The Burden of Believing

Published: April 5, 2013 ~ 0

By Laura Edwards

I don’t believe in doing things halfway – least of all when it comes to fighting Batten disease. I get that from my mom.

I used to run 30 miles a week. I ran a minimum of six days out of every week. When races rolled around, my body ached. I averaged a 9:00 mile or slower for long races, but I really had to dig deep for that. I knew I could run faster, but my body wouldn’t respond.

Last fall, I decided to cut back on my mileage. I went to 20 miles a week. A couple of days each week, I traded my runs for walks or weights. I dropped the 10-mile runs. I decided to trust my body. I hoped that if I could keep up a training run for seven or eight miles, I could bring it on race day for 10 or 13.1.

Some people might have said I was “slacking off,” but you know what? My body stopped aching – and I got FASTER. I set a new personal record for 13.1 miles at the Thunder Road Marathon in November. In February, I set a personal record for 10 miles at the Charlotte 10 Miler. In March, I set another record for 3.1 miles at the Run the Creek 5K. My training runs got faster, too. I used to average 10:00 miles for those. Earlier this week, I ran a mile in 5:45. And I didn’t even do that on fresh legs – I’d already run five miles.

The point is that the fight against Batten disease deserves our best, but sometimes, “giving our best” means taking care of ourselves and reserving our energy so that we’ll be fresh when we have to climb the toughest hills. For a long time, I’ve said that this is a journey – not a sprint. I know that there’s only so much we can do with the cards we were dealt. I know that our situation sucks and that nothing that happens in any other facet of my life – regardless of how wonderful it may be – will REPLACE what we have lost and will lose. But I’m not any good to anyone when I’m in my darkest place. I’m not useful when I’m fighting writer’s block at 2 a.m. or yelling at my laptop because the Taylor’s Tale website has a glitch due to some technical issue out of my control. I’m not good to anyone when I’m losing my mind over someone else’s bonehead moves or heartless actions or words. When I find myself in my darkest place, it’s time to hit pause. Sometimes I remember to press the button; other times, I forget. I forgot more often than not over the past six-plus years, and I can’t get that time back. But my memory is improving, and my life – and my net impact on this fight – will get better as a result.

Laura, Mom and Taylor

I LOVE my sister more than anything, and I HATE Batten disease more than anything. I want to eradicate Batten disease, but if Taylor could tell us what she wants and feels, I think she would tell us that she doesn’t want us to eradicate our friendships, marriages, careers and lifelong dreams in the process. She would tell us that we can fight Batten disease and have those things, too. She would tell us that she wants us to be happy. Not “happy” like we were before Batten disease entered our lives or as if we’ve moved on – but “happy” as in we’re going to recognize the things we still have that are good and keep it from robbing us of everything we’ve ever known.

I believe that we CAN win this battle. I just don’t want us to lose everything else that makes us who we are along the way. Razing all the cities in your own kingdom is no way to win a war. If you kill all the bad guys but have to go home to smoldering ruins, what’s the point?

I can’t let Batten disease steal my sister AND everyone who loves her.

Endurance

Published: March 25, 2013 ~ 5

By Laura Edwards

In the days, weeks and months that first followed my little sister’s infantile Batten disease diagnosis, we operated on overdrive. Our determination to win for Taylor fueled our fight. When we looked at her – the golden-haired angel who lost her way in the dark and struggled in math but seemed perfect in every other way – we clawed for a branch or a rock to grasp as our world fell away beneath us and everything we’d ever known – everything we’d ever taken for granted – slipped away.

We were angry; scared; defiant; we knew the facts and the statistics…and still, we dared Batten disease to take Taylor away from us. We gave new meaning to the word “believe.” We rallied friends and family to believe with us. We raised more money than we ever thought possible. We shared Taylor’s story till it reached all the developed continents of the world. We learned more about fatal diseases than we ever wanted to know.

But a second wave always follows the first. The best sprinters in the world can only sprint for so long. And that second wave brought real fear; the kind that isn’t fueled by adrenaline; the kind that comes from knowledge; the kind that doesn’t go away overnight.

This is a journey – not a sprint.

Taylor's first 5K

Batten disease will soon steal Taylor’s ability to walk. But my little sister used to run.

Taylor ran her first race on a chilly December morning in 2008, just 11 months after she endured invasive, experimental brain surgery in a hospital thousands of miles from home. I played cheerleader; an oft-injured soccer player, I didn’t do races.

