Take Another Step

I believe in putting yourself out there. I believe you only grow when you leave your comfort zone and challenge your perceived limits. And In many respects this video might be my most ambitious adventure yet. 

I hope you watch. I hope you enjoy. And if it resonates with you... I hope you share.
Many thanks to the amazing people who helped put this together.

Words

I had the chance to run in Iceland earlier this year. It was amazing, but as you'd expect, it was tough. I twisted my ankles on the volcanic rock and moss covered terrain so many times it was starting to mess with my head. One minute I'd think "this sucks, why are you doing this? It's ridiculous." and the next It'd be " shut the hell up! Stop complaining, just take a look around at the scenery, soak it in. You're so lucky to be here." 

Of all the things I've learned from doing ultramarathons, the most important has to be the power of my mind. You tend to go to some dark places during these runs and you're going to face a ton of self doubt, self pity, and negativity in your thinking. The trick, however, is to focus on changing the words you tell yourself. Once you can learn to do that, you can change the entire experience... And so it goes with life.

When I ran the 900km Bruce Trail this autumn, it wasn't just about setting a new record. That just helped give the run a timeline. I'm generally not motivated by extrinsic factors. I knew there'd be a lot of self discovery along the way, and that's much more valuable to me.

Since running it, one of the most common questions I've been asked is, "what did you think about while you're out there running for so long?" And there's no way I could honestly answer that without going into some very serious subject matter. I thought about a LOT of things. Good and bad. Positive and negative. Important and nonsense. 

But I definitely thought about words. About how they've shaped me. About the ones I've given power to, the ones I've ignored, and the ones that I listen to when I'm in the dark places.

So while I was out running for ten-and-a-half days, I came up with this: 

The three little words that changed the direction of my life

“You have cancer”

I’ll never forget sitting in my doctor’s office, hearing them ring out in the still air

The inflections in his voice when he spoke, the faint hint of an accent, the pitch and volume of the words

Strangely though, I have absolutely no recollection of what he said next  

My mind had instantaneously blacked out everything else

All I could hear were those three words repeating on a perpetual loop

You have cancer. You have cancer. You have cancer…

And yet, they’re just words

We say and hear thousands of them every day

Maybe it’s not necessarily the worlds themselves

Rather, how we interpret, rationalize, internalize, and translate them that give them their power

Besides, they say actions speak louder than words

Right?

Then again

There are words that are so loud they’ll bring you to your knees, even if spoken at a whisper

The loudest words of all don’t even make a sound

They’re the words we tell ourselves

And they’re what determine the actions we take---or don’t take—in this world

And for a very long time, the words I told myself weren’t what I truly believed

I was living a lie

I told myself I could do anything. I told myself I had no fear

But deep inside I was terrified. Deep inside I didn’t feel good enough

Deep inside I was fragile and wearing a mask of false bravado

And my mask, my ego, was the size of a boat

And not some rickety row boat, like "old man and the sea"

But a ship, colossal in size, perched arrogantly afloat

Upon the ocean of life—unyielding and unsinkable

But history has taught us that “unsinkable” doesn’t exist

A breached hull can send even the biggest ship spiraling into the abyss

And it’s there, in the depths of our own misery and darkness, clawing our way through adversity, that our eyes are forced to adjust and we’re finally able to see things for what they are

Who we really are

I only know this now, because I’ve been to that place

The one where your façade’s come crashing down all around

And what I’ve found is that when you truly hit rock bottom…

It’s the place so deep you have to look up to see ground

What I’ve found is a beautiful truth

Fear will hold you down, but courage will set you free

And it is so profound to realize we don’t have to be bound by any particular words or fears

You have cancer... You’re afraid. It’s okay to be afraid. You have resolve. You can be brave. You have perseverance. You can get through this. You can get through anything

We don’t have to be ashamed of our fears

But if we ever want to pursue our passions, we need to summon the courage to take a step

We need to tell ourselves, and then convince ourselves, to just "start"

Start wherever we are. Start with fear, with uncertainty, and with trepidation. Start with a wavering voice and trembling hands.

Start wherever we are. Start however we can. Take a step... start

The Sights & Sounds of Rock Bottom

Sometimes things spiral downwards until we find ourselves at rock bottom. And sometimes it’s at rock bottom that we really find ourselves.

