My Purps
Spring Valley, NY 1981
Friday afternoon, the bell rang for the end of period eight. After teaching five classes, the male faculty at Jane Addams High School left for the gym. Full-court basketball was on our schedule. Losers sit, winners remain on the court for the next game.
Games over. We dragged ourselves off the court. While I was zipping up my pants, Alex came by.
“There’s a half-marathon in two weeks from Suffern to Nyack. I’m running, are you?”
“Running a half-marathon? I couldn’t walk it.”
“Come on. You run every other day.”
“I do, but a half-marathon is 13.2 miles. My ten-mile Sunday run has me collapsed in a recliner, and falling asleep during a Giant game. If I do run, I’ll have to put a sneaker on my tongue because it will be lapping up the asphalt for the last three miles.”
Norman joined in.
“Come on Wolfe, let’s go. It’ll be fun. We’ll run together.”
“Fun, it won’t be, but I’ll think about it.”
Alex was a dedicated marathoner. He ran the New York City Marathon the last four years.
On my drive home, I thought about the run.
What if I drop out? Will my children be embarrassed? How will I return to my house if I drop out? Will Sheila say, “I told you not to do it.” Dr. Friedman said I had the Wolff-Parkinson-White-Syndrome. Will the half-marathon do me in? I better phone him. What about my back? I have Sharon trampling over it after my Sunday runs. Will the students in my biology class see me come into class bent over, groaning and wailing, “Oh! My aching back!” No. I don’t think so. I won’t run.
For the next two weeks, the run weighed heavily on my mind. Should I, or shouldn’t I? After Friday’s basketball game, Norman asked if I was going to run. I thought about all the years I devoted to three and five-mile runs. Why not try the half-marathon?
“Are you going?” I asked.
“If you do, I will.”
Well, that was it. We’ll run this Sunday.
Sunday morning. Norman arrived early anticipating a bagel, lox and cream cheese breakfast. Doc Weidman, my high school football coach always reminded the team to avoid a dairy breakfast before a game because it took a long time to digest. So, here I was twenty-eight years later with only water in my digestive system, lacing up my well-worn PURPS (purple, high-top Converse sneakers) preparing to run a half-marathon from Suffern, NY to Nyack, NY.
I never ran a half-marathon. My running program was a three-day five-mile run at the high school track, sometimes on route 59, and was capped by a 10 mile Sunday run. But I thought I could finish the half-marathon when I frequently ran past that same runner on route 59 wearing a color coordinated running outfit, top-of-the-line sneakers, and clicking away on two timers.
My wife drove Norman and I near the police headquarters in Suffern where a substantial group of entrants were engaged in a variety of calisthenics. Maybe it was my age, but I couldn’t get into those positions when I was an adolescent. How does one bring his foot behind his neck?
“Norman, how about your foot behind your neck?” No reply.
Am I supposed to contort myself before this half-marathon? I didn’t do anything like this before my ten mile run. I’ll never get close to their time. So what. They appeared to be veterans of multiple marathons. Get close? Will I finish? Why is everyone pushing and shoving? Why is there a mad dash for the starting line? The race has not begun. I guess the premier runners were trying to get in front so that the novices wouldn’t impede them.
We didn’t hear the starter’s gun, but when the mass in front of us moved, we moved with them.
The race started at a brisk pace. After a half-mile Norman started to pant.
“Slow down, slow down Danny. I can’t keep up.”
If I run as I run my Sunday ten miles, I too will never make it to Nyack. Slow down, and no talking, but keep a steady pace. What’s this? People holding paper cups with water? Who knows what’s in them. I’m not taking any of that. There’ll be plenty of water at the finish line.
About three miles into the race I heard a runner who was wearing blue Nike running sneakers with a yellow Whoosh say to his friend,
“Look at that guy with those purple high-top sneakers.”
“Are my sneakers bothering you?” I asked.
“No, no. Everything is fine.”
OK, from now on no more talking. It interfered with my breathing rhythm.
About three miles further, the runner with the Nikes, who found my sneakers odd dropped out to get a cup of water. He did not return. Maybe I should have exchanged sneakers with him.
In the distance near Monsey, a black mass appeared at the side of the road. It was a group of Hasidim going along at their usual hurried pace. For most of the runners, they appeared to be from another planet, or the runners appeared to be from another planet to the Hasidim. If they shed their black outfits, they might be candidates for first place in a half-marathon. But expose some skin to the crowd? Heresy!
There’s the Jack-in-the Box on the corner opposite Shopper’s Paradise. Just looking at it gives me heartburn. Onward.
We weren’t quite halfway there when we passed Nanuet Mall.
I’ll have to pick up my repaired lawn mower from Sears.
Onward. There’s Main Street in Nanuet. A right turn would lead me to Nanuet Pizza, the best pizza my mouth ever met. Onward with Norman. He began to fade.
What’s this? A level road inched upward towards an endless hill that extended to the horizon. Will I ever reach the end of this madness? My car, an aging and rusting Toyota Tercel made it easily. Will I collapse?When this incline was paved, did the engineers realize it was a deceptive tease?
The first part was a breeze, but as I reached midway, my leg muscles began to reject the command I was giving them. They moved up and down, but I wasn’t going forward. Close to the top of the hill they realized that I was the director, and they responded as if I had just started the run. I did it! The PURPS brought me to the finish line!
What could be better for an exhausted runner than to find his wife and three children waiting for him at the end of the race?
danielwolfebooks@aol.com