May Day... Made it.

Well, here it is. A year ago, during what should have be a triumphant week of personal achievement and recognition, I lost just about everything I loved and hoped for. I expected it to kill me.It didn't. If not for the people who believed in me when I was ready to give up on life, I'm not sure I'd be here to remember that terrible time. And for that... for the people who did not give up on me, I'm thanking God today.

I'm not going to rehash the details here. I've relived them every day for a year. A Major Depression episode, one that I can now see had been a developing for a long time struck me just as I was about to finish my second marathon, raise several thousand dollars for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, and receive an award from the YMCA of Central Kentucky for my "spirit." The attack, and its consequences threw my career off the rails and was the last straw for my marriage. I thought I would die. Several times, I wished I would.

By June, I was living in a tiny apartment. My coaches were gone. My wife was gone. No more dogs greeting me at the door. No more Kizzie curled up on my chest, purring me to sleep. My Mom was confused and broken hearted. My income was cut to a trickle. There were no more happy endings left to hope for.

Two things saved my life. And they are the reason I'm writing today. Because I know that someday, someone who feels the way I felt a year ago is going to find this blog on the day that they need a reason to keep living.

I found out that there were people who still believed in me. My dearest friends didn't give up on me. My boss, who had every right to fire me, let me stay. With cautious compassion, he let me earn a new place at the Y. Not the one I had before. The "career track" was not one I could expect to travel any more. But he gave me a chance. And that gave me a purpose.

I found out that I could still contribute. I could still make a difference in people's lives. Even broken and hopeless, I could still help. No, I'm not going to ever be a director of anything at the Y. I don't think I'll ever be one of the guys who wears ties and goes to meetings with the big shots. But I'll be helping people, people who have been known setbacks themselves. They have had cancer and diabetes, chronic pain and chronic depression. They are old and sick and tired and fat and the world keeps telling them to give up and some kind of spark inside them says that life is worth living anyway. And I get to help them keep that spark alive.

And that purpose, that cause helps keep me alive. I found a chance to serve.

So, a year after it all fell to pieces, I can't really say my life is good today. I'm broke. Often lonely. Always at least a little sad. I'm still a very hard person to love. And a very reliable source of income for the head-shrinkers.

But dammit, I'm still here. It didn't kill me. I thought I'd lost everything. But God stayed faithful. God sent me people and a purpose. I believe that. Am I hopeful? No, not yet. I still don't see any happy endings down the road.

But I can still see the road, and I am grateful for that. He may be doing it with tears in his eyes, and a broken heart in his chest, but The Fat Man is still running.

And I hope, if you are that person, the one who will read this someday when you need to see it the most, I pray that you will find your way to keep running, too. I know you can do it. Because I did.

Peace,
Bob

God Bless You, Old Lion

There's a slogan I've been seeing a lot on Facebook lately. "The lion does not trouble himself about the opinions of sheep," or words to that effect. I find it arrogant and disrespectful. I have pretty low self-esteem, but even I can't imagine how badly you have to feel about yourself before you find comfort in the thought that you are the lone, brave, strong creature surrounded by flocks of cowards and followers. And the Lion deserves better.

I was born under constellation of the Lion at the end of a hot July in Pittsburgh. I've always been inspired by the fire of the Lion. The sharp eyes. The rippling shoulders. The sandy color. The strength. Devotion to the Pride. I've always wished I could be more like the Lion of Summer.

But today is March 1, and there is another Lion on my mind. Ferocious. Powerful. Deadly. And dying. Whenever I picture March coming "in like a lion," I never see the mighty hunter, leader of the Pride, dreadful and courageous, standing on a rise roaring out his claim on everything he surveys. The Lion of March is an old lion. A few weeks ago, he could freeze the world with a low rumble from his mighty chest or a puff from his nostrils. Not long ago, a swipe of his giant paw brought whole cities to a standstill. Today, he is still dangerous. There is still power in those broad shoulders, but there is grey under the chin. His vision is still sharp, but he has to squint a little to see into the distance. There is still power in his stride, but he rises stiffly. He is still the King. But no longer the King he once was.

Last night, I was feeling pretty agitated. I had left the house early that day with an ambitious list of tasks... things that I had chosen and that mattered to me... and seemed to hit roadblocks at every turn. Procedures. Attitudes. The things I wanted were so simple. The people I needed to help me were so unwilling. Finally, I went home, too angry and frustrated to trust myself in public. I know when my temper is close to boiling. I start swearing to myself. I've learned that if I don't get away from people pretty quickly once that starts, I end up saying things that are stupid and cruel.... sort of along the lines of "the lion does not trouble himself..."

So I went home. Locked the door. Grabbed the ice cream. Screw it. I'll get drunk in a minute. Right now, I'm going to eat. Whatever the hell I want. As much as I want. I don't care.

