“If you can’t fly then run, if you can’t run then walk, if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward” Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
I have been busting to tell this story for a long time, but I couldn’t. I can’t tell you how often I’ve looked at that picture of me crossing the finish line in the 1982 NYC Marathon. It will always be just yesterday in so many ways.
Now, before I get accused of cultural, quotational misappropriation, I was really drawn to that quotation from Dr. King. No, I don’t pretend to understand what he was talking about on behalf of his people, or oppressed people anywhere. It was the idea of moving forward that connected with my long ago need to start running.
I was stuck in the quicksand of immature choices, I am pretty sure I started running, sometime during ’77. I was living in Glen Cove, Long Island, in a home I couldn’t afford, living a life that felt like someone else’s, certainly not mine. The home life was permanently fractured and absolutely everything about it will remain unwritten.
My much older brother, Marty, had been running for a number of years back then. It was in the process of becoming a way of life for many, with more than enough traction to guarantee its ultimate success. The whole world of fitness was taking root, light years beyond the days of the Charles Atlas matchbook cover and his body building remedy to never be “the 97 lb. weakling, who gets sand kicked in face.” I shit you not.
I think the whole running thing was about moving forward and I never thought of it in that context until now. If anything, I thought it was about running from the pain, leaving my past behind. Seriously, I knew this story was coming on and it had to be all about running, running toward the light, often feeling anointed from the exhaustion. I never dealt with any of the competitive bullshit, I just ran.
As a kid, I was an incredibly shitty athlete, but don’t get me wrong, I was no “slightly above average IQ” nurd, not even close. Somehow, I remained very popular with the guys. For those of you who know softball, I got to play catcher, because who gives a shit?, or right field, a close second in uselessness. My sport was leaning, which I had perfected with a true sense of grace
I wish I could recall the first time i went out to run and what it felt like. Back in Glen Cove, I was in desperate need of some sense of control over my life, falling apart right in front of me. I grabbed at the running thing in my early thirties and held on for years and years, running all over the world, almost never missing more than a day.
After Glen Cove, I spent a fair amount of time around Brooklyn Heights, an incredible neighborhood. I ran in rain in snow, in the heat and the cold. My roadshow eventually set up camp in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Every morning, except Sunday(forever), I’d walk up to Prospect Park and run around the perimeter.
Running shoes, socks, shorts and a tank top were always with me, wherever I was going. To be honest, I was just OK as a runner, but that’s not why I ran. No matter where I was in the world and why, finding my running route was absolutely number one.
Now, you’d have to be a runner to truly appreciate the challenge I stupidly undertook around forty years ago. A work friend told me about a good buddy of his, who competed in the Boston Marathon and qualified for the upcoming NYC version. He injured his ankle and said he’d happily give me the credentials to run in the marathon.
The NYC Marathon! Are you fucken kidding me? How could I say no and still call myself a runner? Here comes the tricky part. I trained forever, running around a half hour, sometimes a little longer. Using the word “train” is an exaggeration. I tried to run hard and was always exhausted at the end of any run, having nothing left, because that’s what you do if you’re a runner. I was not a schooled runner, not even close.
The day before the Marathon, on that Saturday, I went to Central Park and ran around the perimeter, which is in the neighborhood of a half-marathon, the longest I’d ever run. It was absolutely the wrong thing you do the day before running 26 miles. I parked my Gremlin there that Saturday night, close to the finish, so I’d be able to get home. As an aside, the Gremlin is one of the worst pieces of shit ever manufactured by Detroit.
My arrangements the night before are another story. Sunday morning, very early, we made it over the Verrazzano Bridge for the start of the race on Staten Island. There were around 15,000 runners and I came out somewhere in the middle, which wasn’t half bad for me. I never once walked the entire race and I when I saw the finish line, I started to cry. The choice was to finish this beast of an experience or lose my legs to the miracle of what I had just pulled off.
The story for me now is about this being forty years ago, rather than the event itself. I think about how long running was an indelible part of my life. No matter where I was or how I felt, I always ran.
The fact that I had to stop running is now part of my story. I injured my left leg very badly back in ’05 and nearly lost it. My body pretty much atrophied during that time and I had to win it back. I can tell you rehab is a bitch and if it doesn’t become your religion, you’re screwed. No one really talks about it, because it is so terribly private.
After a couple of months and a raft of medical shit, not to mention one-of-a-kind pain, I began getting back on the road. I worked my way back to where I wanted to be and stayed hard at if until a handful of years ago. My leg was definitely compromised, eventually reminding me quite forcefully, it was time to put away the running shoes and find another way to keep moving forward. Forty-five years is a long time to be doing anything as religiously as my running. I was OK with my body’s decision.
This life marathon of ours is about moving forward. I had to keep the “MO” going and I’ve been doing the stationary bike thing and doing it hard. Running was so much a part of my life for so many years. Even though I now pedal my ass off and go nowhere, I am still following Dr; King’s advice.
I left out one important thing. I promise I’m done. I did cry once I crossed the finish line and there was universal agreement within every fiber of my being, I’d never do it again!
My time for the 1982 NYC Marathon: 3:42:43