Running, Riding to Restful

Throughout my life, I have been hooked on moving. Running, riding a bike, walking. Years ago, I added an in-home elliptical to the mix of activities that keeps my legs moving. Maybe, some people who know me might have thought all of this moving indicated I was restless. Actually, keeping on the move is restful for me.

At 67, I am about the same with all of this as I was when I was 6 or 7. I admit that I cannot go as fast, as long or as hard as when I was younger. But my stamina has remained good. Thanks to that moving, I bet.

Some of my favorite memories of growing up include running on streets with school friends when we were around 11 or 12, trying to see who’s the fastest runner. I wanted to be like Jim Ryun, a great American middle-distance runner who who competed in the Olympics in the 1960s and early ’70s.

In Sixth Grade, after being given a beautiful gold-colored Stingray bike, I started taking off on long rides without parental approval or awareness. My classmate Earl and I twice “escaped” long enough to ride long stretches of a highway that looped around my hometown, Tyler. The first time, we got into trouble for it and swore not to do it again. The second time, soon afterward, we were much smarter in our planning and got away with it. Riding on a highway under a hot Texas sun never bothered us. You might say it was what The Eagles would call a “peaceful easy feeling.” Or, simply, restful.

I still remember long runs with high school friends. They remember, too. Back then, most of the area where we ran was pretty and residential, near our Catholic high school where we started and ended runs. There was no real structure to our runs. We did what we wanted.

I never liked P.E. I never cared for a coach telling me what and how to do it. In high school, my punishment for skipping P.E. so often was to run around a football field for a while under the sharp eye of our principal, a no-B.S. nun. I loved it, thought it was funny that my penalty was doing something so, well, restful.

By college, my wife, Candace and I spent much time walking and running and bike riding. We have fond memories of walking campus and town streets in the rural Texas area where we attended Texas A&M at Commerce. In the little town, we would walk the dark, quiet streets after hours of nighttime study. Afternoons, we rode our bikes from one end of town to the other and back again.

When I was in graduate school at Wake Forest, we came to love our walks and runs on campus and in the neighboring Reynolda estate owned by the university. At the time, I had no idea that I would return to Wake Forest to work in 1990 and run thousands of miles across 30 years on and around campus.

Once 60 was in sight, Candace suggested we get on bikes again after several years away from riding. It turned out to be a good decision, as running was growing harder on my body. After a knee repair, I asked the orthopedic surgeon if I could keep running like usual. He replied that he had learned long ago not to try to tell dedicated runners like me anything.

I was slowing down. One Saturday, while running in a 5K event, a boy around 11 or 12 pulled up next to me and said, “My dad was right.” I asked about what. “This isn’t that hard,” he replied and and pulled away. That was rough. My days of running Wake Forest’s streets and passing college students were past.

At 60, I made the switch entirely to bike riding. Today, I am about as hooked on my bike as I was about running. Well, maybe I am not as extreme as I was as a runner. I would cover up to 1,500 miles annually in my best years, rain or shine (or snow). Candace would pull to me in a car in a rain storm and offer me a dry ride home. I would decline, saying I did not want to ruin my run.

I used to say I would not ride my bike unless it was at least 50 degrees. I gave that up years ago. If it is sunny and a little past 40, I am on that bike.

Here’s what I know after running many thousands of miles and riding I have no idea how many miles. I am more at peace at those times than at most any other time. Candace says moving is my meditation. She is right. That’s my way to meditate. That is where I find that peaceful, easy, free and restful feeling.

Reflections on Sam Gladding: Presented at Service of Remembrance

Introduction: This blog is the first of many I plan to write in the future. Topics will vary. I am starting with this blog as it is the reflection I presented on January 29, 2022, at a service of remembrance for my longtime friend Samuel T. Gladding, who was a world-renowned counselor educator and professor at Wake Forest University. It has some minor additions from the message I presented at the service in Wait Chapel.

Hello, my name is Kevin Cox. I am here today as a friend of Sam’s. I am just one of his many friends in this community and far beyond here.

Sam and I became friends when we met more than 31 years ago. He returned to Wake Forest in the summer of 1990 as professor of counseling and assistant for special projects to the president, Tom Hearn. I returned to Wake Forest that summer to work in the news bureau, as it was known in those days. I was assigned to interview Sam about the work he would be doing for the president. From that time, Sam and I became the best of friends.

If we were to search on the internet for information about Sam, we likely would start with his full name. Samuel Templeman Gladding. We’d learn what many in the world of counseling know. He became one of the most highly regarded counselors and counselor educators of his time. We’d find many references to him as a prolific author of books on counseling that are read and studied around the world. I’m not sure there is a comprehensive list of the many awards he’s received. We would see that he and Claire established the Samuel T. Gladding Unsung Heroes Award for counselors.

