by Zachary Gorsuch
February 8, 2025
About 15 years ago I was in my late twenties; still boozing hard, smoking cigarettes, getting high and getting softer by the day, or as some may insist on calling it, fat. Back then I complained more, listened less, had a childish temperament and was as lazy as a wet blanket in the breeze. Plop. So I was just as shocked as everyone when an incredible woman entered my life and actually wanted to stay there. I’ll lay off the self-bashing for now and just say that we clicked and still click.
Early in our relationship, Jessica had signed herself up to run a half-marathon, but did so through the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s (LLS) fundraising platform. Not only did she have to raise $5,000 by the start of the race, if she fell short of that goal she would have to cover every dime until she hit the mark. “Wow, and you even get to run for 2 hours straight? That’s a steal, babe!” was my big fat sardonic reaction.
Her drive and gusto only made me turn inward and feel worse about my own personal condition and purpose, so my attitude was undeniably shitty. But she never batted an eye, just kept running and smiling. Hell, she even giggled whenever I dealt such thoughtless quips.
13.1 miles – that didn’t seem like a lot to her, a former Marathon finisher and college athlete who was familiar with the training process and the mental focus required for such an event. To me back then, it would have felt like a suicide mission. But I encouraged her and was probably even a little jealous of the ridiculous shape she was in, particularly compared to the shape I was in at the time, which was round-ish.
When I happily accepted her invitation to the LLS Kickoff Banquet taking place 6 weeks before the race, I expected the speeches and free buffet and all that. What I didn’t expect was to be in a room surrounded by strangers who may well have altered the very course of my existence.
Whiplash
We were casually dressed and seated in the banquet hall at a round table full of interesting, but very friendly characters. I had assumed they were all volunteers or something, so when one of them asked if I would be participating in the foot race, I made a few jokes: “No, I’m just here for moral support”, gesturing toward my half-smiling counterpart, “and the free buffet, hahaha!” They were kind enough to laugh and after congratulating me for being such a supportive partner, continued with their light and jovial conversations.
During a pause in the dinner, a woman began speaking at the podium and going on about how strong and resilient these survivors are and how that seems to serve as motivation for a lot of athletes to finish strong come race day. She then invited a child of about 8 or 9 years old to come up to the podium to address the crowd. His hair was gone and his body small and frail from undergoing a series of chemotherapy treatments. All his shaky, squeaking voice could muster up into the microphone was: “Please don’t give up.”
The entire room was in tears. Even my own fat ass was weeping into my pulled pork sandwich, as I was completely overwhelmed by the courage of this kid and the humanism that was unfolding in this room before my watery eyes. After a couple more speeches and words of encouragement from various members of LLS, we humbly returned to our feast and the conversations resumed.
“I remember after my first treatment,” spoke a man across the table from us who looked to be in his late 60’s, having just stepped off his John Deere tractor and into the party, “I told my wife ‘I just don’t know if I can do this, I don’t know if I’m strong enough’”. Then he chuckled, “Hell that was 11 years ago and this one will be my 10th race. It’s a special one for me,” as he held back further tears. I couldn’t bring myself to ask him aloud, so I asked in my head, “Wait, so you survived cancer AND you’re doing the half-marathon?!”. Okay, now I was really feeling like a piece of shit.
Then the woman next to him put her hand on his shoulder, “I said the same thing, didn’t I Barbara?” glancing at her sister seated next to her as they clasped their aged, sacred hands, “and yet, here we all are!” Oh Moses, here I was making stupid jokes about being here for moral support and the complimentary smorgasbord, while being surrounded by people who had survived the unthinkable and who were also all participating in the race!
Have you ever wanted to excuse yourself from the table only to remain excused? I got whiplash from this reality slapping me so hard across the face. But these were the kindest people on earth, so it didn’t sting or ache. There was just a little self-inflicted emotional bruising.
On the drive home that night, I finally let my guard down. I expressed to Jessica how moved I was by these people and their stories and their incredible strength. I offered to help her raise funds for her commitment to LLS, “Or maybe I could volunteer at the event or something.” Her response was the last thing I wanted to hear, but the real, one thing I needed: “Yeah, or you can run with me.” Silence. And then, boom.
Okay, Go
I started training and it sucked. At first I was basically just running down to the end of our block and back, pushing myself just another block each time. My motivation was there: the image of that sweet, delicate child, his bald little head barely peeking over the podium. I couldn’t give up, but I was clueless otherwise, so I sought out more technical advice from some friends and colleagues who knew their way around the running game.
My buddy Tim was a distance runner, “Honestly dude, little secret here: if you can run over 8 miles in your training, your adrenaline can carry you all the way to 13.1.” Okay, great, I thought to myself. So if I ran 1.4 miles yesterday how far can my adrenaline take me? Maybe to Dairy Queen.
I acquired some great advice, bought some fancy sneakers and kept going. I ran with Jessica, but mostly I ran by myself and I started to grind away at it; and actually enjoy it. As I kept going further with each run, I started to feel really good, to the point where I bored everyone by talking about it all of the time. I started to research breathe and water management tactics, training schedules, and even looking into healthier food options, for at the time I think I still believed that a Double Baconator with fries was actually fueling my body. Just don’t mention to anybody the explosive diarrhea. That’s potty talk.
A few weeks into it and already I found myself in conversations with people, proud to casually bring up the fact that “Yeah, I’m a runner”, even if they did respond with an upward inflection “Oh really?!” while their eyes quickly darted up and down, taken by the curiosity of my still portly figure. But I cared not and started to train harder and eat a little better, while stacking miles and lightening up my attitude in the process.
Come race day, I was pumped, but I only understood what my buddy Tim had said after I was staring down the barrel of 10 miles and getting faster with each mile. In just over 2 hours, I finished my first half-marathon and at the moment, I had no idea where that feat would take me in the years to come or that I had barely scratched the surface of my potential.
I’ve now run thousands of miles, competing in races over mountain peaks and across rivers, in snowstorms; all because I “signed up” to do it. By committing to run in an official event, even a 5K, we hold ourselves accountable through a specific goal, even if our goal is just to finish. Today when I tell someone, “I’m a runner”, their eyes don’t scan over me like a TSA device quite so much. And I still enjoy running, no matter where that comes from.
Help It
Sometimes we can’t clearly identify where the push we need truly comes from. Whether it’s surviving cancer or open heart surgery; if you’ve lost a loved one or gained a loved one; if you’re tired of just being. For me it initially landed as a gushing realization and flurry of emotions; but the true power comes from within. As cheesy as that sounds, there isn’t anyone operating your mechanics but you.
“I can’t help it,” sounds like a pretty innocuous phrase, until it becomes a way of life. Sure, grab another cookie, get angry, pour yourself a second whiskey, take your place in the drive-thru line at Wendy’s – again. When we’ve simply lost the ability to “help it”, then that “it” becomes “us” and then what we’re “signing up” for is a lifetime of no longer caring. I was extremely lucky to find a beautiful soul who would give me a loving nudge in the right direction and I am grateful for her every day of my life.
But I still had to discover for myself the exhilaration that could be experienced by the discomforts which often arise within the act of caring. As Tim put it, “sometimes you just gotta screw yourself into it” and sign up for the hard thing.
These days it’s still not easy to break away from the comfort zone and lace up the running shoes. But I do it because I’ve grown to realize that it makes me a better person; and the more we become better people, the better place our world feels and becomes. Let’s all try to help it more.