I should have seen it coming. As easy as I see my boys running at me when the ice cream comes out of the freezer, I should have seen myself running the Marine Corps Marathon. I didn't, though. I'd been in DC last year watching friends run this race. I'd navigated hours of dizzying metro rides. Dodged what felt like a zillion spectators crisscrossing the city in search of a zillion different runners. I was so lost when I left the city that day I swore I'd never run that race. 

That's why I should have seen it coming. In my running life, the translation for never is almost always "see you at the starting line." 

The morning started with traquility. Just my friends and I nibbling on some breakfast in the hotel lobby before we headed to the metro. 
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But tranquility was short lived. When we left the lobby we had 1 1/2 hours to get to the starting line of our race just 4 miles away. Yet, we barely got to the starting line as the first runners were taking off. 

Those dizzying metro rides. Those crowds. They were back. And they were not tranquil. 

All I could think was - when will I learn to let my nevers stay nevers. 

I also knew it wasn't my thinking that got me there. It was my heart. Specifically my heart for a man I've come to love. Earlier in the year my friend Sid asked me to run this race since he couldn't. Sid is a Navy veteran. He's devoted the last 25 years of his life to running marathons for fallen military heroes - over 200 marathons to be exact. But he reached a point, at 72 years old, where his body wouldn't cooperate with him over the marathon distance.

So he asked me to tackle this one for him. 

When considering my answer, my mind saw those crowds, remembered the logistical nightmare of it all. I remembered thinking I might need the Marines to clear a path for me out of the city when I left to go home. 

But my heart - it saw Sid. It saw Sid marching 26.2 miles through the streets of Little Rock Arkansas, for 8 hours, carrying the American flag. (The Little Rock Marathon was where I first met Sid in person.)

It was my heart that told my mind to shut up and run. That's how I found myself standing at the starting line of the Marine Corps Marathon. 
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So my buddy Tracey and I decided we were going to run this one together. Every television station in the country should have interrupted their regularly scheduled programming for that breaking news. It's pretty common knowledge Tracey and I ran together several years ago on a hilly half marathon course in Lexington. Tracey tried to give me advice about running tangents when the only advice I wanted was how to survive a half marathon when you're only a few non-tangent strides from death.

I snapped at Tracey a couple of times. I think he didn't like it much. He never ran with me again. 

We were two miles into our reunited race when he said, "Can you believe we've already gone two miles. The miles are just flying by." I think that was his way of saying look, two miles and we haven't killed each other yet. 

The truth is the first ten miles flew by. I was running a nice steady pace. All along my goal was to get to the bridge at mile 21 without getting pulled off the course. That required a pace better than 14 minute miles. We were better than a minute per mile faster than that. And feeling good. 

Before the bridge I knew I'd have to tackle mile 12. The Blue Mile. The one mile section of the course lined with pictures of fallen service members. Sid was going to be standing along the Blue Mile holding an American flag. More than the finish line, I was anticipating seeing Sid. 

We weren't far into the mile when we came across a young woman bent down in front of one of the pictures of a deceased service member. She was crying uncontrollably while holding the picture. It was clearly someone dear to her. Someone she missed. Someone gone way too soon.

It occurred to me for every one of those pictures we were passing, many people had probably cried for them like she was crying. Many people are probably still crying for them - parents, spouses, children - lives never the same. I was barely into the mile and it was already emotional. 

But I still hadn't found the man I was looking for. 

Then I heard him shouting out. I heard Sid. There he was, standing as proud as ever with the American flag. It's like looking at soulmates when you see Sid and that flag together. For a man who has honored hundreds of fallen soldiers through his running journey over the years, there seemed in that moment to be no more perfect setting. Ever. And as I ran toward Sid, I felt incredibly blessed to share in it. 

After spending some time with Sid he pushed us on. He literally pushed me I think. He probably sensed I was more comfortable hanging out there with him than tackling the final 14 miles of the marathon. But I'd come to see that finish line, to cross it in Sid's place and honor, so we pressed on. 

We made it to the half marathon mark in 2:50. I'd never felt so strong after a half marathon. We were on target for the 6-hour finish I was shooting for. All was good. 

Until it wasn't. 

At about mile 15 things started getting tough. I felt good breathing wise. I didn't feel drained thanks to cool temperatures. But every muscle in my body was sore. Not to mention a few bones. Feet. Calves. Thighs. Hips. Even my shoulders were sore. The good news about soreness is, unlike the Georgia Jewel when I was trying to battle through nausea and dizziness, I knew my mind could overcome pain. Not once, even as the pain grew, did I consider I wouldn't beat the bridge. Not once did I consider I wouldn't see the finish line. 

