tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34550108059934035802024-03-14T03:38:12.105-07:00RUNNING IN CIRCLESChasing a bunch of little people around and crossing my fingers that this counts as training for the New York marathonKelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-15343262320769150152011-05-02T13:19:00.000-07:002011-05-03T19:49:31.230-07:00Of Note.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3m4uh6OnwTk3-9DTanfd6-mWCS8eafTTD2wzq81DqA6ThkL9wQLGUi_vA90J_phvWgmphWJCfq4NbhKo2dHQWEwSXvE6bhhGYelhT6Nrm4hYTSIeCxUYPrAcWFJpMwAIusjLOfEFnvq0/s1600/OpeningDay_06.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3m4uh6OnwTk3-9DTanfd6-mWCS8eafTTD2wzq81DqA6ThkL9wQLGUi_vA90J_phvWgmphWJCfq4NbhKo2dHQWEwSXvE6bhhGYelhT6Nrm4hYTSIeCxUYPrAcWFJpMwAIusjLOfEFnvq0/s400/OpeningDay_06.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602222594712347522" /></a><br />Last week, my friend <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/on-why-tarheels.html">Laura</a>, who is a member of the New York Road Runners, was called to <a href="http://www.nyrr.org/resources/photos/2011/openingday/gallery.asp#1">Marathon Opening Day</a> to participate in a drawing for the opportunity to be one of the first ten admitted to the 2011 New York Marathon.<div><br /><div>She jumped at the opportunity, playing hooky from work for an hour(give or take), hoping for the privilege to gain coveted entry into this most awesome of marathons. </div><div><br /></div><div>As evidenced from the photo above, not only did she get in, but she was the first name called, and thus was the first recipient of the first bib number given out from the lottery for the 2011 New York marathon. Al Roker and Edward Norton gave her the number, and she also received a goody bag akin to those they hand out at the Oscars (swap the diamonds for Asics). </div><div><br /></div><div>All told, it was a good day, and I can think of no one more deserving of this stroke of good fortune than Laura.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyone care to join me there in November?</div><div><br /></div><div>Also of note, <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2011_03_01_archive.html">AK</a> had her last long training run before <a href="http://www.comrades.com/">Comrades</a>, and logged 36 miles this past Saturday. She set up a little roving party, with different friends meeting her at scheduled times. She set up a little buffet at the meeting point, with baked potatoes, cokes, water, and Pringles, among other things. I ran with her from 10-11:45, with Joy meeting us for a Charlie's Angels reunion at 10:45. Truth be told, I wish I could have run the whole thing, such was AK's infectious excitement and positivity at running this uncharted distance. </div><div><br /></div><div>All told, again, it was a good day. </div><div><br /></div></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-72135712947425350022011-04-22T10:44:00.001-07:002011-04-22T12:48:09.627-07:00Earth Day: Instant Classic.<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrAS2X59FgXuwXRhTB51BqtIUeEREnivMEww6Riu-5OKFegESUFcR15lfmq89e8dEtsnF3j_XNrL0-jb_y_4vwcoeNvoA3BjCz3pf22_EJuWq5mAl_JGFkYrlNaAKF9rCkXzYW6mbnjKE/s400/IMG_0004.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598467551182144946" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCah27m2VtfxTwTi01G-rzceIMNO6pB0LSfBAdNjxuppHEfKdonkM8Aq_xdzDhNIxnyPPCPAsegL_4KxlbMPVR1UW-5S7gfTpfIgXfSlMGy5G5ujgX-Bt-DS8kdBb18RVTd3BXja1NnvU/s400/IMG_0017.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598467542866030994" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgth6gCTOBAxYCd760PRYyRroz8rfF1E6Lk78VxW7-BR1CrzVxEfOyBHO2wLekn6uCk2Q0EAtBi42mOxkHqWYOKDUVqoZWM8ceYyzuWjKmieDJ2VpOtTQz8MxewBjxMwAMBf4tRrBmjKsg/s400/IMG_0018.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598467539280640962" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small; ">Labyrinth Ceremony at school</span></div><div><br /></div>Yesterday, in celebration of Earth Day, Cameron's school had Community Day, where parents, students, and teachers spent the afternoon planting, mulching, and beautifying the school. It's such a lovely campus filled with color and design, from begonias to mosaics to tea-cup roses, and the grounds are part of the reason I fell in love with it.<div><br /></div><div>Before heading outside to work, they had a ceremony where each class sang a song or read a poem in honor of Earth Day. Cameron's class sang "Dirt Made my Lunch", which apparently is a favorite of Ms. Kathleen's, the director of the school.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since Ms. Kathleen loves this song, Cameron's teacher asked him if he would dedicate the song to her, and since he loves Ms. Jennifer more than just about anything, he of course agreed.</div><div><br /></div><div>After everyone was in place, he stepped up to the microphone, then proudly and boldly proclaimed that "This song is defecated to Ms. Kathleen."</div><div><br /></div><div>And in an <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2011/04/instant-classic.html">instant</a>, a classic story. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>In other news, Happy Earth Day Birthday to Katie, pictured at left below in <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2011/04/prepare-to-qualify.html">Boston</a> at <a href="http://www.easternstandardboston.com/ES_viewer.html">Eastern Standard</a> with AK. More on that to come. </div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbcc-hdC2tAAnEnrzSELjr5XNClj3tAG86AkaJbhgZNfALP7IIlcVIO-802jjTbdGVF-LLA6WhIhRVZWA49Q02uxo4K0DYW33D2pRiHJ1Hwl1nG9gSA8SpYgJTPQcfMDLxDKHcRNrTc8/s400/Eastern+Standard.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598493507999019570" /></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-63241290339135266272011-04-15T05:08:00.000-07:002011-04-16T19:37:56.884-07:00Prepare to Qualify.This coming Monday, <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/09/3-things-i-would-never-do.html">Denise's </a>husband Scott is running the <a href="http://www.baa.org/">115th Boston Marathon</a>, in hopes of qualifying for the 116th Boston Marathon, 2012. That's the kind of animal we're dealing with.<div><br /></div><div>Though I loved the <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2011/03/you-gotta-get-up-to-get-down.html">Atlanta marathon</a>, the field was-how should I put this-not quite as hardcore as New York and certainly not as hardcore as Boston. When we went to the expo, folks were hanging out in cotton t-shirts and shorts, looking casual. I didn't feel the least bit intimidated. As a matter of fact, I felt like I wanted to hang out at the expo and eat all of the food that Publix, the sponsor, was offering in the makeshift grocery store they had set up. Though I'm sure some of my anxiety was lessened by the fact that this was not my first marathon, I didn't feel my heart beating out of my chest, or starstruck, or even nervous. I felt excited. And hungry. </div><div><br /></div><div>By no means do I mean to diminish the power of that marathon, or any marathon. It's a marathon and thus demands respect, no matter the destination. A local marathon, however, is vastly different from an international one, and though Atlanta is a formidable city, the marathon itself only drew about 3000 runners. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing quite compares to the Boston Marathon, the Holy Grail of Marathons, the ultimate goal for so many runners. And this afternoon <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/10/ambassador.html">The Ambassador</a> will be heading to Boston to hit the expo and then to run her first ever Boston Marathon. </div><div><br /></div><div>Katie, Shannon and I are heading out tomorrow morning and will land in Boston around 1:45. By that point <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2011_03_01_archive.html">AK</a> will have gone on a nice easy run with Bart Yasso, will have visited the expo with all the other hardcore elites, and basically will be counting down the minutes until she will proudly don her <a href="http://mskcc.convio.net/site/TR?px=1943614&fr_id=1431&pg=personal">Fred's Team</a> jersey, for whom she raised $6884.00, and run the race <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/12/weekend-update.html">she worked so hard</a> to gain entry in to. </div><div><br /></div><div>We'll be there cheering; she'll be there making us proud. </div><div><br /></div><div>Stay tuned. </div><div> <div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-60394667817182727382011-04-12T05:23:00.000-07:002011-04-13T04:31:11.298-07:00A Joyful Noise.This past Sunday in church, the children's choir sang two songs. I always, always cry when kids sing, and Sunday was no exception. The songs weren't particularly sad or emotional (or in tune), but I always get overwhelmed with the earnestness and tenacity with which the children approach the performance. Sometimes it looks like their jaw is dislocated, like their mouths are just not big enough to contain the sound that's forcing its way out. The younger ones in particular are unselfconscious, making joyful (loud) noises, letting their song ring out with wild abandon. Most of them have yet to suffer public humiliation, and they stand and sing with unbridled confidence. It's wonderful.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/07/one-foot-in-front-of-other.html">Davis </a>and his sister Grace are both in the choir, and though Grace, a 5th grader, was on the back row and was a bit more reserved, Davis stood on that middle row in the midst of all the other kids and sang his heart out, his little puffy cheeks filling up and then exhaling the most beautiful of sounds. </div><div><br /></div><div>My heart tightened when I saw him. He was completely at ease, comfortable with his role of virtuoso, but I couldn't help but think about the card that he's been dealt, and the race that he now finds himself running. He's just trying to live the normal life of a 1st grader, singing, playing, laughing, but when your normal involves steroids, vincristine, and methotrexate, just to name a few, I daresay it can get tough.</div><div><br /></div><div>The title of Sunday's sermon was "The problem is"...if you wait until you have enough money to have children, you'll never have children; if you demand perfect neighbors, you'll find yourself moving a lot; if you wait to tithe until it doesn't sting your bank account a little to do so, you'd never tithe. Ultimately, our minister claimed that we must take the first step, no matter how imperfect the situation. </div><div><br /></div><div>As adults, we make choices every day, sometimes weighing our options carefully, sometimes acting on instinct, sometimes acting out of fear. In the case of Davis' fight against cancer, he's found himself in the middle of an imperfect situation, one that he will find his way out of with the help of his doctors, his mom, his family, his friends, and prayer. </div><div><br /></div><div>He has no choice but to fight for his life, and he'll do so because he doesn't know any different, because he's working towards a new normal. He continues to run the race to beat this beast, and it's good to know he can sometimes make a joyful noise while he's doing it. </div><div><br /></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-66806003939702521072011-04-07T06:25:00.001-07:002011-04-08T09:17:19.399-07:00Instant Classic.<div>While in graduate school, my dear friend Chris introduced me to several important things: the multifaceted use of the word "genius" for all manner of descriptors, the benefits of watching late night TV, what it means for something to be "obsession-worthy", that it is possible to survive on Hot Pockets and Coke, and an introduction to a plethora of genius songs, stories, authors, poets, musicians, and movies, like Bottle Rocket and <a href="http://http//www.imdb.com/title/tt0113537/">Kicking and Screaming</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Filmed in 1995, this movie follows the story of four friends who've just graduated from college and are in what I refer to as the Wasteland of Their Existence. They're too old to live at home, too young to really have a clue. They're the kids who have <i>not</i> decided to go to law school or med school or work for a consulting firm. They're a little bit lost, but they have a diploma, by darn, and a dilettante's knowledge of a lot of things that will get them somewhere. They're just not exactly sure where.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's a scene between two of the lead roles that goes like this:</div><div><br /></div><div>Max: I'm too nostalgic. I'll admit it.</div><div>Grover: We graduated four months ago. What can you possibly be nostalgic for?</div><div>Max: I'm nostalgic for conversations I had yesterday. I've begun reminiscing events before they even occur. I'm reminiscing this right now. I can't go to the bar because I've already looked back on it in my memory...and I didn't have a good time.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div>I feel like this sometimes, like I have some strange preemptive nostalgia, especially with regards to my children. I'm sad about them going to kindergarten before they even go there, missing the days we spent together destroying the house with scissors, popsicle sticks and a hot glue gun. I look at photos of them as babies and it seems like decades ago, not a few years. Such are the tricks of the mind when it's dedicated to a never-ending job and doesn't get much sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't get a ton of sleep because, for one, my two year old is terribly spoiled and prefers to sleep with me rather than alone. I also just got a new iPhone, and I can't seem to stop playing Words with Friends. Or checking my email. Or the weather. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I finally joined the digital age and turned in my "soccer mom" LG (the Verizon guy's words, not mine), I didn't anticipate finding my new phone so "obsession worthy", to fall so totally in love with a piece of technology. But a few days after having said phone, I told Jay he may have to stage an intervention. </div><div><br /></div><div> He laughed. I didn't. </div><div><br /></div><div>With the exception of my recent aforementioned addiction to Words with Friends, I really haven't downloaded too many apps; I'm trying to keep myself in check. But I recently stumbled across Instagram after seeing photos taken with this application on <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/">The Pioneer Woman</a> blog. This application allows you to take photos and then manipulate them in all manner of ways by changing the color, contrast, light, and texture. All by tapping a little icon. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now. I know all of you real photographers out there see this as a complete sham, as totally lazy on my part. And it is. But the truth is, at this stage in my life, I'm probably not going to take the time to learn about aperture, f-stop, exposure , histogram, and whether or not a flash is necessary. I will, however, take a photograph with my phone and manipulate the heck out of it with the simple swipe of my finger. That I can do.</div><div><div style="text-align: left; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: left; ">I also realize that these photographs are somewhat inauthentic, that they're manipulated to look a certain way, and thus, in a sense, lack truth. <a href="http://http//en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roland_Barthes">Roland Barth</a> would have a field day with this kind of photography. But I like the images and I like the effects. And I like that when I take a picture of my kids and lighten or darken it, the image itself aligns with the emotion I feel when I look at it, and a kind of nostalgia and sentimentality spills out over the edges. </div></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3OQ25jbsx8bhJVKktmmNLZoFlAws1PbZPv49o1Y8dHThWVSIOXQM5x0H9PR9ngTLIYGlGHZGhtEuRXHUTVzKllfQxdyBoO8wj7xxFIm6HguMAh_fgs_ZWCJh1gzbOH6y94Khn3RNbkS8/s400/tn+%25282%2529.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592832699013587698" /><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlto-L3Byi13iQqdF0KFogRU4MsbMbiZRgX66dzdwnpN7s-CWExDRMWl49LyqR1nkip-SnvKkPsLQdWG-uoM4Sf7uF4xqIzEuE0F_41gFoxkcb9ORLbv3ois8xgLIhJUa2q8yebI7TZN4/s400/tn+%25281%2529.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592832636595809522" /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfvsQg4SElTzWNtdgYQ1xTSul2OXtttrJChQveVfZp4CfvvBkR0hxldgdKg_yf9HJ57MTp7MsnBuEc8aoG5cFqV08f7C6_yXgxgBRtDvjgy7ajJIQKDaGwnpjZRUs2U4KSBUFNtTOGsc/s400/tn.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592832572268378674" />And in keeping with the theme of this blog, I've added a few photos from the Atlanta Marathon. The originals are <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2011/03/you-gotta-get-up-to-get-down.html">here,</a> if you'd like to compare.