Ten Years to Tucson

(First leg in my Celebration of Life Tour.)

April 8, 2005

This morning, I finished something I started over ten years ago. I made it to Tucson.

It all started with a race. I had planned to run the Tucson Marathon in January 1995, but my feet started tingling in late December, so I didn't register. Instead, I changed my practice routine to a faster mile time and ran the half-marathon portion of the ARR Desert Classic Marathon in February 1995.

It was my last race. The tingling in my feet would soon become intense pain. My years of ultra long-distance running along the ridgeline of South Mountain had caused permanent nerve damage to my feet. Running, which gave me my freedom, would soon take it away.

By May 1995, the docs from the Mayo Clinic had me in a wheelchair, telling me I would never run again. I spent six months in my bucket. I spent another year learning how to walk again and doing it without a limp. I also learned to live with chronic pain and not show it, cuz feelings weren't allowed in the Tempe household.

By 2001, I was back in the wheelchair for six months. In 2002, it was seven months. In January 2003, I was in my wheelchair again. My long-term prognosis wasn't good, so I made plans to live the rest of my life in a wheelchair. I took a chance at surgery in August 2003 and started walking again, albeit with a gimpy right leg, but walking nonetheless.

When I first rode in my bucket in 1995, I made a promise to myself to complete my race to Tucson. Until that point, I had completed every race. I never DNFed - Did Not Finish. I knew I couldn't run it, bike it or walk it, but I'd make it someday.

It sounds easy, but it's not. I had opportunities to go to Tucson during my marriage, but I didn't want to share my emotional journey with a woman I didn't love and who didn't love me.

After I was divorced in August 2002, I started thinking about the race again, but that was short-lived. Within a few months, I was in my wheelchair again, trying to make my world small enough to accommodate the pain. I gave up hope of ever making it to Tucson, but a buddy talked me into going with him. However, at the last minute, he couldn't make it. With or without him, Tucson became my goal again.

Since December 2004, the pain has gradually lessened to the point where it doesn't control my life any more. It still hurts when I walk, but I can walk further now. Without the chronic pain, I could explore the world again and make plans to finally finish my race.

It also meant I'd have to confront my life as a gimp. It's something I've purposely ignored, like the people who look at me when I walk. I had to accept the fact that this is how my life's gonna be from now on. It took me awhile to sort it out (I'm still working on parts of it), but I was ready for Tucson this morning.

K, my daughter, wished me well. She knew how important this day was to me and why I had to make the trip alone.

I was supposed to make the trek with that buddy of mine, Greg Carrel. He was one of the Good Guys who was supposed to live forever, but he didn't. One morning in the fall of 2003, Greg woke up, got ready for work and his heart stopped.

Greg was a good-hearted, decent guy who touched the lives of many people and helped an equal number by just being himself. He was that kinda guy. The kind that everybody liked.

We had a lot in common: fishing for the sake of talking, woodworking, computer geekery and parenting. Just like me, he was divorced and raising a daughter.

Over time, he became a brother to me. (A brother that I wish was still here to make the trip with me. I miss him.)

I never got a chance to thank Greg or tell him how much I appreciated his friendship. I guess that's something brothers always forget to say, thinking we'll have enough time. I made it a point not to make the same mistake with my brother Steve.

My destination in Tucson was the Pima Air & Space Museum. Greg and I talked about it from time to time and made plans to do a road trip to celebrate my ability to walk again. We'd joke about being two computer geeks surrounded by flying machinery. We'd be like a coupla kids with ten dollars in a five-and-dime candy store - all eyeballs and tongue wondering where to look next.

As I pulled into the Museum's entrance, a flight of two A-10 Warthogs flew low overhead on their final approach to Davis Monthan Air Force Base. I made it. I said a prayer for Greg. He made it too. Thanks for everything, Greg. Thank you, Brother.

I skipped the Museum and took the AMARC Tour to see the aircraft bone yard. When it was over, I got directions to the Titan Missile Museum. In my haste to get there, I didn't see the steel I-beam parking impediment. I drove over it and listened to the right front tire hiss flat. I'm flat on the same side. I smiled, then busted out laughing. Brand new tires and it had to happen here.

Two hours later, a new tire buzzed beneath my truck as I headed home on I-10 to Chandler. I welcomed the heavy traffic and the afternoon tunes as I sorted out the day and the last ten years of my life.

When I first started running races, I was intent on making my personal best at every event. In these early races, I would get caught up in the excitement and forget my pacing. I'd be three or four miles from the finish line, nearly exhausted and frustrated. That's when someone would pull up next to me and start talking. It was obvious the other guy was a better runner than me, but he would set his pace to mine and we'd finish the race together. He helped me finish my race while giving up his own.

Once I was attuned to these stewards, I saw them at all the races. They were old, young, women and men. They weren't doing the race for their personal best time. They had nothing to prove. They were there for the camaraderie. Hanging back and running slow, they were there to help others. A lot of them didn't even pick-up their shirts.

It took me a coupla years to do all of the races and make my personal bests. Then on a half-marathon through Scottsdale, I became a steward. A fellow who looked a lot like me on a bad racing day was about to give-up and start walking. I pulled up next to him and asked if I could run with him. We did a slow jog to the finish line where I let him beat me by a coupla strides. I didn't pick-up my t-shirt that day.

I started doing that at all of my races, except my last one. On that day, I was hurting three miles out from the finish line. A steward came up to help me. I told him what time I needed and he helped me set a personal best for a half-marathon.

We were hoofing it pretty fast. On the last quarter mile, he shouted over to me,"Let's make this a real race". He beat me, but not by much.

He didn't pick-up his shirt that day, but I picked-up mine. I'm wearing it tonight as I write this. It's my ten year badge. I earned it.


It took me ten years to get to Tucson. It was a helluva long journey. One that I wouldn't trade for the world, as odd as that sounds.

It was a journey where I learned a lot about people and myself.

I learned about life, how to share it and who to share it with.

I found out it's not how fast you are or how far you can run in life.

It's about helping somebody finish their race.

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