Like a fool, I challenged my son to a foot race across our yard. Two thirds of the way to the "finish line," I thought I could shift into high gear and pull way out ahead. All that pulled, however, was a muscle in my thigh, and all that shifted was my right hip into some unnatural position. I felt the weight of my upper body sink as I began to stumble and tumble down, down, down. It was inevitable; all I could do was crash and roll to a howling halt. I lay on my back in the grassy weeds, laughing, palms stinging, knees bleeding, and wondering when my temple of a body became such a "broke-down palace."
What I discovered is that running is like a cartwheel. You may have mastered it gracefully as a child, and even though the concept is still simple, all you are now is a dead spider with curled-up legs, blowing in the wind, like a tumbleweed across a barren plain.
