Like Barney Fife, his body is a LETHAL weapon.

Well no, I am not the runner in question. I’m referring to some other old guy whose path I crossed one Sunday morning out on my route.

I was feeling pretty good about my run that day. I have been relatively faithful to my new endeavor, rolling out of the sack when it is still dark outside to face a 5K route of ups and downs in West Jefferson’s downtown. It is paying off.

I am losing weight and feeling better. Well feeling better except while I am putting my shoes on to face the darkness.

Once I am going my mood improves. I have some trepidation about the hills I face about halfway through my route, but then I let my mind go somewhere completely different, to the subject of this column, planning a new advertising promotion, South Carolina and significant other, Nancy. (Since she is the one gently reminding me to get out early, I’m wondering is she really up and out, too.)

Anyway, on this particular Sunday when I encountered the other runner, I had made my way through the hills. I had cursed Nancy for them and was breathing much easier after coming down the huge hill on Long Street and turning up Backstreet for the final leg.

In the hazy distance I could see the loping pace of the other runner coming toward me at a dynamic pace. My breathing was better than it was on the upside of the hills but still labored.

The other runner seemed to have a gate about twice mine. He was two-thirds legs and was flying.

I hated him for it.

He must be some young dude, who doesn’t have to overcome the damage that my years have done to me, I thought.

As we got closer, I saw that, no, he was at least as old as me and just as gray in the beard. He was lean and looking as if he could run to Boone and back.

I hated him for it.

My age fell on me like a dead weight.

And if that isn’t enough my church, West Jefferson United Methodist, has decided to celebrate my 50th birthday this month by publishing a pictorial directory. I am quite sure they have picked this month to goad me into having my picture made so that they can publish it for all to see how old I have grown.

But I dutifully went last week to have my photo made and be a part of the family.

I dressed up in coat and tie and donned what I was certain was a dazzling smile.

This could be a great gift for my significant other, I thought. Let’s try for debonair, I thought as the photographer clicked away.

“Mr. Adamson?” chimed the young blonde salesperson ushering me into the viewing room where I was to make my selection. She turned to screen a bit allowing to see what was supposed to be proofs of me.

Surely that is not me, I thought. Surely that is my father or grandfather.

As the process continued, my mood only got worse. As she clicked through the choices, I discovered I was not only old, I was a bit goofy looking. The dashing smile fell something short of debonair.

I was a photographer for 13 years. How could I have done this sort of thing to old guys all that time?

“So what size package would you like?” asked the cute blonde salesperson who appeared to be around 30. “Do you have children?” she asked, seemingly batting her eyes at me, coaxing me to think of the hundreds of family members I would need to purchase for.

“I’d love to have a picture of my dad,” she said.

Thanks a lot.

No, I don’t have children, but I do have a significant other – size 4. Now she is a lean mean runnin’ machine. I’d better get up and run every morning. Time is casing me.