Kathy Sebright

Writer. Speaker. Believer. Runner. Truth Enthusiast.

Tag Archives: road warrior


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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. 50 miles

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.

100 signThe 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. keep running sign

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.


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The running contract

Originally posted at http://53riverbankrun.com/blog/roadwarriors/2014/03/19/the-running-contract/

watch9 years ago, I signed my life over to running. I thought I knew what I was getting myself into, but it turns out I neglected to read a lot of the fine print in the contract. First of all, running would demand some crazy hours from me. It wouldn’t be long before my wake-ups went from 7 am (Pre-kids of course! These were the blissful days before I had children that I used to think 7 am was actually early, but I digress) They went from 7am to 6 am to 5 am, and thankfully stopping at the earliest of 4:30 am all in an effort to beat the sweltering summer heat, fit 14 training miles in before work, or squeeze a run in on an over packed day. To accommodate all this ridiculous early morning stuff, I would now need to go to bed early, much earlier than everybody else my age or in a general 15 year span give or take. Forcing myself into bed not long after my kids went to bed made me feel very old and very lame, but there is no use lamenting a wasted youth. I’ve got 2 car seats, a purse as big as a diaper bag, and randomly find myself singing Veggietales songs because let’s face it – my youth and cool factor has been gone for awhile now. I begrudgingly subscribed to these new sleeping habits in order to better myself and better my running.

Then, there were the bananas. I hate bananas. Absolutely hate them. Always have. The taste, the texture, the slimy peel… how very unlucky for me that they are running’s super fruit. Need energy? Grab a banana. Muscle cramps? A banana will fix that. Getting tired during your run? Have another banana. For a runner, the banana is practically the cure for whatever ails you. And so I learned to tolerate bananas. I hid them in smoothies, mixed them up with big spoonfuls of peanut butter, and every so often, managed to eat one with my stale quartered bagel after a hard race. Running made me care more about what I put into my body, not just with bananas but other foods as well. Turns out pizza and ice cream are not a good pre-run meal, but post-run…well, that’s another story. bananas

But then came the scariest part of it all – the running clothes. The synthetic spandex and polyester type fabrics, the curve-hugging wicking base layers and tights – all of that stuff would weasel its way into my closet. And I’d wear it, out in public even! Up until that point, I had spent my entire adult life avoiding those kinds of clothes. Standing at 6 feet, with shoulders wider than most men my size, calves that will always be too big to be zipped up into a pair of tall boots, and 2 kids via c-section – as far as I was concerned, spandex had no business in my life or in my closet. Spandex with its unflattering, clingy judgmental statements, highlighting every extra cookie, every failed sit up, and putting me awkwardly on display like that one time I went to the beach right after I had a baby. Why would I do that to myself? Why would I wear these things? I learned to let it go, to love myself, and see with clearer eyes what I am capable of. I learned to be proud of who I am and embrace the gear even when I was afraid and very self-conscious in it. Am I perfect? Absolutely not. But can I still run an incredible amount of miles? Yes!

And so here I am – exhausted at 5 am, unceremoniously stuffing myself into a pair of spandex capris, eating a banana out of sheer obligation, and heading outside to where it all makes sense. And why? Because it only takes a few minutes to remember why I am doing this. It only takes a few minutes to realize that it is all worth it. Every run, every mile, and every race has the power to transform. I have transformed my life mile by mile, many different times over the years. Running has kept me from drowning, healed my broken heart, been an outlet for grief and loss, and saw me through fear beyond words. So I will keep running, forging ahead the road in front of me, because that is where I belong. If you love what you are doing, then that is all that matters, contract or no contract.


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Breaking through the wall

Originally posted at http://53riverbankrun.com/blog/roadwarriors/2014/01/20/breaking-through-the-wall-2/

They call it hitting the wall. It’s that terrible point in a race/run where complete and utter exhaustion overwhelms you, your legs become anchors threatening to drag you to a standstill, and every bone in your body screams at you to give up and collapse on the ground right this minute. In March of 2012, I sprinted head first into the wall so hard it dropped me to my knees and I didn’t know if I would ever get back up again.

