Category Archives: running

If the shoe fits….

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When the running boom hit in the early Seventies and I joined that program already in progress, I did what any greenhorn follower of a trend would do. I sought out the brand of running shoes that a real runner, Olympic marathon champion Frank Shorter, was wearing then.

The shoes were Tigers, produced by the Japanese sports company Onitsuka Tiger, founded in 1949. The company is still around, still cranking out shoes, but known since 1977 as Asics. At the time, when the bigger names in athletic footwear were adidas and Puma, Tigers could be found at such locales as the running hotbed of Eugene, Ore., widely distributed at area track meets from the automobile of a former University of Oregon runner named Phil Knight.

That was shortly after Knight and his college coach, Bill Bowerman, had started a franchise known as Blue Ribbon Sports. And after Bowerman, who revolutionized running shoes by using his wife’s waffle iron to produce a more durable, cushioned rubber sole, Blue Ribbon Sports evolved into Nike.

Pretty soon I had a pair of those Waffle trainers. And still do as Nike celebrates its 50th anniversary. (The fact that two-time gold medalist Abebe Bikila had won the 1960 Olympic marathon running barefoot never entered into my decision on how to shod my twinkletoes.)

In a way, it’s a bit of an embarrassment to be investing all these years in a hip product of a multinational corporation that now has an annual revenue of roughly $40 billion. Why contribute to the rich getting richer? Nike long ago settled into a devour-and-conquer mode, the largest supplier of athletic shoes and apparel as well as a major manufacturer of sports equipment; its Swoosh logo is as ubiquitous as Facebook.

According to the New York Times, the Nike behemoth has become “part of the root system that underlies the culture. And not just the sneaker culture….It is part of the movies we watch, the songs we hear, the museums we frequent, the business we do; part of how we think about who we are and how we got here.”

Whoa. Way beyond shoes, beyond a brand, Nike has pulled off the trick of dictating fashion, that dichotomy in which individuality supposedly is about nonconformity—yet being “in style” promotes a sort of standard dress code that, by definition, negates self-expression.

Anybody here old enough to remember the heyday of Chuck Taylor basketball sneakers—the low-cut black beauties that were all the rage in the late 1950s when I was in eighth grade? Logically, a basketball shoe without high-ankle support doesn’t make a lot of sense, but “everybody” wanted to play in low-cut Chuck Taylors then. To proclaim our uniqueness, you see.

In the early days of the running boom, which basically coincided with the Nike invasion, I was covering the Boston Marathon and, during a pre-event gathering, a handful of the race favorites could easily be distinguished from the hoi-polloi—the thousands of everyday joggers—by the top contenders’ non-competitive attire. The most accomplished athletes were dressed in street clothes; the great crowds hopeful of similar legitimacy were styling in sweatsuits and running shoes.

“You can tell the real runners,” said Nina Kuscsik, Boston’s first official women’s champion in 1972, “because they aren’t wearing running shoes.” No need for them to be bragging from soapboxes.

But Nike’s decision-makers realized long ago that they “weren’t just selling sneakers,” as Phil Knight once said;  that the company was moving into every aspect of the culture. The company cozied up to sports superstars—most notably Michael Jordan—and to celebrities, playing on a Be Like Mike urge, that universal longing to express one’s singularity by imitating the in-crowd.

Nike outlets—yes, I still patronize them—are peopled by customers who clearly are not athletes, seeking rather to present the right “look.” I happen to avoid wearing Nikes when in civilian clothes and certainly am not interested in being a billboard for the company (as if it needed me). But, honestly, having dabbled in other running shoe brands years ago, I quickly found Nikes to be the most efficient and comfortable. So that I am more a problem than a solution regarding such an almighty juggernaut.

Anyway, there never was a chance that a specific type of shoe could turn me into Frank Shorter.

Social distancing

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There was a time when running spread like a communicable disease. In the 1970s, the bug was caught by hundreds, then thousands, of ordinary folks. Citizen road races and marathons sprang up, drawing increasing crowds, giving lie to the expression associated with a 1959 short story, “The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner.”

In short order, runners weren’t lonely at all. The first few infected by Frank Shorter’s televised 1972 Olympic marathon victory began to pass on what Shorter has benignly called a “disease.” Underlying causes included the headline feats of high school mile phenom Jim Ryun, the dawning of cross country and track opportunities for women opened by the passage of Title IX, and a contagion of fitness. Over the next five decades, those contributed to such developments as the New York City Marathon’s more than 400-fold increase in participation.

