With the dawn of the great pumpkin-laden month that is October comes (at least for us Washingtonian folk) pumpkins! yes; the replacing of green leaves for yellow, red and golden-hued ones; the replacing of fresh, ripe, strawberries for myriad flavors of apples and squash; the return of my obsession with hot, soy-infused chai tea.

Beyond serving as one of the west coast’s most stellar examples of how we here like to get down with The Change Of Seasons, October is also Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

I know I (mostly intentionally) haven’t used the C-word too often around here. There are the few posts, and the small grouping in my “green grass” section.

And then there has been my (until today) somewhat brief discussion of Race For The Cure, the Portland Edition. The annual 5k run/trot/walk that simultaneously financially benefits breast cancer research (in the sum of $690,814.00, online alone, this past year) and voraciously celebrates survivors with an endlessly cheering, bright sea of pink. I have been honored to participate in that endlessly cheering bright sea of pink, in various forms, ever since the day I heard such a race existed. (Some six years ago now, if my habitual crack-smoking is not impeding my memory.)

I cried every time I walked. And the time I ran, too.

It seems a prevalent sight before and after the race begins: tear-stains frozen proudly to people’s cheeks by the early morning crispness floating from the top of the nearby waterside, and hanging, wet, in the air. It’s hard not to be overwhelmed when faced with the sheer number of participants ( 45 thousand, plus, this past September), and the mission at hand. Those who race in remembrance of a lost loved one, and those who race in celebration always seem to be, in my experience, equally teary. And equally committed to finding a cure for breast cancer. In this life-time.

When babycarrot sister and I made the trek from here to Portland to participate last year, I knew we were running, even when she assured me we were walking. My sister doesn’t walk. Especially when someone is telling her she can run. We were registered “trotters,” if you will, set to be in the “brisk walking” group, but twenty minutes before we were set to start I saw the gleam in her eye, and realized that, without any training, and without being even close to my resemblance of “running shape,” at all, I was going to be running 3.1 miles when the pinkly-clad starter motioned us to “Go!”

Now many of you are probably rolling your eyes (and rightfully so), and making audible gasping noises at the potentially hilarious (I agree) idea that I would be so scared of running 3.1 miles (I went to the bathroom twice in twenty minutes. Nervous for me=hot date with the bathroom. Or porta potty, as it were. I know no shame when it comes to the bathroom regulations.).

Let me de-brief you on the running background that is my life, in the hopes of shedding some light on my proverbial 5k darkness.

Sprinter. From the first time I can remember running, ever, to my Sophomore year in college, where I re-injured myself so well that I was thereby forced to stop competitively sprinting. HUGE, by-the-book, anti-distance, Sprinter.

In my experience, sprinters never really “got” distance-folk. Distance-folk laughed at us when we ran SO hard, for short bursts, and we looked at them like they were stark raving lunatics with sadist tendencies when they were STILL RUNNING, consecutively, forty minutes later.

Our workouts were just as long as theirs, and sometimes longer, but you better believe we were not perpetually running. We were more perpetually short bursting, then striding, short bursting, then striding. Sometimes we were even laying on the nearby grass, heaving, asking Someone Driving A CareBear Cloud Car Up There to strike us dead on the spot. And then a distance runner would trot by, for the eleventieth time, and they’d be chatting with one another, as if there were simply walking to the mall to watch a bad Jennifer Lopez movie, for fun, because they had nothing better to do.

Stark raving lunatics, I tell you, all of them.

In short, 3.1 miles seems like an eternity to a farm-fed sprinter. Especially a farm-fed sprinter who had not been doing any sort of regular running for months upon months.

And while yes, I’m sure that I have, at some point, ran 3.1 miles in my life, before that particular Race For The Cure Sunday I couldn’t remember doing it without a coach chiding from somewhere in the back, on a Monday, our heinous of all workout days. I couldn’t remember ever doing it when I was so utterly out of shape that I was scared that I just might pass out, on mile marker 2.3, from the sheer ridiculousness of the entire idea.

When I was training, I KNEW I could run. That day, the only thing I KNEW was that I shouldn’t have eaten that bowl of cereal for breakfast.

But, as you have already deduced, you being smart, and me being, well, still alive, is that I did indeed survive the race that particular day. Whenever I think back on it, I like to tell myself that I learned quite a bit while running it, too.

I did surely learn that, while 3.1 miles is surely one woman’s eternity, it’s another woman’s early morning jog around the block.

I also learned something about my body that day, and its relationship with, and to, physical pain. I learned that my body can push far further, and much harder, than I would normally allow it. But really, I realize I wasn’t just learning that; I was remembering.

And it felt good. It felt good, too, to see women of all shapes and sizes and running abilities sweating alongside me, behind me, and in front of me. It felt good to know that I could not, even in my worst moments of those endless three miles, feel sorry for myself when I realized why I had come to run, or walk, as it were, that day.

I was overwhelmed with The Pink. And I was running in celebration of someone I loved. A beloved friend and teacher who I have known since I was in high school. A survivor.

And while they didn’t die of breast cancer, I am forever running in remembrance of my beautiful aunt, Anne, who died of Lymphoma a year before my dad passed, and my outdoorsy, adventure-craving (some of his stories are just plain UNREAL) grandfather, who died of a rare form of stomach cancer just two Septembers ago.

It’s becoming hard to know anyone who hasn’t been touched by a battle with cancer, or who hasn’t known someone who at some point has been in the throes of such a battle.

I love the kick ass! and take no prisoner! attitude of so many breast (and other) cancer survivors. I love Race for The Cure. I love beaded bracelets like these that are meant to be worn by and for survivors. I love Brian Andreas’ StoryPeople, and and their newest print, called “Lifetime,” where funds from every purchase go to breast cancer research. For as long as it takes to find a cure.

Brian Andreas’ artwork, cards, and prints are nothing short of amazing, and I highly encourage perusing his site for a few minutes. I myself have been known to get lost amidst his wonderfully abstract art, and lyrical, oh so poetic and unique verbage for hours on end, but if you are anti-link-clicking (and believe me, I understand why one would be, what with all the links out there to click; I myself need a twelve-step program for LinkClicking…), here is the “Lifetime” lyric adorning the new print, StoryPeople’s very own, personal Ode to Finding A Cure, as it were:

We’re here to end it,
I said & she said, No,
we’re here to begin it
& then she turned &
opened her arms
& everywhere I could see,
there were people,
like bright birds, calling
with a thousand voices
& suddenly I understood.

Here is where it begins.
With all of us, together
giving our daughters
a world worth loving
for a lifetime to come.

Yes, please.

(”Here is where it begins” was used as the title of this post because it was my favorite part of the lyrical goodness adorning the aforementioned breast cancer print, yes, and also because I thought it would work well as a double entendre of sorts, ultimately signifying the proverbial fire that has been recently lit underneath my Posting Ass (which is altogether different than my Vacuuming Ass, my Cooking Ass, and my Running A Daily 3.1 Miles Ass), and to alert you, gentle reader, of said fire. So, if all goes according to plan, you can look forward to not reading novels! of posts once a week, but rather reading shorter versions of novels! multiple times, weekly. Hurrah! See again: Sprinter. With her second wind.)