Run for Your Life: Living Life Athletically

By Ron Allen

Run for Your Life is the story of a common man’s journey through a life of athletics. See how involvement in sport can contribute to an understanding of other cultures, in raising a family, creating unique social networks, and how it enhances one’s life. Learn how triathlons, marathons, racing, skiing, cycling and tennis contributed to this journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387555604

Book preview

Prologue

This is a book about the seasons of life that we go through and how, in my experience, a simple act of putting one foot in front of the other has served as a guidepost for the various evolutions of my life. Running has been my constant companion, but I am sure others have found their own personal inspiration and their mountains to climb. All of us have experienced influences that have helped us to navigate life while staying happy and healthy, as we pass through the various stages that we are granted.  This book is about how I have adapted to my gifts, needs and desires as I age, and how sport has served to fulfill my life more than I ever thought possible. 

Running and other sports have sustained me in difficult times, while being a partner in the celebration of good times.  This book is not an attempt to change others’ lives or show how wonderful and healthy I am from all this sporty behaviour.  It is a simple description of the evolutions of a life. We are all unique and create our own journeys.  This has been mine. 

So, let’s start at the beginning.  Enjoy.

Ron Allen

Chapter 1:

Crossing my second finish line of the weekend, a voice familiar to me shattered my reverie and acknowledged my accomplishment.  Little did I know that this finish line would be the beginning of the end of my competitive racing life.  I would pass a number of other finish lines for about two more years but would henceforth always hear the words that caused me to reconsider what I was doing. 

The announcer was Steve King, a friend, a fellow competitor and a very gifted race commentator, not to mention an excellent athlete.  We were in the same running age group and had competed many times head-to-head, with both of us coming out on top, depending on the day or the event.  I had no idea he would be announcing both races. 

The race that caused me to reconsider my priorities was the Peach Festival Triathlon.  This was a yearly competition, and I had completed it several times.  In fact, a prior version of the race had been my very first triathlon finish.  On this day, however, I had been racing in triathlons for about ten years, completing numerous triathlons and foot races, but I had never completed two races on the same weekend. 

The previous day I had participated in the Across the Lake Swim.  This yearly race had been run since 1949.  The racecourse required approximately 2 kilometres of swimming.  Competitors had to enter Okanagan Lake on the south shore and swim across the lake to the north shore, arriving in City Park in Kelowna’s downtown core.  I had also completed this race several times and was one of about 500 competitors. 

Hearing Steve’s voice for the second time in two days caused me to pause and reconsider my racing life.  Was I having fun anymore?  What was the point?  Who does two races in two days?  Why was I running two races in two days?  I wondered if it was possibly time to throttle back a bit on this sporty behaviour. 

This was 1992, and I was an aging weekend warrior at 41 years of age.  I had been racing fairly seriously for about ten years by this time.  In reality I was just an age grouper, which meant I was competing against people of my own age and had no chance of breaking any world records.  My success, and that of most of my compatriots, was more about competing, enjoying the day and spending time with others of a like interest.  Our successes were measured in personal records (PRs).  Nobody was going to acknowledge this record but us.  That being said, we were all very serious about our training and lived by a certain regimen that required daily training, a healthy diet, careful strategy and socializing with a certain subculture.  For me, and for most of the other competitors, this had become a lifestyle.

My participation in these races was a long process that actually began back in grade school.  I had been thrown into a few competitions as a child but never had much success.

The one sport at which I did enjoy some early success was baseball.  At about 6 years of age, I joined my first baseball team.  I was the youngest player on the team, I had no baseball experience and, for my whole first season, was relegated to sitting on the bench.  My 6-year-old mind decided that if I was ever to play baseball, I would need to develop some skills.  I did not like warming the bench. 

It seemed to me that the most obvious way to learn a sport was to practice.  Therefore, in the off-season, I spent the cold winter months on the prairies throwing and catching a hard rubber ball against the basement wall of our house for hours on end.  My parents must have been annoyed by the endless thumping, but they did not discourage me. 

