My body remembers

Why I keep pounding myself

Workouts kinda suck. They didn’t always. In the growing up it was called play. It was called sport. It was actually fun. It’s different now. At my advanced age of 67–really?!?—it requires an entirely different process and motivation and anticipated outcome.

In the growing up I ran effortlessly like the wind. In the growing up it wasn’t called a workout. When did it change? I can’t pin down the age or the date that physical activity transformed from play to work, but it was sometime in my late forties or early fifties.

What was once a way to free my mind became a necessity to free it. What was once a simple exercise—no we didn’t call it that—became a requirement for maintaining quality of life.

There are people that don’t sweat. Never really have. It makes them uncomfortable. I don’t relate to those people. Sweat for me has always been a constant, whether induced by the toils of activity or by the escaping poisons.

In the growing up there wasn’t much attention to body parts. They just worked well. Today there is attention to each one. Each limb—each muscle fiber, ligament, tendon, and bone remembers and recognizes the toll paid.

Today when I reach for the dumbbell to contract the bicep, the elbow, wrist, and hands remember the hundreds of thousands of throws. Of footballs, baseballs, basketballs, frisbees, rocks, snowballs, and dog toys.

Today the balls are called fitballs and medicine balls. They’re not meant to be thrown.

In the growing up when I bent the legs it was to cram leverage onto the knife edge of my Solomon 205s. It was the moment of gathering before heading skyward to sweep the ball off the rim, to snag a fast-moving line drive out of the sky.

Today when I bend in a squat, the hips, knees, ankles, and feet remember the thousands of trips up and down the mountain. On boots, sneakers and skis. The thousands of hours sprinting around the track, across the grass field, down the street. The spun miles of single track trail. The jumping. The standing up and sitting down.

Today the runs and the laps and the sprints are called steps. They’re not meant to be done at top speed.

Oh yeah…and the double knee replacement surgery 14 years ago. The body remembers that.

Today the back and the neck remember the impacts of hitting the ground. Of leaping and catching and diving and hanging on and letting go.

The mind remembers in a different way.

In the growing up the brain felt the exhilaration of the catch. The race, the touchdowns. The winning. The losing. The need—for speed—for getting away.

The 3rd Ultimate game of the day—the 6th or 7th of the weekend. The heat’s, the prelims, the quarters, the semis, the finals. The last race of the day—the 4X400 relay. That one more run seeking another 1000 feet of vertical. The 25th carry through the line or around the end. The 25th pass sent arcing to a streaking receiver.

Today the brain remembers and can then access the joy of each and every one of those things. More precious and rare now. More deliberate. Less natural. More elusive but still available only as a memory. Today it requires more determined effort to find any kind of zone—any brush with the rush of the effort.

Softer things are appealing today. Drawing me in. Settling me into complacency.

It’s OK. You deserve this.

Today I must seek the hard. Intentionally. I understand how close the soft is. I know how quickly it will come—and take over—if I don’t choose the hard.

Today I believe that seeking the hard makes the soft feel much softer. Today I know from experience that the soft is much richer when earned.

What can I expect at my advanced age? The wisdom borne of experience is felt in the mind. I can pause. The entitlement of movement is gone, and yet the movement is still required. I can tap into the gratitude of being able to do it at all. I can feel that in my mind, but how do I move that into the body? How can I trip the override switch from stop to GO when the body remembers everything?

How can I remember—and yet still listen? How can I remember and yet still desire?

Because I can. Because I must.