Growing into My Running Shoes
I not only wasn’t a runner. I wasn’t a basketball player, either. That’s Dave (far right) and Mick (center), each holding a basketball. I think I’m holding a bag of cookies.
Chapter 8
I was not a very good athlete as a little kid. At least that’s what my four older brothers frequently told me. They had me convinced the Higley “athletic gene pool” had a supply big enough for just four boys. Being boy number five, I lost out. And I never really had enough faith in myself to try to prove them wrong. So I went through grade school petrified to play sports.
But in sixth grade I decided to join the track team. Or maybe my parents forced me—I can’t remember. What I do remember vividly, though, was my mother handing me a pair of Mick’s old running shoes that were held together with duct tape. Other than that, all I got was a big hug and her reassurance (I wasn’t convinced) I’d have fun.
“How hard could it be?” I tried to tell myself. Three of my brothers—Tom, Dave, and Mick—were runners. They each ran cross-country. They each ran track. And, lest anyone fail to remind me, they all were good.
Maybe I could be good too, I hoped.
So I signed up. Hesitantly.
During the first week of practice, the coach assessed everyone’s skill levels. I have no doubt he assumed I came to the team as a mini version of my older brothers.
“Little Higs, I wanna clock you in the 440,” he yelled.
I stunk at that.
“Let’s try the 100,” he screamed.
Nope again.
“Maybe distance.” I’m sure he was praying as he stood on the side of the track.
Another dismal effort on my part. The coach must have speculated I was adopted. As for me, after this series of trials? I wanted to run—in the opposite direction.
While I suspect the track coach thought long and hard about making me the team manager—or worse yet, the guy in charge of the water cooler—he ultimately had me run hurdles: 100-yard low hurdles. Everyone, including me, understood his strategy. At that age, a couple of kids never even made it to the finish line in the hurdles because they fell down. If I could simply clear the wooden hurdles I’d at least have a chance of not coming in last place.
It was a sad way to compete, but it occasionally worked. And I found myself savoring—a few brief times—some of the athletic prowess I felt had been reserved only for my brothers.
I don’t remember ever quitting the team. But then again, I don’t remember finishing the season, either. I was one of those guys who drifted away. I’d make up an excuse to miss a practice. Then one or two more, which eventually kept me from participating in the few track meets on the schedule. So I just stopped going. And no one ever asked me to come back.
I hated sixth-grade track. But more than anything, I hated walking away knowing my brothers were right.
I wasn’t a runner.
It was New Year’s Day. My cancer diagnosis wouldn’t arrive until a few months later. Our family had gathered around the kitchen table to enjoy a traditional southern meal—something we picked up from our thirteen years in North Carolina—including hoppin’ john, black-eyed peas, and collards. It was a meal meant to bring “good luck” and, for us, a meal of good memories.
I had decided that January 1 would be the perfect opportunity to share some very big news with everyone: I was signing up for a triathlon in July.
Considering I hadn’t run more than a mile in well over ten years, I thought this was big news. I had been mulling over the idea in my head for months after watching the Chicago Marathon the prior fall. Seeing so many people run that day, including many who were physically challenged, inspired me and made me believe in my abilities. I was tired of seeing myself as the little brother who couldn’t do things. And I knew announcing my intentions to my family would get me off and running.
My announcement brought only one reaction: stares from my kids. Stares that pretty much said, “You’ve-got-to-be-kidding-us-dad-like-you’re-totally-the-last-person-we-can-imagine-competing-in-a-triathlon.”
I guess they actually were listening to me all those years when I proclaimed myself the non-athlete in the family.
“Come on guys, give me a break! I’m going to be forty-five in August. This is something I really want to do.”
Not less than two minutes post-announcement and I was already starting to doubt myself. But I was not going to back down. So I pulled out a triathlon book I had secretly been reading over the prior few weeks to show everyone the training schedule I was about to kick off. Maybe that would get them excited.
Unfortunately, they had more interest in clearing the dirty dishes.
So my big news on New Year’s Day didn’t create the memory for which I had hoped. Yes, I was a little ticked. A little hurt. But, regardless, I was now officially preparing for a triathlon.
