PhilYouIn.com

A dozen kids from the nearby high school had shoplifted from my store, and I was giving chase. It was 1984, and I was not a runner; I couldn’t even run from home plate to second base without getting a sharp pain in my side.

After a seemingly endless one fifth of a mile, exhausted, I finally caught up to one kid.

Things did not go well for me. Too exhausted to even notice the shoplifter’s buddies and too weak to defend myself, I got a black eye, swollen face and a concussion for my efforts.

That night I had a choice to make: do I (1) sell the store and find a new way to support my family, (2) allow shoplifters to do their work, or (3) train myself to build up some stamina.

So I started running. First two blocks. Then three. A mile. Two miles. Over the course of one year, I got into running shape. Caught every shoplifter with ease.

Suddenly I was being referred to as an athlete.

5K races. Then 10K. Half marathons. Full marathons. I have run them all.

It’s great to be able to engage in a sport that requires no special equipment. I do not need to purchase bats, or balls, or helmets or knee pads or pucks or uniforms or cleats. I don’t need to part with a thousand bucks for a bicycle to sit on. Don’t need supervised training, or to join a team.

All that is required is a pair of sneakers

Today, I must run at least every other day. Some weeks I feel I have to go every single morning, regardless of the weather. And once the thought enters my mind, I just have to take off.

I have run in both 7° and 97° weather. One hot and humid day I was feeling dizzy after four miles. Although I had heard on several occasions about how important it is to ‘listen to your body,’ I wasn’t hearing so well, and ten minutes later I woke up from a dead faint on the side of the road, staring up at the sky.

On another summer’s day I was sitting against a fence on a bridge, mid-run, waiting for my head to clear, when someone in a passing car hurled a full bottle of water at me, narrowly missing my face. How thoughtful!

On a winter’s Sunday the forecast called for mild weather early, with wind and heavy snow arriving by midday.

I had decided that morning that it was mandatory to run the equivalent of a half marathon that day: 13.1 miles.

At 10AM I told my wife, “If I leave now, I will be fine.”

“Sure you will,” she said as she kissed me goodbye. She then returned to the living room to continue watching Looney Tunes with our six year old, Matthew. At the time, the irony eluded me.

I ran to the Belt Parkway and headed east. The weather was fine! Half way into my run, as I circled a supermarket I had come upon in Lindenwood, Queens, it started to flurry.

As I made my way back to the Belt Parkway path, the wind picked up, coming from the west, which was the direction in which I had four more miles to run to reach home. Then the blizzard began in earnest. Heavy snow, with 35 mph wind gusts.

Although I cannot see without my glasses, they had become so caked with snow that I had to take them off. I could barely keep my eyes open for the remainder of my run.

When I finally found my way home, my wife asked how I had enjoyed my run. “It was fine,” I said, as a puddle caused by melting ice formed below me on the kitchen floor. But because my mouth was frozen, she couldn’t understand what I was trying to say…

I was 14 years old in 1970, when I heard about a foot race that was being planned for that Autumn. It was being referred to as The New York City Marathon. Four times around Central Park. At the finish, free soda awaited the runners (yup. Soda!). The organizers were hoping for a couple hundred runners to participate.

I could not understand why anyone would willingly subject themselves to such torture. It made absolutely no sense! So I asked the one person who always had a sensible answer to all of my questions: my mother.

“Ma,” I asked. “Why would people want to run 26 miles?”

She looked a bit annoyed when she responded, “Because they’re Meshuganas!”

Yiddish. For crazy.

She got that right.