Retired judge shares secrets for running LA Marathon at 82 – OCRegister

There is a razor-thin margin between safe and insanity in the outdoors and Judge James L. Smith crossed the line.

In hypothermic wind and rain, the then-74-year-old Los Angeles Marathon legacy runner slips, smashes face-first into pavement and with blood streaming down his head shakes off any suggestion to stop.

“I’m gonna finish this,” he growls.

Such is the mystery, the magic and, yes, the mania of putting one foot in front of the other for 26.2 miles.

Now 82 and preparing for his 34th consecutive LA Marathon on Sunday, Smith laughs off the memory. But he also admits his decision was more than nuts.

Doctors later diagnosed Smith with an acute subdural hematoma — meaning a clot of blood was sloshing inside his skull.

Smith — who continues to work as an arbitrator on complex litigation, often for free — promises his partner and love of his life, Judy, that he won’t fall down this year.

But with 24,000 athletes jostling their way along the streets of Los Angeles, almost anything can happen. And that is just one of the lures of running.

To see the natural world through Smith’s eyes is to explore things that are known and unknown.

Things like jumping space and time.

Motion is lotion

It is 6 a.m. on a cold December morning and Smith gathers at a Denny’s in Santa Ana with a bunch of police officers and federal Judge David O. Carter.

The mission is to clear out a homeless camp along railroad tracks and offer cozy shelter and warm beds or jail. Surprisingly, some choose jail. But there’s something even more surprising.

Watching Smith and Carter, who is 74, practically dance along rough railroad tracks is a treat — especially if you’re an aging runner.

Carter admits he’s more of a walker these days than a runner. But Smith, well, Smith has a variety of things that keep him running.

He says it’s not genetics and points out his parents died relatively young, his mother at age 58, his father at 64. He says he has no natural gifts.

But what he does have is a concrete commitment to exercise, to be able to live life in full.

When this pro-bono mediator talks about what fuels him, Smith is both self-effacing and insightful. “Everything we do is in our own self-interest. We do something because it makes us feel good.”

It’s a disarming comment, but it’s also an excellent and honest point.

In college at the University of Redlands he was a 5-foot-9 point guard on the basketball team. In law school, studying was all consuming. But when UC Hastings College of the Law gave way to being a lawyer, Smith returned to the court of basketball.

He played in city leagues. He played pickup games. And when then-Gov. Ronald Reagan appointed Smith, at age 34, to the municipal bench, the new judge switched to running because he could pack in a tougher workout in less time.

“I just got hooked on it,” Smith says. “It’s a quick, efficient way to get a cardiovascular workout.”

No negativity

First elected to the superior court bench in 1981, Smith credits physical conditioning more to mind than body and if you are like most mortals the difference is worth understanding.

“Competitive athletics trains your mind along with you body,” Smith explains. “You approach a problem differently than people who haven’t had that experience.”

By problem, Smith is mostly talking about overcoming inertia. His point is that whether you were an athlete in college or a party boy there’s always time to get — and stay — healthy.

“Intellectually, you don’t know if you can do something,” Smith coaches. “But you can’t come to it with a negative attitude.

“It’s never, ‘We can’t win this game. I’m not going to make that basket.’ You have to focus on what you want to accomplish,” he counsels. “Sure, you’re going to be disappointed on occasion, but that’s still the way to approach things.”

Smith is the first to say, “My body won’t work as good next year as it does this year. I’m not in denial that I’m an old guy.”

But he also doesn’t let what might happen make his decisions. Some days are better than others. And some days are just plain pain.

“My runs are not fun anymore,” Smith confesses. “I enjoy what they do for me, not what they do to me.”

This father of three jokes, “I’m in advanced middle age.”

Still, every now and then, Smith — like all distance runners if they’re lucky — glimpses what once was.

Rage is fuel

Smith’s first marathon was in Palos Verdes in 1974 and he estimates he’s completed about 120. Some you forget, others are building blocks in your brain.

It is one decade ago, and Smith is at 8,000 feet in Big Bear. He is running something called the Holcomb Valley Trail Run, an ultra-distance race on rugged trails that dwarfs something like the LA Marathon.

That means Smith is in his early 70s — or to put it his way, “semi-advanced middle age.” The thin air makes the race even more challenging.

Yet after an hour of running Big Bear, Smith finds himself in the ethereal place runners call the zone, a place where miles melt away, time collapses in on itself and your body moves effortlessly through space.

Instead of watching your step, you feel like you are watching a movie. Instead of running, you float.

Call it into the mystic.

These days, however, this resident of Orange mostly sticks to the Santa Ana River Trail or Chino Hills State Park and, at his very smart wife’s request, always runs with a buddy.

“It becomes trickier and trickier the older you get,” Smith admits. To stave off injury, he acknowledges he asks a little less from his body. But he pays a penalty for pulling back.

He runs more slowly.

“I experience a runner’s high all the time,” Smith jokes, “in the shower after the run.”

If all goes according to plan this year, Smith figures he’ll finish the LA Marathon in about twice the time he ran his fastest-ever marathon, 3 hours, 8 minutes. But speed isn’t the goal. It’s crossing the finish line.

“I want to keep going,” Smith offers, meaning he hopes to manage many more marathons. “There’s not much you can’t do,” he declares, “if you put your mind to it.”

Smith’s statement reminds me of a Dylan Thomas poem that is fuel for the final mile of any marathon at any age.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”