I knew we had friends waiting at mile 18. That became my target. As hard as my race was starting to get, I knew seeing friends would be a boost of energy. In a city overrun with unfamiliarity, thousands of people I didn't know, roads I'd never traveled, a place full of enormity and overwhelming, I knew seeing smiles and hearing cheers from within the world I treasure - I knew that would prove to be a pit stop that would go a long way towards getting me home. 

And I was right. 
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As we left the cheer squad not all was cheery with me and my running partner Tracey. We'd done so good for 18 miles. We'd buried the nightmare of that first race to the finish line together many years ago. Now, I confess, most of this falls on me. The homestretch is always a grumpy stretch in my running journey. If it's a half marathon grumpy visits at about mile 10. If it's a full marathon you might want to avoid me after about - well - mile 18. 

Tracey was pretty focused on us breaking the 6-hour mark. But I knew at this point that goal wasn't happening. Tracey was using all sorts of coaching strategies to get me to speed up. The one that sent me over the edge was when he told me if I "picked up my pace a little bit my body would follow suit."

There was something about that statement at mile 18 - in the midst of my misery - in the midst of me grappling with the reality I had to lug my body another 8 miles to the finish line - that didn't sit well with me. Maybe it was how I interpreted that statement as Tracey believing I wasn't smart enough to know my body was going to follow me where I went no matter how fast I went. Like who does not know that? Maybe it was me interpreting that statement as him insinuating the only reason I had slowed my pace was because I didn't know my body was sort of married to my pace - and not that I was dying. Or, maybe it was how I suddenly realized this guy ignored the memo I sent out long ago that as loudly as I could proclaim it proclaimed: 
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So I politely as I could told Tracey to shut up. I tell my kids to never say those two words - that there is never a helpful or loving way to say shut up. So I hope they never read this article. Because in that moment, shut up was the most helpful and loving sentiment a human could possibly express. 

Do as I say boys - not as I run marathons with Uncle Tracey. 

The truth is, though, and don't tell Tracey, but some coaching did sink in. I did dig in toward that finish line. I did celebrate within when we beat the bridge - one of my primary goals in this race. I knew beating 6 hours wasn't possible, but I doubled down on a new goal to beat my previous marathon time. 

As I was doubling down additional reinforcements showed up. Not coaches, just beautiful souls tackling their own races. Charlotte Powers and her dad Papa Powers came along. My buddy Cliff joined us for the last few miles. There is inexplicable power and strength that comes from friendship, from a shared journey. Especially when that journey is one as challenging as the Marine Corps Marathon. I think it's because our friends, who know us best, remind us - like they did at mile 18 and again down this homestretch - that we do have it within us to do far more than we imagine. 

That's what I did. Over the last 8 miles I discovered what I often know but let doubt stand in my way of discovering: I am capable of more than I'm doing. Every single day, every one of them, I have more in me. If I choose to hide from it or run from it - that doesn't mean it's not there. It just means I leaned into comfort and not the challenge of embracing the finish line of progress in life. 

When the clock stopped I'd run my fastest marathon by 21 minutes. That's progress. It wasn't a world record. No timer in the world could possibly be impressed by a 6 hour and 20 minutes marathon. But I long ago realized if I'm in running for records or impressing timers, I'm in for a discouraging journey. 

This running journey has been far from discouraging, though. This journey has filled me with confidence. It's overwhelmed me with the hope I've always found running toward a new horizon.

Every run. Every race. I am always running toward unchartered territory, an uncomfortable new horizon where I find God there waiting, reminding me: I'm glad you brought your fears and doubts with you. Now once again bury them. You surely won't need them as you head on toward your next new horizon. 
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You know that look when you see it. 

I'll never forget seeing it on my friend Robyn's face. She'd been in the middle of a lengthy phone conversation. The call ended. Robyn tucked her phone away. And then that look took over. Where there'd been peace and contentment. Where at one moment there had been excitement, anticipation of a weekend of fun with friends, there was now concern.

It was the kind of concern that runs deeper than the bank calling you about fraudulent activity on your account or a friend cancelling an upcoming coffee date. It was the look of concern that said life would never be the same. 

A short time after that call the results came back. My friend Robyn's mom Rose had Gioblastoma, an aggressive form of brain cancer. A month earlier I'd picked Robyn up at the airport for her annual trip to visit us and run the Richmond Marathon. Now she was processing how to tell her mom goodbye. 

Life isn't always a marathon. When you know you're losing your mom, life suddenly feels much more like a 40 yard dash than a  marathon. A lifetime to tell someone what they mean to you suddenly seems reduced to minutes.  

Soon after this news I was with Robyn on Kiawah Island in South Carolina. We were there to run a half marathon. Life had changed for her, but she was committed to running the race that had been on her calendar for months. Running had been one of Robyn's passions for a long time. Now maybe it was a form of therapy. 

Several of us were there running with Robyn. We committed to run this race for her mom. This one's for Rose.  It was a prayer. It was a ray to run and honor Rose's  fight against a disease that refuses to lose.  

