My tribe has bestowed a new Indian name. They call me Petrified Runner. Title comes with the occasional free pair of shoes from Nike and a ceremonial warbonnet of finishers’ ribbons. I am faster than ever in most my dreams. Long strides, barefoot on lush green grass and nothing hurts. When my running book was published, in Spring 2014, I tried to walk my talk. Had to walk it. Wanted to run, just couldn’t. – JDW
“He had met the little death that awaits all athletes,” John Updike once wrote. “He had quit.”
I may have taken a break but I never quit.
I am not quitting, at least not yet.
When Running was Young and So Were We has spurred a number of older athletes back to the roads.
I used to be somebody, the book reminds us, but now I am somebody else.
And that’s okay.
But who am I and how much is still left?
And what’s new?
Grey is so not my color. Look so much leaner in black.
https://www.jackdogwelch.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=4936&action=edit
Story of that poster can be found at that link.
Early May, Spokane. Participated in the Bloomsday 12K, maybe my first race in seventeen years. Don Kardong a good friend and he let me in for free.
Marching in step, chanting, platoons of soldiers passed me. Little girls in pink tutus passed me.
June. Father’s Day in Tampa. Boston Billy comes to town to brag about his prostate cancer. He used to be somebody and he always will be.
Only slower. He is still – gosh, gee, golly – still funny. We went to dinner at the Columbia in Ybor City.
I join the Red Mule Runners, the local running club. It’s like a drug. The first hit is free and then sloooowly – no pun intended – I am dragged back in.
Gonna join a club, find one sponsored by a pub. Some guy has a twenty-three-year streak going. At least a mile every day.
Dawns on me, I have my own streak going – have raced two months in a row. Consecutively.
And wouldn’t you know, Saturday, there’s a trail run just up the road. Set the alarm for 5 a.m., awoke at 4:38.
Can’t tell if it’s excitement or fear, prevents sleep. Tell you the truth, can’t much feel the difference anymore between excitement and fear.
Doesn’t really matter, both strikingly energizing. And I’ll deal with it, whichever.
The course, well marked, heads deep into the forest, dangerous roots painted a florescent orange.
All my life seems like I have been running alone and today is no different. I hear loud, wheezy breathing, it’s me.
I am tiring and want to check my watch. No, I tell myself, wait until you get to the one-mile marker.
My idea of a wilderness experience is the produce department at the local grocery. And now I am deep in the woods.
Doesn’t help I watched three episodes of The Walking Dead last night. I am thinking about biters who walk like heroin addicts.
I am thinking about diamondback rattlesnakes. I am thinking about ticks.
Poison oak.
I think I heard a noise.
Oh, it’s just the lead woman. Apparently, a ten-minute headstart wasn’t enough for me. Not long later, a little girl gently announces “left” and passes by.
At least she is not wearing a tutu.
I am still thinking about snakes.
I wait a long time at the finishing chute. My wife looks like she’s been bit.
Maybe ticks.
Turns out a course monitor had asked her, “Are you the last one?” Lucky she didn’t take a swing at him. Her first race ever and – NO! – she’s not the last one. Thank you. Very much.
She’s proud. I’m proud. We’re all proud.
I would’ve gone much faster, she notes, if you hadn’t made me carry your phone & wallet & keys.
“And don’t forget my allergies.”
I am somebody else. I am somebody new.
So is she.