Inverness, Florida. 8 a.m. in the morning. Hot and humid in the shade.
We can now close the books on The 15th Annual Citrus Summer Showdown 5K Cross Country Run. “One of the Best Off-Road Races in Florida. Whispering Pines Park offers a course of mostly nature trails under a tree canopy that provides nice cool shade. This Mid-Summer event allows High School Cross Country hopefuls a chance to scope out the competition and see who’s going to be hot in the upcoming fall season. Divisions include Elementary, Middle, High School, College, and Open (Adult).”
Started my taper a few days earlier after a 5K on the treadmill at Gold’s Gym. Lite beer and an hour on the spin bike. Feeling lean, too. Don’t even have to carry my car keys, I figure the extra weight can’t help. Not to mention all that infernal jingling.
My Temporary Use Exemption (TUE) was approved for rheumatoid Arthritis, so I can take the Prednisone. But I lost my appeal on varicose veins. Still wearing knee-high compression socks. Sue me. Decked out otherwise in heat-absorbing black, I look like a ninja stork.
Felt good until the race started. Barely got out of sight of my wife reading a Scott Turow novel when this buzz-cut young lad comes up alongside me. He’s at that age I don’t particularly enjoy, somewhere between ten and twenty. “Are you okay, sir?” Obsequious-like. Figure he must have heard my breathing and looked at my white hair and started thinking about how if I drop dead, he could get a merit badge out of the deal. Seemed like that kind of kid. “Fine, doin’ fine,” I wheezed. “You go on ahead.”
But he didn’t. Followed me like I was Alberto Salazar and he was that investigative reporter guy from The Guardian. Figure the kid didn’t want to leave me alone and miss all the excitement. At The 15th Annual Citrus Summer Showdown 5K Cross Country Run, the males, men and boys and the odd geezer, get a seven minute headstart, which I think is a great idea.
Well, you don’t need to be much of a mathematician to swiftly realize I was soon being passed by glistening little lasses in skin-tight Lycra. Not a bad thing. But I was not alone.
Behind me as each female passed, I heard… “Lookin good! Way to go! You’re doing great!!” Some variation of the same shit. So I’m guessing that makes him somewhere between twelve and his first real girlfriend. I only saw their backsides, but the kid was jogging at an angle so he could see them coming and going. They looked good going. If I wasn’t so busy watching for the helpfully spray-painted fluorescent orange tree roots, I might’ve told him he was getting on my nerves. In between images of a cold beer and a meat lover’s omelette at Cinnamon Sticks… I’m thinking… he sounds just like Justin Timberlake at a Miami Beach rave. Maybe Jeffrey Epstein.
I’m also thinking – got a lot of time to think at this pace – five kilometers used to be a warmup. And now I can’t break my 10K personal record over half the distance. “Way to go! Looking good. You’re doing great!!” Okay, so a lot of Lycra might’ve passed me.
“Go get’em, kid,” I told him.
And he did.
Tickled, I must confess, to be the first over-sixty finisher. Maybe even the oldest, but I only check those who finish in front of me. Even hung around for the award ceremony because I forgot there were no old guy divisions. I don’t get many chances. I’ve seen the guys in my age group. They’ll show up next month and run in the twenty-one-something’s for five kilometers. Faster even. Meanwhile, I am literally half as fast as I once was when I was young. Or twice as slow. Whatever.
The toughest part of racing at my experience level is probably awaking at 0530 in the morning. Know I’m not going to run fast. And it hurts, but not a fun hurt. Best part is breakfast with the wife at some nice restaurant afterwards. Then a cold beer. And my recliner.
Running remains young even if I don’t.