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Joseph E Bird

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just an old t-shirt

More discoveries in the closet. This from a collection of about 30 t-shirts from races I ran in my running prime. The Charleston Distance Run is 15 miles, including some brutal hills. I loved running it.

So I’ve got shirts from a lot of races. Some of you may remember the Carbide 10k, another really hard race in the hills behind the Tech Center in South Charleston. Then there’s the Poca River 15K along the beautiful Poca River. The 20k from Fayetteville to Oak Hill, again in the rolling hills of West Virginia. The Coonskin Park 10k, maybe the hardest 10k race I’ve ever run. Back then everything was 10k. I went to California one year and ran the Brentwood 10k. That was cool.

But what do I do with all the shirts? Put them back in the box and take them out again in another 30 years? Remember the old days when I was a real runner?

In 1985 (before many of you were born) running was big. There were over 1400 runners in the Charleston Distance Run that year, including the Norwegian legend, Greta Waitz. She won the New York City Marathon nine times, including 1985. And there she was in Charleston. That year I ran the 15 miles in 1:37:50. That’s a little over 6.5 minute miles. Out of over 1400 runners, that was good enough for 160th place. My neighbor across the street, Dave Kline, finished in 1:25:14. Now Dave was a runner. But if I had run that same time in 2019, I would have finished in the top ten. In 2019 there were less than 400 runners.

Times change. Now all the races are 5k. And nobody wants to run hills.

I still do. I may not be as fast as I once was. I’m not interested in the 20-mile training runs it takes to run 15 in a race. I still do a little speed work, because, yeah, I get a kick out of winning the old man’s division.

And the truth is, the longer I can do that, the longer it will take me to get old.

4

born to run

This happened a couple of weeks ago:

It’s summer. 11:00 in the morning and it’s already 85. I’m running up Baier Street, one of the steep hills in the neighborhood. I’m about halfway up and I see a guy unloading a lawnmower getting ready to get to work. I say something to him about how hot it is and that it’s only going to get hotter. As I pass him, he says something about pain and never being alone. Yeah, that’s appropriate for both of us.

As I reached the top of the hill, I began to wonder if what he said was a quote. So this evening I looked it up. Here it is:

Make friends with pain and you will never be alone.

You’ll never guess where it comes from. Christopher McDougal.

Does that name ring a bell? It won’t unless you’re a runner.

Christopher McDougal used the quote in his book, Born to Run, the story of the ultra-distance runners of the Tarahumara tribe of Mexico’s Copper Canyon. A fascinating book, especially if you’re a runner. In the book, McDougal quotes Ken Chlouber, Colorado miner and creator of the Leadville Trail 100-mile race.

Make friends with pain and you will never be alone.

Now I wonder. Is the guy with the mower a runner? A reader? Both? Or did he just pick up the quote along the road of life? I hope I see him again. I’ll ask.

So today I’m out running again. Just the flats today.

Is that him? I think it is. So I stop. He’s trimming a yard and when I approach he turns off the trimmer. I remind him of our encounter a couple of weeks ago. He remembers. Tells me the quote again.

I ask him where he got it. A podcast, he says.

I tell him that its from Born to Run, the story of the Tarahumara tribe in Mexico.

Yeah, the barefoot runners, he says.

He tells me he used to run. Ran the Charleston Distance Run. Now he lifts weights. And mows grass.

He pulled the cord on his trimmer and he was back to work.

And I ran on down the road.

0

pain

It’s summer. 11:00 in the morning and it’s already 85. I’m running up Baier Street, one of the steep hills in the neighborhood. I’m about halfway up and I see a guy unloading a lawnmower getting ready to get to work. I say something to him about how hot it is and that it’s only going to get hotter. As I pass him, he says something about pain and never being alone. Yeah, that’s appropriate for both of us.

As I reached the top of the hill, I began to wonder if what he said was a quote. So this evening I looked it up. Here it is:

Make friends with pain and you will never be alone.

You’ll never guess where it comes from. Christopher McDougal.

Does that name ring a bell? It won’t unless you’re a runner.

