On Sunday, I’ll run the New York City Marathon at age 65, having trained on a strict diet of edamame and mixed vegetables.

O.K., I didn’t eat a ton of these foods. I iced my knees with packs of them.

Debby, my wife, was not sold on the idea.

“Who trains for a marathon out of the frozen food case?” she said.

Debby is not, shall we say, smitten with the idea of my running 26.2 miles. On the application for my first marathon, New York in 1991, she suggested I list my occupation as “organ donor.”

Finally, she did manage some bleak enthusiasm.

“Too bad they don’t give a trophy for hairiest competitor.”