Clan of the White-haired Runners…

I’m a runner, but I’ve never been fast. Well, there were those couple of days in 1956 or 1957 when I did feel fast. My parents gave in to my prolonged whining and bought me a pair of black, high top basketball shoes. The shoes replaced a pair of heavy, well-worn black engineer boots. When I went outside to try out my new shoes, my feet felt light – like I was bare footed. I ran. My feet moved incredibly fast. I imagined that if I could be seen at all, I would appear as a blur – like the shimmer of heated air above a campfire; the grass would bend to acknowledge my passing; the only sound would be a whoosh. I was amazing. Bad luck though. After a few days, my feet forgot the old heavy boots and accepted the basketball shoes as the new heavy. My feet forgot they could fly.

I never gave running another try until I was 35ish. I was over nourished, pasty white from working long hours under fluorescent lights and I couldn’t walk up one flight of stairs without my heart racing.  None of those things were enough to get me started on an exercise program, but a short phone call was. A friend called to ask if I had heard that a mutual acquaintance our age had died from a heart attack. For the first time in my life, I realized that I was mortal. It occurred to me that I needed to make a change in my behavior — I started running.

For many years, I ran before my family was out of bed in the morning, or after my sons went to bed at night. In spite of the challenges in finding time to run, I realized pretty quickly that I liked it.

Running helped me solve problems. There were things I just couldn’t figure out at the office. The more I tried to find an answer, the farther away the solution moved away from me – it was like trying to see a floater in your eye – you can’t. When I ran, I put my brain in neutral and did my best to let go of my problems. When I did, the solutions often came looking for me… “Hey man, I’m here.” Feigning disinterest, I might reply, “I don’t care – leave me alone.” Solutions hate to be ignored… “Come on man.” I’d continue the disinterested approach… “Alright but be quiet.”

Running taught me that growing required accepting pain. My body often said, “Don’t want to – it’s going to hurt.” When I surrendered to the fear of pain my fitness plateaued. When I pushed through the fear, my old best became my new base – my running moved to a higher level.

And then, I found I liked running because it made me feel good about myself in a self-righteous way. I was doing something that most people didn’t – I was special.  

So here I am many years later. I’m still running. Today I’m running in a track meet sponsored by The Greater Nashville District of the Tennessee Senior Olympics. I’ve been training for this meet for a long time. I’m fit, but still slow.

I was up at 4:30 this morning – cooked an egg breakfast, meditated, prayed and made a PB&J sandwich to take with me. I was on my way towards Nashville at 6:30. Traffic was light. I was parked near the Brentwood High School stadium by 8:25. I took my time walking to the track — I was nervous.

There weren’t many – maybe 30 to 40 competitors on the track with half that number in the stands spectating. The track was a quarter mile, like the track I train on, but it looked like it was a mile long – I didn’t think I could run that far.  The competitors were visiting with each other – like a group of Facebook friends might look if they were meeting in person — friends, not competitors — the clan of the white-haired runners. Coming together one more time seeking fellowship and meaning in a world that often ignores them.

The meet started at 9:00. In the shorter races, the men and women ran separate races. In the longer races where there were fewer runners of both sexes, men and women ran together. Some of the runners were slow like I am. Other runners were elite age group athletes.  Grady, one of the runners in my age group is a national champion.

My events, the 400- and 800-meter runs, were the last two track events of the day. The 400 was first. There were only 4 runners in my heat. The first 200 meters was the fastest I’ve ever run as an old guy. Grady, the national champion, was far ahead of me at that point. I kept running at that pace until I reached 300m. Then, my legs sent a message to my brain “that’s about all we can do – keep running at your own peril.” I knew that I would feel embarrassed if I woke up face down on the track with someone saying, “Is he dead?” I took my leg’s warning to heart and trotted most of the rest of the way. I finished third, 22 seconds behind Grady. My heat of the 800 started less than 10 minutes after I ran the 400 – not enough time for my legs to recover. I finished third…again.

So, how did this all feel after training for months? The two bronze medals I won were cool, but my ego lets me look at them only as participation medals. My goal as I prepared for these races was to run personal bests in both races. I didn’t accomplish that in either race – bummer. On the plus side – I went…I ran…I faltered but, more importantly, finished the course. As I walked back towards my car, I had a feeling of satisfaction like when you finish a good day of hard physical work — the day wasn’t through with me, though.

As I left the stadium, I caught up with one of the “old” guys I had seen running. I introduced myself. We walked in silence for a few steps, then he said, “I don’t know where my car is.” I could sense the distress in his voice. I invited him to walk with me until we found it. We walked around the corner of a building near the parking lot where we had been told to park. Howard’s car wasn’t there. No worries…this was a big school with lots of places for a car to hide. I told Howard that I’d drive him around the school until we found his car. We finally found it…all the way across the campus. As he was getting out of my truck, Howard offered me his hand, thanked me and then said, “I forgot my spikes (racing shoes that serious sprinters wear while on the track) …and shirt (commemorative, event t-shirt that all competitors received).” I asked Howard if he wanted me go back to the track with him. He declined. I waited and watched until he made it through the gate that led to the stadium. I later learned that Howard is 88 (name and age changed to protect his privacy). I felt a bond with him. Two forgetful old guys…trying to keep running because we can.

(This event was held September 21, 2019.)