Men, Middle-Age and Mortality

Father's Day has come and gone but left me pondering fathers and sons and the things we inherit and the things we learn, that which is passed on, for better or worse and nature versus nuture and the inevitability of time. Too much for one Sunday!

When 40 loomed on the horizon for yours truly, Dr. Boris suggested that, given my family history in the heart department, it might not be a bad idea to go for a baseline cholesterol test. It only took me the better part of five years to get around to it. In fact I even, on two separate occasions I am chastened to add, carried around in my wallet until they were frayed and worn out, forms filled out to take the test.

The obtuseness of my behavior becomes even more apparent when I consider that both I and my younger brother once confessed to each other that we both experienced chest pain at times that was painful to the point of being debilitating. In the intervening years, Boris found that my symptoms were a result of my asthma, my brother's, anxiety. But, really, neither one of us truly wanted to know. We were both, I think, attempting to distance ourselves from the heart history of our father and grandfather.

Recognizing the futility of thinking that a problem or situation will resolve itself by being studiously and conscientiously ignored, I figured I might as well get a baseline test while it still made sense. Me being me, a test is a test, and I wanted a good result. And if there was ever a day when I was going to get good cholesterol numbers, I figured it had to be the day after a marathon.

So on the Monday after the Vancouver Marathon I trundled off to the clinic, let the nurse stab me and meekly gave up my tubes of blood. All would now be revealed. Short answer? There is almost no chance of my succumbing to a heart "event" any time soon. Although, I am still wondering about the wizard who came up with the medical terminolgy - heart event - I mean, "heart event" sounds like a party with balloons and and a band and hundred dollar tickets and a dress code.

But my blood chemistry was pristine. Bad cholesterol low, good cholesterol good, those pesky little triglycerides, hardly on the scale, and the whole host of other enzymes and things all seemingly just fine. I was almost, kind of, but in the end, not really, disappointed. I mean, I had invested a lot of energy in actively avoiding dealing with the truth about my heart health. My paranoia and sense of dread had largely been for nought. Although Boris hastened to add, that my blood pressure, heart rate and blood chemistry were all inextricably linked to my running lifestyle for the past five or so years, and his best advice? - keep running.

To be continued...

Running is one thing, this pursuit of Boston is exacting a heavier toll than I had imagined it would. I have to be faster, but the speed is breaking down a body already on the verge of middle-age decrepitude. I am gingerly trying to find the delicate balance where hard training stresses induces improvement versus going out too hard too often results in injury and over-training. The cross-training, the running, the endless pushing of the edge of the envelope, all require a deftness of touch and reasoning that I probably lack. It is in my nature to push until something pushes back. Training to qualify for Boston is all about finesse. When your body pushes back, you have stepped too far over the line and one can only hope that the damage isn't irrevocable. At least for this marathon.

Turning 45 is a mere six weeks away, losing another fifteen pounds is imperative, if only to take the strain off of my old injuries, a host of broken bones, abused tendons, ruptured cartilage, shredded ligaments and the assorted scar tissues of my overly exuberant youth. Every hard work-out these days seems to rouse in my muscles the memory of some old indignity inflicted on them from previous decades, a high speed spill, a body check into the corner, an awkward tackle, a fall from a horse, the cars I never saw coming - it is a rather perverse scenario - a cellular review of Vince's "Greatest Hits".

And yet, and yet, it is not all bad news. One morning I can barely crawl out of the bed and then the next day, like last Tuesday night's tempo run, the running is not a procession of individual footsteps, but a physical expression that verges on poetry, my feet do not pound pavement but fly over it. I have no sensation of effort, the striding becomes gliding, and I steam forward as if riding the crest of a wave. And then it as if you are a child again, when seemingly effortless speed and play were the natural phyical expression of self. The ache then is not in your body but in your heart and soul. When you wish you could have had the wisdom in your youth to fully savour every moment of physical bliss but of course you couldn't, because you were sweetly ignorant of the knowledge that such things are fleeting. That the body, like the years, must pass through its seasons, that spring will give way to summer and fall and inevitably, to winter.

The truth is, I can see myself running many, many more marathons. I see marathons trailing off far into my future... But there is no denying that the leaves in my legs are turning colour. That the green of spring and summer is giving way to an autumnal palette.

The truth is also, I do not know how many more fast marathons I either can run or that I want to run - bearing in mind of course that my definition of a fast marathon is specific entirely to me. A marathon where I am faster than the one before, where my time is a new personal best. After a while, what point am I trying to make to myself?

Frankly, I wouldn't mind being a 4:00, 4:15 or 4:30 marthoner at all. What is the special allure of Boston? What is it about it's history and glitter and shine that makes me want to pick at it like a crow? What makes me want to have it? Ego? Id? Just because it's there?

Regardless, the cold hard facts show that a 3:30:59 is going to take a once-in-a-lifetime conjuction of the sun, the moon, and all the stars and planets. I must be close to 180. I must be fully recovered, rested and tapered. I must be fast. Otherwise, any attempt at a qualifying time in October will be fruitless. Not pointless. But fruitless. I want to play as far into late summer as I can. I want to ignore the shorter days and the longer nights, turn a blind eye to the falling leaves and the failing light, pretend I don't see the ice on the ponds and the birds flying south nor the wind from the north and the first killing frost. I want summer to last as long as possible. And I want to pick the last of the summer fruit.