there's a choice. We can gather up the scattered pieces of that puzzle and shove them back into a box and set it on a shelf and forget we ever tackled that stupid puzzle - a strategy I used to employ often when it came to incomplete puzzles. Or, we decide the puzzle is important enough to finish. We know ourselves well enough to know seeing that thing sitting on a shelf will eat at us forever. We'll never sleep if we don't get to see what it looks like when it's finally whole. 

My Houston Marathon 2018 was a beautiful experience. You can read my thoughts about it here: (My Plan Was A Second Marathon. God's Plan Was Different). But one puzzle piece turned up missing from that big and beautiful story. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small piece. I know that. Nonetheless, I didn't get to see the whole puzzle. I didn't get to see the picture on the ouside of the puzzle box. I knew I'd never be satisfied until I did. 
​

Not long after registration opened for the 2019 Houston Marathon, I registered for it. I ran a lot of miles and races in 2018 after that, and in the back of my mind I always knew those races and those miles were part of the search for that missing puzzle piece. 

One of the puzzle pieces that did fit in 2018 was the time my friends and I got to spend with Father Jim Liberatore and Debbie Allensworth. They lead St. Andrews Episcopal Church in Pearland, Texas. As part of my 2018 Houston Marathon experience, we got to partner with them on some Hurricane Harvey relief efforts. So when I returned to Texas last week I couldn't wait to catch up with Jim and Debbie.  

I got to have lunch with Jim and Debbie, and then they led me on a tour of some of the relief work they've been doing since I last saw them. I was thrilled to hear they've received considerable grant support to continue their work. It was fulfilling to see that our small donations were part of the hands and feet of Christ wrapping the Pearland community in love and healing. 

​Two pieces of the Houston Marathon 2018 puzzle returned to join me in 2019. My friends Tracey and Nicole ran a lot of miles with me after Houston last year, so it was appropriate they joined me in Houston as I searched for the puzzle piece that escaped me when we were together in Houston last January. They are reminders of why running is so important to me. Yes, they push me to finish lines. But far more important to me is the friendships I have in them. 
​

We had some fun leading up to race morning. But race morning finally came and we made our way to our race corals. Weaving our way through over 30,000 runners, Tracey and Nicole split off from me and headed toward their race group. They'd planned all along to run together and work on chasing a race goal of their own. I headed toward the back of the pack where I'd start my race. 

Standing alone in that group waiting for my race to start, I realized it had been a long time since I'd run a race by myself. Leading up to Houston, I'd run the Oxbow Ultra with Nicole, the Richmond Half Marathon with my buddy Colby and the Marine Corps Marathon with Tracey. I stood there thinking back and couldn't recall the last race I'd run alone. That had been a huge shift in my running journey in 2018; I'd always preferred to run alone. But to be honest, I felt a little insecure standing there. 

What I did have, though, was a plan. I knew I needed to focus on it, no matter how alone I was feeling. A couple of weeks prior to the Houston Marathon I did a 16 mile practice run. I managed a 12:45 minute per mile pace over those 16 miles, and when I was done, I felt like I could have finished the final 10 miles at a pace that would get me to the Houston Marathon finish line in under 6 hours - the pace I needed to avoid being evicted from the course once again. 

So that became my focus. I turned my music on. Looked at the total pace number on my watch. And I committed then and there to keep it at that 12:45 number through the first 16 miles. No matter how tempted I got to try to speed it up - 12:45 is all I kept telling myself. 

And just like my practice run, it worked. I felt good through mile 16. I was at that 12:45 pace, even after taking my first ever on the course bathroom break, and even after stopping twice to remove clothing as the temperatures warmed from the upper 20's to the low 40's. 

At this point, I knew I simply needed to average 15 minute miles the rest of the way. That became my focus - one mile at a time. I switched my watch to a mode where I simply tracked each mile I was on. I abandoned the big picture for 10 bite sized snapshots of how the rest of my race would run out. In my mind, at this point, all I needed to do was run 10 consecutive one mile races in under 15 minutes. I was getting tired, the concrete of Houston was taking its toll on my legs, but I knew at this point I could do it. One mile at a time.  
​

When I got to mile 18, it was like hitting a finish line before the finish line. I didn't make it to mile 18 last year. It was just before this mile marker that I got pulled from the course because I couldn't keep up. I was now further than I got the year before. It was a reminder that I was stronger that I'd ever been. I knew the struggle that got me last year hadn't gotten me this year. It gave me faith I could conquer the new struggles I knew were surely coming over the next 8.2 miles. 

 I could begin to imagine what the missing puzzle piece looked like. ​ 

Nicole had messaged me that she and Tracey were done with their races and they were waiting for me at mile 25. In a way, that shortened my race by over a mile. Because I knew if I could get to them on pace, there's no way they would let me come up short that final mile or so. 

I checked my phone. I had friends and family tracking. They were all saying the same thing. You're so close. If you can just pick it up the slightest bit, you've got this. I'd obeyed Tracey throughout much of the race. I hadn't used my phone. But reading these messages at just the right time was a boost that made me thankful I didn't leave my phone behind like he suggested. Maybe even demanded. 

And then there I was. At mile 25. Tracey and Nicole spotted me and came out on the course and joined me. Tracey was telling me I needed to pick up my pace - he's kind of a recording like that late in my races these days. Pick up your pace and your body will follow, he's fond of chanting. Nicole told him to be quiet - that I knew exactly where I was and what time I needed. They battled this out while I kept an eye on my watch. I think for a moment they forgot I was there. 

