Middle Man

I ran the Father’s Day 5-mile race in Central Park this past Sunday. While the weather was cool, the humidity level was 97%, so we were one sweaty pack of runners coming across the finish line. By the time I was done running, I was sweat-soaked, breathing heavy and my legs hurt. But all the effort paid off. I came in 2,250th place.

In case you’re wondering, there are no trophies for that.

I’m strictly a middle-of-the-pack type runner. You don’t see much about us, although I suspect we’re the largest group of runners in the majority of races. Mostly, you hear reports about elite runners, those streamlined professionals who run 4-minute miles and often look like they’d be very grateful if someone would offer them a bite from a cookie. Elite runners are the ones who balance themselves on the fine line between profession and obsession. Sometimes they teeter over that line. I remember reading an interview with one elite runner who talked about the altitude machine she has in her house that pumps less-oxygenated air into her bedroom. That seems a tad extreme, not to mention terribly impractical. I can’t find enough room in the cabinets to put my useless junk, never mind having to clear space for a machine to make me feel I'm living in the Swiss Alps.

I’m happy with my place in the middle. I like it there. I have no worries about trying to win a race because to be honest there’s no way I ever will There are races when I try and challenge myself by going just a bit faster and races when I relax and enjoy the surroundings and the company. Some races, like Sunday’s, are a combination of both. I feel a terrific sense of accomplishment even when I finish at number 2, 250.

The middle-of-the-pack where I run is filled with wonderful diversity. This is the place you’ll find the harried parent who runs to de-stress or two friends who run side by side while they catch up on each other’s lives. In the middle, you’ll come across that person who’s trying gamely to lose a few pounds and that dreamer who is slowly working her way forward, determined to make it to the front of the pack one day.

On Sunday, I spent some time running near a couple, both clearly giving it their all; huffing and puffing while offering each other small bits of encouragement ("We can do this! We’re halfway there!") They were inspiring to be near. And I owe a nod to the handsome, muscled, shirtless runner with the tight running shorts and the angel wings tattooed on his back .I spent some quality time running directly behind you, which I thank you for. You made getting from mile 3 to mile 4 very enjoyable.

When the race was over, I collected my bag and was heading out of the park when I found myself next to the running course at about the 4 and a half mile point. The last few runners left in the race were going by with as much determination as those who had finished well over an hour ago. One was a teenage boy with one leg. Using his crutches for balance he propelled himself forward towards the finish line. The mile-wide smile on his face was proof you didn’t need to be anywhere near the front of the pack to celebrate. Everyone in it, no matter when they finished, won that race.

Thank You for Visiting Denial - Come Back Soon

We all spend a fair amount of time living in denial. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, denial can be an enjoyable trip, a place where reality has been swept away and hidden from sight. In denial, everything around you is comic book cute, cleaned up and overly upbeat like at Disneyland or when you flip TV channels and find yourself coming face to face with the screechings of Rachael Ray.

Unfortunately, our occasional trips to denial can come to a very abrupt end. That wonderful sea-side vacation for which you paid top dollar can quickly erode into a chorus of crying children, cranky spouses and hurt feelings. And that helpful woman at the make-up counter who promises a complete transformation sometimes delivers more Bozo than beautiful.

Last Wednesday morning, I found myself happily living in denial. I had a short list of things that that needed to be done, nothing earth shattering or life-changing, just a few simple errands: pick up new Metrocard, get cash from ATM, buy coffee. OK, no denial there. However, since an upcoming trip with R necessitates my passport be renewed, I decided to add one more thing to the list - have new passport photo taken. Just one quick stop at the photo place up the street, a quick pose and 5 minutes later I’d go merrily on my way. No big deal.

Ah, denial. You tricky devil you. If only you had stopped me from actually looking at my picture.

Why is it that even though we look in a mirror at least a couple times each day, we rarely see the changes time brings to our faces? It’s fairly common to not notice the small lines forming around our eyes or the wrinkles running across our forehead. As we age, most of us still have the ability (some might say delusion) to see ourselves as that adorable young man-child (or woman-child) who could still get a few free drinks from the hot bartender with just a few bats of our eyelashes. At least we do until some guy with a camera drops a 2 x 2 passport photo in our hands and reality smacks us between the eyes.

My first thought when glancing at the image in my new passport photo was “Who’s that old guy and why is he wearing my clothes?” This was certainly not the wrinkle-free-smooth-as-a- baby’s-butt-don’t-look-a-day-over-20 face I winked at every morning in the mirror. This was the image of some middle aged man who had clearly seen better days. This was, gulp, my father! Suddenly a new item appeared on that harmless list of errands: Buy Botox – in bulk!

But denial was not to be out-done by something so mundane as reality. Moving quickly to put some space between me and the photo, my mind flashed back to something that had happened the previous month. While out one night with my sister I had been asked for my ID upon ordering a drink. True, I hadn’t been carded in years and yes, it was a very dark bar and well OK, the policy of the place was that they asked absolutely everyone for their ID. But as long as I had that memory of being asked I could easily push all thoughts of the passport photo out of my head and think “See? You still look the same as you used to.” And as the new photos dropped into my pocket and out of sight I swear there was a small voice whispering

“Welcome back to denial. We missed you.”