I haven’t shared this story with many people so figured it was about time...

It was a month into my six-months of chemotherapy—my spirits were already low given the surgeries, finding out the cancer had spread, and having to start chemo—when things got even worse. 

I’d completed treatment for the day and was back at home, but the usual nausea I’d been dealing with just kept escalating to the point where I’d become the sickest I’ve ever been in my life. I was delirious from the fever and my body felt like it was fighting a losing battle against gravity. I could barely move, even to throw up. And there were more than a few times when I thought “this is it, I’m going to die.”

At some point in the early evening I found myself in the hospital emergency room. They weren’t sure what was happening and wanted to keep me there for monitoring. But there wasn’t a room available so I had to wait. And I did. For several hours I just sat there, slumped over in a wheel chair, because I was too weak to stand, in a hallway off to the side. A large blanket was draped over my body and I was sporting a surgical mask, lest my compromised immune system catch any hospital germs. All that were visible were my eyes, and I can’t help but wonder what they were saying to the outside world. I know what I felt on the inside...

It was one of the lowest points of my life. I was only 36 years old. I’d been an athlete most of my life. I’d never been sick before cancer... and look at me now. This could be it. I might not make it out of here.

My brain wasn’t necessarily in the most rational state, and some of the day is still a blur, but I distinctly remember (amid the delirium, pity-party and anger) two little words starting to form in the back of my mind. They told me to “rise up.” At first it was only a background thought, but they just kept getting louder and more convincing, until eventually I had no choice but to listen.

The next time the nurse came over to check on me, I told her was going home. A few nurses and a doctor later, trying to convince me to stay, I was signing a waiver form so I could be released. And as I struggled to my feet, shuffled the hell out of there as fast as I could, I heard those words again.

It took a few days, but the fever broke and I started to get better. Now I only had five more months of chemo to endure. Something I knew I could handle no problem if I just kept listening to my new mantra.

What I’d realized, sitting in that wheelchair, was that I’d been doing things on cancer’s terms. It was about freaking time I started doing them on my own. Leaving the hospital might not have been the smartest choice, and I’m not suggesting anyone else should do it, but in that moment it was the right choice for me. I needed to let cancer know that I’d fight it with the most powerful weapon I had—my thoughts. I needed to... rise up.

There’s still not a day that goes by where I don’t tell myself those two words.

Still Running from Cancer

It’s been a few weeks since I finished the Atacama Crossing so this post is obviously overdue. 

But I wanted to wait, because in many respects I hadn't quite finished the journey yet.

The day before I left to fly out to Chile I met with my Oncologist. She said that there were some concerns about a recent blood test I’d done and the results showed that my CEA levels—one of their cancer markers—had risen pretty dramatically. She suggested that it could be an indication that cancer had returned. Mostly it meant I needed to go through more testing, including a PET scan, as soon as possible so we could know for sure.

I’m not going to lie… I was pretty freaked out… Maybe even VERY freaked out. I walked out of the cancer clinic riding an emotional roller coaster; my mind was all over the place. And for a few seconds I actually thought about not going to Chile.

But I did what I've so often done in my life; I put on my “stubborn” hat. I decided the freaking scan could wait until I got home, because I had 250km of desert to cross! In the grand scheme of things, waiting another few weeks for testing probably wouldn't make too much difference—and luckily the doctor agreed with me.

So off I went. Uncertain about what I was heading into, and even more uncertain about what was in store for me when I got home. One thing I did know, however, was that a week in the desert would sort out my head, and put things into perspective, one way or another.

The Atacama Desert is easily one of the most remarkable places on earth. It is beautifully rugged, almost to the point of being surreal. Trying to explain what it’s like to run across it is a bit anti-climatic, and doesn't give it the justice it deserves. But I will say the combination of endless coral-like salt flats, sand dunes, river cannons, and other general ass-kicking terrain, made for one of the most challenging adventures of my life.

I just tried to soak it all in. Day one of the race was a quick but brutal reminder of exactly that... Slow the hell down and take a look around you!  The altitude, the landscape, and what was weighing on my mind the most—do I have cancer again?—made my 8kg backpack feel like it weighed a hundred times more.

