Especially for those who partake in the communal culture of running. Colors blaze as the heat subsides. We get to mix long sleeves with short pants until the snow flies.

The conversation had been lively among the four of us, a small contingent of a larger group that has met at 8 a.m. almost every Wednesday morning since I don’t know when.

We jokingly refer to ourselves as The Retirement Run Club, despite the fact that most of us are gainfully employed and enjoying flexible hours.

Our greetings last most of 500 feet, the distance between where we park and where we start to run. The same jokes flow about timeliness and the generosity of those who waited for the lolligaggers.

We dispense with the most pressing news by the time my knees stop screeching at me, around about the first half mile when I imagine sheets of rust melting away.

I try not to focus on my........

© The Saratogian