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Chariots of Fire

Chariots of Fire

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It’s pretty corny, but I did it anyway, played “Chariots of Fire” on my i-pod as I made my way down the beach yesterday. I was looking for an inspiring piece, one that would pump up the pace a bit, and that one did the trick. 

There was the familiar opening salvo, the electronic pulses, the melody itself. In my mind’s eye I saw the 1924 Olympic athletes splashing through the surf, recalled their stories, their motivations for running, each of them different, each of them their own. 

While I can’t claim any speed records I did feel the thrill of that music. And since I was running — well, mostly walking — on a beach then, too, well … you get the idea. It was fun, it was exhilarating, it was a movie-lovers beach walk.

(A still from the beach-running scene in the film “Chariots of Fire,” courtesy Wikipedia.) 

Running Start

Running Start

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Animals, in their vigor and innocence and lack of self-regard, often hold some deep and true lessons for humans. I was thinking of this today while watching Copper climb the deck stairs. He doesn’t do them slowly and gradually, but quickly — and only with a running start.

There must be a physiological reason for running starts, something in the motion of muscles and mobility of tendons. But the psychological component is large, too.

There are the running starts that precede a dive off the high board, the quick steps that introduce a tumbling run — and then there is that scene I’ve always loved from “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” where Paul Newman and Robert Redford dash and then leap off the cliff into the roaring stream below to escape their pursuers.

The running start is not always easy — I can see Copper pause at the stairs, as if to gather his energy before the effort. But there is much to be said for it: how it screws up our courage, helps us hew to our original intentions, how it commits us to action.

Skips in our Step

Skips in our Step

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There are so many ways to walk in this world. There’s trudging and strolling, ambling and sauntering, sliding and gliding, tromping and tramping, wandering and rambling, marching and striding, creeping and traipsing, hiking and slogging.

And then … there’s skipping.

When was the last time I skipped? Actually, it was today. But only for a second when no one was looking — and only because I already had the idea of writing this post.

The skip is the canter of human gaits, the waltz step for walkers. It’s a catch in the breath and in the stride. It’s a joyful, uninhibited motion, akin to running — but less work.

Unfortunately, however, it’s seldom practiced after the age of 10.

The taste of it I had this morning reminded me of its power and its fun. It is the most gladsome of movements. And in fact, if we practiced it more often it would be difficult to take ourselves seriously. For that reason alone, maybe it’s time we all put more skips in our step.

Ran Right Past It

Ran Right Past It

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Yesterday was National Running Day. Since this fact escaped my notice until after posting time, I’m celebrating it now.

In the last year I’ve become more of a runner in the suburbs than a walker in the suburbs. This has its good points and its bad points. In the plus column, I exercise a little more rigorously and finish a little more quickly.

In the negative column, well, I’m not walking. And walking sets the brain to spinning. It’s about the pace. The clip-clop instead of plod-plod. It’s about exerting one’s self enough to jostle the gray matter — but not so much that huffing and puffing is all I do. Walking gives me a chance to notice things; with jogging I might run right past them.

The best days are when there’s time for a run and a walk.  One for the body and one for the soul.

Running with Children

Running with Children

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The flakes started flying before the race started. That would be the 5K Run with Santa — the first race I’ve run in, well, let’s just say it’s been a few years!

A little over three miles — doable, even for a walker in the suburbs. But my already conservative pace was slowed even further by the slick spots on the road. Luckily, my running buddy was Claire, whose last race was the Marine Corps Marathon but who matched her cadence to her timid mama’s.

Timid was putting it mildly. I worried the whole time about wiping out, ending the race on crutches or worse. One middle-aged woman went down within the first few minutes. “Don’t worry, Mom,” Claire said. “She just ran into a cone.”

The last few tenths of a mile, though, the pavement was wet, not snowy, and Claire and I kicked it in and dashed (sort of) to the finish line.

Children do many things for their parents (as parents do for their children). They care for us, make us laugh and introduce us to the future. Yesterday I was thinking how they make us face our fears. We will do things for them we don’t do for anyone else. And in that sense, they keep us young — they keep us, quite literally, in the running. 

Run, Don’t Walk

Run, Don’t Walk

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Sometimes it’s harder to walk fast than it is to run slow. So more often than not these days I find myself running. Not like these college girls, fleet of foot, majorly in shape.

No. I’m talking about a middle-aged version of running. Plodding, for sure.

The fast walk must balance speed with dexterity. The roll of the foot, still earthbound. Keeping the pace when gravity argues against it.

Whereas the run, after a while, becomes habit. There is a rhythm there that moves you forward. Kind of like living.

Blame it on Tchaikovsky

Blame it on Tchaikovsky

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Before I was a walker, I was a runner. I ran through Lincoln Park in Chicago, along Todd’s Road in Lexington, around the reservoir in Central Park. I ran in the suburbs for a while, too — until my knees caught up with me. Now I walk — fast — figuring it’s better for my body if I keep at least one foot on the pavement as I pace.

Sometimes when I’m feeling strong and listening to good music, though, my emotions get the better of me. That happened yesterday. It was a brass-driven piece, loud, bombastic, a show stopper. The sort of symphony that provokes applause after movements. If I can’t move around as well today, I’m blaming it on Tchaikovsky.