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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
Last year, while spring was promising new growth and renewal, I was troubled by a nagging sense of trepidation. I was a junior-senior soon to become the real McCoy – I was turning 65 in the fall. This birthday was a big deal, at least for me, and it was looming ever closer.
My mind swirled with visions of a future filled with senior moments. Lost nouns. Memory gaps. Multiple nighttime trips to the bathroom. The barrage of e-mails sent from seniors’ health sites didn’t help. Regular reminders of the challenges of aging, they offered advice on how to avoid falls, maintain mobility, reduce cognitive decline and much more. Gulp. I was gaining membership to a club to which I didn’t want to belong.
I became preoccupied with how to mark the milestone. I knew that I needed to shake off my negativity and turn aging on its head. But how? I decided to take stock. No daily ailments. No scary underlying conditions. I was one of the lucky ones. And that was it. I needed a birthday event that celebrated my good health. An idea soon followed – I would train to run five kilometres with my kids on my 65th birthday. I called it “5 at 65.″ I would become a runner.
This idea didn’t come out of nowhere. I have nurtured a hot and cold relationship with fitness over the years, and long harboured a secret admiration of runners. I watched them with envy and wondered, could I do that? It was now or never.
I had unwittingly begun my training two years earlier. During the pandemic, the outdoors beckoned and I started walking in the neighbourhood and hiking local trails to escape the four walls of my house. My kids gave me a watch that tracked my accumulated distance and I virtually walked from Whitby, Ont., to Fredericton. I was a walker who was ready for more. When fitness classes were cancelled, I attempted to recreate the programs in my living room and quickly discovered that jumping jacks and squats lose their appeal when you are sweating on a mat tucked between the sofa and the coffee table. However, I soon learned of an online stretch program that was low key and gentle, with no fear of broken lamps or bruised elbows, and was fortuitously filled with exercises that prepared my body to run.
Armed with a walker’s legs, quasi-flexible hips and websites with motivating titles such as Go from Couch to 5K and How to Start Jogging after 50, I mapped out a six-month plan. Although friends and family knew I was learning to run, I did not share my five-kilometre goal. Self-protection mode was in full force. I didn’t know whether I would like running, or more importantly, whether I would be successful. As soon as I shared my goal, I would be locked in, and I wasn’t ready for that.
The training began. Slow. Gradual. Steady. Slow. I found encouragement in runners’ posts that applauded effort above all else. Distance doesn’t matter, they cried. Speed is of no concern, they declared. With their words echoing in my head, I started the first week with a two-minute walk alternating with a one-minute jog for a distance of 3 km. I jogged so slowly that I would have covered more ground if I had walked. But as the weeks went by, my slow jog turned into a slow run. Gradually my distance increased and the walking breaks diminished in length and number.
In mid-July I was sitting around a campfire with my kids. Relaxed and emboldened, I heard myself sharing my goal of “5 at 65.″ I was touched by their enthusiastic response. Runners themselves, they became my personal team of cheerleaders. What a boost. We set a date and location.
With my secret out, there was no turning back. My training continued. I brushed off snapping dogs, howling winds, cold mornings, humid afternoons, parked cars and moving cars. I looked forward to meeting other runners on the trail. We often exchanged a quick nod or a small wave. A secret handshake. It didn’t matter that they were younger or faster or effortlessly loping up inclines that had me slowing to a crawl. I was a card-carrying member of the running club. I increased my speed as I passed them by.
I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t share that there were days when it was difficult to get out the door. The numbers that ordinarily motivated me became my enemy and I would glance at my watch countless times during a seemingly never-ending run. Small hills became mountains. My legs objected to their new challenge. But the good days far outnumbered the bad ones, and I kept going.
On one memorable September afternoon, I ran my first 5 km without stopping. With my heart pumping, I immediately texted my cheerleaders. After months of training, I was ready.
I woke on the day of the birthday run feeling overwhelmed and said little to my kids as we drove to the conservation area. But my nerves abated as soon as we started. I set the pace and there was no pressure to be fast. It didn’t hurt that we were running on a flat dirt trail that wove through a beautiful forest. The kids’ lively chatter distracted me from my tired legs. They regularly called out the distance and words of encouragement. I kept running.
I finished. The after-run photo is framed and sitting in my kitchen. I am the gray-haired senior surrounded by her family with a red face and fogged-up glasses and a big smile. We are wearing shirts the kids had designed for us: “5 at 65!” the shirts shout to the world. Look what I can do! I am 65 and I am a runner.
Becoming a senior might not be so bad after all.
Jane Anderson lives in Whitby, Ont.