On Running, Running Commentary and Staggering to the Finishline

Carolyn loves to run. She has since high school 30 years ago. I, on the other hand, decidedly do not enjoy running. I have since high school 40 years ago.

Carolyn ran track in high school with a degree of success. I ran track in high school—well enough to qualify for the state meet in 1 event as a junior and in 3 events as a senior. I even declined an invitation from my college’s track coach to run track (he wanted me to switch from the 440 to the 880—no way!).
When we met, I let Carolyn sweet talk, convince, coerce (take your pick) me into running with her. She’s not real fast but she can run forever. She has had a love affair with running for all of these 30 years. On the other hand, I hadn’t run since 1969 but I plodded along with her, trying to keep up and not be a “wuss”.

I even got to the point where I could plod my way for 5K and where my “base” run was about 2 miles. Not real good for a “serious” runner, but not bad for a 50-something trying to get back in a little bit of shape and not “look bad” to my “life’s partner”. I mean, I got so that I would check out running routes from my hotel on my weekly business trips.

When I say running, it’s only in the “technical” sense. My idea of a run was a 12 minute per mile pace. Old fart pace. Plodding, snail-like. I had to measure my breathing, maintain constant internal “monitoring” of heart and respiration. If I went anaerobic, I was dead (figuratively). My ability to recuperate and keep running was minimal at best. (By the way, I discovered that a slow version of “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy” is a great “metronome” for pacing. You just keep the same turn-over rate and vary stride length slightly to speed up or slow down). That’s a far cry from 50 second quarters when I was 17.

But, I got used to it. Even kind of enjoyed it. What I enjoyed was slimming down a bit and having more energy and knowing that I could go out and put in a couple of miles before or after work.

So I ran for about 6 months. We even entered a 5K just to see if I could do it (winning was defined as finishing it in that 12 minute pace or better). I was so slow that the winners in my age group could have done a 10k in the time it took me to do 5K. Then 6 months later I had double hernia surgery followed by an angioplasty and it was about 4 months after that before I started running again—starting all over again.

We’ve got some really good running routes where we live. We just have to leave the apartment, cross a major street at the light and we’re a couple of blocks away from one of the biggest butt-kicking hills you’ve ever seen. It’s about 6/10s of a mile bottom to top and a 10% grade all the way up (real slow “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy”). Then it levels off followed by what we call the “escalator” for the last 200 yards that’s even steeper to what we call “X” because there used to be an “X” painted across the center stripe at the crest. This whole route we call “Walt’s Mountain” because it took me so long to “master” it—be able to go up it all the way, recuperate, go on to X then back down again. All told, it’s about a 2 ½ mile route.

Anyway, I started to slowly get back in shape. And the following October we entered another 5K. We’re in the parking lot stretching and getting ready to walk over to check-in. Another runner, a guy about my age with the scrawny, muscley legged look of a serious runner combined with matching running shorts and top and a pair of new really pricey shoes stopped and looked over at me. Then he said, “I’ve never seen that before. Getting ready for a race and smoking a cigarette at the same time!” I laughed and said, “Yep, and I’ll have another one just as soon as the run is over.”

So the run/race begins. I’m plodding along, feeling comfortable. Running a good pace. “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy” playing in my head, keeping me on pace. Carolyn’s running next to me and we’re about a mile into the run when she says, “I’m going to speed up to try and get a good time, OK?” “’K, bye,” I gasped. And she increases her turn rate and starts to pull away. After about a half mile, I can’t see her anymore which is too bad because I love to see Carolyn run. She’s definitely not some girley-girl runner. She’s smooth. She looks and moves like an athlete.

Now this 5K was a combination walk/run with the runners starting 5 minutes ahead of the walkers. I’m not the last of the runners by any stretch of the imagination and I’ve even managed to pass a few (and obviously I’ve been passed too but not by too many—slow runners start at the back of the pack you know).

But now I’m hearing footsteps. I peek over my left shoulder. I see pink. The Energizer Bunny? No, it’s a lady. Dressed from top to bottom in a pink jogging suit. About to pass me. Walking. Shit.

She pulls even. But doesn’t pass. “What! Is she toying with me?” I ask myself.

“Good morning!” she says, full of energy. “Good morning”, I manage to grunt.

“I entered this because today is my birthday,” she comments. (“Oh God,” I tell myself, “She wants to talk.”) “My whole family’s here,” she informs me. “That’s great,” I gasp.

She’s walking along, moving easy, stepping it out and swinging her arms (she’s also probably 15 years younger than me).

