Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Jason Merril
I never knew Jason L. Merril. I was unaware when he chose to serve his country and enlisted in the army in 2002. I was unaware when he was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 1st Infantry Division, or when he made the rank of sergeant, or when he was deployed to Iraq. Only today did I learn of the ultimate sacrifice made by Sergeant Merrill September 3, 2006 while in the line of duty. Not until today did I learn of his mother’s sorrow and her anguish of losing a beloved son. Today my heart was made heavy when I contemplated the pain experienced by a dear friend whom I’ve had little contact with since high school, the first girl I ever kissed. I give thanks to Jason, for his willingness to serve, for the sacrifice he made, and to his mother Sue, whose sacrifice surely rivaled that of her son.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Running….
It was more than 26 years ago that one small the-spirit-is-willing-but-the-flesh-is-weak victory affected my entire life. I was a young father and husband at the time. Donna and I had been married four years. Our first child Jennifer wasn only three. Our second, Nate, was less than a year. I had plenty of other things to focus on besides exercise, but I felt a little soft and wanted to be fit. When I started a new job at Goodyear Aerospace, it felt like a good time for change. With two little ones, a good night’s sleep was rare. So it was no small decision when I decided to take up running. One evening before bed I set my alarm for 5:00am.
When the alarm sounded the next morning, I was tempted to shut it off and go back to sleep. With the same anguish a dying man in the desert might exhibit declining a cold glass of water, I forced my eyes open and crawled out of bed. I slipped on a pair of shorts and running shoes. The morning was cold and dark. I was groggy as my shoes pounded the asphalt streets of our west Phoenix suburb for a mile. I longed to be back in my soft bed. I was out of shape. . It was anything but exhilarating. Never the less, I did it. I didn’t know at the time that first mile would be one of thousands I would pound out in the coming decades. I didn’t know I was starting a life-long habit.
There were two men I knew from church who were serious runners. During my first year of running, I ran with each of them occasionally. I had never met a nicer guy than Joe Brown. He was a tall lanky individual in his 30’s. He made a living painting cars. At the time I had a fascination with automotive painting. When we ran together I picked Joe’s brain for tricks of the trade. Joe’s neighbor was Steve Christiansen. He was a doctor by profession and a recent convert to the church. Both of these friends had previously run marathons. I wanted to run one too.
Steve admonished me to have a thousand mile “base” before doing a full marathon. I was undeterred. I set my sights on the Fiesta Bowl Marathon only a few months away. There were a number of mile stones as I trained. My first ten-miler was done solo, early in the morning of Saturday August 27, 1983. The run left me feeling tired but absolutely elated. Perhaps that was the first time I had experienced a “runner’s high”. The next month I ran a 46:29 10K in Prescott with my ol’ buddy Don Davis. I placed 81st out of a field of several hundred runners. A month later I ran another 10K in Scottsdale, cutting my time to 45:33 and placing 67th out of several hundred runners. The next month brought the Fiesta Fowl Marathon, which took place on December 3, 1983.
Don’s sister-in-law Kay Davis had been running for years. When she heard I was going to do a marathon, she decided to do it with me. The two of us, along with several thousand other runners, gathered before dawn in the desert near Cave Creek, Arizona. Temperatures were brisk when the gun sounded. There were so many people it was difficult to run at all. It took us a minute or two to cross the start line. Kay and I matched each other stride for stride, talking as we went. At mile 1, a race volunteer called out our pace – a very slow 10:05 minutes per mile. At mile 5 we had sped up to an 8:05 pace. At mile 7, we passed Donna and Don who stood on the sidelines of the course and cheered us on. By mile 10, the endorphins had kicked in. I was experiencing a runner’s high like no other. When a volunteer called out a blistering (for us) 7:55 pace, Kay knew we were going too fast. She slowed down. I felt like I could run all day. I forged ahead on my own. At mile 12 I started to tire. Kay passed me. I didn’t see her again until the finish line. At mile 20, I was still on a reasonably good pace. At mile 22 I “hit the wall.” My glycogen levels were depleted. My head was spinning. I couldn’t even propel myself in a straight line. For the last 4 miles of the race I alternated between running and walking. I crossed the finish line just under 4 hours, a full 25 minutes after my running mate Kay. Donna, Don, and Kay were at the finish line to greet me. I was exhausted and dazed. I never felt worse, and yet genuinely satisfied at accomplishing the feat.
In the next couple of years my running continued. I ran a life-time-best 40:18 10k (6:30 pace) in Cave Creek. I also did another marathon, this time the “Whiskey Row Marathon” in Prescott, Arizona. The course was an absolute butt-kicker, starting at 5300 feet elevation, rising to 7,000, down to 6,000, back up to 7,000, etc. Though I was in the shape of my life, my time did not reflect it because of the difficulty.
Years passed. Four or five days a week I rose early and pounded out a few miles. Three more kids were born into our family. I’m not sure my kids even knew that I was a runner. I generally did it before they were out of bed. Early morning runs were exhilarating. They left me feeling refreshed. As I recovered at the end of a run, I sat for a few minutes and read the morning paper. This daily ritual was a good way to start each day.
