The Grace to Race: The Wisdom and Inspiration of the 80-Year-Old World Champion Triathlete Known as the Iron Nun

"Sister Madonna’s story is one of purpose, conviction and passion. She dismisses boundaries and proves to us that nothing is impossible. The Grace to Race is both inspirational and energizing; long live the Iron Nun!" —Dean Karnazes, New York Times bestselling author of Ultramarathon Man " The Grace to Race is inspiring and funny. The story of this now-80-year-old nun will make you want to push your body to the limit as you learn to appreciate the miracle and splendor of Creation." —Mary Higgins Clark"Sister Madonna’s courage and wisdom shine through the pages of this warm, funny and inspirational memoir. You'll learn a lot about finding joy, achieving your goals, facing hardships, loving God and the rest of those in the human ‘race,’ and keeping a sense of humor about it all—oh, and about running, too." —Father James Martin SJ, author of The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything "Sister Madonna is a genuine heroine, a person whose example we badly need. Not everyone is going to do a triathlon, of course, or even aspire to a marathon. But just getting out and moving can do wonders, and she's a beacon of hope." —Walter Bortz MD, author of Aging for Dummies , Dare to Be 100 , and The Roadmap to 100 "Sister Madonna proves you can make records, and break them all over again, at any age. Her spirit is without limits." —Dara Torres, Olympic gold medalist and author of Age Is Just a Number SISTER MADONNA BUDER, also known as "the Iron Nun," "the Flying Nun," and "the Mother Superior of Triathlon," is a Roman Catholic nun. She began running in 1978 at age 48. As of 2009, has completed 38 marathons and 325 triathlons. An inspiration to athletes and non-athletes, the religious and the secular, she has appeared in such publications as Runner’s World , U.S. News & World Report, Sports Illustrated, AARP Bulletin, USA Today, the Seattle Times, the Denver Post, Competitor Magazine, Triathlete Magazine, Ironman Magazine, More Magazine, and numerous others She lives in Washington Sate. KARIN EVANS has been a writer and editor at many major national publications, including Newsweek , Outside, and Health. Her writing has also appeared in such places as More Magazine , the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times. Her book, The Lost Daughters of China (Tarcher, Penguin/Putnam, 2000) was a national bestseller. With Amy Tan, she co-authored the text for Mei-Mei: Portraits from a Chinese Orphanage (Photographs by Richard Bowen, Chronicle Books, 2005). Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The Miracle Finish—2006 Hawaiian Ironman Determination is the mind willing something to happenby the grace of God. Kona, Hawaii October, 2006 I WAS A fourth of the way through the 2.4-mile swim course of the Hawaiian Ironman, wondering why I didn’t seem to be making any progress through the water. I raised my head, peering through my goggles at a landmark hotel on shore, and realized I wasn’t getting beyond it. I kept stroking, wondering what was going on in the ocean depths below. When I finally reached land, it was twenty minutes later than I had expected. In the transition area between the swim and the bike course, I peeled off my damp suit as quickly as I could. Every second counts in these races. When I got on my bicycle, it wasn’t long before I realized it didn’t matter if I had just gotten out of the ocean. The rain was coming down so heavily that I had to close my eyes every few seconds. This called for extra precaution, which slowed me down considerably. Ironman events, with their swim-bike-run requirement—140.6 miles in all, with a full marathon at the end—are grueling enough without this sort of weather. But there was no question of giving in to it, although it might be normal to wonder what I was doing out here at the age of seventy-six. Aside from the usual competitiveness involved in this famed annual event on the Big Island of Hawaii, I had my own special reason for wanting to finish. My nephew Dolph had died the previous month, quite unexpectedly. (It wasn’t until six months later that the coroner’s report said the cause was heart disease.) So I had been asking God for some kind of confirmation that he had died at peace and was in the right place. I made a kind of deal with God: If I could finish this race, I would know my nephew was at peace. That thought was in the back of my mind as I struggled through the ocean swim, and it was on my mind now, as I did my best to keep pedaling through the torrents of rain. By the time I got to the transition between the bike segment and the run, I was beginning to feel a little queasy, something that has happened to me on the run for the past ten years or so. My stomach doesn’t always cooperate with the rest of my body, and that condition forces me to walk almost the entire marathon. This time, after spending twenty-eight minutes in the bike-to-run transition, trying to get some nourishment down and get reconditioned for my death march, I managed to start out on the run, but had gone only about five of the 26.2 miles when a marshal on a moped came alongside me and began spitting out statistics: “You are three minutes down.” I was still trying to run, but thinking, “What is he telling me? Maybe he means I am three minutes from making the cutoff time. Guess I had better pick up the pace, whether or not I feel like it.” The Ironman rules require that you make the three disciplines of swim, bike, and run within a given time. The next time he encountered me, he prompted, “You’re doing better. You are up three minutes.” Three miles later came the deluge. It was coming down the mountain slopes and across the road in a river ankle-deep. I had on my lightest running shoes, yet I could barely lift my feet. Afraid the current was going to knock me down in my weakened state, I got the inspiration to cross over to the other side of the road, moving on a diagonal toward the sidewalk. As I stepped on the submerged curb, my foot slipped, which sent me sprawling. I didn’t even take time to see if I was gushing blood, figuring the rain