Then We Ran

By Rob Jewell

Then We Ran shows how lives can change when ordinary people commit themselves to exceed the expectations they have for themselves and that others have for them. A bond to run a marathon each month for a year joins two runners, an older man and a younger woman, as they strive to rebuild their lives. With one caring for a husband with early-onset Alzheimer’s and the other smarting from a failed marriage and mired in the complacency of retirement, they recapture the passion in their lives and discover the importance of love and friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781619277960

Book preview

Gina.

AKRON MARATHON

September 25, 2010

Some self-proclaimed expert put it this way: A marathon has two halves. The first 20 miles and the last six.

I read that somewhere. Who knows where or even when at this point? Maybe I read it in Runner’s World until I canceled my subscription a few years ago. How many tips for running your best 10K do you really need in a lifetime? Not many. And once I stopped wearing my running watch to record my daily five- or six-mile runs down to the last second, well, advice to trim seconds off my running times didn’t matter much. No longer mattered at all, actually.

Maybe I read it in one of the dozens of running logs that I have stacked like a full order of flapjacks in my clothes closet. Pick the right spiralbound book, flip a few pages, and I can tell you just about how far I ran, at what time, with whom, if anyone, and in what weather conditions on any given day for the last 30 years or so.

Looking good, a spectator shouted as I passed the 20-mile mark. I smiled, waved, gave a thumbs-up and kept shuffling along, my white T-shirt now gray and heavy with sweat. My black running hat pulled down to keep the sun off the top of my head and out of my eyes.

I angled to the right side of the street, stepping gingerly over the discarded paper cups that formed a garbage dump in front of a row of wobbly plastic-top tables. I walked through the water stop, grabbed two cups from the hands of a volunteer and took my time to drain both, something that saved me under the boiling sun at the Marine Corps Marathon 25 years ago.

Ah, shit. Sorry, I said, nearly causing a collision with another runner, a young woman who choked loudly on every gulp as she weaved her way through the water stop without giving up a second. Her tight ass and long legs then disappeared quickly out of sight.

After three hours on the concrete, stopping to walk for a minute offered a sense of relief, a few seconds for the throbbing in my leg muscles to quiet. Getting moving again with both legs starting to tighten and my stride becoming shorter and shorter became the issue, and I had to push the heel of my running shoe off the concrete, and move the gears of my muscles and tendons gently from neutral to first and then second. It would have been easier with Gina, not easy, but easier, having someone to talk to and make the mile markers pass a lot quicker and with a lot less effort.

Where the fuck was she? This was her idea, something we joked about at first during a run in the early spring. Then gradually it became more serious, with Gina wanting to run her first marathon, but only if I would run it with her.

When my enthusiasm didn’t match hers, she clinched the deal. What’s the matter? You too old to run another marathon?

I crossed the finish line, extended my sweaty hand for the congratulatory bump made popular during the hysteria about the nonexistent Swine Flu epidemic, and felt the medallion slip over my neck like a rock attached to a rubber band.

I looked for Gina until most of the other runners and spectators had left. No Gina. Not ahead of me at the finish, or completing the race with runners crossing the line in five hours and more. I stood and sipped a beer and then another as the flood of runners turned into a trickle. No Gina.

I went to my Wrangler, unlocked the glove compartment and hit Gina’s number on my BlackBerry’s speed dial. Three rings later and I found her.

She answered the phone slowly, deliberately, and waited for me to engage.

What happened? I looked for you before the race, and then I waited after the finish.

The name remained on the screen but the line went silent for a second, then another, and another.

They called about Jack, Gina said. He’s not coming home. And I had to go see him.

CUYAHOGA VALLEY NATIONAL PARK

September 26, 2010

I swung my legs out of bed and limped toward the kitchen for a few steps until the stiffness started to go away. My quads let me know that I wasn’t going to be racing up and down stairs today. In fact, perhaps making it to the valley for a slow, easy jog might be the best I could or should hope for. As I made my way to the coffee pot and the caffeine necessary to jolt my body and mind into action, the pain engulfing both my upper legs stung, but it could have been much worse, considering that just a few hours ago I finished a marathon at age 59 in just over four hours.

I downed the first of two cups of black coffee, strong enough to get the blood flowing and the bowels moving. I swallowed the low-dose aspirin tablet that had been a staple of my morning diet for more than 25 years. And I flipped open the laptop and went right to the race results on the website of the Akron Beacon Journal:

Men 55-59

Dan Zimmerman........04:12:22

That, of course, was yesterday’s news and now just another notation scribbled in my running log: Akron Marathon, 4:12:22, sunny with temps near 55 at the end, more hills than expected, overall good run. Ran alone for the most part. Gina didn’t run at the last minute.

This morning I slept until nearly 5:30, 90 minutes more than normal. And now I had to hustle to get dressed and drive the 30 or so minutes to the Cuyahoga Valley National Park to meet my friends for our weekly Sunday morning six-mile run on one of the many trails that snakes its way through 33,000 acres, the recreational and scenic link between Akron and Cleveland.

