NORAH DOOLEY: It's the night before the marathon, and I am terrified.

Why was I even running a marathon anyway?

I mean who would do such a crazy thing?

COREY MANNING: My phone rings.

I answer it.

"Hi, Mr. Manning, you have cancer."

I don't remember anything after that.

CANDACE NELSON: I was getting increasingly anxious about how all that digital stuff was changing so fast, and how little interest I had in keeping up with it.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Above and Beyond."

♪ Sometimes we might get the feeling that we need to lower our standards.

But in many situations, that just won't do.

And as we all know, asking for more from ourselves and from others is often a little bit scary.

But it can pay off in the most unexpected ways if we are willing to put in the work and go above and beyond.

♪ DOOLEY: My name is Norah Dooley and I live in Royalston, Mass., now, which is a little tiny town in central Mass.

And I'm a educator, a storyteller, a children's book writer.

I'm a climate activist, a union steward, and a mother of four.

Could you please give us a little insight into how you got into all of this?

I wanted to take a theater class and I was finishing up a master's degree in education.

They didn't have a theater class, they said take storytelling.

And I said, "What, what is it?"

They said "No, you're gonna like it."

I said, "I so doubt that."

(chuckles) And I went to take this storytelling class at Lesley University and it was like, I was gobsmacked.

I was-- whoa, that's storytelling?

Are you kidding?

I've been doing that all my... that, this thing, that I... it was amazing.

Just curious, you know, what keeps you coming back?

What is exciting to you about storytelling that, you know, you've given so much of your life to it, to helping others, to telling your own, and, you know, what is that attraction?

Every time I tell a story, even about my own life, I learn something.

Every time I listen to a story, I learn something about what it is to be human, what that means.

And stories, for me, are beautiful lens on that.

And they move me, um, emotionally, too.

♪ So the leader of this little maverick band of unregistered runners who had just completed the marathon was also my art professor, and he was the director of this gallery that we had started-- a group of students and artists, this gallery and independent art school.

And he said, you know, the women... women cannot run the marathon.

All they would do is try.

They wouldn't finish, and they would cry.

Now we women in that group, we had been the pit crew, we had been the support group.

We had been the "shut up and just make the coffee" team for this group of runners, and now we were listening to our leader give a rationale for why that was our position.

So I and three other women in that group, we decided we were going to run the marathon.

We were very unlikely marathon runners.

I was the least athletic of them all.

I had to take developmental gym when I was in junior high school.

I had to wear orthopedic shoes from the time I was ten until I was 15.

I had a leg length discrepancy that made me trip and fall all the time.

But we decided we were going to do it and we were going to do it.

So we started with two miles, and this first two miles, I mean we couldn't even finish running two miles at one go.

I mean we had to walk and run and walk and run.

It was miserable.

And then four miles, eight miles and finally, in the middle of the winter, it's a 13-mile run, that's half a marathon.

But just at the time that you need to ramp up your training for the marathon, if you're training for the Boston Marathon in Boston, Boston weather ramps up winter and it's miserable.

I mean you run in slush, you run with your face being pelted by shards of icy-- just like glass.

You're just... it's sometimes so cold that your nostrils are filled with icicles.

But we got, we got through that and we were now two weeks before the marathon and our leader told us that if we thought we were going to do this, we would need to go to the finish line and run all the way to the bottom of Heartbreak Hill to the Newton firehouse, turn around and come back, do an 18-mile run.

And we did it, we did it.

So now it's the night before the marathon, and I am terrified.

So why was I even running a marathon anyway?

I mean, who would do such a crazy thing?

Oh yeah, I remember, because I said I would do it.

And why did I say I was doing it?

Well, part of it was because I needed to raise the bar on my own accountability.

My mother always said about me that, you know, hey some people live in B.C.

and some people live in A.D., but you live in E.C., the era of the extenuating circumstance.

"Norah, there's always some reason, "some glib little reason why you didn't, couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't do the thing that you said you would."

And she was right.

And that's why I was running the marathon.

I had promised my friends, but I was tossing and turning and we lived right in Boston, so you could hear all these church bells like 3:00, and now it's 4:00, and I just, I can't get to sleep.

How can you run a marathon without sleeping?

I've never done this before.

And besides which, P.S., not only am I not an athlete, but what about this?

You know, we only ran 18 miles.

I am, I am not a math person, either, but I know that 18 and 26.2 are not the same thing.

In fact, there's a whole third of a marathon in there that's missing.

So I've never run this far.

What if I get hurt?

I mean, anything could happen.

And then, the next thing I hear is my alarm.

7:30, time to get up, make pancakes for the entire team-- four women, six men, we're running the marathon.

We eat our pancakes and we get into all these station wagons to drive out to Hopkinton.

Now, the women all went in the same station wagon.

