Looking ahead to 60

This weekend, Kelli and I are visiting Mom and Dad in Asheville, NC.  While we’re there, we’ll be running the Maggie Valley Moonlight Run.  It’s a fitting combination.  I can’t avoid but to think about dad and running in the same entwined thought.  Our history dovetails with running, or at least it has  for the last 32 years. As for the race, I can’t say I’m ready for it.  Far from it.  The furthest run I’ve done since my surgery is three miles.  I’ve gone longer, but not without walking.  But I’ll be at the starting line, and I’ll cross the finish line, and somewhere within, I’ll navigate the five up and down miles in between.  And this race will represent a starting point in my running rejuvenation.

I have found that establishing running goals have become more challenging as I have gotten older.  I’ll never run as fast as I once did, and I’ll probably never run as far either.  Every year sees me slipping further and further back in the pack, and the reasons are two-fold.  It is partly because my priorities have changed, but it is at least partially due to the fact that I’m just not as willing invest the hard work as I did when new goals were fresh, and PR’s were still in front of me.

But a couple of days ago, I became newly inspired by something that happened close to 30 years ago.

My father turned 60.

Why is that inspiring to me?  Because a year from October, I’ll be turning 60, and when I do, I want to be just like him.  Let me explain.

Dad and I first started racing together when he was in his mid 50s and I was in my mid 20s.  We were both still in New York then, and Dad and I used to meet in Central Park to race once or twice a month.  I used to pace him often, and pulled him to some very impressive age group times.  I never appreciated quite how good his times were until years later, when I started to slow down, and realized I couldn’t run the times he ran in his 50s when I was the age he used to be.  But back then, I was young and ignorant, and still thought I was the one who was going to beat this age thing and never slow down.  In my mid 20s, I could run run 7-minute miles without much effort, so I thought dad’s 8-minute miles were rather pedestrian.  I was sure I’d still be running 7-minute miles in my 50s.   

Boy, was I wrong!

The other day, I was playing around with the web site Athlinks.com and came across some interesting data regarding my father.  Fortunately, the New York Road Runners Club was ahead of its time when it came to computerization, and was spitting out electronic results long before most races.  And some of these results make it to the Athlinks.com database.  My jaw dropped when I saw some of dad’s race results from when he was 60.  They were impressive, to say the least. 

NYRRC Computer Run-5 mile- 40:27

Perrier 10K- 49:43

Staten Island Half Marathon- 1:50:52

In comparison, I have not run a 10K as fast as that since I was 54, and I have not run a half marathon faster than that since I was 49.  I was 48 the last time I was close to dad’s 5 mile time at age 60.   And my times in all distances have only gotten slower since then.  I have not broken two hours for a half marathon in several years, and I’d be hard pressed to break an hour in a 10K at the moment. 

But as I studied his times from when he was 60, and thought about it, I found myself getting excited at the thought of making my goals when I’m 60 match his achievements when he was there.  Could I possibly still whip myself into shape to run a 50 minute 10K or a 1:50 half marathon when I turn 60?  It would take a dedicated effort, and probably the help of a good coach.  When I used a coach 10 years ago, I ended up running my marathon PR a day after my 49^th birthday.  It seems like a lifetime ago now since I was in the shape I was then.  It was 30 pounds ago, and my resting heart rate

was under 40. 

Can I do it?  I have a year to find out, and it’s going to be a fun one.

Top 5 reasons to Run in the Rain

Every day now, I seem to be taking additional steps to shake the softness that has crept into my running life the past few years.   It started far before the surgery, and every day seemed to pull me further and further from the athlete I used to be.  For what seems like a long time now, I had been finding every excuse to NOT run, and I was settling into a life of comfort and leisure.

But the last few weeks, a spark has been ignited, and I am working my way out of this comfort zone and back into the life of a runner. The knee surgery was a success, and I've worked my way back to being the runner of passion that I used to be.  It was very hard at first, a quarter mile peppered into my walks, then, as I tested the waters more, the running started to come back slowly.   I've been answering the 4:50 AM call to hit the roads about every day, and though I have a long way to go, I am now going to bed every night expecting to start the next day with a run.

