I’ve only been out of bed for an hour and a half, and have already scrubbed my hands seven times. It’s a sign of both the times and living downtown. Going up and down the stairs of an apartment building, you tend to worry about the common touched areas like railings, doors, and walls. Between the dog and my daily run, I’ve already tackled the three flights four times. Even though it’s only been a month now since the Coronavirus began to affect my life, it seems like years of germaphobia and isolation have painfully passed. When will this nightmare end?

Typically, Sundays are my favorite day to run. There is less traffic on the streets and I can listen to my favorite radio program, Sunday Brunch, on KINK-FM, one of the stations owned by my former employer.  I was worried as I tuned in this morning, concerned that the host, Peggy LaPoint might have been a casualty of recent “temporary” cutbacks. Fortunately, she was still “spinning the tunes,” like Neil Young’s Harvest Moon that brought back memories of his 1972 studio album, Harvest. A friend and I went into the Bloomington, Indiana store that I believe was called Tracks Records on Kirkwood Street, hoping to get one of the first copies. Their delivery truck was not operating for some reason, and the owner sent us to the distribution center in Terre Haute to pick up his supply. Not only did we get our albums hot off the press, plus they were free for our trouble! Those were the “Good Old Days” when music was more valuable than gas, time, or money.

This was the only good thought that came out of this morning’s 5k run. The time span usually consists of ten songs, but with little advertising on the air lately, it’s been more like eleven or twelve. This is the reason for the employee lay-offs. Knowing Peggy, I’m sure she’d do her job for free (or at least a few albums, CD’s, or downloads). From my standpoint, running even when accompanied by good music, has not been easy over the past few weeks. I might have to make some adjustments in my medication. I’m feeling sorry for my aging self when all I have to do is look around at those poor souls who can’t even stand without the aid of a walker or wheelchair. Realistically, I’m fortunate to even be chugging along anymore at age 68. With all due respect, I wrote this silly poem to reflect my current struggles:

Concrete Feet

Growing old,
Has got its cost.
The price I’ve paid,
Some feeling lost.

My toes are numb,
Ankles swollen.
Youthful energy,
Has been stolen.

Not as flexible,
Balance failing.
But tie the laces,
Even when ailing.

Muscles tight,
Stiff and sore.
Even with Advil,
Hard to ignore.

A lot more steps,
With shorter stride.
But the finish line,
Instills great pride.

Pace has slowed,
Endurance waning.
Those once passed,
Are quickly gaining.

I’m no longer,
Considered fast.
Eight-minute miles,
Well in my past.

Yet I go out there,
Every single day.
Can’t let anything,
Get in the way.

Rain or snow,
Dark or light.
And when I’m done,
All seems right.

It’s hard to run,
With heavy feet.
Like they’re stuck,
In set concrete.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com