2025. Brooksville, Florida. Five in the afternoon. Hot and humid in the pouring rain.
Left Knee (“Neal”) blew up again. Regular readers might know, that’s the fourth time. Four. 4.
Dog in my lap, ice bag on my compression wrapping. Pain so bad, my knee specialist has agreed to see me in just ten days. Can only hope Humana approves.
Wife and I think my rehab therapist cranked too hard to demonstrate her effectiveness at improving my range of motion. Can’t stand on that leg now. Right back where I was last August. This really blows, as Mom used to say.
It gets worse. Had to postpone the removal of the dead veins in the same leg.
So, anyway, school is starting here in a few days and we were talking about high school cross-country preparation. Of which, I have been a victim.
XC is the best sport.
2015. Inverness, Florida. Eight 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 compression socks. Sue me.
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 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 men 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 a flourescent 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 Cinammon Sticks… I’m thinking… he sounds just like Justin Timberlake at a Miami Beach rave. Maybe Bill Cosby.
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.