Second Chances

My name is Tim Bentley and this is a story about second chances and running. This story begins with my left big toe…

You know at the shoe store, when they ask you to move your toe up and down, to see if the shoe fits? Well, I can’t move my left big toe (you just tried it didn’t you?). So did I. I still can’t do it.

But this big toe starts me on a journey, a journey to my second chance. A place that I wouldn’t be, if it wasn’t for my first chance.

Because my first chance happened when I was in high school. When I was a nervous freshman, trying out for the golf team.  My friend Mike and I practiced all summer in hopes of making the team. I tell people we got cut from the team, but in reality, we didn’t even make the team to get cut. Like any nervous, 14-year-old boys, Mike and I panicked. Oh no, we’ll have to take PE in 3rd period. We’ll be sweaty in school!

But my friend Mike is smart and knows that cross country is a no-cut sport!  We find the coach, Mr. Brooks and shyly ask if we can join the team. I’m so nervous, worrying that he’d say no. I’d learn later as an adult, and HS cross country coach, that XC takes everybody – if two boys show up begging to be on the team, you take them!

And here, here is my first chance for running to save my life.

You know that teacher you have in HS that’s your favorite? The one you can remember to this day? Mr. Brooks is that for me. Not only was he a coach, but he was a teacher of life lessons. He taught us to:

• Be tough
• Push yourself
• Be competitive, but gracious
• Be curious
• Be kind
• Be great everyday

I began to look forward to those daily practices. To find myself, to define myself as a runner. I had some success in HS. I was the #1 runner for three years. I led the first boy's team in HS history to the state championship meet, and I was an all-state and all-region runner. But my favorite thing about cross country was Mr. Brooks. Each day and after each race I came to look forward to Mr. Brooks, who with a quiet, “good job, Timothy” was all it took to fill my chest with pride.
 
My senior year I had the top time in the state in the mile, and along with some teammates set the school record in the distance medley. A record that still stands to this day and is third fastest in Tucson history. I looked it up :) I was even inducted into the Sabino HS Hall of fame last month for my exploits as a runner among other things.

I was a good runner and a good student. Not only did I earn an athletic scholarship, but I earned an academic one too. I was lucky enough to earn a few bucks to offset college expenses.

But just three years later, I‘d let this first chance slip away.

You see, I’d talk myself out of running after a few years in college. Chasing girls and drinking beers would be much more fun I thought.  But along with those pursuits, came bad grades, failing classes and quitting the team. Most regrettably, I’d forgotten the lessons that Mr. Brooks taught me.

Fast forward 17 years and I’m sitting on the couch trying to wiggle my big toe. But I can’t. That non-wiggle starts me on a journey to find out why. A succession of doctors try and diagnose me. Did I injure my foot? Break my leg, wear funny shoes? No. No. My wife thought I did, but no.

But at each doctor I ask questions that help me narrow it down. A local Gastroenterologist tells me that low B-12 can cause nerve damage. Aha! It’s solved. He is concerned about a small mass in my stomach. He thinks I have Chrohn’s disease – a B-12 sucking disease that he is confident is the culprit. But after two years of treatment, we come to realize that it’s not.

Let’s try one more test he says.  A biopsy on that mass in my stomach. A biopsy in April of 2009 that comes back positive for Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

Here it is 2009 –

• 28 years after I met Mr. Brooks
• 22 years after I stopped running 
• and 2 years after my big toe
• Diagnosed with Non Hodgkin’s Follicular Lymphoma Stage IV (out of V) and I'm screwed.

They hustled me into treatment, because if I didn’t, I could die.

I didn’t know what I could do, I didn’t know what I should do – my life is in shambles, chasing girls and drinking beer will do that. And now I have cancer. I. just. didn’t. know...

I sat down and had a think. I did know what to do. I’m a runner and Mr. Brooks taught me these things to be true:

• Be tough
• Push yourself
• Be competitive, but gracious
• Be curious
• Be kind
• Be great everyday

I decided to run a race against chemo, kick the crap out of cancer. I would apply the lessons I learned from Mr. Brooks, and spoiler alert – I won. But that’s a story for another day. Another Odyssey.

