dream big | Kathy Sebright

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.

January 27, 2015
by Kathy Sebright 4 Comments

With words, I can make anything

As I shut my laptop closed late last night, I felt at peace. There was excitement and fear of course, but there was also peace. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be even remotely successful. It’s not that big of a deal I tried to tell myself. But that last part is wrong. It is a big deal.

There is an old Hemingway quote that many people know that I just love. It goes something like this: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” It’s a statement so profound (to me, anyhow) that I can’t possibly follow it up with any meager offerings of my own.

That’s all there is to it. Bleed your very heart and soul onto the paper or in my case, into the word document. Yesterday I sat with the cursor blinking back at me. It was looking at the unfinished rough draft for my very first book. And I want it to be good, of course I do. Who wants to write something bad?! But I’ve been worrying. I’m only 32, maybe I haven’t lived enough yet to write an entire book. I don’t have any sort of degree; I never even finished college. I dropped out when I ran out of money, terrified of going into debt and so I chose to walk away. What do I know about writing a book? Nothing. Aside from some chicken scratch in a few old journals and a couple of blog posts. I don’t know if I’m even any good. What if my friends and family love me so much, they can’t bear to tell me the truth and crush my dream? And who would even want to read a whole book on me? I’m actually quite ordinary, I don’t have anything about me that sets me apart. What makes me qualified to pass down any sort of wisdom? Nothing. Nothing at all. Yes, I’ve been worrying quite a bit lately.

In a moment of doubt, I did something silly and a bit embarrassing. I went to Google for help. Now, Google doesn’t know me and Google hasn’t read anything I’ve written so far. Google and I aren’t really even that good of friends. But still, seeking validation I asked, looking for the cold, hard truth. I actually typed in the words “will anyone read my book” into the search bar. I clicked on a few of the results with little interest, but one in particular caught my eye. I scanned the words of some author/speaker/self-help guru and felt almost instantly better.

Do you know what it said? Well, because I don’t want to go and try and find it again, I’ll paraphrase it for you. It said do it. If you like the book, then that is all that matters. You are the one writing it and you are the only one putting the work in. If you think it is good, then that is all that matters. And your idea is good because it is yours, and it means something to you. In the end, if only one person in the entire world finds the book worthwhile, then that justifies your efforts. It doesn’t matter if that one person is your mom or your spouse or your best friend. A reader is a reader. And if you write something that nobody likes, you’re in good company. Many authors, even successful ones at that, have written things deemed complete junk by their hardiest of fans.

I felt better. How did Google know? Maybe we were friends after all. Maybe I really was going to write this book and it was going to be ok. It was going to be ok if no publisher was interested and I had to self-publish it myself. It was going to be ok if no one else liked it but my inner circle of 12 people that support absolutely everything I do, no matter how awful I think it is. It was going to be ok if only 3 people bought it. It was going to be ok if it was a total flop and a failure. It was going to be ok as long as I thought it would

And so I will continue on with these words, whether good and bad, making something that matters to me.

January 21, 2015
by Kathy Sebright 2 Comments

I have a blog (obviously!)

Alright, fine. I’m a little late to the party. Or a lot late. Whatever. I’m here anyhow.

After much persistent nagging, ahem, I mean loving encouragement, by a few friends, I have decided on a blog. Some of it that I’ve already posted before this is reruns, things that you may have already read through various other sources. Some of it is new, unpublished stuff that was never “good enough” to make the cut. Lucky for you, or perhaps unlucky, now I don’t have to wait for someone to deem what I have to say worthy of being shared. So look forward to an influx of random drabble.

It’s a strange mixture of topics, just like our life. It’s running – lots and lots of running. It’s diagnoses, surgeries, hospital trips, and the every day pain of seeing my child suffer. It’s finding God and trying to trust this crazy road we are traveling down. It’s the people that have come along side us and lifted us up when we were falling. It’s everything and anything and nothing at the same time. Lastly, it’s accountability and a place to clear out the cobwebs as I attempt (and succeed, God willing) at finishing up my first book this year.

And that’s all I have for you for now. So look around if you feel so inclined and let me know what you think.

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!

Kathy Sebright

Writer. Speaker. Believer. Runner. Truth Enthusiast.

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