Notre Dame on the Run, by Dar Cutrona, Notre Dame Magazine Online

It takes me five minutes to run from Loftus to the steps at Saint Joseph's Lake. Together, the lakes take under 15 minutes. And I can run the winding trail that overlooks the river back in the woods at Saint Mary's in just over 10 minutes.

I recently realized, with the help of another birthday and the innocent inquiry of a friend, that I have been running the Notre Dame and Saint Mary's campuses for 12 years. My routes, like the campus, have changed during that time, but my affection for the place hasn't. I've logged countless miles while training for races from 5K to marathon distances. I've been inconvenienced by construction projects, stopped for directions to the golden dome by tourists leaving the Basilica, and nearly hit by a half dozen distracted drivers. Still, I haven't tired of seeing the sun rise while starting a long run as the campus sleeps. Noisy geese take flight as I disturb their rest, and I smile as I draw a deep breath from the cool mist that envelops the lakes on an autumn morning.

Most of the time I run alone. After the daily routine of kissing my husband goodbye and getting our two sons to school, I hop in my car and drive to Notre Dame to run and clear my head. It's an addiction, I admit, but I believe I'm a more content person because of it. Sure, I'm physically fit because I run and it keeps my underactive thyroid in check, but as I've grown older I've discovered the spiritual rewards of running to be the most gratifying.

In my finest moments I acknowledge the blessings of the ability to run, the time to do it, and all the positive effects running affords. The regular exercise keeps my weight down, my mood upbeat and energy level high. More than once my family has guessed correctly that I hadn't gotten my run in because I was unusually cranky. Honest sweat and a sense of humor are closely linked in my mind.

The Old Testament prophet Habakkuk wrote, "The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights." Out of grateful acknowledgment I often pray when I run. I pray for my husband, stuck behind a desk, that his work would be satisfying. I pray for our older son, and for the mean kid who sits by him in social studies class. I pray for our younger son, that he would master all of those tricky vowel sounds. I pray for the people I know at Notre Dame as I run by their office buildings. I pray for our president and a friend I have who works for him in the West Wing. I pray for too many friends who are fighting breast cancer, one who had run four to five marathons a year before her diagnosis. And, depending on the ever-changing concerns of family and friends, I find that my hour run is over before the list is covered.

I could not have run Boston had I not run Notre Dame first. The miles practiced here are the ones I draw courage from during the final miles of a race. When I'm fighting the fatigue brought on at miles 24 to 26 of a marathon I picture myself circling the lakes at my usual pace. Sometimes I think that races prove my training, not the other way around. Oftentimes when I race I'm disappointed with the results because my finishing time falls short of what my training says is possible. Too often I've allowed the anxieties of race day to triumph over the hope of my setting a new personal record. It's the racer's mantra: we can always do better.

I've brought a handful of runners to Notre Dame for their first visit. It's fun to watch them as they run. They view the place with wonder. They pick the route, and together we zigzag across campus to see all the landmarks. They point, ask questions and remark on details I'd absently become blind to --- the bright colors of the geraniums, the size and majesty of the trees, the loveliness of the brick buildings. One runner chose to walk and run the lakes because he wanted to lengthen his stay. Another insisted on adding the stretch of road leading to Saint Mary's that's lined with Sycamore trees.

A handful of times I've had the unintended fun of scaring a stray hiker on the trail back at Saint Mary's. At 5 feet and 104 pounds, I can easily maneuver around such a roadblock. But trail etiquette dictates some sort of warning when approaching a person from behind. I typically clear my throat, and if that fails to grab their attention, I'll offer a "good morning" or "excuse me." Some people jump, and a few have screamed, apparently imagining a wild ravenous beast out stalking its dinner. After the initial shock wears off and the frightened wanderer realizes that there is no danger, we generally share a laugh and I've sprinted down the trail.

