Thanksgiving Friday Run, 1993

By Coty Pinckney

Thanksgiving Friday, 7 AM. I had planned to run, but my wife and the sheets feel warm and it looks frosty outside. Reluctantly, I roll over, get up, dress and stretch, then check the thermometer: 7 degrees Fahrenheit. The bed looks yet more attractive. Do I really want to run on this, the coldest morning of the season?

The season; what a joke. By the time I got over June’s Achilles injury, the chondromalacia in my knees acted up; I’d hoped to have fun this fall showing kids on the college cross country team that some 37-year-olds can still run, but couldn’t bear the knee pain of their hilly workouts. So the season “culminated” in yesterday’s small town Thanksgiving Day 5K, a race I should have won. Instead, I limped home third, showing no form and no guts. Is running really worth all this pain?

I open the door, feeling the startling cold on my cheeks. The air is clear and still, the sun still below the eastern mountains. OK, body: 5.2 miles with a 300 foot climb. At least the view should be nice this morning.

I feel surprisingly fluid despite the time of day, the temperature, and yesterday’s forgettable race. The pure cold begins to feel good on my face as I concentrate on form: backkick, swing forward, down, backkick, swing forward, down, backkick, swing forward, down.

Suddenly, almost without realizing what is happening, I find myself running. Not my intended leisurely, early AM, get-the-miles-in, going through the motions, but really running -- what I did not do in the race yesterday. I hit the big hill and lean into it, shortening my stride, and working it hard. Towards the top, the sun hits the mountains; deep shadows outline the northerly slopes of the Taconics to the west while the Greens to the north are a stark brightness. I crest, turning north and downhill, really flying now. Ten geese point their V the opposite direction; they head south, calling out as they fly. At 4.2 the sun finally hits me; I feel its energy give me an added boost. To the east, the grass and cattails glisten brilliantly in the sunlight, shooting stars as I fly past.

I kick in the last 440, then jog around, cooling down. As I step inside, my 7-year-old laughs, then reaches up to pull the ice out of my beard and moustache.

I regret for a moment that I didn't catch the time for the run -- but then I'm glad I missed it.

My thoughts go back -- back seven years, to Islamabad, Pakistan. Thirty years old, after suffering my first serious injury, after not running for 10 weeks, after 10 more weeks of pain every step of every run, I really ran: 5 miles in less than 30 minutes, without pain. Overcome with thankfulness, I almost cried, praying, "Lord, I don't care if I ever run another race; just allow me to run like this!"

And I remember that He has indeed granted me much more than I asked for; there have been many races since and occasional victories. But now, as seven years ago, I am most thankful not for the years of races, not for the hard training, not for any speed I may have, but for this Thanksgiving Friday run.

Life doesn't get any better than this.