Yes, I run because I hate Lance Armstrong.

I was 29, pregnant, and freshly diagnosed with cancer. And the only comforting words anyone could offer me? LIVE STRONG!

Over and over and over and over again. On cards, balloons, banners, flowers...LIVE STRONG!

I'd wake up sicker than a dog from chemo and find cheap arm bands hanging off my black and blue, IV-abused arm that said...LIVE STRONG!

Day 48 of my hospital stay marked countless medical errors, lost hope for ever having a baby, chemo side-effects, surgery recovery, and blood clots in BOTH lungs. The nurse walked in on that day and had the audacity to tsk tsk me for a sour attitude. Then as she left the room she whispered...LIVE STRONG!

That's when I lost it.

Why couldn't I be sick without feeling like I disappointed everyone? Why was my good attitude expected, not a choice of my own? Dammit, I was sick and tired of being sick and tired!

Sooo, I went a teensy bit crazy ;o) Like tear off my IVs, climb onto the top of the nurses counter and scream "I HATE Lance Armstrong!" as loud as I could crazy.

Then I started running.

My docs kept telling me I was going to fall over dead...but hey, they said that was going to happen anyway.

So I kept running.

Every single day I ran, despite protests from my chemo-ridden body and damaged lungs.

It felt so good. I could FEEL my body change. *I* was in control!

I ran a little longer each day...starting at a fast walk of 1/4 mile and making my way to 5 10-minute miles. The day I hit that accomplishment I was told I was cancer free.

I kept running until I could run 10 miles and barely break a sweat. By this time my lungs were as good as new!

It's been 16 months since I went loony tunes in the cancer ward and I still run 4 days a week. It reminds me that I am in control. Which is probably the message good ole Mr. Armstrong was trying to make in the first place. So I don't REALLY hate him.

But...just when I think I can't make that extra mile or find myself thinking I'd rather do something other than running, I secretly mutter a little "I hate Lance Armstrong!". That's the jolt of memory I need to pull on my running shoes and hit the pavement.