Hitting Repeat by Jonathan Clements
Earlier this week, I asked readers, “If you could go anywhere in the world on your next trip, where would it be? If you could savor any experience, what would it be?”
I didn’t offer my own response—because I didn’t have one. At this point, I don’t have a strong urge to go to some exotic locale or try some new experience. On the other hand, there are places and experiences from my past that call to me. But which would I most like to revisit?
When I asked myself this question, my mind raced through various turning points in my life—getting into Cambridge, joining The Wall Street Journal, the birth of my children, meeting Elaine. But probably because of my physical deterioration over the past 10 months, my brain settled on a 5k (3.1 mile) road race I ran in July 2007—an event that necessitated some plane tickets and race entry fees, but for which money really wasn’t a central element.
What made the race special? It wasn't pleasant, it wasn’t the fastest 5k I ever ran and it wasn’t among the dozen races I won over the decade or so that I was a fairly serious amateur runner. But the race was a family affair, plus the physical exertion was such that it’s seared into my memory. Indeed, I can remember the details of the race in a way I can’t recall any other I ever ran.
It was July, and I was down in Key West, Florida, visiting my father, then age 74, who lived there full-time for the final 15 years of his life. My two kids were with me, and my sister Tory drove down the Keys to join us. All five of us ran that day’s race, held as part of a week of events to celebrate Ernest Hemingway, who made his home in Key West—and made its bars famous.
I’ve always preferred morning races. This one, however, was held in the evening. The temperature was still a blistering 95 degrees when the race started, and the humidity was beyond oppressive. I’ve never run a race in worse conditions.
Almost immediately, the lead group of runners fractured. There was a dozen in the front group, and the second group—which is where I found myself—was about as large. I figured I was in 20th position and headed for a disappointing finish.
As we turned left off Whitehead Street toward the naval dock, the two groups came back together and I started working my way through the pack. After a circuit of the dock, I found myself in fifth place, sitting on the shoulder of a lanky, bearded runner, trying to match his pace. We left the dock behind and turned back on to Whitehead. There were six-tenths of a mile to go.
I gestured to the runner ahead of us. “He’s in third,” I said to my companion, who seemed far stronger than me. “You should go get him.”
“I’m cooked,” he said.
It was a reminder that I wasn’t the only one suffering. I grunted, picked up the pace and decided to give it a shot. I quickly found myself closing in on the runner ahead, who perhaps was also wilting in the stifling heat and humidity. I was tempted to sit on his heels and take a brief rest, but didn’t want to give him any reason for encouragement, so I accelerated.
For that final stretch, I had a feeling I’ve never had before or since—a sense that every muscle in my body was working in concert. It’s a sensation I can still recall. Sometimes, in my daydreaming, I’ll relive those closing yards sprinting down Whitehead. I finished third in 17:30, far from my best time, and yet I doubt I’ve ever raced harder.
Afterward, there was a post-race party in the garden of a nearby guesthouse that was one of the race sponsors. With the running over, the weather seemed a whole lot less suffocating and the evening turned magical.
I sat with my family by the sea, drank the free beer and watched the sun disappear. Less than two years later, my father would be struck and killed by a speeding driver. That 2007 visit wasn’t the last time I’d see him, but the memory also isn’t tinged with sadness, like some of my later memories are.
That brings me to today’s question: If you could relive any experience from your life, what would it be?
I didn’t offer my own response—because I didn’t have one. At this point, I don’t have a strong urge to go to some exotic locale or try some new experience. On the other hand, there are places and experiences from my past that call to me. But which would I most like to revisit?
When I asked myself this question, my mind raced through various turning points in my life—getting into Cambridge, joining The Wall Street Journal, the birth of my children, meeting Elaine. But probably because of my physical deterioration over the past 10 months, my brain settled on a 5k (3.1 mile) road race I ran in July 2007—an event that necessitated some plane tickets and race entry fees, but for which money really wasn’t a central element.
What made the race special? It wasn't pleasant, it wasn’t the fastest 5k I ever ran and it wasn’t among the dozen races I won over the decade or so that I was a fairly serious amateur runner. But the race was a family affair, plus the physical exertion was such that it’s seared into my memory. Indeed, I can remember the details of the race in a way I can’t recall any other I ever ran.
It was July, and I was down in Key West, Florida, visiting my father, then age 74, who lived there full-time for the final 15 years of his life. My two kids were with me, and my sister Tory drove down the Keys to join us. All five of us ran that day’s race, held as part of a week of events to celebrate Ernest Hemingway, who made his home in Key West—and made its bars famous.
I’ve always preferred morning races. This one, however, was held in the evening. The temperature was still a blistering 95 degrees when the race started, and the humidity was beyond oppressive. I’ve never run a race in worse conditions.
Almost immediately, the lead group of runners fractured. There was a dozen in the front group, and the second group—which is where I found myself—was about as large. I figured I was in 20th position and headed for a disappointing finish.
As we turned left off Whitehead Street toward the naval dock, the two groups came back together and I started working my way through the pack. After a circuit of the dock, I found myself in fifth place, sitting on the shoulder of a lanky, bearded runner, trying to match his pace. We left the dock behind and turned back on to Whitehead. There were six-tenths of a mile to go.
I gestured to the runner ahead of us. “He’s in third,” I said to my companion, who seemed far stronger than me. “You should go get him.”
“I’m cooked,” he said.
It was a reminder that I wasn’t the only one suffering. I grunted, picked up the pace and decided to give it a shot. I quickly found myself closing in on the runner ahead, who perhaps was also wilting in the stifling heat and humidity. I was tempted to sit on his heels and take a brief rest, but didn’t want to give him any reason for encouragement, so I accelerated.
For that final stretch, I had a feeling I’ve never had before or since—a sense that every muscle in my body was working in concert. It’s a sensation I can still recall. Sometimes, in my daydreaming, I’ll relive those closing yards sprinting down Whitehead. I finished third in 17:30, far from my best time, and yet I doubt I’ve ever raced harder.
Afterward, there was a post-race party in the garden of a nearby guesthouse that was one of the race sponsors. With the running over, the weather seemed a whole lot less suffocating and the evening turned magical.
I sat with my family by the sea, drank the free beer and watched the sun disappear. Less than two years later, my father would be struck and killed by a speeding driver. That 2007 visit wasn’t the last time I’d see him, but the memory also isn’t tinged with sadness, like some of my later memories are.
That brings me to today’s question: If you could relive any experience from your life, what would it be?
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