Brother and the B

Posted on May 1, 2013 by Callie Skokos

“You know, you qualified for Boston right?”  This was the way the conversation started with my brother Ross after I ran my first marathon at age 40.  I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying.  I was exhausted.  Not so much from the effort of the race, but from the effort of my life.  I ran the Denver Marathon to prove something to myself.  To prove that I was strong – mentally strong enough to get through an emotional divorce, sell the family home, buy a new home, and secure a full-time job, all while helping my children adjust and be happy.  “I don’t know,” I replied.  “I don’t think I can do it.”

“You qualified for a race that takes some people years and years to qualify for.  It’s almost like you have to run it.”  After I was able to really see what was in front of me, I started to read more about the race – about the runners, the traditions, the athletes that spent years trying to finally make it to the famous and historic start line.  Even though I still wasn’t sure I’d be able to sort out my life in time for the April race, I felt like I had to register, if for no other reason than to show my respect for the race and for my brother.  When I told Ross that my application had been accepted, he said, “Buy your ticket. We’ll meet you there.”  Easy for him to say: I had less than three months to train for the race of my life while trying to pick up the pieces of a broken one.

I joke that my brother is to blame for the madness that has ensued since that day.  It was one decision that led to 12 marathons and 6 Boston Marathons.  But in all sincerity, Ross ended up being my savior.  When he convinced me to fly to Boston, it wasn’t just about a race.  It was about him having faith in me at a time in my life when I doubted everything about myself.  I think his conviction that the race was so important was really more about him believing that I was important.  I am also pretty sure that if it had not been for Boston that year, I would not have had the mental strength to move on and start over.  I needed to see the finish line – literally.

Off to the race start with my brother Ross

My brother Ross was my savior six years ago and he proved to be my savior this year.  He and his wife Deborah are my biggest Boston fans.  They are not runners.  They are not huge sports fanatics of any kind.  But, they love Boston.  They cheered me on at my inaugural race, joined me for my second race, took a few years off to start a family, and returned to Boston as a trio this year.  Like so many of the Boston fans, they enjoy the energy and the city and the history of the race.  And, along with the thousands who line the course, they too cheer for runners they don’t even know – for hours.  Hours of cheering resulted in them actually seeing me only once along the course and never at the finish line.

Ironically, they had never seen me cross the finish line until this year.  This April 15, Ross and Deborah had found their way through the crowd to camp out at a spot very close to the grandstand.  Thanks to the runner tracking app, they knew approximately when I would finish and were intently scouring the field of runners until they saw me.  I never heard them yell my name because the crowd support is incredible and loud and exhilarating.  It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt, unless of course, you are a rock star in concert or a football player in the Super Bowl.  They watched me vanish into the sea of finishers and then they surrendered their post to another eager fan in order to look for me.

I was so thankful that they saw me finish.  I was so thankful that Ross had asked me to download the runner tracking app onto his phone.  I was so thankful that we had mapped out a post-race meeting place early that morning.  I fear that had we not done all of this, the outcome for all of us and everyone close to us would have been much different.  Minutes after the bomb blasts, I was reunited with Ross and Deborah at the agreed-upon family meeting area.  Unknowingly, we were one block from bomb site and the noise of emergency vehicles was creating incredible din and confusion.  Ross systematically and calmly guided us out of the ground zero chaos, bearing much of my weight so my 26.2 mile-tired legs wouldn’t ache so much as we maneuvered the confusing cobbled streets.  After a dozen attempts at trying to get a taxi to stop for us and three miles of walking, Ross essentially stepped in front of the vehicle and convinced the driver that we were not a threat and just needed a ride back to our hotel.  “This marathoner has done enough miles for one day.”

At that moment, Ross’ only concern was our safety.  I’m sure he thought what he did that day was just a simple act of navigation, but in my heart, he was my savior.  I cannot think of another person who I would rather have had by my side than my brother.  Six years ago, he started something pretty great.  He will always be part of my Boston experience and a constant reminder of what Boston truly means to me.

If you would like to share in our journey to help Boston recover, please join me in supporting the Boston Children’s Hospital through any-sized donation.

