 1.2 mile swim will be in Lake Michigan. With a current water temperature hovering in the 60s, I need a full wetsuit.

Add to that, my bike could use a new seat.

Rousing Moira from her late-morning summer slumber, she was game for our 3-goal plan: wetsuit, saddle, bike ride.

A mere two hours later via highways 61 and 151, Moira patiently waited while the experienced folks at Madison’s Endurance House walked me through the specifics of owning & using a wetsuit. I settled on a sleeveless number to help alleviate my claustrophobia, not to mention the significant price difference between that of a full-sleeved number.

With the first of three goals accomplished, we searched out our hotel just as dark clouds were gathering. I’d hoped we might check out the Capitol area including Monona Terrace, but with thunder rumbling Moira talked me into a late-afternoon showing of the new Transformers movie “Age of Extinction.”

The movie was enjoyable enough, but the real entertainment was watching my skinny 14-year-old pack away chicken strips, mozzarella sticks and cotton candy. I’m quite sure this aided her buoyancy during our short pre-bedtime wade in the hotel pool.

Tuesday morning’s clear skies set the scene for our next goals and after clearing out of the hotel (and Moira feasting on THREE donuts from Lane’s Bakery in Madison’s Villager Mall) we began my search for a new saddle. Unfortunately, spur-of-the-moment road trips do not bode well for impromptu saddle fittings. We quickly learned reknowned tri shop Cronometro had a calendar requiring 10 days advance notice for scheduling a saddle fitting. The Trek Bicycle Store was about as helpful.

With the second goal a bust, admittedly both Moira and my sails were sagging. As we pondered our third and final goal: 20 miles of bicycle cruising, Moira argued for heading home. Then we spotted a vintage-looking ice cream shop and cut a deal, “Fifteen miles and then ice cream.”

Given Madison’s impressive labyrinth of bike trails, renting a bike was an easy alternative to lugging Moira’s heavy mountain bike from home. We chose to use the lake-side Machinery Row Bicycles where I secured Moira a Trek commuter bike for a base fee of $20 a day.

Within minutes (yes, it was that easy) we were off, pedaling along the shores of Lake Monona, past Olin Park which served as the starting point for last year’s Ragnar Relay Chicago and onto Waunona Way, through Paunack Park to the Yahara River at Squaw Bay.

As we cruised, we chatted. We noted the beautiful homes along the lake, the various smells of herbs, flowers and garbage cans wafting on the breeze, how she might want to try RAGBRAI “once I’m in college” and how her legs were indeed strong enough to make it over the next rise.

She reminisced about last summer’s vacation to Yellowstone and the anguish she felt during our bike ride along the George S. Mickelson Trail in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

Moira admitted this ride was much easier and more fun, but added she was tiring. Not wanting to tarnish this positive experience we turned back and logged exactly 12 miles, enough to stretch the legs, re-ignite her enjoyment for cycling and work up an appetite.

After a quick return of the rental bike, we headed to the promised ice cream of Ella’s Deli. When we initially drove past, it was the large carousel in front that caught our attention, but upon entering, neither Moira nor I could process the visual Laughy Taffy that stretched around us.

It was as if Walt Disney and Willy Wonka built a clubhouse! Equal parts “It’s A Small World” and Chocolate Factory with dashes of Tiki Room and Galena’s Kandy Kitchen, everywhere you looked there was something bright and fantastic whirling and moving.

Cable runways strung along walls and across the ceiling for all sorts of characters: Harry Potter swooping along on his Nimbus 2000; a mini Elvis Presley rocking his guitar; Bart Simpson skateboarding overhead. There were dancing peanuts, old timey propeller planes, candy striping and more!

As if the décor wasn’t trippy enough, the menu was a thick, multi-paged binder offering breakfast, lunch and dinner as well as the sweetest confections. We opted for a late lunch, Moira going with a blue slushy drink and fish and chips. I chose a pink, smoothie-like drink dressed with a pillow of cotton candy along with a cheddar and broccoli-smothered baked potato that came with tomato and rice soup.

Despite the long counter of various ice creams, we were too stuffed to indulge ourselves further. As we left Madison, I couldn’t help but question why we don’t visit more often? A mere two hours away, closer than Ames, Des Moines and Chicago, we’ll hopefully have another report, soon.