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MgY2x8797sSvDbVzGNvoF2TsawatLEUL7_EH-7AfzqpFXTYNOYqJ6lRREtC7aKHowCBQ95UgTIcZRpLExwCalxT2EcyY8ckyFfZtWaYaNGhIe3Juq_c6gaH0YwtcYukGbngU_HEGdzs/s1600/Socks.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MgY2x8797sSvDbVzGNvoF2TsawatLEUL7_EH-7AfzqpFXTYNOYqJ6lRREtC7aKHowCBQ95UgTIcZRpLExwCalxT2EcyY8ckyFfZtWaYaNGhIe3Juq_c6gaH0YwtcYukGbngU_HEGdzs/s1600/Socks.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 150px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MgY2x8797sSvDbVzGNvoF2TsawatLEUL7_EH-7AfzqpFXTYNOYqJ6lRREtC7aKHowCBQ95UgTIcZRpLExwCalxT2EcyY8ckyFfZtWaYaNGhIe3Juq_c6gaH0YwtcYukGbngU_HEGdzs/s400/Socks.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592833811547306882" /></a>The above photo actually wasn't anywhere on the blog before. It's a self-portrait of my hot-pink recovery socks that was too dark before I bamboozled it with the Instagram. It's still not great, but you get the idea.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHExNx8dcuqYmzl1OXfxp60ZOicoLurW59Bq71E_ab2p7CCmfTJ3aN7FWlHkU9K_4_pJ8dVfwbaRXBFksOx_56iwn1OEZZxAqjvX9GOFadYjkLq533R-pdnj15L6yKQ5cen6Yohp0lKCQ/s1600/JKJ.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHExNx8dcuqYmzl1OXfxp60ZOicoLurW59Bq71E_ab2p7CCmfTJ3aN7FWlHkU9K_4_pJ8dVfwbaRXBFksOx_56iwn1OEZZxAqjvX9GOFadYjkLq533R-pdnj15L6yKQ5cen6Yohp0lKCQ/s1600/JKJ.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 150px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHExNx8dcuqYmzl1OXfxp60ZOicoLurW59Bq71E_ab2p7CCmfTJ3aN7FWlHkU9K_4_pJ8dVfwbaRXBFksOx_56iwn1OEZZxAqjvX9GOFadYjkLq533R-pdnj15L6yKQ5cen6Yohp0lKCQ/s400/JKJ.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592833756278453474" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtB4dFizl712O9F4EFp1TJSVklR1S8Z53pGuYnaXfjnnQLP-Yq1yAV53jxJAdChOwKwOjW-EzK0mKirGAquannYNlGGk858sw8P2TfsawNpynJztQ97R4IonFvoaj37aA9do10i6U2GM4/s1600/JK.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtB4dFizl712O9F4EFp1TJSVklR1S8Z53pGuYnaXfjnnQLP-Yq1yAV53jxJAdChOwKwOjW-EzK0mKirGAquannYNlGGk858sw8P2TfsawNpynJztQ97R4IonFvoaj37aA9do10i6U2GM4/s400/JK.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592833699022612674" /></a>When we finished the marathon in Atlanta and made our way through the food and water line, I heard the guy in front of us turn to his friend and say "Remember that hill at mile 18?" He had crossed the finish line moments before, and he was already reminiscing about the race, was already committing it to memory. It was in the past. </div><div><br /></div><div>Photographs commemorate the past for us, allow us a glimpse into a tiny moment, allow us a visual of something we may otherwise forget. They do a lot of work for us, really, in terms of memory. Sometimes they're all we have left of a person or a place; they're flat and inanimate, but their power is vast.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Instagram photos give images the effect of being an instant classic, of looking old even though they're new, of being darker even though they were originally light. They have an emotive quality, and much like the unreality of the oxymoron "instant classic", their unreality is part of our world now. Although the image itself is not authentic, or original, the subject itself is. And so is the story...my baby sitting on my 96-year-old grandfather's lap, or watching the dogs walk up the street on his Mimi's front porch, or snuggling with his lovies in the early morning light. In an instant, it becomes classic, it becomes a memory. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I rue technology and the way it seems to overwhelm our lives. But sometimes I'm grateful for its ability to capture a moment in time that I, ironically, in my iPhone induced insomnia, most likely would forget. </div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-69264043259770127112011-03-30T06:53:00.000-07:002011-04-07T06:24:37.927-07:00Sweet Dreams are Made of This.<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyI8gJZ4GqY4072obeB7F86oggzxRkVBRjRh9yyJK6pLBSpdOeZSpfTinzwmlbVdw4ZdAoIsjGJAedpo56dQTUogYtxxKlBuhrqbnSiUO_Moxns8DxbD4uoAVY2UwPqjqwyzeTamQslxE/s1600/AK.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590706085863730450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyI8gJZ4GqY4072obeB7F86oggzxRkVBRjRh9yyJK6pLBSpdOeZSpfTinzwmlbVdw4ZdAoIsjGJAedpo56dQTUogYtxxKlBuhrqbnSiUO_Moxns8DxbD4uoAVY2UwPqjqwyzeTamQslxE/s400/AK.jpg" /></a> Edie, AK, and Marett<br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">Yesterday, Cameron was wearing my little blue bracelet from <a href="http://mskcc.convio.net/site/TR?px=1943614&fr_id=1431&pg=personal">Fred's Team </a>that says "Imagine a World Without Cancer". He's just learning to read and when he's feeling lazy, he often asks me to read something for him. When I told him what the bracelet said, he said it over and over and over, like he sensed the gravity of the phrase, like he needed to commit it to memory. </div><br /><div align="left">I received the bracelet as a little hostess gift from AK, who's running the Boston Marathon on April 19th for Fred's Team in honor of 6 year-old Marett Cole. AK had the genius idea to have a karaoke party not only to get together and thank some of her donors, but also in her words "to watch others leak their dignity for a good cause."</div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">And leak we did. </div><br /><div align="left">After a beautiful speech filled with gratitude and heart, AK kicked off the night's proceedings with the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams are Made of This", while Marett and her little sister Edie walked through the crowd with buckets, sweetly soliciting funds. </div><br /><div align="left">Marett and Edie followed suit with a rousing rendition of "Boom Boom Pow", and then accompanied Katie and me with some serious air guitar on Joan Jett's "I Love Rock n Roll."</div><br /><div align="left">These two young stars left soon thereafter, and others began to trickle up on stage, taking a turn at classic hits such as "Here I Go Again", "Total Eclipse of the Heart", "Bad Leroy Brown", and "Margaritaville." Yours truly may have pulled in a few bucks when she stormed the stage with "Baby Got Back." Twice. I'm just happy that some of my less marketable skills (shamelessness, ample booty-shaking) have finally been put to good use.</div><br /><div align="left">AK was also called back on stage to perform "Sweet Dreams are Made of This" again, and the more I think about it, the more this song was such an appropriate start to an evening dedicated to raising money to fight cancer. Because that's our dream, after all, to imagine a world without cancer, and to do whatever we can to turn that dream into a reality.</div><br /><div align="left">All told, it was a raucous evening that raised over $1800 for Fred's Team, and every penny of that money goes specifically towards neuroblastoma research, per AK's request. You can read more about Marett and about AK's fundraising journey <a href="http://mskcc.convio.net/site/TR?px=1943614&fr_id=1310&pg=personal">here</a>, and of course you can make a donation too. </div><br /><div align="left">You don't even have to sing a song, and from the looks of things, everybody's doing it. Even the cool kids want to imagine a world without cancer. </div></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-38346374648570170542011-03-26T17:47:00.000-07:002011-04-27T06:32:56.434-07:00You Gotta Get Up to Get Down.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-p5cFQoOsEpBVDlCPSVXncbGC7X_J-28ScaoyM2Mnnvcljy6JgkP1kS736GRdz0FYXksXRcRDFORfe7mEhEYPUPaaenDvyKgE7Fj0OprZJJjpfPrvSImmArtYT8epcj7npNKB6TG1P0/s1600/Publix+Georgia+Marathon+Logo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-p5cFQoOsEpBVDlCPSVXncbGC7X_J-28ScaoyM2Mnnvcljy6JgkP1kS736GRdz0FYXksXRcRDFORfe7mEhEYPUPaaenDvyKgE7Fj0OprZJJjpfPrvSImmArtYT8epcj7npNKB6TG1P0/s400/Publix+Georgia+Marathon+Logo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589230690747655026" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">All right folks. Brace yourselves. I am definitely about to go all Triumph of the Human Spirit on you. And I got a little windy here, too; you'll have to settle in for this one.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Last weekend in Atlanta, was, without a doubt, one of the greatest days I've had to date. Why, you ask? Isn't Atlanta hilly? And weren't you running 26.2 miles all over said hills? Yes and yes. But I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. Maybe not tomorrow, mind you, but soon. Soon.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Jay, Joy and I left Greenville on sunny Saturday morning, heading south on I85 for even sunnier Atlanta. We checked into our hotel, picked up our numbers at the expo, had lunch, and then headed out to drive the course to see what was in store for us.</div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZKHvWdj5G8R-CmuEpZSpqL-723cr1663OqPAxjHYVC11xT6XxvgBBH7KZ0k0b1oJ6XmuMrjiOKzKndJRxLadaKe9UfxE4FxPhKxmtwupiDiwlGM7od6DNGJpgolxnrF_TXQRqqhaEhWk/s400/photo+%252824%2529.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588560469467521506" /><div style="text-align: left;">The course started above, right outside of our hotel room on Marietta Street downtown. From a nerves standpoint, knowing that we basically got to get up and roll down to the start was comforting- no 4 am alarm clock, 45 minute bus rides, or 3 hour waits in 30 degree temperatures for the cannon blast. You just walked to your corral, listened to the national anthem, started your watch, and off you go.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We headed out of town on Marietta to drive the course, knowing that we would encounter a few hills along the way. Many trips to Atlanta and the elevation chart on the bottom of the course map indicated as much, so we were at least somewhat prepared for a few up and downs.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">With regards to our scouting mission, let me just say this: had we not driven the course, I would have been a very, very poor sherpa for Joy in her first marathon experience. I probably wouldn't have maintained my sunny demeanor. And I probably would have thrown myself down on the ground at mile 23 and absolutely refused to go. another. step. up. hill.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>But we knew what was coming, so we all sucked it up, readjusted our expectations, and headed out to dinner to a great place called Max's Coal Fired Pizza. We ate like marathoners, which is to say like truck drivers, cavemen, and animals. It's one of the downfalls of the taper-you eat like a behemoth and aren't running nearly as much and therefore feel like a beast. It's unfortunate, but true. Ask any runner. This feeling, however, doesn't stop us from mass consumption.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>After ordering, our waitress came back to the table and said "You ordered a margarita pizza, correct? Not a margarita?" Her puzzlement must've stemmed from the fact that on top of a pizza, I also ordered a bowl of spaghetti.</div><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div><div>With dinner behind us, we headed back to the hotel where we met up with <a href="http://mskcc.convio.net/site/TR?px=1943614&fr_id=1431&pg=personal">AK</a>. After devising a plan for the morning, we all headed to bed, a good night's sleep thwarted only by crying babies and the noisy Germans in the hallway at 2 am. But it was the night before a marathon...who actually sleeps then anyway?</div></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvPKhbbFtdF9NiVP_WgsVGXXnPGapAoyZ2y2lrhXg1PAR0_euLM5mRN2CvIOUKf_A2L40wyprvNOi5V0-6WSaBaaBtuLK0K-x0xAbo4g-QeSWXJkg0CdUEJEnSQ5J2uodblMBERvAk5HQ/s400/photo+%252823%2529.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588560466850851266" /><div><div>Here we are pre-race, looking fresh and ready to go. I rarely wear a hat, but given the fact that my pony-tail holder broke the last time I was on the treadmill leaving me to look like what I imagined was a stallion but more likely was like a slow, sad, unkempt mare, I decided to go for the hat. I wore the <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/manhattan-take-one.html">fanny pack</a> too-didn't want to disappoint my legions of fans.</div><div><br /></div><div>We started at 7 am, still in the dark with a beautiful moon in the sky. Around mile 4 we passed Martin Luther King's birthplace, pictured below, as well as the Ebenezer Baptist Church where he was pastor. </div></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnVjna7PeF4f0mARW9aRFshRdV5jf7hVXD7z6_Y9xzuFNt-dZRYkJtABsil_ytW_onVglNA_Es_7Mx-7__CBYbmzMiylE6opdO5ooAVq6dnA48Tp-eoaBKuC3Uh0i6G3HW0YFer4C1JDM/s400/mlk1.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 323px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588825207209248322" />We ran up through Little Five Points, a groovy place surrounded with beautiful homes.<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_PT5yWaSNF37OPuccnSkugdp4s9rsNWS6xLYTNRhbIqYYunOqu1Wk4g1MgGTln5UAuq0TzFOcCg_kIA5Udy1WGONY4w0j_34JhIUE2NmuELtSwgtIuujgAnSEGbPapAZ_PCE5Sjnqnc/s400/l5p_splash.jpeg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 107px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589122145396666466" />Next we ran down and around the Carter Center, below,<br /><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQAY2ORCAHRMMX67QQWlM7DHFl3jVnTwUdg_rVhzgQHtv7Ff9LJZI2yyL_FrSDeYfCIC7Hu06h6R9C91cwn1pzMRTiJLkqD0n9hvj3E5-DRCpplgPvh66enWiaDOOJwAEpdrsfpIz1CyI/s400/tcc_02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589123650774117122" />and then through lovely Candler Park, home of one of my favorite restaurants, the Flying Biscuit. It was here around mile 7 that the half-marathoners split from the marathoners. After the first seven (hilly) miles, they were jubilant to break away from us, knowing they only had a 10k left and we had <i>a lot</i> more than that to go. </div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAPkE0wCrA-M496NT3_cEOy_beU3kGoNBVNnm31T7E4ocWIB-U9hTCCjSsediq57KrR3Eoug4pnFEqWolrm6sDcOksk-8IjvEq1Fhut49Jmyymb1t5hC1l4QOmgJpq1RXdDft9m8iNH8/s400/2321133379_a9b7ab6c32.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589124706497611234" />The homes in Candler Park were beautiful, but the hill at mile 8 was not. Sadly, I can't find an accurate photo to let you know the scope of it, so you'll have to trust me. We turned the corner and started laughing, such was the magnitude of this hill. It wasn't the first or last one we'd face that day, but right after summiting this one in particular Joy took an "Emotional Inventory" and so far, all three of us were happy and enjoying the race.</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVqSXXzMPW5p_7oABDcvV8bmby_Qad7perlOS5gBMxsN8u91qc5THxaDk6qKLSc5AmKUqtCVT_RDn1N4BYM8RJnrvuLnEU-hfJqSc9CHRoTm-GT09X6tPyf72rIFNDCRjakKJmGaXLr0/s400/atlanta_candler_park_lg.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 126px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589124710328756146" />The next significant landmark was Agnes Scott College</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lXHeHUVTemQx9K7yccTq9tNlBFVHs_1VKfxd-m42a_6yalNwftGt_YxshA-q7x9x-IYkmegDNROhs6peH0EWRMUQmgY-aupzQo2MdpgBI0Ze19IzsMWrO4pTnwgsqezlV43_tSyyUDs/s400/agnes_scott_college.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 376px; height: 254px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589125575172197474" />and then onto the halfway point in downtown Decatur, below. I am in love with Decatur. The people here were so kind and encouraging, and the marching band at mile 13 was perfect. So many people came out to cheer for the marathoners-kids set up water stops and handed out gatorade, water, and candy, and another couple with their young daughter were out in their yard playing Born to Run, probably for the 30th time that day.</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDytbFIZNFDeV0oXMYOMnM4y3FJq9td7pS98KAZdX-juk5JG25r7Y-TeE3PlcUN7cySLqCLBZlGZfHxFBAMwusug7fidBtoPgcNVN9wb_QtVhkrwBA8tD2fAcdFu2ZRlTqMtxSv67oYA/s400/bainbridge_square.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589126165952660402" />Next we ran through Emory University, where a small pep squad of high schoolers cranked out a few cheers for us.</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_OyCJVlqCCCvkZ95jjaez0LQYu0BbZ7F0TrDVQWQ89xK7qYtj_Op4yzVC2IAZK2RUs5Tk6iFk-Fflm7qv5nM1vSMCEfR3twkmkAFmRGIkoQYCuF8A3R3mYD7SxzDgMe0dBSPlG6sAvzE/s400/139658_Emory_University.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589221341191338610" />And after Emory, we headed down hill and onto Lullwater in Druid Hills where the homes were absolutely stunning. Several folks were having lawn parties here and one crowd in particular was standing behind a large hedge, the tops of their shoulders and their chilled mimosas barely visible. They were just hidden enough from view that it was slightly awkward, like they had something good going on they didn't want us to see, and we had to stand on our (cramping) tippy toes to see them. But you better believe I was looking, wondering what they were doing and why they weren't giving us mad, mad props for running mile 18 past their house. I may have even said so. I can't be sure.