This morning, I added a new level to the discomfort, doing something I once never thought twice about, and in fact, looked forward to.  This morning, for the first time in forever, I did a run in the rain.  It took me by surprise.  I didn't even know it was raining until I opened the front door to go for my run.  I didn't even reconsider for a fraction of a second.  I was out, playing in it right away.

I have written about the virtues of running in the rain in the past.  I love doing it, once I'm out in it.  It's invigorating, refreshing, and it always leaves a warm memory once completed.  SO while I was running and thinking, I came up with the top five reasons for running in the rain.

5) You don't have to carry water

4) You don't need to take a shower when you're done.

3) Your running route is suddenly your triathlon route

2) No worries about getting a Farmer's Tan

And the Number 1 reason to enjoy a run in the rain.

1) You don't have to hold your pee until you finish.  Who will know?

Think about that the next time you try to talk yourself out of a run in the rain!

First Steps Back

As I slowly opened my eyes, I could feel the tube being removed from my mouth, and it was done. 

The last thing I remembered before this was a mask being placed over my nose, and about five breaths in and five breaths out.  Then this.

In what felt like a blink of an eye, an aching and slightly torn left meniscus had been repaired, and my left leg had been wrapped in gauze and tight bandaging from my upper thigh to my foot.  And an opportunity to return to my old self was created.  Even an old self was a better prospect than no self.  A simple arthroscopic surgery in less than an hour returned the hope that I will again run like the wind, or at my age, at least like an old fart.  Any kind of wind would be an improvement from the dark side of surgery.

I was stunned when, about 10 minutes later, I was told “get up and walk to your car.”  I was expecting at the very least a wheelchair, which I had incorrectly assumed was standard procedure for any surgery.  I’ve never seen anyone released from a hospital who exited any other way, but this was an outpatient clinic, and I guess they have a different set of rules.  But being ordered to walk out of knee surgery, even before standing up?  That was surprising.

I lifted myself from the bed, and though I walked gingerly to the awaiting car, nothing hurt, and I could immediately put full weight on the left knee.  It felt weak, but it felt great.  Those steps to the car were my first steps in a recovery process I plan to document regularly, for two reasons.  First, I want to praise the wonders of modern medicine as it applies to me.  I see it every day in my career from a third person point of view.  Second, I want to hold myself accountable to what I am promising to myself, and that is to do everything in my power to make all the right choices in my road to recovery.

I am a non-clinician who is constantly in a clinical environment, spending all my traveling time in outpatient clinics, acute hospital settings, and in emergency departments.  I see the miracles that providers and clinicians perform on other patients every day, but this time, I have been the recipient.  

Ironically, Orthopedic Surgeons have always been my favorite group to work with, and that’s not about to change any time soon.

I am a runner, and have been for over 30 years.  At times, it has defined me; at times it has abandoned me; at times, it has thrilled me, and at times it has killed me.  But every step of the way, it has somehow led me to where I am at this moment.  Running has taken me many, many places I would have never have otherwise been, and I am not just speaking geographically.  It has helped define my circle of friends, it has defined several vertebrae of my backbone as a person, and it has defined a spiritually that I would have never found any other way.  It has helped me to build a great rapport with many other likeminded people, and it has found me love.

Yesterday, leg still wrapped, I walked about a half a mile, to the end of my street, and back home.  It was a start.  It left much opportunity for improvement.  It left a positive and hopeful feeling.  The whole way, I just shook my head and thought “One day removed from knee surgery, and I can do this.”  This morning, the bandage came off, and I laughed to see the initials of the performing surgeon still written on my calf.  Everything looked great.  Just a couple of stitches on either side of my knee, where I am assuming pinhole-sized incisions were made.  Just puncture wounds.  Amazing.  I am looking forward to the shower I’ll be taking after I finish writing this.  It won’t erase the marks of the incisions, but it was erase the mark of the artist.