 

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Running Away from the Violence [Part 3]

Posted on April 20, 2013 by Callie Skokos

[Maybe I shouldn’t have run.]  That’s the thought that keeps rudely interrupting every thought I’ve had since the bombings at the Boston Marathon.  When I started writing this series, I never expected that part three would be such a literal manifestation of the title, “Running Away from the Violence.”  The series was prompted by the horrific events at Sandy Hook Elementary School and the premise was that running could possibly be linked to a more healthy mental state.  Today, I’m praying that there is no part four.  That this all ends now and forever with the heinous and senseless bombings at Copley Square in Boston.

It was April 15, 2013, and I was among those who had the honor of running from Hopkinton to Boston where the world’s best marathon runners compete in the world’s oldest marathon – the Boston Marathon.  I had every reason to feel giddy and excited – even if it was my sixth Boston Marathon.  Every year, I am humbled by the crowd and by the selfless volunteers.  For decades, millions of people have lined the 26.2 mile course to scream and cheer and dance for hours to encourage a mob of athletes they don’t even know.   For the first half of the race, I am running on a rush – high-fiving as many kids as I could reach, clapping for the fans themselves, and cheering for the creative sign-makers.  (I couldn’t resist this sign:  Go Alice.  Your legs hurt because you are kicking so much ass!)  These people are the heart of the Boston Marathon.  They are the soul of the city on Patriot’s Day – when the Red Sox play at home and the city takes the day off to celebrate its freedom. [Maybe I shouldn’t have run.]

Around mile 16, I am not as exuberant.  My legs are cramping and my two middle toes on both feet are raw.  But still, the crowd yells my name, “Callie – Go Callie!”  “You can do this Callie,” an older man says as I stop to massage my right quad muscle. “Work it out and get going.  Don’t give in.”  Ironically, my fan-for-the-moment will never know just how important his encouragement turned out to be on that fateful day.  My mind was trying to convince my body that I had already done five other successful Boston Marathons, so perhaps a slow, casual four-hour marathon pace to the finish would be acceptable.  But, my heart had other plans.  I found my rhythm and got into my zone – picking off the miles as I finally made my way down Commonwealth Avenue, took the famous right turn onto Hereford Street, and then left onto Boylston for the final 400 meters.  The cheers and applause were deafening.  I was exhausted, but I wanted to run strong through the finish to make my brother Ross and his wife Deborah proud as they cheered with thousands near the grandstands.  [Maybe I shouldn’t have run.]

I cross the finish line, stop my watch, and begin to quietly cry.  For me, each race is a milestone in my life that generates a rush of emotion – joy, pain, hope and gratitude. I hear the BAA volunteers congratulating the runners with kindness and care.  “Baby, you did it.” “You are a rock star.” Through my tears, I catch the eye of volunteer Maria who is handing out medals.  She says, “Come here darlin.’ This one’s for you.”  She carefully places the medal around my neck, puts her hands on my face and says softly, “Congratulations.”  The tears stream again.  This is the spirit of the Boston Marathon – the volunteers and the fans and the friends and the family.  All of this is what makes me work to earn this coveted entry year after year.  It is 20 weeks of staring at a gym wall as the treadmill belt whirrs beneath me.  It is 20 weeks of crawling out of bed hours before dawn to do strength training and then more running.  It is 20 weeks of envisioning the race and hoping to feel that Boston spirit once again.   [Maybe I shouldn’t have run.]

But then, within 30 minutes, I am running again – running away.  I wish I hadn’t run, but I didn’t know.  I didn’t know what the blasts were that exploded a block to the right of me.  I didn’t know that the emergency vehicles screaming past the Family Meeting Area were going to turn right and head back to Boylston Street to aid innocent spectators – those same people who helped me make it through this race.  I didn’t know that Ross and Deborah had escaped danger because they were looking for me after the finish.  All I knew was that the police and BAA officials were telling people to “Get out!”  “Just go!”  Move out of the area.  When I found my brother in the crowd – thanks to a few Sponge Bob balloons floating above the sea of people – he takes my gear bag and asks me how fast I can walk.  And we walked as fast as my cramped legs and torn up toes could go.  For three miles, we walked – not knowing what was unfolding on Boylston Street.  Not knowing that maybe I could have helped those hundreds of spectators and runners and volunteers who were hurt and suffering.