During my visits to his home this past fall, Sam and I talked about his life. Sam told me that he was at peace. “I have no regrets,” he told me. He was proud of his marriage to Claire. He liked to say she was a librarian he checked out and took out of circulation. He was proud of his sons Ben, Nate and Tim. Sam spoke of how helpful, how lovingly supportive they were of him and Claire as he was going through his medical treatment.

Sam was pleased with his accomplishments as a counselor, a professor, an author, a worldwide leader in his field and as a university administrator. When he told me that he knew he would never be able to teach or write again, I had a hard time accepting that. I responded that maybe he would feel well enough to teach a little in the spring. He looked straight at me and calmly told me that, No, that part of his life was over and he accepted it.

When he said that, I knew Sam truly was at peace. You see, Sam often talked with me about his plans for his later years. I should explain that Sam and I had plenty of time to talk about our lives and our plans. Last spring, well before he learned of his illness, Sam and I started wondering how many we time we had lunch together. Sam estimated we had met for lunch about 2,000 times. I told him that might bean exaggeration, but it was surely in the ballpark. We settled on 1,750. In those visits, we talked about everything from our families to our careers. We could tell each other anything. We talked about his travels, too, and I will tell you a little about that shortly.

So, here is Sam’s retirement plan. He had no plan from what I could tell, really. He intended to teach until he could no longer make it to a classroom. And, he hoped that was a long time away. I asked him if he might enjoy retiring from Wake Forest and focus on his writing and speaking and consulting. Sam said, No. He loved teaching, he loved being with students, regularly. As some know, before he had to take a medical leave, he was not only in the classroom with students, he was serving as a faculty fellow, which gave him even more time with students.

I am betting Sam’s students gave little thought to his age. I’d say that was commonly the case with most everyone who knew Sam. I will add that when Sam was preparing to teach in Copenhagen, he said he hoped the administration would not realize how old he was before he went. “I don’t think they know how old I am,” he would tell me. “If they did, they might not want me to go.” I’d say, “Sam, they know and they don’t care.”

When I would mention to Sam that a faculty member was retiring, he would always find that astonishing. Why would anyone want to do that, he wondered. I would explain that the person was 70, had been an academic for 40-something years and probably wanted to spend time and energy on something else. That explanation did not quite make sense to him.

Here’s something else we talked about. His travels. I’ve only been out of the country once. I’ve never traveled west of Texas. Sam, on the other hand, has been everywhere, practically. All over this country. And Europe. And Asia. And the Middle East. And elsewhere. So, I would ask him about his experiences. And there are some funny stories.

If you know Sam well, you may have noticed that his Southern root are evident in his food choices. He liked to kept it simple. And Southern, if possible. Nothing fancy. Now, that can be a problem when you travel the world. For instance, while teaching one summer in China, his students and hosts took him with great enthusiasm to many restaurants. He recognized little if anything they served. He did his best to take a bite of the foreign dishes while smiling and thinking them for their generosity. But, he told me that every day he hoped that they would announce they were going to take him to a McDonald’s near where he taught. Unfortunately, for Sam, that never happened. As was the case with some other extended international trips, he lost a little weight in China.

Many of us would say Sam was truly a diplomatic man. He could even claim a background as a diplomat when necessary. Once, when traveling to Malaysia, he changed planes in Beijing, China. He did not have much time to catch his next plane and he realized that he was in a very slow moving line with others who had just arrived from various countries. Sam noticed there was a very short line nearby that was moving quickly. So, he moved over to that line. When he reached the front of the line, a very stern official there told Sam that the line was for diplomats. “Are you a diplomat,” the official asked. Sam replied, “I used to be.” That worked. Sam found a young man in uniform who appeared to work at the airport. Sam offered him a $20 bill if he would get him quickly to the gate where his plane was about to take off for Malaysia. The young fellow took him along a short cut, including restricted areas, to get on that plane.

I suppose many of us know that Sam was a determined man. Driven, really, in the best possible ways. Claire can tell you that he gave up a lot of sleep in order to do it all. I’ve been with Sam when if he sat still just a short while, he would fall asleep. Teaching and writing day and night can do that to a person.

He lived his life to the fullest. He could not stand the thought of wasting time. Sam influenced me in many ways, but I was never as productive as Sam. I’d be sitting on my screened back porch drinking a beer and listening to music and thinking that Sam was probably writing a book or preparing a presentation for some faraway speaking engagement at that very moment. Wake Forest kept me very busy for 30 years, but I could never compete with Sam when it came to productivity.

Sam knew in the last months that he had given his all to his family, his career, Wake Forest and his community. He could not have done more with his life. He told me that. Sam was at peace.

The last time Sam and I spoke at his home, I asked if there was anything I could do for him. He said, No. When I hugged him goodbye, Sam asked me this. “Can I do anything for you?”I replied,”Just keep being my friend.” Sam also did something else for me. He shared his peace with me and I am grateful.