The Home Stretch
- by Karen Hayse
Four miles! I’ve only run four miles! I stood at the side of the road, dejected, waiting for a relief wagon to pick me up. I hadn’t even run a third of Kansas City’s Hospital Hill Half-Marathon. Six months of training down the drain—all because of a microscopic virus.
Sprained muscles, bad weather . . . I thought I planned for it all. But strep throat?
Add medicine that had side effects like rapid heartbeat and shortness of breath; I didn’t have a prayer of finishing.
Regardless, my parents met me at the finish line with an armful of pink roses. The offering was bittersweet, since I clutched them after climbing out of a van instead of after sprinting across a finish line.
I vowed I’d try again. Unfortunately, Kansas City half-marathons are in short supply, and life got busy again.
For one, I suddenly became a mom of an eight-year-old.
Cute little Mandy Porter had packed all her things, waved good-bye to her foster parents and moved into our spare bedroom. This pixie-like redhead had been passed around like most foster children. Unfortunately, her story was more disheartening than the average one. Twice, she had been placed for adoption and began calling an unfamiliar couple “Mom” and “Dad.” Twice, the stress had been too much for these new parents, and they sent little Mandy back to foster care. Social workers call this an “adoption disruption.” I call it a soul disruption.
My husband and I would become two more in a line of uncertain parents for Mandy. The very day she moved in, we could see why the disruptions had happened. Little Miss Mandy was a tough cookie—throwing tantrums daily, refusing to comply, being passive, being aggressive, being anything but cooperative.
Seven years had passed since my undoing at Hospital Hill at mile four, but even after all those years, I still felt empty and undone at not having finished the 1994 race. Advertisements for the 2001 half-marathon popped up again on store windows. I mulled over whether or not to try again. I had been having hip pain so badly that I was having trouble sleeping and hadn’t run in years.
I oscillated between sending in an application and being realistic. I had little time to prepare. And I had a daughter, now a teenager, who still took immense amounts of time and energy.
I don’t quit. I do what I say. I could hear my own words echo back to me. I thought, This is a perfect opportunity to show this to Mandy—to let her see that I mean it, instead of just hearing it.
I mailed my application and bought new shoes. I found running routes with big hills like the official Hospital Hill course, and I ran them whenever I could squeeze it in.
Too soon, that Sunday morning arrived. Mandy and I swung into a downtown parking spot and headed to the starting line. I told her, “I hope to finish in two and a half hours. Meet me at the finish line at 10:30.”
She nodded.
I lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Mandy,” I said, “I don’t quit. Not in this race, and not on you. I am running this race for you.”
With my number pinned securely, I found my place in the mob of runners and lost sight of my precious daughter.
Could I do it? I had to!
I am strong, and I don’t quit! I am strong, and I don’t quit! It was my mantra, the words that patterned my cadence.
Oh no! Is that a raindrop? The gray sky opened up, and sheets of rain began to pelt us. My shoes became soggy and doubled in weight. The wet socks rubbed my feet, forming instant blisters.
I don’t quit! I yelled the words in my mind now, picturing my daughter waiting at the finish line. My hip began to sear with pain, and the raindrops turned to torrents.
I repeated the words, louder and faster at the never-ending hills. Through the pain, I felt exhilarated. I would do it. I was doing it!
Sooner than I realized, I rounded a corner to discover the official clock ticking off the finish times. It read “2:13.” On the one hand, I was thrilled; regardless of all the obstacles, I had finished fifteen minutes sooner than I expected! On the other hand, I kept picturing Mandy inside where it was dry, watching the clock for the time I told her to come out to meet me.
I sprinted the last few yards, planning my strategy to find Mandy in the thick pack of people inside the Crown Center.
But I didn’t have to. There she was—her rain-drenched hair dripping onto her soaked T-shirt. And even through all the raindrops—and now the tears—I could see her beaming smile and her arms open fully to receive me.
“I made it, Mandy! I don’t quit!”
“I knew you would, Mom,” she said, holding me tightly as we stood in a deepening puddle. “I’m so glad you never quit.”
