Ultra running | Kathy Sebright

July 9, 2015
by Kathy Sebright 7 Comments

Out of the darkness – 100 miles for Emmett

On June 20^th, almost 3 weeks ago, I ran 100 miles for “Emmett’s Endurance Event.” And then I went on vacation and then it was the Fourth of July and then I realized I never wrote about it. And as we all know, inside the mind of a writer (if I can be so bold as to call myself that these days) it’s almost as if it didn’t happen if I don’t recreate it with words. So if you are so inclined to read about my latest running adventure, for my son Emmett, and the deep dark ugly parts and the parts where I beamed with pride, read on.

I woke up on Friday, June 19^th at 5:15. I didn’t have to be up until 6am, but I couldn’t sleep. I drug myself out of bed and started my pre run routine. When I got to the pile of clothes that I would start out this run with, I was transported. I stared at the white shirt with pink letters with a kind of disgusted fascination. I had bought it special for that day 3 years ago. And 3 years ago, when I stared at this same exact shirt that proudly proclaimed me as unstoppable, I felt like a fraud. I didn’t feel unstoppable, I felt afraid and nauseous and like running away. But that was then and this is now. As I put the shirt on, I knew I had grown into it. I truly believed what it said. And I say that not with arrogance or conceitedness or to pat myself on the back, but to remind myself. I am unstoppable. I have seen worse. I can do this. I can survive anything. I cannot be stopped. I will keep going. Somehow. Someway. I will. And with that in mind, I finished getting ready and took off running full of determination.

When attempting to run 100 miles, time ceases to exist. It’s just me and my legs fighting against my mind. As far as running goes, the first 10 hours were pretty uneventful. Friends came to keep me company and decorated my home base camp with all kinds of signs. I wandered around in the huge campground for a few hours, before deciding on a 5 mile route so as to never be too far away from my people and so I could be easily found.

I ran and I ran and I ran. It got hot and I ran. Things hurt and I ran. I got really tired and I ran. I got cranky and I ran. I got discouraged and I ran. I got blisters and I ran. I wanted to stop running and I ran. I just kept going. That’s how you run 100 miles. There is no secret. You just keep going. You shut off everything else and just keep going. If my previous races had taught me anything, it was that once I started crying, I wouldn’t be able to stop. The dam would break and I would never be far from dissolving into hysterics at a moment’s notice. So I worked hard to keep myself together, to not lose it. I focused on my mind, shutting down all the cant’s and negative thoughts threatening to spill over. I held it together, willed the emotions back in until I was ready for them. I told myself things I wasn’t sure I really believed, but forced myself to adhere to them.

I hit 50 miles in a bit over 12 hours. More friends showed up and ran with me and they occupied my mind, kept the impending doom from setting in, and gave me a welcomed and happy distraction. Round and round the 5 mile loop different people went with me. A group of friends sat around a campfire all night long, taking shifts running with me. I was never alone. These are my people. They don’t need to say it because they are there. They show it.

Highlights of the night include hysterical laughter with friends, high fives from groups of kids on golf carts, being scared of a bug zapper, and blinding everyone around me with my super-powered headlamp. Somewhere around 3 am, it took a turn for the worse. I was sitting on a fence, 80 miles under my belt, feeling sick to my stomach and fighting back the tears with every fiber of my being. Tony was standing next to me, urging me onwards and upwards. But under the cloak of night, my resolve wavered and I couldn’t help but cry. It was too long. It was too far. I was too tired. It was too dark. It was going to be dark forever. I didn’t want to do it anymore. I couldn’t do it anymore. I don’t remember what exactly my husband said, nor does he as we were both sleep deprived, but it was tough love. A get up and get your butt going right now because you don’t get to stop here, kind of sentiment. Whatever it was, it pushed me to stand back up on feet that felt like they were on fire. The pain blocked out everything else. All I could feel in each step was how much it hurt. Nothing else registered, just the burning pain in my feet. A very long and very dark night ensued. A darkness so encompassing, I didn’t think I would ever see the light again. I was convinced this was it. When dawn finally broke, I felt hope. The sun rose again and it with it came my spirit. I could breathe easier in the daylight. I was not doomed to run in the darkness for the rest of my life. I had run out of the darkness, both literally and figuratively.

Now that it was actually June 20^th, the day of Emmett’s first surgery, I allowed my mind to go back. I saw myself on that treadmill, tears streaming down my face silently, my teeth gritted in sheer effort, and a crushing despair that filled me as I waited for that blasted hospital pager to ring. Waited to hear that my baby boy had lived. Waited to hear that I could stop running. Waited to hear that everything was going to be ok. I waited and I ran, a terrified mother trying to convince herself how brave she was. I could still feel it as I ran 3 years later. Sometimes I am still that mother, trying to convince myself I am actually brave when I feel anything but. But still, as my home base came into sight, 100 miles within my grasp, I felt the brave rise up. I did not cry. I smiled and sighed with intense relief as I crossed my finish line holding Emmett’s hand. I was victorious. I really felt unstoppable. In previous races, I felt like I had merely survived 100 miles. It was a brutal assault to my body and senses. This time, I felt like I did more than just survive, I thrived. I remembered the reason I was doing this. I used it to power through what I thought I couldn’t. I finished and I smiled. After running for 27 hours and 38 minutes, I really did run out of that darkness.

