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

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.