I ran regularly through out my 30’s and into my 40’s. In a 20-year span, I took only three significant breaks from running, each mandated by a broken bone and a cast.
In 2000, at age 44, I logged nearly a thousand miles. I ran the Florence Griffith Joyner Memorial Half marathon in Laguna Hills California. My running took a serious nose dive after that. The years and thousands of miles logged had taken their toll on my knees. My doctor, after looking at x-rays, simply said they were arthritic and there was nothing to be done. I was disappointed. My doctor had done more than tell me to stop doing something I enjoyed. He told me to change my way of life. I pretty much hung up my running shoes, but not completely. In 2003 at age 47, I logged a paltry 131 miles for the entire year. Moving from sunny Southern California to poor winter weather in New Hampshire and then Oregon also had an adverse effect on my running habits. From 2004 through 2008, at ages 48 through 52, I typically ran from Spring to Fall only, logging a paltry 200 to 300 miles per year. It wasn’t much, but I was still running.
This year at age 53, as Winter turned into Spring, I again laced up my running shoes and hit the streets of Newberg, Oregon. Surprisingly, for the first time in years, my knees felt pretty good. They felt so good, I started toying with the idea of another 10k. On this day, July 4th, it happened.
I rose early and drove an hour south to the small town of Stayton, OR where the Stayton Road Runners Club presented the annual “Old-Time 4th of July 10-K Run and 3K Walk/Run”. After registering I stood near the start/finish line and talked to a few other runners. When the morning sun began to warm the morning air, we all wished the race had begun an hour earlier. At nine o’clock the mayor of Stayton fired the starter’s pistol. I trotted across the line with about 300 other runners. In the first mile I scoped out a couple of guys who were slightly younger than I, but seemed to be keeping the pace I wanted. One was a little over weight. The other had a slight gimp to his stride. Surely I could stay with these two for the entire race. On a hill during the third mile they both pulled away. I never saw them again. During this third mile we were greeted by the smoking-fast leaders who were returning from the out-and-back course. The sun was hot. At mile four I took cold water at the aid station and poured it over my head. My goal at this point was to simply finish the race without walking. The last two miles felt like three. I finally crossed the finish line to a smattering of polite applause. I didn’t know anyone in the crowd. I was by myself. My time was a lackluster 56:32, more than 16 minutes slower than my yesteryear pace. I had to chuckle when I turned in my number at the scorer’s table and found I had placed third in the 50 to 54 age group. There were only 8 contestants in the group. I hung around 45 minutes for the awards ceremony and collected my ribbon. I enjoyed a quart of ice-cold Gatorade on the drive back home.
That decision I made 26 years ago to get up at 5am and run was actually a decision to take care of my body, to be fit. I’ve never strayed too far from that goal. My life has been enriched because of it. A year ago I hiked to the top of Mount St. Helens with a bunch of teenage boys. They were impressed when this old man beat all but a few of them to the top. I was grateful for good health and a fit body so I could enjoy such experiences.
When the alarm sounded the next morning, I was tempted to shut it off and go back to sleep. With the same anguish a dying man in the desert might exhibit declining a cold glass of water, I forced my eyes open and crawled out of bed. I slipped on a pair of shorts and running shoes. The morning was cold and dark. I was groggy as my shoes pounded the asphalt streets of our west Phoenix suburb for a mile. I longed to be back in my soft bed. I was out of shape. . It was anything but exhilarating. Never the less, I did it. I didn’t know at the time that first mile would be one of thousands I would pound out in the coming decades. I didn’t know I was starting a life-long habit.
There were two men I knew from church who were serious runners. During my first year of running, I ran with each of them occasionally. I had never met a nicer guy than Joe Brown. He was a tall lanky individual in his 30’s. He made a living painting cars. At the time I had a fascination with automotive painting. When we ran together I picked Joe’s brain for tricks of the trade. Joe’s neighbor was Steve Christiansen. He was a doctor by profession and a recent convert to the church. Both of these friends had previously run marathons. I wanted to run one too.
Steve admonished me to have a thousand mile “base” before doing a full marathon. I was undeterred. I set my sights on the Fiesta Bowl Marathon only a few months away. There were a number of mile stones as I trained. My first ten-miler was done solo, early in the morning of Saturday August 27, 1983. The run left me feeling tired but absolutely elated. Perhaps that was the first time I had experienced a “runner’s high”. The next month I ran a 46:29 10K in Prescott with my ol’ buddy Don Davis. I placed 81st out of a field of several hundred runners. A month later I ran another 10K in Scottsdale, cutting my time to 45:33 and placing 67th out of several hundred runners. The next month brought the Fiesta Fowl Marathon, which took place on December 3, 1983.