- by Karen Hayse
Four miles! I’ve only run four miles! I stood at the side of the road, dejected, waiting for a relief wagon to pick me up. I hadn’t even run a third of Kansas City’s Hospital Hill Half-Marathon. Six months of training down the drain—all because of a microscopic virus.
Sprained muscles, bad weather . . . I thought I planned for it all. But strep throat?
Add medicine that had side effects like rapid heartbeat and shortness of breath; I didn’t have a prayer of finishing.
Regardless, my parents met me at the finish line with an armful of pink roses. The offering was bittersweet, since I clutched them after climbing out of a van instead of after sprinting across a finish line.
I vowed I’d try again. Unfortunately, Kansas City half-marathons are in short supply, and life got busy again.
For one, I suddenly became a mom of an eight-year-old.
Cute little Mandy Porter had packed all her things, waved good-bye to her foster parents and moved into our spare bedroom. This pixie-like redhead had been passed around like most foster children. Unfortunately, her story was more disheartening than the average one. Twice, she had been placed for adoption and began calling an unfamiliar couple “Mom” and “Dad.” Twice, the stress had been too much for these new parents, and they sent little Mandy back to foster care. Social workers call this an “adoption disruption.” I call it a soul disruption.
My husband and I would become two more in a line of uncertain parents for Mandy. The very day she moved in, we could see why the disruptions had happened. Little Miss Mandy was a tough cookie—throwing tantrums daily, refusing to comply, being passive, being aggressive, being anything but cooperative.
Seven years had passed since my undoing at Hospital Hill at mile four, but even after all those years, I still felt empty and undone at not having finished the 1994 race. Advertisements for the 2001 half-marathon popped up again on store windows. I mulled over whether or not to try again. I had been having hip pain so badly that I was having trouble sleeping and hadn’t run in years.
I oscillated between sending in an application and being realistic. I had little time to prepare. And I had a daughter, now a teenager, who still took immense amounts of time and energy.
I don’t quit. I do what I say. I could hear my own words echo back to me. I thought, This is a perfect opportunity to show this to Mandy—to let her see that I mean it, instead of just hearing it.
I mailed my application and bought new shoes. I found running routes with big hills like the official Hospital Hill course, and I ran them whenever I could squeeze it in.
Too soon, that Sunday morning arrived. Mandy and I swung into a downtown parking spot and headed to the starting line. I told her, “I hope to finish in two and a half hours. Meet me at the finish line at 10:30.”
She nodded.
I lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Mandy,” I said, “I don’t quit. Not in this race, and not on you. I am running this race for you.”
With my number pinned securely, I found my place in the mob of runners and lost sight of my precious daughter.
Could I do it? I had to!
I am strong, and I don’t quit! I am strong, and I don’t quit! It was my mantra, the words that patterned my cadence.
Oh no! Is that a raindrop? The gray sky opened up, and sheets of rain began to pelt us. My shoes became soggy and doubled in weight. The wet socks rubbed my feet, forming instant blisters.
I don’t quit! I yelled the words in my mind now, picturing my daughter waiting at the finish line. My hip began to sear with pain, and the raindrops turned to torrents.
I repeated the words, louder and faster at the never-ending hills. Through the pain, I felt exhilarated. I would do it. I was doing it!
Sooner than I realized, I rounded a corner to discover the official clock ticking off the finish times. It read “2:13.” On the one hand, I was thrilled; regardless of all the obstacles, I had finished fifteen minutes sooner than I expected! On the other hand, I kept picturing Mandy inside where it was dry, watching the clock for the time I told her to come out to meet me.
I sprinted the last few yards, planning my strategy to find Mandy in the thick pack of people inside the Crown Center.
But I didn’t have to. There she was—her rain-drenched hair dripping onto her soaked T-shirt. And even through all the raindrops—and now the tears—I could see her beaming smile and her arms open fully to receive me.
“I made it, Mandy! I don’t quit!”
“I knew you would, Mom,” she said, holding me tightly as we stood in a deepening puddle. “I’m so glad you never quit.”