There's lots of camaraderie and hilarity and then, you know, it's like 20 minutes of driving and then 30 minutes of driving and everybody gets really pretty quiet and we're all kind of sitting with our own feelings.

And then, finally, you get to Hopkinton, and that just breaks the spell because there's so much adrenaline there-- you're breathing it in.

You're practically inhaling it.

It's everybody running around and talking.

Nobody cares that we have, like, our bibs are handmade and they have zero for our registered number, because back in the day, unregistered runners were like a minor annoyance.

I mean, they're like pigeons or orange peels, or paper cups on the course.

Nobody worries about it.

And then the race starts.

I mean, it's so amazing.

The gun goes off, there's this roar of voices and you see this, like, a snake of confetti going down the undulating hills of Hopkinton, like it's just amazing.

And you're just standing in place waiting for your turn to start moving.

And when you finally start moving, it's just mile after mile of people congratulating you and giving you encouragement, and cheering you on.

And then you're halfway through and you know you only have halfway to go.

But the most amazing thing happens is that you hit Wellesley College, and as a woman, it was fantastic because there's this, this energy tunnel there where the women of Wellesley College line both sides of the street, and when they saw women who only from 1972 had been able to run, why, they just went crazy.

And it was like we were lifted and pushed right out of that energy tunnel to the bottom of the Heartbreak Hill.

And let me tell you, that was tough.

Two of the women who started with us, they made it, but that really set them back a little, but Polly and I, we just put our heads down and went up to the top.

At Boston College, people start yelling at you, "It's downhill all the way," which is inaccurate, it's not, it's actually, there's some hills, but people are still lining the course, giving you encouragement and cheering you on.

And then when you turn that corner and you look down Boylston Street, that little tiny hill, and you can see that finish line, Polly and I grabbed each other's hands and we put our arms up like this and we sailed down that hill and crossed that finish line.

Well, you know, my art professor was right.

We did try, and I did cry, but we finished, and those tears, they were tears of joy.

♪ MANNING: My name is Corey Manning, originally from Durham, North Carolina.

I live in Massachusetts now.

I'm a father, husband, brother, comedian by night, and superhero by day.

I did want to ask about that.

You say stand-up comedian by night, superhero by day.

What do you do during the day?

As a comedian, I tell jokes and make people laugh.

Superhero, I do work with young people doing workshops on conflict resolution, peer mediation.

And the key thing that I do now is I'm director of mentoring for YouthBuild USA, which is an international nonprofit organization that works with young people 16 to 24, who are out of work and-or out of school, and we help them to get their G.E.D.

and then develop skills so they can get... find a job and hopefully keep it.

You've had success as a comedian, I know you're a very, very funny individual.

Here, you're telling a story, and I want to ask what are the differences, if any, like is there, you know, do you approach it different?

Do you think about it different?

I think more about the words that I use in storytelling than I do in stand-up.

I, I feel like... my stand-up comedy is more fluid.

The hardest thing for me in doing the storytelling was not being funny.

Oftentimes, for me, I'd use humor as a defense mechanism.

If I'm in an argument and I feel uncomfortable, I would interject a joke or some type of humor, which is not always the best thing to do.

So with storytelling, I have to learn not... even though it's an uncomfortable story to share, that it's okay to be uncomfortable.

♪ It was Thursday, March 20, 2019.

I had recently turned 49 years old and was happy that day because I was at my doctor's appointment, and my primary care doctor did not give me a prostate exam.

Instead, she summarized the results from my blood test.

"Everything looks good, "except for your P.S.A.

levels, which are elevated, "but like with most men your age, "I'm not concerned at all about prostate cancer.

Let's schedule your next appointment."

Did she just say cancer?

Because I didn't hear anything else after she said "cancer."

The ride home was a long one.

I didn't listen to music.

I didn't call or text anyone.

P.S.A., what does that mean?

Public service announcement?

And what does it have to do with the prostate cancer?

Prostate cancer.

I could have cancer?

I should have asked my doctor to explain what P.S.A.

meant and what it had to do with prostate cancer.

I should have asked my doctor for a prostate exam.

When I got home, I did the worst best thing you could do.

I Googled all of it and it turns out that P.S.A.

stands for prostate specific antigen, which is an enzyme released by the prostate and found at abnormally high levels in the blood of men who have prostate cancer.

There was that word again.

Cancer.

Now, my former primary care doctor said that most men my age should not be concerned about prostate cancer, but I'm not most men.

And according to Google, Black men are 50% more likely to develop prostate cancer in their lifetime, and twice as likely to die from the disease.

I got on the phone, call a urologist, and asked for a prostate exam.

It's six days after my prostate exam.

I'm in Home Depot.

I have on headphones and I'm listening to "Level Up" by Ciara.

Five, four, three, two, one.

♪ Level up, level up ♪ Level up, level up, level up ♪ My phone rings.

