Tag Archives: Running

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.

“Erick the Great” Needs a Little Aid

by Woody

Early in my career as a sportswriter, so long ago we still used typewriters, I met a high school student whose competitive mettle remains unforgettable. Paralyzed from the waist down in a car accident, he decided to do a 5K in a wheelchair.

Alas, his hospital style wheelchair was a bulky, heavy tank ill-suited for a road race. It was like paddling a raw redwood log instead of a kayak. Despite wearing leather workman gloves for training, his hands quickly became blistered and bloodied and he was close to giving up on his dream.

Then something wonderful happened. Readers of a column I wrote about “Iron Mike,” as I called him in print, rallied to his side like the residents of Bedford Falls for George Bailey. A large basketful of donations poured in and Iron Mike was soon spinning the wheels of a sleek, low-to-the-ground sports chair made of aluminum and titanium.

Erick Aleman, a role model for overcoming challenges…

Here is what I most happily remember: that racing chair changed Iron Mike’s life by giving him self-esteem and confidence and a can’t-stop-smiling smile he lacked when I first met him. He not only crossed the finish line in his first 5K, he did more road races and soon began entering para-athlete meets.

Thinking of Iron Mike always reminds me of two other high school students I once wrote about and have never forgotten. They were brothers who lived in such poverty they shared one pair of shoes. Moreover, that single pair was a little too small for the older brother and a bit too big for the younger one. Worse still, one flapping sole was being held on with duct tape.

Worst of all, the boys alternated days going to school because shoes were required for attendance. Again, readers stepped up and the boys soon each had his own school shoes – and also his own basketball shoes, opening up a whole new world for them on their school’s team.

I have a new story in need of a happy ending, a real-life version of the old allegory, “I felt sorry for myself because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.”

Erick Aleman, a junior at Rio Mesa High School, was born without his left foot and lower leg due to Hanhart Syndrome. Despite this, he has been competing against athletes without disabilities in track and cross-country races since middle school and now does so for the Spartans.

Even more remarkable than usually finishing up in the middle of the pack, this modern-day “Erick the Great” has done so while running in a clunky prosthetic leg designed for walking and thus lacks the lightness and mobility and energy return of one designed for sports. Imagine world-record holder Eliud Kipchoge running a marathon in hiking boots and you get an idea of the disadvantage.

 A high-tech “blade” prosthetic would level the uphill lane, slightly at least, that Erick continually faces. Unfortunately, these are not cheap, easily costing $15,000.

Fortunately, however, Erick’s coach at Rio Mesa, Garrett Reynolds, has set up a fundraiser: go to GoFundMe.com and then search “Prosthetic Running Leg for Erick.”

“I can genuinely say that Erick is one of the hardest-working young men I have seen,” Coach Reynolds, a three-time Ventura County Runner of the Year, says on the GoFundMe page. “Erick never complains or has excuses. He truly has a natural gift for running, and a running prosthetic would allow him to compete on an equitable level, and would empower him to reach his full potential as an athlete and as a human being.”

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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.

A Beautiful River of Runners

by Woody

Standing along the dusty banks of The Ventura River Trail this past Sunday morning, very early and very cold, I could not help but think of Norman Maclean’s novella “A River Runs Through It.”

Instead of a stream teeming with trout, a running river of humanity was flowing through the tree-line bike path for the annual Ventura Marathon, Half-Marathon and 5K.

As I cheered for my son and future daughter-in-law, as well as for the other entrants in all three events, a quote from Maclean’s masterpiece came to mind – although I had to look it up in order to get it exactly right here: “The fisherman even has a phrase to describe what he does when he studies the patterns of a river. He says he is ‘reading the water’, and perhaps to tell his stories he has to do much the same thing.”

My daughter-in-law Jess epitomized the spirit of the day!

It struck me there were surely 2,511 different stories taking place on this morning, one for each entrant. For example, my son’s fiancé was running her first half-marathon, and successfully; he was running his umpteenth 13.1-miler, but first since battling a year-long foot injury, and with a PR; and hometown star Garrett Reynolds was making his marathon debut with a swift-as-a-salmon-heading-downstream time of 2 hours, 23 minutes.

