And Pheidippides Wept - Poetic Homage to the Marathon

By: Jonathan Mederos



A vast problem unto myself
Coiling
And
Recoiling
Beneath an avalanche of woes
Only if it must be so


Hearts are tested, bodies hardened
Days reflected, trails forgotten
Subdue all pain
Become master of these domains


FOOTPRINTS
Carved along the path
Where I’ve been
Where I’m going
Where I hope to be someday


My Playground
Field of Dreams
Second Star to the right
And straight on till morning



A Boulevard of B R O K E N
Dreams
The only road I’ve ever known
Two diverged took the one less traveled by




I called He answered
I ran she came
Purpose herein found
Run hard, young man,
And finish strong.

Lengua de Amor

"Entiendo ahora lo que mis padres sienten, por ver y hacerme feliz. Contigo igual, y si no con un beso, entonces con el monedero, y si no con ser atleta, entonces con estar siempre a tu derecha. Porque estar a tres pasos de ti, es ser el ultimo en llegar, tal como he aprendido en el deporte, cuando termino en segundo, tercer, o cuarto lugar."

"Aunque no lo creas, hoy voy vestido con disfraz de Halloween, completo con nariz roja, zapatos gigantes, y colores abundantes. El traje me queda perfecto, como si fuera uniforme, porque desde que te fuiste, juego el papel de un payaso. Que hace un caballero en el circo, que hace un hombre sin el amor de su vida?"

"Dame solo una vista, un pedazito de ti, por casualidad tropezar o de una distancia admirar. En eso veras encender mi rostro, desaparecer esta mirada sin fondo, este cuerpo gastado, y las ganas volver. Porque eres mi choque de alma, mi golpe despertador."

"Recuerdo cuando me tocaron en el hombro una vez, y que pena, ya casi se me olvida la sensacion. Pero en ese momento, bajo una torrente de alivio, senti el poder femenino, como si fuera fragmento del amor materno. Bendito sea tal sentimiento, que habiendo madurado, se muere por desemprender en llamada mujer."

"No mostrarE nuestra foto si algun dia no te encuentras. No dejarE caer lagrimas falsas si en un futuro me fallezcas. A lo contario, te quiero con un amor sincero, verbo presente, hoy y cada dia, porque lamentar lo de ayer cuando en un pasado estaba mas que dispuesto, serIa una gran hipocresIa. (Observaciones de la vida alrededor)."

No me digas que ahora estas perdido, comi si de pronto la vida le faltara su sentido. Que tu depresion no tiene explicacion, el no poder dormir, corriendo peor que nunca. No hace tanto la filosofia me servia bien. El amor me correspondia or por lo menos la esperanza existia. Por eso creo que la salida debe por algun lado estar, y cuando la encuentre todo volvera ser exitoso, profundo, y mas que nada bello al parecer.



"Ni la luna, vestida de gala y majestuosa esta noche, brillaba con el mismo resplandor que alumbra tu rostro. Es como si toda la belleza del mundo existiera solo a traves de ti, y que sin ella no hay manera de vivir, o tal vez entre memorias y recuerdos que has dejado por ahi."

"De repente se me hace urgente. Cambiar, mejorar, por un milagro rezar, para que en mi puedas encontrar, o conseguir amar, el hombre que todo te quiso dar . Espera un poquito mas, y quizas te sorprenderas, ya veras."


"Prefiero la espina a la cuchilla, lo temporal al desafio total. Porque la perfeccion no existe, y cualquier planeta donde usted no se encuentre, me sabe amargo y a pura mierda, con el agua del mar, volviendo mas salada."

"Llega un momento donde todo parece ridiculo. Yo, con una media puesta sin la otra, perdiendo la cabeza, corriendo furiosamente en la rotunda. Y a donde llegar? Para que tanta prisa, que clase de locura! Quizas para bajar la fiebre, olvidar lo que uno no se merece, por no tener lo que siempre quise, y por lo cual ni tal vez califico."

"AhI me dejE caer, en esa nube de fatiga. Desorientado, temaba que en mi prisa te habIa abandonado. Pero de pronto sentI una brisa que me fue llevando hacia ti, y desde entonces no paro de persistir si es que en la distancia ya te vi." (letras mayUsculas llevan acento)

Aunque te sembrE un jardIn de primavera, perfumado con mi amor de veras, la flor que no encontraste es la Ultima en salirse, por ser tan orgullosa e invincible. Planteado como ella me fijo porque te amo como ayer te quise. (letras mayUsculas llevan acento)

Cuando me pregunten que hice este verano, dire emocionadamente que viaje a distintos continentes. Uno repleno con jardines de flores, musica de tambores, y tu bendita residencia. El otro despoblado y marcado por tu ausencia. Por lo tanto me quedo cuidadano de la primera.

Te amo como el resplandor de un verano inclemente, que al llegar las lluvias, esas aguas refrescantes, me restituye con sus poderes. Los rayos que alumbran el cielo tempestuoso es mi corazon tronando por ti.

At the Intersection of Sports and Real Life

Someday your name will be called, your number will be up, and the call will arrive. In that moment, everything that came before will make sense and seem like due process. Watching Greg McElroy get selected in the 7th round of the NFL draft with his family and Trey Wingo of ESPN fighting back tears, brought that home. (Inspired by the newest member of the New York Jets, at the intersection of sports and real life)

She made us cheer with her infectious smile. She made us gasp with her winning ease. Heroine, tragic figure, mother of three, and newly resurrected athlete. Marion, thank you for catapulting my own running career and to those who would have her crucified, how many of us have never lied to save our lives, with stakes no...t even close to being as high. (Inspired by M. Jones, at the intersection of sports and real Life)

In case you need confirmation that life is full of second chances, look no further than Michael Vick. I mean, where does he get that athletic ability to begin with? Once lost and now found, redemption is called turning your life around. (Inspired by the Eagles' starting QB, at the intersection of sports and real life)

An Iowa wrestler is ridiculed for defaulting at the state meet when it was revealed his next match would be against a girl. Where do we draw the line with equal rights, Title IX, and feminist propaganda? I was taught that a man should never lay his hands on a woman other than to make her feel loved. Any male athlete worth his “weight in class” would forfeit the title, especially in a sport where groping/grappling is the name of the game. (Inspired by Joel Northrup, at the Intersection of Sports and Real Life)

What's the difference between a man with nothing to lose and a well-balanced athlete with added perspective on life? The former is unbeatable, the latter is INVINCIBLE. Despite losing in a sudden death playoff on Sunday, pro golfer and family man David Toms was philosophical in defeat: "Winning here would not alter my life one way or another." (Inspired by the PGA Tour, at the intersection of sports and real life)

Let's not pretend that a man can hoist a trophy without the saving graces that accompany inspirational performances. While personifying perseverance, athletes like Bozella (the boxer) and Robles (the wrestler) were aided by the wind beneath their wings. For the latter it was the support of a mother in distress. And for the former it was the love of a woman behind bars. (Inspired by the ESPY Awards, at the intersection of sports and real life)



The character assasination of Jay Cutler reveals how public perception is fueled by appearances. Be careful you don't blink, stutter, or have a bad hair day because people will size you up in an instant, disgruntled Bears fans being just one segment of the population. (Inspired by the NFL playoffs, at the Intersection of Sports and Real Life

Now I have something in common with stalwart WR Randy Moss and it's not a big mouth or 4.2 speed. After being traded to the Vikings and later to the Titans, Moss still talks about his years in New England as if they were his best. And who knows, maybe the Patriots also miss that guy who could break open a game with one big play down the field. ( Inspired by #84, at the intersection of sports and real life)


On the eve following Andre Dawson's Hall of Fame induction speech, allow me to reverberate his scintillating words: "If you love the game of baseball, the game will love you back." Now in a world where such is seldom the case, sometimes the only way to make it through is by playing catch, putting on a uniform, or like ...me, going the distance. ( Inspired by Cooperstown 2010, at the intersection of sports and real life)

There are legends and all-time greats in every sport. And then there's Derek Jeter. Ony a demi-god could date Jessica Alba AND Jessica Biel, collect over 3,000 career hits, and still retain such poise and humility. Screw running! I want to wear #2, play shortstop for the New York Yankees, make $20 milion dollars a year, and go to work everyday to this introduction by Bob Sheppard and the crowd's ovation.


