Daddy was a teacher and an athlete; he loved coaching his high school teams and he loved playing tennis. He began competing in something called the "senior games" when he was in his 70's, and racked up a number of bronze & silver medals every year. We never gave it too much thought; my mother never joined him, never went to cheer him on, and when he'd call to announce that he'd gotten another silver medal at "the games" it brought on only mild interest on our parts. "Great Daddy!" I'd say, then update him on the latest adorable thing our kids had done. But he kept on competing and winning medals, always announcing it to us as if it were the Olympics. Daddy finally won his one & only gold medal at 80 years of age. Still competing, this time with only one other 80 year old in his age category, the two of them signed up for the 3-point hoop shooting event and when he won, he sent us a photograph he had taken of himself with his gold medal around his neck and an enormous smile. When he died too soon, we made sure he was wearing that gold medal. At his funeral, his friends marveled at his talent and told me stories about his competitiveness at "the games". Oh Daddy. If you could see me now.
I thought about my father this morning. I hired a personal trainer today to help me train for Falmouth and for a possible 1/2 marathon sometime in the future. I'm running in a seven-mile road race in two months. What do I possibly need with a personal trainer? A competitive edge.
I've told myself and everyone "I just want to finish"; then "I just want to finish strong." Then my friend beat me by 2 minutes in the 5K we ran last Sunday. Granted, I'm 10 years older than her. Granted she's been running for years on her treadmill. But my legs were getting tired toward the end of the race and the heat was starting to bother me. And as I watched her blow past me, just like my same-age neighbor did last week, I realized that I don't just want to finish. I don't just want to finish strong. I want to finish better, better than I am now.
So I hired a personal trainer.
God help me, I thought, when I first saw him at the gym; what have I gotten myself into? He's going to make you do all manner of crazy exercises with equipment, the names of which you haven't the vaguest notion nor how to use them. And it's going to hurt - a lot.
Turns out, Steve's 35, a research scholar in linguistics and also drives a limo to make extra money. He has a young daughter who is a cancer survivor and he's lost 100+ lbs on his way to running marathons & becoming a certified personal trainer.
"Hi - you must be Suzanne" he said. "Let's get started." Oh lord here it comes. I had spoken to him on the phone the day before, giving him some background info, and outlined my goals & my reasons (however moronic) for hiring him. He said based on all of that information, he created a 3-session training plan that I could implement on my own. He didn't think I'd need more than 3 sessions. Really? You're kidding I thought. I have absolutely no idea how to do ANYTHING here.
He suggested I warm up on the treadmill for the first 15 minutes of the 60 minute session. Then the fun began. Steve showed me how to strengthen the muscles in my torso for balance, the abdominal& back muscles to support my posture. He gave me exercises to improve my "quads" - those muscles on top of my thigh that help propel me and contribute to running endurance. We did cardio intervals on the treadmill, and when we were finished, he told me I was "actually strong", a "natural runner" and of course I could finish Falmouth better. I wanted to bottle him and take him home.
I don't know if I can get better. Maybe I can based on what Steve told me. But I think I understand Daddy now and that gold medal that he chased year after year. He just wanted to get better. So do I.
No comments:
Post a Comment