He’s My Driving Force, Even When I Run Out of Gas

Every year I feel like I can’t do it, but then I remember my purpose, and it gives me strength to keep going. I find that as I get older, purpose becomes the driving force that sustains me through challenges. The stronger the purpose pulls at my heart the greater the force that drives me.

Success, wins, or goals feel empty if the purpose lacks substance.

I find that obstacle races and running breathe fresh air into my life and help return me back to center. Peace is my driving force, but this one race, every year, this one is for something bigger than myself.

The 63 stories, 1,393 steps I climbed at the American Lung Association’s Fight for Air Climb was for my Dad, for what he represents to me, to my life, and to my kids. He was my purpose.

The thoughts of him holding my hand and walking with me out in the patio in our bell-bottoms when I was little, gave me strength to keep taking those steps. The thought of him giving me rides to school at 7 a.m. after he had finished his night shift, kept me going. The thought of seeing him clap for me as the basketball swooshed through the net at one of my games pushed me further. The thought of him being there for me even though he had his own dreams, and troubles, gave me strength to move forward when my body felt like breaking down. The thought of us being friends when I was older helped me reach the top when all my muscles just wanted me to stop. The thought of holding his hand in the hospital room and being the last one to talk to him, to see him alive, that made me teary-eyed as I caught my breath, kissed my fingertips and pointed to the sky. He was there when I reached the finish line.

He’s my driving force, even when I run out of gas.

It was tough this year. I say that a lot, but my aching knees definitely think that this year, the seventh year, was testing the limits. I mean before I even start, I always imagine the previous year and how difficult it was for me to reach the top, and I think it can’t be more difficult than that, but then I start the race and it is … it is more difficult, because I feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel every single year of my life in those bones and muscles of mine when I climb. It hit me when I saw the 20th floor sign, and I tried my best not to look at the signs as I ran up the claustrophobic stairwells, but sometimes there was no where else to look, but up.

My calves were burning, my legs felt weak and my chest heavy as I tried to breathe.

And then I grew even more exhausted because it was only 20. I had 43 more floors to go. And so I went, passing people sitting on steps, clinging onto the walls, and holding onto to handrails just trying to regulate their breath, trying just to make it. Getting to the halfway mark made me feel better I thought I was almost there, but my legs disagreed with me in the most volatile voice.

But I dug deep because it was for the one man that’d seen all my flaws and shine and loved me through it all the best way he could. I dug deep because so many friends, old and new, read his story and donated to the cause to help someone else’s Dad, someone else’s mom, brother, sister, son, or daughter. They made a difference in the lives of someone searching for a cure, someone trying to raise awareness, someone trying to breathe a better breath.

I made it to the stop and took a moment to hold onto that feeling, a moment to remember my purpose as I looked out at the city.

He was worth it. Every step. Every ice pack. Every rock of lavender Epsom salt that my muscles needed. Every bit of that Ben-Gay. It was Gatorade-Worthy.

Buen Camino my friends!

 

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Emptying Out The Tank …

Now I know you’re aware that I’m not the greatest morning person, I lived with that my whole life, but climbing 63 stories in the evening wasn’t something I had in mind, especially after a 7 a.m. hockey game, 10 am Jesus class, a two-hour-visit to the school carnival, and two-hour baseball game.

Nope. Not what I envisioned.

However, the Powers That Be at the American Lung Association thought it would be an awesome idea to scale Los Angeles’s second tallest building just in time to see the sunset. You know … during epic traffic encounters on the 101, 5, and 110 freeways.

They thought that after the exhaustion of scaling 1,039 steps in claustrophobic environment with close to 500 people the skyline would be one to remember.

They thought that because it was my fifth trip to the top of the AON Center that it would be a laid-back workout, that I knew what I was doing.