Don’s sister-in-law Kay Davis had been running for years. When she heard I was going to do a marathon, she decided to do it with me. The two of us, along with several thousand other runners, gathered before dawn in the desert near Cave Creek, Arizona. Temperatures were brisk when the gun sounded. There were so many people it was difficult to run at all. It took us a minute or two to cross the start line. Kay and I matched each other stride for stride, talking as we went. At mile 1, a race volunteer called out our pace – a very slow 10:05 minutes per mile. At mile 5 we had sped up to an 8:05 pace. At mile 7, we passed Donna and Don who stood on the sidelines of the course and cheered us on. By mile 10, the endorphins had kicked in. I was experiencing a runner’s high like no other. When a volunteer called out a blistering (for us) 7:55 pace, Kay knew we were going too fast. She slowed down. I felt like I could run all day. I forged ahead on my own. At mile 12 I started to tire. Kay passed me. I didn’t see her again until the finish line. At mile 20, I was still on a reasonably good pace. At mile 22 I “hit the wall.” My glycogen levels were depleted. My head was spinning. I couldn’t even propel myself in a straight line. For the last 4 miles of the race I alternated between running and walking. I crossed the finish line just under 4 hours, a full 25 minutes after my running mate Kay. Donna, Don, and Kay were at the finish line to greet me. I was exhausted and dazed. I never felt worse, and yet genuinely satisfied at accomplishing the feat.
In the next couple of years my running continued. I ran a life-time-best 40:18 10k (6:30 pace) in Cave Creek. I also did another marathon, this time the “Whiskey Row Marathon” in Prescott, Arizona. The course was an absolute butt-kicker, starting at 5300 feet elevation, rising to 7,000, down to 6,000, back up to 7,000, etc. Though I was in the shape of my life, my time did not reflect it because of the difficulty.
Years passed. Four or five days a week I rose early and pounded out a few miles. Three more kids were born into our family. I’m not sure my kids even knew that I was a runner. I generally did it before they were out of bed. Early morning runs were exhilarating. They left me feeling refreshed. As I recovered at the end of a run, I sat for a few minutes and read the morning paper. This daily ritual was a good way to start each day.
I ran regularly through out my 30’s and into my 40’s. In a 20-year span, I took only three significant breaks from running, each mandated by a broken bone and a cast.
In 2000, at age 44, I logged nearly a thousand miles. I ran the Florence Griffith Joyner Memorial Half marathon in Laguna Hills California. My running took a serious nose dive after that. The years and thousands of miles logged had taken their toll on my knees. My doctor, after looking at x-rays, simply said they were arthritic and there was nothing to be done. I was disappointed. My doctor had done more than tell me to stop doing something I enjoyed. He told me to change my way of life. I pretty much hung up my running shoes, but not completely. In 2003 at age 47, I logged a paltry 131 miles for the entire year. Moving from sunny Southern California to poor winter weather in New Hampshire and then Oregon also had an adverse effect on my running habits. From 2004 through 2008, at ages 48 through 52, I typically ran from Spring to Fall only, logging a paltry 200 to 300 miles per year. It wasn’t much, but I was still running.
This year at age 53, as Winter turned into Spring, I again laced up my running shoes and hit the streets of Newberg, Oregon. Surprisingly, for the first time in years, my knees felt pretty good. They felt so good, I started toying with the idea of another 10k. On this day, July 4th, it happened.
I rose early and drove an hour south to the small town of Stayton, OR where the Stayton Road Runners Club presented the annual “Old-Time 4th of July 10-K Run and 3K Walk/Run”. After registering I stood near the start/finish line and talked to a few other runners. When the morning sun began to warm the morning air, we all wished the race had begun an hour earlier. At nine o’clock the mayor of Stayton fired the starter’s pistol. I trotted across the line with about 300 other runners. In the first mile I scoped out a couple of guys who were slightly younger than I, but seemed to be keeping the pace I wanted. One was a little over weight. The other had a slight gimp to his stride. Surely I could stay with these two for the entire race. On a hill during the third mile they both pulled away. I never saw them again. During this third mile we were greeted by the smoking-fast leaders who were returning from the out-and-back course. The sun was hot. At mile four I took cold water at the aid station and poured it over my head. My goal at this point was to simply finish the race without walking. The last two miles felt like three. I finally crossed the finish line to a smattering of polite applause. I didn’t know anyone in the crowd. I was by myself. My time was a lackluster 56:32, more than 16 minutes slower than my yesteryear pace. I had to chuckle when I turned in my number at the scorer’s table and found I had placed third in the 50 to 54 age group. There were only 8 contestants in the group. I hung around 45 minutes for the awards ceremony and collected my ribbon. I enjoyed a quart of ice-cold Gatorade on the drive back home.
That decision I made 26 years ago to get up at 5am and run was actually a decision to take care of my body, to be fit. I’ve never strayed too far from that goal. My life has been enriched because of it. A year ago I hiked to the top of Mount St. Helens with a bunch of teenage boys. They were impressed when this old man beat all but a few of them to the top. I was grateful for good health and a fit body so I could enjoy such experiences.
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