After watching my little sister run across that finish line, I signed up for my first race.

One year later, I returned to the site of that shared moment to run my first half marathon in her honor.

Tar Heel 10 Miler

Since then, I’ve traded my soccer cleats for running shoes and hit the road for good. Last year, I ran over 1,000 miles – and I took every step for my sister. The way I see it, running is one of the many gifts Taylor gave to me. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I tried private therapy, but I didn’t like having to talk about Batten disease at predetermined times. Instead, I spend time with the people I love, I blog, and I run.

So I face this thing called Batten disease each day. It’s a test of endurance. I’ve learned to face it in chunks. I don’t think about a long race in terms of the total number of miles. I think about running a great two miles – or whatever distance lies between each aid station. In the same way, I try to focus on having good days. When I tried to fix everything about Batten disease, I felt like I couldn’t win – for Taylor or for the larger mission of Taylor’s Tale, the non-profit organization we founded in her name. But I figure that if I face “it” in small pieces, I can string together some good days. I can focus on recognizing miracles – both large and small.

It might just be that a “small” miracle is all we need.

I still believe.

Mind over Body

Published: February 23, 2013 ~ 0

By Laura Edwards

When my alarm went off at 6:15 this morning, the outdoor temp hovered in the mid-30s, and a steady, cold rain sounded like a waterfall in my backyard. Of the 619 runners registered for the Charlotte 10 Miler and 4 Mile Run, 164 stayed home.

But I pulled on my wicking socks, UnderArmour tights, three layers of tech t-shirts – purple on top for Taylor – water-repellent jacket and wicking baseball cap.

I ate a Honey Stinger waffle and Gala apple and drank a glass of water.

I laced up my Brooks Glycerin 9s – shoes that served me well for 500+ miles in 2012 but that are balder than a tire on a junkyard car.

I posed for the requisite pre-race, pre-soaking photo.

I climbed in the car with my husband, drove three miles to the starting line and shivered in the rain for 20 minutes until the horn for the 10-mile race sounded. When it did, I discovered that in an effort to steal a few dry square inches beneath the starter’s tent, I’d found a puddle at least a couple of inches deep. Needless to say, my nice, warm, cushioned socks were soaked through.

I didn’t have time to worry about it, though – I had a race to run! I’m a bit of a perfectionist, so whenever I run a race, I want to set a new personal record (PR). My PR for any 10-miler is 1:25:27; my PR for the Charlotte 10 Miler, in only its second year of existence, is 1:26:10.

I’m a pretty consistent runner, which means that if I have any notion of setting a PR, I have no margin for error. I stuffed my iPhone in its double-Ziploc-bag fortress, stuffed that into my jacket pocket, pulled on my gloves, kicked up my water-logged, no-tread shoes and kicked it into high gear.

Two miles in, I entered one of south Charlotte’s greenways and met up with a friend who’d offered to run with me throughout a good portion of the race. Andrew competes in ultramarathons, so my rainy 10-mile race probably felt like a walk in the water park to him.

I usually run with an app that keeps me informed re: my distance and average pace, but today, I traded in my headphones for my running buddy. Andrew paced me, watched out for the wannabe lake-puddles on the greenway’s boardwalks and helped me stay motivated. He talked me through the killer hill on mile eight. I wanted to walk that hill last year, but I jogged it; this year, I RAN it. A few times, he coached me on when to pass people. In the last mile, he scoped out a runner who most likely fell into my age group; I smoked her.

Somewhere on the course, Andrew told me that running’s mostly a mind game.

I believe that.

When I heard that horn sound at the start line and saw the Boston Marathon jacket on the runner next to me – a runner probably in the 30-34 females group just like me – I thought about how I ran my first organized race of ANY distance barely five years ago, and how soccer chewed up my joints and spit them out, and how those joints probably belong in a trash can, not on a race course. I thought about the rain and the bald tires on my feet. And I figured I wouldn’t be setting a new PR. Not today.

But I did.

And out of the 179 runners – male or female – who actually braved the rain to run the 10-miler, I finished 27th.

I don’t know why my sister has to have Batten disease. I wish she could will her broken body to fight off the monster the way I can will my broken body to run long races, rain or shine.

