running – Dunn Now

This is what life looks like lately. There are are worse ways to spend my time.

A spectacular wipeout on black ice – not 10 feet from our front door –- set me off on a slower start to 2026 than I’d anticipated.

After spending 2024 rehabbing a genetic (I think) sacroiliac (SI) injury that has plagued me since I was 16, I went full-tilt in 2025 doing the active things I love: ran the Syracuse Half Marathon again, waded into the murky waters of Onondaga County’s Jamesville Reservoir for open-water swim practice, churned my way 1.2 miles through the even murkier waters of Sandusky Bay as part of a relay team in the Ohio 70.3 triathlon, had a blast hiking a 20-mile Mammoth March with dear friends, wandered in Lapland with my childhood bestie and wobbled 25 miles on a new road bike that had spent 2024 gathering dust as my SI joint healed.

Then in December, I fractured two vertebrae thanks to arena-slick ice lurking in our driveway under a half-inch of Central New York’s trademark lake-effect snow. There went the four races I’d signed up for in 2026. There went winter spin classes on the bike. There went an aggressive winter swim plan and my twice-weekly gym workouts. And both my part-time jobs.

And part of my retirement identity. I was the one who just turned 70 and never stopped moving.

Yes, it is temporary. People suffer much worse and more painful setbacks so whining is, perhaps, undue. But at this age, putting life on hold for 12 weeks feels like losing a significant chunk of whatever good time is left to me. My self-diagnosed attention deficit struggles with being still.

Within two days of my injury, books started piling up – some loaners, some gifts. My family and friends offered a long list of titles they had loved. By comparison, not a single person suggested a TV show or movie that I should watch to pass the time while my compressed thoracic vertebrae (T2 and T6 for the orthopedically minded among my readers) took their sweet time healing. My people know me well.

Then my friend Hattie made a suggestion that was one of the kindest compliments I’ve ever received: “Do what you do best. Write.” Thanks, Hattie!

So here I am. It’s time to get thoughts out of my head before it implodes. Writing my way out of confusion, anger and boredom is a habit that’s been with me as long as my SI joint has been a problem. I’ll inflict my words here on whomever cares to read them. If I’m brave enough, I’ll follow the advice of one of my sheroes, writer Anne Lamott: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.”

So, my project for 2026 is to shove some life into this blog. I am putting my intention here to hold myself accountable.

Happy New Year, all. And avoid black ice!

This is why I run

When I took up distance running four years ago, I noticed something that set my new sport apart from others I’d enjoyed over the years: People love to tell me how much they hate it.

No one has ever told me they hate swimming. Or hiking. Or horseback riding. But mention going for a run and it starts. “Oh, I hate running.” “How can that be fun?” “You ran how many miles? I can’t imagine that. I hate it.”

OK, fine. Feel free to hate it. But let me tell you what happened one day last week.

Many of my running friends had signed up for races that were eventually cancelled and made “virtual” because of COVID-19. Among them were the Marine Corps Marathon (MCM) and 10K, the Wineglass Marathon and the Flower City Half Marathon. We all miss the adrenaline-pumping fun of race day – even those of us who finish at the back of the pack. So we decided to make an event of these virtual races.

Our friend Tammy, whose enthusiasm and logistical prowess made her the unofficial race director, gathered 20 runners at Onondaga Lake Park and made it look like something was happening. Tammy planned our route, and made medals, bibs and banners. A core group of us brought food and helped with set-up. Friends and family members showed up. A trumpeter played the Star Spangled Banner. Retired Marines honored us by giving out medals at the homemade finish line.

It was chilly and rainy at 8:15 a.m. when we took off and ran through a couple of developments and some village streets. As we were running different distances, some did the route once, some twice and the three marathoners did it four times. As always, there was complaining and comaraderie, aches and achievements. Friends were scattered along the course, cheering and supporting us with water stops. We were having a great time. Under any circumstances, that would have been more than enough.

I finished my 13.1 miles and joined the small crowd at the park waiting for our marathoners. We celebrated Tammy’s PR and watched for Grant. A group of us who have run endless miles with Grant planned to join him and run the last quarter-mile of his MCM with him.

For reasons of his own, the MCM is special to Grant. He has now run it five times. One of the most compelling features of the MCM is the “Blue Mile” where photos of fallen service members are displayed. Running through it on race day is a powerful, emotional experience. This year, Grant somehow arranged for such photos to line the final quarter-mile of our route. When he reached us, seven runners fell in behind him and his pacer, cheering and expecting a joyous finish.

Grant had other plans. When he reached the first photo, he pulled off his baseball cap, held it over his heart and said, “I’m going to walk this.” He never took his eyes off the photos of the fallen heroes. We followed his lead, walking in silence, some of us blinking back tears as we passed the photos of dozens of deceased service members. Included in the photo lineup was a 23-year-old Marine from our county who was killed by an IED in Afghanistan in 2011.

Grant finished. Our final runner came in. We cheered. We cleaned up, toasted and went home.

When I look back on that day, it won’t be the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other miles that stand out. It will be that moment of solidarity, respect and friendship. I’ll recall the laughter and confidences we shared while running hundreds of training miles together. I’ll think of the friends and family who took pictures, brought hot coffee and showed up in Halloween costumes to make us laugh on our virtual race day.

That’s why I run. That’s why I love it. That’s how I know what you’re missing when you tell me you hate it.

*Thanks to our friend Monica for the photo.