The Cockiness of the Unstoppable Runner has Faded

Diederik van Hoogstraten

Blogmaster's Note: This blog entry is an abridged version of the Afterword of Diederik's book, the Running Dutchman. 

My good friend and fellow Flyer Eddie R never struck me as a poet. But after we we ran the 2010 Boston Marathon together, he composed a haiku once he realized that my name consists of seven syllables—the second line of a haiku. He sent it to me without comment:

Finished ahead of

Diederik van Hoogstraten

Two six point two miles

And that’s how my friend made sure that two words—“beat Eddie”—ended up at the top of my to-do list. I am pleased to report it happened as soon as my book was printed in Dutch: I ran a 3:03 at the Amsterdam Marathon. I’m still working on my revenge haiku.

The time after a big race can be tough. This one goal has been the determining factor in life. It has been the reason plans were made (with running friends) and cancelled (with other friends). New York, with its tight-knit running community, is a great place to forge running friendships. So when the goal is reached, a new emptiness beckons. But the post-Boston days weren’t bad. Not long after Boston I joined my friend Chris Morgenroth, when she ran a half marathon in pouring rain a week after our marathon. Soon enough, the usual suspects and I were looping the park again. Before I knew it, we were having beers at the first Flyers New York Marathon meeting. We had entered the Era After Boston seamlessly.

It was time for new adventures, challenges, and distances. I was lucky to be a part of the 200-mile Ragnar relay in New York State, joining two vans full of Flyers, peanut butter, water, and baby wipes. We all ran three legs of varying distances. It was my first midnight run after enjoying a beer with dinner. It was also the first time I ran nine miles on no sleep, sick to my stomach, and dizzy after two earlier runs and lots of time in a moving van. This final stretch worried me, but it turned out one of my best runs ever: an hour and 15 minutes on hilly trails and roads in the sun, the van pulling up beside me with water and cheering team mates, and a runner’s high I have rarely experienced.

Running is one thing; talking about running is another. Haruki Murakami wrote that a true gentleman does not divulge details about his love life or his workout regime. Luckily, Murakami broke his own rule when he wrote What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. And when I wrote my book, The Running Dutchman -- published in Dutch in 2010 and soon to be published in English -- I decided that it would only make sense if I dared to be frank about my past, fears, and passions. Today, my doubts about opening up have faded, for I know that a handful of readers found inspiration in my story. 

Since finishing this book I have run with my sister Dorine—she who often said she would never run because she couldn’t run. My teenage niece Vera has joined me on runs too. They broke habits and went out for that first, daunting jog—often turning into runners for good.

In the meantime, I started to struggle. One evening in 2011 in Central Park I ran 800-meter repeats with my fellow Flyers. It was the end of a ridiculous 11-month stretch. During that time I had run four marathons under 3:10, doubling up on back-to-back races in the fall and spring. During one of two 50K’s I did in between, I fell on the trail as I checked out a female competitor’s behind, broke my hand, and still finished the race in fifth place. I don’t remember how many half marathons and 10K’s I entered that same year, but I do remember my happy 1:23 p.r. during the New York City half marathon. I also recall never once stopping for a break. The personal bests, the respect in the running community, and the occasional placement in my age group had become addictive. Always racing, I hadn’t thought much about the effects of the constant pushing and pounding of a body around 40. My joyful self-confidence had shifted into carelessness. While I am no psychoanalyst, it seems to me I was making up for lost time. Running feverishly, I was still trying to prove something: I’m not slow and addicted. I am not weak.

That summer evening I pushed hard. Leaning into a turn, I felt pain shoot up through the front of my right foot. I ignored it and finished the workout. The pain kept me awake at night, even though I rested and iced the foot. Of course I still showed up for speedwork the next Tuesday. Two weeks later I was on the operating table, watching my surgery to remove a snapped-off piece of bone. I felt powerless, and to counter those emotions, I think, I requested to be awake for my surgery. The images of the ordeal solved nothing. Instead they became haunting memories during a time of struggle, not just a quick interlude before the climax I had planned for the fall: a sub-three-hour marathon.

What followed was a cascade of injuries and doubts, leading me to revisit the very questions that running had answered over the years. I think I probably needed to experience it to shake off the cockiness of an obsessive runner.

I confess now that I barely avoided a return to “my own worst dark seasons,” to borrow a phrase from the novelist Barbara Kingsolver. Those were the seasons before I quit smoking a pack a day, the time before running saved me. Running had provided me with focus. My writing and thinking gained clarity. The motion of the body seemed to correspond with a stillness in the mind. “Runner” had become a part my identity. Who was I when I couldn’t run?

A right-foot sugery was followed by steroid injections for a back hernia and finally a left-knee sugery to fix a torn meniscus. Through it all I worked on my core and tried yoga. It has made me stronger, more balanced in body and mind. When I push myself now, I have found that I can again. I have gotten on my bike and into the pool and onto an Alter-G treadmill, allowing running to come back to me—gently, this time. Now I see triathlons and ultras in my future.

The cockiness of the unstoppable runner has faded. No personal bests have been recorded since I ran back-to-back 5-mile p.r.s at a 6:10 and 6:09 mile pace on the Central Park hills, one week apart in 2011. I think I will break my records again. What’s more important: I don’t really care. What matters is the simple forward motion on the trails and beaches where I’m free.

-Diederik van Hoogstraten

Blogmaster's Note: DJ's book will soon be available for sale. For those who may be interested in reading it, I'll provide information for purchasing a copy after the book comes out. -Dave K.