I just returned from having a test called a "stress echocardiogram." [Nothing wrong with me, I am happy to report.] They wire you up, do a cardiogram, then have you walk on a treadmill until [for someone my age] your heart rate rises to 117. Then they do another cardiogram. The technician had to crank the speed and elevation of the treadmill way up make my heart rate hit 117, because, she said, I am in such good shape. I preened.
It is to such petty triumphs as this that men my age sink! In my youth I could press straightlegged into a handstand.
Vanitas vanitatum, saith Ecclesiastes, omnia vanitas.
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2 comments:
Marvelous news - cheers Professor (I'm pouring myself another whiskey to toast your health)!
Congratulations on your fitness.
I, who used to jog up the subway stairs, now slowly labor up them with my hand on the bannister to avoid falling, with a mob of impatient young people pressing me to hurry up, barely concealing their desire to trample me, a useless obstacle to their energy. I reach the top of the stairs out of breath, but somehow pleasantly surprised that I'm still able to climb them.
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