The Back Streets Oct, 1997

Published October, 1997

Lunchtime.

It’s a nice day outside so several of my neighbors from across the cubicles decide to give the mouse a break and go out to eat. As we pass through the glass doors into the 3rd floor lobby, we could see the elevator doors starting to close.

It was time for some quick action. They all looked at me. “You’re the runner!” My mind was thinking like Michael Johnson, but my legs were moving like yesterday’s slow-twitch 13-mile run. I “raced” for the elevator button, but lost out to the fast-twitch elevator doors.

So, there we stood for an awkward, eternal moment. We watched the display and tracked our taxi as it moved on to other floors to pick up other lunch-goers. I felt like I had let my co-workers down. Running was my specialty, my physical area of expertise, but I wasn’t able to put five steps together quickly enough to catch a runaway elevator.

So how could I explain to my non-running friends that my legs don’t drag race? My underwear doesn’t say “Turbo” across the elastic band. I can’t just flip a switch and run fast. I have to put my body through a primitive tribal stretching ritual before I can even think about toeing-off in my Nikes.

Our office furniture has more flexibility than I do, but after lots of moaning, and chanting, and coaxing, my toes eventually come into my line of sight. That’s close enough. Next comes the injury checklist… hips are okay, IT band is loose, plantar fascia has been better. Now… I can take those first few, stiff-legged, over-pronated, oxygen-indebted steps. Bill Clinton could keep my pace through the first mile or two. In fact Al Gore, with his crutches, would probably stay on my shoulder until I shuffle and shift through all my gears. Only then do I metamorphose from crawling caterpillar to flying butterfly, from shuffling jogger to striding runner.

That elevator could reach the top of the Sears Tower before I hit full speed.

I’m sure that I’m faster than my 7-year old son and my 5-year old daughter, but they consistently whip me in their 10-yard dashes. “Race you to the car, Daddy.” I lose. “Race you up the stairs.” I’m last again. “Race you to the swings.” Third place for old Dad.

I used to let them beat me, but not anymore. Kids are instantly at full speed, 100% fast-twitch. Their legs work on cue, mine on a 20-yard delayed reaction. They are swinging in the swings chanting “beat you, beat you” before I take my second step.

So, just because I’m a runner doesn’t mean I have 4.3 speed from here to the car, or that I can catch a closing elevator faster than a speeding bullet. It does mean I can run distances most people can only cover in a motorized vehicle, and my heart beats about 30 times less each minute than most human mortals.

It also means that my immortal body stays mortally tired most of the time. So, don’t ask my legs to perform except on their scheduled runs; otherwise they are in a state of recovery from either yesterday’s workout or last week’s race.

Last Sunday morning I ran a 14-mile course around town. It was a little on the warm side, and I ran fairly hard, so after I finished my body let me know that I had overdone it. I found the nearest convenience store and drained them of fruit drinks and All-Sports. By the time I showered, dressed and stumbled into church later that morning, I was a humanoid walking around in a depleted body. The Catholic service was a blur; the priest’s sermon was like a fog rolling in over my inattentive brain. When I was a kid in Catholic school, the nuns used to tell us that God would give us grace just for attending church. On this Sunday, I’m sure that’s about all the grace I earned… the only religious experience I could think about was finding a bed and lying down.

So, maybe I should question my smarts for putting my body through this constant physical torture. Maybe I would be more socially acceptable if my walking gait did not resemble Herman Munster’s. Maybe I would be a more fun person if I could stay awake past 10:00PM. Maybe I wouldn’t be addicted to mega-caffeinated soft drinks if I weren’t so sluggish from running-induced rest deprivation.

Maybe if I backed off of this running obsession I could snap out of this zombie-like stupor and lead a normal life.

Why would I want to do that?

See you on the back streets.