</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFdPMzNQXZVHtm6R4uLfm_ZOJ55nn4pRWF-F-BmQFq9PN-EwYorxnVJ51js3LGS3D7KyAHscgA0quu5EQqLJ57YRwdlJm_nwA0bx3UgCwJuj3PN40ZVDlfhMbCe64s-Tr5moJAhnpj0g/s400/atlanta_druid_hills_lg.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 179px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589127078552945570" />They were only slightly more civilized than the three dudes throwing down beers sitting in folding chairs at the edge of their driveway on Los Angeles Avenue in the Virginia Highlands. One of my favorite transactions of the whole day happened here:</div><div><br /></div><div>Dudes, to cute young girl walking up driveway next door, who's obviously been running: "Where have you been?"</div><div>Cute young girl: "I ran the half-marathon."</div><div>Dudes: "The <i>half</i>-marathon? And they gave you a medal <i>for that?</i>"</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU2hgha0wSspseSCOyCvHIwyHM9VrZJeuJzBD0zTzd0WwATSS4o14mLUncWg3ZMbcMg9TCKKQxqku2AqJWhaaE-P2ZKNkSWPXpBfWWmtogUfOTBmdp0rfhgczRr4VSXpH5Hvg9DdxWobo/s400/atl_virginia_highlands.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 185px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589127985194229442" />Virginia Highlands, predictably, was hilly. Have I mentioned this already? </div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7O9HaMvRZcJCuM0D3-x1zBKAcy5JqTQCDWkchxVDeHAvia-UhP3fP8XBhXy8LpHzpHBdJAzdnPnUctO-rHcmCX33lR_nRH-cQZcIbafQBuVHN4XNoxoTQCEbcBE-qiIC6nvc4GhUtNI/s400/Atlanta+weddings+piedmont+park.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 309px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589127982955062242" />I have no idea who this stunning young couple is, but when we ran through the next portion of the marathon, miles 21-22 through Piedmont Park, pictured below, a cute couple was having engagement photos taken so I thought I'd put these two in for a little spice.</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF6JZGvBL_JZvzTTsOSQsHnmwB_7WfjYyJaXFOyEJtIRbdRla8P9FlgIAgBAo6askTvXyFm9SE0HwdzlpbMw7CIOgviTmG10ITMPGi6bzYLEPnp1OGjkOcXlQRAX3MeSei7IpmQJiBwRI/s400/ar123818223714461.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589127985468429362" />When we came out of Piedmont Park at mile 23, we knew the hill up 12th Street was formidable, and had prepared ourselves for the worst. After running 23 miles of hills, however, this one just seemed like one more hill, another notch on our belt, another story to put in our future <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/12/metaphorical-race-bag.html">metaphorical race bag</a>. So we started up, knowing this was not the last hill, but that it was the biggest one left in the final 5k.</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0w_ss3iUCS1_THxFcV2G-dLtSC4EDGrFKw2Y-6VRHeVTIYdpD4By-zbS1u8XMsvjhn9lqK4h-kedv_SAqJ8Tp1HvGWM9gsLTQ3RHbyWpTukP29OQ3GatuH7vCcINqwMHOWRl-oeLFtA/s400/2008-03-14_Spring_St_skyways_from_Harris_St_in_Atlanta.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589128814743195698" />We ran briefly on Spring Street, above, and then through some industrial parts of the city before heading into Georgia Tech, the final university on our marathon tour of Atlanta. With the exception of the child--I mean college student--who'd set up his generator-run DJ equipment halfway up the hill across from the water stop at mile 24.5, it was deserted. I couldn't hear the music over the generator, but kudos to him anyway for being out there. </div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ko29i-VRyAlcdvP3xVpSKrj4_GM_KdWPA2mFm3LhDiIBGsx44KOIskobHX1_FEcI0qVH6wXrJ_-b2OpATOHRyeJxiQAtoNqPtQHWjSEehT_QHxaD8F3Cv_syix3fLOZ1K07qFW1fU8c/s400/georgia_tech.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 340px; height: 255px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589128817650592418" />The final mile, ironically, was relatively flat-quite possibly the only flat-ish stretch of the whole day. <img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6H0Mo_bKHjOHxjAHRobFFhINZtu8a9DzXiakP737DIDiq6BzcMnB9IWNZt33K1UyCq1d7s373iCLdUMiG4HrJL4LKDxeI5CNo1dCtJF2Fv4tGYiTtOnz1OB5dJzqYV7b-hXke6at7SnA/s400/Centennial+Park+Fountain%252C+Atlanta%252C+Georgia+pictures.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589129702752020338" /><div style="text-align: left;">The last 400 yards was not flat, but at that point we were all so happy to be coming into Centennial Park and making the turn for the finish line that it really didn't matter. It had been a great party, but it was time to wrap this thing up.</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihbZsb3vEp0Wh745DT9OQHVbOnmPd0e9KGjazRCqoatANnHb63WrBUE0JOJ91PCRZ8R3e-JMAVAwUJC7kP6Kxpxqbw0aBvDrh5DdKbdHZuOrLQmrYrXI30tLnT4r0CwqeXOFuvGULp5_Q/s400/photo+%252821%2529.JPG" style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588559726171188834" /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">Jay, who finished the race in 3:38 and thus had already showered, eaten, read the paper, packed up all of our stuff, eaten again, gotten a massage, and toured the CNN building, managed to take this photo of us coming up Marietta at mile 25.5, despite the impending arrival of my fanny-pack, which as you can see is about to be airborne. I really didn't want it cramping the style of my finisher's photo.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4SRqcpK6w2GrgD-CfrNw9hSc6E_gFY84uVAtDowhuAaw5ax54dptRof9sFVl1Vp1pgFM4pV2GsXZiN3SnjIjuY52B1bV2UVRsyJeYDrFftmWLT4jyAiVAwiQi-ct8pbS2lpz4BpJkeoI/s1600/photo+%252818%2529.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4SRqcpK6w2GrgD-CfrNw9hSc6E_gFY84uVAtDowhuAaw5ax54dptRof9sFVl1Vp1pgFM4pV2GsXZiN3SnjIjuY52B1bV2UVRsyJeYDrFftmWLT4jyAiVAwiQi-ct8pbS2lpz4BpJkeoI/s400/photo+%252818%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588559725070735810" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfRgp9scYuTu59sKnsWCbvlrEiRkL90jfUmFx_B93dEVl_LiHY3DyLk3RmHuqZCZ1SIatD33lT3atMCO0-Q6gYhVG5rXYYqyRWOkaATUIuDOc15ViTduSVO6cu0XGV_okETT4iByQQYw/s1600/photo+%252816%2529.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfRgp9scYuTu59sKnsWCbvlrEiRkL90jfUmFx_B93dEVl_LiHY3DyLk3RmHuqZCZ1SIatD33lT3atMCO0-Q6gYhVG5rXYYqyRWOkaATUIuDOc15ViTduSVO6cu0XGV_okETT4iByQQYw/s400/photo+%252816%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588559538832371250" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Marathon Super Star!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEaouE_ezdKaC4r3uLdZxAFtOp4AfLIJUzSYcVUu0rTTMQlIpKsUBb3D_d-S6y_YHFFSHZMn7A7i0NJPSY2eKUFAtq0XBLOjud1xSs9GBHM5rUW5o6DqO_RbklIACwXCnznp4jF_JsEFo/s1600/photo+%252815%2529.JPG"><img border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEaouE_ezdKaC4r3uLdZxAFtOp4AfLIJUzSYcVUu0rTTMQlIpKsUBb3D_d-S6y_YHFFSHZMn7A7i0NJPSY2eKUFAtq0XBLOjud1xSs9GBHM5rUW5o6DqO_RbklIACwXCnznp4jF_JsEFo/s400/photo+%252815%2529.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; ">When I returned home from New York last November, <a href="http://mskcc.convio.net/site/TR?px=1943614&fr_id=1431&pg=personal">AK</a> and I were chatting one afternoon after carpool, and she said something funny to me that struck a chord; she said she'd felt like she'd taken me down a dark hallway, lifted back a curtain, and revealed to me a strange, three-headed dog. </div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; ">It made perfect sense. </div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; ">Running a marathon, it's like that. Why on earth would you commit hours and hours of your life to running, to something that causes blisters and stress fractures, to something that requires such focus and intent that it is, quite literally, like tunnel vision, like being in a dark hallway with only more running at the end of it? And why would you run 26.2 miles of hill after hill after hill when you could be back at home, relaxing and watching CBS Sunday Morning and having coffee? </div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; ">It's a little weird, and a little freaky, and a little three-headed dog-ish. Sometimes it doesn't make a ton of sense. A 5k? Sure. A 10k? Definitely. A half-marathon? Yes, we can! But the big dance, the 26.2, it can seem outlandish at times, it can make you question your sanity.</div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; ">But then you lead your sister-in-law/best friend down the dark hallway and watch her stare the three-headed dog in the face, watch her conquer her first marathon with grace, humor, and power, and you think, yes. </div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; ">This is it. This is why.</div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small; ">Photos courtesy of Google Images and my awesome new iPhone</span></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-30234921272674010142011-03-18T06:23:00.000-07:002011-03-18T19:35:02.165-07:00Joy...and Pain.<div style="text-align: left;">Tomorrow <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/06/early-bird.html">Jay</a>, Joy, <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/10/ambassador.html">AK</a> and I will be heading to Atlanta to run the Publix Atlanta marathon on Sunday morning. So far, the weather looks promising with a high of 66 degrees-any hotter than that and I start to get twitchy. After coming completely undone in the 80 degree heat during the Charleston Half Ironman last year, I've been weary of racing in hot weather.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Joy will be making her marathon debut on Sunday. She's one of my first and greatest running partners, and I am so privileged to get to share this epic adventure with her. She may want to deck me after spending so much time with me, but I'm hoping for the kind of harmony that we typically have on our runs; Joy is my nearest and dearest, and since we've been running together for so long, there's a certain symbiosis to our partnership. If she does want to deck me, that's fine. She's known me since I was 10 and I'm not going anywhere. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Joy set out to run a marathon in celebration of her 40th birthday last fall and didn't get to, though we did get to celebrate in a more traditional, less painful way.</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirIBWc9cP_r-LQUdKnNiWwlvwWjCSb37X_8Fc7XgeLFzlwWVCZMSbGzZvTpLC2V7N_BoH9x20pzpAwcdZYRgNcaVgWMWFa_eO7roFc75Hwur52kCbuxVNu_jtmMcm3NzFrVv7ff8JQmYs/s400/joybday4.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585598617139535618" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuv5Hv0Mgz8PNDw7jaSouaV9N-eb_NdRdx9R7Gp1C_jT-BLzME0LcZuolpDFDCEnAfaCFnYB39fxq-8pFni6aCcGhPNNfeSdV6NzYakptafFMMrNgh_N4qN9vKrubLYnCJeVUfuTWrJg/s400/joybday3.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585598613285803666" /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtaOflM9pagPkF9dZz0VQJsayDuaScBqcndXl7e1zsBv5Re6rzWA3UBV8bL8XT8ofm3yrTvOjXauvOgl8MZEfnOhdH23RRfMy8oUNb9LVfHp7IIxzHQKLJw0lP_kulKmys9Q2thQPitqk/s400/joybday2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585598615858388674" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxViGan2qtxpiNdWAwgAkfcpP7Ns_e9abHEggohSHZy-YNJwd4iHjCY6L0TmP6wN0hF9KyXo2m3bvyzHts_Lab8wc4fj6D9dno-f-ncFQcmbE_rpqQyhsFCdWUWXpSugzcYcdK_wJMd8/s400/Joy+bday+1.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585598607949536338" /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We had a so-so time at her birthday party. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We'll keep the party rolling on Sunday as we celebrate Joy, again, this time with the kind of pain that results not from one vodka tonic too many, but instead from months and months of obsessive speed work, tempo runs, and long, long miles out on the road in the sun, rain, and snow-the pain that is the marathon.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And whereas a hangover eventually wears off and is usually forgotten, this pain stays with you, mostly because it morphs, it manifests itself into a kind of pride that comes from knowing you've committed to something, you've seen it through, and you've run 26.2 miles. There's joy in crossing the finish line, and joy in knowing you're finished, and joy in knowing you can do just about anything you set out to do.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So here's to the pain we have to go through to get to the joy, and most of all, here's to Joy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Let's celebrate!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-21242281516758703652011-03-11T04:04:00.000-08:002011-03-14T09:59:52.377-07:00Horcruxes.Last Saturday, Jay got up at 4 to run 20 miles, his last big run before the Atlanta marathon this coming weekend. He had spent the week prior in Charlotte with his parents and sisters, helping to care for his 98 year old grandmother, Eleanor, who passed away on that Tuesday. The rest of the week was spent making decisions regarding her burial and visitation, organizing, meeting, cleaning, and calling.<div><br /></div><div>Insofar as it's a surprise when someone who's 98 dies, Eleanor's passing was a surprise. Until the week before she died, she was in good health and still lived by herself at Southminster, an assisted living community where she lived for the past 20 years with her first husband, Jim, to whom she was married for 53 years, and where she met her second husband, John Douglas, whom she married in 2004 at age 92. A keen observer with a sharp mind, Eleanor still took the New Yorker and National Geographic, and was always conversant on current events. She was a proud North Carolinian, born and raised in Charlotte with the accent to prove it, the kind of southern drawl that you don't really hear anymore. She was defined by this place and she defined it too, leaving her mark on a city by way of not only her philanthropy, but by her kindness, charm, and southern grace.</div><div><br /></div><div>Eleanor was a beautiful, stylish woman with a unique style. At both her visitation and funeral, the women of the family all wore a few pieces of her vast and eclectic collection of jewelry, and I was reminded of the horcruxes of Harry Potter, the objects in which wizards had hidden parts of their soul to attain immortality. Eleanor would have no part of such dark magic, of course, having committed to a life of faith long ago, but I couldn't help but think of how the lives of those we've lost live on not only in our memory, but in what they leave behind, the objects that though only objects, possess a story, a tale, a memory of their own. As I sat in the pew on the front row of Covenant Presbyterian, I looked down the row and behind me at the legacy of family that Eleanor was leaving, the pieces of her that still exist, and I was proud beyond measure to be a part of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other day Cameron came strolling into the kitchen wearing one of my race medals around his neck. With the exception of the medal from the New York marathon, all of my other race paraphernalia has been usurped by the kids, stashed in their costume bin or in baskets in the playroom. I was reminded of Eleanor's jewelry, the beautiful pieces that speak to a life of travel, of color, of love, a well-lived adventure of a life that took her all over the world but ultimately always brought her back to the place of her birth, to her family. I thought, then, that these race medals may very well be one of my horcruxes, a collection of something that my kids will soon abandon as playthings but that they may find one day that will symbolize, at least in part, the kind of person I am and what's important to me. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>Eleanor's legacy of grace, faith, and gentility lives on not only in the memories and stories of her possessions, but most importantly in her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. In the words of the Mumford and Sons song "The Cave", she knew "how to live her life as it's meant to be", and she lived it well, with love.</div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-38323205591149683822011-02-23T11:29:00.001-08:002011-02-23T11:59:00.506-08:00On the Road.<span class="Apple-style-span" >I had a grand farewell planned, a post that would poignantly and richly express the feelings I've had about this blog, about Davis, about running, about fundraising, about all of you readers. But then I posted all those photos on the last post, and it about did me in to look at them. Starting to sum up all that this experience has meant was too overwhelming, so I left it to the pictures; the emotion I felt at seeing everyone at the end was almost too much.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >So I had planned on a more formal goodbye, one that used this quote from Kerouac's <i>On the Road</i>, one of my all-time favorites(because really, in everyday conversation, slipping in literary references can sometimes be a bit much, but on a blog, it's right on time, right?):</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">dispersing? — it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But </span><b style="line-height: 19px; ">we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.