SALT LAKE CITY — In 1997 I ran my first marathon to impress a woman.
I was 29 years old and able to run sub 20-minute 5Ks. I ran injury free and weighed in at about 170 pounds.
The mechanics of running – legs moving, arms pumping, sounds of measured breaths, feet rhythmically pounding – had already drawn me in as an adult.
I hadn't taken up running until my senior year of college when I had three roommates, who preferred drugs to studying, two dropped out.
I quickly discovered a love of racing. I liked to go fast.
There’s a third-place trophy in a box somewhere, but not much other proof exists that I actually was sort of speedy.
Distance didn’t interest me until it seemed top-three finisher speeds were usually just out of reach.
I needed other goals.
Finishing a marathon seemed the way to go on so many levels.
When that woman, Lisa, and I were dating 15 years ago we hiked and biked together.
We’d eventually run together.
The image is as clear in my mind today as it is on photo paper of a proudly smiling Lisa crossing the finish line of her first half marathon.
We were active, vibrant and very much enjoying new love, and we were in great shape.
Her brother had entered the 1997 Chicago Marathon, and so I signed up. My longest training run was about 10 miles. I didn’t take the distance seriously enough.
It took me 4 hours, 23 minutes to finish my first 26.2-mile race.
I’ve finished eight more marathons since then: five in 2003 when my fastest time was close to 3:30, short of achieving my goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon.
There was one marathon in 2004, and later that year I had knee surgery. That was the first blow to a running life.
Then in 2005 unimaginable tragedy struck.
Lisa lost her legs above the knees and her right arm above the elbow due to an illness after the birth of our second daughter.
The amputations saved her life.
And then we discovered hellish times. We were thrown into what initially seemed like desperate searches for moments of triumph or for stretches of what at least resembled simplicity or normalcy.
By that time our marriage already needed help. We’d soon find out it needed even more triage and treatment.
Our children have been in therapy. Lisa and I have been through counseling. Lisa has been seeking individual help to deal with everything.
We’ve moved twice. We sued and settled. I quit a 10-year journalism job I loved to be at home more with Lisa and the girls, and I’ve embarked on a new career as a freelance photographer.
Lisa learned to walk again. She learned to drive. She’s had her own mountains to climb – and has handled it with amazing grace, dignity, calm and patience.
But I also changed — and not always for the better.
Almost my entire focus would soon become our girls.
Then I’d learn my aim had thrown our marriage even more out of balance.
Soon I was no longer certain who I was or who I was supposed to be.
Along the way I gave up on running.
I let myself go. My weight would soon top off at around 230 pounds.
While Lisa would tell you I had the daddy role down pretty well, she’d also attest to my deflated, depressed roles of husband and self.
She longed for the old “me,” the active, vibrant guy who used to be so happy and, well, in shape, and the guy who wrote poetry for her and literally ran to impress her.
I think we both knew, and still know, that a physically healthy person stands a better chance of achieving emotional wellness, which begets any number of benefits for self, family and friends.
But for so long that knowledge became a distant abstract notion.
How would I get back to the old me?
In 1997, the year we married, I was the type of runner who enjoyed the meditative, solitary aspects of running.
But to get myself out of the deep hole I’d dug for myself in recent years I discovered I needed people.
I needed a new goal to get back into it. I wanted to run with people who could help me stay motivated and enjoy running again, this time with a social twist to it.
I finally gave in to joining Facebook, which led to reconnecting with a former coworker, who let me join her team that ran in this year’s Ragnar Wasatch Back relay.
I tapped some sort of karma with the Ragnar team that seems to have sparked a renewed, more intense interest in running than I’ve felt in years.
My weight is now below 190. I’m lighter on my feet. I’m happier.
I’m on my way toward understanding better what I need to do for my marriage. I might even be a better father.
The benefits of running are radiating outward in so many directions right now. I just need to stay injury free.
Oh, and I’m faster, one more time. My three-mile runs are now closing in on 22 minutes.
For right now that feeling of speed – relatively speaking – is the cord that connects me to an outdated, younger version of me, as I redefine who I am today.
I know I’ll slow down. Longevity in running is my goal now. Distance will win out over speed.
I want to impress that woman again with feats of running prowess. I need to run that 10th marathon.
I want and need to feel, however temporary, something like that 29-year-old again – for Lisa, for our daughters and for myself.
Call it a midlife crisis without the sports car, motorcycle, or girlfriend on the side.
For now, running is the key: legs moving, arms pumping, sounds of measured breaths and feet rhythmically pounding.
In my mind, while I’m out there on the trails, track, or asphalt, I’m often thinking of our girls, needing to stay healthy for them, and Lisa, who would be running with me if she could.
When I’m out there alone or running with someone, I can picture that stored-away photo of her crossing the finish line or the image in my head of the new Lisa using her remaining real hand and her prosthetic limb to power a hand cycle as I struggle to keep up with her.
Life is different for us now. So much has changed. Things are better.
I’m running again, back to impressing that woman.
I am a husband, a father and, yes, I’m still a runner.
Stephen Speckman lives in Salt Lake City with his wife and daughters and enjoys all things outdoors. He is a former Deseret News staff writer and blogger, who now works as a freelance photographer.