Reflecting on 30 Years of Running

I always feel a bit nostalgic just before the beginning of the school year. That’s the time, way back in 1995, when I joined the high school cross country team and started running. (The picture is from junior year, I believe, but what’s a couple years in the 90s among friends?)

I didn’t join the team because I necessarily liked running. I liked sports, particularly basketball and baseball, but those were out of the question after puberty robbed me of most of my hand-eye coordination. Mostly, I did it because I was going to a new school, my parents and I agreed it might be nice to at least recognize some faces in the hallway or in class, and we figured cross country would keep me in shape and out of trouble. It didn’t hurt that cross country wouldn’t turn anyone away and didn’t cut anyone.

The first day of practice, roughly one week before Labor Day and two weeks before school started, was the first time in years I’d committed to running more than one mile at a time. I showed up in cotton shorts, a cotton T-shirt, and high-top basketball shoes. It took at least 45 minutes – not to mention a few walking breaks – to cover the 3.1 miles of my school’s cross-country course.

I showed up the next day, though. And the next day, too. After a couple of weeks, my parents were willing to invest in proper running clothes and shoes. That was just in time for the first meet, in which I placed dead last – 29:45 for the 5K. I was dead last the following week, too, albeit a minute faster.

By the end of the season, I was firmly in the middle of the JV pack. The coach encouraged me to stick around for indoor track, which, in a twist very helpful to the narrative, also didn’t cut anyone. I did – and learned quickly that “indoor” referred to where the meets were held, not the practices. (At least not for the distance runners.) Back to the sporting goods store we went.

Carving my own path

It’s worth noting that, throughout high school, I wasn’t very fast. I’m not being self-deprecating; facts are facts.

It took until senior year to make varsity in cross country (top 7). Even then, by the end of the season at least three freshmen had improved dramatically enough to routinely beat me. (The coach kept me in the No. 7 spot, though, and none of the freshmen complained. I always appreciated that.) Meanwhile, in four seasons of indoor track and four seasons of outdoor track, I scored a point (from finishing in the top 3 for a race) exactly once. It was an indoor track meet sophomore year when I think I was one of maybe 12 kids in the entire conference who wasn’t home sick with the flu. (Get your flu shots, everyone!)

Many friends had plans to run competitively in college. If I remember right, a couple teammates even got scholarships. Meanwhile, I went to art school in the middle of Boston.

But I kept running. Freshman year, I did it on my own, mostly on the paths along the Charles River. Sophomore year was the only time the college had enough interest to form a men’s cross-country team, which I was happy to join.

Before my junior year, and arguably against my better judgment, I signed up for a fall marathon: The 2001 BayState Marathon in Lowell, with a course that wound through my hometown. The mistakes I made are easily recognizable in retrospect. I don’t recall any honest-to-goodness speed or hill workouts, and my long runs topped out at 16 miles. I also waited until – I wish I were kidding – the day before the race to buy a watch. Suffice to say, I hit a wall with about 10 miles to go. My primary memory from the race is leaning against a telephone pole to get some rest.

But I finished – and I kept running. Yes, it would be five years before I did another marathon; my first one scarred me, plus my senior-year and first-job-out-of-college schedules made it hard to commit to training. That said, I squeezed in runs whenever I got the chance and found 5Ks where I could.

Something shifted in 2006, and I started to commit to running at least one marathon a year. Except for COVID (2020) and the birth of my son (2021), I’ve managed to do it – and this year, 30 years after I started running, I’m aiming to do two marathons in one year for the first time in a decade.

Coming back slowly and steadily

To be clear, running hasn’t been all sunshine and roses. I was sidelined for a few weeks in 2000 with runner’s knee, and I’m pretty sure it came back right before my marathon in 2006. In 2015, I tore my calf in the middle of a marathon and, probably against my better judgment, hobbled to the finish line. (This prompted my wife – watching me run for the first time that day – to not-so-subtly wonder if I was always in that much pain.) I needed several weeks to recover, but over time I regained my strength and confidence. Last year, I went nearly two months without running due to pain in my right foot that was eventually diagnosed as Morton’s neuroma – the treatment for which is orthotic shoes and a dose of humility. Here, patience and pragmatism aided my recovery more than anything.

Recently, I found myself briefly stepping away from running for reasons that had nothing to do with physical health. In September 2023, roughly two weeks before I planned to run BayState – and mark the first time in eight years I ran a marathon in the spring and the fall – my father passed away. I did a speed workout a couple days later, asked myself what the hell I was doing, and promptly took 10 days off. I did that same thing that Christmas, when the weight of simultaneously celebrating and mourning left me far too fatigued to run.

My most recent stretches without running – the mental health breaks in 2023 and the wow, my foot hurts break in 2024 – were tests that I’m happy to say I feel like I passed. I think I learned a lot from 2015, when I was under orders from my physical therapist not to run (but nonetheless stay active) for nearly two months, and to take it slowly once I started back. The wisdom of fatherhood, middle age, and running a business probably helped, too. I didn’t lace up the ol’ running shoes until I was good and ready – and that ensured I actually enjoyed the experience.

Keeping at it, for many reasons

Most of the time, I have little trouble understanding why I’m still running after 30 years. After all, distance running suits my body type, desire for long stretches of quiet time, appetite, pain tolerance, and stubborn perseverance. Few people who meet me for the first time are surprised to learn I’m a runner.

Occasionally, though, I can’t help but wonder. When I head out the door in the pouring rain, after my son’s bedtime, on days so cold that only my face is exposed to the elements, or during a family vacation, I sometimes ask myself, “Why, Brian? Why?”

Part of it is probably the sense of accomplishment. It’s estimated that roughly 1% of the global population has completed a marathon; fewer have done more than 20. I’m proud to be able to say that – and to say that I’m still going. Honestly, I think the fact I wasn’t all that fast in high school helped my cause here. I never faced pressure or experienced burnout. I’m only chasing my own goals and aspirations, not someone else’s. (The free post-race bananas and bagels help.)

Pride plays a part, too. On those rough days – like this morning, when I did a hill workout in what felt like 98% humidity – I think about that 15-year-old in black high-top basketball shoes, showing up on the first day of practice with little clue about what he was getting into. I think about the 21-year-old toeing the line for his first marathon, with absolutely no clue about what he was getting into. I think about the handful of times I missed qualifying for Boston by just a few minutes, and also the time in 2012 I bonked so badly I seriously contemplated curling up for a nap on a front lawn along the cource. (I didn’t. Again, in keeping with the narrative, I kept going and I finished.) I think about when I finally qualified for Boston in 2015, on my 12^th try, and had the privilege of running that race the following spring. I think about the first-time father who plodded through a handful of miles while his infant napped or his in-laws kept watch and tried to maximize family time by deciding to wedge his runs into the work week. I look back on the past versions of myself and think he’d be proud I’m still doing it at 45.

Lately, too, I think about my son. I’m not sure he fully understands why I run, or why I run races so long that he and Mommy more often than not get bored and go do something else while they wait for me to finish. (I don’t blame them.) But I know he wants to give me a hug, see my medal, and share a banana when I finally finish. He may not be able to explain the concept of pride, but I get the impression he’s proud of Daddy. And that helps to keep pushing me along, too.

Here’s to many, many more years of running.