See how we run

Foundation of sport is still a peaceful, primal act

Last weekend I ran in New York's first snowfall of the year, though I couldn't tell you how far or how fast. I didn't measure my frolic in minutes or meters; I just reveled in every flake that melted into my hair and tickled the roof of my nose. I floated around Central Park. And no hat, please. Not this day. Not for the first snowfall of the season. This is an annual pilgrimage, the day of the year when I inhale most deeply, gawk at the beauty of white set against brown, and tap to the subtle hum of windblown branches. I want all my senses uncovered. See, during the season's first snowfall, there is no underbelly of slush or chunks of ice. It is the clearest, healthiest day of the year to look, see and feel -- absorb, even -- the New York air, delightfully cleansed of fluorocarbons. It's nature's way of sighing and putting her feet up on the ottoman.

This detour into Zen would have nothing to do with an Inside Olympic Sports column, except for the comment that provoked it. I was speaking not long ago with Craig Masback, the USA Track & Field chief whose shoulders droop each time I approach him to ask about all that ails the world we happen to care about. Why do the best athletes make up every excuse short of "my dog ate my Nikes" to keep from having to face their toughest rivals? How come the number of middle Americans who could recognize even one of Maurice Greene, Tim Montgomery or Marion Jones (with nametags, no less) doesn't nearly equal those who could pick out Ozzy Osbourne, Jerry Springer and Miss Piggy from 50 paces? Why is every race presumed to be won at the pharmacy? And why is last week's tape-delayed track meet finally being aired after some tractor derby at 3 a.m. on channel 460? Did the network run out of infomercials?

Masback is a lawyer, a good one, ably suited to parry any pessimism with elaborate arsenals of consumer surveys, case studies and Nielsen numbers that don't look half brutal when you turn them upside down. He started into a lucid, state-of-the-sport assessment, then, thinking better of it, looked up and said, "Nothing more magical than running, is there?" With that he had hit on an irrefutable defense. The primal, yet peaceful, act of running, the foundation for the sport, has always evoked a certain magic.

"We run not because we think it is good," Sir Roger Bannister, the first four-minute miler, once said, "but because we enjoy it and cannot help ourselves. The more restricted our society and work become, the more necessary it will be to find some outlet for this craving for freedom." Emil Zatopek, perhaps history's greatest distance runner, felt that "in running I discover the boundaries of pain and pleasure, and perhaps, as I pass them, I pass the boundary of sensation known to mankind." Fluency in Czech and English sometimes wasn't enough to understand Zatopek's musings, but a good run often put you on the same wavelength. New Zealand's Lorraine Moller, who was 37 when she won a bronze medal in the marathon at the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona, saw it this way: "For me, running is a lifestyle and an art. I'm far more interested in the magic of it than the mechanics. ... Running is my meditation, mindflush, cosmic telephone, mood elevator and spiritual communion." Yes, and I'll have one lava lamp and a sip of sports drink, please.

Even some of Shakespeare's ruminations spoke of running. "Bid me run that I will strive with things impossible," quoth Caesar, who couldn't quite outkick the Ides. Richard II said: "These high wild hills and rough uneven ways draw out our miles and make them wearisome." That would be Richard now, approaching Mile 21 in Boston. When Robert Frost penned the finale of Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening ("The woods are lovely, dark and deep/But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep/And miles to go before I sleep."), I always pictured him breaking into a trot to finish those miles.

So as the road-racing season winds down for the competitive elite, I'm reminded of running's other sublime qualities. In the final year he was able to fight off stomach cancer, I used to see Fred Lebow, the Romanian-born founder of the New York City Marathon, around the Park. I might never have run his marathon but for the day Fred made a scribble on a handy napkin, certified it by making a checkmark with some mustard from the tip of his finger, and told me my application was in order. "Fred, how are you feeling?" I'd ask when I passed him. On the good days, he'd uncoil his hunched back and beam up, "Good, so I run five miles this morning." If his treatments left him low, he invariably responded glumly, "I was no run this morning." To Fred, running and feeling and living were synonyms, each as sustaining as the other. He just couldn't say the same, he'd tell people, about kicking or throwing or hitting a ball.

I thought of these things the other day in the park, where it was just me, the ramble of my thoughts and another season renewing. I heard the wind whistle and listened for Zatopek.

Sports Illustrated staff writer Brian Cazeneuve covers OIympic sports for the magazine and is a frequent contributor to CNNSI.com.

 

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