At Sunday's race, I was surrounded by younger runners, and the ones I noticed the most were the pony-tailed cross-country and varsity runners. I tried to get away from them, and I tried to catch them. And I chased women whose faces and affiliations I couldn't see.
It happens at every race. I run after girls or ladies, wondering if they are in my age group or a Master. In the summer, when bare legs are showing and hips aren't compressed by winter tights, it is easier to tell. At this time of year, though, it can be a guess.
After I finished Sunday's 5K, I asked Kevin where he thought I was in the standings. "Do you think I was one of the top masters?"
"I'm not sure," he replied. "Maybe. The girl in the green? Did you catch her?"
"No, I tried but couldn't. But I don't think she's over 40."
"It's hard to tell. You don't look 50 either."
"That's because I'm not!" But I bite my tongue. "I have 6 months to go. Don't age me any faster!"
After some runs, 50 can't get here soon enough. Right now, I'm perfectly content being 49 and chasing girls in ponytails.
The Things You Take For Granted
18 hours ago