Since I’d already had the pleasure of reading Hodgie’s Tales of the Times, I asked him what else he had. He sent me this.
There is a finish line. But its location can be elusive. – JDW
When you decide it is over – that yearning for something – there is also relief when you finally come to grips with it coming to an end. You realize the effort expended mentally and physically. You also hopefully understand the rewards, the friendships made, the opportunities to travel extensively and compete against some of the best athletes in foreign lands, representing your country in a friendly competition.
London, Brussels, Amsterdam, Warsaw, Prague, Milan, Beijing, Tokyo, Betsudai, Fukuoka, Auckland, Sydney, San Cristobal, Boston. All in the past ashes but not forgotten dreams.
We all fall down.
So I moved on from this obsession I once had. I did, of course, I really did. But there is a part of you, the wonder part, that holds on and when you are asleep at night in your dreams, the past co-mingles with the present and suddenly you are deep in that big competition again, challenging all your old rivals for a spot on the podium and then you wake up.
We never know how things will turn out. We take a gamble, follow our instincts. We worry if we did the right things, did we do all we could. We second guess all to no avail.
The Finish. Mere musings. Hard terrible time.
When the summer is still here, but you can feel it slipping away.
Yanking my body up small hills, age and gravity against me, but no match for mind. Or circling the track the last few days, legs logs. And after such a good effort a week ago in a small race in Maine.
A bit of barefoot running on the nicely trimmed grass of high school athletics fields and a swim in a local pond.
The track I sometimes hit a nice groove, even at twelve-minute pace. Like 33 1/3 pace. Last mile stretch it out on the back straight. I’m leading or maybe in DFL. [Dead Fucking Last – ed. note] No matter, just another lap. Sixty-four (64) friggin’ years old.
Some memorable races on the track, so different from marathon racing. Always coming down to pure guts versus pure speed. The difference in marathon racing pure guts equals pure speed and then some.
Unfortunately, so many races in this modern era – championship races – are all speed and who doubles the clutch at the right moment.
I am into my last mile today – beautiful track in the woods – no one but me and I recall a race. A strange one where I felt I was the driver, a race 5,000 meters, the B race one of those great development meets they had at Northeastern’s track in Dedham in the 80’s. Admit I was somewhat thrown off not to be placed in the top-seeded race.
Rather than just go out and haul ass, I ran a bit lackadaisical. The race was just a warm up for Nationals and some thought I might be past my prime, etc. Hence the B race. Not that I believed that. No. And some of those runners in the seeded race, well, why them, not me? My racing pedigree well beyond them but official dumb dumbs.
The pace was not terrible. Less than nine (8:59) at two miles but should be twenty seconds faster. The memorable part, on the back straightaway, a small crowd was rabidly cheering on a competitor of mine. Not that I had anything against this individual and he could have, should have, been in that seeded race as well, but now I directed all my energies to beating him and beating him bad.
And it felt good, so good, now I understand the cowards who kick because I moved with seven hundred meters to go and saluted his little cheering section as I blasted by them.
Big deal. I ran 14:02, a time I had run many times. Ran that time for the first 5,000 of a recent 10,000 meters at the Penn Relays.
It was 1987. My wife and I in our little house, she ironing in the kitchen. “Married with Children” on the little TV set.
I am saying “I need to run one more year. I need to.”
All in another day’s run.
Just had to comment on today’s musings from Bobby Hodge.
I do not know Bob personally having come through quite a bit earlier than his heyday, but this column elicits emotion from an old man. I can relate. – Jerry Jobski