That’s exactly what I did. I slowed down, took some time to look around, to think, to breathe, and to enjoy the moment. It was the right decision. What I experienced from then on was absolutely beautiful, fulfilling, and life altering.

It also helped that the other competitors were amazing—and they inspired me every day. The race organizers, doctors and volunteers were so encouraging and helpful. These events are made that much more special by the people involved. And I did form a very special bond with the people in my tent. They helped me in a way that I don’t think I’ll even be able to fully thank them for—they were exactly what my soul needed. In particular my friend Matt—we met in the Gobi Desert back in 2011—because we spent so much time out on the course together; including almost the entire long stage (76km). It’s a day I’ll never forget, because it was so therapeutic for me. At that point in time it was probably the most beneficial place on earth I could be.

And believe it or not, by the end of the race I was actually feeling stronger and better than I had at the start. My mind was in a much better place, and I’d decided that I was ready for whatever life wanted to throw at me.

But then I got home.

I think there’s often a letdown after adventures of this nature. You invest so much time and energy into them and when it’s over, after the adrenaline high wears off, there’s almost a sense of loss. It’s a bitter sweet feeling.

Plus, I had other things to worry about. Like a PET scan. The scan itself is not a big deal; it just means not eating for a few hours and another trip to a hospital. The worst part is waiting for the results, which take another week to get.

So that’s where I was this morning... Meeting with my Oncologist again—to get the results from last week’s scan.

The first words out of her mouth were… “There’s no sign of cancer.”

THERE’S NO SIGN OF CANCER!!

I still have to do some a bit more testing over the next few weeks just to be sure. And I’ll have to visit her again sooner than planned, but it’s the best news I could have received today. I'm happy, I'm relieved, and I'm grateful.

And I finally feel like my Atacama Crossing 2013 is over.

Photos from Racing the Planet
by Shaun Boyte

Peeing My Pants and The Meaning of Life

Once upon a time I laughed so hard that I peed my pants. True story.

And in retrospect it taught me everything I’d need to know about life. It just took me three decades—because I was nine at the time—to realize I should share it with others.

My childhood was filled with the kind of lessons you can’t learn in school. The ones taught through real life, social economic education. We were dirt poor, and it was a daily struggle for us. We were often without power, heat, or food. By the time I was 12, and the house we were living in burned to the ground (luckily we weren’t in it, but my dog wasn’t so fortunate), I knew perfectly well how to deal with challenge... You just keep going.

My mom worked her butt off, in low paying jobs, to support me and my two siblings, but she was often on her own. My dad had a brain aneurysm when I was six, where he spent a while in a comma, and people said he was never the same after. He was a bit of a gypsy, coming and going, repeatedly in trouble with the law and occasionally incarcerated. And later on, despite how much I rebelled and got into trouble—which was far too often—I rationalized it by thinking I’d still never be worse than the old-man.

As I grew up I believed it was because of the adversity I’d become stronger—and made it out. But I’ve since concluded it was what others taught me during those struggles that really made the difference.

And that is no more evident than the time I wet my pants from laughter.

I was in the back seat of the car, my dad was driving and we were on route to my hockey game. That alone was cause for celebration, but the best part was that two of my teammates were sitting beside me. I was beyond ecstatic. And before we got to the arena the laughter flowed until, unfortunately, the urine did too.

I was mortified. I didn’t say anything, and at the rink I refused to get out of the car. My friends, who apparently hadn’t noticed, just looked at me. My dad figured something was up so took them in and passed them off to the coach. When he came back I finally broke down and told him.

This is the point where things could have unfolded in a number of ways. He could have been mad at me for potentially ruining the cloth seats. And he could have tried to make me go inside and play the game anyway—where my team would have figured out my shame. That could be pretty devastating stuff for a nine year old kid.

But he didn’t do any those things. Instead he kind of smiled and said something about how things like this happen in life. Then he got in the car, drove us the 15 minutes home so I could change clothes, and drove me back to the hockey game. We arrived just in time for the start. No one ever knew; he kept it to himself. And I don’t recall the outcome of the game, but I’ll always remember how good it felt to step on the ice that day.

What I learned from that has been part of who I am since.

