"What train hit her and when?"

That was the question I asked myself last spring as I saw this pretty, petite blonde walking painfully slowly near Safeway, around the corner from my house. She had a grocery bag in her arms, and her movements were so tentative and labored, it seemed she'd celebrate two birthdays before she'd chalk up one city block.

Little did I know that the snail in designer jeans would become such an important person in my life.

Her name is Kate Murphy, and she was my new neighbor. Kate is an extraordinary person: kind, loyal and compassionate, but with a charming edge to her that could make diamonds seem dull. That edge drives her to great accomplishments professionally, athletically, and personally. Despite that, on this day she was hobbled, carrying a bag of Diet Coke that made her resemble Sisyphus on the mountain.

For whatever reason—and one surely beyond her control at the age of 30 (you're welcome, Kate)—God had dealt her a rough hand. We're talking not even a pair, 7 high. She was recovering from painful surgery and a month on bed rest. (Not to mention an ex-boyfriend who turned out to be the worthless deuce in that unsavory hand.) What I was witnessing that day was her defiant first steps back to health.

Over the next few months, we built a fabulous friendship, buttressed by shared dating woes and wine, among many other things. One day, she asked if I would take a run with her.

I hated running. Hated it. I'd always been active, but if I wasn't chasing a ball or some psychopath wasn't chasing me, I could see no point in running. But here was this new, fabulous friend who had stared straight into the eye of her illness, and it was the illness that blinked. And she wanted to run.

So, yes, I went with her. And during our three mile jog, she told me about her running accomplishments (four marathons—seriously). Inspired by her stories, I decided to run my own marathon four months later.

Training was painful, often boring, and always taxing. Many times I asked myself why on earth I was jumping into the deep end of running when it seemed there was only a foot of water to cushion the impact.

But I'll never forget the pep talk Kate gave me before I ran those 26.2 miles in Portland. She said I should be prepared to hit the proverbial wall, that there would be times during the run that I would feel like finishing was impossible, that it would be more painful than anything I'd previously put myself through. "But," she said, "you've got to do it because you can. There are a lot of people who can't. People who, in the depths of your pain, would gladly switch places with you if their health or circumstances would allow them to. So, when it hurts, run for them." Words to run by.

I finished that marathon. And I finished my second one on May 25th-- the last one, I swear. I was excited to finish and give my body a rest. But then Maria Lamarca Anderson in community relations asked me if I was interested in running the Seafair half and keeping a blog about it. I can, so I will. And maybe with the interaction of all you other runners out there, we can collectively encourage one another to finish our races, however long they may be.

It may be painful, but always possible.

So, Kate Murphy, when I'm digging myself out of a hill climb, I'll be cursing you. But, when I cross the finish line, I'll be thanking you. Again.