A Marathon Of Excuses

The marathon bypassed our house again this year. Than meant that the street didn't get as much public works attention in the days before the race. It also meant that, in order to take in the sweaty spectacle, my wife and I had to trot on over a couple of blocks. I use the term "trot" to describe the somewhat delicate way in which the three of us, dog included, made our way over to the course. We stood on a corner for a few minutes, watching the runners chug their way past the halfway point of their journey across town and back again.
We became somewhat self-conscious, standing there. We decided to move along down the sidewalk, in solidarity with these athletes, the ones who had popped out of bed hours before to be on the starting line before my wife and I had opened our eyes fully. Our little group made it a few blocks before turning back toward our home. My wife was enthused enough to want to carry her portable speakers up to that corner and provide the sweaty mass some musical inspiration. I went back to our garage and pounded on the punching bag, working up the perspiration that would make me feel as though I too had been exerting myself. When I finished that, I went back outside our fence, and proceeded to take another lap around our neighborhood. This time, the faces on the stream of runners didn't look quite so fresh. This group was working a little harder at their personal best. I saw a sign go past on one of the race officials that said "3:45." Three hours and forty-five minutes. That was the expected finish time for this cluster of runners. I thought about the hour or so that I have spent on ten kilometer courses in my past and considered, not for the first time, what it would take for me to commit to running four times that long. I felt the pain in my legs and feet. I felt the weight of fifty years pressing down on me.
I turned the corner and went home for the second time, aware of the opportunity that was passing me by just a couple blocks away. Again. They'll be back again. Next year. When I'll be fifty-one. And my back will be sore. And my ankle will be aching.