Mountain to Sea Trail

I ran. And I kept running.

It’s not as if I was going fast, like I was running a 5k or anything, but I was running too fast – between 11 and 13 minute miles. For repeated daily long runs over two months, I might regret this pace.

My legs felt fresh even through the middle of the day, when I stopped at the RV near a bridge. I sat down, Meidad and Chuck made sure that I had calories going into my body. Dean was checking my feet for blisters. We were all moving like a pumped up NASCAR team (except I was driving a Taurus). It was exhilarating, a dream come true, and entirely unnecessary. I had all day to get to Rodanthe (otherwise known as Chicamacomico).

The Outer Banks are fantastic, unusual – dramatic. Its beaches can be sedate and almost sleep-inducing, but yet still feel like your sitting in the percussion section of a large orchestra pit. The breezes push, pull and swirl around you at high speeds. Even when the temperatures creep up above 70 degrees, you need a windbreaker to keep from shivering. The waves that crash, aren’t always huge, but they tinkle like chimes, they deepen to timpani and build to a deep bass boom as they work they edges of the coast. The sound is constant and it allows me to stay mentally away from some of the pain in my feet or legs much of the time that I run through the maelstrom.

Again, the weather was great and I paralleled the beach on NC Highway 12 and crossed the bridge over Oregon Inlet from Bodie Island to Pea Island. The bridges were busy with cars and lots of dead seagulls (why do seagulls have such a tough time dodging cars?), but I really didn’t have too much trouble. Most all the drivers were nice and waved. A few of them scared me when they were obviously engaged with their cell phones. Dang, those things are lethal – cell phones, I mean.

I found a visitor’s center soon after I crossed the bridge, and noticed a side trail. Was this a scenic shortcut? Could I dodge cars the cars for a few miles? Yep. I took it and it went to… the end of the trail and then I turned around. My crew loved losing me for about 30 minutes. While they freaked out, I did get a couple of pictures and saw a big raccoon with a bright red tail. Let’s call that a win for adventure. If you ask Dean, he might call it something else.

Pea Island, interestingly, has existed and not existed over past 300 years depending on the New Inlet (to the South) and Oregon Inlet (on the North), that separate them from the other Islands. In fact, until recently, Pea Island wasn’t truly separated from Hatteras until 2011, when the New Inlet connected the Pamlico Sound with the Atlantic Ocean. These islands won’t stay still for too long.

From Pea Island, I crossed over the New Inlet Bridge onto Hatteras Island, not too far from my ending destination. After crossing this bridge, I had run over 28 miles, and was really starting to feel the aching and fatigue. My enthusiasm for what I was doing hadn’t abated. I was hungry, but nothing that a granola bar wouldn’t sate. I finally turned on my headphones and found some music to distract me. I started off with Foo Fighters, but moved over to Chris Robinson Brotherhood. I just needed something to sing to, to find a rhythm. I felt good and just wanted to fly through the rest of the state exactly like that.

Find the joy in what your doing. It’s there. Some days you just have to look a little harder. Keep Moving Forward.

I woke up at 5:30am this morning, sore but excited. Honestly, I wasn’t even thinking of a “mission” or a “purpose”. I was just excited that the weather was good, that I could smell salt air and I really was looking forward to eating fish tacos at the end of the run.

I only had half as much mileage planned for today as I had done on day 1, so this should be a piece of cake. Right?

On the Outer Banks, I can go North or South without get seriously wet, so I headed in the direction that Dean pointed (South), and set out with my head down and my hair blowing in the breeze.

Once again,  I led off with what I thought was an easy pace out of the KOA Campground in Rodanthe was in the next town, Salvo, after a mile or so of running. I noticed foot bridges over waterways, little shoulders along most roads, and lots of dead birds, especially around bridges. I had a feeling this was going to be a theme the whole time I was moving along the Outer Banks, and today, through the “tri-villages” of Rodanthe, Salvo and Waves.

Rodanthe isn’t an official town, in that it isn’t an incorporated municipality. It has fewer than 270 residents year-round and depends on it’s income from seasonal tourism, and was originally part of the Chicamacomico settlement.

Salvo to the South, is only slightly smaller than Rodanthe. Originally named Clarksville, the town was renamed “Salvo” after the Civil War, when a barrage canon fire from a Union Navy ship led one of the sailors to mark “salvo” on a map, indicating the settlement area where they had attacked.

Waves is about half as big as Salvo, and I couldn’t tell you where one of these three villages ends and the other begins. The residents don’t seem to care. I supposed when you live out in the Atlantic Ocean, and your day-to-day life consists of dramatic life and death beauty, the only boundaries that are important are “water” and “no water”.

Comparatively, Avon is a metropolis, as it is almost as large as all three of the tri-villages combined, and I felt as if I had really reached the big city as I passed a Subway sandwich shop. Avon’s original name was Kinnakeet, Algonquin for “that which is mixed”, but was renamed in 1883 to give the town a little more European flavor. Nothing about the Algonquian peoples seemed to still be in existence, and other than a reference made on the welcome sign, this was just another Outer Banks village.

The day went fast and I finished my run in a little over 3 hours. I hopped in Dean’s car and headed back to the campsite to shower and raise my feet. Am I going too fast? It sure does give me time to reflect, eat and sleep, I guess…. I’ll have to analyze this later.

One event that I had been looking forward to for a couple of months was fish tacos at Atlantic Coast Cafe. They didn’t disappoint. I overindulged with little guilt, headed back to the RV and crashed, still excited about the upcoming day. My legs were tired but still felt fresh. How fast could I go? Could I finish the next 17 miles before 1:00pm? Should I?

Listen to your inner voice. It isn’t always right, but the fact that it has something to say is meaningful nonetheless. Keep Moving Forward.

On Day three, I started to really feel it. Today, the trail took me until I couldn’t go any further without a little help from the Hatteras Ferry. It was a relatively short 17 mile run compared to what is coming.

It is only the third day of a two day trip, but running along the Outer Banks was becoming a bit predictable already. I see dunes to the left of me, scrub brush and dead birds to the right of me, and lots of road and cars in front of me and I head South.

I’d like to say that I stopped and admired the many splendid things on this portion of the Mountains to Sea Trail, but I didn’t. I really didn’t. I ran too fast. I didn’t stop enough to take pictures, and my observations were limited to analyzing the buzzing in my head. I was fixed and focused on accomplishing the big goal. I couldn’t settle into being. Not yet. I wasn’t nearly exhausted enough to let go.

The joy that I was feeling was movement. And isn’t that part of my goal? I keep telling everybody to “Keep Moving Forward”. Everybody moves in different ways and at different paces and maybe this is my pace today. On day three of this journey, my pace was blistering considering what I have coming up. I may not have been racing at a podium pace, but I wasn’t stopping to smell the roses (or bliss-out on the crashing waves) either.

My end goal for the day was the ferry. At the ferry, my run day would be over. The plan was to run 17 miles to the end of the island, jump into the RV, and then ride across the Hatteras Ferry over to Ocracoke Island, where we would find a place to camp for the night, and then start running again at the at the ferry dock the next morning. My role was to be the legs. The muscle. The physical vessel for whatever we’re trying to accomplish. I was also the face of Throwing Bones’ mission. I had to find a voice and I still didn’t know what it sounded like yet.

The run was sunny and predictably gorgeous. My body moved well, and I paused briefly at Buxton and Hatteras for selfies in front of the town signs. I changed into a MMRF tank top as I veered through Hatteras to the ferry, so that I could send pictures to the folks at the research foundation to let them know I was thinking about them. Before I knew it, the RV was right in front of me, Chuck stepped out, ushered me in and I was in an air conditioned apartment on wheels waiting for our turn to hop on the Hatteras Island Ferry. At least for today, part of my job was done.

I could tell that Dean, Chuck and Meidad were all trying to find their roles too. Where were they supposed to be? How much should they mother-hen me? Coach? Cajole? Berate?

Meidad stood out early as a really good cook. He fixed amazingly healthy and mostly vegetarian meals. I don’t think I have met a physician that was focused so much on a holistic preventative approach to patient care. Keeping me healthy might prevent me from being unhealthy? At the very least, less unhealthy? Where’d this guy come from?

I have never considered myself vegetarian or vegan, but as I have gotten older and more aware of how the food I take into my body affects me, I realize the value of eating a more plant-focused diet. I have read Rich Roll and Scott Jurek books that discuss in detail their own plant-based diets (with some decent research to backup their findings). Many other ultra runners and athletes that I admire have seen value in removing most if not all animal-based protein from what they consume. Considering that I have cancer and that I want to feel good for as long as I can, I should probably pay close attention to how I fuel it. For the next 1100-1200 miles it might be a good idea to observe what I eat and compare to what I do when I eat what I eat. There are so many articles and white papers available on this subject that I could write a book and never finish running across the state. For now, we’ll approach this topic simply, make an educated assumption and see how that goes.

My hypothesis is that while exerting myself for 6-12 hours per day, I will probably notice an increase in energy levels that are sustained for longer periods of time (between food breaks), while fueling with meat than if I were to only fuel with plant-based proteins and calories. Whether I should or not, won’t be something that I’ll be able to determine just based on how I feel. I feel confident that we all struggle with overeating, drinking too much and excess caffeine, alcohol and drug use because of how we feel at any particular moment. Sometimes we base how we fuel ourselves at home, in the car or at the office to boost how we “feel”. Those aren’t particularly good reasons to eat like that all the time, however.

Meat consumption has been linked to cancer risk. This isn’t breaking news. One Harvard study showed that “daily meat eaters have approximately three times the colon cancer risk, compared to those who rarely eat meat.” This isn’t just one study and it has been reflected in trial after trial over the years. Amongst scientists there isn’t much argument as to the value of reducing meat consumption for no other reason than health. But the question is, is it all or nothing?

Let’s assume that it is necessarily true that eating too much meat is unhealthy.  Let’s also save the ethics of eating eating meet for another time. Can we, or should we include meat in what we eat?

Cancer is a pretty big theme in my life, so let’s look  there first. While there isn’t much research on the increase of blood cancers, specifically, that are connected to higher meat consumption, it is all but conclusive that “meat, animal products, and other fatty foods are frequently found to increase risk [of cancer]”. In contrast, diets high in fiber, such as whole grains, legumes, fruits and vegetables have been shown to reduce the risk of cancer substantially. Not only to they make you gassy, but they clean you out. I always love a good fart joke. Okay, I’m a fan so far.

For nearly two years, I have eaten mostly vegetarian or entirely plant-based at times. I often supplement my diet at times with fish, but I haven’t had any difficulty avoiding dairy. Milk has always made me cringe a little, and cheese mostly makes me bloated. But before I started this run, I had given myself permission to eat whatever came across my mind. So, I was open. Cheese me. Meat me. Pink slime me. Whatever. I might regret this “open mouth” policy, but as far as I’m concerned, my life is about finding the right fit for me, right now.

Don’t assume that I have or even will come to a definitive conclusion by the end of this run. It seems unlikely. I’m no expert, and I can only report what read, what I hear, what I have witnessed and what I have personally experienced. I’ll track my eating habits a little. I most likely won’t be particularly scientific about it, though, and most days, I’ll probably just eat what I can when I can and will ask for second helpings most of the time. It’s not perfect and neither am I, but it feels awfully human.

Every learning moment is an opportunity to do life better. Every moment is a learning moment. Keep moving forward.

I asked Meidad to bring his bike with him when we started the trip, because I really liked the idea of someone following along with me that wasn’t nearly as exhausted as I might be. On the fourth day, we got to test that out.

On the north side of Ocracoke, near the ferry, the sand dunes are often between 6-10 feet high. I suspect that the height varies throughout the year depending on the water and wind. Unlike the previous three days, on this day the wind was really whipping. It was blowing sand and rain at me hard enough to sting, but not quite hard enough to think I couldn’t do this. I was worried about my eyes however, so I kept my sunglasses on despite how dark and overcast the sky was.

Meidad and I eased into conversation quickly and it really made the miles go by quickly.

At home, I don’t often run with others. Especially on my long runs. There are probably several reasons for this. One of the main reasons is the time of day that I run. I often run very early in the morning before lots of people wake up, or about mid-morning when most everybody else is at work. I don’t usually have long runs on the weekends, because I reserve that time for my family, and I don’t want to short change them or myself.

Another reason I often workout solo is to recharge. Running (or swimming or cycling), for me, exercises my emotional state more than my physique and it’s invaluable at all times – most especially when I need to process through some challenge. It is difficult to completely work through certain problems without completely stripping it down in my head. For me that takes time, distance from the problem and decent amount of silence. I have to admit, that I sprinkle my silence with audiobooks and music sometimes, but a lot of time I don’t. I can run for hours without tunes or speech. Sometimes I crave it.

The odd thing is I consider myself an extrovert in most situations. I really pull energy from other people. Even when I don’t interact with them directly, I enjoy being around smiling laughing faces. I even enjoy inane conversations at times (but only in small doses). To truly get back to where I can effectively communicate, however, I need time to prepare. I review as many possible futures I have ahead of me as I can, and then plan for each challenge. I realize that there isn’t enough time in a day, or days in a week, or weeks in a lifetime to actually adequately prepare for even a fraction of the unknowns that we humans might face on any given day, but it calms me to try.

Meidad and I ran/rode together for some time and had amazing revelations. For me, the conversations were cathartic. It had been awhile since I had gotten to this place in my heart where I was able to really let go of some of my thoughts. In the first hour or two, I feel that we really accomplished breakthroughs. I could think clearly beyond what my body was doing, and even beyond the why. I opened up to him about my hopes for this organization, and some – not all – of my feelings of inadequacy. He had enough to be a brilliant sounding board, and I had something to chew on.

I learned a lot about him too, but his story isn’t my story to tell. Not yet. Maybe he’ll let me one day. It is pretty amazing though. I will say that Dr. Goldman was a member of Israeli Special Forces and graduated from The University of Miami  School of Medicine after leaving the military and now holds dual-citizenship. And these aren’t anywhere near his most impressive feats and they might be least of the building blocks of his character. I’m honored to share the road with him, much less have him on this crew.

When the weather eased up and the sun started to come out, I was starting to lose focus, and I wanted to get inside my head for a bit. My legs were starting to ache, and I needed a different kind of distraction. I let Meidad know that I needed a little tune time. He dropped back a little on his bike, I cranked up the Chris Robinson Brotherhood and relaxed a little. Meidad broke off and road his bike ahead broke towards camp.

