Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swamps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists.. it is real.. it is possible.. it’s yours. – Ayn Rand
My name is Joanie and I’m an addict.
Hi, Joanie!!
Joanie’s not my real name, you might have guessed. She was the greatest ever – I chased her a few times – and me? The World’s Slowest Professional Runner. Which might explain ten years of zero reported income.
It has been six months since my last run. Six months.
Applause.
I was self-coached. Perhaps a better explanation. God was my co-pilot and I don’t think He’s ever run a step. I should’ve listened to somebody like Jeff Johnson. I hate pain which is what makes me so good at ignoring it. Basically, ran my personal record on one leg. So amazing the result, my buddies gave me a plaque with a Robert Browning quote, “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp.” That day I must have been out on a limb looking for the sweetest fruit.
And you can have a good day on one leg. Oh, yes, you can. But it might be your last.
It’s been six months since my last run. I just could not go on. Sooner or later, you change or you die. Of course, sooner or later, you are gonna die anyway. I can’t live like this – I’m not me. But I know I must go on.
The pain simply too too great. And it’s not just that. I have the heart of a courageous and stupid lion. That pump may never quit. Brain fading but no worse than normal. But, oh, my Lord, the skeleton is shot. Shit, I mean, shot through and through. And I have this compelling constant need to remain mobile. Like to think of myself these days as agile with groans. Good Indian name.
These meetings are anonymous, right? I could barely break five-fifteen in the mile. All I could do not to get lapped. When I ran the National Championship Marathon in Yonkers, a four-loop course, I watched the winner finish. I still had a loop to go.
Never told anybody, but this is Runners’ Anonymous, so… I stopped competing when I had to start paying my own way to races. I was clean maybe fifteen years or so. Didn’t run a step. Running just fell by the wayside. That year on the road living in a seventeen-foot van with a big dog and a little woman got in the way.
Later there was much heavy lifting and biking and working some actual jobs that required actual attendance at specific times. Oh, the horror!
I stopped racing when I worked for Nike. Seems ironic. Still get free shoes but that’s it. After a while, best I could do just to get a press pass. The media is after all the resting place for the passionate has-beens. Don’t remember much after that. Life goes blank without running.
But then I got old and I wanted not to be, so I decided to start running again. Well, it was horrible. Oh, my sweet Jesus, the pain.
I’ve made enough comebacks – I get knocked down, I bounce up again. Positive I can do this. Lost thirty pounds. Still hurt. Bought those clunky-looking Hoka One-Ones because Mike Fanelli convinced me they were the answer. Still hurts. Only running shoes I bought retail since 1978. Only non-Nikes I have worn. I was that desperate.
Was so desperate went to a doctor. Firmly believe you don’t want to catch a disease you can’t spell. A good rule. Flu. Cold. Fever. Easy to spell. Osteo-arthritis and rheumatoid arthritis, not so much.
Bad news but at least an explanation.
Even entered a few races. You can only get passed by so many old ladies in tutus, husband-and-wife teams in horse costumes. The little kids are the worse. One small boy, deeply concerned like he thought a Cub Scout merit badge might be in the offing, he asked, Are you okay, Mister? We hadn’t gone a half mile. Luckily, he scampered into the woods before I could catch up. And wring his neck. And toss his lifeless body under a pile of leaves and dry twigs.
But that would be wrong. Truth was I couldn’t go a half mile without stopping. Every stride, short as it was, like a big mallet trying to pound me into the pavement. Tried training on grass, the jarring rattled my bones.
Sadly, such is the state of the sport today, I even won a couple of second- and third-place medals. But I was literally half as fast and/or twice as slow as I had been back in my alleged heyday. My pace sashayed between funereal and arboreal.
But the pain. Maybe if I could’ve convinced myself those medals were worth the ribbons they hung from, I could’ve gone on. But the pain.
It has been six months since my last run. I am out walking because I will be doing six miles a day until I die. Coming up a hill, a knoll, a modest incline, okay? Lips pulled back, gritting my teeth, practically snarling, top half of my head covered with a fluorescent babushka. I realized I was making a ghoulish face. And I wondered what it is about facial expressions we use when we battle pain. Think I scared some old lady and her mother down at the end of the block.
Hurts when I walk, I tell the doctor.
Have you tried swimming, she asks.
Chlorine and other people’s pee, no, thank you.
You practically live at the beach.
Sharks.
What about…?
Gators. Besides, Doc, I am listening to Moby Dick.
Oh, wow, look at the time.
Thanks for sharing.
Let’s have a big hand for Joanie, everybody.
Applause.
Grab a donut on your way out.
I’ll shut off the lights.
