Stirring Point

In nine weeks, I’ll fly to Pennsylvania, visit my family, then drive a few hours north to Ithaca, New York. I’ll settle in with my best friend for the night, laugh about whatever nonsense captures our imaginations, then I’ll wake up and attempt to run 50 miles. Why? Good question. Just to see if I can, I guess.

I’ve run 31 miles before, but never 50, and that’s scary. There’s a part of me that’s certain I can manage the distance—that this damn thing is doable—provided I make it to the starting line injury-free. I’m tight and tired from the last four months of training, but I’m getting stronger, and my body is holding. At 42 years old, joints rebel when I fail to warm up. Morning hamstrings move like steel cables. If I overdue my training, I pay a heavy price. I’m fragile until I’m warm and that fragility follows me everywhere. 

Every mile in middle age is like walking a balance beam. Tight Achilles tendons feed into the meat of aching calves. Lungs are loose and ready to run, but the hips are rigid and the shoulders are pinched. The desire to quit is outweighed by the shame of defeat, so the feet keep moving. A burst of energy hits the muscle and the urge to sprint is overwhelming. But things pop and pull if the load exceeds their ability. Pay close attention. Listen to the body.

These warm winter days make training much easier. The air bites less and the starkness abates. Buds burst through the surface with an early bloom. Plumes of fresh-cut pine spill from the teeth of a nearby skill saw. The city’s more alive on these sunny runs; I’m more alive, and my eyes are facing forward. 

A DNF (Did Not Finish) is entirely possible, although I remain optimistic. I need to know that this body can surprise me—that after all the batterings and all the hell I’ve put it through, it’s not done. Broken ankle, broken jaw, dislocations, muscle tears, concussions, sprains and surgeries. They all add up. But back to the giving tree I go for another lap. For one more push.

So I sit and stare at my shoes. The laces are fraying and the tread thins out a little more with each session. The metaphor feels apt, and for a moment, I’m compelled to rest, to let my shoes rest. But I can’t; not today. 50 miles demands more effort and more commitment. Time to lace up. Time to step into the work.