Dean caught up to me shortly thereafter, and ran the rest of the way in with me. It was a nice easy pace and he didn’t make me pay for the sore legs. Dean is good to run with when I start feeling pain. He does not seem to feel the need to have a conversation. He teases me about how I talk a lot, but honestly, I don’t talk a lot when I’m running. Like Dean, I think I can appreciate running with someone in silence without any expectation. Conversation doesn’t have to be forced. It can be completely about what is happening in that particular moment. Sometimes it will devolve into something else. But it doesn’t have to.

It’s okay to be. Being is a pretty important part of living. I know that I don’t have to live every day like I’m wearing a squirrel suit, prepared to jump 10,000 feet off a cliff. I also don’t have to make up for every stupid thing I have ever done, just to show the world that I’m not that guy. Some days it’s hard just being. I want to be more, because I think I should want to be more.

But, today, I’m okay with being.

I finished the day, winding through the neighborhoods of Ocracoke until I found the camp. It was time to hobble to shower, and finish our last day on the island in front of a plate of seafood.

Be. Keep Moving Forward.

We started at dark thirty today in order to get in line at the Cedar Island Ferry. Unlike the Hatteras Ferry, this one only runs a few times every day, because it takes a little longer to get there. The first ferry leaves at 7:30am, but the second one doesn’t get leave port until 10:30. At this time of the year, they stay pretty full in the early hours, so if you want to get on the boat, you better get in line.

Each way, the crossing takes about 2 hours and 15 minutes over mostly calm water. I imagine when the weather isn’t nice it can get pretty choppy, but today, it was gorgeous.

We sat in line with the big vehicles, but we were fully positioned and locked in on the ferry by 7:35, and we eased away from the dock only a couple of minutes later. As soon as I could, I opened the windows, let the salt air blast through the RV, and then stepped out to explore a little. I had 2 hours to kill after all and not much cell reception.

Sadly, I had to say goodbye to Meidad as soon as we crossed over to the mainland. His adventure was over, at least for a time, and he headed back to Asheville and his family. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that he volunteered this week to make sure that I was physically okay. His passion, emotional support, and delicious food were truly invaluable.

The ferry eased into the port, and the smaller cars to the starboard side were released first. The dock workers motivated drivers like they were driving cattle through stocks. “Yah!” And “Git” were probably not sounds they were actually making, but it certainly wouldn’t have been out of context. It took about 5 minutes to unload the entire other side of the ferry, when they started pointing at us in the longer trucks and RVs. In a couple of noisy, bouncy, head bumping jumps, we were off the vessel and onto land just slightly above sea level. Chuck pulled off to the right side of the road as soon as he could, in front of the “Welcome to Down East” sign, and I jumped out.

Meidad gave us all one last hug goodbye, with promises to meet up with us later on the trail, and he sped off taking the fastest route back to I-40 West, where the City of Asheville and his children waited for him at the other end of the state.

I waved again, pointed my nose west, left Cedar Island, and started running towards slightly different geography.

Jumping from coast to “coastal plains” immediately apparent. I was still on Highway 12, but it wasn’t like the Outer Banks not exactly. There was lots of reedy vegetation that separated the road from water, with little in between. There were no beaches or docks. There were some banks where smaller fishing boats, canoes and kayaks could slide into the water. Beyond that there was little usable (read, land that could be built on), aside from what was already standing, and even that seemed to be tenuous. Everything about the experience reminded me of the South Carolina Low Country – something straight out of a Pat Conroy novel. Perhaps a bit of a Louisiana/Mississippi bayou flavor flavor as well. Of course that could have been heavily influenced by the John Grisham book that I was listening to.

There were fishing boats, and old houses that seemed to be standing up only long enough to allow me to take a picture with my phone. The few residential areas that I encountered had a feeling of quiet and maybe a little distrust. Since I didn’t actually see living creatures other than seagulls and a car every 30 minutes to an hour, I can’t say that anyone was truly distrustful, but that was just a feeling I got.

The only elevation changes were the 3 bridges over waterways over and around Core Sound. They were not exactly nose-bleed heights, but they gave me a little different perspective over the landscape for brief interludes, and then I had some easier downhills for a bit. Dean met me every 3-4 miles depending on how slow or fast I was going, and made sure I had water and fuel, but otherwise left me to my thoughts.

I made it to the Town of Davis about 3 or 4 in the afternoon. It was late enough so that Chuck could get somebody to look at the RV’s generator and check in with the Davis Baptist Church – local trail angels for Mountains To Sea Trail Hikers. When Chuck first got there, he asked for help with the generator and they said, “Ask Mack. He knows everybody. Go ask at the Convenience Store. They’ll know how to find him.”

So, Chuck found him. He really did seem to know everybody, too. Mack Overby made a couple of telephone calls and within minutes, a small engine repair technician showed up at the church to see what he could do. Unfortunately, the location and the of the generator underneath the RV made it challenging for the repairman to figure out how to work on it, and we couldn’t get it fixed right away. Mack had another solution, though – across the street from the church was Davis Shore Sportsman’s Lodge, with several beds, a kitchen, laundry facilities and a pool table. It was empty, it was clean and Mack said we could stay there for free. I almost cried. My first dose of “trail magic” came within the first week. I have never lost my faith in people to do good things, but this certainly bolstered my confidence that some folks can be awesome.

Davis, North Carolina is more than just a town.  It is part of a community on several islands. I would have completely missed that fact, had I not run the 20 miles or so from the dock on Cedar Island. All of the towns in this part of Carteret County are tiny islands connected by road or ferries. Davis, itself is a coastal village that sprang from Davis Island because where the municipality lies happens the be the largest single land mass in that area.

The island was named for the Davis family and specifically, Joseph Davis, bought the island around 1723. A few more generations of the Davis family owned the island until the Civil War. Family members stayed on the island as residents and hunting guides. The last official owner of the island was “Robert Lee Humber of Greenville, NC, was the last owner of the Island, and was a descendant of Benjamin Davis through his son Archibald Davis”. Somehow the island came back to the Davis family after many years.

After we accepted Mack’s super generous offer to stay at the lodge, I headed for the shower, and came out a new man, and ready to greet another friend who had just rolled into town.

David McConkey, of the Change Islands in Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada, flew to Raleigh, and rented a car to meet us in Davis. The plan is for Dave to camp and run with me for 3 days, and I can’t wait. In my opinion, there is no better time to learn about and truly explore a person than to run with them for several hours. Tomorrow, I’ll let you know how that went. Tonight, it’s time for food, stretching and rest.

What you can do, or dream you can, begin it,
Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.
Only engage, and then the mind grows heated, —
Begin it, and the work will be completed!”

I woke up a bit disoriented this morning. Even though it was only the sixth day of the run, I have already started to adjust to life in the RV. When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was a lot further away than usual, and my feet weren’t hanging off the end of the bed. My world view started to make sense after I wondered into the lodge kitchen and made a cup of coffee. Thankfully Chuck remembered to bring in the french press and the Dollar General can of coffee.

Chuck, Dean and David were up shortly after I started making noise, and they all looked fresh and ready to roll. I had oatmeal, two eggs and a piece of toast. Dean isn’t a big breakfast guy, so he usually fuels with a veggie protein shake in the morning, and Chuck rarely breaks his fast until after I start running.

Since Dave drove a rental car from Raleigh and would need it to get back, it was decided that I would start the day running on my own, Dave would drive ahead to our next campsite in Newport, and then Dean would drive bring him back to meet up with me. The next planned stop was less than 18 miles away, so it shouldn’t be too terribly long until they made it back to me.

The morning was cool and a little foggy, but not rainy. I turned East from the lodge, and made an immediate left after passing the Davis First Baptist Church, then ran west at a steady pace on Highway 70. I had not run more than a mile or two before a friendly voice yelled “Have a great run!” from a sedan as it passed me. It was the local preacher who was so kind to support me and anyone else that wandered through their piece of the Mountains to Sea Trail. Trail angels, indeed.

For five or six miles, I witnessed black needlerush, morning glory, herons, pelicans and marshland wake and warm-up as the sun started climbing in the sky. The dunes were gone, but the climate still felt very coastal and I’m sure that ocean storms often kept these roads barely above sea level. It wasn’t long before Dean and Dave caught up with me, and Dave let me set the pace for the first day or our three days running together.

I love the start of running with friends whom I haven’t run with before. It’s an amazing opportunity to learn about each other in an emotionally safe zone. I think of it as “foxhole” mentality. We’re sharing in the battle, so we’re already vulnerable. We feel inclined to open up, just because our suffering is mutual. Opening up this much is often like cliff diving – dangerous and an adrenaline rush. It can make for amazing friendships too.

David McConkey is a retired family counselor, a podium-placing ultramarathoner, and he has multiple myeloma. Over the past couple of years, because of his experiences, treatments and active lifestyle, Dave has also taken on a roll as a patient advocate for Myeloma Canada.

Dave isn’t in remission either, and after his transplant in 2012, he has undergone various levels of maintenance chemotherapy. For decades, running, and a healthy lifestyle have been part of his almost daily activity. He has run (and placed) in races from 10k to 100 miles (with monikers such as “Canadian Death Race”). Since moving forward, breathing heavy, and gobbling up miles are now part of his makeup and emotional coping mechanisms, it’s not surprising that Dave was eager to condition his body in position to move as soon as possible. In Canada, he has the opportunity to live and run through an almost dream-like part of the world where icebergs float near his backyard, and cars are often the exception than the rule. Ferry rides to access doctors, hospitals and other modern conveniences allow time for reflection, and planning.

For the next 3 days this like-minded soul in running shoes is my friend. We share a bond of motion, momentum, affliction and accomplishment. We want to make life better, but we want to share with others how amazing life already is. In spite of our common illness, we examples of why others should keep moving forward until they cannot.

We ran at an easy pace, and Dave was gracious enough to allow me to move as fast as I felt I should. We made a couple of turns, following Highway 70, dodged cars and large trucks and talked about ourselves. We would and will make plans for what we can do to help others, but that could wait. We spent about three and a half hours discussing running, life, people, and myeloma. I was in awe of his journey, because of where he came from. Like me, Dave is undergoing chemotherapy and he keeps up the physical activity as a life-balance and a return to the familiar.

There are lots of folks undergoing chemotherapy all over the world right now and we all respond differently – and for a variety of reasons. Some medicines are necessarily harsher than others. Every patient is taking the medicine for different reasons and all of us – when comparing the same medicine and doses amongst patients, respond differently. As intelligent and educated as our doctors are, this type of therapy isn’t an exact science – not yet anyway.

For the past three years, I have been treated with three different chemotherapy medicines and for different purposes. Revlimid and Velcade were both administered at high doses for almost 6 months prior to my bone marrow transplant in 2015, and two days before the transplant process began, I was given one dose of Melphalan, which made me lose all my hair, caused me to not be able to hold down food (and sometimes water) for several days, and allegedly made me extremely grumpy.

Because of the transplant in August, 2015, my cancer was forced back considerably, but it didn’t go away entirely. I’m not in remission, but I’m stable and I’m still on a maintenance course of treatment. I take a lower dose of Revlimid for 3 weeks, and then I take a one week break before I start the cycle over. Towards the end of the 3 weeks, my energy levels are pretty low and my alleged grumpiness might show up now and then.

When combined with the chemotherapy, lots of miles every day is a challenge I don’t think I fully grasped when planning this journey. I still have another 2 weeks on this round of Revlimid, but the familiarity of this running routine and the excitement of seeing something new every day helps me put one foot in front of the other. Interestingly, it seems that the increased activity alleviates any initial fatigue. In other words, I handle the fatigue factor better.

On cue, I was starting to get pretty zapped as we neared Core Creek. Dean found a good stopping point for the day, Dave and I hopped into to the Tahoe and we headed for camp at Whispering Pines Campground. A shower, lots of food and a nap were on the agenda. There would me more planning tomorrow.

Move mountains, swim oceans, and make stuff happen. You have it in you. Keep moving forward.

Kenny

Dave and I started out later than usual this morning, and I had to admit to myself that I was hurting. I was regretting how fast I had gone out on the Outer Banks, and my shins, feet and ankles were starting to reflect my early exuberance. Dean, Chuck and Dave were all encouraging me to listen to my body, but I was determined to tell my body to go jump in a lake.

I haven’t ever had shin splints before I started running across the State of North Carolina, and I certainly don’t recommend them. Shin splints (also known as “medial tibial stress syndrome”) are a result of inflammation of the tibia and connected muscles, and they lead to “I hate everything and everybody” pain on the front outside of one’s leg. Often, shin splints are caused by repetitive physical activity – for example, running. The longer one runs in a single day, the more likely one is to develop shin splints. Run for long long long distances on back to back days, and, well… you get the picture.

Every movement, including moving the bedcovers off my legs in the morning was done with conscious effort to avoid making the pain worse. Wearing shoes didn’t seem to make it any worse, but it didn’t make it any better. I winced as my forefoot stepped down, and I found myself unconsciously trying to keep my foot from bending at less than 100-110 degrees back towards my leg. Anything less than that seemed send a pain up my leg that made me grind my teeth and squirted tears out of the corners of my eyes. No really – this sucked.

This was only a week into the trip and I had to keep moving. Plus, I was really trying to avoid embarrassing myself in front of David McConkey – a complete badass in the world of ultrarunning. David McConkey, a Canadian Multiple Myeloma fighter and podium-placing Ultramarathoner since the 90s, who took the time, energy and money to support me on this run was here, and I didn’t want to let him down.

This physical and emotional setback and was the beginning of setting realistic and attainable expectations for myself. I needed a lot of pain and suffering to get a lot smarter. This seems to be a theme for me. More on that at another time.

The day was short. The roads were calm, we didn’t fight off too many drivers, and we made good time. By the end of it, though, my legs were shot. I needed the time off my feet, and I’m ashamed to say, I was really looking forward to not having to move forward. How the mighty have fallen. Did I mention shin splints suck?

Dean took us back to Whispering Pines Campground in Newport. We ate lunch. There was a lot of silence as we ate, and I mostly stared as I refueled. The normal laughter and enthusiasm was missing from the crew. I painfully waddled to the shower, and I could almost feel the furrowed eyebrows as Chuck, Dean and Dave watched me climb out of the RV. At this point, what was I supposed to do?

