Continuum

 Last weekend, I commented to my wife as we made our semi-regular walk around Oakland's Lake Merritt, that each time I make the run over the hill to meet up with her it takes me just a little longer. It is a natural progression that comes with time: aging. Certainly if I had been attempting this three mile trot back in my early teens, it might have taken me a little longer than it did when I was in my thirties, when I was starting to hit my stride, if you'll pardon the pun. And when I was in my twenties, in my salad days of youthful exuberance when I could get out and just run. For miles and miles. Back when I carried a cassette Walkman with me, even though the double A batteries would only last a couple days worth of that kind of use. 

When I was a new father, the folks at my previous employer pitched in and bought me a jogging stroller. There were plenty of times when I had my little boy tucked inside that conveyance and our dog on a leash to the side while I went about the business of staying fit. Those were some of the uber-moments. This was before the kidney stones. Before the need for glucosamine supplements. When I first started teaching PE, I would would lead a pack of elementary schoolers in laps around the playground. I readily accepted challenges from fourth and fifth graders who wanted to showcase their speed. That was back when I would let them win. Now it's a pretty well established fact that Mister Caven is as old as most of their grandparents and any such competition would now be considered elder abuse. 

As I creep toward this now inevitable sixty years old, I have a great deal of rationalization left to do. Even before I destroyed my left knee back in my twenties, I didn't harbor any fantasies of winning trophies. Just participation ribbons for me, thanks. Not that I don't continue to attempt to stave off the looming specter of all my factory issued parts no longer being covered under the original warranty. That reality took a double hit recently when I switched over to having my phone track the distance I run via GPS instead of just counting up steps. Those six and seven mile runs were really more like four and a half to five. I was now coming over the hill at somewhere above a ten minute mile when I was under the impression that I was moving at a much faster clip. Suddenly I find myself moving over less space in more time. 

Discouraging, but inexorable. 

Which, as it turns out, is actually okay. Because while my body continues to disintegrate, my ability to accept the terms of my own surrender increases. It's good to know that some muscles are actually getting stronger with age. I might be slowing down, but I'm not stopping.