Insanity has struck. I am actually considering training for a triathlon sprint. This from a person who couldn't run a mile 6 months ago. Insane! Here's the thing -- I find I really like a long-term stretch goals and feel restless without one. I learned this when I decided to train to ride the Katy Trail.
Cycling has become one of my fave things to do, as I have previously noted. One day, during a strength training session, I was warming up on the stationary bike. I remarked casually that I was surprised how much I was really enjoying the bike riding. Susie heard this and told me that another of her clients was planning to train for a week-long, 200-mile bike tour on the Katy Trail in Missouri in October of the following year. This would mean a full 12 months to get ready. I was in. [Side comment -- be careful about those casual remarks when Tip Top Susie is within earshot!]
Step one was to introduce myself to the other client, so we could train together once the weather got good again in the spring. When I did, I liked her right away. Sue is tall, blond, and (as I soon discovered firsthand) very determined. She had some very specific ideas about how to train. We started out with a plan to meet two week nights a week at the gazebo, since we lived in various parts of the island. Weekend rides were more structured and planning responsibility rotated. -- Actually, this sounds more structured than it was when we started, but it quickly evolved. -- Anyway, from a fitness and cycling experience standpoint, we were a diverse group. There was also a range of ages, from 50's to almost 80. It might surprise you to learn that the 80-year-old was our most able rider. Humbling!
As the spring gave way to summer and summer inched toward fall, our rides became longer and longer. Those seemingly long 5 mile rides in May were routine, minimal maintenance rides by September. We expanded our locations to the Metro Parks (20-25 miles), Dexter (remember the haranguer lady?), Hines Park into Northville, and an overnight excursion on the KalHaven rail trail from Kalamazoo to South Haven (35 miles each way). We rode mostly on pavement, but had several rides on chat, which is basically crushed limestone. Pavement is the easiest surface to ride on. Sand is horrible. Chat is somewhere in between.
As we rode greater distances, we became more comfortable with the distances, as well as a variety of road, traffic and weather conditions. Well, maybe not all of "we." And I don't think any of us was happy the day we rode down Dixie Highway past the gravel quarry. There is nothing fun about being buffeted by double-bottomed gravel haulers speeding down a two-lane road. To quote Sancho in The Man of La Mancha, "whether the stone hits the pitcher, or the pitcher hits the stone, it's not going to be good for the pitcher." Cyclists are definitely the pitcher in this scenario.
Two pieces of gear are really key to an endurable and even enjoyable extended ride -- the right bike saddle and the right shorts. (I'm talking comfort, not safety, here.) As it turns out, there are gender-specific design elements to a good saddle. Without going into details, it has more to do with where the padding isn't than where it is, thus giving soft tissues a break. It turns out that the saddle that came with my bike was a man's saddle. It didn't really matter when I was just tooling around the neighborhood, but was quite noticeable when I started riding down to Flat Rock and beyond! And the chamois in the shorts -- OMG, thank heaven!
We have acquired other gear and doodahs as we progressed and as weather and conditions became less of an inhibitor in our own minds. For example, the following items have all found their way into our house -- UVB resistant shirts for the fair-skinned (me!), a wide-mouthed water bottle that will allow ice cubes in easily (Doug), arm warmers (me), various reflective clothing items (both of us), skull caps and toasty-warm pants, rain jackets, and a variety of half- and full-fingered gloves. Then there are the computers to monitor heart rate, cadence, speed, and distance; the flashy lights for dusk or dawn riding, a good rearview mirror and a bell. And of course, there are plenty of whatchamacallits still out there just waiting for gadget geeks to stumble across them!
I'll tell more about the Katy trail later, but for now, I just want to say that I view differently what the conditions need to be for riding. I have a goal in 2010 to ride my bike in every month of the year. So far so good, but it was a near thing in January. As the end of the month neared, I carefully considered my condition requirements for meeting my goal that month. I sure didn't was to fail in my overall annual goal the first time out of the gate! As it turned out, for me, I need dry riding surfaces, no precipitation and preferably no wind. On January 29th, Doug and I went for a fairly short ride (5 miles, I think). We went out twice in February, and so on from there.
