Rise up

Rise up.

Life will knock you down, but rise up. You'll be faced with adversity, but see the opportunity and rise up. Others might upset/ anger/ frustrate you, but be the bigger person and rise up. You'll screw up, but learn from it and rise up...

Because that's what living is...the highs and lows; the falling and rising. But the rising part is our choice. And not always the easy one. If we keep rising though, friends, we''ll continue to get stronger, and it will get easier. Then, it's our strength that will shape our world around us.

As I do my last minute prep work, before heading to Chile for the Atacama Crossing, I've had to remind myself of those words a few times. 

I had a mild knee sprain about a month back that has altered my training and I'm not in the shape I'd like to be. BUT I've recently had blood work and a CT scan that indicate my health is good. I have to look at the bigger picture here. So despite not being as fit as I'd like, and not having done any altitude training, I'm alive and going to freaking Chile! How awesome is that!? I don't care where I finish in the standings, I'm just going to do my best to make sure I finish. 

At the end of my life, one of the things I want to be remembered for is being the kinda dude who always made the effort to rise up.

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.

Actuality. Imagination. Dreams.

Directly between the Empire of Actuality, and the Nation of Imagination, sits the Republic of Dreams. We’re all familiar with the place: A land where our desires and aspirations perform the dance of possibility. Our expectations flutter in the breeze of faith. And the sun—always shining—smiles down from above. Throughout the Republic; hope emanates.

Every one of us has an internal compass guiding us there—and the lure to go is substantial. Some visit it regularly and enjoy all it has to offer. Yet, amazingly, others often get lost—or just give up—along the way. Maybe it’s because our time in the Empire of Actuality can make us so weary, the journey seems beyond reach. Or perhaps the dividing line between the Republic of Dreams and the Nation of Imagination gets too blurred and we can no longer differentiate. It’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins; our dreams read more like fiction.

Despite the barriers that prevent us from going, we still possess the ability to make the trip any time we’d like. It’s that simple. It’s never too late to have a new dream, or to pursue an old one. So it goes for you; and so it goes for me. I say that more for my own benefit than yours, because for a long time I wasn’t using my dream compass to its potential; which will never happen again. I’m in an era of awareness.

Now, I have this rather audacious dream. One that I haven’t mentioned to many people—maybe due to doubts about it happening. But maybe there’s a power in sharing it...

I’m hoping to compete in an Ultramarathon on all seven continents. In fact, not only do I want to run in some of the hardest races on earth, I’d like to reach my goal within the next few years.

But that’s not the most significant part of my dream. The challenge of it entices me, for sure, and traversing to some beautiful destinations will be great; BUT it’s really about making a difference. Hopefully my actions will inspire others to take action. And most of all I just want to help people. Raising money for charity, speaking to groups of kids, or adults, about my experiences—both running and cancer—will give me a sense of self worth. And isn’t that what it’s really all about?

Obviously it’s still a work in progress, and there’s no guarantee it will happen. I’m not going to let that stand it way my dream pursuit, though.

It must be borne in mind that the tragedy of life doesn’t lie in not reaching your goal. The tragedy lies in having no goal to reach.

It isn’t a calamity to die with dreams unfulfilled, but it is a calamity not to dream. It is not a disaster to be unable to capture your ideal, but it is a disaster to have no ideal to capture.

It is not a disgrace not to reach the stars, but it is a disgrace to have no stars to reach for. Not failure, but low aim is sin.

~Benjamin Elijah Mays

The Republic of Dreams: It’s a nice place to visit, but I want to live there. Everyone’s invited.

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.