Even showering was an exercise in minimal movement and body torquing. It didn’t help that I was trying (unsuccessfully) to not touch the tiled walls of the shower or the shower curtain with any part of my body other than my hands while not pressing on the balls of my feet, bending my ankles in either direction or bending over at the waist. I dropped my shower gel bottle 10 times before I was able to get any soap on a washcloth. Then I dropped my washcloth.

I finished cleaning myself with minimal bloodshed, headed back to the RV, where the gang was waiting. I could tell by their faces that they had an idea – and they didn’t expect me to like it.

“We think you should go do fewer miles until you feel better,” Dean said. “This is just the 7th day of the run out of 54, and you’re obviously not going to go much further if you keep hurting more. We can make up time as you start feeling better. You have to get the shins under control. You’ll probably feel better and you can pick back up the next day. We can always add a mile or two later. Better to get healthy now, than crash and burn. I have one goal, and that’s to get you to the finish.”

“Yeah, you have tons of time, and lots of days that we can add on miles,” chimed in Chuck. “We can really work on elevation, ice and heat. You just started out to fast. Like I said, ‘Start out slow, and taper.’” We always chuckle at that one.

I looked at Dave, who looked back at me sheepishly with a warm smile on his face. “I think it sounds like a good plan. Don’t worry about me.”

They expected inevitable pushback, and I could tell that they had their arguments ready. This wasn’t the first time they had seen injuries. They have even seen their fair share of folks that didn’t finish long runs. They had even felt the pain of disappointment themselves. Here, they could be objective. They didn’t need to know my mental anguish. They weren’t thinking about any embarrassment I might feel by not running 20-30 miles every day.

It really didn’t matter. The mission wasn’t to look cool, run every day or to be a bad mamma jamma. The goals were three-fold: to run across the state; to raise funds for Throwing Bones for a Cure; to inspire.

“Okay,” I said. “Tomorrow we slow down.”

Sometimes, we don’t grow linearly. We grow still. We grow thoughtful. We grow. Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

Dave’s last day.

This morning, I started on my second full week of running, and I felt… well, not fantastic. And as much as my shins were killing me, it was mostly in my head – always a dangerous place to live. I wanted to move with grace, speed and the fluidity of Scott Jurek. I’m pretty sure I was running more like a duck.

It was cool, about 55°, a little damp, and a little windy when we started running. The sun was up, and we weren’t in any hurry.

Dean dropped Dave and me off at the gas station in Havelock, where we stopped the day before, and we headed South. There were no trails today, but there are usually fewer cars on Sundays than on other days, so we were able to engage in a little conversation.

The run itself was fairly uneventful. We generally went straight south, all of it on road and passed through Newport. There were a few nice shops there (even a craft brewery), and we ended the day at the head of a section of North Carolina State Game Land. I foresee a lot of sand in my future.

Dave and I rode back to the campsite in Dean’s Tahoe. We ate, showered took a few pictures with Ken and Tiffani (managers at Whispering Pines Campground) and hugged goodbye. I was more than grateful for the time he spend running with me. Is inspiration was essential. What could have otherwise been a low moment turned into a learning experience. We both wanted to show others with cancer, and others with Myeloma, specifically, how to live and to provide resources when we could. By the end of our nine mile run, my brain was buzzing.

Every time we talk Dave motivates me. He encourages me. He is a life-sized representation of a model multiple myeloma patient. Which doesn’t mean that I can put him in my pocket or store him on my shelf. However, I can praise him for the strength and positive energy that he brought with him from Canada.

I’m not a particularly woo-woo, hippy-dippy, thousand petal lotus, vibration-controlling kind of guy, but I do think positive energy begets positive energy. Yes, I used the word beget in a sentence – move on.

I’m not a healthcare professional, and I can’t tell you what will get you over the hump, feel more like you, or get you to that next state of awesomeness. However, I can tell you what seems to work for me. Spoiler alert: I’m as full of doubt and self-loathing as the next person. Harnessing the energy to get up in the morning is usually the toughest part of my day. So, you’ve got this.

What seems to keep me moving forward: (it might be all in my head)

1. Fake it until your cheeks start to hurt. Starting with a smile, creates the illusion that everything is going to work out. I know that sounds silly, but I really think like this. Your judgment has been noted.
2. Suffering is just the bridge to kickass. And a shower. And maybe something really good to eat.
3. Don’t tell everybody how they could live their lives better – unless they ask. I know this sounds hypocritical coming from somebody who is trying to encourage others to a healthy and active lifestyle, but y’all asked, and I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t already know. When I start to sound like a know-it-all, I’m just going to piss you off and I like you too much to do that. Yes, even you.
4. STOP dwelling on what hurts. I know we shouldn’t entirely ignore pain. But take it for what it is. Analyze it. Address it. Do the best you can. Move on.
   • Acute pain (immediate, in the moment), often means there is a break, a tear, or something big is happening right now.
   • Chronic, persistent pain means that whatever hurts has possibly been developing for awhile and that it might persist for awhile longer.
   • You can choose to live or you can choose to complain. The second option isn’t a good one. Don’t do it.
5. Move. This means a lot of different things to different folks, so take a few minutes to think about this. The most important thing is that you push the boundaries of your current comfort zone. If your daily activity is structured around a Snuggie, Cheetohs and a remote control, you’ve set the bar pretty low. On the flip side, if you can run across the entire Sahara Desert, you’re probably rolling your eyes and thinking, “I can eat Cheetohs whenever I darn well please.”
6. Plan. Once the doing it is out of the way, it’s time to put it on the calendar. It’s a lot easier to stick to something, if I have a day and time that I’m supposed to do it. Not surprisingly I get sore doing one thing (like running), so I’ll plan on doing something else on the next day (like swimming). And some days I’m really really sore, so I’ll step back and do something even more mellow (like jump in a Snuggy and eat Cheetohs).
7. Get a Coach. I have a coach. She yells at me. It works. Kellie doesn’t really yell at me (much), but she does motivate me. Also, she tracks how hard I have worked, how much stress it’s putting on my body, and when to dial it back a notch.
   • Like most things in life, we all struggle with being truly objective when taking care of ourselves. I don’t think we always need a top-shelf fitness expert, like Kellie, but sometimes we just need another person who cares about us enough to keep us honest, help us plan and review the plan.
   • There are multiple apps and platforms that you can use to do that. MyFitnessPal, Training Peaks, Garmin Connect, Strava, and MapMyRun, are just a few of the ones I know of. There are lots of others and most of them are pretty great. Also, most of them don’t charge you anything to use the basic version. It’s a great place to start.
8. Don’t eat so many Cheetohs.  Seriously, you have to fuel properly. I’m not going to tell you that I eat great all the time – I don’t. But you at least need to make an effort.
   • Start small. Pick one meal or snack that you eat every day and make it better. For example, if you normally eat Oreos for dessert after dinner every night, change that to apple slices for a week. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.
   • I won’t preach about the advantages of plant-based diets over meat at every meal, dairy issues, or gluten-free, but all of those things contribute to how you feel and you have to pay attention to it.
   • I do happen to eat more things that are plant-based and cleaner. I try to not eat quite so many things that are processed. I try to pick local. I try to organic. These things aren’t always possible, so I don’t stress out about it. Fueling well is always a goal.

Understand, I am not a healthcare professional or a licensed nutritionist. I am an athlete (most days), I have a lot of experience in moving, and I have cancer. Despite saying that I “won’t be defined by this,” my cancer is factored every day. I know what works for me for right now. I purposefully pay attention because I take daily maintenance chemotherapy, I am not in remission, my disease is merely “stable” and I see doctors a few times every month. I take notes. I work at making this disease work for me. Maybe some of this will work for you.

Can we all raise our Cheetohs in hopes that one day we won’t have to work so hard at staying alive?

Until then…Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

We’ve waited a long time to yell at the the Stella Post Office. Today, we made it happen.

But, man was it messy! The rain started early, but I looked at it as a bit of a welcome distraction from my legs. They were still screaming. maybe the cold weather and cold water would calm them down. Also, this was really the first day of of the run where I was not on a road for an entire run.

I started out on the NC State Game Lands, where Dave and I finished the day before. The gate was open for hunters to drive through. The Mountains to Sea Trail followed the road through the game land to the next set of roads. The good news is that most of the road seemed to go WEST!

I’m not a hunter, and I gave up much fishing years ago, after the last of my surf rods disappeared, so I was really amazed when I learned about North Carolina’s Game Lands Program.

There are about 2 million acres of public and private land that are managed and maintained by the State Wildlife Commission, for hunting, trapping and fishing by the public. All that is required to use the lands like this is to get a license and follow the rules. Honestly – 2,000,000 acres that are set aside for the public to use? And this is even more fantastic than it sounds. Some massive corporations like Aluminum Company of America and Duke Energy Progress, actually lease their lands to the Commission to be used for something other than building, making, disposing, or otherwise polluting. Yeah – I didn’t know it either.

To give you some perspective, in the greater Asheville area, where I live, a normal lot size for a 2,000 square foot house is usually about 15,000 square feet, or 1/4 of an acre. So, that means that the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission has purposefully set aside the equivalent of 8 million houses so that you and I can enjoy some green space, grow more trees, and allow different animals and vegetation to thrive in our state.

Social Media:

We are in an age of instant information, social media and opportunity to make fun of anyone over the age of 30. My goals for this run, and for Throwing Bones as an organization are to help, inspire and educate – not always in that order. In order to do any of those things, I have a moral imperative to reach everyone I can. I have an obligation to put myself out there as awkwardly and uncomfortably as possible. What better way to do that, than VIDEO!

Honestly, this is my first foray into video sharing. I’m not sure if this counts as video blogging, or “vlogging,” or “vidogging,” “blideo,” or “blodo,” since I’m only limited to 60 seconds when posting on Instagram. I’m excited to see if my ramblings bring more interest – hopefully, not less.

I had planned the days of this run in anticipation of how much I felt I needed and could physically accomplish at each stage. I didn’t allow for injuries or stupidity, but now I was paying for that lack of foresight. That and my pigheaded desire to move quicker than I needed to. I had to get back on track, though. After a couple of unplanned short days, I had every intention of making it all the way to Stella. STELLLAAAA!!

After a couple of lower mileage days, I felt like I was moving well. The road through the game land didn’t have any trail markers, but following along with my REI Hiking Project App on my phone, I could somewhat follow where I was supposed to be. As the rain came down harder, that got to be a little more challenging.

The trail was a little chewed up as well. The road was almost entirely made up of white sand, peppered with bark, ocean grass, and the occasional pine tree branch just to give me something to trip over. As I got deeper into the woods, I found the trail was mushier and harder to find. At one point, I lost it entirely and wound up on a farm, staring at deer that seemed as confused to my presence as I was. They weren’t good at giving directions, either.

As I ran deeper into the woods, the tail became more obvious, but only because it was one giant mud puddle. I splashed and keened. I sank to my knees several times. And it was fun. I hurt, but this was FUN!

You might have to remind me of how much fun I was having when I kvetch about how much I hurt after this video was taken. It’s a love hate relationship.

I made it out of the swamp and a firmer, but unpaved road. If it weren’t for everything else, this road would be PERFECT! I’m definitely coming back here to run again. This would be a fantastic place to have a trail race.

About the time that I made it to the paved road, I saw Dean, waving me to the right. I stopped long enough for a swig of coffee and some ramen noodles. Staying wet for a couple of hours in 50 degree weather was exhausting, and the combination of warmth and salty soup, boosted me for another few miles.

The rain picked up, and I was beginning to think, I should have brought my snorkel. It was wet. Everything was wet. When I ran/waddled, it felt as if I had beach balls strapped to the bottom of my feet. Squishy.

At about mile 18, I had my head down, and my hood pulled forward as far as I could. It wasn’t to keep me dry – just warm. The shivering must have been visible from miles away, because 2 different cars stopped to ask me if I needed a ride. I smiled, waved and yelled, “I’m doing this on purpose!” It’s reaffirming to know that nice people exist though. At least I assume they were nice. Now that I think of it, most of the cars looked like they could belong to that creepy guy out of “Silence of the Lambs.” It rubs the lotion on its skin.

As excited as I was to get to the bustling metropolis of Stella, it was pretty underwhelming. They had a Post Office, but the attendant didn’t seem to enthused to be there. They had a boat ramp, but it didn’t look often used.

Stella is an unincorporated town in Carteret County. As far as I can tell, everything in Carteret County happens in every place that is not named Stella. Carteret County includes Beaufort (the third oldest towns in North Carolina), Morehead City, Atlantic Beach, Emerald Isle,  and Pine Knoll Shores, just to name a few of their cool places to be, and for different reasons.

I made it to Stella, soaked, sore, and filled with another day of squish. I yelled like Elaine.

I think that Dean was stoked to be able to finally use the camp stove. He cooked some noodles and I tried to front flip into the tiny cup of ramen like a county fair high diver. It might have been salty cedar chips in a styrofoam cup, but it worked for me and I was nearly asleep before we made it back to the campsite.

Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

I hit the wall.

I do not have a bunch of great pictures to share.

I do not have an amazing run to share.

I did not make any new friends today.

I have been hurt worse, but if I break something or really tear something, I won’t finish this run across. That’s not an option.

At the advice of Chuck and Dean, who have a lot more experience with crazy long runs than I do, I sit. My legs are elevated and I’m icing the muscles on the outside of my tibia and my ankles.

I sit.

Looking back on this day, I have a myriad of emotions, and know that there were many choices I could have made that were different than not running, not moving in any way, and resting in the RV all day and moving a plantar fasciitis splint from one foot to the other throughout the day. I only had one one of these weird contraptions, so I couldn’t splint both feet at the same time.

The splints were made of rigid plastic, moulded across the front of the foot and leg and formed into an approximate 100 degree angle. One end of the splint sat on the top of my foot, while a soft velcro strap secured it from the middle foot to the toes. Another large velcro strap secured the splint to the front of the leg just below my calf. This kept the foot locked at that angle.

Although the splints weren’t made or marketed to shin splint sufferers, my theory was that by taking the pressure off my gigantic feet to keep them in an upright position, would not only alleviate the pain, but would give the tibialis anterior muscle time to heal without constant pressure. Since my feet and ankles were pretty swollen and bruised all the way around, I figured a little rest couldn’t hurt either.