Unfortunately, I've been injured while running these routes, too. I know the exact spot where I fell on ice --- dramatically --- at the coal fields at Saint Mary's, which resulted in a bruised hip and swollen hand. I know where the downed trees, large rocks and tree roots are on the trail, because I've caught my toe on nearly all of them. Not especially agile, I've become a sharp student of the trail out of necessity.

After so many miles, I've come to enjoy an unusual intimacy with the campus, which I have sometimes confused with ownership. I recall the resentment I felt years ago when a newfangled surface was spread on the path around the lakes. I kicked at it in protest, and grumbled to myself that the old dirt was fine. After a few weeks, though, I found myself pleased to have the extra cushion underfoot.

Summertime at Notre Dame brings its own unique pageantry. The ducks and geese raise their fuzzy young by the water. Sprinklers keep the grassy places green. The few students here for summer session or sport camps lounge lazily in the sun. The campus is quiet this time of year, especially on the weekends. I pause for a drink at the grotto, then cut through the main quad to glimpse another yearly event -- young brides waiting their turn to walk down the aisle at the Basilica. As many as three of them patiently stand on the walk between the dome and the church. They gather with their color-coordinated attendants to freshen makeup and tighten straps and bows, while the observant photographer captures these unguarded moments on film.

Because I prefer to get an early start, I've been the first to run the trails on weekend mornings, often emerging from the woods with a sticky collection of spider web strands draped across my chest and face. Other times the trail has been so muddy that I've had to remove my shoes and shake the dirt off them before getting back into my car. I've routinely seen deer, foxes, groundhogs, squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, skunks, turtles, bluebirds, hawks and snakes while running. One morning I saw a large buck with big antlers standing guard of the woods. He was surrounded by six does. They watched me as I ran by, but didn't dash away. A few weeks later I was startled by a hunter, dressed in camouflage and outfitted with a crossbow, walking down the trail and studying deer tracks in the snow. I wondered later if any of the deer I had seen previously were killed that day.

I've had my run interrupted by playful dogs that had broken free from their owners. Oscar, a beagle puppy, would have come home with me, I believe, had I not stopped, picked up his squirmy body and carried him back to his apologetic master. Other great dogs - black Labs, German shepherds and English springer spaniels, have joined me, tails wagging madly, for short races on the trail.

I've formed friendships with a few faculty members because we run the same routes and show up at the same races. One professor moved to Louisiana a few years ago and teaches at Tulane now, but we still keep in touch by e-mail. Besides his teaching commitments he's able to train 70 miles a week and run a sub-three-hour marathon, quite a feat, given that warmer climate. A Saint Mary's professor I've befriended has successfully completed two Ironman events within a six-month period. I haven't brought home any medals from these daily runs. Instead, I have carried home assorted leaves, feathers, walking sticks (which were later turned into light sabers or swords) and the occasional wild flower. Running past the stadium one day I was handed a Gideon New Testament, though I tried to wave it off. I simply didn't want to carry it for the remainder of my run since I had parked downtown that day. Despite my disinterest, the old man wouldn't give up and shoved the kelly green book in my hand. I have also brought home poison ivy and countless bug bites. And my legs have been ripped bloody by the thorny weeds that grow close to the path.

As a display of my deep loyalty, I've worn a weathered ND baseball cap to several races, twisted backwards, which has sparked some memorable comments from both runners and spectators alike. I've been singled out for encouragement by admirers and jeered by fans of rival schools. One alum proved especially helpful at a race through the Pictured Rocks area in Michigan. "ND," he said, "hold some back for the woods between miles 9 to 10; it gets a little rough in there." I thanked him for the tip and followed his advice. Good thing, too, the woods were home to a steep sand dune we had to scramble up before finishing on the opposite side.

All this running for all these years has left some impressions on my boys. During a routine teacher-parent conference with my older son's kindergarten teacher, I learned that Vince thought I couldn't volunteer in the classroom because I was busy running the entire time he was away at school. It was clear in his 6-year-old mind that some moms have jobs and some moms just run. Another time he bashfully admitted that he had to color a picture of a family for a school assignment, but the only drawings available showed the mothers wearing dresses, not running shorts. We decided the finished picture would be somewhat representative, since I do wear dresses to church.

