Running, to him, was real...

...the way he did it, the realest thing he knew. It was all joy and woe-- hard as diamonds-- it made him weary beyond all comprehension... but it also made him free.

-from Once A Runner
by John L. Parker Jr.

I have this friend, and she is doing something very brave. She is running a marathon. She is doing this, despite not liking to run very much, and her reasons are varied, and you can read about them on her site, but what I'd like to point out is that she is running these 26.2 long miles with Team in Training, which is the events fund raising arm of the Leukemia Lymphoma society. That is to say, she is doing this for more than personal growth and gain, and for an organization that is more than "a good cause". This isn't something theoretical, this money goes to helping people with cancer. You should help her out here.


Thinking about what she is doing, taking up a new sport, at the same time that I am trying to transition to swimming, has made me nostalgic for my running days, so here I am going to share some history.

First, you must understand, if you have not met me, that I am not a large man. I'm 5'7" and 145 # now, and I was considerably smaller until I was in my late teens. I had tried nearly every major sport: baseball, basketball, soccer, as well as some more esoteric ones, like gymnastics and Karate. My size and lack of confidence made me terrible at the team sports, and even in the individual ones, where I showed some skill, I was still hampered by a lack of power. I suspected, however that, while I was not strong in the sense of power, I had a different type of strength-- endurance. I knew I could be tough. I could hold my breath longer than anyone underwater, not because I had better lungs, just because I cared less about how uncomfortable it became. In fights-- and where you're the smallest kid, and a nerd to boot, there are plenty-- I rarely won, but could take a pounding, and never complained or tattled. Even as a toddler, when I was sick, I could patiently wait in discomfort in the doctor's office without whining like the other kids. When I learned of the term "stoic" in my freshman year of high school, I thought yeah, that's me. (Note: The author makes no claim to still possessing this trait as an adult).

Not for any particular love of the sport, but somehow, I tied all these ideas together, and decided that I wanted to be a runner and began, in the summer before my sophomore year of high school, to plod along the 2 mile trail at Pond Meadow Park, three times a week, feeling triumphant that-- through coaxing and cajoling myself to just go to the next tree, then the next and so on-- I could do the whole thing without stopping to walk. When we met for informal practice a few weeks before school began, I was in for a rude awakening. Our first run was a 2 mile warm up, followed by 10 "hill repeats". These were fast sprints uphill, with a slow jog down for rest. Interval training was not a concept with which I was familiar, and having run further than I ever had in my life just to get there, I knew it was going to get ugly. Each one, in the 90 plus degree New England August heat, was an trial of endurance. My feet burned, my legs ached, the strained, slightly nauseous feeling that I had become familiar with when short of breath was replaced by entirely new sensations of discomfort. The best I can say for my first practice was that I ran them all, and I didn't stop to walk. All the same, after the return run to the school at the end of the workout, coach Joe gathered us around and gave a little speech about the season, then welcomed the newcomers and told me, "glad you're joining us, you're really strong".

Now to this point, I'd been called smart, nice, funny, even handsome (and believe me, I was an awkward looking kid), but no one had ever before even considered calling me strong. To a kid who'd been picked on for his size most of his life, this was huge. I was strong.