Running with Jason

In his classic book, The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner, Alan Sillitoe wrote, “the long-distance run of an early morning makes me think that every run like this is a life- a little life, I know- but a life as full of misery and happiness and things happening as you can ever get really around yourself.” When I first read Sillitoe’s book, the solitary, individual journey his protagonist, Smith, takes as a young man – using running as a vehicle of rebellion – spoke to my typically angst-filled youth. Through the fictional Smith, and later living running heroes like Steve Prefontaine and Roger Bannister, I learned to believe that the purist form of distance running occurred alone and simply. A man and the miles became my definition of running, which lasted long into adulthood.

In part, the “loneliness” of the long-distance runner, is self-imposed. Indeed, as science has proven, we are pack animals. But while wolves may cover long distances in silent panting, a pack of runners must as some point break the heavy breathing with conversation, and this is where our world becomes hairier than our canine brethren. It takes a very rare person to make the perfect training partner, and an even rarer person to make the perfect training partner for someone as particular as me. My wife may choose an even stronger adjective in this situation.

They can’t run too fast, or too slow. They can’t like to run too early in the morning, or too late at night. They can’t have a stride pattern that throws off the rhythm of your own footsteps. So you see, this is why I believed it was often far easier to train in isolation than to spend the hours grinding your teeth wondering why this perfectly fit individual next to you sounded like a seal lion gasping for breath. However, as you note the past tense construction of the previous sentence, this changed when my wife and I moved to Rochester and by happy accident I met Jason DeJoy. Over the next year and a half, Jason and I would cover somewhere around 2,750 miles together and innumerable hours until his sudden death one month ago.

Jason was the perfect training partner, and became the perfect friend. As anyone who has spent time running with someone knows, the hours spent in synchronized stride create a unique bond. Conversations and questions arise in the trial of miles that would never emerge around a restaurant table or over the phone. We discussed politics and religion, relationships and marriage, landscaping and foggy memories of college tomfoolery. We shared our hopes for the future and regrets from the past. And when my wife and I were expecting the birth of our daughter, it was Jason (who has three beautiful daughters of his own) who talked me through my fears and anxiety, and received the first text message with her name.

Jason never ran too fast or too slow. He never ran too early or too late. It was only after his death, in the lonely weeks that followed, that I realized this wasn’t because we simply ran the same pace, and liked to run at the same time. Jason knew, and taught me, that the perfect training partner, and perfect friend, will match strides with you no matter the pace, and agree to meet you no matter the time.

When I think about Jason, often while running, I am reminded of the Sillitoe quote and my youthful misunderstanding of its meaning. For just as a run “is a life”, a run’s value, as a life’s, can only be fully realized when shared with others. In his far too brief time, Jason shared his life with countless others, and I was blessed to have been one.