Age brings a sliding scale of aspirations. By age 10 it dawns we will not be the King of Fairyland, unless we are Michael Jackson. By 20 we suspect saving mankind from evil may be tougher than we'd imagined.

By 30 we know we will fall short of being the next Frank Shorter. By 40 we're forced to concede we won't leave a wrinkle-free corpse. And so on.

What's left at 50? Being the best Type-1 Diabetic Age 50-54 Male Runner in West Michigan - OK, in my neighborhood ... OK, my address - seems pointless or laughable. Maybe both.

Still, a man needs a reason to rise each morning. One man, scorned and covered with scars ... to stride when his legs are too weary ... to reach the unreachable star!

This is my quest. But it's proven harder than I expected. Miles go slower and hurt more. Runners I used to reel in leave me reeling.

An even more lamentably-realistic dream, such as eating the salads my daughter, Flannery, 5, prepares for me, may be due.

"You need power food," she diagnosed after one run I'd finished finished me. "I will make some."

She returned with a bowl containing a jicama and four cherry tomatoes, drizzled in orange juice and Spaghetti-O's. I felt sicker instantly.

"I made it special for you," she said.

This was not the first salad that my daughter, with all the love in her heart and leftovers on the refrigerator's reachable shelves, had made me. The last time I'd tried to fob it off on the dog, but the dog didn't want it either.

"You know how age makes things better?" I asked.

"No," she said.

"Like wine?"

"No."

"The wisdom years bring?"

She looked uncertain.

"I'd like to save this salad until it reaches peak maturity (i.e. after you go to bed), then down it (dump it down the disposal) so it does me the most good possible."

"I made it special for you!" Flannery started crying.

At least her salad didn't taste like the crow I'm used to. Still I ask, at what point does a parent become transparent? By the time your child starts seeing through you, will he or she understand it's forgivable being less than the King of Fairyland, wrinkle-eraser or winning racer?

My scale of aspirations requires no more, but asks nothing less. MR