REFLECTIONS OF A LIFE, Chapter 13: Still Running After All These Years

Chapter 13

Still Running After All These Years

            As I mentioned earlier, my boyhood had not been promising health-wise.  A heart murmur thwarted any efforts at athletics, though my size would have deterred even without the murmur.  Still, running could have been a possibility, but track and cross-country sports were rare in those days except at the college level where their popularity was a mere shadow to football, basketball, and baseball.

            At that time, the model for all us skinny boys was Charles Atlas.  He advertised his bodybuilding program with pictures of himself and his abundant muscles using the awesome caption, "I was a 95-pound weakling, until I discovered the Dynamic Tension way to a beautiful physique."  Kids like me ate this up, and I pestered my mother to let me buy his literature, and when it arrived I diligently performed all the dynamic tension exercises, which pitted muscle against muscle.  Today, such bodybuilding would involve weights and machines, and would be far more effective than Charles Atlas's method.

            Unfortunately, for an ectomorph like myself, in contrast to the mesomorphs (heavily muscled) and the endomorphs (fattys), such muscle building potential was very limited.  I still only weighed 120 pounds when I started college.  With great effort and filling up on milkshakes and other rich foods, I finally got up to 130 pounds.  Even today, I only weigh in the low 140s.  What I didn't know then and didn't know for decades was that skinny ectomorphs are far and away the healthiest.  But, oh how I admired mesomorphs in my youth.  Outside of runners, most of the good athletes are mesomorphs.  But as they go into middle age and older, they are more likely to gain weight and have heart attacks than the skinnys.

            As an example of how difficult it is for an ectomorph to build muscle mass, I have used hand grips for almost seventy years to build up my wrists and arms.  The result:  I have a strong grip, especially when it comes to shaking hands with little old ladies in the sign of peace at Mass, but my wrists and forearms and even the biceps are just about the same size they were when I was sixteen.  But when nurses are trying to draw blood, they have trouble finding my veins under the tiny but firm muscles.  So much for Charles Atlas, and I don't believe he was ever a 95-pound weakling, unless only when a young boy.  This was all advertising hype for gullible ectomorphs like me.

            The heart murmur kept me out of military service.  In those days, all heart murmurs rendered a man 4-F, unfit for the physical activity required.  I even wondered if I was fit enough to marry, with such a grave physical impairment, and reconciled myself to a short life.  I never quite understood how I was able to run and play as hard as other boys, while having this old heart murmur.  Not until years later did a doctor tell me that most murmurs are harmless, which mine was. 

            I was introduced to golf when I was still in high school—I don't remember how this happened—and read all the golf books I could find, and played and practiced whenever I had the chance.  Playing involved going to busy public courses where ineptitude could scarcely be hidden.  I still remember the pressure of teeing off on the first hole with maybe thirty men impatiently waiting.  In those early years of golf, such pressure usually led me to dub the ball, and trickle it fifty yards into the trees.  But the interest in golf has been a lifelong passion, though in my sunset years as feeble skills diminish further, I sometimes wonder if this passion was wasted.  Yet, the hope still lurks that a different swing-thought or new golf clubs—such as the recently introduced hybrids, which are a cross between woods and irons—might be the answer for greatly improved golf.

            Perhaps my golf ability would have improved with some lessons when I was young.  I've always encouraged my children and grandchildren, and my son-in-law Greg, to take lessons, since reading about the swing in a book is not nearly enough.  You need a professional to see what you are doing wrong, what you cannot see yourself, and suggest remedies.

            I started golf in Des Moines when I was in high school and then in college, and continued in the various towns we lived when I worked for Kresge and Penney's.  In Minneapolis I even took Dorothy golfing in our courting days.  All the while I thought how wonderful it would be to belong to a country club instead of public links. This was partially realized in Washington when we bought a townhouse in Crofton, Maryland, a community built around a golf course, and I joined and relished this semiprivate golf club. Finally in Cleveland we joined Shaker, a prestigious country club in 1976 when they were seeking younger members and had an attractive initiation deal, $3,000, payable in installments.  The initiation fee today is $35,000.  But monthly dues and special assessments made belonging to a country club not for the weak of pocketbook—which we were in those days.  I took a year's leave of absence a few years after we joined so I could finish several book commitments and recoup our finances enough to continue with the Club.

