It’s like you trade the virility of the body for the agility of the spirit. – Elizabeth Lesser
Ode to an Aging Runner
By Paul C. Maurer
The couple was old. Fifty? Sixty? Beyond? Good Lord, I thought, give it up. And yet they didn’t. They would continue, trotting down the road. “Trotting” might be an overstatement. So would even the more pathetic word, jogging. At best, they were shuffling. One foot chasing the other, barely accomplishing that simple task.
I shook my head in mild amusement.
I was flying high. Twenty-something. The ground merely an inconvenience under my feet. I would never win the Olympics, that dream well past my moderate abilities. Maybe I could garner a victory in a small road race but at least I lined up close to the best in the event. That simple fact provided a smugness of my abilities. I was good. Maybe not great, but good enough to gain the respect of those that mattered: runners of similar mindset. I repeated my strideouts until sufficiently warmed. Awaiting a tense stance on the starting line, I wondered if my lithe shape was admired by others, even envied. I was dripping both ability and sweat and ready to pounce. Ready to gobble up the roads one long-legged stride at a time. 5K. 10K. Ten miler. It didn’t matter. I was King Shit in a nylon shorts and pair of Nikes.
It was all good.
Those days the satisfaction gained in running fast was delicious. Nearly intoxicating. I could run and it separated me from the commoners. Those that were sedentary I didn’t understand. Nor them, me. But to those in races I left behind, I relished my abilities. Those in front, I envied. They had a Secret. A Gift. But at least I was a real runner, one that could pound the pavement in an effortless maneuver.
Not like the dawdling masses behind me.
Some were just slow. Undertrained. Genetically incapable. Out on a lark just to compete the distance. Others were older with so many tree rings marking their existences they were veritable gnarled oaks among us young saplings. After finishing, I watched them grind past the finish line. Sweating, straining, a grimace lining their weathered faces, I provided an obligatory clap and nodding encouragement to those I knew. Lost in my own greatness, I was less than effusive with my praise.
I was too young to know better.
Then the thirties. Still training. Competing. The high-flying days still occurred but with less frequency and altitude. But I was still a force on the roads; a downgraded tropical storm that could still rustle the feathers of runners in the know. True life had begun. A wife. Children. And the dreaded demands of real work. Getting up to run before work or squeezing in a late night run still occurred but the intensity began to fade. Placing a bit deeper in the pack didn’t bother me then. All I needed was some quality training to bring back past heights. It was guaranteed to happen, maybe next week, month. Maybe year.
Time marched.
Forties were a blur. Kids events. Work meetings. Squeezing in runs at lunchtime or at halftime of soccer games where I circled the fields from a distance. Keeping one eye on the field so as not to miss that golden goal scored by a child. Yes, I saw it! I would tell them after the game. And I did. The burst of pride spiked the pace for a moment, albeit briefly. Hammering the fields was instantly easier and a joy. I would run forever and I was immune to the laws of physics. Slowing down was not accepted and not even an option. Then with rising breath, I changed course and cut the workout short. Maybe it was better to watch the final minutes closer to the action.
Or so I told myself.
Fifties were just numbers. More gray. Deeper lines in my face. The mid-section less solid but undoubtedly only a steadfast diet away from the hardness of yesteryears. The stopwatch was seldom used to measure the pace anymore. Enjoy the run. Blast when I could. But the moments of glory were less evident and admittedly shorter. It’ll come back, I lied to myself. I only needed to focus. Drop a few meddling pounds. Spend a little less time watching Netflix and get back to where I belonged. On the roads running like a hunted animal.
Or maybe more accurately, a wounded one. An unaccustomed ache in a knee. The left? Right? Both? A back spasm from hell. A slight stooped posture that appeared from nowhere. The list grew slowly.
I still had moments of grandeur. Days that a run was once again effortless. Fleeting, like the wisp of a welcoming cool breeze on a stifling day, they were nearly embraced. I still got it! a distant voice whispered to my vanity. And despite the obvious, I wanted to believe. But within miles, even minutes, the truth was soon revealed. The days of glory were well past, never to be lived again. I was what I was. A distant shadow of the athlete I had once been. There were no tears to be shed. No deep bitterness towards the past. Just a realization that I was mortal and time had taken its course.
And that was okay.
Reaching sixty, the smugness that enveloped my youth seemed silly. I had never been a world-beater, not even close. I had my moments and even if they were not fully appreciated, they gave me solace. I was a runner. I gave the sport what I had to give. And it gave me more than I had ever realized. It gave me comfort. Purpose. A sense of being. Perhaps even saved me from myself and weaknesses that I would never admit to.
I stood as best I could against the inevitable march of time.
I don’t put a watch on myself anymore. Perhaps because what it reveals is too humbling for exposure. But what is important is in the doing. I still put on size 11.5 Nikes and ready myself for an excursion. It may not be long or fast but that is of no matter. I have become what I snickered at all those years ago. Performing as I can, I cross paths with others at a different stage of life. They pass me in one direction or another and the obligatory nod or wave is provided. In the young ones, I see eyes of fire and it makes me smile. Go with it, I want to say. But I don’t. I simply let them enjoy the moment as I once did.
It is worth the toil and effort.
I do not know what the future will bring. I hope for good health and the ability to continue. I look forward to racing against those of my era and enjoying whatever the results may be. The trinkets of achievement are of no consequence. A medal. A ribbon. Both seem silly given the modest achievement garnered. But I will accept them graciously and appreciate the moment more than I did in the past.
And I will watch those that I used to be.
The stallions that dominate the race and pummel it into submission. I will cheer them for their abilities in a sport that has given me sustenance. Helped me make sense of myself. And there is always the future. The next year. The next decade. I hope to do what I am able. To run. To trot. To jog. Or even walk if that is what it comes to in the end. I will simply do what I can do. So smile, youth. Enjoy the time. Someday it will come to an end. Sooner. Later. But someday. That is inevitable. There is no sadness in the fact. Just an acceptance of an immutable element of nature. Someday, given the Lord’s grace, I will be seventy or beyond and do what I can do.
And that is goddamn okay with me.
Paul C. Maurer is the author of a runner-acclaimed novel, The Unforgiving Line.
“For some, running is a cornerstone in their lives. To those individuals, there is an unquenchable need to run on roads, trails and track. They cannot explain it, but that does not matter. Running is who they are. It is for them The Unforgiving Line is written. A timeless tale of Mac and an unexpected protégé, D.J., exploring a clash of worlds, wills, dreams and regrets. Blending the past and present of the glorious history of distance running, The Unforgiving Line delivers through the final stride.”
Think Karate Kid with a different kind of kicking.