Don’t confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them

— clyde jackson browne

—

My problem: In my mind, I’m still 30-year-old Gary. Fearless, bulletproof, gleefully suffering every weekend. I never met a race I didn’t like. And I met a lot of them.

I loved racing when I was 30. I would careen from the spectacle of the San Francisco Marathon to the Run for Your Oats in a tiny town that held a 3.3 mile race as part of their three-minute oats festival. Yes, they had a pet parade. Thanks for asking.

Location? Distance? It didn’t matter. A starting line, a course that might be measured by a precise wheel or a four-while-drive jeep, and a banana. It was a weekend ritual, a religion that didn’t pass judgment. Jesus loves you. That’s why he created downhills.

I was never fast, but I was way more stupid than most. I loved it so much.

And now, here I am, 40 years later and still 30 in my mind, but with the body of some 70-year-old guy. How can you possibly reconcile that?

I went out for today’s run, and my body just wouldn’t work. It’s like the dog in the park who decides to plop down in the shade and there’s nothing the human accompanying him can do but wait.

I realize the smart thing would be just to give up, or at least be realistic. I am going to kill myself, and Mo’s last words will be “I told you so.” But 30-year-old Gary is still in here somewhere, having fun in a perverse sort of way, and he refuses to stop.

I put off the run all day today because I felt crappy, finally dragging myself out at sunset. It was still around 100 something, and it felt sort of like I was running when it was 100 something.

I hated it.

And I loved it.

I’m not sure why. I guess it’s because it’s what I’ll always do until I can’t. There will be a day when I can’t make it around the little loop anymore. But until then, 30-year-old Gary is still at the wheel. And he keeps pushing the pedal to the floorboard, even if we only have two cylinders and we’re going uphill.

If you knew you only had one day left to live, what would you do? That’s not even a question for me. I would go for a run. Let me go out like Caballo Blanco. In a wilderness. Near a river. With a trusty pair of running shoes on my feet and a trail monkey at my side.

I thought tonight might be that night. But it wasn’t. And so we’ll try again tomorrow. And next week. And New Year’s Eve. And then into the next year. Repeat as necessary.

Look out, 30-year-old Gary. We’re not going out without a fight. Or a Medium Chocolate Frosty. Not necessarily in that order.

And maybe someday we’ll make it back to Bertram for the Oatmeal Festival.

3.3 mile races with an animal parade are hard to find.