Be the Wind

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This morning I went for a run on the beach, something I haven’t done in a long time. I’m just getting back out there after having Roan (who turns 11 weeks old today), and although I can comfortably run 3.1 miles now, even the 20 minutes I had set out to run today was unbelievably tough. I don’t often run on the beach because it seems like I’m always training for a race, and although I enjoy watching the waves and breathing the salt air as I run, I feel like it holds me back from adding distance, which is what most of my training for races is all about. Two miles on the beach feels like 3 or 4 miles to me.

Since it was my last day in Avon, I put on my shoes and headed down the street to the beach access. Once I made it to the top of the stairs, I looked up and saw what could have been a snowstorm in the distance. In the valley between the dunes as far as I could see (which wasn’t very far) was fog. Thick, white fog. The wind whipped my ponytail around my head, and I zipped up the sweatshirt I was glad I had decided to put on. I crossed over the second dune to the beach and found that while the fog wasn’t as oppressive there, the wind was even more so. I looked to my right and saw the pier to the south and decided that even though the first mile (which is always harder for me than any that come after it) would be run against the wind, I would go that way. It would be nice to have the wind at my back on the return trip.

I headed toward the pier and trudged through deep, soft sand until I found a firmer footing and leaned into the 25 mph wind. There were a few other people out walking along the beach and looking for shells, but I was the lone runner. I waved hello and panted out an occasional “good morning” as I inched toward the pier. On my way there, I decided that even if the little voice from the running application on my phone didn’t tell me the pier was my halfway point (10 minutes into the run), I would turn around then because I didn’t think I could run much farther than that. Five or six minutes of running into that wind, and I was ready to give up.

I heard the “halfway point” notification as I tapped one of the pier’s pilings and turned around. With the wind at my back, I suddenly felt like a Kenyan! It was as if I had been pulling a hundred-pound plow before and had dropped it there at the pier to run unencumbered on my way back. With a new store of energy and enthusiasm, I ran back toward my starting point and made it there in almost half the time. I passed my beach access with several minutes left to run and marveled at how much easier having the wind at my back could be. That wind pushed me along, lifted me up, and gave me the confidence to turn off that little voice in my head that tells me to give up. I felt so good at that point that I ran with that wind until the little voice in my headphones said, “run completed, 20 minutes,” and then I decided to turn around. And I saw I had several blocks to go to get to my beach access.

Now here I was again, running against the wind. But I was not going to stop. I thought about how easy it felt with that encouraging wind helping me along, and instead of thinking about how hard it was to run against it, I thought about why I was running. I remembered sitting on the porch at the beach house just an hour earlier looking into Roan’s eyes as he woke up from a nap in my arms. I thought about his big brother Aren. I thought about the future my two little boys have ahead of them. And then I thought about Owen, and I thought about his little sister Lucy who is due in just a few weeks.

Then a thought hit me – a horrible but unfortunately all-too-real thought – unless a cure for DMD is found soon, Lucy will outlive her big brother. That thought hit me like a wave, and I began crying. With winds gusting up to 35 mph in my face, I kept running, and I said to myself, “I am doing this for Aren. I am doing this for Roan. I am doing this for Owen. I am doing this for Lucy.” The rest of the run felt like a stroll through the tulips compared to what Owen’s family – and the families of the thousands of little boys like him – will have to endure if a cure isn’t found.

So please, be the wind at their backs and help me raise money for Charley’s Fund. We need to find a cure for DMD so these families can look forward to a brighter future for their little boys and their sisters and brothers.

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It's official - I am adding Maryland to my list this year on October 16 with the Baltimore Running Festival's half marathon. The best part? There's a 100 yard fun run for kids 7 and under that Aren and Owen will probably run together. :-)

Why I'm Running

As many of you know, one of my oldest and closest friends, Melissa, has an adorable little boy named Owen who has Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (DMD). I have known Melissa since we were in first grade (when we each wore one half of a Best Friends heart around our necks) and we have been close friends ever since. When Owen was just a few months old, he was diagnosed with DMD, a terrible and fatal disease that wastes away his muscles due to a lack of a protein called Dystrophin. Right now he is on the path to being in a wheelchair by the time he is 8 to 12 years old. The reason this disease is fatal is because it affects all of his muscles, eventually including the internal ones like his heart.

Owen just turned five, and while he is doing well now, Owen's mom and dad must deal with the difficult reality of his disease every day. As a mother to two healthy boys, I truly cannot imagine how hard it must be for them to know that their son's future is not guaranteed. Your donation to Charley's Fund brings them and those who love them hope that a cure will be found during Owen's lifetime.

There is a lot of great research coming down the pipeline right now, and all money that I raise here will go to DMD research. Charley's Fund's mission statement is: "We direct money into the hands of researchers who have the best shot at developing a treatment or cure for Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Our goal is to cure DMD in time to save Charley’s life and the lives of thousands of boys like him."

Baby Aren (as Owen still excitedly calls him even though Aren now has a baby brother named Roan) doesn't get to see Owen as often as we'd like because of the distance between us, but the two of them act like brothers when they're together, and I certainly consider Owen's mom to be like a sister. My hope is that our boys - and Owen's soon-to-be new baby sister Lucy - can both celebrate many more birthdays together in the future. Your donation could help make this possible.