This piece is written by longtime running camper Bette Clark. Here Bette speaks beautifully to her relationship with running before, during, and after her battle with breast cancer. A psychologist, mother, and active member of the running community, Bette is based in Yonkers, New York. This is a longer blog, but well worth the read!

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this hour. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” — Eleanor Roosevelt

 What does Craftsbury mean to me and why do I keep coming back? The answer to this question is part of the story of how and why I became a runner, so this is where I must start.

 Running is so much a part of who I am now that it’s hard for me to imagine myself before I became a runner—and yet I first began to run only in my late 40’s. Now, almost twenty years later, after joining my first group run in Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx, I still think of myself as a “new” runner because I never ran track or cross-country in high school or college, and certainly never saw myself as an athlete when I was younger.

 I was a very active (somewhat hyperactive) child, but resisted taking part in any organized sport. I grew up in Montreal, and like any good Canadian, I skied and skated in the winters, and swam at in the lakes of the Laurentian mountain throughout my childhood. I avoided gym as much as possible and in college filled my athletics requirement by taking a relaxation class.

 There were some clues that I might one day gravitate towards an endurance sport. When I was a young teenager I participated in a charity walking event called Miles for Millions. I was a scrawny kid with glasses and when I asked people to sponsor me per mile, they were generous, thinking  I wouldn’t get very far—but I surprised them by walking the full 35 miles. Not only did I collect hundreds of dollars for charity, but I learned that I actually liked to push myself physically, that I liked the feeling of accomplishment, even the fatigue that followed, and maybe most importantly, in the words of Eleanor Roosevelt, I liked challenging myself to “do the thing you think you cannot do.”

 Many years later, as a graduate student, I was coerced by a friend to join him on a run in the foothills of Palo Alto, but I experienced no joy as I struggled to catch my breath and keep up with him. “Running is not for me,” I told him when I was finally able to utter a few words. Soon after, when living near Central Park in New York City, I kept seeing runners with numbers heading to the park and wondered if I was missing something. One morning, I grabbed my boyfriend’s (now husband’s) hand and we followed them. We wrote down our names at the start line and each ran two miles of what we learned later was called the “Trevira Twosome” race. I found it exciting but was not convinced this was something I wanted to do regularly. 

 More than 15 years later, after two children and living a rather sedentary lifestyle as a psychologist (mostly sitting on a chair or on the floor) I decided I needed to do something to get in shape. I passed by Van Cortlandt Park almost every day on my way to the subway. I saw people running and figured they could show me the trails. I looked online and learned there were regular Saturday runs, and I turned up at one of them. I was greeted by a very friendly group of runners of all shapes and sizes, mostly looking much fitter than me. I was told to follow a particular group to the trails. I did not imagine I would actually “run” with them for very long. But I forgot to ask how far the group was planning to go. By the time I did, we were so far along a trail, and being directionally challenged, I had no idea how to get back to the park. When I was told “about 10 miles,” I gasped and figured I’d try to stay with the group as long as I could.  It was not an easy run for me in any way, but I did stay within sight of the the group for 10 miles. I fell in love with all of it—the camaraderie, the trails, the feeling of moving through space, being hot and sweaty and breathing hard (though I now know you should not be out of breath in an “easy” training run), sharing breakfast or sometimes cold beer after a run together. This was the first time I had met people who ran marathons. I thought they were crazy. Since then, I’ve run 36 and a few ultras, including traveling around the world to run in the six majors (Tokyo, London, Berlin, Chicago, Boston and New York). Now who’s crazy?

 I now see myself as an athlete but there’s so much more. After running with the Van Cortlandt Track club for a few months, my life changed in ways I could never have imagined; I had a diverse group of new friends and had new goals. I was inspired and encouraged by my fellow runners. I started running races. I had never won anything before other than a Barbie doll in a raffle, and after winning my age group (40-49) in the hilly Yonkers Half Marathon, I learned how motivating a medal could be.

I signed up for the NYC Marathon (2005) to celebrate my 50th birthday. It was tough training—I lost my father (he had been my only parent since I was 4 when my mother died) and a tough marathon day. I was not fully trained, it was much hotter than expected, I didn’t drink enough, I went out too fast—all rookie mistakes. My legs were leaden by mile 18 and I couldn’t quench my thirst. What kept me going was seeing my VCTC teammates at mile 21, at their usual cheering spot in the Bronx at the Willis Avenue bridge—their smiles and shouts (which included “get out of the Bronx”) got me to the finish line. I swore never again. But I had run just fast enough  (4:00:32) to qualify for Boston in my age group (someone had to explain to me what a BQ was to me and why that mattered) and so I quickly dispensed with “never again,” and asked “when do I start training?”