Christopher McDougal used the quote in his book, Born to Run, the story of the ultra-distance runners of the Tarahumara tribe of Mexico’s Copper Canyon. A fascinating book, especially if you’re a runner. In the book, McDougal quotes Ken Chlouber, Colorado miner and creator of the Leadville Trail 100-mile race.

Make friends with pain and you will never be alone.

Now I wonder. Is the guy with the mower a runner? A reader? Both? Or did he just pick up the quote along the road of life? I hope I see him again. I’ll ask.

3

you must watch this

mercy.

i can’t begin to describe this video.

if you are a runner, you must watch this.

if you are an introspective person, you must watch this.

if you are awed by the forces of our natural world, you must watch this.

and if you watch this, you must watch until the very end.

0

the race

I rounded the corner, my legs sluggish, my body tired, and I was content to finish the run at a reasonable, non-challenging pace. It was hot and muggy and I hadn’t slept well the night before and work at the office and work at home had taken a toll on me and so, yes, I was content to finish the run at a reasonable, non-challenging pace. And then I rounded the corner.

I saw her walking across the street ahead of me, dressed in workout tights and a t-shirt, probably coming from the health club. She walked in front of another building and I lost sight of her.

You may begin judging. Why did I notice her?

  1. She appeared to be athletic and as a runner, I tend to notice others involved in athletic endeavors.
  2. I practice situational awareness and notice everybody in my immediate vicinity.
  3. I am a man and she was a woman and I am an example of toxic masculinity.

So again I turned the corner, and there she was, about twenty yards ahead of me, and she started to run. No, she wasn’t running from me; she hadn’t even seen me.

She’s twenty yards ahead and I see she’s not thin and lithe, doesn’t have that classic runner’s body. Judge me again. What is a runner’s body, Joe?

A couple of year ago I was out on a run and heard footsteps behind me and before I knew it, I was being passed by a squat, muscular guy who looked more like a weightlifter than a runner. But he was more of a runner than I was. So, sure, I admit that judging this woman by her build was not too smart. Still, I had no doubt that I was going to pass her very quickly, even with my tired, sluggish legs.

I should point out that this was happening along a busy street, a common running route in my town. So even if she knew I was behind her (and she didn’t) she wouldn’t have felt threatened. I was just another runner.

Off I go, picking up the pace a little. But I wasn’t closing the distance between us. Twenty yards became thirty. Thirty-five. Forty. She was leaving me in the dust.

So I eased up and resigned myself to the fact that she was probably thirty years younger than me and I was tired and so what if she’s faster.

No, I didn’t do that. I picked up my pace even more.

Still, she widened the gap. Maybe I should just lay back. Admit defeat.

Of course not. I pressed harder. Longer, quicker strides.

I was keeping pace now, but not closing the gap. My breathing was fast and hard, my heart pounding.

A slight uphill rise, followed by a downhill, where I used gravity to my advantage. I was getting closer, ever so slightly. When the road flattened, I kept my downhill pace. I was gaining on her.

But I didn’t know how long I could keep it up. A larger hill loomed ahead. Maybe she would slow. Even though I was dead tired and I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs, I was determined.

Why? What’s the purpose of this personal quest?

  1. It’s that toxic masculinity again. I have to prove that I’m a man.
  2. My ego is out of control and even at my age, I refuse to admit I’ve lost a few steps.
  3. Even though I have no desire to say more than hello as I pass her, I can’t help but think that she’ll be impressed by this ageless wonder running like a man half his age.
  4. Maybe I’m just a dork.

I was definitely closing the gap, but it’s a slow and painful process. If she picks up the pace even a little, I’m done. But I’ll keep pressing as long as I can.

And then she pivots and turns around, running toward me. I raise my hand in the understated runner’s wave. She doesn’t acknowledge me. She passes, and just like that, the race is over.

She wins. I lose.

I hit the hill I was dreading and I’m thankful I can slow down. And when I slow, I feel so tired that I wonder how I ran as fast as I did for as long as I did. Another half mile at an old man’s pace and my run is finished.

I sat down on the curb, sweat burning my eyes, a puddle forming on the concrete. And I started to ask the questions. The answers? All of the above.

Judge me as you will.