Then I could see it. The missing puzzle piece. The Houston Marathon finish line. There's something beautiful about seeing something you came once to see but was denied the chance to do so. There's something fulfilling about being able to accomplish something that a year ago you couldn't. And there's something life-giving about doing it with two people who insisted you could do it all along, who believed it so much that they traveled away from their homes and families to share in the moment you proved them right. 
​

​I will always treasure the picture of Tracey and Nicole watching me approach the finish line. They have pride and joy written all over their faces. And then to have them ultimately cross that finish line with me. Well, that, more than the finish line itself, that more than redemption, will always be the missing Houston Marathon puzzle piece. 

Running for me has become all about taking on things in life I'd never dreamed of taking on. It's about discovering through taking on each of those bold steps we're capable of more than we'd ever thought we were. And it's about finding this puzzle piece I fear too many of us overlook in life: our boldest steps, our grandest discoveries, come when we run and live in connection with the people around us. 

We need people in our lives who say I believe in you. People who say I was there when you couldn't do it,  and I'll sure be there when I know you will. People who say you need to pick up the pace and people who say I know you know what you're doing. We need people to run alongside us, to overwhelm us with the miraculous power in that. After all, what on earth could inspire us more to run alongside the people who might need us?  

I went to Houston to find a missing puzzle piece. It looked a little different than I imagined it would. But I'm sure glad I found it. 

This weekend, hundreds of people will stop and remember a woman whose life and death has impacted their lives in powerfully unexpected ways. A majority of them never met her.

It's somewhat alarming to confess that someone I never had a single human interaction with has profoundly changed how I perceive being human. On the other hand, it's opened my eyes to the possibilities we all have as humans. We have miracles within us. We don't need to see or forsee them, we don't have to know their names or where they live, we don't have to know where they came from or where they will go.

We simply have to believe in them. 

Meg Cross Menzies has helped me believe in miracles. Not water into wine or walk on water miracles. She's made me believe that simple human kindness - a heart that humbly turns away from self worship and instead runs lovingly outward toward others - can change the world in ways that resembles, well,  walking on water. 

I have this book I want to write. It's called: 
​

Long title for a book, right?

​When I look back on my life since Meg died, though, those words seem inadequate. They seem way too few to describe the miracle that's happened in my life, and the miracles I've seen take place all around me. 

​After Meg died in 2014, I wrote this in the blog post I wrote at the time (God's Newest Angel, One With Years Of Experience): 

I wrote that after I went on my longest run in over a decade. Maybe even two decades. A run I ran in response to a call to run for Meg that day to honor her life. I was but one of 100,000 runners around the world who answered that call. At the time, I thought Meg's miracle was going to be found in the vastness of that unimaginable response.

I thought it would be found in the number of people who would discover Meg's love for running and maybe make it a love of their own. In the number of people who would become more aware of their personal safety when they ran, and that of runners when they drove. It would be found in the number of people who would be reminded no breath is promised, and in turn, would begin to treat with newfound gratitude every breath they have. 

Maybe her miracle showed up in those places. It sprayed and sprinkled all over those areas in life. But when Meg insisted to God that we were thinking too small, I don't she wasn't thinking far and wide. I think Meg was thinking deep. 

Meg didn't have much interest in her name running famously around the globe. Instead, I think, she had a final wish, a yearning, to humbly take up rest in a quiet corner of each of the hearts that would ultimately encounter her story.   

She found a corner in my heart. She found it in an odd way - through running. Not that first day when I ran for Meg. But some run after that. That's where the odd comes in. Because before I ran for Meg, I hated running. My high school football coach once trucked us 13 miles away from the practice field. On a hot summer day, he dropped us off and told us he'd see us back at the field. I walked almost the whole way. With every breath of the route I vowed to hate him and anything to do with running the rest of my life. 

I eventually grew to respect that coach. But, oh, how I honored that vow to hate running. I honored it like a religion. Right up until the day Meg found that quiet corner in my heart. The day Meg changed my mind about running. 

Through running, Meg led me to an unforseen discovery. This place I'd commited to forever hate -  running - became my own quiet corner where I could be at ease in life.  All these years I'd hated running based on a memory painted with exhaustion and struggle and impossible. As it turns out, running can be a place of peace and reflection and personal discovery.

Two years into hanging out in this space, I found myself longing to run a marathon. Ok, longing might not be the right word; my mind hadn't changed THAT much about running. But I was feeling pulled to take on what many feel is a pinnacle running accompishment. So in November of 2016, about 35 years after cursing the sport along with every bumper sticker that ever bragged about it, I became a marathoner. 

I've come to say about crossing that marathon finish line:
​

That's not exactly what I thought the moment I crossed the finish line. That thought was reserved for "Holy Jesus, I'm not dead."  But the discoveries I made in the aftermath of that race have been the biggest reward of tackling a marathon. Some of the biggest rewards of my life, really. I discovered my mind had been hijacked by fear. I discovered that in my years of sitting on the couch, my mind had been lulled into a state of complacency and apathy. As a result, I was living with little concern for myself and others - not surprising when you're afraid of your own life and indifferent to everyone else's. 

But running, excellerated by that marathon experience, was changing my mind. I now had the confidence to try things I'd never dreamed of trying. I started a podcast and began running for special causes. I started interacting with people in a way that was opening my eyes to just how many other minds and hearts in this world had been overcome by fear. I made it a point to look more deeply into the eyes of people who were hurting on the other end of the kind of apathy and indifference my life had fallen into. 