Running has always been a struggle for me. It's hard. The finish line always feels like a zillion painful miles away. But out there running that Kiawah half, I realized I was fortunate. Even though I knew logically my life would end one day, out there running  - without a doctor's prognosis that my days were numbered - I could at least feel like I'd be able to run forever. 
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After that race I wanted to do something to let Rose know I appreciated her strength. Strength that, without her knowing or intending, became a gift of gratitude for me. I could only think of one way to express that appreciation to Rose. I sent her my Kiawah Island Half Marathon finishers medal. 

It wasn't a medal that represented victory. I've never had one that did. But every race medal I've earned represents a struggle. Taking on something that doesn't come easy. A willingness to fight all the way to the end. Whenever Robyn talked about Rose, that's what I heard. I heard about a mom in a hell of a fight, but a mom who wasn't going to go down with anything less than offering a hell of a fight in return. 

Rose lost that fight last month. But all the way to the finish line she gave it her all. Cancer is once again the vicious victor. It's robbed the world of a beautiful mom and friend. I hope we'll one day find the weaknesses in cancer's attack and come up with a gameplan that stifles it once and for all. 

But I also hope this. I hope we'll continue to rob cancer of some of it's evil glory. I hope people like Rose will continue to say to cancer: you can steal my life, but in doing so I'm going to reveal a strength in this life that makes the world stronger. Out of the depths of the ugliest places of cancer, I will rise with a beauty the world might have never got to see. So in some ways - you lose cancer.

I regret I never got to meet Rose in person. I'm sorry that it was cancer that introduced me to her beauty. But know this cancer - as you celebrate another ruthless attack on the innocent - many of us discovered a beautiful human being in spite of you. You come to weaken us, but people like Rose remind us we're stronger than we think. People like Rose embolden us to fight you back like never before. 

Last week my friend Robyn mailed me the medal I'd sent Rose last December. She said he mom had hung it up where she could see it every day. As I write this, that medal now hangs where I can see it every day. A medal that once honored my capacity to take on a challenge and conquer it now hangs in honor of a woman who did some conquering of her own. Rose stood toe to toe with a disease that wanted to impose darkness, and in doing so she revealed light to us all. 

That Kiawah Island Half Marathon medal has far more value and meaning today than it did the day I crossed that finish line. That's often how these medals go. 

In running, the finish line is often viewed as the big moment. After months of training and miles of racing, the clock stops. A goal is achieved - or not - but this race story is over. The runner moves on to the next race, the next story, the next finish line. 

Running builds into us this idea of speeding ahead. Keep your eye on the prize, no looking back. As a result of that, if we're not careful, we can miss the much bigger stories that are often as central to our race as the training miles are. We can miss the life story often buried in the race story. 

That's why I want to take a look back at my Georgia Jewel story. On the surface, it's a story of running my first ultra marathon. It's a story of tackling the most daunting physical challenge of my life. But in looking back, I discover a richer story. One that is pointing me toward a more meaningful finish line. Frankly, one I never saw coming when I registered for this race.  
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​Back in August of 2017, I interviewed ultra runner Harvey Lewis on my podcast (Listen Here). Harvey has tackled some incredible distance challenges over the years. He's a former Badwater 135 champion. More recently he ran the 2,200 mile Appalachian Trail in the 8th fastest time known to man. But during this particular episode, I became more interested in Harvey's diet. He'd been a vegetarian for many years, and he gave his diet a lot of credit for his running success. 

Later in 2017, Harvey did a series on Facebook featuring athlete friends who also adhered to vegan or vegetarian lifestyles. One of those athletes was Jenny Baker. I reached out to Jenny and asked her to be a guest on my podcast. She agreed to, and in December of 2017, I interviewed her. You can listen here.

During that interview Jenny mentioned she was the race director for an ultra marathon in Georgia called the Georgia Jewel. Jenny said she took on this role as a way of giving back to the community. She said that's what she wants her race to be about - giving back. 

In February of 2018, I interviewed JP Caudill on my podcast. JP had recently completed the World Marathon Challenge. In the challenge, JP ran 7 marathons in 7 different days on all 7 continents. I was awed by his accomplishment, fascinated by every word he shared during our conversation. You can listen here.

That interview with JP sparked intrigue in me. It sparked a serious wondering of just how far I could push my own running limits. 

A few weeks after that interview I ran the Little Rock Marathon with some friends. I joked with one of those friends, Nicole Williams, about running 7 marathons in 7 days. She suggested I was crazy. I think I believed her and started thinking about an alternative form of crazy. That's when I recalled my conversation with Jenny Baker and the Georgia Jewel. 

A few weeks later Nicole and I were officially registered for the 35 mile Georgia Jewel. 