</b></span></div><div></div></blockquote><div><span style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Then I was going to talk about what a crazy venture this has been, and how you've all been a part of it, and how though you've receded on the plain you're still there, with me, and how this world vaults us at every twist and turn but that it's hanging on to hope and the promise of a life lived better because you're in it that keeps us, and me in particular, here. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >And then I was going to lean forward, say thanks, and say good-by.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >But I'm back on the road, as it were, and ran a half-marathon in Myrtle Beach this weekend with some good friends, one of whom claimed <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/06/just-do-it.html">she would never run more than 4 miles</a>, and one <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/12/weekend-update.html">who's running Boston in April</a> and Comrades in May. I ran another half-marathon in January with the <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/10/rocktober.html">greatest sister-in-law on the planet</a>, and am running the Atlanta marathon with her in March. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >I've missed writing here and I don't know how regular I'll be in the posts, but I think I'd like to start back up again, if for no other reason than posterity's sake and to keep a record of the comings and goings of a running life. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Come on back, if you will, and let's do this thing. Again.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></span></div><div><b style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; "><br /></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-251807905693847892010-12-31T06:01:00.000-08:002010-12-31T14:05:40.472-08:00Reunion.<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCpZLgrV3RGFEVe5i5Z7ogjkKu86lJacd9QQMoTAzNtrKYpidvcIb4Q84kvczeENbhudAlMZ5K49lIhr-pKCzJFSlj0SpBh69MJ_JyOG_d_kUZcaARKOCDTVVz2kLB53nxQ8BCqQQ1kA/s400/IMG_8379.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556966895397624562" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNlrRx0gpoT6ph5ZA648FhOziZl4BTAx4X5oDT8666VgryIzNQeMO3Yho-di0lsuCzlO32r4TBeWsbqe1RtUD-3T2daExAhOKCv4UXpiAeIglgCZ8Ol5rqCRb_tEV0pcmWn-NDHOGbDZ4/s400/IMG_8383.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556965647929148338" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_frlgOFrnAmHfItuCRK8aZXMWYncs3T7JxpV0usLD2mFZzsebMss9vSCBkGueIUbkqsscs7Ib758DBMyxBERfb8PV71qX9H3boZ-wRvafMYIAJ5UGVB6Vy6EUjEuiK2QE_CauBDNb3k/s400/IMG_8378.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556966532907416114" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD19hm1s_DCUgYNHlI07gTHmm1kk63MNda0T1sunHVulDMCxgK3ilRSg_zQo-BxW-_5xDuqlw4asCa056DQp4W10w26DdtxtBIQyJzCqE2l7GRic8TKRSp4BYN30ESgZyh9P1ndOueZys/s400/IMG_8371.JPG" style="display:block; 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cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556952510086174050" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7U1VyjLXJv3pUVHIgtXR8HdPBLyhAcGAm8a9OyNimN47e_16nODP_V91Tp8MCtmizY5U_dmsL175QPnNc01vVKYj746DITWcJArhUH4Z_kgPeY5AIZXOxPEO9m0FP0IzQbtMvk2No1Xc/s400/IMG_8392.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556950445950442066" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTS3cZuvbemYKGn9aLBot-vdcurR2c5Whoq54os_wUzXjw5ifZJUUQ7zTxKtDouvtuEQZchkbQirMN2b2qVK9za3q4nc9Lm8veC8Vvqujft_fdH0NC3OIe25y7uE3sZYipRWb4CQD_fEo/s400/IMG_8417.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556955772319722082" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmHzRmblHZ0_QNRZQ3ZrQCUz7r84F5_iBNHP7Ss6oSMtES8aO_jKb9_oIAcgg9anPJfwy1wDFxKQKwDZJlRKzrq6wdLBda5ujPS0b1OhQN2d_0fVRlEcNQCTF5Rapxh-qplEpasva4mZY/s400/IMG_8420.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556957027320795170" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBltnk2ZYsyYrcTH6i2ognohbAoX3y3x-1hYczup_6retb4EIuiBBRMSDOTdosI09ooICp_nI9641iJN0CE1HX48OotY47O1jCoSV20nttsVDfHn9mMPOMFbmVhAk6_Zk5hv4qPsgbRSg/s1600/IMG_8425.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBltnk2ZYsyYrcTH6i2ognohbAoX3y3x-1hYczup_6retb4EIuiBBRMSDOTdosI09ooICp_nI9641iJN0CE1HX48OotY47O1jCoSV20nttsVDfHn9mMPOMFbmVhAk6_Zk5hv4qPsgbRSg/s400/IMG_8425.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556958180794430514" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8dY-Jj4syIUjaH-ZIBYUYq85DMoxGlRNC_SuO1kncwJ0BtJHq4dm6Be6K6apIQF86ZJAcpytTwcfLh-YlKtP919Na3OnLJco880tak-EZ1h6yPZPAAD9Y1EvIQdmxQewAdCsrDr3RWqQ/s400/IMG_8423.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556957706483975778" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Shirts by <a href="http://www.simplystitchedmonograms.com/">Simply Stitched</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-58371612454209752932010-12-24T04:37:00.001-08:002010-12-26T16:58:22.765-08:00Placenta. (or) Not Quite Finished.<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Remember when you were in 6th grade and it was time for the dreaded sex education segment of science and you were made to watch that very graphic, very shocking PBS video from 1983 entitled "The Miracle of Life"? I do. Boy do I.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >After the horror of watching the birth (I was 12, afte<span class="Apple-style-span">r all, and their scare tactics worked), I was completely perplexed and troubled to learn that the woman has to then birth the placenta, or afterbirth.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >That just seemed overwhelmingly insulting. Like, really? I just pushed this baby out and now I have to birth this blobular mass to which I have no seeming connection? Really?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >This is kind of how I felt about the mile and a half shuffle out of Central Park after crossing the finish line. I knew it was necessary and had to be done, but really? I'd just run 26.2 miles, for the love of Pete. And now I have to walk a mile and a half before seeing anyone I know? Really?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Crossing the finish line in and of itself was an interesting experience. After miles and miles of crowd hysteria, music, and high fives, the finish line was surprisingly austere, almost a let-down. S</span><span class="Apple-style-span">ince there are so many people in such a tight space, no spectators were allowed at the finish, and t</span><span class="Apple-style-span">he party stopped once you ran over the last timing mat. Then a volunteer gave you your medal, a photographer took your finisher's photo, another volunteer wrapped you in mylar, another one taped it shut, and another one handed you a bag of food with an apple, gatorade, pretzels, protein supplements, and water, all </span><span class="Apple-style-span">within the span of about three minutes. All very perfunctory. Then you just kept on walking. And walking. And walking. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMLobq1HQMYILgZg8YLu4wQAk7Fom2hRmjCv6jdisheKkumkq8P4fq31qYH75cPVacIMakILvAYVxWPw9WXT7CG6IzkvRS1532Od4RCFErRD0jCQnncDPOD9HrFydE6HpkO4rpnmi1K2E/s400/Kelley+New+York.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 384px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554653655354920482" /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Photo courtesy of brightroom, in case you can't tell</span></div></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">I like my finisher's photo above, though much like the photos from Brooklyn when the <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/brooklynvision-quest.html">surprise of Shannon and Heather's arrival is settl</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/brooklynvision-quest.html">ing in</a>, I think I look a little nuts. And despite the enormous sense of accomplishment I felt for having just completed my first marathon, I was about one step away from a complete breakdown. The runners around me weren't really helping the situation: one girl was vomiting in a trashcan, another was absolutely coming unglued on the phone talking about how she couldn't feel her legs, how she couldn't walk, and others just gave up the fight all together and were laid out on the ground, tongues hanging haphazardly out of their mouths.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >For those of you non-running readers, I realize I'm not really doing a top-notch job of selling the sport.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">I mentioned earlier that when I crossed the finish line, I thought to myself <i>this will be the last time I'll ever do this! </i>Watching runners fall apart confirmed this notion, and after being so deep in my head for 4 hours I needed to talk to someone, anyone, to help me move forward, to get me to the bag pick-up so I could put on dry clothes and warm up. After several failed attempts </span><span class="Apple-style-span">at conversation </span><span class="Apple-style-span">with the apparent non-English speakers around me, I finally stumbled upon an Australian woman who was clearly in the same boat as me, which is to say freezing, tired, close to vomiting, and trying </span><span class="Apple-style-span">to stay up off the ground.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">This lady, I love her. She's a mother of four, never wanted to run a marathon and I daresay never will again, but she did it just to do it and brought several friends along with her from down under for the ride. And you know that accent-everything she said sounded like the most upbeat, pleasant thing you've ever heard. I'm pretty sure she said "I am just miserable right now!" but because of that accent she may </span><span class="Apple-style-span">as well have said "I feel like a million dollars</span><span class="Apple-style-span">! I could run another 26.2 <i>right now!</i>"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">She saved me from myself, this nice Australian lady, and when it came time to part at our respective UPS trucks where our bags were being stored, I felt somewhat rejuvenated. Once I got on my warm clothes I felt better, knowing that I was one step closer to being out of the park and reunited with my people. It was then that I took the <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/408.html">picture below</a> I've posted before, the photo where I just needed to look at myself to make sure I was still of this world. I was in an alternate universe, a kind of bizarro reality show that </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">I'd decided to participate in months ago but had, </span><span class="Apple-style-span">by now, forgotten why.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOF_lYsP7Q_k4SfAh9weWlIbf3k4cdAEpvmdoTtSH_mm3ummrW49xZQxHDqJbIqE4v5VSSG9_ltJmi68ySw0YbqaqHLFXUH1UUt7eEueT1x_ZT3XvwQl_AcqFV328xzL4WLHrntX138gM/s400/downsized_1107001505.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555137544062710306" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Since it's taken me almost 2 months to write about this experience, I've obviously had some time to think about the various components of the marathon. I've concluded that although the long walk out of Central Park was fairly miserable, it also gave me time to collect myself, to make sure I didn't totally fall apart when I did finally get to see Jay, the kids, Tommy and Maddy, Heather and Shannon, and Mandy and Amber. If I had seen this crowd right when I crossed the finish line, I no doubt would have completely surrendered to the overwhelming emotions I was feeling and would have most likely cried. And cried. And cried some more. As it was, I was able to come down off the emotional ledge I was perched on so precariously and get it together, somewhat at least, before I saw them outside of the park.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I've read a lot of reviews of this marathon and nearly every one mentions this last portion of the race, the long walk out of Central Park. Many refer to it as the "Death March" and though macabre and darkly humorous and accurate, the connotation of this reference is so deeply disturbing and rooted in our cultural psyche that I decided to make a motion to change it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Due to my limited readership and influence, I doubt you'll hear people refer to the long walk after the New York marathon as "Placenta" from here on out. It's a strange simile, I know, but having 3 kids in 4 years will naturally orient one's mind to childbirth. And much like having a baby, a marathon too is hopefully a moment of self-definition, a worthwhile, meaningful, difficult, emotional, joyful, painful, crazy, life-altering experience.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >And, for the record, I'd do it again.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> </span></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-83031859719708702762010-12-15T07:59:00.000-08:002010-12-16T12:20:43.677-08:00Manhattan: Central Park<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMG-IEkD2CeJln6BITBtXTiQcpaT9ZVQgNGdl4VkUkwgxsS6ve2HLCORLnEH75wsSSCaGIgJ723DYcwM3tvs6F7YYnD8vNavTu7riLsQLHucCAImXSLTrTg8uZSVj02-Y_CR9xAOBAyYE/s400/Madison+Avenue+Bridge.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550982203728190002" /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Crossing the Madison Avenue Bridge, the last bridge, was like a dream. It was happening, and I was vaguely aware of it, and I was watching myself do it, and I was there but I wasn't there, and I couldn't stop it, and there were stars everywhere, and it was twilighty and sunny and dark all at the same time. I do remember this bridge, however, primarily because it </span><span class="Apple-style-span">was registering as the final one I had to go up and o</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span">ver,</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> and mil</span><span class="Apple-style-span">e 21 was just on the other side.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">The relativity of <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/07/high-five.html">5 miles</a> after 21 miles is such a strange sensation. On the one hand, it's all "Big deal" and "Whateva! I just knocked out 21 miles, suckas!" and "After all this training I could run 5 miles backwards!" On the other hand, it's the trial of miles, it's 5 that feels like 50, it's <i>still 5 miles</i>. And it hurt.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I watched the Thunder Road marathon and half-marathon this past Saturday in Charlotte at mile 8. The first wave of runners that came through still looked fresh, strong. I stuck around for a while looking for a friend and a strange thing happened; the looks on people's faces all took on the same quality-bewilderment mingled with exhaustion mixed with a tiny bit of slack-jawed confusion. Or, me at mile 22. Please see below. </div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBDlcKC4i1p2fis6LzwNLycecSy5JCFML0-q-pPRklhQ3KiExn-JlojEpyvZZTUpn7M-8e4abutV3ewp56ZgSl0yfbw8wPvoWT5TlWQri0N0BSlD1UCs-DfFiSfrmS5p6iV5txwEUkqyI/s400/IMG_8366.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550978046591826466" /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I've mentioned before that I rarely stop and walk, for fear <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/manhattan-take-one.html">I'll disappear</a>. At mile 22, I stopped and walked. My quads seized up on me like never before, and I thought a good stretch would help work out the kinks. Problem was, when I tried to kick up my heel behind me into the palm of my hand, my hamstring revolted, leaving me frozen in a gnarled, awkward half-stretch.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">No worries, I thought. I'll try the other leg. Pr<span class="Apple-style-span">edictably, the same thing happened.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>At this point, I had no choice but to grit it out and keep running, to keep telling myself that I was going to love this last six miles, that I can handle a little discomfort. A few expletives may have crept their way into the <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/12/metaphorical-race-bag.html">Metaphorical Race Bag</a> at this point too.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Despite the pain, running along Central Park East/5th Avenue really was lovely, and the energy that was moving me forward was tremendous, not only in terms of crowd support but from the legions of runners around me.</div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5x-uT4Axf84rfQQI4JgiwcLMlZRmhjEYtGvMOqJQ6V1P-62rDGzliCvHB4nMvGNZ7z60hqteTcGka2n9GcIjZhGy_dMDn6nTfTcNC1qVNelbjgnapL2Xc_P2byi8Fei_0b1Mms7vYOR0/s400/IMG_8356.