A week or so ago, I turned
75, the same age George Sheehan, the great advocate
for running was when he died of cancer. Numbers tend
to take over in life, for those of us who are in our
dotage, and for runners who are driven, relentlessly,
by data.
For me, a runner of,
now, 50 years, numbers are less important than in
the past although I’ve already mentioned them
twice in relation to my age. As a journeyman runner,
and now a hobbyist, numbers have been the be-all and
end-all, but they can also drive runners and their
aspirations into the ground.
In my 40s, I ran a 2:46
in Detroit, placed 6th in Boston in my age group in
my 60s and ran a 23 and change in a 5k Mothers’
Day Run a year or so ago here in Ontario where I live.
Again, numbers, always numbers. Runners aspire to
the exceptional no matter how modest their previous
achievements.
This morning I ran my
standard 10k. My legs seemed a little heavy, I could
hear my breathing without listening for it, and I
felt no real urge to “pick it up.” Part
of the reason for this is likely the fact that I’ve
begun to leave my watch at home. Occasionally, I’ll
try to turn in a quicker (a relative term for a 75-year-old)
mile to end a run, but I’m simply happy to be
outside, doing something rather than watching others
doing something on tv. I admire professional athletes,
of course, their training, their gracefulness, their
ruthless efficiency, but for me and as one with little
coordination, what others do, apart from their breaking
records during the Olympics or winning medals, has
little real meaning. Those victories are important
for the moment, but I’m going for the long game,
one that has lasted for decades.
For some time now, running
has appealed to me on aesthetic grounds. My slower
performance times have given me another way of seeing
running. True, running has stood me in good stead
as my teaching, writing, and efforts to be of help
to a disastrously ill wife have all benefited from
running. I’ve made full and constant use of
the state (endorphia?) in which solutions to life’s
dilemmas surface from out of nowhere mid-run. Now
when I’m running, I’m not necessarily
thinking about running. The activity is a catalyst,
one that brings about other unexpected possibilities
and responses that I can use in dealing with everyday
issues, my writing, my relationships with others.
Back in the day, I looked for windless days, optimum
temperatures, flat roads, benign traffic, perfect
solitude. Today, I rejoice in the opposite: winds,
challenging weather, hills, and dozens of drivers
who wave at me, a codger plodding along, one they’ve
seen for decades. Hitting the wind head-on during
winter storms, maintaining some kind of momentum on
hills I’ve run for years, dressing appropriately
for whatever the weather—all of this has given
me a different taste for running and a rationale for
continuing my morning routine.
Yes, I’ve been
lucky. I’ve had injuries over the years, but
because I’ve been at or slightly below my optimum
weight, with a little rest and patience, the minor
tears and pains have gone away over time and are for
the most part, only vague memories. I’m also
fortunate to run in a community of runners. A few
years ago my town of 8,000 had eight runners in Boston,
and runners I’ve coached and run with over the
years are always friendly and willing to chat briefly,
of course.
Running, possibly because
it’s one of the most elemental sports—a
singlet, shorts, shoes—holds a particular appeal
for such simple reasons. Other sports, and numbers-driven
runners, with their gadgets and gizmos, interject
things between athlete and activity, and this is another
reason why running continues to appeal to me. I let
the body take over, as runners often do, and the mind
is free to do its own touring, randomly picking up
and disclosing ideas and impressions that are as recent
as today or nearly as aged as I am, all of them making
up my morning ritual outside.
I’ve run in North
America and Europe, and in those early morning runs,
I’ve met thousands of runners of all ages. They
are in the memory banks as I run my familiar routes
virtually every morning of the year. You see, runners
(and joggers) have a respect for one another. They
wave in the ways that members of any sect, secretive
or otherwise, do. They admire others for simply being
out there, wherever “there” is, be it
on trails, tracks, or streets.
Most runners do so on
their own because no two runners are ever traveling
at the same pace, and the pace will differ in the
course of the run. Runners are not herd animals; they
enjoy other runners, but the real joy comes in the
feeling that they were made for this activity, that
the wind, road, sun, cloud—whatever is out there—is
part of the day’s experience that taken collectively
over time becomes more than the individual run or
race however memorable that event was at the time.
For such reasons, running is an intensely personal
thing, one that engages body, mind, and environment
in singular ways that are both familiar and unique
on every occasion.
I’ll miss running
when it comes to an end as it inevitably will. I’ll
miss the dawn on the river, the moon over the harbour,
the old houses, the novice runners, the everyday things
that lie beyond the numbers game and make running
such a supreme pleasure. My watch now stays at home
most mornings. I’m not fixated by numbers as
I know daily how time’s arrow will eventually
end its flight. For now, it’s enough to ride
the arrow, to stay out in front of it, to think about
how privileged I am to still be out on the roads while
many of my peers agonize over weather reports and
watch others do what the spectators can only dream
of doing.
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