Soon after that, I interviewed Kate Fletcher. Kate had recently run 100 miles at a local high school to raise money for scholarships for students who might not otherwise have the opportunity to attend college. I was moved by Kate's heart. So was GoFundMe - they came to her school to make a short movie about her fundraiser. Listen to my conversation with Kate here.

To be honest, when I first reached out to Kate it was because she'd run 100 miles. Since signing up for the Georgia Jewel I'd become more fascinated by longer running distances. I'd begun imagining just how far I really could run. But after interviewing Kate, I was much more captivated by her heart than by her running. 

My friend Eddie Brown was captivated by both. He reached out to me shortly after my interview with Kate and said he'd taken up running. It had been years since he hit the road, but he was back at it. He also told me about his non-profit, Giving Words. Giving words supports single moms in central Virginia. He went on to tell me that Kate is a single mom and he'd discovered she could use some help. 

I've since learned more about Eddie and Giving Words and Kate's needs. It's struck me how in my interview with Kate all you heard was a heart for giving to others. Nowhere in her did you hear a need for others to give to her. But Eddie said he wanted Giving Words to not only help Kate, but to honor her heart for giving to others. Eddie said he wanted to give back. 

Why does that sound familiar? Give back? Isn't that what Jenny Baker said the Georgia Jewel is all about - giving back? She did. So that's what I intend to do with this race. I want to help Eddie give back to Kate. 

I also want to honor Jenny's vision for the Georgia Jewel. When I cross the finish line, when I run my longest distance ever, when I check "ultra marathon" off my bucket list, I don't want that to be the end of this Georgia Jewel running story. I want that story to live on. What better way to make that happen than helping Eddie and Giving Words help Kate, and help breathe life into the lives of some single moms just looking for a break. Looking for their own finish line in life. 

I encourage you to listen to my conversation with Eddie below. Since I'm running the 35 mile Georgia Jewel, I'm looking for as many people as possible to help me give back with a $35 contribution to Giving Words. A contribution that will go directly to helping them help Kate. 
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When you donate to Giving Words, you'll find a place to "add special instructions to the seller." In that box, please write "Georgia Jewel." Thank you so much for supporting and for giving back. 

Click on the Giving Words logo below to donate. 

The first time I went for a run, at least the run that ignited what I've come to call my "running journey," there were very few expectations. It had been years since I'd tackled a run of any distance. All the possibilities I imagined in that run were rooted in survival. 

Take off.
Run.
Don't die. 

Something happened along the road of this journey, though. In the stillness of miles that seemed to go on forever, out of boredom if nothing else I suppose, I started listening to God. At first I was shocked that he still wanted to talk to me. After all,  I'd spent years holding my hands over my ears every time he tried to tell me anything. But there he was. Talking. Overlooking years of a back turned against his voice. And there I was. Listening. And in an instant my life filled with possibilities. 

Since then God's built a mission out of my running. I set my sights on the next finish line, he defines what I'm actually running toward. More often than not the finish line pales in comparison. 

As I look toward my next big finish line, the 35 mile Georgia Jewel, God has put another mission on my heart. I can't wait to share that with you tomorrow. But once again, it's a mission born in listening. It's responding to God's whispers and being astonished at how he uses the wildly different miles of my running journey to weave into being one beautiful destination. 

With my limited imagination I can only see a few hundred yards in front of me. I can imagine the finish lines and the medals and the ice cold coca cola to celebrate with. But my faith in God has put a magnifying glass on possibilities. It's turned footsteps into opportunities to serve, hard work into change that goes well beyond me. 

The reality is, we are God's tools for changing the world. He's just blessed me with the chance to make running my tool.

Come back tomorrow to hear more about the possibilities God's revealed through my Georgia Jewel journey. 

It was the Friday before I was scheduled to run my 9th half marathon. The half marathon - that's my race. Never was I more aware of that than on November 12, 2016 when I ran my first full marathon. Immediately after crossing the finish line of that race I decided 26.2 miles was indeed NOT my race. Too far. Too much training involved. I decided then and there the marathon was the perfect race to do once, check it off and escape as fast as I could still run back to the starting line of the race I love.

The half marathon.  

This 9th half marathon was going to be particularly meaningful. I'd partnered with St. Andrews Church in Pearland, Texas to run the race to raise money for their hurricane relief efforts. (Running My 9th Half Marathon - The Hokie Half for Texas). What God had put so strongly on my heart I was now prepared to fully pursue. Only, until this particular moment, I wasn't fully aware of what pursuing entailed.

The first connection I made at St. Andrews Church was Tom Lusk - a dear friend of a long time dear friend of mine. I'd already been considering how I would get the bib I would wear at the Hokie Half for Texas to St. Andrews church after I completed the race when Tom reached out to me with this message:
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You see what Tom put  in parentheses don't you - (unless you want to run a race down here). So you know want the runner in me always looking for the next running challenged did - I went to the Houston area race calendar to check out available races in early 2018. The first one I came to was the Houston Marathon. But, as luck would have it, a no go. My race, the half marathon, was sold out. 