I will tell you this - I went through four years of kick your ass, ‘punch you in the face’ chemotherapy, radiation and other drugs. And every step along the way, doctors, nurses, and other medical staff tell you just how good you are at ‘getting punched in the face.’

My story ends, or maybe it begins again after my treatment ends. I called up my friend Mike, the one that was cut from the golf team with me and asked him to go for a run. Lacing up my shoes that day, I realize I still can’t move my big toe, but I don’t really care, I’m just excited to get out.

Mike and I head out on the path, and no joke, the first person we see when we make the turn is Mr. Brooks walking with his wife Carol. I hadn’t seen him in years, this man that played such a big role in my life, influencing me tremendously. I quickly told him my story. Chemo, radiation, remission. Two minutes tops.  We visited for just for a few more minutes after that. As we get ready to say our good byes, he turns to me and says, ‘Good job, Timothy,' and my chest fills with pride.

You see, it was Mr. Brooks that had given me my second chance. But he gave it to me in 1981. I just didn’t know it.

Creating a New Life From Tragic Loss

Fall 2010

It’s been twelve year’s since Craig Dabler looked at himself in the mirror and thought, “I can’t live like this anymore”.  He was carrying too many extra pounds on his slight frame and he felt horrible.  He knew he wasn’t healthy, that if he kept this up he wouldn’t be around for very much longer. So he got up, left the house and went for a run.

Craig before beginning
his running career

It’s a common story, shared by many runners – that life changing moment when you decide to do something for yourself, take charge of your health.  But here is the rub, Craig didn’t do it for himself, he did it for his parents.  His brother Matt had tragically taken his own life a few years before, leaving a hole in his family that Craig was searching for a way to fill, but didn’t know how.  The thought of leaving his parents alone was horrible. But those first few steps started a whole new journey, one that eventually would lead to him being awarded the Southern Arizona Roadrunner’s Spirit of Rob Bell Award.

His journey would take him many extraordinary places and introduce him to many wonderful people.  Craig began to compete in local races, a marathon here, a half marathon there, always improving and always amazed at the dedication of the runners around him.  As a noted craftsmen and jeweler, Craig wanted to recognize their accomplishments, so he began to design unique medals for finishers of local races.  He sponsors children’s races for the Southern Arizona Roadrunners and is a proud member of the Slow Old Goats – a racing team that enjoys running more than racing.  He participates for the love of running, for the friendship and the camaraderie.

The award memorializes Rob Bell, an ‘average, middle of the pack’ runner who always cheered on his fellow runners.  But Rob’s sister Wanda Hensley will tell you differently.   “It is awesome that Rob is remembered in this way.  He wouldn’t want the recognition, but his legacy as a champion of the accomplishment is what lives on in Craig through this award,” she said.

Craig running in Sabino Canyon.
Photo credit: Goatographer

That is why the selection of Craig is an apt choice.  

A man that has accomplished much more than just running, he has become a champion of those that inspire him.

Congratulations Craig!

6/1/2019 Edited to add: Tim Bentley wrote this in October 2010 for the SAR newsletter. Craig is among a long-line of amazing and inspiring individuals that have been awarded the Spirit of Rob Bell Award. Check out the inspiring list.

Craig is still a talented jewelry designer, he just gives other people the tools to create their own works of art. Check him out here.

Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?

April 16, 2010

"Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?"

I'm standing in the St. Augustine Catholic High School chapel, in front of the student body and a kid asks me this. It's my first day at a new job and I'm nervous about the way I look and the way I sound. I can see their faces, 120 of them looking at me expectantly.

The school principal introduces me to the students and assembled faculty and asks me to tell them a little bit about myself. My mind races - where to begin, what to say? "Don't mind the hat kids, I had cancer, that's why I look funny." I don't know what to say. The only teenager I'd ever really talked to was my nephew and he just thought I was a funny dancer.

