Runners often describe the euphoria of crossing the finish line at the end of a long, tough race. But for me, it’s all about the starting line. At 7:00 am on a crisp, no-excuses Sunday morning, at the beginning of my first half marathon, the loud music is making my heart pump, and I take my last deep breath as the swarm of runners ahead of me begins a slow, determined glide beneath the inflated red and yellow START sign. They slip gracefully over the slight dip in the road at the beginning of the course, moving like a well-planned waterfall, as they pick up speed. Anxiously, I await my turn, a long-playing track of Aretha’s “Freeway of Love” pulsating through my earbud, until I am quickening my pace, working up to running speed, looking for a small gap in the sea of people in front of me.
Getting to this place was not easy. I didn’t start to run regularly until I was 55. A few years before, at my kids’ insistence, I registered for a 5K race that our school district held as a fundraiser. Then I had to teach myself how to run. (I’ve since learned that this is an old runner’s motivational trick: pay the money, then worry about how you’re going to do the race.) I started out my training with a quarter-mile on the treadmill at the gym until I built up to the 3.1-mile distance. After I finished that very first race, I became more confident and more interested in running. But only a few months later, barely a week after my second 5K, I blew out my knee during a training session at the gym. Thankfully, nothing had been torn, but I had to go through three months of demanding physical therapy to regain use of my right leg. Dave, my therapist, seemed confident that my knee would eventually be “about eighty percent back,” but cautioned that I would have “some limitations.”
“Such as?”
“Well, forget about running,” Dave told me. “You’re not likely to ever have your full strength back.”
I didn’t like that answer, because I knew what Dave really meant. It was the subtle beginnings of a discussion about the limitations of age, one that I would undoubtedly be having more frequently as I grew older. So over the next year, I worked very hard to rebuild that knee. I started to race again, a few cautious 5Ks, then a couple of emboldened 10Ks, until I finally built up enough confidence to try a half-marathon. Or at least to register and pay for one.
Whether someone thinks it’s a good idea to take up serious running over the age of fifty seems to depend on the age of the person you ask. When I floated the idea to people close to my age, I received a litany of reasons why it was a terrible idea. Risk of a back injury. Developing bad knees. Having a heart attack while crossing a finish line. Being hit by a car. Being hit by another runner. Yet when I test drove the concept with people under thirty, I received a more consistent and positive response.
“Fuck, yeah. Do it.”
The evidence supports the millennial point of view. A 2011 University of New Hampshire study of 50 runners, ages 18 to 77, found that the runners 60 and older were just as physiologically economical as younger runners, even those in their 20s and 30s. In fact, the percentage of New York City Marathon finishers who are under the age of 40 consistently declines every year, while the finishing times for runners over 60 has decreased by seven minutes for men and over fifteen minutes for women.
So runners are getting older, and older runners are getting better. In 2015, The Atlantic reported that a growing number of senior citizens have begun competing in marathons and triathlons, causing experts to question much of the conventional wisdom about age-related changes in physical capacity. In U.S. marathons, runners over the age of 40—known as “masters” in the running world—now represent more than 50 percent of male finishers and 40 percent of female finishers, often outperforming younger athletes. In fact, contrary to popular belief, older adults are not at an overall increased risk of injury when participating in any exercise activity.
My first two attempts at a half-marathon had not gone well. Before I would be ready to tackle 13.1 miles again, I definitely had to make some changes. Running 5Ks and 10Ks were challenging, but I always knew I could finish. At that point, I was running three miles a day already, so shorter races required minimal training and were just a matter of adjusting to the course. I could put some vintage R&B on my iPod and pretend I was somewhere else for the half-hour or the hour it took to complete the race. Best of all, I could do it all on my own, and in fact, preferred to do so. I could be that fiercely independent loner that I’d been as a younger man and feel perfectly happy.
I started to put myself through weekly long runs. First six miles (just like a 10K), then seven, then seven-and-change. When I reached that point, I badly needed motivation and advice. Eventually, I hired Jake, a 24-year-old high school teacher, and an elite runner himself. A virtual trainer who has never actually seen me run, he began to program my entire week for me, telling me when to run, where to run, how fast, and how long. He checked up on me every single day via text message to make sure I completed the day’s program, asked me what felt right, what didn’t, where we needed to course-correct. He was at once my new best friend and a relentless dick. I asked him when I would actually run the entire 13.1 miles. He told me ten or eleven would be fine. “The race will carry you the rest of the way,” he assured me.
