When I was about 18 years old, I began jogging. If asked to spontaneously say at what age I'd begun, I would have probably said earlier, like when I was still in high school. However, given time to think, I can remember meeting my dad at the high school track in the first minutes of daylight dressed in corduroy pants and brown suede boots, which, although I'm sure they had a proper commercial name, I called my "shit-kickers." I called them that because my boyfriend (who is now my husband), who bought them for me, had a pair just like them, and that's what he called his. We thought it was cute that, although mine were a respectable size 8, they appeared absolutely tiny beside his size 12's.
But I digress. I do that a lot...Anyway, that's how I know I was at least 18 when I gave in to my dad's prodding that I should begin running (or jogging, as I called it then) in order to lead a long and healthy life -- Prior to dating Greg (which was after high school graduation), I never owned a pair of shit-kickers. (This might be a good time to point out that shit-kickers are not really appropriate for running long distances; but they were fine that spring morning for a 1/4-mile jog around the dirt track with my dad.)
Perhaps it was the caution-to-the wind feeling I got from running in inappropriate footwear. It might have been the comfortable sound of corduroy rubbing against corduroy (my thighs?) But I suspect it was the knowledge of how happy my dad was to have me there, puffing along beside him as the sky began to lighten, that made me, from that day forward, a Jogger.
It wasn't too long after that first morning with Dad that I purchased an "official" pair of running shoes, although that was just a baby step. (It would be months before I would advance into the world of brand names, poring over advertisements and magazine articles, determined to find the pair that was best suited for me and my feet. I wasn't there yet.) My first pair of athletic shoes (ever, unless you count the flat white Keds I'd worn from time to time as a child) was a pair of grass green, faux-suede Sears beauties, purchased directly from the catalog. They fit perfectly, and I thought they were fabulous -- especially after I found some knee-high tube socks with the same green stripe around the calf! Beyond that, it didn't even matter if my other articles of running garb matched, or even if they fit me!
I remember running regularly with Dad at the track that spring. He had to get up before dawn to do his janitor job, which he'd taken on to supplement his "real" job at Detroit Edison, where he worked from the time he was in his early 20's until he retired in his early 60's. Even though Mom also worked full time, five (and then six) kids kept the bread spread pretty thinly! (See, I told you I digress a lot.) Anyway, I would set the alarm, getting up around 5:00, to walk the half-mile to the old school, where Dad would be waiting for me, having cleaned a couple of office buildings or something. As we jogged, he'd talk about everything he'd learned from Dr. Cooper's book about aerobics and anaerobics. I remember being annoyed, because it was difficult to understand what he was saying,. Running made him breathless, choking off his words, and I kept wishing he'd just be quiet and run. Of course I'd read Dr. Cooper's book myself, at his suggestion, so why did he have to keep pounding it in? That was Dad, though. And I sure do miss him in all his wisdom now.
Once the jogging bug really took hold of me, I was ready to push myself, going farther, setting goals, keeping records. I remember reading that it was ok to run during a pregnancy if you were already a regular runner, which I was. But I just couldn't do it. I was too self-conscious to put my blimp-like body out on the road. And then of course running while nursing a baby was unimaginable to me. So I took a couple years off when my daughter was born. I missed it, though. Dad just kept on running.
I never ran regularly with my dad again, but returned to it myself with a vengeance when my daughter was about two; by the time she was three, I felt I was ready for my first roadrace. I remember telling Dad that I was going to enter the Lapeer Days 10k. He was pretty excited for me. I was excited, too, of course. So much so that although I'd probably never trained at more than a 10-minute-mile pace, I started at the front of the pack (in my total ignorance) and was forced to finish my first mile in about 7 minutes -- and thereafter, forced to walk several times because I'd spent everything I'd had early on! Dad wasn't disappointed, though. He just encouraged me to remember what I'd learned and to keep on trying. (Thanks, Dad. I never lined up at the front again!)
Soon I talked Dad into entering a 10k with me. He had just turned 50, and since it was a small, rural race, he was the oldest person running that day. Have you guessed? He won a trophy for first place in his age group! He was so proud. He got a t-shirt, of course -- that was the best part of entering those races -- the t-shirt. Even though it soon became too tight for him, I know he kept it for years. Then it probably found its way into a charity bin -- the same thing that eventually happened to my rather impressive collection.
That was in the late 70's. I kept running, but it wasn't long before Dad switched to walking. First race-walking, then just brisk walking. (His race-walking expertise served me well when I became pregnant again at the age of 34. Somehow it seemed much less repugnant to me to swing my belly from side to side than it would have been to jostle it up and down. Thanks again, Dad.) I resumed running when my son was about two.
