Most of us who run, bike, swim, or engage in other sports probably don’t consider our chosen activity to be an obsession. Those on the outside, however, may think differently about how we choose to spend our free time.
I run. My friends and I mostly run either before or after the sun comes up or goes down. We run in all kinds of weather and temperatures. Sometimes we run when we shouldn’t, namely when we’re sick or injured, and our days are pretty much built around our training schedules. We read books and magazines about running, write running blogs, talk, text, and keep up with Facebook pages about running, and some of us spend more money on running clothes and accessories than on anything else.
And we run half marathons, marathons, and ultra marathons. For fun.
You decide if it’s an obsession or not. Whatever you decide won’t change a thing for most, if any, of us. We love running, and it makes our lives better.
But how does it affect our loved ones and our non-running lives?
A few weekends ago Michael and I went to our friends’ house to watch a documentary called Ride the Divide. The documentary is about a 2745 mile long endurance bike race along the Continental Divide from Canada to Mexico and captures the difficulty, hardship, and loneliness of a race that takes six to ten weeks to complete.
At one point, Matthew, the leader of the race, questions what he is doing (he’s already won the race the previous four years), especially in light of the fact that his wife is having a baby in the next three weeks.
Carol, one of our hosts for the evening, made the comment that she thought that was “so selfish” of him to be spending so much time away on a race when his wife was about to have a baby. Another friend, Darrell, agreed. I stayed quiet.
I wasn’t quiet because I disagreed with her. I remained silent because I had said the same thing several years ago about someone else.
One of the best books I’ve ever read is Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mount Everest Disaster by Jon Krakauer. The title pretty much says it all. For me the most gut wrenching part of the book is when one of the stranded climbers is able to talk to his pregnant wife via satellite phone. It’s the last conversation they will ever have, and they both know it. Through my tears I thought to myself, “What a selfish thing for him to do, climb Mt Everest when his wife is going to have a baby.”
Years later I read that his wife was also a climber, and they had previously climbed Everest together. She knew full well the risks involved in marrying a climber and I doubt that she saw his climbing as “selfish.” The wife of another climber who died that day said, “I would feel cheated if Scott had been killed in a car crash. He deserved to die on Mount Everest.” (full article here)
I suspect it is the same for the wife of Matthew, five time winner of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Race, and most other wives–and husbands–of athletes who have a passion/obsession for what they do.
But what about the rest of us? Most of us aren’t spending weeks away from our families doing what we love, but the hours we spend putting in the training miles, along with the occasional weekend destination races, do take their toll. My friend Liz, mother of two teenagers, once made the comment during one of our Saturday morning long runs that she felt selfish for running so much because it took time away from her children and husband.
I was surprised by her saying that, especially since her husband is also a runner. My own two children were already in college when I took up running, so it was never something I had to grapple with. I wondered if I would have felt that same way if they were still home.
Is it really fair to call something selfish if you love it so much, and see the value it brings to your life? Would our marriages and family lives really be better if we didn’t do something we loved, if we gave them all our time and didn’t keep some of it for ourselves? How much is too much? Do the rules change when we have children?
When does it go from doing something that makes you happy to doing something that makes you selfish?
Personally, I think it’s something that has to be discussed and decided upon between each person involved. Asking someone to give up something they love doing because it may be dangerous, or takes too much time away from the family, may be asking too much. Like most things in a relationship, each person has to be true to themselves, and some negotiation and compromise has to take place.
Joseph Campbell said, follow your bliss. But if one person’s bliss is another person’s agony, and our endeavors are seen as selfish and obsessive by the ones we love, it could be a high price to pay for happiness.
Today is the three year anniversary of the death of a good friend. Actually, he was more than a good friend. He was someone I ran with.
We make friends throughout our lives and we lose them, usually when we change jobs, or move, or simply make new friends when our interests change. Some friends we stay in touch with sporadically through the years, some we rediscover through Facebook or chance meetings, and some we wonder why we never made more of an effort to stay in touch. We make new friends, we move on, and life continues. The friends we lose to death, however, are the ones whose memories visit us late at night, and the ones we can’t forget.I met Arshad through running. We had a mutual friend, Rich, and both caught up with me early one Saturday morning on a nine mile loop around the lake. We discovered we were all training for an upcoming local half marathon and decided to meet during the week for a few runs together. Arshad and I were both relatively new to running and had never run a half marathon before, and we knew that training with someone else would be easier. Also, I came to discover Arshad was the type of runner who enjoyed socializing and meeting new people more than he did running, so it made sense. Even though he was tall, lean, and naturally fast, he would purposely hold back because the companionship was more important than the running.
