Sprints On Older Legs

Last night, Steve and several of us went across the hall to an empty basketball gym to run sprints. We usually do five in a row. Steve counts down to ten, then we dash to the other side, touch the wall, and speed back to start as fast as we can. I came in dead last the few times I ran. I could do sprints twice, then I would have to slump against the wall for rest.

There is no way I'm going to outrun the younger guys, especially Junior, who is 19 years old. When I was a kid, I loved to run. I would huff and puff, because before I was 11 years old, I could not breath out of my nose. Had bad adenoids, so I had no choice but to breath out of my mouth. But I was a fast little dart. My kindergarten teacher would always warn me, "Hillari, don't run so fast and so much!", but I would keep speeding. My mom wasn't crazy about me running all the time, either, especially if I was running from her to keep from being spanked. Of course that never worked. When she caught me, the beating would be worse. "What have I told you about running from me!" she'd yell as the strap came down across my legs.

These days, I turn my nose up at running for the buses and trains. That's mostly because my hatred of public transportation has been high since I lost my car to an accident over the past summer. The other part of that is, I have lost a lot of the joy I had for running. It's a sure sign of getting older when you're thinking, "There'll be another bus in awhile. I'll let that one go."

Steve stood in the middle of the floor with the heaviest medicine ball in the gym and said, "Let's play chase the chicken!" Lan and I looked at each other. "Uh, we think we'll skip that one," we said. Mike was the only one who was up for it. The game is, one person throws the medicine ball, and the other person chases after it, brings it back to the thrower, and the process is repeated. Mike's in good shape. He was chasing the ball for awhile. I did that once some months ago in the ring. I was as tired as I would have been if I had sparred with someone.

My endurance level is strange. Some days it is very low. I'll be in the middle of the second round of a sparring session, trying to find energy to keep my hands up, praying for the bell to ring. Other days, I can do eight or nine rounds on the heavy bags and be ready for more. Maybe it has something to do with my iron levels, or not eating enough fruits and veggies, or seldom getting eight hours of sleep (I'm a major night owl). I worry that if I ever get a real fight, I'll fade early, get pummeled, and suffer the indignity of having the referee stop the fight.