Sometimes I'm being chased and can't get away. People are breezing past me. I am powerless. All I can do is churn my legs and wonder, "What's wrong with me?"

I won't submit this for therapist's examination anytime soon because I don't want to hear that it means I'm grossly insufficient in some important aspect of my life. Instead, as a sports-minded individual, I choose to believe that the dream is about aging and painfully losing touch with the physical ability that once defined me as a young athlete.

At least that sounds cool.

But if we go with my analysis, there's no way that former Redskin and Hall of Fame cornerback Darrell Green will endure a similar dream anytime soon.

Just read this partial tweet from Green last week: "@9AM today, I celebrated my 50th BDay..... By running the 40 yard dash in Orlando, Florida in a time of 4.43!"

Aside from being completely impressed, yet hopefully skeptical of his feat, I can't get away from my most honest reaction.

I am Green with envy.

Green's reputation as a speed merchant and anti-aging spokesman is well-documented. The NFL's Fastest Man four times (his best 40 time was 4.15 seconds), he ran down Tony Dorsett as a rookie, often scorched the turf on interception and punt returns and played until he was 42.

Speed was to Darrell Green what home runs were to Babe Ruth. Speed was his calling card.

Growing up, it was mine, too. Whenever I tell someone I was a high school track athlete, the stereotyped response -- after sizing up my boniness and considering my goofiness -- is, "Oh, you must've been a distance runner."

Actually, I was a rail-thin, ultra-white sprinter.

Running fast was my thing. That was my identity -- even if my skinny body didn't fit the mesomorphic mold made for 100-meter dash specialists.

As an awkward teenager, I siphoned broader confidence from my label as a sprinter (and we all know how important confidence is at that stage).

The word sprinter even sounds cool (and I've made it clear how important that is). It conjures thoughts of sleek athleticism, style and attitude.

Think of Usain Bolt. I mean, how bad is that cat?

Back then, the fact that I called myself a sprinter made me feel like those bold traits could transfuse through association alone.

What's that saying about speed? Oh yeah: Speed kills.

That's a sick saying.

For Darrell Green, though, speed doesn't kill; speed is his lifeblood. Despite his age, the strong ties he still has to his younger days can be measured on that stopwatch.

For me, speed doesn't kill; speed just died. I became a journalist, then an editor. At 31 years old, I am a cubicle dweller who should never refer to another male as a "cat" or use the word "sick" as though I'm Shaun White.

Green can get away with it. But Green isn't a realistic example for most of us. He's like some kind of athletic Peter Pan. He defies age with his blazing legs. Meanwhile, his post-football pursuits include working with his Darrell Green Youth Life Foundation, which he began in 1988 when he still was a young man.

Darrell Green. Youth. Life.

Fitting.

So, what's the point to this lopsided comparison? Well, it's only a matter of time before Father Time catches all of us. Green is stiff-arming him and actually getting away for a bit longer. When someone can do that -- without medical aid of drugs or plastic surgery -- it should be commended and appreciated.

Heck, I feel like I'm the one who just turned 50 after my aching body shoveled two tons of snow over the past couple of weeks. But that's normal. Most of us are normal.

Green is not.

Kudos to him. He's winning the race we're all running.

Hopefully, my tormenting dream will go away as I get older and move further from my fast times of youth.

As for Green, he'll probably sleep blissfully into old age. If he ever has a nightmare similar to mine, it might include him crossing the finish line and slamming face-first into a giant digital clock that flashes a crushing 4.7.

But, poor guy, he'll be 70 by the time that dream comes to haunt.

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