Outpace

I actually make it to the gym for once and sigh before even getting on the treadmill. It’s a Saturday morning in late spring/early summer and that means all the walkers are out, strolling around the parking lot to raise money to cure disease. I am fine with the disease curing part and only object to the congestion because when the race ends, the area will be so choked with traffic that I’ll be unable to leave for awhile.

I park far away to stay out of the path of the race and walk briskly to the gym. I notice I am walking faster on my way to the gym to run than these people are walking during their race. Why are they so slow? You’d think with people dying of cancer or whatever it is, they might want to hustle a little to show they care. Able-bodied youth soak in applause at the finish line for ambling at 2.5 mph for 2.5 K.

On the treadmill, I feel not as sprightly as usual. Middle age, weight gain and missing a few sessions (due to vacation and avoiding fundraiser walkers) have taken a toll. All around me, the programmed miles per hour vary higher or lower than mine. People stroll or they sprint.

The TVs break the news that Muhammad Ali has died. I see him, white trunks against gray ‘60s ring, quick on his feet, punching and shouting. Butterfly, bee, rope-a-dope. Liston, Foreman, Frazier, Whoever. Rumble, Thrilla. Suffering slings and arrows like St. Sebastian. Lighting the Olympic torch, hands shaky but eyes still sparking. He is frozen in time, always running rings around me.

The baby-pool-deep point is that you will always outpace some people and other people will always outpace you.