He’s runnin’ out of time, slowly

to run. For years, wherever we lived around the world, I was out there in the evenings, plugging away almost everynight. I was featured in the local paper once because I ran almost every day at the local college track. Once I was on a magazine cover for an article about running in Asia. Looking back, though, that was when we had five noisy children in the house. Going out for a run was an escape from the chaos. Turning around and heading back home was the challenging part.

Somewhere along the way, our kids grew up, our house got quieter, and I just took a break. And that break turned out to be a lot, lot longer than I realized. I ride a bike most days but slowly. I’m not the Lance Armstrong type. I’m the older guy with the gray beard and lots of do-hickies strapped to his bike listening to podcasts as he pedals along, the guy younger riders pass by with a nod.

But the other day, my wife presented me with a challenge. She’d read about a duathalon in a couple of months. She knew I didn’t swim, but this was just biking and running — a 5K run, a 20K bike ride and then another 5K run. She knew I knew how to do both, and it was in a city, Erie, that never heard of a hill. It would be a piece of cake.

I agreed to it. Each and every summer I make a vow that this is the summer I will get in shape. Exercise every single day, watch what I eat, and drink beer only on special occasions, such as weekends. Every year, I slowly but surely abandon my resolve, and by early August, I hate myself. (I’m a pretty understanding guy, though, so by late August, I have forgiven myself and vow to just think about next year.)

So on Monday after work, I went to a local high school track for the first time in years. I stood at my car, surveying the field of competition. There was just one old duffer who was making his way around the track slowly but surely, with the help of a HurryCane.

I set myself a goal of 3.2 miles, just a little over 12 laps. I only ran 2.2 miles and only lapped the geezer twice. But it was fun. Looking around the track, I decided that my old thing would be my new thing — every night at the track. Instead of running to avoid kids, I’d be running to put off needing my own HurryCane.

The next night, I showed up to find the field literally crawling with yelling, carousing middle schoolers. It was some sort of track and field skills day, and there were so many filthy kids storming the field it looked like a miniature “Game of Thrones” battle. The geezer with the HurryCane just stood behind the fence, trembling with aggravation.

I considered turning and going home and maybe getting some Oreos on the way. But then I looked at the old guy, glaring at all those young ‘uns, and I started my slow, wheezing way around the track, wading through noisy, screaming sixthgraders.

I have, at this writing, 73 days to get in shape. But if I don’t and end up in early August just watching my wife do a duathalon all alone, I’ll get over it.

I’m a pretty forgiving guy.