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550977709708352770" /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I knew my crowd was going to be at 95th and 5th and that Mandy and Amber were going to be a few blocks up from that on the opposite side of 5th Avenue, so I had a goal. The finish line, of course, was the ultimate goal, but at this point in the game I had to break it down into manageable increments, lest I got overwhelmed with the enormity of the proposition.</span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zAgrPtnNmaZj0Igv3oQpU3hCueD_XEKdYVIJIn_XQSW2dmxjKzbrsKYu-6s8isGNE-kEo-dLWHlRkcCAx9wdD1Ide03GSasTnILDolEyi6sBP5Xq1dH134DPaP9c2_iywBujFr-VvQA/s400/IMG_8364.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550978563937772082" /><span class="Apple-style-span">What makes this portion so brutal, aside from the obvious fact that you've just run 24 miles, is that you're running steadily uphill for a solid mile, as you can see above. Note the grimace on the man's face in front of me. I feel him. I really do.</span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEAu8PrkmgyjnLRoCBIloq16RNOs2rzS0Hu4lFdevzS6C19ra0dSlHzyWEhiAazje18VmkP_YanStJihTkYsNByxGFo8Rk6V-NBchZXd5y-r3p5oPe3xSN56AIlGALXwgOUQB3z6hVsW8/s400/IMG_8365.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550978985012035106" /><span class="Apple-style-span">And what I love about the above photo is not the muffin top created by the aforementioned <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/manhattan-take-one.html">knee-length spandex</a>, but rather the guy beside me, smiling. I love this. I hadn't noticed him until posting these photos. He looks like he is genuinely having a great time. Like <i>Hey! This is fun!</i> Or maybe he thought all the ladies in my crowd were cute, because they are. Or maybe he found <a href="http://www.simplystitchedmonograms.com/">Heather</a>'s decibel change charming rather than alarming. Who knows. At any rate, I like this guy. I wish I would have noticed him during the run. Or maybe I did. Maybe he talked to me. I really have no idea.</span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvtQyKrn3pi0SeNuahYc4B10ABm2Uf2mfxLxLodHg6ZNCgRbDJ5cAoG5PWuCvSV_et627Og_Bq2TPvU9fpK5USboMsOYZ3DDZg-A-sxn2Gf6jZI7l1UKu9IUT1wBT40Xtx6ntyGZ37g4/s400/IMG_8362.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550979412951596130" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span">This guy apparently was a few paces in front of me and was a big hit with the kids, as was the fellow dressed as a hot dog. On the first bridge I passed a guy dressed as a big rhino in a homespun rhino costume. Whatever works, I suppose.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was at 95th and 5th that <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/10/oh-no-she-diint.html">Maddy</a> so graciously jumped in to run with me and that I so ungraciously gave her the Heisman. I've thought a lot about that moment since then, wondering about the dichotomy of wanting so desperately to see my people but needing so vehemently to finish alone. I've concluded that at that point, I could only be accountable to myself. I didn't want to have to justify or explain to anyone that I needed to walk. I didn't want to throw up on someone I know. I didn't want to cry in front of someone who'd remember. A complete stranger, sure. But not someone I love<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13.3333px; ">.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So I kept going, solo, but surrounded. I saw <a href="http://hudsonsonegoodthing.blogspot.com/">Mandy</a> and Amber shortly thereafter and at that point, I'd stopped to walk. I looked across 5th Avenue and saw two people that I've known for most of my life, and I threw up my hand, kissed it, and saluted them like I was P Diddy. Seriously. Where that came from I have no idea, but apparently seeing them made me feel famous, so I went for it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After seeing them I turned into the park and the hills continued, winding through beautiful, crowded, tree-lined, twilighty miles 24 and 25. Then back out of the park and along Central Park South, then back into the park and through some really loud Bon Jovi which made me laugh, and then finally, jubilantly, the sign below came into view. </div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_r9b4D85xLKg66_a4pJMcEvEYHeF80p_HjWTjEc4tlAW_svH7l1W91mF35a7bspJ-RKvynuzDNcU2jtkw-xUNRCld_6Hhrm6S4z_RFhEfKU5YRACJfiYTIydzMzntndLMwPnesXKVFI/s400/IMG_8293.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551119260056030114" />Jay took these photos on Saturday before the race while I was hanging out with my <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/on-why-tarheels.html">Tarheel girls</a>. Please note Thomas and Cameron running UP towards the finish line.<br /><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSiJCnGT08Kz4eDpkuhOYzDPn-g1tyVZtB6E1oRs881cMUX6ft0pZ9V5X3RkripTHEz9MSp1s37x876xsiHkk2dppVJw5RIwHYmIXkhf-2p0Fdlf3yQCMEIBrBJYmVFnFCewxh1FfDn94/s400/IMG_8284.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551117925720014914" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWWbmv8wSW-D319U6szjTVdW-XREeaGKJswrPslyP0w3gC-dN2QeFrBfGnj-XDHHZXplR54b_WqKBlC8iJpmVUE7J9ObNb3hyphenhyphenLanZZhlQdcxRZ9rD8GEtX0hME46a9ycLLbXbVIExuPwQ/s400/IMG_8285.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551118319251084370" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxg6gXci7b-JQkPF0s4D0G-3sg0kHm6bC6Ta_pyvXRG3GySwkCktyJnQZyKKXeFu-ikSoGOYkOXOiFWJWzcaU0jeAPa1pcAX5XHWT7SmaWPOhSeBfw0dDd94dPbVJpS7y4i8kHK2SBac/s400/IMG_8286.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551118846139113058" /><div style="text-align: left;">I knew there were hills, and I knew the last 5 miles of the race in particular were hilly. But the last 400 yards up the hill to the finish line were unbelievable, enough to make you feel like you were moving backwards. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I was determined to run the last part, and I did. Though I was moving forward, I felt like I was river dancing, my legs all jaunty and wompy and sideways as I tried to avoid an onslaught of cramps and willed my legs to get me to the finish. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">They did. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> I made it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I crossed the finish line in <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/408.html">4:08</a>, threw my arms up in the air, and then shuffled forward, alone, stunned, triumphant, and solemnly ecstatic. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-70287333683618508622010-12-13T09:17:00.001-08:002010-12-13T12:45:15.464-08:00Weekend Update.It was a big weekend for my running friends.<div><br /></div><div>There are two milestones that are particularly noteworthy and thus receive top billing here:</div><div><br /></div><div>First, AK, the aforementioned <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/10/ambassador.html">Ambassador</a>, qualified for Boston this past weekend with a 3:44:52 at the Kiawah marathon. After months of dedicated training, she laid it down on Saturday and finished strong and steady. Congratulations, AK!</div><div><br /></div><div>Second, <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/spinx-runfest-2010.html">Len</a> ran his first marathon in Kiawah, finishing in 4:38:24. After also training for months, he successfully completed his first 26.2. Congratulations, Len! </div><div><br /></div><div>I've been so choked up about these two and their accomplishments. Before Len even left for Kiawah I was all verklempt, getting teary when I thought about him running his first marathon, getting misty when I was sending him Rocky-like texts to get him psyched. And then when AK crossed the finish line, I had the good fortune to be on the phone with <a href="http://www.simplystitchedmonograms.com/">Heather</a> as she cheered excitedly, watching AK run through the finisher's chute. Every time I think about her qualifying and reaching her goal so soundly, I start crying. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also of note, <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/09/3-things-i-would-never-do.html">Denise</a> ran a solid half in Kiawah, coming in at 1:53:17, as did Scott, who set a PR of 1:24:47. And I got to see my old roommate <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/08/my-albatross.html">Ashley</a> buzz by at the Charlotte half on Saturday morning. If I weren't wearing clogs, jeans, and holding a child, I would have run with her for longer than the 10 feet I "sprinted" trying to keep up with her! And though I didn't see him, Billy M rocked a 1:45:35 half in Charlotte, which I'm pretty sure is a PR as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not to get all "triumph of the human spirit" on you, but races and qualifying and first-time marathons and PR's are paramount to runners. Everything is relative and everyone is a winner here, and when you do something you set out to do, when you achieve a goal that you've worked so hard to achieve, it's a reminder to never quit, to keep putting yourself out there, to keep striving for excellence in whatever form that may take. </div><div><br /></div><div>So congratulations on a great race weekend, runners, and thanks for the inspiration and motivation!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-65131101844833573882010-12-08T06:31:00.000-08:002010-12-09T06:43:48.537-08:00Metaphorical Race Bag.<div><span class="Apple-style-span">Unless I'm doing speedwork, I don't typically run with music. I'm no purist, mind you, but instead am a complete spaz. And I'm lazy too, so I haven't put together any awesome playlists where one song flows to another and my heart rate mirrors the beat of the music, where the tempo gradually increases or decreases in the right places. I'll go from the Boss to Justin Timberlake to Ce Lo to the Beatles, which means I'm inspired, then in love, then laughing, then crying, all within the span of 15 minutes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Enter the <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/12/bronx-twilight.html">Metaphorical Race Bag.</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Although I'd assigned a few miles here and there <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/brooklynvision-quest.html">for friends to "run"</a> with me and even though I knew many of you were thinking about me, I also wanted to cover all my bases, so I knew that I had something to think about when I felt the crazy closing in on me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I solicited advice from other marathoners about what they think about when the miles get long, what mantras they use, what songs they like, etc. Having just completed her first marathon, <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010_10_01_archive.html">Madeleine</a> suggested two items for my race bag.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">1. <a href="http://www.sgi-usa.org/buddhism/nam-myoho-renge-kyo.php">Nam myoho renge kyo</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">This Buddhist chant was taught to Tommy and Madeleine when they were training for the Charleston Half-Ironman and were riding a stationary bike for 2 hours (huh?) by another nutjob also riding a stationary bike for 2 hours. I love the idea of this centering chant, and I tried to look up a quick quip to distill the essence of its meaning; no such luck. Rest assured it keeps you focused and centered. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">That being said, I couldn't use it. My feeble mind couldn't memorize the unfamiliar words. That and I already had Baraka za Mungu kweli ni za, Ni za ajabu in my race bag, a Swahili spiritual that often comes into my mind when I'm running.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">2. <i><a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/invictus/">Invictus</a></i> by William Ernest Henley</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">You may be familiar with this poem from the movie Dead Poets' Society. Or maybe because you're a Mandela fan and thus know that this poem sustained him throughout his prolonged prison sentence. It's a powerful one, to be sure-the last two lines in particular: " I am the master of my fate/I am the captain of my soul." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Without getting into a full-on theological debate here, I'll just say that this one threw me for a loop. I don't think I'm the only one driving my ship, so to speak; I've got help from God and a few saints and most definitely some guardian angels, so to say that I'm the master of my fate really had me going down the free will versus determinism road, which is all just a little too heady for a first marathon Metaphorical Race Bag. And though I admire the strong sentiment of this piece and how those last two lines are almost like beating yourself on your chest <span class="Apple-style-span">with your fists </span><span class="Apple-style-span">in rapid succession <i>and</i> giving everyone the bird, I couldn't put this in my bag either.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I say this not to diss Madeleine's suggestions, but merely to point out that everyone's race bag is going to be different, just like whether or not it works for you to run with music, or with a partner, or in the morning, or at night (or in a box with a fox). Obviously they sustained <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/11/spinx-runfest-2010.html">Maddy through her 26.2.</a> And we know that running is 99% mental, so you've got to find what works to keep your sanity.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I also tell you this because it illuminates, at least in part, my complete and total obsession with all things marathon in the weeks before the race. If I had a conversation with you sometime within the vicinity of November 7th, chances are it went something like this:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Me: How did your grandmother's surgery go?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">You: Great! She's doing well and is in recovery, and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Me, upon hearing "Great", "well" and "recovery", thinking: <i>I wonder if her grandma ever ran the New York marathon? Did she break 4 hours?</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">You get the idea. And you also know that I <i>do</i> genuinely care about your grandmother. I just had absolutely no focus. Unless it was about running, or getting ready for the trip, or the race bag, I just had trouble keeping it together. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Back to the race bag and its contents so you're not up all night reading this post:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">1. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNnB4dkVRJI">The Rising</a> by the Boss</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Though I know almost all of the lyrics, what I primarily fall back on is the "La, la, la la la la, la la" after the chorus. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">2. An email from my friend, Ben</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">The part that stuck with me said "Because you're Kelley Barnhardt. You like challenges. You're not scared of a little discomfort." And boy was there ever discomfort. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">3. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0ExmL4LzCk">Badlands</a> by the Boss<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I know this one by heart too, but it's really the opening chords that get me. That and when he says "For those who have a notion, a notion deep inside/That it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">4. <a href="http://www.petersagal.com/">Peter Sagal's</a> essay <a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-243-297-519-13685-0,00.html">"The End"</a> in the November 2010 <a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/">Runner's World</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">This whole piece is awesome, but I memorized the final paragraph for the race bag: "What I have found is that the last six miles separate distance runners from those who are merely obsessive or have a high tolerance for boredom. They are the crucible from which come molten, freshly recast marathoners, and each one of those miles is a distinct trial to conquer, and reason to train, and reason to boast, and as such, in truth, I love them, because though you'll never know exactly why you do them, it's over those last six miles that you finally find out if you can." Boom.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">5. <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/06/birthday-holla.html">Tommy's</a> claim that I was going to love the last six miles. I held on to that assertion like it was the gospel truth, and hoped to all hopes that it was.