A Good Traveling Story

"The world is now a poorer place. Vic Witte has left us--the people who loved him--bereft."

These are the first words from a letter that a friend of my father's wrote, and that I am to read today at my father's funeral mass. My dad died in his home in St. Louis on April 15. I planned to visit him and my mom and run the half marathon at the Go! St. Louis Marathon on April 19. My father's death changed the purpose of my trip and led me to question whether I should run. The race started at 7 AM, which meant that I'd be done with the race by 8:30 AM and back at the hotel by 10 AM. I needed to be at the funeral home by 2 PM and had no other duties before then, so I had no practical reason not to run. Having received no objections from anyone, I decided to go forward with the original intent of my trip to St. Louis.

I arrived at the race in downtown before 6 AM. The weather was rainy and I didn't have anything water repellent to wear, so I remained in the car to stay dry and rehearse reading the letter from Ted Chaskelson. I tried to disassociate myself from the meaning and emotions of the words and focus on the black print on white paper. I got through it a few times, carefully noting any unusual sentence structure. I also wanted to add a story about one of our family vacations. The story should be funny without embarrassing anyone, but I couldn't think of anything. After failing to come up with anything appropriate, I noticed that the race started in 30 minutes, so I made my way to the starting line.

The rain fell steadily and I dreaded running in the rain again. Five races this year, three of them in the rain, and this was the longest of the wet ones. As I reached the starting line, the world's best race announcer says, "Okay everybody, let's get ready for the Goooooooooooooooooooo! St Louis Marathon!"

The enthusiasm in his voice lifted a bit, and I told myself to ignore the sadness and the rain. The course headed first toward the Gateway Arch, which was shrouded in low clouds this morning. As I faced the Arch and listened to the music over the public address system, I remembered the Elton John concert I saw in 100-degree heat on July 5, 1982. I was one of 400,000 seeking a dry spot on the lawn around the Arch. Recent rains had turned the field into quagmire of ankle deep mud, and organizers selected subsequent July 4th headline acts that were less popular in order to preserve the Arch grounds.

Elton began the show 27 years ago with his stirring anthem "Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding." The song remains one of my favorite Elton John hits. Even though the lyrics have nothing to do with a funeral, there is one line that goes, "Love lies bleeding in my hands!" The song is intended to be Elton's version of what he would like to hear at a funeral. It is fast, bold and triumphant.

As I listened to the hard keyboard notes that blend with and give way to the soaring guitar riffs in the instrumental section of the song, I couldn't contain my emotions. I shielded my eyes with my right hands and began to cry.

Then the PA played Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." During the words "Did you think I'd lay down and die?" I fought harder to keep my composure. Before any race the combination of a heavy dose of caffeine, sugar and anticipation usually amplify my emotions. I try to downplay the excitement, but now I was hoping to cope with the thoughts of my father who had left this life. I was on the verge of breaking down when I bent over at the waist and tried to block the sense of loss. I tried to shrink from the crowd so that no one would pay attention to me. A few seconds later I was able to pull myself together. I was sad, but I would make it through this race.

I shed my long sleeved shirt as the race began and within a few minutes I was drenched. I broke out with the lead runners and would see the thousands behind me at numerous points along the course, which goes out and back at several junctures. Among the beautiful things about running are its portability (I can do it anywhere.), its minimal environmental impact (No one needs to build a stadium or golf course.), and its community. Today I felt the strength of that community as runners behind me cheered me and others near the lead as we retraced our steps. I didn't reciprocate as I was preserving as much strength as I could, but I did appreciate their support.

About nine and a half miles through the race I passed a runner who grunted as he exhaled on every stride with his right foot. He was a popular local runner and spectators cheered him by name. He was working harder than me, but I couldn't shake him. I heard his breathing for the rest of the race. I finished in 1:21:36, 19th overall out of about 8,500 runners, six seconds ahead of my trailing companion.

I changed clothes in my car and went back to post-race festivities to see whether I had won anything. This is a big race, but it doesn't draw a lot of strong runners, so my chances of winning are pretty good. I made my way to the awards tent with a mylar blanket pulled tightly over my head to shield me from the rain. Results hadn't been posted, so I left the muddy grass and stood nearby on a sidewalk within sight of the tent.

A few minutes later a woman smiled after speaking to the volunteers at the tent, so I figured she received some pleasant news. I returned to the tent and saw that I placed second among masters runners, winning a great plaque and $250. I showed the volunteers my bib number and they gave me my prizes. This is a very well run event, and race director Nancy Lieberman and her crew are second to none. I vigorously shook one person's hand and thanked the everyone for working all those hours in the rain.

Results posted the next day showed that I won my age group (M40-44) of about 400 runners. The heavy breather I passed in mile nine was Bobby Williams, a 56-year-old freak of nature. I cannot imagine running a half marathon at that speed at that age. My six-second margin over him was worth $125.

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Today I opened the funeral service with the letter from Ted Chaskelson that continues from the line that begins this post:

"Vic nourished us all, with his many gifts. His sparkling intelligence; his marvelous wit and sense of humor; his vast, enormous knowledge of music, history and literature. But most of all his gift for friendship. I have had the wonderful good fortune of knowing Vic since 1966--when I first met him in St. Louis--and of having him remain my friend all these years. Although I later moved to the Baltimore area, my wife Joan and I never lost touch with him and Toni; we corresponded regularly, and met often. Vic's friendship always meant not only delightful company, but something more. Connecting with Vic meant connecting with a spiritual gift. Vic had something very deep, and very good, inside him. And those who knew him were the beneficiaries of that goodness--that spirit--which we have now lost. He called me one of his Jewish brothers. So I now say: May the Lord bless you and keep you; May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and be gracious to you; May the lord turn his countenance unto you, and grant you peace."

