In May 1964, I finished high school and left my hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio to embark on a lifetime of adventure in other places. This weekend I am re-connecting with my roots and hoping to sprout a new branch of good memories there. I am going to Cincinnati for the Flying Pig Half Marathon, an event that has been on my running bucket list for more than a decade.
As I pack for the trip, I am reflecting on the tortuous and improbable path that led me here. In high school, I was a full-blown nerd devoted to religious activities, Latin club, and yearbook. My single worst grade in four years of academic success was a barely-passing score in volleyball. If a crystal ball had shown me 50 years later, dressed in a cheetah-print miniskirt and running 13 miles, I would have returned it as defective and asked for a refund. When hell freezes over. When pigs fly.
Only a few exceptional young women of my generation were physically active in high school. Even fewer engaged in organized sports. I was clumsy and uncoordinated, overweight and happy on the couch. The possibility that anything about that picture might change was beyond my ability to imagine.
As I have shared here before, hiking the Sierra Nevada mountains of California during college first broke the surface of my relationship with movement. Many years later, Lyle and I registered for a 10K and my interest in running was briefly piqued. After 15 years of sedentary postpartum recovery, I returned to running in my 50s.
After a wild fling with full marathon running, I settled into a long-term love affair with the half. The fitness that comes with distance training has been a genuine miracle, peeling off many effects of the accumulating years.
Running also makes it clear on certain days that, in fact, the my body is still aging. Lower back issues have tipped from intermittent toward chronic, and a couple of weeks ago pain again flared up in my knee. After consulting my diverse and supportive body-care team, I intend line up with my pace group Sunday morning at the Flying Pig. I don't know what will happen next, but am hoping for the best. By the time you read this, I will know for sure.
I train for a running goal by building endurance and resolve in small steps over many months. I engage the power of a date on the calendar to pull through fatigue, harsh weather, and the call of the couch. At this time in life, I also must also develop the wisdom to hold that goal lightly, prepared to let it go if the body says no. These days, I celebrate the improbable flights of many pigs over the past fifteen years and welcome the chance for one more, whether or not it includes a finish line.
When in your life have pigs have flown against the odds? Do you remember to celebrate those times? How do you dance between committing to a goal and adjusting if conditions change?
