Re-masculated

e·mas·cu·late

 [v. ih-mas-kyuh-leyt; adj. ih-mas-kyuh-lit, -leyt] verb, -lat·ed,

–verb (used with object)

1. to deprive of strength or vigor; weaken.

–adjective

2. deprived of or lacking strength or vigor

re·mas·cu·late

 [v. re-mas-kyuh-leyt; adj. re-mas-kyuh-lit, -leyt] verb, -lat·ed,

–verb (used with object)

1.    A word I made up for reasons you’ll soon understand

It’s .7 miles from my house to the new Mary Scott Nature Park off Briarcliff Rd. Seven-tenths. From my driveway, it’s .1 downhill, .4 up a gentle hill and less than a quarter-mile of flat road to the park entrance, which now features a sign but still lacks a paved driveway and with nary a ramp in sight is sure to be the subject of an ADA lawsuit. But it is a beautiful space with a half-mile or so soft surface path cut through thick woods – an ideal retreat from the nearby traffic and, soon, the summer sun.

That was my goal today: to and from the park with a couple loops on the trail. But it didn’t turn out that way. Halfway up the short hill, I could feel my heart beating faster than it should at that point in a run, so I backed off the pace. Stopping for a moment at the one traffic light en route helped me drop below 150 bpm (I’m guessing, since I don’t wear a monitor).  By the way, driver of the white Odyssey, in case the message wasn’t clear, when you try to make that left turn onto Shallowford after the turn light has gone red, I’m going to walk more slowly through the crosswalk every time. Guaranteed.  Have a nice day.

Upon arriving at the park, I had to rethink the plan. My heart was now pounding out the staccato beat of a WWII gunner’s nest , and just for giggles, my hands were beginning to tingle like I’d been juggling jellyfish. Nothing to be alarmed about, these are pretty normal responses to exertion with chemo side effects. But there would be no 3 miler today. I felt emasculated.

I walked a minute or two and turned to head home, defeated. To my surprise, the flat part on the way back actually felt pretty good, and the stinging had subsided. Something told me to detour, taking the long way back through a couple of side streets instead of the now traffic-choked Briarcliff. So the back half of my brief run was better than and longer than the front. Re-masculated? Not quite yet.

I arrived at the house and my run became a walk – a cooldown after a ridiculously short jog that had been broken into 4 even shorter sections. As I turned back to the house, Josh came running out from the garage, yelling “Daddy” and grinning. He just wanted a hug and to see how my run was. “It was pretty good, Josh,” I said.

Re-masculated.