There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm.
~Willa Cather
As a runner of many city races, I decided to register for a lakeside half marathon, a first for me. I could hardly wait to escape work and woes, and enjoy the beauty of Lake Powell in Page, Arizona. There’s nothing like running on a shady forest path or along a beautiful beach to help one forget about one’s troubles.
When I registered for the race, however, I had no idea that this half marathon would take on so much more meaning to me than any other race would.
In October 2014, my sister Tammie was diagnosed with stage 4 liver and colon cancer. Because I had lost many friends to cancer, I knew what the diagnosis meant. With treatment, she would have a year to live. Without treatment, probably six months. At age 55, she decided to fight and have the treatment. We all supported her decision.
That next year, her two adult daughters set aside their lives to help their mom get through the treatments. I did my best to help as much as I could. My running took a back seat during this time, as there would be no escape from the inevitable: My sister was dying. One night after work, I tried to run two miles, but had to stop halfway. The thought of losing my older sister overcame me, and I broke down and cried on the side of the road. Tammie fought hard, but in October 2015 she lost her battle.
I knew I still had the Lake Powell half marathon to complete that month, but my heart just wasn’t in it. My nieces, however, urged me to go because they understood how much I love to run. “Mom would want you to go!” they told me. They were right. She loved Lake Powell and would want me to see it. She was genuinely happy for me when I had told her about the race months before. So my husband and I packed up the car and headed north from Phoenix. It was the first time I would see the famous lake.
As we approached Page, Arizona, I noticed dark storm clouds hovering over the small town. How appropriate. The clouds matched my mood. “Looks like rain,” I said. I searched the weather apps frantically on my phone. Sure enough, a storm with cold rain and wind was in the forecast. Running a half marathon is hard enough without the cold rain and wind. “Oh, no!” I cried. “It’ll be so difficult to do a trail run in the rain. The rocks will be slippery!”
“What do you want to do? We can turn around and head back if you want,” my husband said, leaving the decision up to me.
Strangely enough, at that moment, the story of the biosphere in Tucson, Arizona, came to mind. In this science experiment, a group of scientists had built a sealed ecosystem that was supposed to lead toward replicating the perfect environment outside the sphere. Inside the sphere, they included a manmade ocean, rainforest, and wetlands to study. They grew their own trees and harvested their own food. After a while, the scientists noticed that the trees were dying. They would grow only so high and then fall over. Alarmed, the scientists studied the water, air and soil, hoping to find a cause. Finally, they figured out that the trees were dying because there was no wind inside the dome. Trees need windstorms to make them stronger. The wind makes the roots dig into the soil deeply. The beating of the wind on the tree trunks makes them grow thicker, able to withstand the next storm. Without the storms, the trees never matured. Instead, they grew to be top heavy and fell over.
As we approached Page, I couldn’t help but remember the “storm” my family had endured over that year. Cancer had swept over us like a violent hurricane, taking Tammie from us and altering our lives forever. All of us wish we could have avoided it. Yet all of us came through it stronger, more mature, and more prepared for the next storm. Isn’t that how it is with storms? We fear them because they can destroy everything we hold dear and even kill those we cherish. We would love a life without any storms, yet, ironically, we need them. Just like the trees in that biosphere, storms make us stronger. Afterward, the air is cleaner, and the earth is replenished. Life goes on.
“Let’s keep going,” I told my husband. “A little rain won’t hurt.”
The day of the race was cold and cloudy. We had a few sprinkles at the starting line, but it didn’t rain. Lake Powell was as beautiful as I had heard. With the sun barely peeking over the mountains, the run around the lake was as tranquil as I knew it would be. During the race, I paused to watch the sunrise through the dark clouds. I felt my sister’s spirit with me, and I knew she was glad I was there. With each step along the rocky and uneven trail, I thought of Tammie’s brave battle with cancer. Like the rocky trail, each step of her cancer journey was unpredictable and sometimes dangerous. She could no longer run, so I ran for her.
The clean air and desert scenery were exactly what my ailing spirit needed. As I crossed the finish line, I felt renewed. Later that night, the rainstorm hit. We listened to the downpour and watched the lightning show from the safety of our hotel room. The storm was breathtaking. As we headed home the next day, the sun rose over the lake, and the air was crisp. I was grateful that I had decided to stay and run the Lake Powell half marathon.
It’s true that we want to avoid the storms because they are frightening and powerful. We fear them because we cannot control them. I often think of what I would have missed had we turned around and returned home after seeing the threatening storm clouds over Lake Powell.
Running has always been a way for me to escape my troubles, but now I realize that running can also be a way to endure the storms and come away stronger on the other side of the proverbial finish line.
— R. A. Douthitt —