There are some things in life we just can't come to terms with. Maybe because we refuse to make peace with it or maybe for lack of an ultimate justification. We may submit ourselves to treatment, it may go into remission, but the heart is all but healed. Coach George Karl below knows exactly what I'm talking about. (In...spired by personal misfortune, at the intersection of sports and real life)

Ashley Judd, in describing her husband as a "gentleman racer" had this to say about Dario Franchitti: "I know I always have a parking spot reserved for me in his heart." Very well, then, but how about we make that an all-access permit with exclusive priviledges for the women we love. (Inspired by the Indianapolis 500, at the intersection of sports and real life.)


How many climbs will it take to break you? How many surges will you counter-attack? Go for broke, gamble, bid for glory on that weary summit, lest you should find yourself cracked and half-beaten, lacking in both strength and fortitude. Let us ride, then, with the courage of men with strained faces who will live to lov...e another day. (Inspired by the Tour de France, at the intersection of sports and real life)

I was going to criticize Lebron's tweet - Now or Never - before realizing that a similar ultimatum - This or Nothing - has been endorsed by me. We mean what we say in the sincerest of ways, every ounce of its raw, unfiltered emotion. Play hard or go home. Love passionately or renounce and fold. (Inspired by the heart of a champion, at the intersection of sports and real life)



Quite often, life’s anticipated moment comes not during regulation, but after 90 minutes of heartbreakingly close calls, near misses, and a war of attrition. Prepare for overtime with bated breath and saddled loins, because the difference between winning it all or losing what matters most is far from a bygone conclusio...n. (Inspired by the World Cup, at the intersection of sports and real life)

Musings of the Swift-Footed Poet

"If anyone should ask why, of all trades or occupations, did I choose philosophy, there is but one reply – to better understand why our tortured lot of humanity is made to suffer – and over the years my hunch has changed from one of injustice to one of desert. Running is an anesthetic to these incongruities but more oft...en than not, if performed in a vacuum, an exacerbating factor."

"Today I celebrated a run, the last of its kind, until quite some time. A 4.5 mile loop, really just around the block, but for me, the world. Sunkissed by an effervescent glow through leafy branches, saying hello to my good boy German Shephard, and collecting peace like miles reward on this green boulevard."


"Like a phoenix from the ashes, I have risen, from the depths have I emerged. Now, the canyons are dark, and the trails are lovely, sun-baked, and deep, but I've got miles to run and promises to keep."

"As certain races get closer, there's always this feeling, this fear, that maybe it's not everything we crack it up to be. I ask, is this it, is this what I've become? And usually, if I'm being honest with myself, the truth is that I've just gotten really good at passing time."

"Allow yourself to dream, for even if you can't be one of them, as this philosopher will tell you, the spirit of running has no official proprietor. The act itself is participation in an art form whose essence touches us all."

"To thee I offer up this elegy, amidst the trials my body now endures. For years have I sojourned to that fateful site, when on the 15th of April, 2004, victory was first achieved, eclipsing, if you will, a virgin streak. A lot has changed in six years hence, but in many ways I'm still that rabid, zealous runner bidding for the lead on old Bayshore Drive. In sleep have I pictured those glory days of yonder, in training have I paid dues to its bittersweet nostalgia. Sure enough, come this Thursday the course will be decked out in its race-day best and mine the lot to envy.Twice defending champion and now broken by a wayward knee, I'll be thinking of thee, as an absentee, but somewhere down the road, behind the motorcade, on a warm, crisp spring day, the prize will I reclaim."

"We all have our reasons, you know. As youngsters, we'd embark on a furious pace and throw caution to the wind, making our bed on the inside of lane one. But at some point the main hunt becomes more important than chasing the runaway rabbit, and the sun begins to rise in a not-so-Neverland. Older is better, I say, especially when you're traveling through greener pastures."

"You triumph over the adversity, that's what running is all about, and therefore you know there isn't anything in life you can't triumph over after that." K. Switzer

Never Faster than the Speed of Love

Love RUNS Deep

- Confessions of the love-struck runner

"He keeps telling himself that there's still wind in his sails, an aid station up ahead, and that winning, as in sports, will solve everything. But who's he kidding? I remember the days of rushing home from work on a Friday afternoon. Of thinking what my next surprise would be and smiling myself to sleep. This man in lo...ve is still alive and ten times greater than the man who runs."

"You can try to outrun the sun, go out on one limb, or rise defiantly after every tumble, and they'll call you a champ. But use that same stupid heroism in the name of eros and you got another thing coming. As a theologian, I should know better: "It is not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord." (Zechariah 4:6)

"I don't let myself forget how lucky I am. I get to chase a dream that invigorates me 24/7, that gives me goosebumps on weekends like this when you're so close, you can taste it. I get to put on my shoes and do what I love everyday. I get to train with good friends and race in front of thousands. And best of all, I get ...to love someone in the purest of ways, bullet to the chest, and feel loved in return."

"If life was a parade and you its star performer, I’d be that guy who, like an eager park visitor, reserves his seat in the front row and rolls out the red carpet, tossing petals as you stroll on by. All the while, thinking, lucky me to have called you mine. And so the story's told, that every day he sits on that same o...ld stretch of road, loving her THANKFULLY, until the day he can do so even more perfectly."

"In my sleep, we walked together...in my dreams, we sat and talked. It's one thing to never have seen Giza or stepped inside Europe's sacred cathedrals, but when you've been with the eighth, ninth, tenth...wonder of the world, that's when waking up just plain sucks because nothing will ever compare."


"I'm like a man who sees a door, even the writing on the wall, and stays locked like a sprinter left dead in the blocks. For how does one flee from destiny, and if not fate, then surely did I crown it thusly. Maybe I'm a coward for not stepping out into the light. Maybe I'm selfish for wanting such and such. No, I know, it's that I love her too much."

"It feels like everyone else is playing AAA, minor leaguers next to you, a big-time pro. Like Lebron on a mismatch or a perennial favorite versus a weak field, you stand so head and shoulders above the rest that there's no contest. You are a perfect ten, so beautiful it hurts, and so out of reach that I die a little more each day."

"On January 30 I’ll beat around 19,990 runners to the finish line in Downtown Miami, and yet there’s one, most elusive and desirable, that got away. I keep thinking that if I make a champion of myself I’ll reel you in, but I’m not a hero and would die to finish first . It doesn’t matter what happens on Sunday because I lost the race the moment you called off the chase. I run harder now just to flee the pain. To my girl, breathless and weary, I love thee still."

"It wasn't just the burrito or the fact that it's been months since I've indulged my palate that freely. It was the table for two in the corner, thoughts of you, thoughts of me, dipping our chips in salsa and guacamole. We would plan our day, our lives, whole moons would pass by, and soon Chipotle became a symbol for all time. One love, for here, not to go."

Most one-hit wonders become rich and famous overnight, only later to have their value drop out of sight. But you, my one-hit wonder, my fixed and brightest star, retain the highest ratings on a scale from one to thou. For after you there is no sequel in my heart, only a number that plays on as the undisputed #1 on the charts.


"Maybe the problem is that I don't know how to quit. See, I come from a land of 20mph headwinds and soft, ankle-deep sand. Where oxygen debt makes you stronger and dropping out is fuax pas. So how can I throw in the towel and accept defeat when suffering through bad patches under extreme heat is my peculiar specialty? (Inspired by seagulls and remnant thoughts of thee)

You know that feeling when someone strikes a match in a dark lit room, or beauty causes you to do a double take? All of a sudden I was like, "run, what run?" and all my questions about life and her were succinctly answered. It was as if God himself walked, spoke, and addressed me in person. Such is the power, such is t...he magnificence, of her standing in my presence.