We told a handful of people about Craniosynostosis in person. I told even more online. I ran to honor Emmett’s journey. And I did. I ran to remind myself I can. And I did. I ran to make a difference. And maybe I did or maybe I didn’t. But what I do know is that I have done something and that is better than nothing. And you all have made a difference to me. Every text, call, comment, and email. Everyone that shared about Emmett, helped me tell the world what Craniosynostosis is and why it matters. Everyone that has stood by me or stepped in when I needed it the most. Everyone that has cheered me on from near or far. You are my people. You don’t need to say it. You show it. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you.

June 16, 2015
by Kathy Sebright 3 Comments

Emmett’s Endurance Event 2015

We are just 3 days away from running 100 miles in the hot, muggy haze of June.

And people have asked me – “what can I do to help?” If you are one of those people, I have an answer. It’s simple. Join me. Run with me. Walk with me. Bike with me. Tell someone about Craniosynostosis for me. Wherever you are. Whatever you are doing. Join me in spirit this Friday, June 19th or Saturday, June 20th. You can even wear the official race bib if you are so inclined. Don’t worry that it says 100 miles. Your miles are a part of mine and every bit as important! That’s because together we are stronger. So if you want to help. Join me.

Click here for the bib: June 20 Race bib

June 11, 2015
by Kathy Sebright 5 Comments

Why on earth are you running 100 miles?

Here’s the thing – I never wanted to do anything like this, originally. I never planned on being the voice behind a cause. I had no drive or desire for anyone to ever think or say I was inspirational. In fact, despite the noble words that people have used for me, I have not ever felt inspirational in my life and I’m completely ok with that. I never needed my name to be known in local circles either. The only thing I wanted was for my son, Emmett, to be ok. I wanted to protect him more than anything in this entire world and I couldn’t. And so the only way I could survive that was to run. It was the only way I could be ok. That’s what started all of this.

Let’s rewind to 3 years ago: June 20, 2012. I was on the 10^th floor of the children’s hospital running on a treadmill while a team of surgeons cut apart my 15 month old baby’s entire skull a few floors below me. My son Emmett was born with a birth defect of the skull called Craniosynostosis. Craniosynostosis causes the sutures in the skull to close prematurely so that the skull can not grow as it should, thus inhibiting brain growth. I vowed to run the entire time he was in surgery, no matter how long it took. I would not stop. I would not rest. I would not do anything but run until I knew he was going to be ok. I ran for exactly 7 hours and 26 minutes that day, calling it “Emmett’s Endurance Event” and raising awareness of Craniosynostosis in the process. It lit a fire under me. I had to do it again and so I ran for the 7 hours and 26 minutes on the anniversary of June 20^th for the last two years. This year, I wanted to do something different.

Emmett had gone undiagnosed for the first 14 months of his life. At birth, his pediatrician had told us he was just fine when we questioned his head shape. In the coming months, we would ask our Doctor about it as well and be reassured more than once that it was completely normal and nothing to worry about. After his first birthday, Emmett began having seizures. Two different times, at two different hospitals, the emergency room discharged us telling us that there was nothing wrong with our son after the seizures. We fell through the cracks unnoticed and so I took matters into my own hands. I knew something was wrong, call it mother’s intuition or God or a gut feeling. I knew. I turned obsessively to Google for answers, searching for hours and hours, multiple days in a row, going without working, eating, and barely sleeping. After many days of this manic behavior, I diagnosed my son myself. Because of the late diagnosis and severity of Emmett’s case, things didn’t go as planned after the first surgery. Emmett has other medical issues and there’s no way to know what could have been prevented if the Craniosynostosis was corrected sooner.

There wasn’t just one surgery. There have been five surgeries so far, three related to the Craniosynostosis. Multiple times, surgeons have sliced my child’s head open ear to ear. They have peeled his entire face back all the way down to his cheekbones more than once. They have completely cut apart the bones in his skull. They have put in numerous plates and surgical screws. They have filled in holes of missing skull and patched it back up. They have cut off excess bone that was healing incorrectly and growing in the wrong direction. They have drained pockets of fluid of and blood that wasn’t supposed to be there and looked for infection. I have seen my child’s eyes swell completely shut for 8 straight days after surgery. I have soaked up pools of blood at the base of my child’s head more times than I can count. I have watched as my child became traumatized: kicking, screaming, and crying, eyes wide with fear as the nurses approach him. I have pinned him down myself to help. I’ve spent hours trying to force him to swallow all of his medications. I’ve sent him off for tests and scans over and over. I’ve seen him unconscious and seizing on the floor in front of me. I’ve seen him cry tears of blood after surgery. I’ve rocked him in my arms crying right along with him, my heart broken and my shirt stained red. I’ve begged for relief. I’ve offered up myself to God as a sacrifice if only he would heal my son. I’ve fallen apart. I’ve shattered into a thousand pieces. But I’ve stood back up and faced it. I’ve refused to sink. And still the only way I could survive that was to run.

That is why I will run for 100 miles starting on June 19 and finishing on June 20, 2015. It’s 100 miles for Emmett, to pay homage to all of his pain and suffering over the last 3 years. It’s 100 miles for myself, to acknowledge that I have survived and done the best I could. It’s 100 miles for all the families that have been affected by Craniosynostosis, to show them they are not alone. It’s 100 miles to raise awareness of Craniosynostosis, to tell the rest of the world what this is so that they can recognize it and maybe help another family some day.

