I want to run every race with a big heart.
~Ryan Hall
In my mid-thirties, I moved to Seattle in search of a better career opportunity. I was working part-time for a friend and living just over a mile from Green Lake Park. In the afternoons, I often jogged at the park in preparation for the Trail’s End Marathon in Seaside, Oregon.
On a beautiful mid-week afternoon in April 1982, I planned on doing four laps on the 2.8 miles of paved path that circled the park’s lake. Counting the short jog to and from the park, I figured the workout to be 14 miles.
I had nearly reached the park’s path when two men suddenly approached me from a nearby bench. The man closest to me reached out his arm, beckoning me to stop. He asked quickly, “Young man, would you be able to assist us?” At first glance, the guy seemed harmless enough. He was probably in his early sixties, heavyset, pleasant-looking and dressed in a sweater, slacks and street shoes. His partner, maybe 50ish, had an athletic build and was wearing jogging attire.
My defensive mechanisms turned from warm to red alert. There was never a day when “helping strangers” appeared on my to-do list. In fact, I was adept at avoiding situations where a stranger might ask for my help. I had no desire to be put in a precarious position.
“What is it?” I snapped while taking a break.
“Are you going to jog around the lake?” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded in as gruff a tone as I could muster.
Then he quickly took hold of his partner’s arm and brought him closer to me. “Would you mind if my friend here jogs along with you?” This encounter had taken about 10 seconds. Why then did this rather harmless request not only intimidate me, but put me in full-flight mode? I couldn’t help thinking of the disdain my friends and I held for singles who wanted to join our group on the golf course. There was usually a reason they were by themselves, and we were not about to find out what that reason was. “What do you mean, jog with me?” I asked cautiously.
He replied, “Jerry likes to jog around the lake but needs someone’s help.”
“Why is that?” I shot back.
“He’s blind.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. While jogging, they wanted me to guide him all around that lake? It was a gorgeous day. The path was teeming with people, many with leashed dogs, some with baby carriages, all with no concern for my predicament.
On second thought, I figured it wouldn’t kill me to delve a little deeper into this request. Turning my attention to Jerry, I inquired, “You want to go jogging?”
Jerry replied, “I do. Will you help me?”
“I guess so, but I don’t know how this can work.”
He smiled and said, “Oh, it’s quite simple really. I have a cord that attaches to our wrists.” With that, he showed me a rubber cord he was carrying. The cord was about 3/8 of an inch in diameter with loops at both ends. Each loop was big enough to just put a hand through. The cord’s length, including the two loops, couldn’t have been 16 inches.
After a brief introduction, Jerry asked which of my wrists I preferred his cord be attached. Giving his question a moment’s thought, I felt, since I was right-handed, it might be better to have the cord on my right wrist. I took one end of the cord and slipped the loop over my hand onto my wrist. He attached the other loop over his left hand and onto his wrist. We were tethered.
Jerry was ready to hit the path, but I was not. Before that moment, I could not recall speaking to a blind person, let alone jogging three miles fastened to one. Stalling, I asked Jerry, “What pace would you like to go?”
He said quickly, “Doesn’t matter. Whatever pace you choose will be fine.” After a couple more of my foolish questions, I figured we might as well get this herky-jerky show on the road.
The first few slow strides went well enough. I figured I might have to give him a play by play of what was happening, but he didn’t seem concerned about anything. Whereas I was uptight about our precarious venture, he appeared confident and relaxed. After 100 yards, I was surprised to discover we were jogging along smoothly. Gradually, I picked up the pace, and again we were stride for stride. If I hadn’t been so self-conscious, I may have forgotten we were tethered. Within a half-mile, I realized this was not Jerry’s first rodeo. This man was an extraordinarily gifted athlete. Not once had the short cord tightened as he stayed about eight inches from my right wrist and three to four inches behind me.
Five minutes into our jog, I lost any ambivalence I had about guiding Jerry. He was fearless, and judging from his demeanor, he was enjoying himself. We began to chat freely. I wish I could remember specifics of his life, but I cannot. I do remember he said he came to Green Lake almost daily during the spring and summer. He said that someone they knew was often available to jog with him. Days like today when they asked for assistance were infrequent.
We cruised around the lake. My only concern was keeping three feet of space open on my right. The 25-minute jog through and around the maze of people went without a hitch. While dropping Jerry off with his friend, I commented on what a terrific experience the jog was for me. They seemed to appreciate my having said that. They thanked me for helping and, with that, we bid adieu. Then I turned back to the path, three laps to go.
That jog with Jerry was over 36 years ago. Now, I’m five years retired from a 31-year career in the newspaper industry. In retirement, I run nearly daily. Within my age group, I compete in anything from 5Ks to marathons. Sometimes, during an arduous training run, I remember Jerry. The man displayed courage, enthusiasm and a zest for life I have rarely encountered. Little did I know that during one lap around the lake, a man with a disability would show me life as it should be lived. I am a better person having briefly met Jerry. The rhythm of his footsteps will linger forever in my mind.
— Kenneth Heckard —