My wife Kelli has been missing me on the roads.  We have always trained together, but in recent months, she has trained alone.  This past weekend, my forever bucket list race, Big Sur, went on without me.  I was there, but did not participate. Kelli had to run it without me, but I strongly feel, she also ran it for me.  She took wonderful pictures the whole way, and made it to the finish line in great shape.  Head’s up Sally Smith, we will be back next year, and will BOTH bring home finisher’s medals.

Kelli has also been a wonderful support for me, partly because she misses me running with her, partially because she is tired of my complaining about not running, but mostly because she wants me to once again be whole, and for me, wholeness requires running.  We woke this morning to a beautiful Atlanta spring sunrise.  Kelli decided to take her long ignored bike for an hour ride.  And I decided to walk some of the route I have been running for the past 11 years, since my current residence became home.  I chose this house in large part because it afforded the opportunity to walk out the front door and do a 24 mile training run.  That’s how important running has always been to be.  Most key decisions of my adult life have at least considered running.

The walk started cautiously, but by a mile, it became cautiously optimistic, as I gained confidence and stared favoring my left knee a little less as I warmed up.  By the time I finished my second mile, I was flooded with feelings and satisfaction similar to a 5K PR.  Two miles gave me 50 minutes to flood my head with positive thoughts, which I hope to share as I begin my journey back to running.  Just the feeling that, at 58 years old, I have the same sense of unlimited opportunity for improvement from where I am today as I did as a rookie runner, just learning my full potential over 30 years ago, is comforting.

So for now, I have no performance goals except to improve and get stronger.  I can’t yet lay down the gauntlet and declare a future distant marathon goal, or when or even if I will run my next 5K.  But I can control the things I can, such as diet, cross-training, commitment to improve, commitment to stay positive, and commitment to do everything I can to angle the odds in my favor that other goals will soon be out there.  So I hold myself accountable to that and that alone for now.  I am already excited about the prospect of my next walk.  It’s a great feeling, and one I have been dearly missing.  As in all things, everything will happen a day at a time.

Thank you for joining me in this journey.

30 Years Running

I stopped making New Year’s Resolutions years ago.  I came to a realization at some point that these New Year vows were just too black and white, with only two options.  Either you kept them or you broke them.  And that latter always prevailed, resulting in a feeling of failure, and an action of backsliding.  I decided at some point that life handed you enough natural failures without proactively creating any artificial ones.

I’m not saying the every new year doesn’t bring new hopes.  It’s very difficult to count down the waning days of an old year without reflection and introspection, as you look back on the rapidly expiring old year, and look forward to the first days of the next one with new hope and a feeling of starting over again with a clean slate.

So instead of resolutions, I now make goals, a term I like much better.  It leaves a lot more gray area, and creates wiggle room for partial achievements.  I can live with that.  With a goal, there is a lot of room between total success and total failure.  You can even surpass a goal, if you allow yourself that freedom.

In a very small way, I experienced that yesterday.  Kelli and I went for a planned 6-miler around our neighborhood yesterday morning, and around four miles in, we both realized we felt pretty good, so we decided on the fly to add an extra mile, and closed out the old year with a solid 7-miler.  Not a real game-changer, but it felt good just the same.

I often use my running time for deep thought.  Introverts are that way.  The simple act of running is, at once physically draining, and mentally invigorating.  My greatest inspirations have occurred during the run, and those insights have spawned some of my better achievements in life.  And there is no question that not only am I a better person through running, but running has impacted every aspect of my life for the better.  Without running, I would have had a completely different life, and it would have been nowhere as full.

So yesterday, while we ran, I was reflecting on my running past, and how running’s lessons become life’s lessons.  Just about anything one needs to know about life can be learned within the run.  Running is a powerful teacher as long as the student is ready. 

As the run continued, my thoughts moved forward to today, the first day of 2012. It was 30 years ago, 1982, when I first committed to running and racing, and my life changed forever.  That’s a lot of years of life lessons.  I can vividly remember those early days of running, and how in awe I was of the runners I met who had already been at it for 20 years or more.  I truly never thought that would someday be me.