I never thought the day would come when I would not hate running, but it did. I actually changed my mind about running. And that surprised me.

I never thought the act of running could ever change the way my mind thought. The way it worked. But it did. And I found that mysterious.

But when the change in my mind began filtering into the way my heart beat, and who it was beating for - well, I wondered if I had run across a finish line into the open arms of a miracle of sorts. 

In the midst of this miracle I find myself wondering at times if those are Meg's arms. In the quiet space of running, I sometimes find myself speaking into that quiet space of my heart where she lives: hey Meg, this miracle - is that you?

She doesn't answer. 

But when I'm with the people she's brought into my life, when I experience the love of their connection, the strength of their encouragement, when I find myself treasuring their success and health and happiness more than I crave my own, I hear her say,  "you're no longer thinking too small." 

I don't know if running can change the world. But I know this. When I changed my mind about running, running changed my mind, then my heart, and then my life. And I believe somewhere in there is the miraculous path to changing the world. 

​I'm going to keep running along that path. 

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. 
​

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. 
​

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. 
​

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: 
​

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. 
​

Back on my birthday, April 27, I ran the longest run of my life. I ran 27 miles to support Laura Baumgardner and her Pontiac, Illinois high school students' annual Run for Respect 5k. My run wasn't a part of a sanctioned race. There was no t-shirt or medal or timer or finish line. Just me and the road and a day of reflection on what it truly means to love and respect others. 

I guess it's fitting, then, that a few months after that event, I received a package in the mail from a man I deeply respect. I respect him because he makes it a priority in life to honor people. He makes ordinary people doing seemingly ordinary things feel like heroes. And he rarely does it without pouring his time and heart into delivering that message. 

So I wanted to share this package with you. I wanted to show you what it means to go above and beyond the call of love your neighbor duty. The gifts my buddy Bill Manning sent me are priceless. I will keep them forever. But more than those gifts will symbolize my efforts, for me they will serve as the identity of friendship and thoughtfulness. 

Hi Keith, 
​
As I write this, I feel like calling out "Robert, Robert, Robert!!!!, akin to Missy Hepp , trying to get your attention at the Meg's Miles Memorial a few years ago. 

I apologize for the lateness of this getting to you, but the old wheels sometimes turn more slowly than I would like, as do the ideas that come into my head. 

But, I wanted to take the time to recognize a very important accomplishment of yours, and pay forward a kind gesture bestowed upon me back in 2009. 

A very kind and dear friend, Emily Woloszyn, once told me that a marathon should never be completed without a well-deserved and earned medal. And, I was given such a handcrafted medal, much like this one, which I still hold dear to this day. 
​

I am of the firm belief that, aside from ultra marathoners, no one should run 26.2 miles unless it is indeed a part of an organized event. The distances are long, the training is difficult with lasting after effects, and most of us have only a limited amount of them in our bank to complete in our running lifetimes. 

So with that being said, please accept this certificate of achievement and accompanying finishers medal. 

And here is the backstory:

Date line, 2009. My life back then was indeed on an upward trajectory after some dark days. I was dating my future wife, and even though we were living more than 2,800 miles apart, all was looking up. It was time to start planning on my fall marathon as well as other life changing things. The Philadelphia Marathon was on the horizon for me. The timing was right and I had plenty of time to train. Throw into this the opportunity to travel to Maui over Thanksgiving to spend time with my future wife and family, and it was even better! The plan would be to drive to Philly, run the marathon, and then fly to Maui the next evening. 

Challenge #1 - when I went to register for the race, it was - yes, that's right - sold out. And the options for another marathon were very bleak at this time of year. Completing one after a Maui vacation and training in the winter months was not appealing to me in the least. 

Challenge #2 - So, after some problem solving and creative thinking, I decided to organize and run my own marathon in Syracuse a week earlier than Philly. The plan slowly came together, and a date was set: November 15, 2009. The course would be an out and back along the Erie Canal Towpath and would be a certified distance course measured and marked by a local certifier for a fee. It even had a name: The Inaugural Left Out in the Cold Marathon

In 2009, Facebook and other social media were just starting to take off, so my options were limited. I advertised on the local running store message/chat board, something along the lines of "come run a local, certified marathon - date, time, and no cost (and no frills either). 

Well, as you can imagine, few folks were lining up to take part in this adventure. It was a bad time of year, many had already run their fall marathons, or no one wanted to get involved in this seemingly crazy scheme. All except for one, very interesting and unique stranger that since has become a very good friend - and expert on all things chocolate - Michael Woloszyn!

So, November in Syracuse can be tricky, and can potentially bring all kinds of weather. Race morning came - it was an early start - maybe 6-7 am. There was just one other car in the parking lot when I arrived at the start - I had to assume that this was the only other entrant into this marathon. And, indeed it was. We finally got to meet after weeks of emailing and the like. He presented me with an Official race T-shirt, which I have to this day and have attached as a picture. What a great way to start a race. 
​

We could have not asked for a more perfect day to run a flat and fast marathon. As we started our race in the pre-dawn hour, we came upon something across the canal path. We weren't sure just what it was - something discarded or some trash. But as we approached, this pile - later discovered to be a sleeping bag WITH someone inside it that moved as we ran up to it - it sure got the adrenaline pumping as each of us jumped to either side!! (I found out later that that was one lucky sleeping bag inhabitant........)

