Why it can be a good thing to arrive at the same place you began.

“It’s a helluva start, being able to recognize what makes you happy.” —Comedian Lucille Ball

“We run, not because we think it is doing us good, but because we enjoy it and cannot help ourselves.” —Roger Bannister, first to break four-minute mile barrier

That was my immediate reaction after hearing the resonating words of

retired NBA great Vinnie Johnson, my favorite hometown Detroit Piston

(nicknamed ‘“‘Microwave” because he was instant heat coming in the game). In

an interview about a year after his pro career ended, Vinnie stated that he didn’t

play ball at all anymore. As passionate runners know, everything is ultimately

filtered through our running-related lens, and my initial reaction was “Sacrilege, Microwave!” Instant heat had taken a permanent seat.

Ithought, Where’s the passion, Vinnie? Don’t you miss the leather ball in your hand? The swoosh sound through the net? 1 know there’s something slightly different between the pinnacle of an NBA championship and playing pickup at the local Y at lunchtime with the goggle and knee-brace set. But I was in my early 30s at the time and had been a runner for well over half my life. Sure, like all runners, I didn’t know exactly what lay ahead many years down the road, but as the old motivational quote regarding the hungry lion and the gazelle prey concludes, “when the sun comes up, you better be running.” I wasn’t sure which African animal I was, but I was certain that I would always be running.

Unlike Vinnie’s retirement from hoops altogether, I foresaw that even as my speed went from more cheetahlike to more three-toed slothlike, even when recovery from injuries would go from healing in about four minutes to four months, even

“ | ay it ain’t so, Vinnie! Say it ain’t so!”

when flexibility regressed from slinkylike to the pliability of a broom handle— well, I would still be hitting the roads and trails.

Runners were different from Vinnie because our fervor for the “game” would continue long after we jumped the shark with respect to our PR marathon time. True runners who were getting long in the tooth and short on the speed would never simply toss a sweaty singlet and running shoes into a trunk forever and then engage in a fruitless search for a new endorphin fix and obsession. Would we?

Now, more than 20 years since the Microwave pulled his own plug, I realize that in visualizing my future running path, I was a bit naive. That’s French for, “Buddy, you don’t have a clue.”

Like many lifelong runners, I encountered a slew of unanticipated hills (make those mountains) as the years progressed, and the path wasn’t nearly as smooth as Thad envisioned. What I eventually learned was that with all the ups and downs, there is often a circular path to life’s road as a marathoner/runner.

Now, I doubt that the yellow brick road in The Wizard of Oz was 26.2 miles long or that Glinda the Good Witch was a runner, but she knew a little bit about traveling a path. As she said, “It’s always best to start at the beginning,” and that’s a good place to begin in examining the circular path of a runner (where there are no evil flying monkeys, either).

The discovery years

“T always loved running . . . it was something you could do by yourself and under your own power. You could go in any direction, fast or slow as you wanted, fighting the wind if you felt like it, seeking out new sights just on the strength of your feet and the courage of your lungs.” —USA Olympic great Jesse Owens

“T could run like the wind blows. From that day on, if I was going somewhere, I was running!” —from the film Forrest Gump

Perhaps this is the first time the names of Forrest Gump and Jesse Owens have appeared together, but they shared, like me, a friendship with running. I didn’t become a four-time gold-medal winner like Jesse, nor did I run coast to coast for no particular reason like Forrest. But I ran, starting as an 11-year-old, on a daily basis. I don’t mean running after the ice cream truck or chasing the dog in the backyard—I mean mileage. Like many who ultimately become lifelong runners, I began running because I discovered the simple fact that I loved to run. It’s a basic human desire, and it’s hard to get a whole lot more basic than to place one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward. And it’s slightly easier to remember and effectuate than, say, an eight-step golf swing.

That wide-eyed excitement that occurs when you discover a new love is similar to those early miles of amarathon where you’re eager with anticipation and enthusiasm. Those beginning miles, like the initial years that forge a solid relationship with running, contain a certain measure of ease, energy, confidence, and exuberance. You’re hopeful that the good feelings will remain but not exactly omniscient as to what awaits many miles down the road (as in forced to crawl because of the Wall or a comfortable pace at the end of the race).

I experienced the enthusiasm of those beginning miles when I trained for and ran my

first marathon at 18 years of age. I completed a few more during my college years in Colorado and did well enough, though it was more about the simple pleasure of running than anything else. But then I moved on to Eugene, Oregon, and into a period more analogous to the middle miles of a marathon. Without sounding too much like the name of a college history course, it was a time that may also be referred to as the Postadrenaline-and Pre-Wall era.

This period is a stretch of miles where your running is taken to a new level of focus, a stage in your running where more-competitive juices may flow and, shall we gently say, your more zealous and compulsive tendencies emerge.

