Running is detox – (That’ll be five cents, please.)

Submitted by William Pennington
September 13, 2016 1:00 a.m.

The transformation is like a time warp. We drive-up to our Wednesday workout as adults, saturated with time clocks, deadlines, and real world pressures. We park our cars, walk through the gate and voila – – time clocks become stop watches, deadlines finish lines, and daily pressures give way to the most basic kid activity – – running.

Our midweek detoxification has begun.

Paradoxically, this adult-to-child cleansing takes place weekly at a
schoolyard.

Once inside those gates, we rarely speak of our work lives, instead
focusing on our workout life. The spirit of athletics turns our daily
stress to laughter and good-natured ribbing for the next hour, or more for
those of us who continue our “Cocoon” alter universe over pizza.

But, as a long-time member of the club, and one who relishes the
transformation, I can report that we have a diverse group of professionals
off the track. Many of my sole mates are more than heart, lungs, and legs.

Yes, Fernandina Beach, I am not Dr. Frasier Crane, but I am listening.

We’ve got a medical doctor, a guy who runs his own law firm with a mug on
local billboards, an owner of one of the most popular sinfully-tasting
fudge shops in town, the Job-Tri-Guy who has been an engineer, lawyer and
school teacher; the head of a IT department, the community relations
director for the island’s top employer, an engineer who works on nuclear
warheads (though it’s hush, hush), a guy who prepared NASA missions to
outer space, a former *Miami Herald* newspaper editor, a chemist, a
submarine captain, not to mention a former cross country coach from the
state university, and thankfully, a therapist to listen to all our bunk.

I don’t know if it’s a shallow-mind, one dimension thinking, or just
complete escapism, but I could line-up most of the 30-40 runners who attend
our weekly workouts and group in a pace category, but I’d be lucky to guess
with any more than a snippet of what 25% of the folks do during the day.
The only reason I know slightly more than running times is because I’ve
been around the club since its inception, about 15 years ago, and I have
the rabbit ears of a reporter.

For example, I know we have one red-bearded 21-minute type 5ker who drives
a truck with some sort of geology sticker. So, I would guess that he does
something to do with rocks and faults. I do know Red Beard The Pyrite
leaves an aftershock as he storms by during intervals. But, I also confess
that I’ve never asked him about the San Andreas Fault or Florida’s eventual
demise into the Atlantic.

And, I know for a fact that Pyrite has never asked me the key points of
closing a sale, or writing a newspaper article. Even with truth serum, he
would likely say his recollection of me consists of unorthodox panting and
shoe scuffs behind him.

Heck, I had known Job-Tri-Guy as a runner for about six years before I
found out what he did prior to retirement. It came up in a casual
conversation over bites of Townies pizza when I was talking about getting
out of jury duty because I thought the defendant “looked guilty”. I
remember telling my fellow runner that the scarred-faced guy with the
ill-fitting suit about to go on trial looked like every Clint Eastwood
adversarial hoodlum. He had to have done it. Dirty Harry, Andy Sipowicz,
and even Jackie Chiles knew he did it, and so did I, no evidence or trial
necessary. That led to Mr. Job-Tri-Guy to reveal that he had been a lawyer
as well as an engineer and high school teacher. I had no idea. I never
cared what he had done off the racecourse. But, I did know that he had run
about 50 marathons, competed in every Gate River Run except for one, and
had celebrated his 60th birthday by doing a 50-miler by himself beginning
one summer morning around 3:00 a.m.

After informing me of his three-pronged career and why I should have
remembered the phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty’, I looked at him and
said the first thing that popped into my head, “I didn’t realize you were a
smart guy, too. I thought you were just a runner.”

Clever, and talented athletically, he celebrated another birthday recently,
posting his best marathon time in 15 years in an Iceland 26.2 miler…. yep,
that Iceland, as in the Arctic Circle. I guarantee you that he never tried
a case, developed an engineering masterpiece, or taught a course that left
him as thrilled as his Iceland result.

One other thing, Job-Tri-Guy is doing the Rim-to-Rim this fall, which for
you non-runners means hotfooting from the top of the Grand Canyon to the
bottom and then up the other side… yeah, that Grand Canyon as in Arizona.

