Each of us has a hill that is life. I can see the hills of other people. Some are still populated, some still bear the footprints of a recently departed runner, and many are cold with long abandonment. While I can see these other hills, I can only run on my own and no one else can run mine. That is how it is, poetry and movies notwithstanding.  In truth, we all run alone.

I am (in fact and metaphor) a distance runner. Running the marathon and greater distances gave me a sneak peak at old age. I finished my first marathon at the age of 22, at the peak of my strength, crossing the line in 2:45. Having consulted with old feet at marathons, I knew that the miles would beat me like a piñata—only instead of candy, I would be full of pain. I hobbled along slowly for the next few days—barely able to run. But, being young, I was soon back up to speed, forgetting that brief taste of the cruelty of time. But time never forgets us. Although I know that time will eventually run out of me.

We runners often obsess about numbers. We record our race times, our training distances and much more. While everyone is aware that the march of time eventually becomes a slide downhill, runners are forced to face the objective quantification of their decline. Though I started running in high school, I did not become a runner until after my first year as a college athlete in 1985 and I only started recording my run data back in 1987. I, with complete faith in my young brain, was sure I would remember my times forever.

My first victory in a 5K was in 1985—I ran an 18:20. My time improved considerably: I broke 18, then 17 and (if my memory is not a false one) even 16. Then, as must happen, I reached the peak of my running hill and the decline began. I struggled to stay under 17, fought to stay under 18, battled to stay below 19, and then warred to remain below 20. The realization of the damage done by time sunk home when my 5K race pace was the same as the pace for my first marathon. Once, I sailed through 26.2 miles at about a 6:20 per mile pace. Now I cannot do that for even a mile. Another marker was when my 5-mile race time finally became slower than my 10K race time (33 minutes). Damn the numbers.

Each past summer, I have returned to my hometown and run the routes of my youth. Back in the day, I would run 16 miles at a 7 minute per mile pace. Now I shuffle along. But dragging all those years will slow a man down. When I ran those old routes, I sped up when I hit the coolness of the pine forest—the years momentarily dropped away and I felt like a young man again. But, like the deerflies that haunt the woods, the years soon caught up and bit me. Unlike the deerflies, I cannot just swat them down. Rather, they are swatting me down and, like many a deerfly, I will eventually be crushed and broken by something greater than I. Someday, I will go out for a run and never come back, leaving my hill cooling in the frost of time. But until that day, the run goes on. And on.