            What has all this to do with health?  Well, in those days we thought exercising in the great outdoors had to be healthy.  And it was, certainly better than the sedentary life.  Today, we are less enamored with the supposed health benefits of golf, though it can still be a good social outlet, and the competitive challenge when you're playing well can get the adrenaline flowing but probably also increase blood pressure. 

            Dorothy and I discovered another physical activity that became an enduring commitment, brought us great satisfaction, and perhaps contributed mightily to our good health in later years.  This was running—I won't denigrate it by calling it jogging, since Dorothy and I ran too fast to be called joggers. 

            Today, it is a comfort, and even a wonder to us, that both our children, and our grandchildren as well, have taken up serious running.  In the fall of 2001, our Matt completed the Chicago Marathon, his first marathon, in a respectable time of under four hours.  In the fall of 2004 he finished a 50-mile endurance run over rough trails in the hills east of Berkeley in a great time of  9 hours and 25 minutes, and thereby qualified for a 100-mile endurance run in June 2005.  We went out to Berkeley to see him do the 50 miler, and then were part of his support team as he did the 100 miler in a very credible time of 28 hours, 7 minutes, and 2 seconds.  This was a night and day run over difficult terrain including nearly twenty miles of snow at the higher elevations near Squaw Valley at the start, then deep valleys and heat at the lower elevations to the finish in Auburn, California, not far from Sacramento. 

Connie has run many races, and attempted one marathon in 1992, which she had to abort at 18 miles because of unseasonable 90-degree heat.  In May 2002, she ran another marathon and finished in rather inclement weather with a time of 4:23.  Since then she has run several more, including one 30-mile trail run.  Our granddaughter, Katie, showed promise in grade school and was on the high school track team.  Now in 2008 our youngest grandson, Robby, after running well in CYO races while in grade school, looks forward to junior high and high school cross country competition.  It surprises Dorothy and me how our example and gentle encouragement had so much impact.  In our early years of running, when Connie and Matt were young, they ran a number of 5 mile and 10 kilometer races with us, and Matt even ran a half marathon of 13.1 miles as the youngest entrant.  But we never pushed this.

            The start of my running. — Running has been one of the great physical satisfactions of my life.  (Despite my interest in golf, it never produced the good results that running did.)  As I came to realize I had some talent for this activity, the first of any sport, I regretted not participating in my school days because of the damn heart murmur.

            It was 1968, and I had just read the bestseller by Dr. Kenneth Cooper, Aerobics, in which he described experiments on physical conditioning with Air Force men in his Institute in Dallas.  He discussed with specific details the relative increases in fitness of various activities, and how this translates into desirable health benefits.  Running is one of the best ways to develop cardiovascular fitness, the fitness of the heart, blood vessels, and lungs that encourages a long healthy life.  This could be done by running in place or by running on a track, pathway, or street, as well as by such activities as cross-country skiing, bicycling, and swimming.  I was intrigued with the book, and started the cardiovascular exercises by running in place in the basement of our small townhouse in Crofton.

            At first, I could only run in place for two or three minutes.  But progress was rapid.  In a few weeks I was running in place for 30 minutes, with the sweat pouring off  to a degree never before experienced in any other physical activity.

            About six weeks later, a neighbor who also had read Aerobics suggested we try to run down to the village square from our townhouses.  I still remember the feeling that afternoon as we took off on a mile run down to the square, expecting to walk back if we indeed could run that far.  This was unknown terrain for me; I had never run any extended distance before.  And I wasn't sure that running in place counted for much.  But it did, and how.

