Tag Archives: Run

Friend Turns Floodwaters Into Sunshine

by Woody

What a difference a day makes.

More accurately, what a difference a friend can make on a day. Such it was on recent back-to-back afternoons that for me were as polar as sunshine and flooding rain, figuratively and almost literally.

Let me begin with the rainstorm. My Much Better Half and I are having our kitchen and downstairs guest bathroom remodeled. “Don’t expect smooth sailing,” we were forewarned. This proved a portentous metaphor because returning from my daily run I opened the front door and found myself in need of a boat.

While I was out, a worker clogged and broke the toilet – a toilet that was not to be used for it was covered by protective plastic during painting – and it runneth over continuously for an hour or more. Floodwaters overtook the entryway, dining room, family room, and most of our primary bedroom. The tide even surged into the kitchen and garage.

With hardwood floors ruined, carpet too, my spirits the following day were soggy as well. When I went on a run that afternoon, for a rare time during my running Streak of 7,341 consecutive days, I felt like cutting my intended miles shorter. But then…

“Hi, Woody!” came a voice from behind my left ear, so close and loud and unexpected that I flinched. Because I was wearing earbuds, the greeter’s volume was purposely turned up to be heard. However, because of a dead battery I was not listening to music. As a result, I may have yelped as if startled by the sight of a slithering rattlesnake two strides ahead.

Instead, it was a friendly face that I have seen from time to time at Kimball Park. Brody, a handsome young man with sharp features and a soft smile, grew up in Ventura and is a recent graduate from UC Santa Barbara, my alma mater, where he was in the ROTC. I learned all this, and more, on previous occasions he joined me for a few miles when our running paths crossed.

This go-round-and-round around the soccer fields he updated me about his enlistment as an officer in the Army (the Irish meaning of Brody is “protector,” perfectly fitting for someone safeguarding our country); that he is now married; and is stationed in Texas, which he said has been so Hades-hot lately that this 80-degree Ventura day felt chilly to him.

And just like that, like morning dew under August sunshine, my soggy mood over “The Great Woodburn Flood of ’23” quickly evaporated. My heavy feet that felt like I was slogging through a muddy boot-camp obstacle course suddenly had Hermes-like wings on their ankles and the next two miles breezed by. Brody’s pace was surely slower than he wanted, mine a tad too fast, for isn’t friendship sometimes a compromise?

The last time I had seen Brody was in a rainstorm, the showers so steady that the park’s fields then coincidentally resembled my downstairs floors only 24 hours earlier. On that rainy day we had laughed as we splish-splashed along; this day now, I suddenly felt winsome and recalled a poem titled “On Friendship” by John Wooden:

At times when I am feeling low, / I hear from a friend and then

My worries start to go away / And I am on the mend

No matter what the doctors say – /And their studies never end

The best cure of all, when spirits fall, / Is a kind word from a friend

Indeed, a kind word – better yet, a couple miles of friendly conversation – can turn rain into sunshine.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Wearing Theater’s Two Masks

by Woody

Anniversaries, like the two masks of the theater, can come with laughter and celebration or tragedy and tears.

Today, July 7, I will wear both masks simultaneously.

First, the celebratory anniversary. Or, as the United States Running Streak Association terms it, my “Streakiversary.” Simply put, I have run a minimum of 3.1 miles every day, without fail, for the past 20 years. The math adds up to 7,306 consecutive days and 83,337 miles, more than three times around the Earth, and more than 100 pairs of shoes, for a daily average of 11.4 miles.

With humility, I must point out that 106 runners have USRSA-recognized Streaks longer than mine, including four surpassing 50 years!

Sometimes we don’t fully appreciate something until it is taken from us. So it was for me with running after I was rear-ended at a stoplight by a drunk driver speeding 65 mph. While I was fortunate to have walked away from the wreckage, my neck required a diskectomy and fusion of two vertebrae, and I feared I would never run another marathon.