Crazy!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The bike path as a metaphor for life
Remember those essay assignments in high school English? The whale in Moby Dick as God. The Mississippi River in Huckleberry Finn as (once again) God. Sarah Vowell's essay on the corner of Wacker and Wacker as a metaphor for the whole history of Chicago. The secret garden in the novel of the same name as a metaphor for what? Life? Love? Freedom? Self-esteem? Along those lines, I would like to propose my title metaphor.
The bike path runs the length of our island and is a microcosm of our community. Here and there, you can encounter some curves and some admittedly gentle grades up or down. There are several places along the way that provide an opportunity to rest up and refresh before proceeding. The population of the path at any given time can include people of all ages walking, running, roller blading or riding bikes. Swarms of children on bikes, a young mother walking or running behind a stroller with an infant or toddler on board, young or not-so-young men with or without spandex and helmets and clipped into their bike pedals, an older couple strolling at a more leisurely pace and holding hands, lots of folks walking their dogs. All of these and more populate our bike path.
Two stretches of the path are particular favorites of mine. The first is the part that goes by the West Shore golf course, probably because it is such a pleasant vista of trees and well-groomed expanses of grass. The other is the part going South from Bellevue. I love how it curves in and out and gives me a chance to swoop back and forth. It touches the inner child in me, and I am exhilarated by a sense of freedom from some of the constraints that go with being on foot.
A metaphor is, by definition, imperfect. It is like the thing it describes, but it is not the thing itself. So this one breaks down quickly. Nevertheless, perhaps it captures one aspect of our island life in a way that enhances our experience. To paraphrase our state motto, if you seek a beautiful island, look around.
See you on the path!
The bike path runs the length of our island and is a microcosm of our community. Here and there, you can encounter some curves and some admittedly gentle grades up or down. There are several places along the way that provide an opportunity to rest up and refresh before proceeding. The population of the path at any given time can include people of all ages walking, running, roller blading or riding bikes. Swarms of children on bikes, a young mother walking or running behind a stroller with an infant or toddler on board, young or not-so-young men with or without spandex and helmets and clipped into their bike pedals, an older couple strolling at a more leisurely pace and holding hands, lots of folks walking their dogs. All of these and more populate our bike path.
Two stretches of the path are particular favorites of mine. The first is the part that goes by the West Shore golf course, probably because it is such a pleasant vista of trees and well-groomed expanses of grass. The other is the part going South from Bellevue. I love how it curves in and out and gives me a chance to swoop back and forth. It touches the inner child in me, and I am exhilarated by a sense of freedom from some of the constraints that go with being on foot.
A metaphor is, by definition, imperfect. It is like the thing it describes, but it is not the thing itself. So this one breaks down quickly. Nevertheless, perhaps it captures one aspect of our island life in a way that enhances our experience. To paraphrase our state motto, if you seek a beautiful island, look around.
See you on the path!
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
On Sharing the Road Safely
Remember when you got your driver's license? You studied that booklet of rules of the road as if your life depended on it. Of course, it did, even if we teenagers didn't realize. For us, it was our social life that depended on it. It was a badge of honor to have that license and be able to offer your friends a ride to ... well, anywhere, really. The destination was not actually the point. I remember sweating over how many feet you had to leave between you and the car in front to be sure you could stop safely. And there were those funky hand signals for turns, though most cars had turn signals, even in the late 1960's (if you're snickering, then just hush, whippersnapper). Anyway, we worked hard to learn those rules of the road.
Now that I have been riding a while, I have a whole new view of how to use the road as the operator of a motor vehicle. I have also had a couple of experiences, both as a rider and as a driver, that have highlighted for me the importance of sharing the road safely. It might seem like a given that we should be doing that. Safety is kind of like Mom and Apple Pie. It should be a given that we mean to operate safely. Shouldn't it?
There are actually rules for the proper use of the roads by bicycles in the state of Michigan. First of all, guess what, car and truck drivers? Bikes have the right to use the roads, just like motor vehicles do, under the laws of Michigan and most or all other states. (Bold italics are definitely indicators of a pet peeve here!) What that means is -- When you yell at us cyclists to get off the road, or you come too close or cut us off, it's the same as if you did that to a person driving a motor vehicle.
"But what am I supposed to do when there is oncoming traffic and I am stuck behind you?" I was asked once. Well, same thing you would do if it were a car in front of you. It's not any more complicated than that. "Same road, same rules."
