Earlier this summer,
my friend, Mike, and I met at the Schiller Woods Forest Preserve to
workout together. We met in the parking lot and started walking
across the flat, weed-infested field that covers most of the
preserve. It's a large field that measures maybe one and a half
miles around. At the center is a pond with two small clusters of
trees nearby. Directly between these trees stands a hill. It is the
same hill that used to tangle my stomach into knots before middle
school cross country meets every November. It used to terrify me.
We decided to run a
few figure-eight loops around the trees to warm up. Each time we
rounded one of the tiny forests, we sprinted up and down the hill on
our way to the next. The hill did not intimidate me like it used to,
but the sprints were exhausting nonetheless.
As we finished our
last loop, we approached the steepest side of the hill and darted to
the top one final time. We slowed to a walk, locked our hands atop
our heads, and started to slowly suck in air. I accepted a low-five
from Mike as we wobbled toward a pair of gray shoes resting alone in
the grass. It was a gusty day, and the strong breeze quickly dried
the sweat that coated our bodies. It left behind a crusty, salty
residue. We stared down from the top of the hill and saw a strange,
old man trotting up the opposite side of the hill, which had a
shallower incline, but covered a longer distance than the route we
took.
He came to a stop
near us and looked our way. He wore weathered dress shoes, dark
slacks, and a long-sleeved, cotton shirt with plaid print . A small,
but sturdy man; he was well built for his age. The wrinkles of his
leathery, handsome face stretched around yellowed dentures that
revealed genuine happiness. It was a proud, innocent smile – the
kind we all have as kids, eventually lose, and hope to earn back with
age.
“How many years?”
he asked while pointing to himself. He poked his sternum over and
over with his fingers. “How many years? How many years I make?”
“Uh, twenty-six?”
Mike joked in reply.
The man just smiled
as he searched for words. He pulled out his wallet, licked his index
finger, and slapped it to his license. It showed that he was born in
1929.
“Ninety-three,”
he beamed as he continued to rap at his chest.
Unable to contain
our grins and admiration, we stood dumbfounded.
“You've still got
it. What's your secret?” we asked.
The question
challenged him. He lowered his brow in search of words.
“Polish, no
English,” he responded defeated.
Mutual respect
earned, we shook hands with the man and began planning our workout.
We sat and continued to rest while he changed his shoes and walked
back down the hill. It turned out that he was younger than he said.
Seventy-one plus twelve equals eighty-three, not ninety-three. But,
we were equally impressed by his enthusiasm and athleticism
regardless. After all, it was a cloudless, stifling day in the
middle of summer. News reports broadcasting heat warnings for the
elderly were just around the corner, and this man was running hill
sprints alongside two kids sixty years younger than him.
Suddenly, we
noticed him steaming up the hill once again. He churned his legs and
pumped his arms. His eyes were focused on the top. He was in a dead
sprint, cutting the distance between him and an imaginary finish
line. But about ten steps from the top, he stumbled. His feet
slipped and arms flailed. With each step he tilted further and
further forward until he finally toppled to the ground.
We were rattled
more than he was. The fall easily could have broke his wrist or hip,
and we feared the worst as we ran over to him. He dragged himself to
his knees to rest. Breathing deeply, he stared down at his watch.
He had been timing himself.
When he was ready,
he looked up at us with a slightly embarrassed smile, and we helped
pull him to his feet. He brushed blades of dry, yellow grass from
his shirt, nodding and smiling to assure us that he was okay.
Satisfied that he
didn't need medical attention, Mike and I walked down the hill to
begin our workout. When we reached the bottom, we turned to see him
standing there, above us all, beaming. He raised his right arm high
above his head and focused his attention to his wristwatch. Below,
we ground the dirt beneath our rubberized feet and waited for the
signal. He lowered his arm forcefully, nearly leaving his feet
again. Mike and I bolted from our positions and raced to the top.
We laughed the entire way up to a smooth finish.
At last, we said
farewell to our new friend. He turned to walk back down the hill.
But before he did, he paused. We stood there for a moment – the
three of us, young and old alike – staring out at the field, the
trees, the pond, and the traffic laden streets that lay beyond the
forest preserve. To us, for that moment, that hill was like some
great mountain or canyon we had conquered.
