Running and Jumping

Yesterday I decided to sign up for the Philadelphia Marathon. The race is scheduled for November 23, which gives me nine week-ends to fit in training runs ranging from 12 to 20 miles. I figure I can fit them in either on my work from home day or on the week-end day when Bin Ladin comes over for a visitation. Back in 2006 I planned to run a marathon in 2007, which would have been the 10th anniversary of the last marathon I ran. At the time I was interested to see whether, at the advanced age of 39, I still had enough gas in the tank to get through 26.2 miles without permanently damaging an organ or body part. Obviously, 2007 turned out quite differently than I had envisioned so I now get to attempt the distance at age 40, which will officially put me in the “master runner” category. “Master runner” is a term bestowed on people who have reached the apex of their running careers and are starting the long slow slide into physical disintegration. I first found myself placed into that category in the Long Island ½ Marathon I ran in May. Let me tell you, I found the competition pretty stiff. The older guys have more to prove and you always move faster when you can feel the grim reaper pacing you a few steps back.

It is hard to believe that I have been running consistently for 16 years. By “consistently” I mean that for the last 17 years, aside from the odd vacation and bout with the flu, I have run between 15 and 45 miles per week, every week, since 1992. There were times when I ran less, and times when I ran more, but putting foot to pavement has been the one constant thread running through the fabric of my bizarre-o life.

Last year I wholeheartedly embraced running as a way to help me retain my sanity in the face of Becky’s death and my own terrifying responsibilities as a new father. In early February I joined a gym and drastically stepped up my mileage. The end result was me losing 40 pounds in six months. I literally ran out of my old life into a new reality, which is a strange feeling. I look in the mirror and I don’t even physically resemble the person I was in January 2007.

I remember thinking quite consciously that I was going to need a huge increase in energy reserves to succeed as the single father of a small boy, especially in light of the fact that I was considerably older than the average dad and probably not in the best shape of my life. The first step towards building up more energy was taking the weight off. Taking the weight off meant that I had to stop eating so many bacon cheeseburgers and start shaking my rapidly expanding ass on the treadmill every day. On the week-ends, I loaded Jack into the baby-jogger and took off for the park. That kid logged more miles in his first six months than Ryan Hall did training for the Olympic marathon.

Somehow, it worked. I lost a lot of weight. I have more energy. The constant flow of endorphins into my bloodstream has also made me a very even-tempered and pleasant daddy to be around. Now I’m putting in a base of 40 miles a week and in 9 weeks time I’ll be toeing the line in Philly. I credit Jack for motivating me to put down the cheese doodles and get out there back into life. For that reason, I’ll be running the race for him.