Sunshine, above 10 degrees Celsius, and we’re ready to ride.
Saturday, we took the gravel bikes out and hit the Guelph to Goderich trail.
Me and my new knees are looking forward to a summer of riding bikes. I’m going to gradually ride longer distance, with the aim of getting my cycling endurance back.
Sarah is more ambitious. She’s doing Paris Ancaster in a few weeks. So she rode ahead some of the time and then came back to meet me.
Aside from the crabby guy who yelled at us to “curb your speed girls” when we were doing less than half the max speed for the trail and giving him lots of room to walk, it was a great ride.
I’m not doing too badly. Check out the PRs below. This is a section of the trail I’ve ridden many times before.
Sunday, we set out again, but for a shorter ride on the next second of the trail that leads into Elmira.
Strava report on our ride
After our ride, we hopped into the car with Cheddar, the dog. We’re driving to Prince Edward County for better eclipse viewing.
Cheddar in the car. He’s an 8 year old blonde dog with one blue eye and one brown eye.
In thinking about life after knee replacement and planning my fitness life for my sixties, I’m trying to remember my happiest active times. I’m wondering what aspects of those times it makes sense to think about getting back, as well as what new stuff I want to add.
Sam testing for 5th kyu in Aikido
And, of course, what old stuff I’m ready to give away. I mean, some things are right out of the picture. That’s running and all sports that involve it, like soccer. Other things are back in, for sure, like recreational cycling.
But what form does this take in my ideal life?
I’m still reflecting on Tracy’s piece about how turning 60 feels different than turning 50. And part of that, for Tracy, seemed to be giving up on a bunch of external fitness should talk. Her interests also changed, and she’s approaching sixty with a more integrated and sustainable approach to fitness.
Writes Tracy, “When I was approaching my fifties, I had an intensity and focus around my fitness activities that was extremely goal-oriented. I had an eye on one thing and one thing only: the Olympic distance triathlon. Though of course the goal yielded some internal change (mostly in the form of perseverance), the goal itself was external.”
Truth be told, Tracy’s approach differed in that she had a much more ambitious goal. And she took up more new things than me. So it’s not a surprise that our attitudes about the difference between 50 and 60 are different.
Me, I want to get back to some aspects of the life I created leading up to 50. I loved it. I loved the biking, the rowing, Aikido, and CrossFit. By the end of the challenge, I wasn’t so focused on an external goal. Rather, the fittest by fifty challenge helped me appreciate how much physical activity matters to me and how much it’s part of my version of a good life. I might have started with an external goal–fittest by fifty–but it ended with a real love and appreciation of sport, physical activity, and joyful movement. I knew it was an important part of my life, going into the challenge, but the fittest by fifty challenge helped me appreciate how much it mattered.
My goal for the challenge was the Friends for Life Bike Rally, which I did as part of our challenge, but I did it again in August of 2022, right before my first knee replacement surgery. I don’t think I’ll manage it this year, the year I’m turning 60, but I’ve got 2025 in my sights. I’d like to do it in my 50th and my 60th year and I’ll still be 60 then.
Fit at Midlife the book on the left, Tracy and Sam in a publicity photo on the right
So I did keep some of my cycling fitness after the fittest by fifty challenge, and I hope to keep that up for a very long time yet. So what’s missing for me?
There are four themes that keep coming up when I think about the fitness future I want.
First, it’s community. When I think back over my various fitness pursuits, the best times involve working out with other people. I think about bike clubs and teams, my soccer team, the Aikido dojo, the rowing club, and so on. Even CrossFit’s appeal lay mainly in the community. Soccer, Aikido, rowing, and bike clubs are all team efforts where you work with others. I like that a lot. They’re also all community associations where people are drawn from all walks of life and from all corners of the community. It’s what I like about the Guelph Community Boating Club.
Sam and Sarah racing the snipe at Guelph Lake
Second, it’s active, outdoor adventure. I love being outside. I love moving my body. The combo is perfect.
Two photos of Sam in red shirts in her canoe
Third, it’s intensity. I do my best work in teams and there’s something about the group effort that makes me work harder. Team time trials are one of my favourite kinds of bike races and they’re intense, co-operative efforts. Of course, that’s also true of rowing. I like sports that have intensity built in. I’m not sure what form that will take as I get older, but I still think about one of our earlier blog posts, about aging as a choice. Is Aging a Lifestyle Choice? I talked about Gretchen Reynold’s book on exercise science, The First Twenty Minutes: Surprising Science Reveals How We Can: Exercise Better, Train Smarter, Live Longer, where I was particularly taken with her chapter on aging,
I wrote: “The old view was that muscle loss and a decline in aerobic capacity were inevitable with old age. We slow down with age and become more frail, starting in our 40s, it seemed. But new research suggests the connections may run the other way. We become slower and more frail because we stop moving. Older athletes get slower and less strong, not because they’re older, but rather because they train less than younger athletes.”
