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After winning Acorda Therapeutics’ national contest in search of people to tell stories of their lives with MS, a series of five podcasts featuring Dan and Jennifer are live on the “I Walk Because” Web site today: iwalkbecause.org/podcasts.

Dan and Jennifer will be checking in later with more details, but please watch these amazing videos and pass them along to your friends!

I told Jennifer I’d be happy if I finished the 8K at Flint’s Crim Festival of Races in under 50 minutes.

That was going to average out to a 10-minute-per-mile pace. This was slower than my normal pace, but I never had run a race of this distance before. Plus, I had heard horror stories about the “Bradley hills” along this route that have challenged even the most elite of runners – of which I am not.

So, yeah, I was going to be happy if I finished the 5-mile route in 50 minutes.

As I made my way up to the starting line, I went over to get some last-minute encouragement from Jennifer.

Jennifer and her dad, Vic, had made it up to the finish line at about the 48-minute mark to cheer me through the chute (I always shut my iPod off when the finish line is in sight so I can hear her encouraging voice). Minutes passed by and they hadn’t seen me finish the race. Jennifer was getting worried because she’s from Flint and she knows what the Bradley hills are like.

At the 60-minute mark they started to talk about how they were going to have to be very supportive because I was going to be disappointed that I didn’t finish as well as I had hoped.

About this time, they saw me coming … up the sidewalk with my hands full of the bottles of water I got at the finish line some 14 minutes earlier. I had made it to the finish line before they did.

I finished the race in 43 minutes, 47 seconds – an average per-mile pace of 8 minutes, 49 seconds. Turns out this time placed me 9^th out of 31 runners in my age group and 166^th out of more than 750 runners in the 8K race.

And I’ve had MS for nearly a decade.

Jennifer, who like me still is beaming with pride with how well I did, asked me what I remember most about my first 8K. It wasn’t the Bradley hills, which I told her were, “A piece of cake.” Instead, I never will forget getting choked up when I turned the corner onto the bricks of the downtown Flint street and saw the blue banner stretching over the finish line: I was going to finish this race and was going to finish it in a time faster than I ever dreamed possible.

Us before the Crim 8K

As I moved forward with everything I had left in my body, I remembered the incident earlier this year that had me running scared. How easy it would have been to give up on running (and coincidentally myself), which in turn would have given MS an undeserved victory.

With my faith, family, friends and die-hard determination, I stuck with it and kept fighting. And today, MS, victory is mine.

With all the hype surrounding Brett Favre’s triumphant re-return to the NFL today, the timing seemed right to share this column I wrote for the MS Connection newsletter in 2005. The numbers may be a little dated, but the motivating message from then still pushes me today. I hope it works for you too.

I watched with interest as SportsCenter devoted half of its 90-minute broadcast to celebrating Green Bay quarterback Brett Favre’s record-setting 200th consecutive season start.

My favorite ESPN show highlighted the future Hall of Famer’s admirable perseverance over the past 13 NFL seasons. It focused most notably on his playing magnificently while injured, coping with his father’s death, and dealing with his wife’s breast cancer diagnosis.

Even retired baseball great Cal Ripken Jr., who surpassed Lou Gehrig’s consecutive game streak of 2,130 games, was interviewed and congratulated Favre.

I am humbly impressed with the record-setting accomplishments of these, dare I say, “sports gods.” But in many ways, Brett and Cal have nothing on me or anybody else living with MS.

I compete with this disease every day. In fact, May 1, 2005, marks my consecutive day streak at 1,901 days.* This is by no means a record, but with each day, I set a new personal best. 

When I wake up each morning, I don’t even check the roster. I already know I’m in the starting lineup whether or not I feel like competing. Favre always could’ve called in sick.

I have only one opponent, but I can only hypothetically prepare for it, never knowing which team it’s going to bring in for me to face from one day to the next. Favre always can watch tapes to prepare for his next opponents, for the most part, the same opponents he faces several times each season.

But thankfully, just like Favre has Ahman Green, Javon Walker, and Na’il Diggs, I have a pretty strong team of family, friends, and health care officials. They help me both offensively and defensively thwart my competition.

Another similarity between our respective contests is that for as much as our battles are physical in nature, there are even greater demands for mental toughness.

Bret Favre can be seen facemask-to-facemask talking trash to challenge an opposing lineman. And many days I can be found “throwing down” one-on-one with MS. Oh yeah, I trash talk. I trash talk a lot.

I suppose that’s probably my best technique to prevent the disease from throwing me off my game. I firmly believe that while there are many things I can’t control about the effects of MS, my spirit is one thing it can’t touch.

It’s easy to be optimistic when everything is going well. But Favre has earned the greatest amount of respect and admiration as a true champion when he’s risen above adversity, often playing the best games of his life.