Symptoms of Craniosynostosis in an infant include an unusual shaped head, a hard, raised ridge along the affected suture, and a soft spot that closed too early. If this could be your child or a child of someone you know, I encourage you to speak to your Doctor. Craniosynostosis inhibits brain growth and can cause intracranial pressure, seizures, eye problems, developmental delays, and more if left uncorrected.

May 26, 2015
by Kathy Sebright Leave a comment

The day that everything changed

June 20th. For years, it was just a simple day; my mother in law’s birthday actually. 3 years ago, it became something else entirely just like I had. It became Emmett’s Endurance Event. It became the day that I stared fear in its cold, dark, unforgiving face. It became the day that I got my first glimpse of the amazing community that we are surrounded by – where love and support flooded in so greatly that we were left floating in it. It became the day that I learned I was capable of so much more than I ever gave myself credit for. It became the day that I discovered a passion for ultra-running that would continue to change my life in so many ways. It became the day that we survived, together.

I ran for exactly 7 hours and 26 minutes on a treadmill in the children’s hospital on that incredibly long June day. I ran while they broke apart not just the skull of my sweet baby boy Emmett but while they broke apart my entire heart and soul. I would never be the same again; I just wouldn’t. I didn’t know then that there would be more surgeries. I didn’t understand then that the struggle would continue long after that day and that fear had only shown its face that day. I didn’t realize I’d soon meet fear in person when they scanned Emmett’s brain. I had no idea the road we were about to go down.

For the past two years, I have continued my tradition of running for 7 hours and 26 minutes on the anniversary of that day. But this year, I’m not going to do that. Because at the end of last year, Emmett had two additional skull surgeries that cut my heart open
once again. So I’m not going to run for just the 7 hours and 26 minutes. Instead, I’m going to pay homage to all of it: the hours he’s collected from 5 surgeries so far, the hours spent in the hospital, in Doctor’s offices, and in emergency rooms. The tears of pain and frustration, being poked and prodded at, sleepless nights, undergoing tests, scans, therapies, blood work, and having medication after medication jammed down his throat. I’m going to take it all and use it to run for 100 miles on June 20th.

When I think back to the last 3 years, I can tell you it feels a lot like an ultra marathon, like 100 miles of absolutely terrible, overwhelming struggle and triumph. There were times when I felt so alone, completely and utterly alone. Like it was 3 am and I was lacing up my shoes, about to do something that most people can’t even fathom. I stuffed every emotion and pain down as deep as I could, unwilling and unable to find the words to ask for help as I ran through the night on a path that I wasn’t sure would ever end. At times, I was surrounded, completely and utterly surrounded. When I was sure I couldn’t go on, people were pressing in from all sides. Their shoulders pushed up against mine, pulling me forward with them as I shuffled my feet in a daze.

There were times when I was screaming in agony and crying desperate tears that wouldn’t stop. There was misery and unbelievable suffering at points. There was doubt and fear that I was not who people thought I was and that I was not really strong enough to make it. There was the sweet allure of just giving up and questioning why I would ever do this to myself. There were tears of joy from doing what I once thought I couldn’t. There was pride that overflowed from my very being from surviving and digging deep. There was hope that I would get there, somehow, someway, I would do it and we would all be ok. There was love; love beyond words. Love in the face of a man that has seen you at your very worst and loves you anyhow. Love from friends that will show up all hours of the night, whenever you need them and do whatever you need them to. Love from family that will always come through no matter what else is going on.

There was all of it, mashed together into one heartbreaking beautiful cacophony of mess. That’s what watching your child struggle with his health feels like. That’s what running 100 miles feels like. It’s all of those things and more. It’s raw and real. It’s awful and full of hope. It’s pain tinted with joy. It’s who I am and what I do.

So on June 20th, I will run for 100 miles for Emmett, for me, for our family, and for everyone who has ever been in our shoes. I will continue to tell the world about Craniosynostosis, a birth defect of the skull that inhibits brain growth. I will bang that drum loud and clear in the hopes that more awareness will keep another baby from going undiagnosed as long as Emmett had. It all started with Craniosynostosis, but it’s about the rest of it – the brain lesion and epilepsy too. I do this not to continue to hang onto the darkest moments of our lives, but rather to bring light into them and in the hopes that it might make a small difference to someone else. Because that’s what this 100 miles is really all about. Hope.

February 24, 2015
by Kathy Sebright 2 Comments

The brutal amazement that is 100 miles

If I had to find just one sentence to describe the process of running for nearly 24 hours, it would be this: the sum of all things. It was all of my emotions, fears, and failures. It was all of my progress, triumphs, and the whole of my life. There was that ugly voice in the back of my mind so sure I would fail and should just quit and be done with it. That voice told me over and over, that there was no way I would ever be able to do this because it’s just too fast for way too long. There was a quieter but more powerful voice too. A voice that was so sure I could do this, that I could do absolutely anything if I really wanted it badly enough. That voice reminded me over and over that I’m a fighter, not a quitter because I’ve already done more in my life than I ever felt capable of.