So the new irony, now that we’re on Coronavirus Standard Time, is that running suddenly can represent a form of social distancing. It is, by nature, a solitary pursuit. Once described by Shorter as “selfish,” running in fact can be altogether altruistic, a handy way to stay away from other people and thus to avoid contributing to the problem. It is “the perfect sport,” according to a recent New York Times item, “for a pandemic.”

With New York City banning all contact sports in local parks and shuttering playgrounds as part of restrictions on gatherings of more than five people, running need not violate such decrees. It requires nothing more than a pair of shoes and open space, with the simple proviso of staying at least six feet from fellow runners. Runners World magazine is advising that “the best plan for running right now is to go out for a solo run and enjoy the outdoors, in non-crowded areas.”

Further, running serves as an antidote for cabin fever in these shelter-in-place times and has been touted—like all exercise—as a boost to the immune system and to mental health.

But, yes, there are more incongruities. Because running has become so mainstream—a reported 60 million Americans participate in running and jogging each year—vastly populated Spring races, including the 30,000-strong Boston Marathon, are among the rash of postponed events triggered by the current health crisis.

In “The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner,” English author Alan Sillitoe used running as a metaphor for his protagonist, an impoverished teenager guilty of petty crime, to run away from society. But Texas-based historian James McWilliams, in a 2016 essay on the Boston Marathon for the Paris Review that referenced Sillitoe’s tale, nevertheless conflated contemporary society and running, community and individuality.

“When the Boston Marathon ends,” McWilliams wrote, “there will be tens of thousands of runners marked by a shared experience, even if each runner will ultimately be alone, a novella unto himself.”

There is no getting around the reality of having to share this coronavirus situation. Still, might a leisurely daily run—alone—be doing one’s part in slowing the galloping chain reaction?

70 is not quite the new 50

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(Here is an old-man adventure that was chronicled in Newsday….)

Just to be clear: I did not attempt running the May 7 Long Island Half-Marathon—13.1 miles—as some death-defying challenge at 70. Risk does not appeal to me, which explains why I never considered celebrating my septuagenarian situation by climbing Mount Everest (fear of heights) or swimming the English Channel (fear of pruney bathtub skin).

Furthermore, in the words of the late George Sheehan—a cardiologist who became a philosopher of the recreational running movement 40 years ago—I have the pain threshold of a firm handshake. I am opposed to torture in all its forms.

So let me report that I did not suffer. Unless one considers the uncomfortable realization that with age comes a significant fading of muscle memory. Leg oldsheimer’s. What took me an hour and 36 minutes when I was 39; what took me an hour and 48 minutes when I was 49 (the last time I attempted the distance); required, on this occasion, two hours, 35 minutes and 41 seconds.

But I will argue that it’s possible to have a good time without having a good time. And I will submit that it is crucial to have a patient wife. Though Donna freely volunteered to be my pre- and post-race valet and to observe my start and finish, I was fully aware that she was due at work a mere four hours after the starting gun. And the clock was ticking.

She had convinced me to buy a $20 pouch for my iPhone, strapped to my bicep, which gave us a lifeline in case of emergency. Turned out that I didn’t die, but her phone did.

And…where was I? Oh, yes. Why?

I’ve asked other runners, of all ages and stations in life, that question—not just about attempting the marathon or half-marathon, but also about putting in the daily mileage necessary to safely attempt them. It’s the challenge, they say. It’s the internal struggle, as opposed to trying to beat the other guy. It’s a great escape from more important things in life. It’s a way to get out of the house.

Also: Why not?

This was not a bucket-list thing. I was in my late 20s when I joined the running boom, a program already in progress, and set about proving (to myself) that I was a “legitimate” runner by twice finishing full 26.2-mile marathons. Then came eight half-marathons, my last one in 1996.

What ended the habit of entering such events was the rigmarole of paying entry fees, fighting crowds, traveling to races, fitting them into work and family schedules. And: Been there, done that. But I remained hooked on the addiction of a daily, leisurely run, and somehow got the notion in February that I should try the half-marathon again. Because it was there, I guess.

The new dare was accepting that I am an old retired guy. On Social Security and Medicare. With a pre-existing condition: moderately severe lead-footedness. I never have been especially fast, and I had to prepare myself psychologically for the fact that many people—not necessarily younger than I—would be passing me along the way.

Chugging along, I had an ideal view of the backs of many, many fellow participants. But, once past the first two miles, fighting to warm up in the chilly winds, things went as well as could be expected. Spectators scattered along the course were exceptionally kind, many offering the standard “looking good” evaluation even for those of us who, I strongly suspect, were not.