I had recollected a good traveling story for the service, but reading the letter caused too many emotions to overwhelm me. I thought of saying the story, took a deep breath, paused, and left the podium. I couldn't do it.

After the burial we made our way to a reception. My dad had been long retired from the National Labor Relations Board, but his former coworkers insisted on putting on the reception within moments of hearing of his passing. The food and space were wonderful, and my uncle Jay and aunt Lynn suggested that I make a toast to the people who had taken on all the time and expense of hosting this great event. I would have another chance to tell my story.

When the time came I thanked everyone for coming and the hosts for their efforts. Then I began to speak:

"As you all know, my parents took us on some great vacations." I contorted my face and looked down at the floor to avoid crying. My voice trembled. "We drove everywhere, from Colorado to Quebec City." Maylee took my hand and smiled. I paused and continued, angry at myself for starting something I was pretty sure I could not finish. Suddenly the words came easily.

"You all know that my dad was a stickler for seat belts. Before automatic seat belts, air bags and child seats, Dad insisted that everyone wear a seat belt. Even in the back seat. He was way ahead of his time in terms of car safety. But there were no rules for the back of the station wagon, so on our long trips we'd always pile in the back and bounce around. As the family got bigger Dad had to come up with some innovative luggage carrying techniques. One trip he tied a big suitcase to the roof rack with a rope. The first day we had gone out a pretty long distance when we heard a few bumps from the roof and soon saw the luggage dangling outside the rear window. We kids in back were a little frightened with the suitcase clinging to the back windshield. We pulled over and had to stuff the suitcase in the car with the rest of us. On later trips Dad would rent a compartment designed to hold things on the roof. To my dad, a great lover of travel and whiskey sours."

We hoisted our whiskey sours and drank them to my dad's honor.

Those few minutes were more difficult than any race I've ever done. It was hard, but I made it.

New Legs

The Martinez Brickyard 8-miler is a hilly race that I ran once four years ago. I had avoided running it since because it's 35 miles away, on the edge of what I considered a reasonable distance to travel, and because my age group is very competitive. In 2005 I finished seventh overall, but fifth in my age group (M40-49). I had beaten all the 30-year-old men, but my age kept me from competing against them. This year I think I have a better chance, especially since 51-year-old runner extraordinaire Kevin Searls has graduated from my age class. Kevin owns this race as well as a few track records from his college, but he doesn't race frequently so I rarely encounter him.

At the race I reconnect with John Pettinichio (M52) and Holly Starr (F54), who will be part of my team for the Tahoe Relay in June. John and Holly are going to be great in Tahoe, and I look forward to spending the weekend with them and the rest of the team.

Back to Martinez, the race began in a municipal park and then plunged into a screaming downhill before hitting back with several steadily climbing hills. I managed to break out with the lead pack at the start, avoiding collisions or tripping while running downhill. Once the race reached the trail it wound along a hillside with beautiful views of the Carquinez Straight off to the right. The weather was absolutely perfect, a nice change from my first three races this year.

I was running with a handful of high school runners, and two adult men including Kevin Searls. The hills were challenging, but I didn't feel overwhelmed. The climb up to the Golden Gate Bridge in the Across the Bay 12K a few weeks earl er motivated me to try something different to strengthen my legs, which were exhausted for the rest of that race and days after. The next day I tried to do a wall sit, where I assumed a sitting position with my back pressed against the wall without using a chair. That day I could hold the position for about a minute, half my usual time. I decided to do a two-minute session every day for three weeks, and it seems to have paid off.

At no time did I feel like my legs couldn't take the hills, or that I would develop side splits. My pace held up pretty well. Not everyone felt the same. While returning I saw a young woman lying on the road. She seemed calm and had assistance, so I continued past her. A few minutes later a fire truck approached me and passed me on the way to provide medical support. I learned that the runner was all right and that the fire truck rescue was a frequent event at this race.

I finish my run and feel pretty good about my chances of winning. The awards for this race are unique. Winners receive a brick with a small engraved plate. I'm hoping to get a brick, although I have no place to put any of the smaller medals I have, so this one will present another storage issue. Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall" and "Brick House" by the Commodores.

Results are a long time in coming. This is the first year that the Alhambra High School track team is organizing the race, taking it from the Diablo Road Runners who found it to be too much of a burden. I have strong appreciation for the Alhambra team's efforts in saving this race, but I also have a few quibbles with the race results and confusing turnarounds for the four-mile and eight-mile races. I lost 10 seconds looking back to see if anyone was following me after passing a randomly placed pylon almost four miles from the start. After waiting around for what seems to be an hour, Holly offers to get my brick if I'm fortunate enough to get one and give it to me later. I take advantage of her very nice offer, also saying that I could do the same for her. She's less optimistic than I am about winning something, but she insists that even if she doesn't get a brick, she has a shorter drive home than I do so I should be the one that leaves.

I check the results that day and see that I finished up in a time of 50:50, 6:21 per mile, seventh overall but first in my age group. Holly also finished first in her age group (W50-59), but John placed fourth, victimized by Kevin Searls and an aging pack of fast runners. Searls finished fourth overall in a time of 49:24.