Whoever said, “it’s just like riding a bicycle,” never stair climbed in his life. Like. Ever. Let me tell you, scaling this monster for the fifth year in a row was not easier the fifth time. It’s never easy. I still felt just as suffocated in the enclosed stairwells as I did the first time around. I still felt my calves burning and my knees aching by the 27^th floor. I still tried to not look up at the signs because 63 stories seemed so far away when I was still on the 31^st floor. I still thought those volunteers with pom-poms were lying to me when they said, “you’re almost there, you’re almost there” because they were, well everyone was lying except for that chick on the 61^st floor. I still felt like I was going in slow motion as it became harder and harder to breathe. I still felt all the heaviness, and weariness of every nook and cranny of my Ben-Gay-Icy-Hot loving 41-year old muscles. I felt it all with every step and every breath.

But one thing kept me going.

One.

I kept seeing my hands hold his hands at the hospital. I kept thinking I was the last one to talk to him before surgery and the last one to see him before he passed away. I kept seeing moments from my childhood sporting awesome polyester bell bottoms and moments from adulthood where talks and laughter surrounded us. I saw them all, and just when the exhaustion of the 45^th floor hit me, when I thought I was losing the pictures in my mind I saw the poster. There it was taped on the stairwell, a picture of my Dad, my sister and me, “Why We Climb”.

Yup.

That was all I needed to pull whatever reserve I had remaining in the tank, and I pushed passed the I’m-gonna-pass-out-right-now-feeling. I ran by the people sitting on stairwells, clinging onto bannisters for dear life, and standing at the last water station.  I saw number 61 and pulled the Ninja-Warrior-Gatorade-Commercial-Worthy athlete out and stormed up those last steps.

I hit the roof running and the burst oxygen filled up my lungs as I stepped outside. I raised my hands up like Rocky and put my finger up to the sky. I got there in 16 minutes and 16 seconds and 16 seconds.

They thought the sunset would be a memorable one …

🙂

They were right. I still remember it.

 

 

The Countdown Has Begun!

10 Days!

The countdown is on and my Randy Macho Man Savage quads are preparing for this battle. Don’t know if my calves are ready though. But the rest of my body seems to think that I’ve got this.

In 10 days, my vitamin-D-deficient-but-glucosamine-fueled body will be sprinting, running, jogging, walking and then crawling up 63 stories,  along with hundreds of other sweaty and out of breath climbers in claustrophobic conditions to help raise money for the American Lung Association.

But why?!

Why does this insanity take place?

I’m not a morning person.

But I see his smiling face under a Dodgers hat, I hear his hearty laugh, and I smell that Jovan Musk aftershave in the hallways … and I wake up with purpose. I wake up ready to run stairs. And what kind of elevator-loving-stair-hating person does that?! What kind of person with BenGay-Advil-Ice-Pack-loving knees laces up her Saucony running shoes to storm high school bleachers or winding staircases hidden in the hills, instead of hitting the snooze button?

 

 

Me … I do it … because he’s worth it.

63 stories.

Yup.

He’s worth the trip to the anti-aging aisle at CVS.

Every year I still bake the cake, even though he’s not gonna blow out the birthday candles. Every year I tell the story of why they call him Chito 7 Pantalones. Every year I replay the messages left on my answering machine just to hear his voice again. Every year I decide to make the excruciatingly difficult journey up 63 stories, painfully possible. Every year I go in believing I’m Lindsey Wagner, putting my bionic knee to the test, climbing over 1,000 steps just for him. Every year I finish knowing full well I have nothing bionic in me.

But every year I do it because I am my father’s daughter and his spirit is still with me.

It’s with me on skydiving adventurous or beach bum days, it’s there on the passenger seat when I’m hearing that feel-good song, it’s  with me when I’m chasing dreams, and when I’m trying to be a better parent. He’s there in one of his many baseball caps that I wear with a smile, he’s my TV buddy when I’m watching The Walking Dead, Peaky Blinders, or Narcos. He’s there high-fiving me when SC wins, and he’s also a member of my Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy Support Group.

He’s there when I’m climbing stairs.

I got 10 days.

The countdown is on.

 

 

It Was Definitely On … Definitely Exhausting … But Definitely Guatacular

I needed a minute.

I actually needed a minute, when it was over. And that’s never really happened.