             I felt like a gazelle, and left my poor neighbor behind.  I kept expecting to get more and more breathless until I would have to stop, but wonder, I became less out of breath as I ran until soon I was breathing easily and cruising.  I waited for my friend at the square.  As we rested a few minutes, he said, "I didn't know you were such a good runner.  You must have run in school."

            "No, never.  But I started running in place in the basement after I got the Aerobics book.  I guess it really transfers to actual running."

            "Well, I started running outside a little on my lunch hour after I got the book, but I sure can't run like you." 

            "I weigh a little less than you."

            "Yes, maybe that's it."

            We started running back to our houses, but he soon had to stop and walk.  With ease I ran all the way home, then jogged back to meet him. I was elated, but tried to downplay it.  But something wonderful had happened to me.

            A few weeks later, a colleague at George Washington University, Ed Timbers, took me as his guest to the downtown YMCA, which was six blocks from campus.  It had a balcony track over the basketball court, and was a banked 24 laps to the mile.  Ed had been running for some time, and I doubted I could keep up with him.  But we ran for three miles and I felt great doing it.  I joined the "Y" the next week, and ran there three times a week.  It also had a swimming pool.

            I had never been a good swimmer, even though I passed my minnow and shark tests when I was a boy at the summer youth programs in Des Moines.  To pass the minnow test you had to swim 25 feet.  I did this without breathing for I had not mastered the breathing while swimming the crawl.  To pass the shark test you had to swim 50 feet.  I must have come up for air once or twice, or maybe I swam some form of dog-paddle.  I don't remember.

            Now I had a chance to improve my swimming.  And swimming seemed most compatible with running as it brought cooling off, muscle relaxation, and an all-around body exerciser.  I became a tolerable swimmer, mastering breathing with my face in the water for the crawl, as well as the different strokes.  I also learned to tread water, and built up to ten-to-fifteen minutes with no difficulty.  There was one rather interesting, and perhaps surprising, situation with this YMCA pool:

            Everyone swam in the nude. 

            At first I was discomforted, and used swimming trunks.  But Ed told me I'd soon get used to it, and then wouldn't have to worry about what to do with a wet bathing suit.  He was right.  It seemed perfectly natural to swim without any clothes on.

            A year later, they opened the pool facilities to women, and now we men had to clothe ourselves.  It was never the same after that.

            Running in Cleveland. — My running activity got into high gear after we moved to Cleveland.  I had never done much running outside; mostly I ran 3 to 5 miles on a rather narrow banked inside balcony track.  In Cleveland, I looked for a nearby track and found a nice one at the Jewish Community Center, just a few miles from our house.

            Joining brought me into a community of serious runners.  At first most of us ran inside on the 20-lap track that was not a balcony, but several lanes on the perimeter of the gym, nicely banked for the corners.  John Casserly and I were the first to explore running outside.  A high school, Lutheran East, adjoined the property and had a quarter-mile cinder track.  We took to running on that, and others soon joined us.  While the school physical education classes used the track and the center oval, most of their activity was in the afternoon, and did not bother us.  But one nice morning as John and I went outside to run, an archery class was flying arrows at targets at one end.  Enough arrows were missing that we feared running a complete circuit.  We decided that day to run on the streets around the JCC.  And our perspectives of running were changed forever.

            In those beginning days of interest in running, the early 1970s, practically nobody ran on streets and sidewalks; they confined themselves to running on tracks or on pathways through parks.  That was to change, of course, and we were in the vanguard as running horizons expanded exponentially.  Before long, we only ran inside if weather was inclement, which still in the winter could be many days.

            It seemed only a few heartbeats before road racing became popular among both serious runners and novices.  Soon, groups were sponsoring races of various distances, but more often 10 kilometers, which is 6.2 miles, and these organized races with their small entry fees provided refreshments, tee shirts, and trophies for winners in various age categories.  Before long, they attracted not only hundreds of runners for a local race, but even thousands, and racing fever swept the country, fanned by new books on running such as The Complete Runner by Jim Fixx, books by Dr. Sheehan, and running magazines like Runner's World.  The running boom was on, and it was enduring, not a fad, and would sweep the nation and then most of the world.