[Maybe I shouldn’t have run.]  Maybe I should have done what so many others did:  Run towards the violence.  For days now, I have replayed the events and have experienced about every emotion possible.  Why hadn’t I been brave?  I suppose I am wired with a more flight than fight instinct.  I am wired to run, but I know I am also wired to help.  So, I will run again.  I will run in tribute to everyone who was lost and to everyone who lost something on April 15, 2013.  You will all be in my heart as I continue my journey – a journey that would never be possible without the therapeutic effects of running.  No one can take that away.

Please join me in donating to the Boston Children’s Hospital through my fundraiser.  Together we can help Boston heal.   http://www.crowdrise.com/running4relief2/fundraiser/callieskokos

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The Thread That Runs Through It

Posted on April 3, 2013 by Callie Skokos

I don’t believe in ghosts and I don’t believe in luck. But I do believe in energy. I believe that if you wake up in the morning and think you’re going to have a bad day, you ultimately will. On the other hand, if you wake up in the morning and embrace the possibilities of a good day ahead, you will ultimately have a good day. I also think that if you are in the midst of struggle, you can change your mind about how you feel and how you react, thereby changing the outcome.

Now, here’s where it gets weird. I believe that things have energy too – or more specifically – that things can inherit energy from whence they came. I know, hang in there with me for a moment. One thing you must know is that I didn’t grow up with this new-age mindset. I went to Catholic high school and was taught that if I wanted anything, I would have to pray to God for it and then hope that I had been good enough to earn it. It was when I was 23 and struggling with the death of my Nana that I learned about energy.

My Nana was the epitome of happy. She always had a good day. She always had a smile. She was always surrounded by loving friends. In her presence, I was at my happiest, my strongest, and finally at peace. But, she died at 82. The days following her passing were blurry pictures shrouded in a distant echo of voices I never really heard. In my fog, I semi-consciously watched as her belongings were pillaged and decades of childhood memories were being tossed into the trash. I pulled it together and channeled my grief into action. To me, nothing was trash. Not the soap dish, not the napkin holder, not the bent serving spoon, and definitely not the 1950 Singer sewing machine.

I learned to sew on that old, beautiful cast iron sewing machine. I learned about myself and I learned about true love from my Nana. We created some of the most simple, yet inspiring, creations on that machine. So, I lugged the 45-pound memory back to my apartment, set it on my desk and proceeded to cry. Now what? Damn it girl, start sewing. And, sew I did. With my Nana in my heart, the Healing Bear was born in 1991.

This past summer, I pulled the only two remaining handcrafted Healing Bears from storage. My daughter was intrigued. I explained to McKenna that I started making the bears as a tribute to my Nana, but then they took on greater meaning as I started making them for the sick. I told her the story of the young woman I met when we shared a hospital room. She had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I gave her one of my bears and we talked through the night. The next morning she was gone to surgery and I never saw her again. She was terminal they said. I was devastated. I wanted her to live so badly. I left the hospital with only the hope that the little bear would give her strength during her struggles.

McKenna's first Healing Bear

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was shocked when I received a card from her 52 days later. It was a thank you for the Healing Bear that never left her side during the months that she fought for her life. At the end of the note, she told me she was cancer-free. After that, I lost count of the number of Healing Bears I gave away and how often I learned that the recipient got well – babies, adults, and children.

To this day, I believe that the energy that goes into making the bears on the sewing machine from my Nana is a love that can give people hope – maybe just what they need to fight and to win. Since the summer, we’ve already made and given away four Healing Bears. McKenna, too, believes in the power of the bears and that they can only be sewn on the old, temperamental Singer. My Nana loved me. McKenna feels that same love. And, that love is now part of every Healing Bear that is kissed and hugged by McKenna before it gets a new home. In the end, love is the thread that runs through it all – whether it’s a teddy bear, a running skirt, or a memory that gives us everlasting peace.

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Running Away from the Violence [Part 2]

Posted on March 21, 2013 by Callie Skokos

I’m not a psychologist or a therapist or any kind of mental health specialist — but most of you reading this probably know that. I would never presume to know how to diagnose or treat a person with mental illness of any kind. The truth is I don’t really understand most people and their behavior most of the time. But, I do know myself. Although I’ve never been diagnosed with any sort of mental illness and I’ve never been prescribed medication or therapy, I do know that I am human — frail, mortal, filled with emotion, and living in an often not-so-nice world.

