Quasimodo

The Stone Mountain running enclave has been meeting at 7:30 on weekend mornings for more than 35 years. Some of us arrive early for the weekend runs to get in a couple extra miles in the pre-dawn darkness before the rest of the group shows up. We have become so familiar that we can recognize each other in the dark by our running form, sometimes at half a mile or more away.

Not too long ago my running buddy, Robin, mimicked my running form for the rest of the group. She ran like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, Quasimodo. Hell, she looked like Quasimodo finishing a 7-day ultra-marathon. It looked grotesque. Everyone cried out, “That’s him, that’s him. That is Tom exactly!” which was followed by raucous laughter. I was horrified. I’d always envisioned myself as an elegant gazelle or cheetah when I was running. I prefer my delusions to reality. Reality sucks.

I mentioned this incident to running buddy Scott during a recent run. Scott said, “Do you know that you look like Grandpa McCoy when you walk?” (Walter Brennan in the Real McCoys 1957-1963) Grandpa McCoy was an old man who walked with a pronounced limp. His walk was close to a skipping motion when he was in a hurry. It was a serious hitch in his giddy-up. Thanks, Scott. I feel better already. (Sarcasm intended)

During the first steps of yet another run I commented to Jean that I felt like an old man. She said, “You run like an old man.” Not exactly what I wanted to hear.

At the beginning of a run these days my entire body is stiff and sore from the previous day’s workout. It takes an entire mile for my muscles to warm up, and my tendons to loosen up, before I am able to manage something that resembles running. Things take longer these days. Actually, everything takes longer these days.

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So I’ve grown old. Wasn’t I supposed to grow old? Did I have another choice somewhere along the way? Did I do something wrong to cause this to happen? Was there an opportunity to freeze time or reverse time? I am actually quite happy to be old. It beats the alternative. The only realistic alternative, death, isn’t particularly attractive.

I can only do the best I can with the body I presently have. So what if I don’t run like a 25-year-old kid? I am not a 25-year-old kid. I run like a 58-year-old man. In fact, I run pretty well for a 58-year-old man. I am okay with that.

I know all too well that I am physically not the same runner I used to be, but I still feel mentally like the same runner I used to be. I still enjoy getting outside in the elements and observing the world going by as I run. I still enjoy the training, the racing, and the camaraderie of my colleagues; I enjoy the entire experience. I don’t run as fast or as well as I once did, but I enjoy the running experience just as much as I ever did.

So is there something I am supposed to regret?
I don’t think so.


Alternate Ending

So is there something I am supposed to regret?
I only regret that my time is finite and dwindling.
(Life is short. Eat dessert first.)