He runs with a cellphone pressed tightly against his hip, but
she never calls, so for 26.2 miles he runs with his memories.
In the first hour, she is walking again through the German
countryside. By the middle of the race, she is dancing again to their classical
favorites.
At the finish line, she is strolling with their two children
into the best years of her life.
Then John Creel, 77, towels off, catches his breath, and returns
to the marathon that is his life as a full-time caregiver for wife Ingrid,
whose body has been rendered helpless by the evils of multiple
sclerosis.
"My life is pretty simple," Creel said. "It's all
about taking the next step … just take the next step."
The Brea man's next official step will be taken in the Dodger
Stadium parking lot
Sunday as one of 24,000 runners in the 28th L.A. Marathon. In what is annually
trumpeted as the human race, Creel will be one of the most human of runners.
When his wife's degenerative illness confined her to a
wheelchair in 1995, Creel made the decision that he would be her primary
caretaker.
When the stress from that decision became overwhelming, he began
running for relief.
That was 59 marathons ago. He has run at least one marathon in
each state. He transports her in her wheelchair to most of his races, twice
even making sure somebody pushed her to the finish line.
She doesn't understand running, but she likes the company. He
sometimes weeps over her losses, but he still loves her smile.
He feeds, bathes and clothes her. Yet after 53 years of
marriage, he says she is his strength.
"Honestly, I don't know what I would do without her,"
he said.
And he doesn't know what she would do without him. If he dies
first, she probably will have to go into an assisted-living facility, and he
can barely tolerate even the thought, so he keeps running, for her, for him,
for them.
Said Ingrid with a grin: "Sometimes I don't understand why
he has to run so much, but it makes him happy, so let him run, let him run."
Said John with tears: "She's the best thing that ever
happened to me."
You can glimpse strands of their enduring affection in a back
room of their Brea home, the place where Ingrid spends her days watching
television, the channel tuned to episodes of "Little House on the
Prairie" and "Bonanza."
All around the room there are vases with purple orchids, some
blooming, some decaying, gifts from weekly visits to Trader Joe's.
"I love orchids," said Ingrid. "He still brings
me orchids."
She still calls him "Johnny." He sometimes calls her
"Mom."
During a recent weeknight interview they giggled at each other
from across the modest living room, he in his shiny running shoes, she in her
black wheelchair, their lives having taken them to different worlds, their
spirit forever connected
"When you get older in a marriage, things change, but the
caring just gets deeper," John said.
They still laugh about how they met in 1958 on a snowy night in
a small town in Germany. She didn't speak English, he barely spoke German, yet
a year later they were married.
At the time he was a member of the U.S.
Army's Green Berets.
Today he runs his marathons with the actual green beret atop his balding head.
It reeks of sweat and has been tattered by moths, but, like his
devotion, it is unmoving.
"He is an amazing man, so determined, so faithful,"
said former longtime running partner Denis Paez. "On a daily basis, it's
hard to imagine doing the things he does."
The former systems engineer for Kaiser Permanente awakens with
Ingrid every day at 4:30 a.m. He spends the next 90 minutes dressing and
feeding her.
He then puts a cellphone near the left hand that she can still
use for dialing and leaves the house for his morning workout.
Except for a brief return home to check on her, he is running or
lifting weights or simply exercising for the next couple of hours.
"Running is the only time he's completely relaxed,"
said daughter Karola. "He goes to another place."
Sometimes that place is filled with anger, the slap of steps
along the pavement punctuated by screams to the sky.
"I get mad at God a lot. I yell and scream," Creel
said. "What has Ingrid ever done to anybody? It doesn't seem right that
she has to suffer."
But mostly that place is filled with calm, and by the time he
returns home for good, his mind is clear and his body is amazingly untaxed.
He will spend the rest of the day pulling his wife's wheelchair
up and down the several steps in the house — a 150-pound task — yet he says he
never feels it.
"You know that 'He ain't heavy, he's my brother'
thing?'" he said. "It might be a little bit of that."
When they attend an out-of-town race, he will arrange for a
caregiver to watch her in the hotel room during the race. Then there were those
four glorious moments when they actually raced together.
Yes, for four 5K races in the area, Creel pushed her through the
course. She said it felt as if she were flying. He said he was most happy about
the ending.
"She always finished ahead of me," he said with a grin.
On Sunday Ingrid will not attend the marathon, remaining at home
with her son Greg and his family. But after her husband finishes his 5 1/2-hour
run, sits in a cold bath, and rejoins her late Sunday night, she will again
feel like a winner.
Before they fall asleep, John will lean over and hold her hand.
Ingrid will stare at the ceiling and, in a voice softened by age and slowed by
disease, give thanks that she married a man who will finish the race.
"God, you know what you are doing," she will say.
"I don't know why I am sick, but you know what you are doing."