But I do know this: we know how to dance in the rain. And after a good rain, the sun always comes out to play. There’s a monster called Batten disease in our midst, but good things are coming just the same. I can feel it.

I believe.

Water-Logged

Published: February 22, 2013 ~ 2

By Laura Edwards

At 7:30 tomorrow morning, my hometown should be drenched in a cold, steady rain. I’ll be on the south side of town with 619 other soaked nuts, running the Charlotte 10 Miler in Taylor’s honor for the second straight year.

Last year, we got a blue sky and just enough of a winter chill to cut through my long-sleeved tech shirt – good for some lung burn on the nasty hill at mile eight, but not too much to bear.

This year, I might have lakes in my shoes by mile two. So while the kicks I’ll call into service for this race cost more than some of my designer heels when I bought them, they’ve pounded more than 500 miles of asphalt roads, concrete sidewalks and pit gravel tracks; I’ll leave the shiny, new, broken-in-just-enough pair in my closet at home. I haven’t decided if I’ll expose my iPhone – keeper of my special music playlist – to the elements. And if that isn’t enough to throw me out of whack, I had a third surgery on my nose – I obliterated it playing soccer almost three years ago – last month and had to put a short hold on my training.

Needless to say, I don’t know if I’ll set a new PR tomorrow.

But this running thing, I’ve learned, is all about making adjustments; it’s about knowing how to perform even when the elements you can’t control – from the weather to your own body – deal you a wild card. A soccer player turned distance runner who didn’t enter a race till I turned 25, I made a living on the soccer field by being faster than everyone else. I set up shop on the sideline and went up and down, down and up, for 90 minutes, every game. While I miss soccer – I reached my limit for surgeries induced by the sport – I love how the sport of running can be a journey. I can stick my ear buds in my ears, lace up my shoes, run down my driveway with my house at my back and just wait for the path – and the world – to come to me.

Life is a little like that, too – and in a weird, roundabout way, so is our fight against Batten disease. I had no inkling of Batten disease until the moment my mom called me in tears on the morning of July 24, 2006 – the day of Taylor’s diagnosis. I was 24 years old that day; I was one month into my marriage and eight months into a new job; I’d recently bought a house; I was writing a novel. I had a very specific plan for my life, and I didn’t think anyone – or anything – could get in my way. But Batten disease forced me to make tough choices. It forced me to take a few detours. Batten disease was bigger – and more awful – than anything I’d ever faced.

We’ve all taken more than a few hits since that day in 2006, but we’ve won some big races, too. And the best part is, we’re still running – most of all Taylor. My favorite quote of all time is one by Cindy Smith, whose son, Brandon, passed away in 2009 after a courageous battle with infantile Batten disease. Cindy said that “Life is not waiting for the storm to pass. It’s learning to dance in the rain.” And just as Brandon taught his family to dance in the rain, Taylor has taught me to keep going on not only the best, but also the worst of days. So you’d better believe that I’ll keep running – on roads, sidewalks, tracks and in this fight for children like Brandon and Taylor – for as long as I’ve got legs for running and heart for fighting.

p.s if you’re half as crazy as me and live in the Charlotte area, come on out to the finish line of the Charlotte 10 Miler around 8:45 tomorrow morning. I’ll be the one in Taylor’s Tale purple and the water-logged, no-tread shoes.

If You Have Wings, You Fly

Published: November 19, 2012 ~ 0

By Laura Edwards

I opened my eyes a few minutes before 5:30 a.m. on Saturday, Nov. 17 with surprising ease. I swung my bare feet out from under my warm down comforter and winced – but only a little – when they first hit the cold hardwood floor. First in the bathroom, then in the closet, I went through the robotic motions of brushing my teeth, splashing lukewarm water onto my sleep-deprived face, pulling my hair into a ponytail and trading my cotton pjs for compression tights and thin, sweat-wicking layers on top – purple for Taylor’s Tale. I coaxed my still-dreaming dog into the kitchen, where my friend Kelli and I toasted bagels and drank juice and wished for more time.

After snapping a few photos and checking our gear not once, but twice for good measure, we drove two miles to the nearest light rail station and, after 10 minutes in the teeth-chattering morning chill (we didn’t take jackets), snagged a ride to uptown Charlotte for the Thunder Road Half Marathon. Each time the train stopped, more runners joined us. As we rode, I thought about how I hadn’t really trained – at least not to the extent that I’d trained for other races. I thought about how I should have worn a top layer with pockets for tissues (I’d had a nasty head cold all week). I thought about how I could have stuffed extra moleskin and bandages into those pockets, too (I had a walnut-sized blood blister on the bottom of my left foot from a 10-mile run a week earlier).