Round and round the 200M track I went. That’s 8 laps to a mile. Which means 800 laps total to hit 100 miles. Every 1 minute and 30 seconds, I passed my temporary home: my husband, my lawn chair, and my storage tote of running gear. And it got harder and harder to pass up all the comforts of home just waiting for me each and every time. There were a few times, I cried as I passed my lawn chair it was so devastating.

What saved me was “my people.” One person I can always count on no matter what, is my husband Tony. Propped up in a corner, tallying up my laps one after another, running with me here and there, and waiting on me hand and foot: he is the ultimate crew person. But even so, there were a few hours when I was really floundering alone. I slowed down, I struggled, I got discouraged, and I started to sink on my own in the middle of the night. But then God sent help, in the form of my friends and family. A group of friends showed up Friday night when I was already starting to hit a rough patch. A group of non-running friends that is. And they proceeded to not only run but run FAST with me. A few hours after they left, someone else showed up. They came at 1am to get me through the long, dark hours of the night. A group came at 5am decked out in feather boas, princess crowns, and sunglasses carrying inspirational signs. A couple of awesome coach friends showed up and gave me a massage, and helped me fix my terrible running form that I had descended into. A complete and utter Godsend came sometime early Saturday morning. She made it her personal mission to see me to the finish. Made me eat when I felt too sick to eat, filled up my water bottle probably 50 times, fixed my shoes over and over, stood outside the bathroom stall waiting for me like a loving mother would with her child, just in case, watched me like a hawk commanding “eyes open” every time they threatened to close, and kept an eye on our pace, always pushing me to make sure I really was going to make it. When Saturday morning rolled around, my cheering section tripled. The same friends that had shown up late the night before, the same ones that must be exhausted and tired and sore, there they were again.

The final hour took every last bit of will power I had. All I knew is I was “close” to 100 miles but I didn’t know how close. Shortly after hitting 50 miles, I decided I didn’t want to know anymore. It was tormenting me to know how much farther I had to go, so everyone started keeping it a secret. I was really struggling near the end when I saw some women on the track walking towards me. I couldn’t understand why until they got closer, and I saw 4 of my friends in matching Team Kathy shirts. The back proudly proclaimed it was a division of Team Emmett. Hysterical sobbing ensued as they hugged me until I was making that loud, embarrassing noise from trying to breathe. There were so many times I had felt alone in my life before. So many times where it seemed like I had no one. And this was just the opposite of that, times 100. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt more loved. I was sure my heart was going to burst. It was simply amazing. It was complete when my mother and father in law showed up with our boys and all I could manage was to smile at them through my heavy tears.

Finally, after being told how close I was and getting angry, whiny, desperate, hysterical, crying, and stopping in defeat for a few seconds, my husband Tony told me I was on my last lap. A friend was singing “our song.” I was surrounded on all sides by even more friends that escorted me one last time around that track. They were cheering, yelling, and clapping. Emmett ran just ahead of me as I rounded the very last corner and threw my head back in instant relief at being able to stop running. And I did it. 100 miles in 23 hours and 50 minutes. Under 24 hours, with only a few minutes to spare.

When I think back to the Hallucination 100 I did last year and how much I cried, I think I may have cried almost as much this time. But this time most of those tears were of gratitude, appreciation, amazement, and pure love. There were some desperate tears in there too, but they were few and far in between comparatively. All of these wonderful people that showed up to support me– they are the ones that pushed me to run faster. They are the ones that kept me going even when I was feeling miserable and wanted to stop. Their mere presence made me both laugh and cry and renewed my fragile spirit. I owe the bulk of my miles to them, and them alone.

I just LOVE this message (and everything else out there) from Fellow Flowers. It’s something I have been privileged enough to live out.

February 20, 2015
by Kathy Sebright 1 Comment

An upward spiral

Today is the day – it’s time to run for 24 hours at the inaugural Upward Spiral 24 Hour Endurance Run!!! It’s awesome for a so many reasons. My friend and running partner Adele is directing the whole thing. It’s something she dreamt up. It’s raising awareness of depression, bullying, and self-harm. The name? Upward spiral. Instead of downward spiral like so many people use to describe depression, like I’ve used to describe the darkest moments of my life. It hits close to home and it IS close to home, literally. Like 10 minutes away close. And it’s free! Absolutely free. How much more could you want in a race?

When I do long runs like these, I always like to set 3 goals for myself. It’s good to have a backup plan because having 3 different level goals ensures I always have something to focus on even if my original plan falls to pieces.

My #1. goal is to hit 100 miles! It’s a lofty goal, seeing as how it would be exactly 5 hours and 44 minutes faster than my previous 100 mile finish, but this is all indoor on a track, which takes away a lot of the unknown factors that tripped me up last year.

My #2. goal is to hit at least 70 miles. If something goes wrong and I end up walking a lot, I should be able to at least hit 70 miles. A plus side to doing a lot of walking is I’ll be able to visit with all my awesome crew that is coming out to support me.

My #3 goal is not my own. If I blow up big time out there somehow and can’t possibly go on, I want to do everything in my power to help others succeed. I will do what I can to help my friend Adele complete 100 miles. I will stick with my friend, and forever cheerleader, Kelly attempting her longest run yet – 3 hours! I will step outside of myself and find people struggling and that look like they could use some help and then step in.