I answer it, it's the urologist.

"Hi, Mr. Manning, you have cancer.

"Let me know what you want to do.

Bye."

(exhales sharply) It was a punch in the gut.

I don't remember anything after that.

I don't know what I was doing at Home Depot.

I don't know if I had a buggy or anything.

I walked out the store, got in my car, closed the door, and before the lights dimmed, I was crying.

(exhales) I have prostate cancer.

I want my family and friends to know that I'm not okay, but I'm fine.

That was how I opened up my confessional video on March the fourth, 2020.

It was the first time outside of my oldest brother, my wife, my oldest son, and a few other family members and friends, that I had shared that I had prostate cancer.

What I didn't share was the fact that I was more frightened of living with the side effects from a successful treatment than I was from living with actual prostate cancer.

See, I had connected with a, with the best prostate surgeon in the region, and I asked him point blank, "Hey, what are the side effects from this surgery?"

And he said, "Listen, Mr. Manning, now, "if you don't have this surgery, "there's a good chance you could die from cancer.

"But with a successful surgery we'll be able to remove "your prostate and all the cancer, "and then you'll be able to go on and live a long and healthy life."

Now, the side effects?

For the first six months, he said that I wouldn't be able to control my bladder and so I would have to wear adult diaper and a catheter.

Now that may sound painful, but I'm a comedian, so I felt like I could get five to ten minutes of material out of this.

But then he said, for the first six months to two years that I would not be able to get an erection.

And although he had never seen it in any of his patients, there was still the potential that I may never get a full erection again.

So I said, "Doc, how long do I have to live?"

Okay, I didn't say that.

But that was the first thing I thought, and if I had said it, nobody would understand.

They would look at it as a selfish decision.

But for me it's not about having sex.

Okay, it's not just about the sex.

It's about the potential of losing an emotional and physical connection that's been a part of me my entire life.

Seriously, me and my... we have been together for a long time.

He was my first friend.

He understood me before I understood him or myself.

When I was happy, when I was sad, when I was with people, when I was alone, he was there for me, and never let me down.

Okay, sometimes, but what friend doesn't let you down every once in a while?

Now I don't judge myself by him or the lack thereof, but he is a part of my personal descriptor.

Now you won't find it in my resume or on my bio, but you won't find my credit score there either, and it's important.

So I talk to a few of my friends and my mentor, and found out that I wasn't alone with these thoughts, which made me feel better about myself.

I wasn't a selfish, sexually objective man.

I was human, with natural thoughts, concerns, and expectations.

My three kids, my wife, my family, and friends, I want to be around and with them for as long as I possibly can.

Those relationships are important to me.

So on Thursday, March 12, 2020, I went in for surgery and was released on March the 13th.

On that Friday, the same day that the country shut down for the pandemic, I shut my friend down to beat cancer.

The only thing is, and I'm ashamed to say this, I wish he would have fully recovered before the country did.

In all serious, though, Black men are 50% more likely to develop cancer in their lifetime and twice as likely to die from the disease.

If you are a man, especially if you're a Black man, level up and ask your doctor about your prostate.

♪ NELSON: My name is Candace Nelson.

I live in Concord, Mass., in the winter and Poland, Maine, in the summer.

I spent many, many years as a development aid worker, mostly promoting financial services for low-income people in Africa and Latin America.

I am curious, how did you come from a tradition and a career of doing that abroad to telling stories here?

What was your journey into storytelling?

NELSON: I did a lot of writing professionally, but as much as I love my work, the writing, writing about the same thing all the time sort of got to be rote, if you will, a little bit boring, same lingo, same jargon.

So when things happened to me, moments that I wanted to capture, I wrote them down.

And I did that for years.

So I have dozens of little vignettes that I wrote.

And it occurred to me that I could actually try to use those stories and tell them.

So I thought maybe I could try my hand at telling a story or two.

So what do you miss about your work as a development worker?

Being in a situation that demands some ability to bridge the cultural gap that is invariably between me and whoever I'm interacting with.

I miss that because every day then is a challenge because you're having to step outside of your own... the confines of who you are and how you were brought up, and what country you live in and all that.

So it was, it was really a wonderful aspect of what I did for 30 years, 35 years.

♪ In 2014, I was sitting on the terrace of a hotel in Arusha, Tanzania, not on vacation, not on safari.

I turned 60 that year, and I had been a development aid worker for 30 years.

I was on top of my game then, mostly because I was part of a growing movement that was teaching rural women to save money.

It was so simple.

We taught them to operate mini credit unions with a group of 15 to 20 women from the same community.

When we introduced the idea, we often heard, "Oh we can't do that, we're too poor to save," but they proved themselves wrong.

And across Africa, tens of thousands of women were saving real money, many for the first time.

It was thrilling.

On the other hand, there I sat in a hotel on a Saturday morning alone with a computer and a report to write.