As we got closer and closer to uptown, I threw my time goal out the window. And as the train coasted into our destination, I turned to Kelli and said, “I’m just going to have fun today. No pressure!”

As we stood inside the climate-controlled convention center, stealing a few minutes of warmth before the race began, I reached down to check the contents of my tiny waist pack one last time…except that I couldn’t open it. Somehow, the zipper got jammed, trapping my energy beans and Chapstick inside. Neither are super important in the grand scheme of things, but most runners are particular about their routines, and I’m no exception. And I have to have my energy beans and Chapstick when I go for a long run.

Somehow, though, I got over it. We made our way outdoors into the throng of thousands packed into a few city blocks, and when the race began at 7:45 a.m., we inched forward with the others until we crossed the timing mat, then walked till the pack leaders burst ahead, making room for the rest of us. And then, after what seemed like an eternity but in reality was likely about a minute, we broke free.

I knew right away that things would go better than I’d expected. The air didn’t seem nearly as cold as it did just moments earlier, and it felt good when it filled my lungs. Every time I approached a hill, I found an unexpected burst of energy. My head felt clear. My foot didn’t hurt at all. I settled into a fairly consistent pace of about 8:50/mile – a little slower than my typical pace for 10-mile races but faster than my fastest half marathon pace.

After a particularly long climb around mile five, I got a little winded. I never thought about walking. I did consider slowing down. But then, I thought about how Taylor ran part of the same course in her first 5K, in December 2008, and never once stopped to walk (even when she fell and scraped her knees). I remembered that one of my sister’s former classmates and his father were somewhere on the half marathon course at that very moment – running for her – and that they had vowed to run the entire way, because Taylor never gave up. I thought about Kelli, somewhere behind me, and a handful of others who’d dedicated their race to my little sister and her courageous battle against a disease that has stolen her ability to run (and so much else) since an incredible year in which she ran two 5K races and a practice 5K. I thought of all of those things, and I kept running.

Less than a mile before the finish line, I ran beneath the bridge where, during the same race two years ago, I approached a runner with a cane. Blind, he nevertheless completed an urban half marathon without the assistance of a guide. He provided the final push I needed to finish my race that day. This time, I had only my own will and the image of my little sister, fighting a demon of a disease at home, nine miles away.

No matter how a race goes, I always end with a dash to the finish line. As soon as the final timing mat and those six glorious letters come into view, I shift gears and finish with a hard sprint. But just as I began to make my break for the end of Thunder Road, I tweaked my left calf muscle. At that very moment, the pain felt so excruciating that I immediately thought I tore something. I never envisioned crawling across the finish line, but for a brief moment, I thought I might be forced to do so.

Somehow, though, I managed to jog-hop the last 100 yards of the 13.1-mile course. I finished with a time of 1:57:20, good for a new personal record (PR) in the half marathon. And as I wrapped myself in an aluminum blanket and poured water down my throat, I discovered that the pain in my leg was gone, replaced by an all-over feel-good sensation.

I know that I can’t run Batten disease out of Taylor’s life. I know that I can’t chase down a therapy for kids like my sister, no matter how much I train. I know that the running is mostly for me. It’s my therapy. But it’s darn good therapy; without it, I wouldn’t have the guts or the energy to fight this monster day in and day out. And if telling my crazy running stories translates into one more comrade for us in the fight against Batten disease, it’s all worth it to me.

The day after the race, of course, I paid the price for recording a new personal record with a head cold, the world’s biggest blood blister and a slack training schedule. But I didn’t care then, and I don’t care now. Taylor gave me wings. And if you have wings, you fly.

Uncommon Magic

Published: November 5, 2012 ~ 2

By Laura Edwards

During Taylor’s fifth grade year, a wonderful thing called Girls on the Run came to her small, private school. Already blind and struggling with her speech, Taylor nevertheless wanted nothing more than to go through the program with her girlfriends. That year, a modified jump rope and an upper school student with a big heart became her lifelines. They helped Taylor experience some sense of normalcy and, in doing so, created an uncommon magic that changed all of our lives forever.