I pulled the Wrangler into the parking lot with a minute or two to spare and saw Paul and Larry checking their watches, ready to run.

Hey, marathon man, Paul said as my feet found the concrete. How did you do yesterday?

Pretty good. Not the best marathon ever, but decent. I’m not as sore as I thought I’d be, I said. But who plans these courses? With all the hills, maybe they drive the course, but they sure don’t run it.

Most runners and marathoners—well, the nonprofessionals, anyway— viewed the perfect course and run differently, based mostly on the number of hours and minutes that flashed on your watch at the end of the race and what your legs told you the next morning. On both measures I had done well.

You chase Gina the whole way? Larry asked. I’m sure she kicked your sorry ass.

I smiled at that since it would have been true, if Gina had actually showed up at the starting line. And I was equally sure that I would have enjoyed the run even more with Gina accompanying me for the more than four hours that I pounded the concrete.

Probably true, but Gina didn’t run, I said. I talked to her for a few minutes yesterday afternoon, and she said something happened with Jack, but she was leaving to go see him and didn’t have time to talk about what happened. I’ll try to call her today.

Paul, Larry and I had been running together for better than 25 years. We met at an indoor track, found we followed the same schedules of running most days in good weather or bad early in the morning, and became close friends over the years even though we had almost nothing in common other than the ability to stick with it and put one foot after the other, mile after mile, year after year.

We ran several marathons and other races together, met for beers occasionally, organized holiday picnics with families and friends, and shared glimpses of our personal lives, beliefs, accomplishments and setbacks in sessions on the trail, concrete or circular indoor track that any therapist would gleefully charge top dollar for.

There were others over the years who came and went for various reasons, some running related and others more personal. Virginia, the young nurse who married and moved to Oregon. Steve, the middleaged insurance salesman who decided that biking was more to his liking. Kenny, the pipefitter at Goodrich who lost his job and moved with his girlfriend and her family somewhere out west. And until four years ago, Jack Springer.

Larry thumped his watch.

Did we come here to run or talk?

With that we slowly made our way to the trail, gradually gaining speed until we put it on cruise control at a pace of about 10:00 a mile. My quads screamed and I knew this was not going to be the most fun I ever had. But I was back at it, on the trail with my friends the day after finishing another marathon, cutting through the quiet and stillness of a national park on a perfect fall morning.

Did you see what that asshole Obama did yesterday? Larry asked.

Oh, God, I said. Here we go again.

MY HOME

Akron

September 26, 2010

My legs ached, although the hot shower an hour or so after the earlymorning run helped some. The two beers, a turkey sandwich and a handful of Advil tablets at lunch helped even more.

Nap time? Not yet. My cell phone came alive and the digital display signaled Gina Springer.

Hey, I said, echoing the salutation of choice of my former students and other miscreants.

Did you guys run this morning? she asked. I wanted to call earlier but figured you wouldn’t be home yet.

Yeah, but I barely made the six miles, more of a shuffle than a run for me after yesterday, I said. And Paul and Larry said to say hello to you. They’re concerned about you and Jack. What happened yesterday?

Silence—or rather that awkward pause when someone has something difficult to say and the words just won’t slide off the tongue.

Jack’s not coming home, she said. The doctors agree he needs to stay in assisted living. I want to help him. I need to help him. But I can’t. He won’t let me.

You both talked about that months ago. You knew it could happen some day. Jack too. We all did.

Not yet. Not so soon, she said, her words trailing to nearly a whisper at the end. I love him so much. I don’t know what to do.

She didn’t ask and didn’t want me to at first, but finally she agreed when I insisted on driving to her house as soon as I could. I clicked off the phone, changed clothes and settled into the Wrangler to drive to Gina and Jack’s house. The house Jack built from the ground up and everything in between during the first year of their marriage.

I sparked the ignition and thought of Jack. I first saw him about 25 years ago. He appeared sprinting around a corner adjacent to a row of bushes heading north on the running trail in the valley while Paul, Larry and I made our way running slowly south, three abreast on a trail that had space for only three runners going in the same direction. As we passed going in opposite directions, Jack nodded and grunted hello.

Jack sped by in a blur, running in shorts and no shirt. Not unusual for summer, but clearly the exception and not the rule in late December in Northeast Ohio. And while he passed quickly, you couldn’t help notice that Jack was more bear than man: tree trunk legs and a thick hairy chest on a 6-foot frame, with heavy arm and shoulder muscles that you don’t nurture sitting in an office shuffling paper.

"Why don’t you run without a shirt, Dan? Damn wuss. It must be warmer than we think." Larry shouted to us, from a stride or two behind as he had dropped back to accommodate Jack’s presence on the trail.

Ah, c’mon. Give me a break. I’d be dead before we get to the turnaround, I said, as the three of us continued in the relative warmth of long-sleeve T-shirts and lightweight running suits.