Originally published 5 July 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on February 27, 2015October 27, 2015 by Jennifer Reed

Dining on ‘tri’ humble pie—injury

Humble pie. It tastes a lot more yucky than crow, but over the last week I’ve been eating quite a bit of it.

That stuff I wrote last week about taking it easy now that summer’s here? Well . . . I didn’t want to mention it, but I did the Quad Cities Triathlon last weekend. And I broke.

As with last August’s Crossroad Triathlon, I panicked during the open water swim and ended up swimming the majority of it on my back. Miraculously, though it was 100 yards longer than the Crossroads, I finished a minute and a half faster last weekend!

Unfortunately that gain was quickly thwarted by my apparent lollygag from swim to bike. At last August’s Crossroads my first transition time was a mere 1:44, comparatively last weekend it was 4:31. And things just went downhill from there.

I’ve been pretty distracted lately, likely due to tonight’s annual Paul Skeffington Memorial Race. I never thought I’d be a part of something so big! For me, the Skeff Race runs the gamut from star harriers to leisurely walkers and the many paces in between. I love that it’s been around for 27 years and I hope you all go out and enjoy it tonight, either by participating or cheering.

But back to my meltdown . . . with my primary focus being on pre-race details, any efforts to formulate a plan for the triathlon were useless. I’m terrible at multi-tasking so it’s no wonder my mind was everywhere but “in the moment.”

The result of being so scattered was that I attacked the 15-mile bike portion of the event with a vigor I can only imagine rabid dogs having, I was actually, literally, foaming at the mouth. I shifted my bike gears into the big ring and gave it all I had.

I’ve been riding a lot more this year than last year, but I’ve spent minimal time riding in the large gear ring. Bigger ring means harder pedaling BUT faster speed.

While the QC Tri bike course is pretty flat, there are a few significant hills. Couple that with increasing winds and it made for a hard 51 minute ride compared to last year’s Crossroad which I rode 90 seconds faster AND felt much better doing. I remember feeling a joy during last year’s ride. But last Saturday? I was merely trying to muscle my way through it and get it done.

I’m still trying to figure out exactly when it happened, but sometime after I rode up to the transition area and got off my bike, I bent over several times while changes shoes, snagging a drink of water, etc. and something “went.”

I was too scattered, breathless, shaky, and let’s not forget, foamy, for real pain to register. I blew it off as mere tightness and headed out for the 5k run. But once I began running, I noticed my left leg not working very well. Thinking I was just breathless, I walked a bit.

After about a half mile of running and walking, I realized I was dragging my left leg. That’s when it hit me, “Uh oh. I’m hurt.” I finished, but once I knew I was injured, I got mindful in a hurry! I was conscious of each footfall, aware of how my muscles were feeling with each stride. But it was “too little, too late.”

So now what? After I finished, I message my soft tissue therapist who since last fall has dramatically helped correct issues with my running. Monday he determined I’d compressed a nerve near the sit bones of my pelvis during the bike that caused the glute muscle on my left side to stop working, making the groin and hamstring compensate and ultimately fail.

So does that mean I pulled my groin? Strained my hamstring? Kind of. As he explained, the whole area simply got way too beat up and now needs a rest. I have twice-daily exercises that he assigned me and I’m to stay off the bike for at least week. And most importantly, work on strengthening my mind/body connection.

Wednesday was my first workout since the triathlon so I did a slow mile in the pool, but without thinking, when I climbed out of the pool and swung my left leg up onto the deck, I re-activated the “ouch.” I’m here to report, lack of mindfulness brings nothing but trouble!

Which brings me back to the humble pie and how awful it tastes. I screwed up. I should have taken it easy. Instead, I was a crazy person.

Please do not think I’m Wonder Woman or think that I think I’m Wonder Woman. I share my highlights and lowlights as evidence that ANYONE can do this, that we don’t have to be naturally-gifted athletes to reach awesome heights. Regular people, you and me, do this stuff! But we have to use our heads . . . and I haven’t been.

Should I have skipped last weekend’s triathlon? Heck no! But as I reflect on it, I remember at no time during the event did I really, truly enjoy myself . . . and if it’s not fun, why bother?

So to those who are heading out for tonight’s Skeff Race, HAVE FUN! Personally I think it’s a lot harder to injure ourselves with a smile on our faces and a giggle in our bellies. But if you choose to go all out, stay focused. Really think about what your body is doing and how it feels in each moment.

