Against all odds, I recently turned 30. Other than a minor battle with sciatica (which I won), I've never felt better.
I saw a statistic this morning while doomscrolling that said "95% of adults over 30 years old will never sprint again." My blood began to boil. A rage flooded my prefrontal cortex. I refuse to be another statistic.
I got out of bed, put my Keens on, and started a brisk jog towards The Pond at Central Park to beat every last odd.
I set my phone down on a small hill, put it on 0.5x, and pressed record. I jogged around the corner out of the frame, my blood pumping with anticipation. I gave myself about 10 yards to hit full sprint form before I would pop in frame.
Right as I was bending the corner and hitting a stride indistinguishable from a 2008 Usain Bolts, I saw an off-leash dog running toward me.
I pulled up. I didn't want to steamroll someone's innocent dog... I realized shortly after that this was Big Walking trying to stop me from achieving my dream and ascending into the 5%.
I jogged back to do another take. This time, if a dog popped in my lane, I was prepared to run through its chest. My Granny would get hit-sticked if she got in my way on this attempt.
Once again, I bent the corner and hit top speed. The brisk 37 degree air was hitting my face as I damn near broke the sound barrier.
I felt alive. I felt free. I did it.
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