I learned from this experience that persistent practice and repetition was necessary to become good at anything.  Consequently, after my first season, I warmed the bench no more.  I  arrived at spring training with an entire winter of throwing and catching behind me and enjoyed a fair level of success. 

I became a pitcher after my second season and played until I aged out of Little League at about 14 years of age.  Our team went on to claim the Alberta Little League title and could have gone on to national competition, but our coach had not predicted that we would become such skilled baseball players and had only registered us at the provincial level of competition.  Too bad!

As a young teenager, I did not participate in organized sports and never discovered any athletic prowess in myself until high school.  This was when I was introduced to running as a competitive sport.  I completed my first long distance run of about three miles in a gym class at about 16 years of age. 

My good buddy, Larry, and I had tried a variety of sports with very little success.  Then one day the gym teacher decided he would show us what cross-country running and pain was all about.  We set out in a mob of 30 grade 10 boys, with the usual jocks blasting off as the starting gun sounded. 

Larry and I loped along, expecting our usual mediocre showing against the basketball, rugby and soccer greats of our school.  As usual, we were at the back of the pack but, about one mile into the race, we began to make our way through some badly slumping athletes.  Larry and I, both scrawny, (I was known as Scrawny Ronnie at one time), found ourselves moving our way through the local heroes and eventually surging into the lead. 

By mile two there was no one near us.  We finished first and second and had found our sport.  Larry went on to a career of criminality where his running talent was no doubt useful at times, but his success in life was questionable.

My newly discovered running prowess initially had little impact on my life.  I ran only in gym class throughout high school, where I continued to enjoy success, but I never joined a running program or entered a race.  I had, however, developed a keen interest in running and its impact on my ability to enjoy life to the fullest. 

I soon discovered that I could eat and drink to contentment as long as I ran a couple times per week, assisted of course by the miraculous metabolism of youth.  Therefore, I ran a couple times per week but no longer than a mile.  I thought of this as training but did not, at that time, try my skills against another human being in any type of race.

At university, I enrolled in a physical education program and gained a good understanding of various sports, but primarily thought of myself as a runner.  In reality I had still never actually run in a real race.  Although I considered myself a long-distance runner, I had never run a distance longer than a couple of miles. 

In those days (the 70s) most runners in my world were competing in track events, and the mile was considered long distance.  My one or two miles per week of running was mostly to compensate for an unhealthy lifestyle, to keep myself fit enough to participate in other sports and to pass myself off as a jock for any females that I might potentially be interested in.  I really did not train and had little idea how to do so.  I guess I was more of an inner runner in thought rather than in physical execution.  It was not until several years later, when I would embark on a little trip around the world, that I would begin to see my outer runner emerge.

Chapter 2:

My newly acquired wife and I landed at Sydney airport in 1979, ready to embark on a year-long saga that would see us tour the continent of Australia.  I considered the lovely metropolis of Sydney my home base and initially stayed with a friend who was a professional Australian rules football player.  I did not really understand what it meant to be paid to play a sport or the sacrifices that were required.  However, when I saw his face on billboards all around Sydney, I began to understand that he was a serious athlete. 

John, my Aussie friend, showed me the city and further encouraged my athletic interests by taking me out on his daily workouts. I soon found myself attacking brutal runs up mountains and through eucalyptus forests.  Being a professional athlete, John was not satisfied with just running up hills.  He would run up hills with me on his shoulders.  I replaced a bag of sand. This was a man who was no bigger than me and several years older.  I began to gain some level of understanding of what it would take to become a real athlete. 

Eventually purchasing a vehicle, my partner and I set out to discover this new and wonderful land, Australia.  We would travel most days for a few hours until we found a nice place to park the camper van by a beach and settle in for the night.  This left several hours daily to discover the area, nap, laze around the beaches, or quaff a few fine Australian beer.  I was not running regularly at that time, having escaped John’s training camp, but I still considered myself a runner.  I managed to  run about a mile or  two a couple of times per week but only if I had nothing better to do.  John’s Boot Camp had improved my level of fitness and had given me a bit of an understanding of the work I might need to put in if I were to develop my running interests in any competitive sense. 

