Running is different than jogging. Running means competing.  Jogging means kind of wandering around with no real goal. For about a 15-year period I was into running. Even on training runs I’d have some kind of goal to make it interesting.

While working at Holzer Medical Center, Dr. Charles Holzer, Jr., son of the founder of the hospital, returned from a workshop fired up about improving employee health and fitness.  For him, that meant running and getting others involved in it, too. With Dr. Holzer’s prodding, the hospital’s employee recreation committee put a dirt track on some land adjacent to the hospital so everyone would have a place to run.  The recreation committee also organized what would become an annual race in Gallipolis.

The first race was held at the county fairgrounds across the highway from the hospital.  It was four laps around a somewhat hilly course. I had been training a good bit—both on the track next to the hospital and on a route through town.  Often while running through town I’d see another runner, Mike Carter. Mike and I seemed to be about the same speed, with Mike maybe slightly faster. But other than acknowledging each other when we passed we never had any other contact.

The race was held in May, during National Hospital Week.  This first race had, maybe, 30-40 runners. For the first race of my life I was doing pretty well.  After three laps, and approaching the top of the last hill, I was running alone with 11 runners ahead of me.  All that was left was a flat stretch that went behind a barn, and then turned onto a straightaway to the finish line.  On top of the hill I could see the next runner about a hundred yards in front of me. The runner? Mike Carter.

That was the moment when my philosophy of running was born: “I can die when I cross the finish line.”  On top of that hill I thought, “What the hell. I’ll go as fast as I can for as long as I can to try to catch Mike Carter.  I can die when I cross the finish line.” So I started to sprint. Going down that hill gave me some real momentum and an adrenaline rush.  Mike Carter was so far ahead of me he essentially didn’t even know I was there. He was just cruising along. He went behind the barn and couldn’t see me gaining on him.  And as he rounded into the final straightaway I was just going behind the barn. He still couldn’t see me gobbling up the distance between us. When I rounded the barn and turned onto the final straightaway, Mike Carter was about 20 yards in front of me.  Mike still wasn’t aware that I coming up behind him. As I closed the gap to only three or four steps, the crowd started cheering, which caused Mike to look back over his shoulder. Then he picked up his pace. But I didn’t have another gear. I was already giving it everything I had.  We battled for the final 20 yards or so, but I could never make up those three or four steps. I finished eleventh. Mike finished tenth.