Ran to Work and Home Again

Many years ago, beginning in 1984, I started running to work, usually meeting up with a small group all heading to our jobs at New Balance in the Allston/Brighton neighborhood of Boston.

I ran from Wellesley, meeting up with co-worker, running partner, and friend Kevin Ryan, transplanted here from New Zealand. In turn, we met up with others headed our way and formed a prodigious group, sometimes quiet, other times yakking and gossiping like teenage girls. Many in the group lived in West Newton in a runner’s commune on River Street.

It was a nine-mile run and at the end of the day we changed into the same (hopefully dried out gear) and ran back home. Kevin’s wife, Jeannette, brought our street clothes in for us when she drove in, Jeanette being the receptionist in the office, meeting and greeting people, and directing calls.

These runs covered the Boston Marathon course from Newton Lower Falls to Cleveland Circle, and I literally ran it in my sleep––especially as the week ground on. A block from our ultimate destination was Twin Donut, a Brighton institution where we bought a “healthy” breakfast of donuts and coffee. It was a good routine for a working runner, and the runs home were a nice way to relax after work, almost like being let out to play after school.

We ran on some busy streets, and competed with commuters and workers and cars, garbage trucks, school busses, and more. This led to several confrontations: some humorous, some dangerous, most avoidable.

One day on the access road that ran beside Heartbreak Hill, a car backed out of a driveway and nearly hit us all. We slapped the side of the car so hard the driver probably thought he had hit us.

“Did you hit my car?” the driver said. 

“Get back in it before I hit you!” said Kevin. 

Next thing you know, Kevin and the burly driver are toe to toe. 

“Go ahead, hit me,” the driver said. 

“I won’t hit you,” Kevin answered, “shit splatters.”

We grabbed Kevin by the elbows and nudged him forward, next thing you know we were running down the road at an accelerated pace, laughing, and when the driver drove by we all shouted at him, “Shit splatters.” Seems immature now, but back then it seemed clever enough.

The job I had at New Balance was in running promotions. It was my first desk job, and I was ambivalent. It seemed like the right time in my life to try to figure out a career, having been a running vagabond for years, and since I was now twenty-eight years old.

But, I just could not shake off that restless feeling of youth. The grind of running marathon races was much more appealing and unpredictable than office work, but I was not sure about doing both. More or less I was lazy and conflicted, and felt unproficient in my desk job.

Some nights on the run home we stopped at the Boston College track to run intervals, other times it was repeats on Heartbreak Hill. One evening I headed out running home, carrying my spikes and wearing my racing singlet under my T-shirt. I stopped at Boston College to run the 5,000 meters: two miles to the race, and a two-mile warm-up with fellow competitors. I won our little race in 14:05, and carried on six miles home.

Another evening I stayed late at work with my boss to go over the budget. Spreadsheets. Finances. Very exciting stuff. After a short while I heard something, got up, and went to the window. Outside, Kevin was tossing little rocks at the window. I opened it and he stood there laughing. “Hodgie,” he said. “Come out to play.”

My boss shook his head and said, “Get out of here, you knuckleheads.”

I lasted a year before I returned to school to finish my degree in American studies. I also returned to the running wars for one last go-round.

Related: http://bobhodge.us/how-i-won-the-war-part-1/