Sam’s bike rally team 2022
Fourth, they’ve involved some element of competition. I’ve never been a serious racer but I like club level competition, in most physical activity that I do. (Obviously that’s lacking in yoga and hiking.) It provides some benchmarking and gives a purpose to training.
So, purposeful training, outdoors, in a community, with intensity, and some competition…that’s where we are so far!
Canberra’s Vikings above, Dunedin’s Women on Wheels below
What happened to my fitness community? Where did it go?
Well, my knees for one thing. Knee pain led to saying goodbye to running, soccer, Aikido and CrossFit. My big move was another. Bye-bye cycling coach and the community of cyclists I rode with in London. And then there was my big new job. That’s a lot.
Also there’s age. In Canada it’s harder to find groups that include older adults. I often think back fondly to my racing days in Australia where the master’s cycling group had an active over-80 group. You needed a doctors note to race after 80. It’s hard to imagine an active group of seniors racing bikes in Canada.
As I try to construct a ‘fitness after sixty’ plan, I’m thinking about activities in three groups–things I’m saying goodbye to, things I’m keeping and new things I want to add.
And I also want to recognize the pieces of the plan that are already in place. Zwift hits both the community and competition buttons. The Guelph Community Boating Club is very much of the volunteer association model I like.
On the bye list are running, soccer, Aikido.
On the keep list are hiking, cycling, sailboat racing, yoga, paddling, and weightlifting.
And on the new list are bike packing and dancing. I’m not sure where to put swimming but it’s in there.
Oh, there’s also a fourth category–to pick again after retirement–rowing for sure!
Sled pushing at the gym
Look this is obviously very much a work in progress. Stay tuned!
Also, I’ve been trying for better blog post titles.
Here’s some AI suggested:
1. “Rediscovering Joy: Embracing Fitness After Knee Replacement”
2. “Creating a Vibrant Future: Planning Fitness in Your Sixties”
3. “Reflecting on Active Happiness: Reimagining Fitness After Knee Replacement”
4. “The Next Chapter: Designing a Fulfilling Fitness Journey in Your Sixties”
5. “From Recovery to Revival: Crafting a Dynamic Fitness Routine After Knee Replacement”
Today is the culmination of a tremendous season of women’s college basketball in the US. The University of South Carolina Gamecocks face off against the University of Iowa Hawkeyes. (Full disclosure: I’m a University of South Carolina alum and fan).
University of South Carolina’s team coach Dawn Staley (a legend in her own right) says this about Clark:
“It’s a monumental game for our game,” South Carolina Coach Dawn Staley said. “We’re very fortunate to be a part of it. We get to witness firsthand the legacy of Caitlin Clark. You watch her. You prep for her. You can’t help but to really love how she dissects the game. You love how she executes. I mean, it’s simple. Her game is simple and yet powerful. How do you defend fundamental basketball? You can’t. She’s going to win every time.”
The Gamecocks are also ready to play. They are undefeated this season, at 38-0 after their 78-59 semifinal win over North Carolina State. Yes, you read that right: un-de-feat-ed. Some news outlets favor them to win today’s matchup. We shall see. I know this: I’ll be watching.
Maybe the fact that March Madness this year is focused on women’s basketball isn’t surprising to you, dear readers. But, let’s take a moment to look back to 2021: the women’s NCAA tournament facilities and food and branding were completely substandard, compared with the men’s tournament. I wrote about it here: who can forget the poor-excuse for weight room consisting of a small tower of hand weights, a sad little table, and some yoga mats?
If you’re free at 3pm Eastern Time today, I suggest you check out the final. You’ll see teamwork, expert strategy, great athletic prowess, and women doing it for themselves and their teams. What better way to spend a Sunday afternoon?
My goal for being fit at 55 and beyond has been to build and maintain strength. I have been weightlifting since 2013. I don’t do competitions; I strive weekly to improve and move forward.
Over the past few years, especially with the pandemic, part of my daily activities involves providing support to senior family members. I became skilled at the one-trip grocery carry (look at all the bags!). I’ve packed and moved boxes, shifted furniture, rearranged pantries, and so on.
Shopping for groceries with a blue basket, WordPress stock photo
Usually, my people-assistance has been limited to providing a steadying hand for walking or helping them up out of couches or chairs determined to swallow them permanently. Recently though, I had to help a senior up from a position they could not stay in without causing harm.
