I FINALLY GOT TO USE MY I.D.

It was almost sundown, and I’d been running along the Animas River Trail in Farmington, New Mexico for about an hour. I was almost back to my hotel when I realized the room key I’d held in my hand for all those miles wasn’t a room key at all but actually the key to my rental car. I had picked up the wrong key by mistake when I left the room. Bummer. How would I get back into my room?

I entered the hotel lobby and approached the front desk. I’ve learned that if you walk through a hotel lobby after an hour-long run, and if you sweat like I do, people will usually step aside and let you pass to the front of the line. I asked the young desk clerk for another room key and she said, “Do you have any form of identification?”

What a great question: Do I have any form of identification? I have been searching my whole life to answer that question. Who am I? How did I get here?  Why am I wearing running shoes? Do I have any I.D.?

I am continually amazed that among my circle of friends, I am considered the “workout guy.” No one would have predicted that distinction for me during the first 20 years of my life. Up until that time, I had shown absolutely no evidence of being an athlete in desire, temperament, or ability.

I first started running in the summer of 1978 to win the heart of a girl, but instead, I found God. He chose running to be one of the places he revealed himself to me. Through my time alone, on my feet, the God of my parents and my grandparents became my God.  It was on the road and on the trail that my relationship with God became personal. We developed a friendship which grew bigger than church and became deeper than rules of behavior.

In fact, I have always been a believer. I was enrolled in our local church as a newborn, even before I left the hospital. I have believed Jesus as long as I have memory of anything; I have known no other life. Even in my hippie years, such as they were, I didn’t rebel against the religious part of my upbringing.  And in college, when no one goes to church, I attended some form of worship two or three times a week. Through the years something continued to pull me in deeper, keeping me from resting on my religious pedigree, transforming me into a lifelong searcher. I have been searching for God all my life; the more of him I discover, the more I search.

Through the years I’ve had friends who were inspired by one of my essays to go out and run. “I didn’t find God,” they said. “I just got tired and sore.”

“Just stay at it,” I’d tell them. “It may take you 1,000 miles.”  The secret was never the running, but about my lifelong search for God. Who knows where God will show up if you search for him?  You could find him anywhere, but don’t be surprised if it happens on a dirt trail or in a marathon.

But I have gone off-topic … the young lady was asking about my I.D. There in that Holiday Inn in Farmington, I finally got to use the ID tag I had worn on my left running shoe for the past 15 years. I had been waiting for this moment for such a long time.

I wasn’t limber enough to put my foot up on the desk, so I pulled off my left shoe and held it out to the desk clerk so she could read the ID tag. She was stunned. Maybe it was from being so close to my stinky shoe, or maybe from the surprise that I did indeed have an ID - I don’t know. As I walked away with a new room key, the other clerks were giggling behind my back. I didn’t care. I just knew I would use that ID someday.



TRASH RACING

A few weeks ago I was running east, down Neely Avenue, with an incredible tail wind. The radio station said the wind was gusting up to 40 mph, but that must’ve been measured between gusts. I’m sure the maximum speed was 70 or 90 mph. It’s the sort of springtime weather we have often in West Texas.

My plan was to run from my house to First Baptist Church where my loving wife Cyndi was teaching a step-aerobics class, and then join her for dinner after she was finished. This particular route would mean about three miles of a hard tail wind and a mile of cross wind. Not a bad ratio.

About ten minutes from my house, just past Lee High School, a cowboy driving a jacked-up silver F250 pickup threw an empty beer can at me as he drove by. It was one of those long “Silver Bullet” Coors Light cans. The guy who threw it missed me by a long shot, obviously unaware how hard it is to hit a moving target from a moving platform in the wind, but the can quickly rebounded off the street and bounced directly into my path. I kicked it to one side of the gutter in defiance and kept running, but the can, now excited about the prospects of a race, started bouncing and rolling and tumbling beside me down the street. Suddenly, my leisurely afternoon jog was transformed into a full-blown race against an empty beer can.

I was reminded of the time Chuck and I were in Colorado Springs at the Road Runners Clubs of America National Convention. We ran a 5K race in pouring rain, racing a big log that was floating down a flooded river channel. We paced the log about a mile and a half, and then sprinted the last 200 yards to a resounding victory. We easily defeated the log. It kept hanging up on brush.

