Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?

“Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?”

I’m standing in the St. Augustine Catholic High School chapel, in front of the student body and a kid asks me this. It’s my first day at a new job and I’m nervous about the way I look and the way I sound. I can see their faces, 120 of them looking at me, expectantly.

The school principal introduces me to the students and assembled faculty and asks me to tell them a little bit about myself. My mind races - where to begin, what to say? “Don’t mind the hat kids, I had cancer, that’s why I look funny.” I don’t know what to say. The only teenager I'd ever really talked to was my nephew and that was only an exchange awkward ‘heys’ at Thanksgiving.

I don’t know how they knew I ran. Maybe I talked about it during my interview and it made its way to the track coach, I’m not sure. But here is this skinny kid with an endearing grin and tousled black hair, standing up in the middle of chapel asking, “Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?” I pause for what seems like an eternity, thoughts racing through my head. What do I say? Images barrel through my head. My lymphoma, personal struggles, anxiety as I come to grips with my level of running now, all fighting to be the one excuse allowing me to bow out and say, ‘no’.

“Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?”

I stand there, positive they can see the see the emotions ripple across my face. What does that mean - are you a runner? Is it running everyday? Five miles a week? More, less? Does it mean you run races? Does it mean owning a pair of running shoes, or shirts? Yes, some of those. Or none.

I struggle, trying to come up with a simple answer to such a complicated question. Am I a runner?

I think about my high school running career. The accolades I received - school records, all-state teams and newspaper articles are hazy memories to me now. But one thing remains crystal clear - my cross country coach, Mr. Brooks. Each day and after each race I came to look forward to Mr. Brooks, who with a quiet, “good job, Timothy” was all it took to fill my chest with pride.

I was a good runner and a good student. Not only did I earn an athletic scholarship, but I earned an academic one too. I was lucky enough to earn a few bucks to offset college expenses.

But just three years later, I let it all go.

You see, I’d talk myself out of running after a few years in college. Chasing girls and drinking beers would be much more fun I thought. But along with those pursuits, came bad grades, failing classes and quitting the team. I could rationalize most things, but for years I’d kick myself for letting Mr. Brooks down. I'd proven to myself once again that I was good at running. Good at running away.

I wasn't going to tell the kids this story, but I latch on to something, something I’ve come to realize on this journey and the perspective that seems to come with each dose of chemo I received. Maybe simply put, running is a way of thinking about ourselves. The values that we hold dear and the story we tell ourselves to help us find our way in an uncertain world. To find the people like us.

I look again at this group of kids, this kid named Nico asking me if I’m a runner and I see them struggling with the same questions. What defines them? What values will they find dear and hold close as they navigate this journey to adulthood? I took those same tentative steps when I was a scared, nervous ninth grader. I asked those same questions too, seeking out people like Mr. Brooks who were like me and held the same values. I remember it was then that I became a runner.

“Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?”

Little did I know that by answering this question, running would save my life. Again.

“Yes.” I replied. “I’m a runner.”

Nico grins, and the kids cheer. Mr. Bentley is a runner.

This is a snippet from my upcoming book, "Mr. Bentley, Are You a Runner?" where, facing life's biggest crisis, I search my past for the little boy that will hopefully save my life. Again.