I WAS OUT FOR A RUN last year, pushing hard uphill in Los Angeles and just hating life. My shirt was pit-stained and my legs sore when a bus driver shouted out from his window, “I want whatever vitamins you’re taking!” I pumped my fist in the air, a polite thank-you for the encouragement, when homeboy shivved me: “You run like a young person!”
That’s what the past two years have felt like: You’re out in the world, just trying to make it through the day, when someone or something comes along to remind you how tenuous this all is. For the record, I’m 44, but the pandemic has made me feel much older. Last year, a big project of mine—something personal—fell apart and I was having trouble moving on. I was still taking care of myself, still running four times a week, but I was dreading it, which was new for me and also a bit scary. What do
