January 25, 2001

Run, Josh, Run

by Joshua Carden

You never know what impression those early reader books are going to leave.  Apparently, somewhere in my psyche the running part of “See Jane Run” stuck with me.  Not that I’m particularly good at it, mind you – I just feel compelled to run occasionally.  Come to think of it, I’m glad mom went with “See Jane Run” and not “Jack and Jill.” 

At the current time, I run in the mornings.  EARLY in the mornings.  At a time that, for me at least, used to come only once a day (six o’clock). I have two running partners who keep me accountable.  This would be a great situation all around, except one partner is in the Air Force Reserves and the other is so naturally built for running that his feet came with “swooshes” when he was born!  I’m a bit out of shape, so I’ve been hard-pressed to keep up with these guys.  I’m hoping, with a little time, to not require artificial respiration at the end of each run. 

But it wasn’t always like this. . . (fade into the past) . . . .once I was young, hale, and hearty – and in really good shape too.  I trained for and ran 10Ks, 5Ks, 100-yard sprints away from my water-balloon-totin’ brother Jason, the works.  I loved it!  Of the races I ran, two stand out to me because of their remarkably similar circumstances.

Both were at church camp.  For one I was sixteen, the other was at the same camp exactly a year later.  The races were strangely entitled “Fun Runs” – a label I find particularly amusing at six each morning.  I guess this was the title that got attached after “Activities from the Camp Torture Manual” got the ax.  Anyway, they grouped all 100 of us (more or less) by pace.  For you non-runners, “pace” is the fancy runner’s term for how fast you think you can run a mile.  Emphasis on the word “think.”   I was in good shape, but not particularly fast, so I jumped into the eight minute mile group.  A few seconds before the race began, a girl approximately twelve years old moved just ahead of me in the seven minute mile group.  For some reason, I sensed disaster.  Fat lot of good it did me.  “Bang” - the starter’s gun went off.  We traveled about twenty feet, when the girl was bumped and she fell flat right in front of me.  Did you ever notice how time seems to slow down during a crisis?  I had time to assess the situation and produce three options. 1. I could leap over her.  The part of my brain that came up with this idea was immediately laughed out of the cerebrum.  I have powerful gravity rays that hold me to the concrete whenever I attempt to leap.  2.  I could keep on running and simply be the first of many to grind her in the dirt.  My sense of chivalry absolutely forbade this one (although considering option 3 made it a tough choice).  3. I could stop my feet, try to go around her, and get knocked down myself.  Well, the moment I stopped my feet, I was immediately knocked over by the person behind me.  I went down on hands and knees across the girl’s body, and the person behind me became the first of many to grind ME in the dirt.  After the crowd had passed, I got up, the girl got up, she said “thank you” and jogged on.  I looked down at my bleeding palms, bleeding knees, and injured pride.  Have you ever seen Chariots of Fire?  Remember that great scene where, after Eric Liddell gets knocked into the middle of the track, he gets up and wins the race anyway to the glorious soundtrack by Vangelis? Well, that didn’t happen.  I limped my way across the finish line with the “we’re glad we lived through it” pace group.  Better luck next time.  Well, next year, same race, same pace group.  Déjà vu all over again.  A small girl pushed her way right in front of me.  As I was about to ask her if she really wanted to be there, the gun went off.  Two seconds later, boom, she was in the dirt.  Well, I had already analyzed this situation, so I used the extra crisis-stretched time to silently apologize to my hands and knees and hum a few bars of Vangelis.  Same result.  I got trampled, she was fine, I finished well behind the others. 

Do I regret choosing option 3?  Not particularly. For one thing, nobody got seriously hurt.  For another, it makes a good story.  You know me, always got a story to tell… but not right now.  I’ve got to go to bed. Six a.m. comes early…