INTRO CTION

Return From the Farther Beyond

here is a curious phenomenon when it comes to long-distance running. Average walking-around folks who have always doubted their own physicality take up a running program, persist at it, begin to run increasingly longer distances, and eventually reach the point where they are marathoners or ultrarunners. They have effectively surpassed expectations that have characterized the physical side for their whole lives.

In the process, a certain degree of mental toughness and self-esteem emerges, self-esteem that they apply to other aspects of their lives.

If the correct—or, in some cases, the incorrect—mix of elements jells, they begin to feel invincible. And compared with the walking-around folk they have left behind, relatively speaking, they are.

But life has a way of knocking us down, reminding us that we are, in the long run, only human—and therefore fallible.

The good thing about being able to run long distances under our own power, though, is that the process makes us stronger and better able to withstand the vagaries of life.

We’ve put together a little section of five stories of long-distance runners who faced some rough times and returned from them, not unscarred, certainly, but not bowed, either.

¢ Jason Hiott reminisces about coming to terms with his father—and without him.

¢ Arnold Hogarth bounces back from a faulty heart to spend New York City Marathon weekend as a spectator.

¢ Bob Wehr learns a lesson about spending too much time in one spot and offers some advice so we can skip his side trip.

¢ Jeff Hardisty learns he’s only human after all but takes to others the message that there is life after a heart problem.

e And Larry Gassan runs himself into the ground but bounces back to make the best of it.

These are some of life’s little lessons, learned for you by some of your running buddies.

He Ran to His Own Beat, and Then the Beat Was Gone.

was so happy to see him. It had been a few months since I saw him on my

normal Sunday-morning route. He looked young, slim, tanned, and fit. “Hey, Dad,” I said as I excitedly approached him. He returned my smile and gave me a small wink. It had been too long since I had seen him—simply too long.

Our running paths didn’t cross very often. When I began running 20-plus years ago, I embraced it and made it a substantial part of my life. It was something that I just knew was going to stick with me. On the other side, my father ran sporadically, running only to maybe lose a little weight or because he had a girlfriend who enjoyed the sport. He also smoked on and off. I’ll never forget late nights after a long day’s work going to the track where he would meet me while puffing a cigarette. “I’m going to run with you tonight, but let me put this out first,” he would proclaim as he stamped out the butt. But that was many years ago. This morning he was strong and ready to go.

Over these last couple of years, he seemed to show up just when I needed him most, whenever I wanted to talk to him. Parents always have that sense of when something is happening with their children. I missed talking to him as much as I used to, besides the fact that my father was one of my best friends.

I told him that I had been depressed lately about some things, but I was OK and trying the best I could to cope with them. I also told him how lucky I was to be married to probably the best woman in the world and how much I loved her. That was important to him. He always wanted to know about my personal life, and many times I would just skim over things, but the last few times I saw him I went into more detail and offered more insights.

Having talks like this while we were running was a bonus. I looked over to him and saw that while I was sweating profusely as I always did, he was still going strong. I remember thinking that he must be in really great shape since I didn’t detect any signs of tiredness or slowing down on his part. I think we both were just happy that our paths had crossed on this special morning.

He always showed concern about my keeping my job, but he never knew what I did for a living. It simply never mattered to him. When I conveyed to him that after 20 years of working at the same place my whole adult life, I had been laid off, I joked that his concern finally had a basis. This was eerily similar to his fate.

It was a corridor that I was afraid of. He was never the same after he left that particular job many years back. His life spiraled slowly downward, and he was never again able to get traction. I helped him move many times over a short period, and it was always to a place just a little worse than the one we were moving him out of. The most telling of these moves was when he was moving from a one-bedroom apartment to an efficiency halfway across town.

* Eo *

Looking at all the boxes of stuff he wanted to move, I looked at him and announced, “I can’t do a bunch of trips tonight, Dad. I got some things to do.” He needed to be out by the next morning and didn’t have a car, so he was pretty much at my mercy. I was in a foul mood and was really giving him a hard time throughout the night.

“Why are you keeping this?”

“This won’t fit in the car.”

“Why did you wait until the last moment to move?”

He never fought me or crossed me on a question. After a couple of trips, there was still a room full of stuff that had to be moved. I was still showing my ass and with a deep, heavy sigh that was almost a yawn, I told him that I had to leave but would keep some stuff for him until he got settled into his new place.

