“The hardship of running somehow softens the hardship of life. Running turns the madness into music.”
Those words, from the foreword to Phil Hewitt’s ‘Outrunning the Demons’ capture the essence of this book – Life is hard. Running helps. Hewitt himself was stabbed, beaten and left for dead alongside a South African highway. He survived. Running helped.
And inspired him to collect the stories of others who, in their darkest hours, found solace in running. People shaken by grief, addiction, disease, injury, and mental illness – in the worst of their pain, running helped them survive.
As is often the case, I write this on the couch, my daughter beside me. A mini-crisis has just passed. Strawberry yogurt everywhere. “Oh no, I got some on my pajamas,” she yelled. A very big deal for her. Less so for me. I responded that if yogurt spilled all over the sofa, and covered her and painted the ceiling, it would be okay. We would fix it. We would survive a Yogurt Disaster.
As the yogurt spill played out, I looked out our front window and saw a runner, in her bright yellow vest, racing along a path near our home. I know her. A little. She runs every day. I’ve seen her running in deep snow on days when I struggled for hours just to shovel our driveway. In winter’s darkest days she is out there – in driving rain and howling winds. I don’t know her story. But I suspect she needs running. Needs it just as much as food, and water and air.
That’s how I feel too.
Not many years ago, someone very close to me was diagnosed with cancer. I was terrified she would die. It was a bad year. Stress, worry, uncertainty and fear churned within. So I ran. Signed up for a marathon and trained for it not because I wanted to. I had no time goal. The distance was no great challenge. I’d run marathons before. I entered that marathon because I needed to. A lot changed in my life that year. But running was a constant that helped see me through the worst and emerge on the other side.
The other side is a new life. A life that might be very similar to yours. A spouse, a child. A career with constant stress, modulating daily, sometimes hourly, from moderate to severe. Always present and always a roller-coaster ride.
Yesterday was Easter. My wife and I watched a day of joy unfold as our daughter hunted Easter eggs. We watched as her grandparents and aunt showered her with love, and chocolate, and placed a pink Easter bonnet on her head.
And there was sadness too. My parents are a long way away. So is my youth. I remembered Easter when I was a child. Chocolate and church and sunshine. Yesterday I wanted to hug my mom and dad and my brother and his family. And be with them and tell them how much I love them. And thank them for those wonderful memories.
One of those memories is music. “Morning has Broken.” A song for the ages. A song that captures light and life and spring and sunshine. An Easter song. So yesterday, in the midst of it all, on a bright beautiful April day, I ran to the trails and listened to Cat Stevens sing that song. I played it over and over again. I found a valley and a lone daffodil. Just the one, in a sea of grasses and weeds. And I thought about it all. And was thankful for everything. Joy and youth, light and life, family and friends. Running and hard miles.