Thinking about the big Four-O

havoc in my mind these days. It is prompting some strange introspection, especially during those long runs when there is nothing but wind at my back, sweat on my brow and a sympathetic ear in my head.

On the one hand, I am grateful for the many blessings in my life. Indeed, whenever I pound one foot in front of another along an often picturesque running path (whether in rain, hail or sunshine), I often wonder how many men/women would give their right nut/(insert whatever is appropriate for female) to be in my position – one that is filled with good health, great kids and an irreplaceable soul mate, all surrounded by a supportive network.

On the other hand, I can’t help but ask some uncharacteristically philosophical questions. Questions such as: What have I actually achieved in life that I am proud of or will leave a legacy? Do I enjoy this thing that I do between 7am and 6pm Monday to Friday (and often even on weekends)? Having endured it for more than a decade and a half, should I even be doing it anymore as I approach the big Four-O? What happened to all those foolish dreams I had when I was young and reckless? Do I still have time to rejuvenate them now that I am hamstrung and timorous?

Questions like these can really fuck up your mind and force you to wonder where all that time went. It also turns one into a cranky old fart who goes around dishing out unsolicited advice to younger people – advice such as: Why are you so obsessed about getting a job out of university? You got the rest of life to work! Does what you do now really blow up your skirt or is there some other cool things that you are wasting your youth not doing?

It was through this emotional prism that I recently watched the movie, Moneyball, for the umpteenth time. Yes, I love the movie for the way it beautifully screen-adpated Michael Lewis’ baseball book about logic and science trumpeting over aesthetics and tradition.

However, its greater appeal, at least to me, is the back story of a middle-aged man who is haunted by his unfulfilled potential during his youth. And, more importantly, his attempted resurrection while grappling with all of life’s other challenges, the least of which is being a parent.

All these feelings are neatly encapsulated in the last scene of the move, where the main character is listening to a song sung by his daughter. And for some reason, although its lyrics are uttered from the perspective of a confused young teenage girl, they seem quite pertinent in the mind of an equally confused but not-so-young middle-aged father that is me.

If this is what they call the Mid Life Crisis, then I hope it doesn’t last too long. Because it feels like adolescence with the angst and all, but without the luxury to be foolhardy or to lose control.

Anyhoo, for those interested, here is the clip of the last scene from Moneyball. As you watch this during a quiet moment by yourself, if you feel even an inkling of what I do whenever I watch this, then you may just be having a Mid Life Crisis too.

Either that or you think this Jogging Dad has completely lost the plot!

Keep on pounding.

“Jogging who“?

“Yeah, I didn’t know him from a bar of soap either, until I literally ran into him while I was on my morning running today“.

Could’ve been like this!

“Wait a sec, if you don’t know him, how did you run into him“?

“No, hear me out. So I was running, minding my own business, turned a sharp corner and BAM! I almost ran straight into this middle-aged guy who was coming around the other way. I don’t know what he was on but, boy, he looked mighty chirpy for someone who was panting so hard.

Anyway, he apologised, I apologised and then I noticed he was wearing a running singlet with “joggingdad.com” in small letters printed across the back. When I got to work later that morning, I naturally checked out the website and found that he blogs about running, parenting and a bunch of other horseshit“.

“Girl, is there a point anywhere on the horizon in this story, because I’m about to crack my skull open with this iPhone. This is, like, excruciatingly boring, you know“.

“Shut up, listen, I’m trying to you to tell something. Anyway, I was reading and I realised that I actually ran with him briefly at the Canberra marathon a couple of weeks ago. Isn’t that such a coincidence“?

“Hallelujah! Now, can we go and eat lunch now? Can’t believe I just wasted 2 minutes of my life listening to you talking about some daggy jogging loser“!

****************************************************************************

Once a week between 6.30 and 7.30 in the morning, I run about 10km around the tranquil surrounds of Darling Harbour and Pyrmont. For those who don’t know where that is, it is the picturesque harbour-side precinct that we Sydneysiders often take overseas visitors to. It is the stereotypical “Lonely Planet” place where they can dine at grossly expensive restaurants, visit grotesquely overhyped attractions and donate whatever they have left to the nearby casino – a giant gambling den which doubles as an eye sore so as to further accentuate the beauty of the nearby harbour.

Last Monday, I was doing this run while wearing a singlet with joggingdad.com tastefully printed across the back. It was a present from my dear sister-in-law who wanted to test out her new fancy-schmancy sewing machine, one with more functions and buttons than my smartphone.

It was a beautiful morning, with the sun radiating warmth just above the horizon while a cool breeze gently wicked away my sweat. All this was set against an achingly-gorgeous backdrop, featuring a stunning water view, flanked by the famous coat-hanger (aka the Harbour Bridge) on one side and the ANZAC Bridge on the other.

Feeling inspired, I picked up the pace at around the halfway mark and was on such a high that I was just about to burn around a corner while belting out a song (I think it was “I want to break free” by Queen coming through the earphones) when, BAM! I almost full-on head-butted a girl coming around the other way.

