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In My Shoes: Stopping is not an option for Lois Huyghue

 
Lois Huyghue, 55, had a stroke when she was 18 months old and has limited control of her left arm and leg. She ran her first marathon last year in the Clearwater Distance Classic.
Lois Huyghue, 55, had a stroke when she was 18 months old and has limited control of her left arm and leg. She ran her first marathon last year in the Clearwater Distance Classic.
Published Jan. 29, 2015

CLEARWATER

Lois Huyghue, who hates cold like cats hate getting wet, pulled into Coachman Park to run a marathon. At 5 a.m., it was 36 degrees. Wearing two coats, three T-shirts and two hats, she peered out of her car window at a park full of skinny people in shorts and tank tops.

None of them looked scared, or cold.

"Who would know if I just started the car and went back to bed?" she thought.

Two months earlier, Huyghue, 55, had been watching the New York City Marathon on her couch in Clearwater. "These African women were running, and I saw how much energy they had and how they were so happy just running. I said to myself, 'Oh, Lois, you have energy, why don't you do that?' "

Huyghue looks a bit like those marathon runners. She is long and lean, with almost no body fat. She has always been active — hyper, really — and channels her energy into Zumba classes and martial arts.

Mind you, a childhood stroke left her struggling to control her left leg and arm. She gets spasms. Those limbs move outside her control, have little muscle tone and can lock up at any time.

She had never trained as a runner, didn't own a pair of proper running shoes, had never entered a race.

Because the stroke happened when she was 18 months old, though, pushing through obstacles large and small is just normal for her. As a girl, she skinned herself head to toe learning to ride a bike and rebelled when a teacher sat her aside to draw during recess. She got a driver's license after her family said she couldn't drive. The state sent a health worker to be sure she could handle and feed her baby. Since childhood she has been sure to do every single thing anyone said she couldn't.

Huyghue stripped down to tights, sweats and two shirts. She secured her timing chip and hummed a song from an animated Christmas special that she has used as a mantra since she was a kid:

"Put one foot in front of the other and soon you'll be walking out the door."

The race horn blew, and she began to hobble.

At Mile 8, race organizer Chris Lauber saw her and radioed they had an injured runner.

During Mile 15, her hips froze up and her bad leg became dead weight.

"I was basically dragging it," she said.

The time allotted by the city to close streets for runners passed. Officers asked Lauber if everyone was in. One was left.

They opened the roads, but a police car stayed and drove with Huyghue as she ran. Her gait looked painful. Every few minutes the officer told her, "Thumbs-up if you are okay. Just give thumbs-down and you can get in the car." Thumbs-up.

Her iPod battery died.

Soon she stopped thinking about how many miles were left, where she was or how long she had left. She started talking to herself out loud.

"Put one foot in front of the other. Put one foot in front of the other."

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As long as she was taking a step, she was not stopping. And stopping was not an option.

Another five minutes, another thumbs-up. Another five minutes, another thumbs-up.

Strong step. Drag. Strong step. Drag.

"You're okay, Lois. This is okay."

"Come on, leg. Come on, leg."

"There is no quit, Lois."

When she turned on the home stretch, the finish-line banner was down and U-Haul trucks were filled with chairs and tents. Only Lauber, his wife, two of Huyghue's friends and three race volunteers remained. They kept the race clock running for her. It read 8 hours, 13 minutes.

As she crossed the line, her little crowd cheered, hugged and wept.

"In 16 years of planning races, it was a top-shelf moment," Lauber said. "In the running world, I've only met one Lois. And I had never seen her before Mile 8 that day. And for me, it just got more emotional the more I thought about it."

Huyghue's memory of the finish is foggy. She remembers getting her medal, sitting down, eating dinner, taking an aspirin and falling asleep. At 2 a.m. she awoke and exclaimed, "Oh, my God, I really did it," loud enough to wake her son down the hall.

She felt herself swell with pride. Pride that will never quit.

Contact John Pendygraft at pendygraft@tampabay.com. Follow @Pendygraft.