Last week I started running again. This is not headlining news as I rarely run through the summer heat, and I usually announce my return to the pavement as soon as the temperature drops. But here’s the thing, over the past several years, during those cooling days of fall, I never truly found my way back to running. Sure, I had a couple of rough starts, I even ran a few consecutive days over a few consecutive weeks, then I tapered off and finally quit. At the end of these meager running streaks, on the days I walked instead of ran, I would experience a feeling of failure in my inability to persist, or as my mother use to say my inability to, “stick to it.”
I have always struggled with running, although in years past, I somehow managed to hang on from fall to the high heat of summer. One might even question why I continue to try something that I clearly do not excel at, a question I ask myself at times. The answer is that for the last 30 years, running has been my north star, my time alone, my time to clear my head and reflect on life’s issues big and small. I have written poems while running (and forgotten them when I returned home), started a hundred different blog posts, and won debates in my mind that I would never have the confidence to have in real conversations. I have cried tears over the deaths of my parents and felt immense joy for the ability to put one foot in front of the other. Truth is, I miss the glory of a good run and, yes the self introspection triggered by a bad one.
As I begin to run again this fall, experiencing the discomfort of rough breathing and the loud protest of uncooperative legs, I notice that my body feels much older than in years past. I have new aches and I am mentally more sensitive to the effect of my feet pounding on the asphalt. I even admit to looking up the effect of running on the spinal cord the other day (luckily any compression rights itself) and worrying about whether a certain catch in my hip means I am headed toward hip replacement (over-reaction).
At 70, I know am still sturdy and strong in body. I am lucky for this, although my mind wants to argue about it. I wonder if my nonverbalized expectations of aging play into my rough running start this year. I think so. I also think that I have some serious work to do to convince my mind what my body inherently knows and that is that I am still capable of a long, slow run. Persuading my mind is gonna be a real mountain to climb this year.
Clearly, I have been thinking a lot about aging over the summer, thoughts about how the changing seasons are woven into the seasons of my life. This year, as autumn creeps in to replace the summer, so too has autumn crept into my life. After all, it is hard to argue that 70 is middle age. Comments such as “60 is the new 40 or 70 is the new 50” are really catch phrases to make us feel better about our aging selves. In reality, 70 is 70 and each of us arrives there in different a condition.
So these days, such as yesterday when I encounter people who represent some of my long held, sometimes unattractive views on aging, I pause to remind myself that this is me in 10 or 15 short years. While I may stand up straighter or remind myself not to over chat at the bank window, I mostly ask myself, “will I have the grace and optimism to face down the challenges that aging presents? Will I show patience and kindness to the impatient younger generation who doesn’t yet understand how lucky it is to live this long… however long that may be?” As the daughter of two people who could have taught a master class on aging gracefully, I hope the answer is yes.
Beverly
