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In 1987, I ran the Big Sur Marathon. The marathon’s great slogan, “Run Along the Edge of the West,” was very appealing. I ran a personal best time of 3 hours and 56 minutes out of the three marathons I ran at the time.
Entering the race was typical for me as a 30-something who was competitive, achievement-oriented and needed to prove myself.
In my younger years, I focused on running, cycling, and rock climbing.
My husband, Barry, and I did a lot of cycling in Europe for many years. I remember one year we did a round trip in the Pyrenees from France to Spain, and had a lot of fun climbing mountain passes, enjoying the breathtaking views, and zipping down to charming villages. The only drawback was that after one amazing descent, we had to climb another hill. Up and down again for two weeks straight. I’m glad that era is over.
It was the same when I climbed Mount Shasta in Northern California. As I climbed the terrifyingly steep icy slopes in borrowed crampons, I was genuinely worried I would fall off the ground. “I think I’ll pass on Everest,” I said to other hikers when we reached the summit. Their laughter was the best part of the whole climb.
And I’ll never forget a women’s rock climbing class taught by a lithe, silver-haired woman named Annie. We were climbing a rock face above McCabe’s Beach in Marin County. About halfway up the rocks, I glanced back and saw that we were the only clothed people in sight. Naked men were playing volleyball and waving at us. I later realized that in addition to being a nudist beach, it was also a gay hangout, because there were no other women in sight.
I approach fitness completely differently now.
As I entered my 60s and 70s, I had radically different priorities. First, I do everything I can to avoid falls. Having broken three joints is enough. The first was when I badly injured my ankle on a hard landing while skydiving near Mount Rainier 40 years ago. After surgery, my orthopedic surgeon told me, “We’ve put together everything we can recognize.”
Thirty years later, another surgeon told me that, judging from my X-rays, I would likely end up using crutches, but that because I was very active, my ankle was in pretty good health, despite having very little cartilage. “But you’ll never be able to run again!” he added.
The other two falls were less traumatic: I fell while running on a trail and broke my pinky toe, then broke my wrist when my Teva sandal got caught in a crack in the sidewalk.
I lead an active lifestyle, but because I have osteoporosis, I do strength yoga, weight-bearing exercises and the Alexander Technique, a mind-body therapy that promotes good posture.
I’m still doing the hard stuff
Just because I’m no longer competitive doesn’t mean I just hang around. I resonate with the message of a book called “Doing Hard Things.” When I’m biking up a hill, I tell myself, “Don’t give up until your legs get tired!”. When I’m stand-up paddleboarding and I feel like going home, I say, “Come on, it’s not over yet!”
I spend more time in the water
Previously, most of my exercise was done on land, but in the last few years I’ve switched from running to open-water swimming, which then morphed into paddleboarding, which has now become one of my favorite fitness activities, although it feels more like a spiritual practice than a form of conditioning.
I wander Humboldt Bay, two blocks from my apartment in Eureka, California, to say hello to seals (gazing suspiciously at these strange, vertical creatures), admire herons, and, at high tide, paddle through otherworldly marshes crisscrossed by tiny channels. The water is the ideal place when, as Wordsworth said, “the world seems too much to us.”
Above all, I keep moving
If I had any advice, it’d be “do whatever it takes to keep moving.” Personally, I find myself increasingly wanting to be active outside, preferably in places of natural beauty. Except that Barry and I have spent hours (or even hours!) walking around the 3,000-plus windy, souk-like alleyways of Guanajuato, the Mexican city where I live part-time. I love these streets, and I take people on tours.
Like the 100-year-olds whose lifestyles I emulate, I shun “exercise” — a modern concept: artificial, time-limited, structured. Instead, I do what my body craves: walking and moving through my surroundings. I stride to the library, the bank, or my yoga class, singing childhood songs like “I’m a Poor Traveler” and “I Love to Wander.” Walking relaxes me when I’m tense, centers me when I’m distracted, and awakens me when I’m feeling lethargic.
After all, walking briskly means joining the long line of bipeds who have gone before us, following in the footsteps of ancient humans. The timeless habit of walking keeps me steady and supported.