Some time in the early 80's, Dad began keeping a "log." I'm pleased to say that his first entries were made in an official spiral-bound Frank Shorter Runner's Log that I'd bought for him. When that was full, he continued keeping his records, sometimes in a regular day book, and occasionally in another "runner's" version, with spaces for comments on weight, diet and the weather. For nearly 20 years he kept his logs! I remember once inwardly scoffing (what a bitch I was) when he told me he'd been saving them all, thinking that someday, after he was gone, us kids might like to look at them. (I'm so sorry, Dad. Those logs are among of my dearest treasures now. I cherish every mark made by your hand. I especially love the entries made when we were able to run or walk together. Like, "Kate here [on a visit from NC]. Ran with Kate today."
So let's see...For the better part of 35 years I was a Jogger (who eventually came to think of myself a Runner). I ran dozens of roadraces -- 10ks, 5ks, a half-marathon -- and then one week before my 30th birthday I ran a marathon. What a momentous day that was. It took me 4 hours and 35 minutes, but I ran every step of it! (That is the longest I've ever spent doing one single activity -- except perhaps sleeping -- in my life.) I know Dad did the distance with me, vicariously, as he waited at home for me to arrive victorious. (More likely, waiting to see if I would survive. I did, of course, but just barely.)
It was years later -- after we'd moved to North Carolina -- that I thought about trying another marathon. I made an attempt, but during a 12-mile training run my left leg suddenly felt as though someone had clamped a vice around my thigh, and I felt lucky to be able to walk the rest of the way home. That was the day I decided one marathon was probably good for me. In fact, I may have been finished with roadraces entirely by then. I cannot even remember the last one I entered, although I know there were more than a few in Greensboro.
Somewhere along the way, my husband became a Runner. I'm thrilled and grateful that he regularly does something that's so good for him. He's very goal-oriented -- about everything, not just running -- and he has a good number of races behind him now, too. I'm proud of him, but I don't tell him often. I'm just like that (a bitch), I guess. (Ah, another digression.)
Now, facing my 56th birthday in a couple of weeks, I am officially neither a "Runner" nor a "Jogger." For one day I was a "Walker Who Occasionally Jogs," having finally conceded the "Runner Who Has to Stop and Walk" title. Since then, I have happily become a "Walker." Sometimes. If the weather's nice and I feel like it...
But I digress. I do that a lot...Anyway, that's how I know I was at least 18 when I gave in to my dad's prodding that I should begin running (or jogging, as I called it then) in order to lead a long and healthy life -- Prior to dating Greg (which was after high school graduation), I never owned a pair of shit-kickers. (This might be a good time to point out that shit-kickers are not really appropriate for running long distances; but they were fine that spring morning for a 1/4-mile jog around the dirt track with my dad.)
Perhaps it was the caution-to-the wind feeling I got from running in inappropriate footwear. It might have been the comfortable sound of corduroy rubbing against corduroy (my thighs?) But I suspect it was the knowledge of how happy my dad was to have me there, puffing along beside him as the sky began to lighten, that made me, from that day forward, a Jogger.
It wasn't too long after that first morning with Dad that I purchased an "official" pair of running shoes, although that was just a baby step. (It would be months before I would advance into the world of brand names, poring over advertisements and magazine articles, determined to find the pair that was best suited for me and my feet. I wasn't there yet.) My first pair of athletic shoes (ever, unless you count the flat white Keds I'd worn from time to time as a child) was a pair of grass green, faux-suede Sears beauties, purchased directly from the catalog. They fit perfectly, and I thought they were fabulous -- especially after I found some knee-high tube socks with the same green stripe around the calf! Beyond that, it didn't even matter if my other articles of running garb matched, or even if they fit me!
I remember running regularly with Dad at the track that spring. He had to get up before dawn to do his janitor job, which he'd taken on to supplement his "real" job at Detroit Edison, where he worked from the time he was in his early 20's until he retired in his early 60's. Even though Mom also worked full time, five (and then six) kids kept the bread spread pretty thinly! (See, I told you I digress a lot.) Anyway, I would set the alarm, getting up around 5:00, to walk the half-mile to the old school, where Dad would be waiting for me, having cleaned a couple of office buildings or something. As we jogged, he'd talk about everything he'd learned from Dr. Cooper's book about aerobics and anaerobics. I remember being annoyed, because it was difficult to understand what he was saying,. Running made him breathless, choking off his words, and I kept wishing he'd just be quiet and run. Of course I'd read Dr. Cooper's book myself, at his suggestion, so why did he have to keep pounding it in? That was Dad, though. And I sure do miss him in all his wisdom now.
