#426: Reflections on Auld Lang Syne

I usually write a New Year's post. Scanning them over the years, I have to say I really like the way my life has changed.

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

What's in a Name? - The Holy Name of Jesus

On January 1, the eighth day after Christmas, we remember the day Joseph & Mary's child was circumcised and named.

The name that we translate into Jesus was Yeshua in Hebrew. It is actually a familiar version of the name Yehoshua. It means "Lord (or Jehovah) who is salvation)." 

In English, we might call a child Faith or Godfrey or Regis if we wanted to give them a name that sounded particularly pious or royal. So it is with the name of Jesus. It was not a rare name in Hebrew culture, but it was a special one.

In time, he came to be known as Jesus Christ, but Christ is not a name, rather it is a title, from the Greek christos which is the translation of the Hebrew messias meaning "anointed one." In the gospels, the evangelists refer to Jesus the Christ. After the resurrection, the early Christians transformed Jesus Christ or Christ Jesus into a single proper name, not unlike Julius Caesar.

So what's in Jesus' name? Not a magic spell that grants us wishes when we pray "in Jesus' name." Instead, his name honors both his heavenly father, and the world whose salvation he came to effect. Just as Jesus was both God and human, so also his name spans two dimensions - Jesus the man and Jesus the name are both links between the creator and creation. The name Jesus testifies to the radical love God has for the world.

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Friday, January 1, 2010

#162 Not Another "I Hated '09" Post

So '09 sucked for you. Grow up. The year was hard in Pennsyltucky too. Some life lessons come hard.

Don't sell your love to the highest bidder.
Just because someone cares about the things you can do for them, that doesn't mean they care about you.

The other shoe always drops.
When you see the headlight at the other end of the tunnel, for God's sake, get off the tracks.

Genuine loyalty can come from surprising people.
There are people out there who will stick with you through thick and thin - but they may not be the ones you expected.

Blood really is thicker than water.
When times are the hardest - when worse actally does come to worst - you find out that your family cares the most.

A drowning sage does not second guess the lifeboat.
It ain't the boat that got you here, and it ain't the boat you would choose, but sometimes you just have to climb in and start rowing.

Never argue with someone who buys their own bullshit.
 Let life teach them what they need to know.

You have no idea how much people care for you.
There are people who think better of you than you think of yourself. Love these people with all your heart. They are your friends.

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Friday, December 31, 2010

#293: My Friend, the Beautiful Lunatic

My friend Alan ended his fight with cancer today. As much as I want to be sad, I can't help smiling every time I think of him.

He was the doctor on duty when our first cat, "Uh-Huh" collapsed on the examination table. He held her in his hands and gave her CPR for several minutes until it became clear that he would not be able to revive her. He was there again when little "Mo," the eternal kitten, arrived at the back door of the hospital, gasping for breath and turning blue. This time, Alan was able to bring our cat back from death. 

Alan would come and go in our home like one of the family. He would show up with a six-pack of beer and a goofy grin We laughed ourselves silly as Alan lifted Mo up in his bony hands and gently tap tap tapped his little kitty head to the ceiling of our living room, over and over again. Mo has forgiven, but never forgotten this . He still refers to our friend as "Bloody Alan." 

Then there was the night in our living room when he taught Mrs P's boss' nine year old son to roll up his pants, raise his knees, tuck his hands under them, and make farting noises by kicking his feet up and down. 

One night, on the feast of St Francis, Alan came to St. Martha's to participate in the blessing of the animals. Though he was not a member of our parish, or even an Episcopalian that I can remember, he moved reverently among dogs, birds, cats, and one very puzzled pony. He laid his hands on each head, just as the priest did, and blessed them as brothers and sisters. After the service and the obligatory pot luck supper, (always an adventure when the parish hall is full of animals,) Alan spoke about what it meant to minister to the suffering of animals and the people who loved them. 

I hate that he died fighting cancer. God forgive me, but there are a lot of other people I would rather see dead. Cancer doesn't choose us any more than we choose cancer. We just sort of bump into one another and our crazy story plays itself out. I don't try to make sense of his death. I grieve for the laughter I will never be able to share with him again.

But then I look into Mo's kittenish eyes, now 15 years old and usually tired, but still afire with the life he once came so close to losing.  I glance at the spot on the ceiling where a pair of pointy ears once tap tap tapped until we were all weeping with laughter, (all of us except the cat, of course.) I know I should be sad. But whenever I think of my friend, the beautiful lunatic, I can't help smiling.

God bless you, Alan. You loved all creatures, great and small. I can only imagine the scene when you arrive at heaven's gate and all those cats start rubbing your legs at the same time. I can't wait to see you again myself. I'll bring the Rolling Rock in green long-necks. We can lean against the wall and flick caps at the back of St Peter's head while you teach me that leg-farting thing.

Till then, my brother...

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Saturday, December 31, 2011

#381: Peeking Around the Bend

What's around the bend in Pennsyltucky?

In a way, it's a pity that we celebrate New Year's Eve by getting drunk. This is such a great day to be awake.

In some ways, 2011 was a hard year, but even through the pain, we were blessed. We lost a lot of people we love, particularly our beloved brother Doug who fought cancer with such courage and faithfulness. Near the end of his battle, he spoke the words that just may go on my tombstone. He was lying in the hospital when he was told of a friend who had given his heart to Jesus in church that morning, Doug wept and whispered, "It's all going to be worth it." And so it is.

We lost our house, after a long game of chicken with Wells Fargo. The experience was sometimes painful, more often, it was just a pain, but we were blessed to have the support of our friend Donna, a realtor and a saint, (yes, it is possible.) There was Judge Scorsone who stood between us and the bank's lawyers long enough for us to complete the short sale of the property. And most important of all, our brothers and sisters, Bob, Bobbie, and Paul, who helped us to find a new "place for our stuff." We lost a house, but thanks to them, we were able to keep our home intact.

Me and my little licensed head-shrinker.

After delaying her studies for almost a year, while she was busy keeping me alive, Mrs. P finally got the chance to prepare for her LCSW, She is at last a licensed clinical social worker. She lost weekends and nights of sleep with her head in the books. We even took DVDs with us on road trips so she could study in the car. All that study had to be crammed into the few cracks remaining in her regular schedule. And when the moment of truth came, she aced her exam.