The poor soul must have thought I was some kind of a deranged crack-head, rounding that corner like that. She may even have caught me on the verge of singing which, I am sure, would have freaked her out even further!

Anyway, I said sorry profusely and, after making sure that she wasn’t in cardiac shock from the near-collision, went on my merry way singing a Cold Chisel song.

That afternoon, out of the blue, I got an email to my Jogging Dad address from the same girl. It turns out she saw the ”joggingdad.com” print across the back of my singlet, checked out my Blog and got my email from the website. Then she said she may have run with me for several kilometres during a recent marathon that I ran in, as part of the 3 hour 30 minute pace group.

Needless to say, I was absolutely gobsmacked. I knew the world was small but this was just an incredible coincidence. I must admit, I still don’t quite remember her from the race. In fact, I can hardly remember myself given the struggle I had during the event (this my hazy recap). But I have no reason to doubt her. I mean, why would anyone in her right mind email a stranger, a crazy one who almost broke her nose with his sweaty head at that, telling him that they unwittingly ran together in a tortuous marathon?

I guess the moral of the story is, don’t go around tight corners like a bat out of hell, no matter how pumped up you are on a run. More importantly, if you can’t help yourself helter-skelter around corners, don’t ever wear a singlet bearing your Blog URL. It is a sure-fire way of getting caught if you ever smash into an innocent stranger and you decide to do a runner!

****************************************************************************

“Guess what? I emailed that Jogging Dad guy and, yes it was him who I ran with in that Canberra race”.

“Girl, are you still jabbering on about that shit? Fine, whatever, let me feign some interest here. So what did he say“?

“……“

“Hey, I just asked you something! Why you suddenly gone quiet“?

“I got nothing to say because he’s got nothing to say anymore. Girl, you do realise that this whole conversation between me and you is just a figment of that Jogging Dad’s imagination, don’t you“?

“Oh man, that’s it! This shit’s getting weird. I’m out of here“!!!

Keep on pounding.

I do it all the time!

A couple of days ago, I was filling out an online entry form for a fun run to be held in September this year. Name, gender, date of birth, address, who should we call if you heart stops beating or you trip over and crack your head wide open.Frustratingly, I kept on getting stuck on one question, one that asks to what age group do I belong. I must have clicked on the 30-39 bracket 4 or 5 times. Each time, the god-damned website returned with the message: “Please check your answer before proceeding to the next question“.

Just before I was about to fire off an irate email to the race organisers, telling them in no uncertain terms to fix their bug-ridden online entry form, I decided to read the question one more time, and this time with care. And the words were:

Click on the age bracket you will belong to, at the time of this race (my emphasis).

That was when I realised that, on 22 September when this race will be held, I will have clicked over into my 40s. In other words, I will be categorised as a 40-49 age bracket participant!

After getting over the initial shock, my next reaction was: “Why the fuck did you ask me about the age bracket if you already knew the answer from my freaking date of birth“?

Of course, I knew I was just being an insolent brat, more so having just discovered that I will be well and truly past the half way mark in a few months’ time. Nevertheless, the realisation of my impending entry into senior league stayed with me for some time afterwards. Indeed, it suddenly dawned on me (just like how it did on the Bruce Willis character at the very end of The Sixth Sense) the reasons behind some of the small stuff that were happening in my everyday life.

For instance, when I was younger (see, I’m speaking like an old fart already), I used to get a playful but hard elbow jab to the rib from my lovely wife, whenever I cast a glance at a not-as-lovely-but-still-good-looking female. I am a man. I can’t help it. More importantly, I love my wife just that little bit more whenever she does that. Why? Because it shows that she still loves me enough to get a little girlie jealous, just as I get little cave man-jealous whenever she drools over Colin Firth (what’s the attraction?) or Brad Pitt (I can see the attraction).

However, the realisation has hit me that my ribs have not any any jabbing for quite some time, even though my innocent glances at beautiful ladies have not diminished over time. And in my newly-found paranoia about my age, I’m starting to wonder whether my wife is thinking along the lines of: “Let the old fool perv. What’s the harm? He ain’t going nowhere“.

It has also dawned on me that I hardly ever get invited to drinks by my twentysomething colleagues. Come to think of it, even the early-thirtysomethings drift away from me in social situations. Is it the reminiscing about the days of Michael, Larry and Magic? Or is it the incessant talk about the bowel movements of my two little boys? Could it be the endless bitching and moaning about this unhealthy thing called Facenote or Titter? Whatever it is, it is now clear that whenever I talk, younger people try to avoid eye contact while ever so slowly distancing themselves from the dangerously boring old nutter.

