I had a wonderful text chat session with my youngest son’s special gal. It started with her sending me a thank you message for the Christmas present that I got her—ear buds designed for runners—and it ended up with me wanting to run around a track with the speed and sensations of the high school years.  And that’s a good thing.

She is training for a half-marathon. She has a goal time in mind, and once she accomplishes that time she will move on to the full marathon. I asked her how her training was going and one thing led to another until  I was sharing the love affair I had with the 880 (yards, in the old high school days) and some of the workouts that I most enjoyed. It ended with me sending her a couple of pages of my book, Daddin’:  The Verb of Being a Dad, where I share a bit about my old 880 days and how it felt to see my middle son, then in middle school, taking to the waterfall starting line of the 800 (meters, in his days). I wrote a poem about his race, titled “Now, Just as Then.”  It compares and contrasts being an 880 runner myself a quarter century before he was an 800 runner whose heart was really for cross-country events.

Now, almost another quarter century later from the time of the poem, I feel a nostalgic exhilaration for what it was like to run like that. My body is not fooled and has the sense to not try, but my heart and spirit still feel the wind in my much-less-than-then hair and it feels good.  It feels alive. What a gift to have those memories and to instinctively respond to them.

The text chat session started with a thank you for a gift, but the real gift was to me with the chance to share about something that meant so much so many years ago which then lifted my spirits, stirred my imagination and rejuvenated memories of people and time standing a long way back on my life line. I like to thing maybe they are standing on a waterfall start. Now, Just as Then…indeed.

Here is the poem:

Now, Just as Then

© Dion McInnis

Similar to then are the faces now,

Experienced, a little nervous, but ready,

As they stand at the tartan waterfall line

And their coach’s last reminder is “Run steady.”

Vibrant colors adorn lean, poised bodies

As final instructions are delivered,

The man with the pistol and the experienced tan

Smiles kindly, backs away, finger on the trigger.

Now, just as then, butterflies rumble

In stomach and knees and heart.

And now, just as then, all focus begins

When the man boldly calls “To your marrrrrrrrrrrrrks.”

Work-shaped muscles, sculpted by hormones

Bulge at the ready…desiring to fly

Tilted around the curves, on into the straights…

“Pull the trigger man, it’s time for a ride.”

Now, not then, the scenario captures

My eyes, my ears, and all my attention,

But I won’t be running this 800 meters.

That blond in the blue is MY runner, MY son.

“Sehhhhhht” comes now to the eleven runners.

The tell-tale rise in the starter’s voice,

Is quickly followed by the order

That compels them, fires them…GO!

The blast of the gun makes everyone feel

At least somewhat like the exploded charge.

Groans accompany the driving of muscles.

Arms pump. Spikes grip. They stride with their hearts.

A gross of seconds later the young leader crosses,

A second for each month of his life.

He struggles and stumbles and smiles in pain,

Now, just as then, the race is the why.