I was thinking about retirement, actually.

After 70, plus or minus, trips to Africa, those long plane rides were more arduous than adventurous and I hated eating dinner alone every night.

And even though I loved what I did most days, which was visit rural women's groups, my back was starting to complain about those long car rides on rough and rutted roads.

And then there was the whole tech thing.

I was getting increasingly anxious about how all that digital stuff was changing so fast, and how little interest I had in keeping up with it.

So, just as I was equating retirement with failure, something caught my eye.

There, at the back of the garden, there was a group of middle-aged women playing.

They were running races and rolling in the grass, and then they started practicing handstands.

Well, I had two reactions.

One, this was odd.

I don't care where you are in the world, the sight of middle age, rotund, sturdy women doing handstands in public is a pretty weird sight.

And two, the girlhood gymnast in me wanted to join them.

But instead of charging across the garden, I took a stealthier approach.

I got my binoculars and I started slowly working my way around the perimeter where these beautiful flowering bushes attracted even more beautiful birds, so I could just move along slowly looking at the birds until I just happened upon this group of playful women.

When I got there I said, "You ladies, you're having far too much fun."

"Oh, you wanna race?"

Hmm, 60 years old, bad knees, hadn't run in five years.

"Sure," I said.

We all lined up, somebody pointed to the tree that was their finish line, somebody else yelled, "Go!"

And off we ran.

Well, I ran as fast as I could, but I lost and it didn't matter.

We were all on the ground laughing anyway.

When I said, "What's next?"

And their answer, "Oh, it's your turn, you tell us."

Well, that caught me off guard, so I blurted out the first thing I thought of, "Let's do cartwheels."

"Oh, show us," they said.

Oh, boy.

Well, as a girl, I had done hundreds of cartwheels, and some time ago somebody-- my son, I think-- challenged me to do one, so I just figured I could.

And I did, but I came up kind of woozy, like you feel when a carnival ride goes bad.

But my newfound friends didn't know that, and damned if they didn't all try to do cartwheels, throwing their legs from one side of their body to the other side.

I even helped some of them get upside down, kind of, sort of.

It was absurd and funny and they wanted to know what was next.

So I had to think of something that wouldn't make me sick.

And I showed them a plank, you know how you get down on your forearms, you put your legs behind you, up on your toes, you hold your body horizontal and rigid, like a board.

And if you hold it long enough, your abs will scream at you.

So there we were, getting into our planks, and I said, "Let's hold it till five."

One, two, three, four, five.

Down on the ground we went, laughing.

One of them said, "Oh, my stomach muscles were jiggling like a bowl of jelly."

And someone else said, "Oh, I didn't think it was so hard."

I said, "Okay, ladies, let's raise the bar, let's count to ten this time."

One, two, three...

I lost a couple at five.

The rest of us held on till ten, down on the ground laughing again.

Then I heard "12, 13, 14."

One of us held her plank to the count of 20, and we all applauded.

Well, it was time for lunch then, but before we left, I asked them if they had plans for the afternoon.

"Oh yes," they said, "we're going swimming in the pool."

Well, I looked at them, I said, "Oh, who knows how to swim?"

"None of us know how to swim.

Do you know how to swim?"

"Oh sure," I said, "I know how to swim."

"Oh, well you can teach us, then."

"No," I said, "I am not going to teach you how to swim.

If I did, I would make you put your head in the water.

Oh my goodness, silence.

"Do you mean the whole head?"

"Yep," I said, "the whole head."

Well, I went back to writing my report then, but sure enough, a little while later, those five women emerged from the hotel, marching single file down the path towards the pool, all wearing black bathing suits and sporting plastic shower caps that you get in the hotel bathroom.

I told myself that it wasn't my place to join them, but I couldn't resist.

When they saw me coming, one of them plugged her nose and dunked under the water with her whole head, as if she were challenging me to teach her to swim.

Well, I tried and so did she, to the point of exhaustion.

Sitting by the pool then, I blurted out the questions that had been burning all day.

Who are you?

Where are you from?

What are you doing here?

Turns out, these women were all from Nairobi, Kenya, they all own their own businesses, which happened to be on the same street, and that's how they know each other.

Some years ago they formed a savings group, one of those mini credit unions I was telling you about.

And this year they decided to take their savings and send themselves on vacation to Tanzania.

I was really excited to tell them that I taught the same method of savings to village women, and that elicited a chorus of, "Oh, my mother needs to know how to save.

Would you teach her, she lives in a village."

"No," I said, "I'm not going to teach your mothers how to save.

You are."

Well, I said goodbye to the Kenyans that afternoon, very grateful to them, because not only had they saved me from a lonely Saturday, but they reminded me that I was 60 years young.

Four years later, I did retire, but I'm pretty certain that if somebody dared me today, I could still do a cartwheel.

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