Don’t fret the finish! As you feel that mind/body connection, celebrate the awesome strength that lies inside you! And when you see that chute, revel in the joy of our cheers pulling you in and over that finish line!

Originally published 21 June 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on February 27, 2015October 27, 2015 by Jennifer Reed

Break in heat lends to running reflections

For reasons purely selfish, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this week’s weather. From the cooler temperatures and clouds to the light rains and breezes, this week has been a welcome respite.

I am someone who will never complain about winter and even though our past cold season was rather long, I tolerate cold much better than heat, which is why my race calendar has dropped off significantly.

Following the Cornbelt 24-Hour-Run the first weekend in May, I skipped a few events and went back at it Memorial Day weekend with the MedCity Marathon in Rochester, Minn., where my most recent fear was confirmed: being jipped out of a spring and tossed right into the lion’s den of SUMMER. Grrr.

It was a quick trip, just 21 hours from arrival to departure, and unfortunately the cloudless morning allowed temps to climb into the 80s. Both half and full marathon runners were bussed from Rochester to the race start in Byron. With the first half spent on county roads, the course rolled past gorgeous farm land that even included a few buffalo corralled in a small pasture.

I rarely spend much time studying a race course and while I knew Rochester had an impressive trail system, I didn’t think the course would join it. But it did, and I found myself struggling to focus on the “here and now” of 2014 vs. the summer of 2011 when my dad, Tom Reed, was at the Mayo Clinic for nearly a month following surgery for lung cancer.

In 2011, the thoracic nurses at St. Mary’s Hospital printed off maps of the trail system which offered me regular sojourns into nature and the chance to worry and fret and cry safely away from Dad’s bedside.

To say the least, it felt a little sad to be back on those trails.

While the lovely volunteers were wonderfully peppy, the heat continued to climb which did little for my spirits. What really helped were the three different times people offered coolers full of ice cubes which I’d drop into the back of my shirt, stuff under my ball cap and hold in my hands.

I was frustrated. Not only did I not have the proper equipment with me i.e. a sweat rag, but I had yet to mentally acclimate to the challenge of heat. Heck, I was still running in jackets and gloves just a few weeks before!

Then there was the little issue of course markings as a few areas during the last several miles lacked both volunteers, traffic cones and paint. I followed those in front of me and was lucky they knew the way. Later on at the finish line, I saw fellow Cornbelt member, Chet Doyle of Rock Island approach the finish from the opposite direction. After he came back around through the chute, he said a few ill-marked turns cost him dearly in more time and mileage. Ugh!

I’d hoped to finish in under 5 hours, nothing too crazy, but still respectable. However, given the memories that were haunting me, the heat that was grilling me and the tentative progress along a few confusing areas, 5 hours began to slip away.

Despite this there was still fun to be had. With a couple of different places on the course in which you’d meet runners headed back at you, I got to enjoy one of my absolute favorite things: Hi-5’ing!

Running buddy Bennie Rheeder of Cedar Rapids taught me to never pass up an opportunity to Hi-5 a kid, but I’d argue it’s even more fun when you’re just a few miles from the finish and you’re tired and hurting and the tank is on empty, to have fellow runners scream and cheer at each other while swapping palm sweat!

Eventually I made it to the finish line in 5:13:08. Given all the circumstances, I was just happy to be done and sitting in my air conditioned car!

I really haven’t pushed myself since then. My son Maclane and I walked the Color the Quads 5k May 31^st which, having run the event last year, is a much dirtier experience as a walker.

If you’ve never heard of a “color run” it’s when several color stations are positioned along the course where hoards of volunteers spray you with blue- or red- or green- or yellow-dyed corn starch. It gives you rainbow nose candy and blue ear wax, perfect for an 11-year-old boy whose nickname is “Fluffy.”

Even though we walked it, the heat was high and left me exhausted, which brings me back to the blessed weather break that I thoroughly enjoyed this week!

With breeze enough to keep the bugs away and cooler temps to keep my sweat at bay, I armed myself with a power drill and, with the help of Moira and Maclane, modified their swingset!

Gone is the rocking horse attachment on which neither child could fit. By moving Moira’s single, painfully narrow swing to one end and drilling fresh holes through the top at the other, the three of us found ourselves gathered ‘round the swingset, enjoying the gentle sway of our new porch swing!