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">6. <span class="Apple-style-span">Baraka za Mungu kweli ni za, Ni za ajabu</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I find myself going back to this song any time my mind is blank, so I knew it would be in the bag.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">The great thing about a Metaphorical Race Bag is you can stuff it with as much or as little as you like; it all depends on how much you want to carry with you. It weighs nothing except what weight you give it, and it's really easy to store. You can throw it away any time you want or just keep it tucked in your metaphorical back pocket (no pockets on that knee-length spandex).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I called on a few of these items at mile 20 in particular, and again as I crossed that final bridge into Central Park. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Disclaimer: I realize this race bag would be more aptly named a Theoretical Race Bag, or perhaps a Hypothetical Race Bag, or even Imaginary Race Bag. But when Tommy and I were texting one day before the race, I mentioned that I was "tucking something into my Metaphorical Race Bag", so there it is. This bag is not a comparison to something else, but it is what it is-a group of "things" I carried with me through the race to help me through the tough miles. But in a temporary lapse of literary reason, I called it a metaphor, so there you have it. Metaphorical Race Bag.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13.3333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-50880917622779449012010-12-04T04:41:00.001-08:002010-12-06T18:24:28.976-08:00Bronx: Twilight.<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxS4MtwkpVfwV8nyMZKLceEt4lkzMDtr2hhYOCkLoOO8QvukkwynRpdjWhgYdBmhAtA65gtJagioZhH81jqCXofGMTBgkenLNXQ9C6xfhGorI9J_odR4iYUt64a0vPfhekIVmN_xW-i_I/s400/little_PICT7010.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547662588249785202" /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Are you tired of this chronicle yet? It's mirroring the marathon itself in the time it's taking me to get it out there.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I just googled "Willis Avenue Bridge" to get a visual of the 4th bridge I went up and over, this time from Manhattan to the Bronx.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I don't rem</span>ember it at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or maybe I do? But only after seeing the picture. It's a little bit like your earliest memory-do you remember it because you remember the sounds, smells, and feelings surrounding it? Or do you remember it because you've seen a picture of yourself in it, heard about it, and have therefore created the memory?</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL4ErHdTBsDEqhhqPqzKBjiSfxoQx7o3Vbf91-sv3Z_0rv9CGKkxzBSP2D6RUNZO4CE6BYt4Q_u7hd-pL19ixL3Ls9fZ5tKQadUIGaoTZ274KCNB2BD4mzJkKv-p5lrIBa6UkwYBhImDA/s400/IMG_8270.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547663609964218802" /></div><div>For example, will they remember the sound of the xylophone, the kindness of the street performer, the smell of the air in Central Park? Or will they only be reminded, vaguely, when they see this picture years down the road?</div><div><br /></div><div>That's kind of how I feel about the Bronx; I was there for less than a mile. I remember loud music, crossing the 20 mile marker, turning, turning again, seeing myself run on a huge screen scaffolded over the street, and being a part of a particular fluidity, an energy that seemed to be moving the crowd forward, regardless of pain, motive, or desire. The race was just happening to me at this point.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tried to reach into my metaphorical race bag, but only fragments of thought were coming to the surface. I knew that just over the next bridge was the final 5 mile stretch to Manhattan, to Central Park, to a finish line that seemed both near and ridiculously, heinously far away.</div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-72155671173799069122010-11-30T04:33:00.000-08:002010-12-02T10:56:54.177-08:00Manhattan: Take One.<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Mile 15 was bleak. Bleaker than bleak. As in in the bleak midwinter, a hard rain's gonna fall, mama said there'd be days like this, the woods are snowy, dark and deep, and I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Having studied the course somewhat obsessively beforehand, I knew that mile 15 was up and over the bottom part of the Queensboro Bridge, and was thus uphill, dark(ish) and quiet, without any crowd support.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Before the race, Tommy told me to expect to have several points during the run where I would find myself wondering why in the world I ever decided to do this. I have moments of doubt in the minute and 4o seconds it takes me to run a 400 during speedwork; it stands to reason I'd have them at several points during 26.2 miles. However, all the training, anticipation, fundraising, writing and tapering had me so excited I'd forgotten to consider the likelihood of dark moments.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I was deep in my head at mile 15; the strain from the uphill and the lack of crowd support left the reverberating sound of thousands of footsteps beating the pavement the only noise that made its way down the wormhole into my brain. I kept looking left per Scott B's advice, taking in the Manhattan skyline, reminding myself that I was on my way to 1st Avenue where a thunderous crowd was waiting for me. I put one foot in front of the other and made my way up the hill.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When I finally crested the bridge and headed down the other side, I started to listen for the crush of Manhattan. I listened and listened <span class="Apple-style-span">and listened. And I didn't hear anything.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Don't get me wrong-it <i>was</i> exciting coming onto 1st Avenue, for no other reason than I'd put that bridge behind me and was on borough #4. But further reflection on the lack of noise revealed one key point: I am not Ryan Hall, or Kara Goucher, or Shalane Flannigan. I am not in the lead pack and thus am not the first person that the crowd sees coming off the bridge, so I don't experience the roar of excitement and enthusiasm that the elites receive, and they're the ones who've written about this awesome experi<span class="Apple-style-span">ence. Alas.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Once I got a little further up 1st, the crowds really were overwhelming. Bands played, people partied, kids gave high fives. I knew, too, t<span class="Apple-style-span">hat I was going to see my crowd at mile 19. I'm grateful for these photos because truthfully, I don't really remember much about this mile, and these prove that I was actually there. Despite diligently searching for my peeps, I think I kind of checked out after mile 18. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span">It's strange; whenever I'm running, I rarely think about stopping, or quitting, or really even walking. It's more like I may just disappear, like running somehow keeps me connected to the ground, keeps me around. If it weren't for these photos, I may have thought I'd disappeared.</span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0qNn9cWHaIR-vIK19JIkM2YvRRCIr63BoBT9GLWyPJlQWWN5ciN5IOXKKLI6PiWwP9YZpOTH-1njM9V24wHRFOXVvBbwdkObDXow97lbz6mfpomx7iLilxONWQd6tvuQPaeKipvOi1kg/s400/IMG_8346.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545822039390633458" /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Aside: I gave up fanny packs back in '84, but had to carry my Gu in something. Thus I look like a complete tool. And let's not even go into the knee-length spandex-my sincere apologies. The <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/07/what-you-gon-do-with-all-that-junk.html">shorts</a> stopped working long ago.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBNU2LvzyHLtVbwGMyFYW75hp7mwxGMUCnQO8n2rIG2sISORl1tMIZWxr9WcvR33NfrBW9Bnewe71HF5ztG5ScGO2ZN9u4_jvJ1C-1vtbhrQK8LDYx9wfC211TFGLYThwMS-q-wJD-Bo/s400/IMG_8349.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545822671876731602" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJJODEDx_J1jyeeHnPsZb2q7rDOELjzXaEA5gqCCRPmU0LYKAODQC6LaUOhLT_Fh9-AANaQLzpwW_wyOxPAKMdWDDy8U_d4cvp4Pk-J5mT10k_SwxcxLvwPnaF7HE9ARpU0aAag8pFHlU/s400/IMG_8352.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545823024550157490" /><div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I look happy though, don't I? I was so excited to see everyone and knew that it was only four short (hahahahahahaha) miles until I got to see them again. </span></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Another aside: note the red bracelet on my right wrist. It's my <a href="http://hudsonsonegoodthing.blogspot.com/2010/06/one-good-thing.html">One Good Thing</a> bracelet, worn in memory of my dear friend Mandy's daughter Hudson, and in honor of Mandy, who you'll hear more about later. Today is Hudson's birthday, and Mandy's written about it <a href="http://hudsonsonegoodthing.blogspot.com/2010/11/do-one-good-thing-for-hudsons-birthday.html">here</a>, beautifully, poignantly, painfully. Do one good thing today in honor of Hudson-you'll be glad you did. </span></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-39584992515855606192010-11-26T18:29:00.000-08:002010-12-01T17:26:46.814-08:00Queens: Highway to Hell.Yesterday morning Jay and I and the kids, Kathryn and her son James and Aunt Tiz all headed out to Barclay Downs to cheer for the runners in the Turkey Trot. We tried to register but were too late, much to Cameron's chagrin, so decided to have our own "Tot Trot" out to the race.<br /><br />The runners in this Thanksgiving Day 8k were such a happy bunch and really seemed to appreciate our cheering; many people thanked us, many gave the kids high fives, and many yelled back at us. I love <a href="http://http//runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/07/philanthropy.html">supporting folks during a race</a>, and I specifically remember thinking somewhere around mile 14 in Queens how much I would love to be a spectator in the race that I was currently running. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves on the sidewalk, holding up signs, ringing cowbells, <em>not running</em>. This thought occured to me later as well on 1st Avenue, as bands lined the streets and people poured out of bars and restaurants.<br /><br />Queens provided a nice, short 2 mile interlude between Brooklyn and Manhattan, and what kept me moving was looking for Brandon, an old friend from my days at Clemson who now lives in Queens. And whereas Brooklyn primarily followed a straight course up 4th Avenue, the course through Queens saw more turns, and though this offered a nice change mentally, it was starting to wear on the legs.<br /><br />After thankfully seeing Brandon on Vernon, I moved more to the middle of the course to stay on the blue line; the race at this point, mile 14, was still crammed runner to runner, and I was still elbowing people as I passed them. I did this for what seemed like the hundredth time, said sorry-again-and heard someone say "Kelley!"<br /><br />I had literally run into my neighbor, Carrie. Out of 45,000 other runners, what are the odds? She started explaining who I was to her running partner, and as much as I would have loved to have stayed and talked, I was in the middle of a fierce mind/body conflict. My mind was saying <em>Stay focused. Relax</em>. My body was saying WHAT THE HELL ARE WE DOING HERE? I gave her a thumbs up and moved on.<br /><br />Shortly thereafter I saw a kid with a sign that read "You're almost there!" I think I yelled at him. Again...right on the edge.<br /><br />The crowds in Queens, though exuberant, weren't quite as thick as elsewhere, and for this reason the flavor of this burrough was more evident, much like the miles in Brooklyn that went through neighborhoods. The Hassidic Jews here acted as if nothing was happening, as though it were any other day, and the sweaty mass of humanity rolling through their streets was completely normal. Two men tried to cross the street with difficulty right in front of me, nearly getting crushed. Others stood quietly on the sidewalk, chatting with each other, watching idly.<br /><br />I envied them and their nonchalance as I turned onto Queens Boulevard, crossed over mile 15, and saw the Queensboro Bridge looming in the very, very near future.Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-44887634049742632822010-11-24T05:10:00.000-08:002010-11-25T15:37:56.838-08:00Brooklyn:Vision Quest.<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Miles 2-13 go through Brooklyn, and until mile 8 where we all merge together, runners are still separated on either side of 4th Avenue. Coming into Brooklyn marked the beginning of the throngs of spectators, and though they were scattered at first, I was touched by the folks standing out in their yards with cowbells and signs saying "Brooklyn welcomes you!"<br /><br />I've mentioned the <a href="http://http//runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/09/voyage-of-dawn-treader.html">beginning of runs </a>before, when you're still working out the kinks, figuring out how you feel, getting accustomed to the weather, regulating your breath, adjusting to the idea that you're going to be running for a long time-and today was no different. Despite months and months of training and knowing that you're physically ready, the mind games start as early as the start line, though for me they started in Brooklyn for no apparent reason, really, except for the fact that this experience, as awe-inspiring and noteworthy as it was, was totally and completely overwhelming physically, mentally, and emotionally. I found myself thinking about mile 26 waaaay to early, and worked hard to reign it in, to enjoy myself, to take in the experience.<br /></span></span><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">A week or so before the race my friend <a href="http://http//runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/07/independence-day.html">Heather </a>had suggested that she "run" a portion of the race with me, that we find a part of the race where she would be with me since she couldn't actually be there. She considered 5th Avenue, but when she realized that was miles 22-25 and hilly, she thought twice. After some course consideration we ultimately decided on miles 5-8 in Brooklyn because the crowds here are awesome, it's relatively flat, everyone's still fresh, and at this point you're still thinking it was a good idea to run a marathon. </span></span></div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">I mentally picked up Heather at mile 5. If this sounds a little crazy, let me say this; one thing I realized while running this race amidst 45,000 other runners and upwards of 2 million spectators is how completely isolated I felt, how totally alone some of those miles became. It was literally body to body the whole time, but somewhere around mile 10 of this Brooklyn stretch I realized that, ironically, nobody but me was running this race, that only I could finish it. Knowing that certain friends were thinking of me during certain miles-I'd assigned a few other portions too-was reassuring. I also knew that Jay, the kids, Jimmy and Dottie, and Tommy and Madeleine were at mile 8, and that kept me going. Dan and Krydo were around mile 8 as well, but on the opposite side of 4th, which was nearly impossible to cross with so many runners, unfortunately.<br /><br />I kept seeing things Heather would find funny during this portion of the run--one spectator, for example, held up a sign that said "To me, you are all Kenyans!" I passed a Dunkin Donuts, which I know she loves. I passed another spectator with a sign that said "You're cute! Call me!"<br /><br />Around mile 7 I started to stick to the left side of the street, knowing that's where my crowd was going to be. In this race, you have to know exactly where to look for people; otherwise there's no way you'll see them. I also realized I'd be dropping Heather off mentally and picking up Katie, who would run with me through mile 13.<br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">As I approached mile 8, I kept looking left and I'll be darned if I didn't see Heather standing there on the sidewalk. I thought <em>well, that's a mirage, there she is where I'm going to leave her</em>.</span></span><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543628411244423698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0gAh0UKg8OjsmHQ0_80rjpD0Drd7t1_QpiQ1nB41Zc3SWE4jApzMIC2dZpVt0Qser1BYYP4hz_vQjBtoX0fh_UkmUkCtLDFtCM4dDOgQIVL3Fo4AgccJEw88z3wHpw9yZT5jdgeEcYo/s400/IMG_8315.JPG" /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Running long distances puts me just this side of crazy, and when you're out on the road for a while the insanity is always there, lurking around the edges, hovering nearby, not unlike the cloudy edges of an old black and white photograph threatening to take over the image.