I hate working out. Hate it. I don’t derive the euphoria that you hear about, but I do it 5-6 days a week because I know it’s good for me physically.
As I mentioned in a recent post, I have been having a hard time emotionally since the beginning of the year. I’ve been fragile and stuck, unable to right= myself. I’ve also had a chronic foot injury and the conditions of winter in Pennsylvania to contend with. Many miles were logged on the bike in my bedroom during the cold, gray, icy months, my usual neighborhood power walk on the shelf until nicer weather and a third cortisone injection was administered. But the temperatures were perfection last week, the sky bright and blue, the foot pain free after its recent shot.
Time to walk.
As I headed up a long, steep hill soon after leaving my house, I felt stronger than I have in months both physically and mentally. Music fueled my every step and I was introduced to flickers of excitement about my future for the first time since last fall. Unexpected things are always happening to my body, consistently rare and strange. Could it be that I have suddenly acquired endorphins?
As I rounded the last corner of my route and headed for home, I suspected it was more of a spring cleaning situation: fresh air, clearing out of the cobwebs and the junk. Birdsong had replaced the drone of our heater, my dry winter skin was now warmed by the sun and moist with sweat, my sneakers confidently made contact with clear sidewalks covered in ice only weeks ago. I tend to dislike when people say that the nicer weather will change how we feel because I am mostly in my house compared to they who are out in the world much more than I am. And yet I definitely uncovered something new on that walk: the old me. I never get the high, but on one beautiful April day, there was an “I” in my workout.
