I was there at the dawn of the aerobics age,
a man of thirty-five, first-time jogger,
new member of a deeper-breathing breed
that saw the path to health and longer life
as one to be traversed at speed, in sneakers.

I absorbed the knee and ankle pounding, sent
quickened blood on body roads to distant
destinations, heard other runners tell about
their ecstasy when, winded to (and past) the point
of pain, they felt enveloped by their endorphins.

I didn't get in touch with mine. Instead,
one aching day I asked myself, why run
when I can walk? Much easier to breathe
this way, still satisfy the workout urge,
stop to give the dog a chance to sniff

or declare a patch of territory. Walk on,
watch a watching hawk or, on the lake,
a cormorant as it plies its natant trade,
neck above the water, profile of a U-Boat
stalking the North Atlantic, 1940.

Techno accessories not necessary now -
The brain needs room to roam out here,
contemplate a complicated question,
or even, if mood and muse concur, compose
a bit of prose, a lilting line or two of verse.