Are you still running Bill?

Are you still running Bill? (part one)

I get this question a lot. And, if you're also a runner, I suspect you do too. People generally ask that question, I believe, for a couple of reasons. They're either just trying to be friendly because they haven't seen me in awhile; or they've seen me running through town, visible stress on my face, and they wonder if it's worth the effort.

Later this month I will turn fifty-six and I guess, like many aging, aching athletes I'm introspective now about why I "train."

I use the word "training" to mean any form of exercise that I do on a daily basis to raise my heart rate, make me sweat, and use the major muscle groups in my body. And yes, I still train daily except for one day a week which I spend in my office in Bend, Oregon. (I work from my home the other four days.)

In my youth, growing up in a suburb north of Boston, I was an avid ice hockey player. Some would remember me as a gifted athlete who loved to skate on the rinks and ponds around Boston. But as a youth the concept of "training" is generally far removed from the pure joy of participating in your chosen activity.

You participate out of sheer joy and excitement and your youthful body responds by growing larger and stronger. Injuries are generally easily overcome, you bounce back quickly and without fear of further injury. (My wife, a long-time youth gymnastics coach, says "kids don't have ligaments and joints, they're made of rubber.")

I'll never forget my first encounter with athletes that really "trained." Entering the University of Massachusetts, my first dorm roommate was a football player, a big lineman who "worked out" in the gym everyday and did pushups every night before bed.

Kevin tried to encourage me to "work out" with him in the weight room - which I thought was unnecessary. A new hockey player at the school, I assumed my high school years had prepared me adequately for the rigors of college hockey. Wrong.

In retrospect Kevin was right. My eighteen year-old body had aged. The wear and tear of grueling hockey games was already showing up - but my youthful attitude made me believe I was invincible. In more than a few college games I got my "clock cleaned" by bigger and stronger players who had "trained" for the rigors between the blue lines.

After college I left ice hockey behind, having played since I was about seven years old. I quickly realized that lack of daily exercise, combined with an office job (my first real job, believe it or not, was in 1975 as a Group Insurance Underwriter for Liberty Mutual in Boston) makes a guy chubby rather quickly.

I remember vividly my first day on the job. My new boss walked me to my desk, one of about fifty in an open room. As I stood there surveying the sea of people sitting behind desks I thought to myself "I hate this already." I lasted exactly one year.

So, to escape the office environment, during lunch I started running along the Charles River. This was also about the time that "running" really started to catch on across the nation. And having grown up around Boston, everyone was inspired by the Boston Marathon.

This was the start of my "training," which continues to this day. Initially an escape from the reality of an awful job, I found the changes to my body (mentally & physically) to be wonderful. My body firmed-up again as my fitness level increased and I returned to the office with an improved attitude (which research would later link to increased endorphin levels.)

By 1976 "training," for me, became a healthy addiction. (And yes, I had several unhealthy habits that began in high school and continued through college...)

But it wasn't until I finally woke up and followed my passions that my reasons for "training" began evolving. In 1977 I drove my '69 VW Karmann Ghia across country (in January, no heat or defroster, wearing inflatable Air Force boots to keep my feet from freezing), having enrolled in graduate school (physical education) at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff.

It was there that several new friends encouraged me to train for a local 15K race. 9.2 miles at 7,000 ft. sounded like huge challenge at the time. But I had been gradually increasing my distances, challenging myself to set goals and achieve them. I wasn't a competitor in that race, I was a "participant," finishing with a sense of accomplishment - and a hunger for more.

My reason for "training" had just taken a new turn. Could I go farther? Speed was not important to me at all. Afterall, I was a former ice hockey player who simply realized that running provided me with "exploring" opportunities. And there's no better place than the forests surrounding Flagstaff.

In 1978 a teaching internship at Eastern Arizona College in Safford provided me the time and opportunity to extend my training distances. Running in the desert also taught me a few valuable lessons. One, stay hydrated or die. Two, people shot coyotes for money, piling their skinned carcasses in the desert...but we've all seen interesting things while running, eh?

A poor graduate student at the time, Eastern Arizona College took pity on me, sent me down to the local Western Hardware Store (which sold everything from tools to shoes) to purchase a new pair of athletic shoes. Desperately in need of a new pair of training shoes, the only thing the store carried, running shoe-wise, were red split-leather Converse "running shoes."

At the time I wondered how leather, thin midsoles, and the hot desert conditions would affect my feet - but this was all they stocked and, what the hell, they were free!

I'd soon find out what happens to feet when you combine those elements with white cotton socks, no vaseline, and 26-miles of warm pavement.

Encouraged by my new fitness level I entered the 1978 Tucson Marathon - simply to see if I could run that far. My goal was simple - finish the race. A gorgeous course in and around Tucson, I started slowly and kept a steady pace. By mile 18 or so I was still feeling fine, which amazed me because I had never measured my training distances, simply ran by time.

A fellow participant came alongside me and said "If you continue this pace you could break 3:30 - the qualifying time for the Boston Marathon!" He had no idea I was from Boston. But the thought of traveling back to Boston took hold as I continued my steady pace.

It was about mile 20 when I learned my first "shoe technology" lesson (there were many more to come in subsequent years.) My light-colored red leather running shoes were becoming a deeper, darker shade across the toes. My toes had all blistered and were now bleeding - profusely.

Lesson learned - your mind and upper body can feel great - but if you get a flat tire you can be in big trouble. Or, as we say in farrier-speak, "no hoof, no horse!"

I finished the race. (As many of you know, the painful part is the blister creation, once they break the pain dissipates somewhat - and you either grit your teeth and keep going - or quit.) And I surprisingly broke 3:30 by a minute or so, qualifying me for the 1978 Boston Marathon.

Excited by accomplishing my goal of finishing a marathon, my reason for training was now evolving. I knew I could finish a marathon - but could I actually go a little faster than 3:30?

I'd find out at Boston.

(Next blog: my mental evolution from hockey player to road runner begins.)