Six long months later, my doc finally gave me clearance to go on a short run of one mile. I gleefully, also slowly and painfully, went three-plus miles. Before I knew it, I had unintentionally run 100 consecutive days and decided to try for 365 and like Forrest Gump just kept going.

As with U.S. postal workers, I have not been detoured by rain nor sleet nor snow. Nor by injury and illness, Covid-19 and a kidney stone, wildfire smoke and a wildly painful cracked rib.

I have run at all hours to accommodate family plans, vacations, time zones. On the streets of London after a long travel day, I kept The Streak alive as midnight neared, causing one Englishman to holler, “Hey, bloke! You must be a Yank ’cause you’re bloody crazy.”

Crazy, perhaps, but psychoanalysis might reveal something else at play. While I did not realize it until a couple years later, it now seems beyond coincidence that my Streak began on July 7, 2003 – the due date of my wife’s and my third child. A baby lost to miscarriage. Was my Streak’s birth a subconscious response to death?

The pregnancy was a surprise, a wonderful one infused with champagne bubbles, but because my wife was 44, a high-risk one infused with worry. Only after making it safely into the second trimester did we exhale and allow ourselves to get fully excited.

Then the heartbreak of no heartbeat.

“You can try again,” family and friends say at such times. And: “At least you already have two healthy children.” They all mean well, but the heart does not listen to rationalizations.

We chose not to know the gender, perhaps trying to protect our hearts just in case, although we had picked out Sienna for a girl. A few years later, my wife had a powerful dream of a child on a playground swing. The girl, the same age our child would have then been, smiled and waved. Rather than being overwhelmed by renewed grief, my wife felt deeply comforted.

Surely thus influenced, even though it came a few years thereafter, I too had a real-as-can-be dream where I was running on the beach bike path, perhaps my very favorite route, alongside a child the same age ours would have then been.

She was smiling and happy.

I will think of heras I extend my Streak today, on her summer birthday that never was, imagining Sienna also turning 20, my eyes assuredly as salty as the sea.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Run Turns Into Schoolyard Recess

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Distance Run Turns Into

Schoolyard Recess

            “Hi!” a girl, perhaps entering third grade when the new school year begins, called out enthusiastically.

I was circling a half-mile loop around soccer fields during my daily run on a recent weekday afternoon while a youth summer camp was in full swing. About three-dozen kids were enjoying recess-like activities including tag, jump rope and various games with balls.

“Hi!” the same girl repeated, now waving, on my next loop as if seeing me for the first time. A couple of her friends joined in: “Hi” and “Hey Running Man!”

“Hello!” I replied, adding quickly as I passed, “are you having a fun summer?”

“Yessss!” they sang in chorus.

In fits and starts, as I passed by I continued a conversation with what was now five girls sitting in a circle on the grass having snacks: “When does school start?”

Gleeful again: “Next week!”

Next lap: “Are you excited for school?”

“Yessss!” again in song.

I do not like to stop during a run, but on the next lap I did so briefly to ask the five girls, “What grades are you going to be in this year?”

The answers, one by one around the circle, all accompanied by smiles: “Third, fourth, fourth, second, third.”

Off I resumed, my stride feeling as light as Hermes with his winged feet.

Next time around, I was greeted by a boy holding his palm up to give me a high-five; the following loop, a line of kids did so.

It is my experience that the best runs transform themselves from effort into play. In other words, they become recess. For the better part of the 22 laps of this 11-mile run, I was a fifth-grader lost in recess fun.

I say fifth-grader specifically because my teacher that year, Mr. Hawkins, used to join us on the playground and grass field. Some days he would shoot baskets with us; other times we would run pass patterns and he would throw football spirals to us; too, he was pitcher for both teams in softball games.

On this day, I became Mr. Hawkins – albeit in Nikes and T-shirt instead of wingtips and his familiar square-ended knitted necktie. On one loop, a boy camper handed me a football and ran out for a pass. Slowing, but still on the run, I threw wildly.

Half of a mile later, I took another handoff but this time I stopped, planted my feet, and threw a touchdown spiral to make Rams quarterback Jared Goff – or Mr. Hawkins – proud.