If I sound aggravated, then you are definitely picking up the tone I intended. Over the last two years, I have had several experiences of road rage from a driver toward my riding companions and me. In one case, we were going off the island and down Jefferson toward Gibraltar. This means that we had to turn left off Parkway onto Jefferson, then proceed in the through lane at the light at Van Horn. After that, riders can hug the right side of the lane and give drivers plenty of room to get around. At any rate, on Parkway on the other side of the bridge, we signaled our move into the turn lane and stopped at the red light. The driver of a pickup truck behind us laid on his horn and yelled at us to get off the road. When the light turned green, we turned left as a group and moved toward the light at Van Horn. The truck turned left into the rightmost lane, gunned his engine to go around us, and actually pulled in front of us at the light. I cannot tell you how scary and irrational this action was to me. However angry this guy was, this manoeuvre was really dangerous. This turkey could not wait an extra 10 seconds to get through the traffic light behind us, at which point he could pass us safely? Apparently not. What if he had injured one or more of us with this dangerous driving?
Another time, a group of us went for a ride out in the Dexter area. Actually, we rode through Hell that day (Hell, Michigan, of course). Most of that ride was out of town on some scenic two-lane roads through rolling hills. Just lovely. Unfortunately, there was a woman who was quite offended by our using the road for cycling. There was no other vehicular traffic in sight and plenty of visibility ahead. But this driver chose to slow down next to those of us that were lagging behind a bit and proceeded to harangue us for a number of minutes. We should not be on these roads. There was a double yellow and she was not supposed to cross those to get around us, and we were inconveniencing her. Then she drove ahead and proceeded to harangue the leading riders. Finally, she drove around them and went on. It was absolutely ridiculous. In this case, it was also at least not physically dangerous. But still... She didn't have her facts straight and she spent a disproportionate amount of psychic energy on this.
There are rules for both sets of road users. Motor vehicle operators need to understand that bikes actually do have the legal right to use the road. With that in mind, the idea is to drive in a way that treats the bikes as if they are cars and take the appropriate actions. On the other hand, cyclists need to behave in a way that takes into consideration the motor vehicles. This means that bikes should ride at the right side of the lane and no more than two abreast. When traffic comes up from behind, the bikes are supposed to single up, so that they can be passed more safely. Cyclists need to know and use correct hand signals. Motorists need to give at least 3 feet of space when they pass riders. Cyclists -- you are very vulnerable, no matter how careful you are. Give the motor vehicles extra attention and make yourself as visible as possible, especially if you choose to ride on sidewalks or through parking lots. I think bikes are invisible to drivers in these places, so act in the interest of self-preservation.
Okay, I guess that's a little preachy, but I do feel strongly about it. There are many stories of cyclists gravely wounded or killed by vehicles every year. I am sure that the drivers in these cases are not trying to kill or injure the cyclist. Well, not all of them, anyway. And yet, I see that wreath laid at the street sign on Jefferson just north of the turn from Parkway, marking the location where a family lost a loved one this way.
Cycling is such a great activity, good for our health and very accessible to a wide range of fitness levels and budgets. Let's all do what we can to keep it that way!
Now that I have been riding a while, I have a whole new view of how to use the road as the operator of a motor vehicle. I have also had a couple of experiences, both as a rider and as a driver, that have highlighted for me the importance of sharing the road safely. It might seem like a given that we should be doing that. Safety is kind of like Mom and Apple Pie. It should be a given that we mean to operate safely. Shouldn't it?
There are actually rules for the proper use of the roads by bicycles in the state of Michigan. First of all, guess what, car and truck drivers? Bikes have the right to use the roads, just like motor vehicles do, under the laws of Michigan and most or all other states. (Bold italics are definitely indicators of a pet peeve here!) What that means is -- When you yell at us cyclists to get off the road, or you come too close or cut us off, it's the same as if you did that to a person driving a motor vehicle.
"But what am I supposed to do when there is oncoming traffic and I am stuck behind you?" I was asked once. Well, same thing you would do if it were a car in front of you. It's not any more complicated than that. "Same road, same rules."