I don't know how they knew I ran. Maybe I talked about it during my interview and it made its way to the track coach, I'm not sure.  But here is this skinny kid with an endearing grin and tousled black hair, standing up in the middle of chapel asking, "Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?"

I pause for what seems like an eternity, thoughts racing through my head. What do I say? Images barrel through my head. My lymphoma, personal struggles, anxiety as I come to grips with my level of running now, all fighting to be the one excuse allowing me to bow out and say, 'no'.

"Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?" 

I stand there, positive they can see the see the emotions ripple across my face. What does that mean - are you a runner? Is it running everyday? Five miles a week? More, less? Does it mean you run races? Does it mean owning a pair of running shoes, or shirts? Yes, some of those. Or none. 

I struggle, trying to come up with a simple answer to such a complicated question. Am I a runner? I latch on to something, something I've come to realize on this journey. Maybe simply put, running is a way of thinking about ourselves. The values that we hold dear and the story we tell ourselves to help us find our way in an uncertain world. To find the people like us.

I look again at this group of kids, this kid named Nico asking me if I'm a runner and I see them struggling with the same questions. What defines them? What values will they find dear and hold close as they navigate this journey to adulthood? I took those same tentative steps when I was a scared, nervous ninth grader. I asked those same questions too, seeking out people who were like me and held the same values. I remember it was then that I became a runner.

"Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?"

Little did I know that by answering this question, running would save my life. Again.

"Yes." I replied. "I'm a runner."

Nico grins, and the kids cheer. Mr. Bentley is a runner.

This is a snippet from Tim's upcoming book about cancer and life, and the tools running gives us to be great at both.

To read the middle part of this journey, follow the link here.

Because Goats Rule. Obviously.

This is our running team in Tucson – The Slow Old Goats, a subsidiary of The Workout Group. Many have tried, but it’s not easy to qualify for the Goat squad. There are three criteria:

• You must be SLOW
• You must be OLD (over 40)
• You must be a GOAT

We will consider 2 out of 3, because we do have some on our team that are obviously not Slow, but they are Old Goats. We even bumped a guy up from the JV team (he’s 39), because he almost forgot his anniversary to go running, thereby proving that he is a Goat and well on his way to being Old.

We’re thinking of branching out too. The women’s team will now be known as The Nanny Goats, while those that do not meet the OLD criteria will be relegated to The Billy Goats (because they’re just kids anyway…).

You must also have a sense of humor, obviously.

Go to any local race and you’re sure to see The Grinders, The Workout Group (WOGGERS), Blue Pants Racing, and a host of other racing teams toeing the line. Why the uniforms, why the team names when we’re not really racing for a team prize? Maybe they’re like me, being on a team or part of a group makes running easier – having teammates that understand the effort it takes to stay motivated and train goes a long way. Maybe being on a team or group is fun because, even deep down, it appeals to our desire to be a part of something bigger, even in this individual of all sports.

The Slow Old Goats (aka The Soggy Woggers) is our team.

Our slogan - We may be OLD, but we’re SLOW…

Remembering Not to Forget

A Remembrance Run was held January 10, 2011 at the weekly Meet Me At Maynards.

Like you, I’m in shock.  The tragic events of Saturday, January 8, 2011 swept over me in wave after wave of anger, disbelief, horror, sadness and grief.  How could something like this happen?

By now, everyone knows that Arizona Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords was shot at a community event this past weekend.  Six people lost their lives.  A young girl, a federal judge, a church volunteer.  Gone. People we knew, friends, or friends of friends had their lives changed forever in just twenty seconds.

It was surreal watching the news that day.  It was national news, covered by every major news network.  These were events unfolding in our backyard, but here it is on MSNBC, FOX and CNN.  We’ve all been to that Safeway, driven through that intersection and complained about the traffic.  We’ve just never seen it from that angle, from a helicopter, on national TV.

