On the Wings of Mercury

I must be dreaming.


The Suzuki motorcycle appears out of the darkness, racing past indistinguishable shapes and strangely colored lights.  As I look out the window of the car I am riding in, I see that the driver of the motorcycle isn't wearing a helmet, his head bobbing slightly with the rushing air.  Within seconds, I can see that his eyes are closed and his breathing measured as if in a deep sleep.  Miraculously, the motorcycle stays true, picking up speed as if shot from a cannon -- when suddenly a car materializes in the lane before him.  I look again and see that the cycle driver's eyes are still shut and now I can hear the driver snoring despite the rushing wind coming from my open window.


"Wake up!"  I shout at the cycle, as the car ahead appears closer.  As if distracted, the driver's head turns toward me, with eyes still shut.   I shout again, "Wake up!  Wake up!"


    


Suddenly, I open my eyes and find the alarm clock flashing 5:59 AM.  Within seconds the alarm goes off, reminding me that it's time to get out of bed and continue my training for a 5K run, which is part of the La Crosse Fitness Festival being held later this month.

 

As I slide my legs from bed, I rub my face and ask myself why I am doing this.  I am not a runner -- and to prove that point, my feet send a sharp jolt up to my knees before it retreats to a dull ache by the time it reaches my lower back.  At my current age of fifty-two, my dad was already suffering from his battle with Parkinson's Disease, so I am not able to draw on any rational memory of him getting up to run or ride a bike.  His early morning departures had more to do with fishing and hunting, a pastime I didn't share with my brother and sister.  I was always interested in basketball, football and maybe tennis, although the later was a pathetic attempt to keep up with my high school friends.

After dressing and eating a bite or two of a banana, I head out the back door and walk toward my destination, the football field at Central High School.  At 6:20, there isn't much traffic, but the occasional light in the windows of the houses I pass tells me that I'm not the only body stirring this morning.   And there's something new in the air today -- snow flakes, swirling around my head.

As I pass the tennis courts , I am trying to convince myself that this will all be over in 35 minutes -- long enough to run 6 laps (twice) around the track.  Today's snow is accompanied by a gusting wind that is blowing fairly hard from the Northeast.  As is usually the case, I have the whole track to myself.

As I start my first lap, my thoughts wander to a call I received four weeks ago from my good friend, Paul Mundinger, a fellow pentathalete (that's someone over 50 trying to be active), who convinced me to try running in this event, as a way to shake off winter and lose a few pounds.  "It will be fun and it's not too far to run.  5K is only three miles," he continued, "and we can run it together."

To understand the irony of that moment requires listening to him say "we can run it together" last fall when we were planning to run a 10K during Oktoberfest.   At the time, neither of us had run any distance for probably 25 years, during which we had gained quite a few pounds and a measurable amount of gray hair.  At best, Paul had probably run no further than to the bathroom after finishing another beer during a Badger football  game.  I -- at least -- could run up and down a basketball court.

By the time I am nearing the end of my first lap, my breathing has become labored, and I am tempted to use the excuse of stretching just to catch my breath.  But as I cross the first lap marker, I gain a level of confidence that feels like a glowing ember rising from the warmth burning inside me.  "Let's make it another lap, " I tell myself, as a sky full of wet snowflakes continue to drop.

 

Running a 10K during Oktoberfest was a challenge that required more than opening my wallet for a new pair of running shoes (with sure lace and dual density collar) and a light-weight shirt (with a moisture transfer system).  It required an amazing amount of effort despite heat, humidity and early morning darkness.  It required a way to convince myself that I could complete 20 laps with minimal downtime, while ignoring pain from my ankles, calves, hamstrings and lower back.  And much to my dismay, --running the race alone, when Paul unexpectedly backed out because of a leg injury...

Fifteen minutes later, and one and a half miles later, I slow to a walk to catch my breath, which quickly blows away in the swirling wind.  As usual, by the time I take my first break from running, I am feeling pretty good -- my muscles having stretched enough to respond to the turns and pushes of the track.  The high you get from running was kicking in.  "You're half way there," I say as I begin my second round of six laps.

My mind wanders back to Paul's phone call to try a shorter race.  This time the challenge was not the 5 week commitment that I knew would be needed, but finding a way to overcome the effects of winter and five months of little activity.  For last fall's Oktoberfest race, I had been doing some core training and riding my bicycle.  This time, the early spring weather was cold, wet and dark -- obstacles which were proving difficult and highly unpredictable.  And less than three weeks into training, Paul strained his knee, putting him -- again -- out of the race and with his wife and my wife (who would be walking the 5K race).  I remind myself that the next time Paul asks me to run a race with him that I hang up before accepting the challenge.

As I was finding out for the second time within 6 months, the challenge of running is not something physical, but something mental -- overcoming the unexpected weather, and not depending on anyone to get you out of bed, to run and to finish.

With snow covering the black asphalt to my left, I continue to pound out the laps.  Sweat is dripping down my face and flakes of frozen water flutter into my eyes, which are staring straight ahead.  Plumes of frost escape my mouth as I place one foot in front of the other.

My twelfth and final lap is always my favorite quarter mile -- with nothing to stop me, I feel strong, fast and ahead of time.   I laugh at myself and shout, "I am unstoppable!"  Imagining wings sprouting from my ankles like the Roman god Mercury, I sprint around the last bend, feeling the possibilities of a new day.  Straight ahead is the finish -- and an end to heavy legs, the physical pain to my back, and to the fear that I can't finish the race.  As I cross the final lap -- in less than 33 minutes --  the relief of finishing is quickly pushed aside as I ponder another morning just like today.

And another 5:59 A.M. showing from my alarm clock.