As a human being, I think I am one of the more emotional versions. I cry for the suffering people on Colfax Avenue whom I’ve never even met. I tear up when I look back at my children’s Kindergarten artwork. I sob when I think that my life has little meaning and I make no difference in the world. I awake in anger and fear from my nightmares. But, I’m not a mental healthcare expert, just a person who deals with her own mental health every day in the only way she knows how — by lacing up my running shoes.

This is part two of a story I wrote about the emotional pain brought about by the Sandy Hook school shootings three months ago. When I wrote part one, I had so many thoughts in my head about how this could happen again. Why the shooter did what he did. Why there was no one around to help him. Why we are suffering so much as a human race to cause this sort of destruction. I couldn’t finish the story at the time because there was so much we didn’t know — only that the babies of so many parents are now just living in their memories.

They were not my babies. But, I felt sick. I needed to take control of this but I couldn’t. All I kept thinking was that I needed to run. I needed to sort things out in my mind as the miles passed swiftly under foot. This is how I’ve managed my mental health since high school. When I was going through my divorce five years ago, I would run the same route up Waterton Canyon every day. At the four-mile bridge, I would stop, look down at the river, and sob until the tears fell into the water. For me, those falling tears needed to come for without them, I simply existed as a shell in my daily life. Running and crying was a huge physical and mental release.

Running didn’t take away the hurt, but it allowed me the time I needed to process my feelings, my grief, my loss, and my failure. It allowed me to breathe. Really breathe. When I would return from each run, I would return with so much more than when I left. I returned with control because I had just accomplished something — one thing. Often, when we feel lost and desperate, accomplishing one thing is the springboard we need to start healing. During my runs, the combination of adrenaline and dopamine make me feel stronger and more worthy. When those chemicals kick in, I can put the pieces of my emotions in the right compartments to be handled at the right time, my mind clears, and the hurt doesn’t hurt quite so much.

I do think it’s possible that running can help other human beings like me who are wired to feel emotions more deeply than most. I know I am not alone. If nothing else is working, maybe a brisk run followed by a big hug could help one person at a time feel better — until there is a lot less pain causing a lot less violence. Maybe.

[To be continued]

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Running Away From the Violence [Part 1]

Posted on December 27, 2012 by Callie Skokos

Tears streamed down my face as I drove home from work to pick up my kids on Friday, December 14, 2012.  I had just spent hours watching the Sandy Hook Elementary School Shooting unfold via Twitter and Facebook.  There were hundreds of tweets and posts – many quite inaccurate and most very emotional.  While I understand the need for many to share and grieve and publicly announce their disgust, it all just made me feel sick and anxious.  [I needed so badly to run.]

Personally, I felt like a failure.  I felt responsible. I felt like we could all have worked to prevent this.  From. Happening. Again.  I remember so clearly how this felt on April 20, 1999, when two boys decided to gun down their fellow classmates at Columbine High School – as we watched the live news coverage from a conference room at work.  It was an incomprehensible horror that brought our Littleton suburb to its knees.  We felt the effects of this for years afterwards and to this day I meet adults who were once those students trapped in that high school. These survivors continue to relive the horror in their nightmares and their day dreams.  [After Columbine, I came home from work, played with my 3-year old boy and later went out for a long run.]

This happened again July 20, 2012.  The Aurora Theater Shooting at the midnight premier of Batman – The Dark Knight Rises was just 25 miles away.  It was the first midnight showing I had finally agreed to let my 16-year old son attend.  He was not at the same theater that fateful night, but my imagination combined with my regret had him there hiding under the seats, dodging gunfire, and searching for an explanation.  [The first reports flashed across the monitors as I ran on the treadmill at 5 a.m.]

As I drove through upper-middle class Highlands Ranch, my tears dried and my head cleared.  I said out loud, “This needs to stop.”  It will stop if people start to act and don’t just continue to wring their hands and shake their heads saying “Why does this happen?  Why is the world so bad?”  And, I will not allow this to simply exit my thoughts through an emotional Facebook post about gun control laws or bad parenting or poor security.  I need to make a difference in some way. Before. This. Happens. Again. [Oh, how I needed a run.  To clear my head. To breathe. To reflect.]

