Going Long: Legends, Oddballs, Comebacks & Adventures Edited by David Willey

I’m a very typical runner, very typical. About five years ago I decided to overcome a very serious addiction by quitting smoking. I hear gasps when I am asked how much I smoked, the gasps are pronounced, but not nearly like the gasping I was doing when I would climb a flight of stairs. I had always prided myself on my stamina, but even I knew. I was dying with every pack, every cigarette, every strike of the match.

When my son said, “Daddy, your lungs sound like a flute.” I knew it was time. It was time to give up my addiction, my best friend, my left index finger, my Mother’s soul, my addiction, time to admit that I was a junkie smoking three packs a day, and always looking for a convenience store to replenish.

And so with the aid of patches and stubbornness, I quit for the long run. Of course, with a personality such as mine, I had to find a replacement to fill the void, and I found this in running. To help me become the best runner in the world, I subscribed to Runner’s World magazine. This rag for runners is chock full of great information, but more importantly, the pages are always filled with well written stories about runners by runners. David Willey collected the best of these stories and had them published by Rodale under the title Going Long: Legends, Oddballs, Comebacks & Adventures.

The collection of articles run the gauntlet from American John Brant’s retracing of Canadian legend and hero Terry Fox’s run across Canada to Don Kardong’s humorous run at Le Grizz, a 50 mile ultra in Montana. John Brant’s article Duel in the Sun exemplifies the quality of writing in Runner’s World. He captures the incredible emotion of Alberto Salazar and Dick Beardsley’s epic battle in Boston, 1982. Transported by the writing and emotion of the battle, the reader is there among the crowd, feeling the heat, witnessing history. Amazing.

All of the stories in Going Long are written in a conversational tone, and connect heartily with the reader. Some say there is a love of the written word in the running community, and Going Long proves this. Apropos of a typical runner, I continue to try to challenge myself and look for greater adventure. So I run, and I read. My October goal is going long at the Medoc Trail Marathon. This summer will find me training and running, and finding inspiration in the pages of Going Long.

My Kind of Town, Chicago is...

“You Sir! Are wearing the colors of the greatest hockey team on the planet!” I shouted to the man in a black tee emblazoned with a Blackhawks logo, colorful and recognizable at any length.

He smiled and shouted back, “Yes I am!”

Orientation at East Carolina, you’ve got to love it. Connections are made every day, and the more quirky, the more beautiful, and the more meaningful. The Blackhawks fan stood out, I knew him. See, I grew up in Northern Illinois until a move south brought me to Eastern North Carolina in the early 70’s. I still had this genetic connection with the man and his family.

“There are two teams in Chicago, the Cubs and the other team which will remain nameless. Where Sir, do you stand?”

“There is only one team, and they are the Cubs!” He shouted back over the incoming freshmen din. And then he shook my hand.

“Football?”

Tears filled his eyes as he shouted “Ditka… da Bears!” With that a fist bump ensued.

All the families at the top of the stairs crowding into the textbooks department were getting caught up in the game. Connections were being made right and left. One mom was from Illinois as well, but from the South Side. Another traitorous family originally came from the state with the rivers and the prairies, but crossed the line into Wisconsin, which is worse than a southern boy who sympathizes with the north. Hock-toowie.

People milled about during these few opening moments, and then I hit him with my salvo…

“Jack Brickhouse?”

“I love you man!” He bear hugged me, punched my back, and asked my name.

“Tony”

“Me too”

There wasn’t a dry eye.

Connections. It’s all about connections. The man knows his child will be well looked after, and I’ve connected with a family who will continue to come into our store. We momentarily had fun, and that’s what life is all about, those small connections. I gave an oath to him and his son, Andrew, that I would do everything I could to make his son’s experience at East Carolina a good one, and he promised me that someday, someday, perhaps when Satan is tossing snowballs, that the Cub’s would indeed win the World Series. Someday, mind you.

As I run, I feel the connections I’ve made with every runner who crosses a finish line. The races are not about me, although I have been known to knock a towhead and grandma out of my way, no, the races are about everyone who has the courage to show up. A few years ago at my first race, I was astonished by the runners who finished much earlier than I, but who stayed on to applaud the back of the packers, and who showed us such camaraderie, such connection.