I’ve blogged my running thoughts in the past, but over time, much like running, writing presents its own set of challenges.  It becomes more and more difficult as time passes to find fresh topics that no one else has already written about.  It is even more difficult as the years pass to come up with new thoughts that YOU have not already written about. And the whole time, it is a test to present the thoughts in a way that someone else might have an interest in reading.

By the time our run was done, I had made three firm decisions.  I knew I was going to climb up to our attic and pull down 30 years of old running T-shirts that been sitting there for years.  I knew I was going to pull out 30 years of old running logs. (only the last 10 or so have been electronic) as supporting documentation.  And I knew that I was going to use said T-shirts and running logs in support of my new goal for the new year, which will be to jump-start my writing again by recounting my first 30 years of running.  I accomplished the first two missions within an hour of finishing the run.  Achieving the third will take time, but today is hopefully the start.

The irony is that for those early years of running, I remember almost every run vividly.  Without reviewing logs, I could probably rattle off every race I did those first couple of years, what my time was, and what the T-shirt looked like.  Every run had its own uniqueness, and created its own memory.  It was much like the start of a love affair.  Every run took on its own significance. 

On one of the running groups I belong to on Facebook, someone asked a few days ago why bloggers blog about running.  It made me think and wonder why I stopped blogging several years ago, and came to the conclusion that I reached a point that I just didn’t have anything interesting to blog about.  My blog cycle had run its course.  But what I read from responses is that I really do still have a lot to say, 30 years worth, and I may be approaching a time of life to start saying it again.

I have 30 years of history to recall, 30 years of inspiration to share, 30 years of races to recount, and 30 years of documenting runners behaving like runners.  I have 30 years of lessons learned, 30 years of successes and occasional failures, and 30 years of motivation for new runners who today are in the exact same place I was 30 years ago, and I can provide 30 years worth of reasons to stick with it for the next 30 years.  I think I am qualified. 

Today, the first day of 2012, Kelli and I went to the New Years at Noon 5K in Athens, GA.  I almost talked us out of going, citing comfort and laziness as reasons, but we decided at the last minute to go.  We ran, Kelli much better than me, as is usually the case.  In 30 years I have slowed more than I would have guessed, but it has not diminished the desire to continue running for the next 30 years.  This will be one of the many focuses I’m sure I’ll be writing about from time to time.

It’s funny how the cosmic energy of the universe pulls in a certain direction from time to time.  After the race, I was approached by Tim Bagley, who asked me if I would consider writing a blog for his new web site.  It confirmed that my goal for the new year is a valid one.

Funny you mention that, Tim.  I think I just might. 

What do you think?

The Running Bug and the Web We Weave

For nearly 30 years now, I have run.  And for equally as long, I have been asked why I do it.  It is an appropriate question, and one that is never really easily answered.  I can usually respond to that question with an explanation that satisfies me, but rarely can address it to the approval of the questioner, unless the person asking is also a runner.  I guess it would be like me asking a Proctologist why they Proctologize.  But then again, I didn’t daydream about being a runner when I was in the second grade either.

The honest truth is that not only do we each run for our own personal reasons, but our individual motives change as we continue on our journey.  I can assure you that as a 26 year old, I ran for much different reasons than I do today.  When I was young, I didn’t worry about my health, or my girth, or my immortality, and I can assure you that today, I no longer train with illusions of running PR’s or with the belief that I will be young forever, and never lose a step.  Although I pushed it back for as long as I could, the reality of aging finally set in and now I begrudgingly accept it.   But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

But even with my glory days far behind me, most mornings I set my alarm for a time long before dawn, throw on my reflective vest and a headlamp, go out the door, and run.  And most days, when the run is completed, it is still dark.  No wonder people ask me why.  If I was anyone other than me, I would probably be asking myself the same question. 

But running is a bug, and once a bug bites you, it grips you tightly.  As I habitually weave my way around the neighborhood, spinning the same web day after day, month after month, year after year, I realize that I have no other choice. I don’t question why I do it, even though, as an objective observer, I know it doesn’t make sense.   I am a runner, and therefore, I run. 

