48

When I was 8, I knew my next best age was going to be 48. Then after that 84. It is a thing with me, this attachment to the numbers 8 and 4. I might have thought about this at age 4 too, but I cannot remember much about age 4. Mainly I remember the feeling of my toes in the the sand of an Atlantic Ocean beach on some family vacation, probably to Florida or maybe it was Long Island,  and the time my family stopped on the highway to help another family who had a car crash in front of us. There was a lot of blood involved. My Mom was a nurse, and she seemed pretty much in charge of the situation, as I remember it.

I recently turned 48. I am celebrating with a streak. You can rest assured I will not be running around naked. The last time I was naked in public was that summer night a bunch of us skinny dipped in Lake Mendota. Although I guess I have done a few of the quick changes at the beach after surfing or swimming since then. I do recall a gaggle of well toned naked surfers of the male variety which I spotted on a run a few years back, them just toweling off on the side of the beachfront road while I ran by all sweaty and middle aged. It was one of the moments where you both blush and thank God you are a runner who likes to go off the so called beaten path.

My "streak" is a run a day for 365 days. I have recently started regaining my health after a few years of struggle. The struggle as an athlete was compounded by mega doses of steroids, and not the ones that acned teenaged boys or Soviet era track stars might take to get all buff. Nope, just the kind that make your body turn into an alien. A blobby alien that would never get picked up at one of those bars on Star Trek. Anyway, thanks to science, a new drug came out this year that finally let me kick steroids to the curb. Thank you science.

Science. Remember that? It was this thing we used to pride ourselves on in this country and now our media ridicules it. It is only adored when it does us a good turn, like vaccines or safe contraceptives for our teenagers. Oh but wait, did I say adore or abhor?

Please forgive my digression. I am 48 years old and my mind sometimes wanders.

I am on day 25 of my streak. I have been at this running thing for enough years to know that this kind of thing can be risky. Especially in middle age and beyond. So I am varying pace, terrain, mileage and shoes. I am also lifting weights because I want to be strong. Very few people are aware of my secret identity as a Ninja Doctor. I must work my core and be ready for stealthy diagnosis and most especially be ready to jump out at my staff unexpectedly.

From the Ninja Doctor series, by Heather Irvin

I am not quite ready to go back to racing yet. I might never reach my prior pace, but I think with a little more time in the post-steroid era and some steady daily running, I might have a chance. Maybe at the Avenue of the Giants.

I just read a tweet (does one read tweets? Or is there a special verb for this, like #skimmed140?) about a guy who completed 800 official marathons all under 3:20.  I would love to run one under 3:20. I was 6 minutes shy of that in the pre-steroid era. Who knows what 48 will bring. I also #skimmed140 today that Meb ran his last long run before NYC, a 27.7 miler, in 2:56.
Ah, Meb. Coolest cat around.

Yeah, that's me and Meb

I have been thinking about the frivolous nature of going for a "streak" during these times. Puerto Rico is under water, yet without barely a drop to drink. An amazing colleague and friend lost her home in the fire, still burning, just south of us in California. My baby boy is in prison, and once again they are on "lockdown." On lockdown, all prisoners must stay in their cells 24/7, sometimes for weeks. They get a shower every 72 hours. I spent this weekend admitting people to hospice and putting the finishing touches on a lecture I will give soon on dementia. People, life is grim. A friend mentioned this weekend she feels bad complaining in the context of the abject suffering around us and around the world, but really suffering is not a contest. It is like comparing that apple snow white was given with the orange man in office. Or Harvey Weinstein and the guy who dry humped me against my will at age 16 when I was trapped, one of many sardines, on a bus in Rome. It is like comparing the unthinkable with the unfathomable, or the irritating with the bothersome. It is like comparing cancer with dementia or a hurricane with a fire or a bully on the playground with a bully in the workplace. Which is worse? I would say it doesn't matter.

Plus I am 48 this year and my 8 year old self is telling me that no matter what evil befalls us, 48 is golden.


Don't do it SW!

Speaking of Twitter, and Facebook, today many women have posted "Me too". That is to say, that almost every woman you know has been sexually harassed or assaulted in some way at some point during their life. I wrote last time about running as a woman. Short version is, I think we should be allowed to run free and we should not be expecting to be attacked. Except maybe by a mountain lion, and that is their prerogative given we are on their stomping grounds.

Run at your own risk...

I also just finished re-reading The Handmaid's Tale. Sheesh, talk about grim. What struck me about the book this time through were three things:
1) Atwood has a brilliant way with words
2) Never take the game "Scrabble" for granted
3) They justified enslaving women as a way to protect them from assault and misuse by men. So, it is like doing them a favor.

#3 is kind of scary, because I could see this happening. In a society where predators are considered unable to control themselves, you either shoot them or you hide. And although many think it is OK to shoot a mountain lion who wanders into "our" space, I would bet many would not see punishment of the predatory male, particularly the predatory white male, as optimal. In fact it is possible some might even want such a predator to be in the oval office! But I have been reading too many scary fairy tales lately...


Incidentally, I do not agree with shooting lions for simply wandering into our back yards which were once their own backyards. But they are scary as hell, and I hope I don't meet one tomorrow morning when I go for my run! At least not too close of an encounter, because spotting magnificent wildlife is wonderful. Just let it see my fierce poodle companion and know we are not worth the bother.


Roar!

The heaviness of grief involved with just being here and awake is potentially suffocating.

Rx: hope, run, read, love, laugh, rinse and repeat. 48 times.