One minute we can be laughing at the top of our lungs, thinking life can’t get any better. Then, the next minute, we can be sitting in a puddle of our own urine, utterly humiliated, thinking life can’t get any worse. But if we don’t let ourselves get bogged down during the hard times, then we can be up and playing hockey a half-hour later.

And that’s all life is for any of us. Good times. Tough times... And perspective.

What many people see in me as optimism is maybe just an inherent persistence—a stubbornness to never give in to adversity. Because I know that life isn’t always fair; but we can still have an amazing one. I know that life will knock you down; but you can decide to get back up. My folks taught me that. And it’s helped me get through cancer and every other thing I’ve dealt with.

The moments

I have the good fortune of being able to run through a country side filled with horse ranches. I love watching these beautiful animals in fields along the route. Usually they ignore me, and sometimes they stare; but recently two of them decided to join me. They galloped down to the fence, and raced alongside me, before sprinting ahead. Within a few hundred metres, however, they were forced to stop, because of another fence. As I passed them standing there, I could see by the look in their eyes how much they wanted to keep going.  Horses get it.

I’ll never forget that moment.

It was stage 5 of the Gobi March, which was an 80km day, and the fact I’d already covered the distance of a marathon was of little consolation. The intense heat of the Turpan Basin (also known in China as “the oven”) was causing some serious nausea. I had just thrown up for the second time in the past 20 minutes and was beginning to worry about hydration. Worse, it was making it tough to spot the small pink flags marking the route through this unforgiving desert terrain and I had to back-track on more than one occasion.  I needed to get out of this stuff and needed to do it soon.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I stumbled out of the heavy, flour like sand and onto a single lane gravel road. This meant I was less than 8km from the 55km checkpoint, but the surface heat was well into the 50’s (Celsius) and I could feel my swollen feet beginning to cook. As I shuffled down the road, cursing the sun, I approached a large group of local men who were watching me like I was the strangest thing they had ever seen. Despite how I felt—and I’m sure looked—all I could do was smile at their reaction, which then made them smile and laugh, too. Before I knew it they had coaxed me in amongst them by insisting (through gestures) that I eat some fresh cantaloupe they had. How could I say no?  So I made the sacrifice and agreed, then proceeded to devour the fruit as fast as it was handed to me. Suffice to say, it was the best cantaloupe the world has ever known. 

I’ll never forget that moment.

Yesterday was my 38^th birthday. Tomorrow I’ll be getting blood work for my three-month oncologist appointment next week. My mom is winding down her chemotherapy treatments and soon she’ll have surgery to remove the tumour. 

In THIS moment, as I’m typing, foremost on my thoughts is the importance of living in the here and now. As much as I love reflecting on wonderful memories, and about the amazing things I have planned for the future, I can’t forget about the present. Time, my friends, is a non-renewable resource and we are all way more precious than we realize.

I hope I never forget this moment. 

My Mom's Fight

Cancer doesn’t knock and ask to be invited in. No, it kicks in the door, storms through and starts wreaking havoc on the place, turning everything in its path upside down.  And one of its recent invasions is on my mom.

Last month I returned from running in the Gobi desert, feeling on top of the world, to learn that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Two weeks ago she began a chemotherapy treatment plan. And I can honestly say that this is the first time I’m glad to have gone through chemo; so I can better support her and the journey she is embarking on.

If cancer was a human sized form, standing in front of you right now, what would you say and do to it? Would you scream and yell; kick and punch; or maybe try and reason with it?

As much as I’d love to go all “Jedi Knight” on it with a lightsaber, I'd also feel compelled to take a stand.  Literally, to just to stare it down so it could see the lack of fear in my eyes, while I repeated the words “YOU WILL NOT WIN.”  

And it wouldn’t only be a reference to my own battle with it, or even my mom’s, but the war it has waged on all of us. I know that eventually we will beat this disease. What we must realize, however, is that cancer will not ever rest, not for a single second. It's going to take all of us collectively to put an end to it.

If it was your mother, what would you do? If it was your father, brother, sister or friend, what would you do? What if it was you? There has to come a point where society decides it's time to make a difference.

I'll continue to run, because that's what I can do. And whether it's in deserts, jungles, mountains or on a treadmill doesn't really matter as long as it gets the message out there. Cancer is using my mom, just as it used me. This is where I take my stand and use it right back.

