Day 9, The B.B. Gun Bandit

Ever since I can remember, I have always admired people who run.  It was an immediate connection that I felt with them when I either saw them running past me down the neighborhood street, or later in conversations when I would learn of their athletic exploits.  In particular there was a kid from my childhood town who in a sense became immortalized as legend as his exploits grew with every person that heard his story, passing it down to the next generation.

Childhood infamy described him as the B.B. Gun Bandit (I'll leave you guessing on that one), but to everyone else in the county he was the King of the Track, the actual High School Prom King, and a demi-god of mythological proportions.  A man among men.

"Did you hear about the one time, after school got out, he ran to Hillsboro all by himself?"  One kid might say.

"Well how'd he get back home?"  Another kid would ask in disbelief.

"He ran back home again... Was there before dinner."  The first kid replied.

"Yeah right!  That'd take the entire day!"

"I swear.  Johnny's dad saw him coming and going, both ways."


After his high school career where he smashed every track & field record imaginable, the B.B. Gun Bandit went on to college and continued his legacy of record breaking.  As a child I only heard about him through the conversations of adults and older kids.  I never met him before.

One day I saw a figure running, way out on some country road, as my dad and I were literally out for a Sunday drive.  It took us longer than I thought it should take to catch up, but eventually we pulled alongside this solitary runner.  Sweat was pouring down from his blond hair and down his bronzed frame.  He had on a thin pair of yellow running shorts and a pair of beat-up sneakers, and that was it.  He looked wild and noble all at the same time; a mix between the sun-god Apollo soaring across the sky, and Hermes, the messenger-god with winged feet.

"Who is that?"  I asked my dad as we pulled passed the runner.  My dad looked back in the rearview mirror.

"Oh hey!  That's Mark Theiss."  He said nonchalantly as if they were good buddies.

"Really!?"  I said with amazement, turning around to see the runner one last time.  He was barely behind our car, it seemed.  A smile broadened across his face as he waved.  We both eagerly waved back at him, but as we crossed the train tracks, he turned in and followed the tracks back towards town.  I remained in my car seat, turned around on my knees as I watched the solitary figure on the horizon run along the tracks.  I was in awe.  The stories were all true.

There is power in myth.  Though perhaps they can be at times exaggerated, the lessons we learn from them help to shape and mold us for the rest of our lives.  More importantly, and maybe this is what myth does, there is the power of suggestion.  And there is no greater suggestion than that of example.  Nowadays, I can't run without remembering Mark Theiss that day.  His example continues to be an inspiration every time I put on my running shoes in the morning.  As I write this I'm resisting the urge to do so right now.  The ease with which he ran made running seem so effortless; an art form like a ballet with Debussy playing from the orchestra pit.

So it is that when I run, I hope that others may be so inspired.  But then again, they may look at the expression on my face and say to themselves, "I'm glad that's not me."  The other day as I was ending my run, I was climbing a hill, pumping my arms back and forth at full steam, with a face that silently shouted my pain.  Two elementary school kids were walking down the hill, and they began to mimic my gait, arms and all, not to mock me, but to make sense out of what I was doing; which was to them an adult form of play.  Instead of giving them a snarl, which some runners are unfortunately prone to do as if to say, "Leave me alone.  I know I look ridiculous," I recalled the influence that a certain runner had on my life.  So I smiled and I waved.  And they waved back with an eager childhood glee.