My fear, of course, was that the delay would set me back considerably. I had a lot of miles to travel, and I only had so much time before, my wife and kids would rebel. They might take matters into their own hands if I took much longer than my target end-date of May 24 – 54 days after the day I started. I had visions of my 4-year old daughter knocking on the door of the RV with a sour expression, a leash, and a choke collar perfectly sized for my neck.

I had to get moving.

As one might imagine, there are tons of emotions that come with this run, and I’m working through everyone one of them as I go. Surprisingly, I do not think that I’m actually spending enough time digging deep into them however.

My default emotion is snark. This is going to be tough.

Runnning

I’m an athlete. I accept that I am an athlete. Despite that I have participated rigorously in athletic pursuits for 25-30 years, I struggled with applying that honorarium to myself. I am honored to be referred to as an athlete, because I always thought of it as a badge, worn by those who are worthy of respect and praise for their physical prowess – one that I hadn’t earned.

I have never felt strong enough, fast enough, agile enough, and certainly not coordinated enough to put myself into the same categories as my heroes and many of my friends. Real athletes are people such as Bernard Hinault, Paula Radcliffe, Scott Jurek, and Caballo Blanco; the team sport superstars like John Elway and Diana Taurasi; and the wild and impetuous ones that created their own epic events, like Charlie Engle and Jennifer Pharr Davis. How on earth could I label myself as an athlete, when these were descriptors saved for the gods and goddesses of the sports world.

However, after much introspection (and a Google search) I realized that an athlete is exactly what I am. Paraphrasing and completely mashing together definitions that I have found, I am an all-around-sportsman. Perhaps, not at the highest levels, but I work hard at multiple sports, in order to be somewhat competitive. I train. I eat well – most of the time. I focus my energies, my time, and identify myself with all of these endeavors. I am an athlete.

But this realization only helps me feel slightly less of an imposter when attempting a massive athletic feat that many think is outside of their abilities. My natural talent is no better than most people I know. I differ only in that I sacrifice comfort for accomplishment. I choose to spend my time moving for long periods of time, but not necessarily fast. I choose to increase my time and distance. It’s a choice that others have just not chosen for themselves.

So, on this day, I chose to do none of these. I chose to sit on my ass and do nothing. I chose to stay inside. I chose to complain. I chose to whine.

This ain’t living, and I’m pretty pissed off (and embarrassed) about it. Being human is stupid and I’ll have no part in it!

Recognize weakness. Find every motivation to overcome. Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

I can’t stand it and I’m getting out of here. Let’s run.

 

To be honest, I was in serious pain. My feet felt like they were being pulled by an invisible force into a ballet pointed toe position. Forcing them to conform to the different ups and downs of the road, was excruciating. The first two hours of my run was at a slow, but manageable pace. I could run, and the pain didn’t seem to intensify to unbearable right away. Compared to the previous week and a half, these were hills, and I wasn’t used to engaging tibia muscles. They let me know, under no uncertain terms that this wasn’t fun, and they were going to battle me all the way to the finish.

Today’s adventure led me into the uber-macho city of Jacksonville, North Carolina. Home of Camp Lejeune, and the entrance to a rite of passage for Dean Hart.

It’s not really where Dean was born, but you’d think it was a holy place as much as he talks about it. I think he was 4 when he went graduated from boot camp at Paris Island and was redirected to Camp LeJeune for infantry training.

There are lots of US Marines there. There are Marines of all different shapes, colors, sizes and smells. I never actually got to smell a Marine while I was there, but I’m just assuming. The mailman was a Marine. The guys I ran past, fishing in a creek were Marines. All the mailboxes and storefronts catered to Marines or gave preference to Marines. The cat that was relaxing in front of the large-weapon firing range fence was missing an ear and had an eagle, globe and anchor tattoo on his shoulder. He flipped me off.

They like Marines in Jacksonville.

As the grandson of a Marine who served in the Pacific during World War II, I respect what this military base represents, and what it costs all of the soldiers and their families when they serve. Thanks, all. I wish we didn’t need you.

The temperature started in the upper 40s/lower 50s. It was windy and damp, but sunny – so it warmed up fast. I got rid of the jacket after 6 miles.

As I approached Jacksonville’s eastern city limits, my legs were screaming, so I did everything I could think of to distract myself and keep moving at at least the semblance of a jogging pace. I was largely unsuccessful, and my movement was more of a loping grunt. I know that grunting isn’t actually a movement, but that’s what it felt like.

Thanks be to Audible for “Into Africa: The Epic Adventure of Stanley & Livingstone. I listened to Chris Robinson Brotherhood, Foo Fighters, and Tedeschi Trucks Band. This audio distraction helped several miles pass by without thinking about repetitive pounding and consistent pain.

I limped into Jacksonville. Dean and I took pictures in front of the Camp LeJeune sign, but we really screwed them up. It’s really hard to fit two people into a picture with such a large sign without getting really far away.

Dean stopped my slow, painful plodding just on the other side of the courthouse downtown and a block away from the Confederate War Memorial.

I know that this post is missing lots of details, but my head wasn’t ready for the day. I was moving, but barely. I was frustrated. I was angry. I felt like a wuss. I completed about 21 miles, I fought for every inch of it, and it should have been 30.

Disappointments lead to opportunities. Failures lead to learning. My education is far from over, but I’m still moving.

Keep moving forward.

Kenny

 

I started out on the northeastern end of Topsail Island and man was it windy! Temperatures were in the 50s, fairly quickly, but stayed there for awhile. Since I’m stillrecovering from pretty sever shin splints, I was moving slow slow slow. My normal walking pace usually varies between 14 and 16 minutes per mile, but today, I just couldn’t do it without risk of injuring myself further.

There are advantages to going slow, I’ve discovered though. I get to see things I otherwise might overlook. Today, I noticed a couple of the Towers of Topsail, which were placed on the island around World War Two for missile firing observation and a few of them have survived all that time to make us scratch our heads and wonder.

I didn’t make it too far off the island before Dean shut me down and said it was time to rest and recover. Off to the RV we went where Foot RX  in my hometown sent me two pairs of shoes to help combat the leg ailments and to allow for my ever-expanding feet. They are size 14 now! Holy crap!

Chuck helped me ice/heat/stretch the shins when I climbed in the RV, and they spent the rest of the time reminding me that we’re “building the armor” to finish this battle – and we’re doing it one step at a time.

Today I started on Highway 210 going just slightly West of Topsail Island. It was slow going as I’m still nursing these nasty tibialis anterior (fancy words for shin splints). They’re getting better every day, but dang it’s annoying.

One of my three fantastic hometown shoe stores, Foot Rx Asheville, sent me 2 pairs of size 14 Hokas and they were a dream. I tried out the Stinson ATRs, which are more trail oriented and the Clifton 4s, which are definitely a road shoe. Both did great. Foot love from home. I couldn’t have done this trip without you.

 

I was only on Highway 210 for about 2 miles before heading south on Highway 17 going towards Wilmington. The traffic was brutal, but at least there was a shoulder. I’ve discovered that I’m less oblivious to traffic when I’m not full on running.

It’s hard to find that zen-type place when 18 wheeler’s blow your hat off every 10 minutes. To distract myself I looked for the weird or at least out of place scenery. Volkswagen vans with pictures of dogs driving them and 20-foot lighthouse statues that served no apparent purpose seemed to fit the bill.

After 7 miles of playing Frogger, the Mountains to Sea Trail turned off onto the Holly Shelter Game Land and life calmed down. I could get into an easy rhythm and just hike (ish). These state game lands, like all the others I have encountered so far, have sandy hard-packed Jeep trails allowing access to hunters and other outdoorsy-people. For the 2 1/2 hours that I hiked on them today I saw only 3 vehicles and no other humans. Pretty sweet gig.

      

But going this slow, I’m not keeping my crew very entertained. Dean just started making a game out of kicking rocks until I left. I really have to pick up the pace soon…

We stopped after close to 14 miles of shuffling today to allow for some more recovery time. Better to get back to the RV and see how much more we can do tomorrow. Onward to the bustling metropolis of Watha, North Carolina!

It definitely warmed up fast and Spring it finally here. Starting where we left off yesterday afternoon, I spent 12.25 miles on the Holly Shelter Game Lands and most of the miles ahead looked like the miles behind.

I may have been a little ambitious thinking I would make it all the way to Watha today on my sore legs.

Hard packed sandy road, broken up by intermittent animal noises and tracks. My shins are keeping me slow for the time being and I had no cell signal for almost the entire, so I had to pass the time trying to identify whether any of the tracks indicated that there might be an animal near that wanted to eat me.

There a few were easily identifiable and a few that weren’t so obvious. I tried to put my foot in the pictures for reference. Keep in mind that I wear a size 14 shoe.

 

 

 

 

 

I had a few minutes of half a bar on my phone, so I called Dad and gave him updates and let him know how the leg healing was going. After he was satisfied and probably tired of barely hearing me because of heavy breathing in his ear, we said goodbyes and I started in on the latest audio book, “The Pursuit of Endurance: Harnessing the Record-Breaking Power of Strength and Resilience”, by Jennifer Pharr Davis. I have met Jennifer and her husband Brew a few times and I’m excited to hear her perspective on endurance as an FKTer as well as a fellow Western North Carolinian.

I’m sure that it’s going to be great, and I’ll review it sometime down the trail as I go, but early into the book she gave me the little bit of boost I needed: she talked about suffering through shin splints. Granted, she was working on 50 miles a day back then, but it still was the right motivation at the right time. I can do this.

After moving back onto asphalt, I stopped about 2 miles away from the game land entrance, found a dusty-looking out of the way tree trunk that desperately needed watering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I was tending to the foliage and rocking out to “Meet Virginia”, it seemed that the beat was a little staggered, when I realized that I was hearing gunshots. My business ended a little quicker than planned and I may have upped my time just a little bit for the next mile, trying to get away from whatever target was being pummeled. As I left that section of woods, conspicuous “Bear and Deer Permits Required Before Hunting” signs were up. Perhaps this is not the best part of North Carolina to dawdle on foot or wear camouflage clothing.

After 16 and a half miles, my legs decided they had enough for the day and we headed back to camp. I didn’t quite make it to Watha, but there will be more days, more miles and more Wathas.

Keep moving forward, y’all.

Kenny

It seems like I never can get past Holly Shelter Game Land, but I finally cleared it today, with one last warning from the State Wildlife folks to get a license before I started chasing down wild animals.

Since I don’t really care to chase down deer and bear, I decided to finally chase down the bustling metropolis of Watha, NC (population 160).

The first four or five miles of the day were fairly uneventful, walking along back roads, passing lots of farms that looked be waiting for their fields to dry before they planted corn and cotton. It was pretty early in the day before the sun was high, but it started to get monotonous after a while. The excitement was yet to come.

 

 

It seemed as soon as I crossed the bridge over the Eno River, the residents started getting less and less friendly. There were more “Keep Out” and “No Trespassing” signs in that 6-8 mile section than I have seen on the entire 300+ miles I have covered so far.

     

Even livestock gave me the stink eye.

Shortly after crossing over the river, I shuffled past a woman riding on a big lawn mower in front of her single-wide trailer next to the river and a rebel flag snapping with the wind. I tossed her my biggest grin and a wave. In return, I received a blank stare and not even a head bob. Seeing that this relationship was going nowhere, I turned my gaze West to move on with my life and find love again.

Apparently I didn’t give the entire family a chance to express their desire that I not hang out too long, because seconds later a big black dog the size of a wooly mammoth and with temperament of an over-caffeinated viking berserker ran towards me with slathering jaws and a bark that registered on the Richter Scale. As it charged, I glanced sideways at Cerberus‘ Mama, I received nothing but an even blanker stare (if that’s possible).

I said, “Hey hey, puppy” as my sphincter climbed up under my hat and yelled “shit shit shit” at me. I’d like to think that I said it calmly, but since all I can remember at that moment was white noise, I’m going to assume that I said with confidence, authority and without a trace of panic. There was no camera and you can’t say otherwise.

I kept my hands to my side, and tried to act as if I barely noticed there was a dog there. I don’t know if that’s what saved me, or perhaps sweaty, tall guys didn’t suit his discerning palate, or perhaps he was still full from the last hiker, but miraculously, he flipped around and headed back. I was safe. Although I did flinch when he brayed after I scuttled nearly 1/2 a mile down the road. I think I unclenched about 2 hours later.

I didn’t take a picture to share, but he really wasn’t that photogenic. You aren’t missing much. No, I’m not going back.

After nearly 12 miles of the day, I crossed into Watha, and decided that I’ve totally been hyping this town too much. If I had blinked, I would have missed it. And I’m on foot!

I wonder how many people who start through hiking/running the Mountains to Sea Trail finished their journey as vegetarians. After seeing the pig farms, chicken farms and slaughterhouses all day today, I think I’ve had enough of that sort of thing for a while. Have you ever had tractor-trailer full of chickens pass you, or get stuck in front of you when you were driving? Imagine walking on a back highway and have one or two of those suckers nearly blow you off your feet with a stench so foul you would like to swallow your scent glands. Urp. I had to clean my mouth several times after that. Then I realized that the smell wasn’t just from the trucks. It was from the farms all around. It was less than pleasant. I am definitely giving Butterball a negative rating on TripAdvisor.

  

After nearly 19 miles, we ended the day in Burgaw. The ankles and shins are pretty beat up after all that asphalt, but we’re still going. Not Jennifer Pharr Davis pace, but I’ll take it. Slow and steady may not always win the race, but hopefully it means I get to do it again tomorrow.

3 years ago, I didn’t think I could do this stuff anymore. Sometimes it’s good to be wrong.

Find your pace. Keep your step light and shorten your gait. Keep moving forward.

The weather today was nice and sunny, if not a little cool to start at the Burgaw city limits sign. It was in the upper 40s, but warm enough to not need more than my Salomon windbreaker over a t-shirt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a sort of strange start, since I spent 3 1/2 miles running around the outskirts of downtown Burgaw. That’s where the Mountains to Sea Trail told me to go, so that’s where I went. It was a little bizarre seeing the westward section of the trail two blocks away from where the map told me to turn East.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s pretty and sleepy little town, but seemed relatively busy on a Friday morning. I got a few stares running on the running trail. Apparently, that’s not what they use it for in Burgaw. I’ll know next time.

The map guided me past the Piggly Wiggly and out of town, to where I FINALLY headed West for about 10 miles. Right now, I have moments of slight despair that I haven’t made much progress going across the state, due to all the north-south movement.