My hope is that if I ever face comparable adversity in my competition with MS, my best games also are yet to come.

* When I run the 8K at the Crim Festival of Races on Aug. 24, 2009, my consecutive day streak for dealing with MS will stand at 3,474 days.

Six days ’til the Crim 8K. Here’s the fourth installment of my essay:

Tonight I’ll be on that hill `cause I can’t stop

I’ll be on that hill with everything I got

Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost

I’ll be there on time and I’ll pay the cost

From “Darkness on the Edge of Town” by Bruce Springsteen

This line from what I consider to be among Springsteen’s best has become a mantra of sorts in my life and running with MS. It hits my “Running” playlist as I finish stretching and transition from warming up to running my regular route.

I finish stretching, make sure the iPod is turned up all the way, and reset my Garmin so I can monitor my progress and pace during and after my run. Before I push “Start” on the GPS-enabled sports watch, I always pause to remind myself that after I begin, I’ll be doing nothing but running hard for approximately the next 33 minutes. That is, unless I can cover the remaining 4.1 miles in less time today.

“Bring it,” I say as I simultaneously push “Start” and skip-step into running my route. And even though I move forward with a strong and confident stride, I still hear MS say that he’s already brought it.

“Yeah,” MS says, “so you think you’re so tough with your $125 running shoes and superstar sports watch and wannabe runner apparel that wicks the moisture away from your body. Whatever, Dan. You go ahead and push forward with your paltry route, and, heck, finish it in record time for all I care. When your precious little run is over, I’ll still be here. Like you said before, Dan, I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

So I pick up my pace to spite MS. But I quickly remind myself that I’m not going to let him get into my head. If I push myself too hard, I’ll never have the energy to finish. Then, MS will be able to claim victory. “Not today,” I say, as I reign in my anger and stride back down to the pace of the song at hand.    

I’m like every other person in the world who runs in that we all get tired and worn out the longer and harder we push ourselves. But unlike every other person in the world who runs, I’m pushing the limits of both myself an MS. I truly think I have it in me to someday run a marathon, but I don’t think he’ll let me. I imagine I could do the 26-mile challenge, but I’d have to run at a pace slower than I would like so that I could accommodate MS. He’s such a pansy and starts to freak out anytime I try to pick up my pace or throw an extra mile onto my regular run.

When MS has had enough with my running antics for the day, my left foot starts to drag a little and has a tendency to clip even the slightest protrusion along the road or trail. My left leg is a little weaker than my right, so MS likes to pick on that one first. This is why I wear out the sole in the toe of my left shoe so quickly, why my wife, Jennifer, lovingly reminds me, “Pick up your feet,” before I go for run, and why I stick to running on flat paved surfaces.

My MS-badgered left foot also is the reason why I’ve fallen several times running my regular route and why I fell facedown onto the brick streets of downtown Flint three years ago in the closing 50 yards of the Crim Festival of Races 5K.

It’s like MS is trying to teach me a lesson each time I fall, and each time I always confess to MS that he taught me well. Lesson learned. I need to maintain my focus and push myself even harder next time.

To hell with MS, I’m testing how far I will let myself be pushed.  

The 8K at the Crim is 12 days away, and here’s the third installment of my essay:

“And it’s about now that I always think to myself that there probably are healthy, able-bodied people out there who would kill themselves if they felt as good as I do …”           

As I get close to leaving the calmness that is Concourse Drive, I sneak an anxious peek at what kind of traffic I’ll have to contend with on the temperamental Crawford Road. Some days there is no traffic at all and I can run right on its peaceful highway pavement, like it’s my quiet Concourse Drive continued.

Other days the onslaught of Central Michigan University students heading into campus for class and commercial asphalt trucks hauling heavy loads back to town force me to the outermost edge of the rocky shoulder. As I turn out of Concourse Drive today I stick to the Crawford Road shoulder, bracing myself for the first of two trucks charging toward me in the northbound lane. They’re just so intimidating. Not even Springsteen playing as loud as the iPod will let him can muffle the thunder of the trucks that are only a matter of 5 feet away as they blow past me at some 55 miles per hour.

I remind myself to keep my eyes on the gravel so I don’t trip over some randomly scattered stone and trip into the truck’s charted path. A fraction of a second after the first truck passes I strengthen my stride to counteract the gust that follows in its windy wake. The encounter with the second truck isn’t as brutal because it pulls over into southbound lane and passes by me with about 9 feet of separation. I quietly thank God that I’m only on this short stretch of Crawford Road twice each run. I eventually will brave it again toward the end of my route as I make my way back home.

MS doesn’t say much as I’m warming up on Crawford Road. Maybe he does, but at this point in my run I usually am too busy thinking about the oncoming traffic and the pride that I feel because I’m actually out running again. My mind pauses to fully appreciate the reality that for one more day, my body has maintained its ability not only to walk but to run, and run well.