Over the next few months I trained hard. I swam twice a week. I ran three times a week. I lifted weights. I followed my regimen to the letter.
More than anything, though, I was having fun and feeling confident. I was enjoying the daily experience of what I was doing. I was relishing little things like short runs in my neighborhood with my young son, Drew, riding his bicycle alongside me. Life was good. Everything was good.
Everything, that is, except the stupid thing my doctor detected during my annual physical. Somehow, one simple blood test morphed into several months of other tests. I suddenly found myself chasing my triathlon dream while my doctor was chasing the possibility of cancer hiding somewhere in my body. It was hard to keep those two races separated.
I tried to hold together my training in March and April, but I was also undergoing more and more tests—which meant more and more doctors.
Eventually, my training started to slip. Not terribly, but it did slip. I never once imagined, however, I wouldn’t do the triathlon. It was only April, and I still had three months ahead of me to get ready.
But everything changed on that Sunday when my doctor called me with the news they had found the cancer. Even while he was talking about surgery, I was thinking it would happen three to six months down the road. So when he said something that included the words “surgery within six weeks,” I had the wind knocked out of me.
After I hung up the phone from that conversation, when I was alone crying on our back porch, my mind was racing through millions of feelings. One of the things I kept obsessing on was all of my triathlon training. I felt silly to have made it such an important part of my life. I was questioning why I had spent so much time in the prior few months getting ready for something that was not going to happen.
The next several days following that Sunday were like a bad dream. What was originally scheduled to be a Tuesday lunchtime swim was replaced with a meeting with my doctor to discuss surgery, risks, and recovery. My early morning weight training time was spent reading, researching, and note taking on every possible issue I could get my arms around. And the evening runs with Drew at my side became my time to call family and friends to bring them up to speed on my “news.”
Those first few days were exhausting. But by the end of the week, most of the big decisions had been made, and the explosive craziness born the prior Sunday was starting to be replaced with focus and resolve.
Ironically I had long scheduled a getaway trip with old friends from North Carolina for the end of that first week. I was confused as to whether or not we should all still go on the trip, but eventually I made the decision to go, convincing myself a break would be good. We all arrived in Santa Fe late Thursday afternoon and were so happy to see each other. It felt safe to be with trusted friends. Although we had much to catch up on that first night together, we were all tired from the travel. So, after a quick stroll around the hotel and an abbreviated dinner, we all turned in for the night.
I was tired but not quite ready to sleep. It had been an emotional, challenging, cancerous week. I started a fire (with a flick of a switch!) in the adobe fireplace. Pulling up a chair to absorb the heat, I sat and thought.
Hypnotized by the flames dancing behind and between the fake logs, I let my mind re-create the realities of the last several days. My body felt peaceful and relaxed. But I also found myself questioning everything. Maybe I wasn’t really relaxed? Maybe I was avoiding reality? My thoughts danced around until I finally told myself I had to flip the switch inside my head for the night. It was time for me to go to bed.
My body has an internal clock, and it is set to wake me up at 5:00 am every morning. And unless I am extremely tired, my clock works well. It was working the following morning. But with the different time zone, it meant I was up at 4:00 am Santa Fe time. And when I wake up, I’m up.
It was still pitch-black outside. I could see the moon through the window. I grabbed a blanket and went back to my chair in front of the fireplace, which was still burning. I found myself picking up my thoughts from the night before. Random thoughts. What was I feeling? What was I supposed to feel? I wasn’t afraid. Should I be?
Eventually, the sun began to appear. It was going to be a beautiful day. I knew no one else would be awake for at least a couple of hours. And as happy as I was sitting in front of the fireplace, I knew I needed to move.
I needed to run.
And even though I didn’t feel the pressure of training for the triathlon, a run sounded right. It sounded perfect. So I changed, strapped an iPod to my arm, and slipped outside.
Drops of mist were still hanging in the air. I walked about a block or so, stopping occasionally to stretch and dial the iPod to a new Rascal Flatts album my son Kevin wanted me to listen to. By the time the second song began, I picked up my pace.
I started up Canyon Road, the fifty-yard line for most of the art galleries in Santa Fe. We had walked part of it the prior day, marveling at many of the seventy-some galleries that lined it on either side. The road had a slight incline. Something I hadn’t noticed the day before.
