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"Shin Splints"
A Blog by
Doug Logan
Get your kicks on Route 66
Monday, May 11, 2009
Sunday morning, Mother's Day, and the last day of my 65th year, I woke up in my Indianapolis apartment. The sun was shining, the temperature in the low 50's; it was a perfect day for an extended workout. After a bit of fruit, protein and grains for breakfast, I did what many of you regularly do: I mapped out my walk/run through the urban heart of the Circle City.
I have a perverse tendency to play mind games as I put a route together. In some cities with numbered streets and avenues, I run a circuit that will add up to a specific number. For example, if my goal number is 35, I will go out 5th Street to 7th Avenue to 21st Street, returning on 2nd Avenue. 5+7+21+2=35. Sometimes, I just start with the goal number and construct it on the run. Indianapolis has most of its downtown streets named after states of the union. I will sometimes take a run only on streets named after states I have lived in. I must say I have a lot of options.
This day I did not play any of my macabre games. Walk three miles; jog three miles. All I wanted was a gentle sweat. About a mile from returning home, as I exited the canals on the west side of town and took a right on 11th Street, I stumbled and fell flat on my face. Prophetically, I was listening to Scott Weiland's new CD, Happy in Galoshes, and the cut was a great song, "Paralysis". The first thing to hit the ground was my chin and then my forehead. My first thought: I hope I haven't scratched the lenses of my Oakley shades.
When I got home and peered into the mirror to inspect the damage, I looked like I had survived a bar brawl in Astoria, Queens. [I use that example based on personal history, but that's another story.] Scratches and welts on my chin, forehead, both palms and left knee. But, the most painful injury was that to my ego. When you think you are 26, it is very hard to come to grips with the fact that you are 40 years older.
Some of us are doing the right things to reach what we hope is wholesome aging. We eat well, exercise regularly and avoid modern temptations. Along the way we have become addicted to the stimulation of endorphins and can attest to their affinity to the opiate receptors. We use seat belts, slather sunscreen, see our doctors regularly and have learned how to mitigate arthritic pain. But, every once in awhile, a stumble like the one I took Sunday morning brings the chicken home to roost: we are playing in the fourth quarter.
I cannot tell you the level of disconnect between this reality and the way I think and feel. I know I am doing the best work of my professional life. I still do the Saturday and Sunday Times crosswords in ink and have become conversant with technology. I work an 80-hour week and am alert in situations that cause many a youngster to yawn and droop. I plan my wardrobe meticulously and am cognizant of the way I look. I stay culturally relevant and read voraciously. I love to dance and occasionally practice the Cuban art of flirting. I think Justin Timberlake, singer, dancer and comedian, is one of the most talented performers of this generation.
However, I know I now have outlived Nostradamus by three years. My posture is not what it used to be and I am certainly a much slower runner. My fairway drives are less than 250 yards, and the volume level on my TV is aggressive. I don't get the point of reality shows, Paris Hilton or the X Games. I cannot gracefully enter a sports car nor can I drink espresso after an evening meal. I cannot understand why young women tolerate how badly young men dress. I am grieving the decline of the newspaper business and cannot get used to being informed on-line. Travel would become so much more civilized if flight attendants did not act like drill sergeants and if cab drivers actually knew where they were going.
Being 66 beats the alternative. But I steadfastly refuse to "yield" to it. I will still hang around young people, personally and professionally. I will still stay addicted to good, alternative music. I refuse to become a cranky, all-knowing, so-called senior. I will still wake up with a smile on my face and retain my self-deprecating humor.
Today, a good friend, on the phone, offered to send me some Grecian Formula for my hair as a birthday present. I told him he didn't get it. I have spent a lifetime trying to stay "authentic," and dying my hair, to me, would be the epitome of hypocrisy. I'll take this dealt hand. Look for me to get my kicks on Route 66.
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Doug Logan is the CEO of USA Track & Field
(USATF), the national governing body for track and field, long distance running,
and race walking. Headquartered in Indianapolis, the organization has more than
90,000 members throughout the country.
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