The 74-year-old, again — and this time I felt strong

Back and shoulders this morning, then out for an easy run. And there he was again — the 74-year-old.

If you’ve been reading, you’ll remember him. Weeks ago he tapped me on the shoulder mid-run, ran a couple of kilometres beside me, and then casually revealed his age and quietly rearranged how I thought about being 42 and starting over. He was the one who made “late” feel like “early.”

Today he was already on his way back as I was heading out. We exchanged pleasantries, agreed the weather was surprisingly, unreasonably hot, and carried on our separate ways. A small thing. Two runners nodding at each other on the road.

But here’s what I noticed afterward. The first time we met, I was the new one — unsure, shuffling, looking up at this man who moved so easily. Today we met as two people simply out doing the same thing. I wasn’t looking up at him from the bottom of a mountain. We were just both on the road.

And the run itself? I felt strong. The whole way. Not fast — I still put my strategic walks in, still kept it easy, still ran the way I’m supposed to. But underneath the easy pace there was this quiet, solid feeling of the legs know how to do this now. A few weeks ago these runs took something out of me. Today it felt like the base was carrying me rather than me carrying it.

That’s the thing about building slowly. You don’t notice it happening. And then one hot morning you cross paths with the man who inspired you, feel strong on an easy run, and realise the road has quietly made you into a little more of a runner than you were.

Same road. Same 74-year-old, out there as always, still showing everyone how it’s done. But a slightly different me running past.