We traveled to Pennsylvania twice. It was my first time home since I got sick, and I didn't realize how much I missed the forests and hills of Western PA. My 30th college reunion was full of joy and tears with old friends Jeff, Joellen, Marcia, and Erin. So was my first, live Steeler game for which I am ever grateful to my old high school classmate, Skip. He gave me a day I will never forget, and can never repay. I got to taste Mum's cooking again, to sleep in Gramma's house, to hold my sisters in my arms, and to run the dirt roads we used to walk when I was a child.

2011 was the year the doc told me I didn't have cancer any more. I resolved to live the life we had all fought so hard to save. 

I returned to my beloved Actors' Guild in Glengarry Glen Ross, and End Days. And I got to play in the park again, with a turn as William, Lord Hastings in Richard III.

Jake and the Fat Man.

The Fat Man is running the Pittsburgh Marathon on May 6. The reality of it hasn't quite set in, yet. I'm not sure it will until somewhere around mile 18 of the race. This time last year, I walked a mile and felt like I had won a gold medal. I ran a 3K in March, a couple of 5Ks in the Spring, then my first 10K on July 4. I got it into my head that I could finish a half-marathon, and in October, Mrs P cheered as I crossed the finish line. While I trained for that race, people contributed over $3500 to One for the Five, a project to honor fallen cancer fighters, and to raise money for the Markey Cancer Foundation. Soon, I'll be launching two more projects, one to help Actors' Guild, and one to help fund LIVESTRONG at the YMCA.

When I heard about a program at the YMCA to help cancer survivors improve their fitness, I jumped at it. I was expecting a free gym membership for three months. I got much more. The Y gave me what it has given so many people over the years: a place to exercise; a chance to meet friends; a way to discover a sense of purpose and value. I fell in love with my coaches, Melissa and Carrie and Chelsea; and the Eight: mighty women who taught me how much fun kicking cancer's ass can be. Loved them so much that when my program was over, I went to the boss and asked for a job. This year, I'm going to start studying to become a trainer at the Y.

With some of the LS@theY team for the Reindeer Ramble.

So, in all sobriety I can say I'm the happiest Pennsy I've ever been. I love my wife more than ever. I have work that excites me. I have passion that makes me look forward to ten miles of asphalt on a chilly Bluegrass morning. I can't stop thanking God for giving me this second (or third? or fourth? or umpteenth?) chance to live.

2011? It was a very good year. 2012? Gonna be even better. Let's love it together, huh?

Peace,

Pennsy

#425: Reflections On A Wake-Up Call

One night in November of 2007, I found myself in the Emergency Room at St Joseph's hospital with a painful, swollen burning on the inside of my right thigh, just above the knee. A few years later, the blood clot that almost killed me during my cancer treatment would originate in that same leg. It really scared me. In many ways, it was a pivotal moment in my life... Just like Noah's neighbors, I just didn't recognize it yet. Looking back, I think that night was the first jolt that made me realize that it was time to get up out of my comfy chair and start moving.

Friday, November 30, 2007

Keep awake!

This will be an experiment in altered consciousness. Last Sunday, I was in the emergency room My left leg was the shape of a melon and the color of a beet. The doctor said I have phlebitis. They gave me meds and told me to sit still with a hot compress on my leg. The combination of drugs, stillness, and warm legs has kept me in and out of sleep for most of the week. Being awake has usually meant a droop-eyed stupor just one notch shy of drooling. So imagine my amusement when I read the gospel for the first Sunday of Advent.

Jesus said to the disciples, "For as the days of Noah were, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away, so too will be the coming of the Son of Man. Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left. Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into. Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour."
Matthew 24:37-44

Noah's neighbors never saw it coming. They saw the signs. Some of them may even have asked what in the world he was doing. But they wouldn't accept the truth of his words. In my mind's eye, I can see them coming out on Sunday afternoons with a picnic lunch to watch the crazy man building an ark in his field, then filling it with a menagerie. God's plan wasn't hidden from them - it was there big as life. They just chose to call it madness.They never saw it coming.

As a child, Mrs P was terrified by the gospel song;

Two shall be working, working in the field
One shall be taken, and the other left behind
Will YOU be ready when Jesus comes?

Have you encountered the little tracts from Chick Publications? I was fascinated by them when I was a teenager.The drawings were graphic and disturbing. I remember one about the rapture. In an instant, where someone had been driving or working or reading their Bible a moment before, there was only a pile of clothes. Their discreetly posed naked spirits flew up to heaven while the others were left behind to try and understand what had happened. These tracts are still being published and I don't recommend them. They combine simple mindedness and mean spirit in a way that has impressed me since my teen years.

Still, it is an ill cartoon that blows no good, and even from these little comics I was able to learn about the seriousness of matters like good and evil, sin and repentance, destruction and salvation. The picture Jesus presents in this story is worth a thousand words of theology. The image of one woman delivered from the terrible events to come while another is left behind reminds me that I don't have the luxury of putting Jesus off. I can't move him down on my list of priorities. I need to live each moment as if it is my last chance to do God's work in the world.

So what am I supposed to do, stay awake like a homeowner waiting for a thief? Spend every moment in tense vigilance waiting for the second coming? I find wisdom in this thought from Will Rogers:

"Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip."

Jesus doesn't want us to wait. He wants us to live AS IF every moment matters - as if whatever we do, wherever we are, we would welcome him to join us.

The Son of Man is coming. I don't know when, and it really doesn't matter. My job is to always be about his work. My role is to feed his sheep so he doesn't find them hungry when he returns.

Even when I'm only half awake.

May God bless your worship as we begin a new Liturgical Year and the holy season of Advent.

Peace,
Pennsy

#424: A Time For Reflection

In a few days, I will be celebrating a strange anniversary... the day, three years ago, when cancer came into my life. It seems like an appropriate time to do some reflection. I'm taking a look back through the eyes of the Fat Man...

Initially, I called the blog Pennsyltuckian. I thoiught I had a lot of wise, insightful things to say, and so I decided to write them all down so future scholars could know just how clever a guy Pennsy could be. It was an ego exercise, full of big words, obscure references, and sermonizing that I find kind of embarrassing today. But, based on the eternal principle that even a blind pig will find a nut now and then, I revisit this unintentionally prescient post from Easter of 2007. 

Saturday, April 7, 2007

The Second Day

Lift up your heads, O gates!
and be lifted up, O ancient doors!
that the King of glory may come in.
Psalm 24:7

Holy Saturday may be the strangest day of the church year.

It is invisible.

Thursday evening begins what is known in the liturgy as the Sacred Triduum - the holy three days. The feast begins with Maundy Thursday, followed by Good Friday, and concludes with the Great Vigil of Easter. Saturday is as quiet as the empty tomb. There is a brief liturgy for the morning, slipped in like an asterisk.