            Now Dorothy joined me in this wonderful and fulfilling physical activity, and Connie and Matt also became enthusiastic racers.  In addition to the health benefits of such aerobic exercise, a great motivator was the competition by age groups and by sexes, so that you could be 10 years old or 60, and still compete for trophies, but against people in your same age group and sex. 

            Competitive racing. — My first attempt at competitive racing was a five-mile out-and-back level route along a two-lane road in a park south of Cleveland.  It was early spring, a cool but sunny day.  I had been running good distances at the JCC track and surrounding terrain, so knew I could handle the distance but was anything but confident about how I would compare against other racers.

            I had learned about the race from the bulletin board at the JCC.  I didn’t know anyone else who was running this race, but then racing was just beginning to take hold, and it was late March, only a few days free from snow..  My family and I piled into the car this Sunday and found the site and I paid a dollar to sign up for the race and they gave me a number to pin to my shirt.

            I was rather nervous waiting for the runners to be called to the starting line.  To race was far different from the casual running I'd been doing.  Would my heart murmur be a dangerous impediment?  Most of the runners seemed younger, as I approached 40 years of age.  I sure as hell didn't want to come in last!

            Several hundred of us lined up waiting for the starting gun.  Dorothy and the kids were not running.  They had not started doing races, but that would soon change—unless . . .  I utterly embarrassed myself.  I knew better than to place myself near the front of the modest assemblage of runners, so started near the back.  The gun sounded.

            Like a pack of greyhounds we burst forth.  I did not quite bring up the rear, but was close to it.  Somehow, I thought it best to reserve my stamina for later in the race. 

            By the halfway point where we were to turn around, I amazingly was passing people rather steadily.  The faster runners were already heading the other way as I made the U-turn as quickly as possible.  By now I was discovering something about myself I had never realized.  I could cruise fast once I was sufficiently warmed up.  My breathing had become smooth and unlabored, my legs moved ahead almost effortlessly, and I was passing other runners all the way to the finish line. 

            I took a blue ribbon for being first in my age class of 35 and older.  My time averaged about a 6:30 mile, and I felt exhilarated and far from exhausted.  I could have run faster, but needed more experience in pacing, and this I would gain in the many races that followed.  I found the strategy of not going out too fast best for me.  I also found that I was not a great sprinter at the end, but excelled in the fast cruise in the middle and latter parts of the race.

            I did other races that year, of course, and Dorothy, who had taken up running a few years after coming to Cleveland, joined me in races and often took trophies in her age and sex group.  Connie and Matt, young though they were, soon joined us, often winning their age categories.

            I did my first marathon at Canton in the spring of 1976.  It seemed that every serious runner had to do at least one marathon; it was an achievement akin to climbing a mountain, and something to be forever proud of.  This first marathon, however, was not a great experience.  I decided only a week before that my running shoes were getting quite worn, and I really needed another pair, except that running 26 miles in a new pair of shoes seemed rather idiotic.  So I did something just as idiotic.  One of my friends at the JCC had the same foot size, and loaned me his newer shoes, which were the same brand as mine.  "If I can't run a marathon, at least it will comfort me that my shoes have run a marathon," he told me.

            In my naivete, I thought these should work fine, being well broken in, yet far less worn than mine.  But they had shaped themselves to other feet.

            In the first two-thirds of the race I was strong and fast, and feeling good.  But then the shoes began bothering my toenails.  The toe box was evidently not giving my toes enough room as they swelled from the running.  I ran in pain for the rest of the race, even walking near the 22-mile point, not sure if I could make it in.  I slogged along to the finish, coming in at 3:42, for an acceptable finish for a first-time marathoner, but I was in agony.

            Over the next few weeks, Dorothy administered to my poor toes, soaking them in epsom salts or something.  Eventually, four toenails turned black and came off.  The replacement toenails remain thick to this day.