Australia, as you may know, is very hot, and, at that time, one hour was about all that I could manage to run at one go. There was, however, plenty of free time between travels and, with recreation the only pressing issue in our lives, I began running in the cool of the morning.  If I felt the urge, on occasion, I might complete a second run in the evening.  The evening run was more of a discovery run to gain a better understanding of the area and see some sights.  I would bring a small camera and take a few shots that I would bring back to my travelling companion to show where I had been.  I liked to think of these runs as mini travelogues, much the same as the runs I do these days. 

As I became more physically fit, I started to stretch out my runs, and the heat did not seem to bother me as much as it had at first.  After several months, I had managed to increase my mileage to about 10 kilometres comfortably most days, even in the heat of the day.  I was becoming an Aussie and found this a great way to see the country, stretch out my road weary muscles and cultivate a nice Australian tan.  I was soon looking and feeling like a local, who could only be identified as a foreigner if I opened my mouth. 

We drove north along the east coast all the way to Cairns and beyond, in Queensland, some 4000 kilometres one way.  Australia was not a very populated country in the 70s, and there were hundreds, possibly thousands, of kilometres of vacant beaches due to the seasonal jellyfish plague that deterred swimming.  Jellyfish were not on the beaches, however, so I would find a quiet road or sandy shore to run a few glorious kilometres most days.  New sights and sunny days stimulated a further strong incentive for me to embark on my daily runs.  After a few months I became so addicted to this daily routine that I would be most disturbed if I missed a single run.  My pace was also improving, and I was beginning to understand the effort it takes to really become a runner. 

In Queensland, we began working for a few months on a tobacco farm.  We worked on the farm as manual labourers with a few other field hands.  We were a team that consisted of a Kiwi, an Aboriginal, two Canucks, and two Aussies which were the farmer and his wife.  During the long days in the fields there was a two-hour siesta during the heat of the day when the workers would stop for a little nap to cool down, have lunch and rest for the long evening shift.  I created some concern among my fellow workers as that crazy Canuck, when I would use my siesta time to run a few kilometres.  Much of our stay on the tobacco farm never saw the thermometer descend below 40C.  Perhaps I was a bit touched by the heat.

On one occasion we stayed a few weeks in Townsville, Queensland, where I developed a daily routine of running several kilometres among giant ant hills in the bush, as the locals called it, across from our campground.  The bush was really just some vacant land with giant ant hills and a lot of dust.  I had been running through these lands for about a week when a local resident accosted me after a run and asked me if I had been running in those fields, as he pointed across the road with a shaking finger.  I replied that I had, and that I found the bush to be a wonderful area for running, as it was away from the traffic and community.  He gasped and informed me that nobody ever ventured into those fields known as Death Adder Gully. It seems that the Australian death adder can kill a human being in 7 seconds or less.  Even though I must have been too fast for them to inflict any venom on my pale Canuck legs, I stayed on the roads thereafter in Townsville.

Feeling very healthy, and considering myself a seasoned runner, I entered a fairly unique competition in Townsville, Queensland.  I would not call it a race but, rather, an experience.  A group of young men and women gathered at a local pub on the shores of the Coral Sea.  The pub was situated at the bottom of a huge pink granite monolith, called Castle Hill, in the center of Townsville.  The one narrow winding path that led to the top seemed endless and very steep.  I later learned that it was only 2.6 kilometres each way, but it felt like 100 in the heat.  For the event we were required to drink a beer before our departure, run to the top of Castle Hill, where another cool beer was awaiting our disposal, then return for a quick run to the bottom for a third swill to mark the finishing line.  I did not distinguish myself in any way at this event, and after three beers, the 40C heat and a steep mountain climb, I was ready to call it a day.  Australia had, however, cemented running as a new part of my daily life, and I brought it along with me wherever I went thereafter. 

The Castle Hill Run continues to be a yearly event in Townsville, but it is no longer sponsored by a pub. Thus, the beer is now absent for the participants, at least during the race.  They have, instead, a Sausage Sizzle after the run and offer three distances of 3-, 6- and 9-kilometre runs.  I might have done better if sausage, rather than beer, had been offered after my run. 