As if that’s not enough, I have now come to understand why strangers don’t even bat an eyelid when they find me talking to myself in cafes and shops on weekends. It’s because there is nothing unusual seeing a grumpy old man mumbling to himself. My honest defence is that, on weekends, I’m usually out and about with my two boys. Unfortunately, they have this habit of running off to cause some mischief as I’m talking to them while my eyes are fixated on a menu, admission sign, blackboard, not-as-lovely-as-my-wife-but-still-good-looking female. When I eventually realise that I have been talking to myself, I look around sheepishly but am usually greeted by people just minding their own business. But, as I said before, it has now dawned on me that they all saw what I did but just accept it as quirky behaviour of a mindless old man.

Unlike the Bruce Willis character in The Sixth Sense, however, I am not going to accept this ageing fate graciously. I will join that Facecrap thing and relive with “friends” my fond memories of Michael, Larry and Magic. I will Titter all about my boys’ bowel movements to all my strange “followers”. And I will certainly clean up my act (eg a $50 haircut instead of a $5 one) so that my wife will get all girlie-jealous over me again when I “spectate” on other beautiful women.

But, then again … what have I just done but mumble to myself like a mindless old codger!

Keep on pounding.

“Fuck off, I’m in no mood for this shit right now” I replied.

Crushed by Him, again

“I must say, you’re looking rather well, certainly better than the last time I saw you at this point. Still, looks can be deceiving. Let me just wonder insider your mind to see how you really are, shall I?“

Before I could abuse Him again, everything went silent except my own heavy breathing which, by this time, was gradually drowning out the music coming through the earphones.

Then He was back but, this time, with a much more malicious edge to His voice.

“Mr Jogging Dad, I thought you were tougher than this. But having peeked inside your mind, you’re still just the same old weakling that I crushed last time”.

“Hey, this is HARD, you know! I am in so much pain right now I’m just glad I haven’t stopped!” I feebly defended myself.

“OH, POOR YOU! Listen here, Mr Jogging Dad, and listen good. Look around you right now. Do you think there is anyone here who doesn’t want to stop right now and give up? Every one of them would love nothing more than to just collapse, lie down and hope for a mini-bus to come and scoop him or her up like a stray dog. But they keep going. Do you wanna know why? Because they … ah, fuck it, what’s the point telling you all this. YOU’RE DONE, YOU’RE FRIED. My mission is accomplished here. See you next time”.

And just like that, He was gone, but not before giving me, as a parting gift, a cramp so severe that I had to stop and stretch the excruciating knot out of my left thigh.

All this happened at the 35km mark of the marathon that I ran in a couple of weeks ago, in the Australian capital city of Canberra.

The race certainly began well enough.

Physically I felt good, the weather was perfect for running and mentally I was geared up for the 42km of torture ahead. Indeed, things were going so well that I spent the first third of the race telling myself to slow down, pace myself, don’t try be a hero and end up being zero.

At the 14km mark, however, I suddenly felt a tinge of fatigue. As I was fumbling around in my pocket for a sugar hit, a hoard of runners literally rumbled past me. I looked up and saw that it was the 3 hour 30 minute pacing group. The sheer energy emitted as they overtook me was so strong that I felt like my body was being dragged forward by the momentum.

So without any hesitation, I decided to go with the flow and join the 3 hour 30 minute pack. For the next 18km, it was almost a surreal experience. For someone who has always enjoyed being a lone runner, this was something completely foreign, pounding the pavement with a group of strangers and feeding off each other’s energy, all in blissful silence.

Unfortunately, even these angels could only do so much for me. After I took a Gatorade at the 32km drink station, I just couldn’t summons the strength or the will power to rejoin the pack, no matter how hard I tried. As they ran further and further into the distance, I suddenly felt something that I have never experienced before while exercising, namely, a sense of utter loneliness.

And it was in that state of confused mind and fatigued limbs that I met my inner demon at the 35km mark. It was the same demon who forced me to walk for a couple of minutes during my maiden marathon, the first time I ever stopped running during a race. This time, He again succeeded in breaking me down mentally and crippling me physically.

What happened after that is just a blur in my memory. Despite the recurring cramps, I do recall telling myself to just keep running, even if it is just shuffling, because it seemed like I was being left in the dust by people twice my age, as well as those who looked a third of it.

Eventually, I did manage to cross the finish line, in 3 hours and 49 minutes – a 6 minute improvement on my first marathon but well short of my goal of 3 hours and 40 minutes. I suppose I should have focused on the positives and dwelled less on the negatives. However, being the ungrateful soul that I am, I decided to do the latter.

I was disappointed, and I chastised myself no end for so easily succumbing to my psychological nemesis once again.

That was on Sunday, 14^th of April, Australian Eastern Standard time. I sulked and ached until the early morning of the following Tuesday.

Then … I found out what had happened at the finish line of another marathon at the opposite end to my world.

All of a sudden, I sulked no more. However, the aching continued, this time for a whole different reason.

Keep on pounding.

Rest in Peace to those killed in the incident, and best wishes to those injured.

Even more important than ever, keep on pounding.