Lefty and I headed down to NO this morning to run in the Crescent City Fall Classic. It's a 5K--about all I can handle at this point.

My pace prior to the race was about a 10-minute mile. I finished at 33:01. So I guess I should be happy with the time.

I think one of the things I take a sick pleasure in doing is sizing up the competition at the start of the race. Amongst the combatants in my pack was a 75-year-old man in circa 1985 running tights, a loose-fitting muscle-shirt and a fanny pack. When I'm 75, I want to be like him--running, showing more of my body than any one could possibly want to see, and making a bunch of smart-ass youngsters work way harder than they think they should have to in order to pass my old, flabby ass.

While the old guy amused and inspired me, I found myself holding nothing but contempt for all the younglings running near me. Is the concept of setting a pace alien? Here is what I imagine is going through their vacuous brains:

Run fast, stomp pavement, run fast, stomp pavement, pain in chest, run faster, run louder, burning sensation in chest, cut-off middle-age fat lady, dead stop in front of her, need air, must breathe, being passed up, oxygen good, run fast, stomp pavement, run fast, stomp pavement, pain in chest, run faster, run louder, burning sensation in chest, cut-off middle-age fat lady, dead stop in front of her

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Run or walk, pick one!!!!!

I guess I've reached a point in my life in which a fanny pack is more appealing than a tight ass.

When I picked up the kids this afternoon. A.K., my 11-year-old, was in a bit of mood. I suppose in an effort to discourage me from engaging him in conversation, he announces, "I'm going to read during the ride home." Z.K., the 5-year-old, quickly chimed in, "I'm going to make a lot of noise."