And isn’t that what summer break is about? Not so much grueling races, but having fun and knocking out little projects . . . and then taking a little break in the swing.

Originally published 14 June 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on February 27, 2015October 27, 2015 by Jennifer Reed

The long road of repairing birth ‘marks’

Two weeks ago my 14-year-old daughter, Moira, had surgery. Not relating to anything life-threatening, no surgical response to a scary diagnosis, but surgery nonetheless. It was the third attempt to graft bone into her hard palate.

Having been born with a unilateral cleft lip and palate, Moira’s baby smile was extra wide and the inside of her mouth, a veritable canyon of openness. Aside from the expected eating issues, the cleft was merely cosmetic.

I prefer the term birth “mark” to birth “defect.” Well-meaning people would see her baby self and remark how lovely she’d look after surgery. I’d gently remind them, “she’s lovely now.”

Her recent trip to the OR was one of many surgeries she’s undergone. At six months of age, University of Iowa doctors closed Moira’s lip. At 1-year, her palate. Then there were the holes (fistulas) that popped open in her palate, requiring skin grafts from her hip to close them. Like many other children, Moira also had a couple of sets of ear tubes put in, as well.

Then in 2^nd grade, doctors made the first attempt at grafting bone from her left hip into her hard palate. The reasoning behind the graft was to allow Moira as natural a smile as possible. Often times, children born with cleft palates are missing teeth in the area where the face and skull didn’t fully come together. By grafting bone into the open palate, it allows doctors to either move teeth into the area or install implants.

Unfortunately, within the first couple of weeks after this first graft, tiny shards of bone began escaping and by the one-month post-op appointment, doctors confirmed our fear: the graft failed.

In 3^rd grade, a second attempt was made. Once again, by the second week of post-op, she began handing us tiny shards of white bone. I felt sick.

Despite the emissions, the otolaryngology team believed some of the graft did take, which put Moira in a holding pattern, of sorts. No more surgeries until after braces.

Last spring the braces went on and after several months of moving teeth, we were informed x-rays showed there remained insufficient bone in the hard palate to continue moving teeth, that enough bone did not survive the 2^nd graft five years earlier and she’d need a third.

I felt that old flutter of panic rise in my chest. I wanted to scream and holler that my daughter had to go through this, again and AGAIN! It wasn’t fair. And then the panic passed . . . even Moira would admit she’s got a pretty great life. Her “problems” are cosmetic. She’s a healthy, happy, normal kid!

Not only did Moira’s attitude help fend off the demons of dread, but the doctors working on her were a new team. Rather than go through the otolaryngology department at the University of Iowa, her orthodontist referred her to UI’s dental department where he teaches weekly and is “hands-on” with her team there.

After meeting with this team, I felt a little less scared. Their approach was more aggressive noting Moira would be placed on an antibiotic immediately after surgery, the bone would be harvested from the opposite hip, or as they put it, “a fresh site,” and then warned, “you’ll be coming out here a lot” because of Moira’s history with rejection.

An aggressive approach was music to our ears. I didn’t care if we had to drive daily or stay in a hotel, I loved the idea of these doctors keeping a close eye on her.

There were a host of other issues, minor in comparison, but pressing nonetheless. For instance, Moira plays trumpet, would she be able to continue? How limited would her other activities be?

Her team assured us that after 4-6 weeks of recovery, Moira could likely resume her normal activities. Timing proved key. To minimize any chance of being jostled, bumped or hit, we scheduled surgery as close as possible to the last day of school. May 15 was the best they could. We opted to keep her home for the remaining 10 days of the school calendar, working with her teachers to help her focus on homework and such.

By being at the end of the school year, she would have the summer to recover and be ready to resume her trumpet in August.

Many people have asked how Moira was handling the idea of surgery, “was she nervous?” Undoubtedly, yes, but Moira has two things going for her A) it had been several years since her last surgery so her recall wasn’t as fresh, and B) she’s a little Buddhist! If ever there was a child who lives in the moment, it’s Moira.

But as surgery grew closer, as she attended the pre-op appointment and talked with teachers and friends about the upcoming knife, she admitted her fears. Those fears? Not being able to eat Mike & Ike candy or popcorn. (Oh, the teen mind…)

The day of surgery came with several delays, but eventually she was taken into the OR. When she came out, it was with fabulous news!