Yesterday, Girls on the Run founder Molly Barker published a post on the Athleta Chi website. The post, originally printed in Endurance Magazine in 2009, could have only been penned by someone lucky enough to witness the amazing event it describes. Barely 24 hours old on the web, it’s already gone viral, but if you haven’t had a chance to read it, I encourage you to do so by clicking on the link at the end of this post. It will be well worth your time – I promise.

In all my years on this earth, I’ve never come across anything as tragic or daunting as Batten disease. I’ve run many miles in the six-plus years since Taylor’s diagnosis, but on many of those days, part of me has wanted to simply run away – to quit fighting. But through it all, Taylor – the one who stands to lose the most – has taught the rest of us an incredible lesson about courage – about honoring every moment we’re given, about friendship, about love, about believing. Taylor may be blind, but she opened our eyes to what really matters most in this world. Taylor can no longer run, but she – and those of us who love her – will treasure her Girls on the Run experience – and more importantly – the gift of having known her – forever.

certificate

I shared a link to Molly Barker’s post on the Taylor’s Tale Facebook page yesterday. Today, the father of one of her former classmates shared the following response:

My son Nicholas and I will be running the Half Marathon. This will be our second year and we hope not to have such a “battle” for last place. Neither of us are runners but we are doing it for the challenge. I mentioned to Nicholas that Taylor (he was a year behind her at Fletcher) did a 5K without stopping and I told him we can’t even think about waking or slowing down before mile 3 because no matter how “tired” we may be, we need to push through just like Taylor did. We’ll be wearing pink shirts to show our support for Taylor.

Most of Batten disease is really bad; I think this message embodies all that is GOOD about our fight against Batten disease. As I said before, I’ve never come across anything quite so tragic or daunting. And I could come up with a thousand other equally horrible and appropriate words to describe it. But Nicholas’ dad’s message gave me tears of joy. It gave me the strength to believe – for one more day. I, too, will run the Thunder Road Half Marathon for Taylor in less than two weeks. I may not see Nicholas and his dad among the thousands of other runners. But together or apart, we’ll push through. For Taylor. Read Molly Barker’s blog post

Running for Taylor on 11-17-12

Published: October 29, 2012 ~ 0

By Laura Edwards

For as long as I can remember, I’ve run to deal with pain.

Since Taylor’s infantile Batten disease diagnosis in July 2006, I’ve run a lot – on average, more than 1,000 miles a year. Running doesn’t give me solace – not exactly, anyway – and besides, my feet can’t carry my sister to survival. But it’s a lot cheaper than counseling and massage therapy and once-in-a-lifetime trips to faraway wonderlands – all of which have also contributed their fair share to my survival over the years. And running clears my head. It helps me feel alive. It makes me appreciate my (mostly) healthy body – for instance, two eyes to drink in the amber, gold and crimson leaves and powder blue sky that framed last weekend’s run and two legs to carry me over a never-ending course that goes wherever I tell it to go and stops only when I want to rest.

I played soccer all my life, and I always had running in my bones, but I didn’t run in my first organized distance race until five years ago. Around that same time, my sister, Taylor, signed up for Girls on the Run at her school. Blind and less than a year removed from major brain surgery, Taylor nonetheless went to practice with the other girls and walked or ran her laps every day after school. Near the end of the semester, a crowd of kids joined in as she finished the final laps of her practice 5K. And that December, Taylor and her running buddy, joined by a simple jump rope, ran the entire length of the Jingle Jog 5K in uptown Charlotte without stopping even once to rest. Five months later, they did it again in the Girls on the Run 5K.

Since watching my little sister cross the finish lines of those races nearly four years ago, I’ve run every last mile for her.

On Saturday, Nov. 17, I’ll run in Charlotte’s Thunder Road Half Marathon for the fourth time. Last year, I had surgery the morning before the race and couldn’t run. I’ve had a light year so far in 2012 – the Charlotte 10 Miler and Frostbite 10K in February and the Tar Heel 10 Miler and ourboys 10K in April. So I’m hoping to finish with a bang at Thunder Road.

