I set a new 10K personal best today, clocking a 7:36 pace. That sounds fast to me, and I'm thrilled with it.
But then I remember High School, when a seven-minute mile was de rigour, not something to brag about. Though I've come a long way from my days as a smoker, it pains me to realize that I'll never have that athletic ability I had when I was a kid back again. Worse, however, is that I spent my best athletic years as a smoker, and an oft-intoxicated one at that.
I'm halfway through my 30s now, and for the past five years -- while I've certainly fallen off the wagon and picked up the cancer sticks -- I've largely been in god shape, biking and hiking, swimming and running. After deciding to get into triathlons this year, I've gotten into the best shape I've been in since I was a sophomore in high school, when I took up smoking.
But I think back to when I was 15, when I made the varsity track and cross country teams. When I placed in the state. When I could run faster and father than I can now. And I can't help but wonder how good I would have been at 18, or at 22, or 25.
I lost those years, and I regret it.
And so I hit a personal best today. But not really. In all reality, I'll never know my personal best. Rather: I'll never know my potential best. I'll always be left wondering what I could have done had I not dedicated the 1990s to Philip Morris and Samuel Adams. Had I, instead, dedicated them to me.