Tune in next week to learn what happened and of the amazing things people did to honor Moira (and her fellow human beings)!!!

Originally published 31 May 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on February 27, 2015October 27, 2015 by Jennifer Reed

Skeffington Race keeps getting better!

We’re less than a month away from the 27^th annual running of the Paul Skeffington Memorial Race! Are you registered?

I remember when it first started, way back in 1988. It was the summer before my senior year of high school, when acid-washed jeans, Guns ‘N Roses and big hair were the rage.

Back then, I played volleyball and golf, I ran neither cross country nor track. My, how times have changed! Who knew that in 27 years, the Skeff Race, originally thought to have just a few years of life, would last over a quarter of a century with participation reaching well over 700 in recent years!

I didn’t know Paul Skeffington, but I loved the grocery store, especially after my daughter was born. Just a couple of blocks from where my husband and I first lived, “Skeffs” was just a quick walk away. And after Moira became mobile? To trail behind her as she pushed one of those miniature little shopping carts down the aisle was hilarious!

As for the race that honors Paul Skeffington, it’s only recently that I started getting involved, but once I joined the fun, I fell in love.

First, there are the “options.” Anyone can enjoy the Skeff Race: there’s the fun run for the kids, the two-mile run/walk and for the braver souls, the humbling five-mile race.

Second, last year’s new time: what started as a Saturday morning event is now in the early-evening! I’m sure there are some who enjoy heat and humidity. I’m not one of them. Just remembering the heavy, thick air on some of the Saturday morning Skeff Races makes my chest tighten. By 6 p.m., the heat is usually letting up, and with the day’s work behind you, it’s time to have some fun!

Finally, the route: I’ve never minded the many changes it’s taken, but I love that the five-mile race course includes the Paul Skeffington Memorial Trail. And new for this year, the two-mile route will venture along DeWitt’s 3^rd Avenue, giving residents a reason to come out and watch the parade of runners and walkers.

During last year’s race, as the five-mile course wound around the north section of the trail, I saw one of my close friends, Kristi Klinkhammer of Clinton, struggling. When I stopped to check on her, sudden foot pain was preventing her from running. Despite stretching and kneeding the sole, the foot just wouldn’t cooperate, but quit? Pfft!

Sometimes shuffling, most times walking, we hung together. No matter how bad it hurt, Kristi was going to finish. Sure, it can be a drag coming in last, but it’s far worse to give up. I’d say Kristi, unaware of who Paul Skeffington was, honored him with her grit.

Praised by previous editors of The Observer, first after his passing in a 1988 column by Bob Parrott, then again in 2001 by Mary Rueter, Skeffington was lauded as a community hero.

The late Parrott wrote about Skeffington as a kindred spirit with an undying love for DeWitt and its residents, eager to see his community survive the farm crisis of the 1980s.

Rueter, witnessing DeWitt’s survival and flourish since those dark times, told of the scholarships and park improvements the race that bears his name has funded. Both writers painted a picture of a man who loved his town and would do anything to keep it going.

With the Paul Skeffington Memorial Race already in its next quarter century, it remains an excellent way of experiencing DeWitt’s fun side while also honoring the legacy of one of the town’s great heros.

Come June 21^st, I hope to see you all there!

Originally published 24 May 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on February 27, 2015October 27, 2015 by Jennifer Reed

Local 24-Hour-Run: crazy & worth repeating

For the past 33 years, the Cornbelt Running Club has hosted its 24-Hour-Run at the North Scott Track in Eldridge. That’s right, 24 hours of running or walking, around and around and around a high school track. Through rain, wind, sunrise, sunset, bugs, rabbits and birds; through night, through day; through burgeoning blisters, bad backs and sore hips; through chilly temps and blazing heat.

When I initially joined Cornbelt in late 2009, such an event didn’t even register with me. I’m sure I read about it in the newsletter, but because I was so far from considering anything beyond a marathon, I failed to see the event as anything other than LOONEY TUNES! The notion of doing something for 24 hours, paying to do so . . . and not even for a charity? I was completely unable to grasp such nonsense.

Within a couple years of joining the running club, I began to volunteer at a few events and eventually I found myself at a table near the North Scott Track counting laps in the wee hours of a Sunday morning.

As runners and walkers completed the last three hours of the challenge, I began to see the 24-Hour-Run as something I needed to try. Back in January, when I made a list of specific goals for 2014, the 24-Hour-Run was part of my four-goal list.