They say you can learn a lot about a person from running with them, and this was no exception with Michael. We talked about so many things over that marathon that we never would have had the opportunity/comfort level to do otherwise. Mile after mile went by on a beautiful Fall day. 

At about the halfway point, my Mom, Laurel, and my Sister, Peggy, met us along the way with water and fuel. What a great crew and welcomed sight that was! They met us again at the turnaround, and then again at the first point. My sister even ran a little way with us. It was a great recharge as we headed back towards half #2. They also kept Laura Lee informed from the other side of the country of our progress, as no tracking was available. 

The only downside to this course was that we had to overshoot our cars and then turn around and finish where we had started. This proved to be a mental challenge that I hadn't counted on, but we forged ahead! I walked a bit, and urged my friend to continue on. But in the true runner camaraderie, the reply was, "we started this together, and we'll finish it together."

My time for that marathon was 4:27:49, and I do know that I came in second place overall and won my age group. But that was not the biggest takeaway. Yes, this was before Facebook and running apps and smart phones, but it was indeed an official marathon on a certified course with a credible witness, so I have always claimed it as one of my accomplishments, as should you friend. 

So congratulations Keith on a well deserved accomplishment. It was fun recalling this experience, and I trust you will enjoy retelling of your 27 mile Birthday Marathon in the years to come. 

Best wishes as the running and the adventures continue. 

Megstrong
Megsmiles
TwoTim47

​Bill

This marathon story started in Houston. The minute Houston race officials pulled me off the course of my second marathon and discarded me onto a bus full of did not finishers, I knew the Houston story wasn't over. My picture of the story was over. But the story wasn't over. 

Shortly after I got home from Texas, my buddy Anthony sent me a wooden medal he'd made me. On it was a replica of the logo I wore on my shirt in Houston.  He sent it to me as a reminder that I ran 18 miles in Houston. In his mind - the mind of a friend - I'd worked hard. I deserved a medal.

​So he did what a friend does. He made me one himself. 

​It wasn't long after I got Anthony's medal when my ​buddy Tracey Outlaw let me know he'd be running the Little Rock Marathon. He had a room and I was welcome to join him. And oh, he pointed out, Anthony lives near Little Rock and he'd be taking part in the weekend festivities. Additionally, he said, my friend Nicole and her family, who had also been a part of the Houston story, would be there as well. All I had to do was make the 14-hour drive to get there. 

I didn't think about it. Yes, I cringed at the thought of the drive. But I've  seen God weave too many of these strange but true stories lately to believe I was supposed to do anything but get in my car and drive to Little Rock. I had one call. Assume my role in His story. 

And so, less than 2 months after that first attempt at marathon number 2, I was headed one state east of Texas to give it another shot. I was off to Arkansas. 

A few weeks before heading to Little Rock I interviewed Sid Busch on my podcast. (Sid Busch interview). Sid has devoted the last 20 years running marathons all over America for fallen service men and women. I loved this American hero 2 minutes into my conversation with him. During the interview he told me he'd be in Little Rock - and, at the age of 72 - he was going to run his 205th and final marathon. 
So to recap the web God weaves:

• I fail in Houston.
• My buddy Anthony sends me a beautiful consolation medal he made himself.
• My buddy Tracey happens to be running Little Rock a few weeks after that - very near where Anthony lives. 
• Tracey invites me to join him.
• My friend Nicole, who was a huge part of my Houston journey, is also running Little Rock.
• And a man I didn't know when I ran Houston, but now loved, would run his final marathon in Little Rock.

I don't try to keep up with the God's stories any more. I just get in my car and drive. Then I run. 
​

I've said it often, but Little Rock weekend makes it well worth repeating. More than I love running, I love the friends I get to do it with. My friend JP Caudill recently told me, "runners bond because they just understand what each other are going through." I think that's true of life in general as much as it is on the race course. When you understand each other at a level like that, you love hanging out together. 

So before the race ever started, we hung out together. 

So my friends Ashley and Nicole went for a drive. Sounds like the perfect beginning to a great story, right? Then Ashley and Nicole decided to mess with Keith. Story's getting better, isn't it? They put their Hollywood film skills to work and produce the following film classic and send it to me. They do this knowing full well I'm trying to rest and get myself mentally "relaxed" for my second attempt at my second marathon. 

​Now these two ladies knew I had anxieties about the hills on this course. So to send me this totally fabricated account of the race course - not one inch of this video was actually ON THE COURSE - was rather cruel and unusual. But it did make for a fun moment once marathon Sunday began. 

​There's nothing like the starting line of a marathon. Whether there's a hundred people or several thousand, the air is filled with the excitement of dreams. Dreams of crossing a finish line for the first time. Dreams of running a race faster or further than ever before. Dreams of honoring someone battling cancer or killed by a drunk driver. And there are runners dreaming of finishing something they couldn't finish just 6 weeks ago. 

There's something powerful being surrounded by "I can do this." In a world filled with doubt and negativity, a marathon starting line overflows with belief.

Belief in self.

​Belief in one another. 
​

Shortly after the race began the rain began. Even though the air was cool, the rain wasn't uncomfortable for me.  I run well in the rain. Something about it suits me. 8 miles into the race the rain was still falling, yet my pace was still on target for that 6 hour marathon. I remained confident. I was going to achieve all 3 of my goals.