Facebook, twitter, email and text were exploding with updates.  I suppose I was like everyone else skipping between channels, checking the internet, following Facebook and other online sites.  I too did the mental check down – “where are my loved ones today?”  I cried when they announced Gabby had died.  Cried again when they announced she wasn’t.  I grew angry at the conflicting reports.  With a journalism background, I was frustrated with the urge of the outlets to to be first with breaking news, even if first meant you were wrong.

Gabby is a friend of mine. I’ve known her from before her political career and am proud to call her a friend.  During this process it has been both staggering and awesome to count the number of people she has touched in our community.  The number of friends she has is inspiring.

Gabe Zimmerman, Gabby’s Director of Community Outreach, lost his life that day as well.  This hit closer to home in my circle of friends.  You see, Gabe was a runner.  He recently completed the Mount Lemmon Half Marathon and his dad was the leader of the Tucson Trail Runners.  He came from a family of runners and was well known in our running family.  We are in shock and utter sadness.

I’m angry.  My sense that day was to do something, to help.  As a board member of the Southern Arizona Roadrunners, we have a simple mission to promote running and healthy lifestyles in our community.  We put on races and sponsor running and walking events. My friend and running mentor, Randy Accetta struck on a simple idea: We can turn our mission to a good use.  We can promote healing in our community and continue to share the positive attributes that make our community great.  We’ve seen it, people coming together to promote healthy lifestyles, to make themselves and their city better.

We will promote that healing process tonight at the weekly Meet Me At Maynard’s.  A Remembrance Run in memory of those that lost their lives, honoring those that are still fighting and celebrating what is good in Tucson. Tonight we will remember so that we never forget.

Running For My Life - Follow The Path

Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is a crappy thing, even crappier when it happens to you.  I’ve been writing for about a month about my experience dealing with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Your feedback has been encouraging, uplifting and has often made me laugh.  But it’s time to get back to writing about running, why it’s cool and the people that make it great here in southern Arizona. Even though I have to do a few things to keep my Lymphoma in remission, I'm moving and looking forward. So this will be my last entry about my ‘race’. You can start at the beginning here .

March 17, 2010

I always looked forward to this time after treatment – 30 days after my last chemo, when the drug would truly be out of my body.  I didn’t know what the results would be, but I’ve been excited to get back to running.  Running to me is about being outside, experiencing the environment with friends as much as enjoying the run.  Spending time on the treadmill 1-2 times a month just hasn’t cut it, plus I’ve been much more tired and drained than I thought.  The stories about people maintaining a normal training regimen during chemotherapy seem overwhelming to me. Lance Armstrong, you are my hero.

Mike Greene, who talked me into running high school cross country 25 years ago, and I have kept in touch every few months for the past few years.  We talk about running together but never have since high school.  Mike has a busy family and injured his foot a few years ago.  I called him after my good news and suggested we go for a run, ‘for real’ this time.  I tell him I need to jog-walk for a while, but would be happy to at least start with him.  He is in the same position as me, excited to get back into running but has been looking for a slow training partner, so we fit perfectly.

March 24, 2010

I lace up my running shoes in anticipation of getting back to what I love and take note that I still can’t move my left big toe. I smile, remembering the odyssey this numb toe started me on, the questions it made me ask.  I was concerned then, but today I don’t worry so much about it, because my future has changed.  I don’t know what the it will bring, but if I can get through this crap, I can do just about anything. I’ve met some amazing people during this journey and I’ve learned from them that your life is now defined by a ‘new-normal’, the state that your life is forever in post treatment.

From the Tucson Racquet Club, we decide to follow the Rillito River Path which allows us to set an easy pace on a flat path.  A popular and busy thoroughfare for runners, bikers and walkers, the path is a perfect place for us to start our journey.  While warming up and stretching, we laugh about our decision to join the cross country team in the fall of 1981, oh so many years ago.

I’m excited to get started and we start our walk/jog on the path, with good conversation, acknowledging those coming the other way.  A pleasant looking man and his wife are walking toward us, and as we say hello, I realize that it is John Brooks, our cross country coach at Sabino High School with his wife Carol.  What sort of universal cosmic karma has placed the three of us together at this point nearly 30 years later?  John Brooks, or Mr. Brooks as he is forever known, is the sort of teacher and mentor that you remember for the rest of your life.  Everybody has those 1 – 2 teachers in their lives.  He is mine.