As I was walking out the door, he asked me if my mother (his ex-wife) would come by and pick up a few more things after her night shift at work. I called her, and without hesitation she agreed to stop by.

My mother arrived home with a car full of stuff and weeping as I had never seen before. I thought something tragic had happened. “He looks so bad, Jason,” she whispered as I began to hug her. “He is so skinny.” I was embarrassed to tell her that I hadn’t even noticed. I don’t know whether it was because I was so young or stupid, but I just hadn’t noticed.

“He couldn’t stop talking about how proud he is of you,” she said. “He said that he was so lucky to have a son that would help him as much as you have over the last couple of years.”

1 was holding back tears but couldn’t stop the sad, empty feeling in my stomach or the large apple that had just taken up residence in my throat. As many young people in college or those just trying to begin their own lives do, I was looking only at the small picture. My time, my car, and my effort to move my life forward were crossing my miserable excuse for a mind. Only when my mother was speaking to me did I realize the big picture: my father was slipping into a gloomy, depressing place in his life.

Tran the next morning, then rushed over to his place to let him know that we could do afew more trips. 1 was too late. My dad was fighting back tears as 1 stood looking out the window of his former third-story apartment while people were going through the Dumpster to see which of his possessions were salvageable. Many of my father’s belongings had been demoted to rubbish. I was ashamed of myself.

* Eo *

My first ultra was also on the horizon. I had never been very fast and the years had depleted my legs of any speed, so I had decided to focus on longer distances. The last few months, while other parts of my life were falling apart, my running was exceeding expectations. I had settled into a comfort zone and was taking full advantage of it. I looked over at my father, and he looked like an athlete. He had wonderful form when he was running. He looked like a perfect runner.

As we ran through the various neighborhoods, it amazed me that he was able to run so well and so far. Many years ago, when things got really bad here in Miami, he had moved to Tampa to try to jump-start his life. Things instead got considerably worse: his downward spiral had picked up a full head of steam, and he was descending more rapidly than ever.

* Eo *

“Your father was hit by a car when he was crossing Fowler Avenue,” the doctor was telling me when I arrived at the hospital. “That is one of the busiest streets here in Tampa. Apparently he just didn’t see the truck,” she continued. “He should be OK, but it is going to take time and a lot of physical therapy.”

The glaze over my face was becoming thicker. The doctor left us, and I began to cry at his bedside. “He really should be OK,” she emphasized on her return to the room, seeing me struggle to get words out. I didn’t know whether he had enough fight in him to survive. He had been beaten up so many times that the truck may have been the last obstacle he had faced and he no longer cared to try. I didn’t know what to think, but I wanted to be sure that he knew I was there and that I would be there for him if he needed me. He needed to know that even though he might not have a lot of friends, he had a son who would always love him unconditionally and would stick by him.

Over the next few months, my dad got better but never fully recovered. He moved a little slower, talked a bit softer, and wasn’t always aware of things as they were happening. Like most loved ones, I protected him the best I could when I was with him, but living 300 miles away, it wasn’t always easy. He was his own worst enemy many a time.

The miles were flying by, and to say I was experiencing a runner’s high would be an understatement. Every step was confident. Unlike on most runs, I seemed to be getting stronger as the miles piled up. A few months earlier, I had finally entered the 20th century of running apparel and was wearing Coolmax shirts. I had run in T-shirts for many years, and I couldn’t believe the difference the Coolmax was making. I have a unique running form, but like most runners, I thought of myself as a mix of Alberto Salazar and Bill Rodgers—with a few extra pounds, of course. The wonderful thing about running is that anything is possible when your mind is making all the rules.

I continued to talk to my dad while we pressed on. We were winding down, but I was very appreciative that we had hooked up for a run. We had slowed to almost a walk in front of my house. I bent down and undid the house key from my shoelace. I wanted to draw out every last second from this scene—actually I didn’t want it to end. I waved to my dad as he disappeared.

As I struggled to get into the house—the tears beginning to flow and getting upset that we didn’t talk much anymore—I wanted to go back out and tell him to come inside so we could continue catching up. I wanted to tell him about every minute of every day in my life. I wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter that he wasn’t a perfect human being, that I still thought he was a wonderful father. I