A Report From Your Favorite Octogenarian

By: Homer Hirt

I once, in a fit of despondency, talked with Sid Riley, Mangling Editor of this fine newspaper, about how to realize when I was no longer capable of writing a good column, and Sid told me that point will be when I began writing about a subject more than once. But then he opened the door by labeling my favorite column, “I’m Not Obese…..I’m Just Big Boned”, as the “continuing saga of Homer Hirt”, so I was able to write a follow up. And this opened the doors to another follow up on my now famous and oft quoted treatise on octogenarians.

I have on my computer notes a political essay that may possibly go down with William F. Buckley, Jr.’s best, or close, anyway. I also have a reply in the works to the “anonymous” E-Mail sent to my Blog that criticized me for praising my two daughters and their many accomplishments while neglecting my son and his deeds. I have no idea who might have written this “anonymous” message, but only a sniveler would hide behind that title, and I may well remove him from my will.

But then this last weekend happened, and I have reached back to my statements on old age and I have built on that in the light of the events of Friday and Saturday. I had written “Here are some of my goals. Most of my readers know about my planned race with “The Runner” on my eighty fifth birthday. She runs a mile in eight minutes, I am covering a mile in sixteen, but I have brought it to that point from twenty minutes in less than a year. I will continue with this endeavor”. I went on to explain that I fully expected to match her pace so that I could cover the mile in eight minutes, and my unspoken hope was that I would pass out as we crossed the finish line together, and she would give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and I would then die, and the smile would remain on my face through the family viewing prior to my funeral.

All of this, of course, is what we writers refer to as “poetic license”, whether it rhymes or not. “Poetic license” allows us to lie somewhat for the good of the craft and our own immortal souls, so that we can rely on grace and not good deeds when we are checked in to that Great Copy Room in the Sky. Eight minutes for a mile? Not likely!

And then last Friday at the Compass Lakes Barefoot Festival I succumbed to ambition run amok and to several pretty faces (and slim figures) behind the registration table where the Running Moms were signing up runners and/or walkers for the 5K event for Saturday. I put down my money, picked up my pin-on placard, my coffee mug and my visor and went on down to the Republican Booth, where Ron the Elephant was charming passersby.

This is a time for confession, so that you will understand the rest of the story.

I have never participated in athletic events. I never played tennis or golf, or was selected for a real baseball team, or threw a discus or ran in competition. I have excuses for all of this, and a couple of good reasons.

The captain of one of my ships once put me in charge of President Kennedy’s physical fitness for our crew. One of the events was a two hundred yard shuttle run. In this you lined up your men, they would run fifty yards, turn, run back, and then repeat, and I, as Officer - in - Charge, would carefully record times. There was a problem, however. The widest part of our ship was a little over thirty feet, and I lost five men into the water until I caught on: fifty yards to run, thirty feet to run in…… We finally fished the men out of the water, and I faked the rest of the times, turned the statistics in, and hid for the rest of the cruise.

So here I am, early on Saturday, milling around amongst athletic types, who were comparing times, diets, training regimens, shoes (except for the ones that were running barefoot), and former runs. I was wearing my running shoes, my Seacrest Wolf Preserve shirt, my work trousers and my most nonchalant attitude. Out stepped a young lady with a megaphone, announced the rules, which seemed to be chiefly that the runners got to go first, and the walkers would follow. This did not seem reasonable, but I went along with it until I could consider the situation.

The runners took off, and the walkers moved out at a fast pace. Several of us figured out early that we would be better off if we (1) ran down hill, and (2) moved to the shady side of the route when we had the opportunity. And the route was not bad; some paved, some dirt, all well protected by staff who offered water to us as we passed and helped us get our tongues back in our mouths.

And then it was all over. I moved briskly through the gate, to a modicum of applause. The announcement came that awards would be down at the stage, so I moved in that direction. I listened to the age groups and the winners in each. I watched the medals being hung around slim necks and observed the pictures being made of each smiling participant. And then, loud and clear, came the clarion call: “Male, Seventy-Five and Over…… Homer Hirt, age eighty!”

Cheers rang out! Applause filled the air! I raised my arms in the age-old symbol of victory, and trotted up to the stage, dropped my head slightly so that the red, white and blue ribbon with the medal attached could be placed. And then I turned, with a grin, and shook hands all around as the cheers continued. I left the stage, and I wore the medal the rest of the time out there. I, for the first time in my life, felt the “thrill of victory”, even though it was a long time coming. Other participants shook my hand and spoke of my age and, I suspect, might have been somewhat envious. I was so euphoric that I forgot to eat lunch.

But that was not the end of the day.

I loaded Ron the Elephant up in my Explorer, hung the medal on the rear view mirror, and took him to a fundraising event in Marianna where he could welcome all. I went home, cleaned up and went back to the event, accompanied by “The Runner”. What a day! I heard someone in the group ask if I am a runner, and the reply came back: “No, but Homer is a power walker”. Wow! A power walker!

My ambitions were being fulfilled, or at least the indication of possible fulfillment was just over the horizon. And Ron and I finally got home, and I sat down to review the day. After a time, sleep overcame me and I dreamed that my family had presented me with bagpipes, which is another of my eighty something ambitions, and I, magically, knew how to play them, so I entertained all hands, to more applause!

Could an Octogenarian ask for more?