Tag Archives: running

Fathers and Sons, Outside, The Girls

Better Late Than Never ….

Really, we shoulda gotten there a lot earlier.

“What time should we leave?” Emma, the organized one, asked me the night before, whereupon I did the math in my head, which family history has proven time and time again really means, “a slight majority of the math.” Looked up the drive on Google, which placed it around 30 minutes. Should be good if we leave by 10, I guesstimated. “I’ll set my alarm for 9:50,” my son informed me, which prompted me to suggest, unsuccessfully, we leave by 9:45.  Which means we left at 10:10, which got us there at 10:45, which left us just enough time to park, pick up our bibs, and evacuate any remaining bodily fluids before taking our place at the back of the pack of already stretched and warmed-up humans massed at the starting line.

Our tight window robbed me of sharing the signature element of my pre-plannning. For motivation I was going to play Kurt Russell’s Herb Brooks’ “Miracle” speech before we got out of the car. Remind them that they were, you know, born to be hockey players. Alas.

To be fair … it’d been four years since the last time I’d participated in an organized race, so was a bit out of practice. And to be honest, I never really was what one would call ‘in practice.’  In the handful of 5 and 10Ks I’d begrudgingly participated in the couple years before the pandemic, I was never in charge of any of the planning. All of that fell to my ‘running buddy,’ Jason, whose default is to subjugate every detail to his monarchical rule. He’d prompt our registration, then spec our departure time and the ensuing directions. My race day responsibilities were limited to a light stretch followed by (a.) watching the back of Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, and then (b.) concentrating all of my energies on not puking down the front of me while maintaining operating control of my bowels until the whole unpleasantness was over.

It was the memory of one such episode that prompted me this New Year’s Eve to casually mention to Peter that I’d seen that there was a “Resolution 5K” run in Oakdale on New Year’s Day. Five New Year’s Eve’s ago, as I was a couple Moscow Mules into my evening, Jason texted me a link to that year’s race, accompanied by, “You in?” I remember convincing myself that my third Moscow Mule was spiritually akin to the training montage in Rocky IV where Stallone is carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. From what I recall, my next day’s performance was, in fact, a fair simulacrum of an overmatched, middle-aged man carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. 

I hadn’t really asked Peter if he was interested in this year’s version, so was surprised when he responded to my dissemination of the fact with, “I’ll do it.” Nor was I expecting Emma’s response after I informed her that I’d signed Peter and me up. “Sign me up, too.” Neither had ever done a 5K before.

Seconds after doing so, apparently in the throes of what science calls a “runner’s high,” I wandered into the dining room and informed Karry of our New Year’s Day plans and asked if she wanted to ride with us and, you know, cheer us along. Which prompted the following exchange. 

She: (silence) 

Me: Maybe you could make a sign or something. 

She: (emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage)

So it was ‘just’ the three of us standing in the light snow in 30-degree weather seconds before the start of the race, whereupon Peter asked if we’d be running together or just doing our own thing. 

“Do your own thing,” I advised, since I wasn’t quite sure what any of our things were. 

Since we were waaaaaayyyyyy in the back of the pack, I spent the first couple minutes maneuvering around participants either walking or easing into things (whose better judgement qualified every single one of them to be my Life Coach). Managed to carve out some space and was settling into a rhythm when a guy runs up along side me and asks me what my pace is. I hadn’t thought to consider that data point prior to his asking. I looked at my phone and saw I was matriculating at a 7:43 clip. Had I been sipping a Moscow Mule at that moment I would’ve reacted with my first spit take of the New Year. From what I could remember that was about a minute faster than my pre-pandemic pace. The voice in my head immediately channeled my Inner Karry — “[emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage].”

 “That’s my pace, too!” he said enthusiastically. “My name’s Jason,” he said cheerfully. (Apparently I’m a magnet for Racin’ Jasons.) “Do you have a target today?” he asked. Since we’d just met I couldn’t give him my honest answer — “Not pooping my pants” —  instead opting for a simple “No.”  Undaunted, he asked me if I intended to maintain my pace the rest of the way.

