Healing Hardware

Why I keep my running medals out now.

1986. There is one kid worse than me in sixth-grade Little League. Joey plays right field, where he often plops down in the grass and picks dandelions. The hotshots rotate around the infield, and when a ball does get through to Joey in right or me in center, one of them will try to beat us to it so we don’t screw up the play.

In spite of a clumsy outfield, our team takes third and we each get a little, gold plastic baseball mitt trophy. I keep mine on a shelf until I leave for college.

2024. I’m writing about marathons and can’t recall how many I’ve done. In our basement gear closet, inside a three-drawer storage bin containing the castoffs and collateral of fifteen years of running, I find my finisher’s medals and count. Eleven.

Untangling ribbons and holding each in my palm, memories return in flashes.

Missoula, 2009. My dad biked ahead of me for twenty-six miles, stopping periodically to offer advice. He watched as a volunteer slipped the green ribbon over my head and a small bronze medallion stuck to my skin in the mid-July heat. Two of his running buddies were there, too. One said, “You’re in the club now.”

Boston, 2013. I entered the finish chute overwrought with dread. It had been like that most of the day—the heaviness. I snatched my blue-and-yellow medal and pushed past photographers and other runners. Reunited with my smiling wife after a few long blocks, I begged her, “Get me out of here.” An hour later, heartbreak.

Tunnel, 2022. I’d been out of marathoning for nine years but was ready again. The rail trail course from Snoqualmie Pass to North Bend was where my son and I did our first bike camping trip. I had a good race and qualified for Boston again, but couldn’t shake the trauma and did not linger at the finish. We collected my award and left.

Victoria, 2010. After drinking too much the night before (our hotel was connected to a strip club for goodness sake), I had my worst marathon ever. Back home, the medal went straight to the bottom of the three-drawer storage bin where I find it today—corroding badly.

I know in an instant, I have to get these hunks of enameled metal into the light where they can help me heal.

My old man had a room full of trophies. I used to marvel at faux-marble bases and aluminum towers topped with perfectly-posed plastic runners. Somewhere along the line, I must have decided I could never have such a room, or at least until I was sufficiently accomplished, that my mementos should stay out of sight.

I see now that my medals aren’t just tokens of finish lines crossed. They’re living reminders of how running has shaped me. They speak. By getting them out of the drawer and onto a wall, I honor the full depth of those experiences. I listen.

Maybe that’s what healing looks like—holding the past gently in our palm and choosing to let it matter.

Run lightly,
-mike

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