Saw this article in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle and had to share it. It's a tear jerker, but well worth the read. Best of luck to the author, Terry Cunningham, on his efforts to complete Bozeman's Ridge Run.
All best,
Jason Frey
Terry Cunningham and his dog, Darby (photo courtesy of Loneman Photography)
Five yards out front, a once bull-headed spaniel inspires a Bozeman runner to challenge his limits
Why am I running the Ridge Run this Saturday? The story starts with a poorly behaved dog.
Even as a puppy, Darby was chunky, thick-muscled and bull-headed. The white and liver English springer spaniel strained at the leash whenever I’d walk him in our neighborhood. Walking Darby was like trying to rein in a runaway bulldozer with a piece of twine. His furious panting only added to the spectacle.
Frustration led to inspiration when, one day, I started jogging behind Darby to see if I could gain some slack in the retractable leash. Darby looked back in surprise and then quickened his pace with a lumbering side-to-side gait that, oddly, mimicked my own plodding running style. His 10-minute-a-mile pace turned out to be a perfect match for me; Darby remained five yards in front of me with little tension on the leash. He became so focused on running that, for the first time, he ignored the barks and growls of neighborhood dogs. I returned home, sweaty and smiling, announcing to my wife Laura, “It turns out that Darby’s a runner.”
From that day forward, Darby became my running partner. Until that point, I ran only occasionally, but Darby enjoyed running so much that I found myself running more often and for longer distances. When Darby heard the telltale clues – running shoes being laced up, poop bag being shoved into pocket – he’d sprint to the door, start trembling all over, and emit a series of high-pitched chirps.
Over the years, Darby and I logged hundreds of miles together, him five yards ahead of me, running at a 10-minute-per-mile pace. I’m not sure why our pace never improved over time; perhaps I thought I was running at Darby’s pace, and he thought he was running at mine. Gradually, the length of our runs increased as I began training for 10K and half-marathon races. In 2009, I learned an interesting lesson as I was training for the New York City Marathon. On days when I had “long runs” of 10 miles or more, I had to walk past Darby – who was chirping and trembling at the door –because the conditions (busy roads, minimal water, long distances) weren’t safe for him. It broke my heart to disappoint him. I discovered that I enjoyed “running with Darby” more than I enjoyed just “running.”
Eighteen months ago, we learned that Darby had liver disease, a progressive condition that would eventually lead to his death. Our veterinarian assured us that we shouldn’t curtail Darby’s running; we should strive to maintain his fitness and quality of life. Knowing that my time with Darby was limited, I decided last October to start training for the Ridge Run, Bozeman’s iconic 20-mile race considered one of the most rugged trail runs in existence. I had served as a Ridge Run volunteer for years but had never before considered running the race. Training for this grueling event would require regular trail runs throughout the winter, spring and summer, which would maximize my time with Darby, doing what he loved best.
Even though most of our trail running was leash-free, Darby took up his usual position, five yards in front of me, leading me into the distance. He plowed through snowdrifts. He clawed up steep, icy trails. He trudged through thick mud and splashed through puddles. On days when I was tempted to cut the run short due to cold, fatigue or nasty trail conditions, I’d look at tough-as-nails Darby happily running in front of me and I’d keep moving forward.
This April, Darby’s health took a sharp turn for the worse as the liver disease entered its final stages, much earlier than was anticipated. His physical decline was dramatic and heartbreaking; when I’d change into running clothes, he could only lift his head and watch me walk out the door. On June 10, Darby let us know it was time to let him go. Just before he was put down, he sat on Laura’s lap and fixed me with a clear-eyed stare. Eight years of memories passed between us. Then Darby had to run.
The Ridge Run is at the absolute limit of my physical abilities. To finish the race, I’m going to need to find inspiration, but luckily, I know where to find it. I’ll just picture Darby, five yards ahead of me on the trail, leading me into the distance.
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