Cue the theme from Chariots of Fire. Now picture this: A 14-year-old boy is sprinting down a tree-lined Kentucky road. He’s tall and lean, and his legs are a blur as he picks up speed and races ahead of a car intended to ensure the safety of a dozen runners. He disappears from sight as he rounds a curve, and before long, he crosses the finish line at his high school, earning first place in the one-mile run on Field Day. He shouts, raises his arms in victory and gives his girlfriend a sweaty hug.
Cue the sound of a needle scratching across the surface of a record. Now picture this:
A 48-year-old man is doing what could be generously described as jogging along a suburban road in Georgia. He’s tall, shaped like a pear and his legs strain to carry the extra weight that time, a healthy appetite and two sedentary jobs have given him. His breathing is labored, and his chest is aching from the exertion. He stops, looks back and sees that his house is less than a quarter of a mile away. A few minutes later, he collapses onto his bed, still wheezing.
As Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey wrote in “A Woman of Independent Means,” “Time is a cruel thief to rob us of our former selves.” Both the young man and the middle-aged meat sack are me. In high school, I shattered long-distance race records and won enough ribbons to weigh down an elephant; as an adult, I’ve exercised, but also fought a constant battle to manage my weight. While I’m considerably lighter than I was at my heaviest, I still weigh too much, and gravity seems to be exerting a greater pull than ever on each pound.
For some of us, our frustration with our condition must reach a boiling point before we’re motivated to change it. I hit that mark about a month ago while I was on the treadmill at the gym and realized I was only 10 pounds lighter than I was three years earlier when I became a member. Clearly, I needed a change of venue, so I quit the gym and took my fight back onto the road.
A friend suggested I set my sights on a fall marathon. Doing so would give me a goal and enough time in which to reach it. I asked if he’d be willing to train me and hold me accountable, and he agreed.
The greater Chattanooga area is an ideal place to get in shape. To begin with, being outdoors is a joy. You can go for a brisk lunchtime run across the downtown bridges and through the streets of the city, and the next day, take a relaxing jog along the Tennessee River. If you want to quickly build your stamina, there are plenty of hills to tackle, or you can start slowly on level ground.
In addition to being a beautiful place to run, walk or ride a bike, Chattanooga has plenty of sanctioned races from which to choose. To find one that would suit me, I visited the Web site of the Chattanooga Track Club. The Chickamauga Battlefield Marathon jumped out at me because of its date (November 10, giving me plenty of time to train) and its degree of difficulty (“challenging but not extraordinarily difficult” reads the site). While I haven’t run anything longer than a 5K, I believe the half-marathon event is within my reach.
To be clear, my goal is to finish, not win, the race. I plan to chart my progress in this column, occasionally writing about my journey and exploring the race course as a preview of what’s to come. If you’ve run the Chickamauga Battlefield Marathon, or know someone who has, I’d love to hear from you.
I’m doing this for obvious reasons: to live a longer and healthier life. I have other goals that are farther away than the finish line of the race, but I doubt I’ll reach them if I don’t first complete this adventure. The road ahead won’t be easy, but I’m determined to run each painful, exhilarating step.
Picture this:
A 49-year-old man is sprinting across Chickamauga Battlefield. His legs aren’t as fast as they once were, but he’s slimmed down to a decent running weight, and he maintains a good clip as he winds his way past the park’s scenic beauty. Rather than bolting ahead of the pack, he disappears into a group of runners, all of whom are pushing toward the same goal. He doesn’t set any records or win any trophies, but as he crosses the finish line, he shouts, raises his arms in victory and gives his wife a sweaty hug.
Cue the theme from Chariots of Fire!
Email David Laprad at dlaprad@hamiltoncountyherald.com.