There is an ancient tradition about this day, but in our damnation-shy culture, we have soft pedaled it into silence. Mysterious reference is made to this tradition in the Apostle's Creed.

He was crucified, died and was buried. He descended into hell.

When I asked my parents about this unlikely phrase, they explained to me that in Greek, the word hades also meant a grave, so the creed was just affirming that Jesus spend a day in a tomb. This interpretation is so prevalent that in many parts of the contemporary church, the phrase has been altered to "He descended to the dead." He went where dead people go. He was buried.

John Calvin, who had no modern scruples about Hell interpreted the tradition another way. To him, Christ's descent into Hell was the spiritual completion of his fleshly passion. Jesus' redemptive suffering continued after his earthly death when his spirit, forsaken by the father, descended to experience the tortures of the damned in Hell. In Calvin's eyes, this made the price of redemption all the more precious and elevated Christ's sacrifice to a cosmic scale.

The apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus (aka The Acts of Pilate) proposed a third explanation - one that has been embraced by the church for centuries. The Gospel of Nicodemus records the testimony of three men raised from the dead who came to Jerusalem to bear witness:

We then were in Hades, with all who had fallen asleep since the beginning of the world. And at the hour of midnight there rose a light as if of the sun, and shone into these dark regions; and we were all lighted up, and saw each other. And straightway our father Abraham was united with the patriarchs and the prophets, and at the same time they were filled with joy, and said to each other: This light is from a great source of light. The prophet Hesaias, who was there present, said: This light is from the Father, and from the Son, and from the Holy Spirit; about whom I prophesied when yet alive, saying, The land of Zabulon, and the land of Nephthalim, the people that sat in darkness, have seen a great light.

This is not the Hades my father told me about. These souls were with the damned in Hell. With nothing but their own righteousness to commend them, they could not enter communion with God in Heaven. They had died without the redeeming blood of Christ.

Many artists have taken up this theme.Fra Angelico shows the Devil crushed under the broken down gates of Hell where Christ has flung them. Jesus' outstretched arm extends deliverance the the faithful dead. Traditionally Adam and John the Baptist are first in line.

Pieter Huys renders the "Harrowing of Hell" on a grand scale. In a graphic hell-scape reminiscent of Hieronymus Bosch, Huys pictures the light of Christ piercing the darkness of Hell where some are redeemed, some are past hope, and some tortured souls cannot bear to even look upon the savior as he approaches.

Some of my favorite interpretations of the "Harrowing" tradition are those of the great German engraver, Albrecht Durer. One is startled by their intimacy. Here, it is the demons who are tortured by Christ's holy presence. The redeemed stand triumphant, pulled from the mouth of hell by a savior who is as much action hero as spiritual deliverer.
Durer's Christ bears the banner of a victorious warrior, reclaiming Hell's hostages to lead them home. Adam, Eve, and the Patriarchs have the look of people shocked by their own liberation, while the Baptist appears to be explaining who and what this man Jesus is, even as he did in life.


What happened on that silent Second Day? Certainly Jesus' body spent it in the hades of Joseph's tomb. Likewise, who could argue with Calvin's interpretation: Jesus' suffering could not be complete until he had endured the tortures of Hell. Still, the "Harrowing" is the most deeply rooted in tradition. The image of Christ reaching his powerful arm and lifting the faithful out of the fires of Hell is inspiring for two reasons.

First, it satisfies our sense of Justice. It is unimaginable that God would allow good people to suffer forever because of their ignorance of Jesus redeeming death and resurrection. Second, it assures us that there is no depth to which we can sink that is beyond the saving grasp of Christ. Not even the gates of Hell can separate us from the God who loves us and longs for our redemption.

It is Holy Saturday - the invisible holy day. The Lenten fast is not yet complete. The resurrection is not yet accomplished.

But in the silence, God's saving work through Christ has already begun.

Thanks be to God.

Amen

#423: Running Long, Falling Short

"I went to the doctor. I went to the mountains..." My soul has always found healing in the mountains. This Sunday, the Great Physician led me to northern Kentucky where I got a generous dose of just the right medicine.

I had time for two long runs before my Marathon in May. The plan was to do 26 this weekend, take two weeks for recovery, then go longer than 26 one last time before the race. When a friend invited me on a run through the serious hills north of Lexington, I decided that the climbing would more than make up for the lost miles, and plotted a 20 mile course from Millersburg to my friend Sandy's house, deep in the hollers of Nicholas county. Before the day was over, I was to learn just how much I had under-estimated those hills. I would also experience one of the most gratifying failures of my life.

A Mountain Locker Room

We met after church. The weather was lovely. At 72 partly cloudy degrees, the Bluegrass finally felt like spring had arrived. Mrs P dropped me off in Millersburg where I joined my friend Jeri and some fellow runners. It was great to be in shorts and a singlet after the long months of tights and treadmills.

Jeri

Jeri and I started down the road out of town and we were soon climbing. She set a pace that was a little quicker than I would have liked, and chose 5:00 run/1:00 walk intervals. I planned to run the first 5 or 6 miles with her, then she would turn back while I continued on for my long run. I figured I could take the challenge of keeping up with her stronger legs for a little while, but the pace and the hills soon told me otherwise. "I can't keep up with you, Jeri. I'll slow down and you go on ahead." She seemed mystified. "What? I thought I was trying to keep up with YOU." She had interpreted my attempts to follow her as an effort to push her. We switched to shorter run intervals, and the trip became much less of a trial.

Take me to the River

Bridge Over Peaceful Waters

Blood and Sweat, but
No Tears... Yet

We talked about running and grandkids and dogs and our marriages. We puffed up the hills and gasped at the beautiful views from their tops. When my teeth popped out of my mouth (again...) we laughed at the silliness of it, and when a misstep off the edge of the black-top sent me tumbling, we joked about other great falls we had suffered on the roads. When we rounded the bend that led us to the covered bridge at Colville, our time together seemed much too short. Jeri's husband was there waiting with water, and Jeri snapped some pictures of my gory looking leg before I trotted off down the road toward the remainder of my journey. The hills were brutal and beautiful. There were long, steep climbs followed by descents that always seemed too short. Sometimes the roads led me along a ridge where I could see for what seemed like miles. Other times I followed along beside creeks in deep valleys where ancient houses, trailers, and barns lined the road sides. Occasionally I would pass someone feeding horses or just relaxing on their porch. They would stare in puzzled amusement as I jogged along.

