"What do you think about when you're running the Revco 6-miler?" a young fella asked me at curbside minutes before the start of the race.

"After all, you're on the pavement over an hour, and that should add up to a lot of monotony," he added.

"Sure does," I agreed. "But one can get used to almost anything and, furthermore, I recite memorized stuff to myself along the route."

Of course, I explained, I'm so bunched up with the other runners during the first mile, while working my way down Euclid Avenue from East 22nd Street to Public Square, that I need all the concentration I can generate just to keep from being pushed off the street - or, worse yet, getting knocked down.

Into the second mile, however, the bunion brigade thins out, with most of the hoofers having passed me. It's then that the monotony begins to set in.

"That's when I start my counter measures," I told him, tugging at the ragged baseball cap I wear for good luck on these occasions. "I name the capitals of the 50 states of the union. Actually, I go beyond the capitals. I include two other cities in each state.

"For instance, when I reach Rhode Island, I specify that Providence is its capital and then mention two other towns in that state - Woonsocket and Pawtucket.

"For a while that keeps my mind occupied," I pointed out. "I go down the eastern seaboard and thereafter continue up and down map-wise until I reach the West Coast. From there, I jump to Alaska and Hawaii.

"When that's finished, I switch to another memory tormentor.

"Now you've got to remember," I said, digressing, "that when I went to junior high on the West Side, I was a big man on campus. Honest, that's where I peaked. Just ask Hal Lebovitz, who used to be sports editor of The Plain Dealer. He was a schoolmate of mine."

"So?" interjected my friend.

"Well, you see, my favorite subject was geography. So, next, I recite the Ohio counties and their respective county seats. That chews up even more time than naming the state capitals."

Then I went on to tell him how, during the final mile; that is, from Public Square back out Euclid to the finish line at East 22nd, I visualize long-ago places of business as I pass where they used to be.

These spots include the onetime downtown May's and Baily's, the Kresge and Woolworth five and 10s we used to know, the clump of fine shoe stores that once occupied the north side of Euclid between East Sixth and East Ninth streets, the Hippodrome Theater, which was demolished in 1981, and the former Wm. Taylor Son & Co. Department Store.

"I find myself getting borne along on waves of nostalgia," I said.

When I get to the intersection of East Ninth and Euclid, I remember the Bond Clothing Store formerly on the northwest corner. I gaze toward the lake to where the Roxy Burlesque, Gillsy Hotel, Jean's Fun House and Kornman's Restaurant for years held forth.

Then, I look south of the intersection to where the Forum Restaurant used to be, and I strain to see the entrance of the nearby alley that once led to Chef Hector's popular though half-hidden eatery, still thumbtacked to the corkboard of my mind.

Soon in my inward eye I catch the Stillman Theater that stood next to the Statler Hotel at East 12th Street before the movie house was closed in 1963 and converted into a parking garage.

Then, along comes the ghost of old Halle's, and then Sterling & Welch, which in 1927 started a tradition of putting in its store the largest and most grandiose indoor Christmas tree in the country.

A little later, I shuffle through changed Playhouse Square and reach East 18th Street. It's there, with only a quarter-mile to go, that I mutter a rallying cry. "Down the River of Golden Dreams" -- the meaning of which is lost in antiquity.

I mean, I can't recall the significance, other than that it translates into something between your run-of-the-mill ego-trip sensation and an uplifting awareness that I've been chosen to grasp the secret of life by the tail until I pull it, writhing and screaming, out of its hole.

Be that as it may, it always gives me what runners call a kicker -- a sort of spurt going into the chute. I say it several times. Then, during the last few yards, I doff my cap and twirl it above my head.

"How old are you?" my friend asked with fast-furrowing brow.

"80," I answered.

"Aren't you a little old for a 6-miler?" he asked. "What's the purpose? So you finish the race. That and 25 cents will get you a phone call, right?"

"Yeah, right -- to you it's not worth a firkin of salt," I replied, digging into my bag of petrified retorts.

"But to me it's something else. I like to get a feeling that I may be back in the mainstream, able to thumb my nose at elevators, chase after buses without fear of collapsing, and once again face the world with equanimity."

Dan Chabek is a frequent contributor to Sun Newspapers and the author of "Lakewood Lore."