I was angry. I wanted to hurt someone... so I decided to hurt myself.

I really don't know what changed my mind. I've been working on a new habit. I've been keeping a food diary. So without really thinking about it, I took the open half gallon of Mint Chocolate Chip and the spoon and walked to my computer to log them. Curious, I entered the value that would add the calories, fat, sugar, from half a gallon - 8 cups - of ice cream. And I stared at the number. Just under 3000 calories. Just about what I burned during my last Marathon. Was I really that angry? Did I hate myself that much? Enough to erase a Marathon's worth of progress in a 20 minute binge of self destruction?

It wasn't the sheep's opinion I had to worry about, you see. It was the lion's. It was my own opinion.

I put the carton back in the freezer. Chopped some peppers and onions. Cooked some beans and rice. Printed the workout I had decided to put off till the weekend.

After supper, I went to the gym. Treadmill. Weight room. Stationary bike. Almost two hours worth. Around 1600 calories burned. As I walked out into the corridor, drenched, with my clipboard in one hand and my empty water bottle in the other, my soaked towel draped over my head, a woman said something to me that I didn't hear. Headphones. I pulled them out and said, "Sorry? What?"

"I don't know how you do it." She looked like she might be around thirty five. Very pretty. Very heavy. Was she somebody's mom? Was she here on a Friday night to watch her kids play basketball, or to try to keep her New Year's resolution, or just to be someplace besides home alone? I didn't ask.

"I don't have any choice. I can either do this, or die a fat old man."

I didn't add, "like my father." But that's what I was thinking. I may be an old lion. And I may be so filled with anger and hate sometimes that I have to go hide before I bust... but I am not ready to die.

Not yet.

So, roar on, you old Lion of Winter. The weather prophets say you have a few more good fights in you before March goes out like a lamb. Bring 'em on. Don't give up, you old Lion.

Because every time you find the strength for one more hunt, one more fight, one more shout over the frozen ground that tells the world that you aren't dead yet... you give this old lion hope.

Roar on, Old Lion.

Glorious Summer

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer...

So begins Shakespeare's telling of Richard III, and so begins my own summer of 2013.

Lord, but this was an ugly spring.

Not outside. Been great running weather. The flowers were and are still beautiful. The lawns and trees are lush and verdant. Kentucky has been wearing her Derby best since long before the race. But my heart has taken a beating.

Lost my mentor and dear friend.

Lost my grip on emotional and mental stability during a bipolar episode that lasted for 6 weeks or more.

Set my new career back by months or maybe years.

Lost my personal trainer.

More funerals than I can keep track of.

And I'm writing this morning in a one bedroom apartment where I now live because I've separated from my wife, perhaps for good.

I'm not sure at all that I wouldn't prefer to repeat the spring I learned I had cancer over the one I just finished. It has been ugly. But by the grace of God and the love of God's people, I'm still standing.

There is a scene in The Raging Bull where Jake bellows across the ring at Sugar Ray Robinson after taking a beating from the great champion. "I never went down, Ray. Never went down." He took everything that the champ had, and lost the fight, but he stayed on his feet. Well, I don't mind admitting that I went down. Hard. Dropped my guard. Took one or two or ten to the chin. I saw stars. I heard the count. But by God, I never stayed down.

When you pray the stations of the cross, you walk along with Jesus as he travels from his betrayal to his death. And three times, he stops and falls. Three times, Jesus has to decide whether to give up, or keep going. And by God, he keeps getting back up. Taking more blows. Making his way to the death that will ultimately bring redemption.

There are times when I would like to be able to point my bruised and bloody finger into Life's face and say, "I never went down." But failing that, I guess Jesus isn't such a bad role model. It sounds crazy, but this dark season hit me harder and from more directions than cancer ever did. Still, the lessons cancer taught me keep paying dividends. That disease knocked me down, too, but it also taught me how to get back up. How to lean on the people who love me. How to fight for my life when my life doesn't seem worth the trouble. How I am never alone. How God will never stop sending me the love I need to survive, often from places and people I would never have expected to find it. How much a run in the cool of the morning can reconnect me to my Creator and the Creation of which I remain a valued, if deeply flawed part.

As I sit here typing, I'm looking out my window onto North Broadway in Lexington. Ambulances scream down from the outer counties toward the hospitals on the "good" side of town. Cars zip by carrying people on their way to work. A neighbor who looks for all the world like a transvestite hooker from the West Village in Manhattan struts in hot pants as drivers honk at her. And above, the sugar maple glows gold and green with the light of a new morning. So much has changed. So much of what made up my life a few months ago is gone. But some things remain.

It is still a funny, inspiring, beautiful world.

Life is still worth fighting for.

There is still a chance for my dreams to come true.

There are still people who trust and depend on me.

God is still faithful.

And always, always, always...

It's a Great Day for a Run.

Peace,
Pennsy