I encountered lots of other critters on my way. This isn't thoroughbred country. No million-dollar farms out here. These horses work hard for a living, and it shows. Their pastures and their coats are both a lot rougher than their cousins at Keeneland, but they are no less beautiful. Cattle knelt by roadside fences as if in prayer, and lumbered warily to their feet as I passed. An occasional snort from a muddy pen let me know that next winter's hams were rooting contentedly in the shade. And of course, there were the dogs. Working dogs are like working horses. No carefully bathed sissies out here. There were the big old shepherds patrolling fenced in yards. Shaggy giants roaring from barns. And then there were the Pits.

There is a certain amount of... how to put this?.. home-style chemical manufacturing going on in these woods. Years ago, that might have meant white lightening. Probably still does in some places. But things being how they are in the mountains nowadays, the products are more sinister. Meth labs are scattered among the shacks and abandoned out-buildings in the hills, and they take a terrible toll on our people. Of course, whether you're cooking meth or moonshine, you need a security system, and that often means dogs that are meant to keep strangers far away. A couple of bruisers charged at me as I ran, but I just raised myself up tall, didn't change my pace, and acted for all the world like the biggest dog in the woods. Once they saw that I was not weak or wounded, and had no intention of stopping to sniff around, they always settled down. One even sidled in beside me and trotted down the road quietly for a couple hundred yards. I'm not sure if he was  being a partner or just escorting me off the property, but it was funny having such a fierce looking monster on my heel for a while.

The terrain had been rough all day, but around mile 10, I started wondering if I hadn't bitten off more than I could chew. By mile 13, I was pretty certain that I had. I switched my run/walk intervals to 30 seconds. Soon I was walking 30 and shuffling 30 with an occasional break to sit on a roadside rock where I contemplated the insanity of a 50 year-old-cancer survivor trying to raise money by running marathons. Somewhere during mile 14 I said it out loud: "I'm in trouble here." Cell phone signals are few and far between out in the hills. I had to wait to get to the top of one before I could see any bars on my screen. "I'm about five miles from you, and I'm out of gas," I gasped to Mrs P. "I need you to come and get me." After she had dropped me off in Millersburg, she had gone on to Sandy's house for some R&R. She had a detailed map of my route in case I needed rescuing. The two of them hopped in Sandy's truck and headed toward me.

As Far As I Was Going to Go

Knowing help was on the way gave me heart and I tried jogging a little. I was in a very pretty valley and the road was as flat as I had seen all day, so the going was pretty smooth. I knew from plotting my route online that there was a mile long hill, the steepest of the day, waiting at mile 17. Around 16.8, I came to a pretty little crossroads with a beautiful country church standing silently by. I saw a large concrete pad that I knew must be the sceptic tank, and limped to it. This was as far as I was going to go.

I don't remember what I thought about as I sat there on that cement sewer. I'm not sure I thought of anything at all. I was well past the "stupid zone" where my brain shuts off and my legs take over. Both were exhausted now, and I sat quietly in that contemplative state like a soggy monk, waiting for deliverance.

Just a Little Road Rash

Sandy almost drove right past me. She expected me to be back around mile 15, where I was when I made my SOS call. When she and Mrs P pulled to a stop in the gravel beside the church. I wasn't sure if I would be able to walk to the truck or not. My wife got out to help me, and fret over the blood that was caked down my right calf. My fall with Jeri had left me pretty well scratched up and the blood thinners I take had done their work.

As we turned onto the ironically named "Johnson Road," I finally learned just how badly I had underestimated this run. The mile long climb was as steep a road as I have seen anywhere this side of Colorado. I couldn't have run it. I couldn't have crawled it. As Sandy swung the big crew-cab across the bridge and up the long drive that leads to her house, I knew that they had saved me as surely as if they had rowed up beside me in a lifeboat on a stormy sea.

At Last, a Friendly Dog

No joke: this was the toughest run of my life. Not even my marathon left me as drained and helpless at this trip through the mountains. Along the way, I had questioned everything from my attempts to raise money to my dreams of running another Marathon. I had doubted myself and my own strength. I had doubted my own intelligence! After only 15 miles I had decided to just give up. I sent up a flare. I sat by the side of the road and thought about what it felt like to surrender.

Then I thought about the reason I was running. I thought about Becky, fighting for her life against the chemo that was trying to kill her second bout of cancer. I thought of Raynee and the tumor in her brain that threatened to steal her from her husband and little children. I thought of the scar on James' scalp and the fire in Jaspal's eyes and always, always Coach Carrie's voice. "You can't do this, Bob." And Melissa. "I see you running a Marathon someday." And Mrs P. "I believe in you, Bobbo." I got up off my ass when I didn't have a drop of energy left and no hope in the world of finishing this course, and I by-God ran. I ran two more miles after I was sure I couldn't go another step.

How? Courage? Determination? Stubbornness? Stupidity? God? Yes, I think it was God. God, who created me to be a runner. God, who let the cancer almost kill me so I could discover my own strength. God, who appears in the eyes of every survivor, every caregiver, every doctor and nurse and kind friend I meet in my battle against a disease I hate.

The View from Sandy's Porch

The two great seasons of the church year are Christmas and Easter. Incarnation and Resurrection. God with us, and God redeeming us. The spirit of God is alive in the people I serve. They are my inspiration and my strength. Whatever courage I have, I learned from the warriors I have met in the gym and on the road. That's why I run. That's why I'm always begging for money. And that's why I will run that crazy race in May.

Not because I can't let them down.

But because they won't let me fall.

Peace,
Pennsy

#422: Will You Bet On Pennsy?

When I ask for your money, I know I'm asking a lot. This year, I'm putting myself on the line to win your support. I'm going to try to smash my personal best in the Marathon.

Last spring, I asked a group of people to support me as I returned to my home town to run my first Marathon. I completed the Pittsburgh Marathon just two years after being diagnosed with the cancer that almost killed me. Family, friends, neighbors, and strangers rose to the challenge, and contributed $3685 to support LIVESTRONG® at the YMCA, a 12 week program that helps cancer survivors to use exercise, nutrition, and community to reclaim their lives after being diagnosed with this life threatening illness.

First as a participant, and now as a coach, I've had the chance to watch that money being spent. Our efforts last year paid for free memberships for 10 survivors and their families so they could travel together on their journey toward strength and wellness.

We did that together. This year, I’m challenging you to do even more.