William Carlos Williams

Burning the Christmas Greens

William Carlos Williams


Their time past, pulled down
cracked and flung to the fire
--go up in a roar

All recognition lost, burnt clean
clean in the flame, the green
dispersed, a living red,
flame red, red as blood wakes
on the ash--

and ebbs to a steady burning
the rekindled bed become
a landscape of flame

At the winter's midnight
we went to the trees, the coarse
holly, the balsam and
the hemlock for their green

At the thick of the dark
the moment of the cold's
deepest plunge we brought branches
cut from the green trees

to fill our need, and over
doorways, about paper Christmas
bells covered with tinfoil
and fastened by red ribbons

we stuck the green prongs
in the windows hung
woven wreaths and above pictures
the living green. On the

mantle we built a green forest
and among those hemlock
sprays put a herd of small
white deer as if they

were walking there. All this!
and it seemed gentle and good
to us. Their time past,
relief! The room bare. We

stuffed the dead grate
with them upon the half burnt out
log's smouldering eye, opening
red and closing under them

and we stood there looking down.
Green is a solace
a promise of peace, a fort
against the cold (though we

did not say so) a challenge
above the snow's
hard shell. Green (we might
have said) that, where

small birds hide and dodge
and lift their plaintive
rallying cries, blocks for them
and knocks down

the unseeing bullets of
the storm. Green spruce boughs
pulled down by a weight of
snow--Transformed!

Violence leaped and appeared.
Recreant! roared to life
as the flame rose through and
our eyes recoiled from it.

In the jagged flames green
to red, instant and alive. Green!
those sure abutments . . . Gone!
lost to mind

and quick in the contracting
tunnel of the grate
appeared a world! Black
mountains, black and red--as

yet uncolored--and ash white,
an infant landscape of shimmering
ash and flame and we, in
that instant, lost,

breathless to be witnesses,
as if we stood
ourselves refreshed among
the shining fauna of that fire.

Warren Zevon

Warren Zevon

Well, I went home with the waitress
The way I always do
How was I to know
She was with the Russians, too

I was gambling in Havana
I took a little risk
Send lawyers, guns and money
Dad, get me out of this

I'm the innocent bystander
Somehow I got stuck
Between the rock and the hard place
And I'm down on my luck
And I'm down on my luck
And I'm down on my luck

Now I'm hiding in Honduras
I'm a desperate man
Send lawyers, guns and money
The shit has hit the fan

Send lawyers, guns and money...

Somehow the years keep rolling by, and I hope I never take those years for granted, but enjoy them one day at a time. One of my favorite artists had a great time living and lived everyday as fully as he could. Eventually his excess with cigarettes claimed him, but Warren Zevon didn't give a shit. It was his life, and he lived it as fully as Warren Zevon could. I'm looking forward to creating a play list for the Flat Out 5K on June 26th. Warren Zevon will be prominent on my play list.

Once upon a time I was like Zevon. I smoked three packs a day, easily. Knowing he was terminal, Warren Zevon would sneak out and catch a smoke. I know how it is, and for this reason, I am dedicating mile 23 to Warren Zevon. Send lawyers, guns, and money. Hey!
5K

Comrades 2010 - Bart's Run

My Life on the Run by Bart Yasso



Tony Parker



Have you ever considered running naked through the woods? Racing with a burro? Perhaps running with rhinos, traversing the Antarctic, or traipsing across Death Valley? Bart Yasso has and does! As only the best raconteur can do, Yasso tells his story of running from one adventure to another in his book, My Life on the Run. Bart Yasso is the Chief Running Officer for Runner’s World magazine, and has been helping race directors coordinate 5k’s, marathons, ultras, and more for decades. During his tenure with the magazine, he has been invited to nearly every running adventure conceivable. His honorary title suits the man and the sport. The Mayor of Running has led an astounding life, has overcome adversity, and is an inspiration to all who have laced up for their hometown 5k.

Over the years, Bart Yasso has been presenting a slide show from which this book came from. A spokesman for Runner’s World, he has given numerous talks at pasta dinners to help distract runners from their impending race. Yasso named the slide show “Never Limit Where Running Can Take You”. The goal of the show was to let runners know that life is full of possibilities and opportunities, and that we should never run with closed minds. He writes that invariably someone would tell him at the end of the show that they would like to read his book. Until now, the request could not be fulfilled. Writing a book is like running a marathon, and there was simply too much to do. Eventually he did pen his story, and his book is a continuation of the slide show, a compendium to life.

I found within the pages the story of a man who accentuates the positive. The profound theme in My Life on the Run is that we can overcome adversity. During a trip to Africa and an attempt at the Mount Kilimanjaro Marathon, Yasso felt weak and sick. Two-thirds of the way up the mountain, he found he could not see out of one eye. Not sure of what he suffered from, doctors in Africa urged him to return to the States as quickly as possible. What we learned is that Yasso was stricken with Lyme Disease. We have all heard of this disabling disease and think twice about heading into the woods during tick season. Yasso has had to live with the condition, and has not let the disease spoil his desire to live life at its fullest.

I’m getting ready to go for a run, surely not naked nor in Rhino country. Rather, I’m going to go for a quiet run down Red Banks Road and will try to reflect on all of the good things life has to offer, such as upcoming races and cooler weather. The worst I should fear will be a careless driver or a possible rogue squirrel. As I run, I hope to relive a few of the adventures Bart Yasso shares with us in My Life on the Run, and will remember his mantra, “Never limit where running can take you.”