But as weeks passed, it became clear that Jake expected me to carry me the rest of the way. The practice runs became more demanding, the tempos more intense, the time commitment higher. When it started to feel like the running was taking over my entire fitness regimen, I sent him a quick e-mail.
At some point, we should discuss/refocus goals for the coming months. Two things to consider – 1. I will likely be doing some shorter races in the near term, where I’d like to improve time. 2. My trainer is also concerned that I’ve lost weight since picking up the running and strength training performance has declined. So we need to create a balance.
Jake surprised me with his acerbic reply:
As your coach, I, first and foremost, want you to be healthy and able to train and enjoy running. I want you to be able to pursue goals and “defy” age 🙂 When I see that he is concerned about a decrease in performance and a decrease in weight, I think to myself – what does Don want out of the two activities? As your running coach who is working you toward marathon and half marathon training (now I see some shorter stuff too), being able to lift heavier volumes isn’t my concern, nor is losing a bit of weight (though I have never seen you and don’t know anything about your BMI).
“What an asshole,” I thought.
“I’d fire him,” my gym buddy Brice suggested. “Like right now.” He handed me his iPhone as if inviting me to do so right then.
But I was too invested to end my virtual relationship so abruptly. I cooled down and tried to gain a more positive perspective. As I thought it over, I realized that Jake was training me the way he had been trained. And as my coach, I needed to trust him. I waited a few days, then sent him a short plea for a bit of balance.
“Gotcha.” he texted back. “Let’s move on.”
It was a stunning Sunday morning in March in Oakland, California, with a hint of sun but a refreshing breeze that runners crave as their natural air conditioning. I was resigned to the tough two-plus hours ahead. If I were a better runner, I lectured myself, it wouldn’t have to last that long. But compared to the thin, nimble gazelles that graze my elbows and gingerly cut in my way, I was a novice. Jake insisted that it’s “all about the finish.” But I simply did not believe that he didn’t care about my pace. I was convinced that Jake secretly hoped I would break a 1:50 time today.
As I started the race, I carefully maneuvered around the run-walkers ahead. I passed a group of middle-aged women wearing bright-colored t-shirts with their team name, The Red Hot Estrogen Divas, prominently etched in sequins. One of them nearly elbowed me as I pass, as if to remind me of the utter rudeness of my speed, like my passing was meant to signal that I thought I was better than them. But I blocked out these negative thoughts, reminding myself of the too-many miles ahead of me.
I was not yet past the first-mile marker, and already my nose was running, a curse and a distraction. I quickly sniffed and tried to ignore the short stream of liquid pooling at the tips of my nostrils, but it wasn’t going away. I pulled out the neatly folded Kleenex from my left pocket, almost afraid to use it so soon because I knew I’d need it for the tougher miles later. As I slowed my pace a bit and snipped my nostrils with the soft tissue, my left foot fell into a pothole, twisting my ankle slightly. I raised my leg and recovered my balance quickly, but I felt a painful twinge at the top of my foot. Shit, I said to myself.
Today I needed an anchor, another runner on whom I could focus and mentally commit to keeping up with. It was purely psychological voodoo. Usually, when I find my pace lagging so early, I just look for “The Guy.” He’s a decent runner, not lightning fast but steady and skilled. He wears a red or yellow Nike shirt. I have no real relationship with this person. There is no social contract. I need the dude to get me through a couple of miles and get me back on track. Often, he’ll have a wife or girlfriend with him, a less experienced running companion who will make him keep the pace reasonable. Sometimes I’ll fantasize about exchanging cell phone numbers and grabbing a beer with them one day. If I could just find him and keep up with him for most of the miles ahead, I could get through this race well. But today, The Guy was nowhere to be found, quite surprising in a race of over two thousand runners.
