The Marathon

All human beings should try to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why.

—James Thurber

It is Marathon Day in Boston. This year, I am not there to watch the crowds of people arrive from places around the planet. Even so, I know that there are people speaking many languages in the small town of Hopkinton, Massachusetts. They are filling up their bellies with high carbohydrate breakfasts, then getting in lines for their numbers. The media are taking up whatever space they can find with their cameras and video equipment. Enthusiastic fans are competing with the local residents for a space where they will be able to see the race begin.

For many years, I would position myself at the top of Heartbreak Hill, not far from where the runners would finally reach the city limits of Boston. As each runner came up that stretch of pavement, looking tired and defeated, I would clap and shout encouragement. It was Jeff who had taught me to show up at the most difficult stretch of the route to cheer.

Jeff moved into my parent’s attic one spring. His father had beaten him up for the last time. When my mother opened the back door that afternoon, she saw Jeff standing there with a bloodied face and a satchel full of clothing slung over his shoulder. It was not the first time my mother had harbored one of the children from that family. A little first aid, a home cooked meal and Jeff recovered enough to explain that his Dad was drunk again. Jeff had come home for spring break in his freshman year of college. His father had announced that he would not pay for any more school. It was time, his father screamed, for his son to go off to the war that was in Vietnam. No more would he have a son who shirked his duty and hid behind books to evade the draft.

When I arrived home from college a few weeks later, I could hear John Lennon’s music filling the space that previously had only held empty suitcases and dusty photographs. Jeff said very little to anyone. Some evenings, after we had dinner together, he would linger long enough for a game of cards after the kitchen table had been cleared of dishes. Most nights he would go directly to his private space with the unpainted plywood floor and bare rafters stuffed with insulation. He would read, play music and only occasionally go out to meet one of his friends.

In a few weeks, Jeff had a job as an orderly in the city hospital. He applied for nursing school and was accepted. Whether he was truly a pacifist or whether he did it to spite his father, he received an exemption from the draft. His war was a private one. His spirit seemed full of inward battles fought in solitude. He ran, it appeared, not just from his abusive father, not just from the war he opposed, but to save his own life.

Each morning, before he dressed in his scrubs and walked down the hill to the city hospital, he ran. He arose earlier than any of us and left the comfort of his loft to run. He ran in the heat and the cold, in the rain and even in the snow. His goal was to run the marathon; not to win the race, but to finish. The first few times that he entered a race, it took him so long to finish that the race officially ended before he triumphantly reached the point where the finish line had been.

During the next two years, while he lived with my parents, I drove him to and from the site of several marathons. Even though Jeff’s race for life was directly opposite to my own, I understood the importance of a cheering section and a friend to reach out with some fresh water along the way. So, at several points along the route, I would stand until I saw him come into view. Then, I would begin calling out his name and enthusiastic encouragement until I saw his dazed eyes acknowledge me.

The physical demands of long distance running were foreign to me. I could not quite understand why someone would voluntarily put himself through such an arduous and punishing experience. Having a bleeding disorder, I had chosen a life that was structured to minimize injuries. By that time, I had already spent years listening for the early warning signs in the twinge of a sore muscle. The smallest of body aches could indicate the need for medical intervention for me. To win my race for life, no pain was a gain. It horrified me to see him limp in at the end of the race, doubled over in agony and exhaustion. His muscles would be cramped and his body contorted. The heat and dehydration left him depleted that he collapsed into the car seat for the return ride. Even more baffling to me was the way in which he recovered within hours. He would be up the next morning running as usual before going to work. It was a lesson to me to observe how his body could endure this amount of pain without fear or mental suffering. How different from the sense of defeat, self-blame and guilt that I felt when my body was hurting. How unlike the days it would take me to heal an injured joint or muscle if there was internal bleeding.

In spite of our different strategies for survival, Jeff and I had each experienced our own wounds. And although our reactions were so dissimilar, I understood his resolve and resilience. It is a winning combination and it deserves applause.