I lose a race
You play like an old man, Brandon tells me as I limp off the field (not that he’s very limber). I am an old man, I answer. But the truth is, I’ve let myself go; I could refurbish my motor if I wanted to.
This morning, by the river, I run five miles (I can do that any day, irrespective of my rustiness). Half a mile ahead jogs a slim young woman. Slim but slow. Ten minutes later, I’ve passed her. Another slim young woman appears in the distance; five more minutes, and I’ve passed her, too. On a bridge I pass another woman. This one is walking her dog. The bridge is narrow, but the dog is leashed, and the woman pulls it close to her. Comfortably ahead, I slow my pace. This is the life.
This morning, by the river, I run five miles (I can do that any day, irrespective of my rustiness). Half a mile ahead jogs a slim young woman. Slim but slow. Ten minutes later, I’ve passed her. Another slim young woman appears in the distance; five more minutes, and I’ve passed her, too. On a bridge I pass another woman. This one is walking her dog. The bridge is narrow, but the dog is leashed, and the woman pulls it close to her. Comfortably ahead, I slow my pace. This is the life.
Just as I relax, though, I’m passed by a crafty old man: one of these “health fiends.” This won’t do. (A year ago I was on the trail constantly, and no one ever passed me.)
I speed up: for a while I keep pace behind this presumptuous old man. But eventually he pulls well ahead. His legs are toned, but not more than mine. Last year, I would have lapped him.
At home, worn out, I sleep for several hours.