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5/30/07

So here I am... humbled but stubborn.  Since I was to turn fifty years old today I decided to see where I'm at cardio-wise. It had been five years since I ran a mile for time and my last attempt came in at just a dozen seconds over six minutes. It wasn't a lot of fun which is why I haven't tried it since. Anyway yesterday I went down to the big mile-a-lap cinder track at Bellevue State Park. I warmed up with an easy mile of jogging, stretched like I was about to run in the Olympic trials and hit the stop watch. Foolishly I went out faster than the old six minute pace. I guess I was thinking that if I could get ahead a bit it would compensate for the inevitable and predictably agonizing crashing and burning at the end of the course. As I approached the quarter-mile mark I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Within a surprisingly few seconds discomfort was a fond memory. I was in pain and becoming progressively unglued. My legs were dying. My shoulders ached. The wheezing created by my burning lungs was audible, and apparently disturbing, to passersby as well as birds and small woodland creatures. At 800 meters I was completely gassed, and without any voluntary effort or mental consent on my part, I flung myself off the track and landed prone, face down in the weeds, clinging to consciousness for the sole purpose of renegotiating  my body's now enormous  oxygen debt. It took everything I had just to struggle to my hands and knees, which was where I remained for several minutes. If failure had a picture in the dictionary, it would have been me. Finally, I struggled to my feet and began the long dejected shuffle back to the van. It was a half mile of shame. A half mile of mental recriminations, a half mile of excuses: I just came off the road, haven't eaten well, haven't slept much,  my asthma's kicking up, it's really hot this afternoon, I'm  kind of dehydrated... oh yeah, and the coup de gras --I'm freakin' fifty years OLD! ("You shouldn't do this kind of stuff when your fifty!")  The truth is that birthdays have nothing to do with it! It's simply the human condition. There's never a shortage of excuses when you need one.   When I finally arrived back at the starting line I looked down at my runners watch and realized I had forgotten to shut it off. The little LCD digits were still rolling... still waiting for me to finish my mile.  I should have been long done my victory lap by now. Doing some easy stretching, bathed in a warm sweat and congratulating myself on a race well  run -- no matter what the final time had been. I actually envied myself that alternate reality. And I wanted to reclaim it somehow.  But how? Over twenty minutes ago I had left in search of truth. And you know what they say, truth is beauty. But I had quit. Quit on the search and quit on myself and that sure didn't feel very beautiful. Again without making any  conscious decision that I was aware of, I turned, toed the starting line, and re-set my watch to zero. I don't remember much about the next six minutes and thirty three seconds, other than the strange tingling sensation in both my arms (track athletes tell me this is not an indication of a heart attack). But as I lay panting in the tall cool grass near the finish line wondering how long it would be before I could stand-- let alone walk, I had a fleeting realization that years can't take away your ability to give all you have. And in the end that ability may be all you've got.
 

(c) John Flynn, All rights reserved