We completed the run, walked slowly to our cars and welcomed the chance to introduce ourselves to the runner without a T-shirt, now grabbing one from the closet that took the shape of the back of his truck.

That started a friendship that spanned more than two decades. Our running threesome became a foursome. We logged many hours and miles together on the trails, roads and tracks. Although we could have found an easier and more agreeable person to run with. Jack always pushed the limits of distance and pace, as though he had to prove something to us and to himself. If we agreed to run six miles, Jack would tack on another one or two at the end. The pace we set always had to be ratcheted up a notch or two or three, and he sprinted for as long and as hard as possible at the end. And once he settled on something—whether running a marathon with little or no extra training, or running in the valley in the dead of winter with nothing more than a short-sleeved T-shirt—nothing and no one could change his mind. No matter what.

But Jack was, well, Jack: a likeable, good-natured construction worker who would literally give you the shirt off his back. He enjoyed hunting, fishing and watching football on television. If something needed repaired, Jack would fix it without the help of an instruction manual or service call. His garage workshop housed enough tools to fuel a small business, and he used them with precision, while never being completely happy or satisfied with the results or quality of his work until he had exhausted every possibility to make it as good as possible. While he worked or relaxed on the deck he built one summer that overlooked acres of trees that bordered his house, he was surrounded by jazz, with his stack of CDs labeled Marsalis, Brubeck, Monk, Parker and Armstrong. And until he began reading the same paragraph over and over again, he devoured novels, mostly science fiction, mystery and adventure, while never straying much from the best-selling writers: Clancy, Grisham and King.

When he married Gina DiNicola 10 years ago, our moving posse gained not just another runner. We gained a regular companion, storyteller and someone who unlike three guys and one bear-like man actually looked good—no, make that great—in shorts and a running top.

One day, Jack just stopped running along with most everything else.

Early-onset Alzheimer’s.

Paul, Larry and I talked about it often, and at great length, although initially we had few facts and little appreciation for the illness. Wasn’t Alzheimer’s something that claimed the body and minds of old people?

Not always.

When the doctor first told Jack and Gina, and she told me, I said, No, impossible. You don’t get Alzheimer’s in your forties.

It’s not common, but thousands in their 40s and 50s have Alzheimer’s, she said. Jack’s father was diagnosed with the disease long before he hit 60.

It doesn’t happen to someone as strong and active as Jack, I said.

It happens.

Four years ago, at the age of 44, Jack first displayed the symptoms: trouble balancing his checkbook, forgetting names and appointments, losing his way when driving to new and unfamiliar construction sites.

Then came the depression and difficulty speaking. And all too painfully soon, he forfeited the ability to care for himself.

Leave Jack alone with the microwave, expect a fire.

Let Jack turn on the kitchen faucet, expect water up to his knees.

Ask Jack to find the local news on TV, expect a black screen and a loud buzz.

Gina blamed herself. When we ran together in the days before Jack became a permanent resident of an assisted living facility, she filled the miles with her concerns: not spending enough time with him and not being a good enough wife. And no matter what words of hope and reassurance we offered, they never satisfied her. Never made her smile or feel any better about herself, or about Jack. Running became her escape and something that Jack encouraged her to do.

On those mornings when she met the three of us—or more likely and more often on other days when she would run with me solo—Gina placed Jack in a chair, turned on the TV and told him to stay put until she returned 90 minutes later.

What should Gina do? It was difficult for her to leave the house, difficult to leave him alone. At the same time, Jack didn’t want to be held captive in his own house, and he finally agreed a month ago to go to an assisted living facility where he would stay three or four days a week while the doctors continued to probe and prod and check the nerve fibers and brain function as best they could. And although he would never admit this to Gina, when I visited him, he said he agreed to the living arrangement more for her benefit than for his. He didn’t want to be a burden for her. He said he loved her too much for that to happen.

Paul, Larry and I had replayed Jack’s story many times over the years and more frequently in recent weeks. And I really didn’t want to revisit with Gina Jack’s illness or his growing inability to live life on his own terms. Not now. Not ever. But I knew I had to, and I didn’t even have to knock on the door before it swung open.

Her eyes were as red as a Christmas sweater. Her nose rubbed raw.

I inched toward her, standing under the frame of the doorway.

I don’t know what to say. How can I help?

Gina didn’t say a word, just moved toward me. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and I placed by hands on her back above her waist. It was an awkward embrace between a man and a woman that lasted too long for one, while possibly not nearly long enough for the other.

She let her arms drop back down to her sides and said, Can we run tomorrow?

CUYAHOGA VALLEY NATIONAL PARK

September 27, 2010

By the time I angled the Wrangler into the parking space Gina was already stretching, one leg propped on the bumper of her car with both hands attached to an ankle. She had her long, stallion-black hair pulled back into a ponytail, and it made her look younger than her 36 years. It looked good on her, complementing her curvaceous body that was both sexy and toned. Dressed in black running shorts, a red sleeveless tank top and Nike shoes, Gina resembled the elite runners pictured in running