Warts ’n’ Hall
I first noticed it on some midweek runs: they routinely felt mysteriously sluggish. With a sleuth-like sharpness that Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have envied, I spied a pattern after several weeks. Those wheezy, enfeebled efforts were always the day after a workout. It was a bombshell. When I push hard in training, my body doesn’t recover as quickly as it used to. I’m 47. And, it turns out, I’m not getting any younger. That’s a seriously crap phrase. No one, unless they’re an oddly wrinkle-free Hollywood actor, is getting younger. And no one, unless you’re Gary Lineker, is staying the same age.
Since detecting a recovery lag, I’ve also noticed – and this is hard to type – I’m not as fast as I was. My top speed has started to go the same way as my hairline. It might be hard for non-runners to know when they’re past their physical peak, but we runners are lucky because all doubt is removed. We have daily data, the cruel exposing truth of GPS sportswatch stats. The workouts I used to upload to Strava with a buzz of pride now gently mock me. You probably couldn’t tell they’re me trying to run fast, to chase my yoot. When my coach prescribes a workout that includes 5K pace, 10K pace or marathon pace, they’re all now aspirational ideas and, frankly, they’re all the same. What was once my marathon pace has become my 5K pace. I haven’t done parkrun for yonks. I don’t need a weekly reminder that I’m regressing. I was in denial about my decline for a while. Maybe it was the wind? I’m sure there was a slight uphill? I’m probably a bit tired from all the gardening and trimming errant grey hairs from my chin – and my ears. But now I’ve accepted that my running PBs are officially in the rear-view mirror.
Tipping into the old-git age category was rewa
