Monday November 22, 2004 – Trying to Outrun Age

Monday November 22, 2004 – Trying to Outrun Age

Saturday and Sunday mornings are trying when it comes to keeping to a strict regimen of daily running. During the week, the routine is habitual, waking at 5:25 AM, most mornings seconds before the alarm clock goes off, getting out of bed and shutting off the alarm so as not to disturb my wife “I”. Stumbling from bed on legs stiff from six hours of mostly dreamless sleep, though “I” complains that I tend to talk in my sleep after a stressful day; I’m oblivious, however. Down the stairs on bare feet to retrieve my running shorts, white socks, and light gray sweatshirt, which I don in the light of the laundry room just inside our garage.

Once dressed, I proceed out the door to the garage where I shod my feet in trusty ASICS running shoes—they have a shock absorbing gel in their heels that eases the pounding stress on ankle, knee, and hip joints. I’ve tried nearly every brand—Nike, New Balance, Reeboks, Adidas, Saucony… but the ASICS fit better and provide the most comfortable feel over the six miles of my run. Once shoes have been laced, I retrieve the side garage door keys and make my way out into the still darkened dawn and begin at a slow jog down my cul-de-sac toward the main east-west thoroughfare, Branham Lane, near where I live and head west. There are very few cars on the road at this hour in the morning making breathing a great deal easier. For a good 20 years, I ran after returning home from work. At that time in the early evening, the daily accumulation of daylong and evening commute traffic exhaust was heaping insults on my gasping lungs.

My run takes me west on Branham just over two miles, across Snell Avenue—a six-lane, north-south thoroughfare—through Vista Park Drive, then over north-south California Highway 87, and changing directions at Pearl Avenue, where the route turns left and I follow Pearl south until it ends at Chynoweth Avenue. At the intersection of Pearl and Chynoweth is a Santa Clara Valley Transportation Authority light rail station. I turn left on Chynoweth and begin the return leg of my run. Along this stretch, Chynoweth ducks under the light rail tracks and California Highway 87 and climbs up passing Gunderson High School. I leave Chynoweth at Hyde Park Drive turning left and making my way east past Vista Park—an open space with playground, baseball, and soccer field. About four blocks later Hyde Park dead-ends at Vista Park Drive. A block left on Vista Park Drive and I’m back on Branham Lane where I turn right passing the Carlton Plaza Assisted Living Center. Ten minutes or so later and I’m done for the morning. It’s 6:30 and I’ve got a half hour to shower, dress, and begin my commute north to Palo Alto and the start of the workday.

On the weekend, I shut the alarm off and usually don’t go to sleep until after midnight on Friday and Saturday. Waking at 9:00 or later on a Saturday or Sunday morning and lacking the momentum that comes from a daily repetitive, ritualistic grind, I have to make a determined effort to get into jogging gear and make my way out into a warm sun lit day and begin my journey. I’m driven by a great fear that the morning I wake and am unable to complete my round, I’ll have admitted to my age and to the certainty that such an admission means. I began my daily sojourn over two decades ago proclaiming that I was running to keep ahead of death. It was a macabre joke when I was in my 30s. Today, it has a ring of truth.

I’ve noticed over the past several years since the turn of the millennium that the time it takes me to complete the trip has increased slightly. Where I could claim a time of 50 minutes to complete the run before, the time has now gotten closer to an hour. I’m sure that the increase can be attributed to my aging physiology, but I’m inclined to believe that some of the increase is the result of a decrease in the drive that propelled me in my younger years. Years earlier, I was a ball of nervous energy unable to settle down, having to be constantly doing something. The idea of sitting still was such an anathema that my wife “I” continually pointed out when we were on vacation that I was substituting a day full of activity for the day full of work I had left behind. Over the years, I suspect that age has had a way of moderating the hormonal floods that assault us all daily.

My one consolation is that I can still make the trip without having to resort to rest stops along the way. Furthermore, I can still work myself into a steady rhythm in which I can ignore the impulses to slow my fast-paced progress to a leisurely walk. When I’m unable to achieve and sustain this state I’ll have to admit then that I’m over the hill. The challenge now is to see how long I can forestall that day.