You know the minute right after your Rocky Balboa moment when you raise your hands in the air victoriously, right after step 1,393, right after your picture gets taken, right after the you-can-do-it adrenaline wears off and the volunteer guy hands you a bottle of water that you so desperately require and it feels so heavy, reminding you that your superpowers to climb stairs in claustrophobic spaces was only temporary.

Yeah … I needed a minute.

1,393 steps.

I needed a couple, actually.

And the reason why?

The 58th floor … followed by the 59th.

They seemed so close to 60, which seemed even closer to 63, and that seemed to fuel the fire. I began pushing even though my gas tank was clearly on empty and my calves were burning up. They were on fire and suffering from I’m-getting-close-to-40 syndrome, but all I could see was the finish line.

Then I hit the deadly 61st floor, and I thought I was about to pass out and just crawl my way up the stairs, because at that point you’re thinking there’s no shame in crawling really.

But no … I decided to do it the badass way … the Gatorade-Commerical worthy way. I raised the volume on the iPod, and I thought of my Dad and said you can do it!

The deadly 61st floor ignited something in me, something that should have just stayed dormant that late in the race, something that would eventually take out the ice packs from the freezer and empty out the BenGay jar later that evening. The I’m-almost-done-I’m-almost-there feeling bubbled inside, the-I’m-doing-this-for-my-Dad feeling kicked in, and then it was on.

There was no stopping me or my weary broken-down knees.

It was on.

The 73-year-old IronMan Champion looking dude, whose name I later found out to be Aaron Asher, was pushing his way up the stairs and gaining on me like some kind of Terminator.

I thought Holy Crap … it’s definitely on.

I pushed my way to the top and raised my arms to the sky …

And then I took my minute, several of them. Something that hadn’t happened in previous races. But something quite necessary and I didn’t want to be the only one to pass out on the rooftop, so I slowly drank my water and appreciated the view of Downtown L.A.

I thought … even Superman needed a minute.

I clocked in at 16:54.

63 stories in less than 17 minutes to honor my father, the man who thought I’d be somebody, the man who supported me and my dreams, the man who was a good grandfather, the man who had untold adventures, the man who struggled with depression but still managed to fight his way through and find the lightness in being, the man who enjoyed laughing, the man who was my friend, the man who was my family, the man who had a big heart and who passed away too early.

I made my way toward the helicopter landing pad, thinking of this man, thinking of my dad, and I did my best Hulk Hogan-Randy-Macho-Man-Savage victory pose. I had stormed the Fight For Air Climb and it was a Guatacular moment.

Exhausting, but Guatacular.

Special thanks to Peter, Erdmann, Gisela, Estela, Alissa, Karina, and Sandra for their generous support.

This is what my morning looked like …

I got a new pair of shoes with extra support…

Third time was a charm

The inspiration I wore that day

After I made it … my Rocky Balboa pose …

View from the top.

My Dad

.

.

When BenGay Isn’t Gonna Be Strong Enough … But You Do It Anyway

I’m confessing something big tonight.

HUGE.

Duuuuuuude

There is fear living in the Guat Household.

My knees are freaking out.

Now normally I’m not afraid of much. Neither are they.

I’m fearless.

I’m a badass, not afraid to fly my freak flag. Not afraid to chase Bucket List Adventure Challenges. Scared of what? Bungy Jumping. No. Skydiving. No. Triathlons. No. Warrior Dash Mud Run Obstacles that make you jump through fire. No. The Mommy-and-Me-Mafia-PTA-Looking group of ladies that take over the park. No. Gaining weight. Hell no bring it on.

But there is one thing that makes my close-to-40-year-old-worn-out-and weary knees tremble.

Wobble.

63 floors.

Close to 1,400 steps.

Ain’t no BenGay strong enough, no ice pack cold enough …

But there is one man that’s inspirational enough …

My Dad.

My Dad and me sporting our awesome bell-bottoms.

He lost the 12-Round-Heavyweight Championship Bout against Interstitial Lung Disease at 62 years young. It was an all out battle and he fought hard, but in the end he lost his fight against the disease, and I lost my father.