​At the half marathon mark I was still on pace, but I started encountering some of the hills. My friend Nicole who was well ahead of me sent this message:
​

My first instinct was to chuckle. Ha - serves you right for sending me ficticious and intimidating hill videos the day before the race. Who's laughing now. Then my thoughts went to - uh oh, if Nicole is struggling, just how bad ARE those hills up ahead. Then she sends me this message: 
​

​Nicole's a strong runner. Her struggles left me wondering if I was blindly and recklessly headed to meet a 6-hour marathon assasin. It would turn out I was wrong about that. I was actually headed for an army of assasins. 

I'm at mile 15 when the hill battles begin. A monsoon invades. As much as I was unphased by the light rain earlier, I'm shivering now and hating everything about my life. My shoes drown in the water washing over the road, and what I'm hating most is the part of my life that thought running this marathon was anything better than my worst idea I've ever had. 

I can't see now. Even when I force my eyes open against the pools of water streaming over them, the visibility out in front of me isn't more than a few yards. Wet, soggy feet. Blindness. I'm asking myself -over and over - why am I here. I  wonder what the bus will look like that's going to pick me up off this course. Will it be big like the one in Houston. Maybe it will just be a small school bus this time?

And then an angel appears. It's Anthony. He's not carrying a ghostly wooden medal to console me for an unfinished marathon. He's carrying a promise: "I'm here to get you to the finish line buddy." 

The finish line was still 9 miles away. Anthony had already run several miles to meet me in my storm, yet with all the confidence of a military general, he promised me we were getting home. I couldn't help but notice he didn't mention any buses. Yet, the dude was thoroughly convinced we were finishing this thing. 
​

I believed him. How could I not? I knew the 6-hour marathon was tragically put out of it's misery, but I had 2 goals left. They were alive and well. Suddenly thoughts of a bus were thoughts of a locomotive pulling me home.

So home I headed. 

Those last 9 miles conspired together to produce the toughest physical challenge of my life. There's no close second. The hills were relentless. The fast early pace zapped me of everything I had. So I leaned on my buddy, and I once again leaned on God. The God who got me to the finish line of my first marathon. He had me in Little Rock for a reason. I knew that reason wasn't remotely connected to quitting.

So, I was not going to quit. 

I told myself that 1000 times over the next several miles. I will not quit. I will not quit. I had no idea how I was going to pull that off, but at this point I focused less on what I had to and more on what I was not going to do.

I will not quit.

​I literally leaned into each next step, determined, picturing the Little Rock finish line through each short and painful shuffle. 
​

Back at the finish line my friends were worried about me. They were texting each other. Trying to get messages to me. Wanting me so badly to finish this race and beat that 6:58. Their panic was beautiful if unnecessary. They were looking at the race clock which showed the total elapsed time since the first runner went off so many hours earlier. What they forgot was I'd taken off WELL AFTER that first runner. So the clock they were looking at showed me cutting it close. The reality was I knew I was going to beat that second goal handily. 

I was going to be in rough shape, mind you, but I was going to beat that goal. 

Anthony left me with a couple of miles to go. He wanted to get to the finish line and see me come in. He said he wanted nothing to do with my finish line story. He wanted that to be mine. My friend Ashley appeared with about a mile to go. Her quiet and calming voice was the subtle assurance, the one final boost I needed to get to that finish line. 

It's amazing really. I've had some memorable sports feelings in my life. Yet, when the marathon finish line comes into view, there's no feeling like it from a competitive standpoint. And mind you, I was battling for a place much closer to last place than first. Much, much closer to last.

I guess we can all have our super bowl moments without actually playing in the super bowl. 

As I ran the final hundred yards or so I could see my friends come into view. My heart was full. I thought I'd be able to hold my emotions in check, but that was no longer possible. As I looked over and saw  Ashley, Nicole, Tracey, and Anthony - God poured out and into me through my beautiful friends. His love and pleasure and approval and strength. Their cheers and smiles; His heart. 

​It all poured into my broken and empty body. 

I'd like to say the Little Rock Marathon finished a story. But God has made it clear to me, race after race, that life truly is a marathon. Crossing a finish line feels final for a moment, but I already feel God stirring the pot of my next running story. I hear him saying life is a marathon, Keith. Not your marathon, but mine. 

I anxiously await the next step in His race. He's always so good and faithful to point me to it. If I have it my way it will be with the beautiful friends who shared this Little Rock chapter with me. They are beautiful illustrations in one of the most memorable chapters in my life. 

I've considered writing this article for a long time. I've hesitated because I haven't been sure this first reason is true. 26.2 miles is a long way, and maybe everyone can't run that far. Then I saw Chris Koch running the Marine Corps Marathon earlier in 2017. Only he wasn't running it like I can run it. He was using his one partial limb - a portion of a leg that wouldn't extend to even my knee - to scoot himself along on a skateboard. Chris runs an organization appropriately named If I Can. In his mind, if a man with no limbs can do something - like run a marathon - so can everyone else. I've come to agree with him.

Sure. Not everyone can do it. But way more than the .05% of Americans who do run a marathon can run a marathon. Way more than .05% can have their lives changed like mine has been.

I remember a lot of the excuses I had for not running a marathon:

• I'm not built to be a runner
• Many distance runners have dropped dead while running
• I'm too old to start running
• I'll probably just hurt myself

Some or all of those excuses have some legitimacy. But as for me, I can admit now I created every one of them to help me avoid tackling something that was going to require me to work harder than I wanted to work. It's that simple. 

