Someday you may be 31 years old, 20 pounds heavier than you were the last time you raced. You’ll be out of breath when you run up a flight of stairs. You’ll see race results and ache for the ache. You’ll go golfing with people from work and you’ll look around and think “what a waste of a good cross country course”. You’ll hear about the next generation running incredible times and grumble about short tracks and perfect conditions. You’ll hate to admit that there is another generation other than yours. You’ll have trouble getting out the door to run.
That one. The door one. That’s the key. The not getting out the door one started all of this. The 20 pounds, the heaving breathing, the ache for aches, the grumpy former runner complex, all that nonsense started cause I could not make myself get out the door. I remember the first time the door seemed like it was made of lead. It was after the Olympic Trials in 2004. I was a spectator. I had torn my calf three weeks before the trials. I still went and had a blast. I was able to watch my current and former teammates race their hearts out, see old friends and competitors, and party a little bit. Just a little bit. A few weeks later I wanted to test out the calf. I put my shoes on like I had thousands and thousands of times before. That part seemed alright. But there was a hesitation once I got to my feet. What was I doing? How far was I going to run? Why? Why 20 minutes? Why any minutes?
I wanted to take my spikes off in Sacramento. Like an old wrestler, I planned on leaving my spikes on the track literally and figuratively at the 2004 Olympic Trials. In addition to training full time I had also been working full time since 1999. I was married and had a son. 2004 was the finish-line of finish-lines for me. After Trials I had no goals. For the first time in almost 15 years I was about to start a run that did not lead to something. It was what it was. A run. I made it 90 seconds. I stopped the watch. I stopped running. I did not even run back home. I walked back. Slowly.
It’s been almost three years. I’ve had a few stretches of good running. A few weeks here and there. I even tried training for the NYC Marathon last year. Nothing stuck. I had no idea why I was still running. So I went back. Back to those first runs. The ones to the top of the block and back counting one-mississippi, two-mississippi, three-mississippi. I thought about those races I ran in a red t-shirt for St. Leo’s, the navy singlet for CBA. I remembered the feeling. Those memories helped. Absolutely. But it was not until I found an old box of tapes at my parents’ house that the memories became flesh and blood.
I sat back and watched as I took the baton from one friend and raced until it was my turn to hand it back off to another friend. I watched as we slapped five, shook hands, patted each other on the back, congratulated or cheered each other up. I watched this on those tapes my parents took each and every meet. Those tapes were like a time machine for me. My parents taped almost every race my team ran. And for some odd reason (odd at the time at least) my Mom and Dad made sure they caught the strides I did before races. Why? I have no idea. I’ll never be able to express how important those moments are. I remember one particular stride before the Outdoor Meet of Champions 1600m. The smell of the grass, the placement of the setting sun, the feeling of youth. And what is youth besides the constant feeling of potential? Always there. Always getting faster, stronger, better. Never running up a flight of stairs and feeling slower, weaker, worse than you once were.
I forget, even now, how much I love running. I still confuse the sport with the activity, the competition with the camaraderie, the process with the results. Because of this, I lose sight of how simple the act of running can be and how much joy that simplicity brings me. My parents must have known because they repeatedly caught it on tape. That stride before All Groups, that simple stride, my parents saw it and now years later I see it. Before the nerves, the potential, the competition, the effort, before all of that, there was just this stride across a field. Covering ground for no apparent reason. Who needs reason at eighteen? The stride had it. It was there. It was joy.
I sit down and tie my shoes like I have thousands and thousands of times before. I turn the TV on and press play on the VCR. I watch the stride a few times. Skip the race. I turn the TV off and open the door. It’s still heavy as hell. I’ve got no idea how long this run will be. Could be 10 minutes. Could be 30. No matter what, I’m starting with a stride. I’ll be out of breath. I’ll be heavier than I was on the tapes. But I’m going to do that stride across the grass. Who knows, maybe I’ll add some tapes to the collection. After all, those spikes are still in my closet. Those spikes that are still waiting to be left on some track somewhere, someday.