Not Mine to Lose

My fickle friend

Running Log

7/3/18

Every winter of the past four, I’ve bemoaned the loss of my speed, which would unceremoniously desert before the first snowfall, despite solicitous nurturing on my part.

Every spring of the past four, my speed would return for a blissful reunion. Our May-December romance was glorious. I felt — I prayed — that it would last forever. That we’d cross the finish line, foot-by-foot, in triumph, collect our gold, and proceed to run, joyously, into an eternal sunset.

Truth be told, come mid-November, my speed would invariably begin to behave erratically, becoming unreliable, inattentive. With ten shopping days still remaining before Christmas, my speed would sputter out then rudely run off to the waiting feet of my rival.

As I write this, it is July third, and my speed has yet to return. I should rephrase that. The expression “yet to return” is euphemistic, implying a mere delay. To put it bluntly: Looks like my speed has dumped me for good.

Which means, alas, that “my” speed is no longer mine to lose.

7/10/18

My erstwhile speed — I hereby dub thee Speedo — made a surprise, and most welcome, appearance during my morning run. Speedo escorted me down Forest Street as I chased a guy some twenty years my junior. Thanks to Speedo, I caught, then passed, the hapless fellow — who promptly boomeranged up the street rather than acknowledge defeat at the feet of an old lady.

Speedo gallantly accompanied me for the remainder of my mile, to the corner of Forest and Main — then abruptly bounded off, leaving me to make the return trip, uphill, at my own pace. Which was just shy of two minutes slower. I shall surely treasure forever the gift of that magical, 7 minutes-and-18-seconds, like-the-best-of-times, mile!

7/17/18

Champing at the bit behind the starting gate, I spied a sixty-plenty- something tart flaunting herself in a sequined Superwoman costume, complete with a faux-gem-encrusted cape. Would Speedo get excited by her flashy get-up and take off with her?

As the race began, I lost sight of Superwoman in the rushing crowd and feared that she and Speedo had eloped. All I could do was hope that Speedo would soon tire of her ostentatious presumption — false advertising! — -and bail mid-honeymoon, leaving her feet to founder amidst the dust.

My attention was diverted when I spotted Speedo with HER. Not Superwoman, but my familiar rival of three-plus years. Perhaps Speedo was playing one against the other, as the faithless louse was wont to do. Looked like the best I could hope for here was the bronze. And not even that if Speedo was pacing alongside another pair of peds.

Meantime, with Superwoman likely long since been mistaken for a bird or a plane, all my concentration diverted to HER. I’m not proud to admit it, but I stalked her and Speedo, pacing behind them stealthily so that they wouldn’t see me. She might well recognize me, and it could get ugly. She knew about me, certainly — and I sure knew all about her! — though we’d never confronted each other. This was not the time or place for a meet-and-greet.

At about mid-race — to my astonished delight — Speedo abruptly defected from HER feet and attended to mine, masterly as ever. Oh! How I thrilled to feel once again that exquisite — should-be-trademarked — touch. Yes! Panting in crescendo, Speedo and I finished together, triumphant. The climax of my season for sure!

I don’t delude myself that it was anything more than a one-night stand. Still, I cannot deny the passion I still feel for Speedo, even after four years of our on-and-off association — the off-season being always at Speedo’s whim, with me begging shamelessly: Please don’t leave me! I’ll try harder, really, I will.

And I did. Each time, I’d resolve to do whatever it took to win Speedo back. Yet my efforts were always in vain. Or I should say Speedo returned when Speedo wanted to return, regardless of my running myself into a fruitless frenzy day-after-day-after-day.

Certainly, should Speedo ever deign to run my way again, I’d cherish the chance to reprise our glory days — and nights — however briefly. Speedo is temperamental — high maintenance to the max. And quite clearly not one for commitment: Fickle — flitting about, flirting indiscriminately with God-knows- how-many-and-where-they’ve been filthy pairs of feet.

That said, anytime you want to tickle these toes, Speedo, make ’em twinkle — by all means go for it! That is, if you can manage to do it with my running shoes on.

7/22/19

Within a week after that triumphant race last July, my right leg quit. Not in protest of pavement-pounding; ironically, it rebelled against the many more miles spent simply summer-strolling. I limped for five weeks; when I resumed running Speedo had long since gone off to flirt with fleeter feet.

As always, I tried to get him back — for months I ran myself ragged trying to get Speedo to resume our relationship; my efforts went largely unacknowledged. Once in a while Speedo would blink-you-miss-it wink my way and shave me a few seconds, enough to give me hope that I would break an eight-minute mile again.

My hopes were not realized; quite the reverse: my pace climbed from sub-8:15 to 8:20-plus; toward year-end my 5K times were closing in on 26 minutes.

In December, Speedo double-dumped me — in front of two thousand people — in favor of my rival, going all out on her behalf and leaving me humiliated by a loss of nearly two minutes. As a coup de gras, Speedo rubbed my face in my pathetic feet, cruelly tipping me over the cusp of 26.

In March, Speedo seemingly took a bit of pity on me, tossing a 12-second improvement my way; alas, it was but a tease. Speedo threw all his charms her way, granting my erstwhile-close rival a one-minute-off coupon to be combined with her 30-seconds pre-Christmas savings. The upshot is that this time she beat me by almost two-and-a-half minutes.

Then, Mr. Mercurial pulled a “fast” one on me last week, i.e., pacing me to finish 2:16 faster than in March. As a bonus gift, Speedo staved HER off enough allow me a 19-second lead.

I was euphoric. Yet, I well know how ephemeral is Speedo’s devotion; the end is not a question not of if but rather when. Soon enough Speedo will depart; he’ll leave me and her both for good, as he courts younger, spryer pairs of peds. That said, Speedo, many thanks for last week’s blast to our past.

2/3/22

I almost broke a 10-minute mile today!