I love you mom.  

The Gobi

It was our last night in the desert and I was lying atop my sleeping bag, gazing into the starry unknown. My mind was occupied with musings of the finish line the next morning, a mere 14km away. Completing the Gobi March would mean the culmination of a journey that had begun months before the actual race did.

The midnight air had been eerily calm, but the wind suddenly stirred to life. And with it, my thoughts drifted to the previous evening and how it felt to bury my chemo port in a dune—the thing had weighed just a few ounces but afterwards my pack felt lighter than air. Right on cue, the wind whipped up with more ferocity and showed me the Gobi version of “lighter than air” by sending three sections of canopy (about 30 feet) sailing over my head.

Sandstorms can seem as though they’ve come out of nowhere, especially in the darkness, and this one hit like a freight train. Somehow it reminded me of my cancer diagnosis.

Getting back to the tent, and anchoring it down, is an adventure story for another day. But once I was inside, with a t-shirt turned sand mask over my face, I couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear. I mean... a sandstorm, really!? The week long race had thrown virtually every weather condition and terrain possible for the desert—and some that weren’t—at us. And in many respects it had been a microcosm of my entire cancer experience. There were moments that pushed me to my limit, and then pushed me beyond. Yet, as tough as it was, there was never a moment when I thought I couldn’t make it; or that I should quit. I did the only thing I could; kept moving forward one step at a time.

I certainly don’t claim to be an expert on cancer survival, or how to run through a desert. It has been as much about good luck and fortune as it has about persistence and determination for me. I’ve fumbled and stumbled through both experiences clinging to the belief that I’m strong enough to face every challenge head on.

What I did learn out there in the Gobi is that I am strong enough—that we all are. The storms in our lives may last a night, a week or a year, but there are just some things that they can’t tear away from us.

As I ran that final 14km, through some absolutely beautiful and rugged terrain, my blistered feet barely touched the ground. It was a feeling that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put into words; and maybe I don’t want to. Crossing the finish line didn’t feel like the ending of something significant; it felt like I was crossing into the beginning of something monumental.  



“Adversity is like a strong wind.  It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.”  ~Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha

Scars, experiences and the light

One week post surgery 2010. Thirty-nine

staples and hundreds of stitches underneath.

I look in the mirror and I no longer see a scar. Now, I only see an experience. And what are we in life, really, but a sum of our experiences. Me, I’ve lived through cancer and am stronger because of it.

As more time passes and my hatred for this disease is slowly replaced by resolve, I realize how different of a person I‘ve become.  Case in point, I no longer need to hide behind a façade of bravery, but can openly admit thoughts of being inadequate, inferior, or vulnerable. Because I’ve been to that place—the one where façade’s come crashing down all around you—and it’s strange, it’s surreal, and it’s humbling. Be that as it may, it’s also deeply empowering to realize the only thing left is the truth.

Underneath the masks and personas lurk our fears and demons. And whether it’s me or you; crazy Aunt Betty or Chuck-friggen-Norris, we all have them. When challenges arise, however, the ultimate truth is revealed in how we cope and how we persevere, despite them.

In less than a month I’ll be headed into the Gobi desert to run a 250km race, which will be yet another experience and a different kind of challenge. And it’s one that I’ve been asked about numerous times. I think people wonder what the hell is really pushing me to do this—particularly so soon after chemo, when I still have lingering side effects.

Well, along with the obvious motivators such as raising money for a great organization in TRAILS, and just the sheer adventure of it, there is one underlying reason. Which incidentally has nothing to do with competition; I’m not going there to go up against any other runners.  The way I see it they’re my team mates—much the same way those in the chemo clinic were—and we share the same goal; to get to the finish line.  Nor am I going there to pit myself against the terrain and/ or elements.  It’s just the playing surface, and game time conditions will be harsh. Rather, what’s truly driving me is the opportunity to send a message. I think this race gives me the voice I need to do that.

