Go On. Get Out There.

Is there something on your bucket list that you haven’t attempted because you are afraid of failing or of the effort it may take?

“I thought that booth along the race route giving out margaritas to runners was strange,” my brother Jon said a couple of hours after he’d finished the Fargo Marathon.

“I know. How weird. Did they think we’d stop running to slam down a tequila?” my niece Lisa asked.

“Well I did see a couple of guys who stopped,” my niece Brittany said.

There were about a dozen family members lounging around my sister Angie’s and her husband Terry’s swimming pool after the morning 5K, half-marathon and marathon events.

“I didn’t see the margarita booth,” I said.

“Of course you didn’t, Judi. The 5K run never got off the university grounds; and you know liquor is not allowed on campus,” Terry teased.

“Oh yeah, yeah,” I laughed.

“And listen to me Judi,” Jon piped in. “As your coach.”

Hold on there cowboy, you are not my coach,” I interjected with feigned alarm.

“Yeah, but if I were, I’d get you out on the streets and teach you to run. It was sadly obvious that you trained way too much on a treadmill.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when the starter’s gun went off, you just jogged in place,” Jon said with a smirk.”

“You walked into that one,” Angie admitted.

“Of course she walked into it. She doesn’t run,” Terry chortled.

”Ha—laugh all you want, but next year you’ll see me in the half-marathon,” I said.

A year later in 2007, outside the Fargo Dome, I shivered from nerves as much as from the damp, windy May morning. A dozen family members were running either the 5K or full marathon. They had wished me good luck before heading over to their race areas. Other family members were joining hundreds of friendly Fargoans to line the streets along the routes to cheer on runners and walkers.

Since my previous 5K, I had lost 12 pounds and gained a year. I was 49 and weighed in at—well weighed in at 7 a.m. usually. For the last six months I had trained five days a week.

But a little inner voice told me it wasn’t enough as I stood with thousands of other runners who all appeared to be younger and more fit. I swear it felt like that negative little voice ran out boldly on to my left shoulder to be near my ear. It attached there like an unwelcome epaulette.

Suddenly I heard an opposing voice squeak, “Hey! Enjoy the day. Enjoy the crowd. Enjoy what you accomplished to get here. Enjoy that you will run and walk your way to a finish line you’ve never crossed before.”

I mentally helped that little fragile voice perch on my right shoulder where the opposing, negative pip squeak immediately challenged it to a vigorous game of teeter totter on my shoulders.

Immersed in runners who were talking, laughing, and stretching, I was protected from the wind and felt excitement surge around and through me. I began stretching and let my mind drift to our cousins’ quarter-mile gravel driveway in rural West Fargo.

It was at the Kunert’s farm in the 1970s under my dad’s coaching that I learned to run distance on their driveway. In my mind, I can still see their long gravel road under the huge, blue North Dakota sky. I could see for miles out there. It was as if the weight of the massive sky pressed down on our Red River Valley, flattening the prairieland into one thin, gigantic piece of Norwegian lefse.

Dad’s wise tutelage resonated in my mind, “Go now. Get out there and run back and forth on the driveway a few times.”

I chuckled at his basic instruction that really said it all. I snapped out of my reverie when a local radio personality, Race Director Mark Knutson, and a few other people climbed atop a 25-foot tall scaffolding at the starting line to begin the opening ceremonies. A helicopter flew over. The scaffolded celebrities were enveloped by colorful, swirling United States and Canadian flags as they welcomed and thanked runners and fans for coming out. A woman began to sing our national anthem.

And I started bawling. Yes bawling.

I tried to hide my unforeseen outbreak of emotion from fellow runners, but the beautiful music and excitement of participating in my biggest athletic challenge in 30 years grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let go. It took all I had to keep from sobbing syncopatedly with the singer. Even my inner voices quit teeter tottering to hang on to my shuddering shoulders as I inhaled in sharp, short gasps.

I bent over, pretending to tie my shoe and to stretch. With my head near the ground, I wiped my eyes and nose and took a big sighing breath. Then I stood up, put my hand over my heart, and continued deep, slow breaths while saying a silent prayer of gratitude and hope.

