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 …
fast picnic 