SEVENTEEN

The Parks Half Marathon is a delightful, point-to-point race that starts in a distant suburb of D.C., winds through tree-covered asphalt trails, and ends up in Bethesda, not far from where I live. Even when I was barely running, I would make it out to the Parks each September.

Linda would always arise with me and drive toward the starting line in Rockville, Maryland. We would grab coffee, a cinnamon roll, and a Diet Coke on the way, and then I’d hop out to join the crowd of runners while she drove back home to sleep another hour before heading to the finish to cheer me on. This year, however, she was heading home to pick up Ali, and they were going to see the grandparents in New Jersey.

“Are you certain you don’t need me to give you a ride when you’re done?” she asked as I stepped out of the car.

“No, no, no. You’ve seen my mileage. This will be a piece of cake.”

“That’s what has me worried. You’ve been stacking up so many miles that I’m wondering if you’re going to crash and burn. Be careful.”

“I’m ready to rumble. See you later tonight. Drive safely!”

I fell in with the stream of others trotting to the starting line on a narrow road beneath a Metro train overpass. The crowd is always friendly at this race, and I nodded to everyone who looked even slightly familiar.

I felt stronger than I ever had before. My absurd level of training had reduced the idea of a half marathon to nothing, and I was eager to start. The waves of faster runners started releasing. I positioned myself well back in the corrals, just as I had in Atlanta with Ronnie, to avoid being sucked into the vortex too swiftly.

“How’s it going?” I asked a nervous-looking young guy in a bright blue top as we awaited our start.

“Great,” he said, as if he did not believe it. “It’s my first half marathon.”

“You look good,” I told him. “Like you’re ready for it.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’ve been training hard.”

This is a typical exchange near the back of the pack, and I was sympathetic to his jitters. As your miles soar, it’s easy to forget what a huge accomplishment three, six, or ten miles can be to a new runner and how a half marathon can seem as inaccessible as the moon. Yet here I was, among men and women who were jumbles of nerves, and it’s almost a religious tenet of running that better runners encourage others along.

“Like I said,” I repeated to the kid as our wave made it to the starting mat, “you look great. What’s your name?”

“Brad. I’m from Alexandria.”

I could barely hear him over an announcer at the line bellowing through a loudspeaker. It would be worth the effort just to run away from that noise.

“I’m Tom. I’m from here. See you at the finish line!”

And our wave was off and running.

The first couple of miles were on a wide-open thoroughfare with slightly rolling hills. Some of the runners were already bitching over the elevation changes, but after all I’d been through, it felt like nothing. By the time we turned into the woods, which made up most of the course, I was settling into a smooth rhythm.

The hills came quicker now, and the trail was tighter, but my stride stayed solid. I would pick out a runner of similar speed and tuck in behind him, drafting as he cut the humid air. After a while, I would pull out, pass, and start hunting down my next windbreaker. It is an effective way to run if you can pull it off. You conserve energy while simultaneously pushing yourself to keep the pace, and on this morning, it was working like a charm.

Eventually I wound up alongside a guy a little younger, who kept slipping sidelong glances.

“How’s it going?” he said. “You’re the guy on the news, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Tom.”

“Daniel. I’m from Baltimore.”

This happens from time to time during races. People recognize me from CNN and want to say hi or discuss the news. Some folks in highly public jobs dislike being spotted in their off-time. I’ve never minded, and I try to take a few moments. In any event, I backed off to visit and save my legs for the end.

We talked for a few miles about the morning, the crowd, the racecourse, and other races we’d run. He’d done the Baltimore Marathon and thought it was terrific. I told him I would take on the Marine Corps Marathon in a few weeks.

“Now that’s a great race,” he said. “Big crowds, wonderful support, and the medal is nice.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said. It was pleasant enough, but soon I had rested plenty and I started stepping up the pace. At first it was nearly imperceptible, but after a half mile Daniel was sucking air.

“I think you better go on without me,” he said. It is the protocol of runners. Don’t make someone ask to leave you. If you can’t keep up, let them go with your blessing.

“Thanks, pal,” I said. “Nice running with you. See you later.”

We were in the final four miles and my time was looking better than ever before for the Parks. My speed was increasing, and I still felt as if I’d just started. Sweeping into the long straightaway to the finish, I was flying.

The final section cut through a tunnel. I emerged to a cheering crowd and the finish line ahead. I did not slow a step. The race had never been easier. I blew through the finish, ate a banana in the recovery tent, and with my number still flapping, I started the six miles home. On the way, I met another couple also running with their race numbers. We were so far from the course that we all knew that we were stacking up serious miles. The young woman looked my way and raised her fist.