So this is it.

Time for me to cowboy up.

On April 11th, I’m taking on The Fight For Air Climb again in what seems to be the ultimate battle of strength and will for my bones and cartilage. It’s become a tradition now. Exhausting and claustrophobic, but worth it.

Honoring family is worth it, and that’s what I aim to do.

Hanging with Dad.

So I’m going to take my Hulk Hogan-Randy-Macho-Man-Savage-Tina-Turner-looking quads and run down knees through the ultimate test of the year.

I’m gonna do it for my Dad.

My Dad … just being Dad

He’s still with me, sometimes on my shoulders whispering in my ear while I’m chasing dreams, and sometimes in my heart when I’m raising my kids and I’m trying to be awesome at something. He’s the champion for my life. He’s the spirit behind my drive. My Dad is there in one of his many baseball caps and smile, being my friend, my TV buddy, my support group, and the TV remote control ruler of the house.

I’ll be taking this on next month and if you’re feeling generous with the need to donate to a good cause, feel free to click the link on the bottom and it will guide you to my personal fundraising page.

Buen Camino Everyone!

Fight For Air Climb Fundraising Page

… Siganme Los Buenos!

Up For Round II

You were able to fight, jump, and claw your way through it. It was a total Gatorade-commercial-worthy moment. You held your arms up like Rocky Balboa, out of breath but doing the boxer shuffle and feeling pretty badass.

But … Do you really think you’d do it again?

Dude. Yeah. I would.

I’d buy a lifetime supply of Ben Gay, Advil, and CVS ice packs just to show how much I love him.

Yup.

I’d need all those medicine cabinet supplies for my weary bionic leg, because climbing 1,400 steps in honor of my Dad is a mission.

A crazy one, but one worthy of all my efforts.

 

Image via FightForAirClimb.Org

Yup. I did it. I’ve signed up for the American Lung Association’s Fight For Air Climb Adventure … again.

Yup … 63 stories of grueling adventure await me.

I wouldn’t do that for just anybody, but for my pops I’d do it twice.

 

My Dad … talking about dreams … me trying to listen.

 

He was a Rooter of the Underdog, A Laugh-Until-You-Crack-Me-Up Enthusiast, My HBO-Watching Buddy, The Remote-Control Master, The I’m-Broke-Right-Now-Can-You-Help-Me-Out-Financier, The Bucket List Adventurer, The Random-Acts-of-Kindness Missionary, The Häagen-Dazs Hogger, and The Wingman to My Dreams.

My Dad … the fierce adventurer who couldn’t swim very well but often jumped into the deep end of my uncle’s pool with, no floaties, just to prove that anything is possible if you’ve got heart and guts lived an unfinished life. He died of Interstitial Lung Disease about three years ago at the age of 62. But I carry his spirit on my shoulders in everything I do and with every adventure I jump into … he’s there.

He never said I couldn’t do anything even when others constantly believed it. He was the Rocky Theme Song to my life, and now I carry that soundtrack with me as I travel through life’s journey without him. And it is in honor of his life, and of his spirit, that I choose to scale the second tallest building in the city and race my way to the top with my best Chapulin Colorado efforts in hopes of raising money to further research and find a cure.

The countdown is on … stay tuned.

 

It Was a Team Effort

This race wasn’t about making it to the finish line. It was one of my slowest times ever, but I didn’t care. This one was about the people running and walking alongside of me and the reason why we were there.

This one was for my Dad.

Most of the time my competitive edge gets me and I nearly kill myself trying to keep up with the AARP Triathlon chick zooming passed me. But this time I was all right hanging back. In fact I actually walked some of it and for the first time walking didn’t seem to be an athletic failure in my jock-minded head. In fact, walking was supposed to be part of the race. It was in the title. But regardless of whether we were walking or running, I was glad to have shared this with my kids. I was glad they knew what we were doing and why. I was glad they took part in raising money for the American Lung Association.  I was glad they were doing it for my dad and for other people who were in my father’s shoes.

