Two days back, spending several hours too many catching waves and practicing longboard tricks (nota bene: the classic headstand-on-board can cause serious board-wax-in-hair), I managed to pick up the best sunburn I’ve had in years, a burn that carried well past lobster red and deep into fire-engine. Flying home today, however, some 48 hours later, I barely look pink.

For whatever reason, I’ve always been an unusually fast healer. At a one week post-op checkup after some minor surgery a few years back, for example, the surgeon literally had to check his files against his appointment calendar to convince himself that he had really sliced and diced just one week prior – the scar, he said, appeared to have been healing for nearly a month.

Sure, I’m grateful for that quick-fix abilitiy – given the frequently injurious nature of full-contact martial arts, it’s one I often put to good use. But, taken together with a fast metabolism (two hours after a big dinner and I’m ready to repeat the meal), it makes me worry about how long my body can keep up the pace. If all my cells are sprinting along, how will they ever be able to stick around for the marathon of a life I’ve got planned?