Carry on, I did, though, and I ran for about an hour and half until I slowed down the pace, to save my legs for the rest of the weekend. No need in wasting all the proverbial ground I have gained on healing, just because I’m excited to be moving faster.

 

 

One thing I noticed in this part of the state, that I haven’t noticed here, or really in any other areas, is the number of flags that are flown in the front of the local residences. And not flags with ladybugs or Wolfpack that you buy at Lowes, attach to the side of your house with a wooden flagpole, and leave up for 6 months at a time. These are honest to goodness flagpoles, concreted in the front yard, as if each house was a mini-embassy, with a color guard that comes out every morning at sunrise to hoist the flag, snap to attention, salute its ascent, and pledge allegiance. The flags were crisp and clean. All had obviously just been raised before I passed in the early morning. Some even had 3 poles, surrounding our nation’s flag with the State of North Carolina, Marine Corps, POW-MIA and a couple that I couldn’t identify.

I don’t know each individual’s motivation to fly their colors high and with pride and consistency every morning, but I respect it. I’m so curious as to their “whys”. Who are they honoring. Did they serve? Do they have a child or a sibling or a spouse that was missing in action or a prisoner of war? Are they mini-embassies? And if so, could I ask for political asylum if I needed to use their bathroom as I ran by?

 

 

 

 

 

 

After 10 miles of trail/road, I headed South for the last time. After passing the Moore’s Creek Battlefield, the Mountains to Sea Trail will start to head North towards Raleigh and then West. Instead of pushing on to the historic site, however, we stopped about 5 miles short at the West Pender Middle School, finishing the day at about 17 miles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slow and steady. One foot in front of the other. Step lightly. Keep moving forward.

Kenny

I absolutely LOVE this cooler but sunny weather. I kicked off running a little before 7am this morning, after Dean brought me over from where we have the campsite, so it was cool enough to need a jacket and gloves for the first 6-7 miles, but that’s a cozy space for me to be.

One of the first things I noticed was this dry stacked stone wall in Currie. That’s a lot of work and a lot of rock. There’s craftmanship in this that I only remember seeing in England.

 

“But, Kenny”, you say. “It’s just a rock wall! There are lots of rock walls where I am and nobody thinks about them at all!”

Listen up, Dr. Seuss – These things are tough to build and they’re truly an art form based on the vision of the builder. Check out some fantastic examples from around the world here.

The trail itself dipped pretty far South today before heading Northwest and finally out of Pender County.

The running went well. I’m not breaking any land speed records, but I was moving pretty well, between 11 and 14 minutes miles most of the day. I think I even saw a hill or two, but that may have been a hallucination.

There were a few tributaries of the Black River and eventually I crossed over the river itself, so I paused long enough for pictures and maybe a selfie.

 

 

 

I almost skipped one decently bizarre yard filled with the same statue over and over again. Each version slightly more colorful in its decoration. They reminded me of life-size versions of lead Dungeons & Dragons figures that I used to paint when I was in Middle School. I was waiting for one of them to come to life, honestly. It would have scared the pants off me, but I don’t think I would have been surprised.  I mean, just look at these things! Even Jesus is praying for relief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think I mentioned it yesterday, but finally ran past/through Moores Creek Battlefield, where the tied of the Revolutionary War definitely took a positive turn for the Patriots/colonists in February of 1776, when a bunch of otherwise un-military militia captured some of the King’s men as they attempted to cross the creek bridge on their way to meet up with other loyalists.

I’m still deeply in farm country, but there doesn’t seem to be as much distrust or seclusion as other areas I have run past. The cows look at me funny, but I get it. I seem to always wave and say “hi” right in the middle of a meal, I think. Usually breakfast. Maybe brunch. I don’t get offended and let them carry on with their business of chewing whatever it is they’re chewing.

About mile 15, I ran past more game land and saw one of the most comfortable hunting stands ever. They did a pretty decent jobs of camouflaging  it, but I still think the animals will see them. What do I know? I’m really more of a gatherer. Perhaps a “grazer” would be more accurate. Maybe that’s why the cows look at me funny. They think I’m on the wrong side of the fence.

I ran past a Volvo that is definitely way cooler than my first Volvo. But does it have cup holders? 

My legs were doing great until mile 20-21, then the protestations began. I ignored them for as long as I could, but you can only get away with yelling “Public Enemy” lyrics so long before the motivational component wears out and even your adoring fans insist you use your inside voice all the time – regardless of whether you’re inside or not.

I dialed it back for the last couple of miles to the Kelly General Store, and honestly was surprised when the day ended. Thanks to all of you for helping motivate me through every day. My music playlist helped. There may or may not have been something on there from the “Trolls” Soundtrack.

Be light. Live well. Smile until it’s obnoxious. Keep moving forward.

Kenny

It was another perfect weather day. The legs were ready to roll, but I’m not sure that the rest of the body was on the same page. Since, I knew that today wasn’t going to be nearly as long as yesterday, I opted for recovery and hiked most of the day.

I left the Kelly Post Office and Kelly General Store a little after 7 am and headed West down Highway 53.

For many years, the small coastal plain communities crossed wide creeks and rivers, not over bridge, but by ferry. The Elwell Ferry which connects Kelly to Carvers Creek across the Cape Fear River is one of 3 remaining cable ferries still in operation in North Carolina. It has been in operation since 1905, has used a gasoline engine since the 1930s, and until 1952 was the only way to connect Elizabethtown/White Lake to Wilmington.

 

The ferry is still in operation partly because of the high cost of building a bridge connecting two small bridges. The maximum capacity of the ferry is 2 cars up to 4 tons, and the cars alert the operator by driving up to the dock and blowing their car horn. If we had more time, I would have dipped down to take a ride, so I satisfied myself with a few pics and took off down the road. 

Let this gibbeting serve as a warning to all other plastic containers.

After about 12 miles, the trail left Highway 53 and crossed into Bladen Lakes State Forest to take the 3-4 mile trail around Singletary Lake. Dean joined me for a couple of miles and we traversed the sandy trail together solving the world’s problems and deciding what we wanted to be when we grew up. Since he left his vehicle back at the campground parking area, he ran back and caught me on the other side of the lake, where it met up with Highway 53.

Continuing my desire to make today a recovery/walking day, I walked the remaining 2-3 miles to White Lake where we set up camp. I confess, I had to walk about 30 feet further than my stopping point to make my mileage an even 18 miles. I’m not stopping at 17.97!

Set your target.

Take Aim.

Move.

Do it again.

Keep Moving Forward.

 

Kenny

I rolled out of Camp Clearwater at White Lake pretty early this morning, and slowly built up to a wog (which is a “walk-jog”, for the uninitiated). The sun was coming up to the East (which it seems to do with regularity, I’ve noticed), and school buses and trash trucks started making their rounds, picking up and hauling off.

Except for another pretty morning on the road, there wasn’t much to get too excited about, so I let my mind wander a bit. I started thinking about the miles that I have already come (362, but who’s counting?), and what a joy this whole experience has been. About how much I have learned about North Carolina and how diverse this state really is.

As I waxed philosophical (in my head, I was doing some serious waxing), I must have allowed my mouth to hang open, because, all of a sudden, the most foul smell and taste combination entered my mouth that nearly made me eject the oatmeal and banana that Chuck has so painstakingly made for me this morning. If you have never experienced a tractor trailer full of chickens, then you haven’t truly lived.

I spent several moments rinsing out my mouth with water, and felt dirtier than usual only 30 minutes into today’s run. I learned a valuable lesson today: Treat all big trucks like chicken trucks. Keep your mouth shut when they go by, and give them a wide berth. Blech.

NC Highway 53 is especially busy on Monday mornings, so I was passed by no less than 10 trucks before I made it to a side road where the Mountains to Sea Trail headed slightly east towards Jones Lake. The started off on sidewalks that led to the lake, then followed the northwestern edge of the lake on honest to goodness trails -with roots and rocks and everything!

The trail quickly led to North Carolina game lands and sandy roads with some super deep puddles, but it was still nice to get off the roads, away from the cars and on something a little softer, even if it was challenging to run through.

Soon I came to a yard with some chickens wandering in front. I could hear them long before I could see them, because the rooster was letting his presence be known. When I got closer, I noticed that there were actually several roosters and not just one that was making a series of rat-a-tat crows in rapid-fire succession. The roosters were situated on the right side of a tree crowing, strutting, scratching the ground and bragging about the size of their televisions. The hens were huddled on the left side of the tree, scratching, pecking and figuring out how they got stuck with the losers on the other side of the yard.

While all of this might be predictable, I realized that there were more roosters than hens. How can that possibly be productive? We all know perfectly well, that you’re going to need two hens to every rooster, just to fix whatever he screws up. There’s no way that this ends well.

A few miles down the road, the trail dipped a little east to go around Jones Lake, steering me even further away from cars and nipping dogs. Gorgeous views, and the rain hadn’t started up, so I was able to take a few pictures, and run on something besides asphalt or sand, if just for a little while.

The trail became sandy after a couple of miles, and there were a few pits of water that had to be foraged, but it was all in fun. And, no, Mom, I didn’t see any snakes today.

Before I made it back to the road, I thought that my back was unusually sweaty, but cold and it was somehow dripping on the backs of my legs. Ew. No, wait, the bladder in my hydration pack was leaking. I was soaked and now a little chillier. I kept the pack on because it was  good place to store my food and phone, but I got a handheld water bottle from Dean and muscled on. I would have said “… like a good soldier”, but honestly, it didn’t feel very soldier-like and I feel spoiled enough by my crew. Perhaps I should have sucked it up and kept the cold, wet, slimy thing on my back until it emptied its remaining contents on my already squishy butt cheeks and shoes. That’s what a tough guy does, right?

When I got back on the road that would lead me West to NC Highway 53, I encountered the first of two dogs that didn’t care for my funky scent and preferred that I go back to where I came from.

Now, before I tell this story, let me caveat it by saying I love dogs. I have cared for many dogs and most have been larger than 60-70 pounds, so I’m generally more comfortable with big dogs than small dogs.

Puppy number one was medium sized, about 50 pounds, noisy, fairly harmless and he just wanted me to leave without much drama. I obliged and we were both much happier when I passed the end of their yard. He stood in the middle of the highway daring me to come back. I didn’t.

Puppies number two and three, however were the canine Hanson Brothers with more teeth and they liked to bite. I saw the two off-white pit mix dogs coming my way from the back of their house. With so many vehicles passing by, they weren’t sure what to attack first, but since I seemed to be much slower than the cars, I was a pretty easy target. They wasted no time and their barks weren’t warnings – they were battle cries.

The smaller of the two kept tripping the older one that seemed to have a cataract in its right eye. The freaky eye didn’t make it look less demonic, by the way.

I tried to say, “Hey guys!” in the friendliest tone I could muster, but it came out as more of a hiccup as I was side-stepping their jaws and squirting them with my water bottle at the same time. I felt one of them brush the back of my leg as it just nearly missed biting me again and I was starting to get pissed on top of getting worried. These dogs were coming into the street after me and they didn’t care where they took me down. Cars be damned.

As I was doing the watusi in the middle of Highway 53, at least 3 drivers slowed down just long enough to be annoyed by the inconvenience of this runner mauling, but not one offered to help or interject on my behalf. Two different vehicles unintentionally saved me however.

First, a truck drove by close enough that it distracted them and they chased the truck a little ways giving me time to get a little further up the road. They quickly remember the easy kill and came back my way and began to surround me on both sides – no bueno. To surround me, however, the younger one stood in the middle of the road in the path of an oncoming Buick. The driver blew his horn at the dogs, rolled down his window and yelled apologetically to me “I don’t want to hit them!”

I yelled back, “At this point, I’m not sure I mind!”

But the brothers weren’t happy about this interruption and decided to take it out on the Buick. That was my cue to ease on down, ease on down the road. When I looked back, Older And Creepier was head-butting the front bumper and Youngster was chewing the tires. Shortly thereafter, somebody in bright red pajamas walked out of their house to discourage them from such rude behavior.

After the adrenaline wore off, I stopped shaking and decided against telling the owner what I thought of his puppy parenting skills, I had a relatively uneventful, yet cold and rainy remainder of the day. I only had four more chicken trucks and two more pig trucks befoul me before I reached the post office in White Oak.

24 miles more miles closer to home.

Be patient with you. Go slow if you have to, but go. Watch out for the Hanson Brothers. Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

Man, was it a wet day, today! Since I made it a little farther yesterday, and already had a shorter day planned, I was able to make up a few miles from my days off and have a shorter day at the same time. Rest, Recovery and Distance.

I learned another rule of the trail today: when pig trucks pass by on rainy days, you not only have to remember to close your mouth, but make sure you turn away from the oncoming pig poop dousing, hold your breath and try to cover your water bottle as best you can. I was especially odoriferous after todays run.

The trail left the White Oak (population 338) post office and headed North/Northeast. After about 5 miles, the road turned off onto a gravel side road towards Sugg’s Mill Pond and the game lands surrounding it. It cut through the sandy mushy game lands and there was a lot of flora to see.

By the time that I popped out onto the asphalt road on the other side of the woods, I made no pretense of being drying anywhere. I seemed to be moving at a decent pace and was really feeling good despite the messy conditions. I think I was also excited that I had finished Section 13 of the Mountains to Sea Trail and was headed onto Section 12. 12 sections and one month left until I get to the end of the state. I turned north towards Beaver Dam with a few more horses and cool-looking barns.

I ran a short little 14 miles today, and still made up some miles that I lost when recovering during the second week. My feet are elevated and pasta is in my belly. I checked in with Murphy and the kids. I popped the pills that Drs. Lonial and Vashist insist are keeping me alive. This is when the magic happens. Sleep, perchance to dream – ay there is the [foot] rub.

Finding peace in our chaotic moments is easier than one might think. It comes from looking for joy even when you’re sure there is none to be found.

Keep moving forward.

Kenny

After a shorter run yesterday, I knew that today needed to be longer. After slow-jogging for a couple of miles, I decided I better slow it down and give my shins and feet a break.

There wasn’t a lot of variety on the trail today. In fact there wasn’t any trail to the trail today. Lots of road. Lots of farms, Lots of cows that gave me funny looks. A few dogs that flipped me off. And cows that expected that I must have more in my backpack than water and Clif bars.

