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Running with Doug

Note: I first shared "Running with Doug" with Beyond the Cove readers in late January 2023. As I find myself missing my friend Doug, as I do every year when the Super Bowl rolls around, I thought I'd reshare this essay in his memory.

I'm not what you'd call a naturally gifted runner. Hardly. My body was simply not designed to run fast for long stretches, say 50 seconds or more.

If there was any doubt before, I confirmed my running prowess in 1984 as I vomited while heaving across the finish line at soccer tryouts as a high school freshman. Fortunately, I was a goalie and was granted a bit more leeway, but still.

Running and I were not friends.

Against all odds, I allowed running back into my life roughly a decade after the messy incident at soccer tryouts. I was roped into participating in the Chase Corporate Challenge, a 5k race in Central Park. As part of my reluctant training, I began jogging, not yet running.

And by the late summer of 1994, I'd managed to log 3-4 miles regularly.

Eventually, I learned to enjoy the process without the pressure to win or maintain any specific pace.

By the winter of 1995, I'd been running before work with my friend and roommate Doug. Three to four days a week, we'd head to Central Park and run the 1.7-mile lower loop. Then, on the weekend, we'd hit the four-mile route.

You need to understand that Doug was a machine.

At this point, he'd already run nearly 20 marathons. And, for fun, he'd compete in the annual stair climb race to the top of the Empire State Building. After our run, his warm-up, he'd usually hop on his rowing machine for his real workout.

On paper, Doug had it all. His Ivy League undergrad degree was topped off with a joint JD/MBA from another Ivy League school. When we lived together, he was starting as an associate at a high-powered Wall St. law firm. But, humble to a fault, these symbols of social status meant nothing to him. He always made time for his friends and believed in amplifying the goodness of others.

People often think of running as a solitary sport. I disagree. At our slow pace around the park, Doug and I built our friendship mile by mile. Our conversations naturally explored our career development, dating, and our terrible taste in music. I doubt his cardiovascular system registered our runs as a workout. For Doug, our runs had nothing to do with his fitness.

In early March 1995, when we got back to our apartment, Doug told me he had a serious question.

With a devious smile, he said how much he enjoyed running together. He also said my fitness had subtly improved, maybe more than I thought.

Then, he asked if I'd run the Boston Marathon with him.

Not someday, but in less than two months.

Doug handed me a copy of Runners World magazine featuring Oprah to drive home the point. "Oprah did it. So can you."

I laughed and rejected the idea a few times before my attorney friend made his case.

"We'll run the full six-mile loop this weekend. If you can run six miles at a steady-state pace, we'll try twelve next weekend. If you can run twelve in the park, then you can definitely run twenty-six with thousands of fans cheering along the way."

The idea seemed absurd.

But having grown up a few miles from the starting line, I was skeptical but intrigued. Doug knew what he was doing. He'd been there before. And he believed in me.

"Ok. But you realize I've never run more than four miles."

Doug smiled, nodded, and we moved on with our day.

That Saturday, we finished the six-mile loop in the park with a bit of pep. I felt like Bill Rogers as we emptied our tanks for the final 200 yards. Sure, our pace was at most ten or eleven-minute miles, but the milestone felt like Olympic gold. Doug loved it.

The following weekend, we doubled the distance at roughly the same pace. Twelve miles.

Honoring our deal, I agreed to run Boston in a few weeks and began to believe in the impossible.

On the morning of April 17th, I spotted Doug at our pre-race meeting spot in Hopkinton. It wasn't hard to spot the 6'4" guy with bunny ears. He wore those in every marathon so his family could find him in the crowd.

We lined up in the back with the rest of the bandits. Back then, you didn't need to qualify to run Boston.

Savoring the moment, Doug told me to relax, to take it in. He also said we wouldn't move for 5-10 minutes after the race started. It takes a while for 10,000 people to filter onto Route 126 from Hopkinton's Town Green.

Over the next four hours, I chugged along at my stubborn pace. I didn't stop once, mainly out of fear that my legs would cramp and I'd be toast.

Eventually, I rounded the corner onto Boylston Street and headed to Copley Square into the roaring crowd.

Earlier in the race, I freed Doug to run at his pace. But as I crossed the finish line, there he was, full of joy, waiting to give me a high-five and a hug. He never doubted I'd meet him there.

Doug changed my relationship with running, which I now rely on for physical and mental health. At 52, my usual pace lags far behind the pace I once considered slow. But that doesn't matter. [Note: In full disclosure, I'm now 54 and walking instead.]

When I'm running these days, my mind often wanders back to those winter training runs ahead of Boston in 1995. But, interestingly, it's not the big race that comes to mind. Instead, it's the time we spent together in preparation as Doug built my confidence, step-by-step.

Tragically, memories of Doug are all that remain.

In February of 2017, Doug lost a battle with his mental health, a struggle he effectively hid from those around him. Always putting others first, I imagine he incorrectly assumed he was sparing others from his pain.

I think about Doug often, but especially around this time of year. I think about the fact that I'm still here, and somehow, Doug is not.

In The Second Mountain, David Brooks writes, "One of the greatest legacies a person can leave is a moral ecology—a system of belief and behavior that lives on after they die."

Doug's gifts have indeed stood the test of time. Through running, Doug helped me believe in myself and inspired me to stare down self-doubt.

His memory reminds me that our daily actions can positively influence others in the present and long after we're gone.

Thank you, Doug. I miss you.

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And a Farewell Photo...