Notice that nobody ever walks away from something you can't replace. Lost causes are abandoned and painful trips cursed, but the the real deal...the holy grail...it compels you, moves you, resucitates you. It moves the finish line closer and throws a tailwind at your back. You want to drop out, but dammit, you're in the lead and losing first, the best that ever was, is of all tragedies the worst.

"On this note I depart: One year later, under a different set of circumstances, the magic is in believing that if I somehow keep burrowing ahead in my crazed, delusional sort of way, that I’ll eventually run into some good fortune and recapture a happy thought or two. Having her by my side only increases that aura of invincibility, win or lose."


I can now safely cross out another item off my bucket list. To combat dehydration on the run, I've gulped down water from beach showers, front lawn sprinklers, and today, for the first time, like a dog face first, from an underground pothole. Now if only I can find a well to quench my soul's thirst.

Brer Rabbit, of Splash Mountain fame, once said: "You can't run away from your troubles, ain't no place that far." Funny, though, because I've never clung to any such illusion. I run "un-abaited to get-you-back" ( timely football reference ) since the only race that matters is the one returning to our designated laughi...ng place, somewhere between overhanging cliffs, knapsacks, and our old cottage shack.

"AhI me dejE caer, en esa nube de fatiga. Desorientado, temaba que en mi prisa te habIa abandonado. Pero de pronto sentI una brisa que me fue llevando hacia ti, y desde entonces no paro de persistir si es que en la distancia ya te vi." (letras mayUsculas llevan acento)

"Cuando me pregunten que hice este verano, dire emocionadamente que viaje a distintos continentes. Uno repleno con jardines de flores, musica de tambores, y tu bendita residencia. El otro despoblado y marcado por tu ausencia. Por lo tanto me quedo cuidadano de la primera."


"The track calls, it beckons me by name, and I respond. Around the bend and up the straight, the body into symphony breaks. The mind races, roaring with excitement, and the heart erupts, teeming with the lover's passion. My soul fixed steadfastly on thee."

"There are world-class times, like the 18:12 I ran today for 5K (tongue in cheek), and then there are solar-eclipsing "times", like those I spend with you."

"What if I told you I'm still on fresh legs? What if I told you that speed is my old friend? And what if I told you that the rest of the best lies just around the bend, with you and me coming out on the winning end." (Inspired by ESPN's 30 for 30 series)

"I want to ride the wind on a spring breeze, turn the corner and always see you there. I want to go faster and further than I've ever gone before, starting and finishing right outside your front door. I want to pump my arms in victory and falling into your arms, say, "you're the only one for me."I want to catch my breath over the long haul, and lose it every time I see you pass by. I want to break the tape and remain unbroken in my devotion to you, as unwavering as the seconds that tick by with precision."

"Maybe I keep running because someday I'll come over the crest of that hill, reach the other side of the rainbow, and find that everything I've ever loved has come to stay in perfect, uninterrupted, and unblemished form."

"Men's Overall CHAMPION of the final edition race - Tower of Terror 13K. A day which seemingly materialized from a long line of miles, trials, and even the best of times. Run with your heart near your ankles and love will see you through."

"Imagine me, and the shock waves I must be feeling, when the regular and preferred course of training is during the midday solar crunch. But despite the disarray, I am not deterred. For you I'll build snow angels on the turf and pick winter evergreens en route for your treasured keepsake."

"For every outward movement, ideally speaking, a return investment is forthcoming. As thou drawest near, I draw still nigher unto thee, unfettered, for complementary are we. In every way, plus one, it is you completing me."

"Lord, make me swift and agile for the task at hand, in gliding over tis' wondrous land. Remembering days of glory past, I sequel to a storybook place, notwithstanding time or pace."

"We all have our reasons, you know. As youngsters, we'd embark on a furious pace and throw caution to the wind, making our bed on the inside of lane one. But at some point the main hunt becomes more important than chasing the runaway rabbit, and the sun begins to rise in a not-so-Neverland. Older is better, I say, especially when you've come here to stay."

"Three things I can't live without: Your garden-variety barnburner of a 5K, a sporting interest, and a love that's divine, in ascending order. Compliments to the Server upstairs for the gift of that irreplaceable one."

"As I stood there, long after the hype had lived up to its billing, in reverence over a finish line that now lay abandoned, this song was heard playing over the soothing night air, and all I could think of was how much I cherished a life of second chances. I might have just as easily been forced to sit this out...I might have just as easily missed out on loving you."

"Coming off a sweet ride, of prayers unforsaken, and perspective weighs in, sending me into a lovely tailspin. Because there's never been a mile to keep me from getting to you."

"It was a podium finish and my girl was there to glorify the bronze with her heart of gold."

"Whether tis nobler, nay, more prudent, to suffer in the unperturbed solitary shades or take upon another whose blade cuts deep and is yet, oh so bittersweet. Therein lies the question, in my best Shakespearean imitation."

"I'd wander breathless through the last desert on Earth just to see you, hear you, and feel you against my skin. The sandy dunes of lost time would soon become an ocean-view paradise."

"This year I’ll be home for Christmas, pretending that 2010 is just the new 2009. The tree is where we left it, the gifts are all I have to give. Because I’m dreaming of a you-and-me Christmas, waking up to find that what I couldn’t, still can’t, but hope to offer you someday, is checked off Santa’s list, dispatched from the workshop, stewing in the kitchen, and well on its way."


The only times I've come dangerously close to breaking the Decalogue's first commandment have been when you are in near proximity. During this season of celebrating the divine incarnate and adoring the baby Jesus, what better time to say, I love you babe, beauty descended and in the flesh.


Like Eugene, I also have a thing for brunettes. This one in particular has me all “Tangled” up, without whom life is a tower-dwelling, light-escaping, hair-pulling fiasco. I’ll be that runaway thief who comes up with an unexpected catch like you, even if it’s all just a fairy tale, even if it’s all just in my head........HAPPY BIRTHDAY!I really miss my best friend. No one says it better than the artist Marco Antonio Solis:“Voy a hacer de cuenta que nunca te fuiste, que has ido de viaje y nada más. Quiero que mi ausencia,sean las grandes alas, con las que tú puedas emprender ese vuelo largo, de tantas escalas...y encontrar yo mi modo de continuar.” I see myself as the spoon that tried to be part of a beautifully matching set. The sweeteners in my life just happen to be the ones inside your kettle. Don’t be mad at me. I understand your code of silence and only did this because June 3 comes just once a year, similar to how a girl like you comes around only once a lifetime.


If life was a parade and you its star performer, I’d be that guy who, like an eager park visitor, reserves his seat in the front row and rolls out the red carpet, tossing petals as you stroll on by. All the while, thinking, lucky me to have called you mine. And so the story's told, that every day he sits on that same old stretch of road, loving her THANKFULLY, until the day he can do so even more perfectly.

If I were to walk away prematurely like a man with little patience and frivolous attachment, the guilt would last a lifetime. But that is not the case. I have taken a heroic stance and raised a glass of good will, for which even the most well-cultivated faith demands a bit of sanctuary. Which is why I've never been so afraid of quitting and yet so reluctant to keep going down this path.

Fulfill your Running Potential

Run like an animal.

It’s a slogan, injected into popular running jargon by Pearl Izumi, which calls for careful unpacking. Perhaps the cavemen from those witty Geico commercials would be the first to object. But a deeper inspection may come to reveal why so many others actually swear by its living credo.

So what are we to make of this unconventional, old school, yet mostly revered mentality? Does running, by nature, entail sacrifice, pain, and a side order of pure guts? And if indeed we can agree that our paradigm is a noble one, how many modern-day plodders take seriously what Pheidippides took with him to the grave?
The point was driven home to me not too long ago on one of those casual encounters during a family barbecue. As the conversation somehow drifted towards weight loss, I posited that despite a lean runner’s frame, I could still benefit from being 15 pounds lighter. Instantly, it was as if the weirdo detection system was turned on inside the room as my non-runner friends surveyed me from head to toe in disbelief: “If you get any skinnier you’ll be anorexic,” one of them clamored. “Plus, runners are like pathetic little twigs, one push and they come tumbling down.” Now, of course, I wasn’t about to explain what raw athleticism lay disguised behind our deceptively frail outlines, nor could I hope to transmit the glorious sensation of beating thousands of eager runners to a coveted finish line tape. So, instead, it festers now as food for thought.

