I’m not old. I’m just lazy.
That’s what I told myself. That’s how I justified it.
I ran the Matanzas 5K last weekend. First race I’ve run in almost two years. I felt pretty well at mile one. I ran pretty well through mile one. And if they had called the race right there, say for some freak weather event or Godzilla attacking the harbor, I would have done pretty well.
Only they didn’t call the race. I kept running. My pace took a slow vacation somewhere south of Cabo San Lucas. It still isn’t back yet.
Where are you when I need you Godzilla!
Runners know that clocks are cruel. Time pieces snicker as they tick off the seconds while you slowly steam to the finish. They know it sticks the knife a little deeper.
Ouch-ouch. Ouch-ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.
I finished nearly a minute off my last 5K time two years ago. When I was younger.
“Will someone be a dear and go find my walker!” I exclaimed to the race officials. I imagined someone muttering under their breath, “Keep the defibrillator handy for this guy.”
Thanks for the confidence, brain!
My mother doesn’t pull any punches. If Godzilla does storm our beaches, the mayor will surely deputize her to deal with the situation. And she might. She could talk him to death.
She was at the finish line with my wife and daughter. She knew just what to say. “Well, you are getting older, Brian,” were her words. In the same breath she asked why some guy was wearing silly yellow shorts.
Ouch.
Is this normal, these self-doubting, mid-life crises brought on by athletics?
One of my college students who actually finished in the top 20 was no kinder when he heard my time. “Hey, that’s pretty good for your age, right?” he said.
I’m failing him for the semester. And I stole all the tires off his car.
I’m not old. I’m just lazy.
That’s what I’m telling myself. And I think it’s true. Even though I turn 41 next … wo, wait a minute … this month!
“Chillax, my man,” my brain tries to tell me. (It thinks young people talk that way.) “You’re just not in the shape you thought you were.”
Didn’t Yogi Berra famously say that age is 90 percent mental and the other half is physical. Maybe said “baseball,” but I hear what I want these days. Could be it’s true.
So I’m chalking it up to bad training. Laziness on my part. Nothing to do with advancing years. I’ve pledged to prove it to myself in a future race. Unless that darn Godzilla shows up around mile two. Just in the nick of time.