I was not long finished with exploring that race and making the unfortunate sold out discovery when I got this message from my friend Robyn Larkin. 
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To which I responded:
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Followed  - after a brief bit of thought - by this message:
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Robyn responded with this:
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You know what happened next. I signed up for the Houston Marathon. The flat -(famous last words) - 26.2 mile Houston Marathon.

I'm going where I've never been : Texas.

I'm going where I thought I'd never go again:  the marathon. 

I'm going to Houston not by my design but through wide eyed obedience to God's call. Any questions about that were put to rest last night in an email from Father Jim at St. Andrews Church.  He emailed me a report of the contributions made to St. Andrews Church for hurricane relief as part of my Hokie Half for Texas run.  My original goal was $500. His report said $2,000. 

And then there was this. Before I'd received that total - one that spoke to the financial contribution - I received an email from a dear friend that spoke to the heart contribution that was blossoming from this effort. My friend Nicole Williams has been a long time supporter of my TwoTim.com ministry. Still, I was a bit surprised when I received this email from her:
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I say it all the time. As I grow closer to God I'm no better than I've ever been at predicting what He will unfold in front of me next. I could never have predicted all that he's doing through one simple idea that was hatched during one of my routine runs. But if we point our thoughts and desires toward him, if we act with faith on the simple ideas he plants in us, he'll reflect them back to us and to those around us in miracles. 

My friend Nicole and her family joining me in Houston is a miracle I never saw coming. But looking in the rear view mirror I can clearly see God orchestrating it. I can see God arranging Robyn's race schedule so we'll be running this race together. I can see God forming my friendship with Janice nearly 20 years ago so she'd be able to arrange my friendship with St. Andrews Church at precisely the right moment in time. 

I'm reminded nothing in our lives is small. No moment. No thought. No race. God is constantly at work in all we do and all He does is bigger than our minds can dream or imagine. Like Texas big. The anatomy of this trip to run the Houston Marathon is mind boggling to me, but to God, it's just the way he rolls. 

The lesson for me, and maybe for you, is to start the ball rolling. We can't go for a run and dream of a ball and then come home and set it in a corner. We have to push it. Run behind it and give it a couple of extra shoves full of momentum for good measure. Then watch what God does with it. 

When I dreamed of this TwoTim47.com ministry I dreamed of running to dark with light. The mistake I made was in grabbing a flashlight when God had a stadium full of spotlights in mind. 

​Thanks for the extra light God. That's why I like to run with you. 
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I was a few miles into a run last week when I felt a pull to head to Blacksburg on September 17th and run my 9th Half Marathon. It was more than a pull to run, though. The call to this race came with images of the tragic flooding scenes I'd seen playing out in Texas. There was only one reason I could be feeling the urge to run while at the same time being overcome with the heartbreak of seeing so many people suffering in such a big way. I was supposed to run this race for Texas. 

​The first thing I did when I finished my run was reach out to my TwoTim47.com Patreon supporters who support me at the marathon level. When partners sponsor me at this level I agree to run a race for their cause. If I was going to run the Hokie Half for a cause I came up with, I needed to know they supported it. When I reached out to them, not only did every one of them support the idea, they all agreed to contribute to whatever support I decided to offer Texas.

​(You can learn more about my TwoTim47.com Patreon platform here.)

That's when I decided what I was going to do. I used $85 of my August Patreon support to register for the Hokie Half. The remaining $108 I will donate to the Harvey Hurricane relief efforts in Texas. 

Then came the next challenge. I didn't want to make a generic donation. I wanted to know something about where the money was going. It wasn't just about trusting it would go to a good cause. If I'm going to feel my heart pounding through my chest for 13.1 miles in Blacksburg next week, I'd like my heart to pound when I send off my donation. That can't happen without knowing something about the story on the other end of the donation. 

So I reached out to friends on social media. I asked if anyone had any personal stories related to the suffering in Texas. My friend Janice, whom I worked with several years ago in North Carolina, put me in touch with her friend Tom in Texas. He was doing recovery work with his church. Then Tom put me in touch with the pastors at his church.

I was only on the phone with them for a few minutes when I knew their church, St. Andrews, was a story I needed to be a part of. I was sure they were part of the call I felt running last week. 

St. Andrews is located in Pearland, Texas, a community within the Houston metropolitan area. They were hard hit by Harvey and are now leaning on churches like St. Andrews to help them rebuild. A rebuild that could take a decade or more.