In the periphery, I spotted a pace team passing a group of slower runners. Ignoring the pinch in my left foot, I ran ahead so I could get a glance at the team leader’s sign. “2:10,” it said. I had never run with a group, but the thought of becoming part of a pack suddenly appealed to me. I would have been quite happy with a two-hour ten-minute finish time. I merged nonchalantly into their space. It was a small group of three women and two men, running at a comfortable, steady pace. My ankle still hurt, but the newly found attachment made me forget about the pain for a while.
One of the guys asked me a question that I could not hear over my music. I pulled out my earbud and asked him to repeat himself. We engaged in the usual runner’s small talk. Runners like to gab about their running history with other runners. What got you started? How many marathons have you run? When was your last injury? I was not used to talking and running at the same time, and it seemed to throw my breathing off a bit. But the pace team was pulling me along, and I did not want to risk losing that asset. So I learned to adapt my breathing to light conversational running.
I felt a new sense of joy, one of just being with people. My focus was no longer on the physical challenge but the emotional one, the one about becoming attached. Those runners were all at least fifteen to twenty years younger than me. They were good-looking, fit people, dressed smartly in colorful Under Armour outfits, bits of technology dangling from their wrists and waists like aerobic Christmas trees. At first, I felt like they were pulling me along, but as we mastered the abrupt changes in the road surface, the turns, and angles, the polite passing of slower runners, it felt like we are moving as one. I became focused on the unit rather than myself. I was conscious of our time and pace, not merely my own.
The light conversation made the pace seem comfortable. One of the team leaders, a woman in her thirties with short brown hair and no body fat, was telling two other runners about doing a marathon in Atlanta in the summer and how crazy-hot it was. I inched myself forward to hear her. I was tiring, but I anchored myself to her story, determined to stick with the team.
“Are you refueling?” she asked me.
“I’m good,” I said, trying to maintain the regularity of my breathing. “
“You should have something,’ she warned. “The next few miles are going to get harder.”
We ran through a charming neighborhood in West Oakland. People had come out of their Saturday morning refuges to watch us. A half-dozen high school cheerleaders, the red sequins on their uniforms sparkling in the sun, clapped for us and shouted words of encouragement. There was a garage band on the corner, playing a raucous brand of rock and roll, giving us an unexpected shot of exhilaration. Local merchants were out, too, offering cups of juice, fruit, tiny bite-sized cookies. Mindful of the leader’s warning about refueling, I grabbed a half-banana from the tray extended by a Latino grocer who smiled broadly as I uttered a quick thank you.
Around mile eight, I saw a small hill ahead. Truthfully, it wasn’t much of an incline, but my ankle had started to hurt more, and so the grade felt steeper than it is. My instincts told me to conserve my energy and walk up the hill, but I knew my team isn’t going to slow down. A traffic stop about a mile back had cut into our targeted finish time, and we needed to make up for it. I tried to run steadily. The distance between the team and me was slowly increasing. No one was looking back. No one was saying, “Hey, wait for him.” I felt abandoned but tried to stay positive, hopeful that I could make up the time on the downhill run. As I reached the peak, I saw the “2:10” sign in the distance and started to run again. Just a bit faster, I told myself.
I was within twenty feet of the team when an awful stitch grabbed hold of my right side. I took several deep breaths, trying to shake it off, encouraging myself to keep going. But the stitch was really hurting now, and as I slowed down, my pace team became a little spot of color in the distance of the course. Crossing the nine-mile mark, I cursed myself, disheartened that I was no longer part of the pack.
Then I noticed a young man sitting on the curb, clutching his right leg in obvious pain. He was wearing a bright red shirt and a pair of Nike Air shoes like mine. He could have been “The Guy,” I thought. If I had seen him miles back, and had not joined up with my pace team, I might have run most of this race behind him. And since he was now hurt and unable to continue, I would have been completely screwed.
Like me, he had been abandoned. It seemed unfair to both of us. Over the last hour and a half, I had become attached to a cadre of strangers. Because I began to hurt, I was left behind. At that moment, I felt the gross unfairness of age, the small physical limitations it places on us so that we can no longer keep up as well as we once could, and the price we pay for it. Finishing the race in 2:10 was far more critical to that team than I was. What I had mistaken for camaraderie had merely been part of the machinery that moved them forward.
