A runner’s legs

My wife had the TV on when I got home from work. News of the Boston Marathon bombing was breaking. I popped my tie, unbuttoned my shirt at the throat and slumped onto the couch.

I had been a runner in my youth. Forty years ago running was just beginning to come into its own as an accepted sport. Many times we runners were mocked by the locals as we tooled down the streets and roads of the sleepy little town where I attended undergraduate school.

Back then, runners stood a world apart from most athletes. Running was a lonely sport. The only glory one could hope for was the moment of hitting the tape at the finish. Many who ran seldom felt that exuberance, but they were runners just the same.

A runner’s strength lies in his lungs and legs — the lungs oxygenate the blood, the legs carry him along. If a runner has been true to himself, he finds himself spent at the finish. If he’s in good shape, he recovers quickly. He wipes the sweat from his brow and takes his victory lap. All is well — until the next race.

Imagine pushing the pace for 26 miles, lungs and legs burning. You round the final turn into the home stretch. Up ahead the finish line awaits. It won’t be long now. Just keep the pace, swing the arms, drive the legs, keep the rhythm — and soon you will be there.

The roar of the crowd surges in your ears, easing the pain in your body. A few more steps, then — an unearthly blast deafens your ears, a ball of orange flame blinds your eyes, smoke chokes your throat. Your legs give out as you collapse to the ground. It takes several eternal seconds before you realize that those legs that have carried you 26 miles are now pummeled with nails, ball bearings and shards of metal.

National tragedies affect all of us. As a people we grieve, as a people we stare in disbelief, as a people our anger rises collectively. Once again we question another senseless act of violence, devised and delivered by deranged malevolent minds.

Only this time round I am touched at a deeper level, for I too have been a runner. In a special way these wounded are my comrades, once fleet of foot, suddenly cut down moments before their final finish, lives shattered forever.

Marking the paces

In the ancient Greek economy athletes were runners. Winning the footrace was the coveted prize. Our modern concept of athletics has expanded to include many recognized types of sport; but for runners, running remains the once and future king.

Forty years is a long stretch. Time and chance happen to us all. But the bonds formed between runners in their youth somehow hold firm over the years. There is more to running than speed, stride and stamina.

Such thoughts ran through my head as the notes of Haydn’s Il Distratto flowed from the car radio. Haydn composed Il Distratto — The Distracted Man — his 60th symphony, in 1774. The Heidelberg orchestra performed their rendition while I struggled to keep my eyes on the road.

It had snowed the night before — an inch of slush — and with the morning rain the highway remained somewhat slick. After two and a half hours I hit a fresh snow squall as the car descended the 1272 foot peak and slipped past the sparse grey cliffs along the upper Delaware.

For another hour I drove through swirling snow, slipstreaming behind tractor trailers with the wipers slapping against the windshield. Below Scranton the snow gave way to a wintry mix. I headed west on I-80 past freshly plowed fields, their expansive furrows limed with a dusting of snow.

Further west the mountains rose in the south like fresh-baked powdered loaves laid end to end. Reddish brown tufts of grass mingled with the dirty yellow remnant of last year’s growth along the hillsides.

Finally up ahead a familiar shape rose up from the valley floor — the Nittany Lion resting beneath a brown mountain blanket. I eased into the exit lane and headed south to Huntingdon.

One by one the members of our party arrived. That evening we assembled around a common table at Kelly’s Bar for supper and then trudged up the grassy hill in the cool night air to our rooms at the inn. The talk continued for several hours: back and forth banter, the merits of recently read books, the intricacies of a Bach fugue, and — beekeeping.

One of the more recent graduates — the son of the organizer of our weekend reunion — was slated to run the 1500 meters as an alumnus at the invitational meet the following day. He had signed up for the event but wasn’t sure if he wanted to run. It would most likely be a cold wet day on the track.

“What kind of shape are you in?” I asked him.

“Oh, I’m a great shape,” he said. “That’s not the issue.”

I looked over at his father, a sub-two half miler in his prime. Then I said: “If you’re in great shape, do the run. Never mind the weather. The day will come when you wish you could stay that pace without pain.”

The other fellows nodded in agreement.