And, as for our resident MD, I know I’ve run stride-for-stride with her (in
warm-ups, of course) and never inquired about cures for my sore Achilles,
aching lower back, or that little dark spot on my chest. But, I’ve sure
complimented Doc Medal Stand for her multitude of running and triathlon
awards. She is a healer by day, dominator by weekend. But, I’ve witnessed
her accepting top triathlon awards with the enthusiasm of a shopper
reaching for a carton of milk from the Publix cooler.

In our club, I think all of us measure ourselves against someone in our
running category, not by houses, incomes, and certainly intelligence. Most
of us realize that people with high intellect wouldn’t be training in
90-degree heat with wool-blanket humidity. Again, we’re runners, not rocket
scientists… well, except for one retired guy, who I’ve witnessed measuring
a 5K course accurately with a beach cruiser, pencil and a piece of scratch
paper. It was easy stuff for our Buck Rodgers, who coached the first set of
astronauts on rocket ship speed necessary to breakout of the earth’s orbit
in the 60’s.

When we’re on the track, it takes us back to the elementary school yard.
The basic primal instinct of who is the fastest. We good-naturedly chide
each other, but the guys can never say that dissenting line…”you run like a
girl” because some of our top runners are female. In our men’s group, there
are some of us who would hope to keep up with the girls.

Be it male or female, we have some truly special stories that transcend a
starting or finish line.

We have a middle-aged lady who started running with the group and lost over
80 pounds in two years; a guy who said that five years ago just the thought
of running 100 yards was daunting. He’s now completed a half-dozen
Ironmans. Then, there’s UltraMan, who competes in double and quadruple
marathons over mountains and through the desert in the middle of summer
after training in Florida’s 100-degree heat. You may have seen him on a
July afternoon draped in a hooded parka and sporting a pair of Stein
Erickson autographed ski mittens with Tim Deegan warning of hydration and
triple digit heat index.

And, UltraMan is the most nonchalance, humble dude. “Yeah, I did the
100-miler in Utah last week,” he says with a shrug as we jog around the
track warming up. I listen and congratulate, but, then being an antagonist
(nicer word for jerk), I think to myself, well, I drank three Rattle Snake
Beers and a shot of Tomahawk Redeye Saturday, so there. Betcha my body
aches were worse than yours, UltraDude.

Seriously, though, if I had completed a 100-miler, our group would watch me
climb the Pirate Stadium steps in *Rocky* fashion, raise my arms and scream
to everyone as I reach the top, “I did a 100 mile run last weekend”. Then,
I would wait for the applause and the subsequent picture on the front page
of the local newspaper.

Ultraman, meanwhile continues unpretentiously to his next venture with no
fanfare. Come-on, at least brag a little bit.

Then, there’s the story of our top club officer, who recently turned 40. Ms. Next-City-Comet jets away nearly every weekend to Kathmandu or Goose Pimple Junction for some version of a triathlon. Forget about gearing-up for a few tri’s per year, she’s doing at least two monthly. Comet told me once that she does it to deal with stress. And, I always thought that a lounge chair on the beach listening to the waves was that tonic. Like so
many others in the club, Next-City recounts her results in a near whisper. It seems nobody in our club is self-glossing… not a Mohammad Ali, Michael Phelps, or Usain Bolt personality in the group… nobody proclaiming about ‘being the greatest,’ or even professing of ‘being pretty good.’

Hell, I am usually more impressed with our individual’s and their achievements than they are of themselves.

Myself, I run for exercise and health, of course; but also for the competition. I want the medal stand. The thrill of passing an age group opponent in the last quarter of a race, hearing the labored breathing, and knowing that he doesn’t have enough in the tank to hitch on behind me.

I’ve also got five cents for Lucy’s tin cup after finishing.

Editor’s Note: William (Bill) Pennington is a former sports columnist for the Savannah Morning News and Florida Times-Union. He was honored as Writer-of-the-Year for the Road Runners Clubs of America as well as a Associated Press award winner and Georgia Sportswriter columnist winner. He is a contributing writer for the News-Leader. We thank Bill for his contribution to the Fernandina Observer.