And I ran, I ran so far away...

saturday, december 7, 2002

Wishing all the Spirit of Aloha from sunny Honolulu!

I can’t believe it’s been six months since I took my first steps out at Golden Gate Park. Let’s be clear here, I never thought I’d be able to run in a Marathon. I remember the thrill of seeing my uncle at the base of Heartbreak Hill in the Boston Marathon, back in the mid-‘70s. All cool relaxed and happy smiles -- he actually stopped to give us all hugs and to chat -- if you can believe it. With a crowd of runners so focused on finishing, time, splits, winners, losers, success and failure -- it really touched me that for my Uncle Charlie, his most important focus was having an enjoyable run and sharing it with the family he loved.

Flash forward a quarter century, and now it’s my turn to carry the torch (is an Olympic reference confusing in a Marathon reflection?). Why am I running? Because when I found out I was HIV positive, I never thought I’d be 40. I turned 40 in May, so I run.

I run as celebration, as education, I run for those who can’t, I run because I am so very lucky to be in the five percent of the HIV-positive world population that has access to HIV medications that their body responds to. I run for the children I was fortunate to have laughed and played with in India, Thailand, Nepal, Tibet, Burma, Cambodia, Lao. I run for my niece and nephew, so that HIV just might be less of a reality in their world. I run for my friend and vocal coach, Toby Hall, the first person I knew that died of AIDS. I run because every five minutes, another US teen seroconverts. I run to support the phenomenal staff and clients of the San Francisco AIDS Foundation -- people that inspire me with their selfless dedication and amazing integrity. And mostly, I run because I can, I must, be fully and completely alive every moment of every day.

One of HIV’s greatest gifts for me is the importance it has given me toward being fully accountable to my present. I feel it is my duty, my obligation, to raise the bar continually, to go beyond fear, doubt, and cynicism. I’ve never been a jock (in fact I was a double for the Beaver growing up -- all huge head and the clichéd “last one picked for the softball team” shoulder slump). But I knew I had the ability to draw from enormous amounts of steely reserve. It’s a fantastically enriching experience to do something just because it’s difficult, just because it needs to be done. Would I want it easy? No way. Life isn’t easy but it is an amazing course in progressive learning. That which doesn’t kill you definitely improves your sense of humor. So I remember to laugh.

Having been involved in 12 fundraising bike rides for AIDS services and vaccine research in the past eight years, I’ve constantly pushed to challenge myself. Longer distances, multiple events, larger donations. I know bike rides, and I know I can ride my bike til the cows come home. But I didn’t know if I could run. So I run. The unknown is not scary if you open your arms to all possibilities.

This is sort of my Triple Crown 2002 after AIDS/LifeCycle and the AIDS Walk. And in January, I leave to do my own fundraising ascent of Mount Kilimanjaro to raise funds for African AIDS relief through Pangaea and for the Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund. All are one, and I will do what I can while I have strength of body, mind, spirit. Then, I guess, I really should become gainfully reemployed and spend some time with my pooch, Fugee.

One of the greatest involvements I had with the bike rides was as a member of Positive Pedalers, an HIV positive cyclist group. My first few AIDS rides, before I knew I was positive, I marveled at the commitment and fortitude of these beautiful HIV-positive men and women with the orange flags on their bikes who, invariably, would zoom past me as I was doing my Artie Johnson-from-Laugh-In-try-not-to-tip-over-creep up some of California’s steepest hills. I was humbled by the endurance of these people doing what I was finding to be nearly impossible, and doing it within the context of HIV -- fatigue, diarrhea, neuropathy. And doing it with smiles, hope, and joy. Jonathan Pon, the founder of Positive Pedalers, was a true inspiration. Jonathan successfully ran in last year’s Honolulu Marathon, and had hoped to start a similar program for positive runners. Sadly, Jonathan passed away shortly after last year’s Marathon.

