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.
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.
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.
I’d like to share a story one of my New York running friends wrote. Sadly, it’s all too true, but Ari tells it with strength and grace and a perspective that is shaped by those long, lonely miles on the road.
The photo above is mine from the West Virginia highlands, which is not that different from upstate New York. Click on the link below and you’ll see what I mean.
I ran today for the first time in a couple of months. Last November I started having some soreness in my right knee. I cut back, but the soreness persisted. So I tried some cross-training. Went out on my bike. But then winter came, so I joined the local gym to continue my rehab. Hours on the bike, some leg extensions and curls, and every now and then, a few minutes on the treadmill. Leading up to today.
It’s a cool 50 degree day. A little bit of sunshine. Perfect for running. I only did two or three miles and my knee was getting a little sore by the time I finished, so I know I’m not finished with rehab. Still, it was good to get out there again.
I hate the gym.
I hate the Precor bike. I’d hate the Peloton bike. Not that they’re not effective. I get a really good workout and I like that I can program different courses to ride.
But even with that, it’s so boring.
I play music on my phone when I’m riding indoors and I need music with energy. I’m a big Foo Fighters fan so that’s what I started out with. And you know how Pandora is. Those darned algorithms. Next thing you know I’m listening to Nirvana, the great grunge band of the 90s. I was never a big fan, but I’ve come to dig their music. I’ve even learned the opening guitar riff to Smells Like Teen Spirit. Dave Grohl, Foo Fighters founder and front-man, was the drummer for Nirvana, so that’s the connection.
Then I’m hearing Weezer. Pandora’s nudged me into the new century. Then Jimmy Eats World. Fun, high-energy music. Then I guess Pandora figured I need a cool down. So it’s The Reason. Nice song. By a band called Hoobastank.
That’s got to be one of the best names for a band.
So I went around the next day asking people if they remembered Hoobastank. I got a lot of laughs, but nobody knew what I was talking about. When I played the song, they usually remembered.
I asked Lexi at Coal River Coffee. She knew right away. A song was playing on their sound system. Who’s this, I asked. The Fray she said without hesitation. I like Lexi. She knows her music.
Go buy some coffee from her. And get out on the road and put in a couple of miles.
If that Nirvana video was a little too much for you, watch this Weird Al parody.
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?
She appeared to be athletic and as a runner, I tend to notice others involved in athletic endeavors.
I practice situational awareness and notice everybody in my immediate vicinity.
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?
It’s that toxic masculinity again. I have to prove that I’m a man.
My ego is out of control and even at my age, I refuse to admit I’ve lost a few steps.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Joseph E Bird 