If I sound aggravated, then you are definitely picking up the tone I intended. Over the last two years, I have had several experiences of road rage from a driver toward my riding companions and me. In one case, we were going off the island and down Jefferson toward Gibraltar. This means that we had to turn left off Parkway onto Jefferson, then proceed in the through lane at the light at Van Horn. After that, riders can hug the right side of the lane and give drivers plenty of room to get around. At any rate, on Parkway on the other side of the bridge, we signaled our move into the turn lane and stopped at the red light. The driver of a pickup truck behind us laid on his horn and yelled at us to get off the road. When the light turned green, we turned left as a group and moved toward the light at Van Horn. The truck turned left into the rightmost lane, gunned his engine to go around us, and actually pulled in front of us at the light. I cannot tell you how scary and irrational this action was to me. However angry this guy was, this manoeuvre was really dangerous. This turkey could not wait an extra 10 seconds to get through the traffic light behind us, at which point he could pass us safely? Apparently not. What if he had injured one or more of us with this dangerous driving?
Another time, a group of us went for a ride out in the Dexter area. Actually, we rode through Hell that day (Hell, Michigan, of course). Most of that ride was out of town on some scenic two-lane roads through rolling hills. Just lovely. Unfortunately, there was a woman who was quite offended by our using the road for cycling. There was no other vehicular traffic in sight and plenty of visibility ahead. But this driver chose to slow down next to those of us that were lagging behind a bit and proceeded to harangue us for a number of minutes. We should not be on these roads. There was a double yellow and she was not supposed to cross those to get around us, and we were inconveniencing her. Then she drove ahead and proceeded to harangue the leading riders. Finally, she drove around them and went on. It was absolutely ridiculous. In this case, it was also at least not physically dangerous. But still... She didn't have her facts straight and she spent a disproportionate amount of psychic energy on this.
There are rules for both sets of road users. Motor vehicle operators need to understand that bikes actually do have the legal right to use the road. With that in mind, the idea is to drive in a way that treats the bikes as if they are cars and take the appropriate actions. On the other hand, cyclists need to behave in a way that takes into consideration the motor vehicles. This means that bikes should ride at the right side of the lane and no more than two abreast. When traffic comes up from behind, the bikes are supposed to single up, so that they can be passed more safely. Cyclists need to know and use correct hand signals. Motorists need to give at least 3 feet of space when they pass riders. Cyclists -- you are very vulnerable, no matter how careful you are. Give the motor vehicles extra attention and make yourself as visible as possible, especially if you choose to ride on sidewalks or through parking lots. I think bikes are invisible to drivers in these places, so act in the interest of self-preservation.
Okay, I guess that's a little preachy, but I do feel strongly about it. There are many stories of cyclists gravely wounded or killed by vehicles every year. I am sure that the drivers in these cases are not trying to kill or injure the cyclist. Well, not all of them, anyway. And yet, I see that wreath laid at the street sign on Jefferson just north of the turn from Parkway, marking the location where a family lost a loved one this way.
Cycling is such a great activity, good for our health and very accessible to a wide range of fitness levels and budgets. Let's all do what we can to keep it that way!
Slow -- It's the New Fast!
I'm really not sure what possessed me to register for the Grosse Ile Memorial Day 5k Run last year. I hadn't been running, or jogging, or even walking for exercise. Probably it was Tip Top Susie saying something like "Why don't you do that 5k just for fun?" For some reason, it seemed like a good idea to me and I went over to Total Runner and signed up. I didn't do any training, and I was really not committed to becoming a runner or even doing a second event. I was really thinking of it as a "fun run/walk." Just a one-time thing. So there I was, 9:00 am Memorial Day morning 2009, in a crowd spanned the range of ages and apparent fitness, way over dressed for the temperature, my number pinned to my sweat shirt, ready to go.
When gun or whatever went off, I started jogging along. At least Doug got off a snapshot before I gasped and fell back into as fast a walk as I could manage. Yikes! How embarassing is that? Every so often I would try to crank back up to a trot, but that lasted about two driveways. Little kids passed me. Someone with a stroller went by. A couple who looked like they might be in the next age group up passed me, and they were talking!
By the time I got to the water station (2 miles into the 3.1 mile course), I was exhausted. No amount of water would help. The sweatshirt was off and tied around my waist, and I was wishing I had another layer I could remove. Runners from the 8k course had been going by at an easy lope for a while, and even though there were plenty of folks (volunteers for the event, I assume) standing at the side of the road clapping and saying, "Great job, runner! You're almost there!," all I could think was that I wasn't sure I could go another step. And still, I somehow wanted to save a smidge of energy so that I could something more than stumble across the finish.
