A year of Nerd Fitness

 This month I turned 65. It hit me like a ton of bricks, to use a cliché (which I’ve been informed GREAT writers never do.)

I’ve always laughed at birthday numbers. I’ve proudly announced my age: 40, 50, 55. But 65 has thrown me for a loop. (Oops, another cliché. Must be losing my stuff.)

Growing up in America, age 65 has been the official commencement of old age since July 30, 1965, when President Johnson signed Medicare into law. I was eight years old. A presidential signature. 65? You’re old.

I subconsciously put it off. I didn’t sign up for Medicare until 12 days before I turned 65. I had vaguely heard the advice to sign up three months in advance of my birthday, but I didn’t do it. I don’t recommend the ‘head-in-sand’ approach. (Another cliché)

It all worked out. I’m officially on Medicare and working on understanding what that means.

I’m also working on overcoming my dismay at being officially old.

Please don’t comment with ‘you’re as young as you feel,’ or any such pep talk. Let me wallow in my self-pity for a post.

A year ago, on December 1^st, I joined Nerd Fitness' one-on-one coaching. My first coach resigned (I’m not taking it personally: she bought a farm with her husband and was expecting a baby) and Coach Sarah and I have been working together since February. She’s a weightlifter in Ohio and has a pet duck.

Lately I’ve been skipping workouts, feeling old and worn out. Writing this, I’m suddenly reminded of the night before Peter was born (our second child). It had been lightly snowing and I was in very early labor all day. Since our doctor was in Indianapolis, an hour north of Columbus, Indiana, where we lived, we decided to drop Rachel (now R’el) off at our friend’s house for an overnight while we went to a Red Roof Inn in Indianapolis. Our kids can explain to you what a big deal that must have been. I won’t regale you with the whole story, but after a whole movie in a theater (Tootsie with Dustin Hoffman) sans contractions, I was awakened in the Inn at 3:30 a.m. with powerful ones. I told Jim I didn’t think I could handle this and he gave me a firm coach-to-pregnant-woman-in-labor lecture: basically, buck up. (Well, what else could he offer?) That helped, a lot. He was a fantastic childbirth coach for each of our six births. I’m grateful he was there by my side, helping me through contractions, one at a time.

Fast-forward 38 years: yet again I’ve got to buck up. I’ve now spent enough time whining about being old. I was appalled the other day when my nearly-four-year-old granddaughter said, as she took off running, I’m faster than you! It was true.

I can only go forward. Hopefully I can maintain strength, maybe improve a bit. It is a big challenge. Back to those Romanian Deadlifts.

Nerd Fitness

Last week, I woke up at 6:49 a.m. and realized that I had time to do my Nerd Fitness workout before Khare’s daily meditation circle. I didn’t feel well-rested, but I did it.

My  workout has changed character recently. I’ve begun to focus on challenging myself. My friend, Kimberly, told me that it’s the last rep, the one I can barely do, that is strengthening the muscle. Instead of marking time, doing the prescribed reps unthinkingly, my mind is actively engaged, tuned into my muscles and joints for every rep.

I imagine I’m one of the older members of Nerd Fitness. Steve Kamb targets young ‘nerds’. I’m not a nerd in that sense. But I did have a body that was under-worked and atrophying.When I started Nerd Fitness Academy last August, they sent a series of twelve weekly emails with systematic challenges. I ignored many of them. But last week I decided to ‘respawn’ (I had to look that up. Nerd is set up like a massive video game.) and receive the emails again, which will take 3 months to get through. The workouts are just one aspect of change, along with healthy eating and a positive mindset. I had stopped consistently logging my food and my scale confirms that I need that discipline. I’m taking the Nerd challenge to log my food every day for a week. It's surprisingly difficult to sustain the effort. I'm 'walking to Mordor' as well: walking at least five minutes a day for a month. Gotta go!

Sixteen-mile March Before Patriots' Day

Early this morning, in a light but steady snowfall, I turned out of my driveway and headed for the Minuteman Bike Path. The lawns were covered with two inches of clean white snow. In the forest (as my Viennese friend calls it) the the brilliant white snow clung to the maple and oak branches spreading out in all directions. The long-needled pines drooped: a gingerbread village scene.

For the first three miles, I passed three people. I nodded and smiled at the first man I met, and said, it’s magical. He smiled warmly and agreed. Blessed solitude. I eschewed my ubiquitous audio-books and walked in silent contentment.

The bike path ends at the old Bedford Depot. A large weatherproof map shows the two trailheads nearby. I thought I knew where the trail to Concord began and walked about a tenth of a mile in the wrong direction. I returned to study the map again and found Railroad Avenue. At Elm Brook Park there was no indication of the identity of the trail. As I struggled to see my GPS, my glasses fogged. I could hardly read the tiny map.

