My Transformation One Spring Morning 35 Years Ago

Sunday, March 8

This weekend, we advanced the clocks to daylight savings time, and the balmy temperatures allowed me to eschew the time-consuming layering process; I just put on my running shoes and shorts and headed out unencumbered for a morning run.

Without a frigid wind bearing down from the north, I revved up my pace and extended my distance and managed a glorious 10 K from my apartment in midtown Manhattan up the East River esplanade all the way to 96th Street and back. The water burbled gently below me, and the sun burned through the morning haze. Runners and walkers were reveling in the warmth. Even the dogs seemed psyched!

It wasn't always that way for me. As a kid, I was an egghead, and although I spent entire summers body-surfing at Hot Dog Beach in Santa Monica, jock-dom was not for me. During "P.E." I dreaded the coach's brutal imprecation to "Give me a lap!" And that was only a quarter mile.

Running wasn't popular in those days. I lived on a main drag that has now come to be a runner's paradise, but in those days, the only takers were sporadic groups of fleet athletes from UCLA, a few miles distant.

I headed to New York for college, and my main exercise for the first few years was spasmodic bouts of riotous dancing during weekend rock performances. Columbia College was divided into the "jocks" and the "pukes" and I was decidedly in the latter category.

The weather this weekend took me back in time to a morning 35 years ago. I was living with a bunch of fellow college roommates in an apartment on Manhattanıs Upper West Side. I woke up late as usual, it was pushing noon, after a night of the usual revelry. As I contemplated the detritus of the previous night's diversions--ashtrays over-flowing, empty beer bottles lined up on the table--I noticed it was particularly warm and inviting-looking outside.

I lit my first Pall Mall of the day, and flipped on the TV to search for a cartoon show or a Three Stooges re-run. Then I noticed one of my room-mates lope down the hall in tennis shoes and shorts, and asked him what he was up to. He said he was headed to Central Park for a run, did I want to join him? Uncharacteristically, I said sure, stubbed out my cigarette, put on some shorts, and we were off.

When we hit the Reservoir, he lit out like a jack-rabbit, with me in hot pursuit. I got about 200 yards when I noticed that I was gasping like a fish out of water, with searing pain lancing my lungs. I gamely chugged once around the Reservoir as he caught up to me jauntily and lapped me. "How're you doing?" he cheerily asked. "OK" I blurted, not wanting to let on that I was experiencing death throes.

It was then that I realized that something was askew with my life. Here I was twenty-one, supposedly in my prime, and this was NO way to be. I resolved then to clean up my act, inflict less harm on my body, and to begin to recover my health.

It wasn't easy at first. I remember experiencing terrible pain in my legs after long runs as my muscles accustomed themselves to unfamiliar exertions. Nonetheless I forged on.

I began swimming. At first, completing just two consecutive 25 yard laps of the pool gassed me, requiring a minute's breather. Gradually, I began swimming laps continuously. I worked my way up to a mile at a time.

My path was circuitous. It took nearly twenty more years, but in 1991 I completed my first marathon, and began signing up for Triathlons. Now exercise is at the core of my life, a habit that I've carefully cultivated, one that has returned me enormous benefits.

Trace it back to an epiphany I had 35 years ago on a balmy March morning like we just had in New York. Renewal is possible, especially this time of year. Try it for yourself.