<br /><br />Let's just say the crazy took over for a moment.</span></span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">You can see me realizing I'm not totally nuts below, as the complete and total shock of actually seeing not only Heather- but Shannon too- started to sink in.</span></span> <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 404px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543628845481599394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mjhMDmjdLRBIP8iiNcDLMJ-bTvBZREEVQFqKI63MKfmG4bwMSlKI4K0WFXXqzbv2BAew7igYHxAuqCdnnRKAfGiLaXa9t3WqrRfIcpv3-BGVExsjQFitP5ofgVIe635Styg0P1OzqWU/s400/IMG_8333.JPG" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543629241718257954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eP4otJhtnjGHTAbDvWjMu1x0Iku7k9U67BkIdPqJbp80GHk-KC2kFU3fO7d-1iryemaSWEiE5NqfF06UOqxChU8uE67ONVVcbap4wKsQbjLQCBdJoygFP1oSVkpPkkzXm0DWH7ViSGU/s400/IMG_8334.JPG" /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543629922606750962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmG0sexBF0MC76ZjRgfcFLJcc4wHiLr8feIinGN8kG_BTIr7KIxpOh8SJADnMhi-G4kvf2Z_4Fak_Cr0kj8WYG8H0eVUZVlBsMHD5ehT8eIqEhAf7s3TlLYsDYs7xXe3xOxWPZm27naKo/s400/IMG_8335.JPG" /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">I do look a titch insane here, and it's clear I'm not really processing the enormity of this surprise. After Tommy and Madeleine, and Ashley (who may have tipped me off by posting "NYC!" as her facebook status update), and now these two showed up in New York, I started to think post mile 8 that <em>whoah</em>, this thing must be A Really Big Deal. Either that or folks just wanted to come to New York, which is probably the case too.<br /></span></span><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543630418773776226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG_hof9cuf9dqG_RECofQOd5l3EhajJMaxXv5TrtfPMxQMGL5XY7oWCvkC19AAXr0XW7QKsha1zqt2xiIDDlqOU0afZswAd5xTILN3JLslHANToHKG-rNP9IKolrDOxugS4M0whFMF0qI/s400/IMG_8342.JPG" /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Seeing Heather and Shannon and the rest of my fan club, pictured above, sustained me through the remainder of Brooklyn. The miles afterwards saw a lovely tree-lined neighborhood chockablock full of brownstones and spectators. After that, truth be told, I don't really remember much except the aforementioned realization of loneliness. I'd stopped looking at my watch at this point, and just kept repeating <em>Reign it in. Stay controlled. Reign it in. Stay controlled.</em> I just kept running, and running, and thinking <em>Am I still in Brooklyn? Really? Am I going to be running for the rest of my life?<br /></em><br />I wasn't sure I'd ever make it to Queens.</span></span>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-63416876527192130882010-11-22T04:13:00.000-08:002010-11-22T13:16:24.468-08:00Staten Island.<div><div style="text-align: center; font-size: 15.8333px; "><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuU7UOvcWSoW-MHHkn9m8eDIpVFFYREr97JS6jt4GIo4vnsyeIlyRAHbG-mECm3GiRIYM0ZrdmpCW4NDaXEukYkZHxo39TsZG2v92ciuvnpwT42pRreK3yqoF5jZIMy_9bbHl37V5Oek/s1600/downsized_1107000440.jpg" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><img border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuU7UOvcWSoW-MHHkn9m8eDIpVFFYREr97JS6jt4GIo4vnsyeIlyRAHbG-mECm3GiRIYM0ZrdmpCW4NDaXEukYkZHxo39TsZG2v92ciuvnpwT42pRreK3yqoF5jZIMy_9bbHl37V5Oek/s320/downsized_1107000440.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; float: left; clear: both; " /></a><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuU7UOvcWSoW-MHHkn9m8eDIpVFFYREr97JS6jt4GIo4vnsyeIlyRAHbG-mECm3GiRIYM0ZrdmpCW4NDaXEukYkZHxo39TsZG2v92ciuvnpwT42pRreK3yqoF5jZIMy_9bbHl37V5Oek/s1600/downsized_1107000440.jpg"></a></span></span><div style="text-align: left; font-size: 15.8333px; ">Getting 45,000 runners to the start line is no easy feat, which is why I boarded a bus with TNT Virtual and the New York chapter at 6 am sharp, despite my start time of 10:10. The Verrazano-Narrows bridge closes promptly at 7 am, and runners board buses as early as 5 am in order to get there on time.</div><div style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">At one point during the bus ride, I realized that our trip was taking longer than the driver's projected 30 minutes. When we did a wiiiiide U-turn at a stoplight somewhere in New Jersey, I felt the first flickers of panic creeping in, thinking that I'd spent 5 months of my life preparing for this moment only to have it ruined because some guy couldn't find his way-with 500 other buses, mind you-to Staten Island. Apparently I wasn't alone.</span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">Two girls dressed identically in all black with long pigtails and black bandannas on were sitting close to the front. These 2 New Yorkers looked at each other, a look of disgust mingled with incredulity on their faces when one of them </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">stood up and said, "Um, do you need us to like, Mapquest it or something?"</span></div><div style="text-align: center; font-size: 15.8333px; "><br /></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">We finally made it there around 7, got off the bus, and started walking towards Fort Wadsworth where we'd spend the next 3 hours waiting. I spent some time in Charity Village in the Team in Training tent, trying to stay out of t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">he w</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">ind and the chilly 38 degree weather.</span></span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">After checking my bag at the UPS truck at 8:45 in my assigned start village, I sat some more on the orange hunting chair I'd brought with me. Then I walked to my corral around 9:15 and sat around some more. All of this sitting around was not in the least bit relaxing; I watched people sprinting to get their bags checked before the cut-off time. I watched people sprinting to their corrals before they closed. I watched people dart out of one of the 1500 port-a-potties and sprint to the start, hoping not to miss their assigned wav</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">e.</span></div><div style="text-align: center; clear: both; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">I tried to choke down the bagel and peanut butter and banana I'd brought with me, coupled with the Gatorade and CarboPro. I could hear a band playing in the distance and was vaguely aware that there were people enjoying themselves somewhere, and as much as I was trying to do the same, the waiting game was starting to </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">wear on me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center; clear: both; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">When I finally got through the partition and into my corral, I was sandwiched elbow to elbow with the other runners as we slowly, slowly, slowly herded towards the bridge. As we crept forward, I heard the cannon blast and the start of Sinatra's "New York, New York", signaling the beginning of Wave 2 of the three waves of runners. I wanted to cry, scream, and throw up all at once, but considering there were so m</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">a</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ny people touching me, that seemed ill-advised</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13.1944px; ">.</span></div><div style="text-align: center; clear: both; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left; font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">I crossed the start line about 5 minutes later, just as Ryan Adams' "New York, New York" was playing, and began the mile ascent up the Ver</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">razano-Narrows bridge, looking out over the water at the harbor ships and up in the air at the helicopters.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; width: 193px; height: 262px; font-size: 15.8333px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmq82_vlgspAyujs7aClbBgfcYnfIFjndnX5HBIkeMhL62ncmkqdrC4hEwoa1GFX7cJgWo5GrYDkvOpjeW1ltgpkfsK8m6DnzHOuQhq9IA4ovDni7W4UKpF2aHCqFI-k0cwCTNtl9qOgs/s400/Verrazano.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542458727913611506" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 193px; height: 262px; " /></span></span><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The New York marathon is a point to point, meaning that we start in Staten Island, head through the other four boroughs, and end in Manhattan's Central Park. Mile one was up the bridge, mile two was down and out of Staten Island and into Brooklyn, where the majority of the race is run.</span></div></div></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; width: 400px; height: 300px; font-size: 15.8333px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCZ_F75PY4UfYQvWzGeSuk7RWIWj_oGfeMsQsbWoYZKQjFHWmFYgbUHbHRKXuHTZ2pfNMNUURZSZJ-Wu7XTmWc9ooJb9BlWAssZrnhU7XUNXLN7p90ArO7fa0O9J6KNn1CjneT3KsoZQQ/s400/04_Verrazano-Bridge-traffic-jam.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542466128207138626" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></span><div style="font-size: 15.8333px; ">I-and 45,000 people-were ready to get this party started and get on into Brooklyn. You gotta get up to get down, after all. </div></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-77911948412305304232010-11-17T18:23:00.001-08:002010-11-21T05:32:26.663-08:00On Why: Tarheels.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span">After the expo, I had planned to meet some girlfriends from college for lunch on the Upper West Side near the Museum of Natural History, where Jay was taking the kids. Not that I was trying to win the darn race or anything, but we thought it might be best for me to rest my legs rather than walk around all afternoon. If dining with a group of the smartest, funniest ladies around and (watching them) drink wine was what I absolutely had to do, then so be it. I could live with that. Laura picked <a href="http://www.brguestrestaurants.com/restaurants/isabellas/">Isabella's</a>, which was the perfect place to catch up with four of my beloved UNC girls.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Laura's lived in New York for the past 12 years and knows the city like the local she's become, and the success of both this weekend and Jay's marathon weekend I owe largely in part to her. She guided my family and me in 2008 and Jay and his small traveling carnival successfully to Brooklyn to mile 8 and back to the other marathon viewing points this year. And though I haven't written about it, it's listed in the sidebar of this blog that I'm running for Davis Taylor and also in memory of Mary Claire, Laura's younger sister.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span">I never knew MC; we didn't overlap at UNC. But I know Laura and her family, and they are remarkable people. When they lost MC <span class="Apple-style-span">suddenly </span><span class="Apple-style-span">to leukemia in 2008, the way they reflected on her life with such joy and gratitude spoke volumes about the way they live their lives, about what they value. While hundreds of people sat heart-broken and searching for peace in the sanctuary, these three siblings courageously stood in front of all of us, each in turn and in birth order, rejoicing in the spirit of their youngest sister. And anyone who knows this smart, successful, kind family will know that talking-and talking fast- is certainly counted as one of their many gifts. Even as their hearts were irrevocably broken, they showered us with words of love and reminded us of the joy to be found in the celebration of MC's life.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Soon after they started <a href="http://www.mcspirit.org/index.php"><span class="Apple-style-span">The Mary Claire Satterly Foundation</span></a>, which <span class="Apple-style-span">"would provide support for charitable organizations and individuals with a focus on finding a cure for leukemia and improving the quality of life for patients and their families. The Foundation would promote Mary Claire's passion for the arts and scholarship in the field of journalism and advertising. And, most important, the Foundation would continue to share Mary Claire's story, her zest for life, her love for others, and her innate goodness."</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">The third annual <a href="http://www.mcspirit.org/mcspirit.php?p=mcnybenefit">gala and silent auction</a> in New York is coming up this weekend and I'm disappointed I can't be there. I know it's an incredible event where not only does MC's spirit shine, but so does the motto of the foundation-"Spirited living, inspired giving."</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">MC was a Tarheel both by birth and by right of attending UNC, and though I didn't know her, we share the bond of both being members of this fine community. When I looked around the table at Molly, Sandra, Laura, and Ashley, I felt grateful for them, for my time there, for lasting friendships forged out of four intense years that went by too quickly, much like MC's 27 years.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">I ran to honor her, her family, her friends, and my friend, her sister, Laura.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div></span>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-74409230681758775952010-11-16T17:54:00.001-08:002010-11-16T19:52:54.762-08:004:08.<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Several of you have asked recently, so there it is--I didn't mean to withhold important information! My finishing time, 8 minutes off my goal of 4 hours, which I never revealed here because quite frankly it's not important.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I realized this truth first at mile six when I had TWENTY MORE MILES to go and it became clear that it was crazy to try to reach this goal when I'd never run a marathon before, much less one with 45,000 other people in New York city.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I realized it again at mile 24 when I saw one of the 4 hour pace groups pass by. I've told several people that the Kelley Barnhardt I know would have chased that guy down without thought or question. But she was nowhere to be found, lost somewhere <span class="Apple-style-span">in the twilight zone.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ul5XXciEDPPwoNvo31qvW8fmx8BvO3CvSYATWkEPqMbqgh37t2A3VQv__Li-3nJzX47ZTVtwrGOcZ1fUPqMvQvL7sFo4h11A827g5XmMr3EniT9jGOlMRE1uCM-xaNeb-PCDRARavCw/s400/Kelley+after+race.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540338733488131106" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><div style="text-align: left;">I was still kind of in the twilight zone when I took this self-portrait during the long shuffle out of Central Park. If my face looks pixelated and grainy that's not only because I took the photo with my phone, but primarily because I'm covered in salt. I was hanging on by a thread at this point, but I can't tell you why because that's for a later post.</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So 4:08 it is. A long time to be running, no doubt. Hopefully the next one will be quicker.</span></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-21238457083245358822010-11-13T05:47:00.000-08:002010-11-14T10:47:40.830-08:00Expo(nentially larger than any other expo).<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15.8333px; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In 2008 when Jay ran the New York marathon, we arrived in th</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">e city on Saturday, 5 hours later than expected. Our original flight had been canceled and the airline called and left a mes</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">sage on our home </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">phone while we </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">were in the hospital having Patrick. I'm pretty sure at some point I heard and disregarded this important detail, as all other things paled in com</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">parison to the overwhelming fatigue and surprise </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I was feeling at the fact that I now h</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ad three children under the age of four.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In arriving late, we knew we had to get to the expo at the Javits Center before it closed, or there would be no marathon for Jay. The New York Road Ru</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">nners are very specific about this detail; if <b>you</b> don't pick up your packet by five on Saturd</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">ay, no marathon for you.