One cold March morning, I found my (previously healthy) 1 year old son Emmett, unconscious and seizing wildly in his crib. This one seizure would change the entire course of our lives. Suddenly our life was full of hospitals, scans, tests, medications, therapies and a slew of Doctors trying to figure out what was wrong. Watching my son suffer turned me into a different person. It cast me into a deep, dark despair that I had never known before. It made me question everything I had ever believed in and everything I thought I knew about myself. It broke me, over and over, relentlessly until I was a hollow shell of a person, a mere shadow of who I used to be. IMAG0242

For the first time in almost 9 years, my heart wasn’t in it at all. I didn’t want to run anymore. However, I continued out of pure obligation because I was going to be pacing for the Fifth Third River Bank Run for the first time that year. I forced myself out the door day after day regardless of how little I had slept, how long I had been at the hospital, or how heavy my legs and heart were. I didn’t enjoy a single step of it and I felt like a traitor to the sport I had once lived and breathed with such true passion and joy.

Light at the end of the tunnel came almost 2 months later, on the day we scheduled Emmett’s first surgery. My legs complained about the strain after the 3 hour car ride home from the hospital, but I found myself wanting to run away to my home away from home. I bolted down the road, running faster than I normally would but it wasn’t enough. I pushed harder and demanded more until my lungs burned, my heart pounded wildly, and against my will tears streamed down my face. I kept pushing until I was vaguely aware that I had started screaming, a terrible anguished noise that frightened even me, its owner. I stopped and crouched down in the deserted dirt trail trying to catch my breath and calm myself down but it was no use. There was only pain and fear and it was pouring out of me like sweat on a hot summer day. I could either fight it or let it go, so I jumped back up and started running again – screaming, crying, and praying all while I punished my legs into oblivion. When I returned home, my legs shook underneath me, but I felt just a little bit better. Maybe I was not irrevocably broken. Maybe I was going to be ok…

As I continued to run, I felt the life slowly surging back into me. It came up from the road itself, seeping into my shoes, until it was radiating throughout my entire body. Running gave me back the will to fight. I was running to feel strong, brave, and whole. I was running for my son Emmett and to give validation to his life, his struggle, and his suffering. I was running because I loved it once again and I couldn’t get enough.

Running has given me something to cling to on some of the worst days of my life. On the day of Emmett’s first surgery, I ran on a treadmill in the hospital for the entirety of his surgery (7 hours and 26 minutes) while he had his entire skull broken apart and put back together correctly due to a birth defect called Craniosynostosis. I stepped off that treadmill with delirious pride and hope that overpowered the fear. On the day of the worst diagnosis to date, the news about his brain, I took off running for hours until I had to come walking home, exhausted, sore, and hungry but still not defeated. Kathy_Sebright_1982

I truly believe that running heals; it is cathartic, empowering, and real. Whatever you are trying to overcome, whatever you think you can’t do – you can. The answer lies with in you and your refusal to give up. You have the power to keep getting back up and keep charging that wall head on until you are through. Keep running, keep pushing back, and I will see you on the other side of the wall.


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Cloudy skies ahead

Originally posted at http://53riverbankrun.com/blog/roadwarriors/2014/07/16/cloudy-skies-ahead/

black-cloud-hiWe’ve all been there before. It’s the run that takes away nearly all of your hard earned confidence in a matter of minutes. It’s the run that makes you feel like the slowest, sluggish, most out of shape person that has ever attempted to run. In a single word – it’s excruciating. The first question that comes to mind is what’s going on. A runner’s brain tends to be logical, methodical, and usually operates within a definite have a problem, find a solution mentality. But sometimes, into the most logical part of that brain sneaks the black could. The black cloud is powerful; it can overtake even the most self-assured runner if the conditions are just right. It seeks out fear and doubt and amplifies it in your mind. The black cloud makes you feel like a failure before you’re even done trying and before you’ve even had the chance to fail. The black cloud is not above shaming you for every decision you’ve ever made and for every failure (legitimate or not) that you’ve ever tried to bury and forget about. Yes, the black cloud sees it all and uses it all to hand out its harsh judgments without mercy.

Welcome to the deep, dark recesses of my mind just last week. It was Saturday morning and 24 miles were on the schedule. I am training for my very first 100 mile ultra marathon in September. I am not a stranger to the ultra marathon but this 100 mile race will be by far, the longest I’ve ever attempted. Anyhow, back to Saturday morning: less than 2 miles into my 24 mile run and it became clear that this was going to be one of those excruciating runs. The black cloud pushed its poison into my mind immediately and didn’t let up for the next 22 miles. The black cloud wiped out every accomplishment I’ve ever had. The black cloud brought shame and guilt with it and told me if I lost these last 20 pounds, it’d be much easier to run. The black cloud went for the jugular, taunting me for being selfish and for spending so much time on running when I could be at home with my kids and judging me for spending so much money on running shoes when I could be setting it aside for my son’s medical expenses. The black cloud was sure I would never, ever, in a thousand years, be able to finish 100 miles. I mean, I was struggling terribly just to survive these 24 miles and I wasn’t even a quarter of the way there. When my resolve was weakened and I was truly wondering if I’ve gotten in over my head, the black cloud mocked me “Let’s just leave these kinds of feats to the real athletes, shall we?”