Regardless of what path I take, what goals I meet or can’t meet, the woman that finishes the race is not that same as the woman that starts the race. I’ve lived it many times to know how true it is. It will be true today. It will be true tomorrow. Why exactly? Because of Hope. Braving the journey and letting it go.

January 14, 2015
by Kathy Sebright Leave a comment

The art of surviving life, 100 miles, and other things

Originally posted at http://53riverbankrun.com/blog/roadwarriors/2014/09/17/the-art-of-surviving-life-100-miles-and-other-things/

How do you survive the longest run of your life? How do you keep your tortured body and mind going when the going gets impossibly tough? What do you tell yourself when you are shrouded in doubt? What is the answer to that ever confounding question for the ages: Why? Why are you doing this?

A week and a half ago, I stood excited, scared, and feeling naively prepared for the journey that lay ahead of me. I was going to run 100 miles. I was at Hell Creek Ranch preparing to run not only my first real ultra race, but my first 100 mile race. Let me paint you this picture. It was Friday, 4pm. It was 90 with the heat index. The sun was beating down on us and I was sweating just walking to the start line. The heat was unfortunate but really, it would be the most pleasant experience of my race in Hell. Really, I was in Hell, Michigan. Oh, the irony to be had.

I’m not sure how to divide out a race of this magnitude. There were 6 laps of 16.67 miles, but in reality, it wasn’t evenly split at all. So, I’ll start with what went right: Nothing. That’s what. And what went wrong? Everything.

A severe storm blew through Friday night, bringing violent wind that sent large limbs and small trees falling down around us, in the middle of the woods. Running while watching the trail ahead of you for the usual tripping hazards while simultaneously watching the sky, being honestly afraid for your life, as the forest caved in on you is NOT a good time. Had I been able to step off the course easily, I would have probably stopped right then but I was in the middle of the woods. The only way out was through. Then the lightning started and the heavy, steady rain that would not quit. The only upside was the storm dropped the temperature a good 20+ degrees. In the process of sprinting out of the woods, my friend and I got separated and lost for almost 5 hours. This meant, I ran out of food and water in my pack. It meant it was way past dark and I didn’t have a headlamp because I was supposed to be back hours ago. I ended up using the small, dim light from my dying cell phone that half heartedly showed me the way. This also meant I had been wearing my very wet socks and shoes for the last 8+ hours and nasty blisters were settling in.

When I finally made my way back to my crew, I was drained not just physically but emotionally. We set out for another lap in the dead of night. Despite a hard fall, this was one of the “easier” laps. I lost my friend at the next aid station due to foot issues, but my race went on and time went on, ever so slowly. I started struggling a lot early Saturday morning, whatever lap that was. I called a good friend whining, crying, and desperately looking for motivation. I was feeling pretty awful and like I’d never stop running. My blisters kept getting worse and I just wanted it to stop. She talked me through my desperation and gave me the courage to keep moving. The rain had made the trails super thick and muddy and really hard to pass in spots. I fell 2 more times, luckily, with no real injuries.

I lost track of all time. I lost track of where I was and what I was doing and I just kept going. And going. And going. Every aid station, I cried because I was so relieved to see people again and not just an empty trail. I knew I was either last or very close to it after getting lost early on. I was so isolated out on that trail, I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming this or really doing it.

I forgot what lap I was on, my Garmin died, I confused the folks in charge because I got lost, and they were missing some of my info for previous early laps. Because of that, I thought I was on my 3rd lap, not 5th. Regardless, on my actual 5th lap, a friend appeared on the trail ahead of me. I thought I was hallucinating, but she was really there. I ran, ok, more like slowly shuffled, to her crying and so thankful to see a familiar face I could barely find the words. She encouraged me and stuck with me until I could see my crew again. My kids and mother in law were there and I was overwhelmed with exhaustion and emotion. We made new friends with the experienced ultra-marathoners next to us and they helped fix the damage that was my feet. 2 blood blisters the size of my thumbnail, 4 blisters in between my toes, a huge blister on the pad of my foot, and another on my heel. They did everything they could to tape and bandage me up. My feet were so swollen I could barely get them back in my shoes. And once I did every step was agony. Pure torture. I winced, audibly gasped, cried tears of pain, and grit my teeth with nearly every movement.

I set out for what would be my last lap. I thought I was going to end up running 73 miles in all and take home a 100k finish at the very least with this lap. I still had no idea I was heading for 100 miles as planned. My husband, not a runner, not trained, not even dressed for something of this magnitude, agreed to bring me in my last lap. He was going to run 16.67 miles on a whim, just so I wouldn’t be alone. I don’t remember much of this lap. I wasn’t really running, I was limping and barely moving my feet. I cried a lot, desperate, hysterical, rantings of an exhausted woman on the edge. I remember flip flopping between thinking we are going to make it and thinking we would never, ever make it. Many times, I didn’t care how close I was, I just wanted to stop. My husband brought me through the most miserable hours of my life. When I stepped out of that forest for good and saw the finish line ahead of me, I couldn’t believe it. My husband was walking, I was holding his hand, slowly shuffling next to him in a pathetic attempt at a run. I crossed the finish line in 29 hours and 44 minutes. Just 16 minutes away from the 30 hour time limit. I made it.

