Everybody’s changing but I feel just the same.

Sometimes, as I get older I can discern a modest slackening of will.  But it is modest and I pretend not to notice the extra minute that crept onto my 10k time and I’m happy to allow myself a week off running; again…

Nobody I know.

In fact I don’t mind getting older.  It’s my birthday soon and at 56 I reckon 6 years of running has afforded me a better figure and stronger legs than would have been the case had I remained the couch potato I was becoming at 49.  Running won’t make me immortal but I enjoy the feeling of immortality that comes with matching my 22-year-old son mile for mile across the Chilterns.

But if you think you’re still as young and fit as you were ten years ago try meeting up with some folks you haven’t seen for ten years and check them out.  Some are richer, some are poorer, some have remarried and some are now single.  But, by golly, they’ve all grown older.  They’ve mysteriously adopted a decade of wear and tear that of course you won’t have noticed in yourself.

People I don’t know in bad clothes dancing badly.

And so it was that this weekend 200 souls gathered in a village hall in Devon to celebrate another soul’s 50th birthday. There, life-long friends dad-danced to a reggae band and drank to excess.  And as the smell of hog-roast hung in the air like yesterday’s pants, we laughed about the old days and lied to each other about how little we had aged.


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