Returning to Canada, I reverted to my working life and within a few months had adopted a son, regained custody of my dog from my parents who had been pet sitting for us, purchased a home and secured full-time employment.  I continued to fit in my runs most days, but I had still never entered a real race, except for the Castle Hill event, which could only be loosely termed a race. 

Living in the Comox Valley on Vancouver Island I noticed a Spring Runoff race advertised by the local running club.  By this time, I had about a year of daily running behind me, and I thought of myself as a real runner.  If no beer drinking was involved, I could tick off 10 kilometres of running at a fairly fast pace and not think twice about it.  It was time to test my metal against others of a similar interest.  I entered the Comox Valley Spring Runoff which was a 10-kilometre footrace through the streets of Comox.

I trained diligently, although I did not really know what it meant to train.  Comox was not the epicenter of the running world in 1980, but there were a half-dozen people that could be considered runners in this small ocean-side community.  There was even a small running club, although I was not a member of it.  I was entirely unknown to the running community of Comox and would most certainly be considered a dark horse in any race.

The big day arrived, and I toed the line with about 25 other emaciated young men and women.  I soon became aware that my feet looked significantly different than everyone else’s.  I was wearing my treasured and very well-worn Stan Smith tennis shoes.  Having no knowledge that there are shoes specific to each sport, I now thought this little adventure might be a mistake.  The other runners had real running shoes, not to mention that my Stan Smiths had sustained me throughout Samoa, Fiji, Australia, Hawaii, and several more months upon my return.  Being the father of a young family and poor, there was simply no place in my budget for $100 running shoes.  In fact, the $5 race fee was a stretch for such a nebulous purpose.  It was not until a couple of years later that the kids from the local jail where I worked pooled their humble resources together and bought me a shiny new pair of Nike running shoes.  I think they felt sorry for me.

On this day, however, I was running in Stan Smiths.  Feeling immensely intimidated as the gun sounded, I set off in a charge, as part of a group of about 25 runners.  This was not the New York Marathon but just a bunch of locals in a small town on an island in the Pacific Ocean off the west coast of Canada.

As I would later learn, races always begin with a huge surge of adrenalin pulsing through a runner’s veins and mind.  Most of the 25 runners left the starting line in a sprint.  They were not alone, however, as I similarly bolted, as if from the starting blocks of a 100-metre sprint.  However, this was a 10-kilometre race, and I strongly doubted I would be able to maintain such a pace.  I need not have worried. 

Moving out with the pack, I was only able to hold on at such a pace for the first kilometre, but I soon found that others began to slip backwards as well.  I, miraculously, found myself in front of the field and loping along at a comfortable pace.  Where had they all gone?  I was experiencing a bit of pain and discomfort, but overall was feeling pretty good.  All those runs through Death Adder Gully did not seem dissimilar to running in front of a pack of real runners. 

About halfway through the race, I found a Stan Smith shoelace flapping on one leg and had to stop for a retie.  I was quickly on my way again and had not even lost my position at the front of the pack.  With no race experience, I was beginning to hope for the quick termination of the race.  Fortunately, the finish line soon appeared in my sights, and I managed to finish the race in first place.  I had completed my first 10-kilometre race in under 37 minutes.  I had no idea if this was a good or a poor time but, having won the race, I was elated and felt fairly certain I had found my sport.

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This experience, my months of running in Australia, the Castle Hill Run and, most probably, that gym class in high school, all contributed toward the start of a lifetime of running, competition and other kinds of athletics.  I soon learned how to train properly and push myself, and I achieved far beyond what I had ever believed possible.  Running soon permeated much of my life with involvement in a series of running clubs, diet changes, hundreds of races and a general lifestyle of health and fitness.  I had found my comfort zone.

Chapter 3:

During the first few years of my journey as a runner, I started entering a variety of races before ever embarking on the holy grail of weekend warrior rivalry, the marathon. 

After my blissful conquest in the Comox Valley Spring Run-off, I actually joined the Comox Valley Roadrunners.  There were only about a dozen members, but they were