I ran with Henry Rono. Rather, I ran near him for a few seconds in the 2007 Carlsbad 5000 before he and the other elite runners left us nine-minute-milers in their collective wakes. Back in the late 70s, Rono was like a young Roy Hobbs in The Natural stepping off the train to strike out the The Whammer before disappearing into obscurity. In three months in 1978, the Kenyan set four world records at varying distances before descending into a decades-long battle with alcoholism. He resurfaced in recent years, sober and attempting to get into the masters record books. Our paths intersected when I decided to run Carlsbad while on vacation last April. I actually never thought I’d see Rono, but the course has a switchback that allows you to pass by the leaders as they hammer toward home. The pack at the front was the predictable group of human gazelles with negative body fat percentages. Then, about a minute or so behind them, I spotted a motorcycle camera crew and, right behind them, Henry Rono, the world’s fastest pot-bellied man. He ran a 17:48. I ran a 27:56. I am not eating enough.
Youth wasted on the legs of the young.
Through the midwestern winter, much of my running is done on a track at the health center of a local university. The students seem to favor the treadmills, ellipticals and stationary bikes, but a fair amount are on the track with me. When I started running there, I got used to them blowing by me on a regular basis (that’s not happening as much as it used to). But I also noticed none of them ran longer than me. Now, you might be thinking, “they’re running as far as you old man, it just doesn’t take them as long”. Point taken, but so many of them run only about a mile, if that. But then I remembered when I first started running in college. Although voluntary, it still felt like torture without end. I suspect it’s the same for them. Probably because they can run, but they don’t need to run. I need it.
