This is part of a very occasional series of posts about running in a non-running books. That Memory Book is onset of middle aged memory loss and what can be done about it. It explores the causes and the whole range of existing strategies. One of the key conclusions is the importance of keeping physically and mentally alert – always challenging yourself. This passage comes from the introduction:
One day I was walking the dogs at sunrise, on a bike path that ran along a nearby river. I was enjoying a full forty five minutes with nothing to do while I waited for my son to finish his session with his maths tutor, when I spotted an older man with an unusual gait. Every few running strides, he lurched forward, then caught himself and continued on his way. On each knee below the hem of his form fitting Lycra athletic shorts he’d wrapped an elastic brace, the kind you buy at the chemist. He caught up with me quickly and introduced himself as Zvi Dunenberg. He was eighty years old and he jogged between eight and fifteen miles a day depending on the weather. He’d run nearly eighty thousand miles in his life, in his own estimation, all of them since he’d turned sixty five, when the doctors recommended long, slow walks for a sore lower back. ‘To tell you the truth’ he said in an old country accent, ‘this walking, it bored me silly. So one day I ran a hundred yards, just to break things u, and that was it I was hooked.’
He was in excellent physical shape for his age but what was really important about the running, he confided, was the social life it engendered. It helped keep his brain in trim. ‘I know the names of two hundred and fifty people and dogs and some cats too, that I meet on this walking path’ he said, after ascertaining that the shepherd mutt sitting politely beside me was Rosie and that Radar was the little Havanese who was frantically trying to climb up his leg. ‘And you ‘ he said as if cementing the information in his mind ‘are Cathryn’. By now the sun was up and every few yards along the path, we stopped to greet another jogger or dog walker. He took pains to introduce me to everyone.
This passage is full of much that is wonderful and much that is strange.
What is wonderful is that the man is obviously a hero – anybody at that age who consistently runs that mileage puts me to shame - makes me feel like a dilettante. It is a vivid illustration of how running can not only be good for the body but also help keep the mind sharp. If you ever have to justify to yourself the value of time spent running, then this passage provides part of the answer.
The strangeness is in the culture of greeting and introducing strangers to each other in a public space, as if the people on the path are part of a club. I can perhaps imagine this happening in a safe neighbourhood in America, where there is more directness and openness to social interactions. Perhaps I can happen in a small community in Britain, where most people know each other, but I cannot imagine it in the towns of South East England. Here most people even avoid eye contact when they pass each other.
Mostly I don’t talk to others when I am on my runs. Sometimes I will meet someone I know and enjoy a short chat. At other times, especially when I am have a break wandering round to find a photograph, I might strike up a conversation with a stranger. The man and his dog is an example of this. We didn’t talk of much: where I had run from compared to his boat trip (I had gone quite a bit further as long boats are quite slow). But that was enough.
I will never be Zvi Dunenberg, with his enormous network of acquaintances but the occasional interaction is good – it makes the running feel better, as if you are part of the place.
P.S. The strangeness in this passage is not the runner but the author sending her son for extra maths at sunrise. I would guess there is a fair amount of pressure in that household.