He ran the following afternoon, looking strong as he crossed the finish line.

An older fellow appeared at breakfast in the next morning, a former runner from the early 1960s. He attended college to run, he told us. He had a stellar record, winning many races from that era.

This fellow told how the 1963 Middle Atlantic XC Championships were halted just as the starter had raised his pistol overhead. A policeman bounded over the hill on horseback shouting “Stop the race — the president’s been shot!” He held up a walkie-talkie so everyone could hear the shocking news. The race was run later that day, even though a number of coaches elected to withdraw their runners.

After the conclusion of the afternoon track meet we went out for a run up the winding road to the Peace Chapel, a memorial planned by Maya Lin, the same artist who designed the Vietnam War Memorial that stands on the green in Washington, D.C. A light rain had begun to fall as we headed out. Later, back at the inn, we saw the ephemeral blush of a rainbow sweep across the eastern sky.

That evening we gathered at the home of our former running coach for a traditional Smithfield spiral-cut ham dinner. More stories were shared. One of our group — an orthopedic surgeon and his pediatrician wife — narrated a notebook slide show on their medical mission trip to Haiti last summer. Over lemon cake and ice cream another fellow shared his unlikely journey from a geologist in the Texas oil fields to graduation from dental school. Our retired military man gave us his perspective on the conflicts in Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya. We talked late into the night. Back at the inn I crawled into bed shortly after 1:00 AM.

Sunday morning we gathered at Top’s Diner for the final breakfast. The beekeeper handed out sample jars of Oxcart honey. I finished a short stack of sweet potato pancakes and took my leave, shaking everyone’s hand in turn.

It was almost like passing the peace at a church service.

The Best in All of Us

Runners whom renown outran,
And the name died before the man.

A century ago the English poet A. E. Housman penned those lines in his tribute, To An Athlete Dying Young.

Admittedly, renown has out run most of us; but, as former athletes, we still gather together to remember.

We remember times, records, individual meets and races. Some of us even recall specific workouts—serial sprints up Sure Kill Hill or long lazy runs on Sunday mornings—when we were young and strong and fast and free.

Some of us remember the rush that came from hitting the final tape; or, at other times, the dejection of defeat.

Although we all ran, none of us consistently won the prize.

Still, running has much to teach us about life and about ourselves—how we respond to challenges that come our way.

Through running, we learn to rise to the occasion. We learn that we can do much more than we thought, that we can go much further than we might have imagined in our calculated dreams.

We learn perseverance; we learn to believe in ourselves. And at those times when defeat arrives—as it invariably does—we learn to accept it with grace.

To my mind, D.W. exemplifies these traits—the very best traits of a fine and gracious athlete.

There are special times when a runner of the highest caliber is recognized in life: at the end of a specific event, at the conclusion of a stellar season, at the finish of a sterling career. And on occasion, we choose to recognize the very best runners in hindsight when we gather together to celebrate—not the races or the record times—but the individuals themselves.

The caliber of such a person was apparent in those early days, days filled with pre-dawn risings for runs down deserted stretches of macadam roads or along leaf-strewn forest paths; late afternoon sets of intervals around a cinder track; easy strides through grassy expanses on cool evenings. Such runners remained firm in their resolve to train hard so they might give their all on the day of the race.

When we move forward from youth toward maturity, we recognize that the race does not stop at the tape on the track or in the funnel to the finish line; for we continue to run our race every day, rising early, stepping into other shoes to face new and more arduous challenges. It is perhaps here that the true colors of the committed runner become apparent.

In the forty odd years that I have known D.W., I can testify that he has shown himself to be an athlete of the highest caliber, both on and off the training turf, on trail and track, in victorious times and times of loss. He possesses that innate quality of a true mensch which I will call grace—grace under pressure, grace on the victory stand, grace among peers at the close of day. In short, he fits the bill.

It is proper and right and a good thing that we should gather together to celebrate not only his former athletic accomplishments, but also to recognize the man who stands before us as an example of an individual of the highest caliber, who ultimately represents the best in all of us.

Remarks on the occasion of the induction of  Rev. Dennis L. Weidler into the Juniata College Hall of Fame, November 6, 2010.