The 40-something writer bets that he can still run the 200-meter dash in under 25 seconds

A few months ago I met up with my old college track teammate Don M. and we went for a jog. We talked about our kids and the weather and the merits of a two-car garage vs. a three-car garage.

I then let it slip that I wanted to sprint a 200-meter dash again. I told him I thought I could run it in 25 seconds. Don and I had only been jogging for a couple of miles. He was moving pretty easily. I was huffing and puffing to keep up. We competed together in college more than two decades ago. "There's no way you can do that. No way in hell," he stated.

"Don," I said as I tried to catch my breath. "Not only...(gasp)…am I going… (gasp)…to run a…(gasp)…25…(gasp)… I'm going…(gasp)…to try…(deep gasp)… to run a sub-25…(choking cough)."

Don began laughing, and it was a high-pitched cackling laughter. A mocking laughter. This prompted me to throw down the gauntlet. To prove to him that I could run halfway around a 400-meter track in 25 ticks of the clock, I made a bet with him that would change how I train and how I eat and how I spend my Saturday mornings. The bet was major: the loser buys the winner one cold beer.

I figure I can win this bet. Despite being a top-notch trial lawyer, Don made a glaring tactical error in accepting the wager: we never agreed when I had to run the race. We made the bet more than four months ago. I plan on collecting my winnings next spring, when a long and cold winter is once again replaced by track season.

Like plenty of geezerjocks, I ran track every spring from junior high through college. I learned to cherish the sport. It helped that I really liked the people who ran track. I also appreciated the nuances of competitions: the long bus rides, the deep and often inane conversations that took place between events, the intensity of the starter's pistol, the absolute meritocracy of the stopwatch, the mixture of individualism and teamwork. And, maybe most of all, I thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of just…running, flat out.

I ran every distance between 50 meters and 800 meters. I was, probably like a fair number of geezerjocks, an "on-the-one-hand, but-on-the-other-hand" kind of athlete. As in: On the one hand, I was fast enough to anchor my college's 4x400-meter team to a new school record. On the other hand, the Division III college I attended generally had a crappy track legacy, and on the day we set the record I ran the slowest split of the team. So it goes.

For the uninitiated, running the 200 meters in 25 seconds is a pretty good time for a high school girl. I used to run the 200 meters in about 23 seconds. Really fast geezerjocks 20 years my senior can run that without breathing hard. Bill Collins, our current GeezerJock of the Year, ran a 23.36 last year at age 55. The American men's 60-64 record is 24.37, set by Don Neidig.

My old teammate Don M. doesn't know I have a few tricks up my sleeve. First, I already dabbled in this Masters running stuff a few years back. In 2000 I entered a statewide all-comers meet in Minnesota. On one hand, I won both the 100 and the 200. On the other hand, the competition wasn't exactly intense, and the exertion of running even a measly 100 meters made me gasp. That's me in the photo. Yes, that is my tongue hanging out.

Second, I slyly padded on a bit of flab before getting together with Don and I neglected to run much in the months leading up to our jog together. He thinks I'm just another out-of-shape 40-something guy with three kids, a working wife and a mortgage.

But this past summer and fall I dropped a little weight, thanks to some good old fashioned grueling roadwork. My pants aren't so dang tight and my endurance is a whole lot better. I'm adding a dose of power by getting up close and personal with the free weights at a local gym twice a week. This winter, if things go well and I'm blessed with a little luck, I'll work on the foot speed.

I haven't seen Don M. since our wager but I'd really like him to pay up next year. Heck, I've been such a paragon of virtue lately that I've pretty much given up on Big Macs and deep-fried fish. True, it's a Spartan lifestyle, but I'd really like to win that beer.