Once the jogging bug really took hold of me, I was ready to push myself, going farther, setting goals, keeping records. I remember reading that it was ok to run during a pregnancy if you were already a regular runner, which I was. But I just couldn't do it. I was too self-conscious to put my blimp-like body out on the road. And then of course running while nursing a baby was unimaginable to me. So I took a couple years off when my daughter was born. I missed it, though. Dad just kept on running.
I never ran regularly with my dad again, but returned to it myself with a vengeance when my daughter was about two; by the time she was three, I felt I was ready for my first roadrace. I remember telling Dad that I was going to enter the Lapeer Days 10k. He was pretty excited for me. I was excited, too, of course. So much so that although I'd probably never trained at more than a 10-minute-mile pace, I started at the front of the pack (in my total ignorance) and was forced to finish my first mile in about 7 minutes -- and thereafter, forced to walk several times because I'd spent everything I'd had early on! Dad wasn't disappointed, though. He just encouraged me to remember what I'd learned and to keep on trying. (Thanks, Dad. I never lined up at the front again!)
Soon I talked Dad into entering a 10k with me. He had just turned 50, and since it was a small, rural race, he was the oldest person running that day. Have you guessed? He won a trophy for first place in his age group! He was so proud. He got a t-shirt, of course -- that was the best part of entering those races -- the t-shirt. Even though it soon became too tight for him, I know he kept it for years. Then it probably found its way into a charity bin -- the same thing that eventually happened to my rather impressive collection.
That was in the late 70's. I kept running, but it wasn't long before Dad switched to walking. First race-walking, then just brisk walking. (His race-walking expertise served me well when I became pregnant again at the age of 34. Somehow it seemed much less repugnant to me to swing my belly from side to side than it would have been to jostle it up and down. Thanks again, Dad.) I resumed running when my son was about two.
Some time in the early 80's, Dad began keeping a "log." I'm pleased to say that his first entries were made in an official spiral-bound Frank Shorter Runner's Log that I'd bought for him. When that was full, he continued keeping his records, sometimes in a regular day book, and occasionally in another "runner's" version, with spaces for comments on weight, diet and the weather. For nearly 20 years he kept his logs! I remember once inwardly scoffing (what a bitch I was) when he told me he'd been saving them all, thinking that someday, after he was gone, us kids might like to look at them. (I'm so sorry, Dad. Those logs are among of my dearest treasures now. I cherish every mark made by your hand. I especially love the entries made when we were able to run or walk together. Like, "Kate here [on a visit from NC]. Ran with Kate today."
So let's see...For the better part of 35 years I was a Jogger (who eventually came to think of myself a Runner). I ran dozens of roadraces -- 10ks, 5ks, a half-marathon -- and then one week before my 30th birthday I ran a marathon. What a momentous day that was. It took me 4 hours and 35 minutes, but I ran every step of it! (That is the longest I've ever spent doing one single activity -- except perhaps sleeping -- in my life.) I know Dad did the distance with me, vicariously, as he waited at home for me to arrive victorious. (More likely, waiting to see if I would survive. I did, of course, but just barely.)
It was years later -- after we'd moved to North Carolina -- that I thought about trying another marathon. I made an attempt, but during a 12-mile training run my left leg suddenly felt as though someone had clamped a vice around my thigh, and I felt lucky to be able to walk the rest of the way home. That was the day I decided one marathon was probably good for me. In fact, I may have been finished with roadraces entirely by then. I cannot even remember the last one I entered, although I know there were more than a few in Greensboro.
Somewhere along the way, my husband became a Runner. I'm thrilled and grateful that he regularly does something that's so good for him. He's very goal-oriented -- about everything, not just running -- and he has a good number of races behind him now, too. I'm proud of him, but I don't tell him often. I'm just like that (a bitch), I guess. (Ah, another digression.)
Now, facing my 56th birthday in a couple of weeks, I am officially neither a "Runner" nor a "Jogger." For one day I was a "Walker Who Occasionally Jogs," having finally conceded the "Runner Who Has to Stop and Walk" title. Since then, I have happily become a "Walker." Sometimes. If the weather's nice and I feel like it...
(Photo of Greg's feet by Kate Fischer, Christmas 2007)
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