The minute you commit to a marathon your excuse creativity gets a boost. You become a running encyclopedia of reasons not to follow through with your training. In the end, though, you come to realize those excuses are the running devils. They are put on this earth to derail you from accomplishing things that will make you an unimaginable better version of you.

You'll realize this I promise. And you'll learn to run toward your goals and away from excuses. 

Those running devils - their biggest weapon is comfort. They envelop us in the idea that happiness is found in comfort, and life outside comfort is a war zone - a place where our inner fears are lined up waiting to destroy us. The running devils loathe that we might discover the strength and power to not only survive here, but thrive. They know well this discovery will bring us a level of contentment never experienced in our comfort zones. And once we discover it, they know we're never coming back. 

Running a marathon will help you discover one of the greatest lessons in life. True contentment is in winning the war against discomfort, not settling for comfort. You'll discover you were created to thrive outside your comfort zone, not survive inside it. 

A marathon will teach you strength in numbers is more than an overused inspirational phrase. It's real and lifelong friendships. ​

Training for a marathon was an intense and painful struggle for me.

Running 26.2 miles on race day was one of the greatest physical challenge of my life.

So exactly why am I trying to talk you into doing the same thing?
​
Running a marathon taught me why it's so important to learn to love the process. The sense of accomplishment I've felt since crossing the finish line, the friendships I've carried with me well beyond it, the newfound confidence I have and the doors that have opened as a result, they are all gifts born in the process of preparing for a marathon, not gifts handed to me after crossing the finish line. 

Take a look at your life right now. My guess is the things you're doing that you are most proud of, that you find most rewarding, all have a back story rooted in a significant struggle. A marathon might end up being a bigger struggle than all of them. And the biggest reward.

Have you ever had what you thought was the perfect plan? Then three minutes into putting the plan in action you discover the plan's not so perfect after all. Welcome to the world of becoming a marathoner. 

​When you commit to running a marathon you'll adopt a training plan. Then, at some point, you'll struggle with the plan: I only have time for 5 miles today and not the 3 the plan calls for. The weather is horrific today and I can't hit the road at all. A flu bug has put me out of commission for a week. 

​When the perfect plan turns imperfect, you have two options. Abandon the plan all together, or adapt and move forward as strong as you can. A lot of incredible life accomplishments go unaccomplished because perfect plans get abandoned in the face of unexpected obstacles.  

Getting to the finish line of a marathon will teach you to take obstacles in stride while keeping your stride moving toward the finish line. 

Do you know what a marathon teaches you? Some days it's OK to simply survive, to persevere through the struggles that will inevitably come your way. Social media has created a world ripe for comparison. It pressures us into believing every step has to be bigger and better than someone else's. It has to be a game winner. A world changer. Every mile an award winner.

Crossing the finish line of my first marathon was an award winner for me. I got a nice medal and a beautiful blanket. And I walked away with a sense of confidence that's changed my life. But there were some ugly training runs leading up to the finish line. To be honest, way more than some. Many of those runs required me to accept records weren't  getting broken that day. There was only going to be survival. Perseverance. 

You know what I tapped into most on race day? Precisely. Perseverance. 

The story told at the finish line of a marathon isn't as much about how well you raced as it is about how well you prepared. We live in a world that asks us to believe gratification can always be found in an instant. In an instant purchase. In an instant comment to a Facebook post. In an instant bite of a quarter pounder with cheese (and Lord have I believed that one from the world).

But a marathon will teach you a greater truth. Great and enduring gratification is usually tied to great and enduring preparation. The gratification I continue to get from my first marathon, even a year after I completed it, isn't from the race itself. It's from recognizing all the time and effort I put into preparing for it. My unwavering willingness to prepare.

A marathon doesn't come easy to many people. It requires great preparation. A lot of people like to fantasize about being a marathoner, but they don't like the reality of preparing for it. More than likely these are people who like instant gratification and not great and enduring gratification. 

Another one of the excuses I used for not running a marathon was "I'm just not very disciplined." I used that excuse unapologetically believing some people had been gifted with discipline and I wasn't one of them. I had accepted my handicap and figured I'd find a way to make it through life without discipline. 

After deciding to run a marathon the next decision I had to make was to become more disciplined. There was a training plan I had to follow. There were certain amounts of water I had to drink to stay hydrated. There was the rest I had to be committed to getting. Time suddenly became more precious and I had to be more disciplined with how I managed it. 

When I look back on the months leading up to my marathon finish line, I see a structure, a set of rules I was more willing to follow than any other set of rules in my life. And I walked away from the finish line determined to be more disciplined in other areas of my life. What a difference it's made. 

Then I started running. My legs screamed I'm tired. My lungs begged - stop, I can't go any further. But for the first time in my life my mind spoke up and said, they're lying. Don't believe them. If you lean on me and trust that you have another 50 yards in you, your legs and lungs will have no choice but to come along with us.  

And there I was. 50 yards further than I'd ever run. It was my mind more than my legs that got me there. And my mind began to believe I might actually be able to get through 26.2 miles. 

Running a marathon will teach you a positive mind can get you to the beautiful other side of some uncomfortable experiences. And a negative mind will rob you of some incredible ones. ​

You won't be able to help it. Once your body starts doing things you never thought it could do, and your mind starts ignoring negativity it's never had the power to ignore, you'll be more awed by your human vessel than you've ever been. And inevitably, you'll wonder more about where it came from and what it's here for. 