With his vision, I started Positive Strides, to offer participants in the AIDS Marathon training program the same chance to connect with one another and to provide some education and visibility for HIV-positive participants in the Marathon training program. It’s in its infancy, but we did have 10 people from the Bay Area in our group. I hope that we will continue on with running post-Marathon. And I see great potential for growth.

So here I am, very excited to go for a run around Honolulu! My challenges to myself are to just let the run be what it is. I will be present -- look at flowers, hear birds, drink water. I will ask people why they are running. I will leave behind expectations. Leave behind history, of failure and success. I will just be.

And I am so enormously thankful. Thankful for my friends who’ve supported me unquestioningly throughout the years, thankful for family whom I love like none other, thankful for the fantastic staffs at both the AIDS Marathon office and the San Francisco AIDS Foundation, thankful for all my friends in the Kathy Switzer pace group, thankful for my friends David & Renata who I hornswaggled into running with me, thankful for each and every person who made the extraordinary commitment of time, energy, money, heart, and endurance to come to Hawaii and raise money to fight the pandemic and human suffering caused by HIV. You give me hope, you inspire me, you are all spectacular, and you have made a difference in our world. Enjoy your run.

Mahalo/Namaste/Peace.

sunday, december 8, 2002

The Spirit of Aloha comes through!

Well, it’s official. I’m in the one percent of the world population that has completed a Marathon. And now I can see why it’s one percent. This amazing experience challenged me like I haven’t been challenged before. I’ve pushed on through innumerable difficulties, and this took all my pushing abilities. I birthed a 26.2 mile baby!

I was so incredibly inspired by the whole event. By the 30,000 people participating, by the 1,700 people that came in the name of AIDS, the thousands that came in the name of arthritis, lymphoma and leukemia, breast cancer. The heroic wheelchair participants. The blind runners. The fireworks over Diamond Head at the race start. The man running in wooden elevated sandals and kimono. The scores of people along the route handing out water, candy, pretzels, beer (!!!!-didn’t warn me about that one!), the volunteers handing out sponges, water, Amino Vital.

What really touched me was the support I was shown on the route. People shouting my name (I thought nearly every time, “Do I know them?” then remembered I’d written my name on my shirt). People telling me they were running for me and all positive people. That outpouring of love and support carried miles farther than my feet wanted to go.

I had a really strong start and stayed strong until mile 16. Then something happened. I think it was a combination of endorphins, fatigue, heat, joy, sadness -- that made me hit my emotional and spiritual wall. My God, did my spirit rebel. But I just kept going, head down, thankful for health, for the beauty, for hope. And thankful for the beautiful trade winds blowing me back to Waikiki. But, honestly, from miles 21 through 24, I felt like I dropped through the rabbit hole, fell through a wrinkle in the spacetime continuum. A place with a cruel sense of humor, where seconds seemed like days and minutes, weeks. At one point I looked at my watch and thought, “Huh, watch must have stopped,” then I saw it advance by a second. Spooky evil watch.

And just when I thought I would start to actually break down and sob (Dear God -- a sensitive New Age guy ...), I’d hear from the sides, “Craig, you look strong. Keep running buddy.” And then I’d wanna cry for an entirely different reason.

At mile 25, I passed a woman who was walking and as she read the back of my shirt (which read “HIV positive runner-Craig”), I heard her yell, “I’m finishing with you!” This urged me on when I felt spent, and Katherine and I ran in strong.

I again, am so thankful for every aspect of this experience. For my health, for the beauty of the world and the beauty of the entire AIDS Marathon community. For the difficulty, for the success. And from the bottom of my being, I thank the entire AIDS Marathon community, the San Francisco AIDS Foundation, APLA and everyone who celebrated this noble effort toward eliminating the pandemic and suffering caused by HIV. If I could hug each participant and each donor, I would. You are a shining example of what is right in our world. You are my heroes.

Maholo.

Craig Hermes
Finisher 10,000 something and 800 something in my age group. Finisher -- but not finished. On I run.