Another loop around, a girl tossed me a foam Frisbee. I caught it, but my return toss sailed off-target in a side breeze and she giggled. I retrieved the errant disc and this time made an accurate throw that was rewarded with a happy young smile.

There was more fun. On a couple laps, I found myself with running companions for about 100 meters and was reminded of the races we had with Mr. Hawkins to the far fence on the playground grass.

The order of events this day is beyond my recall, but they included jumping rope until I missed; playing dodge ball when a basketball-sized fuzzy tennis ball was rolled at my feet – “Good jump, Mister!”; and being asked by a girl to spray sunscreen on her back.

This day, I did not care what pace my GPS running watch showed.

This day, I recalled the words of golfing legend Walter Hagen: “Don’t hurry. Don’t worry. You’re only here for a short visit. So don’t forget to stop and smell the roses.”

This day, I stopped to play.

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Column: Story Behind ‘The Streak’

by Woody

 

Streaking Forward While Looking Back

 

            Later this afternoon I will celebrate a happy anniversary.

 

            Too, I will mark a polar one.

 

            Freud would surely argue the two are related. And while this did not occur to me for quite some time, it now seems obvious if not undeniable.

 

            First, the celebratory anniversary. Or, as the United States Running Streak Association – yes, there is such a thing – terms it, “streakiversary.” Today my consecutive-day streak of running a minimum of three miles (with an average of 8.6 miles daily over the span) will reach 10 years – or 3,653 days in a row thanks to three leap years.RunatSunset

 

            If this strikes you as silly or insane or stupid, you are probably right on all counts. However, there are no less than 152 runners who are certifiably (according to the USRSA) crazier than me – including eight Americans with streaks surpassing 40 years!

 

I did not set out to become a “streaker.” As a person caught red-handed in a love affair or addiction – and a running streak is no doubt a little of both – might guiltily explain: “It just happened.”

 

It happened in response to a life-changing event. Early on I believed the tragic catalyst was my being rear-ended at a stoplight by a drunk driver speeding 65 mph. The result was a ruptured disk in my neck requiring surgery to fuse two vertebrae.

 

The result also was permanent nerve damage and chronic pain that stole my recreational passions of tennis and basketball. So when my gifted neurosurgeon Dr. Moustapha Abou-Samra, a fellow marathoner, finally gave me the go-ahead to resume distance running I grabbed hold as if it were a life preserver in a choppy ocean. Each run gave me a daily dose of empowerment over my physical losses from the car crash.

 

Like a U.S. postal worker, I have not been detoured by rain nor sleet nor snow. I have run through injury and illness and at insane hours to accommodate family plans, work, time zones. Hopping off a plane in London, I kept The Streak alive by running three miles in the airport terminal at 11 p.m., causing one Englishman to holler: “Hey, bloke! You must be a Yank cause you’re bloody crazy.”

 

Perhaps, although psychoanalysis might reveal something different at play. Indeed, while I did not realize it for two years, it now seems beyond coincidence that my streak began on July 7, 2003. That was the due date of my wife’s and my third child.

 

A baby lost to miscarriage. Was the streak’s birth a subconscious response to death?

 

The pregnancy was a surprise, a wonderful one, and because my wife was 44, of high-risk. After she made it safely into the second trimester we finally exhaled, allowing ourselves to get fully excited.

 

Then the heartbreak of no heartbeat.

 

It is likely a self-protective mechanism to try to rationalize a miscarriage as “being for the best because something was terribly wrong.” Doctors, family and friends offer similar solace. And maybe the mind buys into this, but the heart does not.

 

We had chosen not to know the gender, perhaps another grasp at self-protection. Again, the heart has its own mind. A few years later my wife had a powerful dream in which she watched a child on a playground swing. The girl, the same age our child would have then been, was happy. Rather than being overwhelmed with renewed grief, my wife felt comforted.

 

I had no similar night vision.

 

However, I have had many a daydream on runs while looking at kids – girls and boys – who are about the same age as my streak and thinking: That’s how old our child would now be.

