Last weekend, my eldest son clocked a personal best in the Auckland Half Marathon. Having run for over 20 years and clocked tens of thousands of miles alongside him, I felt a degree of pride seeing him achieve something remarkable. He ran an impressive time, one that reflected all the hours he’s put into training. But amid the pride, there was a slightly bittersweet realization—the quiet admission that his time is one I’ll never come close to myself.
For those of us past 50, there’s no denying it: speed doesn’t come as easily as it once did. The rhythm that used to feel so natural now feels a bit out of reach, and maintaining the same pace year after year has itself become a kind of endurance test. We know it’s part of life—bodies change, time has its way, and recovery stretches longer with each passing birthday. But the desire to run like we did in our prime, to hold on to those fleeting moments of ease and speed, never quite fades.
Of course, like many people who struggle to come to terms with aging, I reached for a hopeful fix: the latest pair of super shoes. You’ve probably seen these “magic” shoes touted as the latest technological edge, with promises of added bounce, extra impact protection, and maybe even shaving a few seconds off your time. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t quietly hopeful they might help close the gap between my son’s times and mine. But I’ve learned quickly that shoes, even the best ones, can only do so much. Sure, they give you a slight feeling of lift, a hint of the smooth, gliding pace of younger days—but a few miles in, reality hits. No high-tech gear, no matter how advanced, can outpace time.
So, how do we come to terms with slowing down? It’s a question that haunts many athletes, especially runners, for whom times and personal bests are more than numbers; they’re a part of who we are. I sometimes think about elite runners—the ones who once clocked sub-four-minute miles or marathon finishes under two and a half hours—who, at a certain point, have to step back from competition. Many of them turn to coaching, where they can share their hard-earned knowledge and experience, perhaps reliving their own achievements as they help others strive for theirs. It’s a different kind of fulfillment, a bittersweet one that still keeps them connected to the sport they love. Or, at the very least, it’s an opportunity to share stories of their past conquests and revel in the memories.
But for these athletes, too, stepping back requires an enormous shift in mindset. When you’re used to the thrill of speed, of pushing your body to its limits, transitioning from striving to coaching is no small task. It means letting go of measuring success by your own records and learning to celebrate the victories of others as if they were your own. Though I suspect even the best coaches still have a pang of nostalgia, or perhaps a flash of irritation when they see a young, faster runner breeze past. And yes, I’ll admit that seeing some of those Strava titles, the ones flaunting PRs and paces that remind me of years past, can be a little triggering.
It’s a bit cliché, isn’t it, this idea that running at any age builds resilience, that it teaches us to value the journey over the finish line. According to all the inspirational Instagram posts and running-brand ads, as we get older, running becomes less about the stopwatch and more about the experience. They say it’s about noticing the things we used to miss in the rush of younger years—the changing seasons along the trail, the warm nod of another runner passing by, the feel of the morning air settling around us. And maybe they’re right; maybe a slower pace does open our eyes to new things. Maybe the Polyannas of the running world are onto something when they say that slowing down lets us experience running in a way we couldn’t before.
But let’s be honest. All the feel-good marketing and wisdom-forged-in-slow-miles mantras are little more than balm for the sting of watching our younger selves leave us in the dust. Despite all the optimistic spin, getting older and slower can really suck.
And yet, here we are, still running. Still lacing up, still heading out, even if we know we won’t be setting personal records. Maybe we don’t need to hit the paces we once did, because we’re still part of the race, just in a different way. There’s a kind of resilience in accepting that we’re not as fast as we were—and maybe in discovering that we still love the run, no matter what the clock says.
