Some of my toys.

To preface this post, I’d like to clear up any potential misconception about my view of age. Most of my sports heroes are in their fifties and beyond, and I fully recognize that they’re really good at what they do—it’s just that most of them have been really good their whole lives.

A rapidly approaching a birthday, becoming wiser, getting older—whatever you choose to call it—comes with a bit more reflection this year than past years, perhaps because I’m about to leave a packed, wonderful, and tumultuous decade behind. I’m taking stock of what I’ve done with my life so far, and how I compare to who I thought I’d be when I got this… old.

I distinctly remember a giggle-laden conversation with a friend in high school, and that the giggles stopped when we thought about how “being twenty” would make us strong-headed adults with long lists of accomplishments and maybe even a pair of Weimaraners. Twenty seemed so out of reach, but now it’s out of reach in the other direction. There’s a list of accomplishments, but it’s certainly not what I thought it would be, and the Weimaraners were bypassed in favor of foundling mutts.

What was bypassed in athletic terms was the ability to be really good—maybe even great—at something. Kids are getting recruited and drafted and molded into stars in various sports while in their preteen years, and talent is most certainly identified before the end of college. For a multitude of reasons, not the least of which was my lack of dedication and/or talent, I missed my window to be great, to be wealthy beyond comprehension from sporting success before a gray hair sprouted, and to have “that body.” Insert your favorite celebrity sports idol’s body in the previous sentence, and you know what I mean.

Sprawled on the deck, swatting mosquitoes and spraying my aching legs with cold hose water under the hot sun, I relished some weekend time to consider that I’d just run for an hour. As the water made whitish rivers of sunscreen on my stubbly legs, I felt like something more than UVA protection was leaving my body. I recognized a profound sense of loss. I will never be really good at anything.

The shock, the hurt, and almost a few tears eventually brought about eerie calmness. It’s freeing, in a way, to recognize that the only competition I have to worry about now is fighting with myself to stay fit and try new activities. Not such a bad life after all, although the riches and free clothes would’ve been quite nice, had I found remarkable athletic success.

Although my glass of water was not only half empty, but three-quarters empty, I looked at the glass and realized it was only losing volume because I chose to drink from it. In that sense—choosing to drink, to engage with life—I’d much prefer an empty glass to a half-full one. So long, rotten cliché. My glass may be half empty, but it’s because I’m thirsty.

Last-minute fitting of my backpack before hopping into my loaded-down Civic for a drive to the beach for a 16-mile hike.

The typical Honda Civic seats five humans. Mine, however, seats one, or two if somebody doesn’t mind discomfort. It’s not that I don’t want friends riding with me– it’s just not possible with my active pack rat lifestyle. I’ll go space by space to explain (and this is just stuff that’s in there today, after a recent cleaning).

First, the front passenger seat. A bicycle helmet, a newly purchased pair of work shoes so my feet don’t hurt after long hours of exercise and walking hospital floors, an empty bottle of Naked Superfood Green Machine, and various receipts for athletic paraphernalia. Foot room? Uh-uh. On the floorboard is a bike pump, a water bottle, some dirty athletic socks, and a pair of running shoes. While we’re looking around up front, I should mention the console. The cup holder on the right has a gym membership card and a pack of gum (to avoid gym breath). The one on the left has registration information for a nearby 5K. Really, where would you sit?

To the back seat. From one end to the other, without 1/2 inch wiggle room, is most of my Novara bike. On the floorboards is its front wheel, plus two clean pairs of running socks, another empty water bottle, and a sweatshirt that should’ve been washed three workouts ago. Plus, there’s the general funk that comes with sporty things kept in a confined space.

I like to think of my car as a second home, or maybe a bit like a mobile storage shed for gear in case the urge to pull over and get active strikes. Have I killed my gas milage yet? Maybe, but you can bet I’ll be ready for any impromptu fitness gatherings in town.