Running is detox - (That'll be five cents, please.)

September 13, 2016 1:00 a.m.

The transformation is like a time warp. We drive-up to our Wednesday workout as adults, saturated with time clocks, deadlines, and real world pressures. We park our cars, walk through the gate and voila - - time clocks become stop watches, deadlines finish lines, and daily pressures give way to the most basic kid activity - - running.

Amelia Island Runners Club Wednesday training at the Fernandina Beach High School track.

Our midweek detoxification has begun.

Paradoxically, this adult-to-child cleansing takes place weekly at a

schoolyard.

Once inside those gates, we rarely speak of our work lives, instead

focusing on our workout life. The spirit of athletics turns our daily

stress to laughter and good-natured ribbing for the next hour, or more for

those of us who continue our "Cocoon" alter universe over pizza.

But, as a long-time member of the club, and one who relishes the

transformation, I can report that we have a diverse group of professionals

off the track. Many of my sole mates are more than heart, lungs, and legs.

Yes, Fernandina Beach, I am not Dr. Frasier Crane, but I am listening.

We’ve got a medical doctor, a guy who runs his own law firm with a mug on

local billboards, an owner of one of the most popular sinfully-tasting

fudge shops in town, the Job-Tri-Guy who has been an engineer, lawyer and

school teacher; the head of a IT department, the community relations

director for the island’s top employer, an engineer who works on nuclear

warheads (though it’s hush, hush), a guy who prepared NASA missions to

outer space, a former *Miami Herald* newspaper editor, a chemist, a

submarine captain, not to mention a former cross country coach from the

state university, and thankfully, a therapist to listen to all our bunk.

I don’t know if it’s a shallow-mind, one dimension thinking, or just

complete escapism, but I could line-up most of the 30-40 runners who attend

our weekly workouts and group in a pace category, but I’d be lucky to guess

with any more than a snippet of what 25% of the folks do during the day.

The only reason I know slightly more than running times is because I’ve

been around the club since its inception, about 15 years ago, and I have

the rabbit ears of a reporter.

For example, I know we have one red-bearded 21-minute type 5ker who drives

a truck with some sort of geology sticker. So, I would guess that he does

something to do with rocks and faults. I do know Red Beard The Pyrite

leaves an aftershock as he storms by during intervals. But, I also confess

that I’ve never asked him about the San Andreas Fault or Florida’s eventual

demise into the Atlantic.

And, I know for a fact that Pyrite has never asked me the key points of

closing a sale, or writing a newspaper article. Even with truth serum, he

would likely say his recollection of me consists of unorthodox panting and

shoe scuffs behind him.

Heck, I had known Job-Tri-Guy as a runner for about six years before I

found out what he did prior to retirement. It came up in a casual

conversation over bites of Townies pizza when I was talking about getting

out of jury duty because I thought the defendant “looked guilty”. I

remember telling my fellow runner that the scarred-faced guy with the

ill-fitting suit about to go on trial looked like every Clint Eastwood

adversarial hoodlum. He had to have done it. Dirty Harry, Andy Sipowicz,

and even Jackie Chiles knew he did it, and so did I, no evidence or trial

necessary. That led to Mr. Job-Tri-Guy to reveal that he had been a lawyer

as well as an engineer and high school teacher. I had no idea. I never

cared what he had done off the racecourse. But, I did know that he had run

about 50 marathons, competed in every Gate River Run except for one, and

had celebrated his 60th birthday by doing a 50-miler by himself beginning

one summer morning around 3:00 a.m.

After informing me of his three-pronged career and why I should have

remembered the phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty’, I looked at him and

said the first thing that popped into my head, “I didn’t realize you were a

smart guy, too. I thought you were just a runner.”

Clever, and talented athletically, he celebrated another birthday recently,

posting his best marathon time in 15 years in an Iceland 26.2 miler…. yep,

that Iceland, as in the Arctic Circle. I guarantee you that he never tried

a case, developed an engineering masterpiece, or taught a course that left

him as thrilled as his Iceland result.

One other thing, Job-Tri-Guy is doing the Rim-to-Rim this fall, which for

you non-runners means hotfooting from the top of the Grand Canyon to the

bottom and then up the other side… yeah, that Grand Canyon as in Arizona.