That was it.  Running.  Running gives us control.  Running gives us strength.  Running makes us complete.  Running is often the key that enables us to take control over that which controls us – from addiction to depression.  Maybe running is the missing piece to a healthy state of mind.  Maybe there is hope for those we so quickly write off as having untreatable mental illness.  Maybe, people just need something in their lives that can make them feel good and whole and fulfilled.  That’s what running does for me. Every. Single. Day.

[To. Be. Continued.]

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Designing a PR

Posted on October 24, 2012 by Callie Skokos

In my last post, I wrote about whether it’s possible to run on passion without miles of hard work backing it up.  I was asking this hypothetical question because, at the time, I was feeling woefully unprepared for the NYC Marathon.  Unfortunately, I still feel that way and the race is a mere 10 days away.  You see, I wasn’t fully recovered from my pneumonia until a month ago.  And then it was still questionable as to whether I was fully recovered.  A doctor might say I was recovered – I mean, I’ve been taking a daily dose of Singulair and puffs from an Inhaler prior to each run – but before every training run I am still fearful that the effort might land me back in bed with a rib-rupturing cough.

I haven’t been willing to take that risk.  I am determined to at least start the race at the base of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge – even if I’m not starting it in race-ready shape.  Although I may not feel physically prepared, I am passionate about what it represents.  I am passionate about sharing my strength.  I am passionate about raising $5,000 for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society as a tribute to my friend Dan who beat Lymphoma and lives the most amazingly fulfilled life.  I am passionate about giving my all to “Racing for a Reason.”

But, this passion is going to need a little boost.  Now if you’ve been following my posts, I’m sure you’ve noticed the running theme – no pun intended.  That sometimes how you feel about yourself can help propel you in a direction that may just be the inertia you need – to be more determined, a bit stronger, and even more successful.  I write about perspective, and energy, and spirit.  How clothing can channel the energy of the person who’s warn it, the person who’s made it, or the person who’s currently wearing it.  It sounds ridiculously metaphysical as I write it, but it’s my brand and I believe it.  It’s what RunningPretty is all about. 

This is where Sabrina Winckler comes in.  If you remember, Sabrina is my most devoted RunningPretty supporter.  She’s been helping me design and sew RunningPretty samples from the day I showed her my rudimentary designs scribbled on wide-ruled notebook paper.  Sabrina is a master at her craft.  Sabrina will be the one who helps push my 26.2-mile-tired-legs across that finish line in the heart of Central Park on November 4. 

Why Sabrina this year, you might ask?  Sabrina is helping me design the latest RunningPretty that I will debut at NYC.  Sabrina is a blessing.  I am reminded of this as I stand in front of her full-length mirror in her workroom with pieces of RunningPretty pinned to my waist.  When I first started working with Sabrina, she was single and designing clothing and costumes for a living.  I would bring my little ones with me for meetings and fittings.  I remember feeling unprofessional, but so grateful for her patience and kindness.  She never questioned my vision.

Sabrina, "Girl Friday Productions"

Now, our lives had converged.  As we talk about the design in her little sewing room, I feel the energy of her new world which is now complete with two young children, a full-time job, a husband – and yes, RunningPretty.  After all the life changes, the joys, the challenges, the chaos, and the lack of sleep, RunningPretty is still in Sabrina’s life too. 

This year, I will be wearing our new RunningPretty design in tribute to Sabrina and her little family – Livvy, Hunter, and Billy.  If I don’t have the physical preparation, I will reinforce my passion with the energy and love that Sabrina weaves into every piece she creates.  And, you know, I think I’ll look good too.

Please consider supporting “Racing for a Reason” with a donation to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

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The Passion Pass for NYC

Posted on September 25, 2012 by Callie Skokos

I was raised to believe that hard work is the only constant.  It’s the only thing that will get you anywhere close to what you want.  I’m not sure if it was this early childhood indoctrination or simply the way I am wired, but I do work hard.  I guess it’s all relative though.  Suffice to say, in my heart, I feel like I work hard for everything I really want – whether it’s a good career, a house that’s become a home, or happy children.  Hard work is the only thing you need – or so I thought so until I learned about passion.

