When I was
younger I use to think 60 was really old.
Now that I’ve arrived I realize I was right. It’s not that I think of myself as old (on a good day my wife would say I’m mentally
an adolescent) it’s just that my body
keeps reminding me. That’s particularly
true when I’m out marathon training.
There are days when I just feel like an old car that still runs but the chassis
is sagging, the shocks are shot, the headlights aren’t very bright and it makes
a wheezing sound when it’s going uphill.
While it still runs, there is no longer a 4th gear (or even a
third gear), having a full tank of gas has a whole different meaning, and I
carry a lot more junk in the trunk. One
positive is the neighborhood dogs no longer chase me since my exhaust rendered
them unconscious.
I can still get out and do a creative
imitation of running but I miss the old days when you would just glide along
the roads with the wind blowing through your hair (heck…I miss the hair too). These
days I think the correct definition for my style of running is “plodding”. I was running through a neighborhood the
other day and a man walking his dog passed me by and asked if running in place
was a new form of exercise.
So while
Father Time has been beating me around the body with the old age stick, I
expected Mother Nature to swoop in and give an old man a break. Not likely.
Going out for this morning’s long run (18+ miles) I was greeted with a balmy
6 degrees. When
it’s that cold you not only have to work harder to breath, but the pavement is
less forgiving on the legs and the inevitable sweat tends to freeze to your
mustache, eyebrows and any exposed skin.
Oh yeah, and the water bottle freezes to a semi-solid slush that gives
you brain freeze when you drink. I
guess I should be thankful; it was 2 degrees when I went out the other
day.
Cold, while
difficult, is a minor annoyance when compared with snow. The lack of traction on snow covered roads
makes forward progress twice as difficult.
Given how slow I’m already going I have nightmares that I may find
myself going backward in time. Add to
this the risk of muscle injury (you use totally different muscles trying not to
slip), the risk of stepping in hidden potholes and of course staying out of the
way of the ever present but woefully ill equipped winter drivers. While over the years I’ve gotten use to the
idea of running in the snow in Boston, it is a whole different experience in PA
where plowing the roads to payment is an occasional experience.
If you read
this far I appreciate that you have been kind enough to put up with my
venting. I suspect Father Time is a
strict parent and I don’t expect much help from him. But I’m putting in a special request to
Mother Nature to ease up and take pity on an old man. If not for me, for the poor flowers and
trees that may not see spring till sometime in June.
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