Thoughts On Why I Run: Lessons On How To Live

Earlier this week I felt the need to do some inspirational reading.  So I pulled a book off my shelf called Going Long.  It's a compilation of running stories by various authors.  Most of the stories are relatively short. And I know that I can plow through a story in a single sitting over a cup of coffee or a beer without too much trouble.  I've read the book in it's entirety several times before.  So I've been cherry picking the ones that interest me most right now, the lighter inspirational pieces, skipping the harder to read tales of come backs from horrendous accidents and stories of defiance of imminent death, like the Terry Fox story.  I'm still having some occasional trouble sleeping.  And I'm still experiencing some sudden outbursts of emotion, crying for no reason at very inopportune times.  I prefer not to immerse myself in anything harrowing, at least not for now.

The story I read this morning is called The Man Who Taught Me Everything by Amby Burfoot, winner of the 1968 Boston Marathon.  I was eight years old at the time.  It would be another five years before I'd officially begin my now forty year running career at the age of thirteen.  I really like Amby's writing and I've always admired his approach to running.  I consider him a kindred soul.  The man who taught Amby everything is a man named John "the younger" J. Kelley, winner of the 1957 Boston Marathon.  Kelley was his high school cross country coach and his mentor throughout Amby's running career and his life.

There are quite a few lines in this book that stick with me, lines that, in some way, stir me, remind me of my mother and my grandfather, of my high school coach, of my past, of why I, Tim Phillips, am still running after forty years now, and why I still enjoy it.  The story begins with these words, "If you are lucky in life, you might meet someone who changes everything forever. If you are very lucky, you might meet this person when you are young and lacking direction.  If you are very, very lucky, this person might remain an influence for decades to come — a touchstone you can revisit for counsel and wisdom."  I was exceptionally lucky because I have had two of those people in my life: my mother, and her father, my grandfather, "The Moose" as I knew him.

Both of these beacons in my life are now gone.  Both taken from this world prematurely, their days cut short by the gods for whatever reason the gods have.  But the beauty that these two bestowed upon me is the most powerful force in my life.  They taught me how to live life, to make it all count, to count in the most beautiful way possible, to enjoy every minute, even the shitty ones, as a gift, a gift that could be snatched away from me at any time.  They taught me that there is no time for meaningless acts, no time to bitch and moan, no time for self-pity, no time for negativity and cynicism.  Life is a party, a wonderful, beautiful, non-exclusive celebration that everyone is invited to, but far too few choose to participate in.  And therein lies the the key:  To live well is a choice.  To be happy is a choice.  To inject passion in life every day is the goal.  And we get to choose how we approach life.

I also need to mention that I haven't always been successful at this.  It takes lots of practice, like Zen, or playing the guitar, or riding a skateboard.  Daily practice is the key.  And the more familiar I am with the exercise the better I get.  But to practice every day is the only road to glory.  As I get older this approach has gotten more and more important and pertinent for me.  I still need to practice every day.

Another Burfoot passage in his story that I love is, "Kelley taught me everything that I would ever need to know about running and most of what I've found to be true in life.  I learned that consistency is everything, that long runs increase endurance, that hills build character, and that speed work is good, but only on a limited basis.  He taught that running comes easy on some days, is tough on others.  That you can win races if you have talent, train hard, stay healthy, and run your guts out.  But you'd better learn humility, too, because no one wins every race.  And the crushing defeats might ultimately outnumber the eased up victories."  My god!  So much there that smacks of my mom and my grandfather.  Neither were runners.  But they subscribed to exactly this mentality.  They lived life really well, with abandon and humility.

For me, one kernel of wisdom that Amby credits Kelley with teaching him is something that reminds me so much of my mother and The Moose that's it's as if they are speaking directly to me.  "Most of all, he showed by example that running [life] should be wild, adventurous, deeply personal, and soul satisfying."  Wow!  That hits me directly in my heart,  "...wild, adventurous, deeply personal, and soul satisfying."  I can't think of a better homage than to approach life, and running, in this way.  It's how I was taught to live.  It's exactly why I run.