 

Last week, I had a sleep dream. Surely it was influenced by my wife’s from six years past, as well as by the approach of my 10-year streakiversary – and hence the 2003 summer birthday that never was. In the dream I am running on the San Buenaventura beach bike path, one of my very favorite routes, alongside a child of about age 10.

 

SHE is smiling and happy.

 

I will think of her as I extend my streak today, my eyes likely salty as the sea.

 

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. His new memoir WOODEN & ME is available for pre-order at: www.WoodyWoodburn.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Running Essay: Shoe-in Inspiration

by Woody

 

This Ultra-Man is a Shoe-in to Inspire Kids

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“Momma always says there’s an awful lot you could tell about a person by their shoes. Where they’re going. Where they’ve been. I’ve worn lots of shoes.”

— Forrest Gump                        

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            You can tell an awful lot about Ed Wehan by the pile of running shoes on his front doorstep. The ones caked with dirt tell you he has been on muddy trails. The cleaner ones with worn treads tell you he has traveled countless sidewalks and roads. The newer ones tell you he has more miles to go.

Ed has worn lots of running shoes. He has worn them to complete 115 marathons and 40 ultra-marathons of 50 to 100 miles. While the fictional Forrest Gump went on a running journey that lasted three years, two months, fourteen days, and sixteen hours, Ed has been running for a full four decades.

His odyssey began in 1973 when, at age 29, he didn’t recognize the reflection in the mirror. After earning an MBA at the University of Southern California and joining the working world, Ed fell out of shape. Understand, as an undergraduate at UC Santa Barbara, he had been a supreme athlete. A four-year varsity tennis star, he once made UCLA’s Arthur Ashe – then the nation’s No. 1-ranked collegiate player – work to earn a 6-3, 6-3 victory.

Ed treated running like an opponent’s weak lob – he attacked it. In less than three years he went from jogging a few laps on a track to running a full marathon in 3 hours, 30 minutes.

“My compulsive personality took over,” recalls Ed, who broke 3 hours in his third marathon and ultimately lowered his PR to a blazing 2 hours, 36 minutes. (Ed, who turns 69 this Thursday going on 47, still regularly breaks 4 hours; last month he ran a 1:52 half-marathon.)

Looking for a new runner’s high, in 1979 Ed entered The Western States 100 – an insanely tortuous 100-mile race up, down and across California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains. He finished seventh overall in 18 hours, 48 minutes to become only the 15th person to earn a coveted silver belt buckle for breaking the 24-hour barrier.

While Ed was tireless as a mule at 100 miles, in 50-mile ultras he had the speed of the Pony Express. In fact, in both 1984 and 1985 he clocked the fastest Masters (age 40-and-over) times in the nation at the distance with a best of 5 hours, 39 minutes – an average pace of 6 minutes, 46 seconds per mile!

The running accomplishments of this longtime resident of Ventura, California are all the more remarkable when you learn Ed is a cancer survivor of more than two decades and a dozen years ago he had open-heart surgery to correct atrial fibrillation. He had actually completed a couple 100-mile races with his heart functioning at about 60 percent capacity. Not surprisingly, Ed ran six miles the day before heart surgery. Six months later, he finished third in a 50-mile ultra.

Seven years ago, Ed took on a new challenge – fighting childhood obesity by promoting physical activity and nutritional education. Specifically, he helped create “SummerFest” for local school kids that was named the Governor’s Council on Physical Fitness “Event of the Year” for the State of California three years ago.

“It takes a community to fight childhood obesity,” Ed says. “Parents can’t do it alone, teachers can’t do it alone. It takes all of us advocating for, and being role models for, healthy eating and physical activity.”

“I don’t expect every kid to want to run a marathon or climb Mount Whitney,” says Ed, who of course has reached that summit – the highest peak in the contiguous United States at 14,505 feet – with his teenage daughter. “But hopefully we can encourage kids, teachers and parents to make physical activity a part of their lives.”

And start building their own pile of running shoes on their front porch.– You can contact Woody at WoodyWriter@gmail.com