Editorial
Front Page - Friday, February 19, 2010
Are We There Yet?
Born to run
Jay Edwards
We can’t all be heroes because someone has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by. – Will Rogers
With marathon season rapidly approaching, I’m reminded of a conversation with my friend Fred a few years ago when we were wasting time with the usual twisted take on people in the news. Eventually, the topic came up about running in a marathon – as a recent 26-plus mile race had recently been completed, and won by another of those superb long distance runners from Kenya.
Fred commented that if you ever find yourself in a long-distance race against someone from Kenya, then you might have a problem. He reminded me of the great Olympic gold medalist Kip Keino, who in the 1968 Games in Mexico City had to jog a mile to the stadium after his taxi became stuck in traffic. He arrived just in time to run in the 1500-metere race, winning it with an Olympic record time that stood until 1984.
Our conversation digressed, as it always does, and somehow by the end we had made a pact to run in the following year’s local marathon. This from two 40 and 50 year plus guys whose only physical activity the past ten years was walking back to the golf cart from the rough.
However, that next weekend, I had come up with a daily regimen of training I believed would have me ready to finish the grueling race next March.
Of course, going into the challenge I was realistic, having done some running in my very distant past. Back in those days, I had worked up to three miles. Now I was agreeing to complete a run some nine times greater.
Fred and I had run together before.
It was during the 1999 Masters. On Sunday that year, our friend Guy was driving our rental car and claimed he would place us at the closest entrance to Amen Corner, where we planned to set up our chairs for the day.
Normally cool under fire, Guy suddenly found himself diverted in a line of traffic leading us away from where we needed to be. Fred and I were sitting quietly in the back seat, daydreaming about the wonderful day ahead, when that bliss was shattered by Guy’s screams from the front seat – “GET OUT!!! GET OUT NOW!!! THIS IS IT!!! GET OUT – GET OUT – GET OUT!!!
Shocked into reality and in fear for our safety, we flung open our doors and dove onto the Georgia asphalt below, as the car moved quickly away with the sea of traffic.
We were as far from Amen Corner as you could get, which meant we would have to run, carrying two chairs each through the front gate, past the gift shop, around the putting green, then down number ten, the beautiful 495-yard “Camellia,” and up number eleven, the 490-yard, “White Dogwood.”
Long story short – we made it and sat on the front row at #12 tee box.
So I knew Fred could run.
By my third week of marathon training, I was breezing through a mile and a quarter. It was about that time that my thoughts turned from “just finishing” to “maybe I can win this thing.” This dementia is known as “runner’s insanity,” or, as Fred said after I mentioned the delusion to him, “Are you nuts? Have you forgotten about the Kenyans?”
Fred’s laughing brought me back to the real world – that plodding, wheezing world of cigarettes and bad hips.
I trained just one more week before finally giving up my dream of an ivy crown and track glory.
But what about Fred? Well, he actually kept his dream alive and stuck with the training. Digging deep into the reserve of memories from when he proudly wore the uniform of the Holy Souls Wabbits, Fast Freddie pressed on.
Then, just six weeks before the day of the big race, disaster struck. While training on the track at the U of A, Fred felt a pain shoot through his leg. Later, the doctor gave him the worst possible news. It was a torn Achilles. There would be no marathon.
However, what the doctor did not know was that inside of Fred was the heart of a Kenyan (or at least a Somalian). And somehow, through determination, willpower and cortisone, Fred’s tendon began to heal (or at least not to hurt). And while he was not able to finish the 26.2 miles, he was strong enough, gritty enough and dumb enough to complete the half-marathon.
It turned out to be one of the worst days of my life. Because now I am constantly reminded by him – “a lesser man never could have done it.” To which my response is always the same – “Yeah, whatever.”
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