Ran a slow 10K (58 Minutes) early yesterday and passed the time thinking back on better days (38 Minutes). Jim Fixx came to mind, in 1977 he wrote the bestseller "The Complete Book of Running" and in 1978 I took up jogging. Unfortunately and surprisingly he died of a heart attack in 1984, the year of my first marathon in the Black Forest. To read his book now is to see how much he foresaw. Some parts are dated. But much of it reads as visionary. Cut out white flour and sugar? Practice self-care? Find a flow state? Exercise regularly, even for short amounts of time, to live better and longer? It’s like reading 20 years of modern studies 40 years before the fact.
Fixx wrote about the barefoot-running Tarahumara decades before Born to Run. His homemade mileage counter was basically an early Fitbit. He was right on the big points too. A Stanford study later found jogging is effective in increasing lifespan and mitigating the effects of aging. Running can help ward off all manner of diseases—including lowering the risk of lung, prostate and colon cancer. And, in a study the printed this year, “among a generally healthy but sedentary group of adults in their 20s, 30s and 40s, working out lowers levels of depression, hostility and other negative feelings.”
For Joyce basically, now approaching 14 and growing up too fast. The final words from A.A. Milne’s stories of Winnie the Pooh. The anguish of Christopher Robin as he tries to explain his going away and the incomprehension of poor Pooh are beautifully human.
Then, suddenly again, Christopher Robin, who was still looking at the world with his chin in his hands, called out “Pooh!” “Yes?” said Pooh. “When I’m – when – Pooh!” “Yes, Christopher Robin?” “I’m not going to do Nothing any more.” “Never again?” “Well, not so much. They don’t let you.” Pooh waited for him to go on, but he was silent again. “Yes, Christopher Robin?” said Pooh helpfully. “Pooh, when I’m – you know – when I’m not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?” “Just Me?” “Yes, Pooh.” “Will you be here too?” “Yes, Pooh, I will be really. I promise I will be, Pooh.” “That’s good,” said Pooh. “Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.” Pooh thought for a little. “How old shall I be then?” “Ninety-nine.” Pooh nodded. “I promise,” he said. Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh’s paw. “Pooh,” said Christopher Robin earnestly, “if I – if I’m not quite” he stopped and tried again – “. Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won’t you?” “Understand what?” “Oh, nothing.” He laughed and jumped to his feet. “Come on!” “Where?” said Pooh. “Anywhere,” said Christopher Robin. * * * * * So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest a little boy and his Bear will always be playing. The anguish of Christopher Robin as he tries to explain his going away and the incomprehension of poor Pooh are beautifully human