As I came into the stadium for the final tenth or two of the course, I ramped up to an impressive shuffle. As I came down the final stretch, the announcer said, "And here comes ... uh.. another runner. Congratulations, runner." Oh, right. My number was pinned to my sweatshirt, which was around my waist. Not that I really wanted name recognition at that point.
In the end, my time was 47:28, .8th out of 9 in my age group. The woman who came first did the run in less than 25:00. Are you kidding????
And so commenced my life as a runner.
When gun or whatever went off, I started jogging along. At least Doug got off a snapshot before I gasped and fell back into as fast a walk as I could manage. Yikes! How embarassing is that? Every so often I would try to crank back up to a trot, but that lasted about two driveways. Little kids passed me. Someone with a stroller went by. A couple who looked like they might be in the next age group up passed me, and they were talking!
By the time I got to the water station (2 miles into the 3.1 mile course), I was exhausted. No amount of water would help. The sweatshirt was off and tied around my waist, and I was wishing I had another layer I could remove. Runners from the 8k course had been going by at an easy lope for a while, and even though there were plenty of folks (volunteers for the event, I assume) standing at the side of the road clapping and saying, "Great job, runner! You're almost there!," all I could think was that I wasn't sure I could go another step. And still, I somehow wanted to save a smidge of energy so that I could something more than stumble across the finish.
As I came into the stadium for the final tenth or two of the course, I ramped up to an impressive shuffle. As I came down the final stretch, the announcer said, "And here comes ... uh.. another runner. Congratulations, runner." Oh, right. My number was pinned to my sweatshirt, which was around my waist. Not that I really wanted name recognition at that point.
In the end, my time was 47:28, .8th out of 9 in my age group. The woman who came first did the run in less than 25:00. Are you kidding????
And so commenced my life as a runner.
What's Next -- Part Deux
Who would ever have thought I would fall in love with cycling? Certainly not I. Think back to that little voice telling me "We aren't athletes." Maybe one problem is what my definition of an athlete is. After all, I have been riding a bike since I was 5 (at a guess). I remember so clearly the day I took the training wheels off my two-wheeler and rode down the slight decline that was Edgehill Road. The wind in my hair and the sense of mastery are sensations that are with me almost as strongly as when they happened most of my lifetime ago.
Summer 2008 was definitely a time of resetting my compass. So many years of sitting at a desk, working on a computer, going to meetings and doing all that thinking. I had not ever established a good way to offset the sluggishness that accumulated. So in addition to sleeping late and making very few specific plans, I got outdoors on my bike most days.
The view of the island from the saddle of a bike is different from the one you get from a car. In most cases, I didn't actually have a destination when I was on a bike, which I pretty much always do when I get into a car. Who just rides around in a car any more? If nothing else, what a waste of gas! When you don't have a destination, when your riding is a goal in its own right, you really do have time to notice more details.
Like what?
Well, the variety of landscaping choices is impressive. Among other things, there are some really cool topiaries on the island. I especially love those little twisty ones that look like the business end of a corkscrew. I am in awe of the wonderful 4-color (5-color?) paint scheme on the "castle" on Parke Lane. And there are all the construction projects under way to monitor. Seeing a house take shape from their wood or steel skeletons to their final form is fascinating to me.
The variety of mail box posts is interesting to me. Some look like armored bunkers. I wonder if these were houses where youthful pranksters (a.k.a. vandals, from the homeowners point of view) had bashed their conventional mailboxes into oblivion. BTW, as residents of West River Road, we had that happen to us three times. Finally, we said "The heck with that!" and got a PO box. I can see that other people have been more defiant of the damage and built brick or stone block housings for their fragile metal mail boxes. Some have gone the molded plastic route. Some have customized their boxes to reflect their interests, like the fish with an open mouth and another with a little car on it. I thought I had seen one with wings and a propeller, but can't locate it. Perhaps these are just too cute to trash.
When you are on a bike, the island isn't quite as flat as it seems in a car. In our early days of riding around on our bikes, we often went through Hawthorn Glen on our way to the bike path or back home. The curve and dip by the pond seemed like a something of a challenge, as did the longer, slower grade from Lowrie up to Macomb Street on the bike path. I am actually a bit embarrassed to admit that. Now, two years later, those same "hills" have been relegated to ho-hum, and we are accustomed to riding 10 or 15 miles without it being remarkable or even tiring. The island is once again flat (and small).