I took a deep breath and replied: “Look, before we get too far into this relationship, I’m not who you think I am. I’m living a lie right now. If I keep up this charade one of us is going to end up on the side of the trail bleating like a heifer giving birth to triplets before we hit the turnaround. You look like a nice enough fellow, but this … this is never going to work. The best thing for you to do right now is to leave me. Forget we ever met. Go, just go. Go live a life. And whatever you do … promise me you will never, ever look back.”

All of which came out of my mouth as, “Nope,” as I knew I would need all my breaths for the foreseeable future. 

As I found an odd reassurance in watching New Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, I began to recall my previous race experiences. Turns out that running is just like riding a bike, except way harder … and with lots more awful running involved. I was reminded that the first mile is always further than it seems. “Surely I’ve run a mile by now,” I think to myself about a quarter of a mile in. 

And the second mile is always The Worst. I refer to it as the “Seriously, what were you thinking?” mile. It’s just mean. Apparently it had a difficult upbringing. Probably overbearing parents. Most likely a bed wetter. Even when I’m running longer distances, the second mile just mercilessly taunts me.

Nevertheless, I managed to make it to the turnaround, and shortly thereafter, my phone let me know I’d made it two miles … upon which I convinced myself that this would all be over soon. Found someone just slightly ahead of me that was ambling at a reasonable pace and settled in behind them.

Stole a glance at my phone when I was about 23 minutes in. Figured I only had about three-ish minutes left to go. At which point my endorphins began to ask me my thoughts on a potential finishing kick. 

“Good one,” I responded before realizing that my endorphins, much like my wife, are not kidders. 

I hadn’t reached three miles yet, so was in no great hurry to make any rash decisions.

Then all of a sudden this very tall, bearded dude zooms past me. In full gallop. Like, really going for it, Kentucky-Derby-style. Sizing him up I figured he was likely in my age group. I was genuinely impressed. “Wow,” I thought. Clearly he had a plan that involved more than just maintaining a good grip on his bowels. “Good luck with … all that,” I mentally saluted as he sped past.

A couple minutes later, my phone tells me I’m at three miles. And when I look up, I see that I’m actually gaining on Tall Bearded Dude, who was now visibly scuffling down the home stretch. Looked like his bowels wanted a word with him. Kicked a little too early, evidently.

Hubris. 

Which my endorphins and I discovered is apparently contagious in men of my age group. 

“We’re taking this f*cker down!” my endorphins exclaimed. 

“Language!” I scolded in reply, before putting my metaphorical pedal to the metal, which reacted with all the responsiveness of my parents’ 1980 Mercury Monarch that I learned to drive on.  

“OK, give us a minute here,” my body replied … before marshaling all my remaining faculties into a barely perceptible acceleration, which catapulted me past Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy in a turn of events that surprised me almost but not quite as much Brigette Nielsen when Rocky drew blood from Ivan Drago.

As the finish line came into view up ahead, I somehow managed to keep TBPP Guy in my wake while retaining a majority of the bodily ingredients I’d started with, including a teensy measure of pride.

After catching my breath I sought out Peter and Emma and found them upright and in tact as well. We made our way to the community center for some water, and to steal a glance at the posted results just for funsies. Both Peter and I finished sixth in our respective age groups (even more impressive for him, as he was fighting a bit of a chest cold), while Emma finished third in her female age group, earning a tiny medal. Not bad for a coupla first timers. 

Driving home in a car redolent with the aroma of our respective Ks, I was reminded of what I used to appreciate about participating in races. They’re invariably mini exercises in aliveness. Of the conscious choice to sign up. Of the sacred act of pulling a shirt over your head and lacing your shoes. Of stretching to give your body its best chance. Of seeking out your place amongst kindred spirits at different places along their respective journeys. Of watching the backs of jerseys getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Of humbling second miles where your inner voice gains the upper hand. Of appreciating that there will always be folks faster than you, and folks content with taking their own good time, and many lessons to be learned from both. And that you are probably both of those things to those around you, too. Opportunities to push yourself a little harder than you otherwise might … and seeing what happens. Heck, if it were up to me I’d give a tiny medal to Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy — for not waiting until he was ready to give it all he had. Better late than never, you know? 