“Wow. I guess I’m really happy and proud to be there,” I thought, surprised by my emotions.

With the national anthems completed, the full marathon runners readied for the opening gunshot, and bang—they were off!

Next, it was time for the half-marathoners to line up. I knew that competitive runners would be off to a fast start, so I made my way toward the back of the pack. It was a long way through the sea of runners.

Then bang! Our starting gun went off. I started to move forward but ran into the person ahead of me. I was bumped from behind as well.

We all laughed. We weren’t going anywhere. Like a long line of cars and trucks at a stop light, the throngs of runners ahead of us would have to clear the starting line and spread out a bit before those of us in the back could actually start the race.

It took about five minutes before I walked across the starting line to trip the time chip affixed to my right shoelace. Hey, I was running in my first half-marathon!

Well, it was more of a waddle, but still. I was off and waddling.

Five miles into the 13.1 mile event, I was on South 9th Street and enjoying the tour of the town in which I grew up.

Then I heard, “There she is. Judi! Judi!”

I was going to flash a smile as I looked toward the voices, but I realized I didn’t have to. My dehydration had glazed a grin on my face as shiny and hard as a night-school oven-fired ceramics project.

On the right side of the street, I spotted Angie, Aunt Marjorie, and two nieces, Olivia and Abby. I waddled over and gave the kids high fives.

“You’re doing great. But how are you feeling?” Angie asked.

“I’m good and tired, but I can make it.”

“Well, at least you’re smiling,” Aunt Marjorie said.

“I think her smile is stuck like that,” Olivia said, observing me closely.

“Yeah, it’s not moving at all,” Abby added.

“Well, you better quit talking to us so you can keep going,” Angie said with a hint of concern as she visually examined her Joker-looking sister.

“Yay Judi! Keep going,” Olivia and Abby cheered. They were ready to be rid of me so that they could have a McDonalds Happy Meal Breakfast on their way home.

I started jogging again, bolstered by seeing them cheer me on. Their well wishes carried me through the next few miles, but I hit a wall between miles 7 and 8. At that point, I was walking across the street from Fargo’s YMCA, heading toward the Veteran’s Memorial Bridge that connects the cities of Fargo, North Dakota and Moorhead, Minnesota.

I trudged up the slight incline and thought, “How am I going to finish? I’m just over halfway and I am tired.”

Suddenly an older man appeared next to me, walking at my same pace.

“Are you enjoying the race?” he asked kindly.

“I sure am,” I said, flashing my glazed grin.

“I am too,” he said. “I’ve done a few of these in my lifetime.”

“This is my first,” I said.

“Well congratulations,” he said. “You’ve taken your first step—well, really more like your first 16,000 steps at this point.”

I laughed at his quick calculation. We began a conversation as we crossed the bridge and turned a corner to go North under the bridge on a path near the river.

The next two miles passed quickly as we continued to talk. He asked me questions about my life and how I ended up in this race. I shared freely with this man I had just met. He told me he was from Western North Dakota, was 71 years-old, and had a broken toe.

When we neared the El Zagel Golf Course in North Fargo, I was relaxed and reenergized. I felt I could start running again. Because my new friend was 71 and had a broken toe to boot, I figured he was probably going to remain at the same pace to finish the race. And I had gathered my second wind and wanted to see what I could do to finish strong.

“I’ve really enjoyed visiting with you, but I think I better get back to running,” I said.

“Oh okay. Well thanks for spending time with me. Good luck on finishing,” he said.

“Yes, you too,” I said.

Both of us broke into a run. Within seconds, I was dumbfounded to watch him accelerate into a faster pace than me. He easily began to put distance between us.

“Holy crap,” I thought and shook my head. “Here I was thinking I was helping him and that he was holding me back. But that little broken toe angel was helping ME, not the other way around. Jeez, try to be more humble Stoa!”

I then tackled the only real hill in the entire half-marathon. It was the dip adjacent to the Red River on North Elm Street approaching 19th Avenue.