Because I’ve done a few long events since March, I didn’t consider any specific type of training, rather I focused on staying healthy, listening to my body and in the week prior to the May 3-4 event, squeeze in a daily nap and carb load responsibly.

At 7 a.m. when I toed the line with 24 other individuals from as nearby as DeWitt and as far away as California, I had one main hope: to last all 24 hours.

In talking with others who had done it, I was interested in how pain would affect my psyche. I’m not a masochist and do NOT enjoy pain and/or suffering, especially the self-inflicted kind. But I’m curious about my limits. Back in 2009 when I set my sights on the 2010 Chicago Marathon, I assumed I’d find my limits there. Sure it was tough, running 26.2 miles is hard, but it wasn’t the mythical, life-changing “Everest” I’ve heard others claim it to be.

What if I were faster? Nope. I still don’t think it’d be any of that reverential stuff, it’d just be less fun.

And I’ve pretty much come to grips with the fact that if I’m not having fun, I’m not going to bother. But I must admit, I didn’t expect to have fun at the 24-Hour-Run. I expected myself to morph into some senseless, muttering, sleep-deprived ball of pain.

I was most concerned with my feet, given they’d suffer the most. I knew I needed to have a variety of shoes and unfortunately I chose the wrong one to start in: a thin pair of Brooks Ravennas that, while fine for a 10k, have no business staying on my feet beyond that. Though no blisters appeared, the Brooks laces cut into the top of one of my feet, setting it on fire.

Not sure how long each of my three pairs of shoes would last, I kept the Brooks on for seven hours, 112 laps totaling 28 miles before changing into a newish pair of Asics Kayanos.

While the Asics have always been a good long-run shoe for me, and my feet did feel better getting out of the Brooks, the damage was done. I kept them on for another nine hours, another 108 laps totaling 27 miles before breaking out my ace-in-the-hole, a pair of Hoka Conquests.

These moon-like shoes have a sole that’s crazy thick. Its massive cushion helped me run much of that final eight hours. Except for a brief time in which I pulled off my socks and popped blisters on my toes (and then slathered a layer of A&D ointment on my soles) running the straights and walking the turns made for a comfortable way to pass the hours.

But if it was all physical, where’s the fun in that? Eventually everyone walks and it’s when falling in with another participant that the glory of the event comes to the surface. Visiting with DeWitt resident and pastor Curt Girod who was doing his fourth 24-Hour-Run, he told me about his prior experience and what got him to achieving the 100 kilometer/61 mile mark. He finished with nearly 77.5 miles logged.

Then there’s the character who convinced Curt to do the event in the first place, DeWitt resident Scott Hoag. I remember counting Scott’s laps last year, but getting to talk with him and soak up his experience of having completed well over 20 of 24-Hour-Run events, was much more fun. Curt, Scott and the vast majority of everyone else exhibited for me, how much stronger the mind is than the body.

The event defies logic, reason, and has most people thinking we all needed to be locked in a padded room.

Scott’s hips and back were aching and more than once I watched friends work on his lower back as he laid face-down on the in-field. And yet he never quit, logging a final tally a couple tenths shy of 78 miles.

I think Curt and Scott would agree that we powered on, not because our mental fortitude was so immense or our bodies, temples of greatness. We kept circling the track because of the people who joined us . . . the ones who love us, in spite of our quirky hobbies.

Curt’s wife kept him company and walked with him, Scott’s kids were there. Marty brought the kids down, holding signs that read, “Mom is 24 hours of awesome!” My parents came out and walked me over the 50 mile threshold, Charlotte resident and racing buddy Nancy McClimon came twice, first to walk with me, the second time to drive my car home afterwards.

Seeing so many friends and families come out to share in the experience brought real meaning to the term “team effort.” Even while I sat popping blisters, I was loving it.

I think it was Curt who said, “You’re hooked, aren’t you.”

Yep! My 81.65 miles were 323 laps of fun! A fun that was parsed into bits of endurance, slices of sharing, a chunk of eating, a heap of pain, a dollop of suffering, and a huge helping of joy!

Whether you’re a walker or runner, want to do 10 miles or 100, I think the 24-Hour-Run is our best-kept, most neurotically-loved secret . . . and I would love to see more of us out there in 2015!

Originally published 17 May 2014 in The Observer.