I can remember when I was younger, living in North Carolina, around August of each year, as the humidity set in, big ugly spiders would show up out of nowhere, and would start spinning webs around my porch.  At around dusk they would come out, and start spinning their webs, very meticulous in their approach.  It was really a thing of beauty to watch them weave their calculated well-engineered webs, strand by strand, spoke by spoke.  I rarely stayed to watch until that night’s web was finished, but the next morning, there it was, a completed symmetrical snare, sometimes perfectly undisturbed, and other times with a fly, or a moth caught within its clutches.

I never really thought much about it back then in my youth as a runner, but have come to realize that I am much like those spiders, and this is yet another reason I run.  Did those spiders ever want to sleep in, and skip a night of web-weaving?  Who knows? As a spider ages, does he ask if it is worth it to continue spinning the same web night after night?  Probably not, because in reality a spider doesn’t have a choice.  Their nutrition, their sustenance, their reward is all built into that web. 

In much the same way, at a certain point in a runner’s life, the run becomes to a runner as the web is to the spider.  As we weave our way around our running routes, spinning our own webs in for form of miles, we realize we need it to sustain us.  We rarely question why we do it.  We just know we have to.  We are the species of human known as runners, and running is what we do.  It becomes instinctive. 

And for as long as the body allows it, the runner will not willingly not run.  He can’t.  To not run would leave him hungry, mal-nourished, and without the bug of nourishment.  Running is the web we weave.  And the web is what sustains us.

The Roads Whisper My Name

I do a lot of driving through the North Georgia Mountains and the Carolinas, and I've noticed that this part of the country has its share of quiet roads. Quiet, however, does not exactly mean silent. These roads actually talk to me through their tranquility, and they whisper my name, barely audible, but undeniable. They soothingly grab my attention, and once they have gotten it, under their breath, they always utter the same two-word refrain. Like a gentle breeze, they plead. "Run me."

Whenever I hear the call, I find myself for one brief moment rearranging the rest of the day in my mind, and, once that is done, I imagine myself pulling over to oblige the call. But there is always a reason I don't. Either I have an ultimately unyielding agenda for the day, or there are people waiting at the other end of my travels, or I'm just not ready to take that kind of risk, so the thought is fleeting. I have therefore always denied the invitation, tricking myself in to believing that maybe, some day, I'll return to answer that call. But thus far, though the roads are always inviting, I have not accepted the invitation. 

The roads that whisper my name are always roads less traveled, and that's what makes them so compelling. These whispering roads of which I speak all have a similar character. They are, for the eye's eternity, tree-lined, with an abundance of shade, and the roads themselves are always ascending until they ultimately stretch beyond view, only adding to the mystery and intrigue. Perhaps, if just one time, I chose to pull over, and accept the road's request to run, it would make all the difference. But so far, I have remained indifferent.

There are risks in the unknown and unrevealed, and these roads gently dare me and seemingly taunt me to find out what lies just beyond my view. That's why they continue to call out to me, and goad me by saying "Run me." The roads that whisper my name remain an unaccepted offer, and an unsolved mystery, because I continue to stay true to the paths I know, where I feel safe and protected. They remain an invitation I have yet to accept. But the temptation grows to some day give in to the plea. "Run me." 

Whispering roads are not like the roads I run every day, which have less and less to say as the years go on. The familiar roads no longer talk, as they did when they were new. They are reliable and predictable, and I run in peaceful communion with them, but there is little new on roads that I have come to know so well that I could traverse them with my eyes closed. They are, at the same time, safe, and somewhat monotonous. 

Perchance, the day will come when I wake up discovering that the same old road is no longer the comfort I had always thought it to be. Upon that realization, I may just hop in my car, and point it north, without any particular final destination, and without any specific activity to complete. I may drive with no other purpose but to hear, and be ready to respond to that whisper I've heard so many times before. "Run me." That road I choose may turn out to be a dead end, or it might possibly be a new beginning. But answering that whispering road might make all the difference.

And the Old Man Died

The old man poked his head out the front door to be sure that the coast was clear. He was about to do something drastic, and he preferred to have no witnesses. Perhaps, he was a little embarrassed about it. But he was frail and weak, with seemingly nothing to look forward to in his future, and he knew it. So the old man decided it was time to end his sorry old life. And he was going to do it by running.