It was a relief to look at the situation, figure out what needed doing, and then ensure I was aligned properly to lift without injury. Unless you are in a direct hands-on care role, most of us don’t think about our training to be something that can be applied in this way. I was glad I have spent the time ensuring I will have strength for now and the future.
Here’s a quote to make you think: “Age-related mobility limitations are a fact of life for many older adults. Studies have shown that about 30% of adults over age 70 have trouble with walking, getting up out of a chair, or climbing stairs. In addition to making everyday tasks difficult, mobility limitations are also linked to higher rates of falls, chronic disease, nursing home admission, and mortality.“
The focus is on prevention, but my experiences over the last three years suggest building our strength also makes us better caregivers because we have the power and the skills to help safely and prevent injuries to others and ourselves.
Billie Eilish sings her Grammy and Oscar-winning song What was I made for? In the video she is dressed as one of the Barbies from the movie Barbie.
MarthaFitat55 lives and lifts on an island off the coast of Eastern Canada.
Our family walking along the small-town road on Easter.
A group of people walk along at different distances along a quiet street. A man and young girl walking a dog are in the forefront. It is early spring with the remnants of snow and puddles lining the road.
“Wow! Busy day in town.” I exclaimed as our herd moved to the shoulders of the sidewalk-less road.
It was Easter, and the nine of us who gathered to celebrate were on an afternoon walk. We were moving over for two vehicles driving towards us in opposite directions when a third one came into our view at the crossroad ahead. Three cars in thirty seconds boasted unfamiliar liveliness in the small Albertan town my sister lives in.
Taking a walk has become an expected practice when we come to visit my sister. From my outsider’s viewpoint, this town is either dying or painfully tired. The main street might as well have a tumbleweed roll across as no one is seen perusing shops, attending to business, or even taking a stroll. Many of the buildings are boarded up with only a few bearing signs of life with “For Lease” plastered on their windows. Are they displayed as dreams for progress, or are they there as pleas for release? What do these sleepy towns have to hope for?
I had grown up in a town of roughly 4000 people. Walking in the middle of streets where the ditches were our sidewalks, where drivers raised a hand in greeting as they passed, where wandering parent-less until sundown was a way of life, is how I experienced my years of innocence. When I lived there, the town was prosperous and growing.
But then it started to die.
Industry left the area. Families, like mine, and individuals found themselves pursuing opportunities in the cities. The wounds of economic scarcity started to appear.
When I visited my hometown in later years, I felt like I was walking through a ghost town. Although the town wasn’t dying to the extent that my sister’s town seems to be, the town that I knew was no longer there. Isn’t that the journey of growing up? Much of what we know as children takes on new meaning as adults.
When I do visit my hometown, I often find myself at the school playground. Standing beneath worn monkey bars and cautiously climbing contorted ladders brings me back to innocence. I look at the tire swing and get flashbacks of “around the world” pushes and the dizzying ecstasy it yielded. I imagine schoolmates all around; some running, some chasing, others huddled, and the rest occupied by the pieces of equipment.
What bewilders me the most during my visits is that the equipment looks unchanged. Twenty years and the same plastic slides welcomed my use. The large wooden posts stand sturdy and just as full of splinter potential as they did in the past. The peace that comes with realizing that not everything has changed is tangible.
In the small Albertan town where there are at least three active townspeople, I experienced echoes of that same peace. As soon as the vehicles departed, my children, knowing we were heading towards a playground, noticed the worn rungs of a slide ladder peaking out the back of an alleyway.
“The playground!” my youngest yelled. With only the one structure in partial view, I was uncertain how my kids would react to an old small-town playground. With my erroneous belief that newer means safer, I also wondered how I would fare as their mother.
As we neared and began to see the rest of the equipment appear, my worries were quelled. What I saw was my past. Jagged wood that threatened splinters, metal that lacked the lustre of newness, sand that holds evidence of generations of kids between every grain, rubber and plastic that was warped and cracked from decades facing the elements—every good material used to produce this circa 1990s playground equipment echoed the joys that were absorbed into it by the many children that graced its parts.
It looked so much like the playground I grew up on. I loved it. The sentimental touch of a bin full of intergenerational Tonka trucks and sand pales showcased the beauty of small-town intimacy. As I watched my children, husband, sister, and dog run freely across all the structures, my heart swelled.
I am unsure why I didn’t walk on the structure or climb the monkey bar pyramid or slide down a slide or even sit on the swings. It seems bizarre since playgrounds have been such a grounding source for me. But it didn’t even cross my mind.