2

coincidence and cats

cat-1st-place

The other day I wrote a piece about coincidence (and how to resolve the unbelievable coincidences that hinder good story telling).

A couple of days later I tossed up a kind of random post about running hills.  I was just feeling good about still being able to challenge myself as I hobble into old man territory.  I directed the post to my New York friend, Cat Bradley, who is also a runner.  Little did I know that Cat was also doing hill repeats, and that even as I posted the photo of the hill I had just run, Cat was writing a post about her experience in forcing herself to run the hills.

Simply a coincidence of two people with similar interests having a similar experience at the same time?

Yeah, probably.

But while Cat’s story is ostensibly about running, you’ll see that it’s much more than that. It’s about what it takes to move forward in life. Click here.

Footnote:  The kitty in the photo is actually the First Place Prize I won in the Old Man Division of the Itty Bitty Kitty Committee 2 Miler a couple of years ago.  As you can imagine, the competition in the Old Man Division was very light that day.  Still, it took everything I had to get past the guy with the walker.

4

the race is not to the swift

shoes 1 for web

This morning one of my New York friends, Cat Bradley, was describing her first experience with mile repeats.  Yeah, you know what those are.  Run a mile at an elevated pace, recover with a slow jog (or walk) for a few minutes, then run another mile at an elevated pace.  Repeat.  For as long as you can do it.  Ahh, such fun.

Now Cat is young.  I am old.  I used to do those.  I still do speedwork and intervals when I’m able. But here’s the thing: my body won’t let me do what I used to do.  It’s one annoying minor injury after another.  Definitely age related.  My latest is a calf strain that’s kept me from putting in the miles.

Last Saturday morning I was at the church working in the garden with our spring work crew and a block away, runners gathered at the starting line. The gun goes off and the hoard runs past.  I so much wanted to be with them.  I love those times when you push yourself and see where you are, see what you’re made of.

And I will again.  This age thing has some benefits.  One, you learn patience.  I’ll be back.  I’ll do those long Sunday runs again.  I’ll do the intervals on my lunch hour.  I’ll run a few of those Saturday morning races.

I also know that I won’t be as fast as I was five years ago.  I won’t run as far as I did twenty years ago.  And the good thing is, I don’t want to.  I love running, but I also love writing, and playing my guitar, and being with my family, and having a relaxing breakfast on Saturdays.

Still, when you’re young like Cat, you have to do it.  It’s part of finding out who you are.

4

fight

Focus

I didn’t want to hit him.

I had nothing against him. No malice, no hard feelings of any kind. He had done me no harm.

It surprised me when he took that first swing. His eyes wild, hopped up on something, sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes.

I leaned back a little, dipped to the right and easily dodged his looping attempt to take my head off.

It surprised me even more how quickly he took his second swing, this one coming from his left. It caught me in the neck and knocked me back. It didn’t hurt, but I knew right then I’d have to hit him.

He kept coming at me, wailing away as I covered my head, his punches landing on my arms. Then he stopped.

I peaked out between my arms and saw him standing there, his hands by his side, gasping for air. Some of the crazy had left his eyes. Sweating more than ever. I was hoping he’d just quit.

I dropped my hands. He picked his up and came at me again.

I was ready this time and started to move around the ring, slipping and dodging punches. I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to hit me anymore. There was no way he was going to hurt me. But I also knew that because I hadn’t even thrown a punch, he was ahead on points.

I tossed out a gentle jab, tapped him on the forehead. He threw a wild right. Another jab, square in his face. And another.

Then he charged me. No pretense of boxing, just an all-out street fight. I tried to fend him off, but he ran right through my gloves and into my chest. He grabbed me in a bear hug and tried to wrestle me to the canvas, and in the process, he head-butted me and busted my lip.

So much for a fair fight.

I stepped to my left and swung my torso while I pushed him in the same direction. He stumbled away and almost fell out of the ring. My eyes were watering from the head-butt but I could see clearly enough. He got to his feet and glared at me, readying himself for another charge.

Before he could take a step, I stung him with a jab. A real jab this time, not just a friendly tap on the noggin. It stopped him dead in his tracks. Another one and he wobbled a bit. One more, with feeling.

And he was down.

.