Summing the math on the above — or at least the slight majority of the math — aliveness is the blessing of the Racin’ Jasons and Peters and Emmas in my life … people who both ask and answer questions that I don’t always have the courage to ask myself, and who push me to see how fast and far I might be able to go. 

And who make me want to be a little bit better next time.

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Excursions, Fathers and Sons

Raise Your Hand ….

Early evening last Saturday, Peter and I are heading out for a bite to eat (he twisted my arm for Benihana, forgetting that it is self-twisting on the subject). 

Leaving the neighborhood we make the left onto Park Avenue. Where I catch a glimpse of a young lady in exercise attire walking along the left side of the road. 

I register the sight of her just as she does the most remarkable thing …  she shoots her left fist up and punches straight into the air. 

And I see a smile break wide across her face. 

Catching her in a moment of some spontaneous affirmation.

I don’t know if she’s watching something on her phone, or listening to something in her earbuds, or just alone with her thoughts … but my heart immediately fills at the sight. 

To be more scientifically precise, her heart fills mine. 

Because I recognize the act. I know that exact feeling. 

Sometimes when I’m taking my (very) slow laps over at the track (which sits directly across the street from where she was walking, on the back side of the high school), my mind also often goes for a jog, wandering and wondering. And sometimes (not always, just sometimes) it encounters a spark. A thought. A connection. Sometimes an idea. 

Or sometimes if I’m listening to music while huffing around the track, a song kicks in that, even if I’ve heard it dozens of times before, I hear it differently … or, maybe I’m just in a different space when I hear it, and it resonates with where my head or heart happen to be, and turns its skeleton key in some lock, and opens up a new door. 

It’s the most magical thing when it happens. I think it only happens when I’m moving because the security guards in my brain are having to focus on keeping the machine in motion, which allows my thoughts to roam unsupervised on their playgrounds. 

But when these moments happen to strike, I can’t help but shoot my left arm in the air in acknowledgement, in recognition. It’s like an autonomic response.

And a smile will invariably break across my face. Often, I’ll affirm the feeling with an audible, “Yes!” 

A spontaneous amen to the heavens. In grateful receipt of whatever form or shape the gift takes.

The feeling comes outta nowhere. The ‘arm shoot’ … I do it without thinking. Immediately after I’ll remember where I’m at and look around to take inventory of anyone else around me whose attention may have been drawn by the freak who seems to be running a race in his head that he just won. I can’t imagine what others might think. 

All I know is what I thought when I saw that young lady on the side of the road. I found myself wondering what it was that made her say her Amen. That brought her such spontaneous joy on a late Saturday afternoon. Had I not had two hands on the wheel, I would’ve proly shot my arm up and out the window in solidarity, in gratitude for her letting me know that I’m not the only one who does such things … and maybe to let her know that she’s not the only one, either. 

I have a playlist that I consider my sorta’ “In Case of Emergency or Existential Crisis, Break Glass” Playlist — which in practical terms is also known as “Pete’s Everyday Playlist” (ahem) — in which an encore entry is Morgan Harper Williams’ Storyteller (if you are not familiar, MHN is an “autistic artist” [her term]/author/creator/advocate and just an absolute light in this world). The song always reminds me of so many good things, of Grace … of all the things that have accounted for my being here. Always of Mom and Dad, too. 

It never fails to fill (or re-fill) my cup. And invariably, by the time me and Morgan make it to the line, “So this is me telling this story over and over again,” one of us has our fist in the air … and also some glorious fucking tears, and is unapologetic on both accounts, even (or, more precisely, especially) when one of us is taking our Sunday evening laps around the track. 

Full disclosure: if anyone caught me in the act at that moment and called me on it, I’d gladly pause (I usually need a break at that point in my jog, anyway [ha]), and would tell ‘em all about it. About Morgan. About Dad. And Mom, too. How they and a whole bunch of Grace “brought the pieces together, and made me their storyteller,” just like Morgan says.  

