Running. It's something I did, once, and I did it quite well. I was never a great athlete and who knows if I every would have been, I stopped far too long before there could be any sign of that, but I loved it, I truly did, and I miss it still more than I've missed any lover, friend or pastime before or since. Sure, I can still go for a trot every now and then (at least, I could before I broke both my legs this past November). I even fell into the habit of going a for a few miles three or four times a week-- much easier, I reasoned, on the old, weakened joints, than ten plus a day, every day of the year-- but it was never the same. At times, it probably made it harder, knowing that I'd never be able to do it at the level I once had, knowing that I'd reached my physical peak a decade ago at nineteen and that it was all a long slide to a shambles from here, fighting a softness of the belly I should never have had to worry about.

Sure, I've broader shoulders, a deeper chest and bigger arms now than I would have if I still ran like that (not that your casual observer would call them "big" by any stretch of the imagination) and that's all well and good. I've had more of a chance to meet people, drink beer and behive like, well, an ordinary guy, and I'm greatful for a lot of those experiences, I really am. I'll never fully let it go though, and I'll have to live the rest of my life feeling both a certain sense of loss and, strangely, a sense of guilt, defective hip notwithstanding, for allowing my body to breakdown and quit.

Running was uncomplicated. It required little in the way of expenses to get started and could be done easily-- or, at least, readily-- anywhere at any time. It asked nothing of me but me, and demanded pretty much all of it, the way I wanted to do it, it did. There were times when all I wanted to do was stop and quit, when the temptation of just a day off was just too great, but I kept going. I knew that I was worlds away from the truly great, that their conditioning and training was far beyond what my little body could handle, but Casey had counseled me patience, had taught me to not be so hard on my horrible first year performances in college, and encouraged me into a much more promising start as a sophmore. Then the injuries came, and it was the beginning of the end.

Toward the end of the summer after my junior year, a year spend entirely without running (imagaine that! a whole year! It sickened me to consider, so final and depressing was the thought), I pulled up in my parent's truck one night to the old high school track. I jogged a bit in my trainers, then pulled of my sweats and laced up my barely used track spikes. Ttrotting up to the start line, I ran a few stiders on the back straight, then lined up and set the watch. I would only do a quarter, just one last time around the track, as hard as I could.

I blew into the first bend with the same heart sinking feeling as always, of starting something that was going to hurt like hell, and not going to end till I was well past uncomfortable. There was the usual inner bout, where I considered chickening out, berrated myself for the thought, then forgave myself and almost did quit, before shaking it off and settling into my pace. Right around here, in a race, at the end of the first turn, I'd inevidably think, "Here we go again...".

I powered into the back stretch, but already felt my legs locking up and slipping, my breath coming short. No matter what shape you're in, you lose it fast, and a year is a very long time away, cross training or no. I struggled to hold a steady pace through the back, then tried to lay it on for the last 200, but found myself faltering and mentally distracted all through the last turn and onto the finish. "Don't leave it for the last 100", my couch always said, "everyone has heart in the last 100", but there I was, and this 100 truly was my last. I tucked in and gave it what I had left, which wasn't much. Somewhere in that last painful sprint I did chicken out.

I crossed the line in 63 seconds. Pathetic. Horrifying. Done.

As I sat in the parking lot by the track and stretched, I surveyed my legs with a certain mournful pride. They still looked like a runner's legs, still had some strength left in them. I knew that, even after a year, and despite the lost speed, the could still carry me 100 miles or more all at once if I asked them too. I knew also that, soon enough, that would be gone too. I got back in the truck without finishing my stretching, August heat of New England breathing down my back, and drove home and away from the coming September-- my September, start of the Cross Country season, the begginning of if all to the well trained summer runner-- and onto a new kind of autumn.