Many of us are three days into a summer reading challenge, working our way through the book stacks of our choice. I have added another challenge to my repertoire...the dreaded "getting in shape" challenge. Last Sunday on our camping trip, I chose to hike with the little girls rather than climb to the crags with the rest of the crew. Three miles of some steep uphill and down sounded just right for the younger set. Well, the girls did great on the Vista Point Hike but I was d.y.i.n.g. I can walk for miles and hours if the terrain is flat, but to get to a "vista point" one usually needs to climb UP; it was the up that did me in. My legs remained strong, but my lungs were gasping for air.
Weak lungs are something that, to be honest, scare me. I have seen one grandfather crumbling under the crush of emphysema. I have sat by my own father's ICU bed while he tried in vain to survive a risky surgery to avoid what had happened to his father. My grandfather lived with my dad when I was in fifth grade. He was a proud, stern man, and it was humiliating for him to not be able to do simple things like play the piano. I learned at the age of ten that it takes lung power to do even that. As a result, I have never smoked. Okay, there was that one pack of Pall Mall unfiltered cigarettes that I smoked behind the backstop one Friday night. Fortunately, I thought you were supposed to smoke one after another until they were gone. I have rarely felt as ill as I did after that experience, and I chose never to smoke again. But, I did live in a house of swirling cigarette smoke until I moved out at age twenty-one. I am sure my lungs have seen their share of smoke.
So, when I was trying to catch up with my ten-year-old on the trail, lungs exploding, I accepted my wake-up call. My self-talk was not gentle at all; it was time to do what is hard. I should not be in this kind of shape at my age. And, it's not about losing weight or looking swanky. This is about breathing. Remaining active. Being able to climb to those crags and see the rocks that my son *gasp* climbed.
Returning home, I put the plan in motion. We have our own vista point here. We live toward the top of a hill in the country, and you have to come up one steep hill to get here. I realized during my self-talk hike that I had the perfect location for my challenge, right here in the neighborhood. The Hill is now my work out station. Up. Down. Up. Down. Gasp. Snort. Up. Down. This is not a pretty picture, but that's okay. Not all of life is pretty, and I need this.
The first day, my husband came with me. Barely breathing hard, able to run all the way, his enthusiasm was a bit much for me at 6:15 in the morning. So the next day he brought his chair along. Parked by the pond, he read his news magazine while our youngest rode his bike around the neighborhood. As I came choking and gasping past for my next "lap", he would mutter, "Go for it, honey" and keep reading. He is my dream personal trainer. Really. Motivational speeches and cheerleading annoy me. I don't want to be cheery; this is war. I don't notice the sun filtering softly through the oaks, I don't notice any wildflowers or birds. All I can see are squished caterpillars on the road, and all I can hear is the voice in my head saying, "Quit complaining and do it." He wakes me up (the hardest step in any exercise regime) and he keeps me company, enjoying himself until I am done. Perfect.
Someday I imagine thinking rational thoughts as I climb up the hill. Not having my head feel like it was going to burst would be great, too. Running? I am not sure that will ever happen, but we'll see what a daily habit will do. There's no time like today to take on a challenge.
My personal trainer
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