The Face of the Reaper
Running is physical meditation.
The Long Beach Island 18 Mile race in New Jersey is organized annually by the St. Francis Community Center and the sandwiches are provided by a local deli. (The right division of labor; just imagine the other way around.) It’s a commemorative race, remembering the victims of the terrorist attack in the 1972 Munich Olympics. We veteran road runners refer to it as the LBI 18.
By the time I ran my first race there, many of the younger participants probably had no idea what had happened in Munich decades before — and could not have found the Bavarian city’s approximate location on the map.
Since it’s a flat race the LBI 18 always attracted those who’d routinely run ten-milers and decided to try the distance approximately halfway between 10 and 26, the latter being the length of the marathon.
The sandwiches were out of this world. In the New Jersey/New York City/Long Island area a deli couldn’t survive till next week if it’s not absolutely top notch, but this one had to be the summit of them all. I always managed to get two sandwiches saying that I had a twin brother bedridden with tendinitis which he got while training for this very race. Over the years it was becoming less and less believable so I came up with new material: “Let me have the pastrami with extra pickle. No, give me the roast beef on rye. Sorry I just changed my mind again. Tell you what, give me one each. I am totally bushed, can’t think straight.”
A particular race stuck in mind, the one that was delayed by two hours. The paranoid among us feared that international terrorists may have found out about the event. I took upon myself to assuage their fears. “No such danger. Just look around for godssake. Even the craziest terrorists know that without us the United States would be a more vibrant society with a considerably brighter future and guaranteed prosperity.”
By the time the race got underway it was quite warm and extremely humid. I kept drinking at every Gatorade station but at the twelfth mile mark I nearly collapsed. Several others had quite the race, even elite runners. Thinking that’s my only opportunity to beat those champions, I forced myself to go on. Toward the end I was seeing double. And that’s when the worst happened: the Grim Reaper came for me.
On my left a short, scrawny, bald man probably well over sixty, wearing just running shorts and shoes, his skin yellow like a lemon, passed me with considerable ease. There was no black robe or scythe with him — he probably left those at the start line — but I knew he was the Reaper. Fortunately he was in good shape and disappeared as quickly as he showed up.
The experience shook me to the core. After finally dragging my pounded body through the finish line, I even forgot to ask for two sandwiches in the deli tent. Still got two; the volunteer remembered me from previous years and with a knowing smile handed me the roast beef on rye and the pastrami, extra pickle.
