Everybody Has a Story: Recalling run with wife to remember

I went for an early morning walk at Holley Park in La Center with my dog. A crowd of runners was headed from the park toward the high school. It was a school fundraiser. I wanted to stop and cheer the runners, but my dog wanted no part of it, so I just waved and nodded as they passed by.

It reminded me of when my late wife, Helen, participated in her first 5K run. It was in Upland, Calif., during my own marathon-running days of the 1980s. I did numerous 5Ks and 10Ks too. My biggest cheerleader at all these races was Helen. So I was thrilled when Helen took an interest in doing a 5K, with me training her.

Immediately I started planning how to get her ready, telling her we would start the first few days with a brisk walk at the local school track and do a light jog around the track’s curves.

I aimed to get her to jog at least 2 miles without stopping. I wanted her to build up her endurance for the 3.1-mile race.

But after three weeks of training, Helen’s enthusiasm waned. I was disappointed she no longer wanted to train. She felt that reaching 1 mile without stopping was enough.

I urged her to continue. We compromised. We continued walking briskly, resting, then doing two laps of jogging every other day.

We never reached the 2 mile mark I set for her. She said she would do her long run the day of the race. End of discussion.

Race day came and I was excited. She was a bit nervous. I reached for her hand and locked my fingers with hers to provide support.

“You have a mile under your belt. You jogged every other day, so take it slow and easy,” I advised her. “You will be OK.”

We lined up in the middle of the pack. I looked her way, kissed her, and said, “Good luck.”

The race official fired the starting pistol, and we moved in a wave. I jogged by her side, keeping my stride in sync with hers.

“How are you feeling?” I asked after a few minutes.

“Fine.”

A few more minutes passed.

“Do you want to slow down a bit?” I was worried she was going too fast.

“Nope.”

“I don’t want you to burn out too quickly,” I said.

“I am fine.”

Time passed and we were beyond the first mile.

“You’re doing great,” I exclaimed. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“There’s a water station coming up. Do you need water?”

“I want you to stop,” she said.

“No, we will both stop,” I said.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I want you to stop talking and let me run my race.”

“What?” I was stunned.

“You are talking too much, and I am trying to concentrate on the last mile,” she said. “You go ahead and finish your race. I will be OK.”

I was disappointed. I had wanted to run the race together and cross the finish line with her, but my incessant chatter changed that.

“OK,” I said meekly, taking off slowly ahead of her. Each time I glanced back, she shook her head “no,” indicating I should keep moving.

I quickened my pace. I crossed the finish line alone, feeling a sense of loss. Helen wasn’t with me.

I stood there with the other spectators, cheering the runners as they thinned out. I didn’t see Helen and started to worry. She’d only been a mile back. Now, no more participants were coming in. Did she pull a muscle? Did she twist her ankle? Should I jog back and find her? I was about to do the latter when I heard the announcer report that one runner was still on the course. That had to be her!

I looked down the street with the rest of the crowd. A cheer went up when they saw the last runner turn the corner.

It was Helen! A bike rider with an attached high-flying yellow flag was weaving back and forth behind her.

“Come on, Helen!” I cried out as she drew nearer. “You can do it!”

A man heard her name and gave a similar shout-out. The crowd cheered along with me, bellowing shouts of encouragement.

Helen looked exhausted, but also determined to finish. She crossed the finish line and the crowd cheered and clapped.

I rushed to her, so happy with her accomplishment. I wrapped her in a huge hug and kissed her.

“You did it, my love,” I said.

“I am sorry I was curt with you,” she apologized, still catching her breath. “But I had to do this alone. I finished the race. I didn’t quit.”

Helen is no longer with me to walk or jog at Holley Park. She went to her eternal life in December 2020. But the memory of that race lingers, reminding me of shared experiences and a love that endured the race of life.

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