Racing the beer can also reminded me of another story from when I ran the New York City Marathon. As I was passing the first mile marker at 5:30, I noticed a piece of yellow paper blowing by. The guy running next to me turned and said, “There’s nothing I hate more than getting passed by a piece of paper.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “He can’t hold it for the distance; He’ll crumple before twenty miles.”

Racing an aluminum beer can wouldn’t have been so bad if the can weren’t so obnoxious about it. Every time the can got into the lead, it would start bouncing higher and higher, making louder and louder racket, bragging to passing motorists about who was winning. I hate it when my racing opponents brag so loudly.

The can cheated, too. I stopped for a red light at Midkiff, but the can tumbled right through the crossing traffic. Gleefully, the silver can bounced high against the curb on the other side of the street, tossed a big grin in my direction, then took off down Neely. I had to wait for the light to turn green, and it took me a half mile to catch up.

Later that evening after the race was over I told Cyndi the story of my afternoon adventure while we enjoyed pizza together. I shouldn’t have mentioned the part about the yellow paper and the New York City Marathon though, because Cyndi asked, “Didn’t that story really come from Don Kardong’s book: Thirty Phone Booths to Boston?”

“Maybe. But how do you know it didn’t happen to me, too?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever passed a first mile marker in 5:30,” she said.

After we finished the pizza and drank all the Diet Coke we could hold, Cyndi asked, “By the way, who won the race today … you or the can?”

“I did, of course.”

“How did you finally win, with your big finishing kick?”

“It was more of a finishing stomp. I crushed the can and kicked it into an alley after we crossed Garfield Street. I hated to do it, but trash racing just isn’t friendly.”



THIS GUY

Let’s say there was this guy who ran the Cowtown Marathon in Fort Worth, and let’s say he was really nervous about running the race because he thought it might take him a long time, and he was embarrassed to be so slow. Let’s say he knows several people who are faster runners who, if pressed on the matter, might say they were proud of this particular guy, but more often than not they were surprised that “It took you so long” to finish.

A guy like that should probably be proud that he finished the marathon on his own two feet and not in an ambulance. He shouldn’t go around whining because he thought he could run faster. He should accept himself and be happy.

Let’s say that this guy had someone meet him at the finish line; someone he was married to at the time, and who was one of those faster running friends mentioned earlier.

Of course the guy might have been in a happier mood when he finished the race if the crowd hadn’t been chanting, “Big man coming through. Big man coming through.” I imagine he might have overlooked this obvious slight except that the crowd was yelling it in his ear the entire last mile of the race. Who knows where all those people came from? In his previous marathons, most of the spectators had all gone home by the time this guy finished. And it didn’t help that this guy’s friend, the same friend we’ve been talking about, was standing in the middle of the street leading the chant.

Anyone would expect this guy to have a bad mood back about mile fifteen, where some people keep calling out the time every mile, as if each and every runner wanted to know how long they had been running. Let’s imagine the guy mentioned this nuisance to his friend after the race, but she reminded him that people call out splits at all the races.

“They weren’t making fun of you,” she probably would’ve said. “They were just doing their job. They thought they were helping you.”

So maybe this guy’s friend never knew when to leave well-enough alone. For instance, she had to bring up that ugly incident at mile eighteen when the race volunteers threatened to remove this guy from the course if he didn’t quit disturbing the other runners by booing and shouting, “Gimme a big fat break,” as they called out the split times.

“How did you know about that?” the guy might’ve asked. “Weren’t you at the finish line?”

“No, I was still in the car driving to the race,” she said. “You were still hours from finishing, and I didn’t want to waste too much time standing around waiting. Besides, everyone in Fort Worth knows about the infamous “Mile Eighteen Scandal.” It was all over the radio. The reporters said a lunatic had escaped from the asylum.”

“I thought my family and friends would’ve been proud of me as a runner,” he might have said -  if he still had the energy to speak.

“And another thing,” his friend added. “You should’ve heard what they said on the radio about your running style. They called it the Bataan Death Shuffle. It was on all the talk radio stations. They predicted it would become the next dance club craze.”

“At least they didn’t use my real name.”

“Sure they did. They got it from your race number. All afternoon they were broadcasting over the radio, encouraging people to come out and watch the big crazy man finish the marathon. People even drove over from Dallas.”

