There is an excellent book called Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs which tells the story of a difficult and bizarre childhood and how the events of growing up shaped the future. The entertaining story and title implies the danger inherent in running with scissors. Such is how I feel running with Derek.
A friend of my youngest son, Derek, age 24, recently took a job in Abilene and asked if he could stay with us a few weeks while he looks for an apartment and gets his finances in order. Happy to oblige, Derek moved into our guest bedroom and became part of our family. He is a pleasant young man, recently graduated from college, has a strong work ethic, a pleasant personality, and is committed to excellence in everything he does. In both high school and college, he ran cross-country and was considered a star on the team. He runs with style and grace, seemingly exerting little effort as he puts on mile after mile. He embraces running and exercise with euphoria and seeks the runners "high" that comes with comfort in the pain. He is a natural and a joy to watch whether down the road or running through a park. Like all fine athletes, he seems born to exercise and wastes little motion in his efforts. His limbs and torso appear totally relaxed and running for him looks as comfortable as the rest of us look in an easy chair.
So why am I trying to run with Derek in the mornings? It is like playing basketball with Kobe Bryant or writing music with Mozart or sharing comedy with Jim Gaffigan or preaching alongside Billy Graham. Each morning at about 6:15 we take off together, me an overweight, 55 year old bald man who is on blood pressure medication and a blood thinner, and Derek the Gazelle. Yet 3 miles is not that long, surely this will not be a problem.
We start together in a fairly slow, loping stride that seems to increase in velocity every few feet. Soon I am breathing hard and wondering about my own wisdom in running with Derek. Not intending to push me at all, Derek simply runs the way he naturally feels. In my immature effort to keep up, I find myself nearing the breaking point. We are halfway through the run and my chest is heaving, my legs aching, and the sweat threatens to blur my vision. But wait...up ahead...a stopping place. Yes, I am greatly relieved to find a necessary facility for a brief break.
Wanting to extend the break but knowing I don't have much of an excuse, we once again take off. Soon a fast pace, hard breathing, sore legs, misery compounded upon misery. We continue running and he leaves me, impatiently needing to run faster and further. I remind myself that slow and steady wins the race. What race? I am not racing anybody and refuse to give in to the temptation to compete with the lanky 24 year old.
Yet I look ahead and see him running gracefully toward the final goal...home. I keep plugging away and finally put on some serious speed, at least for me, and sprint toward home. Rounding the corner, he is waiting with a smile on his face. We high five and the run is over but not my anger. But is it really anger and if it is anger, to whom is it directed? Myself? Mostly. Derek? Not really. My age and my lack of athleticism? Perhaps.
No I am not really angry at all, just frustrated that I work so hard for such little gain. Going back in the house, I am drenched with sweat, gasping for air, can barely make it up the stairs, and the slightest effort even to turn on the shower hurts. Shower, shave, get dressed and I go downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and breakfast. Couple of eggs later and I am still sweating a little. But the euphoria of the hard run is starting to set in. Feeling happy, relaxed, and confident, I head to work. Running with Derek is a challenge to be sure and I just feel like grabbing him and saying, "I am 55, you are 24, go easy on me!" But I also want to thank him for making me stronger, healthier, and making me realize I can always go faster and further with effort. Still...hard to do but I suppose it is good for me!