A mile along, I called out to an approaching bicyclist. Is this the Reformatory Branch Trail? I was mortified when he skidded to a stop just past me. What did you say? Aghast, I ask again. He cheerfully affirmed and added helpfully that it goes into Concord Center. I was grateful but embarrassed.

Three tricorn hats and two American flags jogged down the path. Happy Patriots' Day, the father called. It is a strange April. All Patriots Day activities have been cancelled. No breakfast for 200. No muskets firing on the Green. No young man in Bedford scaling a twenty-foot liberty pole to place his red cap on top. No Marathon.

Once in Concord, I glanced to my right and saw the forest give way to a huge expanse of golden grasses, with a large pond in the distance: The Great Meadow National Wildlife Refuge.  Wonder filled me.

At Concord Center I turned towards Lincoln and later onto the Battle Road. Perched on a granite boulder, a perky snow bunny stared at me. My Runkeeper read 13.15 miles: a half marathon.

The going got rougher as my feet developed blisters and my hips stiffened. My first mile was a 16:38 minute-mile. By my last (mile 16) I was barely clocking a 25-minute mile.

Gingerly climbing the exterior stairs to Jim’s coachhouse office, I joined the video-conference call with R’el and Matt. This was our virtual finish line after completing the Conquer covid-19 virtual race. Jim and I tapped the laptop screen with cold diet sodas and we all toasted each other. Then I slowly moved back down the stairs, into the house, and up more stairs to take a soothing hot bath.

Phyz Ed

My strongest memory of junior-high-school gym (physical education) is standing in the green grass of the softball outfield with a baseball glove on my right hand. I watched the batter, fervently hoping she wouldn’t hit the ball anywhere near me. I was a below-average softball player and my focus was on avoiding making a fool of myself and angering my teammates. We chose our own positions and right field was mine. The majority of our class were right-handed, who tend to hit into left field, so right field was the plum position for the non-athletic.

When I was about sixteen, my mom suggested I take fencing lessons at the Westfield YMCA. I bought a left-handed foil as well as a mask and white padded jacket. It was a small class. Doug, who lived one town over, bought a sportscar our senior year and he let me drive it once, teaching me how to use the stick shift. Then we lay in the grass of my front yard and talked as the stars came out. I haven't fenced in years, but recently I've impresssed my six-year-old grandson, Andrew, with my swordplay.

In college I fell in love with archery. We traveled in a white van to nearby schools to compete in intermurals. My coach had a habit of saying, “Good girl!” whenever one of us did something well. As a child of the early seventies and a subscriber to Ms Magazine, I knew that I should resist being called a girl at age nineteen, but I soaked it up. I felt her love and great caring. She wanted all the best for me.

In the late eighties, I bought a Kathy Smith aerobics video, washed out two empty one-gallon cooking-oil bottles, and filled them with water to use as hand weights. Then I filled two old sox with rolls of pennies for ankle weights. I got pretty good at the routine, then did it off and on, and now haven't done it for a long time.

Now in my sixties, I’ve noticed my arms are thinner and weaker and I need to huff and puff when climbing outdoor stairs. I used to cart 50-lb. bags of flour, sugar, and oats into the house; now 25 lbs. are a challenge. I would occasionally try to start an exercise habit, but between boredom and busyness, it never stuck.

Two months ago I decided to try it again. I went online to find a routine and some instruction on how to do exercises correctly. I discovered a website that seemed custom-made for me. Nerd Fitness Academy (this isn’t a commercial, just a report of my experience) offered just what I was looking for: a graded progression of exercises complete with instructional videos. And there's fun: the academy is structured like a video game. I chose a character and wrote a story about myself. I get XPs for my accomplishments: calendaring my first week of workouts, getting a ‘dream team’ to report my progress to. When I want to level up to a fresh, harder workout, I do a boss battle to defeat the latest enemy: General DOMS (delayed-onset muscular soreness) was the first.

I’ve only missed a handful of my thrice weekly workouts: I’m taking it seriously. I email my 'dream team' with my progress. And I’ve begun to see results. I can do more knee push-ups (what we used to call girl push-ups) and balance longer on one leg.

Steve Kamb, creator of Nerd Fitness, counseled me to expunge “I don’t have time” and replace it with “It’s not a priority.” Priorities aren’t what we say, but what we do.

I read this idea three weeks ago and it is slowly changing me. I look more deeply into how I’m spending my time. Emergencies arise, but with my new thought: is this a priority? I can move forward with my life. I missed a workout while travelling. Chatting with friends and relatives who live far away became my priority over the workout. But there are choices I make every day that bear scrutiny if I'm serious about my stated priorities.