I’ve lived a physical experience opposite to many of my peers. I am getting stronger and healthier as I get older — so far. Growing up with chronic, debilitating asthma meant that I had almost no physical fitness or capability as a kid. When I got interested in hiking as a teenager, I had both literal and figurative mountains to climb. I’ve continued to work on my fitness since then, in the spirit of being capable — and comfortable — in new outdoor experiences.
That’s why it’s new to me, at this phase in my life, to realize I’ve lost some level of fitness. If I want it back, I’ll have to work at it and still it may never be exactly the same. Many of you reading this are like, “Welcome to the club.”
The funny thing about losing fitness is it doesn’t happen from one day to the next. Here I am identifying, for instance, as a distance runner. But in actuality, I haven’t gone for what I consider a long run in months. My watch, which I was gifted for Christmas, tells me I’ve gone for a handful of 5-mile runs, one 6-miler in January, but mostly a healthy, consistent set of 3-mile runs.
Why?
Well, it started in December when we were selling our house. My standard 5-mile run around our neighborhood was thwarted by the task of shoveling out our driveway pretty much every day as the sky dumped snow on us, and other routine — and then some — chores. It was good exercise, but not a luxurious long run.
Why on Earth do I refer to a long run as luxurious, you ask? Think about it — it’s truly a privilege to have the time to prepare, complete, and recover from the run itself. The whole endeavor requires planning, commitment, good execution, and then a long, hot shower chased quickly by a very comfortable couch and fluffy bathrobe. It is much harder and less fun when you’re cramped for time, hence my twisted definition of “luxury.”
Then, I decided to take on the challenge of “Ranuary,” i.e., running every day in January. I completed most days, and when I didn’t I had an alternative activity that dwarfed the day — hiking, biking. But to prevent injury, I kept my usual running distance right around 3 miles.
I realized I enjoyed the short 3-mile run standard. I was able to play with speedwork, something I’ve been shocked to discover I like over the past year. I didn’t feel as famished throughout the day compared with highe- volume runs. And, of course, a roughly 30-minute run is a lot easier to complete than longer distances when neatly scheduled into an otherwise busy life.
I kept running short, 3-ish-mile runs throughout these past couple months.
This Saturday when I tagged along with my husband to a formerly-routine 7-mile loop, something in the back of my mind tickled. I wonder, I barely allowed myself to consciously think, what this will feel like.
During the peak-lockdown phase of the pandemic, I ran this loop — the Bodenburg Loop in the Butte neighborhood of Palmer — habitually on weekends. It was mental health for me, to the extent that I could scrounge that up during that time, combined with maintaining a physical “baseline” — yes, 7 miles to me at that point was baseline. I was fully trained for half marathons, a level of fitness I enjoy when I have it.
Embarking on it this past week, though, I noticed first that my legs felt stiff and cold. Was I going slow? I checked my aforementioned watch, still novel to me, and saw that no, I was running my pretty normal pace. It just took me a while to warm up.
By mile 3, I felt pretty good! Good enough to stop, actually.
But I kept going.
Mile 4 flew by uneventfully, but by the time I’d reached five I realized I could feel the muscles on the inside of my thighs. This is a feeling that is, for me, unique to running. After long-distance runs, my awareness of those muscles working is a signal that I’m working hard; they are always sore the next day.
At mile 6, I coached myself to keep running on the — by now snowy and uneven — bike path at least for another half mile, then check in to see how I felt. I gave myself permission, in advance, to walk if I wanted.
In that half mile, it all came back to me: the feeling of increasing my distance, weekend to weekend, on a long run; on the mental trick of imagining that my previous distance threshold was actually the beginning of a brand new run — knowing that the difference between what I’d previously completed, and what I’d accomplish today, was my training edge. The entire utility of the training run fell right in that portion, the one that was hardest to complete but also pushed me to the next level; which the following weekend, unless it was marked as rest/recovery, would push yet farther until I’d completed my ultimate goal of whatever race.
It made me think that this is a good time in my life, full of so many moving parts, to experience that “edge” and to talk myself through it.
At mile 6.5, I slowed until I walked. I wondered if I was making the right choice at first — I came close to hitting “Start” on my watch again a few times, thinking about mile 7 just .5 miles ahead of me.
But then I thought, I could always come back and do that next week.
And then I thought, it might be nice to start running longer distances again.
The nice thing about losing fitness having already earned it is, I know the path to how I can get it back, and I’m confident that not only can I — I will enjoy the steps that take me there.