BET A BUCK A MINUTE

In Pittsburgh, I finished the 26.2 miles in 06:21:53. Since then, I’ve been training to get stronger, tougher, and faster. I think I can beat my old time, and I’ll be trying to finish the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati on May 5 in less than 05:21:00. That would be a near miracle, but then, miracles are sort of my business these days.Here’s my challenge to you:

I’m asking you to pledge a dollar for every minute I take off of my time in the Marathon. That’s $60 for an hour improvement.

HERE’S ALL YOU NEED TO DO

Drop me an email to let me know you’re ready to bet a buck a minute on me. Once the race is finished, I’ll let you know my official time, and you can make your contribution by mail, or online at my website: http://www.crowdrise.com/lsy2013/fundraiser/Pennsy.

We’re going to do such great things together. Ladies and Gentlemen, place your bets!

Peace,

Pennsy

Make checks payable to "YMCA" and mail to:

Robert Parks Johnson

Living Strong at the Y 2013

North Lexington Family YMCA

381 West Loudon Ave

Lexington KY 40508

#421: Race Report: 2013 Run the Bluegrass Half Marathon

After your first time on the course for the Run the Bluegrass Half Marathon, it's easy to pick your favorite mile: it's mile 8. Those long, gentle rollers are as close as you get to flat and straight, and the last quarter is a lovely downhill coast that finishes at the mile 9 post and the most hellish climb on the course: a 100 foot, quarter mile climb that John's Striders just call the S-curve. Knowing it's out there makes you savor that beautiful preface even more.

Yesterday, as the 2:30 pace group and I rounded the corner that starts that lovely mile, we were greeted by a foal and his mother. They were running along the fence, following the runners as we gasped out on the road. The thoroughbreds would mirror our progress all the way to the corner of their pasture, then turn and gallop back to escort another lucky group of brightly dressed humans. They reminded us of two things. First: RTB's billing as one of the prettiest half marathons in America is an understatement. Second: there are creatures who love to run even more than we do. What a beautiful reminder that a race track is a pale parody of the free, generous spirits of these glorious animals.

The morning started before dawn, like all race days. My clothes were laid out on the bathroom sink, waiting for me to shower and apply all the necessary lubes and tapes that protect my skin on a long run. Carrying my race shoes and socks, I padded carefully to the kitchen to make coffee without waking Mrs P. My pre-race rituals are part of the fun for me, and that includes the paranoid fear that I'm going to step on a sharp dog chewy in the dark and ruin my foot. The week before my marathon, I put my shoes on before I got out of bed. This time, I chose to live a little more recklessly.

My pre-run breakfast hasn't changed in a long time. One cup of coffee and two pieces of toast with jelly. Sugar and carbs for fuel. Caffeine to open my eyes. Again, I chose to try a new strategy. I super-charged with a second cup of coffee, and two gooey apple fritters. I knew it would mean extra bathroom trips before the start, but I also knew how long those hills were. I didn't want to run out of gas before the end.

It was around 39° as I started the Honda, its windows covered with condensed fog. As I drove the back roads to Keeneland, I passed hollows and creeks filled with gray mist that turned the bluegrass fields into a dream. An hour before the race, the parking lots were nearly full, and the roads were packed with carloads of runners waiting patiently. None of us were in too much of a hurry to get out onto that frosty grass. I parked in the field and made my way up the hill to the Keene Barn where the expo had been. This morning, it was full of drowsy athletes, stretching, hopping, and occasionally napping, seated straight legged on the floor, their backs against the wall, even in sleep they were stretching the hamstrings. I made a quick stop in the men's room, determined to beat the rush, and then walked out to the starting line for a little jogging to ease my jitters.

The air was simply magical. To the west, the fog cleared for a moment to allow the nearly full moon to peek through the blue morning skies above. To the east, diffused through the thick fog, the sun glowed, it's outlines indiscernible:  not a rising disk, but a slowly warming glow above the horizon. There are runners who like to sit quietly before the gun. There are others, more nervous types like me who just want to keep moving. A big old diesel takes a little longer to rev up than a zippy little coupe. I joined another senior runner just past the starting line. We nodded greetings and jogged along quietly together for the first half mile of the course. We did a couple of hill repeats and I studied my Garmin as I went, reminding my legs of the 12:00 per mile pace I had planned. The road ran us directly into the rising sun, and I followed the silhouette of my partner as he trotted toward the sky, then turned and coasted easily back down to the base again. After three or four times up and down, I felt myself starting to get warm, and headed back toward the car where I would put on my race shirt, the numbered bib pinned on since last night.

By the time I reached the car, I knew I was in trouble. 25 minutes till start time, and I really needed to pee. I looked around the parking lot. Everywhere I turned there were engines running, trunks popped open, people dressing. I stood behind the Honda with the back window up and the tailgate open. Screw it. We were all runners here. We were used to training early in the morning and jumping up into the cedars for a quick one when necessary. Just as I was hooking my thumbs into my waist band, a man walked out from between two cars. "Bob, right?" "Yeah, hi." "I recognize you from the Y. Good to see you here. Gonna be a cold one, huh?" We chatted briefly. I was wearing the logo on my shirt, and was particularly glad that he hadn't caught me with little Pennsy at work in the dawn's early light. Once the coast was clear. I quickly did what needed to be done in the shelter of the open tailgate, carefully avoiding both the back bumper and my shoes.

Uncle Ernie Peel:
Godfather of Strider Nation

The start was simply epic. A stream of 4000 registered runners from all over the country stretched colorfully in the fog as far as I could see in either direction. We started in waves, each corral leaving the gate two minutes after the one before. The course is narrow and traffic was thick, even with the careful logistics. As usual, I found myself swept along in the early wave of runners, much faster than my intended pace. My friend Chris pulled along beside me around Mile 1 and I noted that I was going much too hard. She is a more experienced runner than I, and smiled in recognition of  my early blunder. I switched my interval timer on and started the 2:00 run/1:00 walk plan I had made during the week. The early hills rolled gently by, water stations, mile markers, Canada geese, horses, dogs and chickens. It's all part of the beauty of this course. I felt warm and strong, my brown jersey gloves the only concession to the chilly morning air. Otherwise, I was dressed for spring in my shorts and tank top. I decided to ignore my time for the first 10 miles of the race. The only thing I thought about was moving smoothly, keeping my core strong, and reserving some of that sugar I had eaten for fuel once I hit the S-curve. Around mile 6 I found myself running with Ernie and the 2:30 pace group. That was about 10 minutes faster than I planned to go, but I was still feeling strong, and the walk breaks let me keep with them without straining. I would trot past them on my run intervals, then they would pass me on when I walked. Rather than try to pull away, I decided to stick with them for a while to see if I could keep up. They just might have saved my race for me.