What drew me to St. Andrews is they've been spending years getting ready for a moment just like this one. They've been building a loving partnership with the Pearland citizens for over 20 years. Father Jim Liberatore said this about his church's relationship with the community:
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"Many churches establish themselves by looking inward and taking care of the family but don't necessarily look outward. My understanding of reading scripture and from some people like John Wesley see that we have a mission to the community and I've basically encouraged the congregation over the years to see the walls collapse of the church and that the parish, the church walls, actually become the community, so that we are the pastors of the community, we are lovers of the community."
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That's long been the struggle I've had with many churches - their obsession with looking inward. When I decided I wanted to partner with someone to help with hurricane relief in Texas I knew I wanted to partner with an organization that would respond in love and not out of a sense of media fueled obligation. Don't get me wrong, I think we all have an obligation here - that's precisely what led me to look for a way to help - I just think obligations are best and most helpfully met in love. 

As you'll see in some of the photos below, St. Andrews has already been hard at work in their community. 
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How can you help me partner with St. Andrews?
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What St. Andrews needs most right now is prayer and money. There will be so much to do in the early stages of the relief - stages which might last years - gutting and repairing homes, helping replace essential items and simply helping people get back to a place where they can get to and from their work. 

I want to give a special thank you to my marathon level Patreon supporters who gave me their blessing to use this race for this hurricane relief effort:

Robyn Larkin, Tiffany Eisentrout, Nicole Williams and Rachel Wood - Thank you!

And to the rest of my Patreon supporters who make it possible to enter races and find extra time to write stories and create podcasts and videos - I could do none of it without you all. So thank you Kristie Allen, Lashell Head, Solomon Whitfield, Kelly Anderson, Kimberly Yenser, Kimberly Caldwell, Missy Blacker-Hepp, Jenny Reynolds, Shannon Sala, Donna Shultz-Shegana and Angela Marini. 

I ask for everyone's prayers as I tackle my half marathon next weekend and for all the people struggling in Texas, especially those in the St. Andrews community. 

Like I said, I will be donating to St. Andrews as part of my Hokie Half Marathon run. If you would like to join me I know they'd be grateful. Maybe you could donate $13 for the 13.1 miles I'll be running in Blacksburg on September 16th. Every dollar will go a long way towards the healing and relief the St. Andrews community will be searching for. 

If you donate at the link below, when you enter the giving type enter hurricane relief. In the memo section please enter TwoTim47. This will help us track our TwoTim47 Hokie Half Contributions. 
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For a year I imagined this race. Even when running other races I was imagining this one. The 2017 Patrick Henry Half Marathon. The race that owed me one. Actually, I'm the one who owed something here. I owed this race my best effort. One worthy of staying on the course past mile 10, which I couldn't do last year.

Less than 48 hours before the race I felt my best effort rising to the surface. I had strength like I was already standing at the starting line. Adding to that strength was a weather forecast calling for perfect running conditions.

Then completely unforeseen, my personal condition went south fast. One minute I was coaching my son's flag football team and giving it all I had, a half hour later I was giving up a week's worth of hydration and nutrition to whoever it is that dishes out stomach bugs. I woke up the next morning 6 pounds lighter than the morning before. I no longer felt like I was standing at the starting line. In fact, I felt like I'd never stand at one again. 

I reached out to friends on social media to let them know what I was dealing with. When I did, I'd resigned myself to the reality the Patrick Henry Half was about to put another notch in its belt at my expense. There was no way I was going to be able to run.  

Many of my non-runner friends agreed. They replied with comments that my health was much more important than a race. There will be plenty more races, they said, but there's only one you. 

The responses from my runner friends were a bit different. Oh, they shared an equal amount of concern for my health, but they also allowed for a way to the starting line. Drink coconut water. Eat pretzels. Get lots of rest. They shared stories of how they bounced back from their own stomach issues and like superman or wonder woman found themselves at the starting line. In other words, they weren't  convinced I should be thinking about other races. They were still pointing me down the road to redemption. 

hadn't found a way to outrun my lack of nutrition. I shifted thoughts and gears and settled into a pace that would get me safely to the finish line. I reminded myself that's what I came for. Redemption only required one thing: the finish line. 

Coming up on mile 12 I saw my family handing out water. Then I saw my friends Solomon and Pam coming to greet me and run a few paces with me. I was reminded some days we're as strong as the people who run beside us - no matter how weak we might feel. Those two, and then the gatorade my boys tried to hand me, and the pictures I saw my wife snapping - that was the fuel and nutrition that carried me through to the final mile. 

My neighbor Art Bedard showed up at a couple of key spots over that final mile. I'm convinced God planted him in strategic locations. Art has always cheered me on virtually, but seeing him in person on the side of the course helped me discover a few ramining drips of adrenaline. Then my friends Rebecca and Chuck showed up to run me through the final chute. They kept saying you've got this. You've got this. It was the only stretch longer than a few feet that I'd actually run the previous two miles. Their voices were my strength. Their voices were voices from God. 

