Running, not racing, through life

At 6:30 a.m. on a recent Monday, I was running hard when I had to stop abruptly at the corner of Merrick Avenue and Merrick Road in Merrick, my hometown. The stoplight had suddenly changed, and the traffic started moving in front of me. I hadn’t noticed that the light had changed. I was in something of a runner’s trance.

A middle-aged fellow, around my age, in a sweaty T-shirt and shorts, ran up beside me. The man, whom I had never met, smiled and said, “Good morning,” as if we had known each other for years.

“Good morning,” I replied sheepishly. I ran through my mental Rolodex. Did I know this guy?

In case you hadn’t noticed, I dated myself twice in three paragraphs. You have to be at least 44 –– which I am –– to remember the Rolodex, that marvel of office technology that allowed you to speed-flip through index cards of names and phone numbers and that dominated the world of personal organization from 1954, when it first hit the market, until 1996, when it was replaced by the personal digital assistant. The PDA, of course, led to the smart phone, capable of storing all information known to humankind, in 2007. If, like me, you’re still referencing the Rolodex, you must be a more “mature” adult.

Anyway … the runner beside me took off at a brisk pace the instant the light changed. Meanwhile, I stopped at a stationery store to buy a notepad for work. When I came out, I spotted the man on Merrick Road in the distance. His pace had slowed considerably.

The young man hidden inside me came out. I took off, intent on catching him. Back in the ’80s, I ran cross-country in high school and cross-country and track in college. The whole idea behind running was to catch –– and beat –– the guy ahead of you. You trained long hours –– running up to 13 miles a day –– in order to accomplish that aim. My competitive instincts welled up again when I saw that guy ahead of me. I had to pass him.