Running Ransom Road: Confronting the Past, One Marathon at a Time: Confronting the Past, One Marathon at a Time – An Inspiring Memoir of Addiction, Redemption, and Humanity - Softcover

Daniloff, Caleb

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0544105435 ISBN 13: 9780544105430

Verlag: Mariner Books, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

“Running Ransom Road is Caleb Daniloff’s unblinking, ultimately triumphant account of his journey from mean, hopeless drunk back to humanity and himself—through distance running. It’s a searing tale of spiritual redemption—one marathon, one mile, one brave, difficult step at a time.”—Steve Friedman, co-author of New York Times bestseller Eat and Run and author of the memoir Lost on Treasure Island

For fifteen years, the words that best described Caleb Daniloff were “drunk,” “addict,” and “abuser.” These days, the best word to describe him is “runner.”

In Running Ransom Road, the long-since-sober Daniloff confronts his past by setting out to run races in each of the cities where he once lived and wreaked havoc during that lost period of his life. As he competes in marathons from Boston to Vermont to Moscow, he explores his old destructive life and how running’s sobering and inspiring effects have changed him for the better. In doing so, he connects with others like him, illuminating the connection between addiction and running. Running Ransom Road is at once a memoir of addiction, finding oneself, and learning to push past barriers both physical and emotional.

“Just as Caleb Daniloff’s life was about to tumble into the abyss of addiction, he was lucky enough to discover he liked to run, simply for himself. In Running Ransom Road, his captivating narrative describes a journey of personal redemption that, fortunately for us, he is willing to share.”—Frank Shorter, Olympic marathon gold medalist

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

CALEB DANILOFF has written for Runner’s World and The Boston Globe. He has been a commentator on Vermont Public Radio and contributed to NPR's All Things Considered. Recipient of the 2005 Ralph Nading Hill, Jr. Literary Prize, he runs thirty to forty miles a week.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

“Running Ransom Road is Caleb Daniloff’s unblinking, ultimately triumphant account of his journey from mean, hopeless drunk back to humanity and himself—through distance running. It’s a searing tale of spiritual redemption—one marathon, one mile, one brave, difficult step at a time.”—Steve Friedman, co-author of New York Times bestseller Eat and Run and author of the memoir Lost on Treasure Island

For fifteen years, the words that best described Caleb Daniloff were “drunk,” “addict,” and “abuser.” These days, the best word to describe him is “runner.”

In Running Ransom Road, the long-since-sober Daniloff confronts his past by setting out to run races in each of the cities where he once lived and wreaked havoc during that lost period of his life. As he competes in marathons from Boston to Vermont to Moscow, he explores his old destructive life and how running’s sobering and inspiring effects have changed him for the better. In doing so, he connects with others like him, illuminating the connection between addiction and running. Running Ransom Road is at once a memoir of addiction, finding oneself, and learning to push past barriers both physical and emotional.

“Just as Caleb Daniloff’s life was about to tumble into the abyss of addiction, he was lucky enough to discover he liked to run, simply for himself. In Running Ransom Road, his captivating narrative describes a journey of personal redemption that, fortunately for us, he is willing to share.”—Frank Shorter, Olympic marathon gold medalist

[AU PHOTO] CALEB DANILOFF is a regular contributor to Runner’s World and has written for the New York Times and Boston Globe. He has been a commentator on Vermont Public Radio and has contributed to NPR's All Things Considered. Recipient of the 2005 Ralph Nading Hill Jr. Literary Prize, he runs thirty to forty miles a week.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Running Ransom Road

Confronting The Past, One Marathon At A Time

By Caleb Daniloff

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

Copyright © 2012 Caleb Daniloff
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-544-10543-0

Contents

Title Page, 
Table of Contents, 
Copyright, 
Dedication, 
Author's Note, 
Epigraph, 
Prologue, 
113th Boston Marathon, 
21st KeyBank Vermont City Marathon and Marathon Relay, 
29th Asics Moscow International Peace Marathon and 10K, 
119th Bemis-Forslund Pie Race (4.3 miles), 
40th ING New York City Marathon, 
2nd Middlebury Maple Run (Half Marathon), 
35th Marine Corps Marathon, 
Epilogue, 
Gratitude, 
About the Author, 

CHAPTER 1

113th Boston Marathon

Monday, April 20, 2009

I FELT JITTERY APPROACHING the mouth of Route 135 East in Hopkinton. It was a crisp February morning. The sidewalks were empty. Snow was spitting as my eyes teased out the faded unicorn logo of the Boston Athletic Association painted in the road — the twisted horn, the flared nostrils, the proud toss of the neck. Cars rumbled by, shaking road salt from their undercarriages as they streamed across running's most venerable starting line. I bent and retightened my laces, then adjusted my fuel belt, a bandolier of plastic containers sloshing with liquid the color of wiper fluid. I toed the line for a few seconds, then crossed over, half expecting the other side to feel different as if the stripe were a palpable separation between Yesterday and Today. But my mind snapped back to the task at hand. I was now scuffing down the hallowed grounds of the historic Boston Marathon, pores wide open, ready to mainline some serious running mojo. So what if the gun was still two months off?