My mother-in-law has told me more than once that I'm not a kid anymore, and I should be finished with this running stuff. But I'm not finished, not yet anyhow. I know the clock is ticking and the calendar reminds me that my strength and stamina will fade with each passing birthday. But until Notre Dame loses its strong appeal, I'll keep lacing up my Nikes.

Curious, isn't it, the memories that linger from childhood? They lie not only in the mind but in the senses, in the smells, the feel, the sounds, the tastes of a place as well as the visual images that haunt the reflective mind.

As the son of a Notre Dame administrative employee, I almost literally grew up on the University campus. Despite my long absences, Notre Dame has come to be as integral to my identity as my familial and religious relationships.

Only days after graduation Jim Armstrong, class of 1925 was named secretary of the young but promising Alumni Association, a part-time job at first, then in 1926 full time as he began the steady development of a program that today is universally recognized for its uncontested excellence. He held that position for 41 years, until his retirement in 1967. I was born in 1932, the third of his five sons. From early childhood I frequently accompanied Dad onto the campus and began to absorb the ambient; memories of campus life lodged effortlessly within me. Commonplace though their origins may then have seemed, over time they grew and matured into a kaleidoscopic pattern of images, personalities and events that constitute for me an invaluable treasury of experiences binding me irrevocably to Notre Dame.

Walking on campus and along corridors, he and I regularly encountered individuals whose presence and efforts stimulated the vibrant heartbeat of Notre Dame. Dad unhesitatingly introduced me to these men and women, and bit by bit to the history and traditions of Our Lady's school. Images observed then have never faded, among them these.... At the northeastern extremity of the campus, the gray, pragmatically plain temporary dorms simply called Freshman and Sophomore Halls.... One-by-twelves serving as interim sidewalks around the new Law and Engineering buildings.... The faded orange South Bend streetcars careening tipsily down Notre Dame Avenue on the final stretch of their run.... Imposing, solemn, silent Sacred Heart Church, where I was baptized, and where in 1941 as I watched, my mother was also welcomed into the church by Father John Lynch.... The tantalizing aroma of the Oak Room in the single dining hall, and the taste of its incomparable vanilla ice cream.... The beckoning scents emanating from the Huddle, that tiny snack oasis cuddled next to Washington Hall.... The rough, oft-painted forest green boards of the tall fence surrounding Cartier Field.... The ever inspiring Golden Dome, Our Lady's statue, the classical beauty of the Main Building, the Indians of the Gregori murals along the first floor corridor, the bannistered rotunda, and then, at the end, the Alumni Office with its engraved glass panels on huge wooden doors and, inside, its businesslike smell of paper and printer's ink.... During the war years the V-12 and other Navy programs parading on the south quad, khaki-clad recruits wearing down the grass on their way to the dining hall.... The stadium on days of home games, Fred Snite's van positioned in the tunnel at the north end zone, hundreds of empty seats in all four corners, the pained face of a Stanford player, bloodied and nearly unconscious, carried off the field....

