And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, journeyed to a far country, and there wasted his possessions with prodigal living. ~ Luke 15:13
I just felt like running. ~ Forrest Gump (c. 1994)
By David Abbott
Fifty years is a long time in the course of a human life, despite being less than a blip in the Grand Scheme of Things.
My geologic blip recently brought me back to Wichita to care for my aging mother after nearly half a century away, bringing into stark reality the old saw to “never say ‘never’,” because “never” is a long, long, loooong time.
My never was to never return to the place of my birth for more than a cursory visit every five years or so, but people get old and things change. The changes are often beyond our control, but one thing remains constant: Our need to find an organizing principal or a group to belong to that will positively impact our lives.
For many readers of this blog, the running community has become that positive reinforcement and a major part of our lives and personal culture.
Not unlike the Prodigal Son from the book of Luke, I too wandered away from home and squandered my fortune. I didn’t really have a fortune to squander, but for the sake of this metaphor, my life’s journey took me from the Southwestern desert to the Pacific Ocean to the Northern Plains, and finally, to the Wichita Running Club. No fortune involved.
I dropped out of East High School in 1977 with no chance I ever would have graduated in 1979. I borrowed money from a sibling and ran off to Arizona to live in the desert, far, far away from what I thought were my problems.
To my surprise, most of my problems came along with me, often in the form of delusion.
I spent the ensuing decades in Arizona, Northern California, returning to Arizona, and wintering in Central Wisconsin. Yes: From Tucson to Wisconsin on the first day of winter 2024. Prodigal sons usually don’t have the most logical timelines, to be honest.
Over the years, my relationship with Wichita mellowed. I didn’t see it as the root cause anymore, but it was not one of my great destinations or a place that I ever felt the desire to live again. It was more a family chore.
But this is about running and not a psychoanalysis of the writer, so when I considered moving back, Exploration Place parkrun helped softened the blow quite a bit. I figured that any city with a parkrun must have a dedicated running community, and I have not been disappointed. The regulars at parkrun, the organizers and volunteers, have been kind and welcoming and accepting of my odd choices in running couture.
When I began running 14 years ago at the age of 51, I did not realize what an important part of my life the social aspect of our sport would become, particularly given my transient lifestyle. As an organizing principle, running creates a solid community of like-minded people committed to self-improvement, or at least maintaining a good baseline of health.
Sometimes, we run because we can’t afford mental health care, but that’s a different blog post.
I often think of organized running in the same way I think of going to a bar or a party celebrating life achievements or sporting events. Like the old TV show “Cheers,” we meet up with our “regulars,” in this case usually the people lining up at the start line that we’ve made casual connections to. We exchange pleasantries and occasionally expand relationships to non-race running or coffee and doughnuts after. When the running is over, we go our separate ways and the social contract ends but the feeling of camaraderie remains.
That dynamic is already paying off dividends for me in Wichita. At the finish line of the Say Grace 5K Race last November, a random runner approached me and said, “I recognized your shorts from the Turkey Trot.”
I think that would be a good thing to put on my tombstone: He may not have left much of a mark, but someone recognized his shorts at the Turkey Trot.
Thanks to the running community, I can wear my rainbow tie-dye shorts with polka-dot or argyle socks and a pink “Run Madtown” shirt and not be considered an outsider.
I’ve also found a few friends and fellow travelers through parkrun, a global community and social phenomenon that shows we can all get along for a few hours every week and make the world a better place, however briefly.
On further consideration, maybe instead of the Prodigal Son, I am one of the people following Forrest Gump in the 1994 movie, when Forrest does his coast-to-coast-to-coast run in order to deal with a profound sense of grief. I’m part of a larger community searching for something, but we cope by following a predetermined course regardless of how tired we become along the way.
The running community is just like peas and carrots and life is like a box of chocolates: You never know what you’re gonna get.
Or, as Luke 32 might say: It was right that we should make merry and be glad, for your brother was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.
Est. 1976 