Eejit in training

I think I’m starting to be known around my neighborhood as That Girl Who Exercises. You know the person I’m talking about: Someone who seems unlikely as a dedicated athlete, who can be seen at regular intervals doing some sort of aerobics whilst wearing workout clothes that don’t exactly scream “Elite! Watch me go!” Yes, well, in my neighborhood, that’s me. And how do I know this? When I passed the same group of school boys for the third time this evening and one of them loudly said, “She’s running now!”…that’s when I knew.

Although the fact that he classified what I was doing as running made me want to hug him, then promptly fall into a hyperventilating heap at his stylishly sneakered feet.

Last time I posted here, I confessed that I’m training for a sprint triathlon, and I’m considering it the first (and probably most tortuous challenging) step in preparing for Hadrian’s Walk. Because my husband, Noah (also joining us), is a cop, and we have a 17-month-old son, the opportunities for me to train are scarce. I’m relishing the late summertime sunset while it lasts.

While there’s a certain pride about being That Girl Who Exercises, there’s also the self-consciousness. Certainly I told myself “You go girl!” as I peddaled furiously and ineffectually up yet another hill on my new bike (incidentally, our neighborhood is uphill both ways). But I also heard a small voice say “You’re an eejit” when I considered how I looked to those boys: Old (mid-twenties, but good God I have a mortgage), wearing frumpy capri pants covered in dog hair and a faded college t-shirt, red-faced and gasping at what appears to be a minimal amount of exertion.

I know this is what they see, because that’s exactly what I used to see in other people.

When I was a teenager in Chicago, there was an elderly Indian man that would put on his dated jogging suit, which didn’t at all fit the description of “performance wear,” and walk the mile-long loop around our neighborhood every afternoon. Even in the winter.

I can’t forget the man who I used to see walking down University Parkway everyday: He was quite overweight, and he would walk in jeans and a white t-shirt. But literally every day I would see him, pressing on, swinging his arms with a purpose.

And then there’s my father-in-law, who walks six miles every day to avoid another bypass surgery. It’s gotten to the point that people all along his route recognize him and have actually approached him in random places, like, say, the grocery store. “You’re that man who walks down Murray Road, aren’t you!” they say. Or “When it was raining I said to my wife ‘We surely won’t see him today,’ and then you came walking down the road with your umbrella!” He’s practically a local celebrity.

There’s something to admire about them, I’d say. And maybe there’s something to admire in what we’re all preparing to do as well. Next time you’re out walking, and your face is red and you’re thinking to yourself “I’m an eejit,” try something else. Try saying, as silly as it sounds, “I’m an inspiration.” Because whether you know it or not, you are.

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