            I turned 50 in December 1977.  By now the popularity of running, and racing, was reaching unprecedented levels.  Age group categories were commonly broken down by every ten years with men and women being in separate categories.  At 50, I would be at the bottom of my age group, and should be very competitive.

            And was I ever!  As the running season commenced in the spring of 1978, we entered a race practically every weekend.  That year I took a first in my age category in every race but one, a 12-miler where I didn't realize that the crewcut man ahead of me was my age, and didn't put forth the extra effort to pass him.  Still, I was the top runner in my age bracket in northeast Ohio, a feat that I don't think my wife and children really realized the significance of.

            The Revco marathon was the big race of that year.  I had my dreams focused on running the Boston Marathon the following April, but to do so officially I had to have completed another marathon within twelve months at under 3:30.  So I focused on preparing for this second marathon of my life, but the most important one.  As it happened, I had a worthy competitor, Jess Bell, owner of the Bonne Bell Cosmetic Company and an ardent promoter of running.  He sponsored the Bonne Bell races that attracted hundreds of women.  We had met before at his races as Dorothy had run and always gained as a trophy a bell that was the signature of the race.  He was a year older, but we were in the same age bracket.

            Fifteen hundred of us lined up for the start of the marathon.  (A 10K race that began a half hour before attracted more than 6,000 runners.  But we were going for the ultimate endeavor.)  Jess Bell was three rows ahead of me.  The gun sounded and it took several minutes before I was able to move to a slow walk, but then things speeded up.  After about five blocks I was just behind Bell when he suddenly dropped the key he had in his hand.  I don’t know why he was carrying it, but in the crush of runners he was not able to quickly find it.  I spotted it and stopped and handed it over as he nodded in appreciation. I took this opportunity to sprint past him. 

            I had trained well for this marathon and this time had shoes that caused me no trouble.  I again found myself cruising at a good speed for many miles.  In all these long races I was concerned about my pacing—too fast in the early stages and then there would be nothing left for the end; too much holding back early led to a strong finish but maybe too much time had been wasted to maximize the total effort.  At about twenty miles when I stopped for some water, Bell passed me and now I could see him ahead of me.  Around twenty miles is where runners begin to "hit the wall," and find the effort and will power diminishing.  I was feeling this now, and fought hard against the demands of my body to walk at bit. But with Bell ahead and plodding steadily along, I strove to ignore my body, and felt a tremendous motivation.  I pushed through the fatigue, climbed the long incline of the bridge over the Cuyahoga River, and forced my legs into a near sprint for the final mile and a half to the finish line.  I overtook Bell, and he looked over at me.  "Nice job, Bob," he panted.  He tried to speed up to match my pace, but couldn't do it.  I reached the finish line looking much stronger than I felt, with a time of 3:18.  This was good for first place in the 50-age group.  Jess was one minute behind, for second place.  Dorothy also completed the marathon in a very respectable just over 4 hours. 

           

            The Boston Marathon. -- The Revco Marathon finish entitled me to officially run at Boston the next April.  I redoubled my training all that winter, mostly inside until early March because of the weather.  I remember doing some long runs outside in March with the wind so strong that my face actually became tanned.  I increased my weekly distance more than I ever had before to 70 and 80 miles.  One time I ran 240 laps (24 miles) around the small JCC track.  The front of my shirt was bloody from the friction of the cloth against my nipples.  About a month before Boston, I ran 23 consecutive days without a rest, compiling 115 miles for one 7-day period.  All through this rigorous training I feared that an injury would cause me to abort Boston.  But nothing serious occurred, and it was with some relief that I could taper off for the last week and rest my body for the big race.            

            Weather in Boston was worse than it had been in Cleveland a month earlier.  Dorothy and the kids came with me to Boston, and we made it a little vacation.  I wanted Dorothy to run the marathon unofficially, which thousands did at the back of the pack, but she refused, "If I can't run it officially, I don't want to run it."  So they waited for me with the throng at the finish line.

