Slow it down

Nothing too exciting; I'm just running faster than I ought to be right now.  The good news: means I'm in better shape than I thought.  The bad news: I have to forcibly slow it down or risk burn out/injury.  Bah.

Also, my diet is crap.  But who in their right mind would turn down BBQ lunch today!?

Just do it

I've wrapped up my first week of training!

It proved to be a little rough getting started.  I've already had to do one workout on a treadmill (in Chicago, natch - I have feeling last year's long night at the office will be this year's travel for client visits) and actually had to walk for part of a 3-miler.

And then . . . today.  Today running felt simple again.  Aside from the requisite self check-ins, I wasn't constantly worried about my breathing or feeling like I was laboring each step.  One foot fell nicely in front of the other, I kept a surprisingly decent pace, my left knee didn't send me any signals and my ankles felt great!  The weather was also pretty awesome, and I even received a few fist-pumps from cyclists and other runners heading in the other direction.

I was admittedly nervous about the prospect of going 26.2 a few weeks ago.  Today, I feel ready.  For the training, that is.  Not for the race.  YET.

My Mission

Why I’m running.

I’m running for those who cannot

Finishing in Atlanta in 2007 was a remarkable feeling.  It was a deeply personal race—a chance to prove to myself and to my body that I’d rebounded from something I’d let hold me back for years.  GBS and its effects are with me to stay, but I was able to run.

There are those who encounter GBS/CIDP and never get the chance to rebound.  In the words of the GBS/CIDP Foundation International:

“Although most people recover, the length of the illness is unpredictable and often months of hospital care are required. The majority of patients eventually return to a normal or near normal lifestyle, but many endure a protracted recovery and some remain wheelchair-bound indefinitely.”

I’m running because I can

Yes, I finished last year.  But between a knee injury and the wall (the metaphorical one) at mile 19, I don’t feel like I left my best effort along the 26.2. 

This year, I’ll be training smarter, eating better, praying harder and ultimately, running faster. 

I’m running to make sure GBS/CIDP is seen

I have every ounce of respect for those who fundraise for other charities (heck, I’ve done it quite a bit!) or run marathons for personal reasons. 

But just as the relatively smaller number of cases of GBS/CIDP results in less awareness of the condition in the general and medical communities, the scarcity of runners in these “big” races supporting GBS/CIDP can make us feel like a drop in the ocean.

However, just as those who’ve shared their stories at www.gbs-cidp.org have succeeded in raising awareness, I hope to spread the knowledge even more.  We’re part of a bigger team even though we haven’t met, and if even just one runner in Chicago asks me about GBS, I’ll have succeeded!

I’m running for fun!

As much as I complained about practices during High School XC and track, and as much as I complained about distance on treadmills in preparation for that ING Georgia Marathon . . . at the end of the day marathons are a blast!

There was a time before I was literally stopped in my tracks by GBS where some aspects of running came a little more easily to me, and I ran faster with greater ease.  Running was fun then.

I’m reclaiming the fun!  NOW!

I’m running through the wall

It caught me by surprise in a big way.  But after stretching out a tightened hamstring in Atlanta at mile 19 . . . I was DONE for a good 2 – 3 miles.  I don’t remember much of that distance, save how rotten it felt and how a few Oreo cookies boosted my blood sugar and saved the day.

So, pssst . . . hey wall—I’m going to destroy you!

I’m running to get everything else back on track

It’s pretty stinkin’ unbelievable how when you hit your stride (literally), you also HIT YOUR STRIDE (figuratively).  It’s been an exciting year, and I’m hoping I can sustain the momentum and get my act together at life.  Again. ;)

If you would like to learn more about GBS/CIDP, please visit http://www.gbs-cidp.org/aboutgbs.htm.

If you would like to make a contribution, please reach out to me and I can mail your check made out to ‘GBS/CIDP Foundation International’ to the organization.  Of, if you would like to contribute with a credit card, please visit http://www.gbs-cidp.org/contributionpageintro.html and feel free to make an ‘In Honor Of’ contribution.  (I may try to set-up a nifty event-specific page for the marathon; stay tuned!)

Thanks for reading, and hopefully I’ll see you on the roads!

My Story

The opportunity to run at all given my health history is an incredible blessing, and this event has a deeply personal significance to me. 

