Wednesday morning I paused to consider whether going out for my morning jog was really a good idea. Sometimes my shyness immobilizes me — the image of heading out the door in running attire holds me back. That wasn’t the reason for my hesitation. Occasionally, morbid fantasies of death on the trail haunt me. They arose in 1984, when Jim Fixx, whose Complete Book of Running helped kickstart the American running movement, suffered a fatal heart attack while running on a Vermont road. That was much closer to my reason for dallying, but not quite it. The news I received Tuesday morning, after coming home from that morning’s run, triggered my trepidation. My younger brother, David, had just died of a heart attack.
***********
A rare snowstorm had blanketed Portland with several inches of snow. When a grand old oak crashed to earth on the edge of their property, Dave and his wife celebrated the “near miss”. Hours later, he went out to shovel the driveway. In a cliche that would have offended his tendency to defy conventions, he collapsed while shoveling snow. Not the neighbor who saw him face plant, nor the EMTs who arrived within minutes, nor the hospital staff, could revive him.
He was in apparent good health. He worked out on his rowing machine earlier on the day he died. He biked, and walked, and played enough Ultimate Frisbee that he needed a knee replacement. His cholesterol and blood pressure, unlike mine, ran chronically low. And yet, at 58, he was gone.
The facial similarities, the hand-sewn shirts, and the out-of-fashion discount store bellbottoms our mother bestowed upon us branded both of us as coming from the same family. But physically we were very different. While I possessed a lanky runner’s build, he was an all-purpose athlete, well-muscled, with calves twice the size of mine, and massive digits that my older brother labeled “banana fingers.” I loved running, in part because it was the one athletic pursuit I was good at. David ran cross country in high school just to stay in shape for the swimming season. Given his bulkier frame, that was true dedication. He qualified for the state high school swimming championships several times and swam competitively in college.
Our differences weren’t just physical. Although thirteen months younger, and a grade behind me, we had different sets of friends growing up. He was outgoing, eager to share his opinions, at times brash, and often loud. He liked talking, singing, and learning languages. In high school, he took Ancient Greek, as well as Latin. I was bookish, contained, and quiet to the point of being invisible. We shared a class one year when they combined the third and fourth-year Latin students. I sat near the front, where I could always be counted on to provide the right answer, but almost never volunteered it. Meanwhile, he sprawled in the back, sometimes sitting on the window ledge, joking with friends, often distracted or causing distractions. Even though I got better grades, I could tell that the teacher, Doc Strater, preferred David. He was more comfortable in his own skin, more self-assured, bold, vital.
That was the year I told David, if we hadn’t been brothers, we probably wouldn’t have known each other. He smiled and agreed. Yet different as we were, I knew he always had my back. When, in my late twenties, I belatedly came to terms with being gay, he was the first family member I shared this with, knowing he was the only one whose unqualified support I could count on. He didn’t let me down.
He was always engaged in life, sharing his criticisms and cynicism with friends, strangers, and family. He was a dedicated husband, supporting the career of his smart and strong wife as they moved from California to Atlanta, to New York, to Portland. He was a dedicated father, involved in his children’s lives. Not in a helicopter, micro-managing way, but knowing their soccer friends, helping them investigate colleges that would be a good fit, going on family trips, and giving his son and daughter advice on finances, careers, and friendships. Because he became a parent before either I or my older brother, he delighted in the role reversal of being the worldly-wise elder, dispensing advice to us on raising children.
As someone who also made and enjoyed bad puns, David might appreciate my acknowledging that now, for me, he puts the dead in dedication. Our running the Boston Marathon together in 1987 was truly an act of determination for a man not built like a runner. I hope that I can use the memory of those cherished hours to dedicate myself to living fully and engaging with the world.
Our Uncle George ran the Boston Marathon in one of the last years it was open to all runners, without the need to qualify. He ran it as a lark with two college friends. They wore canvas high tops. They didn’t drink water because of the misconception that hydrating would cause cramps. (This was a few years before the publication of Jim Fixx’s running book.) George’s running the Boston Marathon was the sole physical feat in our family lore, and my brother and I had vowed to emulate it. We promised each other we would train for, and run the marathon together, even though we were living on different coasts. We deferred the plan from year to year, until my sister’s death, in 1986, prodded us to stop procrastinating. There’s nothing like death to make you appreciate life.
David trained in California, while I put in miles in upstate New York. We compared training notes with occasional phone calls, as this was before email or text made everyday long-distance communication routine. We knew I was a little faster, but vowed to run together. We would be crashing the race as “bandits”, as both of us were marathon virgins. I imagined we could run it in about 3 1/2 hours. I booked a return flight back to Rochester six hours after the race start, naively thinking I could run, shower at a friend’s, and get to the airport on time. In those days you could arrive at the airport ten minutes before a flight, walk to the gate, and board with your paper ticket.
We started out at our pre-planned eight-minute per-mile pace. Halfway through, Dave’s massive calves started cramping. We were running too fast for him. At first, the cramps were intermittent, and he or I would knead them out, and continue running together for another mile. But the last several miles he was reduced to walking. Having agreed to stick together, we did. Not wanting to stop jogging, I literally ran circles around him.
I hadn’t run with others since junior high school track, over-identifying with the mystique and loneliness of the long-distance runner. I was shocked to actually enjoy hearing crowds of strangers cheering me on. I wore a t-shirt from my alma mater, and was surprised at the sense of connection and encouragement I felt as the throngs of Wellesley and Boston College students shouted, “Go, Rochester!” I was even amused by the slow-reading cheerers who yelled “Go, University!”
We finished at a little over five hours, necessitating a rushed taxi ride to the airport for me. Youth is a good time for foolishness. Who needs showers when you’ve completed your first marathon? I think those sitting near me suffered more than I did on the flight home.
I thought I was the runner, and my brother the swimmer. But David exposed me to dimensions of running that I might otherwise never have explored or enjoyed. Carpe diem. And as our Latin teacher, Doc Strater, taught, “carpe diem” doesn’t mean bow down to the fish god. Carpe connotes more than just a crude double-fisted grabbing of the day. Carpe means to grasp, like a ripened fruit. Not quite seize the day. Rather pluck the day. Grab it firmly so you can cherish and enjoy it.
David never ran a marathon again. He hiked, and frisbeed, and lived, and shoveled snow once too often. I ran another 99 marathons and became president of our Front Runners running club. I edited the newsletter for a decade. I met my husband and many of our friends through running. David taught me that running was more than just a good way to exercise; running could open worlds.
**********
I started Wednesday morning’s run a little later than usual. Although it was early in the day, and still chilly, other people were up and about. Despite being swathed in a pink bandana mask, lime-green-markdown running shoes, red shorts, and black fleece mittens, I wasn’t feeling self-conscious. When I’m not in a race, I don’t usually hear people applauding my running. Maybe I looked bereft that morning. On my return leg, as I passed the general store, a smiling, burly, chestnut-haired guy in his thirties, cheered me on. “Nice run. Good dedication, man.”
But I think the words were for my brother.
Nice run, David. Good dedication, man.
