' That is no country for old men '
I realised this week I have been posting under the PWR banner and writing weekly posts for 11 years. Is this enough pain and suffering to inflict on the general running population about slow running?
When do we become irrelevant, repetitive or just boring and I don’t want to do that. I used to be writing at this time of year when I was training for Dublin Marathon about strategies and tips to help performance. I was in that zone and had some perspective.
That life is gone, the ship has sailed and now my life is a few easy runs and parkrun family on Saturday mornings. It is good to be still moving and I do miss those long 20 mile runs early on a Saturday when everything seemed a possibility.
I am still a runner but a greatly modified version of a previous self. But I am still a runner. Beautiful run this morning in Midleton and just met so many nice people. There was visitors from Scotland, Bere Island and a few Norries from Cork. Actually the less you run the more time you have to engage, mix, talk, learn about all the people who present themselves at a start line. Maybe a late career as a running journalist talking about butterflies and blackberries is my calling.
Story…
Last week as I walking in Midleton town a car beeped at me to call me over. It was my friend Billy ( who has been previously mentioned in my posts as a daily 5k man ) .
He had a book for me about the life of Emil Zatopek. 1952 Olympic champion in 5k, 10k and Marathon. A remarkable life and the story is fascinating account of adversity and resilience. If it was good enough for Billy it was good enough for me. He said to me he found it useful for training tips and he thought I might get something from it to help me.
Just as I’m easing into a life of old age and easy running this tale of heroic achievement drops into my lap. Will it inspire me or finish me? My friend Billy is 88 and I’m 63. We are both runners but am I a journalist or a bluffer?
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.' Yeats.
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