Needless to say, our sport is vastly misunderstood by the general public. But more recently, the hoards of newbies lacing up a pair of running shoes are falling dangerously off the mark as well. We are living, and running, during an age of mass participation in our sport. Despite a sagging economy, road race registration is showing no signs of decay. The number of people taking to the streets, including first-timers, is at an all-time high, reminiscent of the 1970’s fitness boom. As an outdoor enthusiast and strong advocate of cardiovascular health, the situation seems to me to be entirely fortuitous. After all, an active lifestyle can only help to reverse our current obesity epidemic, and may even provide an over-worked, over-stressed, generation with a positive and cathartic outlet for physical rejuvenation and social enrichment.

The unfortunate casualty in this great uproar of enthusiasm is the increasing acceptance of mediocre standards. Races, especially big city marathons where quantity trumps quality, have become more like rolling parades of block party runners. The caravan of Gallo walkers stretches impressively far back, with many an expeditionary expecting to cross the finish line in 5 hours plus. We’ve come a long way from the early 20th century when these same races were viewed as freak shows for eccentric types running a bit too fast for their own good.

To minimize the risk of being misinterpreted and labeled an elitist prick, allow me to make a few rational disclaimers. Running, pure and simple, is what we’re all born to do. McDougal, in his best-selling book “Born to Run” avowed just as much, hitting the nail right on its head. The fact that our bodies were engineered to run, going back to our most primitive ancestors, makes genetic and perhaps even intuitive sense. There’s something quite natural about the bandwagon phenomenon being perceived in our ranks, and God forbid I should say or do anything to discourage that magnificent trend. Let it ring from Mt. Sac to the Potomac that our sport is one “of the people” in the everyman, plebeian sense of the phrase.

But every once in a while, the guardians of sacred tradition must sound the trumpet call and motion us back to authenticity. Like prophets, our goal is to cure the deprivation of untapped potential, which has many a runner forfeiting the single greatest prize our craft provides. But what should the standard be? Olympic gold? Some arbitrary, universal benchmark, like the minutes and seconds on a stopwatch? Certainly not. The mark of excellence has more to do with a frame of mind than any measurable set of observations.

Run like an animal.

It means leaving everything out on the race course. Giving nothing less than your best. Striving, with maximal exertion, to beat your opponent or improve upon a previous condition. In other words, don’t be afraid to break a sweat, go for broke, or dig deep. That’s how you arrive at a truly rewarding and breakthrough performance in the first place. Best of all, you might even learn something valuable about yourself and what you never thought possible.

One of the things that attracted me as a young man in my late teens to the world of distance running was the sheer honesty of its output. I became part of a cultural legacy that our forefathers created with their own blood, sweat, and tears. Frank Shorter once responded to a reporter that the reason he ran so hard was because running fast was much more fun than running slow. Steve Prefontaine, the tragic hero of three decades ago and pioneer of this diehard, take no prisoners, sort of attitude once said: “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.” Heck, even a non-runner in the likes of poet and philosopher Ralf Waldo Emerson chimes in concurringly: “The only thing that matters is the integrity of our own minds.”

Granted, the path to self-transcendence is not for the timid of heart. And since none of us is likely aiming for smallness of spirit, we would do well to partake, and furthermore, to partake well. Contrary to the media’s bias, the lead pack is not where it’s at, for in every race there’s a contest within a contest, invested with just as much soul-piercing drama.

So my fellow American runners, ask not what running can do for you, ask what you can bring to the startling line.

Or else, we’ll have to stop calling ourselves weekend warriors and be forced to adopt the much less flattering title of weekend push-overs.

Coming Back to Yourself

It was the 2007 ING Miami Half-Marathon and the start of something new, or so I hoped. “I’ve run enough miles in my day to know that the answers just aren’t out here,” I said to the girl running next to me as we turned side-by-side onto decked out Ocean Drive. “Running, for me, has lost its meaning.”

Just two years earlier my name could have been featured in the “who’s-who” of South Florida running. The local 5K’s were my legitimate stomping grounds and I had the race times to back it up, too. I took pride in my craft, the same way a working professional might soak in the well-deserved respect of his/her colleagues. Running was the vehicle through which I proved to myself and others that I was worth more than the average Joe. If I won enough races, I thought, and became truly invincible, then the pursuit of excellence would have been well worth all the blood, sweat, and tears it took to get me there. Then it started happening. All of a sudden, I was the guy with the bull’s-eye on his back, the one everybody looks at as though he had a touch of the supernatural.

Amidst this unprecedented rise in the ranks, I got blindsided with a competing interest that made me re-assess my true priorities. It questioned my loyalties, confronted me with all the big questions, and forced me to grow up in more ways than one. The emptiness I had felt throughout my previous campaigning for greatness was now being replaced by a fulfilled sense of purpose. All indications were that I was headed in the right direction, leaving behind a selfish quest in favor of a higher cause. The person I had been before, or at least the habits and routines which I had grown accustomed to, were being relegated to an article of distant memory. I was convinced, and still am, that this was a major step in my maturation as a more complete and balanced individual, but I still had one more lesson to learn.

So here I was, after a leave of absence and in depreciated form, taking a crash course on humility and the plight of the average runner. I couldn’t be sure if that nauseous feeling pervading my system was reactive disgust at my sluggish pace or if indeed, I was on the border of metabolic breakdown. The first four miles alongside Miami’s beautiful cruise ships were supposed to be an appetizer, only this time the distance felt like a full course meal. My competitive personality, however, would not allow me to shift down gears even if my motors were letting out some serious exhaust fumes. Somewhere around mile 10, my partner turned to me and said, “Hey, don’t hold yourself back for me” but the truth was I had nothing left and the trudge was underway.

During my recent hiatus, I had, as St. Augustine once famously asserted, “become a vast problem unto myself.” The consequences of my desertion led to an estrangement from friends I once considered to be brothers-at-arms, and the ghosts of my past left impressions on me like Hell-bent phantom memories. These friends of mine, however, refused to give in to my apparent identity crisis. Their insistence kept me hanging on to the slightest glimmer of hope that the glory days of yesterday could be recaptured once more.

But being the philosopher that I am, coming up with rationalizations for a radical, if not round-a-about, change of lifestyle had not been difficult to come by. Designing shrewd arguments and making them stand up to a host of objections was part of my job and daily study. After all, I reasoned, aren’t we defined by who we are and not necessarily by what we do? Taking off the runner’s mantle did not seem like a betrayal of self, especially since my reasons were completely others-centered. I was trying to give more of myself to others who I had singled out for special importance in my life, including all the free time I used to devote to maniacal training regimens. That sounds like a humanitarian pledge, doesn’t it? The idea that the athlete’s road to glory was nothing but the disguised mark of vanity on the human heart seemed to align itself with a certain kind of gut instinct. If running is just about being the best, then how does that fit into the overall scheme of things and worst of all, what does that say about the state of my soul?

But although it made intuitive sense, there was still an element of unfinished business that wouldn’t loosen its grip on my tormented consciousness. If I had to describe it, I’d compare it to an itch one feels the urge to scratch, only it was an existential itch and not a physical one. I’m reminded of the old adage that says if you love something, let it go and if it comes back to you, it’s yours forever. If it doesn’t, then it was never meant to be.” It must be true that some dreams die hard, others not without a fight, and still a few not at all.

One hour and 37 minutes after the gun went off that morning, I turned to the same girl who had been my shadow the entire race and said, “I was wrong earlier, the answer was next to me the whole time.” Sometimes all it takes is a group of loyal friends that keep believing even when you’ve lost all faith. The truth is that a faster version of myself might not be a “better” me but it’s a happier me, even if that means being the big fish in a small pond. We all have to take our victories wherever they can be won, and to our surprise, those around us will thank us for it.