June 7, 2010

Christ Almighty it was hot and humid this weekend. I attempted a simple 4 miler, and felt the salt eak out of my body. Hot. Humid. I committed to finishing this run, my long run. Medoc seems to be months away, but it is tomorrow. A little old lady, literally the stuff of fairy tales, pulled up beside me on North Overlook and asked if I were okay. No, honestly, I was dying, but I said, "No, I'm fine. Just hot. Thanks!" And then I trotted on, salt burning my eyes.

My sister later asked if that were me running along Greenville Boulevard near Charles. Yes, I said, that was me. Annette whispered that she nearly stopped and made me get into her van. At that point I may have. Christ, it was hot.

Bart Yasso ran Comrades, some 56 plus miles. He finished in just over 11 hours, 33 minutes, and some odd secondes. The cut off time for Comrades is 12 hours. Bart made it, and is my inspiration. He is battling a wicked case of Lyme's Disease which has damaged the right side of his body to the point of constant pain. But this race, this Comrades, has been calling his name for years, and finally, Bart Yasso conquered Comrades.

Since the orginal publication of this article in Achieve Magazine, Bart Yasso took on and defeated Comrades, The Last Great Race. Way to go, man!

last 1.2

Last 1.2

I’ve read that dedicating miles helps, one name for every 26.2 miles. There are so many heroes, family members, friends and others who deserve a spot on the list, and I am creating my list. Perhaps I am going about this backwards, but I’ve decided my name for the last 1.2 miles. A few years back I read an article in Outside Magazine, and was taken aback by Dr. Bob Breedlove. The man was an inspiration to everyone he met, and his tragic death in 2005 took from this world a life force without equal. I would ask you to look his name up and read his story. Once he was a runner, but switched to endurance cycling to keep his knees healthy. Something happened in his 53rd year as he was attempting another RAAM crossing. Tragically he was struck by a vehicle in Colorado on the fifth day of the race. To quote Breedlove, “Just another day in paradise.”

Lay of the land...

Friday May 28, 2010

Notes – Medoc Trail Marathon

Left Greenville around 8 this morning for Medoc Mountain State Park. Had a great drive, felt good to be back on back roads and just empty mind driving. There can be a simple beauty to Eastern North Carolina. Okay, we live in a very flat and swampy part of the country, but at times the sun strikes a stand of pines and gestures with all sweeping grandeur that you are home. I’d rather drive with the windows down so that I may drink in the sounds and scents of Carolina. It was creeping toward hot, but a good hot.

Near 9:30 I pulled onto Medoc Park State Road and cruised by the ranger’s office and info center. One car was there, good, I would have the trail near to myself. That dream lasted a few more miles. Rounding the bend, I spied the very packed picnic area parking lot and nearly turned around. Everywhere I looked, kids. Halifax County, on a whim, decided to take their Fourth Grade Class on a field trip to… Medoc Mountain State Park.

Once I geared up I headed out to the trail and promptly bumped into 30 kids whooping and hollering and generally doing things kids are supposed to do. You know, the things we should do, except as adults we are taught protocols and proper behavior. Bull shit. Whoop and holler!

I did go the opposite way of the kids, I was on a mission to rediscover Medoc and learn the trails we would be using in October. Within fifty yards I had an equipment failure. As soon as my legs broke into a run, my right water bottle took flight from my belt and flew down the trail gathering dust, pine straw, and dirt. Shit, I breathed, stopped and fixed the mishap. Off again. Although I thought I hosed myself down completely with Backwoods Off, I apparently missed quite a few spots. The Deer Flies began biting harshly as I rounded the first corner. I ran.

Somewhere, half way into the first loop, my trail moniker reared itself in a defiantly nonfiction way. The trail divided, yet it seemed not to on the map, what to do. I picked a “Frostian” trail and ran along. This less travelled trail became apparent as a cut through, and not a real part of the loop. Wrong Way did it again and cut about one mile off of the course.


Out on the pavement I searched desperately for the trail head, kept running, and wandered back to the parking lot. Finding my Jeep, I reloaded water, ate a bar, adjusted my belt, and took off again down the wrong side of the loop. Hans Conried would have been very proud of my, I played Feldman like no other could on any given day.

Into the woods I headed, attacked all the while by biting flies. I ran to the bridge and headed up the summit. As I climbed higher the air felt better. I left the damp environs of the voracious Deer Fly for the relatively dry Summit Loop. How good it felt to be out of the reach of the Devil’s minions.

As I came down from the mountain, I heard the squall of one hundred young children at play, with an undertone of adult barking, and knew I was near home. I ran alongside the creek and burst into the picnic area where I was left unnoticed, and this was alright by me.