“Oh, there they are!” she exclaims, waving and smiling, “have a good run! Bye!” And she accelerates past me like I’m standing still swinging over to the side of the street to the waves and high-fives of 2 sons and her husband, then keeps on going slowly leaving me in her dust.

By now, I’m 2/3s of the way through the 5K—a little over 2 miles into it. Ahead of me is a father and son. The son is about 12-13 and dad is around 40. Dad has on cut-off jeans and low cut tennies. The kid has on baggy shorts and ragged running shoes. Both have sweatshirts tied around their waists. They run. Then slow and walk. Then run some more followed by more walking. I’m constantly running and barely catching up. Finally the Dad motions for the kid to go on ahead and stops running altogether. He quickly falls behind. The kid continues to run and walk.

I come abreast of him. He wants to quit. I can tell because I’d just as soon quit too, but I’m not going to let Carolyn see me walk or let her have bragging rights. I know it’s only about a half mile to go. I gasp out to the kid—“Hey come on, you can do this. Keep going, you’re doing great.” He maintains his jog just ahead of me. We’re doing the final corner with the finish about a quarter mile ahead. I was going to accelerate and “kick” from here to the finish but decide to keep this young guy going.

“You can do it!” I tell him. “Keep up with me!” And I stretch out just a bit, picking up speed. “Go, go, go”, I manage to gasp out encouraging him. He looks over his shoulder and picks up his pace. He crosses the finish in that gangling gait that kids his age have.

(That's me in 1969 running a 440 in high school!)

I kind of smile to myself as I cruise across the finish. I know I could have taken the little crapperhead. Carolyn’s just past the finish, grinning at me. Like I’m some sort of hero. My time is 3 minutes faster than the last 5K I ran and Carolyn’s is about 4 minutes faster than mine.

Now for the treat. We get our t-shirts! $20 entry gets you the treat of a 5K run and a t-shirt. Then walk back to the car, open it up, reach inside and get a cigarette.

“Ahhhhhhh, that’s good.”

Now we’ll go home and listen to Bill Cosby’s monologue “Track & Field—Mile Relay”—my favorite all time Cosby (or any other comedian) monologue.

Rungi Schmelli 1

Do junior high boys even have P.E. class anymore? I wonder. It’s too bad if they don’t especially with the number of kids I see going down the street every day on their way to school who are obviously overweight and out of shape.

Growing up in Tampa, Florida in the late 50’s and early 60’s we definitely had Jr Hi PE. Everyday. Outside. Unless it was raining or too cold (a relative term in Tampa).

Seventh grade hit in August, 1963. I had PE that year in the afternoon (fortunately I had a class between lunch and PE so the “beanie weenies” had a chance to settle down and start working their way through my system).

The first day of PE was an orientation for those of us in the 7th grade featuring our instructor Coach Solomon (rumored to have been a Marine DI) and Head Coach Escobar—a large, round, bald-headed, nut-brown Cuban. Coach Escobar did most of the talking and he had a unique way of talking. For one thing he bit off many of his words and never pronounced the “s” at the end of a word.

Here’s the opening of his standard, first day of school lecture: “Girl,” he’d say, “You got to dress out every day. You got to wear your sock, your jock and your tenna choo. You get 2 point every day you dress out. If you don’ wear your sock, you lose one point. If you don’ wear your jock, you lose one point. If you don’ wear your tenna choo, you lose one point.”

And someone would invariably ask, “But coach isn’t that losing 3 points?” Coach Escobar would respond, “You get 2 point for dressing, but no sock, no jock, no tenna choo—you can lose 3 point. Now go run 2 lap.” And the kid had to go out to the quarter mile track, in his regular clothes (because we hadn’t dressed out that day) and run 2 laps returning sweat soaked and better educated than he had been 10 minutes earlier.

We all had to wear the same black gym shorts and the same white t-shirts both emblazoned with Madison Junior High on them. Everyone looked the same. Well not really because our ages in the Junior High class ranged from 12 to 15 because it combined 7th through 9th graders together. But more on that later.

I got 2 pairs of shorts and 2 t-shirts and they lasted me all 3 years—by the time I was done with 9th grade, the shorts were grey and the t-shirts where holey. They were pretty baggy on me at 12 but by the time I was 14 in 9th grade both were getting pretty snug.

Then Coach Escobar went into the rest of his lecture. “OK girl, you got to chower after class. Everyone got to chower. If you don’t chower, you lose 1 point. And, when you chower, you got to get in there and wash out your rungi schmelli. You don’t want to go to class and get around those cute girl all you girl like without washing out your rungi schmelli.”