Personally, tapping into my spiritual side meant becoming more grateful for God's creation and more curious about it's ultimate purpose. Running a marathon was at the same time a spiritually dark and light experience. Dark in that I had to confess I'd lived my life capable of far more than I'd been offering and therefore I felt great remorse. Light, on the other hand, because I'd been awakened to new possibilities and felt more hopeful about my future and living according to my created purpose than I ever had. 

The joy in discovering or growing this spiritual connection is you always have someone to run with. I spent most of my marathon training hours running alone. Yet, I'm sure I had more meaningful conversations with God in those 4 months of training and over those 26.2 marathon race day miles than I'd had in the previous 10 years combined. Yes, that says a lot about my spiritual life during that pre-marathon decade, but it also says a lot about the spiritual power behind running a marathon.

How many areas in our lives depress us because we feel like we're tackling them alone? Running a marathon reminded me we're never really as alone as we think we are.  

When I asked my friend Jenny Baker why she runs, she said, "you find yourself in a situation where you have a space to feel things you haven't created a space to feel in your normal day." 

​I found that space training for my first marathon. I could feel and hear things I'd never felt or heard before. I heard God whisper guidance; then I felt him push me on my way just to let me know he wasn't kidding. 

In training for that marathon the world around me became so quiet God's voice was the only one I could hear. And when God's voice becomes the only one you can hear, you suddenly find a boldness to pursue the kind of things only he can lead you to do. 

When I ran my first marathon there were a little over 4,000 runners in the race.

​A little over 4,000 of them crossed the finish line before I did. 

​Here's the thing. I went into marathon training knowing I wasn't going to win that race. And to be honest, it was pretty liberating diving into an activity, like running a marathon, without the pressure of being victorious working against me.

How many times does comparing ourselves to the front runner steal our joy in life?  Whether it's in our job, our parenting ability, our social standing in our community - how often do we gauge our own status against our perception of others in those arenas? 

​Well, unless you're an elite runner you start off marathon training knowing full well victory isn't possible. And you quickly become quite OK with that. Then you start to value your own personal effort and progress, achieving your own purpose, over any other indicators.

After completing a marathon I began to wonder how hard I was being on myself in other areas of my life. I discovered a hidden joy when I started giving myself credit for effort and progress, when I recognized my purpose in life wasn't tied to the front runners.  

I've come to believe everyone is hurting and in need of healing. Talk long enough with anyone and you'll ultimately discover a hurt. Some big. Some small. But when it's your hurt, size doesn't matter. You just want it to go away.

We live in a society where folks choose a lot of unhealthy routes to diminish pain. Alcohol and other drugs are a popular choice, eating disorders are common, people sink themselves into unhealthy relationships hoping to find a place to just escape. The list goes on and on of the choices people make in an attempt to heal, choices that often lead to more hurting, not less. 

For many reasons, training for and running a marathon is healing. First and foremost, it's a healthy outlet for many of the stresses and emotions born from hurting. By simply letting them go instead of holding onto them, healing begins. In addition, the spiritual connection previously mentioned often guides us toward a healthier place. We also gain an appreciation for ourselves running a marathon that heals insecurities rooted in our hurting. 

Not only does running a marathon help us heal from current pains, it begins to build a resiliency that protects us from future hurts. 

I began my running journey to honor a mom in our community, Meg Cross Menzies, who was hit and killed by a drunk driver. While I was training for my marathon I spent a lot of time thinking about her and the family and friends she left behind. I spent a lot of time saying "I run for Meg."

There's a certain power that comes with running for something. Something outside ourselves. When something or someone is honored by our running, it provides a little extra inspiration to do it well. I'm certain I never would have completed a marathon if I hadn't been running for Meg. In the moments of pain and sheer exhaustion, when I would find myself asking why am I doing this, I always had the answer. Knowing why you do something is often the first step in discovering how to do something. 

Discovering the power behind my purpose in running led me to examine the purpose behind other activities in my life. Why am I doing this? And in many cases, if I couldn't identify the purpose, I cancelled that activity for good. 

As important as I think discovering purpose in our lives is, and as much as I believe it's impossible to do anything as good as we're capable of doing it without a clearly defined purpose in mind, I'll be the first to admit some days purpose alone is not enough. 

Early in my marathon training I read something at just the right time. It said something along the lines of, "there will be times you will hate the idea of getting out there to run, but there will never be a time you will hate having finished a run." 

I've found that to be the truth. I've run hundreds of miles now, and I can't look back on a single one of them and say I wish I hadn't done that. Moreover, I can't identify a single one of them that hasn't added to my life in some way. 

Motivation often comes from looking at things a little backwards. It's not how do I feel about doing this activity now, it's how will I feel when it's over. If the projected end game feeling is rewarding enough, it will usually be motivating enough.

​Marathon training helped me apply this motivation principal to my work life, my writing life, my spending time with my family life. Motivation matters. Sometimes we simply look for it in the wrong place. 

a pride they want to feel,  and I promise you they are going to want some of what you've got. 

More rewarding than my Richmond Marathon medal is the number of people who've said my marathon inspired them to be a better version of themselves. ​

There may be no better stories than marathon stories.

Hang out with a bunch of people running their first or their tenth marathon and you'll hear stories. Stories of the beautiful people they are running for, the heartbreaking causes they are running to raise money for, the adversity they've had to overcome to get to the starting line, the beautiful places they've come from or to in order to take on their marathon challenge. You'll get to see family pictures. You may even get invited to be in their next family picture. 