I put on my angry face, gritted my teeth, and obsessively watched my Garmin move slower than I thought was even possible. At one point, I took it off and jostled it around a bit, sure that it was broken. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily for me, it wasn’t broken; I was just going that slowly. I scolded myself, I threw myself a big pity party, I got good and mad about not being able to do what I wanted to do, and yet I didn’t give up. I dug deep, I held on, and I pushed through it. As my driveway came into view, I was overcome with emotion. I started to cry from sheer relief at being done and also to be rid of that hateful black cloud. Once I was done running and thinking clearly again, I realized with some embarrassment that the hateful black cloud is me. There is no escaping her. Secretly (or not so secretly anymore), I’m afraid that I can’t do it. I’m afraid that I’m not good enough, not fast enough, not thin enough, and not disciplined enough. And I won’t ever be able to stop that voice in my head until I can give myself some credit for the past and believe that I really can do whatever I set my mind to. A friend gave me a wonderful magnet from Fellow Flowers that says “And when she realized she was brave enough, everything changed.” It’s a great reminder about the power of our own voice. FF

Running has a way of bringing out the very essence of life in each mile like that. There’s no escape from who you are and what lies beneath the surface. So this is what I want you to do if the black cloud comes for you. Just for right now, just for this run, and just for today, shut down that black cloud. Be proud of yourself even if you are not where you want to be. Be proud of what you can do even if you aspire to do more one day. Remember where you have come from, what you have survived, and what you have done in order to get here. Believe that you have done the best that you could given the circumstances, know that you have made mistakes but learned much from them, and realize you are always progressing towards something better. We choose what the voice in our head has to say to us – make it something worth listening to.

 

 


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An ode to my treadmill

Originally posted at http://53riverbankrun.com/blog/roadwarriors/2014/06/04/an-ode-to-my-treadmill/

photo (2)Oh treadmill, you get a bad rap. People hate you. And they don’t just hate you; they hate even the thought of you. They don’t even know you and they wrinkle up their nose in disgust. They call you names like dreadmill or hamster wheel. They seem to be offended at your mere existence, that anyone would ever *gasp* consider running on something like a treadmill. I remember a time that I was like them: the haters. I wouldn’t go near a treadmill unless there was some sort of freak lightening storm going on outside. Better to be outside and run free than cooped up inside going nowhere. It didn’t matter the conditions, I was always, always, always going to go outside. But our relationship blossomed out of a mutual need to run and maintain my sanity while being tethered to a single room.

It all started with a pregnancy. I know it wasn’t a great first impression. I was carrying a heavy load of baby, wearing a pair of non-maternity capris that were stretched to near capacity, with a cookie in each hand dropping crumbs all over your new, shiny treadmill belt. I wanted to keep running outside, but my husband began to fear my water would break 4 miles away from the house and there’d be no one around to help me. I agreed to run on the treadmill whenever my husband couldn’t run with me outside. I hated it at first, but then I had to admit, it was kind of nice. It was convenient to be only 12 steps away from the bathroom at all times. No one openly stared or disapproved of me while I was on the treadmill. No one asked me if I needed help (as if that would be the only reason a pregnant woman would be running down the road) and there was a limitless supply of cold water and snacks at the tops of the stairs.

Then my first baby boy came and I relied on you even more. I ran for a few minutes at a time in between flying up and down the stairs to check on a crying baby at nap time. Up and down the steps I’d go with the baby monitor bouncing on my hip. I’d run up the stairs, feed him, lay him down, run back down the stairs, and jump on the treadmill. The screeching cries would start again almost immediately. I’d run back up the stairs, change him or rock him, lay him down, run back down the stairs and jump back on the treadmill, and so would go those workouts as a new mom: my run interrupted 10 times in 10 minutes. Sometimes I’d give up on running completely and just strap my baby boy to the carrier on my chest. We’d walk slowly on the treadmill together, the familiar movement and hum of the treadmill belt lulling him to sleep. Some of my fondest memories are on a treadmill with a sleeping baby on my chest – the exhaustive daze of newborn parenthood overridden by my overwhelming love and awe at this little person I had made. Looking back, it still wasn’t a real good representation of myself even then, but I still felt like a rock star on that treadmill. I was still sporting my maternity yoga pants (that sadly fit much longer after I wished they wouldn’t), my hair hadn’t been brushed in 3 days, and there was baby spit up down the front of my shirt that I’d already changed twice. But I was free to run, even cooped up in the basement and while I was technically not going anywhere, I was surely moving. When another baby came and I began juggling kids, work, and running – I relied on your steady availability even more at all sorts of crazy hours of the day.

