Running commentary

Many of the readers of this column know that I lost my 21-year-old daughter Claire last month. I have found it nearly impossible to exercise. Concentration at work is hit-and-miss. Grief weighs heavy on my heart, especially at night and early in the morning.

At Claire's memorial I was astonished by the variety of friends from across the years who attended. One that touched me the most was Randy Benthin, who had come all the way from Portland to support his old coach. His name will not be familiar to locals. I coached Randy in Colton, Oregon, over 20 years ago, and he remains one of my favorite subjects when it comes to reminiscing about my coaching career. If I could package Randy's drive, coachability, and integrity and infuse it into each of my runners each year, my teams would be unbeatable.

So this morning when I felt the heavy blanket of grief on my chest again as I lay in bed, and asked myself how I could possibly get up and face the day, I prayed for some sliver of hope; for some relief; for some motivation.

A memory suddenly came to my mind and Randy played the main role. It was October of 1991. Randy was one of the favorites to win the district cross-country title to qualify for state, but the competition in the league was intense, with six of the top 10 runners in the state all from the same conference. A year earlier, when Randy was also one of the favorites, I had actually coached him NOT to press too hard for the victory in order to peak for the state meet the next week. He followed my advice and finished fourth, but the following week at state he had beaten all of his league rivals.

We had a deal for the current year that he had the green light to go for the victory and the Athlete of the Year award that was sure to go with it. His focus and determination were visible, even during warm-ups.

As the race started and went through mile one, Randy ran with the lead pack, totally under control, but the pace was plenty fast, and before long only four remained together. At two miles four runners remained and Randy looked to be in perfect position, tucked behind two runners with another at his heels. As the foursome ran along a paved, leaf-covered wet path, the runner behind Randy clipped the back of his foot and Randy did a face plant so sudden he hardly had a chance to brace for the fall. He lay still on the path while the others sped on.

I felt certain that he was badly hurt and ran across the field to his side. Just as I reached down to touch him, which would have meant disqualification, he raised his head, scrambled to his feet and took off in pursuit of the leaders, who now had at least 20 seconds of lead on him.

I had seen similar situations before when the adrenaline from falling rocketed an athlete on for a few seconds, only to have the body succumb to the shock and seize up. I held little hope that Randy could finish, let alone catch the leaders.

I had about three minutes to wait for the runners to travel up the course's main hill before circling back toward the finish, hoping beyond hope that Randy would still be among the top seven to qualify for state. As a coach, I was agonizing over the loss he and I might be experiencing.

Suddenly I could hear someone screaming, "Go, Randy, Go!" and looked across to see Randy, in his bright yellow colors, screaming down the final downhill 500 meters from the finish with no other runners in sight. He had not only caught the pack, but had left them in his wake. The race wasn't even close anymore. I was absolutely astonished. Tears welled in my eyes at his effort and for his victory.

So here I am, twenty-two years later, experiencing the face-plant of deep, deep grief. Each day, I start my day prone, motionless, shocked. It takes every ounce of my will and every shred of faith to push myself to my feet, fix my gaze on the future and carry on among the living.

It would have been easy for Randy to have simply given up. No one could judge him for that. But he had reason to get up. He had a purpose.

So do I.

I have not actually gone for a run yet, since Claire's death, but I have gotten on my bike a few times. To feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair is therapy. Movement itself is good for my very soul.

So, tomorrow morning, as the sun comes up here in Korea, I will be slogging through my first run since Claire left us. It will be a run for Claire. A run for me.

A run for hope.