And the personalities from every facet of life and activity.... Smiling, kind, soft-spoken Brother Angelus Dolan, porter at the imposing front portal of the Main Building.... The regal, aging figure of Father Matt Walsh, former president.... Father John F. O'Hara, president, later cardinal.... Father J. Hugh O'Donnell, the next president, smiling, cordial, jovial, but then his early death, and my childish discomfiture seeing him lying in state, vested, in the parlor of the Main Building.... Professor John Cooney, my father's journalism teacher and surrogate father, my godfather.... Waldemar Gurian, refugee from Hitler's Germany, political science professor, looming ponderously massive and forbidding with his horn-rimmed glasses and dour aspect.... Father Robert Sweeney, associate in Alumni and public relations, smiling, vivacious.... Bill Dooley, dedicated assistant Alumni Secretary and engineer of the first placement office.... Charlie Cartier, of the Ludington family, assisting in the office.... Bob Riordan, registrar, colonel in the army, father of nine, his early death in 1946 brought on by disease contracted in the South Pacific.... Alice Przybysz, later Mrs. Tom Perry, Alumni Office secretary and bubbling receptionist, always delighted to see me, making up a reunion name tag with my probable graduation year on it.... Her sister Helena, also a secretary, businesslike, tall and thin but equally attentive to my need for an occasional Tootsie Roll.... Marguerite Varga, office assistant, later Gus Cifelli's wife, despite health problems one of the sweetest dispositions I ever encountered.... Tom Barry, Ray Donovan and Joe Petritz, all in the publicity office, young, eager, able.... Other professors, personal friends of my Dad, like practical yet erudite Norb Engels, Lou Hasley, wit and husband of humor writer Lucille, Dick Sullivan, teacher and noted author.... Joe Boland, literally the voice of Notre Dame football over the air, former player and assistant coach of the team.... The great Frank Leahy, he shaking my hand at a basketball game in the old smoke-filled gym.... Athletic Department personnel: Bob Cahill, ticket manager and my confirmation sponsor, for whom I stuffed application envelopes one summer in the basement office at Breen-Phillips Hall with a kid named Paul Hawblitzel, whose father had been killed in the war, and J. Arthur Haley and Herb Jones, both on the business management side of athletics.... Football players of renown, Angelo Bertelli, Creighton Miller, Owen "Dippy" Evans, Elmer Angsman, Johnny Lujack, to my way of thinking the best two-way player the University ever had.... And Clashmore Mike, the Irish Terrier football mascot.

Images and personalities combine into memorable events.... During the Navy "occupation" of the campus, the fires ignited by a disturbed recruit at sites behind the Main Building -- the Ave Maria Press among them -- and rushing out with my Dad to haul files out of the nearby Alumni Office in case the wind spread flames across to the Main Building.... Hurrying out to attend most home games on tickets left over from the handful my dad had in his office for alumni who stopped in at the last minute.... The wartime shows staged in the Navy Drill Hall, such as banjoist Eddie Peabody.... The extravaganzas in the stadium to encourage investing in War Bonds, with stars like Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Jerry Colonna, Frances Langford, Kate Smith.... The premier of Knute Rockne, All-American in downtown South Bend, the principals, including Pat O'Brien and Ronald Reagan, parading up to the Oliver Hotel, my Dad steadying me as I perched for a better view atop the retaining wall of the court house grounds across the street.... Riding with my Dad and my then idol Frank Tripucka, quarterback, to Grand Rapids, they to give talks, I to stay with cousins.... Watching the Bengal Bouts and basketball games in the ancient gym, walking across the dirt floor of the field house section to reach the cramped, smokey seating area.... Seeing 6' 10" George Mikan star for DePaul against Notre Dame.... Attending with my Dad the Memorial Day mass honoring alumni killed in war, an altar formed of planks set across tiny abutments set in the east doorway of Sacred Heart Church.... Participating in the annual Knute Rockne memorial Mass, with breakfast in the faculty dining room, then on to Highland Cemetery to lay a wreath at Rockne's grave.... I could not then have known my own parents' burial site would later lie but fifty feet west of Rockne's resting place.

These childhood memories hardly begin to tap the latent potential. Yet I believe they are typical and representative of the images, people and activities that formed part of the incredibly busy daily life of the University community in the thirties and forties, and I am blessed to have been there. The complex of human relationships, programs, plans, and hopes is not captured in one brief, nostalgic reverie, but all these surely underlie the involvement of thousands who helped in their time and place to make of the University what it has become today. Beneath the images, within the hearts of the personalities, and suffusing every event was the unique spirit that continues to motivate and enable men and women in places and on occasions so that inevitably and happily the whole at any one moment becomes an integral part of the larger, grace-filled fabric of life that comprises our beloved Notre Dame.

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October 2002