By mile ten, climbing the hill into Philadelphia’s Fairmount Park, running by Memorial Hall, my hips, groin, knees and ankle were all complaining pretty seriously. I knew I’d finish my first half marathon since 1977, but I was telling myself to just limp home. And then I hit Martin Luther King Drive, and saw the clock at the eleven-mile mark: I had eighteen minutes to break two hours. My mind immediately said, “Surrender; 2:02 or 2:03 is great.”
I am fifty-six. I ran track and cross country in high school. I was only a little better than ordinary, breaking a 4:40 mile once or twice, but loved it. Loved everything about it — the friendships, the fitness, the feeling of success after a good race. I remember all these great moments from a lifetime ago. Not victories or defeats, but singing in the showers after practice, or Mark Sohasky running right into a water fountain at Burke Lake Park during the district championship, or listening to Foghat on 8-track tap…