copyright 2011 by Jack A. Urquhart

I like to run.

I like the freeing way running takes me out of my head and anchors my consciousness in my feet, legs, lungs—in the rhythms of breath and stride.  I like running here in Lake County.  It feels great, skirting Lake Dora one morning, looping Lake Gertrude the next.

I think Christopher McDougall nailed the feeling in his “Born to Run” (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009) in proposing that running “unites our two most primal impulses: fear and pleasure.”  And I agree with McDougall’s contention that we run when we’re frightened, when we’re jubilant—and when we just want to get away from our troubles.  I’ve written five or six stories featuring characters who run—usually to escape the terrifying stasis, the stultifying ‘standing-still-ness’ of their everyday lives.  To me, that makes perfect sense given the emphasis on collective accomplishments, professional and civic, that pervades modern life—negotiated endeavors that can reduce any sense of ‘personal satisfaction’ to nil.

Running can fill that void.

Which, I believe, is why the runners I know, or have read about, often cite running stories among their favorite memories.  I have a few myself.

Like the time years ago when I ran the Pawnee Pass Trailhead in the Brainard Lake Recreation Area high above Boulder, Colorado, my home at the time.  The route rises from approximately 10,300 feet to 10,800 feet over a distance of about 2.5 miles and terminates at Lake Isabelle.  On that particular day, in late spring I think it was, Isabelle was ringed with fields of pink watermelon snow, the lake itself tinted jade-green by glacial milk and stippled with miniature icebergs.  I was maybe forty-two at the time, but I still remember the thrill of running through the sub-alpine, spruce-scented forest, and the rare satisfaction of knowing that here was something I was well suited to do—a fact, I hasten to add, that has much to do with genetics.

A runner’s body, or so I’ve always been told, was part of my inheritance: my Dad’s slender build; my grandfather’s height, his long legs, big feet, and good lung capacity.  These were advantages I never had to develop from scratch.  Nothing unusual in that, of course.  Babes are born daily bearing their various hereditary gifts.  Some of us, by reason of physiognomy, are well suited to water, almost born to swim (think Mark Phelps). Others inherit the musculature and stamina for rough and tumble contact sports.  Fewer still are those rare individuals gifted with an amazing combination of physical grace, strength, dexterity, and an effortless precision that all but screams “Please!  Just let me dance!”

Speaking of which, my partner likes to tell the story of the day years ago when he was living in L.A. and lucky enough to catch sight of Fred Astaire dancing across Rodeo Drive.  A magical moment, is the way he describes it: a man—a living, breathing physical specimen in the simple act of crossing the street, yet moving like something truly out of the movies.  “Just imagine it!” RLB likes to say.  “Astaire floating, like it was the most natural thing in the world, across a distance of maybe a hundred feet—as if there were wings on his!”

I do imagine it.  Usually when I’m running well—not that I’m comparing myself to Astaire’s artistry, mind you.  But I digress.

It’s just that there is something wonderful, something with a bit of that Fred Astaire magic about being in my body when I’m running through space in a manner that feels right and comfortable and—yes, natural.  As if, as McDougall contends, I was born to run.

Which is why I wax anxious when, as in the past few months, my ability to achieve that elevated state of physical/mental consciousness is impaired by chronic aches and pains that don’t respond well to any of the usual remedies—injuries that don’t disappear after a few days off or a week’s reprieve.  Of course, as McDougall points out in his book, there is nothing unusual in this either.  He cites the sobering statistic that every year, very nearly eight out of ten runners are injured.  In fact, McDougall goes so far as to liken running to “the fitness version of drunk driving.”  Sounds a bit hyperbolic, until you consider that 80% ‘run down’ rate.

And I think it’s that rate that’s got me jumpy.  Probably a bit self-indulgent, but I’ve begun to wonder if I’m not already part of the road kill, my running days over and done.  And if that’s so, then what will I substitute for the thrill of achieving the minor goals that running provides?  As in, terrific, here’s 11^th Street and the Fiest set on my iPod isn’t over yet; I must be ahead of pace!  Or the built-in incentive to push myself that a morning run sets in my path: Jesus!  Stevie Nicks launching into “Gold Dust Woman”?  That’s not supposed to happen till I hit Morningside Lane.  Better haul ass!

Then there’s the really heavy-duty motivators—those times when I’m feeling too tired, too hot, too old, and suddenly comes the crazy notion: if I can just make 6 km, then…then, my son will find an apartment this week; if I can push to 8 km, then number-one daughter is sure to find a job.

Don’t laugh!  You’d be surprised how often those little bargains have come to fruition—and not just in getting me to my silly mark.

Witness the one I made back in Colorado, 1997 it was, while running endless indoor loops in the deep midwinter.  Here’s the arrangement I proposed in order to keep going: If I can make four miles, then I’m that much closer to San Francisco, that much closer to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—my life partner, waiting at home for me (hopefully preparing our dinner).

Fast forward a year to February 1998, and it was a done deal, as if I’d made a bargain with the universe and all I’d had to do was run—something my gangling body could do.

So, what happens—not if, but—when that isn’t true anymore?

Like yesterday.  Like sometime around the 4 km mark when my knee screamed “Stop, fool!” at the precise moment when, and I’m not kidding, Fred Astaire—still alive and well in my iPod—began crooning “Something’s Got to Give”  (Jesus.  Sing!  Dance!  Act!  Was there anything the man couldn’t do?).

What happens when I can’t run anymore?  And yes, I know there are other ways to move through a space—cycling, in-line skates, swimming, etc.  But none, none, it seems just now, is as well-suited to my poor body, my famished soul, as running.

Just life, you might say.  One finds substitutes, one copes, one moves on.  And you’d be right.  In truth, I accepted long ago that life is all about loss, all the important components dropping off, a piece here, another there, as we run the downhill drag.  Until pretty soon all we have left is our memories—and sometimes not even that.  I’ve accepted, I think, that living is more about coping, more about adapting than celebrating.

All the same, I can’t help hoping that I can hold on a bit longer to the jubilation of striding along—impelled and empowered by my skinny legs—through all this miracle of creation.

So I’m hoping that the universe will honor the deal I put forward yesterday morning—the one about taking a month off, if only everything can be made right again—knee, tendons, calves.  How does that sound?”

One month wouldn’t be too much to pay.  Even two would be a steal given the thrill of trotting along in the cool morning darkness, the setting moon playing peek-a-boo from behind the clouds, the whole of creation catching its breath right along with me as the first rays of the new day break on the horizon, as the water-color wash of dawn streaks east-to-west across Lake Gertrude.

Lord, what a bargain that would be!

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