Training for the Impossible
I don’t like sweating, but suddenly I was committed to training and walking 60 miles in the heat and humidity of Tampa, Florida.
I joined a team. Luckily, I lived near a walking trail, so three mornings a week we were out there, dodging spider webs still dangling from the night before, sharing space with the homeless in the bathrooms, and sweating our way through every step.
By the time I came home, I had to stand under a cool shower to peel my clothes off.
I invested in all the right gear: proper shoes, socks, visor, and, of course, every pink gadget a walker could carry. I took care of my feet with weekly pedicures, but still lost toenails. I developed blisters, including one under a callous that had to be surgically removed by a podiatrist. But I never missed training.
On weekends, Larry would tape my feet before we went on long walks. I always kept duct tape in my car. Taping became an art form — lining up edges, leaving no gaps. After the tape came Gold Bond powder, then socks, then shoes.
Fundraising with Heart
Training was only half the commitment; the other half was fundraising. That summer, I raised $6,500 by being direct and straightforward, leveraging my real estate contacts and simply saying, “Please, $100.”
But my favorite memory came from a small fundraiser outside a local grocery store. We sold pink carnations to shoppers, and Larry sprayed his silver hair bright pink for the day. He stood beside me, smiling and joking, telling everyone, “If she’s walking sixty miles, I can wear pink hair for a day.”
Those little moments carried me just as much as the miles did.
The Walk
Finally, October arrived. It was hot. It was humid. And I was ready.
I didn’t camp on the ground; sweating was one thing, camping was another. We stayed in a hotel in downtown St. Petersburg instead.
Larry and a friend’s husband became “walker stalkers,” meeting us at every rest stop. I laughed, I cried, I hugged strangers and survivors, and I felt the weight and worth of every step.
It remains one of my favorite memories of my marriage, and of my healing journey after hearing those words: You have breast cancer.
When the finish line came into view, I broke into a dance. Larry stood waiting with a dozen pink roses. He cried. I cried. I had trained for five months to walk 60 miles. I never thought I could do it — but I did.
Why I Share This
Breast cancer doesn’t end at survivorship. It’s worry, biopsies, scars, and the strength to keep showing up.
Please, get your mammograms. Please don’t put it off. It could save your life.
Thirty-two years after hearing those words, I’m still here.
