The week after Christmas, Jill, the kids, and I were in Arkansas visiting family. On Saturday afternoon, my fifteen year old son and his fifteen year old cousin challenged my brother and me to a one hundred yard race on the old high school track. I was wearing jeans and hiking shoes. I hadn’t stretched. And I hadn’t run so much as a furlong in over two years.
Five or six steps into the race, just as I was hitting my stride, my body failed. My hip flexor popped, my left leg buckled, and I fell to the asphalt track hard on my left side. In my imagination, I did a graceful barrel role, something like a Green Beret might do, or a gymnast. To Jill, who was watching with a mixture of humor and horror, it looked like a full-speed face plant. The only redeemable moment came when my daughter Eliza ran up to check on me. As I sat on the track, dazed and woozy, she said, “Daddy, right up until you fell, you were winning!”