I headed a North and East today. These next couple of days will the last of any South or East travel on the trail, before it really starts going West. After somewhere around 400 miles, you’d think I feel more accomplished than I do.

Yesterday, my hydration pack leaked all over me, so Dean drove to the nearest Wal Mart and found their brand of bladder pack and it seems to be holding up for now. The bite valve isn’t quite the same, but I can manage.

On top of that, this morning my beloved bone-conducting headphones broke on the earpiece. This – made me sad. I live in those things. I talk to folks when they call on my cell phone. I listen to music, audiobooks and podcasts. I identify with being one with my headphones. I was worried that the run was over right there. How do I cope?

I know, I know. First world problems. Whatever. You have your hangups. I have mine. Dean found duct tape in his truck (he even had the matching color), and I was able to live another day.

Now that the headphone crisis was temporarily averted, I couldn’t seem to get into a groove. I have all sorts of things to listen to on that phone, and nothing appealed to me at that moment, so I turned them off, pulled them down around my neck and tried to really pay attention to what was going on around me.

I seemed to be getting further from pig and chicken country, and entering the Cape Fear River Basin. It seems to be a low-lying area with lots of marsh mixed in with lots of cows. Crossing land with fewer stinky trucks trying to run me off the road or spray poop on me sounds like I’m heading in the right direction.

I turned East to Roseboro, a small town with a couple of turns. It was so neat and clean it looks like somebody went through there with a vacuum. I wasn’t there long enough to be creeped out by it’s perfectness, so after a couple of turns, I found an overpass under construction at the end of Roseboro and proceeded to… go the wrong way for about half a mile. Once Dean caught me and put me back into play, I proceeded to dodge large trucks and teenagers holding cell phones over their steering wheels. I can’t wait to get to some dirt.

After about 2 hours of no headphones, I popped them back on and called Mom. She mostly listened to me prattle on about what was happening right at that particular moment, and we may have starting devolved into whining about politics until she had to go drink a cup of coffee and I needed to find the nearest tree off the road.

I think there was a town of Clinton, not too far away from where I was traveling, but I only saw small clusters of farms, fields and foliage (I like alliteration), and after 25 miles, my feet and shins decided they had enough. That’s when I started the process of hitch-hiking back to camp.

Just kidding. Dean picked me up and we headed back to Chuck and the RV in our new campground location in Selma.

Set your site. Aim. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly while you… keep moving forward.

Kenny

I felt a little stronger today and a LOT more confident. I sprinted away from 5 Bridges Road with a blistering 15 minute mile walk. Then I started slowing down to settle into a casual rhythm of dodging traffic. Rush hour even in Clinton, NC is not the time to start moving on foot when you have no shoulder and lots of impatient drivers.

After getting off the busy roads and finding the back roads again, I found sleepy farms and cows that followed me from fence to fence. I’m not sure if they thought I was feeding them, or I was just one of them that made it on the outside and they wanted to hear all the details.

What’s the appropriate thing to say to cows? Do you give them nicknames? Talk to them like pets? Can they be insulted? How would you know?

In any case, they were fun traveling companions if just for the length of the fence line.

On busy Highway 421, I found something that seemed a little out of context. Goatherders. On a Highway. One of the goatherders was kind enough to let me take his picture with his goats. I said “ba-a-a-ah” to the goats, and the goatherder gave me his best fake smile and waved me on.

I crossed over more tributaries for the Cape Fear River Basin before I started passing a series of cattle farms that seemed to be owned by one family since all the gates to the individual pens had the same farm name on them. I won’t list the name here, for reasons that will be apparent in a moment.

Each farm looked be about 2 to 3 acres each and was fenced-in with about 20 or more cows in each section. At the entrance to each of these separate farms and stenciled on the side of several pickup trucks was the same family name,  so I’m assuming that they were connected. Inside each fence line was a house. Oftentimes it was a single-wide trailer set on blocks, but they looked like there were residences. Not just offices.

I saw a few workers, smiled and waved. All waved back, but none seemed to quick to add smiling.

When I got to second family farm, there was the word “Snitch’s” (I think they meant “snitches”) spray-painted across both lanes of the highway, with an arrow pointing to the nearest house. I got a bit of a chill and thought there’s a lot of anger in this community. Not knowing what was going on, I immediately felt sorry for these people.

I stood in front of the vandalism that somebody had attempted to go over with black spray paint (which only highlighted the words) and took a picture of it with my phone. When I looked up, one of the workers was looking at me as he was opening a gate to pull his truck through. He gave me a look that I’m not sure how to interpret. His jaw was set, but he wasn’t grimacing or frowning. He certainly wasn’t smiling. He looked me in the eye, held my gaze for a minute, nodded, then went back to opening the gate wider.

I felt like I had been gawking at a mother spanking a child or a man crying when he thought nobody was looking. I was embarrassed and a little ashamed. I put my phone away and moved on.

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful and I passed it thinking about how far I had to go until I made it to dirt trails again. If I keep on this pace of 18-25 miles per day, I should be at the Neuse River Trails in 2 or 3 days.

Soon after I got to our new camp in Selma, I found out that the camp owners at RVacation donated our lot to Throwing Bones. The owners had left for the night to help out with a brother-in-law with cancer, so I was able to meet and hug their employees.

While Chuck was cooking “Open Bowl Egg Roll” (fantastic), my old friend of nearly 30 years, Kelly Nester, showed up with a can of beer a hug and even more words of encouragement. Kelly leads with his easy manner and quick laugh. He always seems to be waiting for the punch line, and I’m pretty sure that’s where I learned that attitude. I just wish I did it as easy as he does. Even though it’s been some time since we really have been able to hang out, I felt as if we could have stayed up all night cracking each other up. But Cub Scouts called him away, and my bed couldn’t have looked more inviting. 5am was coming soon.

The shins are there. The ankles are swollen, but they’re moving better than they were yesterday. Onward and upward.

Know your limits. Then color outside the lines. Keep moving forward.

Kenny

The historic church parking lot that I left from this morning looked a lot like the church parking lots I have passed almost every morning for the past week and I was having flashbacks from my last visit to England, except there were no cathedrals, and I don’t think there were any dead poets buried under the floors. Newton Grove came and went fairly quickly and then I had the opportunity today to walk through history.

I’m from North Carolina and I thought I was pretty well versed in its ins and outs. I knew a lot of its secrets. Well, at least as much as my 8th grade History of North Carolina class taught me. I still thought I had a grasp on the magnitude of how the Civil War had affected my home state. I did not until I traveled the land that surrounded the Bentonville Battleground site – home of one of the most decisive Union victories towards the end of the Civil War. General Sherman brought his forces up after burning large swathes through Georgia pitted his forces against General Johnston and outflanked the Confederates at almost every turn. Robert E. Lee surrendered at Appomatox less than three weeks after the end of this three-day battle.

Despite the brevity of this battle, it devastated the region for decades, and changed the collective memories of the soldiers and civilians that survived the live through the aftermath. Even now, over 150 years later, the enormity of it lingers and is evidenced by more than just the slew of signs, headstones and memorials. It permeates the entire town of Bentonville and possibly the remainder of Johnston County.

I was able to knock out 20 miles at my steady but slow pace and listened to Jennifer Pharr Davis read her book about people much more gifted than me and how they overcame physical adversity. Dean bounced in and out of view as I think he was even more excited about seeing something new than I was. I had to remind him that I’d probably need a ride home at the end of the day.

Edges of the battlefield, war hospitals and civil war era stomping grounds lingered for miles. Signs would pop up every so often describing what had happened there several generations ago. It slowly faded away as I saw more hills, and less sand. Almost immediately it seems like I found the piedmont of North Carolina.

I think I’m right – I should cross the Neuse River tomorrow and hopefully will find and actual dirt trail! My feet can’t wait.

Pay attention. You’ll still screw up, but when you do, you’ll know who’s going to say “I told you so”.

Keep moving forward.

Kenny

We actually made it out of camp fairly early today, and being so close to where I stopped yesterday, I was able to start hiking a little before 6:30. I love these early morning starts. It makes me feel accomplished and makes me feel like I could cover the whole state in a day. That feeling wears off after a few minutes.

I feel pretty good considering how far I have come so far. I’m hiking mostly, but I’m okay with that. The asphalt is really pounding after a while, and not full-on running like I did for the first two weeks seems to be working. I’m able to cover a lot of mileage with minimal wear and tear on my ankles and shins. I really wish I had paid more attention to needing room for my shoes to expand before the run started, though. Clay and Shaun you both were totally right. I have two pairs of shoes that fit me (thanks to FootRx) and 6 pairs that are currently too small. I don’t expect my feet to shrink any over the next month.

The trail today led from Four Oaks/Ingrams westward across Interstate 95 through Smithfield, where some really nice cops stopped me to say they had seen me coming through town and asked if I needed anything. Although, now that I think about it, I’m not entirely sure if they were being sincere or just slightly suspicious.

Dean ran ahead to a local taco stand and brought me an egg and cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee after about 2 hours of hiking. I can’t tell you what that does to me to lift my spirits. Protein bars and electrolyte drinks really get old after 4 weeks. I could get used to this kind of service.

Before heading out, I looked at the trail map and saw that I was going to be on a Neuse River walk today and I was hoping that would lead to dirt! But, it wasn’t meant to be. The “trail” turned out to be an urban greenway of asphalt. I found a mural under a bridge of different points near the Mountains to Sea Trail, including the Biltmore House in my home town. I took a few pics and caught up with Dean at the end of the greenway. It was certainly nice, and I’m glad that this option is there for those that want to get out and enjoy the parks and the river without dodging cars, but I have to admit, I was a little disappointed.

Almost immediately after I got out of the park, I wanted it back. The road to and through Selma wasn’t made for running, hiking or biking. The speed limit for cars on the busy road was 55 miles per hour, there was no shoulder on the road, and edges off the sides cantered so steeply that it was challenging to even stand as large trucks went by without sliding into the ditch. After a little over 19 miles I decided that I had had enough and waved down the Tahoe to come take me back to the RV where Chuck had a spread of local goodness.

After a shower, 3 sandwiches, and 30 minutes of icing my legs and feet, I faded to oblivion for the next two hours.

Meet all of life’s challenges with a belly laugh. There’s a joke in there somewhere. Keep moving forward.

Kenny

I had a guest appearance today by my friend, Chris de Beer! Chris, essentially said to himself, I only have 3 jobs, a wife, two children and way too many hobbies, so I think I’ll drive to the other end of the state at 3:00 am, run a marathon (26.2 miles) with my friend, Kenny, then drive all the way back home and work a full day on Monday. At least, I think that’s how it probably went. Because, that’s what he did!

We really did have a great day today. We talked. We laughed. We made inane observations. In essence, we solved a lot of the world’s problems while we passed the time eating protein bars, drinking water, dodging cars and running from yappy dogs. Unfortunately, I can’t tell anyone any of these great ideas because most of them are stupid, they make no sense and definitely wouldn’t work.

Chris and I picked up on the Highway where I left yesterday afternoon, and had about 3 miles until we turned left onto Fire Department Road. We dodged traffic and navigated a few turns until we made it to the Clayton city limits. After 4 weeks of very rural parts of Eastern North Carolina, downtown Clayton was a virtual bustling metropolis! They had a coffee shop and everything!

We navigated the streets and found the Neuse River Greenway Trail. This greenway runs along the Neuse River (hopefully, you already figured that part out) for about 32 miles from point to point. The website says 27.5 miles, but I remember distinctly seeing mile markers up to 32. So, I’m going to stick with 32 miles for now. It makes me sound tougher.

We followed the asphalt greenway in and around, up and over, and saw some gorgeous rust red foot bridges over the river and its creek tributaries. We had a few selfie moments before Dean spoiled the fun and said we had to keep going. After 26.2 miles, we had enough fun for the day and headed back to camp where Chuck made a goulash/ratatouille/rice bowl/salad concoction (that Emeril wishes he had invented) that I dumped into one bowl and had two helpings before hugging Chris goodbye and crawling off to ice my feet.

Every misstep isn’t the end. It’s just another beginning. Do it again. Keep moving forward.

Kenny

I laced up my running shoes and headed North on the Neuse River Greenway again with every intention of repeating the previous day’s feat of a marathon distance (26.2 miles).

The sun hadn’t completely risen above the tree line yet, but it was poking out enough that it would periodically blind me. I put on my sunglasses and marched on, enjoying being alone. For a time, this was my  trail. No one else could claimed this little chunk of paved paradise except me. I could breathe in this chilly, slightly citified air unmolested by bike riders shouting “on your left!”, lunch joggers and slow people – all who looked at me with irritation and an undercurrent of repressed road rage.

After a mile or two of quickly hiking in this reverie, I looked to my right to see the river appear to steam. I could almost hear the sizzle as the sun rose to heat it to a steaming rolling brown soup. I felt good and I felt a smile growing.  In almost a trance, immediately something large jumped away from me and the tree to my right that had been camouflaging its existence. I calmly said to the deer that was now standing on banks next to the river and looking back at me, “AHHHHHHHHHH SHIT! DON’T DO THAT!” Then I proceeded to trip over my own feet, grumbled, kicked a tree, looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my plight, then moved on.

As has become a morning routine, Murphy and the girls called me to wish me good morning, to let me know how their Monday morning was going, then once everyone was fed, dressed and ready to head to work or school, they left me to my greenway and ninja deer.

At about 10 miles, the greenway took a couple of sharp turns and I was thrust into an urban park setting with all sorts of trails and sidewalks crisscrossing over one another. I kept having to hunt for the signs leading me through the maze  which made me feel (and probably look) as if I was hunting for the right grocery store aisle for peanut butter (Is it a fruit? Is it a candy? Who knows?). I wasn’t going to ask for directions!

As the morning got later, the sun grew higher and the frequency of hikers, cyclists, runners and jogging strollers increased. I was actually surprised and pleased at how many people I saw who were taking advantage of these trails as part of what seemed to be their daily routines.

I noticed that the posted speed limit on the trail was 10 MPH, and I feel confident that the road cyclists who were dressed like taller, older, less-talented (but well-dressed nonetheless) versions of Greg LeMond and Lance Armstrong were often going 3 times that speed on this flat asphalt road. Truthfully, on this sort of greenway, headphone-wearing, or otherwise oblivious pedestrians could get hurt, not knowing that there were speed demons coming behind them that fast. They were slowed down only by my drunk-like wandering from side to side, which possibly wasn’t entirely unintentional. I’m not often passive-aggressive – but when I am, I like to have fun with it.

