There was a time in my life – seemingly another lifetime ago – when I fancied myself as something of a runner.
It was back when I was still going to school in Colorado. Everybody out there ran, so I figured I would join the crowd.
One thing I quickly learned is that running in Colorado is not the same as running other places. Remember, you are a mile high. You start gasping for air fairly quickly.
In the three and a half years I spent in Colorado, there is only one sport I simply could not play. That is basketball. How the Nuggeta are not undefeated at home every year I have no idea. One trip up and down the court and your tongue would be hanging out.
Eventually I became a pretty decent runner. At least I thought I was. Until one day when I was out for my normal run on a trail at the base of the Flatirons, which form the front edge of the Rockies and loom over the town of picturesque town Boulder.
I was going along at what I thought was a pretty good clip when a guy blew by me at what appeared to be a sprint. I thought he was showing me up. I tried to catch up to him but could not. Then I realized something else. He wasn’t sprinting. He disappeared into the horizon at the same amazing clip.
I stopped, put my hands on my knees and sucked for air. I must have looked depressed. A guy coming the other way stopped and asked if I was OK. I said I was until I got showed up by that guy who went past me like I was standing still. The guy smiled. Swell, I thought. Another wiseguy.
“Don’t you know who that guy was?” he informed me. I admitted I did not.
I do now.
It was Frank Shorter. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He won the gold medal in the marathon at the 1972 Olympic Games and is one of the legends of American track and field.
Eventually I gave up on running. Right now my wife and I are big walkers.
A few years ago, in some burst of angst over getting older, I decided to give running another shot.
I headed out on a trail through some woods behind the house. I did not get far when my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest. It was all I could do to slowly walk home.
I was thinking of that yesterday when I heard that two people died during yesterday’s Philadelphia Marathon. Such a tragedy. More than 25,000 people took part in the run.
It’s something I’ve always wondered if I could do. That’s 26.2 miles.
I know how much training it would take for me to even consider doing that.
In addition to the two people who lost their lives, there were also some other medical emergencies.
More than enough to make me decide I should stick to walking.
It is not known as yet what caused the medical problems at yesterday's race. From early reports both men, a 21-year-old and a 40-year-old, had trained for the event. It's not something you do on a whim.
I learned that the hard way. Two times in my life.
It was back when I was still going to school in Colorado. Everybody out there ran, so I figured I would join the crowd.
One thing I quickly learned is that running in Colorado is not the same as running other places. Remember, you are a mile high. You start gasping for air fairly quickly.
In the three and a half years I spent in Colorado, there is only one sport I simply could not play. That is basketball. How the Nuggeta are not undefeated at home every year I have no idea. One trip up and down the court and your tongue would be hanging out.
Eventually I became a pretty decent runner. At least I thought I was. Until one day when I was out for my normal run on a trail at the base of the Flatirons, which form the front edge of the Rockies and loom over the town of picturesque town Boulder.
I was going along at what I thought was a pretty good clip when a guy blew by me at what appeared to be a sprint. I thought he was showing me up. I tried to catch up to him but could not. Then I realized something else. He wasn’t sprinting. He disappeared into the horizon at the same amazing clip.
I stopped, put my hands on my knees and sucked for air. I must have looked depressed. A guy coming the other way stopped and asked if I was OK. I said I was until I got showed up by that guy who went past me like I was standing still. The guy smiled. Swell, I thought. Another wiseguy.
“Don’t you know who that guy was?” he informed me. I admitted I did not.
I do now.
It was Frank Shorter. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He won the gold medal in the marathon at the 1972 Olympic Games and is one of the legends of American track and field.
Eventually I gave up on running. Right now my wife and I are big walkers.
A few years ago, in some burst of angst over getting older, I decided to give running another shot.
I headed out on a trail through some woods behind the house. I did not get far when my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest. It was all I could do to slowly walk home.
I was thinking of that yesterday when I heard that two people died during yesterday’s Philadelphia Marathon. Such a tragedy. More than 25,000 people took part in the run.
It’s something I’ve always wondered if I could do. That’s 26.2 miles.
I know how much training it would take for me to even consider doing that.
In addition to the two people who lost their lives, there were also some other medical emergencies.
More than enough to make me decide I should stick to walking.
It is not known as yet what caused the medical problems at yesterday's race. From early reports both men, a 21-year-old and a 40-year-old, had trained for the event. It's not something you do on a whim.
I learned that the hard way. Two times in my life.
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