            Buses took the runners out 26+ miles to the staging point in Hopkinton, a distant suburb where a two-lane road led to Boston.  Most of us arrived plenty early and now close to 20,000 runners were congregating on this chill and misty morning.  The high school that was the official staging point could certainly not accommodate that many people inside.  Nor could its restrooms.  So we wandered the fields and streets nearby waiting for the call to assemble.  The elite runners were justifiably given the front positions, and the rest of us ranged ourselves according to our qualifying time.  Mine placed me at mid-pack.  As we waited, nervous and cold, the kidneys worked overtime:  the lawns and bushes of the good folk of Hopkinton were well watered that day.  I never learned whether anything was able to grow after all the urinating.  We men did sympathize with the women runners who could not relieve themselves so readily, but had to wait in long lines at the portable potties.

            When the gun finally sounded, it took me over ten minutes to even reach the starting line, and could hardly do more than walk for the first mile or so.  While the pace speeded up then, the congestion never really disappeared for mid-pack runners and those farther back.  We were constantly dodging around slower runners, and soon spectators narrowed the roadway even more.  I had never before encountered such enthusiastic spectators.  They urged us on, even calling us by name—the newspapers had supplied names and residences for the numbers on our shirts.

            I finished the race in around 3:20, slightly slower than the Revco, but the press of runners surely slowed me by 10 minutes at least.  Still, I felt that I had held back too much in anticipation of the three "heartbreak hills" that came after the 20-mile point when many runners were encountering the "wall."  The volunteers at the finish line wrapped each of us in aluminum foil (much like the gypsies in the Paris subway) to keep us from getting too chilled, and fed us hot chili, as our loved ones sought us out.

            I was terribly stiff and sore afterwards.  We went to a seafood restaurant on one of the wharves that night, and the mere mention that I had run the marathon brought instant service and I had all the beer I could handle bought by other patrons.  "God, these people in Boston really make a lot of this," I told Dorothy.

            "They're just trying to see if they can get you drunk," Dorothy said.

            Now Matt spoke up, "Gee, they must really think you're some kind of celebrity, Dad."

            Well, the next morning I could hardly get out of bed, but Dorothy and the kids were determined we tour Bunker Hill and Old Ironsides in the harbor.  At my protestations, she said, "This will be good for you.  You'll feel better for it."

            Amazingly I did after two or three hours.  But not before.

            I ran the Revco Marathon again the next year, but did not put forth the amount of training to be in top form—golf was also competing for my attention—and came in 4th.  So, I completed 4 marathons in my life.  I had hoped to break three hours but never had quite the motivation to train for it.  But I continued for many years to run shorter races and usually took a trophy, even if more and more often not first place.

            Now as I find myself in the early 80s, I am sometimes amazed that I can still run moderately well.  I only run for fitness now, as I doggedly endeavor to improve my golf.  I have had a few injuries that impeded me for about three years: overuse injuries to both knees, and an iliotibia-band inflammation of a hip.  (And a more recent severe shoulder injury and a broken wrist that I will describe later.)  I have to recognize that my body has become more vulnerable to injury and that I need to be careful in extending my workouts.  My pace has slowed, even though sometimes I delude myself into thinking I'm running as fast as ever.  Now I cruise between 10:00 and 11:00, while a few decades earlier I was cruising at 7:00. If I were willing to give up golf for a summer and remain injury free, perhaps I could do another marathon.  But I don't have the motivation to put forth this effort, and doubt I could any longer run under 4 hours.  In the actual test, I might embarrass myself.

            But I am still running, and I credit my good health to forty years of serious running.  This poses an interesting cause and effect relationship:  Has running indeed caused me to be in good health?  Or has good health led me to take up running?

           

            Health in the early 80s. — While we know not what the good Lord has in store for us, and the ax could fall any time, both Dorothy and I have been in remarkably good health into our later years.  Still, this is not unusual today.  We know people our age and older who are also vigorous and fit and whose looks belie their age.  I like to tell Dorothy we should aim for the century mark, but this is not ours to determine. 