In our pressing against the world around us, sometimes the most capital “C” Cup-filling thing is just to stumble upon or bear witness to something or someone that reminds us that we’re not the only ones, that we’re not (totally) crazy, and that joy is always a lot closer than we think. 

It can take so many forms … a kind thought from the universe that we allow into our heads, a song that’s always been there, but catches us like a dog whistle if we tune our ears to just the right frequency, or just a random encounter with a total stranger that we may never meet … say, a young lady out for a walk on a Saturday afternoon. 

Reminding us to keep our doors cracked open a bit, our eyes and ears wide, our antennae up, so that we can know it when we see it, so we can call it by its name, and, if we are so moved, to raise our fists to the heavens and say yes to it. 

So to the young lady out for her Saturday early evening walk, I just wanted to say thank you … from a fellow traveler. 

Amen, sister. 

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Righteous riffs

Periodic reminder ….

On a Saturday morning last September, I went across the street to the high school track for a run. 

It was my birthday. 

“Run” is a generous term for the act. I prefer the more accurate “periodic reminder of how out of shape I am.” 

I enjoy going to the track at the high school, its rubberized surface forgiving on the knees. I’ve been periodically reminding myself for years now, long enough to recognize some of the track’s recurring characters. There’s Gray-Bearded Yellow Hoodie Guy, who runs leaning forward with just the smoothest gait … and just smokes me. There’s Power-Walking Curly Headed Lady (very intense), who, over months, seemed to be re-habbing a hip injury and now bears little trace of favoring her one side. There’s Elite High School Cross Country Star, who’s always there with her Dad. She flat out fuh-lies. I’ve literally jumped when she passes me because she comes up so fast.  Last winter when the track was snow covered, I saw her running laps around the school’s parking lot, which had been plowed clear. Inspired by her example, I took a few of those laps myself instead of returning home.

I am not religious about the days and times that I visit. But when I go on Saturday mornings, there is often an older gentleman already there when I arrive. I’m awful at guessing ages, but I assumed he had a good 5-10 years on me (he shaves his head, so there are fewer clues). He takes his time doing laps, his gait slow but knowing. I figure he paces himself only because that’s just part of his workout. After he does his laps, he moves to the infield, where he does a separate regimen of squats, push-ups and stretches. His approach is disciplined, methodical. It’s all I can do to lug my keister around the loop a few times, so I steal a glance occasionally when my tank is running low. Makes me want to push a little harder.

On the Saturday morning of my birthday he was there when I arrived, doing his thing. Had just wrapped his laps and was doing push ups on the side. He finished as I was slow-lapping around the track. Even though I’d seen him numerous times, we’d never spoken. But, for some reason I couldn’t resist calling out to him. Call it birthday courage. 

 “Sir … excuse me…,” I called out. I never talk to anybody, so am not sure of proper track etiquette. 

He paused and turned around.

“I just wanted to say … you inspire me.” 

He couldn’t resist a smile as he replied, “Well, I’m 82 years old.” 

Stopped me cold in my tracks.  

Note: it wasn’t like it broke me out of a full sprint or anything. Rather, imagine a bumper car easing to a stop after they turn the juice off. 

“Your are kidding me.” Again, I thought the guy had, like, 10 years at the MOST on me. 

“Yep, had my birthday in April.”

OK, I said. Thirty years his junior and having to play mind tricks to coax my keister another half lap around the track, I had questions. 

“So, what’s your secret?” 

His smile was as knowing as his routine. 

“Well, I’ve always just tried to take care of myself,” he began.

“I’ve worked out all my life. Was an athlete when I was younger. Try to get plenty of sleep. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink …” 

“ … except for a beer on Sundays if I’m watching the Steelers.” 

Understandable. The Steelers will make a person drink, I said. 

He laughed, then continued…. 

“You watch the NFL, huh? My grandson plays for the Colts.” 

What? 

“Yeah, Rodney Thomas.” 

Told me he was a second year player, working his way up the depth chart. I asked him where his grandson went to college. 