“Reading the water” revealed many, many more stories. Such as a mother who, no matter how fast she ran, always remained one stride behind her sleeping baby in a running stroller. Likewise, a father pushed a wide-eyed child who seemed as gleeful as if he were riding in a bobsled.

Stories. A grandfatherly man with his race bib pinned to a pink T-shirt in honor of breast cancer awareness. Surely some runners were heroically battling cancer at this very moment and others were cancer survivors.

Stories. A 10-year-old girl and a 76-year-old woman finished the marathon and also an 83-year-old man and a 15-year-old boy. In the 5K, an 8-year-old boy and 10-year-old girl and 75-year-old woman and 84-year-old man. The half-marathon, which featured the most stories with 1,429, similarly spanned many generations.

Stories. One spectator along the river route was especially memorable. I dare say he cheered for each and every single runner, giving his smile to – and putting a smile on – all 2,511 faces. Honestly, I don’t know how he did not go hoarse yet for two hours he never let up.

Indeed, whether the runner was floating speedily on winged feet or struggling with sinking spirits, in a pleasant southern accent he tirelessly offered encouragement: “Only two more miles! … Relax your face… Lift your knees… You’ve got this! … You’re a winner!”

Other spectators likewise applauded for the 10K runners as wholeheartedly as for half-marathoners and marathoners, and cheered for the swift as loudly as for the slow. In return the runners smiled or gave a thumbs-up sign or with huffing breaths said, “Thank you.” Each in-person exchange was worth a thousand “Likes” on social media.

Eventually, the three streams – the marathon, which started at sunrise; half-marathon, beginning half an hour later, halfway down the trail; and 5K, starting still nearer the ocean – all merged into one river that flowed through the finish chute at Ventura Unified School District headquarters.

Arriving at the homestretch, every runner, regardless their time or distance raced, was greeted with a shout-out by name on PA system and rewarded with cheers from the throng of spectators. As it should be, for each of the 2,511 shining faces had earned a new story to tell.

No trout stream was ever more beautiful than this running river.

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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.

Personalized Signed copies of WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and  “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

 

The Little Fellow takes the lead

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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The Little Fellow

takes the lead

The other day, a friend texted me after returning from a run with his 9-year-old son. I could almost hear the dad’s shortness of breath and see his smile in the electronic message.

I know it made me smile for it reminded me of a poem that hangs near my writing desk. It is titled, “A Little Fellow Follows Me,” author unknown, and seems especially worth sharing before Father’s Day. It begins:

A careful man I want to be, / A little fellow follows me; / I dare not to go astray, / For fear he’ll go the self-same way.

My Little Fellow then…

Growing up, my little fellow’s bedroom walls were plastered with posters of Olympic runners. As a second-grader he wrote a poem that also hangs in my office, titled: “I Am A Boy Who Loves To Run.”

That little boy grew up to be a six-foot-three young man who still loves to run. A former collegiate racer and more recently Boston Marathon finisher, he is far too fast for me to keep pace. But in my mind’s eye, I still see our side-by-side runs from long ago.

I cannot once escape his eyes, / Whatever he sees me do, he tries; / Like me he says he’s going to be, / The little chap who follows me.

We talked a lot on those runs together. He would tell me about his friends, about school, about his beloved Lakers. Often he made me laugh: “Was Gramps really a kid once?”

And: “Is Mom growing shorter?”

Me: “What?”

“Dad, I think she’s shrinking!”

…My Little Fellow now.

Me (suppressing a laugh): “No, I think you’re just growing taller.”

You can see why I loved running with The Little Fellow Who Follows Me, even when I had to go slower than I would have preferred in order to keep him from actually following me. Admittedly, I knew that would not last long. Indeed, like his shrinking mother, his dad was growing slower.

More than that, The Little Fellow was growing into a faster fellow.

He thinks that I am good and fine, / Believes in every word of mine; / The base in me he must not see, / The little chap who follows me.

I fondly remember one magical day 19 years ago – I know the date for it is in my running diary – when my 11-year-old Little Chap Who Follows Me and I went on a three-mile run together. Reaching the turnaround point, I was struggling not to be The Old Man Who Follows Him.