Why do some people work so much harder than others? What possesses certain people to get up every day before dawn to train?  Or, what drives others to forget to eat or sleep because of some primal need to create, compose, or innovate.   It’s passion.  It’s an indescribable energy for something or someone – a kind of cerebral fuel that makes the hard work really just the means to the end goal. It makes me wonder now if hard work is even possible without passion.  I mean, who really wants to spend countless hours improving or learning or creating if there is no possibility of win or gain or love.

In my blog entitled, You Inspire Me, I wrote about the high school cycling boys who had a spirit that was beautiful to witness – a spirit that completely mesmerized me.  This spirit is something I now know as passion and that which I learned about first hand during my freshman year at Rutgers.  When I first got to college, I was a little lost. So, to find comfort, I would get up early to watch the rowers out on the Raritan River at dawn.  It was a beautiful sight.  I was drawn to its precision.  Its rhythm.  Its natural flow.  After spending a few thoughtful mornings on the banks, I knew I had to be part of it.  For one month, I was in a blissful state of sweat-soaked t-shirts, and sore muscles, and calloused hands.  I loved everything about being part of the crew team – the smell of the boat house, the way the water droplets hit my shoulders when we lifted the shells over our heads, and the reflection of the sun on the water.

But, I didn’t make the cut.  The conversation with the coach went something like this, “It kills me to do this.  You are devoted and committed. You’re one of the strongest and you work so damn hard.   But you are just too small.  How I wish I could only instill your passion in the other girls.”  She was right.  The best crew teams have tall, thin oarsmen with long arms and legs to get the most efficiency and energy from each stroke.  I’d heard rumor that this might happen, but I wanted it so badly that I thought I could just work hard, muscle through and let passion prevail.  Sadly, as I walked slowly off the dock holding back the tears of frustration, I realized that having passion could be both a blessing and a curse. How would I reconcile this? I thought as the tears finally flowed.

Worth the price of admissionMy question then is: Can passion ever get you what you want without the hard work?  Is it a set formula of one part passion mixed with one part hard work?  Today, after my morning run, which was tarnished by the effects of a long month of pneumonia, I am really hoping so.   You see, the New York City Marathon is in five weeks and I’ve been sidelined by a cough so violent that it strained my ribs, and my back and my training.  I hope the passion I have for running, and RunningPretty, and setting and reaching my goals will pull me through without the hard work – hard work that would have had me running a cool 20 miles this weekend instead of a labored seven.   If passion plus hard work cannot always get you what you want, is it possible to just rely on passion to get you what you want?  Well, I’m hoping maybe just this once.  If I get a “passion pass” for NYC, I promise to make up for it the next time.

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A Jersey Girl

Posted on August 19, 2012 by Callie Skokos

I’m really not what you would call a fashionista.  I don’t have racks of purses, or shoes in every color, or accessories to complement every outfit – heck, I don’t even really have outfits. But I do believe in the energy that a person can get from the right clothing.  You don’t have to own a lot of clothing, just the right pieces – pieces that make you feel confident or respected or approachable or unique.  The Power Tie.  The Perfect Little Black Dress.  The Classic Coat.  Sometimes, just dressing for the part can give you incredible power. 

I learned this when I was only 16 and struggling as a competitive junior cyclist.  When I entered the sport, I used the money that I had saved from my babysitting jobs to buy my first racing bike.  Believe me, I was proud of that purchase.  I thought it was the Ferrari of all bikes, but in comparison to my cycling peers, my pink Miyata was more like a Ford Fiesta.  I’m sure you can imagine that buying the bike and the parts pretty much tapped me out, so I didn’t have the money to buy ‘professional-looking’ cycling clothes like team jerseys, sporty sunglasses, brand-name shorts, and comfortable shoes.  The result was a self-conscience teenage girl who often felt like the other racers really didn’t take her too seriously because she didn’t look the part. 