“Yale,” he said. 

Whoa.  

“Number 25,” he said. “Keep an eye on him.”

We exchanged names, shook hands. 

I thanked him for the conversation. Told him it was my birthday and that he’d already made it memorable. 

__

Couple months later. Another Saturday morning. Forecast called for rain. I checked my phone, which indicated that the weather was only gonna get worse as the day wore on. So I pulled on my hoodie and lugged myself over to the track. Mr. Thomas was already there, getting after it. We waved to each other as I broke into my slow jog. After a couple miles I opted to walk and stretch a bit. Whenever I do this I turn around and go the opposite direction of the one I’m running.  As I passed Mr. Thomas he asked me how I was doing. I stopped so we could chat for a minute. It was raining by this point.

He couldn’t resist sharing the big news. 

“My grandson’s making his first start this Sunday night … against the Steelers.” 

Me: “No way.” 

“Yeah, the starting cornerback is a Pro-Bowler. My grandson was fifth on the depth chart as a rookie. He made second string this year. And this week in practice, the starter had an ankle injury. 

“Rodney called me this week and said, ‘Pops, make sure you tune in, I’m starting.’ I’m so proud of him.” 

I’d been meaning to ask Mr. Thomas about another Thomas I remember covering years ago when I worked for the local newspaper — Travis Thomas, who I remember went to Notre Dame on a football scholarship. Any relation? 

Mr. Thomas said he and Travis’ dad are first cousins. Travis got injured at Notre Dame, which slowed down his football career, but is doing well in Indiana these days. Talked to him just last month. Said Travis was just so proud of Rodney, remembering when Rodney was little and running all over the fields at the Brownson House (a venerable sports facility here in Washington, PA). How, even at that young age, he had his sights on the NFL. 

“Travis said he was just so proud of how hard Rodney’s worked his whole life.”

“The key is just getting after it,” I say to the 82-year-old taking Saturday morning December laps in the rain. 

Mr. Thomas smiled. “Doesn’t matter what it is. Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” 

I wished him well. Thanked him for the conversation. Thanked him again for the inspiring example. Told him I’ll be watching. 

“Keep an eye on him,” he said to me again, as he had in our first encounter. 

Monday morning I scanned the box score of the game, saw a couple tackles next to Rodney’s name. 

I couldn’t help but imagine how good Proud Grandfather beer must taste. 

__ 

Couple weeks ago, my wife sends me a text, along with a link. “You see this?”

Rodney Thomas driving 100 miles in the middle of the night to be at the side of his good friend. 

“I had a goal,” Thomas said Jan. 4, via Colts.com. “I knew where I was going, so I just got on the road and I just went. Laser-focused.”

colts.com

He could’ve easily been talking about his path from the Brownson House to the NFL.

Reading his quote, I couldn’t help but picture the image of his 82-year-old Pops and his Saturday regimen.

This past Monday morning, I steal a glance at my phone looking for some beginning of the week inspiration. 

Like on the track, I steal the occasional glance when my tank is running low. 

Found this. 

Rodney Thomas working hard at his craft, and working harder to make sure it counts.

Anything worth doing is worth doing well.

“Keep an eye on him,” his grandfather said to me in the birthday gift of our first conversation.

I now realize he wasn’t referring to any stat line in a box score.  

__ 

I’ve learned a lot over the years lugging my keister over to the track.

Primarily, I’ve learned the importance of stealing a glance around us for inspiration when our tanks are running low. Doesn’t matter what shape you’re in.

And that inspiration is everywhere and can come from anywhere. 

From those faster than us … who give us something to chase. 

From those slower than us … who remind us that the important thing, if not the only thing, is just getting out there and putting one foot in front of the other. 

From those younger than us … who remind us that time is precious and sneaks up on you fast when you’re not paying attention.

And from those older than us … who have logged miles and miles (and miles) of experience and wisdom. And who carry stories that none of us can even begin to imagine… 

… unless we take the occasional breath … muster up a little birthday courage when needed … thank them for their example … and periodically remind ourselves that we’re all just momentarily sharing the same track. 

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