            Assuming that our good health continues into the hazy future, can we identify any things that might account for this?  I don't think we can credit it mostly to genetics.  While Dorothy's father lived into his upper 80s, her mother died in her early 60s, and other relatives showed no particular longevity.  My mother lived into the low 80s but my father died twenty years younger, and my other relatives have not been particularly long-lived.

            Are we living more healthily than our forebears?  I have to think this is the major part of it.  Dorothy has been a big proponent of healthy eating.  And we both are dedicated to exercise, both for flexibility, keeping muscles in tone, and for cardiovascular fitness.  Dorothy had to give up running a few years ago, but is still a vigorous walker. 

            We both have the ectomorphic build with its lean body mass that seems correlated with better health, and perhaps our genes have helped us stay very active by minimizing the arthritis that many people our age experience to a greater or lesser degree.

            My profession has been such as to minimize stress and give reasonable satisfaction and optimism.  I think job-related stress can have a cumulative detrimental effect for many people.  Of course, some people handle stress well, but many do not.  I have done my best not to let things upset me, although occasionally something will break through and anger or worry me.  Some years ago, being an expert witness and facing depositions and cross-examinations by hostile lawyers brought me considerable stress.  I came to the conclusion that the lucrative fees were not worth the stress, and finally refused such opportunities.

            As I get older, I find myself seeking serenity and tranquillity.  Usually I find this in the simple things: a gentle landscape, a flowing brook, a quiet evening with good music, a book, a good TV program.  I also find great satisfaction in pursuing my writing, even in the futile quest to write publishable novels.  But the satisfaction of still writing new editions of my nonfiction Mistakes books sustains me.  With fiction, I have developed a shell to insulate me from any stress that could come from repeated rejections of material I think is good.  I’ve convinced myself to have low expectations for these efforts.  If anything should ever come of them, it would be a complete surprise.

            In the summer of my 74th year our tranquillity was abruptly shattered.

            An accident while running. — I had always remained free of serious injuries, while running or anything else.  In 35 years of running I had only fallen twice, and these mostly resulted in a skinned knee.  Furthermore, I had never had an operation, or had to stay in a hospital.  The first part changed in June 2002.

            Going into that summer I had reason to feel good about my running.  I had been injury-free all year and was building up to mileage and speed I had not achieved since 1995, already having weeks of 20-30 miles ten times.  Even my golf game seemed on the verge of improving, and I looked forward to smashing the 100-stroke barrier and even reaching the low 90s.  Dorothy and I had reservations to celebrate our 40th anniversary at the famous Greenbrier in West Virginia in just a few days.

            All these pleasant anticipations were shattered just past the front of our house that pleasant summer day.  I had barely started my morning run when my attention wandered  and I tripped on an irregular sidewalk—one I had negotiated hundreds of times without mishap and without any conscious thought—and fell heavily forward with my right arm outstretched protecting my face and head, and broke my shoulder in two places.

            With great difficulty, I dragged myself up to stand on wobbly legs.  I knew I was seriously injured for my fingers felt numb and my hand seemed to belong to someone else.  I prayed to God that the shoulder was only dislocated, as I made my way back to the house and Dorothy, sweating and light-headed from shock.

            "Dorothy, I hurt myself bad," I called out.  "You need to get me to the emergency room.  I don't think I can drive."  Dorothy hurried to my side, probably prepared to catch me if I fainted.  By now, Matt also joined us.

            The closest emergency room was Southpointe Hospital, about 10 minutes away.  Matt followed us in his car.  Dorothy wanted to let me off at the emergency entrance while she tried to find a parking place, but I insisted I could walk from the lot.  By now the effects of the shock had lessened and I walked fairly well—after all, my legs were not injured, only my shoulder.

