“Don’t let what you cannot do interfere with what you can do.”

— John Wooden

Mike’s AI synopsis of this blog: This is one long-winded excuse for my not running.

I love running. For more than 50 years, it has been my exercise, my mental refreshment, and, at times, my identity. I have felt at times like I could run forever. There was a day when I would have said I was lost without it. That day was yesterday. 

However, like a first sighting of the finish line banner in a marathon, I can see the end coming. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not over yet. Sometimes the final 385 yards can take an eternity. Yet, I do see it approaching. And I’m at peace with that. I need a good excuse to stop.

In the running world, simply not showing up for a planned run with friends requires an ironclad excuse. “I broke my leg” or “my wife is having a baby” will do. Anything less reeks of an inability to run. “I can’t run,” or worse, “I don’t want to run,” is not in the runner’s vocabulary. That is akin to confessing guilt before the trial. It is hard to face your running buddies after an admission like that. The term wimp barely does it justice.

So here is my story for my running mates: I will, at times, be missing from our planned runs. Races are moving to the back burner (the one without any gas). Marathons? AYKM. It is time for a pivot. Hold on to that thought, because I’d like to explain my excuse. It’s a good one.

I know what you are thinking right away: it’s the “age thing.” While I will admit Father Time is creeping up on me (duh), I want to push back on age as any kind of excuse. If you doubt the ability of any of us to keep running into our seventies and beyond, you need to read about Charley French (Fountain of Inspiration). He has proven that theory wrong. I plan to attend his 100th birthday party this summer to learn more about his methods.

1964 Chevy Nova Wagon — RIP

In the summer of 1973, I finally retired my ’64 Chevy Nova (three-on-the-column) surf wagon. It had been a hand-me-down from Dad, along with all the warnings that it was nearing the end of its usefulness. Like any intelligent 18-year-old surfer, I ignored those warnings until it decided to drop dead one day on Pacific Coast Highway in Newport Beach.

In fact, the differential dropped completely out of the drivetrain as I was shifting into third gear. Ha—I thought it had slipped into neutral! Then I looked in my rearview mirror and saw what looked like a 6-foot steel plumbing pipe lying in the street. The differential is a critical component that delivers engine power to the drive wheels. Hard to go anywhere without it. I immediately realized I had reached the end of the road. In one bold statement, the Nova surf wagon was done. Adios, amigo!

The odometer had been nearing the 100,000-mile benchmark, which, considering some of the noises I was hearing, should have been a five-bell alarm. Driving beyond 100,000 miles in that car was simply asking for trouble, especially considering the way I liked to drive it. I’ll mention just one shenanigan, which was spinning the rear tires on the glossy-smooth cement at Ken’s Mobile gas station in Corona del Mar, with just a little squirt of water under the tires. I can remember shifting into third gear before the wagon started to move. Yee-haw!

I had the Nova towed straight to the junkyard that very day for $100 in return—and no charge for the tow truck. It seemed like a great deal to me.

The Odometer

If there was one thing I learned from my first experience of car ownership with that Nova, it was simple: pay attention to your odometer.

That applies directly to my running career. The miles I have run over the years have added up. After more than 50 years of running more races than I could possibly count, my body has been telling me I have reached the magic number on my odometer. It is time to back off the gas pedal on running.

So here comes the excuse!

Somewhere inside my body, there is an odometer keeping track of every mile I ever ran. I am sure AI will eventually find it and figure out a way to report on it. For now, I am going by gut feel. None of the miles over the years have come for free, even though at the time they often felt effortless.

However, this internal odometer is signaling me to slow down and, God forbid, maybe even stop running. My body is feeling the wear and tear. The bushings are squeaky, and the gearbox is cranky. I learned from my Nova experience that I don’t want to come to a dead stop in the middle of the track. The dreaded DNF is something I have nightmares about. They stick with you. I refuse to go there.

Sure, there are factors that can add miles to your odometer. Genetics is probably the most powerful contributor. Some people have knees that last a lifetime, and others, I know a few of them, have to replace both knees. Eventually, something else is going to make you account for the reading on your odometer. There is no hiding it! The human body is incredibly intelligent.

Taking time off from running can help delay the inevitable, in the hope that you will feel renewed and fresh. Ha, how about taking off a year or two? But like my Nova, the odometer doesn’t change, even if it sits in the garage. As soon as you pull it out, hose off the dust and hit the road, you find out the odometer does not lie.

I have performed some very unscientific studies to prove this theory. I enjoy talking with the podium winners in my age group at races. Anyone who has raced with me has witnessed me talking to a lot of them. It intrigues me to learn about their training secrets and how they manage to run such fast times. One question I always ask:

“At what age did you start running?”

Consistently, the response I hear is:

“In my late forties to late fifties.”

Their running odometers would often be half of what mine is.

That is my excuse!

It makes total sense. I’m feeling better already.

Even though we were the same age group in years, their drivetrains were like new compared to my rusty old beater. Of course, there are exceptions to that rule, but in my experience, not many.

The Pivot

The odometer represents an opportunity to change gears—to reach new heights. It tells you it is time to climb the next mountain, different from the first one you are on. David Brooks wrote an excellent book on this called The Second Mountain. Charley French is a perfect example of this. He called it the pivot.

Charley did not start doing triathlons until he was turning 60. As other competitors his age were piling up running miles in their forties and fifties, Charley was skiing and doing other sports to stay in shape. When he broke into the Ironman triathlon world at age 60 (with a world-record performance that stood for 15 years), he pivoted. His running odometer had barely left the new‑car lot. He had been skiing the bumps at Sun Valley’s Mount Baldy instead of running road races. He then proceeded to complete more than 200 triathlons in his seventies, winning most of them! And then he did it again in his 80s and 90s by pivoting to cross-country ski racing and winning 12 World Cup Masters gold medals.

So yes, I am planning my own pivot. Rather than going mysteriously missing at the track, I am planning to change gears. For starters, I just joined a gym. I have not touched weights since my days at Oracle almost ten years ago, yet I know at this stage of the game they can only help me build the muscle and bone density that will keep me in the game. I don’t quite have pickleball on the calendar yet (sorry Kirk), but I do plan to expand the sports I am involved in. I hope to play more tennis, go surfing more often with my son, and plan ski trips to Tahoe once winter rolls around. I also have a new bike that is a pleasure to ride, and I plan to make use of it. As my mentor John Wooden would say, it’s all about balance.

Staying in shape is key. Doing it while I play is even better. Stay tuned – I will report back on how the pivot is going.

If you have a pivot story of your own, I would love to hear about it. Just send me an email: m1mulkey@gmail.com
(I had to turn off the blog comments due to bot attacks).

Thanks for reading!

The running joke (pun intended) with the 7‑by‑7 track club is that I need a steel umbrella to deflect the bullets when I show up on Tuesdays. Thanks, guys!