My running days ceased in 2010. Until then, for nearly 35 years, I ran three miles daily, and up to six for a time – rain or shine.
I started running in Houston, TX, in 1975, as part of the conditioning for a karate class. For two hours twice weekly, our black belt-holding Korean instructor would put us through the wringer with practice kicks, punches and mock fighting. Which drills were preceded by brutal bodybuilding workouts that included running a mile and doing hundreds of squats, sit-ups and pushups. The pushups in particular were killers, as we had to do them on bare knuckles on a cement floor. The idea, per our instructor, was that it was necessary to break down our knuckles so that they could rebuild stronger. What about arthritis in old age, one student had the temerity to ask. The instructor dismissed the notion as laughable, but it stayed with me.
Most evenings, when our instructor released the class, many of us would drop to the floor and lie prone until we could work up the energy and willpower to get up and limp off.
I endured the class for six months and earned a yellow belt, the first in a series of colors that was supposed to culminate with the coveted black belt. I found yellow an ironic first choice. It signified, I gathered, that I still couldn’t fight worth a lick, but I was in great shape to outrun an antagonist. That was good enough for me. I quit the class, and with it, running.
Some six months later, however, I resumed running, wanting to stay in shape to look attractive to women. What a motivator vanity is.
Starting out with short jogs, I gradually worked up to longer distances as my legs, lungs and stamina developed. In the process, I discovered a passion for running. And like any faddist or newly converted, my newfound zeal compelled me to proselytize. To my credit, this phase didn’t last long.
Initially, I saw running as a contest and measured my performance accordingly. If other joggers passed me, I felt dejected. Conversely, if I passed others, I felt elated, regardless of whether I was doing my best or worst. I learned eventually to look inward and judge my performance against myself. Not that I stopped being aware of others’ performances or trying to emulate their best, but I didn’t agonize over it. Doing my own best became the standard.
The main reward of running was a sense of fitness and wellness, along with a license to indulge. Rather than deny myself food, I ate what I wanted, confident that running would burn off the calories and keep me lean. And perhaps, in this respect, I grew a bit smug.
The endorphin high from running was an added bonus; a mild sensation of euphoria that induced meditation and self-reflection. In this state of heightened awareness, most things seemed possible, and insights were not uncommon. Often during runs, I would find inspiration for projects, work out solutions to problems, or commit to resolutions for action.
The challenge was carrying out whatever the inspiration, solution or resolution. That’s where the self-discipline of running kicked in. I recognized that if I could make myself run when my every fiber rebelled against it, I could make myself do almost anything. Indeed, faced with difficult situations, I would often run in preparation, to test my willpower and resolve.
As the years passed, running became a near religion and way to maintain my mental and physical equilibrium. If I didn’t run, I would feel bad – physically and mentally. I would run in fair and foul weather, good and bad times, weekdays and weekends, all four seasons. If I was feeling low or under the weather, running sweated out the toxins and restored balance. It also released tension and relieved stress. The only time I skipped running was if I were terribly sick, which was seldom.
In 1986, when I moved to north Florida, running remained integral to my lifestyle, rare as runners then were in rural areas. If my country neighbors saw my running as outlandish, they kept it to themselves.
I would run up and down the dirt roads in our quiet neighborhood, exulting in the fresh air and pastoral scenery, so opposite Houston’s polluted air and congested cityscape.
Always, my two dogs, Bach and Buster, accompanied me, the one a black Chow, the other a white pitbull. Other neighborhood dogs would sometimes join us for short distances. And once, a random pack of about 12 dogs ran with us, a sight that caused me no end of hilarity and no doubt confirmed to any neighbor who saw us that I was definitely daft.
I took to competing in 5K races, and if I never finished in the top tier, I did well enough. I even participated in Florida’s 1996 Sesquicentennial Celebration, when runners in every county along a selected route from Key West to Tallahassee carried a lit torch for five-mile distances in relay fashion. In Jefferson County, five of us took turns carrying the torch in our assigned section of U.S. 27.
In those days, I gloried in my physicality. I would run up and down stairs in sheer exhilaration. I could eat what I wanted and not gain weight. I could dance the night away and not get winded or exhausted. I felt invincible.
In July 2007, I suffered my first setback. By then I was married and a father. One Sunday, Susan and our then nine-year-old son went shopping in Tallahassee and I stayed home to do yard work. Feeling energetic and on top of the world, I literally ran from task to task, making a game of it. That evening, my left leg ached terribly. It wasn’t the first time that overexertion had caused me aches, so I dismissed it. A little rest would do me, I figured.
Except that the pain worsened and kept me up that night. Even so, I headed for work on the Monday, determined to tough it out, regardless that I walked stooped over and had to pull myself into my Montero by the steering wheel. It took me falling on my knees when I went to exit my vehicle at my workplace to get my attention. I struggled upright, fell a second time, and practically had to crawl into the office.
My doctor told me a herniated disk in my lower back was pinching a nerve and would require surgery. He called the pain in my leg sciatica. Sciatica was my porter into the realm of the afflicted. Although foreign to me, I soon learned that sciatica was rather commonplace. Everyone I told about my condition seemingly had experienced sciatica or worst. It was a club whose membership I didn’t covet.
The surgery, whatever good it did, did not restore feeling to my left leg, which remains partially numb. Even so, I learned to compensate and resumed running, if not as briskly or gracefully.
In January 2010, I suffered a second setback, this time my right knee. While visiting in Miami, I engaged in an informal competition that involved a series of strenuous exercises and short races. I did well enough, bum leg and all. The next day, however, my right knee was in excruciating pain. Naturally, I discounted it as a minor injury that would self-heal. Only the pain intensified, until I was hobbling.
My doctor told me I had a torn knee cartilage and referred me to a surgeon. Wiser now, however, I put off the referral and did some research. And I learned that knee surgeries weren’t always successful and not infrequently worsened the situation. Before submitting to surgery, I decided to do self-therapy.
This entailed taking small walks daily and trying each time to increase the distance, if only by a step. Initially, I could barely hobble a few feet and back, the pain was so intense. I persisted, however, some days making a little progress, others regressing. Moments when I lost hope, I saw myself never walking again, let alone running. It made me mournful for my mountain hiking days.
About three months into my self-therapy, I celebrated my first half-mile walk. That heartened me. Another three months and I was up to a mile, if at a turtle’s pace. I then got cocky, picked up my pace, and suffered a setback. My right knee buckled and the searing pain made me nauseated. Near tears, I sat and waited until the pain subsided enough that I could limp home, and back to square one.
This occurred twice more at intervals of months, each time forcing me to begin anew. The persistence paid off, however. After nearly a year, I could walk a mile fairly rapidly, if running was out of the question. I have since walked three miles daily and even hiked mountain trails, appreciative of every step. Early on, when I saw joggers, I would get an urge to sprint after them, not unlike a constrained racehorse must feel upon seeing other horses running. This feeling has gradually vanished. Nowadays I’m glad simply to be able to walk, aware that age and frailty may one day rob me of even this ability. (2019)