            The people in the emergency room were quite efficient, and nice.  Soon I was taken to a small cubicle where Dorothy and Matt could stay with me.  Several doctors and interns examined me and then ordered X-rays.  By now my whole arm and hand was becoming badly swollen.  Still, their diagnosis was quite encouraging.  The bone below my shoulder joint was indeed broken but it looked like it had come together.  "A broken bone is better than a dislocation," one doctor told me, "since that might require surgery to put it back in place, and certainly would be more painful."  They fitted me with an immobilizing sling, made an appointment with an orthopedist four days later when most of the swelling should have gone down, and sent me on my way thinking I had lucked out.

            But that was not to be.  The rosy optimism of the generalists in ER was not supported.  I had two broken bones, not one, with a serious displacement besides.  The orthopedic surgeon scheduled me for an operation the following week, actually the day before the 4th of July, and told me he would probably have to put an iron rod in my shoulder and upper arm to stabilize it.  I would be given a general anesthesia but could probably go home the same day if everything turned out all right.

            July 3rd, as I waited in the pre-operation prep room for my turn under the knife, my trepidation was somewhat mollified by two other patients who also were waiting their turn.  One was a husky man of about thirty-five who had fallen while constructing a deck for his house and smashed his knee and other bones of his leg.  The other was a teenager who had multiple fractures from an accident while skate boarding.  They were both a lot worse than I was.

My surgery went smoothly and I awoke from the anesthesia wondering when they would have me count backward from ten, or a hundred, or something like that—only they never had me do that.  The operation was all done and I was already in the recovery room.  I learned later that they did have trouble getting a breathing tube down my throat and the anesthetist called me later that we should warn anyone operating on me again to use a flexible spiral tube.

            Well, the aftermath of the injury and operation was not pleasant, although surprisingly, they did not put a cast on, just a sling.  For several weeks I could not get a good night's sleep and slept many nights in a recliner as the shoulder pained too much lying in bed.   I had to learn to do everything left handed, was not supposed to drive, certainly could not run but did a lot of walking, could not even write or sign my name without great difficulty, and in general had to adjust to a situation of dependence.  Then with physical therapy upon me, I faced the pain of building up range of motion and strength for some weeks to come.   

            My recovery turned out to be a source of amazement not only to me but also to the surgeon and therapists.  Two weeks after the operation they removed the staples from the incision and the wound seemed to be well healed.  Then the surgeon surprisingly suggested that I get by without the sling, unless my arm and shoulder got too tired.  For the next two weeks I only used the sling when I was doing vigorous walking.   I walked three or more miles most days.

            When I saw the doctor a month after the surgery, he found that bone had completely enclosed the metal rod, making it unnecessary to remove the rod at some future time.  He told me I should start physical therapy, and could begin running and driving a car again.

            I had four therapy sessions, and diligently did all the prescribed stretching exercises, as well as others I decided to do for my weakened arm, such as hand grips and  weights.  I was concerned how far into the pain I dared go in my exercises, not wanting to jeopardize the recovery.  They seemed surprised at the question, but told me I could go quite a way into the pain, and I did. My progress in regaining range of motion and strength amazed the therapists: they had not thought a 74-year old man could come back so fast.  When my surgeon saw me eight weeks after the operation, he was so impressed that he presented my case to a gathering of doctors and residents as an example of a speedy and successful recovery by a senior citizen from a rather severe injury.  The fractures that usually required 12-weeks to fully knit had already done so and I was already at 90 percent of normalcy, with the other 10 percent likely in a few weeks.  Before the operation, he had told us to be satisfied with a 70 percent recovery of strength and range of motion.

            So in early September 2002 this worst injury of my life was overcome, and life was back to normal.  But I still shudder when I run past that stretch of the sidewalk.    

            A year later I broke my left wrist tripping on something under leaves, and had to have it operated on.  Again, recovery was fast.  Now I peer intently at the ground ahead as I run, and occasionally like to run on the more uniform surface of a track where I can let my mind wander.  And I’m still leery about running on leaves.