I already knew what I was going to tell Kari. In fact, the lie had already been started.

I told her they needed me to work the second shift, which actually happens now and then. Of course I wasn’t working the second shift, or the first shift, or the hoot owl, for that matter. I wasn’t working any shift. Demand was down, so production slowed and they had to let some of us go. And not just at Maysel No. 2. All the mines were down. So it wasn’t like I could just go somewhere else.

But I was doing what I could. I managed to get a few hours at the prep plant down in Boomer. Even filled in for workers on a road crew in Mingo. But work’s hard to come by right now.

I was hoping I might come out of the fight unscathed, but I had a lie ready for that, too. It’s dark in the mine and it’s not at all unusual to get a few bumps and bruises. A busted lip is a little different, but I could sell it. To Kari, anyway. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to lie to the kids.

She bought it. I think. She didn’t ask any questions when I told her I was off to work the next evening. She even packed my lunch pail.
.

That first night had been like a wild carnival, but those first round fights eliminate most of the drug-crazed loonies. But it was Saturday night and like the old song says, Saturday night’s all right for fighting and there was still enough crazy to go around.

Back in the locker room the handler slipped my gloves on and started to lace them up. The card said I was up against a guy from McDowell County. I asked the handler if he knew him and he nodded toward the guy at the other end of the room. He was already laced up and shadowboxing in front of the mirror.

I knew then that there was a real possibility that I might not make it to the money round.

Not that I didn’t know what I was doing. I learned from my grandfather. Learned about footwork. Learned how to use leverage to throw a punch. Timing with combinations. Defense. And reading an opponent. But that was a long time ago. Gramps had been dead four years now, but it had been even longer – fifteen years, maybe – since I used the skills he taught me.

Gramps fought until he was in his late thirties, just a little older than I am now. He was good. Black Dynamite, they called him. Never made much money. Never could fight his way out of the hollers.

He taught me because he knew I’d need to know how to fight. I wasn’t quite black, which would have brought it’s own challenges, but I wasn’t white either. Got just enough of my mother’s fair skin and my daddy’s brown to put me in my own class of outcast. Half-breed, they called me.

Gramps started training me early and when I turned sixteen, he signed me up for Golden Gloves in Charleston. I did ok, but more importantly, word got out that I was a fighter. Once I survived a couple of challenges by rednecks who just had to see for themselves, everybody left me alone.

.

Turns out the guy from McDowell is more style than substance. We both start out deliberately, because we both think we’re boxers. Proper stance and footwork, moving around the ring in slow circles. He throws a soft jab, not really meaning to hit me, just trying to get things started. He throws another one and his right hand is already dropping. He’s an easy target. He tosses another soft jab. I can see he’s scared. In over his head.

I sting him with a jab and his eyes water up. Another jab and he rocks backward and covers up. I give him a chance to get his head together. Then he tries another jab, this one with a little more velocity, but not nearly enough. I come in over his his right hand with a left hook and it’s all over.

I hear the crowd. A collective ooh. I walk back to my corner, my head down.

I’m in the money round.

.

Gramps killed a man in the ring.

He told me about it after I had quit fighting. Boxing’s supposed to be a sport, but it can get you killed. All it takes is one punch.

I don’t want to have to live with that.

I want this night over. Never again.

.

My next fight was an hour later. If I win, it’s worth $500. That’s why I’m here.

This time I don’t ask about my opponent. I know he’ll be tough. You don’t get to the third round without knowing what you’re doing. I see him for the first time when I step into the ring. He’s at least two inches taller than I am.

Now I’m the one who’s scared.

This fight starts like the last one. Circling, jabbing, but when he throws a jab, he’s not tentative. He’s meaning to hurt me. I slip the first two but the third catches me on the side of the face. I throw a couple of my own but they don’t connect. He throws two more then follows with a right, which I barely duck. I felt the leather skin across the top of my head and I know I’m going to have a burn.

He peppers me with more jabs, each one coming closer to a square hit. He tries the combination again but I’m ready for it this time and have no problem avoiding it. But I can’t get through his gloves. My jabs just meet leather. I try a right cross with the same result.