MS is such an unpredictable disease, and I am terrified of the unlimited potential it has to relentlessly steal from me whatever physical and mental ability it desires anytime it wants to.

I, like the majority of people who have MS, am forced to live with unusually high levels of fatigue throughout certain periods of the day that make even the simplest of tasks nearly impossible to complete. It’s hard to describe what the fatigue feels like other than saying to imagine how it would feel to shovel three inches of snow to clear off the two front steps immediately after shoveling through three feet of snow to clear off the entire Wal-Mart parking lot. The front steps should be so easy to take care of but you truly can’t salvage an ounce of energy from your depleted body.

In addition to the fatigue, constant numbness in my hands—the kind of numbness like when your hands fall asleep—limit my dexterity and make it difficult to do everyday tasks such as typing a quick e-mail, buttoning the top button of my dress shirt, and double-knotting my running shoes. It’s almost as though I’m wearing thick cotton gloves every time I try doing something that involves using my hands. I also have perpetual numbness in my feet and legs, but we can talk about that later when my left foot starts to drag the farther I am into my route.

I turn off of Crawford Road onto the Wellness Central trail along Denison Drive. This marks my half-mile warm-up and it gives me a chance to stop and stretch my muscles one more time before my timed training run begins.

And it’s about now that I always think to myself that there probably are healthy, able-bodied people out there who would kill themselves if they felt as good as I do, while there are others out there living with more progressive forms of MS who would kill others to feel as bad as I do. These are among the groups of people who push me to run my regular route at least three times each week.

Seven years ago, Dr. Pasupuleti, my neurologist at the time, reluctantly gave me a prescription for a wheelchair. “When I give my patients this, they almost never walk again,” he told my mom and me.

“But doctor,” I said, “I plan on walking for a long time. Don’t worry. It’s just that right now, I’m so tired. And I’m especially tired of falling down. And lately I’ve been missing out on so much. You understand that right?” I was naively asking a middle-aged doctor to sympathize for the lost social life of a 27-year-old woman.

“Besides, a wheelchair is just another way to get around. It’s not like I’m planning to use it every day. It’ll only be for navigating long distances, like parking lots at concerts or ball games, maybe lengthy shopping trips even, but it’s only for convenience. You know, conserve my energy.”

He listened quite patiently but he still had his doubts. I just couldn’t understand why he was so opposed to me owning my own wheelchair. After all, didn’t he want me to be comfortable? Or at least, safe?

In these seven years since that conversation, I have come to understand his reluctance. He was opposed because he knew my short-term reasons were overlooking the long-term realities of life in a wheelchair.

When I began using my chair, I started to believe that I had outsmarted and proven him wrong. After all, I was walking 80 percent of the time and wheeling the other 20 percent. Not a bad arrangement, I thought.

But over time the balance subtly shifted. I missed the slow development of my reliance on the wheelchair because I was so impressed by how much I could accomplish when using it.

“Look at me go,” I remember thinking. “This disease is no match for me.”

Ahh. Silly, silly me! Sadly, I realize now that unused muscles atrophy.

Despite regular and intense physical therapy to strengthen my weakened muscles, I remained comfortable and safe from falls as I depended more and more on my chair. And my weakened, unused muscles led to pain ­- and nobody likes pain, especially me - so my chair kept the pain at bay. It really is a vicious cycle!

Sometimes I think the worst thing about my multiple sclerosis is that the disease has left me completely dependent on a wheelchair. But in reality the absolute worst part of my MS is the almost constant guilt I live with. I often feel as though I gave up. Really. Especially during my irrational, emotional moments (Be honest: We ALL have them, MS or not).

Unfortunately, I carry this guilt, frustration and sadness with me. Yes, I try to stuff it down. Silence it. But it’s almost always there.

But in a logical frame of mind, I know that it was this chronic disease that took away my ability to walk. It’s just so easy to feel guilty, or sorry for myself, and I understand now why Dr. Pasupuleti was so opposed to writing that prescription.

OK. I’ve learned my lesson. Joke’s over. I think I’ll start walking again. Can I have my do-over now? Unfortunately life doesn’t work like that.

Fellow MS blogger Patrick Leer recently wrote about Elizabeth Kubler Ross’ book On Death and Dying and her idea of the five stages of death, which are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. His blog made me realize I’m far too accepting of the death of my walking.

Starting today I’m making a conscious choice to reclaim the possibility of walking. I know it is going to be difficult and frustrating. But while it may not happen, I’m realizing that I’ll die before I accept that I will never walk again!

