The Lessons Hidden in the Old Man Shuffle
The author in November 2025
By Coach Weber
I used to be reasonably fast. Now I plod along, and my wife Julie affectionately calls my form “the old man shuffle.”
Truth be told, I’m at peace with it. That shuffle holds decades of stories—hard miles, harder lessons, and the kind of perspective you can only earn by staying in the game long enough to see the full arc of a life lived on the run.
Time has a way of humbling even the strongest legs. When we're young, we imagine speed will stay with us forever. But those days pass quickly, and what remains is something far more valuable: the meaning we’ve created along the way.
This year marks my 58th year as a runner. I started long before running was celebrated, long before 5Ks filled park roads on weekends, long before technical fabrics and GPS watches and carbon plates. In the era I grew up in, running on the road meant you were an oddball—an open target for anyone who felt threatened by someone choosing a different path.
When I jogged down Martin Way in Lacey, Washington, as a kid, the soundtrack was the thud of banana peels hitting the pavement behind me and the clatter of beer cans skidding across the asphalt. The passengers in passing cars hurled insults just as readily. I wasn’t even a teenager yet, but I already knew what it meant to be singled out.
The funny thing is, none of it discouraged me. Not once. Those moments lit something in me—a small fire that whispered, I’ll use this. I’ll get better. I didn’t want revenge; that is not in my nature. But I did want to rise. And running became the place where I practiced turning hurt into strength.
I remember a day in junior high PE when the teacher announced, “If anyone can beat Weber around this loop, they’ll get an A in the class.” The words had barely left his mouth before two or three boys shoved me hard to the ground to get a head start. They thought it was hilarious.
When I hit the dirt, something instinctive rose inside me—not anger, but determination. I picked myself up, dusted off, and began reeling them in. Inch by inch, stride by stride, I caught the pack, then pulled away, winning the three-quarters-mile loop in the final 50 yards.
The teacher wondered why I didn’t win by more. I never told him what happened. That was my moment to own. And after that day, those boys—so quick to shove—gave me a wide berth. They didn’t admire me, necessarily, but they respected me. And at that age, that’s enough.
The lessons from those childhood miles stayed with me into adulthood. Life doesn’t always get kinder as we age; the bullies simply grow older too. Their tactics become more subtle, but their impact can cut deeper. Yet the remedy remains the same: get better, not bitter. Don't strike back, lead the pack. Channel the sting into something positive. Serve more. Love more. Let adversity strengthen your determination rather than weaken it.
If running has taught me anything, it’s that negative energy can be repurposed. With intention, you can turn hostility into fuel, cruelty into clarity, setbacks into surprising strength. What was meant to tear you down can be transformed—quietly, steadily—into something that lifts others up.
So, as I shuffle down the road now, much slower than before, I’m not discouraged. That old man shuffle carries every life lesson the miles have given me: rise after falling, grow a backbone when it’s needed, and let every insult become a tailwind.
I may no longer chase PRs, but I can still outrun the darkness of bitterness by giving everything I’ve got to help, love, and serve the people around me.
Yes, I’m good with the old man shuffle. Because every step—slow as it may be—reminds me of what a lifetime of running has taught me: resilience, humility, and the grace to turn adversity into something good.
Blessings,
Coach Weber
Philippians 4:13
