Day 112 - Rushing

 RUSHING

Prompt - Rushing : Write about moving quickly and doing things fast.

"Come on Grandad, get a move on."

Why couldn't they understand that this was me 'getting a move on'?  When had it come to this?

I knew the answer to that one.  It had come, creeping step by creaking joint, for about the last twenty five years.  From Harry the Hare to Terry the Tortoise.  With a few other animals along the way.

They wouldn't kept up with me once upon a time.  The time being long before they were even born.  I had been quick.  I had been one of the quickest.  The Speedy Gonzalez quips all came my way.  I was in a hurry, always rushing, always on the move.  

As a kid of twelve I'd leave a big match deep in the crowd and be at the head of the pack by the time it emerged on to Richmond Terrace.  Weaving , ducking, sprinting.  Balanced, sharp, an eye for a gap and a plan in my head, I'd be through that seemingly impenetrable mass of striding legs and towering torsos like a mouse in a maze with the scent of cheddar in his nostrils.

In my teens and twenties I was on the end of many an exhortation to Slow Down.  But I never did.  It got me into trouble in school corridors, earned me praise on athletics track and rugby pitch.  Made people wary of walking with me, always worried they'd be dragged up to my level.  I became even more adept at calculating the most efficient route along a crowded pavement.  No little old ladies were harmed in the performance of my art.

Even in my forties, left to my own pace, nobody would pass me when walking.  Joggers maybe, but even some of them struggled.  I could keep up 8kph for hours on end.  I was a man in a hurry, even when there was nowhere to go.

And then it started to happen.  People passed me as I walked along.  Pride put on a spurt and I'd match them, but only for so long.  They had something I had left behind.  Youth.  Once one had done it there seemed to be others all the time.  In truth I was still quicker than 99% of pedestrians, but this clear sign on my bodily decline still hit hard.  My fifties were a time of facing up to reality.  Yet even in the following decade I tried.  To be as quick as others, to be quicker than most of the young people (surprisingly easy to do, for this was a slow generation).  

But time is relentless, as is decay, and the gradual diminution of our physical powers.  Now my twelve year old grandson tells me to get a move on - and my body doesn't do what my mind commands.  

I'd have passed on the baton if I could only catch him up.