In the act of running there is an instant in each stride where neither foot is on the ground. For me, that instant is getting smaller and smaller, but—if a business card can fit between feet and ground during a split second of the stride—I am running, flying. And as long as I can do that, I tell myself, I will not feel old.

Hey! I was just looking out my office window and saw a professor of a certain age, books to chest, running down the sidewalk. I didn’t know she could still run. Still young. Amazing.

I love to run—despite being a runner of very modest ability. They have an official category for me (runners 190 pounds and over) in some races: "Clydesdale." Ouch. In fact, the horse thing and my lack of speed go way back to second or third grade, where we played this tag-type game of pretending we were horses, chasing each other around the playground. I saw right then I had more ability in my mouth than my hooves.

A few years later, watching the class dragsters like Karlen Bailie burning through the fifty-yard dash in Presidential Fitness times, I knew I’d never go that fast without wheels. In the "cross-country" training section of our eighth-grade physical education, I finished third or fourth from last of the guys and felt a real sense of accomplishment. When I ran the Chicago Marathon in 1996 my goal was to beat Oprah’s time (in the Marine Corps Marathon). I did—take that, Steadman!—though I couldn’t match my wife. Which is just fine, because I married Lilia, a runner.

My competitive lowlights occurred in Argentina. In 1995 our family spent seven months at River Plate University, where my wife and I taught English. With no car, television, or committee meetings, I had a lot of time on my feet, and I began running more and more.

I thought about training for the Adidas Marathon in Buenos Aires. Meanwhile, there was a 10K race in Nogoya, about an hour away from the school. I was a little surprised when I got there to see only forty-three entrants, including Lilia (the only female entrant) and me—in a comparable U.S. race there would have been a few hundred. As I watched the other contestants warming up, I didn’t think the competition looked too tough. A dozen or so young guys, one of whom would presumably win the race, and a bunch of middle-aged men. Hey, I might finish in the top third. I fantasized about being able to see the winner finish if, say, there was a mile-long straightaway to the tape.

I knew there were at least a couple people I should beat. There was Marianski, the local shoemaker, a friendly fellow in his late fifties, I suppose, who a few years earlier had been so hobbled by the constant stooping required of his craft that he could barely walk, much less run. True, he had made remarkable progress since then, but I was not a recovering cobbler. I also thought, with my extra training, I could give Lilia a run for her money.

The gun sounded. About yard two hundred my baseball cap blew off and I hesitated for a split second. I stopped to pick it up and suddenly I was at the back of the pack. By mile four I had long given up on finishing in the top third—how did those middle-aged guys run so fast? In fact, I was running last. But Marianski and my wife were only a hundred yards ahead. I ratcheted up my pace in the next half mile and passed them. After a heady minute running ten yards ahead of them, I unratcheted. Last again. Please God, I pleaded. I know I’m slow, but is it necessary for my character development that I finish absolutely dead stinking last in a race? The answer came swiftly.

Shortly after mile five, I rounded a corner and saw a silver-haired gentleman a couple hundred yards ahead—the sacrificial lamb who would allow me to finish "not last." I surged; I passed him; the finish line came into view; I finished at least fifty yards ahead. He panted across the line and shook my hand and we congratulated each other. Then he told me of his recent Achilles tendon surgery, and about how pleased he was to finally run again. God may still be laughing about that one.

Another character-building moment occurred in front of thousands at the Adidas Marathon. Simultaneous with the marathon was a 10K race, for which I opted. Serious racers need a game plan, and mine was to hold back the "speed" until I passed kilometer eight, then burn the jets to the finish line. Everything went well. I was on pace, accelerating nicely at kilometer nine, turning the corner, looking for the big white "finish line" banner. Nowhere in sight. We ran on for another couple of minutes. Nothing. The needle was on empty. I saw the long stream of thousands of runners making a wide circle around a park, and could seen no finish line.

I had to get out of the current or be trampled. I stood to the side, bent over. Runners ran by shouting encouragement—"get a move on, ’flaco.’ " After another minute or two I followed their advice and jogged slowly another five minutes to the finish line. It was a 12 kilometer race advertised as a 10K. No wonder their national economy is in trouble! Oh well. I’m still running and therefore, by my private definition, still young.

I love how the apostle Paul compares key points of the Christian life to training for and running a race: "Let us run with patience the race that is set before us"—even if it’s longer or more difficult than we bargained for (Heb. 12:1); we are running for an incorruptible crown that all who complete the course may claim (1 Cor. 9: 24–27); we can look forward to saying "I have finished my course" (2 Tim. 4:7). But perhaps my favorite running text, after Isaiah 40:31—"they will run and not grow weary"—is Psalm 119:32, which reads "I will run in the way of your commandments, for you will enlarge my heart."

Run and not grow weary? An enlarged and more efficient heart? That’s great news—for runners, for Christians, and for Clydesdales who are both.

EMAIL THIS ARTICLE