WHEN I cross the finish line, I’ll have this note written on a piece of paper in my backpack:

Cancer,

You attacked me because that is what you do. And I know given the opportunity you’ll do it again and again. But you should know who you’re up against. Today’s finish line is just the starting line for so many other things. The war may not be over, but I will fight you every step of the way. I’m stronger than you ever thought possible. And I will never, ever quit.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?” ~ Marianne Williamson

Hope, Belief, and Perspective

Last week I had my chemo-port removed, because my latest CT scan showed “favourable” results.  As much as I’d love to wax poetic about my existential journey into the deepest corners of my soul, I’m in a much more “matter of fact” kind of mood. Starting with these three:

1. I HATE cancer.
2. It takes everything in my power to try and channel that energy into something positive.
3. Running is my outlet.

My Belief about Perspective

As I’ve said before, cancer—or any adversity—can put things into perspective in a hurry. But life is an ongoing education and I’m also learning to put “perspective” into its proper perspective. You follow me?

Allow me to explain what I mean.

Imagine I’m standing directly in front of you holding up an ordinary medium-sized box. Printed on the front of it in large bold writing is the word “CANCER.” At first it’s the only word visible, because you’re looking at the box head on. Then you take a couple of steps to the left. Because of your new view point you can now see another side of the box and notice the words “POOR ME.” Finally, you take four or five steps back to the right so you can see along the opposite side, from here you spot the words “NEVER QUIT.” It’s still the same box, with the same word on the front, but just by moving your feet—a different perspective—it has changed dramatically.

And really, it’s that simple. If we keep our feet and our minds moving it allows us to change our perspective on anything at any time.

I personally believe that human consciousness is the most powerful tool on earth. And because we possess this ability to control our thoughts—and in turn, our actions—there is nothing stopping us from doing anything. Yet, I also think that we often lack the most important belief; the one in ourselves. Notwithstanding the external factors and/or influences of why we may have self-doubt in the first place, ultimately it is still a choice—OUR choice. We can’t control what others think or do—as much as we may like to—but we CAN control what we think and do.

My Belief about Hope

Let’s assume you’re a runner (I really HOPE you are) and have an upcoming race. You’ve trained hard and physically you’re ready. As the day approaches I say to you “I hope things go well.” Standing next to you is your training partner, also entered in the race. They’ve done the exact same training as you and to them I say “I believe you’ll do well.” Is there a difference? I think hope, no matter how noble the intentions, implies some level of uncertainty, whereas belief is concrete—absolute.

Don’t get me wrong, hope can be a wonderful thing. For example: I really HOPE cancer doesn’t resurface; and I’m hopeful THOUSANDS of people will read this blog. But those are things beyond my control. When it comes to my own mindset I prefer belief. I BELIEVE with all of my heart that I’ll go to the Gobi desert, run my race and finish well. I just hope it doesn’t get too hot and I don’t get bitten by a snake!

And that’s my perspective on hope and belief. For now at least; because my feet and mind are still moving so it could change at any time.

I’d like to leave you with something I recently read:

When I was a young man, I wanted to change the world.  I found it was difficult to change the world, so I tried to change my nation.  When I found I couldn't change the nation, I began to focus on my town.  I couldn't change the town and as an older man, I tried to change my family.  Now, as an old man, I realize the only thing I can change is myself, and suddenly I realize that if long ago I had changed myself, I could have made an impact on my family.  My family and I could have made an impact on our town.  Their impact could have changed the nation and I could indeed have changed the world. ~author unknown



The chemo-port that was in my chest. I asked to keep it as a souvenir.





Taking it to the next level

Here is my article from the February edition of iRun magazine.

So many of us runners get the calling; our inner voice tells us to stop thinking about it and do it already! Register for that 5k or 10k you’re considering; or the marathon or ultra you’ve been dreaming of.

For me it happened while staring at a picture of a silhouetted runner plodding through an imposing desert landscape. And when my calling came—which, I’ll swear was the voice of Yoda accompanied by the most majestic version of the Star Wars theme song ever—it simply said; “Jim, it’s time to take your running to the next level.”

