The Two-Year Pandemic

By Jack Rightmyer

It’s been two years that our lives have been altered by this pandemic. People love to ask, “How are you dealing with it?” I basically give the same answer I did back on my first day of cross-country practice in August 1974, when my friends wanted to know how I got so fast. “I just ran a lot,” I said.

As a sophomore I had shown flashes of being a decent runner, but now as a junior I was one of the top runners on the team. I did run a lot that summer, but what I didn’t tell my friends was how horrible that summer had been. My parents were going through a rocky stretch in their marriage. That summer was filled with much arguing between them and most nights they would drink and shout at each other. My older sister was dating a nice guy who had a car, and she was with him just about every night, so my only way to escape was to run. 

I lived in a suburban neighborhood that had a lot of street lights so I would often do circuits up and down the hills and occasionally I’d run by my house and listen carefully to determine if the arguing had subsided, trying to decide if it was safe to return. Some nights I even ran to a local mall and walked around the Waldenbooks in my running shorts and sweaty shirt checking out the science fiction section. Running saved me. 

Running has always been what I do when times are tough. The day my mom died, after I sat up with her all night holding her hand and chatting with her as she would regain and then lose consciousness, I came home from St. Peter’s Hospital and told my wife I just needed to go for a three-mile run. On that run I thought of my mom and how she always supported me in everything I did. I also thought how oddly wonderful it was to spend that last night with her, just the two of us in the hospice room and to see how peacefully she passed away.

Two years later when my dad called to tell me he had cancer and needed a risky operation, I decided to drive to the Saratoga Battlefield and go for a four-mile run on the Wilkinson Trail. I thought of my dad on that run, up and down the grassy fields, and how we always had such great talks about history and politics and how he loved to read books of historical fiction. I think of my dad every time I visit that amazing battlefield. He was always so proud that our Rightmyer ancestors came to this country in the early 1700s, settled in the Schoharie Valley and the Hudson Valley, and even fought against the British in the Revolutionary War.

Running saved me again on February 7, 2020, the day my urologist informed me that I had prostate cancer and needed surgery. “If you’re going to get cancer,” everyone told me, “This is the type of cancer you want. No one ever dies of prostate cancer.” I would smile, nod my head and think, I don’t want any type of cancer and I also knew that people could die from this.

On February 8, I went for a five-mile run, and I kept running just about every day up to my surgery on March 19. I was adamant that I was going to be in good shape for this surgery, and by running I was able to stay positive and not dwell on what was going to happen to me. I trained for that surgery as if it was the Boston Marathon.

A week before my surgery on March 12, the world shut down. My wife and I had to cancel a trip we had planned to France and a trip to Colorado to visit our son Paul. The NBA stopped playing. The NCAA basketball tournament was canceled. The Olympics were canceled.  I googled, “Can I still run?” I was pleased to read that running alone was not canceled, and it was even encouraged, so on March 13, I went out for a run.

On April 9, my 62nd birthday, and three weeks after my surgery, my doctor gave me permission to finally get back running. I received a few nice presents from my family and friends, but what stands out the most that day was being able to once again run.

The pandemic has been hard on all of us in different ways. Many suffered the loss of people they loved, and many of us lost jobs and struggled to put food on the table. I was disappointed that I could no longer go out to eat at restaurants or hear live music at concerts, and I also know how frivolous my complaints were.

My life has slowed down. My wife and I ate dinner outside more than we ever have. We made fires in our backyard and drank wine and had dessert late into the night. I’ve been reading more books than usual these last two years.

What I also did was move. I bought a new Trek bike and took it out on the road three or four times a week. I bought the most expensive Nike running shoes I’ve ever owned and ran at least four times a week. I entered six virtual running races and brought my 5K time back down in the 23-minute range for the first time in over five years. During the winter I went cross-country skiing every chance I could.

Recently I was teaching a class at Siena College. We were reading “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien, and I came to this section where Tim is writing about the typical Vietnam grunt, “They moved like mules. By daylight they took sniper fire, at night they were mortared, but it was not battle, it was the endless march, village to village, without purpose, nothing won or lost. They marched for the sake of the march. They plodded along slowly, dumbly, leaning forward against the heat, unthinking, toiling up the hills and down into the paddies and across the rivers and up again and down, just humping, one step and then another. Each morning, despite the unknowns, they made their legs move. They endured.”

I have taught that book numerous times through the years, but I never realized till a few weeks ago how much in these past two years especially, but really my entire life, I’ve survived like those Vietnam veterans who faced their fears the way I have always faced my own by moving, by putting my running shoes on and walking outside and after a quick stretch I begin running down the road out of my neighborhood and into the world, up and down the hills, across the rivers, one step and then another.  

Jack Rightmyer (jackxc@nycap.rr.com) of Burnt Hills was a longtime cross-country coach at Bethlehem High School and today is an Adjunct English Professor at Siena College. He has written two books “A Funny Thing About Teaching” and “It’s Not About Winning.”