It takes a half a mile to discover I’m sadly out of shape. As I walk past the last mailbox on the South Shore Drive and turn to finish the final lap of my walk in what should have been a jaunty manner, I know I’m in trouble.
Not seriously, but enough for several red warning flags to pop up. I am following instructions on the third day of my 5K Walking Plan (printed off the Internet) so I will finish and walk one mile. However my ragged breath and a nagging pain in my left knee tell me to slow down. Maybe for only a week or two, but take it easy I must or inflict damage that might not go away.
Unfortunately, that is not The Plan.
The plan is to enter a Walk/Run event in St. Louis in October. This whole scheme started last April while vacationing in the Ozarks. My daughter, granddaughter and I took daily walks on a beautiful trail. One afternoon, in a burst of enthusiasm, I launched into a speed-walk (something I did years ago) and challenged 7-year-old Natalie to a race.
We sprinted and my old legs moved pretty fast, briefly outpacing her before she collapsed in laughter.
“Hey, I used to race-walk and did pretty good,” I told her. “In fact, your mother and I once won a walking race.”
True. Back when Duluth’s YWCA held an annual Mother’s Day walk/run race, Betsy and I placed first in our age category. We reminisced on that April day. One thing led to another and before I gave it serious consideration, we had decided to enter a race in St. Louis in October.
It had been exciting and fun to make plans, a way to recapture the “good old days” and back then, I was confident that getting in shape would be no problem. After all, six whole months remained to do just that.
But I didn’t. Get in shape, that is. Sadly in denial, I dallied away the summer days, ignoring the fact that 20 years have passed since I walked more than one mile. Two decades ago, running and fast-walking were part of my life. I would get up at five and train, ran in 10Ks and even did a half marathon. I was in shape.
Now I walk the dog for exercise. And if you’ve ever walked a pug, you know that’s not an aerobic experience. So, on this late August afternoon, limping back into my house, I understand one thing. I need more time. I also know there is no more time. I need six months, not six weeks.
So that night, when my daughter calls, I’m hesitant to bring up our race plans, but as we update each other on our daily lives, I know I must broach the topic. She works out in a gym and is also training for a longer race and is already in shape. I hate to do it, but I must admit my weakness. Finally, I ask, “So, do you still want to do the 5K?”
“If you do,” she replies.
Bingo.
“Well…” I answer back, knowing I’m off the hook. I then admit my dilemma, freely admitting my lack of self-discipline.
After five minutes of assuring each other we are okay and that I’ll let her know if I get in shape (which I will not), we agree to relax and get coffee at Starbucks that morning instead of racing.
A sense of relief washes over me as I hang up the phone. But I really should get in shape, I tell myself.
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