I'm on a journey to start running. It's a semi-serious journey.
I really do want to start running, but time is not my
friend. Neither is my knee, my hip, my
lung strength, nor my bladder. I have a
max capacity of three miles before knees and hips start to creak, squeak, tear,
or moan. Trying to walk or run with me
as your sidekick is like being accompanied by a box of Rice Krispies
cereal. After I've snapped, crackled,
and popped every movable joint below the navel, I'm hit with the sudden
realization that no matter how little or much water I've consumed, three miles
is my bladder's limit. Maybe four. Never five.
And thanks to my multiple bouts with pneumonia and a strange tendency
toward exercise-induced asthma, I'm huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf
about to blow down a house, except that there's no actual air power behind it.
The other day my daughter and I found a great training
circuit. There aren't too many inclines,
and those we encounter are relatively mild.
Our walk-run cycles don't happen in any major metropolitan areas where
too much traffic will gawk, and we finish up in the cemetery. That means we can stretch and look like dorks
without too many people actually seeing us stretch and look like dorks.
Today we take a different turn as we enter the cemetery, and
it forces our last jogging cycle to be up a small hill. The grade of the slant isn't too terrible,
but our legs for some reason are totally spent.
It feels like our own miniature Heartbreak Hill. When we get to the top and realize the whole
circuit (except for cool down and stretch) is complete, I proudly point out
that we ran faster than anybody in the entire place. Of course, it being a cemetery, the irony
isn't lost, but I know she won't chase me down and beat on me for my black
humor since we are both ready to sit (or fall) down.
We walk along until the app on my daughter's phone tells us
to stretch. We put down our water
bottles and… realize we are in the military part of the cemetery. Considering how expansive the place is and
our round-about route, it seems fitting that on Memorial Day we are stretching
and looking out over dozens of flags, some wreaths, and several interesting
monuments. I wish for my camera but settle
for daughter's cell phone. She takes a
few pictures for me, and we're off again, not running, but finally on our way
home.
Moments like this are brought to us by soldiers who fight to
and swear to uphold our freedoms. It is
both a spiritual and physical honor to be where we are at this time and in this
place. I promise you that these are my
last Memorial Day musings until next year. I also promise that I will never forget this
moment, at least not until next year when a new Memorial Day memory pushes it
aside, shelves it like a photograph in a scrap book.
It's all about the journey.
Somehow my legs and body aren't so tired anymore.