He flicks another jab. This one on the mouth. He breaks open the cut from last night. I had told Kari that John Boy had poked me with the wrong end of a shovel. I could tell she didn’t believe me. She sure won’t believe John Boy poked me again.

This is not going to end well.

I didn’t see him load up his right hand and it catches me square on the side of my face. The next thing I know I’m looking up at the ref, who’s looking down at me counting. He reaches six and I start to get up and I hear the bell.

I make it to the corner and reach for a towel. Not to wipe my sweat, but to throw it to the ref. I’m outmatched and I could get hurt, really hurt. And if I get hurt, I can’t work.

The second hands me a water bottle.

Go to the body, he says. His hands are so high, you can pound his body all night.

How did I not see that? I wipe my face with the towel.

The bell rings and he thinks he has me. More jabs, which I knew were coming. And the right. This time I go under and step forward. A right to his gut. Then a left and another right. I hear him grunting, trying to push me away. I step back, throw a couple of jabs, then here he comes again.

I step inside and start pounding. He cusses and I know I’m hurting him. I get maybe five or six really good punches before he pushes me away again. Now he’s mad.

Before I can get set he catches me again with another right and down I go. But I don’t feel it like I felt the first one. I’m back on me feet at three. The ref dusts my gloves and I wait for the barrage.

Here it comes. Jab. Jab. Right.

Again I duck under and go to work. His elbows drop to his side and I move toward the center of his stomach. His sweat is dripping all over me, but I keep hitting before he finally clinches and holds my arms.

The ref breaks us up and I step back. His arms are down. He doesn’t want me to hit him in the gut anymore. And I know he can’t throw his jab with his arms down.

I fake a punch to his stomach and he covers up. I launch a left hook. Then a right cross. He’s reeling and I follow up with a perfectly leveraged left hook to the head. The best punch I’ve ever thrown in my life.

And he’s down. He’s not moving. Out cold.

I’m caught up in the sport of boxing, enjoying the moment of victory, the successful strategy, the physical triumph. The crowd is roaring. It feels good. No, it feels great.

He still hasn’t moved.

The referee is kneeling beside him. The ring doctor is there, too. Someone is fanning him.

He still hasn’t moved.

I start to pray. I didn’t even know it at the time, but when I replay the scene in my mind, I was praying.

He still hasn’t moved.

How was I going to tell Kari? How was I ever going to be able to face my kids?

Then I see his eyes flicker, then open slowly. He looks around and they pull him up to a seated position. A couple of minutes later, he’s on his feet.

But that’s it. Five hundred is enough for Christmas presents. I forfeited the championship match.

.

I got home after midnight. Kari was waiting on the couch, the television on, the tree in corner, no presents underneath.

Junior called, she said.

Junior’s my boss.

Said to come back to the mine on Monday night if you want to work the hoot owl.

She knew all along. I could tell. She looked at my bruised face.

Did you win?

I pulled the envelope from my back pocket and handed it to her.

For you and the kids.

We got to do something else, Jimmy. We can’t live like this.

I nodded. There weren’t a lot of options. It wouldn’t be easy. But she was right.

I sat on the couch beside her and she leaned her head on my shoulder.

Somehow we’d figure it out.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird
Photo Credit: iStock

3

running and writing

If you’re a runner, you know the feeling.

Every now and then, it all comes together.  You’ve trained just enough, you’ve found just enough rest, your legs feel fresh, the weather is just right, and you’re running as if you’re weightless, moving fast and smooth, and as the miles click off, you never slow down and you wish you could run that way forever.

Not so much for me, lately, as I struggle to get back on the road.

Writing has a similar zone, one that I haven’t felt for a while.  It’s been a rocky year and  I’ve had difficulty in finding a rhythm. Just the ordinary trials of life that we all face. The week of Thanksgiving our furnace was out.  It was so cold in the house I couldn’t put two words together. Then there’s work (the paying job) and work at home (the basement remodeling project) that have been conspiring against my mind and body.

But Sunday morning I found it. After a tenuous start, the words started to flow. Just enough training, just enough rest, my mind felt fresh, the room felt right, and I was writing as if I were weightless, so fast and smooth, and as the words clicked off, I never slowed down and I felt like I could write that way forever.

4

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