 

I wanted to hang back at the end, but The Little Guats decided to move to the front and join the warm-up party.

 

Then apparently some stretching.

 

We said a little something about why we were doing it.

 

And then we were off … after checking out the crowd I was happy that The Little Guats decided to move to the front of the line.

 

A few participants needed a quick little break.

 

As the race progressed my son developed a competitive edge. He saw a few boys ahead of us and decided to quicken the pace. 

 

In the end, my kids were happy to see the volunteers’ signs and receive their high-fives on a job well-done.

 

 

 

Keeping A Badass Frame of Mind

Just when I thought I was badass, The Fight For Air Climb made me think again.

I knew it was going to be tough, but I didn’t think it would be so challenging. I thought I had trained for this. I was Rocky Balboa for about two months and I thought I was ready. I stormed bleachers and stairs and thought my Hulk Hogan-like quads were sculpted enough and ready to take on the 1,400 steps waiting for me.

Yeah … I thought. That was the problem right there …

I mean the morning started off all right, just a few jitters at the registration table.

 

My gear from the registration table.

 

But when I saw my t-shirt I laughed. I knew I was in the right place. I was still in my badass frame of mind. I mean you’d have to think you were a badass to climb this monster.

 

The Challenge. The AON Center. 63 stories and about 1,400 steps.

 

And so I remained in this state for most of the morning. However, I did have some help. The DJ pumped up the crowd with a few tunes and everyone was excited for the climb to start. Then I noticed the memory wall — names of people being honored during the climb — and I saw my dad’s name and it gave me an extra boost. It reminded me that this was more than just another BenGay moment.

 

The memory markers hanging near the starting line.

 

As I passed the memory wall I noticed a group of firefighters approaching.

 

Heading towards the front of the building.

 

I was like dude … did someone pass out already? But they seemed to be walking pretty slowly to be rapidly responding to a crisis.

 

The rest of the crew, getting geared up for the race.

 

No. No crisis. They happen to be walking to the starting line to join the multitude of elite climbers designated to go first. Apparently these firefighters were also participating in the race, however they were not wearing t-shirt, and shorts attire. They were in full-on firefighter gear. I really thought I was badass, but this … this seem to put me in the minor leagues. I couldn’t imagine climbing with all that extra weight. I could barely climb with an iPod. But I was here, and I was going to finish no matter what league I was in.

In truth, I thought I was going to do well. As always I watched clips from Miracle, Rudy, Remember the Titans, Hoosiers, Rocky, Glory Road, The Natural, Invincible, and Breaking Away. I listened to inspirational coach speeches. I thought I had prepared, both physically and mentally. I’m a nerd I always prepare. I reached the starting line, got the countdown, and took off.  I thought … I got this.

 

Standing at the starting line.

 

Uh … think again. When I reached the eighth floor. Something happened, and I had to think back to my training.

There I was in the outdoors storming the bleachers of the local high school and community college stadium, working up a sweat after about forty minutes and thinking … I can do this. But there was only one problem … I was outdoors, breathing fresh air.  Fresh being the key word here. So I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier. I guess I should have known that fresh air, or fake air for that matter, does not circulate in skyscraper stairwells. It does not.

You know what does circulate?

Sweat, smell, and claustrophobia. Yeah … it spreads itself up and down those 63 stories, crop-dusting itself all over, in every nook and cranny. I couldn’t understand why my legs felt heavy after only twelve stories. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t storm these steps two at a time, like a real athlete, like I had during my training. I couldn’t understand why I got so tired so early and why my heart was beating so quickly.

And then it hit me. I was learning this lesson the hard way.

Oxygen. Pinche lack oxygen.

I was in the American Lung Association‘s Fight For Air Climb and I was literally fighting for air. This is when my fake running began. You know when you’re running at the park or track and you see some chick or dude half-assing it. They’re running in slow motion, it’s not even jogging. It’s slower than jogging, but they think they are actually sprinting because they’re pumping their arms and bobbing their head up and down. They’re going at the speed of walk. Yeah … that was me. I had become the half-ass chick because there was not enough oxygen and everyone around me was feeling it. We were in full-blown hypoxia mode.

