Sweet Victory

Last night, I learned that Jon Obst, one of the best diabetic ultra runners the world has known and my teammate on the original Team Type 1 Running Team, had passed away. For me and for everyone who knew Jon, the news was heartbreaking. Since I learned about Jon's death, I've been thinking about the stories I knew about him. It would be entirely incorrect to say we were close. Near as I can count, we spent time together on four weekends for races, with a casual Facebook relationship in between and since. But the thing with Jon was, you didn't have to spend much time with him to feel close to him. Before I begin,  I want you to know how good of a runner Jon was. If you look at his results , you'll see that he completed 36 ultra races, finishing 11 of them on the podium. Anyone who has completed a single ultra knows how deep of a well it takes you to compete in such races. Keep in mind, this list doesn't include the races Jon didn't finish and anyone who knows

One thing about the Internet - it does have a way of connecting people. After my recent post about Lyme disease, I received a lot of messages from people. A fair amount of sympathy (which I don't wear well), a greater amount of empathy (which I adore) and a fair amount of advice. Along the way, someone asked me about my current supplement. Rather than responding directly, I decided to put it all here, in case it's useful for anyone. The obvious caveat: your situation, symptoms, budget and tolerance will vary. Not might. Will. Also, this post isn't going to discuss dietary changes I've made or are considering. As much as I can, I'm not super interested in removing things from my life. If eventually, I have to, fine. But for now, this is what I've added, and why. The Basics Prior to my lyme diagnosis, I was focused on my thyroid being to blame for my fatigue. (Like many diabetics, I'm on Synthroid.) In my research, I learned that these are common sup

“ And if you ever get scared, look on the bright side: You’ve got a new life.” – Amos Lee Last month, I was diagnosed with Lyme disease. Since then, I’ve tried to write this essay a few times. The first attempt followed a narrative arc rife with suspense, with a few years of frustrating doctors’ visits, mysterious symptoms that came and went and the all-around sentiment that the batteries that powered my body were no longer able to sustain a charge or be fully refueled at the end of the day. But if you Google Lyme disease, you realize there’s nothing unique about that story. In fact, the reality that my own diagnosis came only two years after all of this started makes this a much shorter story than it is for many. The theme of the second version was more pitiful, tinged with regret about what this had taken from me over the past two years and what it might take in the future. But honestly, that one didn’t get far at all. If there’s a good time for something like

It’s never too late to find love. I had a dog once, rebooted from a home that Apparently had no toys. When we got her, we offered up a buffet of balls, bones and other expensive forms of molded rubber and plastic. She ignored them all, disinterested to find even a moment of bliss - in any one of them. She lived this way for quite some time Seemingly okay with a life without material - affection. One day, she came across a cloth mouse Long since discarded by the cat who now favored - killing the real thing. In a single moment, she became something we’d never seen before. Bringing it everywhere playfully pawing and chewing it, taking it to bed searching for it when she entered a room ignoring her food if it wasn’t beside her and unable to focus on anything else. I’d never seen her happier, or stupider. It only took me a short while to stop enjoying her bliss and start worrying what she’d do when - she lost this. Would she return to her previous mode of gent

Were he alive, my father would not have been on Facebook. He lived in three dimensions, not two. He guzzled cheap beer when he was healthy and sipped blackberry brandy when he wasn't. He cut firewood in the late fall, sometimes with an axe sometimes with a chainsaw but always with snot dripping from his nose. I stacked the wood, going from annoyance to indignation until I finally came out the other end With pride. I held flashlights while he skinned his knuckles On everything. Late evening he'd watch the ballgame with a beer. I'd trace the veins on his hands, smell the Old Spice on his face and the bubbles in his glass. The wounds on his hands seemed so fresh but not once Not ever did I ever hear him Complain and never Not ever did I see him -flinch.

We come, young, old, etc. Those observing must wonder  What common trauma unites, bonds Brings us all together  - for this. First day check-ins, eager grins Mostly some Wondering what the hell they'd gotten Into. For some it takes hours for others Days but a week for all is  Plenty good to feel a sense of  Something you haven't  - before. We sweat, we cry, we bleed one Drop at a time confirming, affirming that What makes this perfect is nothing - more Than our own imperfections. An observer might say oh: Sweat, tears, blood - it's salt that Brings you all here but they'd be dead Wrong because it's the opposite of - that. It's the sweetness, the sugar the old Folks called it, that thing that robs Vision, limbs and even years from Our clutches. But not here. Here, we run we ride we jump we climb Higher and further away, away from Doctors from doubt from anything that says - No. Here, we laugh at our failures, here we Ponder possibilities consider new Realities and