Prefontaine 10K, Coos Bay, Oregon. Many, many years ago.
The doctor’s words came at me like a cloud, soundless. From the mist, I managed to hear…surgery…pins…eight (8) weeks of virtual immobility. What?
No exercise. No running, no biking, no walking…no skydiving, no bunjee jumping, no zip lining, no muay thai… nothing.
I almost threw up.
I haven’t been this fit for years and years. My own doctor, who is half my age, says I am in better shape than he is.
I am seven pounds lighter than when I graduated from boot camp 48 years ago.
I almost cried.
A back-stabbing motherf*cking asshole once told me: “Give yourself 24 hours, then get over it.” (I try not to look gift wisdom in the mouth.)
Took me a week.
I went into town and told complete strangers about the eight weeks without exercise.
Many of them had gone eight years without breaking a sweat.
But offered much sympathy.
I got tired of hearing myself.
Because my glass is three-quarters full all of the time. (Sometimes water, sometimes champagne.)
So I began to design coping strategies.
Got an editing job. Started to put together an e-book. Wondered if my first eight weeks back, maybe I could do two-a-days.
That’s doubtlessly stupid. But at least I had begun to seek a path back, a road to victory.
I did my research.
When will I be able to return to sport?
Although the healing process continues for up to 1 year, you should be able to return to impact type activity at around 3 months. This will depend on the type of operation you have and how you respond to surgery.
I worry about recovering at this age. I worry about post-surgery complications.
But I believe it was the philosopher Doris Day, who said, que sera, sera.
And it’s things you don’t think of which usually end up being the most difficult to deal with.
Like… I wonder how I am going to deal with two canines all day. In, out. Up, down.
But I’ve thought of that.
Sometimes getting older feels like becoming your own science project.
I wasn’t good at science.
Other times, I feel like a math student. No sooner do I solve one problem, there’s another problem to solve.
I wasn’t good at math.
What I was good at was… recess.
So I try to make aging a game.
A 25-year-old buddy, smart kid, suggested I read an article about a 50-year-old. Seems Michael Jordan is having trouble putting pro hoops behind him.
Even flying off in a $50 million customized Gulfstream IV private jet to vacation with a younger woman on a 114-foot yacht doesn’t make him feel better. Doesn’t fill that void.
You know, because he has that insatiable competitive drive.
To which I call ‘bullshit!’
MJ is a basketball player. I am a runner. We both got old.
He can no longer compete as a pro, but, even at age 50, he can’t quite give up the game.
I know how he feels. Not only can’t I race, I can’t run. I don’t, I can’t, I shouldn’t.
I hadn’t for years. But I walked, walked hard. For hours.
Got in excellent condition, so good in fact, one bright and sunny day, feeling good and perhaps a little stupid, I began to run.
Partially tore my right Achilles tendon.
But I kept walking. I ignored the injury, which took months to heal. Because I refused to quit.
Walking wasn’t even working.
So I became a cyclist.
Why hadn’t I thought of biking decades ago? The simple answer is probably because I am a runner.
Just as MJ is a basketball player. But the real game is not basketball or running or ______ your form of play here.
Aging is the real game.
How you deal with what life deals you…that’s the competition.
And just like you should eschew performance-enhancing drugs, you must avoid short cuts.
And if you wonder what I mean, google photos of Mickey Rourke and Bruce Jenner.
Two athletes who took the wrong road on their way to senior citizen status.
Jordan is a mere 50 years young with a net worth of $650 million. Spare me the angst, puleezzzee.
Although he is a lot fatter than I am. Ha!
Life is the best school.
If you go to class and if you pay attention.
And do your home work.