Why do you race?

People sometimes ask me this question. I rarely feel that they want to allow me the time to adequately answer. When I haven't raced for a long time and return to it in the middle of a 100 degree heat wave, I sometimes ask myself the same question. My favorite running philosopher, Dr. George Sheehan explains it better than I can. Here is one of his essays;

"What I have lost I can afford to lose. What I have gained is something I cannot do without."

I first came upon the aging process in a race. I felt no sense of advancing years in my day-to-day activity. My work week was unchanged: I wrote, I traveled, I lectured. Some people marveled at my energy and endurance. It was my weekend race that finally told me I was no longer young. The changes that come with age are subtle-but not to a runner. My 10-K time measures me quite accurately. Any change in performance dictated by age is precisely recorded in minutes or seconds on the digital clock at the finish line. "Crumbling is not an instant's Act," wrote Emily Dickinson. And the physician in me knows that almost 90 percent of my liver has to be damaged before its impairment is apparent. The body has enormous reserves to call upon. But in the race, I call on all my reserves. I am operating at full throttle. The least diminution in function becomes evident. The race, therefore, is the litmus test for aging. Long before anything else goes, race times signal the approach of the last stage of life. A look at my weekly race results will tell you bluntly that I am no longer middle-aged. I am now a full-fledged citizen of the country of the aged. Three years ago when this happened, I refused to believe it. Running had been my fountain of youth. For years I thought it was inexhaustible, like the never-empty cup of coffee some restaurants offer. After I began running in my 40's, I quickly became 32 years old and stayed that way. Decades came and went, and I was still in my prime. When my 10-K times slowed down and I began to run personal worsts instead of personal bests, I took stock. It was not age, I told myself. I had been 32 years old for the previous 20 years and did not intend to get older. All I needed was more training, some hills and speedwork, and I would be back to my best. I took up arms against age. I increased my training and within a single Thanksgiving holiday ran four races. Each race I ran a little faster than the previous one, but never near the times I had registered the year before. And I was no longer in the top third of the field-now, I was well back in the second half of the pack. How did I feel about all this? Terrible. And don't remind me that most people my age have run up the white flag. Do not tell me I can still outrun the average person twenty years younger than me. Do not point out that age has compensations that will more than pay for the lost few minutes in the race. I am rebuilding my life on those thoughts. But first, help me bury the runner I once was, and then we can talk about what the future holds. Apparently, it still holds plenty. My initial depression has receded. I realize now that there are more things at stake than setting a personal best in a road race. I can even answer truthfully (and this is the most difficult part) when someone asks me, "What was your time, Doc?" My times continue to get slower and slower. And, therefore, the "me" that I am is different. But the me that I am has developed insights and wisdom that I did not have before. What I have lost I can afford to lose. What I have gained is something I cannot do without. The race, however slow my times, remains an ever-changing learning experience. Whenever I race, I learn something new about myself and those who race with me. I will never be 32 years-old again, but it no longer matters, because I've learned that winning doesn't matter, it's running that counts. And when I push to the limit, I am a boy again-an untried youth listening to the wisdom of my body.
Copyright © The George Sheehan Trust

I think I will stick with it a while.

Crabby Old Man

The following is a poem sent to me by a friend. It was written by a man in a geriatric ward of a small hospital in Tampa, Florida. I am sorry I do not know his name to give credit. After he died the nurses cleaning his room discovered this poem and it has circulated via e-mail since then. It is worth a read.



Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? .....What do you see?
What are you thinking..when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, ..not very wise,Uncertain of habit ........with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food.......and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice.....'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice .the things that you do.
And forever is losing .............. A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not...........lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding ... The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse......you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, ....as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten.......with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .......who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen ..........with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now. .......a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty .........my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows......that I promised to keep
At Twenty-Five, now ......... I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide ..... And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty ........ My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other ........ With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons ....have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me........to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, ....... Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children ........ My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me .......... My wife is now dead.
I look at the future .........I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing ......young of their own.
And I think of the years...... And the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man.........and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age .....look like a fool
The body, it crumbles..........grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone........where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass ...... A young guy still dwells,
And now and again .....my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys.............. I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living.............life over again.
I think of the years ....all too few.....gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact........that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people ..open and see..
Not a crabby old man. Look closer....see..ME!!



I will add just three comments;
1] Life is short (James 4:14)
2] Make fun of young people, not old people--you have already been where the young are and will someday be where the old are!
3] Take time to consider that the person in front of you is a combination of traits, strengths, weaknesses, and experiences that adds up to more than what you first see.