Father Time is a Mother...

The runner ran through the forest, his feet pounding on the soft earth. He could hear the sound of Father Time's footsteps getting closer and closer. He knew that he couldn't outrun Father Time forever, but he had to try.

The runner had been running for days, ever since he had escaped from Father Time's castle. He had been imprisoned there for centuries, forced to watch as Father Time took the lives of everyone he loved. He had finally escaped, but he knew that Father Time would not give up easily.

The runner ran faster, his lungs burning with the effort. He could feel the sweat dripping down his face and back. He knew that he was getting tired, but he had to keep going. He had to find a way to stop Father Time.

The runner came to a clearing and stopped to catch his breath. He looked around and saw a mountain in the distance. He knew that if he could reach the mountain, he would be safe from Father Time.

The runner started running again, this time towards the mountain. He ran as fast as he could, his legs pumping furiously. He could feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. He was almost there.

The runner reached the mountain and started to climb. The rocks were slippery and the climb was steep, but he didn't stop. He knew that Father Time was getting closer.

The runner finally reached the top of the mountain and collapsed on the ground, exhausted. He had made it. He was safe from Father Time.

The runner lay on the mountaintop for a long time, looking out at the world below. He was filled with a sense of peace and tranquility. He had finally escaped from Father Time, and he was free.

The runner knew that he would never forget his time in Father Time's castle. He had seen the horrors of death and decay, but he had also seen the beauty of life. He had learned that life is precious and that it should be cherished.

The runner stood up and started to walk down the mountain. He knew that he had a long way to go, but he was determined to make the most of his life. He was going to live every day to the fullest and never take anything for granted.

My friend Larry Orwin has been talking things over with his AI buddy, Bard, and the story above is the result. I like it, but I would have preferred a darker outcome. Perhaps a good alternate ending would go something like this:

After catching up with the runner, Father Time raised his scythe and brought it down. The runner closed his eyes and waited for the end. But the end never came. Instead, the runner felt a sharp pain in his chest. He opened his eyes and saw that Father Time had stabbed him with his scythe. The runner fell to the ground, bleeding profusely. He closed his eyes and died. Father Time watched him die, and then he turned and walked away. 

There now; that's better, isn't it?

The moral is (and I'm aware that this is quite deep) that you can't outrun Father Time. This has been a subject of conversation between Larry and me for some time now, and during a recent discussion, Larry's wife, Christine, also joined in. Larry and Chris are good friends, and Debbie and I had joined them for some gourmet pizza. 

I mentioned that it has taken me a long time - longer than most people - to come to terms with the declining running performance associated with getting old. I think most normal runners do simply accept the inevitable: that running times, distances, speed, endurance, you-name-it, all get worse as you get older. 

Knowing this and accepting it does not influence a runner's performance in the short term, or even the long term. That decline will happen no matter what. But acceptance does help you live with yourself. Why beat yourself up over something you have so little control over? Believe me, I've been there, done that, and it is not helpful.

Here's the best example I can come up with. I used to be a three-hour marathon guy. Sub-3 was my goal for a good many years, and I managed to be successful at least on some occasions. Over the last few decades, my best times slipped to the 3:20s, then the 3:30s, and then the 3:40s. Nowadays, twenty-seven years after my last sub-three marathon, I have begun to consider myself a four-hour guy. If I can break four hours, it's a very good day. Forget that had I run this slowly all those years ago, I'd have considered it a complete disaster. Everything is relative, and running times are exhibit one.

Here's the funny thing. A four-hour marathon these days feels exactly the same as a three-hour one did back in the 1990s. Exactly. 

The only difference is in your mind.