In taking constant readings throughout the 13.1 miles, I was encouraged by the lack of alarming signals like balking knees, sore shins or aching Achilles, and was maintaining roughly the same pace as my daily 5- and 6-mile ramblings. I quite enjoyed again being in such a pedestrian celebration, laying down all those non-carbon footprints.

In the end, the greatest danger might have been the bag of munchies handed out to all finishers. Along with a healthy banana, there was a processed bagel, donut, muffin and cookie with frightening levels of carbohydrates, sugar and calories. After being whisked home by Donna on her way to work, I settled for handfuls of almonds and a bag of M&Ms (peanut). Coffee and plenty of water.

I had finished 1,768th in a field of 2,073 and think I detected a chortle in Donna’s voice: “You only beat 305 people!?”

Except, in my age group (male, 70 to 74), I was 10th of 18. The senior discount.

Streaking

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According to the U.S. Running Streak Association, I have just become an “experienced” runner. That is how the organization—to which I have not paid the annual $20 dues and therefore am not a member—classifies people who have run “at least one continuous mile within each calendar day under one’s own body power” for at least 10 years.

If I were a USRSA member, I would be ranked 156th in the country. Which isn’t bad as long as one doesn’t consider that the longest unbroken streak—as of Dec. 13, 2016—is 17,369 days, or 47.55 years. That belongs to a fellow named Jon Sutherland, listed on the USRSA Web site as 66 years old, a writer from West Hills, Calif., whose circadian habit was the subject of a 2015 CBS Evening News report.

I have crunched the numbers. For me to rise to No. 1 on the list (which is available at runeveryday.com), the 155 folks ahead of me would have to take a day off—not bloody likely—and I would have to persist in pounding the pavement every day until I am 107 years old. (Plus, I’d have to start paying that yearly $20 fee.)

But that’s not the goal, any more than brushing my teeth every morning for the next 37-plus years is. It’s just custom now.

It wasn’t until my mid-20s that I was moved to attempt occasional jogs, mostly after a colleague greeted me one day with, “Welcome to Fat City,” and partly because my newspaper assignments included coverage of elite track and field meets. I often was surrounded by people giddy about physical activity, just as the running boom began to spread beyond accomplished athletes to everyday citizens.

So I joined the program already in progress.

By the time I had lined up a series of interviews with 1972 Olympic marathon champion Frank Shorter at his Boulder, Colo., home in early ’76, I was fit enough—barely—to join Shorter on the first three miles of his 10-mile afternoon run, which had followed his 10-mile morning run. He generously (and drastically) slowed his pace, until I went into oxygen debt and watched him disappear over the horizon.

But the thing about running is that you trundle around for a while, begin to feel the mental and physical benefits and, before you know it, you’re hooked.

“It is an addiction,” 2004 Olympic marathon silver medalist Meb Keflezighi told me recently. “If you miss a day or get injured—elite athletes get it, others get it—you don’t feel good.” Mary Wittenberg, who was race director of the New York City Marathon for 10 years, argued that running “is not a sport you dabble in. The more you do it, the easier it gets.”

(Finishing the 1978 Long Island Marathon, with Pete Alfano)

My two marathons are now decades in the past, and I no longer am interested in knowing how fast I’m going. (More accurately, how slow.) But, somehow, the two or four days off per month, through some 30 years of loping and rambling and trotting, disappeared as well. I went for a leisurely 5-mile run on Dec. 13, 2006 and haven’t missed a day since, putting me in the company of those listed by the USRSA. There are dietitians, teachers, attorneys, salespeople, bankers, coaches, landscapers, pastors, photographers, journalists, nurses, engineers, accountants, concert pianists…all manner of humans.

And all, apparently, are carriers of what Shorter has called “the disease of running,” which he once described as a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

“Oh, yeh, you’re OCD,” Shorter confirmed to me during a chat in 2012. “You’re just channeling it. I think some people are born with a need to move and a need to exercise. And it doesn’t go away. So why fight it? You’re lucky.”

One of the New York City Marathon’s marketing pitches was its Run for Life “manifesto,” calling on all citizens to “run for the rush, run to be strong, run off dessert, run to like yourself better in the morning, run to keep your thighs from rubbing together, run because endorphins are better than Botox, run to sweat away your sins, run so bullies can never catch you, run with your thoughts, run your troubles the hell out of town…”

A morning ramble gets the show on the road. It guarantees that something has been accomplished that day. It makes the breakfast Cheerios taste better. Even if, at 3,654 consecutive days, I still am 196 days short of my wife’s daily streak of brisk walks (which are fast approaching my running pace), I feel as if I’m getting somewhere.