In 2004, I took my first steps…first steps on the road to becoming “a runner”.
I remember my dad “going jogging” back in the mid 1970s, but beyond that, I had very little background knowledge on running or what “becoming a runner” entailed. In fact, I was often one of those people we all hear who say, “I only run if I’m being chased”. (But I wasn’t, actually, because I hated running.) Thinking back, I remember struggling to run “the mile” in grade school. I did it (not well) and begrudgingly so. It was absolute torture.
Little did I realize that a decade or so later, I’d find myself seeing it a completely different way. See, two friends who often went out running long distances invited me out to join them, and repeatedly so. Maybe they saw I needed it, or maybe they were running out of things to talk about, or maybe they wanted to spend more time with me, I really don’t know. But these two guys, each in their own unique way, was someone I’d looked up to, each I admired. One, 20 years my elder, like a father figure. The other, four years my senior, like the older brother I’ve never had.
So one day, I packed my sneakers I’d last worn to cut the lawn and a ratty old t-shirt and pair of shorts that is probably last used to lift weights some years back. Never quite “an athlete”, I did, however, enjoy neighborhood pickup games of any sort. Stickball in the street, schoolyard basketball, and little league baseball occupied my days as a kid growing up in the New York suburbs.
But not running. Never running.
The first two steps of road running with my buds were the start of something special. We’d go out after work, ritualistically every other day and complemented our runs with weightlifting sessions. Three milers became five, then six, and more. We’d run 6.5 miles “over the bridge” that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean and back. We’d run in the rain and cold, and in the wind, and even the snow. In the summertime, we’d tack on mileage and run in the early mornings before anyone in the neighborhood was awake. And sometimes me we’d run in the hot midday sun, often winding up at the beach. We were true “road warriors” and quickly become these sorts of local attractions for co-workers and local passers-by who’d beep their car horns and wave or say, “Hey, we saw you at…”.
The best part though, we’re the races. We’d decide which we’d register for, and then train towards that goal. 5K, 10K, Half-Marathon. The early drive to get to the site, the pre-race energy, and the strategic maneuvering in and out of foot traffic with hundreds of other runners. We’d stick together, often through the entire race course, and sometimes, one of us would sprint ahead if we were feeling we had a good race in us this particular day. And, if one of us was struggling or hurting, we’d wait for each other and even sometimes circle back.
We were never alone and never left one another alone.
But this is not a story of Olympic proportions, it’s really just a story about a guy who, in this late 20’s discovered what he loves - friendship akin to brotherhood, fitness, both physical and mental, clarity of thought and stress management that accompanies vigorous exercise, and overcoming challenges and sometimes, obstacles, in the form of injuries.
Now nearly 20 years later, I don’t run between 25 and 40 miles per week. Rather, I do exercises that will sustain my personal wellness and fitness on into my approaching decades. While I have yet to find the workout or activity to match the exhilarating sensation of the run, I sometimes wonder if what I truly miss is that initial high that came with when I took those first two steps, or the thousands that came after.
And sense of achievement, well, that’s something I will never forget.
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