9.4.11

When the cruel heat of August begins to yield the faint cool breezes of early fall, I find that I miss cross country season the most. This time of transition between the late summer and early autumn is always tinged withlonging for the running years that have long since passed. Days when sun bronzed bodies were free to wander on 12 mile runs followed by lazy stretching and a dip in clear water lakes. Days when the smell of fresh cut golf courses signaled that the first meet was not far away. A time when my wiry, streamlined frame felt like it could run forever.

Running is linked to my youth in such a way that I find it difficult to sort out one from the other. Socially awkward, mostly clueless and dreadfully skinny, I took to running as an escape from middle school bullying and sense of insecurity. Whereas the football jocks could slam me into a locker and tease me for playing the viola and singing in the choir, they could never outrun me. That was the one place I was safe. That was the one place I felt invincible. The smart ass comments as I lapped them in gym class, the attempts to trip me as I went by just became background noise as I left them behind in small town Wisconsin. Onward to the university campus, to compete against the fastest humans in the world. Off to the city and transnational travel withgratishotel rooms. Running had become my golden ticket.

The change of seasons began to mark a transition for me. Whereas I would continue to train through the summer in my hometown, the fall signaled a move back to the city, to college, to cross country, to flying from coast to coast and back again.

It brought me to places I’d never imagined….the beaches of South Florida, the trails where Pre used to run in Eugene, to the coastal region of Maine. I went to the home courses of Gabe Jennings and Ryan Shay. It brought me into the close knit brotherhood of teammates, and each day to stare at the silky brown skin of the women’s team.

These days have passed. I will never again run as fast as I didthen, nor in high school, nor even as a pre-pubescent eighth grader. Gone are the days when people would crowd around to watch, in amazement, the 125 pound kid who could put down endless milk shakes and jumbo burgers. Gone are the 8 mile runs clipped off at 5:40 pace and classified as “easy run” in my log. So long gone are the days when I could share the track with All Americans and Olympic Qualifiers.

Another transition of sorts has occurred.

My body, once betraying me as embarrassingly skeletal, has turned wickedly to conservation mode, greedily storing fat instead of burning it. My stride has lost some of its smoothness, like a bicycle wheel once slammed too hard against the sidewalk.

Though still ceaselessly habitual, running has become yet another box on the daily checklist. I can get in ‘maybe 20 minutes’ between a painful chugging of hot coffee and a quick shower before rush hour traffic. Possibly I can run a few miles after work and before making dinner. Too often I find myself checking my watch and asking, “How much longer do I have to do this shit?”

I decided I needed to make a change. After prematurely throwing myself back into the elite workouts of the local running group, I paid the price every Tuesday night with feelings of burning lungs followed occasionally by pinkish vomit expunged dangerously close to my running shoes. Perhaps it was too soon forthis. Perhaps I should relegate myself to the corps of dedicated recreational runners. After all, why beat yourself up against the gazelle like bodies of the young and ultra-fit?

It was on one of these evenings, a longtime running friend suggested that we go to a track meet. Lacking a good excuse, I found myself a few days later at the Never-Never Land of an all-comers event. Here, former college sprinters, now in their 40s and 50s, are free to put on their old track spikes and singlets and place their feet back into the starting blocks. Here, grey bearded marathon greats of the late 1970s, laboriously fight to keep up with kids born in the new century.

Here, my 32 year old friend, after fighting a battle against alcohol addiction, wins the 800 meters and basks in the glory of his triumph against himself. Running was his antidote to the poison that once filled his veins and threatened his life.

Here, I smell once again the fresh cut grass of the infield. It is early August and I can feel the cooling winds of autumn and sense the falling leaves around the corner. Cross country season is coming. What better way to celebrate than to pound your legs onto the rubberized track and feel your heart pump just a few clicks below cardiac arrest? As runners, it is what gives us life.

This race came and went as many before. Once again, I’m reminded that I run in the shadow of my very self. Once more, I know that the parabola extends now past the height of the peak, and downward into the sloping decline. It is a race that I will never win.

But the race is not meant to be won.

It is meant to be continued.