The storm hit without warning. The morning had been warm, oppressively warm, as it had been for the past several days, with temperatures hovering near 90 degrees Fahrenheit and precious little shade. Even at noon the skies had been clear. And then, as if some imaginary switch got flipped, the skies darkened and an ominous crack of thunder shook the high heavens.
Soon, rain was falling — a cold, penetrating rain that seeped through my thin windbreaker and quickly soaked my skin. I didn’t have the right gear, and it was my own fault. How could I be so stupid? Temperatures in Central Asia have been known to fluctuate by up to 75 degrees in a single hour, and I knew this. And here, in the mountain passes of Kyrgyzstan, I was warned that storms could materialize quickly on otherwise warm and sunny days. This was such a day.
The higher I climbed up the pass, the colder the rain became. I tried moving as quickly as possible — in an effort to generate more internal body heat — but when the rain turned to frozen crystals of hail it became a losing battle. No matter how quickly I moved valuable body heat was being drained faster than it could be generated. I began shivering, the early signs of hypothermia, so I clenched my arms in front of my chest for warmth and protection, and I wrapped the ends of my lightweight jacket over my fingers.
But it was no use; the elements were too much. Even with my arms cinched tightly to my chest and my fingers hidden, the cold and wet were overpowering. I’d gotten myself into a bad situation and there were no clear solutions on how to get out of it. But I knew stopping would only make things worse. So I kept going.
Off in the distance, I spotted a small billow of smoke rising through the raindrops. As I drew nearer, I could see that the smoke was emanating from a small structure of some sort. Closer I drew, trying to better discern what it was. By now my teeth were chattering and my entire body was drenched, from soggy hair to sopping wet feet. I came alongside the structure and stopped, my knees knocking together.
Looking down I could see there was a family standing on the porch. They were looking up at me from under the protection of a tin awning, staring. I stood shivering and looked at them. In that moment of silence a universal conversation took place; we communicated without words and I knew what to do.
Slowly I made my way toward them. I felt welcomed somehow, like a stray dog finding a loving home. As I drew nearer, one of the children, a little boy, came out to greet me. He held out his tiny little hand for me to hold. I unclenched my arms and peeled back the sleeve of my jacket to reveal my fingers. They were blue.
“Salam,” I managed to say (hello). It was one of the few words I knew in Kyrgyz. They all chuckled. I’m sure I mispronounced it.
The little boy took my hand and led me inside their house, their yurt. The yurt was warm inside, and dry, and smelled earthy and alive, like a fresh garden. The family came in behind us and quietly went about their business. Soon a cup of warm tea was placed in my hands and the man, I presume the father, draped a blanket over my shoulders. I sipped the tea. “Mmm…” I sighed. It was warm and comforting. The children smiled.
There were four of them, three boys and a girl. They all sat attentively looking at me. It wasn’t awkward, though. The silence was somehow bridging the distance between us, between our separate worlds. There was no need to say anything; they wouldn’t understand English, and besides, most communication is nonverbal anyway.
As the feeling finally came back to my fingers, I decided to try and explain why this alien figure had been ambling past their house. They’d probably met very few foreigners in their time, and certainly no runners. I must have appeared as a strange caricature, an apparition clad in futuristic sportswear and strange cushy shoes.
I began miming my appreciation for the cup of warm tea with a simple thumbs-up. They smiled and nodded in approval. Thumbs-up is a universal symbol, I’ve learned. Next, I held up my hand palm side down and began waving my two big fingers back and forth in alternating succession, hoping to represent two legs running. They looked a little puzzled. Then I spoke.
“Tashkent… Bishkek… Almaty.” Now they looked really confused.
Nevertheless, the father seemed to be processing what I’d said. He pointed to me as if to ask, “You? You did this?”
I nodded my head, “Yes, yes,” and began slowly running in place, simultaneously jutting my legs up and down and swinging my arms.
Now they all seemed to understand the gist of my message and stared in amazement. The three cities I had mentioned were the capitals of Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. They knew this. They also seemed to know that hundreds of miles separated the three, and I was indicating that I was covering this distance on foot, running. The path I was following was the ancient Silk Road, one that nomadic peoples have traveled for thousands of years.
Sipping more tea, the one emotion I didn’t detect in their stares was, “Why?” Why would anyone do such a thing? Perhaps the nomadic spirit was part of their DNA and the idea of wandering the land didn’t seem entirely foreign to them. We just smiled at each other and there seemed to be an acceptance of my peripatetic roaming as nothing too unusual.
In time the patter of rain began to abate. I finished my second cup of tea and felt the urge to continue onward; there were still many miles left to cover. They sensed my intentions and assembled to walk me out the entrance. “Rakhmat saga,” I said (thank you). It was the only other phrase I knew in Kyrgyz. Once again they chuckled, and once again I was sure I’d mispronounced it.
