In the mid-60s, The Yardbirds played a heavily blues infused brand of rock n’ roll. All across England, they performed to spirited crowds that would whip themselves into a frenzy on the dance floor particularly as the band would close out its set with long, free flowing instrumentals. On a regular basis, these extended jams would hit an unfortunate snag when the lead guitarist would break a string on his unwieldy instrument, this is in the years before he’d get his hands on a trusty Fender Stratocaster. Twenty years old, Eric Clapton would walk off stage and restring his guitar with a maddeningly degree of patience and care. While he strung, the crowd waited to dance again. From this habit, Clapton became known as “Slowhand.” It is the name of his biography written by Phillip Norman and given to me by my wife and daughter this Christmas.

I first picked up the guitar in high school. There was a music requirement I had to contend with and I loved rock, playing guitar seemed natural. Except, I had zero talent. I can’t sing, struggle to keep any kind of rhythm and really can’t distinguish one note from the next. To cap it off, I didn’t like to practice much and subsequently over the course of a semester barely learned to play Jimmy Buffett’s “Banana Republics.”

Since that initiation, I have irregularly tried to pick up the ol’ axe, always with the same indifferent results. Including last year, when I bought a travel guitar, signed up for Yousician and practiced for about 3 months before getting distracted.

To try and motivate me back to my musical endeavor, the women in my life thought the Clapton book and a Fender Guitar t-shirt might do the trick. I’ve practiced once since December (but thought about doing so often).

Last Wednesday, I did a 5x1mile workout on a cold, predawn morning. I was :12 faster per mile than I’d been the week before. It was a major breakthrough and I was giddy afterwards. Not just a little pumped, I couldn’t wait to tell someone. But, then it hit me that nobody really cared about my workouts and even fewer people can relate to the metrics involved therein. The rest of the week was spent wondering why I bother to put so much into my sport.

One of Clapton’s best loved album’s is Journeyman. The title suggests that Clapton saw himself as accomplished in his trade but not yet a master. As incongruous a perspective as that may have been for one of music’s greatest guitar players, I think the moniker applies well to my situation with running. I’ve done okay with my talent, worked hard at it and even though I’m getting slower with age, I’m learning and enjoying the sport more than I have in any of the previous forty years. I’m passionate about the sport, am an evangelist and an almost daily communicant in the practice.

When he was a kid, Clapton loved the blues so much, he’d lock himself in a room with a particular record and not come out until he’d learned to play what he heard. I’ve never had that kind of passion for music. But, at fifty-three, I do lie in bed thinking about races, going over workouts and imagining future performances. When I run, I lose myself completely in the experience and on one level or another, I get better every time out.

Though we don’t share similar mediums or talent levels, I can relate to Clapton’s passion for his trade. We’re journeymen looking to make the most of what we love.