#fittestever, A Live Report

A day before the birthday and the morning after the party at which the question inevitably came, this seems a good time to come clean:

So, are you your fittest ever???

Um, no.

But it does depend on how you count. (And for those of you new to this thread, a little context: in a moment of inexplicably unbridled enthusiasm at the end of September, I declared before a group of 40+ witnesses that I wanted to be my fittest ever by the time I turned 55…which would be tomorrow. What was I thinking?)

On an overall, total fitness, strength-endurance-flexibility measure, I’m not there. Not even close. But. But.

The morning after my spontaneous declaration, I went to a Zumba class, thinking “the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step” and, because I’m that kind of girl, I took the metaphor to its natural extreme and decided I would make the forthcoming six months a journey of a thousand miles: 5.5 miles a day, every day, until that 55th birthday.

And that? That, I did.

As of this morning, with still a day to go and lacking a few that never got logged for one reason or another, I can–with confidence and authority–say I have walked 1,086+ miles in the last six months.

Lessons Learned? Plenty…

• A digital tracker’s accountability and encouragement work. Embarrassingly.
• There are a lot of Little Free Libraries in this county. I should know, I visited most of them. Having  destinations helps.
• Fitness and walking buddies are the best. You know who you are – thank you!
• Rain isn’t as bad as you think, but wind might be.
• Wild, spur-of-the-moment goals are totally worth it, even if you don’t hit them.
• It’s a beautiful world out there.

Where next?

Steps: Out Of/Back/Into

We’re a week into January and I am not on pace. I feel like I’m a step behind the marching band, or still trying to get between the ropes in Double Dutch, or have my feet tangled in the sheets as I rise from the bed.

Just not into the post-holiday, new-year rhythm yet. Not quite there.

I knew it was bad when I bounded up the stairs the other day, intent on catching the warming sun for a second walk of the day and realized I’d never put on my Up pedometer in the morning. All those steps uncounted. As if they didn’t exist.

Now, you know I’ve been keeping track. I have worn that blessed thing everywhere. But not that day. And then the next, yesterday, I spent flat on my back, wiped out — again! — by a bug whose tenacity and congestion have been unparalleled. Barely moved.

See? Not on my game. Literally out of step.

Trying to focus, I took a step back. I thought about what makes me feel in step, what makes me feel well. Thought about everything we know about the interplay of immunity and well-being. Thought about all the practices that weren’t [yet] back in my day. Thought: you really need to do something about that.

This morning I woke a little less foggy, a little less lumpy. I thought: take another step back – go back to things that worked for you. Recidivism is only bad in a criminal context…

Aspara of Angkor Wat – my muses: both in step and mindful.

And so I clicked through on the “today’s your last chance” email offer,  re-upped with Headspace and settled in for a good, old-fashioned guided meditation. Minutes later I could feel my breath evening, my neck softening, my inner gyroscope recalibrating.

I rose with a spring in my step.

Biking While Tutu’d

Facts: 

• I saw a line of tutu’d cyclists one Saturday morning.
• I took pictures.

Assumptions:

• They were cycling for a cause.
• They are fun people.

Speculation:

• This started as a dare — and grew from there.
• Despite the early hour, there will be beer at the end of this ride.

Conclusion:

• These are my people!

My Lucky Sevens

In my quest to be my “fittest ever”  by the time I turn 55, a modicum of moderation seems in order. A nasty, or even nagging, injury could really derail this process, so I am trying to modulate — starting slow and regular.

The sad truth is that I’m in worse shape than I thought. I’ve got kinks where kinks ought not be. I’ve not got muscle where one might hope for it.  That old shoulder injury has gotten wonkier over time and, frankly, I’m lopsided. The contracture in my hands has weakened my grip; the legs are strong, but the lungs maybe less so. Everything is a good deal tighter than it once was – well, except for the stuff that is looser. This is all useful information, but sobering. For all its discomfort, the truth has galvanized my commitment to the goal. This is all to the good.

So I’m especially grateful for what I’ve come to call my Lucky Sevens, two virtual coaches that are regular components of my new regime.

The loveliest seven minutes of my workout routine comes early in the day, typically right after meditation, with “Seven Minutes of Magic Qi Gong”. The title’s hyperbole aside, this is pretty magical, if only for how quickly and soothingly the seven minutes pass. Just a nice way to ease into the day and get the proverbial juices flowing.