Thank God they opened a few doors on various levels, and thank God for the high school volunteers trying to fan me with signs. That definitely helped boost my energy level a bit. And then just when I thought I was getting closer I looked up and saw the sign. I had barely cleared the 24th floor.

Holy crap. This climb was definitely going to kick my ass.

 

Most definitely.

 

But I didn’t want to stop, so I grabbed hold of the handrail and kept climbing. Once I hit the halfway mark I just stopped looking at the signs. I hated the fact that I was climbing so many steps only to realize that I had gone up a few flights. All I wanted to see was the 60th floor approaching, but I was so far off. This floor countdown was not cool,  so I just tried to avoid the signs.

But, did I make it to the top without crawling, without hanging on the stairs for dear life, or without throwing up like many of my fellow climbers?

Hell yes!

I rose to the top. I did it by any means necessary. Mostly jogging, the running had stopped at the eighth floor. But there was some dancing as I passed by my fellow climbers. I fought through the lack of oxygen and smelly hallways to finish in 87th place out of 350 chicks. It may not seem fantastic, but it was good for me.

So thank you Double Dutch Bus, thank you Mr. World Wide Pitbull Don’t Stop The Party, thank you Devil Went Down to Georgia, thank you Eye of The Tiger, thank you Michael Jackson’s Mama-Say-Mama-Sah Ma-Ma-Coo-Sah. You came through for me once I reached the 40th floor. But most of all thank you Tucanes de Tijiuana because La Chona helped me run my way to the top.

 

One of the views from the top.

63 Stories. 1,400 stairs. I clocked in at 18.41.

Surprisingly there was no BenGay this time, maybe it was because of the VIP sports massage I got after I finished the climb. However, there was plenty of ice for my weary 37-year old knees.

But the question remains … Still, badass?

Yes. Hell yes! Most definitely.

63 Stories

The countdown is on … Five days.

I got five days until the big race. The Big Climb, actually, and my quads feel like Randy Macho Man Savage‘s, but in reality they look like toothpicks. Really strong toothpicks, though. The big beefy kind that you get at a steak house, but no matter the size, they’re going to take me to the rooftop of the second tallest skyscraper in the city. I might not finish first, but I’m gonna haul ass and do my best to finish strong … even if it’s to finish at the top of my “age rage”. You gotta be happy finishing at the top of your “age range” right? I mean that’s how they level the playing field. But you also hope that you kick some 21-year-old butt and that a 65 year-old Muscle & Fitness Athlete of the Year type of chick doesn’t leave you in the dust. That’s all you really hope for right? Well, that and not falling up the stairs and causing pedestrian traffic.

So am I ready? Is Team Guat ready? Have I been training?

Most people have been putting up training logs on their fundraising page. I guess as evidence that they’re not slacking off — evidence that they’re committed and that people’s donations are pumping up their spirits to finish faster. I don’t need to be doing that … my people have faith in me. They know that if I say I’m going to do something, I will slather myself up and down with BenGay in order to get it done. I will run at around my neighborhood at 9 o’clock at night, hit the bleachers at the local high school on weekends, and storm my parents’ wooden staircase when the weather (or time) does not permit me to go outside. I work out. I’m prepared. I’ll get all Rocky Balboa on them.

But regardless of the workout, my Guat spirit is getting it done. It’ll get me to the top. I don’t know if I’ll still be sprinting by the time I get to the 40th floor with 20+ more floors to go, but I’ll still be moving. I’ve got the iPod loaded and my knees fortified with Glucosamine … well my knees could probably use a little more lubrication, but I think they’re used to the wear and tear going on around here. Ice packs and BenGay are common household items. I stock up. I should be, I know this little challenge is gonna require a lot of TLC when I’m done.

