When I was 17 years old, I spent the summer living in California with my Aunt. I took a college course during the week, took sailing classes on the weekends, and spent the summer exploring the state with her.
One morning, she asked me if I wanted to go for a bike ride. I said yes. I assumed (like most people would) that meant a leisurely few laps around her neighborhood, maybe a pretty trail ride. It did not.
After I’d agreed to go, she told me it was actually a 42 mile bike ride. It was too late to back out. Off we went. To make matters worse, she insisted that I wore padded spandex bike shorts. I was 17, I would have rather died than let someone see me in padded bike shorts. I had not yet learned that there are (many) times in life where function outweighs fashion.
We started in Anaheim and biked along a path (ahem, a 21 mile path) to the beach. It was lovely. And I was 17 and whiny. I was sweaty, and hot, and there were cute surfer boys, and I was wearing padded bike shorts. We ate pizza and walked on the beach before starting the ride back. I’m sure I whined ever more that direction.
My butt hurt for days.
I can remember asking her why she had wanted us to take this bike ride and she told me she wanted me to know that I was strong enough to do it. That is was important for me to know that I was strong enough to do it.
I didn’t “get” it then. But I did learn enough to say “no” when she asked me if I wanted to go for a jog the next day.
***
This year, one of my goals is to train for a 5K. I started a training program that alternates running and walking for set periods of time. Each week a little more time is spent running and a little less time walking. However, for most of the program, because it is designed for beginners, you don’t actually cover 3.1 miles. The focus is on time, usually about a half hour, not distance.
Last weekend, I decided I had to know if I could cover the distance. I didn’t go fast (in fact, my running is pathetically slow, I’m pretty sure I walk faster), but I did the whole thing. I ran and walked and ran and walked and repeated until I thought I might fall over. But I did it.
Instead of feeling exhausted, I felt something click into place. 13 years later and I finally got it.
Sometimes it is just important to know: I am strong enough to do it.
The fog in my sleep deprived brain is finally lifting. After more than thirteen months of never sleeping more than a few hours at a stretch, a miracle has happened in our tiny townhouse. My son is sleeping through the night. It’s so glorious that I’m tempted to stop strangers on the street just to tell them my good news.
I’ll admit it. I pretty much only read brain candy (and by read, I mean listen to as an audio book on my commute to work). I’ve never really read deep, meaningful novels. But since I’ve become a parent, my taste in books has swung to the exclusively brainless, purely entertainment kind of books.
Looking at the tiny, dusty room through my college freshmen eyes, it looked anything but. It was freedom and anticipation and excitement overflowing its cramped cinderblock walls.
