Two years ago I ran a race in town that starts at 8:58 at night. It was dark and difficult at the time, but I finished. I would find out months later that it was difficult because my vision was messed up as was my balance because of a brain tumor. Last night was that same yearly race. This year I decided to not run because of the darkness. Because I lost my inner ear, I do not have the stabilizer that it provides. I manage without it, but darkness makes it much harder to compensate. I decided that running at dark in a large crowd just might not be the best thing for me this year although it was a hard decision. I always enjoyed those experiences running together with a huge group of people—doing something hard by myself yet surrounded by others doing the same. I was willing to be ok not doing that ever again like many things in my life since surgery that changed me forever. However, Friday rolled around, and I could not stop thinking about the race. I felt invited in a way to do something hard again. I kept thinking, “Is this meant for me? Should I even try? It could be very dangerous.” But I could not shake the supposed invitation of sorts. So, I registered on Saturday for the shorter and earlier of the two races which would start at 7:58, so not dark in other words. Easier on me. Less of an accomplishment I had to admit because it was a shorter/easier race. I picked up my number and my shirt at three and went home to rest because I had already run on Saturday morning, so this was going to be extra miles, and I needed to let my body prepare. I also spent much of the afternoon watching the radar for approaching storms. “Would I have to cancel? Would they cancel the race on me? Would it be delayed and very wet?” I thought. Both of which would make things much more difficult and dangerous for me.

Storms did come in with tons of rain. We waited in the car for answers and news on the new plan for 40 minutes. The race was delayed for thirty minutes they announced on social media.

I stood in this spot for thirty more minutes. The race was delayed because the city was pumping flood waters from the streets where we all were planning to run. I considered quitting. I wanted to walk away.

But, I couldn’t quit. I was meant to complete this race for me. I was getting increasingly more concerned with each passing moment however. I had chosen the earlier race because it would be light the entire time decreasing my risk of falling, etc.. Funny thing was that the race last night, my race, started at the exact time as the later race was meant to start which was 8:58 because of the flooding, so the street lights on the main roads were on, but the neighborhood streets were DARK. What that means for me is that as I run in the dark, my eyes do not know actually what kind of surface I am on and they cannot gage how far my feet need to go down to strike the ground, all things inner ears do for us humans. Also all speed bumps, pot holes, gravel or rocks are much more dangerous and create much more of an impact if I encounter them. The same goes for lots of moving people or people bumping into me. Those things throw me off more than someone with two inner ears. So, after the race started ,to say I was concerned is an understatement. I cried for the entire first mile. I was mad at the race committee for delaying the race even though it was actually for all of our safety. I was also angry at myself for attempting this crazy adventure at night when I was tired and in the dark. Then as I got more comfortable trusting my stride and myself and remembering the “invitation” to try it in the first place, I began to realize this was something I could do, and I was realizing that this was meant to remind me again that I could and can do hard things. In other words the badass in me began to stir. Lauren Daigle sang through my headphone (I only use one these days.) the entire race. I had an entire playlist planned out, but I realized I was meant to listen to just one song the entire time. I often do that when I need to remember or to learn something a song has to teach me.

This was my view the whole way. This photo appears bright because of my flash, so it was certainly much darker.

I turned onto the main road with the crowd and headed to the stadium entrance. I had really done it, something I used to do with ease. As I made my way up the slope to the stadium entrance, my thighs were burning as were my eyes. As I entered the stadium with it’s pumping music and bright lights, I cautiously continued running down the incline to the finish line. My mind had been working so hard in the dark to navigate all the obstacles and entering the stadium my mind was no different. I was trying not to look like a disabled runner or cause any unnecessary attention. I wanted to blend in, and I did the best I could as a 53 year old woman with half a smile. I finished. I did it. I finished. I did something I never thought I could do again, but I put my mind and body into it and I did it all by myself, well until I saw Jack at the finish line waving, smiling and cheering me on. He’s good like that. He supports me and cheers me on like no one else. I sobbed as I saw him, my only in-person supporter. I am proud of myself because it would have been easier to stay home on the stormy Saturday night, to sit on the couch, to watch some silly tv show or update my blog, but I chose to do something memorable and hard just for me, not for a crowd, for a medal or for kudos or with buddies, but by myself or rather by myself with the help of God, of Jack, of a dear friend that rode his bike along the route to make sure I had not quit or fallen down somewhere along the way and Lauren Daigle too.