Running with Bill
He will carry me through the Pittsburgh he loved
Miles 1-4: Woo-hoo! I’m flying! All that training and tapering was worth it. I feel strong and in the best shape of my life.
Miles 5-9: This is nothing! I’m barely breaking a sweat. I could deliver a speech while running this race.
Miles 10-12: OK, this is the hard part. I can do it, though. I can conquer these hills.
Mile 13: Halfway point! Still feeling good. My legs are strong, my will is stronger.
Mile 16: Hmmm. Could use a little boost. Maybe it’s time to put my earbuds in.
Mile 19: Oh no. Still seven miles left?
Miles 21-25: What is wrong with me? Why do I put myself through this kind of pain? Mile 26.2: Never. Again.
• As I have since read and discussed with other runners, my train of thought while running my first marathon was the usual progression of joy to determination to self-doubt and finally, agony. It’s also nothing new that I swore never to run another one after completing the Big Sur Marathon in April 2014.
Staunchly, I kept this stance until signing up for the Dick’s Sporting Goods Pittsburgh Marathon last September (on the first day, no less). Even recently, when the feelings of uncertainty and regret crept back into mind while logging in the long runs in preparation for this race, I pressed on. The memory of my father and honoring him by running through the city that he loved keeps me moving one step in front of another.
My early relationship with running was tenuous at best. I dreaded the mile run during the Presidential Fitness Challenge in school. During my one-year stint on the high school track team, I preferred to socialize on the sidelines and throw the discus. I got on a treadmill in college only so I could drink beer and still fit in my clothes.
Several years ago, while recovering from a tumultuous divorce, I discovered the healing benefits of distance running. As I built up the distance from two to three to five miles, I could take control of my changing and unraveling life. With each pounding step, it was as if the toxins from a bad marriage and a diet consisting of caffeine and nicotine were released.
• In May 2011, my father fell suddenly ill as he was planning to visit me in New York City, where I lived at the time. Within a week, a tumor was found and he
was diagnosed with bladder cancer.
Running once again became a way for me to cope. I had only to lace up my shoes, pop on headphones and immediately be almost transported. The miles built up to six, eight, 10. I darted around my neighborhood in Queens, dodged cars and felt like I was flying.
For a short period of time I could forget the guilt of a child who lives far away from an ailing parent. When I ran, I didn’t have to worry as the chemo made him steadily weaker. I dedicated those pounding steps to my father, knowing that he would have loved to have had the health and strength to run like I could.
His oncologist diagnosed the cancer as terminal in December 2011. The waitand-see continued through most of the next year. My father grew quiet and slowly removed himself from family and friends. I finally quit smoking and ran my first 5K. My wardrobe began transitioning into that of a runner: specialty socks, moisture-wicking tanks, waist belt for my energy chews. I planned more races.
• My father passed away in September 2012, and I was fortunate to have spent that last week with him. I told him I was planning to run my first half-marathon, and maybe someday attempt the full 26.2 miles.
A few days after he passed, I ran six miles around Twin Lakes in Greensburg. It was one of the best runs I have ever experienced — a quiet weekday with rustling leaves and the late summer light shining off the water. Afterward, I sat on a picnic table and let the memories take over.
My father loved driving around Pittsburgh as a tour guide, often introducing me, my mother and my brother to a newly discovered neighborhood restaurant. He would try to impress us with the shortcuts he knew around Downtown. He commuted almost two hours to work, five days a week, and still would visit on the weekend. He loved this town.
He has passed that love on to me like a relay baton. I will carry it with me with every step, no matter how painful, of the Pittsburgh Marathon next weekend.