Hey, if the running shoe of the fanatical fits, we’ll wear it with pride as we enter and enjoy a more ardent stage regarding running.

The compulsive years

“Whoever said, ‘It’s not whether you win or lose that counts, probably lost.” —tennis legend Martina Navratilova

“But music was his life, it was not his livelihood, and it made him feel so happy and it made him feel so good. And he sang from his heart and he sang from his soul. He did not know how well he sang; it just made

him whole.” —singer/songwriter Harry Chapin, “Mr. Tanner” lyrics

I grew up ina pretty competitive household. I’m not sure my most admirable trait as a youngster was wanting to obliterate my grandmother in gin rummy. Although my competitive fires burned brightly, in the sporting world, the flames had shone mostly in my childhood sport of basketball. Certainly, I wanted to do well in the marathons I participated in, but it didn’t entirely consume me, and my competitive tendency was somewhat tempered.

But then, like Martin Tanner in Chapin’s song referenced above, I was encouraged by others to compete more. My only trepidation was that I would strain my friendship with running and push it to places it didn’t want to go as my natural competitive juices ramped up a wee bit too high. Would my daily rendezvous with nature and endorphins become a steady parade of logging miles, interval times, repeat hill training, and striving for PRs in every race? Would I be one of those marathoners who obsessed about all things running, including driving around for 15 minutes to find the closest parking spot to my destination in an effort to conserve my legs even though I would run 20 miles that morning? Or running up and down my driveway a few times to make sure my run finished at exactly 90 minutes and not 1:29:41? Would I find myself at a track in the middle of winter doing repeat 800s and feeling like a hamster on a wheel? (Albeit a frozen hamster with a nice running watch capturing my interval splits.) And if I became that guy, would that

be such a bad thing?

Confession time. That guy un was me, as I ventured more into 9 the racing world. Thankfully I Therefore I Am jenn found that my friendship with

running was not jeopardized while I challenged myself to faster times and took my relationship with running to a different level. OK, perhaps some would call that a compulsive level, but we runners prefer to call that passion. Semantics.

Like others who ran for a period before they became morefrequent racers, I found things akin to the feelings that occur during the middle miles of a marathon. In those miles from,

say, the 10-mile to 20-mile mark, Bob Schwartz

there is an earnestness emerging

© BK Taylor/I Run, Therefore | Am — Nuts!

while you concentrate more on the task at hand and keep a keen eye on your goal. There are still enthusiasm and enjoyment of the running, but they are tempered by a more preoccupied approach. A greater laserlike focus on your body, your pace, and your hydration emerges as you’re more in the moment. Consuming, albeit somewhat irritating, thoughts may arise like, “Is my left shoelace too tight? OMG, is that a cramp I feel? Maybe that extra bowl of spaghetti with spicy arrabbiata sauce last night wasn’t such a good idea. Was the next porta-potty at mile 18 or 20?”

Nonetheless, those middle miles, like competition itself, did bring an added layer to the enjoyment of running. Of course, like many other marathoners, I found that competition led me at times to find myself diving into the lactic-acid pool with a carbohydrate fuel tank well below optimum. This left me flattening my face on numerous collisions with the proverbial Wall.

But I still loved running. Runners keep running and keep racing because good outcome or poor outcome, there is a feeling provided that we can’t find anywhere else. However, similar to the unpredictable arrival of glycogen depletion, things can suddenly change, and you may enter an unanticipated stage producing slightly different feelings.

Injured years and comeback years

“But nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight— Got to kick at the darkness ’til it bleeds daylight.” —Bruce Cockburn, “Lovers in a Dangerous Time” lyrics

“The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.” —author Leo Tolstoy

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that with the above quote, it’s likely that Tolstoy was never an injured runner. Patience and time are not exactly the strong suits of a runner who is forced to the sidelines. I’m not concluding that injuries are an inevitable part of life for marathon runners as they age, but let’s face it—most runners aren’t exactly the leaders in the self-restraint department in allowing an injury to heal. It’s more likely that self-sabotage is inherently part of our natural, albeit dimwitted, game plan at times.

Most runners operate under the principle that the first treatment for an injury is to try to run through it. Of course, that’s about as successful as wind surfing through a tsunami. Like many runners as they approach their 40s, I had a few injuries along the way, but they were speed bumps as opposed to smashing into cement barricades. But suddenly, a parade of blockades emerged, and I began to feel like a crash-test dummy on an endless circuit.

About a decade’s worth of gone-today-but-back-tomorrow muscle pulls wasn’t enough, though, as when I turned 50 my body decided it would ramp up the degree

of injury. I became one of those runners who had the pleasure of being “scoped” when my knee’s meniscus experienced one too many hill repeats. But in looking on the sunny side of the operating table, without injuries we couldn’t experience the joy of a successful comeback (as elusive as that may be).