We exchange pleasantries, talking about running and the beautiful weather.  I tell him in a few short minutes about my recent battle and he encourages me to keep up the good fight.  A two-minute conversation at best, with the man that has influenced my life immensely, and we’re off to run and walk.

Mike and I exchange emails a few days later, amazed at the wonderful coincidence of this meeting. But as I reflect on this, I realize there are powerful forces at work in the universe. While Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma may have put me on a year-long journey, I realize I have really completed a 30-year journey.  That moment of panic from a scared and nervous 14-year-old, deciding to join the high school cross country team, has given me the tools to complete the most important race of my life as a 43-year-old man.

That decision – to become a runner – has come to define me.  Being a runner provided me with the skills, fortitude and competitiveness to win this race against Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and chemotherapy.  The fact that I started both of my running careers, in 1981 and 2010, with the same people has to mean something, right?  Mike Greene and Mr. Brooks set me on this path. I was lucky enough to begin one journey with a good friend and mentor, but a second time?  Running with the life-long friend that cajoled me into going out for the team in the first place, and then ‘randomly’ meeting the man that started me on the path nearly 30 years ago? It’s not random and I realize there is a plan, a path to follow.

I am forever changed, but I will always be a runner.

Tim Bentley, Mr. Brooks, Dr. Toby Freebourn, Michael Greene, and Ross Martin.
12-2 in 1984 and still in love with running in 2011.

Running For My Life - The Verdict

Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is a crappy thing, even crappier when it happens to you.  I’d been writing for months about running, why it’s cool and the people that make it great here in southern Arizona.  That is until my life took a hard left turn with a diagnosis of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in 2009. I've appreciated your encouragement of my sometimes hard, sometimes funny journey, and how I used running and the lessons it taught me to make sense of it all. You can start at the beginning here.

February 10

My last treatment day has arrived and as usual I’m in early for blood work – but there is an uneasy feeling in the air today.  The doctor is unusually late and I’m nervous about missing my start time in the chair.  Again, my blood levels are perilously close to not allowing me to move on to chemo, but the combination of several factors puts me just over the limit.

I’ve been envisioning this day for months.  In fact, it has been the benchmark of my treatment – ‘If I can just get to treatment six, everything will be okay,’ I tell myself. I want this day to be great, to be excited about the last ‘lap’ of my ‘race’ against chemo.  However, there is a new nurse on the floor, someone I’ve not seen before and she is in TRAINING.  No offense but I don’t want to be a practice patient for anyone, especially at the end of all this crap.  She has a hard time finding a vein and can’t get the blood to draw back into the needle like it’s supposed to. She tries twice before I demand an experienced nurse to find the vein. I’m upset and angry because this is supposed to be a good day. But unfortunately the tone has been set for the rest of the day…

Ongoing

I’m not sure what I expected on this last treatment.  I feel so far away from the optimistic patient from October.  I’m angry, pissed and yet excited to be here.  I didn’t really believe that just because I had my last treatment that things would miraculously improve.  However, I did delude myself into thinking that once my 6th treatment was done, things would take a turn for the better. But I’m exhausted, run down and generally in poor spirits the entire three weeks after treatment.  My hair is still gone, eyebrows and eyelashes non-existent and a sunken face in the mirror to remind me I’m a chemo patient. I try not to go anywhere I don’t need to. I realize that the true ‘red letter’ day would be March 4, the day after a non-existent 7th treatment.  But chemo isn't done with me, wants to show that it will not leave me as easily as I'd hoped.