“Yay, overachievers!” she shouted.

I waved back. Damn right.

A couple of weeks later, I flew to Atlanta to see my own overachiever. Ronnie had already told me about her reduced running schedule, but she was still cranking down a few miles. Her classes in the aerospace department, arguably the best in the world, demanded extraordinary amounts of discipline and time, and she had found that running kept her energy up and her mind sharp. She had asked me to come down for an October half marathon as I hit the home stretch to Stone Mill.

“How did you find time to do this?” I asked as we took off with a few thousand runners, working our way through a northern suburb. The morning was cold and clear, the crowd happy.

“I’ve been much better at prioritizing things ever since the marathon, and I don’t just mean schoolwork. Everything. I don’t throw away time anymore. If I really want to do something, I find a way to fit it in. How about you?”

“Work has been a bear lately. Seems like I’m juggling multiple stories every day. Ali’s homework is keeping her busy. Your mom is tending to a million different things, as usual. And of course, my mileage is off the hook.” She listened as I recounted all the trails and roads and talked about running in the dark and rain. I carried on about sports drinks, energy bars, blisters, shoes, and the cycle of fatigue and recovery.

“That’s great,” she said after a while, “but what about everything else? I mean, I’m working hard down here, but I’m still making time for my friends. We’ve gone hiking. I’ve been to the beach. We go out for brunch. I don’t have time for much outside my studies, but I fit in some other things because I think I need to. You still have to do things for fun.”

Her words brought to mind a disquieting fact: I had reached the point where I’d given up almost everything except running. I could scarcely recall the last time I’d sat at the piano, although both girls had warm childhood memories of falling asleep as I played far into the night. My guitars were collecting dust, and no doubt hideously out of tune. I touched my left thumb against my fingertips and found them soft, no longer firm and ready to push the strings against the frets as they had been for thirty years. My art supplies sat unused in the closet, and it had been months since Linda had found one of my drawings absently left on the coffee table. I used to do them all the time: little pictures of the dog, or her, or a plant, or a banana. Reading had been the most persistent passion of my life. As a boy in Illinois, I pedaled my bicycle three miles to the town library to check out books, and I was so eager to plunge into them that on the straight farm roads home I would ride with no hands, reading in transit. I had not glanced at my bedside stack of books in weeks.

I had made a conscious decision that running would trump every other hobby or pastime until Stone Mill was done. Ronnie’s comments, however, reminded me of how much I was giving up. And how much I missed it.

“You know,” she said, “there is such a thing as pushing too hard. You can go a lot farther than you think sometimes, but there are still limits. We’re studying that in one of my classes. See, you can put the biggest engine you want into a rocket, but if the rest of the spacecraft can’t handle all that energy, it’s going to blow to pieces. You’ve got to have balance. I realized after I finished the marathon that running one is not so tough. Doing it without letting the rest of your life fall apart is the challenge.”

This is a thought that is often overlooked in all the inspirational running books and websites. Plenty of writers talk about mind over matter and about runners “willing” themselves to the finish line, but precious few address the possibility that maybe doggedly chasing a goal is not enough. We ran on through manicured neighborhoods where people stood in their robes watching with beagles on leashes and newspapers under their arms.

“You know,” I said after a while, “I’m still barely covering enough training distance for the race.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m sort of at the minimum level for even attempting a race like this, and I’m nervous about it.”

“Being nervous is okay,” she said. “That’s something else I learned. After all, what’s the worst thing that can happen?”

“I could keel over, roll into a stream, be washed out into the Atlantic, and never be heard from again.”

“So, would you be leaving a big inheritance for me and Ali?”

“Not so much.”

“How about just for me?”

“No, not even that much.”

“Then that would be tragic.” She smiled. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll work it all out.”

I knew now that she was talking about a lot more than running, and I wondered if this was really why she wanted me to come to Atlanta. In any event, we loosened up then and joked our way through the rest of the run, soaking up the warming sun and the scenery. I thought about how much I enjoyed being with her. After we collected our medals and performed our ceremonial swap, we hopped in the rental car and made our way back to Georgia Tech. I grabbed my things for the airport.

“Listen, Dad,” Ronnie said at the car window, “just do your best and have fun. You have prepared for this as much as you can under the circumstances of your life. Mom, Ali, and I all know how hard you’ve worked for this and what it means to you. Whether you finish or not, enjoy the journey. We’ll be with you every step.”

We hugged, I drove away, and shortly I was winging over the Eastern Seaboard back to D.C. with only a couple of tests remaining before what I imagined would be the race—or wreck—of a lifetime.