If we’re fortunate, we’ll develop lasting relationships that are more than they seem. One of mine began in August 1981 at a 10km race at Washington, DC’s Haines Point. It was the beginning of an enduring relationship with Caleb.
I remember standing on the starting line and saying something silly like, “I think I’ll run the first miles at 4:30 (pace) and see who stays with me.” The fellow next to me responded with an icy calm, “4:30 may not be fast enough.”
All these years later, when warranted, Caleb still uses that tone with me. It’s his way of telling me to get my head out of the clouds.
I don’t remember if he beat me or I beat him in that race. He remembers a 35:30-ish time being recorded (5:40 pace), and that was likely his time…with me (as usual) close behind. After the race, I gave him a ride to near the Kennedy Center, and (of course) he jogged home from there.
We met the next day for a long run, and he shared that he and his young daughter had just arrived in D.C. from Ithaca for his Capitol Hill job. Our friendship grew from there, centered around racing. Among other things, we raced winter indoor meets, outdoor track meets, and even in the Masters’ mile relay at the Penn Relays. We raced each other and all others from 400 meters upward, and racing in the Marine Corps Marathon (MCM) became a yearly ritual.
Photo courtesy of the University of Washington
We trained together—long runs, interval workouts on local high school tracks, and shared tales of woe about failed attempts for a personal record (PR). One year he, and another year I, took turns escorting James, a blind runner, in the MCM. I ran with James the last ten miles, and it was one more experience Caleb gave me that I cherish.
Yet, our running relationship expanded and drew in other parts of our individual lives, as strong relationships do. We shared struggles (children), discussed politics, recommended books to each other, shared our enjoyment of bluegrass, and continued to support each other in every way.
Racing was still part of our shared lives, but other parts of each life floated over, creating a wonderful, mixed, grand friendship.
However, in August 2001 our relationship received a test—I was injured and became a T 5-6 paraplegic—no more racing together or long runs full of hard climbs and relaxed laughter. But Caleb, who was by now affectionately known as “Spider,” still had things to teach me, as he had the blind runner James.
He visited me often when I was struggling through six weeks in Mt. Vernon Rehabilitation Hospital. During those visits, he asked questions about my new condition that showed his concern. He even showed interest in my newly acquired bathroom skills, and he was truly fearful for my welfare.
When I returned to work later that fall, we met at a Wisconsin Avenue coffee shop. It was then, during our conversation about how I was hoping, that Caleb said something which has stayed with me, much like our helping James race the MCM. “Delbert,” (my first name that he liked best) “You have a year to say anything about your “new” life; But after that it’s time to move on.” That, along with the wisdom of my first handcycle, resonates still.
Later Caleb called me all excited about a race he had seen in Central Park. He told me how he had watched a handcycle race there and how exciting it was. He almost screamed, “Delbert, you should’ve seen them cranking and racing each other. We need to get you one of those bikes.” With his and others’ help, I did get a handcycle later and raced in the MCM and other events.
He watched me race in my first criterium (a short bicycle race held on public roads). It was held in Arlington during a hot July day. I called him after the race, and he mentioned that he never saw me in the rushing loops. When I told him I rode an all-white handcycle, he sadly uttered, “Oh!”
In my first MCM, Caleb “escorted” me up a steep Georgetown hill as I cranked away. In a fashion, he and I still raced.
Our bond remained strong. We shared ideas about planning his workouts and how he should race. Caleb continued racing on the Masters circuit, and I “coached” him so we could share his victories, which included a national championship in the over-70 age-group 800 meters.
Potomac Valley Track Club 2026 Labor Day Meet (photo courtesy PVTC Facebook page)
Caleb often reminded me not to think as I did in our 1981 days, but to remember that “age” had traveled with us on our journey, and that we need to adjust for its presence. Otherwise, he would suffer injury. We managed well, and that brings me up to today.
He raced in the DC area for the last time, participating in the annual Potomac Valley Track Club Labor Day meet. He will race a mile, and then pivot to run the 800. While he is focused on the mile, he will use the 800 as an important indicator of his condition for the coming indoor European season.
In 1933 Buzz Holstrom built a wooden rowboat in his mother’s Oregon basement. He then hauled it to the Green River and rowed it, by himself, down the Green and Colorado Rivers. He wrote in his journal that it was “the doing of the thing” that matters most.
That’s Caleb. As he has always done, he will compete with his constant attitude about how important it is to find joy in racing itself.
Every life experience offers pain and challenges, and Caleb’s has carried some of those. But like Holstrom running rivers, Caleb has and will forever find that “the doing of the thing” is a blessing and reward.
