By: The Mizuno Shoe Guy
A few months ago, on the morning that my father died, I did what I normally do and went for a run. My grief was real—and so were the miles I covered on a gorgeous trail near my sister’s home that morning.
There was nothing extraordinary about the run and I wasn’t paralyzed by my loss. I don’t know whether my father would have wanted me to run that day or not, but I needed to be by myself. More than anything, I needed this run, just as I had on so many other occasions.
I ran on the morning of my wedding and ran the day my twin daughters were born. I needed to run then—and needed to run now. After a mile or two into it, my legs and lungs were doing their usual work, but rather than running away from the consequences of my father’s death, my mind was beginning to sort it all out for me in a way that only running could.
One of the reasons I run, like on this eventful morning, isn’t to escape, but to think and deal with the issues of the day. For me, running is a time out. It’s a time when thoughts and feelings rush through my mind—never more so than on that morning, But the mere act of running, allows me to slow everything down and think things through better than when I’m not in motion. I’m more open and honest with others—and myself.
Running is an escape for me, which comes as naturally as breathing. It’s a place I go when times are good, when times are bad, and when life gets straight up out-of-hand. This particular time wasn’t necessarily tragic—my father had been suffering needlessly for more than a year and his death was something he welcomed—and so many different feelings bubbled to the surface during my hour alone. Rather than hiding them, I was able to come to grips with my inner most feelings.
As I mentally wrote the eulogy I would give in a couple of days, I knew part of it would have to be about running. My father had never quite understood me—we are (or were) very different people—but he did understand my love of running. He was the one who had nurtured it when I was only eight or nine by suggesting that rather complaining about not having a ride to or from school, I should just run.
And that’s exactly what I did. My elementary school was very small and there was no such thing as a cafeteria or a bus service. I didn’t need either.
It wasn’t far. Maybe little more than a mile through the woods and soon I was running back and forth to school in the morning, at lunch and afterward. At lunch time, as the clock ticked to noon, I would get in a sprinter’s crouch near my desk, bolt out the door and fly off the front steps of the school and into my run home.
The woods that bordered my neighborhood were the best part. In it were some old Indian paths that I zigzagged through, scurrying around these ancient mounds of clam shells. Frequently, I envisioned myself as some primitive being who used running as transport, before bursting out of the woods and eventually to home where I grabbed a sandwich. Then, ran back.
I have never stopped.
Although I would become fitter, faster and stronger, what has never changed was the joy and clarity running has brought to my life. Especially on the day my father died.