I’d been running for about five years when Leonard surprised us by singing a ballad at a housewarming party I was having after moving into a new apartment. At dusk, my friend Sue read a couple of her poems, and Rob, who edited my first stories, played guitar and led us in folk songs in the waning light. There’s a pause in Rob’s playing. Rob is sitting on the only armchair while the rest of our small group sit cross-legged on a rug I had bought for the occasion. Suddenly, Leonard's bass voice fills the room, leaving us speechless. “That’s a song by Jim Reeves,” Leonard explains after the final verse. “At home in Nigeria, Jim Reeves is very big.”
Leonard, an exchange student from Africa, and I met when I was doing a newspaper article on the local college’s international outreach program. It was 1981, and the previous year I had won my first and only runner’s trophy, in the 20-29 age group of a sparsely attended race.
“C’mon,” I tell Leonard one day. “Let’s go out on a run together.”
“I don’t know,” Leonard says. “I don’t run.”
“That’s okay. No pressure. It’ll be fun.”
It’s a hot day, in the low-90s, when we start. We’re slow at first, but then I kick it up a little. Leonard does too. I don’t remember what we are talking about, but like me, Leonard is a dreamer. I’m going to write a great novel; Leonard, be president of Nigeria. At this pace, faster than I’m used to, I’m struggling for breath, so as the conversation wanes, Leonard, with a sly smile, sprints the final leg of our five-mile run. When I finally arrive at his side, he is standing arms akimbo, only a shimmer of sweat on him, breathing normally. I am drenched, gasping for air, as I clomp up to him.
“I thought you said you don’t run, Leonard,” I say.
“I don’t,” Leonard says. “But I do play a little football.”
I haven’t seen Leonard since those days, but I often think of him. Sometimes, when I’m running, I’ll whisper his name. And remember that line: “I do play a little football.”
When I bring Leonard to mind, I think of the lesson I learned on that hot day almost thirty years ago. That running is not racing. Particularly when you are getting started. If you have to walk before you can run, you have to run before you can race. Running is not tennis, or golf, or baseball. It is less a sport than a way of being.
It is about harnessing the outside in. About inner strength. A place where you sing the ballad of your life.
I’m not one for checklists. For do’s and don’t’s. (But most Getting Started columns have them. And, yes, these may not work for everyone. I’m a firm believer, as this blog emphasizes, of hard-won personal choice. Consider these more as guidelines, than a literal to-do list. A considered second opinion, because I believe the first opinion should be your own. But I’ve been running for my life for over thirty years, and, today I’ve never been in better shape. That counts for something.)
1. Do see your doctor. Don’t be like me (See The Introduction). Do a full checkup and then discuss what you are planning to do. Does your doctor have to be an athlete? No, but at the very least, she should be basing her diagnosis on how best to keep you active, to stay on the road. More on this later.
2. Do get good shoes and socks. Fuhgeddabout the rest of your clothes. (I like to wear T-shirts and caps that have a special meaning for me, my daughter’s college, a CANADA 2000 cap a childhood friend gave me. Whatever feels in keeping with easing into a gentle meditative state.) On the purely physical side, running IS footwear, so take time and get the right shoes and socks. Find an independent running store – in my neighborhood, there is a place called Jack Rabbit – and get to know the sales staff. Walk and run on their video-treadmill, and, after looking at your personal “footage,” discuss with them the mechanics of your style of walking and running. Talk to them about your goals: How much time you are setting aside for running, what the terrain is like (asphalt, cement, woodland path), what, if any, experience you’ve had with other shoes, particularly in terms of tendencies for some part of the sole to wear out faster than others. This can suggest a pattern of movement that may not be readily apparent from the video. They may suggest a different shoe for walking and running. Do yourself a favor, buy them both. If you were taking up tennis or golf, think of the expense. For runners, this is your ONE expense. Don’t skimp on it. The same goes for socks. I’m like poet Matthea Harvey’s “Straightforward Mermaid.” * I hate wearing socks, but when it comes to running, let the experts put you into some good ones.
3. Don’t start running right away. Whether you are brand-new to the life, or haven’t run since doing a little cross-country in high school, or did a marathon twenty years ago but haven’t laced up your sneakers for a run in a decade, it’s not a good idea to race out the door. Walk. Everyone has their own pace. Listen to your body as you walk, keeping in mind what the runners in the shoe store told you about your walking style. The first week, do this alone, and don’t walk as fast as you can without getting winded. Don’t sweat it.
4. Don’t wear earphones. (More later on this.) You are singing the ballad of your life. That’s your soundtrack. Whether I am running at home in Brooklyn, at my childhood home in Canada, or in Spain, Tokyo, France or Istanbul, I don’t enclose myself off in words and music that are not of my own making. The life of the road is inspiring enough.
5. Do be consistent. Don’t let your other lives get in the way of your walking, running life. Start the first half-year of your walk/run by keeping an every other day regimen. (I’ve stayed true to that pattern since I left hospital in 1976; in my case, my left leg swells up so uncomfortably – even now – that I’ve never run more than four times a week, even during marathon training.) You can’t run for your life between the cracks of your life. Done right, running will be your healthy addiction. You will simply have to do it.
6. Do wear a watch, but not to time your pace. (“Leonard,” I think to myself.) The type of running I advocate is not for those of a competitive streak. Time is something you set aside. In my case, I run for 45 minutes and up. Soon, you will learn, settle in, to your natural pace. It is simply not important, especially in the beginning when you are building up your strength and stamina, to try to trim seconds off your time so that in six months time, say, you are nearing a sub-8-minute mile. It may be counter-intuitive, but when it comes to running, think the discovery of slowness. (See Getting Started: Part One.) You are running for your life and, trust me, it will be a long one. Take your time, look around, slow down.
7. Do listen to your body. Long-distance running at an easy natural pace can be for everyone. We are built for it. William Jungers, an anatomical specialist at Stony Brook University, says, “it’s no coincidence that in chimpanzees, the muscle is called gluteus superficialis, and in humans, gluteus maximus.” Truth is, it’s not a good idea to run your butt off. (Or dance you’re a** off, as the reality TV folks would lead you to believe.) Instead, when we are running at our best, those elegantly designed asses of ours provide the perfect counterbalance to our chest and head, leaning forward in harmony with the running phenomena we all can be. Believe it or not, it’s possible to just keep going and going.
8. Don’t stop believing. Imagine yourself running 10 years from now: 20, 30, 50. Do it. Run for your life.
Next: The Hospital Story
* The New Yorker, Aug. 16-23