I also hadn’t noticed the beautiful pots of flowers that were periodically set out in front of several of the galleries. There were wooden fences with peeling paint next to rusty, wrought iron gates. But they all breathed newness in the morning light. I was fascinated by the homes behind the galleries and didn’t think twice about looking through the windows to catch a glimpse of the lives inside.
I wondered how some of the galleries got their names.
A white dog with brown and black spots playfully ran with me.
On the side of the street, I saw a child’s red tricycle with a bent rear wheel and I smiled. Someone forgot to bring in his toy last night!
Before long, I found myself at a “T” in the road. Which way? Left looked good. And left turned out to be great.
I wound myself along the Santa Fe River. It’s called a river, but it’s more of a creek—a beautiful one at that. I was curious how cold the water was. I wondered if it all ran into a lake. There were sporadic clusters of rocks that broke the water and created a wonderful ripple effect in the current.
Other runners started to appear. All smiling and raising a hand to say “good morning!”
I took a street to my right. It looked residential and appealed to my sense of morning adventure. Newspapers were still lying in the driveways. Nice homes. People must enjoy living there. What kind of jobs did they have?
I liked the album I was listening to—Feels Like Today by Rascal Flatts. I was glad Kevin downloaded it for me. Suddenly, the lyrics of one song, “When The Sand Runs Out,” started to register with me . . . la, la, blah, la . . . “an old friend’s grave.”
I felt my heart pounding faster through the sweat-soaked shirt stuck to my chest. I slowed down just enough to rewind the song and listen to it again. It was about a man who died after living a life that wasn’t complete. He didn’t take chances. He didn’t experience the richness of life.
I felt as if a spotlight had suddenly been shone upon me. And I was sure that everyone—even though there was no one—was aware of me as I stopped to rewind the song and listen to it as I let the resonating final words sink in.
“Yeah, I wanna be runnin’ when the sand runs out.”
I had 17 million goose bumps prickling my skin. My earlobes were dripping like a leaky bathroom sink. My eyes burned with salt. My shoes and socks were soaked. And I had never felt more alive than I did at that moment.
I wondered if this was the gift Karen had promised me I would discover. Ever since I had spoken with her, I was on the lookout for something big. It was a positive distraction if nothing else. But it also caused me to analyze everything in my life because I truly wanted to find “it.” I wanted validation.
But at that moment of revelation, I simply let my steps become purposeful.
A detour through the residential streets eventually led me to market square in the middle of town. Craftsmen were starting to display their art on rainbow-colored blankets under an arcaded walkway. My pace slowed down to an easy walk as the soundtrack in my ears came to an end. I uncorked the earphones from my ears so I could hear the sounds of the morning unfiltered. I stopped to admire everything. The delicate silver rings one artist was proudly arranging looked like soldiers lining up for the morning’s drill. An older, smiling woman displayed her brilliant beadwork. I knew my daughter, Wallis, would love it all. I made sure I looked at the vendors’ faces. I wanted to see their eyes. I wanted them to see me smile at them.
As I strolled back to the hotel, I came upon an old Catholic church. There was a familiarity to it. Paradoxically, the cold, austere stone exterior seemed to extend an embrace to me, so I approached it and found an open door.
Inside, there was a small chapel where a mass was being celebrated in Spanish. I stood there, seeing only the backs of the faceless parishoners, and listened for a few minutes. Incense floated in the air.
I walked to the main sanctuary and found a place to rest in an empty pew. I closed my eyes. With the distant murmuring of the Spanish liturgy in the background, I explored the catacombs of my life. I thought about the amazing twists I had experienced. I thought about my mom. My dad. My brother Kevin.
I thought about my children and the dad they needed me to be.
With statues of saints looking down on me, I kept going back to that call from my doctor the prior Sunday. I remembered sobbing to a depth I never had before. I marveled at all I had learned in the few days since. At the top of the list was a realization of how much I still had to learn. Life was throwing me curveballs, and I was confused about so many things. But in spite of all that, I felt empowered in a new way because I realized, finally, this about myself.
I was a runner.