I spent probably three hours on the front porch tonight. The first half was spent enjoying a premium cigar and a dram of Scotch, whilst reading the sundry news of the day. The second half was spent on the phone, catching up with my friend Duane.
I was struck by two things.
The minor thing was a door-to-door visit by the incumbent candidate for my district for county commission. She stopped by, we chatted briefly, she moved on. Left a favorable impression — she’s a somewhat middle-of-the-road Democrat. I don’t see much door-to-door campaigning in my area, so her personal touch was appreciated. This area is pretty much a solid Dem lock, so if I have to pick among three Dems for the job, I’ll end up picking the one who actually asked for my vote.
The major thing was the runners.
My neighborhood is infested with mid-to-late 20s grad students and professionals early in their careers. They sometimes party, but never obnoxiously. They run. A lot. I see them all the time from my office, which overlooks the road.
But I noticed that these young, fit things go on “runs” that … well, they’re short. They festoon themselves in tech apparel, hook up their iPhones to their armbands, do their stretching exercises on the sidewalk and look for all the world like they’re about to embark upon a half marathon — and then they’re home in about 15 minutes or less.
In my day, when you went for a run, you ran. When I lived in Kentwood, I’d lace up my shoes, thrice weekly, at 10 or 11 p.m. and wouldn’t get home until after 8 miles ticked off the odometer (54th/Division south to 60th, east to Kalamazoo, north to 44th, then back).
Kids these days. They’re not as tough as they used to be.