I was convinced that if I looked better, I could play the part better.  I had no idea, as I was boarding my flight to Europe with my Nana, that this theory was about to be tested.  The summer of my sophomore year in high school Nana had invited me to be her traveling companion to Belgium to visit old friends.  It was July and the Tour de France was in full swing as I watched one of the stages with our host.  Although the race was televised in French, he also spoke English so he was a great translator for me as we watched the race.  After a while, he realized that I knew a bit about cycling and we began to talk about my involvement in the sport.  I remember feeling awkward as we chatted – me being a 16 year old girl from America and he being a 30-something attorney from Belgium – but the event was a great common denominator.

Ludo Loos wearing the jersey that became my special gift.

As Nana and I said goodbye to our Belgian family at the end of our stay, my Tour de France-watching friend handed me two very authentic-looking European cycling jerseys.  He explained that they had once belonged to a professional Belgian road cyclist who gave them to him because it was all he had of value to pay his legal fees.  The cyclist’s name was Ludo Loos and these were his team jerseys.  One of them he had actually worn in the 1980 Tour de France when he won Stage 18.  This was one of the most incredible gifts I had ever been given.  I felt the energy from the moment I held the wool jerseys in my hands.  I couldn’t even imagine what it was going to be like wearing them on my rides. 

Although many people would be aghast to know that I trained in these authentic jerseys every day, there was no question that I would and I have no regrets that I did.  When I wore them it was as if I were channeling the energy of a legend.  As I cranked up the hills and tucked down the descents, I was now somehow akin to Ludo Loos – Belgian Tour de France racer.  I was stronger.  I had more courage.  I had power.  In my mind, I deserved to be on the road and competing with my fellow cyclists.  In my heart, it was possible to become a legend.

The powerful jersey I still own after 30 years and over 100 rides.

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A Parallel Universe and Elisabeth Hasselbeck

Posted on July 9, 2012 by Callie Skokos

One morning in 2007, I am hunched over my kitchen counter trying to wake up with that first amazing sip of coffee.  As I focus, I see The Denver Post Food Section spread out in front of me and think, “When did we started getting the newspaper?”  On most days, I’d be busy fixing breakfast for the kids and scrambling to get everyone ready for the day, but the house is oddly quiet this morning.  No one is awake.  So, I start reading what’s in front of me.

I’m skimming at first but then I’m drawn in by the author who is clearly writing this piece about me – the detail about her suffering, her parents, her childhood, her health and her desperation.  “I would tell my parents that I felt like I had shards of glass in my stomach after I ate,” she wrote. Yes, yes, that’s the only way to describe the pain. “They would tell me that it was just an excuse to get out of cleaning the dishes.”  Unbelievable, I think, and keep reading. “The stomach pains and the other gastrointestinal issues made it impossible to enjoy so many of life’s most memorable events: my prom, my college graduation, my wedding,” she wrote.  “What was worse was that I felt like I was all alone.  No one understood or seemed to care.”  I’m mesmerized.  “Apparently, it was in my head.  It was stress.  It was anxiety.  I was melodramatic.”

I am incredulous.  I must be in some sort of parallel universe.  This poor woman is living my life – a life that I learned to adapt to in order to survive.  Hide the pain, hide the problem, muscle through, move on.  But hiding the problem was killing her.  After years of avoiding food and ignoring her symptoms, she was developing other problems that were not so easy to hide.  In the beginning of the article, the author is in intensive care being treated for a series of autoimmune issues with an inconclusive diagnosis of Lymphoma looming overhead.  Like me, along with the stomach problems that had been long written off as stress, she was riddled with swollen lymph nodes, she was constantly fighting fatigue, her eyesight was failing, her memory was faulty, she was always sick, her hair was falling out, and she was scratching her hands until they were raw.

This is the food section and the writer is describing why food is killing her – literally.  “I understand you. This is my world too,” I actually say out loud to the empty kitchen.  Like the writer, food has always been associated with pain and suffering. It has never been a comfort.  In the paragraphs to follow, I learn that the true culprit is not food, but gluten-based food.  By the end of the article, the mystery is solved as the author is diagnosed with Celiac Disease.  As I close the newspaper and head upstairs to the first sounds of waking children, I know why I was destined to read that one heartbreaking article. It was set before me to change my life.  I am completely gluten-free now.  I miss NJ bagels and sloppy boardwalk pizza and buttered diner muffins, but I don’t miss the feeling of despair and dread.

