Run a mile in his shoes

I don't remember how old i was the first time my grandfather took me running. I was in grade school and i know it was drizzling outside. He woke me at the very crack of dawn with a glass of orange juice and a smile. I quickly threw on some shorts and my brand new Nikes. I can still feel the excitement, eager to impress him with my running prowess. We began by stretching in the basement as he argued it's importance. I listened and mimicked his every move. Properly warmed up we headed up the stairs and out the door.

We took off north down center street towards Clinton's square, running a block, then walking a block to wake the remain muscles up. Then it was time to pick up the pace, all the way to the Homestead. He would occasionally slow to make sure i was doing ok and let me catch my breath if i needed too. By the time we doubled back towards the house it was by far the furthest distance i had run in my life. I was exhausted and drenched in rain and sweat, but thrilled to have completed a loop with him. Upon arrival back at the grandparent's homestead I experienced my first runner's high while cooling down and fell in love with early morning jogging.

While my enjoyment of early morning outings waned, my love for running did not. I ran distance in junior high, in the process overcoming my asthma, and again in high school. When i headed off to college on the east coast, Pop sent me a pair of custom running shoes and i put them to work in the early mornings again, at least 3 times a week, and anytime it was snowing out.

In 2004 my grandfather fell while jogging. He tripped on a coat hanger someone had tossed out into the street and shattered his left kneecap. Bitterly ironic as he often stopped to pick up litter on his AM jaunts. Luckily it wasn't too early and a passing car stopped and shuttled him to the hospital. It took a few months for him to recover but he would not be deterred. In the spring of 2005 he was back at it again, patrolling the streets of Clinton as the first rays of light pierced the night sky, up until 6 weeks before he passed away.

Two days after his death I laid awake all night in one of the guest beds in their home, filled with loss and sadness. Sleep had become impossible, my brain would not slow down. Then it hit me. I got up, threw some clothes on, and dug out his running shoes. I hit the streets, nearly sprinting the same loop we had tackled together so many times. Nothing had ever felt so right. If he couldn't make it out one more time, another Rudasill would. I finished, emotionally and physically spent, just before 6 in the morning. And then finally, sleep and some degree of comfort came.

Yesterday, as the temperature dropped into the 80's for the first time in weeks, i headed down to my neighborhood park and put three miles in. An added bonus, having not smoked in 3 weeks was starting to pay dividends and i didn't have to slow and catch my breath once. Rather than put on my new running shoes, i decided it was time to pull his out of the closet and let them hug the pavement once more. And in a strange and wonderful way, it felt like Pop and I were running together again. I'm looking forward to this evening's outing, i think we'll do it again.