Often the toughest seven minutes, by contrast, come from the much-promoted (but not universally endorsed) Seven Minute Workout. Maybe it’s just that I’m a newbie and not in such hot shape for starters, but I can attest to the merits of this little investment. For sheer concentration of activity and getting the heart rate up, there’s nothing quite like it.

I’m still looking for a third to round out my set.  Any suggestions?

Milestones: Calibration and Celebration

Improvements from baseline can easily be measured. Strength, flexibility, endurance – these all come down to numbers.

…said I. Well, yes, and…

First, the good news: By my most conservative count, on Thursday I hit 100 miles in my quest to log 1,000 miles by my 55th birthday.

Now, the bad news: Measurement, it seems, is a slippery thing. (And, I hasten to add, this is not any mathematical shortcoming on my part. This is what you might call instrument failure.)

I began with such high hopes, confident as I was in the technology available to us all. I had no fewer than four apps counting my every step, GPS following my every move. But in a real-world twist of fate that I confess I find perversely reassuring, those apps couldn’t keep up with me. Not reliably. One day was either 11,190 steps / 5.3 miles, or 14,094 steps / 5.52 miles, depending; another credited me with 9 miles round-trip to the Zumba class I knew to be less than 2 miles away – maybe 3 since I took the long way.

What’s a girl to do?

Invest in more technology, of course!  The Jawbone Up Move (the least expensive of the fitness trackers out there, pushed into  impulse-purchase-eligibility by Amazon’s 30% off sale) looked like the answer to my prayers.  Worked right out the box, except for a preternatural preference for its default setting: male, 6′, 185 lbs., born 1987.  I was married in 1987 and only approach 6′ with the assistance of a ladder – but at least it seemed to count reliably.

And then there was the challenge of calibration. Just how long is my stride? How many steps to a mile? I used a tape measure; I compared notes with D; I reverse engineered walks, dividing distance by steps to derive stride. Finally, I paced off several quarter miles on the boardwalk and came up with what I think is a respectable constant.  Which happily aligns with what the Up has settled on, thus completely restoring my confidence in the little guy.

That number also turns out to be a lot fewer steps per mile than I had thought.  Meaning: I’ve been walking a lot more miles than I believed.  About 20 percent more. So instead of my target 5 1/2 miles per day, I’ve been logging closer to 7 — and on one memorable day that included my morning constitutional with K., circuitous midday errands in town and an afternoon stroll with I. and D., I had logged well over 11 miles before I tumbled into bed.

What’s not to love?

This has to be one of the few places where being wrong about time and distance is actually a good thing. I can feel the strength increasing in my legs and – ahem – butt. My definition of “within walking distance” (already an outlier, I understand) now stretches  to  3 miles. It’s not a bad mindset.

So: today I celebrate. I celebrate confirmation of a hard-won calibration and 100+ miles’ progress toward a long-term goal that feels increasingly real and achievable.  Milestone: check!

I Said It and I Meant It

ACT ONE

Scene One

An open space, set with tables and chairs arranged to support discussion. Forty or fifty women of all ages are seated around the room; the vibe is good, although it is after lunch and the energy is flagging. One by one, the women stand and share a personal goal. The others respond with suggestions, connections and encouragement.

Me: So, my goal is a little different. I’ve already done the blow up your career thing and now I’m trying to figure out what’s next. I’m 54 and a half and I’ve decided that my goal is to be the fittest I’ve ever been when I turn 55.

The room erupts into cheers and applause as if a collective but secretly held wish has suddenly been publicly recognized and fulfilled. Ideas fill the air like celebratory confetti.

The Chorus: Jump start with a spa vacation…try piloxing…I have a personal trainer to recommend…November Project is cool…walk….run…swim…use social media to support you…you’d like contra dancing…belly dancing…Bollywood…or Zuca…hike with friends…yoga, of course…you should train for a triathlon!

Me: (sotto voce) Whoa. Did I just say that out loud?

Scene Two

An hour later; a subway platform, funky at the end of the long work week, crowded with tourists and commuters.

I am standing a little apart, thumbing through cards with more suggestions. Inspired by my goal, a twenty-something heptathlete offers to be my accountability buddy. A contemporary mentions all Zumba classes are posted online. I am awed by the generosity of spirit, the power of validation, the thrill of possibility.

Scene Three

Later that night; a dining room with a lap top open on a table set with water glasses and bright woven place mats. Cards and slips of paper are strewn about.

