Balance and Perspective

As a distance runner, I believe that 90% of racing is mental and 10% is physical. Of course, races in my past have proven that this percentage isn’t always the case. Throughout my 30-plus year running career, I have raced with colds and strained muscles, walking pneumonia and kidney stones, stress fractures and cancer. Despite my strong-headedness and my “I CAN. I WILL!” mental attitude, mental toughness is not always enough to prevail over my physical disposition.

I just returned home from the district track meet—a meet full of emotions, both for its triumphs and its drama. I, too, get swept up in the moments, reliving my own successes and self-interpreted failures at meets like districts and, in college, regionals. I spent my high school and college days consumed by my running performance, and I know that my self-esteem was dictated by the time on the clock. A good performance released endorphins; a bad performance released tears.

Luckily, for me, my self-worth is no longer based on my running performance. When I look at my runners suffering with anxiety and pressure (and sometime puke) prior to their races or tears following the finish line, I get it. I understand. And, I get the fact that, in the moment, there is nothing that can seem to take its place.

Balance and perspective: two things that we all need to have a little more of. What we do matters, but it is how we deal with what happens that defines who we are. How can we morph something that appears to be negative into something positive? What are the lessons that can be learned?

BALANCE AND PERSPECTIVE:

Yesterday, I got my PET scan results. I don’t need a piece of paper to interpret the results: I can read it in my oncologist’s face when he opens the door.

Balance:

While my old drug didn’t work, there are still options. I will start a new chemo drug on Friday—an infusion instead of a pill. I will not run, because there is a new spot on my bone, and I don’t want to be a 37-year-old with a broken hip.

Perspective:

I just ran out of shampoo—the first bottle since last summer. I will not have to pack shampoo for my trip to South Africa.

Ironically, I made my first haircut appointment for next Tuesday. I will still have Lynette trim my hair and dye my Mohawk blue for the state meet.

The “cancer bonuses” are granted more often if I have a baldhead. I can also get another henna masterpiece.

I can still believe in the 90% mental and 10% physical philosophy, and I better believe, because my body continues to revolt.

I will stay balanced; I will keep things in perspective.

I CAN. I WILL!