And then I started running...
Summer 2008 was definitely a time of resetting my compass. So many years of sitting at a desk, working on a computer, going to meetings and doing all that thinking. I had not ever established a good way to offset the sluggishness that accumulated. So in addition to sleeping late and making very few specific plans, I got outdoors on my bike most days.
The view of the island from the saddle of a bike is different from the one you get from a car. In most cases, I didn't actually have a destination when I was on a bike, which I pretty much always do when I get into a car. Who just rides around in a car any more? If nothing else, what a waste of gas! When you don't have a destination, when your riding is a goal in its own right, you really do have time to notice more details.
Like what?
Well, the variety of landscaping choices is impressive. Among other things, there are some really cool topiaries on the island. I especially love those little twisty ones that look like the business end of a corkscrew. I am in awe of the wonderful 4-color (5-color?) paint scheme on the "castle" on Parke Lane. And there are all the construction projects under way to monitor. Seeing a house take shape from their wood or steel skeletons to their final form is fascinating to me.
The variety of mail box posts is interesting to me. Some look like armored bunkers. I wonder if these were houses where youthful pranksters (a.k.a. vandals, from the homeowners point of view) had bashed their conventional mailboxes into oblivion. BTW, as residents of West River Road, we had that happen to us three times. Finally, we said "The heck with that!" and got a PO box. I can see that other people have been more defiant of the damage and built brick or stone block housings for their fragile metal mail boxes. Some have gone the molded plastic route. Some have customized their boxes to reflect their interests, like the fish with an open mouth and another with a little car on it. I thought I had seen one with wings and a propeller, but can't locate it. Perhaps these are just too cute to trash.
When you are on a bike, the island isn't quite as flat as it seems in a car. In our early days of riding around on our bikes, we often went through Hawthorn Glen on our way to the bike path or back home. The curve and dip by the pond seemed like a something of a challenge, as did the longer, slower grade from Lowrie up to Macomb Street on the bike path. I am actually a bit embarrassed to admit that. Now, two years later, those same "hills" have been relegated to ho-hum, and we are accustomed to riding 10 or 15 miles without it being remarkable or even tiring. The island is once again flat (and small).
And then I started running...
Saturday, June 12, 2010
What Next?
Having retired, I faced, for the first time in my adult life, a seemingly vast expanse of open time. No longer did I have a place to be at a certain time, or any specific tasks to complete. It was all available to do with as I chose. An exciting prospect, but a little scary. My first choice was to take the entire summer as an extended vacation, let myself do just what I wanted, sleep in as long as I wanted, detox from my worklife.
Two things stand out for me from the summer of 2008 - 1) finding a new trainer to go to for strength training, and 2) taking almost daily bike rides around the island with my husband. I this entry, I want to consider the training aspect.
When I mentioned I didn't think I was making much progress, fitness-wise, I was lucky to get a referral from a friend. She recommended Susan Armiak of Tip Top Physique. Soon I was slotted into a group that met Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8:00 to 9:00am.
Maybe that seems fairly ho-hum to you, but for me it is really something extraordinary. You see, my inner dialogue my whole life has been along the lines of -- "We're not athletic. We're not sports people. We're not outdoors people." (Also in there, by the way, is a whisper "We're not good at theater.") It's really hard to fight those little voices, no matter how smart you are. The fact that it is a lot easier to be inactive doesn't help. Plus all the other demands on my life - job, husband, child, commute, house, church. And so on and so forth, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.
Susie started me out easy, I think. She would say that she started me at a level that was appropriate to my fitness level at the time. I remember one exercise she had me doing that involved lying on the floor with my feet hanging on to the punching bag. From that position, I had to sit up and touch the punching bag with my fingertips. In theory, I would be doing 3 sets of 10 reps. In reality, I could barely get all the way up and touch more than two times, and utterly failed to get to 10 partial sit-ups in one set. 3 sets? Fageddaboudit! My push-ups were from my knees and somewhat shallow. If I managed 5, that was good. You get my drift.