The children followed me from their home up to the roadside. We shook hands, their eyes squarely meeting mine. I nodded and grinned, and began to run. They waved, saying nothing. A little ways up the road I turned back. They were still standing there, watching me, observing; they weren’t giggling or running around chasing each other, just quietly watching me run off into the distance, a man slowly becoming a stick figure, and then a stick figure slowly dissipating into nothingness over the horizon. They just watched me go.
I didn’t know the word for goodbye in Kyrgyz. It was just as well; they’ve never left me. That family and those children live on within me, to this day. And I hope that a little part of me lives on within them. Running had brought us together; running had made this beautiful encounter possible; running had created this good.
As I reflect on my life as a runner, running has created much good. I have run for charity, for fitness, for friendship and camaraderie, and I have run to unite people. Running and walking have a profound power in this way. The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other can transform individuals; it can transform lives. Running and walking can hurt — running a marathon or walking your first 5K isn’t painless — but they can also heal.
The stories you are about to read are a testament to the profound goodness running and walking can bring about. You will read of courageous acts by people who have overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles and prevailed against all odds. You’ll read about how getting out there — and moving your body — creates camaraderie, confidence… and calm. We have countless stories from people who found that running (or walking) helped them overcome not only the obvious issues, like obesity or lack of fitness, but also stress, depression, lack of confidence, and loneliness. You’ll read about parents who used running to bond with their children, couples who ran together and repaired their marriages, and people who ran their way right out of jobs they didn’t like and into new careers that stoked their passion for life.
Some of these stories are rather miraculous, too. We start the book with a story by Sara Etgen-Baker, who decided to confront her poor eating habits and her lack of fitness by establishing a walking routine. She could only walk 15 minutes initially, but over two years she transformed herself from an unhealthy 300-pound woman to a 130-pound runner. As if that weren’t enough, Sara was then chosen from hundreds of thousands of applicants to be a support runner for the 2002 Olympic Torch Relay. The miracle continued when one of the official torchbearers had to drop out and Sara was randomly selected as a replacement and ran the Olympic flame through Santa Fe, New Mexico on its way to the games in Salt Lake City.
The miracles of resilience and fortitude abound in these pages. Brian Reynolds, for example, lost both his lower legs at age four but became an athlete anyway. He opens his story as a grown man at the 2018 Chicago Marathon, where he’s trying, for the fifth time, to complete the 26.2 miles. Brian runs on blades, and everything’s going great until Mile 22 when his right blade gets caught in a pothole and is torn off his leg. He hits his head, but despite his dizziness when some spectators help him to his “feet,” he pulls that blade back on and completes the race, in agony. And you know what? He set a new double amputee world record that day.
I’d venture to say that virtually every story in this collection involves the miracles that come to those who get out there and run or walk their way through our beautiful world. Peter Neiger, for example, returned from serving in Afghanistan and found himself reliving his missions there through recurring nightmares for the next five years. In his dreams he was always running away from terrifying danger. During the day, however, Peter was far from a runner. He was out of shape and had gained 60 pounds since he came back from his tour of duty. Finally a friend convinced him to start running, promising it would help. Peter was skeptical but he bought a pair of running shoes and went for a run. That night, he collapsed into his bed, and the nightmares didn’t come. He’s run hundreds of miles since then, and he reports that his dreams are happy now.
We titled this book “Running for Good” for a special reason — because we’re not only showing you how you can use running for the good of your physical and mental health, but also because running (and walking) are so intertwined with doing good through races that benefit nonprofits. You’ll find that a large percentage of the contributors to this book participate in anything from 5Ks to 100-mile ultramarathons to raise money for various causes. Kristin Knott writes that she was overcome with emotion after nine of her friends joined her in Toronto for a two-day walk to raise money for The Princess Margaret Cancer Foundation. Kristin was in the middle of her breast cancer treatment at that time and was going in for surgery just weeks later. But the support that she felt during that walk was so empowering that she was giddy by the end of it. Raising money to support good causes through running or walking not only does us good, but it challenges us to be the very best we can be.
And that’s how I feel about running overall. It challenges everyone. It’s the great unifier. It bridges differences, and it’s a universal language. Since the days of ancient Greece, mankind has understood the significance of running and what it means to be a runner. It’s the ultimate test for us, and it brings out the best in everyone — including those four adorable children standing in front of their yurt in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan.
I’m so proud of the stories we have for you in these pages. I worked with Chicken Soup for the Soul’s editor-in-chief Amy Newmark to provide you with motivation and inspiration and plenty of “howto’s” — while still entertaining you. I’m sure you’ll find yourself laughing at times, getting teary-eyed at times, and calling someone to share the stories that you think will resonate with them. I’m absolutely certain you’ll find yourself lacing up those running shoes with new enthusiasm and resolve, whether you’re an aspiring 5K walker, a marathoner, or a crazy ultramarathoner like me.
Happy reading… and I’ll see you out there!
— Dean Karnazes —
March 24, 2019