I went home thinking I had run 73 miles, not 100. A week later my results still stood and the race director had emailed me back, confirming, yes I had in fact run 100 miles. There was no way around it. My splits weren’t right because the early ones are missing and included in the later ones, but that didn’t matter. I was second to last anyhow. I made it. That’s all that mattered. But I couldn’t have done it without my family and friends. If I didn’t have people behind me and people that knew how important it was to do this, I wouldn’t have made it. This was not my solo endeavor, there were so many other people that made this journey possible.

So how do you survive? Simple. Just keep going. “Keep the end in mind” as my brother in law would say. In life, in running, and in other things, it’s going to be hard. You’re going to want to quit. You’re going to be standing all alone in the black of night, in the pouring rain, exhausted, defeated, and asking yourself why. Why am I doing this? Only you can answer that question. Only you can decide if it’s worth it to keep going.

January 13, 2015
by Kathy Sebright Leave a comment

The journey of 100 miles

Originally posted at http://53riverbankrun.com/blog/roadwarriors/2014/09/02/the-journey-of-100-miles/

The journey of 100 miles begins with a single step, but more specifically it begins this Friday at 4pm! After nearly half a year, it all comes down to this. The course limit is 30 hours so obviously that is my goal, but really my bottom line goal is just to get out there and do everything in my power to reach that 100, no matter how long it takes. There are certain things in life that you just know are going to hurt you, change you, and promote growth in you. Running 100 miles for the first time ever is one of those things. It’s going to be hard – really, really, really hard but it certainly won’t be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I have this small polished silver stone that has the word believe deeply etched on it. If you run your hand across it, you can feel the outlines and grooves of the word itself. I’ve clutched that stone numerous times in my life. I’ve turned that stone over and over in my hand as I watched my little boy being wheeled away from me in a hospital bed not knowing if they’d ever wheel him back to me. I’ve felt the weight of that stone in my pocket as I fought back tears and pinned down my scared, wild-eyed and thrashing 2 year old son to put in yet another IV. The stone was on the counter the day I held my son’s MRI in my trembling hands. That one thought from the rock “believe” was on my mind time after time while I watched my son unconscious and seizing wildly on the floor in front of me. Believe that he will be ok somehow or someday and if he’s not, believe that I will be ok with that somehow or someday. That’s all we can do is believe.

So what on earth does any of that have to do with running 100 miles? Nothing really. And kind of everything. For me, the two are linked. They are undeniably, inextricably tied together, running and my son’s life. Running is not only the way I heal myself but somehow the way I heal my son. I absorb the power in these miles. It transforms me and helps me project that hope onto him. And as we are facing another skull surgery for our son this month, I need that power and I need that healing. 100 miles is so much more than just another race, it’s our life. It symbolizes the long, treacherous road we’ve been on with the most desperate of lows and the most joyous of highs. Just like the race, we don’t know what’s going to happen, how it’s going to play out, or how much suffering there will be – we only know to keep going, forging ahead to that finish line, and believe that it will all be ok, somehow or someday.

September is Craniofacial Awareness Month. Just one of my son’s major health issues is that he was born with a birth defect of the skull called Craniosynostosis, but no one knew. He went undiagnosed the entire first year of his life. His official diagnosis came from his surgeons at 14 months old. Craniosynostosis inhibits brain growth and can cause intracranial pressure, seizures, eye problems, developmental delays, and more if left uncorrected. Symptoms to look for include an unusual shaped head, a hard, raised ridge along the affected suture, and a soft spot that closed too early. If this could be your child or a child of someone you know, I encourage you to speak to your Doctor. Knowledge is power and we need more power! And with that short public service announcement, I leave you. Look forward to one wicked race report coming soon!

January 13, 2015
by Kathy Sebright Leave a comment

Nothing worth doing is easy

Originally posted at http://53riverbankrun.com/blog/roadwarriors/2014/08/06/nothing-worth-doing-is-easy/

Last Saturday, I woke up at 4 am because today was the day. Today I was really going to run 50 miles.

As I got dressed, I felt a glimpse of what Clark Kent must feel when he changes into Superman. Here I am: just a regular person, a mom of 2 kids, married for 10 years, working a normal job, and doing normal things like losing my car keys and quick washing the dishes in the sink before I have to leave. But once I put on my running gear and lace up my shoes, everything changes. I am not a normal person anymore. I am stronger, faster, braver, and more capable than I was before. I am someone different: an adventurer, a fighter, and someone willing to test their limits.

Adele, a former Road Warrior from years past, joined me at 5:30 am and we set out to run 50 long, long miles. I had a pit in my stomach, the nervous and excited energy that you get before you do something really big or something you are not so sure of. There was no turning back now. I hit the start button on my Garmin and we ventured into the dark with only our headlamps to show us the way.

The first 30 miles I must say, flew by. We talked, we laughed, we joked around, we took pictures, we told stories, and we bonded in a way that only fellow runner friends can. There is something different about running alongside someone early in the morning for hours on end, it’s something realer and truer than anything else you can do. There is no need to impress anyone, there is no way to skirt who you are at the core because it just comes out whether you want it to or not, your guard comes down, and your secrets feel safe between the two of you and the ever growing road beneath your feet. And for the first 30 miles, we stuck side by side, drinking in our long run, enjoying each other’s company, and unburdening our past, present, and future. It was nothing short of amazing.

