Park Record Column :
Sundays in the Park: On the Road to San Diego

Teri (the writer who usually churns out this column) and I have been leading parallel lives of late. We’ve both been “in training” for months - a term I like to throw out for fun when I’m with those hard-core types who really do follow the what-not-to-eat-and-drink-prior-to-extreme-physical-exercise rules. She stocked up on travel guides and moleskin, while I bought my first pair of official running shoes and discovered an unnerving dependency on Gatorade. Now, Teri is off on the road to Santiago (in Spain) with a duo of sweet nuns and I am still pounding the local pavement in preparation for my own pilgrimage, the San Diego Rock n’ Roll Marathon.

Entire libraries have been written about running a marathon. These running gurus map out tips, rules, scenarios, diets and training schedules in neat little chapters with catchy headlines. Most of them begin with the mental preparedness of the runner, explaining that success hinges on running for “the right reasons.” Over the past couple of months, I’ve asked myself more than once what on earth possessed me to sign up for this particular physical and mental test. After all, the first unfortunate fellow to run the legendary 26.2 miles dropped dead on the spot. Why on earth would I want to follow in his footsteps?

Running was never a religion for me. I’m a sporadic runner – a grab-the-walkman-and-cruise-about-town-for-half-an-hour jogger. Sure, I have running traditions: the annual 5K on the Fourth of July and the Race for the Cure (feel good, yea me, runs for a cause). However, I’ve always seen running as a sort of warm-up for a game or a way to get in a quick workout when time is short. I had rules. I would never pay to run for something that wasn’t a charity. I would never run if my knees hurt. I would always pursue sport over running and I would never give up a glass of wine for a morning run. I’ve broken every last one of those rules. I am now a disciple of the marathon. I trade e-mails with fellow Parkites and first-time marathoners about the benefits and drawbacks of hydration. I eat pasta on Friday nights. I’m even thinking about purchasing a “Chariots of Fire” video or at least the soundtrack.

These days, I find running extraordinarily therapeutic. When I run, I notice things. It’s not like when I’m driving – shifting gears, sipping coffee and dare I say, chatting on the cell phone. In the past few months, I’ve truly seen Park City. It’s amazing what happens when a journey is reduced to slow motion. I see the deer, the silent bunny, the beautiful moose, the tiny bird and the progress of the slow-to-bloom neighborhood bulbs. I watch houses go up and snow melt away. I take note of street names and hills, even the gradual ones. I don’t really care if I get lost on a long run, because usually I have more than a couple hours to find my way back. Most of all, I have time to think. Time to smile at the two women as their five mini Toto-like dogs scurry about their feet and yip at my happy-go-lucky golden retriever. Time to appreciate this unbelievably gorgeous town, even when it’s in its muddiest halo.

Lest I wax a bit too poetic, there is an evil side to the first-time marathoner. The religion of the runner doesn’t just manifest itself in the sheer length of time spent on roads and trails, plugging away at building up mileage. First-time marathoners become running gear heads. It starts and ends with shoes – an obvious necessity, but who knew there was so much technology involved in a sneaker? Am I the only one that watched Zola Bud kick butt as she ran barefoot? Apparently, the clothes make the runner. Recently, I picked up a bright blue windbreaker type jacket with fancy little reflectors. If Michael Jordan could jump higher because of a pair of basketball shoes, I should literally fly in my new Nike jacket. Not to mention that my soccer shorts (which I’ve had since college) and common gray T-shirt give me away as a non-runner in Park City. Now, I’m in, I’m cool and I wear dry weave (whatever that is).

Like a blushing spring debutante, the competitive devil on my shoulder has also come out recently. I thought that little punk had been dormant since my high school field hockey team lost in the state finals. Maybe the Red Sox win gave me some preposterous sense of victory versus defeat. When I run at the brand spanking new field house, I find an uncanny desire to pass everyone else on the track. The poor people must think I’m mad. According to all the books (OK, so I’ve only skimmed two, but they seem legitimate), a first-time marathon is just about finishing the race, but I’ll be damned if I run it in more time than Opra or Puff Daddy (or my older brother, for that matter).

In all likelihood, I’ll struggle my way across the finish line hours after the crème de la crème cross it. So, I’ve avoided the question for long enough: Why am I running the marathon? I’m running it for me and I’m running it for a dear friend who died this year. Mr. B, my second dad since I moved to the U.S. at age seven, was known to the rest of the tri-state area (NY, NJ and Conn.) as the Great Burtoni for his tennis swing. I doubt if Mike Burton’s fame made it all the way to Park City, but he did make it here to ski with his buddies and just last year, for my wedding. With a quick sense of humor and a slow way of talking, Mr. B could put anyone at ease. He was the epitome of a superior athlete and father. Sure, I loved him for the pudding pops he kept in the freezer and his willingness to take his daughter Carly and I and our posse of giggling little girls on camping trips. Above all else, Mr. B was a good guy. He wanted to see his friends, family and even strangers succeed. No one ever questioned a call made by Mr. B, on the tennis court or in life. At the very least, my little marathon is my way of thanking Mr. B for his friendship, his guidance and his inspiration.

They say, a pilgrimage is more about the journey than the destination. By now, Teri and “the nunsies” should be well on the road to Santiago, traipsing through the Pyrenees dodging both Basque separatists and blisters (equally menacing opponents on a long hike). In the meantime, I’m exploring the running trails and thinking about Mrs. B on a Mother’s Day Sunday in the Park…

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