So we trained together. Rich had run a marathon before (which was something I could never fathom doing at that time) and he was our biggest cheerleader. He liked to run a few steps ahead of us and keep the pace. Rich was also tall, so keeping up with the guys was good training for me. We jokingly called ourselves “The Dream Team” and logged many miles together in preparation for the race. I found out Arshad was from Bangalore, India and had gone to school in Chicago for engineering. I got to know him as a person, and he was always happy and in a good mood. We made plans to visit India one day with Arshad as our guide.
There’s something about pushing yourself physically with another person that bonds you to them. Running mile after mile, through every type of weather and temperature imaginable, at impossibly early times in the day, you really get to know a person. All your differences melt away with the miles you log together.
The day of the race arrived warmer than expected, and finishing was tougher than I thought it would be. I made stupid rookie mistakes (eating something different for breakfast and going out way too fast at the start) and seriously considered bailing at mile 10. I finished in 2:03 and Rich in 1:56. Arshad finished in1:49. I couldn’t believe how fast he had run his first half marathon.
I joined the Dallas Running Club and talked Arshad into joining as well. Our goal race was the Oklahoma City Half Marathon. He didn’t want to run another race so soon but trained with us anyway. I noticed that Arshad would run with any group, no matter the pace, and could usually be found in the back of the pack talking to any one of a number of pretty, young, female runners. He always adjusted his running speed accordingly.
Rich was training for a full marathon, and sometimes the groups would converge and run together. I was in awe of the full group and the distances they ran each week. The seed was planted for me, but Arshad said no way, he’d rather stick to half marathons and run them really fast. The months and the miles passed, and I noticed Arshad seemed to be running with the same group—and one girl in particular, Elizabeth–each week. I was happy for him, but never got the chance to ask what was going on.
Arshad’s lease was up on his apartment and he decided to move to my complex on the other side of the lake. I talked him into running the OKC Half Marathon with the group and we talked about reserving seats on the bus the running club had chartered. During that same time his parents came to visit from India. On our Wednesday night run he asked if I would join them and a few other friends for dinner and a movie on Friday. I met his mom and dad, his ex-girlfriend, Jen, and some friends from church. We had a great time, though he took some grief for the movie, an ultra-violent film festival entry about the war in the Middle East. He said he thought his mom would like it.
The next week, just before our scheduled Wednesday night group run, it started to rain. Arshad called to ask if I was going and I told him no. Fifteen minutes later the storm passed and my phone rang. Tempted to ignore it, I picked up and told Arshad I would meet him at the gate, knowing how guilty I would feel if I didn’t run. The dark evening was beautiful, and everything at the lake glowed from the rain. Arshad ran fast that night and it felt good to keep the pace. When I made a random comment about hating to run into a headwind, he remarked, ever positive, that he liked it because it kept him cool. He talked about how beautiful the trees at the lake were, and how it was his favorite place to run.
It was the last time we ran together.
We had made plans to drive together to the local train station for the start of our Saturday morning group run. When I got up early the next morning I noticed a message on my phone. It was Jen, telling me to call her as soon as I got the message. Even though it was six o’clock in the morning, I immediately called. She told me Arshad had been in a car accident the evening before, and it was fatal. His mother was also killed, and his father was in critical condition.
He died on a busy street I travel on quite often, and it was a long time before I could drive past the spot where a manufacturing defect in one of his tires caused his death. Two weeks after his death I ran the Oklahoma City Marathon without him. I ran faster than I’d ever run, because I knew he couldn’t. When I crossed the finish line and the medal was put around my neck by a bombing victim’s family member, I cried and asked if I could have another medal for the friend I had lost who hadn’t made it to the finish line with me.
His death made no sense to me, and it never will.
Today, three years later, I think about him. I can still hear his silly high-pitched laugh, and see a smile light up his face. I remember his earnest curiosity of what made people who they are, and his love of deep conversations. I remember the new running clothes he bought just before he died, and how he worried about what he looked like in them. I remember his carefree approach to running that I am still trying to emulate. He is in my thoughts every single race I run, especially the marathons I never had the chance to talk him into running. More than anything else, I just miss him.
His friends got together and donated a tree and a plaque in his name at the Celebration Tree Grove at the lake. We all think of him when we run past the spot, which is on the same route we ran that rainy night, days before he died. A little bit further up the road is the place where it is always windy. It took me a long time, but now I smile when I think about how he could put a positive spin on everything, even running into the wind.
Rest in peace, Arshad Ahmed, and know you are not forgotten.