Inspiration

I didn’t watch the Superbowl last night.  I spent the first half baking (my own personal tradition; this year it was individual-sized chocolate meringue pies); then I sat down and watched the half-time show (and the twitter meltdown as millions of people live-tweeted their thoughts about The Who).  I was physically in the same room with the television during the second half, but mostly I was knitting and folding laundry and trying to convince the children to go to bed.

Football leaves me cold.  I just can’t get into it–I don’t understand the rules, nor do I have any desire to.

Luckily, that season is over for this winter.  Up next:  the Olympics.  Now, the Olympics get me totally excited.  I love everything about them–the pageantry, the music, the commentary, the competition, the humanity, the pathos, the courage, the collective goodwill.  And of course, the feats of athletic prowess.  Olympic athletes amaze and inspire me–their abilities, their perseverance, their stories, their strength.  I have a very small preference for the summer games, but only small–there’s lots to love about the winter games, too (luge?  bobsled?  can’t. wait.).

I never cared for sports as a child, either to participate or to watch, or even to be aware of in the popular culture.  I was the least athletic kid you’ve ever met:  the epitome of bookworm.  Then, of course, came Lee’s heart attack, and the subsequent realization that lifestyle changes were in order.  I lost weight, and started working out–mostly just riding a stationary recumbent bike.  I was slowly gaining fitness, without thinking a whole lot about it.

We went to Miami to visit Lee’s mom; it was right around this time of year, in maybe 2000 (I think).  We were both trying really hard to keep up the little routine we had going, so we took turns going down to the gym in her building while we were there (the children were still young, so just fitting in workouts was a bit of a juggling act in those days).  That gym was a tiny, warm little room, jam-packed with equipment.  Rows of bikes and stair machines and treadmills were lined up in front of the plate glass windows, so that you could gaze out on Biscayne Bay while you worked up a sweat.  I dutifully climbed up on the machines and spent my allotted time pedaling and climbing, while that gorgeous, azure water sparkled and winked and beckoned.

By about the third day, I couldn’t take it anymore.  It was absolute torture, stuck in that overheated, humid, smelly room, with such a tantalizing view spread out in front of me.  Lee said the most amazing thing:  “Why don’t you go for a run?”

What?  Me?  Run?

I don’t know how.  I don’t know the way.  I’m sure I don’t have the right gear.  What if something happens to me?  I’m not a runner.

I did it anyway.  I laced up my sneakers, headed out of the building, and went for a walk.  After a few minutes, I just . . . ran.  Not at all fast, and not for very long, but I did it.  I thought about throwing up–it was that painful–but I didn’t.  That was the day I became a runner.

In the ten years since then, I have run a lot of miles.  I’m still pretty slow, and running still makes me want to throw up a lot of days, but I do it anyway, and I’ve learned to love it.  I’ve also developed a greater appreciation of the Olympics.  I know just how amazing it is that those people can do what they do, because what I do?  Not even related.  Nonetheless, watching those athletes dig deeper than I have ever dug, I will be moved and amazed, and when I go out for my run, my step will be just a little springier than usual.

What inspires you?