These were my first steps on any marathon course. That it was the world's oldest continuous 26.2-miler only made it more daunting. The road sloped, flattened, then dropped again. I paid attention to the downhills. Take them too fast, I was told, and you could find yourself later with anvils for thighs. Restraint had to be part of the plan, mind over adrenaline, a tall order given the electricity sure to be crackling on race day. Starting in the small suburban burg of Hopkinton and ending in Boston's bustling Copley Square, this eight-town course had been the route since 1927 and I wanted to drink it all in, pound it like the six-packs that used to fizz my brain. I passed a few nurseries, a Christmas tree farm, a park, and a horse-riding ring. So far, so good. I wondered if I'd see plaques along the way, statues, bronze mile markers, hear the harps of angels.

The air was cold and sharp, scraping the bottom of my lungs, my fingertips tingling in my gloves. The breeze whispered against my cheeks and sweat began forming above my lip like puberty. This was my first training run away from the flat, leafy paths along the Charles River. My feet pounded the ground, absorbing the unfamiliar road, a handshake of sorts. My heart was still unsettled in my rib cage, teetering in that moment between adrenaline flow and the emptiness of pace. It was in that moment when my run might go in any direction, when it was deciding what it wanted to be. I could feel my brain powering down, my mind humming to life.

Over the next few miles, the landscape morphed, revealing a Dunkin' Donuts, an automotive repair shop, a paint store, a commuter rail parking lot. Ranch houses and modular homes materialized. Road salt had bleached the asphalt and cracked the white shoulder lines. My heart began to wilt. This could have been Anyburg, New England. Where was the blood, the sweat, the glory? Where were the ghosts: John Kelley the Elder, who gave Heartbreak Hill its name, seven-time wreath-wearer Clarence DeMar, four- peater "Boston Billy" Rodgers, even disgraced subway rider Rosie Ruiz, names that had begun crowding my mind since I mailed in my registration check four months earlier.

I still wasn't exactly sure why I signed on for the Boston Marathon. I'd been running for six years, mostly solitary five-mile stretches on backcountry roads with sunrises so gorgeous they left bruises. The thought of pinning on a number, herding into a corral, and racing through crowded city streets seemed profane. But after moving from Middlebury, Vermont, to Cambridge, Massachusetts, the year before and settling so close to the sport's most celebrated course, I'd somehow been pulled into its magnetic force. I told people that at thirty-nine years old, a marathon was my version of the red convertible, a check mark on my bucket list. When pressed for a goal time, I'd answer to break four hours, other days to finish. I joked that my "secret" time was 3:51:38, one second faster than Pa's first marathon ("Nope, no daddy issues there," I smirked). But there was one goal I kept quiet. That hanging a finisher's medal on my wall would prove I was no longer the fiend I used to be, a 26.2-mile baton exchange where the present would finally take over from the past.

I never set out to be a runner, let alone a marathoner. Just as I never set out to be a drunk. And as I would learn over the next eighteen months, it wasn't just about taking the baton. It was about getting to know, and feel, the person handing it off — yourself — to take the stick without fumbling. And then learn to hand it off again, to let go.

When I kicked on a worn gym treadmill for the first time seven years earlier, I'd come upon a way to satisfy my urge to flee without actually running away, to exorcise my cowardice, to begin slowly drilling inward. After years of false starts and abrupt endings and burning shame, the accumulation of sweaty miles had started to make me feel capable, perhaps for the first time. Strapping on running shoes led to a reflection I didn't need to turn from. Without realizing it, I'd found another chance to become.

Would multiplying my normal run by five and performing among thousands of strangers on a very public city stage where I once behaved badly tattoo this effect? Would the storied history of the Boston Marathon, along with its pantheon of demigods and legends, all the worshipful hearts and personal stories and buzzing brains, feed into a single ink needle that would work on me for four-plus hours? Perhaps a deeper kind of becoming lay on the other side of pain, at the outer edge of my physical limits. An even clearer picture of who I was and why I'd acted the way I had.

It wasn't sobriety that led me to first lace up. It was vanity. The self-absorption and narcissism of addiction had followed me into the Big Dry. Without a drink Velcroed to my palm, I was finally able to kick a seventeen-year smoking habit. I filled the crater-size void with bacon pizzas and pints of Ben & Jerry's. The TV room always smelled like buttery microwaved popcorn, and the twisted foils of Ferrero chocolates littered the couch like golden roaches. Within two years, I'd larded on twenty-five pounds. When I saw a snapshot of myself on the beach the following summer, I was horrified. I looked like I'd swallowed a sack of Idaho potatoes, my misshapen belly pulling me toward the sand. The mass of flesh spread from my sagging man-breasts down over my suit, turning the waistband over like a frown. I hardly looked like me. I could have been one of those poor bastards shown from the neck down on TV news reports about America's obesity problem. Was this really how life turned out? A handful of bad decisions and you're the fat, suburban dad in a tight pair of Dockers behind the wheel of a minivan, backing over your...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Mariner Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2013
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0544105435
• ISBN 13: 9780544105430
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 256
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: HarperCollins Publishers, Product Safety Manager; enquiries@harpercollins.ie; ; HarperCollins, Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper; Dublin 1; D01 C9W8; Irland