Thunder Road is Charlotte’s biggest race of the year, so if you’re a runner and live in the area, chances are, you’re signed up too! If so, and if you’re interested in running in Taylor’s honor/for Taylor’s Tale, please let me know ASAP. If you’re not running but want to come out that morning and cheer on the runners, simply click on the link above to access a course map – then be on the lookout for the girl decked out in Taylor’s Tale purple. 🙂 And – if you’re so inclined – you can make a tax-deductible donation to our Miles to a Miracle campaign in Taylor’s honor by clicking here. All proceeds support the search for a therapeutic treatment for Batten disease.

We’ve made a ton of progress in the race to save children like Taylor. Thanks for helping us get to the ultimate finish line!

Might as Well Keep Running

Published: June 3, 2012 ~ 1

By Laura Edwards

Yesterday afternoon, I drove to Davidson, NC, a quaint college town about 30 miles north of my home in south Charlotte, to take part in the second annual 24 Hours of Loopy on the town Green, an event to promote awareness of Batten disease and raise money for the Batten Disease Support & Research Association. When I arrived a few minutes after 2:30, a totally loopy, totally awesome ultra marathon runner named Jeff McGonnell had already been circling the patch of grass in front of the public library for close to 19 hours. Various others had come and gone – from serious runners in Jeff’s Davidson Area Running Team (DART) group to fun-loving 5-year-olds to walkers.

I slipped into the rotation a few minutes before 3 p.m. After my last race in April, I took it easy for most of May, and I didn’t expect to tally more than a couple of miles, maybe five or six at most, before finding a golf chair and kicking back to enjoy the live music. But I was having too much fun to stop at mile six. At mile seven, I picked up new garb (in return for making a donation, spectators could dress runners in crazy costumes). At mile 10, I realized I had enough time to run 3.1 more, even with a break for two oatmeal raisin cookies from the Soda Shop across Main Street. I hadn’t run more than eight miles since a 10-mile race on April 21. I hadn’t trained for a half marathon. I hadn’t eaten a pre-half marathon dinner the night before or half-marathon breakfast or lunch before leaving my house the day of (in fact, I’d inhaled two brownies on my way out the door). But I had blue skies overhead, a gentle breeze on my skin, live music on the course and a supportive crowd that included my parents and Taylor. I had pig ears on my head, a red boa around my neck and a grass skirt around my waist (what?! :)). I’d set out that day to run for Taylor. I still felt strong. Nothing hurt – too much. So I figured I might as well keep running.

Thirty minutes later, I finished my unofficial half marathon just as Jeff McGonnell began his final lap around the Green.

Some days, I want to quit fighting this fight. Just walk away. Some days, it just hurts too much. Some days, the hills are just too steep.

But somehow, I keep finding a way to shake those days off. I never stop hurting. I’ve never found flat ground. But I’ve never stopped fighting.

I entered this race. I’ve got some momentum. It doesn’t always feel good. I don’t get to stop and rest whenever I choose. But I’ve made progress. I hurt, but not so much that I can’t run. So I might as well keep running.

I’ll Run. I’ll Believe.

Published: June 1, 2012 ~ 0

By Laura Edwards

Today is June 1, 2012.

It’s been 2,139 days since I learned about a devastating disease for the first time – in the very worst way.

It’s a day that marks the end of school, maybe forever, for my little sister.

It’s the first day of International Batten Disease Awareness Weekend.

It’s the first of three more days to believe.

In a few minutes, Jeff McGonnell, an ultra marathon runner from Davidson, NC, will begin his second annual “Loopy for a Cause” run around the Davidson town Green. He’ll run through the night and tomorrow morning, and when I arrive after lunch to join him for the afternoon stint, he’ll still be running. In all, Jeff will run for 24 hours. Last year, he ran almost 90 miles in support of the fight against Batten disease and children like my sister, Taylor (Jeff runs for Brandon and Jeremy Hawkins, who are friends of his son and have juvenile Batten disease).

In 24 hours, Jeff will say hello to a golf chair and a Gatorade, and the loopiness will end. In 48 hours, Batten Disease Awareness Weekend will come to a close. But our fight will be far from over.

Another 2,139 days from now, I’ll still be fighting like hell.

One day, I hope to use this space to tell you we’ve beat the damn thing – or at least knocked it down.

Until then, I’ll run. I’ll believe.

Note: I’m scheduled to run with Jeff from 3-4 p.m. on Saturday, June 2, but you can come out and support “Loopy for a Cause” anytime between 6 p.m. tonight and 8 p.m. tomorrow (the event will continue for two hours after the conclusion of the run). Click here to learn more.