 But two months later, in January, 2006, I was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. One of the first questions I asked my oncologist was “can I run the Boston Marathon in April?”  She looked at me as if I had really lost my mind, but answered: “Well, maybe, but you’ll be in the middle of chemotherapy..” That year, I had to defer many other things besides the Boston Marathon—including my first year at Craftsbury. But a year later, in 2007, I lined up in Hopkinton, drenched by the pelting rain of a nor’easter. 26.2 miles later, when I made it across the finish line in Boston (4:37), I burst into tears, thinking about all those I knew who didn’t make it past their cancer treatment. I was so exhausted that I fell asleep in the car ride back to New York, and didn’t wake up until we arrived at my house in Yonkers. All I could feel, besides sore muscles, was my gratitude for the support that got me to that finish line—from my running community, friends, family, support networks of all kinds, the doctors, the opportunities for medical treatments that were not always available to others.

 After this, I tried to find ways to bring together what I had learned as a runner, as a cancer patient, and and as a psychologist. I had learned how patience and persistence and believing in what might be possible were principles that could lead to success in all three of these areas, that setting small goals — like getting to the next mile or next treatment could build confidence and help you reach the bigger ones, that this was only possible with support and encouragement, expertise and guidance from others. Training for a marathon before my cancer diagnosis, surgeries, and treatment taught me to expect the unexpected, to get through those tough miles, to pace myself, to count down the miles so that I was that much closer to the finish line, to build rest into the plan, and to keep trying to do the things that brought me joy, like easy running on a favorite trail or visualizing doing this when I could do not be there in reality (this was good preparation for “virtual” events) and to surround myself with positive support wherever possible.

 Support comes in so many forms: during my treatment, when I could barely make it down the block, my running friends would get me to the weekly group runs and walk with me. I took part in support groups that connected me with others who faced what I did, giving me hope. And I learned that goals can and should change — from just running to be in shape, to running to finish a race, to trying a new distance or aiming for a PR. Getting though cancer treatment was one goal, now my goal is to stay as healthy as possible and live life to its fullest.

I am trying to use these lessons to encourage others — cancer patients, runners with cancer, runners facing other types of hurdles. I helped coach Mom’s in Training (a branch of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society helping women with young children train for races by coming to runs with their toddlers in strollers), running in races that raised money for cancer support services (like Gilda’s Club) and specific races in communities with limited resources (Celebrate Life Half Marathon). I facilitate groups for SHARE, an organization that supports women with Breast and Ovarian cancer, and a group called Telling Your Life Story, for the BOLD (a psycho-oncology program in the Bronx) that encourages women to write their stories and share their experiences. I joined the board of Aktiv Against Cancer, an organization founded by Grete Waitz that aims to make exercise an integral part of cancer treatment and recovery, melding the psychological and physiological benefits of physical activity in ways that running has been for me.

 Facing cancer and becoming a runner have led me to embrace new connections and new experiences—like become the president of the Van Cortlandt Track Club, a position I held for 8 years (I’m still on the Board but have stepped down from that role): I had never before been a member of a club let alone taken on a leadership position. 

 I finally got to Craftsbury a year after my cancer treatment ended. I had learned about Craftsbury running camps from long time members of my running club who raved about the its location, the training, the food. The idea of spending a week in Vermont running and learning more about running with other runners sounded perfect to me. And it was. I arrived and was greeted so warmly by a long-time Craftsbury camper that I thought she was a staff member. I met people from all over the country, all walks of life, all levels of running experience, people I may never otherwise have met, something that I love about the running community in general. Over the years these fellow campers have become dear friends—we have traveled together to races and shared running adventures (from the Florida Keys to the Lake District of England and the Highlands of Scotland), and support each other through rough times (like the pandemic). Running, talking, eating together at camp has created deep bonds.

Of course Craftsbury running camp is also about the training: we do long runs, easy runs, hill workouts (impossible to avoid in Vermont), track work outs, “Endurathon” days. Coaches teach us training principles and help us develop individualized training plans. I keep coming back for the camaraderie and food, of course, but each time, I learn new things and am motivated by the coaches and fellow campers. There are running accomplishments that I can directly attribute to what I learned at Craftsbury: I was taught and followed a marathon training plan that helped me break 4 hours in a marathon for the first time, on a hilly challenging course (Mount Desert Island in Maine), then a marathon PR at the Steamtown Marathon (3:37) where I came in second in my age group. All this would never have been possible without what I learned in training from coaches and other runners — and the necessity of patience, persistence and hopefulness in working towards goals. For me (apologies for using an overused metaphor) it has definitely been a marathon and not a sprint.

 These life lessons are reinforced at Craftsbury and keep me coming back—the support and camaraderie, being part of a community united by the joy of running in Vermont, refuels me year after year.

 This year, I’m excited to return Craftsbury Master’s week in person, particularly after a year that has challenged us in so many ways. I’m looking forward to seeing old friends and making new ones, to reviewing what I’ve learned from coaches to being introduced to new training tips, to running on the familiar trails and exploring new ones, to eating my favorite Craftsbury meals, to trying new ones. And I know I will be re-inspired to train and run as if my life depended on it — hopefully with joy, patience and persistence — as I go into Boston Marathon training in a new age group..