Shortly thereafter, sensing I had fallen slightly behind, he turned around and came back for me. I urged him to go on ahead, but he ignored every word of mine and ran alongside me at my pace the rest of the way. I had known this watershed day would arrive, but had thought it was further down the road of life.

I thought wrong. The future had arrived. A couple days later, midway up “The Long Monster Hill That Makes Your Legs Burn” – as he nicknamed this stretch of heartbreaking asphalt – I breathlessly insisted that The Little Fellow Who Follows Me go on ahead to the top. He flew off like Hermes.

I must remember as I go, / Through summer’s sun and winter’s snow; / I am building for the years to be / That little chap who follows me.

With summer’s sun setting, I crested the hill well after The Little Chap Who Follows Me. Seeing me, he waved and grinned a big toothy smile. Truth be told, I was even happier than he.

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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” …

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” …

Act of Giving Requires Two

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE!

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Act of Giving Requires the Gift of Receiving

The lovely music of a violin requires not just its strings but also a bow. A writer’s words are meaningless without a reader. It takes two hands, not one, to applaud.

And the act of giving is an empty gesture without someone on the receiving end. At times, however, we can become so focused on doing kind deeds that we forget this important truth.

I received a refreshing reminder last weekend.

1watercoldI am neither a mad dog nor Englishman, but I was out in the midday sun Saturday getting in my 4,829th consecutive daily run. Despite the mercury inching up toward triple-digits, causing a friend to shout out, perhaps accurately, “You’re crazy!” as he drove by, I stubbornly completed my planned 13-miler consisting of 26 laps around the perimeter of the three soccer fields at the southeast corner of the Kimball Aquatic Center Community Park.

As I was stretching and cooling down, that term being relative on this unseasonable and unreasonable autumn afternoon, I was approached and greeted by a burly man with a jet-black beard so long and thick it would make Edward Teach – aka Blackbeard the Pirate – envious.

It should not matter – and yet with racial tensions and tragedies making headlines daily, perhaps it does bear mention – that the bearded burly man and I are of different ethnicities.

“Do you want some water?” he asked.

“Thanks,” I answered, “but I’ve got a Gatorade in my car.”

After the man turned and walked away, I had second thoughts. While it was true I had a sports drink in my car, I suddenly realized this was beside the point.

What was important was John Wooden’s maxim: “There is great joy in helping others.” It now occurred to me that I had just denied this friendly man a slice of joy. Also, of course, I had denied myself the joy of receiving his kindness.

“Hey,” I called out while he was still within earshot. “I would like to take you up on that water.”

The man’s reaction reminded me of a scene in the movie “Wedding Crashers” when Owen Wilson’s character, John Beckwith, reconsiders after having earlier turned down an offer for meatloaf from Chaz, played by Will Ferrell.

“You know what,” John says, “I will have some meatloaf. Let’s have some meatloaf.”

“You want some?” Chaz says, excitedly. “Hey, Ma! The meatloaf! We want it now! The meatloaf!”

Hearing my change of mind, the man flashed a toothpaste-ad smile that burst through his beard like sunshine from behind a parting a cloud. He enthusiastically said: “You do? Great!”

With that he bolted off to the parking lot and from a cooler in the bed of his pickup truck pulled out not one, but two, bottles of ice-cold water.

“I’ve seen you running laps for close to two hours so you need to drink up,” he said, offering me both bottles as well a glucose tablet.

I chugged the first bottle of water about as fast as it would pour out, not only because I was parched but also in an attempt to truly show the man my appreciation in a way a mere “thank you” could not.

As we chatted briefly, I learned my Samaritan’s name is Eric and that he has coached youth soccer for nearly a decade. When I got home I understood why he was perhaps a little worried about me: my black running hat was stained half-white while my face was also heavily peppered with salt.

Too, a lingering smile was on my face because Eric had not only refreshed my body but also given my mind a refresher in this insight from British author Alexander McCall Smith:

“Gracious acceptance is an art – an art which most never bother to cultivate. We think that we have to learn how to give, but we forget about accepting things, which can be much harder than giving. Accepting another person’s gift is allowing him to express his feelings for you.”

Wise food – or rather, ice-cold water – for thought.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

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Column: Stranger Becomes a Friend

by Woody

My new memoir WOODEN & ME is available here at Amazon

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Downside of ‘Hello’ is ‘Goodbye’

“A stranger,” Will Rogers said, “is just a friend I haven’t met yet.”

