Three miles, three times per week - that was plenty.
I wore a headband to keep long hair out of my eyes and tried hard to match my knee-high socks with my cotton shorts. And as I said in an earlier post “it wasn’t a good look for me.”
However, 21 years later, I ran my first marathon and called myself a real runner.
“Excuse me, real runner on your left,” I’d say, as I approached pedestrians from behind.
Though clothing styles changed and my collection headbands never left my sock drawer (even though the paisley one looked pretty slick) I kept one habit from my past while training for and completing my first marathon in 1995: I asked my oldest son to join me.
At age three and a half David was a tireless, uncomplaining runner and as he matured he developed into a sub-three-hour marathoner. My own goal, to break four hours, would be a walk in the park for him.
We entered different events on race day and after my son finished his 10 K he ran the marathon course backwards, looking for me in the groups of runners he quickly past.
I recalled our meeting in a short book (Twenty-Six Point Two) written in 1996:
May 7, 1995, Mile 22, Toronto Marathon; I was looking desperately for a place to pee.
My stride still seemed quite strong, but I was certain I wasn’t going to finish my first marathon without a bathroom break. As I turned the corner from Danforth Avenue onto Carlaw, I saw a portable-john and my son David at the same time.
“How are you doing Dad?” he asked with a grin.
“Gotta pee,” I replied. I slammed the door abruptly behind me. No time to talk. Runners have priorities.
Too abrupt?
["Two miles to go": photo by PAHarrison]
For sure.
But trust me. Had the Queen of England been sitting inside the john I would have forced her to leave.
David and I joined forces shortly thereafter and the last four miles are a big and happy part of our running history together. I couldn’t have finished without him.
Well, maybe I could have, but it wouldn’t have been as memorable.
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