So for all of you runners in hiding or potential retirees, think twice before you commit bipedal suicide. Since we know we can’t hide, we might as well start running…fast.

O Defeat, where is thy sting?

Those who claim there is nothing agonizing about failure are either hopelessly deluded or, worst yet, have never tried to surpass themselves and thus not courted the bitter pangs of defeat. Crushed under the weight of misfortune, sometimes we are forced to come to grips with an inescapable reality for which no excuses can be drawn or rationalizations be offered. No, I’m not referring to personal tragedies or painful circumstances in life, although those, too, would most certainly qualify. You see, for some of us, running is more than just a convenient pastime or a means by which to procure desired ends. As the 19th century German philosopher, Martin Heidegger, once put it: Running can be a “ way of being at the world” for it makes us who we are and gives meaning to an otherwise absurd existence.

If we were to go back in time some 2500 years ago to the ancient plains of the Greek peninsula, we would no doubt find ourselves in the midst of the tumultuous Persian Wars. In one of the finest moments ever captured in recorded history, 300 Spartan soldiers held off 70,000 Persian infantrymen at the narrow pass at Thermopylae in order to salvage a Greek victory. They fought to the very last man, knowing from the outset that their fates were sealed, and when the Persians threatened to darken the skies with their piercing arrows, Leonidas, king of Sparta, spoke defiantly: “Then we will fight in the shade.”

While the Spartans may have been the most militaristic society the world has ever seen, it is clear that 21st century man is not likely to find himself wielding an axe across the blood-soaked terrain of massive human graves. But that’s just the point. This barbaric heroism of a bygone era has metamorphosed into modern man’s warring with the self and all that is rotten in the world. As runners, we of all people should be most familiar with battles that are fought on invisible fronts. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood but against an inherent weakness of purpose, a tendency towards accepting defeat rather than merely tolerating it. Though not a runner himself, Theodore Roosevelt came very close to defining the essence of the true road warrior: “ The credit belongs to the man who is in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows achievement and who at worst if he fails while daring greatly so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”

When we speak of defeat in terms of dreams that were dashed, hopes that came to naught, and goals that we failed to meet, we ought to remember the Spartans who, though certain of defeat, rose to glory in a falling state instead of giving in to the inevitable. You have two choices really. You can either throw in the towel or, as I would say, use it to wipe the sweat off your face. Do you have what it takes?

Fire on the Track

Temperatures are not the only measures soaring during this summer’s sweltering heat. Across the globe, world-class track meets are in full swing and the best in the world are busy blasting scorching-fast times. As a fan of the sport, you can’t help but be drawn to events such as the IAAF Golden League series, Europe’s premier racing circuit which offers a million dollar jackpot for any athlete who goes undefeated. Cities such as Paris, Berlin, Zurich, and London host these prestigious meets inside Olympic-size stadiums, the stands brimming to capacity. To lure elite athletes such as Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt and Ethiopian distance star Kenenisa Bekele, meet directors pay out hefty appearance fees and hire rabbits for smooth pacing. The atmosphere at these venues is electric, tantamount to World Cup standards, as knowledgeable track fans gleefully sport their nation’s colors.

Beginning in 2010, the series will be renamed the IAAF Diamond League and will extend to 14 cities in places such as Shanghai, China and even the United States. The closest American-born spectacle is the Prefontaine Classic in Eugene, Oregon which is held every year at legendary Hayward Field. We are talking, of course, about the home of former American record-holder Steve Prefontaine and some might say the birthplace of our nation’s running boom. Pre, as he is most affectionately remembered, was a running legend and remains a formidable marketing icon to this day. The climax of his career came about in the finals of the 1972 Olympic 5000 meters, in which he just barely missed out on a medal coming down the final straightaway. But perhaps what elevated him to such mythic status was the way in which he approached and in fact, defined, the “art” of racing. The heroics he displayed with a semblance of “pure guts” revealed the artistry of his true ambition. After all, this is the same guy who said: “Somebody may beat me, but they’re going to have to bleed to do it.”

So now back to the matter at hand. What is to be said for the rest of us on the normal bell curve who will most likely never be invited to a Diamond League Series meet or find ourselves running off the shoulder of Lasse Viren with 200 meters to go in the Olympic Final? Is there anything that we can learn from watching genetic phenoms compete on the world’s most illustrious stage? Can we ever approximate the likes of a Steve Prefontaine in terms of the intangible? The point was made expressly clear to me just the other day during a scheduled track workout. All of a sudden it dawned on me that I was working just as hard as those I strive to emulate, despite the fact I was only running 2:25’s for 800 meter repeats ( 4:50/mile pace). Speed is a relative term when viewed through the lens of perceived effort. The question is not how fast you run, but how hard you run. So long as I’m extending my energy output to its fullest degree and squeezing as much juice out of the lemon as possible, my accomplishment is just as noteworthy as those making international headlines. The legacy of Pre consists in the very fact that he would rather collapse at the end of a hellishly paced run than cruise to an easy victory over a sub-par field. In so doing, we can train like the elites and race like champions ( in the middle of summer if need be), whether or not we stand to win a 1 million dollar jackpot.

“To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.” – Steve Prefontaine

Don't cry for me USA

And then there were three. Those were Larry Rawson’s words as the pack of elite women in Monday’s 113th running of the Boston Marathon dwindled to the final three competitors. Kara Goucher, with the eyes of an entire nation zeroed in on her historic quest to become the first American woman to win Boston since 1985, was beginning to show signs of fatigue. Had she made her move too early? Had she miscalculated her own kick? Coming down Boylston Street for the final 600 meter stretch, Kara’s dream was beginning to take on a nightmarish quality.

We had seen this before. The great Steve Prefontaine at the Munich Olympics in 1972 staged a similarly heroic effort, nearly taking first place on the last lap of the 5000 meter final. And here was Goucher, having led most of the way, in heartbreakingly close proximity to the finish line, seemingly losing her grip on a fairy-tale-like victory. But alas, it was not to be. The Africans surged ahead in a tight battle for first and Kara was relegated to the bronze, just nine seconds short of her goal. The disappointment that cloaked her demeanor was painfully evident, and the emotions that soon overflowed would have easily touched the most casual of spectators.

The hype. The pressure. The ensuing despair. It’s not easy carrying the weight of expectations, personal and otherwise, on one’s already emaciated frame. In her post-race interview, Goucher remarked: “I feel good and sad at the same time.” And yet, with a face streaming with tears, an inconsolable Goucher wept into her husband’s comforting embrace. Devoting an entire 4 months of training and lifestyle configuration to just 2 hours and 33 minutes of “game-time performance” is quite the calculated risk. But despite her struggles, Kara would not want us to feel sorry or extend mournful condolences. After all, a third place finish at Boston in what amounted to a very gutsy race and an all-out-effort is nothing to be ashamed about. Quite the contrary, Kara shows great promise for the future as she matures from a neophyte marathoner to savvy race veteran. Her resume already includes a World Championships bronze medal at 10,000 meters and a top finish in her debut marathon last November in New York City, a race in which she was in striking distance behind Paula Radcliffe for most of the way. Not to mention her NCAA track titles and USA championship medals. Goucher, in fact, is such a fierce competitor that she begged her coach, Alberto Salazar, to let her run London just six days later in an act of redemption. Needless to say, that isn’t going to happen but what we will see happen someday is this girl, who hails from the Bronx, win a major marathon.

