Now I know why he rolls his eyes. The issue, of course, is how much pain, and for how long. And in my case, I'm lucky enough not to have much to moan about. So please take this as an observation rather than a complaint.

I'm getting older and slower by the minute.

I thought I was declining by the second, though, which is the good news. The bad news, if I force myself to look for it, is that I don't have quite the pain tolerance I thought I did. Easy for you to say, Dad, I can hear my son saying now. But as the father of a son in his late teens, I see myself mostly as a cheerleader at this point -- a sloganeer, if you will -- and as I'm sure he can attest, I try never to miss the opportunity to teach a life lesson in a pithy (and hopefully entertaining) way. So many metaphors, so little time.

Yet I had about 20 minutes of the finite stuff as I ran the 5K race this morning -- actually just over 21, as I barely missed my primary goal of finishing in under 21 minutes. I had dreamed about breaking 20, but I knew in my heart that that wasn't likely; I ran a 20:30 or so two years ago, during my first experience at the U.S. Transplant Games, and as I said before, I'm getting older and slower by the.... All things considered (it was humid, I haven't run a race lately, I ate Indian food last night, and I could go on...), I was happy with my time. It is, after all, better than a seven minute per mile pace, and I'm a short, bald (though still somewhat gray) 45-year-old fogey. But enough about me. Let's consider the life of a transplant recipient instead.

That's what I tried to do throughout the course of this morning's race. I had to think about what to write about following the race, so I figured this would keep my mind off the fact that I was actually running -- which is always a good thing. But I also thought it would help me get through the race in another way. Combining what I tell Sam about enduring pain with what I've learned about transplantation over the last couple of years, I had hoped to use a transplant patient's courage as my own.

The race started out well enough. I tried to find a rhythm and a comfortable but challenging pace. I felt my way around, trying to establish myself while also looking for others who might be good partners in the journey. I likened this process to the beginning of most of our lives: we feel our way around, look to make connections, and hope for the best. If we're lucky, at some point or another we might even feel as if we're doing better than we realized; that we're further along than we thought. And before I knew it, we were running by the One Mile marker, which I crossed at 6:35. That was faster than I thought I was going. And I felt pretty fresh.

This kind of early success will make some of us reach for more. Others might become complacent. And sometimes, no matter which path we choose, events beyond our control -- previously unimaginable circumstances -- suddenly demand our undivided attention. In some cases, they necessarily become the sole focus of our lives. They can take us out of the race entirely, but often they manage only to temporarily slow us down.

I tried to reach for more. As I began the second mile, I made a conscious effort to step up the pace. But just as I did so, I felt a "stitch" -- a sharp ache that runners occasionally experience when they test their limits. As a daily runner but only an occasional racer, I've only had a few, all in my side, around waist level. Often, if you press hard on them with your thumb, they will recede and disppear. This one, though, was higher, under my left armpit. For a moment I worried about my heart, but then I laughed at myself, and admonished, "Just ignore it!" (It's a horrible thing torture yourself for 20 (or so) minutes, with only your own thoughts to get through it.)

When it didn't go away, I thought of dialysis patients, suffering day after day, month after month, and year after year, waiting and hoping for their pager to beep them with news that they've reached the top of the list. Surely I could hold on through Mile Two.

So I did. The stitch went away -- I guess when I started thinking about other things -- but I was disappointed with my Mile Two split time: 13:30. I had run the second mile in 6:55, 20 seconds slower than the first -- when I thought I had picked up the pace. Mile Two of a 5K race is always the toughest: excitement and adrenaline takes you through most of the first, and the end is (theoretically) in sight after the second. We are all left to muddle through the middle mile. I quickly calculated: I was right on my target pace of 21 minutes. But I thought I was ahead of the pace -- that I might even have a bit of a cushion -- so I was disappointed.

But soon my disappointment turned to dread. The Two Mile mark is the point at which any 5K runner worth his singlet is supposed to put it into overdrive toward home. I tried, but I just wasn't feeling it. I wondered whether I had gone out too fast. I started thinking that all the focus I was putting on how I was going to describe the race had backfired; that it had in fact made me think about nothing but the fact that I was running. I worried that since I had made the commitment to run in and report on the race, I was obliged to describe my own sad, slow crawl over the finish line. And I wondered whether I had the integrity required to write honestly about my own demise. I was feeling sorry for myself, and running without purpose, for what seemed a long time.

My thoughts thankfully turned back to running. It was only a race, I knew that -- but the least I could do was finish strong. I knew I was nearing the Three Mile marker, and this time I got my legs churning and my arms pumping and I started passing people. The teenager I had targeted in the distance during most of the last mile was now well within my sights. My only remaining goal of the race was to get to the finish line before he did. I flew past the Three Mile marker without even noticing the split time.

I gained on and passed the youngster, and as I neared the finish line chute I set my sights on the runner ahead of me -- a guy who seemed about my age. He was slowing, but as he heard me coming he attempted his own final burst. I think I edged him out at the line, but I'm not certain. I only know that I tried.