The Skin I'm In

I just found this (very) short story I wrote last year...

My body has turned against me; it has revolted. I recently decided to do something about this expanding Pal O’mine that nestles between my chest and belt buckle, and what I decided to do was go jogging. Bad idea. My middle aged legs were no match for my teenager's memory, but nonetheless after a bit of cursory stretching I headed out into the park across from my new apartment, that has been silently chiding me since I moved in. ‘Run’ it has been whispering to me…’Run like it’s 1980’. The damp Shanghai breeze implores, ‘Fly maaaaaaan…’
But I didn’t feel like flying. As I waited for the elevator in my jogging gear I felt laden, over burdened. I decided to crack off a few jumping jacks, and by about twenty five I was winded and felt a twang in my left calf. Intrepidly I plowed on; fifty, fifty one, fifty two…thank god the elevator arrived. I was sweating. Well, no need to overdo the warm-ups.
Outside in the false Spring weather, I walked in large stretchy steps towards the building’s inscrutable watchman, who just looked at me blankly like they always do. At the last possible moment we both muttered ‘Ni hao’, smiled, and felt a little better about our relationship (I do anyway). Since he had never seen me do anything remotely athletic, on this day he must have been a bit puzzled as to why I was rocking a pair of brand new brown and silver New Balance sneakers, tight white track pants (where did I get them anyway?) and a stylish blue and orange Kappa hoodie. I was dressed for exercise alright, China style.
As I crossed Chongqing Lu and the massive, many tentacled highway above I started to run in place and kicked my legs out playfully, like a prize fighter training for a big match. I felt like Ali in Zimbabwe, or Rocky getting ready to run up the steps in Philly. Then I felt that twang again in my left calf. Reaching the park I gave the left leg another little stretch, and off I went; not running fast, but certainly quickly enough to easily pass the elderly strollers and backwards walking qi gongers, who it seemed, gave me approving looks as I swished by.
Breathing in the icy wet Shanghai air, my breathing became burdened as I picked up the pace, leaving great crystalline clouds in my wake. I was on my third lap around the little park and my lungs felt like they were about to go on strike; my heart was a pounding and I suddenly remembered the other part of playing sports when I was younger: I’d always hated running. Doggedly I ran on, picking up the pace. My left calf was twanging again.
There was one other guy who was jogging in the park, who was maybe in his mid-fifties and wearing street clothes, a ratty old pair of Chinese Warrior sneakers, and impossibly, a faded black Metallica cap. He was pacing himself and going very slowly, almost walking. The first time I passed I gave him a slightly deferential sideways glance, since after all, he was an old man and I was young, and full of vigor. I thought I noticed the slightest soupcon of a smile pass over his lips, and why not? I was a picture of hale (and stylish) athleticism.
Now as I came up behind him again at an accelerated speed I noticed that the path was in fact slightly slick, and I wondered at his safety. His sneakers were more like slippers, and the soles looked very worn and smooth compared with my own waffle treads which were built to grip the road. Huffing and puffing I came abreast of him and we exchanged small nods with each other. Then I came down on my left leg and felt a stabbing, searing pain shoot through my calf as the muscle seized and my leg gave way; I tumbled down to the icy pathway, skidding the last few feet on the ass of my white nylon jogging pants. Clutching my throbbing leg, I looked up just in time to see the old man shuffling past me in his thrift store outfit, with the faintest smile on his face. He didn’t stop.