Death and life on the run--of memorials and affirmations ... and going forward
R.I.P. G. Chris Gleason and Jeffrey Lee
A marathon or even a half marathon can be a celebration of endurance and speed. The leaders cross the line flush with victory, and we celebrate. Many thousands of the rest of us cross the line with our own private pain and private victories… and we celebrate.
Sometimes, however, amid the celebration, there is tragedy. And we who celebrate our private victories over private pain share the public pain of hearing about young athletes taken too soon.
And we try to understand. We hear friends tell us, “It’s a dangerous sport. You’ll put too much stress on your body. You’ll wreck your knees. See what happens? People die doing these races.”
And yet people can also die driving to these races. Or staying at home. Or standing in line at Starbuck’s.
Still, we are given pause. Still, we listen for heartbeats that have stopped. We ask if we are next in line. No doubt these runners have heard about deaths that have occurred at other marathons. No doubt they too heard the same spiel: “You’ll ruin your knees.” “Running is dangerous. You can always walk.” And there may be those who will now say, “If they’d only listened to me, they’d be alive today.”
And no doubt there are people now running—maybe I’m one of them—who will be in the news because they collapsed and died during a race.
Yet we go on.
Why?
Some cite psychopathology. They say we are addicted. That it’s our cocaine, our crack.
But neither Jeffrey Lee nor Chris Gleason—both vibrant, productive individuals, bright, witty, contributing to their community—even remotely match the picture we have of a crack or cocaine addict.
They simply enjoyed the chase. So do many of us. On so many levels, running is life-giving, not life-taking.
In the fall, we feel the crackle of leaves underfoot. In the winter, the crunch of snow; in spring, we notice the first buds on trees, the crocuses peeking up from the grass. In summer, like children, we run through the sprinklers and puddles that others dodge but that cool us off. That sense of childlike freedom is perhaps what makes this sport special.
It isn’t just the everyday runner who feels this joy—some very competitive runners celebrate their time outdoors, the freedom they feel, the release from the phone calls, deadlines, e-mails, and all the detritus of adult life.
We travel this road together—fast or slow, young or aging—and we know.
It sometimes feels hard, sometimes feels like a slog, sometimes makes us wonder what we’re doing out there in the cold, in the heat, in rain, snow, sleet. But somehow, even then, we know we are still going to run.
Would these two men have stopped running had they known what would take them down? Would they have canceled not only their marathon or half marathon plans but all plans for running? Maybe they would have put them on hold while having their hearts checked by a doctor. But they likely would have found a way back, done the necessary medical check-ups and returned—probably. We don’t know the answer.
What if their doctors had told them running would kill them and it wasn’t a matter of “if” but “when”? Ryan Shay was told at one point that he had an enlarged heart. He continued to compete, reaching the Olympic Trials Marathon—and then collapsed and died during that race.
But when he was told as a teen that he had an enlarged heart—this could have meant anything perhaps—at first perhaps indicating a need for caution, then as school and sports assumed increasing importance, just some factoid that seemed not to affect his life.
Running has that hold on a person. It takes many warning signs before we heed them. Some don’t get that many warning signs.
Then people quote Housman’s “To an Athlete Dying Young.” But the thing is, that poem was written years before masters’ athletics and the advent of older athletes not giving up the chase. And athletes die young at all ages now, engaged in something that enlarges their spirits, not only their hearts. They might sometimes have to pause, but my guess is that they find their way back. We who have less dramatic conditions—our various injuries, aches, angst—running calls us back.
What would these two men or Ryan Shay tell us if they could come back and share what they learned? Would they tell us to put on the brakes, give up the chase? Take due caution but find a way back?
I suspect the latter.
***
It felt selfish writing about my half marathon having heard the stories of these two young men—did Jeffrey Lee even have a chance to get his finisher’s medal or experience the joy of breaking two hours, a goal that until about October was mine?
And did Chris Gleason feel the adrenaline of possibly breaking three hours in the marathon before he felt his heart giving way?
These goals trivialized by death….
Or are they?
Numbers have a way of showing us how far we’ve come but they become meaningful in light of the journey we’ve taken to get where we are, the growing, the training, the friends, the family. The numbers—the clock at the finish or the watch we stop or the result online—when they’re what we hoped they would be, we know what hurdles we cleared, what training challenges we overcame to get these times. They’re part of a larger picture—but they’re certainly part of the picture.
And so in that context, I look at my race, grateful for the result as the two departed men on that day might have been, competitors that they were.
My time: 2:06:39, good enough for fourth place in my age group. This was something I’d wanted, chased, hoped for. When sub-2 hours showed itself to be unrealistic (so I put aside qualifying for the New York City Marathon), I still held on to the goal of making the podium in my age division. And I held on to the hope of a sub-2:07 (my time + change in the Philadelphia Distance Run, 2008). I had a sense that this would show I could, even post-60th birthday, make fitness gains. Karl, on the Dead Runners’ Society list—spoke of the “upward fitness curve” that newer runners could ride but that became less available to older runners (he was tactful enough to say “experienced”). And yet this year, I improved in every road race on the Grand Prix circuit and ran two 5k’s in sub-9 minute pace. I came very close to running the Bobtoberfest in sub-9 pace but faded at the end. Still, I improved by four minutes in that and in the Schuylkill River Loop.
***
Today, I ran a more low-key but important race—the Delaware Open Cross Country Championships. My time last year was 33:22. This year (according to my watch), it was 31:49. Nothing spectacular, but again, an improvement.
To make gains when you’re told slowing down is inevitable—I wonder if we really have explored the possibilities, wonder if older athletes have greater capabilities than anyone suspects. I wonder too if this extends beyond sports. Why do we take for granted a “downward fitness curve” or a “downward mental curve”? This has been what we’ve had in the past. Must we take for granted that it will always be thus?
Deepak Chopra’s Ageless Body, Timeless Mind suggests otherwise. And yet if it isn’t so, if my life ends during a race, I hope that in my last breath, I’ll inhale life at its most intense. I hope that my last breath will fill me with the scent of trees, of freshly mowed fields, of salt in the air, or spring rain—I hope my last breath will fill me with wonder and gratitude for all I have experienced.
posted by DPMcManus @ 6:45 PM
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