Kara will now take some time off from competitive running to start a family with her husband, Adam, a former Olympian at 5,000 meters. In London 2012, Goucher plans to seriously contend for a gold medal, a feat which no one would rightly put past her. The 2009 Boston Marathon was the day we saw Kara lay it on the line against the best in the world and gain valuable experience. Who knows what would have happened had she chosen to draft off the leaders with as little as a mile to go. Perhaps we’d be talking about Kara going after the world record. Either way, how can you not fall in love with someone who gives it their best and welcomes such monumental challenges with both national pride and natural prowess. If the sport of long distance running needed a face to be enamored with, a personality to be wrapped up into, and a spirit to be uplifted by, then I think we found our hero. I, for one, am and always will be a Kara Goucher fan. “I want it so bad, and I want it for the US,” Goucher said. Well, Kara, we want it for you too.

Lights, Camera, Action

His name is Scott Jurek and I’m willing to bet my 10K PR that you’ve never heard of him. But that’s irrelevant because he doesn’t care either way. He’s only the six-time consecutive winner and course record-holder of the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run, with a 2004 posting of 15:36:27 ( 9:22 pace). He’s not even 30 years old yet and he’s already run 50K at a 5:55 pace, 50 miles at a 7:00 pace, and 100K at a 7:13 pace. And, oh yeah, let’s not omit his 2005 Badwater Ultramarathon victory which he executed in course-record fashion, going through 135 miles in 24:36:08 ( 10:56 pace).What did you say his name was again?

Should it surprise us that such a decorated runner like Scott is a virtual unknown within a culture run by publicity operatives, hyper-media coverage, and the Dean Karnazes of the world? I would submit that such a case is rare indeed in a day and age when athletes are being elevated to superhero status. Along with becoming fixed household names and stamping our collective psyche, they sip through our subconscious minds as idealized versions of the bold, the beautiful, and the strong.

This is nothing new of course. The ancient Greeks were well known for their tradition of crowning Olympic champions with more than just an olive wreath. The victors were paraded through village streets and honored with commemorative statues in their hometowns. On a lesser scale, they were essentially freed from the concerns of earning a living but in effect became larger than life figures, immortalized and raised to the stature of demi-gods.

But as with most things in life, there always seem to be people, albeit a small minority, who break the common mold and challenge us to look at life with a different periscope. They are the ones that easily get lost in the shuffle precisely because they do not chase after the spotlight and don’t mind if their efforts go slipped by unnoticed. They labor behind the scenes, conscious only of the act which they intend to create for an audience they might never get to see. They epitomize the saying which Jesus popularized during His earthly ministry: “ When you do good, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.”

So I ask, who are you performing for? Before you answer, recognize that whether you like it or not, the camera has been rolling ever since you took your first breath. A movie is being made of your life, the producer is your Creator, and He’s cast you as the leading character. Center stage is not Hollywood, it’s not the national press, it’s not even the podium stand at your local road race. Sure, Scott Jurek has accomplished some amazing feats but even he realizes that it doesn’t end there. As the movie Braveheart so eloquently reminds us, true heroes are born from within: “ What we do in this life shall echo for all eternity.”

The Warrior Within

There are many ways to go about describing a runner. In Eleo Zayas’ case, the task looms even larger for what we are attempting here is something greater – painting the portrait of a truly inspirational human being.

From his earliest days he learned to find enjoyment in the simple pleasures that running affords and as he grew, the meek young boy was soon transformed into a rebel spirit. Just ask him why he runs and this maverick of a poet will say that besides giving him a sense of accomplishment and of defying time, he enjoys “ running hard to escape the chasing bulls…stealing fruit at the nearby farms…keeping pace with the moving train while pulling sugar cane from between the slats of its cargo cars.”

Back in the 1960’s when the running boom was still in its infancy stages and had yet to revolutionize the way Americans viewed the “ loneliness of the long distance runner,” Eleo began to hit the roads himself. He started out going barefoot on the lawn and taking lonely walks at night. In the 70’s he discovered shoes and began running solo on sidewalks until he finally settled down with his family in ‘77 “ to make a home.” But the child within was awakened as soon as he started running again with his pet Dalmatian seventeen years later, the dog doing most of the work, of course. For the first time ever, Eleo actually had some company on his runs and this seemingly invincible man worked up to 11 miles each day in wearing nothing less than steel shoes.

After participating in the 1999 Corporate Run, a race that he’s been hooked on ever since, he visited a local shoe store and by late 2002 was running with a group. Together with his mentors and training partners, he went on to run his first 10K in April of 2003 (54:57), his first half-marathon in December that same year, and his first official marathon in February of 2004. This past January, he ran a personal best 3:51 at the ING Miami Marathon and has plans for running even faster next year.

For Eleo, however, it’s really not about the times or personal records he’s set. His training is one of “ common sense, discipline, survival, and listening to others’ experiences. Any quest originating from your heart, he says, has a great probability of success.” This comes from a man who has run 36 miles in 5:46:00 with aspirations of running 50 miles in under 8 hours some day.

If you’re looking for an inflated ego, you certainly won’t find one here. For someone with such lofty aspirations, he feels that “ there comes a time when, even if you haven’t realized all your running goals, you have to start putting back into the community.” He is grateful to all those who have helped him throughout the years; those “ who showed him what to wear, what to eat, how to pace, guided him to the amenities on the trail, and showed him the tips and tricks of the road…. Those who slowed their pace down to whisper words of encouragement in his ear, who asked him if he was OK when he didn’t look so good.”

In a heart-warming tale of role reversals, it is now Eleo who claims that he “ will go any distance for a friend.” When running in a group, he becomes “ protective of all his peers, senses alert, making sure that no one gets hurt under his watch.” In fact, if he could change on thing from his past it would be to “ recover all those years that he ran alone, ignorant of the existence of a running community.” This running community that took him under his wing at the beginning is the same one that continues to provide “stimulation, various times and locations to run with friends, logistical support, planned events, traveling companions, and a comradeship among people with similar interests.” Those he mentors are exhorted by veteran advice: “ Train with your buddies, but when running the marathon, take your schedule seriously. Do not miss your last bathroom call, hydrate adequately, run your own race, and you will be waiting for them at the finish line.”

So Eleo, who is now 52 years old, has learned to “ have a deep appreciation for the gifts we have and often ignore.” But don’t let his age fool you. For though he admits that he “ has matured tremendously in the last year….the clown in him still quietly slumbers.” He understands that to run fully, one must be able to reconnect with the child within. Indeed, listening to him talk about running would bring out the poet, the romantic, and the philosopher in each and every one of us:

“ Running is an experience of freedom, an adventure into the painless ecstasy of the endorphin high. The enjoyment of nature under our observant eyes, as life unravels on the paths, on the trails… a flower scent, every bird that takes flight, the appreciation of a tree’s shade, the lullaby of the shore, the salty taste of the surf, the fresh scent of the sea, golden bars of the sunrise, the reward of a majestic lighthouse rising from our feet, caressed by its powdery sands… the relief of anxieties, the empowering of the solo run, the satisfaction of pacing a beginner, a recovering injured runner, a mother returning from childbirth, the most cherished, a one-on-one outing with a dear friend.”

By the time we had concluded our interview, he said to me: “ I wish there was more of me to share.” Eleo, in giving everything, you bless us with what only you could give and the world is a much richer place for it. Now it is us, the flock you have chosen to lead, that gives you much thanks.

A Hero's Welcome

In a day and age when simply crossing the finish line of your local 26.2 miler is deemed superlative and enough to earn you the title “hero,” much is left to be said about those who attempt what is truly and gargantuously remarkable. A hero is precisely someone who stands head and shoulders above the rest, giving your average Joe a standard that is at once awe-inspiring and though enticing, faintly reachable. As soon as we all become heroes, in the common sense of the word, superheroes emerge to mesmerize us further.

Enter in Boris Fernandez. Triathlete extraordinaire. Proven winner. First class kind of guy. Having achieved legendary status in our community is one thing, becoming the first Cuban to swim across the English Channel is audaciously supreme. And, oh yeah, he’d be raising money for a charitable cause en route to accomplishing said goal. Are you kidding! But the thing is, no one doubted for a second that Boris would be successful in his quest, not the man who is easily the fiercest competitor in these parts.