Fast forward to February 2011.  I’m reading an issue of Runner’s World and have turned to the back to read the column entitled, “I’m a Runner” that profiles a famous person who is also a runner.  This issue, the spotlight is on Elisabeth Hasselbeck – co-host of The View – whom I’ve never really even heard about.  According to the article, she’s a runner. Clearly. She’s a mom of three.  Wow.  She’s a Celiac. What?! She only runs in a skirt. Unbelievable!  She has her own clothing line. Now I’m spinning.  Could this be another fateful article destined to change my life?  I can see the headlines now, “Hasselbeck and RunningPretty – Making Strides in Women’s Sports and Fashion.”  Sometimes, we can all use a little bit of divine intervention.  I’ve learned to start paying attention.

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900 Miles and a Sweet Skirt

Posted on June 23, 2012 by Callie Skokos

I’m finishing up my breakfast at a trendy coffee shop/book store on Newbury Street in Boston when I get an email from the Boston Athletic Association strongly advising registrants to reconsider running Monday’s 116th Boston Marathon due to extreme heat.  Race organizers recommended that only the fittest runners consider participating in the race and that they would give runners the opportunity to defer participation until 2013 (which has only happened one other time in history). 

Only the “fittest runners?” Well, that’s sort of arbitrary, I thought.  By whose standards?  Before this email, I thought I was fit.  I had spent 20 weeks glued to a professionally-developed training plan that made my past training seem like child’s play.  I ran precisely-timed intervals, I sprinted up hills, I logged almost 900 miles.  I invested in an expensive Garmin watch so I could measure everything and use these metrics to my advantage.  I ran, I dreamed about running, I researched running, and then I ran even more.  But did all this work add up to the definition of one of the “fittest runners?”  Was I prepared to run a 26.2 mile race as fast as I could in 88 degrees, midday sun, and humidity? 

As I stood there reading the email, I felt the sun on my neck and the temperatures rising.  My choices flash across my mind like an old movie reel.  If I’ve misjudged whether I’m among the fittest, running the race could result in my getting very sick or even risking death. Deferring until 2013 would have me leaving Boston as a quitter and a coward – albeit a living, breathing quitter-coward.  Or, running could result in one of the most life-changing experiences of my life.  Although decision-making is usually one of my strengths, this one requires a call to my older brother, Ross, to help me validate my decision.  “You know what you need to do,” he said.  “You trained for this and you’re ready.  You’re tough.  If you start the race, run smart, and finish, I guarantee you will race better than most.  Go out there and show everyone just how tough you are.” And there you have it.  Decision made.

 

The RunningPretty Gladiator

 

I would run the 116th Boston Marathon and run it smart.  There would be no PR for me this year.  No sub-3:30 because that would not be smart.  That’s a goal to be achieved on the best of days, in the most pristine conditions.  This race would be run on grit, not glory.  Waiting to board the bus in Boston Commons, I say goodbye to my friend and companion, Brenda, and start thinking about my strategy.  I know that it’ll be a race run mostly in my head.  So, I start assembling the people I want to think about along the way who will give me energy.  And, about the devoted spectators along the route who will give me strength.  Today, they will know my name because Brenda has written it in Sharpie on my arms and my stomach. 

For this race, there will be no layers of clothing to toss to the side as I tick off the miles.  I’m wearing only my RunningPretty Gladiator skirt and race top and at the start I’m already glistening with sweat.  I always believe that RunningPretty gives me strength and I’ve written about that many times before.  But on this day and this Boston, RunningPretty brought me joy.  As I ran along, I was baffled by how many strangers were standing in the oppressive heat, screaming their hearts out, and yelling MY name.  “Go Callie.  You rock the skirt girl!”  “Awesome job Callie, you look so strong.  Love your skirt!” I was actually giddy.  They love my skirt, I beamed.  Even though I was drenched in a cocktail of water, Gatorade and sweat, I even heard one guy on Heartbreak Hill say, “Hey, she’s like a purple Roman Goddess!  Go Callie!”

I don’t know, but I think the 900 miles paid off.  I finished the race.  I can now claim to be one of the fittest runners.  Oh, and I can also safely say that I was the top runner in the Boston Marathon wearing RunningPretty and smiling all the way to the finish line.

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