It took less time than I expected to see improvement. By the end of the summer, I was doing the full sets of sit-ups and was doing much better with the push-ups. Other things seemed to get easier as well. Unfortunately -- or fortunately, depending on how you see these things -- none of us are allowed to rest on our laurels. Once we can do one thing, we are challenged to do something more difficult. No one ever gets "there" because there actually is no "there." Kind of like what the bear saw when he went over the mountain! There is always an improvement that can be made.
An added bonus in this training experience has been the camaraderie of our small group. Sometimes it is a question of misery liking company. It is energizing, though, to be among people who have the same general goal in mind - in this case, the goal of maintaining and improving our overall fitness. We can encourage each other and commiserate over the difficulties. There are times when the upper arm work has been intense enough to make washing my hair a challenge for the next few days. We laugh about these things at our "afterglows" at Starbucks. Shared pain is a powerful binder. Okay, it's not damaging pain. It's a discomfort, a burn that says, "these muscles under construction."
As my strength has improved, those little inner voices became much less relevant. They don't know jack! I am sure that there are limits to what I can actually do, but I am not sure what those limits are. They are most certainly not as restricted as I used to think.
Now what?
[Check back later for "Now What? -- Part Deux" and thoughts on the joys of cycling.]
Two things stand out for me from the summer of 2008 - 1) finding a new trainer to go to for strength training, and 2) taking almost daily bike rides around the island with my husband. I this entry, I want to consider the training aspect.
When I mentioned I didn't think I was making much progress, fitness-wise, I was lucky to get a referral from a friend. She recommended Susan Armiak of Tip Top Physique. Soon I was slotted into a group that met Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8:00 to 9:00am.
Maybe that seems fairly ho-hum to you, but for me it is really something extraordinary. You see, my inner dialogue my whole life has been along the lines of -- "We're not athletic. We're not sports people. We're not outdoors people." (Also in there, by the way, is a whisper "We're not good at theater.") It's really hard to fight those little voices, no matter how smart you are. The fact that it is a lot easier to be inactive doesn't help. Plus all the other demands on my life - job, husband, child, commute, house, church. And so on and so forth, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.
Susie started me out easy, I think. She would say that she started me at a level that was appropriate to my fitness level at the time. I remember one exercise she had me doing that involved lying on the floor with my feet hanging on to the punching bag. From that position, I had to sit up and touch the punching bag with my fingertips. In theory, I would be doing 3 sets of 10 reps. In reality, I could barely get all the way up and touch more than two times, and utterly failed to get to 10 partial sit-ups in one set. 3 sets? Fageddaboudit! My push-ups were from my knees and somewhat shallow. If I managed 5, that was good. You get my drift.
It took less time than I expected to see improvement. By the end of the summer, I was doing the full sets of sit-ups and was doing much better with the push-ups. Other things seemed to get easier as well. Unfortunately -- or fortunately, depending on how you see these things -- none of us are allowed to rest on our laurels. Once we can do one thing, we are challenged to do something more difficult. No one ever gets "there" because there actually is no "there." Kind of like what the bear saw when he went over the mountain! There is always an improvement that can be made.
An added bonus in this training experience has been the camaraderie of our small group. Sometimes it is a question of misery liking company. It is energizing, though, to be among people who have the same general goal in mind - in this case, the goal of maintaining and improving our overall fitness. We can encourage each other and commiserate over the difficulties. There are times when the upper arm work has been intense enough to make washing my hair a challenge for the next few days. We laugh about these things at our "afterglows" at Starbucks. Shared pain is a powerful binder. Okay, it's not damaging pain. It's a discomfort, a burn that says, "these muscles under construction."
As my strength has improved, those little inner voices became much less relevant. They don't know jack! I am sure that there are limits to what I can actually do, but I am not sure what those limits are. They are most certainly not as restricted as I used to think.
Now what?
[Check back later for "Now What? -- Part Deux" and thoughts on the joys of cycling.]
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
In which I introduce myself
Hello, Grosse Ile et al.! This is my first blog post and I find myself feeling quite nervous. Not about finding things to say, really.That has not ever been the problem. No, it's more a question of hubris. It seems to me to be a bit cheeky to think that anyone would be interested. Perhaps that will indeed turn out to be so. Just in case, however, I will take a shot at it. I am planning to share my thoughts and experiences about transitioning to retirement, reinventing myself at 60 and learning to live a less rigidly structured life -- Island Time.