Pennsy loving mile 8.

Coming down the hill toward mile 9, I pulled along side Shayla, a Zumba instructor from the Y. "Ever run this course before?" I asked. She said she hadn't. "This is the toughest hill on the course coming up. Take your time." She thanked me for the heads up and I eased gently ahead of her. As I passed the mile 9 marker, I took a quick inventory. Feet? Pain free and comfy in my new lime green NikeFrees. Legs. No cramps, no chafes no heaviness. Core? Strong and tight. Breath? Smooth and even. Teeth? The adhesive I put in had given up the ghost around mile 6, so I had adjusted to their flopping by this point. I decided it was time for a test. I knew from experience that walk breaks on a steep hill are tough and slow. I had a great rhythm going and didn't want to break it out of fear of the long climb. I remembered the Lance Armstrong quote I had put away in my heart for this very moment. "Pain is temporary, Quitting is forever." If I was to finish strong, I would have to start right now. I shifted into low gear and began jogging slowly up the hill, ignoring my interval timer. I was going to run the whole hill, or send for the paramedics. Runners passed me on both sides, breathing hard. We could all see the top of the hill, and I'm sure most of them thought I was over-reacting. What they didn't know was that the S-curve isn't a hill, it's three hills. You hit the hard right bend at the top feeling like a conqueror, only to see the second climb ahead of you. As we started this part of the curve, I started passing gasping runners. Many more were walking, now. Their eyes were either gazing at the asphalt ahead, or else glued to the hard left turn that promised the crest and at last a chance to catch their breath. I plodded on, my mind alternating between Coach Carrie's exhortations to keep my abs tight and my thoughts of my friends who had passed or were fighting relapse. The pain in my legs was nothing compared to Becky's chemo or Jan's terrible surgeries. They had never quit. Neither would I. As I reached the second turn I heard the familiar words I had once spoken myself. "Oh, my God." All around me, runners were realizing that there was still more hill to climb. This is the part that can break your heart, and I heard hearts breaking all around me as they watched a fat old man in bright green shoes plod past them to the crest of the hill. I won't say nobody caught up with me after that, but I never saw most of those runners again. At 10 miles, I glanced at my watch. I wasn't just on plan, I was on my best Half Marathon pace ever, with less than a 5K left to run. I started cheating on the walk breaks. Using every down hill to run, cutting the rest intervals to 45, 30, 15 seconds. I felt my cadence quicken. With each run interval, I would pass someone and choose a new person to pull me along. I knew these hills. At mile 12 I checked my watch one last time. I   guessed that I had around 17 minutes to hit a time of 2:30, much faster than I expected. Then I checked my lap time for the last mile. 10:47. I wasn't going to break 2:30. I was going to PR. My fastest Half was 2:24 and change. If I could hold pace, I was going to come very close to that. No more walk breaks now. Pain is temporary. For Becky. For Jan and Doug. For the Five. For the Eight. For my coaches. For my trainees. For all the people who had told me that I inspired them. For Kim, who started running on the other side of the world after reading my blog. For James and Raynee and Jaspal and Marian and more names than I can list. I saw their faces. I heard their voices. I picked up my tempo and passed the last runners in my group. I was going to finish ahead of the crowd, and I would finish strong. Friends called my name as I came through the gauntlet of spectators. I crossed the finish line and clicked my watch. Couldn't read it. No bifocals. I took some chocolate milk from a volunteer and walked away in the sort of numb funk that comes with the endorphin rush at the end of a long race. When I finally got to the car and my glasses, I didn't want to trust my Garmin. It was too close, and I had fumbled with the buttons at the start. It wasn't until I got home and saw the official times that I knew for sure.

Last year's time: 02:43:26. Cut it by almost 10 minutes.

Official time: 2:23:45. 10:55 per mile. 38 seconds faster than I had run on the much flatter, much faster Iron Horse last fall. A new Personal Record.

I'm not sure what the implications of all this are for my Marathon in May. I learned that I'm faster than I thought. I finally made a race plan and followed it. There's a world of difference between 13.1 and 26.2 miles, and I have a little more than a month to bridge that gap.There's one thing I know for sure, though...

I woke up this morning a better runner than I have ever been in my life.

The cancer warriors in my heart are my inspiration. They are the reason I run. Thanks to them, I will never let pain make me quit. Thanks to them, I will never run alone.

Because "Surviving" just isn't enough...

Peace,
Pennsy

#420: A 3K Weekend: Short and Sweet

Living Strong... Every day.

Before I start my looooooong race report, I want to ask you to please consider giving to Living Strong at the Y 2013. This is my fundraiser to support LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, a program that has transformed my life, and that helps cancer survivors to become cancer victors every day.
Please click the button and give what you can. Thanks, Pennsy >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I am well past the point in my life where I can even dream of leading a race, let alone winning it. My race is against the Fat Man I was; the sick man I became; the runner I have become; and the disease that tried to take that all away. I didn't win any medals or cups or awards this weekend... but I was victorious twice in two very different races.

EVERY DAY I'M SHUFFLIN'

And... they're off!

I love the Shamrock Shuffle 3K in Lexington. It is a St. Patrick's day tradition around here, and was the first event I ran after my cancer. It's 1.8 miles of music, laughter, costumes, and Kelley Green. It is a time for reunion with old friends who only race once a year, and with fellow runners you haven't seen since the ugly winter weather started. I arrived at the registration area about an hour early to look for friends, and found bunches of them. We talked about our plans for the spring season, and rejoiced at the weather. This race is usually run in weather that is... well... Irish. Cold. Rain. Lead gray skies. The temperature at race time yesterday was an impossible 59° and the threatened rain gave us a reprieve. This year's course sheltered us from the winds and was practically a straight out and back: level streets and one hairpin turn at the halfway point. It was going to be a great day.

I was shooting for an 18:00 race. The mistake that changed my day, not surprisingly, involved math. Instead of setting my Garmin to keep me at a 10:00/mile pace, I set it at 9:00/mile. I don't know. It made sense at the time. At the gun, I was lined up just behind the 16:00 pace. I figured the quicker runners would pull me off to a good start, then I could settle into my target speed. We squeezed through the narrow starting gate, guided by that paragon of wellness and healthy living, Ronald McDonald. The pace was quick, but comfortable as we headed off into the morning air. Most of us were running in shorts and a tee shirt for the first time all year. Strollers. Dogs. Kids running with their parents. I didn't have much trouble weaving through traffic because I was running with a fast crowd: much faster than I was used to. The little Virtual Partner on my Garmin showed me just behind pace for the first .75 miles, but by the turn, I had caught up and was on target. I never saw the 1 mile marker, but when my watched beeped, signaling the first mile, I was shocked to see I had run it in 9:00 flat. That was way too fast, faster than I had ever run a mile in a race before. I decided to hold on, and see how I felt at 1.5 miles.