But I had four miles left to cover. Tired and worn as I felt, having a third of the race left to run felt depressing. Then again, during my training, thanks to Jake, a four- or five-mile run seemed almost effortless. Finishing the race at once seems like an impossible feat and a manageable task.
I stopped and grabbed a soggy Dixie cup of water. It was unrefreshing and warm, salty from the drip of sweat off of my brow. I stood still for just a few seconds and pretended I was at the starting line again. The last nine miles had been a dream. I just tried to convince myself that I was about to run a quick 5K and a mile sprint.
I tossed my soggy Kleenex into the trash can and set off, determined. I forgot about the pace team. I forgot about The Guy. I was my own “Guy” now.
Oakland’s Lake Merritt is a stunningly beautiful jewel in the middle of the city. The three-mile loop around the lake and a short, flat run through Chinatown would complete the course. But as scenic, as it was, the lake was probably the worst place to end a half marathon. It was the only part of the course that was unpatrolled, and I hit it at a time when the Saturday morning joggers, the righteous dudes on skateboards, and the oblivious dog walkers with headphones were crowding the paths around the lake. I slowed down, following the thinning line of racers as we maneuvered the course.
At this point, my feet were moving, but I lacked the sensation of going anywhere. My calves had started to stiffen and cramp. I was tempted to stop and stretch them, but I was too determined to finish the race. I convinced myself that I could last the couple of miles that remained. When I completed the loop, I pushed my limits just to climb the gleaming white steps that led out of the basin around the lake and back on to city streets. I forced myself to breathe deeply, repeatedly counting to one hundred, as I head up through a gritty section of Chinatown. Unlike the festive crowds of West Oakland, these folks seemed to ignore the influx of soggy, determined runners. The race has thinned out so much at this point that there was little energy, no uplift.
The sweat and dust mixed in my hair felt like leftover honey, its warm stickiness clutching my scalp. The salty drops angled over my eyelids and made my contact lens burn. A stab of pain penetrated the right corner of my lower back as if the miles I had run had cut through my frame and infected my body. Still, dirty and worn as I felt, I plodded along, trying to control my breathing, convincing myself that I was only minutes from finishing the race. But at mile twelve, I knew I had at least ten minutes left, probably longer, as my pace waned, and my feet seemed like they were no longer moving me forward.
I wanted a surprise burst of exhilaration to carry me across the finish line, but it came only a couple of minutes afterward when I no longer had to move my feet. Everywhere around the end of the course, amidst the shadows of the majestic office towers, people were laughing, congratulating one another, with a bottle of cold fresh water in one hand and a mason jar of free designer IPA in the other. I looked around the crowd of finishers for my pace team but didn’t see any of them. Disappointed, I finished my water and protein bar and made my way back to the car.
It had started to rain. As I walked up Broadway, now empty and creepy on what is still an early Saturday morning, I texted my finish time (2:17) to Jake. I had accomplished my goal. So why didn’t I feel the enormous pride I expected?
Then I realized that running was no longer the solitary endeavor I had found so easy and appealing. In those tough middle miles, I had discovered something I’d never experienced before. I had found a community, one that in those tough moments, became very real to me. Immersed in the grueling physical challenge, the sporadic pain, the endless pounding of my feet against the rough pavement, the other runners counted much more than ability or perseverance. For as long as it lasted, they became the connections between the miles, the very context of the run, the very reasons why runners choose to experience the world in this way. No matter how many years we live, how many miles we run, we never stop looking for those connections.
And therein lies the real challenge of being an older runner. Not the physical limitations, because we just get used to them. Not the breathing, because you learn to control it. Not the endurance, because you always have virtual people like Jake to help you improve. It’s the gradual sense of loss that you start to feel in other aspects of your life. You are becoming less needed, less relevant, less able.
As difficult as it was, I learned that a long race can also be a source of reinvigoration and joy. The opportunity to be out among people, however long it lasts, is uplifting. It is not about the finish, because finishing can be painful to think about. It is the sense of accomplishment, even if it is anticlimactic, that is so affirming. You take away whatever you can from experience, and learn to expect no more.
You become your own “Guy.”