I am sending thank you notes to those who offered suggestions, following-up on my own promised e-introductions and googling Zumba.

Me: (to the keyboard) Am I doing this?

ACT TWO

Scene One

The next morning; a community room above the local firehouse; the room is filled with women and salsa music. A Zumba instructor’s enthusiasm adds a vibrant pulse; a young participant’s many plaits dance along with her.  At the end of class, women introduce themselves and welcome the newbie.

Me: (to myself, bemused) Does this “journey of a thousand miles” begin with dance steps?

Scene Two

The next morning; a wooded park. The “thousand miles” metaphor lingers in the air enticingly, ripe with poetry and promise. A man and his dog walk by, then a woman and her dog. A doe regards the scene levelly from 30 feet. 

Me:(muttering to myself) 1000 miles…6 months…5 1/2 miles a day…

The Doe: Just do it.

A virtual tracker begins to appear in background, stage left, showing morning meditation, qi gong, oatmeal and shoulder PT;  7.5 miles logged already. If it had a happy face, that would be showing too.

Me: (still muttering) Better get an app for that. This tracking thing could get old.

Scene Three

The next morning; a basement room, carpeted and tidy, but cluttered. Scattered on the floor are damp sneakers, an unused DDR mat and an iPad  playing qi gong, tai chi videos and a workout app.

Tracker, back stage left:  morning meditation, qi gong, PT, 7 Minute Workout. 12 miles.

Scene Four

The next evening; a dining room, the table set for dinner, the laptop replaced by an iPad. Two women are comparing workout notes. They wiggle merrily in their seats as they watch Heather Craig and her Booty Luv.

“The Coach”: So, do you have strategies for when you start to flag?

Me: Oh yeah – I’m on it.

Tracker: meditation, PT, Booty Luv. 17.5 miles.

Scene Five

The next evening; outside an office building at dusk. A rainy day, grey, and dripping with disappointed ennui. I hesitate in the doorway, buffeted by wind and rain and guilt, and then step into the blustery ooze.

Me: (to no one in particular) What a slug.

Me: (to Me in particular) Take the long way home – and when you get there, confirm plans with the heptathlete for breakfast next week. Anything that spooks you that much must be good for you.

Tracker: PT. 21.5 miles.

Scene Six

Noon the next day: a cheerful restaurant at the busy lunch hour. Two women muse that a nicer day would have made for a lovely shared walk with the dog. Outside, unrelenting rain falls, as Hurricane Joaquin continues to rattle his saber. I decide to be unimpressed.

Tracker: meditation, qi gong, PT, 7 Minute Workout between laundry loads. I feel righteous and righted, as if my little ship has weathered the squall. 28.5 miles.

Scene Seven

The next day; an auditorium filled with a 100 people eager for ideas worth spreading.

Speaker 1: Einstein once said, “If at first the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it.”

Speaker 2: We need for you to show up in this life.

Speaker 3: The human body was designed to run 5-9 miles a day.

Speaker 4: I believe that if you are on the right track, the world conspires to help you.

Me: I said it – guess I meant it.

The Tracker pulses, as if alive: meditation, PT. 33.5 miles.

INTERMISSION

DRAMATURGY

A playwright has a story to tell, the actor a performance to make. The dramaturg is their bridge, shaping the story into a form that may be acted. Here, now, I am all three: conceiving, interpreting, performing.

The final act, of course, has yet to be written, the story still to unfold. Will our heroine reach her “absurd” goal? Will The Chorus stand with her? Whence inspiration as winter unleashes it’s colder and more dreadful fury?

We shall see. We shall see.

A Word About Measurement: “Fittest ever” is admittedly a little vague as goals go. How will we know? I think about it holistically: am I stronger? more flexible? showing greater endurance? All improvement counts. The journey — the glory! — is in pushing against the frontier.  Improvements from baseline can easily be measured. Strength, flexibility, endurance – these all come down to numbers.  But in the end, I will know it when I see it, even if quantifying superlative status may be a little speculative.

Audience Participation: Like the Greek choruses of old, the initial momentum for this journey was made possible by the support of a crowd of strangers. Life is not a spectator sport and I hope you, too, will take part in the story’s unfolding. Come back for updates; help me shape the tale itself; offer support and encouragement. Or join me. I’m fantasizing about a #fittestever phenom.

We shall see. We shall see.

Life Lesson #25: Truth: The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.