Wings to Fly

A cabin nestled in the mountains of Blue Ridge, Georgia.  A retreat.  A life that I have always treasured where I can be myself, wear old sweats, hair in a ponytail, trail running shoes, yet never feel out of place.  A place where my heart just reaches out and connects with God, where I can test my very core of strength and perseverence with each run or mountain I climb.  A place of the happiest memories of connecting with my husband, faithful dog Tucker, and sweet adventurous daughter, Hailey.  A place of dreams to come - a wish that our children will grow up here laughing, sharing secrets, building forts for Barbie dolls, hunting for sticks to create a campfire, and long hikes to distant fire towers. Our cabin has been all that to me and so much more.  It is not a mere house in the woods, made of wood and stone, a rental property or weekend escape.  For me, it makes me who I am.  Sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, I dream of being a bird, soaring up the valley before me.  Vie

For years I have said I am a runner, but not a marathoner.  I love running.  It is part of my very being, but marathons?  Not me!  I ran one 13 years ago, The Flying Pig Marathon, in Cincinnati, OH - and vowed to not revisit that again.  It was painful, I was injured, and mile 20-26.2, the "final 10K" felt more like a death march, weaving side to side, slowing from a 7 min/mile pace to a 9:45 min/mile pace.  It wasn't pretty.  I went into it injured after training with a coach who had me running 60-70 mile/weeks, did not know the first thing about nutrition, taking only half a Gu the entire race, and barely drinking water (my silly fear was that I was going to have to stop to use the port-a-potty, forget dehydration and bonking!), and as a result, didn't run for almost 2 months following that day. Fast forward 13 years to now.  I signed up for the Snickers Marathon in Albany, GA last fall after peer pressure got the better of me.  It wasn't really the peer press