October 2, 2011 6:26 AM

Run, rabbit, run!...the story of how Jack tried to recapture his youth...or die trying

Youth is wasted on the young.

  • George Bernard Shaw

It was September, 1977. I was 17 and in the first few weeks of my senior year at St. Cloud Tech H.S. in St. Cloud, MN. I was on Tech’s cross-country team that fall; long-distance running was one of the few things brought me some peace, because it kept me away from home for long stretches. The team had gone to a meet in Melrose, MN, a wide spot in the road off I-94 in west-central Minnesota. I was part of a pretty good cross-country team that fall- 10 runners good enough to claim the seven varsity spots on a team that would ultimately make it to the state meet in early November.

There were eight runners who rotated in and out of five available varsity spots, and for the meet in Melrose I’d drawn the junior varsity race. While not thrilled with having to compete against freshmen and sophomores, I knew there wasn’t much pressure on me, and so JV races were a chance for me to try some things I wouldn’t normally attempt in a varsity race. For the race in Melrose, I decided to start slowly and move up through the pack as the three-mile race progressed. I knew I had nothing to lose and little to gain from a JV race except a good workout at something close to full race effort, so why not?

The race took place on the municipal golf course in Melrose, and the first third of a mile or so was straight down the fairway of a par-five hole to a hard right turn. At the starting gun, most of the field took off like rabbits, and I stuck to my strategy, reaching the right turn at the end of the fairway dead last out of a field of approximately 300 runners. With me at the back of the pack was one of my teammates, Phill Lansing, who, in three years of competition I’d never even come close to defeating, I figured I was right about where I wanted to be.

Less than half a mile into the race, I began to move up, and over the next not quite two miles, I passed the entire field, including Phill, who was nowhere to be found when I made it to the front of the pack. I reached the last corner, turned left onto another fairway, with 500 yards separating me from the finish line. I was terrified; even though I was leading the race, it wasn’t until the final stretch that I admitted to myself that I was in first place and just might win the race. I didn’t dare look behind me, because I had no idea where anyone was, and I didn’t want to risk getting caught and feeling stupid for looking over my shoulder. I sprinted down the fairway as if my life depended on it and hit the finish line in first place. It turned out that the second-place finisher was at least 200 yards behind me, and what made my victory even more special was beating Phill for the first time, and by a wide margin.

I won another JV race a couple weeks later on our home course in St. Cloud in front of my girlfriend and my parents, and I was on top of the world. OK, so they were JV races, and the competition wasn’t exactly top-flight, but I’d never won a race before, and I have to admit that it felt pretty damned good. Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to last. I’d overtrained during the summer, and even as I was winning those races, I was fighting injuries that would leave me unable to run in the state meet. In fact, I’d pushed myself so hard and for so long, that I’d done serious damage to my knees and ankles. It was so bad that I was walking up stairs sideways until Christmas. I went to college with an invitation to compete on the track and cross-country teams, but I was never able to run competitively again. I’d been a very good, though certainly not great high school runner, and in the space of a few months, I’d ruined it. I once ran a 4:54 mile. I could run three miles in the neighborhood of 16 minutes. I ran a half-marathon and felt as if I was flying. Suddenly, at 17, I was a shadow of my former self, at least as far as running competitively was concerned. It was the first time I came face to face with the reality of physical limitations, and though I went on to play goalkeeper on my college soccer team, I missed running competively. Over the next few years, I tried repeatedly, but I was never able to return to where I’d been. My body just couldn’t take the pounding in the way it used to.

I’ve shared this with you not out of some misguided desire to relive the faded athletic glory of my dissolute youth. Over the years, I’ve tried running, but my knees and ankles have always ended that experiment almost before it begins. Now, 34 years later, I’m back at it. I’d like to be able to run in the Hood to Coast Relay next summer. Yesterday makes two weeks, and I’m up to 2.5 miles…a very SLOW 2.5 miles. Once upon a time, I could maintain an easy 7:30 per mile pace. Now, it’s probably closer to 9:00. Once upon a time, I could power up hills and pass other runners with relative ease. Now, running up a hill leaves me feeling as if I have a piano strapped to my back. The mistake, I suppose, lies in judging my present by my past. I’m in very good condition, but running is another animal altogether. I need to keep reminding myself (as if my body doesn’t every morning) that I’m not 17, I’m not going to run a sub-5:00 mile, and I’m really a threat only to myself. Job One is to see if I can maintain a schedule of running 5-6 days a week without my knees and my ankles deciding they want no part of such madness. So far, so good. I’m building up slowly, not pushing myself too hard or too soon (hopefully), and not expecting too much of myself. It’s still early, and I’m still waiting to see what my body will allow me to do. My knees aren’t happy, but I’m hoping I can get past that.

High school was a long time ago. I’ve grown, filled out, and I’m 60 pounds heavier than I was at 17. Thirty years of lifting weights will do that, I suppose. I’m not the same person at 51, nor do I have the body I did at 17. Now all I want to do is to be able to run 5-7 miles a day at a decent, if not world-beating, pace. The jury’s still out on whether or not my body will allow that to happen, of course, but right now I’d be happy to run any distance without feeling as if I’m being followed by the Grim Reaper (Run faster…I hear banjo music!!).

Stay tuned….

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This page contains a single entry by Jack Cluth published on October 2, 2011 6:26 AM.

Karma can be a real...well, you know.... was the previous entry in this blog.

Somewhere warm and breezy, Jesus weeps into his Corona.... is the next entry in this blog.

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