Let’s say there was a guy who ran the Cowtown Marathon, and in doing so he single-handedly helped the Fort Worth Stockyards to their best afternoon crowds of the season. Let’s say that the Chamber of Commerce gave him a special “Big Man Coming Through” key to the city. Let’s say he was pictured on the front page of Sunday’s paper with matted hair and exhausted eyes, wearing his silver space blanket, and fending off the volunteers from mile eighteen. Should such a guy be proud, or not?



ON THE TRAIL AGAIN

On Wednesday I met my daughter Katie for lunch in Arlington, and then drove to White Rock Lake in Dallas to run ... something I’d been looking forward to all morning.

I was in the Dallas area for a conference. It was my coming-down period only one day after losing a city-wide election after twelve years of service. I needed the emotional release. Being on that trail was so pleasant, I wondered if I’d enjoy it as much if I lived in Dallas and could run there all the time. Would familiarity change my relationship with the trail? I don’t know, but this particular run, only one day after I lost a citywide election, bringing this phase of my government life to an end, felt like coming home. It felt like the future. It felt like what’s next.

I read in John 13 about a time when Jesus washed the feet of his disciples and asked, “Do you understand what I have done for you?” I wrote in the margin of my Bible: “Almost never.” In my life, I seldom understand what Jesus has done for me in real time; only later when I look back can I hope to understand the significance.

But the trail around the lake was a soothing salve: the solitude; the familiarity; the chance to use my legs for fun instead of campaigning; the unfamiliarity and uniqueness of the surrounding neighborhoods; the anticipation of knowing I’d run here again someday soon; the close scheduling required to squeeze this indulgence into my busy day; the smugness I felt from knowing about a great place to run on dirt even in the big city; the winding path through trees and alongside the lake; the cool air that was brisk enough to refresh but warm enough for T-shirt and shorts; the way my knees felt good,  hinting that the future might be OK; the soothing voices from my iPod Nano - first a podcast from Phedippidations about running and then another by Erwin McManus about our calling as Christians to engage with society; the brilliant blue North Texas sky: the shared sense of purpose I got from other runners on the path even though we said nothing more than “Hi” as we passed each other; the arrows and race markings painted on the asphalt trail that reminded me of my many years of making the same marks for my own races; the irony – not the right word, the appropriateness - of running on an urban trail at the end of this political era and remembering my unmistakable call to public life that led eventually to election and twelve years of service that I heard while running on a different urban trail on a similarly bright cloudless day, March 21, 1987 to be exact, in Washington Park in Denver.

John 15:2 says, “Every branch that does bear fruit He prunes so that it will be even more fruitful;” an important concept to grasp when I’m in the middle of a pruning project.

On the trail I thought about my satisfaction of knowing how much Cyndi believes in me; and knowing how jealous she’ll be that she isn’t here with me on this trail today; the confidence I get from our shared passions for running and teaching and giving our lives away; the anticipation of more opportunities to teach in my church in the coming months now that the campaign is over; the luxury of being able to run and workout and exercise – I’m blessed with the physical ability to do this and the discretionary time to devote to something so selfish; the freedom that fitness brings, as Cyndi so often reminds; the songs that played on my iPod following the podcasts that reminded me of the future and my desire to live a life less ordinary; the dreams of writing and publishing and sharing my heart in print; the shady cool contagious parts of the trail that wind through the trees into a different world and a different time; the sunny parts of the trail beside the lake where the lapping waves sound so exotic to my West Texas ears.

In John 14:5 we can read where Thomas said to Jesus, “Lord, we don’t know where you’re going, so how can we know the way?” Jesus answered – “I am the way.” The way ahead isn’t about where, it’s about who. It isn’t about geography or even chronology, it’s about relationships.

The trail reinforced my curiosity for adventures God has for us in the future, just around the bend and out of site; the thought that I can wear casual clothes every day now that I don’t have constituents to reassure; the wonder at where the weight of my life should be applied from now on; the thought that even the phrase “from now on” doesn’t make as much sense to me as it used to since I’ve learned to expect regular adjustments to my perfect plans; that I don’t anticipate anything I’m doing today to last “from now on.”

It’s good to be back on the trail.