Now brace yourself, here is where it gets a little sappy. Sure the treadmill had been convenient before, but I didn’t love it by any means. The first time I ever felt the true depth of my appreciation and near love for a treadmill was on June 20, 2012. It didn’t matter that the conditions outside were perfect, I wasn’t going further than 5 feet away from this building, not even if my life depended on it. I was standing in a tiny windowless room, 3 hours away from home, on the 10th floor of a children’s hospital, teeth gritted, and tears streaming down my face. I wanted to run away. I wanted to throw things and smash them up against the walls. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs until it all went away. I was filled with so much raw, nervous energy that my hands shook as I reached to press the big green start button. And there it was as the treadmill belt began to move – I was free. Even cooped up in that room going nowhere, there was life and hope and freedom. I could run. I could feel my body pull itself together to weather this storm, to absorb the shock, and carry on somehow. I cried tears of relief that I had something so simple and so amazing to cling to. For exactly 7 hours and 26 minutes, I ran and I was free even while chained to that treadmill until the call came that my son Emmett had made it out of surgery. He was ok. He was alive. He was in recovery. I could see him. I stepped off that treadmill full of gratitude and hope. The treadmill kept me grounded and kept me going when I thought it was impossible. photo T E

So the moral of the story? I don’t know. Be nice to a treadmill today because you never know when you’ll need one tomorrow. Or something like that.


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The power of one

You hear it a lot. What’s the point? I’m only one person. What could I possibly do to change anything? The answer: absolutely anything! Does that surprise you?

holding_500One of the most powerful interactions of my life happened a little over a year ago, at the hands of one random stranger. I had escaped to Target for a few minutes to clear my head while my youngest son Emmett was in the hospital with my husband to keep him company. I was wandering aimlessly when I ran into a couple of old coworkers. As I filled them in on the newest details of my life and how my son was doing, a sob escaped against my will. I was embarrassed: basking in the fluorescent lighting and surrounded by party supplies, this was NOT the place to have a breakdown. I tried to hold it together but before I knew it, I was crying steadily, awkwardly, with barely comprehendible words coming out in between sobs. And then she appeared out of nowhere: a woman I had never seen before in my life and she was tightly hugging me and whispering calming words in my ear. She was telling me about her son, about his life, offering prayer, comfort, hope, and matching my own tears with her own. A complete stranger, just one woman, crying with me in the middle of Target for my son, a child she had never even met. The compassion and love poured out of her with such ferocity that I may have not believed it if I hadn’t been there myself. I think about her from time and time and she continues to inspire me to want to live my life the same way I imagine she must.

Last Saturday, I was running and chatting with a random woman at RunGR. In our ramblings about training, I mentioned the fact that I am a Road Warrior for the Fifth Third River Bank Run. My new running partner gasped and said “I know exactly what that is!” It turns out she was passed by an (unknown) Road Warrior at the Resolution Run this year. She didn’t even know exactly what a “Road Warrior” was but saw it boldly printed on the flashy yellow jacket. She couldn’t believe the ease in which she was passed and it made her want to kick up her training. She went home and looked up the Road Warriors, saw that we trained with RunGR, and went and signed up for RunGR herself! She’s been going ever since, loving it, training hard, and going in a completely new direction. All because she was inspired to do something more. i-am-only-one-helen-keller

What do these two stories have to do with each other? Everything. No, it’s not the same woman. It’s the power of one. Just one person. Whether it is a deliberate act of compassion like the woman in Target or you never even know it happened, like the woman from RunGR, one person can have a tremendous impact on the world around them with simple, small acts. When I filled out my Road Warrior application, I actually wrote that I wanted to change the world. It seems lofty and maybe a little arrogant, but that doesn’t make it any less true. One person at a time, slowly but surely, I have to do something. You better believe people are watching you and your behavior as well, whether you realize it or not. Are you leading by example to your friends, family, coworkers? Do you want to do something more? You have a choice. That person that just dropped their entire bag of groceries in the parking lot, that person in line in front of you digging desperately for just one more dollar to buy their food, that runner walking alongside of the course crying, that kid that everyone else is making fun of – you have the chance to not just witness it but intervene. The power of one is strong because together we are a lot of ones and that absolutely has the potential to change lives.