LOOKING
GOOD
LOOKING
GOODHave you noticed how many middle-aged runners look astonishingly young? Have you ever been at an awards ceremony when a forties (or fifties or sixties) winner appearing 10 to 15 years younger went up to get the award? And someone yelled out to have his (or her) ID checked? It happens all the time. Does running make one look younger, or does running attract a younger-appearing, younger-spirited crowd? Or is it a little of both?
Well, not all of this is a blessing. We are, after all, in a highly competitive sport separated into age divisions. Just let one of those young-looking runners slip by you late in a race and then watch as he or she goes up for the award you could have had. You'll wise up in a hurry! But judging an opponent's age is so difficult, especially in a tough race. A case in point comes to mind.
Remember the old MDA 10K held at the Del Mar Racetrack? It was intensively promoted on TV, so it drew three- to four-thousand runners. I was new to the fifties division. My younger brother was visiting from Colorado. So we decided to go to the MDA 10K. Maybe all these factors combined to get me really pumped up.
The course went around the racetrack for the first mile, then out around the area and then the last three-quarter mile was back on the track. It was a fun course. Lots of runners blasted the first mile, perhaps to compare their times with racehorses, but I held back. Oh, it'd be fun to blast, but a good finishing time was more important.
The race went well, and my 5-mile split projected to a 40-minute finish, a good time. Thoughts of placing drifted through my mind. None of the hotshot fifties runners seemed to be present and my known close rivals were safely behind me. Of course, some unknowns could be here. Who knows? A race this big was hard to evaluate, but there might be a chance for a third place and one just had to go for it!
As I headed back onto the racetrack, visions of placing quickly dissolved to concern about the soft, furrowed, energy-absorbing running surface. Maintaining my pace would be tough. Strange I hadn't noticed any difficulty in the first mile, but now this track seemed formidable.
At about this time, my peripheral vision picked up a fellow slowly passing on the right. I just let the young bucks go by, but this guy looked about my age. Was he in his forties or fifties? It was so difficult to tell and the difference could be crucial.
He was bald with just a fringe of hair. Now baldness is not a reliable age indicator, but this guy was so far gone, he had to be well into his fifties. And you could see that little fringe of remaining hair had once been dark, but now was about two-thirds gray. Well, grayness wasn't a sure thing either, but coupled with the baldness, it made the fifties division a better guess.
I carefully studied the skin on the back of his neck. It looked more like forties skin than fifties skin. Hmmmmmm. Well, maybe the guy worked indoors. He looked rather professional, perhaps a doctor or lawyer. That was probably it: a professional who spent most of his time inside. Perhaps he only came out to run. It made sense. Staying with him was imperative.
The last lap was really tough. My rival was strong and relentless. The soft furrowed surface made my tired legs feel rubbery, but I doggedly hung on only a yard back. As we rounded the final bend, I felt near death and he just kept pounding away. We emerged onto the straight stretch and the finish appeared way off in the distance.
Well, it's amazing what the sight of the finish can do! I began to feel better. My form improved. I felt stronger and more confident. A plan started to form. I'd wait until about 40 yards out, then I'd go into an all-out dash. The thought brought a rush of adrenaline.
Finally, the announcer's voice boomed loud and clear. A big crowd cheered and clapped as runners crossed the finish line. Now was the time! I commanded my body to sprint, but nothing happened. Then suddenly, I lurched forward toward the finish with everything I had. Well, wouldn't you know it, my rival went into his kick at the same instant and we locked into an all-out dual. The crowd whistled and shouted and the announcer excitedly yelled over the PA system. We streaked across the finish line with him three feet in the lead.
When we came to a stop, we roughly slapped one another on the back and laughed and shook hands while gasping for air. He explained he was trying to break forty. Well, they ultimately gave him a 40:00 and me a 40:01, but we were a lot closer than that.
Finally, I breached the question of age. "Are you in the forties division?" I politely inquired, dreading the answer.
"Oh, no," he replied, laughing at the suggestion. "I just turned 39, so I've got another year to go."
Well, at the awards ceremony, I went up for a fine second-place trophy, the crowd cheered and someone yelled out to check my ID. But you know, I still can't believe that fellow was only 39.
October 1992
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