Streaking

 I found myself doing something I try not to do: Generate ultimatums. 

As I was running up the hill near my house, my legs were reminding me of all sixty-one of my years. And it made me think, not for the first time, that I didn't have to do this. 

I could find an alternative way to exercise. I could discover something that worked up a sweat and worked my cardiovascular system in a similar fashion. One that didn't come with the complication of tired joints. 

I also know that there are many and varied options to the pain. Younger men than myself have surrendered to knee replacement surgery. Which brings its own flurry of insurance and logistical hoops through which I would need to jump. Bad knees and all. 

Which is where I rationalize, as the miles go by, that it's not so debilitating after all. It's not the sub-ten minute mile I used to work toward, but it's getting up and getting out.

This is about the time that I make this weird equivalency: Would I rather give up running or writing this blog? They are both lifelines in my world of seemingly endless repetition. They are both, at the end of the day, optional. I choose to do both of these activities. Daily. That's where it crosses over into compulsive. Finding alternatives to that need to check the box and fill in the blank every single day is the part that starts to lock up my gears. 

What's the matter with taking a day off? If you were to ask any sane person, they would counsel calm restraint. Just let your mind and body tell you how to proceed. 

I'm sure that's what Cal Ripken's brain said around the time he passed Lou Gehrig's consecutive game streak. "Why not just stop? Two thousand one hundred thirty-one games is a remarkable accomplishment. Go ahead and sit this next one out."

He didn't. He kept going for another five hundred games. 

So if you see me running around the neighborhood, that's pretty much what's going through my mind.