 In July 2002, I was hospitalized when I woke-up one morning and could not move any of my limbs.  Days of tests for everything ranging from Meningitis to HIV to West Nile Virus followed, without conclusive diagnosis.  After my fourth or fifth day (this all still runs together in my memory, sorry!) in intensive care and quarantine, my condition was linked to Guillain-Barre Syndrome (GBS).  Instead of spending my summer training as a member of the Track & Field Program at Ithaca College where I intended to study the coming Fall, I had to relearn basic motor skills like walking and typing.  I still haven't worked-up the nerve to recover nine-years of piano lessons, but I digress . . .

Over the next 17 weeks, in addition to logging miles, I’ve set of goal of raising at least $2,000 for the Guillain Barre Syndrome – Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy (GBS/CIDP) Foundation International.

Many afflicted by the condition don't even get the chance to walk again, let alone run a marathon.  I am incredibly blessed to be in the condition I am after the hospital stay, and realize that.

Raising awareness for this seemingly rare (but all too-close-to-home) condition is just as important to me as raising funds for the Foundation, so please check out the Foundation’s website (http://www.gbs-cidp.org) and share it with your friends, family, co-workers, et. al. 

For more information about Guillain-Barre Syndrome please visit http://www.gbs-cidp.org/aboutgbs.htm

If you would like to make a contribution, please reach out to me and I can mail your check made out to ‘GBS/CIDP Foundation International’ to the organization.  Of, if you would like to contribute with a credit card, please visit http://www.gbs-cidp.org/contributionpageintro.html and feel free to make an ‘In Honor Of’ contribution.  (I may try to set-up a nifty event-specific page for the marathon; stay tuned!)

If you donate, please be sure to find out if your employer has a gift-matching program, and get more bang for your buck!

Thank you all, best wishes for the summer and God Bless!

What It Feels Like

An essay I revised in December of 2002:


“Gentlemen. Take your mah-ark!”

C’mon Andrew, do this. Just another race.

The pistol discharges a blast of smoke and sends a loud “POP!” across the stark meadow. Right foot first. Step one.

Left foot next. Remember to breathe! Next step.

Step three. Four. Five. Another race—just like any other.

The crowd thins, and I find myself a single unit in a stream of determination. The stream grows thinner and thinner with each stride. Sounds of heavy breathing and trampling feet fade. I am alone in a maze of grass, forest and asphalt. Turn right. Just another race.

My mind begins to spin the thoughts it juggles into images that flash before my eyes.

The sign says, Bay State Hospital Intensive Care Unit. My body is failing me. I can’t even eat. Can’t move. After all the races. . . I’m relegated to a mechanical bed where wires and needles merge with my extremities. No one knows what’s wrong. Not even the doctors.

Step 874. The sounds of people fade away. Just. Another. Race.

The vivid greens and blues of the trees and sky blur into a pastel wallpaper.

They say you can’t remember pain. They’re wrong.

Shins reverberate with the impact of man to earth, sending shocks up my legs. A hushed rustle of dry brush following my man-made breeze is the only dim sound. The trail delves deeper into darkness. So does my mind.

It’s so lonely at night. No one to tell you everything will be fine. No one to tell you you’re getting better. No one to assuage doubts and fears. No one . . . Will I be able to go to college in the fall? Will I walk again? Will the taste of morphine ever leave my lips? Guillan-Barre Syndrome. It must not be a sentence.

The course breaks into two trails. Step 3,425. The mass flocks down the gentle slope. I take Robert Frost’s path—uphill, no footprints. Coach’s words replay in the back of my head like a record someone ran a nickel across, “Use your arms like levers! Pull!”

I can do it. I can beat this. I can eat. I can walk. I can pray. I can hope. I can win.

My lungs seize and desperately beg to fail. It takes all of my might to keep my heart from leaping from my chest. Step 5,537. Hands claw at branches. Just another race. Wintry air prickles on blood-reddened flesh.

“Can you believe he just got up and walked like that? It’s a miracle!”

It sure is.

Step 6,019. Push. This is it. Final straightaway.

It’s time to pursue the dream. I’ve conquered it. Now it’s time to pursue the dream.

For a brief moment, the way the sun shoots out across the treetops in the distance blinds me. I blink once. Again. I see the whole world before me. The amazing view sucks the breath out of my lungs. Just another race. And I’m going to push on.