And, as for our resident MD, I know I’ve run stride-for-stride with her (in

warm-ups, of course) and never inquired about cures for my sore Achilles,

aching lower back, or that little dark spot on my chest. But, I’ve sure

complimented Doc Medal Stand for her multitude of running and triathlon

awards. She is a healer by day, dominator by weekend. But, I’ve witnessed

her accepting top triathlon awards with the enthusiasm of a shopper

reaching for a carton of milk from the Publix cooler.

In our club, I think all of us measure ourselves against someone in our

running category, not by houses, incomes, and certainly intelligence. Most

of us realize that people with high intellect wouldn’t be training in

90-degree heat with wool-blanket humidity. Again, we’re runners, not rocket

scientists… well, except for one retired guy, who I’ve witnessed measuring

a 5K course accurately with a beach cruiser, pencil and a piece of scratch

paper. It was easy stuff for our Buck Rodgers, who coached the first set of

astronauts on rocket ship speed necessary to breakout of the earth’s orbit

in the 60’s.

When we’re on the track, it takes us back to the elementary school yard.

The basic primal instinct of who is the fastest. We good-naturedly chide

each other, but the guys can never say that dissenting line…”you run like a

girl” because some of our top runners are female. In our men’s group, there

are some of us who would hope to keep up with the girls.

Be it male or female, we have some truly special stories that transcend a

starting or finish line.

We have a middle-aged lady who started running with the group and lost over

80 pounds in two years; a guy who said that five years ago just the thought

of running 100 yards was daunting. He’s now completed a half-dozen

Ironmans. Then, there’s UltraMan, who competes in double and quadruple

marathons over mountains and through the desert in the middle of summer

after training in Florida’s 100-degree heat. You may have seen him on a

July afternoon draped in a hooded parka and sporting a pair of Stein

Erickson autographed ski mittens with Tim Deegan warning of hydration and

triple digit heat index.

And, UltraMan is the most nonchalance, humble dude. “Yeah, I did the

100-miler in Utah last week,” he says with a shrug as we jog around the

track warming up. I listen and congratulate, but, then being an antagonist

(nicer word for jerk), I think to myself, well, I drank three Rattle Snake

Beers and a shot of Tomahawk Redeye Saturday, so there. Betcha my body

aches were worse than yours, UltraDude.

Seriously, though, if I had completed a 100-miler, our group would watch me

climb the Pirate Stadium steps in *Rocky* fashion, raise my arms and scream

to everyone as I reach the top, “I did a 100 mile run last weekend”. Then,

I would wait for the applause and the subsequent picture on the front page

of the local newspaper.

Ultraman, meanwhile continues unpretentiously to his next venture with no

fanfare. Come-on, at least brag a little bit.

Then, there’s the story of our top club officer, who recently turned 40. Ms. Next-City-Comet jets away nearly every weekend to Kathmandu or Goose Pimple Junction for some version of a triathlon. Forget about gearing-up for a few tri’s per year, she’s doing at least two monthly. Comet told me once that she does it to deal with stress. And, I always thought that a lounge chair on the beach listening to the waves was that tonic. Like so

many others in the club, Next-City recounts her results in a near whisper. It seems nobody in our club is self-glossing… not a Mohammad Ali, Michael Phelps, or Usain Bolt personality in the group… nobody proclaiming about ‘being the greatest,’ or even professing of ‘being pretty good.’

William (Bill Pennington
An Amelia Island Runner

Hell, I am usually more impressed with our individual’s and their achievements than they are of themselves.

Myself, I run for exercise and health, of course; but also for the competition. I want the medal stand. The thrill of passing an age group opponent in the last quarter of a race, hearing the labored breathing, and knowing that he doesn’t have enough in the tank to hitch on behind me.

I’ve also got five cents for Lucy’s tin cup after finishing.

Editor's Note: William (Bill) Pennington is a former sports columnist for the Savannah Morning News and Florida Times-Union. He was honored as Writer-of-the-Year for the Road Runners Clubs of America as well as a Associated Press award winner and Georgia Sportswriter columnist winner. He is a contributing writer for the News-Leader. We thank Bill for his contribution to the Fernandina Observer.