Also, I have an analytical job that requires me to be still. Sometimes I can’t shut my brain off after work. Hitting the gym allows me to find that off switch a little easier. And then I can find a place in my brain to do my passion which is writing. See, it all blends together perfectly.
When I was in secondary school I participated in every sport I could: volleyball, track, cross country, and basketball. During the summers I was on the softball team, played tennis, and swam. In college I didn’t get to participate on any teams mainly because I was already a mom and a military wife with a lot of volunteer duties. That in and of itself was a workout, but I still was able to go to the gym and swim. Plus our family hiked and canoed. My kids could tell a few horror stories about THAT, canoe trips where we got lost in bayous in Louisiana, hiking trips through rivers and boulders. Those are stories for another blog post, however. . . .or maybe for them to tell there therapists.
I loved going to the gym on military bases. I’d work out in the weight room with all of the young recruits. A lot of times I’d be the only woman in there and my son would call me a buff chick. His respect for me was major motivation. There’s a respect in the weight room, too. Everybody watches everyone and there is a healthy competition for form and reps, but a silent respect for each other that we are up and making something happen. No excuses! Of course, I never had to wait for the weights I wanted. They were pumping 50 pounders while I was doing the 15s, but hey, I’m a girl. It’s what I can do.
Then there was the time my husband and I decided to hike the Oregon section of the Pacific Coast Trail. Now remember, I was the girl in the weight room with the 15 pound weights, okay. Well, my pack was 50 pounds. I was throwing up by the end of the first day, had bruised toes by the end of the second day, and ended up leaving the trail on day 5 missing 7 toenails and my dignity. Guess I should have trained with a 50 pound pack, or smacked my husband for thinking we should have equally balanced packs. God, he is 180 pounds, I’m 130 pounds. At least he could have rationed them out accordingly. My toenails grew back and they are painted pink right now mainly because they are still bruised from my last race. Toenails are for sissies.
Once I became an empty nester, though, my gym rat persona came back big time. I have a lot more free time to fill however I want. I have friends who are marathoners and tri-athletes. We spend time talking about the best running shoes, where the next races are, how many miles we put in this week, and where the cutest workout clothes are (try Lucy’s in Bridgeport!). It’s awesome to have that connection with these amazing women! Who knew that being a gym rat was a girly thing to do?
We call it pounding pavement. The rhythm of my pace, the sounds of my breaths and the music in my iPod are exhilarating. Plus I live in a beautiful, BEAUTIFUL place. I come up over hills and can see Mt Jefferson in his entire splendor, come around the bend upon deer feeding in McDonald forest, or meet another person with some cute puppy dogs. It’s all fodder for writing later, and it is all motivation to keep going. Who knows what’s around the next bend or over the next hill. I so gotta know.
You know, I may actually do it for the race t-shirts, the carb loading, and the cheesy medals.
NAH . . . it’s for the cute clothes. I’m such a girl.
