Karnazes Dean - Chicken Soup for the Soul: running for good: 101 stories for runners & walkers to get you going!

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Running for Good

101 Stories for Runners & Walkers to Get You Going!

Amy Newmark & Dean Karnazes

Published by Chicken Soup for the Soul, LLC www.chickensoup.com

Copyright 2019 by Chicken Soup for the Soul, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

CSS, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and its Logo and Marks are trademarks of Chicken Soup for the Soul, LLC.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the many publishers and individuals who granted Chicken Soup for the Soul permission to reprint the cited material.

Front cover photo of Dean Karnazes courtesy of Fitbit Introduction, back cover, Chapter 3 and Chapter 4 photos courtesy of Victor Magdeyev; Chapter 1 and Chapter 9 photos courtesy of Tyler Ford; Chapter 2 photo courtesy of Serpentine Running Club; Chapter 5 photo courtesy of Elias Lefas; Chapter 6 photo courtesy of Topher Gaylord; Chapter 7 photo courtesy of The North Face Santiago; Chapter 8 photo courtesy of Paragon Sports NYC; Chapter 10 photo courtesy of The North Face Italy.

Photo of Amy Newmark courtesy of Susan Morrow at SwickPix

Cover and Interior by Daniel Zaccari

Distributed to the booktrade by Simon & Schuster. SAN: 200-2442

Publishers Cataloging-In-Publication Data

(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

Names: Newmark, Amy, compiler. | Karnazes, Dean, 1962- compiler.

Title: Chicken soup for the soul : running for good : 101 stories for runners & walkers to get you going! / [compiled by] Amy Newmark [and] Dean Karnazes.

Other Titles: Running for good : 101 stories for runners & walkers to get you going!

Description: [Cos Cob, Connecticut] : Chicken Soup for the Soul, LLC, [2019]

Identifiers: ISBN 9781611599909 | ISBN 9781611592900 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Running--Social aspects--Literary collections. | Running--Social aspects--Anecdotes. | Walk-a-thons--Literary collections. | Walk-a-thons--Anecdotes. | Charities--Literary collections. | Charities--Anecdotes. | LCGFT: Anecdotes.

Classification: LCC GV1061.8.S63 C45 2019 (print) | LCC GV1061.8.S63 (ebook) | DDC 796.42/02 361.7/02--dc23

Library of Congress Control Number 2019937408

Changing your life one story at a time

www.chickensoup.com

T he storm hit without warning. The morning had been warm, oppressively warm, as it had been for the past several days, with temperatures hovering near 90 degrees Fahrenheit and precious little shade. Even at noon the skies had been clear. And then, as if some imaginary switch got flipped, the skies darkened and an ominous crack of thunder shook the high heavens.

Soon, rain was falling a cold, penetrating rain that seeped through my thin windbreaker and quickly soaked my skin. I didnt have the right gear, and it was my own fault. How could I be so stupid? Temperatures in Central Asia have been known to fluctuate by up to 75 degrees in a single hour, and I knew this. And here, in the mountain passes of Kyrgyzstan, I was warned that storms could materialize quickly on otherwise warm and sunny days. This was such a day.

The higher I climbed up the pass, the colder the rain became. I tried moving as quickly as possible in an effort to generate more internal body heat but when the rain turned to frozen crystals of hail it became a losing battle. No matter how quickly I moved valuable body heat was being drained faster than it could be generated. I began shivering, the early signs of hypothermia, so I clenched my arms in front of my chest for warmth and protection, and I wrapped the ends of my lightweight jacket over my fingers.

But it was no use; the elements were too much. Even with my arms cinched tightly to my chest and my fingers hidden, the cold and wet were overpowering. Id gotten myself into a bad situation and there were no clear solutions on how to get out of it. But I knew stopping would only make things worse. So I kept going.

Off in the distance, I spotted a small billow of smoke rising through the raindrops. As I drew nearer, I could see that the smoke was emanating from a small structure of some sort. Closer I drew, trying to better discern what it was. By now my teeth were chattering and my entire body was drenched, from soggy hair to sopping wet feet. I came alongside the structure and stopped, my knees knocking together.

Looking down I could see there was a family standing on the porch. They were looking up at me from under the protection of a tin awning, staring. I stood shivering and looked at them. In that moment of silence a universal conversation took place; we communicated without words and I knew what to do.

Slowly I made my way toward them. I felt welcomed somehow, like a stray dog finding a loving home. As I drew nearer, one of the children, a little boy, came out to greet me. He held out his tiny little hand for me to hold. I unclenched my arms and peeled back the sleeve of my jacket to reveal my fingers. They were blue.

Salam , I managed to say (hello). It was one of the few words I knew in Kyrgyz. They all chuckled. Im sure I mispronounced it.

The little boy took my hand and led me inside their house, their yurt. The yurt was warm inside, and dry, and smelled earthy and alive, like a fresh garden. The family came in behind us and quietly went about their business. Soon a cup of warm tea was placed in my hands and the man, I presume the father, draped a blanket over my shoulders. I sipped the tea. Mmm I sighed. It was warm and comforting. The children smiled.

There were four of them, three boys and a girl. They all sat attentively looking at me. It wasnt awkward, though. The silence was somehow bridging the distance between us, between our separate worlds. There was no need to say anything; they wouldnt understand English, and besides, most communication is nonverbal anyway.

As the feeling finally came back to my fingers, I decided to try and explain why this alien figure had been ambling past their house. Theyd probably met very few foreigners in their time, and certainly no runners. I must have appeared as a strange caricature, an apparition clad in futuristic sportswear and strange cushy shoes.

I began miming my appreciation for the cup of warm tea with a simple thumbs-up. They smiled and nodded in approval. Thumbs-up is a universal symbol, Ive learned. Next, I held up my hand palm side down and began waving my two big fingers back and forth in alternating succession, hoping to represent two legs running. They looked a little puzzled. Then I spoke.

Tashkent Bishkek Almaty. Now they looked really confused.

Nevertheless, the father seemed to be processing what Id said. He pointed to me as if to ask, You? You did this?

I nodded my head, Yes, yes, and began slowly running in place, simultaneously jutting my legs up and down and swinging my arms.

Now they all seemed to understand the gist of my message and stared in amazement. The three cities I had mentioned were the capitals of Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. They knew this. They also seemed to know that hundreds of miles separated the three, and I was indicating that I was covering this distance on foot, running. The path I was following was the ancient Silk Road, one that nomadic peoples have traveled for thousands of years.

Sipping more tea, the one emotion I didnt detect in their stares was, Why? Why would anyone do such a thing? Perhaps the nomadic spirit was part of their DNA and the idea of wandering the land didnt seem entirely foreign to them. We just smiled at each other and there seemed to be an acceptance of my peripatetic roaming as nothing too unusual.