He peered out to the neighbor's houses, first to his left, and then to his right. There was nobody else stirring in his well-maintained neighborhood, and so he knew that his time had come. So the sorry old man slowly closed the front door behind him, and sheepishly ran out to the street. And he attempted to put an end to a life whose dreams had left it long ago.

As he slowly jogged down the street, he thought his heart would explode. Was this how it was going to end? He felt way too old for this kind of exertion, and the old man could feel the blood rushing to his head as he pushed on. He wondered just how long it would be before his demise would come. His legs were screaming for a break, but he ignored the body's pleas to stop. He was an old man on a mission, and he pushed relentlessly on.

He ran for about a mile, a loop around the neighborhood, and finally, he saw his house coming up on his right. When he reached it, he stopped, gasping for air.  He could go no further, and so, right where he started the attempt, he stopped, stepped back inside his house, and collapsed motionless on his living room floor and just lay there. His whole body was pounding with every heartbeat, and he felt sick to his stomach. His chest hurt, and his legs throbbed, but that day, the old man didn't die. He lay on the floor, his mind racing, wondering if he was making a big mistake with his attempt to kill himself off.

For the next couple of days, eradicating himself was the last thing on the old man's mind. That one attempt seemed like it was enough to discourage him from ever trying again. He hurt all over, and he was close to resigning himself to settling on just being old and miserable forever. But by the third day, he was starting to revisit the thought of eliminating his sad old self again.

On the fourth day, he continued his attempt, and ran again. Just as the first time, he closed the door behind him, and he ran another mile. And a funny thing happened. Though it wasn't nearly enjoyable, he found it didn't hurt quite as much, and he actually felt a little better a little sooner afterwards. And the next day, the thought of trying again wasn't so for out of his mind.

The old man found that each time he ran, it became less and less painful, and now, instead of collapsing in the middle of the house after a run, he was actually starting to plan the next one. He purchased himself a running log, and began monitoring his progress. He bought himself a watch, and found that soon, his runs started getting quicker and quicker. He was finding that he was having dreams of the future, and had something to live for. He was starting to actually feel younger than he ever had before. But in reality, the old man was succeeding in his quest. The old man was dying.

The old man started entering races. At first, he could not run one all the way without stopping. There were often very few people, if any, behind him, but the old man didn't seem to mind. After all, he was an old man, so it was positive that he was doing this at all. He continued running, and he continued racing, and he continued to experience a slow death. His weekly mileage increased to 15 miles, then through the 20's, and even into the 30's some weeks, and his race times dropped. 40 minute 5K times dropped to 35 minutes, then 30 and even 25 minutes and lower.

The old man was now 6 months into his running, and in one action, was getting in better and better shape, and inching closer to his inevitable death planned a half year earlier. He was actually starting to feel very good. But his running indicated that he still had a serious death wish. He ran more than ever, and was still getting faster. His life was becoming full, and his dreams were starting to appear in vivid color.

As he approached the finish line of the race this day, he looked down at his watch. 22:10. Never in a million years did the man dream of running such a fast time. As he crossed the finish line, with one last big push, he went to stop his watch to immortalize this race. Then he looked at the watch, just to be sure it was true. The watch was blank. The battery had given out.  Watches can also die.

At the awards ceremony, the trophies went three deep in each age group. He waited and wondered as they announced the awards in the youngest age groups first. Finally, they announced the winners in his age group. First place, and then second place in his age group were announced. His name was not called. Then they announced the third place winner. It was him. The old man had won third place in his age group. The 25-29 year age group.

He went to pick up his award, and as he proudly carried it back to embrace his young bride and baby, he knew that he had finally accomplished his goal. He had finally killed off the old man, and replaced it with the fit, youthful 26 year old he had wanted to become when he first started running.  Looking back, he realized it was a slow, and sometimes painful death, but he knew the old man would not be missed. He liked who he had become much better.

He gazed at his blank watch one more time. How ironic, he mused, that at the exact same time, the watch stopped never to beep again, and the old man died.