It's early morning, March 28, 2007. Ray Bell rises from his bed to greet this, his 39th birthday. Only - Ray has no interest in greeting this one. This birthday is unworthy of a celebration.  In Ray's mind, He is unworthy of a celebration. 

Ray staggers to the bathroom. Depression tracks close behind, like an intruder who's been stalking and decided this is the day to put Ray out of his misery. Ray shoots a quick and discarding look toward the bathroom scales. He's not stepping on them today. He wouldn't dare. He already knows their answer. They've been threatening him with 300 pounds lately. Step on them today and depression wins by an early morning knockout.

Ray stands there. Thinking about it. 300 pounds. He tells himself to look in the mirror. Turn around and look at yourself, Ray. You can hide from the scales, but are your really going to roll into your 40th year on earth without taking a good hard look at who's rolling with you?

Ray knows exactly what he'll see in the mirror today. He'll see his dad who died of a massive heart attack when he was in his 40's.  He'll see his mom, gone at the hands of diabetes. Ray knows depression has no better friend than a mirror. No stronger ally. A mirror has the power to say "your next Ray."

Somehow Ray senses this may be his chance. Maybe the last chance he ever has. His chance to turn the mirror on depression. You're dying the early death, depression. Not me.

Ray turns slowly toward the mirror. 

​Ray glares defiantly into the mirror. You have to make a move Ray. You have to make it now. 

Ray slips on a pair of shoes and shorts and heads out the door. I'm about to give myself the greatest birthday present ever, he decides. Ray breaks into a run. And in less than 50 feet he can run no more. He walks. For the next several weeks he walks and runs and walks and runs around his neighborhood until he's able to run 3 miles. 

Ray knows his running is getting good, yet his diet is still a challenge. He experiments with all the diet fads. Then one day he's running and God tells him you've got this all wrong, Ray. Eat small meals every two hours. Ray listens. He adopts his self-proclaimed every-two-hour-mini-meal plan. The doctor tells him meat isn't working for his high blood pressure, so Ray's mini meals turn meatless.

The weight starts falling off. Five pounds a week or more. Ray completes a local 9-mile race and suddenly feels ready for a bigger challenge. 

Ray shows up to register for the 2008 Flying Pig Marathon. A young lady working the registration booth asks Ray, "How's your training been going?" 

"Training? I didn't know you had to train for these things," Ray tells her, caught a bit off guard.

Ray is 16 miles into the 2008 Flying Pig Marathon. His body locks up. There's no way he can take another step. Then he hears the voice from the mirror. "We aren't going to quit are we, Ray?"

He takes a step. Then another. Suddenly he's in the middle of a 10-mile death march to the finish line. He crosses the finish line a new man. He feels confidence he's never felt before. Strength he's only dreamed of. The man Ray rolled into his 40's with is nowhere to be found. 

Ray soaks up the spirit of the finish line. In his stillness he hears, "I told you to just trust me, Ray. Just trust me."

The post-marathon recovery is hard. Ray knows he can't tackle the next one - and he knows there will be a next one - without training. He seeks out a local running group and in them he finds all the running experience and education he could dream of. The Westsiders take Rays's running journey to new places. 

In 2011 Ray qualifies for the Boston Marathon. He weighs somewhere around 150 pounds these days. So there he is in 2013, in coral 8 of the Boston Marathon. He can see the fastest marathoners in the world just up ahead of him.

The tears begin to roll down Ray's cheeks. I once weighed 300 pounds. I couldn't bring myself to stand on the scales or look in a mirror. Now I stand ready to run the most famous marathon in the world. How on earth did I get here?

Today Ray's life is eat, sleep and run. He says it. He writes it. He lives it.

Eat - clean, small portions, lots of water, make good selections, don't deprive myself. 
Sleep - something I need. Reenergizes my body and brain. 
Run - this is the huge one for me. The holy gift from God. I can feel God and hear him and listen to him. You hear about this runner's high; I truly believe in the runner's high. Things feel quiet and effortless, you're coming up on that finish line and you know you don't want to quit. That's your runners high.  

Ray is currently pointing his runner's high toward unfinished business. Back in 2012 Ray ran a 3:05 marathon in Columbus. In that moment he knew he'd have to break the 3 hour mark. He's looking to do that at the Monumental Marathon in Indianapolis in November, 2017. Ray's currently running over 100 miles a week to prepare for the race. He says he's in the best condition of his life. 

Why the continued love for running Ray? Why the drive? 

Running is a gift. It is part of the restoration. Part of the radical change in my life. The restoration of health. The Lord gave it all back to me. I don't take it for granted. It's a unique special gift. Running makes me want to have a spirit of excellence. I know that's what the Lord wants from me. There's nothing like giving your all, crossing that finish line, you know that you just laid it all out there. That's what it's about for me. 

