Don’t Cry for Me When | Go, Because | Go Down Happy.

e are gathered here today to honor the memory of

.” These words will be spoken, inevitably, over each of us. This despite the fact that most of us think that we, personally, are exempt. Runners—that independent, compulsive lot—are especially prone to this line of thinking. We are lulled to sleep by the vigorous exercise schedule to which we adhere, too tired to contemplate tomorrow, much less our final rest. We block such thoughts, blank them out, push them away, and think we are invincible. After all, we push and punish our bodies almost every day, stressing our muscles, bones, and our hearts to the limit. Our bodies are tough and well loved. How could they desert us? How could we die? If on a bad day a runner’s mind should drift to thoughts of his mortality, he would visualize going out like Johnny Kelley, the Boston marathoner . . . finish his last road race at 90, pick up his age-group trophy, get his affairs in order, lace on a pair of New Balance (purchased at half price), and shuffle off into eternity with eyes locked firmly on that final finish line.

Unfortunately, that ain’t the way it works. Runners do die and even occasionally die suddenly. Proper diet, regular exercise, and no smoking notwithstanding, runners fall over dead just like all other creatures. And occasionally, heaven forbid, runners actually die while running or, worse yet, while participating in a race! Oh, that makes for huge news, a super media event, creating public controversy about exercise. Is running bad for you? Will it kill you? How many running-related deaths per 10,000 runners were there in the United States last year? Should we pass laws limiting the number of miles citizens may run? Should all runners be required to carry defibrillators so a passerby could resuscitate? Cast your vote at our Web site.

Locally, when a runner dies prematurely, whether in the act of running or not, the hand-wringing starts in full force: “I knew all along running was bad for you!” “He exercised too much, and his heart got so big it just blowed up.” “All that runnin’ and what did it get for him but an early grave.” Likely, these comments come from the same folks who say, with a knowing look, “I’m gonna start running when I see a runner with a smile on his face. Har, har.” They miss the point.

So, as I was saying, runners die just like everyone else. This bothers me. Not the dying, but the hand-wringing, the unsolicited comments, and the casting of blame.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to die, but if I could pipe in at my own graveside memorial and toss a few from the subsurface peanut gallery, I would have a few things to say to my mourners, provided the weather is good enough to allow my friends to attend the services!

First, running didn’t kill me. To the contrary, it enlivened me! It opened my eyes to the beauty around me. It allowed me to see not the puddles in the road but the magnificent clouds reflected off the water in the puddle. It gave me hope for a brighter tomorrow, for a new age-group PR. It made me appreciate the wonderful life I’ve been privileged to live. It enabled me to put things into perspective and simplify complex issues that seemed to have no solution. It made me feel good about myself—who can like others if first he doesn’t like himself? It gave me strength and purpose and, yes, it did actually keep me young. After all, who besides a runner would have the nerve to run the city streets clad only in shorts and a singlet, just like a kid! It allowed me to achieve nearphenomenal physical goals,

sal AN Michael Hughes