My breath was coming fast now. My usual 2-in/3-out rhythm was down to 2/2. I could tell my heart rate was up, but my legs felt strong, and the core strengthening exercises Coach Carrie had been inflicting on me all winter were taking charge. I felt tall and powerful as we rounded the gentle curve down Main Street where the finish line awaited. I checked my watch at the 1.5 mile mark. I was way ahead of pace. I started pumping my arms and heard Carrie's voice urging me on, just as she did every Wednesday morning when she cranks the treadmill up to 9 mph and waits for the color to drain out of my face. I was still passing runners! I was taking a breath every stride, now. My chest heaved, sucking in fuel. My lips puffed , blowing out exhaust. Just as I felt that last, sprinting gear kick in, I blew out something else. My upper denture flew out of my mouth. I gave one hopeful swipe, trying to catch the most expensive thing I own before it fell to the asphalt below. I saw something white fly off of it as it skidded along the street beside me. Barely slowing down, I crouched , picked them up, checked for broken glass, and popped it back in my mouth. No time for delicacies now. I ran hard. My legs started to feel heavier as the lactic acid built up in them. It seemed to me that I was really slowing down, but I kept catching other runners as the finish clock came into sight. 16:00! There was no way I was reading that right. I was running without my glasses, so I obviously had the numbers confused. My arms pumped fast as they remembered all those dumbbell rows I had done at the Y. My legs churned, recalling the hours spent sprinting in the pool with Christy on Tuesday afternoons. I crossed through the finish gate without even a glance at the clock and pushed the button on my watch, hoping I had hit the right one.

The first friend I saw was Sharon, a former fat woman who had just taken 3rd place in her speedy age group. She had been at the finish line for about three minutes when I arrived. "How did you do?" She asked. "Don't know," I gasped. "No glasses. Can you read my watch?"

16:21. Average pace, 8:46/mile. Absurd. No way. But the official time, confirmed it. I had bettered last years time by 3:38. When I started working with Coach Carrie, I told her I wanted to get faster. The woman knows her business.

ONE MORE TIME

Quite possibly the coolest race shirt in my collection.

Sunday, after church I went to the Y to train with the LIVESTRONG at the YMCA survivors. This was a very different day. 38° and a nasty looking wintry mix that kept them all at home, safe and warm. I did 7.65 miles on the treadmills at my target marathon pace, a much more modest 11:15. A long, hot shower finished the jog off  nicely, and I drove home to put my race bag together for the 6:00 start of the Run for the Gold 3K in Frankfort KY. The rain was sleet now. My defogger struggled to keep up as I made my way to the state capital. I was about an hour and a half early, and when I stepped out of my car, the wind bit my legs in spite of the tights and warm up pants I was wearing. I stuffed my hands deep into my gray fleece Y Staff jacket and walked to the tents where The Pogues were blaring in the rain from lonely speakers. A DJ shivered in the wind. The sweet lady who handed my my packet smiled sympathetically. She was grateful for my support of the even, but was obviously certain I was insane for being there. I moved my car to the parking lot of the Frankfort YMCA, and slipped in for some shelter and a friendly face. I found plenty of both. I took a little tour of this charming old downtown Y, then went out to the car to decide just how many layers I would be wearing for the race.

It was still cold, but the sleet had mercifully slowed, so I decided against the rain suit. .A short sleeved tech shirt, long sleeved tech shirt, and a long sleeved cotton YMCA tee would do the trick. I left The warm-up pants on over my tights, slipped on two pairs of gloves, and pulled the black and yellow knit "chemo cap" that one of my LIVESTRONG participants had made for me down over my ears. I was as ready as I was going to be. Now to test these legs.

The felt like they were made of stone. I walked/jogged around the downtown area, feeling like I was pulling a trailer. Jogging was hard. Running was out of the question. I warmed up gently, paying mind to every little tweak and twinge. "What's that in my foot?  OK, it's gone. Is that a cramp in my calf? No, just a little knot working it's way out. Is my knee hurting? Walk a few steps and it smooths itself out. I trotted around blocks and buildings for half an hour, not daring to test race pace. There would be no repeat of Saturday's triumph. I moved my pace clock down to 9:30min/mile. We'll try a couple of blocks and see if I can get up to that speed. Finally, it was time for the gun. I saw my old running buddy DJ, he was way up with the burners. We bumped fists, exchanged good wishes, and parted. I made my way back to the 20:00 finishers. This was going to be a much longer race for me. The gun fired, and as the crowd funneled its way through the gate, there was frigging Ronald McDonald again. Why does McDonalds have such a presence at events that it works so hard to make impossible for most people? My indignation provided the spark that my cold engine needed to finally turn over, and I slipped in behind a guy in a bright yellow running jacket who was passing the crowd along the left side of the road. I didn't try to stay with him long, but he gave me a tow and got me up to racing speed much faster than I would have done without him. The course is pretty on a pretty day. The first half is a long, mostly gentle climb toward the Capitol Building, then a nice speedy descent back toward the Kentucky River and the finish line. I wasn't worried about passing runners this time. I would catch up with one whose pace I liked and tag along for a few yards until I felt strong enough to move by them to the next one. I really don't remember much of the race itself. Only the sensation that it felt much shorter than the Shamrock. The long, downhill run after the turn was as good as a rest stop as I let gravity do the work for me. It was short work making the downtown loop. I had already jogged it several times while I was warming up. I smiled and greeted the heroic volunteers who stood along the route, guiding and encouraging the runners. I wouldn't call my finishing stretch a sprint, really. Maybe 8.5 out of 10. Of course, by then, that WAS my 10. I found DJ, who had smashed his own PR to bits. We sipped water, walked together for a while, then parted ways as he went to find a friend, and I went to find my glasses so I could make out the time on my watch.

16:54. 9:23 minutes/mile. Not bad. Not bad at all.

SPEED AND ENDURANCE

So that was my weekend. Two short and sweet events that reminded me just how blessed I am to be alive. This is why I tell my story. I want people to know that redemption is real. God has plans for us that we know nothing about. And the love of friends can lift us to heights that we can barely dream or imagine.

