A camel named Bob inspired me to run a marathon and stay sober.
I got sober on August 26th, 2007. It was lunchtime, and I had ordered a cheeseburger and beer. The day's special was a 24oz draft in a football-shaped mug for the upcoming 2007 NFL football season.
This sports bar was on the corner of Thunderbird and Scottsdale Rd in Scottsdale, Arizona. It had mediocre food and a steady weekday crowd drawn to the off-track betting that started early. TVs are in every corner, and there are four little windows with tellers chomping on unlit cigars, waiting to take your money. Many downtrodden frequent the bar midday, placing bets and having a drink—my people.
Whether the dogs were running at night or horses during the day, I typically spent a few dollars for entertainment. So, my lunch would usually cost a bit more than the listed price on the menu—$15 for a burger and beer plus $10 extra for my ripped-up losing ticket next to my plate on the bar. That was the norm.
If you asked anyone who knew me in 2007, they would agree that I’ve never left a beer unfinished, but something felt strange that day as I looked at my half-eaten lunch and partially consumed beer. It wasn’t an epiphany; it was a decision long in the making. I decided this was the last sip of alcohol I would ever take—right then, right there. And that holds to this day, 16 years, 9 months, and 26 days later. Even as I write this, it’s hard to believe.
It’s absurd, really, the thoughts that occupy your mind when you reach a seminal fork in the road. What are the ramifications of this decision? Will I attempt to patch the broken relationships I caused and make amends to the people I’ve hurt? Can I put some money into savings now that I won’t be spending it on drinking?
Those seemed like logical questions, among many others, but the first thought that entered my mind was what to do with all the extra time I would have. That’s what I thought would be my biggest issue – what to do with all my newfound time?
Initially, I wasn’t thinking about how to maintain this lifestyle, where to get support, and how to slowly piece together the wreckage I had created over the years. I was just worried about how to occupy myself if I was no longer frequenting bars.
I took my last drink, paid my tab, and walked out the door. I was going to run a marathon! Isn't that what every newly sober person does? It didn’t cross my mind how detoxing would affect my body after years of abuse or the distinct possibility of relapsing. Anything logical that a person should be concerned about who’s just gone cold turkey was not considered. Not to mention, I couldn’t run across the street at the time without getting winded, let alone run 26.2 miles.
There were so many landmines I should have seen; maybe it’s good that I didn’t. I had been sober for all of 5 minutes, and I would run a marathon, dammit!
I lived in the Phoenix, Arizona metro area, and the entire city is an easy-to-follow grid with north-south streets, making designing a running plan easy—boring but easy. I lived near some older neighborhoods with mature trees that would provide shade from the relentless Arizona sun. I settled on a general route I could quickly build upon and bought some new running shoes.
As I read many “how-to” articles and books on marathon training and considered my fundamental fitness level, I thought a seven-month window would give me enough time to get in shape. I chose the benign, mostly downhill Salt Lake City Marathon in April of the following year. The plan was in place, so I locked it in with a plane ticket and hotel and signed up to run!
The heat was still intense in the Sonoran Desert in late summer, so starting early in the morning was preferable. I started logging some regular miles around blocks surrounding my house. As the days turned into weeks, I could see greater endurance, slowly adding miles, winding my way through new neighborhoods, carefully plotted out so that my runs ended back at my doorstep. Each day, I shake off the cobwebs of my past habits and grow more confident.
With fall came cooler temps, and I ran neighborhood loops in a 6–8-mile range. The ever-expanding miles brought new sights, always with the jagged brown hills of Camelback Mountain or Piestewa Peak on the horizon. One day, I encountered a home with an enormous fenced-in backyard. This was unusual for the area but likely a remnant of a property built before the sprawl of Phoenix took over.
As I leaned against a fence and rested, I noticed movement under a tree within the fence line, but distant enough, I had difficulty understanding what it was. No other animals were in sight, even though it was several acres and could have accommodated many. The creature was large but not a horse, cow, or lama.
The creature looked around like he was waking from a nap and turned towards me slowly, his neck rising; he found his legs and rose, ducked under the tree's overhanging branches and into the sun's light. It was a big, beautiful sand-colored camel. I don’t know what type of camel he was since my camel knowledge was nonexistent. I didn’t even know if it was a he or she, but this magnificent creature came right over to the fence, lowered his head, and let me scratch his nose. It was a connection so unexpected and wonderfully simple. I sipped from my partially frozen bottle of water and rubbed his nose for a few minutes before he found something more interesting, sniffed around, and then wandered back to the shade of the trees.
I named him Bob for no reason and decided he was male without knowing for sure. From that day forward, the fence line around Bob’s home would be a regular stop on my runs. I planned out the next several months, gaining mileage with each passing week and making sure I would stop at some point during the run and see if Bob wanted his nose rubbed. I occasionally had a small piece of fruit for an offering, but Bob wasn’t always interested.
When exhaustion would set it, I found it helpful to zero in on an object in the distance and try to make it to that point. Whether it was a house, a specific tree, or a streetlight, I told myself, if you can get there, you’ll be ok. Then, I would pick out another spot just far enough down the road and set my sights.
Small incremental steps and lots of daydreaming would often help me get from point A to point B and eventually back to my house for the day. Many days, Bob the Camel became one of the spots I aimed for, which always inspired me to keep going. I would oblige if he were up for a nose scratch; other days, he would watch me run past, preferring to rest in the shade.
Camels are resilient creatures, managing to carve out lives in extreme environments. They are well known to be able to go for long periods without drinking. “I need to be more like Bob,” I would say and laugh out loud. If Bob didn’t need a drink of water, I didn’t need a beer. That was the little game I played with myself in my mind. Bob was the metaphor for my newfound goals of not drinking and being resilient. Am I resilient enough to run this marathon and change my life? I asked myself that question each day.
I visited Bob several times weekly and was now clocking in regular runs between 10 and 12 miles. It was January 2008, and I was determined to extend my regular runs to 15 miles and a long run of 16 – 18 miles once a week. My final goal in late March was to have logged in several 18-mile runs and, in the final weeks, a 20- and 22-mile run.
On those longer runs, I spent significant amounts of time daydreaming. When my legs burned and feet ached, I let my mind wander. When I turned the corner and saw Bob up against the fence, I knew I had only four miles to get home and would make it—just be like Bob. On my long runs near the end, I didn’t stop to say hello to Bob for fear I would lose the momentum; I just waved as I ran past.
The time finally came, and I traveled solo to my first marathon in Salt Lake City on April 18th, 2008. I was proud of myself – a rare occurrence until then. I knew I had logged enough miles to finish the marathon and was finally excited for the day to be at hand. I worked hard to get in shape to finish a marathon, and I worked even harder to get sober. Neither of those things is easy, but I realized that I couldn’t run a marathon unless I got sober, and I had to get sober before I even realized I wanted to run a marathon. Without training for that run, I would have never met Bob. Thanks for helping me cross the finish line, Bob.