01/02/15

Victory

Y'know, when you get to be my age (39) you decide whether you're old or not.

I've known guys my age and younger who decided that they were old and quit doing stuff, sat on the couch and drank beer, watched the hockey game and were right. They were 100% right, they were, in fact, old.

I'm not young anymore (and I thank god for that) but i'm a hell of a long way from old.

Is being old bad? hell no. But quitting because you are is.

Where is all this going you ask? (as I'm sure you often do) well I'll tell ya.

I was a boxer for many years, from the time I was 5 till my early thirties. I worked out three or four times a week. I boxed many rounds, exercised a lot and did some running.

I hated running with a passion, it was boring, it hurt, and it was generally a torture. I hated hated hated it.

Four years ago my dad died. My dad and I were the coaches of the boxing club, we spent hundreds of hours in the gym getting ready to fight, working out, sparring, and, in later years both of us taught the new kids coming up. I had a lot of amateur fights in my years, and my dad was in my corner every single time. when he died I didn't want to set foot in a boxing club again, and I quit doing everything.

So, consequently I packed on 20 lbs and convinced myself I wasn't turning to shit. well I was.

Back in October i was working at a fire and almost passed out from heat exhaustion. I worked myself too hard and fast, I had gone way past my limits and nearly passed out. Unfortunately I wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary, I was just in really bad physical condition.

Then I got sick. I got the flu really badly and was sicker than hell for a week, and I could barely look at food for another week and a half. i lost ten pounds, and kinda liked it. My pants fit me for the first time in quite awhile. I didn't want to lose this new feeling.

I was at my firehall one night, having gotten a ride from a friend and decided to walk home. It was a nice night, there was a breeze, and stars, and I remembered running i the evening as a fighter. I was wearing running shoes and sweatpants this night and before I knew it i was jogging down the road.

There was pain. Feet, lungs, joints. I plugged along, surprising myself as the distance ticked by, forcing myself to each new place.

"When I get to the streetlight I'll walk"

"When I get to that blue mailbox I'll walk"

"When I get to the next street I'll walk."

Well these points came and went. I wheezed, and plodded on, my breath coming in gasps, feeling like barbed wire was being dragged out my brochial tubes, sweating, and in the end staggering, but I got home. I had run exactly one mile.

I celebrated by puking in my driveway. but by god I had run a mile.

Now, I understand that to many people that's not really a great accomplishment but at the time I was 230 pounds, flabby, and hadn't exercised in four years. ( My last fighting weight was 210 That was pretty lean for me. I'm a big guy)

Three times a week. I promised myself I'd do that three times a week. I never really believed it though.

I had never in my life run more than three miles, even in my best fighting trim. Three miles was it. Amateur boxers don't need to be able to last more than 10 minutes. There are three three minute rounds, not the twelve the pros do.

well I'm telling you I've stuck with it so far. November I hung around a mile, but i noticed I didn't hate it like I used to. I had some time by myself to think, to accomplish, to feel like I wasn't just letting myself turn to shit. Suddenly i preferred fruit to cookies, water to coke, and chicken to beef. suddenly i was (gasp!) looking forward to running.

December the first, the morning of my 39th birthday I hit two miles. Last week I hit 2 3/4. Steady running, between 9 and 10 minute miles.

Tonight I decided to push it to three. and looked forward to doing it. I was out there in the early evening in the cool air, the sound of my feet slapping, air in and out easy, alive, alive, alive. I watched the sky turn crimson as I turned and headed west and felt really good .

I was enjoying myself and the excitement of pursuing a goal. No one but me would know or care that I had run three miles and that didn't matter a goddamn. I was enjoying my own company, I was enjoying knowing that I hadn't quit, that I was taking care of myself. I was deciding not to be an old man.

I'm not young anymore and I'm glad. i've earned my age, but I'm not ready for the couch.

I felt good at three miles, I still had the breath to laugh

I cut down another street, and another. Laughing at the corners giggling as I passed the streetlights, flipped a finger at the blue mailbox. As I saw my driveway approach a hundred yards away I kicked into a sprint. I grabbed the air and hammered my feet out, I snarled and barked at the night. God but I was alive.

To hell with three miles, I  had run four. I stood in my driveway catching my breath and remembered puking there three months ago.
 

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