Paul’s stride is easy and free, despite a cold hampering him this morning. With 10 days to go until his next race, a half marathon in a neighbouring town, his fitness is at its zenith.
Though he professes his glory days to be well behind him, he’s hopeful for a time that would rival my own PB. His current best is 10 minutes faster than his goal pace — a time set 10 years ago, when he was my age.
10 minutes (slower) in 10 years. That’s normal.
No Paul. It’s not normal. Normal is sitting at home eating cheesies and watching Vanna turn letters on Wheel of Fortune. Nothing we as middle-aged long distance runners do is normal.
At this realization a smile plays across Paul’s still boyish features. And with that he sprints off ahead of me. Effortlessly leaving me behind.