’Cause in the darkness I hear somebody call my name

And when you realize how they tricked you this time

And it’s all lies but I’m strung out on the wire

In these streets of fire

From “Streets of Fire” by Bruce Springsteen

I glance down at my feet and I see them striding in time with this opening song of my iPod’s “Running” playlist. It’s an aggressive stride for my regular half-mile warm-up, but this is how I’m feeling today. I’m in a bad mood. Although I guess it doesn’t really matter how I’m feeling any day.

Warming up and running using the same carefully crafted Springsteen-powered playlist—I turn to his music daily for audiological shots of emotional energy—for more than two years I just know that, regardless of what mood I’m carrying with me, by the time Streets of Fire reaches these lines, give or take 10 steps I’m striding over the makeshift asphalt patch near the final curve going out of our quiet neighborhood. It’s an oblong asphalt patch about the size of an overgrown zucchini. I only notice it because with these lines of the song, I always glance down at my feet.

Perhaps it’s just out of habit that I glance down at this point and see where my feet are in location to the oblong asphalt patch. It certainly isn’t because I am physically warming up on what anyone could honestly consider streets of fire. I start out jogging down our sleepy little Southgate Subdivision’s Concourse Drive, which essentially is a big circle around the neighborhood with no through traffic.

Indeed this glance at my feet is habitual because it’s always at this point of the song and at this point in the road that the novelty of “going out for a run” wears off and the reality of what this actually means settles in. And when this happens I no longer feel like I’m running alone. MS is always with me.

“Those feet feel unusually heavy today, don’t they, Dan? I made them pretty numb, huh? You’re right. It’s not just your feet, Dummy, it’s both of your flippin’ legs. You’re barely a minute into what’s going to be nearly a 35-minute run. That’s about how long it takes to drive to Midland, isn’t it? You sure you got it today? You so could just turn around and go back home and rest. Tomorrow, Dan, you can be a hero and run five miles instead of your regular four. Because tomorrow you could feel so much better. What do you say, hero? Let’s call it a day.”

That’s the MS talking, every single time I go out for a run.

I run to prove to myself and to MS that after all these years, he still doesn’t have control over me. And I imagine that it always takes MS until this point of my route to realize that I was serious when I said I was going to go for a run. He always must think I’m just bluffing with that whole stretching thing and double-knotting my Reebok running shoes, putting the Garmin GPS-enabled sports watch on my wrist, strapping the iPod headphones over my head and onto my ears, and then stepping out the door and pressing “Start” on the Garmin and “Play” on the iPod.

Seems like a lot to do for somebody who’s just bluffing.

And in less than two-tenths of a mile, right about at the overgrown zucchini-like patch, MS catches on and every single time starts in with, “Those feet feel unusually heavy today . . .” Striding over the patch and rounding the Concourse Drive curve to leave Southgate, I refute his questioning with, “Today, I can be a champion and run my regular 4.6, including a half-mile warm-up. Because tomorrow, much to your doing, I could feel so much worse.”

MS makes an almost convincing argument for me to quit, but I never have turned around and gone home without first completing my regular route.

As I’m down to less than three weeks before my first 8K race (that’s about five miles to you and me!) at the Crim Festival of Races in Flint, I occasionally ask myself, “And you’re running an 8K why? After all, you do have MS, remember?” I then quickly remind myself, “That’s exactly why I’m doing it. Because I have MS.”

And the best way I can describe what this means to me is through the essay I wrote last fall for my first gradate class at CMU. While the distances I regularly run have increased since then, the crux of what keeps me going and the thoughts in my head are unchanged. I hope that over the next few weeks as I finish training for the Crim Festival of Races, you enjoy some excerpts from my essay, “Running with MS.”

I’ve been wondering about ways I could bring readers along with me on my regular running route, but to be honest this has been a challenge because I need to run my route alone. I have so much company already and I don’t think I can fit anyone else into my mind for the 4.6 miles—including a half-mile warm-up—that I run at least three times each week. And it’s always the same route, guided by the same songs, usually at the same time of day. Is this too much of the same? Maybe. Is this too monotonous? Perhaps for you I fear, for me not at all.

It seems that over the past five years I’ve kept adding to the distance, frequency, and intensity in which I run because I have so many thoughts to entertain, and if I don’t take care of them on my regular route they’ll linger until I run again. These thoughts and the reason I started running in the first place all are the fault of multiple sclerosis (MS), the chronic disease of the central nervous system that I was formally diagnosed with having in February 2000. I really don’t like having MS around. He’s a constant unwelcomed guest in my life, but I have no choice. After all these years, he has settled in and made his voice quite comfortable in my mind. MS is comfortable. I am not. So I run at least three times each week to get away and exorcise his voice. Some 1,400 miles later MS still is with me—both physically and mentally—and he isn’t leaving anytime soon.

He has made me so tired of running. …