I recall bumping into Boris at Tropical Park Stadium as he paced the infield during a coaching session. Just the way he spoke of the task ahead made you believe he was up to something downright death-defying, the attainment of which would require the summoning of everything beastly in him. For instance, some workouts were so punishing , he said, that the only way he managed to complete them was by imagining Nazi soldiers holding his family at gunpoint. Not to mention the metamorphosis he was forcing his body to undergo so that he could gain around 30 lbs and increase his buoyancy in the water. Folks, alterations like those with regards to body composition require a change in diet and exercise habits, a process equivalent to throwing your homeostatic balance into controlled chaos!

In short, this was a figure whose mind was bent on a Hell-raising mission and motivated, in fact, by the sheer novelty of a unique challenge. But on that fateful morning of July 1, the frigid and choppy waters separating Boris from the French coastline became too much to bear. Nearing the halfway point and after having swam for over seven hours straight, he called it quits in the interest, no doubt, of self-preservation. Later on it was reported that Boris, via a cell phone conversation with dear friend Carlos Dolabella, reflected on the experience by saying: “I chose to stop, and now I must live with the pain of that decision.”

Now ponder those words for a moment. Does that sound like someone in the throes of defeat? Or does that sound like someone who courageously owns up to a bitter shortcoming? I would say the latter more aptly describes this man who now looms larger in defeat than he did in victory, a feat which only a select few are capable of producing. It has been said that the measure of a man is not determined by what befalls him, but in how he responds to adversity. Or to put it glibly, it’s not how hard you fall but how many times you will yourself back up. Boris was already a friend. He didn’t have to go TransAtlantic on us to gain respect or the admiration of those back home. But what he did will make us love him even more, now that he has shown the way, as all heroes who come and go are destined to do. To steal a few lines from the famous Spanish singer, Willy Chirino, I’d like to pay tribute to our comrade by dedicating the following verse to a returning hero:

“ Como Chirino, el campeon de la salsa, no te llamaremos ni Boris, ni el gorilla, ni atleta, ni el cubiche…diremos ESE ES EL MIO…”

The Boston Massacre

While the rest of the country is recovering from the aftermath of March Madness and is ready to welcome opening day in Major League Baseball, runners have something a little different on their minds. It’s that time of year again when the running faithful hear the clarion call that lifts their eyes unto the hills – the Newton Hills, that is – from whence cometh their help, or their undoing we should say. I’m talking about the shrine of long distance running, the holy of holies, as it were, of pilgrims traveling to the oldest marathon in the United States. You guessed it. The Boston Marathon.

New York is known for its spectators, Chicago for its pancake-flat course, and Marine Corps has been dubbed the “ Marathon of the People.” But Boston is the stomping ground of legends, the place of historic duels and epic clashes. Need I remind anyone- Salazar vs. Beardsley, Rodgers vs. Seko, and just recently, the Africans vs. the rest of the world. It’s no wonder that the event is permeated with an almost tangible, mystical aura when you have the likes of world-record holders, American phenoms, and the ghosts of Old John Kelley and Clarence De Mar etched into the dramatic overplay. Take the latter, for example. These were men who came to define the sport in an era when it was generally believed that training was counter-productive and that eating a full steak an hour before the race was the best way to stock up the body’s energy supplies. Forget pasta parties, race expos, goodie bags, and free T-shirts. Their experience was more likely to include being chased by wild dogs on the street, breathing in exhaust fumes from the lead vehicles, and taking a pit stop at the local bar for a refreshing drink. These were the good old days of man versus nature when you came to see a race in the same way you’d go watch a freak exhibit at the nearby carnival. Runners like Clarence De Mar, who won the event a record seven times with his last victory coming at the age of 41 ( a record, safe to say, that will never be broken), were eccentric characters compared to the men clad in full black suits, hat and necktie under the midday sun.

That begs the question: What makes Boston so special even today? With all the marathons that one could choose to train for, why run in one that averages 80 degree temperatures and features a hill disturbingly nicknamed “Heartbreak Hill”? As Larry Rawson, commentator for Track and Field on ESPN, once said, the runners who go to Boston are the “valedictorians of marathon running,” those who have done their utmost to qualify for this prestigious event. And if you think the standards are strict today, 15 years ago a male under 40 had to run a sub-2:50 time just to get in. But then again, you used to have at least 50 Americans finishing in under 2:30 compared to last year when only 12 American males finished in under 2:30. What has happened? While we still have our elites well represented with the likes of Meb Keflezighi and Alan Culpepper leading the charge up front, where did all the blue-collar type runners go? You know, the ones stuck between a rock and a hard place who despite not being gifted with a VO2 Max higher than the population’s average lifespan, can still make their way down the road at 11.5 mph for 26.2 miles. Well, pardon my interjection but I believe that’s you, Mr. 3:10 guy and Ms. 3:30 gal. Perhaps if we trained as hard as they did back then, 2:30 would not seem so far out of reach even for us ordinary run-of-the-mill-not born in Ethiopia- type runners.

So to everyone who qualified for Boston this year, congratulations, but don’t stop there. Make your country proud, display your true colors, and as Shakespeare would say, “strive after things impossible”. Give it the good ol’ American try - give em’ hell! Salazar or Beardsley wouldn’t have it any other way, why should you?

The Great Experiment

“First, I figured out the time I thought the mile should be run in. Second, I started testing my theories and particularly my own constitution and capabilities; the result of this study soon convinced me that the then existing records at the distance were by no means good.”
- Walter George, former world record-holder in the mile

In my relatively brief history as a long distance runner, I have come upon many revelations concerning the nature of our sport but perhaps none more striking than the following observation: The uncanny resemblance between the runner’s craft and the scientific method. Runners are indeed a heterogeneous bunch, falling into what I would refer to as overlapping categories. Even the so-called free spirits, who are prone to leave their watch at home and revel in the aesthetics or graceful art of running, are on a quest. Perhaps not a physiological one, but even so, it is a quest for greater understanding of the self, of personal limits, and of the inner need to go the distance.

Consider, for instance, the evolution of training methods since the Golden Age of Greece and it becomes clear that throughout human history, the athlete’s journey has been marked by the goal of self-actualization, or the maximizing of one’s potential. Hellenic runners trained on four-day schedules called tetras and were driven by coaches carrying forked sticks. Aristotle, himself, suggested that runners practice holding their breath for increasing lengths of time while others like Milo of Criton walked everyday with a calf in their arms to gain strength as the animal matured. The Romans had their athletes abstain from water, were flogged by slaves to familiarize them with pain, and ate only dried figs, boiled grain, and fresh cheese. By the seventeenth century, runners were having their spleens removed to increase their speed, an operation which had a one-in-five chance of death. The “pedestrians” of the nineteenth century were known for purging their bodies with Glauber salts, ate steak, stale bread, and beer for breakfast everyday, and lied in bed naked for half-an-hour after exercise. The consensus at the time was that too much exercise guaranteed an untimely death since the heart was believed to have a limited number of beats over a lifetime. It wasn’t until Paavo Nurmi came around at the turn of the century and began to rewrite the record books that this myth began to lose credence among professionals in the field. To this very day, the number of training philosophies and the variety of approaches to building up a runner’s endurance and speed are dizzying. The sequence of trial and error, most often carried out between coach and dedicated athlete, is one that continues to define success in the world of running.

Each one of us continues this tradition by insisting on testing our little hypotheses, using our bodies as subjects. Our measurements must always be exact, our records precise; down to the very last detail so that nothing can escape judgment or scrutiny. We delight in crunching numbers, analyzing performance data, comparing results, and then looking for needed areas of improvement, all in the interest of shaving off a few precious seconds and being leaner and quicker than we were yesterday. It’s a numbers game, really, an obsession with standardization and a method aimed at nothing less than perfection. The Holy Grail of runners is to find the ideal training scheme, that flawless mix of overload and rest, stress and recovery. And since every runner deviates from the mean by varying degrees, the task remains an individual one. Methodical? You bet. Overzealous? Absolutely. Madness? Well, Percy Cerutty certainly thought so: “ To be great, one does not have to be mad, but definitely it helps.”

