GREETINGS from The Ark of Mark. I recently read a Pop-Tart package that proclaimed Pop-Tarts are a source of seven vitamins and minerals. I thought that was pretty impressive until I considered that the same could be said of a Flintstones vitamin poked into a deep-fried Twinkie.

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YOU CAN'T TEACH AN OLD DOG NEW TRICKS, AND FRANKLY HE'S NOT SO GOOD AT THE OLD TRICKS ANYMORE EITHER

"Altogether, Methuselah lived 969 years, and then he died." Genesis 5:27(NIV)

So I just returned from my twenty-year high school reunion, celebrating a halcyon time when Spam was food and barbers never felt compelled to trim my eyebrows. It was a fun evening despite the inexplicably middle-aged people milling around as though they belonged in my peer group. These poor souls must have been a lot older than me because they clearly had failing eyesight and/or memory. I know this because so many of them had to look at my nametag before they could recognize me. I pity them.

I did enjoy the reunion, especially catching up with friends I hadn't seen in years and laughing at old yearbook photos. (Note to young readers: twenty years after you graduate from high school you will be appalled by your hairstyle in your yearbook photo. There is really nothing you can do to avoid this phenomenon. Just consider this a friendly warning. Thank you).

While back in my hometown I drove to a local park to go for a run. I love running in that particular park because I ran hundreds (truly) of summer miles there in high school and college while training for cross country. As long as I don't pay too much attention to how much longer it takes me, a run there is an escape back to when I was twenty and had ample pliable cartilage.

Upon arriving at the park I noticed movement in the distance, where the new cross country course lies. Ah! My beloved former high school coach, still enthusiastic and on-the-job, must have his young charges out for a morning workout. I jogged a warm-up mile and approached them so I could say hello and wish them luck on the upcoming season. I appreciated when old "has-beens" showed interest when I was on the team, so I would gladly fill that role for these guys.

Coach introduced me to the larger-than-expected team. The runners greeted me with the same polite round of indifference I surely exhibited at their age. No problem. They were in the middle of a workout and needed to focus, and I didn't want to be a distraction. I learned that next on their agenda was a twelve-minute up-tempo run. I was in pretty good condition, having been training for an upcoming marathon. I considered joining the fray with them. I didn't want to perform so poorly as to embarrass myself, so I quickly scanned the crowd of maybe thirty young men. Some of them were probably thirteen or fourteen years old and had only been running a few weeks. I figured I could hold my own with enough of them that it would be OK. What the heck.

The boys were all shirtless in the hot weather. Not wanting to stand-out more than I already did, I mulled removing my shirt, too, until I realized I was surrounded by more visible ribcages than Rocky in the meat locker scene. I left my shirt on.

The group ambled to the starting line. Cool! They were going to do their run on their actual, new cross country course, with freshly painted markings on the ground from a recent meet. This would feel kind of like a cross country race, which I love dearly and haven't run in, um, a long time (let's just say a baby born on the day of my last cross country race would today be eligible to legally drive a motor vehicle). I was just beginning to fully appreciate the moment when Coach blew the whistle and off we went.

It happened quickly. Despite a full awareness of how out-of-place I was with those boys, the years melted away. I was in the middle of any of a hundred past races. Roller coaster thrills are child's play next to time travel. Tentative at first, I moved into the middle of a group of runners and settled in. As we approached a tight turn I maneuvered to the outside of the pack to gain more running room, just like I always used to. Gaining confidence, I bore down a little and locked onto a faster pace I was sure I could manage for the duration. I started picking off a few of the guys ahead of me. Pretty soon I was well into the top half and having a ball. With about four minutes to go I had passed everybody within reason, knowing full well I was no longer in the same league (or more accurately, species) as the guys ahead of me. Okay, then. I would hold my position to the finish and enjoy this ride for a couple more minutes. Or maybe they would do another similar run later in their workout, and I could try it again!

That's when civil war broke out in the boroughs of Left Hamstring. My stride shortened involuntarily to reduce the pain. I wanted to stop but knew the kids I had passed would see. Surely muscle fibers heal easier than pride. I soldiered on to the finish, surrendering only a position or two.

So now, a couple days later as I write, I can barely walk without a limp. My marathon, for which I've been diligently training for months, may be out the window. When I look back on that absurd decision to pretend I was a kid again, and weigh it against what it may have cost me, I know what I'd do if I'm ever in that situation again. Next time, I just might take my shirt off.