Time to put the stopwatch away for awhile. The road ahead is all about the miles. My first marathon took me almost 6 and a half hours to finish. I hope the next one is faster, but I have to be sure I can keep going for as long as it takes. There are some long, long runs ahead of me. But something tells me I'm going to love every step.

Peace,

Pennsy

#419: Race Report - 2013 Inaugural Railrunner 10 Miler

Yesterday was my first race of the spring season, a 10 miler on the beautiful grounds of the RJ Corman compound in Nicholasville KY. Mr Corman is a railroad mogul and philanthropist;  a cancer fighter and a runner who generously makes his property available for races like this one. I arrived at 7:00 AM, two hours before the start, for reasons I just cannot explain. It was 36° and the sun was just teasing its way up over the hills when I pulled into the parking lot. I spent a few minutes wondering if I had packed enough layers in my race bag, then decided to take a hike down to the start/finish line for a little re-con. It was much colder than I expected. The forecast was for temps in the 50's, and those would arrive, but not until well after lunch. For now, the air was biting. I shoved my hands a little deeper into the pockets of my gray Y Staff fleece, hoping I had packed a jar of Carmex to protect my lips.

After checking out the site, I headed back for the car, passing a few friends on the way. We were all bundled and shivering; smiling at one another with the demented joy that only runners can understand or consider sane. At the car, I switched some clothes around, adding a long sleeved wind resistant layer to go under my gold Y singlet. I swapped the loosely knit black and yellow cap that had been a gift from one of my LIVESTRONG at the YMCA participants for the thick red toque that Coach Melissa had given me. I had tights on under my black shorts, but decided to leave the warm-up pants on until starting time. I still had an hour before the start, and my choices were to stand around freezing, sit in the car getting tight, or go for a jog before a 10 mile race. Jogging seemed like the least offensive option, so I trotted off toward the start again, figuring I'd check out the first quarter mile or so. It was definitely warmer once I got moving.

Dave Storing Up Heat for the Winter

I had just turned around and started back when I saw my friend Dave coming down the course. Dave and I are among the tribal elders in our running community --  you know, the ones who are so "inspiring" for running "at that age." I hung a U-turn and eased in beside him. Turns out, he was determined to get five miles in before the race. Fortunately for me, he already had three under his belt. We moved along at a much faster pace than I wanted to do, but the conversation and laughter lightened my stride and before I knew it, we had done 2.25 miles together, and gotten a really good preview of the start and finish of the course. This included a trip over the craziest steel bridge I've ever run across. When there are more than five people running on it, the thing flexes like a springboard. If Dave hadn't have warned me about it, I might have broken both ankles when I hit it during the race.

After a heart-stopping wait in line for a pre-race port-a-potty stop (I could have slipped off into the cedars, but I was wearing all those Y logos...) I joined a few friends at the start line in time for the Star Spangled Banner and the gun which was a blast from a train whistle.

The race itself was really lovely. There are plenty of gentle hills and lots of  hollows still full of last weekend's snow. There are a couple of unique features. A busy railroad line runs around the boundary of the property, and the engineers tooted their whistles joyfully as they passed the long line of brightly dressed runners in the morning air. I've already mentioned the bouncing bridge. There is also a tunnel that leads to the most distinctive part of the course. Part of Mr Corman's business is to respond to railroad accidents all over the country, and that means being ready to zoom off at a moment's notice. That's why he has his own jets and his own airstrip. The race included a two mile loop from one end of the runway to the other. The course then looped back through the tunnel, and around the grounds to a long downhill finish. Lots of support. Lots of music. Lots of (unnecessary) ice to keep the water bottles cool and refreshing. And the best part, lots of friends cheering one another on. A great way to get racing season moving.

Some of the Toughest People I Know...
And the Best Job in the World

Before I left the house yesterday, I decided that I would dedicate my run to my friends who are living with relapse. As I spend more time with cancer fighters, I meet more people who have had two or three different diagnoses in their lives. I wanted to honor them with my run. Strangely enough, I didn't give them much thought until the last, lung-burning, leg-aching half mile sprint to the finish line. That's when their names and faces started to appear in front of me. Becky. Jaspal. John. DeeDee. Art. James. There was no way any of them were going to be running any 10 mile races this day, so I would run it for them. I spoke their names quietly as I breathed smooth and deep, just like Carrie had coached me. I ran that last quarter mile in just over two minutes. I wish I could have carried them all on my back; instead I carried them in my heart.

Today (Sunday), I had a nice, easy recovery run. 5 slow miles on my beloved Legacy Trail. 62°. No timing. No pacing. No gasping for air or pushing to the top of the hill. Just a simple run for the love of running on what felt for all the world like the first day of spring. And then I came home to find that Living Strong at the Y 2013 had just raised our first $500.

My God... what a great weekend for a run! Or two. Or three...

Peace,
Pennsy

                  

#418 Living Strong at the Y 2013

March 8, 2013

Last year, thanks to the love and support of family, friends, and neighbors from all over the country, you and I came together to raise $3685 to support LIVESTRONG at the YMCA: a 12-week program that helps cancer survivors to become cancer victors through exercise, nutritional education, and fellowship with one another. The program includes a three-month family membership to the Y at no charge to the participants. To put it in practical terms: our contributions payed for 10 participants and their families to experience the same program that helped me make the journey from cancer patient to finisher at the 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon last May.

I’m asking for your help again, and this time we have a much bigger plan in mind.

Instead of targeting just one event, we’re assembling a team of cancer survivors who will be running all spring long, starting tomorrow at the Railrunner 10 Miler in Nicholasville KY, and finishing in May at the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati. We are runners who have all known what it means to hear the words, “You have cancer,” and chosen to fight for our lives. I am proud to be training and running right beside them.

Thanks to the grace of God, the love of my friends and family, and the skill of my doctors, I have been able to survive my fight with cancer. I have dedicated my life to helping other survivors to fight their own battles. As a trainer at the North Lexington Family YMCA, I see their courage and will every single day. Since I was a participant in Central Kentucky’s pilot program of LIVESTRONG at the YMCA back in 2011, I have worked with over 100 survivors. There are many more who will need our help in the coming years.

Please join me with a contribution so that tomorrow’s cancer fighters can know what so many of us have learned the hard way: Cancer can kill us, but it can never defeat us if we choose to Live Strong.

Peace,

Bob Johnson
859 420-9327

Please click this link to donate to Living Strong at the YMCA, or mail your tax deductible contribution to:

Robert Parks Johnson
Living Strong at the Y 2013
North Lexington Family YMCA
381 West Loudon Ave
Lexington KY 40508