would take care of that. It looked as if everyone, even the marshal, had headed for dry cover. However, this couple appeared suddenly from nowhere and yanked me to my feet. It had gotten cooler, and I was sopping wet and beginning to feel chilled. Being vulnerable to hypothermia, I prayed, “Lord, let me just keep moving, no matter how. At least I will be circulating.” I promised myself that by mile 15 I would try some hot chicken soup at the aid station there. Meanwhile, the marshal on the moped putt-putted up again, announcing that I was now eight minutes down. Nonetheless I kept plodding. As long as I was ambulatory the thought of quitting was not an option. When I did get to the aid station at mile 15, I stopped and accepted some chicken soup, which was lukewarm, probably from rain water. It did not settle well, so I grabbed a piece of soft roll, hoping it would sop up the remains in my gurgling stomach. One bite—and that came up too. As I sat exhausted in the aid station, one of the volunteers started massaging my shoulders. I did not want to leave. Then came the inner command: “You had better get up now. No one is going to finish this race for you.” It was late, and though I wanted to linger, I had to get going. I got back on my feet and struggled onwards in the darkness, toward the turnaround. With about six miles to go, I was out there alone when these four angels appeared from the opposite side of the road, running in the dark. One had no shoes. One had only thongs. A husband-and-wife team were the only two with running shoes. Imagine my surprise when one of them asked, “May we accompany you in?” At this point, I was only walking, and murmured weakly, “Uh-huh.” Then they asked whether I would like them to tell me a story as we moved along, or if I wanted to tell them one. “You,” I said. The couple began telling me about their young daughter, who had broken her arm. After occupying me with the details of how she had bravely overcome her injury and how proud they were of her, they changed the subject. “Do you see that stop sign ahead? Do you think you can start running when you get there, and then stop at the next signal to walk again?” They kept pushing me on in this manner. The next time the marshal on the moped appeared and started spitting out statistics, I completely blocked him out, figuring my angels would interpret the timing for me. I don’t wear a watch during these events. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to see it in the darkness. I just listen to my body. After all, that is the most accurate measurement. When your battery runs low, you just can’t go. Then along came another person on a moped, a man I’d known a long time as an announcer for many triathlon events. I found out later that he, too, had come on the scene to encourage me, and was radioing ahead to the finish line. “It doesn’t look as if Sister Madonna is going to make it. She is just walking now.” And then a bit later: “Oh, she just passed another runner, so maybe there is hope.” He kept the reports flowing so as to hype up everyone at the finish line to keep up their prayers. Even the local Hawaiian fire dancers were going through their ceremonial rituals on my behalf. I was, of course, totally unaware of any of this. Meanwhile, I begged my angels, “Can’t I just walk until we get to Palani Hill, and then I’ll start running down it a mile and a half from the finish? Since we’ll be back in civilization, it won’t matter if I collapse.” They were firm. “No, you have to do a bit more running before you get there.” With a mile and two-tenths to go, someone noticed I had only twelve minutes left if I was going to make it to the finish in time. That did not seem possible. All I knew was to rely on the advice of my remaining two angel coaches. The other two, running without shoes, could no longer keep pace and had peeled off, but the pair still with me kept telling me when I should run and when I could walk. My little twosome team kept encouraging me onward. Closer to the finish line, I could hear the crowd in a frenzy. When we got to the top of the final hill, I started extending my legs for a downhill run. They yelled a last admonition, “Oh, good, don’t stop! Keep going, even when you get to the bottom of the hill!” From the outset, as I had begun preparing for this 2006 Hawaiian Ironman, there had been strange omens, beginning with my nephew Dolph’s death just the month before. Before I left home in Spokane, I had the gut feeling that this was going to be a very different competition. I’d done the Hawaiian Ironman some twenty times by now, but something this year felt different. The feeling I had didn’t tell me not to go; it just said, be prepared. On my way to Hawaii, I drove from my home in Spokane over to Seattle, where I was going to spend the night with friends before boarding for Kona the next day. In Seattle, my friend opened the door, saying, “Do you know what happened in Hawaii?” She turned on the TV, and there was news of an earthquake. That never happens there, I thought. They are used to hurricanes in Hawaii, but not earthquakes. I remembered that premonition. While watching the news, I wasn’t sure whether I could take the plane I was scheduled to take the next day. Flights were turning back because Honolulu was affected and there were power outages. I got on the Web site for the Ironman and learned that, as far as they could see, the course had not been damaged except in one place, and that was under repair. So I decided to go. But for some reason, this little voice said, “Don’t go through Honolulu this year to change planes; go through Maui.” And so I rebooked my flight through Maui. As my plane from Seattle neared the islands, it did not look like the Hawaii I knew. Heavy clouds had darkened the usually azure waters. When we touched down on the airstrip, there was water everywhere. It had not stopped raining all day. The plane was late, and we had to run for our connection. None of our checked luggage, including our bicycles, made it to Kona on the flight, and it was not until the next day that they were delivered. But in Honolulu, I heard, passengers hadn’t even been able to... Read more