Pack Running

I wonder how many of us can think back to our high school days and recall those first excursions into the world of long distance running. It may be that for some, the sun never shone brighter than in those fleet-footed years. Or perhaps your most vivid memories are those you would soon rather forget…. the militant coach with a cruel stopwatch in hand….courses that seemed to be more suitable for safari expeditions than for man treading on foot….the inhumane torture of lactic acid buildup that comes after running the twelfth quarter of an interval workout under 62 seconds or sprinting the last 100 meters of a 5K race to the point of collapse. Remind you of anything? If not, then I assure you there is one thing that I’m sure you’ll be quite familiar with and it’s the one aspect of the cross country experience worth reminiscing about. It’s pack running.

The pack running mentality was especially emphasized at the high school I attended not too long ago. Over the past several months, I have had the distinct privilege of training with one of the most dominating cross country teams in Dade County for the past 30 years. The Belen Jesuit Wolverines, led by coach Frankie Ruiz, are formidable opponents wherever they travel and they continue to be successful because they understand that you’re only as strong as your weakest link. That is what I fear many of us in the running community have long since forgotten- the team concept. I think our sport needs to return to this idea of banding together if we are to capture the true essence of running and rescue it from the fringes of individualism. The difference between hitting the pavement on a solo run and sharing the road with a group of runners striving for the same goal is almost unbelievable. Some have tried to describe it in terms of utility such as being pushed to a faster time or feeling more motivated to complete intimidating workouts. While this is certainly true, I dare say it’s more than just that. I’m speaking of a real and yet invisible dynamic that comes with being in sync with the person right next to you; stride for stride, breath by breath. The beauty of it all is not just strength in numbers but a division of labor, if you will, a pooling of resources that enables runners to draw from a bank of energy and simultaneously diffuse any sensations of discomfort. It is no wonder then that scientists are beginning to study the evolution of bipedal locomotion in our human ancestors and concluding that running in large packs across open fields was advantageous for the survival of the species. So, in fact, when we run as they once did we are bringing out what is most basic and human in all of us.

Then, of course, there’s the more practical side to all of this- shouting encouragement during the run, breaking the wind, and taking turns with the lead. There’s no denying that spirit of camaraderie that is developed between runners who have been through so much together, having braved similar elements and conquered the same routes. From this collaboration, a chemistry is born from within and a team emerges from without. One that is capable of ascending greater heights than a single man on a solo journey.

Now, of course, I doubt that any of us are planning to enroll in high school any time soon or try to fit into those old uniforms. But what we can do is learn a few lessons from this younger generation which become more visible to us every fall during the cross country season as they train and race their hearts out for school pride. Clubs, like Bikila, exist to give an opportunity for runners of all ages and abilities to come together and form their own little “ packs.” So I encourage all of you to become more involved in local training runs and who knows, you might find a group that suits your desired pace and beats to the same drum. Not only will you improve and get faster, you will be connecting with those instincts that reside at the level of our most basic of human drives.

Need for Speed

Admit it. We’ve all seen it and God forbid we should be guilty of it ourselves. A runner crossing the finish line, checks his watch and, depending on his temperament, either shakes his head disapprovingly or fiercely stomps away with noticeable indignation. “ Hey, says the casual spectator, didn’t that guy just blast the competition in a time of 16:03? What’s he so upset about?” A legitimate question indeed, for what causes a runner to bemoan a 16:03 but salivate after a 15:59?

As runners, we will eventually be confronted with the question of why we run but I wonder how many have struggled to answer its corollary: Why run so fast? After all, John Bingham from Runners World Magazine in his monthly column “ No Need for Speed” is famous for advocating the theory that slow runners are happier, less frustrated individuals than those ego-maniac, pedal to the metal type runners who feel running in the absence of pain is a contradiction of sorts. With all due respect to the penguin, I tend to side with the opinion of men such as Frank Shorter who when asked why he found it necessary to run so hard responded: “ Because running fast is more fun than running slow.”

Simple enough, right? Well, not so fast ( excuse the pun)! Our fascination with the sheer roundness of racing times and mileage totals suggest they could represent barriers which we eclipse much like rungs on a ladder. Ascending to the sub 40 minute 10K class or joining the 4:20 mile club are feats of accomplishment in our battle not against flesh and blood but against Old Man Time. Regardless of who toes the line with you on race day, this fellow always shows up with concise predictability and daunting consistency.

There are two types of runners you are likely to meet. There is the recreational runner or fitness jogger, if you will, who would be hard pressed to recall a workout they completed 10 days ago on an obscure afternoon. Then there are the true craftsmen of the sport who will not only tell you what workout they did but also how the previous night’s meal affected their run and how that sock he put on his left foot caused it to blister badly.

To run fast is to disregard the speed limits imposed by age and weariness over time. It implies a defiance of mortality, a refusal to be counted among those timid souls who go gently into that good night without leaving behind a blaze of glory that others can look upon and marvel at. Granted, running outside our comfort zone can be painful, some might say, downright masochistic at times. But show me a runner in the midst of setting a personal record and I will point you to the substance of which he is made. For some of us, running becomes the crucible or rite of sanctification upon which our indomitable spirits are tested and become hardened. Instead of fearing pain we come to master and subdue it by recognizing that it is nothing more than weakness leaving the body.

It is this striving that in the end will define us, not the times attached to our names in the results page. So the next time you’re cruising down the road and hear someone yell out, “ On your Left!” don’t be surprised if you see me pursuing or being closely pursued by Old Man Time. Because whether you’re the hunter or the hunted, it’s all about the thrill of the chase.

So waddle on friends, but if you prefer, FULL THROTTLE AHEAD.

My Playground

We’ve been doing it since we were kids. Like that time in the seventh grade, for example, when our habitual tendencies dictated that we should sit in the exact same spot even though assigned seating was no longer in effect. The same could be said for all our idiosyncratic behaviors and, in particular, those which have metamorphosed into ritualized performances. Runners, themselves, are not only creatures of habit by nature’s design but incredibly methodical by choice and distinction. Still not convinced? Chances are that your last run took place on a familiar course, maybe even one that you’ve been training on for years on end and can describe like the palm of your hand. It’s certainly not unreasonable to conclude that our attachment to these places suggest an affinity far beyond the level of mere acquaintance. That’s because location, my friends, is everything in a sport where the courses we choose to carry out our greatest passion become as much a part of ourselves as the act of running itself.

There are those who would say that such preferences are governed by practical considerations such as convenience, familiarity, and a feeling of enhanced security. To understand the complete dynamics of a single run, however, one must go beyond simple logistics and probe more deeply into the realm of the phenomenal. You see, no good thing can properly exist within a vacuum. If running entailed nothing more than synchronic movements, rhythmic heartbeats, and a smooth cadence then it would cease to function as a vitalizing force in all our lives. Even our most sacred acts depend most intimately on their connection to contextual surroundings. Similarly, the trails a runner treads can be said to serve as private sanctuaries – timeless in their scope, beautiful in their aesthetic, and personal in their ontology. Each new outing represents a reenactment of previous trials with the possibility always existing that on any given day we may surpass our greatest efforts yet to date. In so doing, we pound the course into submission and assert our mastery over it by continually returning to the place that we’ve sought out on innumerable occasions beforehand. Over time, we develop a silent kinship with the streets we call our tromping grounds and a sense of ownership replaces that estranged air we felt so long ago in the days preceding our joyful betrothal. Metaphorically speaking, a trust is forged on the basis of where we’ve been, where we’re going, and where we hope to be someday.

I don’t know where your magical place lies – your field of dreams, your playground, your second star to the right and straight on till morning. For me, it’s the only road I’ve ever known and not for lack of experiencing a vast array but precisely because after having travailed so many others, I realize that it’s here, and nowhere else, that I belong – a city sleeping on this, my boulevard of open dreams. Eons from now after having left this world behind for a better one, I’m sure, I would like to say in the immortal words of Robert Frost himself: “ Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I took the one most traveled by. And that has made all the difference.”