Thank you… Yoda

The photo I’d been looking at was the book cover for ultra running legend Ray Zahab’s Running For My Life. The words resonated deeply with me because I was beginning a battle with cancer at the time. This was the guy who ran through the entire Sahara desert! So naturally I did what any confused runner-slash-cancer patient, seeking answers, bumbling through the seven steps of grief, and hearing Yoda in his head would do: I called up the dude who wrote the book. Ray was happy to talk to me so I decided to get in touch with top Canadian ultra runners, Stephanie Case and Ferg Hawk, and get even more advice. Since storming onto the ultra scene in 2008 by finishing as the top female in Racing the Planet Vietnam (a 250km stage race), Case has gone onto a multitude of other victories and top finishes at some very tough and prestigious races. Hawke, who is the subject of the running documentary Distance of truth, is a two-time runner up at the Badwater Ultramarathon (often deemed the hardest race on earth) and holds the second fastest time for a North American at the Marathon de Sables—at 243 km race in the Sahara desert.

What did I learn from Zahab, Case, and Hawke?

None of the three were running prodigies when they started. Until the late 90’s, Ray was a pack-a-day smoker, but since he’s quit and started running, he’s never looked back. Stephanie didn’t run her first marathon until 2005, “Back then I wasn’t really a ‘runner’. I dreaded almost every training run I went on and I couldn’t wait for the race to be over! If I hadn’t been running for charity, I don’t know if I would have made it to the finish line.” And Ferg only started running after a doctor’s visit. “I was overweight—too much beer and wings after slowpitch— the doctor told me my blood pressure was high, and I’d have to start taking medication. So I started running.”

My inner Yoda voice satisfied, I registered to run the 250km Gobi March through China’s Gobi Desert this summer. *gulp*.

Believe in yourself and spread the word

Although they came from humble running backgrounds, each has persevered and gone on to accomplish amazing things. Ray advised me to; “believe in yourself—no matter what. Selfdoubt will be there, but learn to push it aside.” Okay, I’m starting to believe, Ray. I’ve followed Stephanie’s advice, too. “Find a race that you think is out of your league and sign up before you have a chance to talk yourself out of it. Next, tell all your friends and family about it to make sure you won’t back out!” Check. I just told iRunNation, Stephanie!

Make like a Scout — be prepared!

These three individuals have had so much running success because they believe training is crucial. I regularly think about Ferg’s words: “We all have the ability to do these amazing things, but too often people aren’t willing to put in the hard work and sacrifice it takes to get there. For me it’s all about preparation.”

Add to that Stephanie’s advice; “Give yourself the time to train and everything is possible. And get advice. Building a support network around you is the best way to achieve your goals.”

Use the Force

While recently talking to Ray, he was firing off advice faster than I could process; “What is your ideal outcome? What is your secret goal; what do you really want out of this race?” Later, when I messaged him a thanks, I told him he was a running Jedi Knight. He coolly replied; “Learn to use the force, Jim. It’s strong in you.” And what is “the force,” really, but an internal strength and heightened mind-body connection? Maybe I do have it; maybe we all do. Maybe we can all use the force to take our running to the next level.

The Wolf Dream

Dear running diary; I have become a wolf.

Wolves are mythical creatures that have been held in reverence, or depicted as terrifying villains, through the millennia. And despite all their metaphorical references, they are simply a predatory animal trying to survive by using numbers and stealth to seek out prey. Their success, in part, comes from learning to exist in a hierarchical world where lesser wolves submit to dominant ones.

Or so says my subconscious.

Last February, two days post cancer surgery, my epidural was removed so I could be switched over to morphine for pain control. The drug, however, did more than that. It caused me to drift in and out of consciousness, before eventually falling into a trance like sleep and having the most vivid dream of my entire life. I can recall every single detail, in perfect clarity, as if it was real and happened only yesterday...

My morphine induced vision:

I was standing in a field of tall, thigh high grasses on the outskirts of some town. At my back were rows of houses bunched together like a bizarre militant Lego project... A.k.a. the suburbs.

The sun hung low in the sky and I knew I didn’t have many hours of daylight left. Yet, the pull of open land, lying endlessly stretched before me, was too strong. As I moved off, a small structure on the horizon caught my attention, it appeared to be a farm house.

The place reeled me in with bewitching power, and I suddenly I found myself at the end of the gravel laneway.  It wasn’t quite dark out, but not light, either—it was that brief, mystical period in between. With shadows and silhouettes dancing about, I slowly and cautiously inched my way forward. On my left was a tall wooden fence that stood eight or nine feet tall—the boards so close together that it created a wall. On my right hand side, touching the edge of the driveway was the old siding covered home.

