“I’ll say God seems to have a kind of laid-back management style I’m not crazy about. I’m pretty much anti-death. God looks by all accounts to be pro-death. I’m not seeing how we can get together on this issue, he and I…”

— david foster wallace

—

Longtime readers will recall that many years ago I had an annual tradition of trying to kill myself on my birthday. Not so much that I was pro-death; I just desperately needed the noise in my head to turn off. Those were not my favorite years.

Luckily, I wasn’t good at it, because here I am.

So it’s ironic, even in the Marty Cortinas sense of the word, that I’ll find out on my birthday whether I have rejoined the Cancer Club, or will be allowed to sit on the sidelines for a while longer.

I was first diagnosed with lymphoma in 2008. I remember being excited about it because it’s a disease that already has its own running club, Team in Training. I never joined, given that it would require Talking to People, and wasn’t I suffering enough already?

I was lucky enough to find myself under the care of a brilliant oncologist who also was a hardcore bicyclist. We spent countless and very expensive hours talking running and cycling and how exactly glitter can become attached to your private parts at Burning Man and chemo combinations and survival statistics. And then one day, the cancer was gone.

Until it wasn’t.

I have a form of lymphoma that never really goes away. It just agrees to call a truce and lay low for a while.

Until it doesn’t.

And so maybe 10 years later we did the same mambo over again. This time it was a little more ominous, but the chemo was a lot more bad-ass, and so here I am, back in my pseudo remission, still celebrating slow runs and fast picnics.

Next week, I go in for another cat scan, which sadly doesn’t involve an actual feline. It seems like it hasn’t been very long since the last one, which is a bit worrisome. Does the Baby Doc, who took over when my trusty companion hung up his stethoscope and headed for the mountains of France, know something I don’t? He wears a bow tie, so he must be wise. But it’s a zillion degrees outside and the Mayo has air-conditioning and blueberry scones, so it will make for a fine afternoon.

Still, there’s something about that wait for results that is like watching Jaws when the John Williams soundtrack starts to build. Like the scariest cliffhanger of a medical show, but without the commercials. And I will find out on the occasion of Bastille Day, my 70th birthday. Vive le marmot!

“You’re going to die,” the cyclist doctor once assured me. “We’re all going to die. My job is to see that you die from something else.”

I’m hoping that something else is my monkey transplant heart. I would much prefer the sudden Caballo Blanco exit to a protracted, excruciating battle with microsopic rogue terrorists that stage a coup for reasons we still don’t understand.

I’ve already paid the entry fees to a couple of pricey races with no refund possibility, so I would like to live at least through the end of the year. Dying mid-race is a totally different conversation. Must pause Garmin Must pause Garmin. That would make a fine tattoo.

And so I moseyed 4 miles today on the Lasso course in a 110-degree heat that likely gave any cancer lurking inside me second thoughts about planning an extended visit. That’s my strategy for hanging on at this point. If it’s there, make it suffer. I’m pretty much anti-death, unless there’s a race with an unreasonable challenge.

And so the weird guy with the scythe invites himself back to the birthday party, all these years later. I find myself quoting a gifted writer who killed himself in despair, maybe not the best role model for the occasion. Surely he jested.

Mostly I want a birthday scone from the Mayo cafeteria. For the next 10 years. Then Mr. Cuervo and I can blow that candle out.

It’s just another day …

The dirty little secret they don’t tell you about running in the heat: 110 isn’t all that much worse than 105.

The other dirty little secret they don’t tell you about: 105 isn’t that much fun.

I am retired, knocking on the door of 70 years old and hoping someone answers. I have no particular responsibilities. I can run anytime, from the relative cool of the desert morning to the forgiving shade of sunset.

So, of course, here I am at 2 p.m., waiting for the hallucinations to set in.

Maybe it’s because I’m a creature of habit. As a newspaper copy editor, I always began my work shifts in the early afternoon. There’s just something about waking up late and reading the news while eating my oatmeal, then stalling for all I’m worth until cabin fever sits in and I eventually mosey out. Moseying is something 70-year-olds do, and next week I’ll be one of them.

I’m on the mad dog course, which has been turned into a miniature Autobahn, and not in a good way. I’m guessing my obit someday will mention something about an overzealous early teen on an e-bike. But that’s one of the many advantages of running when it’s unbearably hot: the riff-raff isn’t riff-raffing. I haven’t thought of what the other advantages are yet. Likely something to do with microwaving without needing a microwave.

Still, I love the heat. It’s an honest outing, this stroll that pretends to be a run. I rationalize my pace with the argument that six-day races require patience, not speed. I have patience.

The modified mad dog leads 2 1/2 miles to a blissful water fountain and a return trip. I’m not sure if I’ll eventually jettison the dog park in favor of this, the old sacred course with its ghosts and glory. But for today, we celebrate. Just me and a frisbee golfer and some ducks huddling in the shade while giving me a puzzled look about why I’m out here, and wouldn’t it just be easier to fly.

175 days lie between me and my certain demise. Still, making it to 70 isn’t so bad. When you read an obit and see someone died at 70, you don’t lament that they died before their time. You think “Well, that seems about right.”

I have enough shorts and shoes stockpiled that I’m certain I’ll never need to buy any more. But I’m certain I will. You can’t take it with you. But maybe I’ll take an extra pair of running shoes. Surely they have races in heaven. Or Iowa.

Just left foot, right foot, three breaths, two breaths, that same routine I’ve done for 40 years, give or take a 10k. 720 verses in my head of James Taylor singing about his dad’s walking in silent desperation. How did I listen to that song so many times without realizing?

I love this course, this routine, this life. A hypothetical destination.

Would he have wings to fly …