When we stopped for food around the 30 mile mark and I realized how much longer we had to go still, something became unhinged in my mind. I started laughing hysterically – crazy, maniacal laughter that I couldn’t quiet. I was laughing so hard I was crying while my running partner Adele, and my husband/crew chief, looked at me like I might be losing my grip. No one else was laughing but me, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself stop. It was exhaustion, desperation, and anxiety coming out. Things took a turn for the ugly very quick in the 30’s.

The miles ticked by slower than anything I had ever seen in my life, we were running indefinitely and hysteria threatened to overtake my fragile mind. Everything hurt, the sun was blazing down on us with no end in sight, and we were only now just over half way there. Both Adele and I were struggling. One of us would feel better while the other felt worse, then the roles would reverse. The fun run was officially over, now it was more like a death march to the end. There’s not much I can say about those miles except they were extremely hard. The range of emotions that rises up in you when you’ve been running for 8+ hours is staggering and uncontrollable. Tears for no reason, anger for no reason, and complete and utter exhaustion for good reason, When running is no longer fun, you have to remind yourself why you are doing it and what you want out of this. It was hard to remember during some of the dark miles. And then it was like running through a fog that suddenly lifts, because around mile 41, I found a second wind. I ran with renewed passion, finishing the last 9 miles faster than the first 9 miles. Watching Adele fight for it was awe inspiring too. It didn’t matter what was happening, she was still moving forward, always moving towards her goal. We both finished hours over our projected goal time of 12 hours, but still, I consider it a wild success because we both finished.

In running, in life, and in nearly everything, we have a choice. Keep moving or quit. It’s as simple as that. So when you want to quit, remember why you are doing this, remind yourself what you want out of this, and fight for it if it’s worth it to you.

January 13, 2015
by Kathy Sebright Leave a comment

Emmett’s Endurance Event-the original

Originally posted at http://www.runjunkees.com/junkee-logic/runjunkees-runner-of-the-week-kathy-sebright

I was staring down at my running shoes when they turned blurry; the tears I had been fighting back falling quickly and quietly. My legs were shaking and my heart began to pound wildly as I stared at the treadmill. I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it. What am I even doing here? Why did I think this would be a good idea? I glanced at my husband and saw a familiar subdued panic in his eyes – a reflection of my own. Every unreasonable bone in my body screamed at me to go, get out of here, get my son, get in the car, and drive as far south as I could get. I could feel the fear rising in my chest and I suddenly felt like I was about to be sick right then and there. It was now or never. I stepped onto the treadmill and hit the big green start button.

It is June 20, 2012 just another Wednesday for most people. But I am not most people. I am 3 hours away from home, on a treadmill in a tiny windowless room on the 10^th floor of a children’s hospital. There is no amount of training, nothing I could have ever done that would have prepared me for this day. My 15 month old son is with a team of surgeons a few floors below me. He is undergoing a 7 to 8 hour cranial vault reconstruction, which means a team of highly skilled surgeons are cutting open my baby’s head from ear to ear, removing his entire skull, breaking the bones apart, reshaping them, and putting it all back together correctly with plates and screws in order to give his brain enough room to grow.Unbeknownst to us, our son Emmett was born with a birth defect of the skull called Craniosynostosis. The sutures in his skull were closed at birth, inhibiting his skull growth. For the first 12 months of his life, he was a happy, seemingly healthy baby boy. Just a few days after his first birthday, we found him unconscious and seizing wildly in his crib. This one day, this one event would alter the course of our lives forever. Not only would this lead us into a major, invasive surgery to fix his skull but routine pre-op testing would bring us completely unrelated, more bad news about his brain. As they laid diagnosis upon diagnosis on our baby boy – it was like an anchor around my neck growing heavier and heavier. We gathered a team of 16 specialists, we started forcing numerous medications down his throat each day, we went to multiple weekly therapies, and spent an insane amount of hours each week watching him undergo extensive testing and fading into the halls of the hospital.

The anchor was paralyzing at first, so heavy I could hardly bare it. In the midst of the worst turmoil I have ever known watching my little boy suffer so greatly, I did the only thing that still made sense, the only thing I could control. I went for a run. Having been a dedicated distance runner for about 8 years at that point, I knew the healing qualities in running. I ran and I cried. I ran and I prayed. I ran and I screamed. Sometimes the pain and anguish that came pouring out during a run scared me, but I kept running. I ran until my legs ached and my lungs burned. I ran until I could feel the anger, shock, fear, and helplessness slowly leaving my body. I continued to run in an exhaustive zombie-like state in between hospital stays and testing. Each time I returned from my run, that anchor felt just a little bit lighter. It was during one of our 3 hour back and forth drives to the hospital that an idea formed. I am not a woman of inaction; I can’t just sit in a waiting room like a normal person. I knew exactly what I had to do. I had to run. I decided to run for the entirety of my son’s surgery; the greatest show of solidarity I could muster, the only thing that still made sense. If he must endure this surgery, I can endure my own special brand of pain in his honor and so I started training for the longest run of my life. I was no stranger to the marathon, but this would be far above and beyond what I had ever done. Emmett’s (virtual) Endurance Event was officially born. I made a Facebook event, a race bib with his picture, and encouraged family and friends to do something active on that day with me. It was a show of support for Emmett, even though he was too young to understand it, letting him know he wasn’t alone in this and raising awareness for Craniosynostosis in the process.