At the top of the hill the race organizers had mercifully placed another water station. There was also a large tent manned by nurses and Emergency Medical Technicians to care for runners who had succumbed to blisters or dehydration.

Perhaps I was teeny bit delirious. I knew my sister-in-law, Deb was working in the tent so I decided to stop quickly to say hello as I gulped down a Dixie cup of water. Why not? It was just a race.

“Is Deb Rocholl here?” I asked two nurses standing at the tent opening.

They looked at me as if I had lobsters crawling out of my ears or perhaps determining whether they should place me on a stretcher inside their tent.

“Who?” one of them asked me.

“Deb. Deb Rocholl.”

“Sorry, we don’t know anyone by that name,” the woman replied.

“Oh well. If you see a Deb, tell her Judi Stoa said hi.”

I heard them saying something to each other as I waddled off.

I was about two blocks beyond the tent when it hit me. I said Deb Rocholl, not Deb Stoa. I referred to Deb using her maiden name even though she and my brother Larry had been married for 20 years. Perhaps those medical missionaries were starting to piece it together when I said I was a Stoa and that’s why they were talking with each other when I left them.

“Dingleberry!” I thought and head into the last two miles of the half-marathon.

At that point, the marathon and the half-marathon routes had rejoined as one. While I was near the back of the half-marathoners, I was now waddling with some excellent marathoners who had started only 20 minutes ahead of the half-marathon.

As I shuffled past Fargo North High, there was a person standing on the street curb yelling out times for the marathon runners. As a marathoner ran by the person would yell, “Keep on going! You’re in X position and running a XX:XX pace!”

Thinking I was funny, I yelled out to him, “Hey what place am I?”

He just looked at me. My glazed grin cracked slightly, and I continued on.

Anyone who has run the Fargo Marathon or Half-Marathon knows the person I met at the final mile marker outside of the Fargo Dome.

It was the Grim Reaper. Yep. A skeleton of a man decked out in flowing shards of black material. Grim held a scythe and a hand painted sign in one hand and with the other hand, pointed a gnarly finger at me. His sign said simply, “The End is Near.”

“Same to you buddy!” I croaked.

Similar to my out of place emotion at the national anthem opening, now at the end of the race, I was angry at Grim for pointing at me. I felt a couple of involuntary intakes of breath when I passed him and made a left off of University on to the main entrance driveway to the Fargo Dome.

As I rounded the dome, I heard the crowd and announcer inside cheering on finishers. There were cameras around and big screens televising runners as they entered the dome.

“It’s my time,” I thought. I knew family members would be there to cheer me across the finish line. In my head, my pace picked up. In reality, my pace remained the same even though my grin stretched ever so slightly more.

As I entered the stadium, I heard my family yell from the stands, “Way to go Judi. Finish strong.”

In response, I tried to high step and pretend that I had run at a much faster pace for the entire race.

But my tired legs would not move higher or faster. Instead, I almost did a face plant on the tartan surface as my head got ahead of my body.

Humbled and yet proud, I crossed the finish line and saw smiling faces of race volunteers who gave me a medal and congratulated me. Like cattle into a corral, I followed other runners to the stands of water, bananas, juice, milk, and other foods.

I had done it! I finished at 3 hours, 6 minutes and change.

As I sat with my family in the stands, my aunt congratulated me, but said, “Did you like that the announcer announced your weight along with your name and finish time as they televised you on the Jumbotron?”

“Wait! Weight?! What?!” I said. All of a sudden I hated the name Jumbotron.

“No, you dingleberry,” Angie said. “It was just your name and time.”

Because I hadn’t hydrated enough before, during or after the run, and hadn’t stretched afterward, I was extremely stiff the next day when I flew back to Colorado. But I was hooked and would return for more half-marathons.

I was glad that I had listened to my dad’s instruction to, “Go now. Get out there.”

And that's the life lesson I share with you today. If you want to see and bring out the best in yourself and others, just decide to do it. Decide. Believe. See. It just takes that first step. Go now. Get out there!

Judi Stoa's Donchyaknow Life Lessons to see and bring out the best in yourself and others

Website: Judi Stoa Books

Blog: Donchyaknow Life Lessons