The Greenway ended after a little over 22 miles where I met up with Dean. I suggested that I’d like to change my shoes to see how my feet felt in the size 13 Altras. After the first week of the Mountains to Sea Trail run, my feet had expanded a full size larger, and so now 6 pairs of shoes were useless to me, unless I could make some of them work. I was hoping with the extra wide toe box and the reputation for being slightly larger than other running shoes, that I could wear Altra trail shoes on the days when I ran on nothing but dirt. Unfortunately, my toes curled up in the end of the shoes about 20 seconds after Dean left me to drive to the next point on the trail where it crossed over a road.

After a little over 26 total miles for the day, I limped to the waiting car and we headed back to camp for food, a shower, more food, icing of the legs, and a nap. After back-to-back marathon days, I was pooped and I could barely keep my eyes open.

Manifest good and good times. If you don’t see it, you’re not looking hard enough. Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

Last night I was probably the most tired I have been since I started this trip a month ago. I suppose back to back marathons will do that. I dozed off several times getting ready for sleep, until I gave up and decided tonight will just be about sleeping. I slept from 7:30 pm until 3:00 am. I tossed and turned until 4:30, when Chuck and I both gave up and decided that breakfast might be a good way to get the day started.

In the mornings, Chuck usually turns the lights on before I really get moving. Typically, this is between 4:45 and 5:00am. He boils water and starts coffee steeping in the French Press while I get dressed, brush my teeth and make myself pretty. By the time I’m prepped, food and a cup of coffee is always on the RV table, where I do my best impression of someone excited to be awake.

After breakfast, Chuck helps me stretch all the muscles that have tightened up overnight. I finish putting on socks, shoes, sunscreen, hats and jackets, as needed. By this time, Dean is impatient and some imagined schedule has moved up, so we rush into action. Well, I rush into action slight faster than the crawling I was already doing. I ease myself out of the RV, and waddle gingerly over to the car. Dean and I silently ride silently to the trailhead, where he hands me bars, double checks that I have enough water, points me in the right direction, and off I go.

Today, I started at Possum Track Road and dipped onto the Neuse River Trail. The Neuse River Trail mostly runs in tandem with, although sometimes parallel to the Mountains to Sea Trail, when navigating the woods surrounding Falls Lake and the Neuse River.

The trails were marked well, and terrain was easy, but it was slow going at first. Plus, I was testing out my trekking poles prowess and was opting for not impaling myself. I was successful in using the poles, but still tripped a couple of times, since I haven’t seen a root or rock larger than crushed gravel over the last month and was a little out of practice.

I climbed up and down hills, over and around fallen trees and stumps, and thoroughly enjoyed being back in the woods. Despite that temperatures that were creeping back up, I didn’t feel any sudden change. I was partially shielded from the life-sucking sun by the thick blanket of trees.

There were no cars – not one – on the trails. Nobody honked at me, flipped me off, gave me odd stares (other than Dean) or otherwise questioned my right to hike there. So I did that. I hiked with my trekking poles, my hydration pack and some guy reading Bill Bryson’s book into my brain.

For nearly 4 hours, I remained in that place where I knew where I was and could totally commit to being there without guilt, anxiety or interruption. I moved quickly, but didn’t pound it. Why would I? There weren’t a lot of crazy animals or weird adventures. I wasn’t dangling from a cliff or fighting off samurai squirrels, but this peace was pretty dramatic.

I like to think I enjoy meditative states for a long time, but even I can get uncomfortable enough at times that I mix it up by making a witticism, picking up the pace, or prank-calling a relative. But I didn’t want to leave that place. Not yet. I had waited over 4 weeks to find it, and I needed to ride it out – just a little longer.

After 16 miles, I called my brother and told him to let Prince Albert out of the can.

When you find your good place, hang on to it a little bit longer than you planned. Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

I’m not sure what came over me, but I made it out of camp fairly early this morning and hit the trails by 6:15 today. I love running early. I get to avoid noise and congestion and I get to see things for the first time that day from that angle. Before the sun was up, I got to see it rise from a place nobody on Earth got to see it – at least not on that day and not at that time. That sun was all mine. Go get your own.

So today is my wife’s birthday. I know, because my father reminded me at 6:20 this morning. My mother has already told me that she’s the head of the house, but that they all just let me think that I am (which is amusing, because I always assumed it was either my wife or my 4-year-old daughter). Murphy said all this indicates they like her better. I’m pretty sure she’s right.

As I was hiking/jogging (hogging?) through the woods, I talked with Dad for about 20 minutes about things we thought were funny and things we couldn’t change, made us mad, but were still funny nonetheless. I realized that better check in with the birthday girl, so I sang “Happy Birthday” to her as she was trying to wrestle our toddler into clothes for the day. Maggie, the 14-year-old, had already taken off for the bus, but had dutifully given her mother a birthday cookie and card to go along with a cup of coffee. I’m sure the cup of the coffee was the real gift. I distracted them enough, so I let them go and I carried on with my work.

Yep. My work consists of one foot in front of the other. I think I mean that in a metaphorical sense as well as a literal one. My job, if you will, is to keep going. It’s so easy and yet so hard. I do it out of habit most days. I keep moving, because I’ve always kept moving. Until I couldn’t. Or, until they wouldn’t let me.

I’m not saying we’re like sharks. We don’t need constant motion, physical or otherwise, to survive. There’s definitely a sincere value – maybe even a necessity – for stillness. I don’t think it’s our natural state though. And when life is chasing you more than usual, move. Stay ahead of it.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m no guru. No savant. No prophet, psychiatrist, astrologer, civil engineer nor even a sports bookie. I can’t see into the future. Our actions or inactions have consequences, and I can’t even tell you which direction you need to go. I feel confident, however that not moving forward gets you nowhere.

It seems to me that moving forward in a purely physical sense should make sense. If you have feet (and it’s possible you do not), take one. Put it in front of the other. Then take the foot that did not move, and move it front of the foot that just moved. Now you’re getting somewhere. And you’re making change. You’re creating connections. You’re making inroads to a better quality of life.

No feet? We can work with that. Keep moving forward.

But metaphorically, how do you keep moving forward? As I said, I don’t have all answers for everybody. I’m not that guy, unfortunately.

But I have ideas.

Find somebody to help, whether less fortunate or not. Help them.

Find something about somebody (anybody) that makes them happy. Do it. Make them happy.

Talk to somebody. Don’t like people? Then send them an email. Don’t like computers? Write them a letter.

I think you get the gist. Move mountains. Shake the world. Step into a new you.

These are the things I tell myself every day. Every. Day.

I get up before 5am every morning. I put on my running shorts, then my shirt. I brush my teeth. I eat 2 eggs, a banana, a cup of water and drink a cup of coffee. I stretch. I put on my socks and shoes. I slather myself in sunscreen. I put my hat and sunglasses on. I fill up my hydration pack. I walk out the door. I run. I think. I live. I make a difference. Then I make an inane Instagram video, not because I like talking to my phone in the middle of the woods or to show off my scraggly beard. I do it to remind me why I’m doing this.

Now that I went there, let’s leave the land of  woo woo, and return to the snarky musings of a slower-than-I’d-like runner.

There were hills. There were dales. There were dusty trails. But the caissons went rolling along. And then there was a cemetery in the woods. I can’t tell you any more about it. It was just there. Slightly out-of-place and a little sad.

I traveled around the lake, running in and out of its fingers not seeming to make too terribly much western progress, but the view was nice. I ran across some abandoned barns, and the tools associated with barns. When I popped out I saw not one but two friendly faces! Dean always seems to be happiest when I’m not the only person he sees during my daily run, and the smiling face next to him belonged to my friend Mary Eliza. She flew all the way to the trail from… well I guess she lives in Raleigh. But, still… It was great to see her. We spent too long catching up before, I realized I better get moving. I shooed her in the opposite direction and I dove back into the woods.

I was not too terribly far from the campsite when I ran into a snag. Well, a creek, really. Without a bridge. The bridge appeared to have steps on both sides of the high and deep creek which was about 15 feet wide, but it was missing the crucial middle part, that allowed for the bridge-user to not get wet. On further inspection, I discovered that lots of lovely timber pieces were ready for installation on the opposite bank.

I tested the depth, but quickly realized that if I were to wade into the murky still water it would come up over my waist. Since these were likely shark-infested waters, I figured I best not risk it. After chasing my tail for several minutes, I discovered a bouncy fallen tree about 30 yards downstream that seemed to connect the two banks. I tested the bounciness and solidness before stepping onto the log. It was definitely solid. And definitely bouncy. Putting on my best determined face, I stepped gingerly. I crouched low with my hands straight out to my sides, like I was playing airplane and I was strafing the enemies planes as they lay on the ground. I didn’t make the noises though.

About a third of the way across, I discovered that somebody must have had this idea before me because long tree branch that had apparently been used as a walking pole, was leaned against the log. I carefully scooted my hand down the shaft until I could safely use it to balance against. After two movements and six shuffle-steps, I was across and gave a thumbs up selfie just to prove it.

About a mile before the end of the trail, Dean caught up with me and guided me to civilization. I shuffled to tomorrow’s trailhead, climbed into the car, and headed for the RV. Ice Me.

When life is chasing you more than usual, move. Stay ahead of it. Keep moving forward.

Kenny

Apparently, this early morning thing is agreeing with me. I left camp and started on the trails just a little after 6am. Not only did I get some gorgeous sunrise vistas, but I had more than my fair share of spider webs. By the end of the day I looked like a giant zombie boy scout with headphones. I’m sure the still living moths and other critters were happier to live in my hair or strapped to the brim of my hat, but it was a little uncomfortable after a while.

I did take some great shots of the lake, and was able to appreciate Falls Lake for its quiet beauty without any distractions.

Despite the fact that Falls Lake is such a fixture in Raleigh and surrounding communities, it has only been in existence for 37 years. It was built by the Army Corps of Engineers and completed in 1981, mostly to control where the Little, Eno and Flat Rivers joined to form the Falls of the Neuse, which marked the start of the Neuse River, flowing East. As a result, not only do the three counties that surround the 28 miles of lake enjoy recreation and trail areas, Falls Lake is primarily their source of drinking water and a wildlife habitat, partially regulated by the state forestry service.

The Neuse River has a great history too. It’s likely the one of the oldest rivers in the United States. Archaeologists can tell that natives settled around its banks over 14,000 years ago to take advantage of its fast flowing waters, output to the brackish Pamilico Sound, and quick access to several Krispy Kreme Doughnuts when the light is on.

It’s name came from the Neusiok tribe that lived to the South of the river. The colonists named the region “Neusick” after the tribe and name was shortened for the river. These were Sir Walter Raleigh commissioned colonists, who encountered several native tribes in the late 1500s.

The Tuscarora people did not care for these European invaders, and in 1711, they proposed an anti-immigration policy called the Tuscarora War, which reduced the colony’s population, considerably. This settled things to the natives satisfaction for a couple of months until the foreigners changed their minds by encouraging them to sign a treaty that both sides would later break and meant nothing after a couple of decades.

In 1865, during the Civil War, the Confederates burned and sunk one of the last ironclad ships in the Neuse River, so that Union soldiers couldn’t get their hands on the high-tech sophisticated equipment. It seemed to work. Nobody pulled that ship out of the river until 1963.

 

The trail is pretty hilly as it leaves the lake, and as it travels around the Western most fingers of the lake, the terrain steers further and further away from large bodies of water and follows the smaller Eno River to the West, which compared to the Neuse and Falls Lake, seemed quite small and tame.

I saw more open fields, with high grass, that reminded me of all the signs at the trail head discouraging me from feeding the ticks. I did my best to starve them. And I openly discouraged them from biting. The pharmacist tells me every four weeks that I “must not” share blood while on my current regimen of chemotherapy. It just can’t be good for them.

I crossed over to Red Mill Road once, but then dove back into the woods for 6 more miles to finish – again – on Red Mill Road for the day at under 23 miles.

Tomorrow, a local running club has a couple of members showing up to support me through a few miles before they get back to their real jobs. I’m looking forward to meeting new folks and talking about running, what I’m doing, and Throwing Bones. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself or disappoint them with how slow I’m going. I get in the miles every day, but I’m not setting any personal records with my miles times.

Give every day almost everything. Leave just a little in the tank for tomorrow, because you’re going to get up and do it again. Keep moving forward.

Kenny

I started about an hour later this morning as I met members of the North Durham Runners Club. These fantastic runners gave me the boost I needed to get through the entire day.

I met Heather, my first guide through the Durham sections of the Mountains to Sea Trail at Red Mill Road at 7am. It was about an hour later than I normally start, but I’m glad I waited. Heather and I were able to get into a rhythm of running, hiking (riking?) in no time. We bobbed in and out of conversation and silence at just the right times, as if we had sea legs riding the waves of the trail and how we both felt at the moment.

It worked a little too well, because we missed a trail marker and accidentally doubled back. We almost entirely repeated the first portion of the trail before we figured out what we had done, when we turned around and tried again. All told, I think it added around 4 miles to the day.

After spending 8-ish miles together, we met up with Margo, who tagged off with Heather. Margo led me further West along the banks of the Eno River. She pointed out the large turtles that would slide off rocks where they were sunning themselves, the fast-moving rapids in some places, the peaceful fly fishermen, and how all this contrasted with the homeless camps that were less than a mile away.

Durham has a pretty rich history involving railroads, tobacco, top-tier universities, and a baseball team with cool name.

It’s a fairly old southern town, having been a major part on the old Indian Trading Route, which dates back long before the United State of America was a country. Despite this old and storied history, though, it was merely a railroad depot for almost 20 years before it was incorporated in 1869 – well after the Civil War.

Now, Durham has well over half a million people, and more than that, if you consider that it is part of the Research Triangle, which includes Raleigh and Chapel Hill. All three cities create a combined metropolitan statistical area of close to 2.2 million people.

These days, the industry is varied and it doesn’t appear to have one that stands out above the rest. Duke University Hospital is one of the research institutions that I visited for a second opinion on my own cancer diagnosis, however, so that sticks out as being pretty special.

Duke, like several research institutions around the world, concentrates on discovery, innovation, and otherwise free-thinking with a purpose. They are creating scenarios where folks are more likely than not to leave there alive, and live a longer than expected, healthy life.

