Yesterday I finished my 28th half marathon. It had been two years. A dislocated shoulder last July put me out of commission for a while, and it's taken some time to get back into gear, and to get enough base miles to even consider such an event. Although it was the slowest of my 28 at that distance, I was able to reclaim the part of me that I call an "athlete." And at age 63, being an athlete is something that's still vitally important to me; it's an enduring and cherished part of my self-image.
In the past ten days, I had only done two longer training runs--one of 10 miles, and another of 8. And based on how I felt in those runs, I wasn't at all sure that I could finish a 13.1 mile jaunt. The half marathon distance is an interesting challenge: difficult but hardly impossible. But I ran a very smart race, which helped, and I finished 8 minutes faster than my very modest goal. I had the good sense to run mostly for the enjoyment and the challenge, and not be obsessed by the clock. I even encountered a 29-year-old woman, a former student, who felt that she would be embarrassed if she finished behind this old geezer. I happened to catch up with her at mile 12; we talked for a while as we ran in tandem toward the finish line; and then, for the sake of her ego, I let her forge ahead and "beat" me by 8 seconds. It didn't matter to me anymore--I was already once again a winner.
There are a lot of people my age who are totally incapable of even considering such a task, for a variety of reasons. Some of them can barely walk out the door. If I were in their shoes, I don't know how I would manage. The thought of being incapacitated in any way scares the daylights out of me. As I approach 22,000 career miles, I can only be grateful that I can still do this. Hey--when's the next race?
No comments:
Post a Comment