Not to yield says it all. the enduring, the surviving,
does not stop with age.
— the prophet sheehan
I’m not sure about Uncle Hal. 35 bucks seems to have gotten me the running plan equivalent of Panda Express fortune cookies. Thursday is “Good things are on the horizon and 45 minutes of fartlek.” Uncle Hal says to trust him and keep that Visa card on file.
I don’t understand his pacing, but maybe that’s my problem. I’ve forgotten how to suffer.
Char has fractured something else in her back, so today was a time to fetch soup and mail letters and worry. She’s hurting a lot. I guess that’s the price you pay for being 90. But it makes me wonder if I should be suffering more.
Today’s run is around the arts center while mo throws pots. It seems hard, but I can’t see my watch so I can’t tell. I wonder if my max heart rate is off. I wonder if my easy pace isn’t. I wonder if I’ve just totally forgotten what hard feels like.
I pass a homeless guy pushing a wheelchair full of his possessions. That looks hard. I wonder how that even works. I settle into the routine. Run easy till neon, hard til more neon, recover till the corners. How easy is easy? How hard is hard? What exactly is the difference between a sweet potato and a yam?
I figure the pace must be close enough because I feel like dying most of the time. But I’m no longer confident. maybe it’s too hard. Maybe too easy. Maybe I’m dead and I just haven’t figured it out.
The miles go by, a series of startled pedestrians walking in the shadows in fear of the crazed old wheezing guy coming up on them. It hurts. But I’m not even sure what that means.
I end up right about on schedule. Uncle Hal wants me to rate it from easy to death. Not as bad as a fractured spine, I conclude.
But maybe Dr. Sheehan was right. It’s mostly about not yielding. The enduring, the surviving, does not stop with age. We do what we must.
I’ll get faster. Char will get better.