Durham makes waves and continues to push the boundaries. The trails through town are long and rolling, and fairly well maintained. I was especially impressed with that part. I see the appeal, but could some of you locals get those guys in tents and lean-tos between Roxboro Road and Guess Road, a few blankets and some food?

Margo left me at Guess Road, where her fellow club member, Shannon, brought me my first almond milk cappuccino in over a month. I chugged that, tucked the crushed paper cup into my pack to carry back to a trash can, and climbed down into the woods to move away the Eno’s current trajectory.

I had nearly 3 miles to myself to enjoy all the signs that the club members and their kids had made for me. There were TONS of them! It was like a mini-surprise party every time passed a tree and saw a poster of encouragement. My favorite was “May the 4th Be With you” (and also with you). I was really touched and couldn’t believe how much effort they put into letting me know that they believed in me – a guy they never met and sometimes doesn’t have much confidence himself.

At mile 18, I heard a voice behind me, and I was fairly heard my name, so I stopped and looked up as if a bird pooped on me. I’m not sure why I did that, but it seemed appropriate, and it gave whoever was behind me time to catch up. Amy, another club member, seemed awfully happy to see me. I think it was because she hadn’t expected to find me at all.

Amy and I only had a short time together. It seems she spent a good deal of time trying to find me, so she had little time to spare before child pickup times called. Either that, or I was talking way to much and she ran the other direction as fast as she could. Either answer is acceptable.

In about 2 more miles, I encountered one of those best kept secret places – the Eno Quarry swimming area. The swimming area was overloaded with college-age men and women who were willing to hike at least a mile in from their cars to cavort in the clearest water I had seen since I left Topsail Beach. Of course, big signs near the quarry pond telling swimmers that the area is dangerous and that “swimming is not recommended”, only encouraged more daredevils to brave the waters. I estimate there were 50 or more people there. None seemed worried. If there were any dead, dying or even slightly maimed, nobody noticed or wanted to talk about it.

By this time, I have to admit, my feet were starting to get tired, and I was ready for the day to be done. I saw the Eno River State Park parking lot, and just before I stepped off of the Mountains to Sea Trail for the day, I saw one more strategically placed sign that read, “Kenny, may you always: Run Often, Run Long, and Never Outrun your Joy of Running.” Words. They work.

May you never outrun your joy. Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

“All things are difficult before they are easy”. I saw this spray-painted under an old train trestle today. It applied to the day. And, it sounds like a Captain Obvious statement.

When I started out this morning, I knew that I had two long days of asphalt to pound. I was looking forward to the scenery. I wasn’t looking forward to the hot asphalt and cars. Fortunately, the cloud cover in the afternoon helped a little to tame the sun towards the end of the day, and it was still pretty enjoyable.

After leaving the Eno River, I found that I followed its banks West into Hillborough. In fact, after close to 7 miles, I met up with the town’s Riverwalk, a paved trail that followed the river on the left and a practically manicured town on the right. From my vantage point, Hillsborough was so pretty, it almost didn’t look real.

There were art exhibits, park benches, multiple historic markers, the courthouse lawn (that looked prepped for a game of bocce ball), more art exhibits and even a bug spray station with cans and instructions for the public. I don’t know if it was planned art or merely vandalism, but I really did enjoy the graffiti art under the old trestle bridge. It was poignant and uplifting, but wasn’t too cutesy as to make me uncomfortable.

The original name was supposed to be Orange, but was later named after the Earl of Hillsborough, and the name stuck. Presumably, because they didn’t like the color orange, didn’t grow oranges, or its citizens didn’t want to open it up to too many puns and cheesy jokes. Orange you glad they didn’t name it Orange?

The town itself has fewer than 7,000 people. You wouldn’t know it to look at it, but Hillborough used to be a major trade route. Like Durham, Hillsborough was located along the Great Indian Trading Path and so it has a deep history of native settlements in and around the area. There are a few mock villages that have been set up in and around the town.

After leaving the park after nearly two miles of meandering with the Eno, trekked toward Mebane, which is another growing bedroom community for Triangle or Triad employers. The ’50s and 60’s era houses were well-maintained, and usually freshly painted. Children road their bikes down the street or played in their own backyards without too much supervision. Adults were out mowing lawns, planting flower bulbs and spreading mulch. It was Mayberry come to life.

Mebane was quickly gone after another 5 or 6 miles, and Haw River loomed before me where I ended the day. At one time, Haw River was bustling with industry and was home to the Cone Mills Corporation, one of the largest manufacturers of corduroy. Now you know who really to blame for the 1970s. You are welcome.

Since the plant close down, the town has really felt it’s loss. In the downtown, it seemed that the newest things I could see were the police cars and the entrance to the town. These folks fight hard to maintain their identity, but my guess is that I’m going to find out how much Haw River, is really just more Burlington, the town next door.

Sure, it sucks at first. But wait until you get going. Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

One long day behind me. Another ahead! Last night, a fraternity brother, Paul, showed up at the campsite, wearing a hydration pack on his back and a tent under his arm, cracking jokes. He was staying the night, getting up and he was hanging for the whole day. “I’m in it for the whole day, man!”

“Dude,” I said. “You realize that we’re doing over 30 miles, right?”

“Dude,” (Apparently, we say “dude” a lot) “I walk all the time,” Paul said, incredulously. “Seriously. I’m up at 4:30 every morning. My longest is 30. I got this.”

I knew he had it. I smiled. We ate burritos courtesy of Chef Chuck, and I knew that we would all make it and would embrace the suck.

This morning, Paul and I were dutifully up at 4am, getting dressed and infusing some calories. Mostly everybody waited for me to go through my routines, and we were off to the City Park in Haw River, an hour away. We were planning to meet another fraternity from college, Brian, but we got there a little earlier than expected. Paul and I were ready to roll, so we took off walking. Dean stayed behind and dropped Brian in on the trail about a mile away.

After we left the park in Haw River, we wandered through several parks, and a few golf course fairways. Haw River is a fascinating town and I obsessed on it, perhaps a little too much.

We popped out of the woods into Glencoe Mill Village, a historic cotton mill outside of Burlington, NC. The town held a lot of history and it looked like it was coming back. The old mill houses were really cool looking. Preserved, but colorful. The remnants of its power and water center was set up on the Haw River and allowed for good views, as the river flowed Southeast.

Predictably, then we found fields and roads, and even more roads and fields….. then came the rain. It rained so hard that all conversation stopped. We couldn’t hear each other over the rain and the hoods covering our ears. The quiet was weird. Paul normally talks more than I do.

The rain stopped, the sun came out and we all whined about our blisters before it started raining again. We hobbled into Bryan Park, but it wasn’t over. Oh no. Not yet. Two more miles after we entered the park we came to a screeching halt in front of the golf course trail head. 33 miles. I’m proud of you, men!

Natty Greene’s Kitchen and Market had a high top table, mashed potatoes, a beet and black burger and an IPA waiting for me. It’s like they knew.

Paul kept asking us to rub his feet.

Mangling the beautiful sentiment of HDT, we embraced the suck; we sucked the marrow of of that nasty day. We found life in every blister-inducing step.

Grab life. I’ll hold your hand if you need me to. The blisters will heal tomorrow. Keep moving forward.

Kenny

Dean left me at the trailhead next to the golf course at a little before 7am this morning. I stalked the back 9, popped out onto a road briefly, then dove back to the woods for several miles around Lake Townsend and its many coves and fingers on the South side of the water.

About 6 or 7 miles down the trail, my favorite epidemiologist showed up just ahead of me. Dr. Shannon Grabich’s knowledge of the disease that several of us are carrying was surprising, even if she is an epidemiologist for a major pharmaceutical company. She has a personal connection. Her uncle is also suffering with myeloma, so this is real. Diseases are always personal even when you aren’t sick one. Only one of us can carry the flag, but we all fight the battle.

Shannon and I shuffled along discussing running first (she’s an ultra runner, so it’s an easy starting place), then moved onto less important stuff like our backgrounds and politics. Shannon took me to task on what I am NOT doing for Throwing Bones. It was an important reminder that I’m and the main ambassador for our mission right now, and I need to remember that whenever I see somebody.

The subject came up at the right time when we passed 3 or 4 hikers, and we just let them pass. Shannon turned to me an said, “Why aren’t you handing out cards to everyone that goes by?” It caught me off guard, and my first reaction was defensive.

“Well, I don’t have cards with me,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I … don’t know?”

That was the best I could come up with. I suppose I could have mentioned that I felt a little uncomfortable soliciting every person on trail that wants peace, contentment, exercise, or just wants their dog to poop.

But I didn’t. Why didn’t I?

The truth is, I could definitely gauge each passerby. If the time was appropriate, I could stop them, say hello, ask them about their time on the trail, mention why I’m there and hand them a card. If they don’t make eye contact, won’t stop because they are moving too fast, or are carrying a bloody machete, then I can reasonably determine that they are unlikely card-worthy.

The next time I saw Dean, I asked him for business cards and shoved some into my hydration vest.

Shannon and I parted soon after that. She had to pickup, drop off or some other parenting-type thing, and I saw Dean briefly at Lake Brandt Road, before I started followed the hiking and biking trails of Lake Brandt. These trails were fun and fast, but my guess is they were more intended for someone with knobby tires, and I spent a great deal of time avoiding lunch time speed demons, until I made it to the Atlantic & Yadkin Greenway.

The Greenway was asphalt, clean and even had bike repair stations with freely available tools and air pumps. If you want to encourage your residents to get outside, make outside fun, accessible, inviting, and allow for flat tires.

I finished the day in the parking lot of the greenway with 20 miles. Tomorrow’s run is back on the road for a couple of days.

So, I needed shoes. Again. Soon after the first two weeks of the run, my feet expanded from my huge size 13 shoes, to a sasquatchian (I just made that word up) size 14. After many calls, Dean found one pair of size 14 Altra Escalantes at Fleet Feet GSO. I really had a great time meeting the owner, John, and Joe Randene, an employee at the shop and the author of Joe the Runner blog post. Joe loves running, has a great following about running, his personal story and his stand against bullying.

When I got the campsite, I found out that another myeloma brother, Mike and his wife, Sue were bringing us pizza. They showed up, with pizza and hugs. The hugs were pretty important, for many reasons, but mainly because it meant (in my mind) that Mike was getting better.

Mike Padjen had a autologous bone marrow transplant (BMT) in February, and he is still coming out of it. It takes time to recover from such a shocking and sadistic form of treatment (I had one in August 2015). On top of the steamrolling number that the BMT did to his immune system, Mike had some serious degeneration his back. Like me, Mike suffered lesions that cause compression fractures. Unlike me, Mike’s back degenerated so much by the time he was diagnosed, that he lost nearly 4 inches in height.

Despite being in pretty constant pain, not being able to pick up loose change, and having endure jerks singing “Short People” when he walks by, he seems to be adjusting well to looking up nostrils, and not being able to dunk a basketball.

Commit to the idea of a goal, first. You can always commit to the actual goal, second. Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

Back on the road again! I moved away from the greenway in Summerfield, turned right out of the parking lot and dodged cars, trucks and school buses for nearly 10 miles before getting to Oak Ridge, NC.

No, Matt Brown, the Oak Ridge Boys are not from Oak Ridge, North Carolina. They are actually from Knoxville, Tennessee, and were originally named the Oak Ridge Quartet because they would perform gospel music at the nuclear research facility in Oak Ridge, Tennessee during WWII.

Oak Ridge, North Carolina is known for Oak Ridge Military Academy which makes up a big chunk of the attractive little town. The Academy was founded in 1852 by Quakers as a male finishing School. World War I changed things, though, and the school started a JROTC program that quickly took a life of its own. By 1929, Oak Ridge was officially a Military Academy is now the third oldest still operating military academy in the United States. Young women have been admitted to the school since 1972. I bet the Society of Friends hasn’t been back to check on the Cadets.

I turned right on Linville Road and headed out of town. After a series of turns and nearly 25 miles, I found Walnut Cove.

There is an adventure in every moment. Find it. Keep Moving Forward.

Kenny

Well, it was bound to happen. After nearly 830 miles in 45 days (over 9,000 feet of elevation in the 2 previous days), I am pooped. I decided to take a slow day, and went just under 15 miles.

I’m really behind on keeping up with my journal, because at the end of the day, I shuffle to camp, take a shower, eat, ice, stretch and barely have enough energy to pull up the blankets or text Murphy and the kids before I fall asleep. I’ll do my best to keep uploading pictures after ever day, but some of the journal may not be finished until I get back.

I ran over 190 miles last week!

Two days ago, I ran from the eastern side of Stone Mountain up to the Blue Ridge Parkway with over 4900 feet of elevation gain. Yesterday, I started and finished near the Parkway, but still added over 4600 feet of elevation gain.

I have run for many years, but other than age group awards, I have never been tops on speed, but when checking out Strava’s assessment of 172,959 runners, I’m number 5 in total distance for the month of May!

So today was short but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t interesting. I started off from West Jefferson, found a pace that didn’t make me scream, and weaved back and forth across the Parkway for almost 2 miles when I came across the Laurel and Hardy of labrador retrievers.

After I climbed over a cattle turnstile to get back onto the trail, I came upon male chocolate and black labs. Both looked to be about 75 pounds each. They were obviously well cared for, and they both had collars, but neither had ID tags attached to the collars.

I said, “Hi guys!” enthusiastically when they came up to me, and that was my mistake, apparently. They were attached to me for the next 12 miles. They deftly scaled steep trails and stayed off the road whenever a car was near. They were old pros, and I learned a thing or two. Together, we forged streams, soaked our feet when we could, chased chipmunks (I actually let them do that stuff without me – on account I’m not a dog), and ate sandwiches whenever we ran into Dean.

When I had cell service, I put out an all-call to the Facebook world, and Murphy called a local animal rescue place in Boone. The puppy parents were found and apparently these two hoodlums were well known to the Parkway staff as this wasn’t their first adventure. I’m glad they found their home and that they’re safe, but I have to admit. I miss them already.

As I mentioned, I ended the day a little early to work on recovery. I had enough time, after I made it to camp, to eat, shower, ice, nap and do a radio interview with the local ESPN radio station out of Asheville. Thanks, Pat and Bill (the WISE Guys)!  I have the legs for radio.

Sometimes – maybe all the time – it’s not as important to get there fast as it is to just get there. Be smart. Move – Rest – Recover. Repeat. Keep moving forward.

Kenny