Now none of us dared to ask what a rungi schmelli was—it was a term we’d hear often over the course of the next 3 years—because we all had a pretty good idea what he was referring to. And by the way, Coach Escobar always referred to us as “girls” (except he pronounced it girl).

What a fantastic introduction into the world of Junior High. Into the world of men. To being talked to as men. We 7th graders looked at one another, somewhat self-consciously. This was fascinating new stuff and most of us couldn’t wait to actually “dress out” the next day. But that’s another story.

Rungi Schmelli 2

The second day of junior high dawns. I take one pair of my new gym shorts and one of the new t-shirts along with my athletic supporter and a pair of socks and lay them inside a towel which I then rolled tight and tied with the laces of my tennis shoes. OK, I’m all ready for my first day of PE class.

The gym clothes went into my locker during homeroom and I took them out following lunch homeroom. I’d carry them with me the rest of the day. The bell rang to end my after lunch class and it was time for PE.

I raced to the boy’s locker room and proceeded to change. We had 5 minutes between classes and PE started 5 minutes after the bell rang. We had to be fully dressed and out on the field ready to go by the end of those 5 minutes. Some guys could never figure out how to be on time. I never had a problem. The PE class would end 5 minutes before the bell. We had those 5 minutes and another 5 to shower, change and make it to our next class.

And, back in the early 60’s you didn’t want to mess around with being late for class. It could be worth a trip to the office for either detention or a “pop” (which was the application of the “board of education” across your butt).

Anyway, in the locker room it seemed as though all the 7th grade boys were along one wall, the 8th graders in the middle and the 9th graders along the opposite wall. The fourth wall was a large open bay shower area with about a dozen shower heads spaced along it. I changed and managed to get out to the field well before Coach Solomon made his appearance.

PE class started with calisthenics. But before they could begin on this our first day of class, Coach divided us into 3 squads of about 10 each. Each squad had a 9th grader as a leader and there was another 9th grader who was in overall charge of leading the exercises. Keith Robbins. Rumor had it that he was almost 16 and already practice driving for his driver’s license. He was a man among boys. While we were puny, Keith was solid—and hairy. He even shaved. He popped zits on his legs while waiting for class to start. Gross, but in a manly sort of way. I didn’t have enough hair on my legs for anything to get ingrown and create a zit.

I had never done any of this before—and obviously neither had my 7th grade colleagues. And yet for me, at least, the calisthenics were easy. They were all done in unison and we were required to count each repetition off, “One, two, three, one. One, two, three, two” until we reached a 15 count of each different exercise. We did jumping jacks, windmills, squat-thrusts, rocking-chairs, push-ups, bicycles and several others whose names I forget. When “cal” was done we’d run a lap over on the track. This would take about 15 minutes and then we’d proceed to the sport we were doing during this 6 week grading period.

The way the class was set up, you could be totally un-coordinated and un-athletic and still earn a B by making sure that you dressed each day, doing well on a written test on the sport we would do each grading period and at least try during the sport’s skill test—like shooting a lay-up and free-throw.

So now, PE class is over. We’ve worked up quite a sweat. We run to the locker room (no walking allowed). We go to our baskets, unlock them and peel off our sweaty gym clothes. Now there is something like 40 or 50 naked young sweaty men trying to get into the shower.

This was the first time I had ever seen so many guys without clothes on—or any for that matter. There were a number like me—scrawny, pubescent boys, tanned from the summer just over but except for our heads, hairless. There were the 8th graders with hairy pits and "other" places. And then there were the 9th graders. Men. Some of them like Keith Robbins hairy all over. I won’t even broach the topic of the differences in “endowment” between 12 year olds and 14 year olds. Some of the kids gaped and held back. A couple of others tried to avoid showering but succumbed to the bluster of Coaches Solomon and Escobar. “Come on girl, get in and out. Everyone shower down.”

Now to bring this tale to a close, I’ve long thought that there was genius to this whole PE class thing. It was physical activity which helped get many into shape and some of us into better shape. Some of the boys had never done anything physical or athletic in their life. And it was a great equalizer. Getting sweaty in gym clothes and then naked has a way of erasing a lot of perceived status. And, everyone has a body—in junior high our bodies are going through a lot of changes—this is normal and natural. I like to think that this was just as much a goal of the class as the actual physical education.

Kids today don’t seem to have this same kind of experience. Physical education has been reduced and in some districts eliminated. Kids don’t get the level of physical activity and there certainly isn’t much expectation on them to exercise at school. That’s too bad because there’s a lot more to be learned in PE than the rules of a sport. Like, what a rungi schmelli is.