Ray's voice trembles a bit as he finishes telling his story. The emotions are there. I feel like I'm standing next to him at the starting line of the 2013 Boston Marathon. He reads Psalm 139:14 out loud to me:

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. 

Ray, you are indeed wonderfully made brother. Wonderfully indeed. 

I recently did a podcast interview with my friend Tracey Outlaw. Tracey said something interesting about embracing challenges in running. It's had me thinking about embracing challenges in my life. He said no matter what distance the race is we're running we can be sure challenges are going to come along. And if we plan for how we're going to embrace those challenges, we can have a productive race. 

I found a couple of things interesting about that comment.

​One, he didn't say we should plan for how we'll overcome the challenges, he suggested we should plan for how we'll embrace them. My mindset is often all about overcoming when thinking about the challenges I'll face in a particular run. I spend time preparing myself for adverse weather conditions or resistance that might come with that day's distance. I plan for weary legs and lungs that start fighting for the next breath. I psyche myself up; I tell myself those particular challenges are on their way and I should be prepared to run over them.

When you think of embracing challenges and not running them over, though, that's a much different mindset. As different as giving the next person who approaches you on the street a hug instead of punching him in the gut.  The embracing mindset says I love this opportunity to run in the heat; the overcoming one says I'm not afraid of walking through a little fire.

How we transform ourselves from someone who plans to overcome to someone who plans to embrace is tied to the second thing I found interesting about what Tracey said. It struck me that he didn't say when we embrace the challenges we'll have a victorious run or even a great one - he said we'd have a productive run. 

I think as runners, and many days as a society - whether we're talking about students or workers or parents - we've devalued being productive. We spend so much time focused on finish line pictures, valedictorian speeches and the fancy titles attached to job duties that we've become blind to the incredible things that take place in the daily grind. A grind that rarely leads to high profile accomplishments, but always leads to something better.

A better runner. A better person. 

If I start this day dreaming of being an all world this or a famous that, then the challenges I see coming my way represent something standing in my way. They are enemies frothing at the mouth intent on denying me the fame I deserve. But when I start this day dreaming of ending it a better person, when I treasure the idea that I will have more regard for the night me than I had for the morning me, the challenges coming my way will look like opportunities. They are chances for me to think and work productively to tackle something that's going to make me wiser and stronger.

There are challenges coming your way today. That's the truth. 
Are you smiling at them, arms spread wide ready to embrace them?
Or is your head lowered, your teeth gritting, as you ready youself to bowl them over?
Don't bowl them over. Or punch them in the gut. At least not without hugging them.
Thank them when they leave, for the opportunity they gave you.
To be productive.
To become better.
To make the night you shine brighter than the morning you. 
If even just a little.

You can listen to my interview with Tracey Outlaw here: 
An Interview with Tracey Outlaw - US National 24-hour Running Team - Episode 22

Last week I interviewed two long distance runners for my TwoTim47.com podcast series - Solomon Whitfield and Harvey Lewis. Whitfield has been running for years but has recently started adding on miles with no end in sight to how far he wants to go. Lewis is a world renowned ultra runner; he won the famous Badwater race back in 2014. I spent about 45 minutes with each of them talking about their running journeys. Although they both filled that time with great wisdom and inspiration, I was left with one overwhelming thought:

When I asked them both about the mental obstacles they face when tackling miles most of us would never dream of traveling without a car and a full tank of gas, they both responded in their own ways that they kept their minds focused on the next step. Whitfield said when he runs he thinks about things going on in his life instead of thinking about the challenges of the next step in his run.  Lewis said he often focuses on the beauty of his surroundings, choosing to be grateful for the step he's in instead of dreading the one to come. With both of them the prevailing message seemed to be that even though they are running a long way, the challenge is keeping the mind from running too far ahead of them.

Dreams of running that first 50-miler or running more miles in a 24-hour race than anyone ever has are invitations to think big, to plan for greatness. But big dreams can also be big distractions. It's much easier, often more fun, to imagine the accolades and the sense of personal accomplishment that come at the finish line of our dreams than it is to train our minds to overcome each challenging step to getting there. 

That idea has tripped me and my dreams up more often than I like. Whether it's my running dreams, writing dreams, life dreams - when I start tackling them the hurdles that pop up are often far less attractive than the glory of the dreams I've been imagining. Too often I start tackling dreams without reminding myself the key to success is staying commited to the mental and physical strength required of the current moment, not a future one.  As a result, too many of my dreams die. 

I get tired of dreams dying that kind of death in my life. But thanks to Solomon and Harvey I'm doubling down this week on the power of the next step. I want to spend less energy on my dreams and funnel more of my passion to that next step, that next word, that next interaction in a relationship. Harvey said when our minds believe it our bodies will follow. I think I need to train my mind to start believing more about this moment and less about the moment 135 miles down the road.