“Pace yourself.”
That’s what you tell yourself the first time you quit something from exhaustion.
It’s what you say before the next time you start the thing that made you quit.
You might have to quit again, but at least you’ll be better prepared.
Not everything works out the first time you try. For example:
How many people are experts on topics they have no clue about?
More than expected when you consider how many times you’ve heard mansplaining that lacked logic.
Once upon a time big guys were steered away from sports by wise men because their little hearts couldn’t take the stress and they’d drop dead.
Women weren’t allowed to run the marathon for similar reasons. They’d drop dead.
Black men didn’t have the endurance for long distance running, or the capacity to play quarterback in the NFL.
What happened?
Big guys are the rule, not the exception.
It wasn’t a big guy that dropped dead during a game, got revived, and came back to play again.
The best marathon runners in the history of marathons are Kenyans and Ethiopians.
NFL great quarterbacks? Lamar Jackson, Warren Moon, Doug Williams, and many more have left their marks in the record books.
Everything takes time, and it’s usually more time than expected, so pace yourself.
Marathon Woman In 1967 Boston Proven Right
Katherine Switzer is the runner in sweats, #261.
She the first woman to run the Boston Marathon with a registered number.
If running a marathon wasn’t hard enough, she had to bear the opinion of the man in black who ran up on her.
Moments later, I heard the scraping noise of leather shoes coming up fast behind me, an alien and alarming sound amid the muted thump thumping of rubber-soled running shoes.
When a runner hears that kind of noise, it’s usually danger—like hearing a dog’s paws on the pavement.
Instinctively I jerked my head around quickly and looked square into the most vicious face I’d ever seen.
A big man, a huge man, with bared teeth was set to pounce, and before I could react he grabbed my shoulder and flung me back, screaming, “Get the hell out of my race and give me those numbers!”
Then he swiped down my front, trying to rip off my bib number, just as I leapt backward from him.
He missed the numbers, but I was so surprised and frightened that I slightly wet my pants and turned to run.
But now the man had the back of my shirt and was swiping at the bib num¬ber on my back. I was making little cries of aa-uh, aa-uh, not thinking at all, just trying to get away, when I saw tiny brave Arnie bat at him and try to push him away, shouting, “Leave her alone, Jock. I’ve trained her, she’s okay, leave her alone!”
Then a flash of orange flew past and hit Jock with a cross-body block. It was Big Tom, in the orange Syracuse sweatshirt.
There was a thud—whoomph!—and Jock was air¬borne. He landed on the roadside like a pile of wrinkled clothes.
She finished the race and walked into history.
I love this story.
The moral for me is pace yourself for the long run and keep an eye out for others.
The Other Race From 1967
The Indy 500 saw a turbo powered car for the first time.
The Granatelli-built, STP-sponsored turbine car driven by Parnelli Jones was an unmitigated success and jumped to first place, passing leader Mario Andretti within the race’s first lap.
Even after the car was spun out by Leroy Yarbrough during the 54th lap, Parnelli was able to jet back into the lead relatively easily, until 7.5 miles before the end of the race.
One lap around the track is 2.5 miles; I’ll do the math:
This ground breaking race car conked out three laps from immortality.
The turbine car would never be a factor again at Indy as USAC would effectively outlaw turbine cars.
When we have monumental events in our lives, when it feels like we may never pass this way again, pace yourself.
Things happen fast and we carry the memories for a lifetime.
Why not hang in the moment a little longer?
I was sitting in the Marshfield High School gym bleachers with my Dad watching the round-robin finals of a wrestling tournament I’d been in.
When it came to my weight class he asked why I wasn’t down there mixing it up with the other finalists.
Dad: Who’s going to be the champion?
Me: None of them.
Dad: Who then?
Me: Me. I already beat those guys and one of them beat the guy that beat me and he’s out.
Half an hour later I put my warm-ups on over my clothes and stood on the podium all rested and showered while the rest of the guys up there looked they’d been a wrestling tournament.
That was 1973.
It’s a memory of a lifetime from fifty-two years ago that still feels new.
When I think of my Dad, I see us sitting up there on the verge of adulthood, my adulthood.
Now I’m a Granddad hoping my kids have memories of a lifetime.
Who else has got one?
Pace yourself in answering.
About David Gillaspie