My name is Toni Mann. My husband, Doug, and I have lived on Grosse Ile -- or is that in Grosse Ile? -- since March 30, 1985. Because our son was born on March 31, 1986, I often say "Eddie plus one" when asked. (The aforementioned Eddie has been known to roll his eyes when he hears this. Well, tough. The older I get, the more I see the value of any little memory trick I can devise.) Of those now 25 years, I have been employed full time for 23 and commuted at various times to Dearborn, to downtown Detroit and to Southfield. My favorite drive, however, was to the AutoAlliance plant in Flat Rock, a mere 4 or 5 miles. That was truly a dream of a drive, and I was sorry when that assignment ended after 4 and a half years. The change to Southfield was quite a shock. Suddenly I was leaving in the dark and getting home in the dark during more of the year than I cared for.
When Doug decided to retire in January 2007, I was envious. The plan in place assumed that I would continue to work until I was 62, another nearly 4 years. Those months stretched long ahead of me. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel for a challenging and interesting project and was casting around for what my next assignment might be. The more I looked, the more clear it was to me that there wasn't anything as appealing readily available. The most likely scenario was that I would work to retirement in the job I was in, but in a maintenance mode rather than a redesign. That, combined with the long commute, was a bit of a dismaying prospect. I called the financial planner and asked her to rerun the numbers for age 60. And then, after a particularly bad day, I asked her to look again, assuming I retired immediately. The numbers kept coming out in support of the earlier retirement. I gave my employer 6 months notice, since I knew it might be difficult to fill my position, and I retired effective July 1, 2008.
Since then, I have been indulging myself in a number of ways difficult to do when I had a full-time job with a long commute. These include cycling (love it!), running (not so much, although the events are fun), strength training (who knew there were actually muscles hiding there in my arms and legs?), church-related work (a black hole, it seems, that requires the volunteer to figure out where and how to draw the line), and community theater (2 appearances onstage, plus a foray into producing). The one goal I had for my retirement that has remained unaddressed is that of spending more time on my writing. This blog is an attempt to correct that omission. In the meantime, I can say in all honesty that I have not used an alarm clock more than a handful of times in the last two years. Busy as I am, I am living life on Island time, and it is sweet!
My name is Toni Mann. My husband, Doug, and I have lived on Grosse Ile -- or is that in Grosse Ile? -- since March 30, 1985. Because our son was born on March 31, 1986, I often say "Eddie plus one" when asked. (The aforementioned Eddie has been known to roll his eyes when he hears this. Well, tough. The older I get, the more I see the value of any little memory trick I can devise.) Of those now 25 years, I have been employed full time for 23 and commuted at various times to Dearborn, to downtown Detroit and to Southfield. My favorite drive, however, was to the AutoAlliance plant in Flat Rock, a mere 4 or 5 miles. That was truly a dream of a drive, and I was sorry when that assignment ended after 4 and a half years. The change to Southfield was quite a shock. Suddenly I was leaving in the dark and getting home in the dark during more of the year than I cared for.
When Doug decided to retire in January 2007, I was envious. The plan in place assumed that I would continue to work until I was 62, another nearly 4 years. Those months stretched long ahead of me. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel for a challenging and interesting project and was casting around for what my next assignment might be. The more I looked, the more clear it was to me that there wasn't anything as appealing readily available. The most likely scenario was that I would work to retirement in the job I was in, but in a maintenance mode rather than a redesign. That, combined with the long commute, was a bit of a dismaying prospect. I called the financial planner and asked her to rerun the numbers for age 60. And then, after a particularly bad day, I asked her to look again, assuming I retired immediately. The numbers kept coming out in support of the earlier retirement. I gave my employer 6 months notice, since I knew it might be difficult to fill my position, and I retired effective July 1, 2008.
Since then, I have been indulging myself in a number of ways difficult to do when I had a full-time job with a long commute. These include cycling (love it!), running (not so much, although the events are fun), strength training (who knew there were actually muscles hiding there in my arms and legs?), church-related work (a black hole, it seems, that requires the volunteer to figure out where and how to draw the line), and community theater (2 appearances onstage, plus a foray into producing). The one goal I had for my retirement that has remained unaddressed is that of spending more time on my writing. This blog is an attempt to correct that omission. In the meantime, I can say in all honesty that I have not used an alarm clock more than a handful of times in the last two years. Busy as I am, I am living life on Island time, and it is sweet!
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