The effect of the fence and house felt like being in a tunnel; and it was further emphasized by a dilapidated free standing garage directly in front of me. It was here that I had my wolf encounter. A huge, menacing looking animal with the hair on its upper back raised, its intense yellow eyes locked on me as it crept onto the driveway from behind the house.

We stood there, face to face, for what seemed like an eternity. I was frightened, but I knew it would be a bad decision to run. My feelings of vulnerability, however, seemed to hang heavy in the air. Smelling it as an opportunity, it attacked.

The wolf was on me—its large K9’s trying to close on my jugular—so fast that I barely had time to react. At the very last instant I managed to turn my body and raise my arm just enough for it to bite down into my right shoulder. The pain was excruciating, yet with my free arm, and using its forward momentum, was able to shove free. And then...

And then I woke up. Only, I was still mid-wolf-throw when I did, so continued to roll to my side while flailing my arm, which then smashed into an array of tubes and my I.V. pole. This seemed to snap me back to reality; it’s also when I noticed an intense pain in my right shoulder... the same spot I’d just been bitten!

I later found out the pain was an after-effect of surgery, caused by pumping air into my body so they could operate. But the dream had left a profound impact; easily understood if you read it again, except replace the word wolf with cancer.

What I couldn’t comprehend at first, though, was why a wolf? I don’t have a deep seeded fear for them—not like I do for, say, bears. But that’s when it dawned on me.  I’m not supposed to be terrified. I’m supposed to see cancer for what it is; “...simply a predatory animal, trying to survive by using numbers and stealth to seek out prey.” And thus my reasoning for embracing my own inner wolf: It means I am stronger and I am dominant.  Attack if you must, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The Journey Beyond Average

Cancer, despite its malicious attack on my body, has gifted me with a perpetual fear of death—which, in turn has forced me to realize some existential truths.  It may not seem like a fair trade off now, but eventually, I have no doubt, it’ll prove invaluable. You see, having the knowledge and belief that you’re capable of much more, yet, not acting on it is possibly the greatest weakness there is. And maybe it’s cliché, but it’s about time I lived up to my potential. I have the opportunity to be a difference maker and a positive influence—I can feel it. However, in order for that to happen, my thought patterns were and are in need of change.

This has always been the difficult part, because governing the direction of our thinking can be complicated. Our daily fears and doubts are ever present, continually magnifying; and the less we do about addressing them, the less we’re able to do. Eventually, our apprehension represses us so much that we miss out on opportunities, or even dreams, as we become uninspiring—average.  

And let’s face it; there’s nothing inspiring about average. Even though we may sympathize with it and its bag of excuses; it doesn’t exactly provoke a spark for change or action. What does move us, though, are the people who overcome adversity; stare down and face their challenges—own them. It’s the people who rise above, and show strength of character, who become our mentors; our motivators. Them, we’ll follow; because there’s just something about bravery that resonates very deep within us.

Personally, I believe it’s the positive energy which draws us in. Like a magnetic force or a light in the ever present abyss of negativity. When we glimpse courage in others, it reflects back to the potential that lies within. If they can accomplish or create something extraordinary, maybe it means it’s possible for us as well. After all, we’re each made up of the same stuff—biologically speaking. The only difference is the thoughts in our heads, which, we have the ability to control... or at least learn to. And as I’ve recently discovered, sometimes the learning curve can be very steep.

One of the most beautiful aspects of running is the influence it has on your mind. It’s a wonderful teacher of productive affirmation; which is very transferable to all other aspects of life. Perhaps that’s why I yearn to run even more now—post cancer. Don’t get me wrong, it won’t conquer all of our fears and doubts. But that’s okay; we’re supposed to have some as a survival mechanism. We just need to acknowledge their existence so we can then choose to channel them into something tangible and useful.

In every situation there are choices. And it’s the ones we make in the most challenging circumstances that define our legacy. I have no doubt the people around me would understand if I just wanted to get past cancer and back to a “normal” life. But I can’t and I won’t. My mind set has moved so far beyond normal—which I equate to average—that I don’t ever plan on seeing it again.

And if you’ve read this far, maybe it’s because you’re starting to believe in the same thing:  Yourself.