Three years ago, Jongsoo was a stranger to me.

And then we met, crossing paths at the Ventura Aquatic Center community park. I was on my daily run going one direction around the soccer fields and he walked, aided by a cane, in the opposite. “Hi,” I said as we passed.

My joyful friend, Jongsoo, and me before saying goodbye.

My joyful friend, Jongsoo, and me before saying goodbye.

“HELL-OHHH!” Jongsoo replied in all capital letters with the “o” drawn out and punctuated with an exclamation mark.

Jongsoo not only greeted me with “HELL-OHHH!” whenever I saw him in the days and months that followed, often a few times a week, he would sing it with the same enthusiasm on each ensuing loop, sometimes a dozen times in one afternoon, as if every encounter was the first.

Soon we were exchanging a hug with the day’s first “HELL-OHHH” and high-fives thereafter. Jongsoo’s carbonated joy always added a lightness to my stride and heart.

Too, he made me laugh. For one thing, Jongsoo often walked with a transistor radio, sans earphones, blaring loud enough to scare away birds. Moreover, he sometimes did a few dance steps for my amusement.

The sight of Jongsoo and me trying to converse had to amuse all who saw us, an odd couple to be sure: he two decades older than me; me a foot taller; and neither of us understanding much of what the other was saying despite our pantomimes.

One day early on, Jongsoo was limping more than usual and through gestures I asked about his leg. He answered by displaying a scar that looked like a great white shark had taken a bite out of his hip and thigh. Through charades it became clear the shark had been a car.

Last week, Jongsoo gave me a note, in English, explaining he was leaving in five days and would not return for at least a year.

“Thanks for cheering me up whenever I see you at the park,” it also read. “Thank you for being my friend.”

The following afternoon I handed Jongsoo a return note of thanks with some questions about him. One, two, three days passed and I did not see him at the park. I feared I would not get to say goodbye to my friend.

Why had I not realized sooner that Jongsoo must be living with someone who could translate for us? Mad at myself, I recalled what sports writer Frank Graham once wrote about Bob Meusel, a gruff outfielder with the New York Yankees who in his fading playing days warmed up slightly: “He’s learning to say hello when it’s time to say goodbye.”

On the final day before Jongsoo would fly back to South Korea, as I was nearing the end of my run and about to leave the park, a VW Beetle honked and pulled into the parking lot. Jongsoo had insisted his daughter, Kim, drive him over one last time in hopes of catching me.

“HELL-OHHH!” Jongsoo sang.

“An nyoung!” I said back, after asking Kim for the Korean translation.

From Kim I learned that her father is 76 years old, has three children and his arranged marriage is closing in on its golden anniversary. He has been staying in Ventura with Kim, who came to American in 1994 to earn a doctoral degree in Special Education and remained here to teach, and her husband Cory, a software engineer.

I also learned that a taxi had struck Jongsoo five years ago in Seoul; his hip socket and part of his shattered femur needed to be replaced. How he now walks for one to two hours daily is remarkable and inspiring. Surgery and chemotherapy for colon cancer also did not slow him down for long.

After giving my friend a hug, I asked Kim how to say goodbye in Korean.

“An nyoung!” I said again, for the salutation she explained is the same going as arriving.

I learned to say hello when it was time to say goodbye – but now I’ll be ready to say hello when goodbye ends and Jungsoo and I meet again at the park.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden-&-Me-cover-mock-upCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Philanthropist On The Run

by Woody

Young Philanthropist on the Run

 

As a small boy, Benjamin DeWitt remembers waiting in food lines.

 

“I came from a very poor family,” Ben, now 28, recalls. “My parents worked very, very hard, but we still didn’t have much.”

 

When you are a child without, there are two ways to go when you grow up: follow the same hardscrabble pathway or pursue a yellow brick road.

Ben DeWitt, a true role model

Ben DeWitt, a true role model

 

Ben opted for a third road less traveled by. An avenue of philanthropy.

 

“I want to give other kids an opportunity for a better life than I had,” Ben avows. It is not lip service. He doesn’t just walk the talk, he runs it.

