Evgeni Plushenko is described in Wikipedia as a retired Russian figure skater. Just three weeks ago, we saw him lead the motherland to Olympic team gold. A few days later, we watched him warming up for the men's individual competition. Practicing doubles and triples, he winced on landing. We heard the announcer call him to begin. We read his lips as he told the referee, with pain in his eyes, I "cannot skate." As the world watched, misted up, and shared his anguish, Plushenko crossed the line from gold medal contender into retirement at the age of 31.
Presumptuous as it may appear, I turn for further reflection to my peer group: midlife runners at the back of the pack. Our athletic profiles do not appear in Wikipedia. Our medals celebrate finishing, not winning. What could we have in common with the world's best performers? We, too, identify with our physical abilities. We, too, celebrate our personal bests. We, too, are pushing the limits of our capacity and hoping to hold up a while longer. Knees, hips, and backs; tendons, ligaments, muscles, and bones wince with the effort and sometimes break. At our age, healing is slow and sometimes fails.
When Plushenko retired on global television, my heart reached out in a personal way. Not only did I hurt for his loss but, looking across the generational divide, I grieved for my own. I saw his identity as a gold medalist move into the past tense. I felt my identity as an active senior citizen trembling with fear. My body hasn't stopped yet, but it keeps me guessing. A sciatica-buddy and I recently celebrated when our nerve-pinched legs had not collapsed on the long run. A new definition of success.
Retirement comes early in competitive sports. Retirement comes hard for those whose identity is wrapped in physical vigor. Retirement comes later at the back of the pack, but it still comes hard. Many of us found our athletic selves later in life and we take joy in discovering what we can do, even now. Our identities have developed around that discovery and we wonder what will happen to us when forced to admit, "I cannot."
I am not (only) my slow back-of-the-pack running. I am not (only) a collection of finishers' medals and the not-quite-complete list of half marathons in half the states. I am not (only) the leg that held up to running eight miles last week. I am also the leg that does sometimes collapse, the body that fatigues, the heart rate that climbs more quickly than it used to. I want to embrace the larger, more complex, and far from perfect picture of who I am apart from a surprising surge of midlife passion for the active life.
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How do you handle the physical changes that intrude on your identity? What self-portrait can you paint that that incorporates retirement and develops a broader role?
