Running is the story here. I learned early on that I wouldn’t progress without self-discipline. That understanding gave me the impetus to finish three marathons in progressively faster times: 3:57:22, 3:49:12, and 3:45:23.
But reaching those times took time, persistence, patience, and self-deprecating humor. Here’s what I mean.
When the sweat on my T-shirt saturated down to my waist, I knew my run was almost complete. Just about a mile more was all I had to run now, and that ice-cold bottle of Gatorade would make it worthwhile. But suddenly, cramps below my waist drove me sprinting off the shoulder of the road into a shopping center parking lot, where my embarrassment was tempered between two parked cars.
Nature’s call got to me, and I needed another T-shirt.
I knew it would happen again if I ran less than two hours apart. Losing T-shirts was proof. One night was different. I waited two hours before I ran and was surprised by the outcome. It must have been all the peaches I’d been eating lately.
When I opened the front door, Annie, my wife, was still washing the dinner dishes. Her smile quickened after seeing me shirtless in the foyer. “Where did you go this time?” She laughed. “Between two cars,” I gasped. “Between two cars?” She repeated in disbelief. “Was there anyone in them?” “No, they were parked cars,” I answered. “It was better than behind the little tree in front of Waldbaum’s I used a few years ago.”
We both laughed as I reached for the Gatorade in the refrigerator, gulped it, and headed for the shower. In the shower, I reflected on how lucky I was. I had a beautiful wife, three great kids, a good job, and a nice house; everything was going great. I was in great shape. My health was excellent except for high blood pressure, which I controlled with exercise.
Photo courtesy of Amateur Running on Facebook
Running not only eased my stress but also improved everything else. When I was running, I was at my best. It was a time when I sorted out all my problems. It was my time alone to reflect on who I was and what I would accomplish with my life.
I’d run for an hour. Sixty minutes, not fifty-nine, would be the abiding rule once I started my run. I was dogmatic about it, and friends and coworkers often criticized me after seeing my precise wristwatch monitoring at the end of my run.
Once, as I was finishing my run, my best friend Nick, for whom I was the best man at his wedding, was waiting at my front door. “You got to be shitting me,” he yelled in disbelief. That’s because I kept running past the house and up and down the street to finish the last few seconds.
Nick couldn’t see why a few seconds or even minutes less would make a difference. I thought you could always make excuses for cutting a run short by a few minutes. But once you failed to run for sixty minutes and instead opted for fifty-nine minutes, the next time you could cut your fifty-nine-minute workout to fifty-eight minutes, then fifty-seven, and then fifty-six.
It was a work in progress — a craft I needed to hone — but it was well worth the effort.
