A journalist recently asked me if I was still a big runner.
By this, he meant do I still run fifty miles a week. I do not. But I am still a big runner, in that I am no longer the sleek supple leopard I was before knee surgery, Covid, and an increasing admiration for IPA as a food group. Yet I still get out there on the trail and chug along as many days a week I can motivate myself, enjoying the scenery and solitude, SAF.
And yesterday I ran a trail race. I can't remember the last time I raced. The course was simple: three miles straight up a mountain then turn around and bomb right back down. Narrow, rutted packed dirt and sharp rock. I woke up nervous, an old emotion I've felt before every race in my life. My strategy was to start slow and taper off. I succeeded. It was every bit the challenge I'd hoped for. Running with buddies from the Tough Guy Book Club, as well as my oldest son and his new bride, made it all the merrier. Nothing like post-run war stories after doing something hard as a group.
This morning I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. Took a sauna to stretch in the heat, which made me feel a little bit better. Drank a lot of water. Watched Red Zone. One of the Tough Guys texted to tell me — in a very well meaning way — that maybe I should consider Ozempic if I'm going to get fast again. This offended me but I'm still feeling too good about yesterday to let it get under my skin.
Well, maybe just a little.
Somewhere on the way up that mountain, I realized I've raced in some sort of running competition every decade since I was twelve. I competed with a little more desperation back then, not cheerfully shouting "good job" to other runners during the race, as I did yesterday (and they shouted it right back at me). I had no idea I'd be doing it fifty years later. Or that lactic acid burning my quads and testing my mettle would still be something I enjoy so much.
And I'll keep on doing it. Because I'm still a big runner, in more ways than one.