Why I Run

The whole concept of running has never been foreign to me. From an early age my Dad was involved with the Lincoln, NE track club, running marathons and helping organize them. Some of my earliest memories are of him building water stations out of PVC pipe, the Schlitz beer cups that are still in our basement from the post-race refreshments(beer and flat coke were the sports drink of choice in the early 80's and still are for me). Around the age of 6 I joined my first track team, The Lincoln Roadrunners. I do not have many memories from this time, except a picture of me and my best friend at the time, Brett Wiklund lined up at a road race.

After my family's move to Marietta, GA, I continued running with Shaw Park Track Club, then with a break away club started by Coach Brian Corfield, The Southern Stars Track Club. The Southern Starts training would take me to regional and national track and cross-country meets with the AAU and USATF. All this time, running was what I excelled at and never did I really question why I participated. I took pride in the sport that my Dad had been good at in H.S. I also would have a baseball coach who turned me to running full time with his statement of, " If Mike is ever going to be good at a sport he has to decide on one and stick with it". I never played baseball after that season, not that they missed my ability to strike out with ease or inability to accurately field a ball from the outfield.

My time with the Stars, would eventually end with H.S. track and cross-country. The team would dissolve and it's members going all over the county to different schools. There would be a 4 year period where all the former Star's runners would compete against each other. We had a competitive camaraderie, which added to my enthusiasm for the sport. High School and all the changes that come with those 4 years would come and go. Eventually, I began to fill out and my times would increase in the 2mile, which led to my taking on of the 800m and 1600m more seriously. My 5k would continue to marginally improve. By the end of my senior year, "burnout" would best describe what I felt.

I would leave Coach Jenkins and Coach Patty's teams for college. Coach Jenkins, the only teacher that could teach me to understand math and make good grades in the subject. He also had more patience when I had a lackluster performance on the track compared to my abilities than I did. He would say, "we will work on it and get you there". Regardless of where I finished each season, I always bested my mile and half-mile times. Coach Jenkins passed away a few years ago after his fight with cancer, his guidance and presence on the track is missed. Coach Patty, was all together different than any coach I ever had. He knew little about training distance runners based on workouts. What he lacked in running knowledge, he made up for in intensity and dedication to his athletes. He was from the old guard of coaches, the kind that would get in your face and yell, and hit your helmet with his whistle, amongst other things that changed with the times. He was forced out of football and found his way to cross-country and track. While he toned down his tactics a little, he was always fond of telling a complaining runner to, "rub some dirt on it". He expected his athletes to give their best, because he gave his. That slacking off hurt your team more than it did the individual. He was a tough man to get through to sometimes, but a larger heart and more caring coach I have never come across. I saw him years after H.S. and he stopped to talk, but soon left as if he did not recognize his team captain and best runner for so many years. I would find out a few years later that he is suffering from Alzheimer's, and that day when I ran into him it had not been diagnosed.

I had decided to walk on the cross-country and track team at Appalachian State. Little did I know that a summer of little running, beer drinking, along with the 'burnout' would seal my running career. With one practice into the pre-season, I was done. In one hasty decision I had quit a lifestyle that defined my life for the last 12 years. Without retracing the unproductive and destructive years of college, I found little motivation to get back into running, despite the longing to experience the early mourning of a road race, the endorphins of a 12 mile run on Sunday after a meet, and the exhaustive joy of a good work out.

Years later with some valiant and some not so valiant attempts to regain my 'lifestyle' I find myself in a network of rice fields outside Moshi, Tanzania. I awoke this mourning and laced up my trail runners, donned an old ball cap to keep my long blond hair out of my face, a pair of running shorts that are on the big side. I set out across the dusty road to the trails that lead through the rice fields and into the forest on the other side. I have run a few times while I am off the mountain, but not with consistency. I am not out of shape, but running is different than walking up mountains with a backpack.

To my right is a small mosque and next to it a makeshift Lutheran church. I run past the swimming hole where local boys swim and their parents do laundry below the fresh water spring that emerges from the ground. The area is surrounded by these springs that feed the rice and local villages with fresh water. Once I get out of the village where lifestyles range from mud-brick huts to block and mortar houses with elaborate metal 'keep out' gates I am in the rice fields. Each family in the village has a plot, with several locals already out hoeing grass and weeds. The paths through the fields are only 2.5 feet at their widest. I tip toe across bridges made from fallen trees along the path, careful not to fall into the mud. Bright, white Egrets are eating insects through out the plots and frogs chirp and bale off the path as I approach. I am slowed down a bit where new mud and grass has been added to the path to repair a section that has fallen in. 2 women step aside to a grass island that has been made beneath a shade tree to allow me to pass. They are dressed in brightly colored clothing, carrying tools and lunch for themselves or their husbands that are working the rice.

Once at the edge of the forest, I inquire with a local, 'how do I get back into the rice fields?'. Since my Swahili is marginal at best and his English the same, he points down the path. As I make my way through the forest, the Colobus Monkeys are making a racket as I run past their trees. They are black with long, white, bushy tails. The white hair continues to flank their sides. The monkeys make flying leaps to branches, where they sit and watch the traffic, which this mourning is me. I arrive at a dam that is collecting and controlling the spring waters. I cross the dam, and make my way across a path that is wet and not more than a foot in width. Eventually I fall into the water and mud. I am taken back to cross-country practice on rainy days, my favorite. The mud covers my shoes, my calfs are speckled in mud and water, I continue to make my way through the rice fields looking for a wider path that will lead back to the road. Zaza, a local farmer points me in the right direction, with a little help from another farmer farther down the path. Once on the main path through the waste water treatment plant, which is down water from the rice, I meet up with a service road and make my way past the gate, the guard greets me with a 'Mambo' or 'Whats up?' my response is the proper, 'Poa' or 'cool'. Once back on the main road the hotel is on, I pass small school children in their uniforms and skipping to class. I pass a road side bicycle shop and a food stand. Crossing the railroad tracks, I am back at the hotel just before the mourning sun raises the temperature to undesirable numbers.

Towering above the horizon is Kilimanjaro, glaciers pouring over the summit and her sister Mwenzi to the right. The sky is blue with the haze from dust, heat and pollution not yet visible.

I knock at the gate and am greeted by Simion one of the Masai warriors that guards the gate. Muddy, a little winded, and with a smile on my face I think to myself, "this is why I run".