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Let me take a moment and commend my h</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">usba</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">nd here. He was calm, collected, and contained all day, as we waited for a connecting flight to Atlanta(we originally had a direct flight), then wait</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ed more for a flight to New York that arrived at 3:30. At no point did he bla</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">me me for dismissing the phone call. At no point did he throw a hissy fit. At no point did he break down in complete panic at the fact that we wer</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">e going to literally be getting there at the las</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">t possible moment.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I wish I were more like him. Seriousl</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">y. <i>I</i> would have done <i>all </i>of these things.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Long story longer, we got there at 4:30 as they were breaking down the expo, in just enough time for Jay to retrieve his packet. He got what he needed and got out of there, just as the whole place was coming down.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This time, we were both looking forward to s</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">pending some time at the expo</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, and so headed over after my TNT run.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The expo is just like any other pre-race packet p</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ickup, except that the Javits Center takes up </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">5 city blocks, there are 45,000 runners pic</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">king up race bags, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryan_Hall_(runner)">Ryan Hall</a>, <a href="http://www.bartyasso.com/">Bart Ya</a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://www.bartyasso.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">sso</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, <a href="http://www.deenakastor.com/">Deena Kastor</a>, <a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-243-297--13053-0,00.html">Matt Long</a>, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Benoit">Joan Benoit S</a></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Benoit"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">amuelson</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> are there, among other running celebrities, and nearly every running vendor and/or energy bar/drink and/or technical gear</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> and/or charity team has a booth the</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">re.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Like everything else relative to New York and</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">its marathon (minus the bathrooms and our hotel </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">room), it's epi</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">c in scope.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Epic, too, was the surprise I felt when these two materialized out of the crowd at the expo.</span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRj-UIQMgRLL0WaK1ivExCL6SrnLcWXb_GvGtv9bs_OxH1O63y96J1tnXCn73KXiTZVAtT1HDkBkBXAykMLl0_xlfmkioeustpVhZ98BbhJF-Nd0HgFZH6DGNkwdeBWKqNZFoHh8GeBQc/s400/IMG_8173.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539162536715813810" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCxbGmb_ul_U3tErkihyphenhyphennon3QYScrBGCFNIJLNcF-tYkjTi4pt0AbgTBF980G2y35z8sSVkF9YsxtNcj5Cvq5s5TA5Qd1TusxspAKVnv6xQrc7Ewy7HybBzQkoUxVvC96aTW_toU_8V_U/s400/IMG_8176.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539210363712397746" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PUnl69TQgp4baXiJwgTIE315tkRjnvYYnmSZjyc9MQG5wmsn_KAd8Y-7ROQ6JBL9GZfPmO2MNTxM9n7kyuIhBATIdu_pWxzDKDJqU3_jf8x2pL4kedIh7UAdOdIk27FtLKoOdEFkfOk/s400/IMG_8177.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539161927727345698" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There had been a noticeable dearth of texts from Tommy the week prior to the race, and I chalked it up to him having a busy week at work. The night before the expo at dinner, however, Jay was tap tap tapping away on his phone, breaking one of our family rules of no talking on the phone or texting during dinner. I informed him that Tommy could wait until after our meal(and why isn't he texting <i>me</i>, the one who's running??) thank you very much, and you're setting a bad example for the kids, blah blah blah.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Alas. Plans had to be made, schedules coordinat<span class="Apple-style-span">ed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">After recovering from the shock of seeing <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/06/birthday-holla.html">Tommy</a> and <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/10/oh-no-she-diint.html">Madeleine</a>, I headed in to pick up my race number.</span></div></span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYx_opSsZmeIbi6eOWc7ZoZwPxysSb2MCMEOFLo_8ikW3htIkt6QXxZznq8SHmqXaTHRv8vI1Tb6FlCLEHH9EJ0jHmxFrSL7QwT37fnZGj0TyVVe2GeDb9B7erykBGWVS02DuWShgtI0/s400/IMG_8180.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539161928363447906" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBFxb0lbTe72Jv8fCOzD7E80DpQcY5bzZh1AzgPJyZKNX1q1z1gjifK9XdqNwmZklQHFOJai5u0TEZK9UUvrWkQqqRkG2ddylho8u1Tq-vj6pg4QLQjzsuQyRDEyNuj12QFoDw7db4gg/s400/IMG_8182.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539205360365900050" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpsDDcnI-1GNPyzKaKXeZ2EPwOklgwEkS6SvqqdtUD_OttoLvdMXDOIfZDDxca_r80y3Vl2O6z1rRffBhtulbV5sFDuiXZlpnWEGGIVQp70bCyAvTHijDm8hBYUATB-nRfB1QxXZB7-YI/s400/IMG_8185.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539207733124244802" /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Sidenote: If I'd known I was going to be so heavily photographed today, I wouldn't have worn a horizontally striped sweater.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><div></div></span></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0n3wxBJH4CYIhcXFJhChUu81abOkxvtdfi9IoAXKUeq2e3IDSmdBIx1y-Z2bE1MXsTE2bBV4gcBjDTK-W_9FBnTUX2Ms_1mAWVmOqCkwqemoKUUHSjF6iw8XHTX3ahieNqFVcBLOsGwY/s400/IMG_8224.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539384470876171394" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-D4ePELuDd_sQjW94WwauybeqtzkvB709y8yFx-dhyphenhyphenEouHexT0w0h0gokfQE_R6rZY_29XmarRGqHHcHsElltUTN4HMHgctAZNYeRTTwilF7WTifjiqtRamVRrDkUCMDGyorZdjqKThI/s400/IMG_8220.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539384029436407010" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryan_Hall_(runner)"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Ryan Hall</span></a></span></div></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBZmKFjPZ2J1GRRxHdm3uCUhkIuTK8XHxBAnVcKdJbFDPmvdcP1RpvnkAY3C9xZFSMmsb27BoyQAoivK3xANBjOuzDQRG_mfI0588f50QNj2ioNPYMndOAdnymlsbP56Xlh0qZ8jTQiEY/s400/IMG_8187.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539382361804263554" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://www.bartyasso.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Bart Yasso</span></a></span></div></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJ9DKElNXBUY-JDSxnMtTrKtKk2GiCUV17O5flYEt815paj_mq14PeuKoTw3N6m3Ot_W0lPzs06M0vvDPLiVPKHUupNvNwZ4-8f8Rm2dVMPhir3-rJIV3alIZNnxORGCl-osCEcyWH6M/s400/IMG_8192.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539387973176863842" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-243-297--13053-0,00.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Matt Long</span></a></span></div></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNClsRnXlCA4SOCa4HxJgcJd_387yIrMhdnWXavGNpZF0OQxUVqFcwumARTahvjX-j5b4oPfUdCbPlU5cAMO8Z3gPVJWMiATlBoFbUjrnVOad4bThwmu3bfRiNcz3hAkA03lpL4QqWg2o/s400/IMG_8196.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539382795947939122" /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At the Asics booth, they asked us to list why we were running the marathon and then filmed us holding our sign, running back and forth in front of the camera. Later they aired it in Times Square, pictured below. For the record, I did not "beat this guy." So of course I'll run another marathon.</span></span></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmEnZzL8SCmxFUgvXBTkSHPNm99wEpi8GNOJClKvvoDbsFTwKldc0p-dxxFIoeJsLm7ycZ2mbBkPbioBZxUd0_rwM6XJBqq_KseLj1J8TNbM-aBOqb9Afofb67rDLEi0rk7fkNrqtkGg/s400/IMG_8456.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539396451084800450" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AjRYccucqlCHzZpkKWwld7aI1-ZcvOxNO_szHN68Om-koAugaiKCrxlHUHz3D62rY0K1drnMX72vgRv4oLOwyZZDJ2jCD5dGYsHtOUP-PKMvHK6W0D-tsh4cqNubml9YlvNwqBBL5gg/s400/IMG_8216.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539383621657350066" /></span></div><div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjptGosz5LvtwxVpNr17q26eFQVg9hgv56XPTj56dXr8hNGjaL43f6Vs_ENE1wGUzgp694fRCAEhnGvj5Aa8BEjwBPZafRjL8rh_HdXW6cYtCLrTFwNkmV45WHzIDoIvRtLEMFyTcW0nc/s400/IMG_8211.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539383229329992098" /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My two best fans, sticking to their word.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Stay tuned for more pre-race coverage.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-36288479336156861942010-11-12T07:27:00.001-08:002010-11-12T12:39:53.882-08:00Go Team.<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyxgrYseiQOEW8CFmpdpp0DktJ1Zios1CzeWaQYApq5A_j9S7Mw1dISKPgyohlVD4BYIGlv3moC6grqeJ8Or9SbN4sASmSqWO07Ul59gR0Jg1r5srSvi66z_N4y3_rkxvvf7eqc1ccI8/s1600/header_logo.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 165px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyxgrYseiQOEW8CFmpdpp0DktJ1Zios1CzeWaQYApq5A_j9S7Mw1dISKPgyohlVD4BYIGlv3moC6grqeJ8Or9SbN4sASmSqWO07Ul59gR0Jg1r5srSvi66z_N4y3_rkxvvf7eqc1ccI8/s320/header_logo.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538696283969776754" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">On Saturday morning, before meeting the Virtual Team in Training (VTNT) team downstairs in the hotel lobby for a quick 20 minute run, I ran across the street to Starbucks for a quick coffee. When I walked inside, I saw that the place was jammed wall to wall with runners, all teched out in snazzy gear and chatting excitedly in every language imaginable over their coffee and pastry.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">I got in line and immediately started to panic, thinking "Ohmygosh all these people are so insanely fit and casual about it and totally prepared and they'll all probably run it superfast and do I need to wear pants or shorts and should I also be wearing a neckwarmer and Ohmygosh all of these people are getting ready to run a MARATHON for the love of Pete and here they are just sitting around and they're totally ready..."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Then I imagined smacking myself on the shoulder and thought "Ok, Crazytown. Settle down. You too are dressed head to toe in reflective spandex and you too are ready. Take. It. Easy."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Once I came down off of (one of the many) ledges I've been on lately, I walked back across the street to meet the rest of the team. <span class="Apple-style-span">My TNT experience was different from most in that it was virtual, meaning the Greenville chapter doesn't offer the New York marathon as an event in which to participate. So o</span><span class="Apple-style-span">ther than corresponding with Coach Joe English via email and the various emails from the TNT office regarding <a href="http://pages.teamintraining.org/vtnt/nyc10/kbarnhardt">f</a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><a href="http://pages.teamintraining.org/vtnt/nyc10/kbarnhardt">undraising</a> and logistics, I knew no one.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There were 18 of us from all over the country, and though I only caught their first names, I immediately felt like a part of the Team. We were all in the same boat-one full of nerves, anticipation, and excitement-and we were all committed to a cause for our own reasons. I ran briefly with a man named Tom who has a niece at St. Jude's and raised over $16,000. I ran with Kim, who'd just qualified for Boston 3 weeks ago and is running the Paris marathon for TNT in the spring. I chatted with Felix, who'd held </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">a charity pub crawl in his hometown to raise money for this event.</span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpjlgcyh1my_DiMMz7vvIjcEApidMlj_zQwW83G-EmivpMYLS4lkDWZEXPMwFb0Uu5wsGpE-fkYda3FM-R-o3cCBi3aSH1IOTElE0sqjdEDPWZ8e0kcsS5Z56Obqu-fjnPxHW3QiYMuoo/s400/VTNT.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538735686679405954" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">VTNT photo by Joe English</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'm going to fast-forward here and tell you that when I crossed the finish line, I thought to myself, "Well. That was that. Done and Done. And never again." If you know me at all, you'll know that was temporary, and that I'm already lining up </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">another race. But what's interesting now is that I'm running just to run, whereas with this race, I was running for something bigger, something much more important than a marathon-a cure. It was a powerful incentive and a ready motivator when the miles got long. (And thankfully <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/07/one-foot-in-front-of-other.html">Kenya</a> never looked out the window and saw me <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/09/voyage-of-dawn-treader.html">running, crying, laughing,</a> and crying some more.)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I would run for TNT again in a second, so organized, supportive, and committed to a cure are they that they have people who run again and again and again. And out on the course when people would yell "Go Team!" I knew they were cheering for me to run strong, but in my mind they were applauding all of you who supported me, because you made it happen.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3455010805993403580.post-73633282887283818072010-11-10T20:34:00.000-08:002010-11-13T13:56:15.352-08:00Break It Down.<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1eYIpeM0wm2OWz2gRYr7Gzzm1QdjxRbS-ryL0LVEcD5ECq1rA-z27sG6iNQkvVo4QIG_ZbKRt48vFg_ZanfbQ8nVr5J5h_fCzDXQlqaTUuZEMVNCPAJWbgLmA5SWWMYeIJT5-Ks3_sHA/s400/downsized_1105001030.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538146186438139570" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Right now there really aren't adequate words to describe the enormity of this past weekend, so I'm going to have to write about this thing incrementally, as it comes to me. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I just came across this picture on my phone of these two stowaways, Thomas and his teddy bear, aka Teddybearydough, or TBD for short. Back in <a href="http://runningincircles-kelley.blogspot.com/2010/07/start-spreading-news.html">July I mentioned</a> that Jay and I were going to take Cameron with us to New York for a special ki</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">ndergarten trip, but the closer we got to our departure the more we couldn't bare the thought of not having Thomas along too. So some time in October we checked the flights, saw there was availability, and booked it.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The only requirement for Cameron and Thomas to come to New York was that they had to cheer during the race. Their typical race-day demeanor is pouty, grouchy, and lackluster, and to be fair it's typically early, cold, and/or raining. But they were up for it this time and they stuck to their word, waving signs and thwacking their accordion noisemakers out along the course all day...and in the hotel, and on the elevator, a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">nd on each other's heads, and on the subway, which, incidentally, was probably their favorite part about the whole trip. That and riding in a cab with no carseats. T<span class="Apple-style-span">hese boys-and one teddy bear-were living it up big city style!</span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk0Bic35WT2iO7nVoCGfk3ETged0nzKGRYBFpmdpDAqGyxdT0bbWbySAqNeflv8Ix9SX5-hPRGp3fbh4YcepHTkipZjDr96-keB8LEWPGF_-XUJ_hg09EdB3nCsnzeRmuFH1NSmr1_TvE/s400/IMG_8108.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539156241622032978" />Kelley Barnhardthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03107459816140944832noreply@blogger.com3