Some of the greatest stories I've ever heard have been from marathoners. It's opened my eyes to the beauty of stories, and made me more curious about the stories in the lives all around me. Runners and non-runners alike. 

Discovering  gifts and strengths in my life I never knew I had made me more mindful than ever of the things other people don't have. And as much as comparison has the power to steal joy, it can also provide the perspective that fuels gratitude.

Running 26.2 miles makes you aware of so many things other people are genuinely physically incapable of doing. 

Running opens the doors to friendships you never would have had. Friendships open the doors to experiences you never could have imagined. 

Running 26.2 miles made me grateful for the gift of discovery. This journey of preparing for and then actually lining up and starting and finishing my first marathon revealed things about myself I could have never discovered anywhere else. In that, a marathon presented me a very unique and personal gift.

Believe me, it's a gift that overwhelms me with gratitude. 

Some people say running a marathon gives them the confidence to try things they never had the courage to try before. I've experienced some of that. More than that, though, my marathon journey sent me looking for things to try I never considered trying before. 

​The reality is, I spent most of my life never knowing what a marathon was. I'd heard of people running them. I just figured they'd run a pretty long way - a lot longer than I'd have any interest in running. 

But then one thing led to another and I ran my first marathon. And it changed my life in remarkable ways. It got me to wondering how many other life changing experiences are out there that I've never dreamed of experiencing. 

Running a marathon has put me on a passionate pursuit of the roads less traveled. And in some cases, never considered. 

A lot of the reasons for running a marathon have focused on discovering the things you can do. The physical gifts you have. The mental strength you possess. Your potential for healing and discovery. But here's an equally helpful discovery you'll make. You'll discover there are limits to what you can do. 

I'm not one of those guys who believes you can do anything you set your mind to. That's ridiculous. We all have limits. And believe me, training for a marathon will teach you real quick that you can only run so far and so fast. 

Here's the thing. There's great satisfaction that comes with exploring your limits; there's a joy that comes with living within them once you've discovered them. I think we spend a lot of time unsatisfied with our lives because we don't know what we're capable of. We don't know the floor and ceiling of what we're capable of. 

A marathon sends you on a 26.2 mile journey of discovering both. I've found it's equally rewarding to discover what I can't do as much as it is to realize what I can do.  

Too often in life we get caught up in where we've been or where we're going. We regret past decisions; we get stuck living life through past glories. Or, on the other end, we get lost in the daydreams of what life is going to be like in the future. We get years down the road before we realize we've been doing a lot more dreaming than doing. 

​Marathon training has a way of keeping you centered in the present. The miles behind me and the miles ahead are nothing but  distractions. I have one task. Accomplish this next stride. If I don't find a way to overcome the pain and exhaustion and self doubt of this next step, nothing behind or ahead of me matters. I need all of my energy in the here and now.  When it comes to running a marathon, life really is one step at a time.

I've found myself living more in the present in other areas of my life since running a marathon. There are a lot of areas in life where it would serve us well to make this present moment count. 

Yes, you'll be able to send me a story of the strongest of endurance runners who've keeled over while running a marathon. And I'll send you a hundred more of marathoners who've strengthened their hearts, improved their circulation and made their muscles stronger than they've ever been. And in doing so, they've drastically decreased their risk of death. 

For decades now we've been fighting an epidemic of people dying of preventable causes. A vast majority of them preventable through exercise. The reality is, a vast majority of people aren't interested in running a marathon not because of how far they'll have to run, but because they're not interested in getting out and exercising at all. 

Less than 600,000 thousand people will run a marathon this year. And over 800,000 will die of cardiovascular disease. I'm no doctor, but I strongly believe if the number on the left went up, the number on the right would go down. 

And by the way, before you commit to running a marathon I would encourage you to run it by your doctor. 

In training for a marathon and trying to talk my body into doing something it had never come close to doing before, I got as in tune as I've ever been with what my body was trying to talk me into doing.
​ 

• It let me know how hard it was for it to function when I weighed more than I needed to.
• ​It told me how hard it was to function when I ate certain foods and drinks.
• ​It told me it wasn't as big a fan as I was operating on 5 hours of sleep a night. 

​To be honest, I've gone through most of my life dictating the terms of what my body needed without ever stopping to ask - what does my body need from me. It's when I suddenly had a purpose for my body, when I needed it to work with me and not for me, that I started experimenting with treating it better. 

​My body was much more willing to go 26.2 miles. It's been unexpectedly more willing to go way beyond that. 

I was not prepared for the final 6 miles of my marathon. I'd run 19 in my training, but never more than that. Those final 6 miles were unchartered territory. The only way I covered them was by repeatedly telling myself  "I will not quit" and believing God would carry me if I committed to keep putting one step in front of the other.

​There have been many times in my life since that marathon when I've uttered those words. I will not quit. There's been a big difference in those words after crossing that marathon finish line, though. I have felt the ultimate power of those words; I have experienced what happens when you apply faith to them.  Something happens when you start saying I will not quit and you know it's true. 

Reason number one is worth repeating. You can do it!

​Running a marathon will drastically minimize - if not completely eliminate - the number of times you'll ever say "I can't" again. 

​Talk about addition by subtraction. Take the words "I can't" out of your life and watch the beauty explode. Sometimes inviting a miracle into our life is as simple as weeding the wrong words out of it.

​Happy new year my friends. And happy running.