Admittedly, that old lack of patience trait wasn’t really helpful in trying to get a comeback to last longer than two days. Eventually, I learned, and it reminded me of thoughts that often emerge during the last 10K of a marathon, after you may have bonked a bit. As you agonizingly struggle forward and question your sanity, you may often negotiate a runner’s version of a Faustian bargain. In your glycogen-deprived state, you pledge that in return for being able to finish alive and with all appendages in the right place, you won’t ever again hit halfway far under your target time, won’t ever skip an aid station, and won’t ever try to squeeze in one more long training run when you should be tapering. Similarly, when you’re coming back from an injury, you’re willing to engage in covenants with the gods of running. Let me run pain free again, and I promise to stretch more than 14 seconds per day, I’ll actually use my home weight machine for its intended function and not for a place to hang wet running clothes, and I promise not to blithely double my mileage each week of my comeback.

But after a seemingly countless series of aborted comebacks, I finally concluded that if, as Saint Augustine said, “Patience is the companion of wisdom,” then I was going to be the smartest running guy in the locker room. Patience emerged, I actually allowed injuries to properly heal (what a concept!), and, like many other runners, I found that a successful comeback is similar to what occurs if you run enough marathons. Ultimately, you’ll get it right and experience that nirvana race where everything clicks: a race where the Wall is made of tissue paper as you burst right through it, a race where you finally achieve the heretofore-elusive goal of negative splits and you

© BK Taylor/I Run, Therefore | Am STILL Nuts!

finish with a flourish and not a face plant. That euphoric feeling of a triumphant marathon is similar to a successful comeback from an injury. Suddenly the crosstraining clouds are lifted, the envious glances at healthy runners passing by your window have dissipated, and you can actually read your latest running magazine without tears and constant pangs of longing.

You’re running consistently again and find yourself armed with a slightly modified outlook. When I experienced this adjusted approach after recovering from knee surgery, I couldn’t help but hear the words of former NFL coach Jim Mora and his famous postgame rant. Mora, after another tough loss, responded to a question regarding making the playoffs. He famously said, “What’s that? Ah—playoffs? Don’t talk about—playoffs? You kidding me? Playoffs? I just hope we can win a game! Another game!” Similarly, in coming back from a lengthy injury, you’re not thinking racing again as you’re thinking running again. “Ah—marathons? Don’t talk about—marathons! You kidding me? I just hope to tun, at the pace of a geriatric snail, to the end of my block!”

And ultimately, you will move beyond that elderly mollusk pace as your body reacquaints itself to the joy of self-propelled forward movement; you’ll clear away the cobwebs and a quicker pace will reemerge. It’s similar to getting through the rough patch of a marathon and moving forward with renewed strength and vigor.

Age and coming back from an injury may have nonetheless dropped you into the land of personal-worst race times, but rest assured, as the legendary Frank Sinatra sang: “The best is yet to come.”

The postpersonal-record years can still be the best years

“I write a lot of songs people don’t hear. I really just enjoy the process. I finish’ em all. I don’t think there’s a whole lot of difference between the bad ones and the good ones.” —singer/songwriter Bob Seger

“Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.’ —William Shakespeare

As you move beyond the injured and comeback years, you may find yourself closer to the end of your running career but also closer to the relationship with running that you had at the beginning. Though your race times will reveal that you’re slower than you’ve ever been, the fact is that your approach to running may be better than it has ever been. Like the simplicity of the unadorned act of running, there is a straightforward piece of wisdom to help maintain this approach. It comes from the book ///usions, by author Richard Bach. The main character is a reluctant, modern-day messiah who offers advice via the The Messiah’s Handbook, which states “Perspective. Use it or lose it,” phenomenal and basic advice for a runner as I’ve finally acquired so much perspective that my water bottle runneth over.

Being able to run consistently again without a persistent injury interruption was like meeting an old friend and easily resuming a relationship after some time apart. Perspective helped me experience the same enthusiasm of new beginnings that I had as an 11-year-old boy who was discovering the joy of solitary miles on the roads, the happiness of catching a falling autumn leaf while running, and the serenity of a winter run on a dusting of snow. Oh, sure, that young boy also discovered black toenails, wind chills producing frozen eyelashes, and painful chafing, but hey, it’s all part of the running package deal.

Although gaining perspective, aging marathon runners still retain their indomitable competitive zeal (where would some of us be without the joy of age-graded calculators?), but it’s all in the approach. I’m not as inclined to engage in selfflagellation over a less-than-stellar race performance or a poor training run. I’m cognizant of the fact that there is no predicting when the injury bus may come chugging along around the corner with its door open for me. Perspective has helped me to simply be thankful that I can run. Sure, there are some days that you’ ll have giddyup in your legs and feel like an indefatigable Forrest Gump. And some days you’ll experience the senescence of an aging Larry Lump as your legs feel like you’re pulling a tank through quicksand. Per singer/songwriter Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits: “Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.”