What’s ahead of me? 63 stories. About 1,400 steps. Now knowing this doesn’t necessarily make it better. In fact it may cause even more nerves because of the crazy number itself, but I tell myself that it can only help me. When I feel like I’ve done enough working out for the day I think … it’s 1,400 pinche steps. Holy Crap!  I could use another ten minutes of burn. So I take a deep breath, raise up the volume on my little iPod and keep running, keep stepping, keep lunging. Don’t know if that extra time is gonna help, but I’m sure I’ll find out.

.

And you’d figure with all this sweat and working out that I’d at least lose a few pounds or that my pants would fit looser, but I’m still racking up the same numbers and my stomach is still the stomach of a mother of two — no Shape & Fitness models up in here. I just tell myself that my legs are getting most of the lean muscle. It’s the silver lining.

I also remember that I wasn’t in it to lose weight, I’m never in it for that. I’m in it to honor my dad. I’m in it to raise money for the American Lung Association and help others with lung disease. I’m in it to reach the top.  I’m in it for the challenge that 63 stories can bring to my Ben-Gay loving body and knees.

Now That The Flu is Gone, The BenGay Adventures Begin Again

The coughing. The aching. The overall feeling of crappiness that came with two weeks of the flu sidelined my athletic endeavors. No workouts. No biking. No running. No push-ups. No downward dogs. And the only stretching I did was for the remote control. For the most part, it was just a whole lot of nothing and with that I got thrown off the athletic wagon.

But I’m back.

Photo by James Hamilton.

I’ve been DayQuil and NyQuil free for three days, and I think my muscles are ready to attack my fat. It’s been building so this is going to be a battle considering my muscles have been on the bench and my fat became stronger. So I had to come back big. There was really no other way around it. And even though I still have a hatred for running unless there’s a purpose (you know I can’t run just for the sake of running) both of the challenges definitely involve running or at least a running motion. One is on wheels. The other is up stairs.

Now I never thought I would participate in something that would require a mouth guard and wrist guards. I don’t even know what wrist guards are, but I’m sure Sports Authority will … it’s like the mecca of sports equipment. And apparently I need both of them. I’m embarking on my first roller derby adventure this weekend and seeing how gravity is always trying to bring me down and cause chaos, I’m a little concerned about just getting on the track. I haven’t skated since elementary school, but I’m confident that my instructor Suzy Snakeyes will assist me in not being thrown over the rail accidentally or on purpose. I figure since it’s a beginning class that sort of thing happens until the third or fourth session. Stay tuned I’ll let you know how that little adventure panned out.

If I survive this session on wheels, I’ll move on to my other challenge. Something a little more daunting. I normally don’t use words like daunting, but for this it’s required. I won’t need a mouth guard or wrist guard for this one, but maybe I’ll need a Costco-sized amount of Ben Gay when I’m done. It’s called a climb, not so much a mountain or hill but more like 1,391 steps … 63 flights of stairs.

Now when I saw this online, I didn’t quite picture it in my head. All I thought was “sounds like a lot,” but I thought I’d be all right. I have BenGay and IcyHot. I’ve got my New Balance. I also got an iPod with plenty of tunes. I thought I’d be all right with that, but then I saw it. The building . I drove across the downtown skyline and saw it. I thought Holy Crap! This is not a building, it’s a skyscraper. I’m gonna need “Eye of The Tiger” blaring through my headphones if I’m gonna make it to the top of this one. How am I going to prepare for this monstrosity?

Fight For Air Climb

I mean what would posses me to take on such a challenge? Something new? Something different? Yes, and yes. But mainly it’s for my dad. It’s called the Fight for Air Climb and it’s sponsored by The American Lung Association. The climb helps raise funds for lung disease, and many of you know that my dad passed away almost two years ago from Interstitial Lung Disease. I think about him every day and thought this would be a great way to honor him … raising money for  research and helping to find a cure so nobody else’s dad passes away. So far my family and friends have been very supportive and Team Guat is on track to reaching its fundraising goal. I wasn’t aware of this race, but once I knew, I had to get involved. I think I might do this one every year, but stay tuned. It’s a pretty ginormous building, we’ll see how this turns out. I might have to buy more BenGay than anticipated. Do they make anything bigger than Costco size?