Back in the tiny windowless room, the monotony of my footsteps begins to threaten my sanity. It’s no longer soothing. It’s a quiet room with only my pit crew – my running expert husband and marathon running pastor. My footsteps echo loudly in my ears, to the point where I consider plugging my ears to drown out the noise. In my head, I am a thousand miles away: far away from this treadmill, this hospital, and this new life. In my head, I ran away from all of this. But in reality, I am here. Running and waiting in this agonizing state of the unknown.

To pass the time, my husband reads to me and shows me pictures from Facebook. Somewhere in the middle of our crisis, the most amazing thing happened. The running community and strangers from all over the world united with us for Emmett’s Endurance Event. I saw endless pictures of people running, biking, walking, golfing, jumping on the trampoline, gardening, swimming, Zumba, Crossfit, lifting weights, band practices, meetings, and more. All of these people dedicated their workouts/daily activities to Emmett, holding up a picture of him. Hundreds of messages, prayers, and emails flooded in completely overwhelming us. We were rendered speechless by the response. I wasn’t alone in this tiny windowless room at all, over a thousand people were right there with me.

Hour 6 was the hour that almost broke me. I was physically more exhausted than I can ever remember being, I was running on empty and desperate to stop. Everything hurt – my legs, my feet, my head, and my heart. I was scared. I was tired. I wanted to see my son. I was choking back tears. But I don’t give up; it’s just not who I am, stubborn as an ox if you ask my husband. Failure was never an option for me. My son has no choice in his surgery and if he can’t stop, then I can’t stop either. There comes a point in every race when your heart must carry you because your legs can’t do it anymore. It’s sheer will power. It’s what you tell yourself you have to do, what you tell yourself you MUST do and right now my legs were taking orders from my heart.

Hour 6 is something that will forever live on in my mind. I will never be fast enough to be considered an elite athlete. In reality, I am far from elite. I am slightly overweight and although I run a heavy load of miles each week, I am still a comfortably middle of the pack runner. I am quite average and I have no qualms about that. All these facts aside, hour 6 made me feel like an elite athlete at the top of their game. I was all heart, all soul, all passion, gritting my teeth and bearing what I thought was once unbearable. Never in my life had I felt so very weak, but yet so full of power. I certainly didn’t look powerful but I was doing it. The simple fact that I was still moving was about as powerful a statement as I could make.

We did not ring in hour 7 with a picture and Facebook update as we had every single hour before. If you ask my husband Tony, he will swear my eyes were glowing red and I growled at him when he brought the camera over, but I’m pretty sure I just said “no picture.” One of my closest friends (and fellow runner) made a podcast for me to listen to and gave me explicit directions to listen to it when I was at my wit’s end. This was it. Hour 7 – there were no wits left. I cried and laughed in a barely comprehendible fashion. No doubt at this point, my pit crew was sure I had lost my mind. I listened to it over and over until the call finally came. My son was out of surgery. 7 hours and 26 minutes after I first stepped on that treadmill, a different woman stepped off it. One that knew there were no such things as boundaries and limits. I had run exactly 36.2 miles with an average 12:19 min/mile pace. It wasn’t about the pace at all, but secretly I was hoping to keep it in the 11’s. I told myself that is next year’s goal.

Even though I was exhausted and my legs were like jell-o, after a quick shower, I was rapidly walking down that hallway. I wanted to kick open those double doors, push everyone aside, and run as fast as I could to that recovery room. Just as I willed myself to keep running at the end, I now had to will myself to calm down and not start running. Emmett recovered from surgery well and went home within a week. He had 2 different shorter, surgeries since then as well but I did not run for those. He continues to face challenges with his health but is resilient and strong.

Ask me to talk about Emmett’s Endurance Event and I will start crying, every single time. People think they can’t make a difference in this world and that they are only one. But to someone like us, going through that, every single one of these people made a difference just by taking a picture, sending an email, and sharing in this difficult time in our lives. The people that participated in Emmett’s Endurance Event made a difference in our lives, forever.

On June 20, 2013 exactly one year after Emmett’s surgery – I took to my treadmill once again in an effort to continue raising awareness for Craniosynostosis. I collected names and dedicated each portion of my run to others to give back some of the support and encouragement we had been given. When I hit 7 hours and 26 minutes this year, I was just over 38 miles and so I pushed on dedicating my final two miles to my son Emmett. 7 hours and 52 minutes later, I had covered 40 miles with an 11:48 min/mile pace. It wasn’t about the pace at all, but secretly, I was quite pleased. Next year though, I want those 40 miles in the 7 hour and 26 minute mark

Kathy Sebright

Writer. Speaker. Believer. Runner. Truth Enthusiast.

Category Archives: Ultra running

Out of the darkness – 100 miles for Emmett

Emmett’s Endurance Event 2015

Why on earth are you running 100 miles?

The day that everything changed

The brutal amazement that is 100 miles

An upward spiral

The art of surviving life, 100 miles, and other things

The journey of 100 miles

Nothing worth doing is easy

Emmett’s Endurance Event-the original