When I was 15 years old I discovered that I enjoyed running. I would run just so I would not have to walk. Walking seemed so … pedestrian.

During that time of my life, I had the great opportunity to be involved in track & field. This provided a training regimen that allowed me to attain the competitive level of participating in the 1979 Canadian Track & Field Olympic Trials.

I had a blast during those years of competitive running. Somehow training 5 to 6 days a week seemed like the natural thing to do. I rarely had injuries and the opportunity to travel with like-minded individuals always provided great moments of camaraderie.

Fast forward through the years and reverse those numbers. At 51 years old, I still enjoyed running; albeit more so in my mind. This came to the forefront recently when I convinced myself that I was still fit enough to sprint at will, conveniently forgetting that in order for muscle and sinew to work in harmonious rhythm, they should always be prepared well in advance to accommodate misplaced delusions of youthful vigour. This abdication of foresight overrode common sense as I attempted to “beat the rush” exiting from the commuter train that had just arrived at my usual stop.

My original, but no less short-sighted goal, was to be the first to the parking lot, thereby avoiding the inevitable line of exiting cars jostling for position. Naturally, being one of the first to get off the train, the path before me was devoid of human obstacles, and thus stirred on by my deluded 15 year old thinking, I decided to extend my 51 year old legs and sprinted down the pathway then bounded up a flight of stairs, like some Gazelle evading a predator’s capture. The disadvantage (which I soon discovered) was that I am only graced with one pair of legs, while Gazelle’s have twice that number, thereby allowing them exponentially more surefootedness (and most assuredly more bounding capacity) than I do.

I consider it nothing short of a miracle that I was able to make it up the stairs to my car without ignominiously falling flat on my face. By the time I reached my car, the slings and arrows of outrageous pain began to filter through my deceived mind; and lungs; and legs; and heels. More precisely, a certain Achilles tendon on my left foot. A few hours later and well into the next day, the pain allowed for a fair bit of reflection, as I was unable to walk faster than a shuffle.

The moral of this story? I am still working on that. Or maybe I am just too embarrassed to say 🙁

Rom 7:15 – I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.

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