 

A standout distance runner at Buena High School (Class of 2004), Ventura College (2005-06) and Western State Colorado University (Class of 2008), Ben started his own business – Fast Green Running – four years ago to stage local races, including the“Mountains 2 Beach Marathon” from Ojai to Ventura.

 

The officially sanctioned course is remarkable for its scenic beauty and more remarkable for its gradual 700-foot decent to a sea-level finish near the Ventura Pier that has earned it the No. 2 ranking for runners trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. As a result, runners from 44 states and seven countries are entered in this year’s fourth annual edition on May 25.

 

But the most remarkable thing about the “Mountains 2 Beach Marathon” (and accompanying 5K and half-marathon) is this: Ben donated $10,000 to local schools the first year; $15,000 the second year; and $38,000 last year, including $20,000 to Ventura Education Partnership.

 

“Ben is a source of pride for VUSD,” praises Trudy Arriaga, Superintendent for the Ventura Unified School District. “He is a product of VUSD and has the qualities that we dream to help produce as educators. Ben models service, generosity and wellness. Ben’s extraordinary example of giving back by paying it forward is an inspiration wrapped up in quite a gift!”

 

Ben’s gifts also benefit youth cross country and track programs throughout Ventura County as well as, fittingly, Ventura Food Share. His goal this year is to donate at least $45,000 total.

 

Understand, Ben is under no obligation to give from Fast Green Running’s bottom line. He could rightly pay himself a bigger salary instead of “paying it forward” from his own pocket.

 

“I’m more philanthropic with my life,” Ben explains. “I want to benefit the local community more than benefitting my personal piggybank.

 

“I live very modestly,” he expands, a ready smile flashing through his short-cropped ginger beard like sunshine through parting clouds. “I don’t need much to live. I’m not interested in vast amounts of wealth. I want to leave a legacy. On my deathbed, I want to look back on my life and feel that I did something worthwhile.”

 

Ben points out that some of his rewards cannot be monetized anyway, such as having runners tearfully thank him after realizing their dreams of clocking a Boston Marathon Qualifying time.

 

“I’d love for our community to come out on race day and be a part of the experience, kind of like they do in Boston,” encourages Ben, who was married on April 26 but has delayed his honeymoon until after the race. “Come cheer for the runners and perhaps you and your kids will be motivated to start running and getting more active too.”

 

Asked where his philanthropic calling originated, Ben shares a story when he was 16 and helping deliver toys and food in Santa Paula on Christmas Eve.

 

“We started at 4 a.m. and it was a cold, cold day,” he says. “I was in the bed of a truck and we’d stop at the houses and hand out boxes to parents. At one house on a dirt lot I remember thinking, ‘If I ever can someday, I want to help people.’ ”

 

He has made someday arrive early.

 

“The purpose of life is not to be happy,” Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote. “It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”

 

Sounds exactly like “Benefactor Ben.”

 

*

 

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

 

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

 

 

Book Review: “The Ghost Runner”

by Woody

“THE GHOST RUNNER: The Tragedy of the Man They Couldn’t Stop” by Bill Jones (352 paperback.) FLASH REVIEW: I think non-runners will appreciate the tragic life story of John Tarrant, who had a boardinghouse childhood more grim than Dickens would dream up and made all the worse in his teens by the death of his mother shortly after WWII. I KNOW that runners, especially marathoners, will have a hard time putting this book down (though reading while simultaneously shaking one’s head in sympathetic anger can be a challenge). This is the journey of a steel-legged and iron-willed English runner sentenced to fight amateur athletic brass for decades. As a result he must illegally race in the shadows without a bib number all because he earned a few pounds in his hardscrabble youth as a boxer and thus was deemed a “professional” in running. Denied any chance at his Olympic dreams, The Ghost Runner, as he becomes famously known in the newspapers and sporting world, wears disguises before jumping into marathons and 24-hour ultras at the last second last at the starting lines. In the process he becomes an inspiring legend through victory and heartbreaking defeat, the latter often due to his stubbornness and refusal to pace himself rather than always bolting to the lead from the start. Perhaps the most amazing thing about the entire tale is that it has taken so long to be told. RATING: 4 Stars out of 5 for marathoners; 3 Stars for non-runners.