At forty-six, you don’t bounce back the way you used to. Actually, I’m not sure you bounce at all. I took a firefighting class over the weekend and spent a fair amount of time crawling around on my hands and knees, climbing through windows, and dangling from ladders. When people hear you do this stuff, they talk about how it’s noble work and it’s great that you’re serving the community, and so on —but the truth is that it’s fun. When you’re eight-years-old and you see your father running out to fire calls, jumping on the trucks, and hanging out with the guys at the firehouse it leaves a powerful impression. It looks like fun when you’re eight and it looked like fun five years ago when I finally joined up. And fun it is.
But boy, am I sore.
I here you bro, it’s definitely a young mans game but there aren’t that many young guys joining so for now it’s up to us to keep doin it.
I got my butt out of bed and ran four miles this morning; not impressive, but four miles more than most of the young guys.