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first twenty-two-mile training run, Ted greets me with the camera for a spontaneous photo shoot. Imagine how beautiful I look after twenty-two miles, red-faced, my body caked with salt. But we need a picture for The Oregonian . They have responded to my mom’s pitch to do a feature article on my run. It is the only story they will publish on the Congo in 2005. After it runs, checks from people I’ve never met begin to appear in the mailbox, in amounts from US$5 to US$500.
    Eventually I receive my first letter from Therese. It is written in Swahili and accompanied by a version that has been translated into English by Women for Women International’s Congo staff.
    Dear Sister,
    Hello! I’m happy to write to you today. I’m happy with the $10 you are sending me. I’m using $5 of it in selling charcoals and $3 a chicken to raise as well as $ for medical care. I’m making a profit of $2 through my activity.
    My husband was taken to the bush by the Interahamwe soldiers.
    I don’t have much to say.
    Your friend,
    Therese
    The worn paper filled with Swahili cursive makes everything I’m running for suddenly feel concrete.
    Â 
    ON THE BIG DAY, I’m determined to run the whole trail, against the adamant advice of my trainer. (“You must walk the hills. You will walk the hills.”) At mile twenty-five, I hit Pittock Hill, by far the most brutal stretch. It’s a mile and a half of punishing incline. I inch my way up in a shuffle-run. I call on every mental trick I can muster to get one foot in front of the other. But I run, I don’t walk. Finally, I can see my sister and niece Aria waiting for me at the top with water and pretzels.

    As the trail flattens out, I know I can do it. I’m home free. Better. Though I practically crawl through my last few miles, I’m on fire! A hiker walks past me. A grandma and her fat dog are gaining on me fast. But I refuse to walk. I run every step of those 30.16 miles. As I descend the final hill, a crowd of thirty or so people waits in the cool, early autumn drizzle—family, friends, girl scouts having a bake sale, but mostly people I’ve never met—all cheering.
    I cross the finish line beaming.
    Then I announce the final fundraising totals. We’ve raised more than US$28,000. Eighty Congolese women and their kids will now have different lives. And this is just the beginning.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Ms. Congo

    IT’S STILL DARK when we step out of the cab at Manhattan’s Riverside Park. Rain and blustery winds soak my lightweight jogging shorts as I lug an Park. Rain and blustery winds soak my lightweight jogging shorts as I lug an oversize suitcase out of the trunk. I am here with my one never-say-die volunteer: my mom.
    The cab pulls away, leaving my mom and me to set up the First Annual New York Run for Congo Women in a downpour with gale force winds.
    I can’t say we weren’t warned. Last night, we got a call from the park service asking if we plan to cancel due to the severe weather. No way, I told them. Word has spread. After my solo run, I started getting random emails from people who want to get involved. I ran the numbers and landed on a new goal: a million dollars, which will pay for three thousand sponsorships. That’s just a hundred runners (or walkers, swimmers, cyclists, bakers, or whatever) raising money for thirty sponsorships each. Or three hundred people raising money for ten sponsorships each. Or a thousand people, three sponsorships each.
    My mom has appointed herself my full-time assistant. Sounds like a dream come true, but the mother-daughter dynamics are a challenge . Especially
since I’ve been trying to keep her organized since I was five. Mom has developed a little habit. During the question-and-answer period of my public appearances, she takes the microphone and talks about the depth of Congo’s suffering, and she always ends in tears . It’s an issue, but she works hard and