The Road to #3

 

63 years old. Well. I did not expect this. As a young boy living with undiagnosed depression, I remember having a premonition that I would not live to see 21. Imagine my surprise when that first legal beer came and went without incident.

Then there's my family history. Neither my grandfathers, my dad, nor his brother, my uncle lived as long as I have. None of them were around long enough to retire. I did not expect to be an exception.

Yet, here I am: a silver-haired geezer who is constantly told, "Oh, you aren't old," even as my body and spirit stubbornly disagree. It is so easy to talk one's self into decrepitude. I wonder if that's what happened to the men in my family. Did they just decide that enough was enough? Maybe I'll get a chance to ask them someday.

In the meantime, against the odds, against cancer and obesity and depression and a frightening few months with a fluttery heart,,, I'm still here. 63 years old. There's no telling how long this business could go on. Something must be done. Something sensible. Something useful. Something rational.

I think I'll run another Marathon.

It will be a long way off. Right now, a one mile walk feels like a long way. But is isn't supposed to be easy. I may be 65 before it happens, (that seems likely,) but I'd like to have one more finisher's medal on my door before I finish the big race. I'll be writing about it, of course, partly to brag, and partly to keep myself accountable to you for the promise. 

I'm also inviting you to join me. Make yourself a big, crazy promise. Let's keep them together. 

So, off we go.

Pennsy