Two weeks after treatment I suffer through some of the worst side effects I’ve ever experienced, wishing that someone would, please, please, put me out of my misery.  I’m in my last lap against chemo and he is as tough as I was back in the day.  I suffer through two rounds of the horrible cramping I’ve had before, with debilitating cramps every 90 seconds and fitful sleeping in 10-20 minute increments.  I’m not sure, but I may be the only man that knows what it’s like to go through child birth.  I feel like I’ve done 200 sit-ups an hour for three days in a row.

Early March

Uncle Timmy with Nephew Patrick Bentley

My 8-year-old nephew is scheduled to visit Tucson during spring break for 10 days.  I know I look different and I’m worried that he will feel awkward around me because of the way I look.  I call him and say “I’ve been sick and the medicine I had to take made my hair fall out.  I’m not contagious, and I’m excited to see
you, but just know that I look different.”  He makes my day by saying, “Uncle Timmy, I love you no matter what!”  He proceeds to wear a hat just like mine his entire visit, looking much cooler than me, just a burst of joy during this horrible time.

A few days after my nephew arrives I stagger into the Arizona Cancer Center hoping for any good news at this point. The doctor obliges and tells me that my blood levels are ‘awesome’, hemoglobin and white blood cells are high, and everything else is normal. They cannot feel the lymph node at all and they are confident that any residual NHL in my marrow is gone (it started at 10%).  I’m worried about the cramping, and while they think the worst is over, they prescribe some meds just in case. I happily feel like crap with this good news.

March 10

It’s been a month since my last treatment and I’m in for a CT Scan to get a look at the lymph node in my abdomen.  When I arrive there is a young girl probably 14 – 15 in the lobby.  She has no hair and obviously had some sort of brain surgery based on a large scar across the side of her head.  She has just thrown-up as I walk in and is crying, begging to go to her appointment. Her young mother tries to calm her down with no success. But the staff tells her that it will be a while for the machine to open.  My journey is nothing compared to hers and I gladly offer my slot and she is able to get in right away.

March 15

I’m nervous today because I will learn the results of the CAT Scan – plus, there will be another bone marrow test.  However, I’m excited to be here because I’ve been feeling good, especially now that I’m out of the Chemo phase.  My hair is growing back, I need to shave almost every day and my appetite has been good.

I don’t let the medical staff do any tests until the results of my CT Scan are revealed. I’m told the lymph node has shrunk nearly 90%, and along with my blood work, I should be 'very, very, very, very happy' (I know, I counted the number of ‘verys’).  There is not a typical marker for NHL, but all of my levels indicate that my bone marrow is producing the right kind of cells for my body.  My hemoglobin level is at 14.1 (men should be 14 - 16).  You'll remember in September 2009 they were in the 8.0 range because I was bleeding internally.  My lymph node is 2.8 cm (typically about 1 cm), but mine should continue to shrink with the Bexxar (radiation) treatment in two weeks.

I’m optimistic and apprehensive about the results, but am anxious to get back into running and being fit.  Oddly, I’ve put on weight during this process, and while not a bad thing, it is not ‘good’ weight.  I wonder if I had the level of fitness I had before – with Stage 4 Lymphoma rampant in my body – how will I feel now?

I’m asked if I’m excited by the news.  I don’t know – the prognosis is now much better than before, but it hasn't sunk in yet, but the treatment really did seem to work.  I also know the prayers, energy and well wishes of my family, friends and supporters played a part too.  The way I look at it, I'm half way through, but this first half was probably 95% of the battle.

March 17, 2010

Almost a year from my diagnosis and I receive a call from the Arizona Cancer Center.  Test results show no involvement in the bone marrow – a big fat 0%!  This is great news, although I’m apprehensive as to what it actually means.  I ask with all the recent test results, when might we be able to talk about remission?  I’m thinking it may be three months, I’m not really sure.  “You can say it right now” they say.  “Really?” I ask. “Yeah, go ahead,” they say.  I say it out loud, “I’m in remission…I’m in remission, baby!”  I’m through the roof, relieved, excited, and in shock, crying.  But for the first time in a long time when I cry, I cry in overwhelming relief.

I think, chemo, I kicked your ass.

But I wonder – can I run again?

The last entry is here.