Reflecting on it, perhaps it’s because I didn’t feel the need to be the kid again. Perhaps the stresses of adulthood left me as I stepped into the sand. I didn’t need to frolic or shut my eyes and pump my legs to reach the highest height of the swings. I didn’t need to feel the wooden bridge waver beneath my feet. I just needed to be in the sand. I just needed to watch my kids learn to slide down the fire pole and slip down gritty, silver slides.
Their living of the life I used to live brought me immense joy. At that moment, I developed an ardent hope that this town would survive, that the pendulum of its population would swing from decline to flourishing. I hope the shops sell and that the new owners take pride in running a business in a vintage town. I hope the residents of that town commit to bringing life into the community.
But most of all, I hope that the playground stays intact, just as it is.
May the toy bin be forever emptied and refilled by playful children. May the necessary maintenance be allotted to the structures. And may the adults reminisce and allow their children to experience the unique activities that small towns afford, like walking down the middle of streets and finding peace standing in the sand of an old playground.
Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.
I have a confession to make. Just 14 days before running the 2024 Boston Marathon as part of a charity team raising money to fight racial and economic injustice in Boston (a cause deeply aligned with my professional and personal commitments.)
My confession: I sort of wish I could back out. Because I can’t handle the pressure.
I’m pretty certain I can handle the physical pressure of running 26.2 miles. I’ve done that distance more than 40 times and have run more than 26.2 miles on some occasions. (Darn, I’ve even raced Boston 8 times before, and I’m a running coach for goodness’ sake!). But can I handle the pressure to perform and prove my worthiness to be here at all?
To many people I know, I’m a seasoned marathoner and ultra marathoner who runs all the time. And in some ways, this is true. I do love to run. And I run a lot. I can run long. And I can run pretty fast (for a 50-year-old). I could (if I had the time) run hours a day and find joy in every step. I have run on three continents, in more than a dozen countries, nearly all US states. At dawn, at midnight, and with the sun at its apex. In the shadows of pyramids, on the streets of countries rebuilding from war, on crowded sidewalks in urban spaces, and in quiet woods in my various home states.
I love to run. But I don’t love to race because I hate having my running on public display. And right now, the pressure weighing on me is the pressure to be publicly productive with my running and training and preparation for this race. And to perform on race day. To prove that I am worthy.
I feel the need to prove I’m worthy of the right to run this marathon. That I’m worthy of taking up space in this race. That my body deserves to be out there on April 15. Social media traffic among the Boston marathoning crowd can be brutal. There are posts asking why “charity” runners get to “take the places” of those who have “qualified” by time. There are those who have mused publicly about the selfishness of those like me, who have run this storied race before, while others who wish to, have not.
And because I worry about my worthiness as a charity runner, I feel the need to perform for others; to be happy, energetic, gracious and grateful at all times to friends, to fellow runners, online, to potential donors, to the non-profit staff. After all, I have “taken up” a spot in a race with only 30,000 spots. After all, the charity has “allowed” me to run “for them”. After all, I could just step aside. Instead, I have to publicly ask others to support me.
As someone who has struggled with imposter syndrome and a fair amount of body-hatred my whole life I’m feeling something deep and hard at this moment: the pressure to prove that I am worthy of others donating their hard-earned money to a cause I care about. To donating to me. To my body. I keep wondering: Is my body worthy enough…? Is my body worthy enough for you to care? Is my body worthy of your sacrifice? Then, if it is, what happens if I fail to knock the marathon out of the park?
These feelings and questions are troublingly familiar. They recall years of high school and college competitive running when terror gripped me each time I stepped up to a race. A place where others could see me and potentially witness my failure. I had won races, for sure. But would this be the day the truth of being a fraud was revealed? Would I still deserve to take up space on a team? On a track? To be called an athlete? I did not like my body. And I did not trust it to fulfill my duty to others (coaches, teammates, spectators). The eyes on me were too much. The fear of having to perform for others was too great. At 19 I stepped away from any competitive running. I couldn’t take the pressure. I didn’t want others to expect anything of my body and I didn’t want my body failing them. Failing to do whatever they hoped I (and my body) would do. I didn’t want the pressure.
So, as I face down these final days of fundraising, I have at times wished that I could just run this 26.2 mile on my own, without fear of letting anyone else down. I want to run and push forward and champion an anti-racist agenda in distance running with my race…but boy do I fear that I–and my body–will somehow fail the cause.
So now my confession is public. Perhaps foolishly. I know I should work on my mindset. But that is a task for another day. Today, I breathed. And today I ran…without a watch or a plan, for five easy miles. Solo. Hoping to believe a bit in my body. In me.
With a bit of luck, I’ll raise the remaining $400 of my fundraising goal by 4/12 and with a bit more luck, I’ll feel worthy as I run 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Boston later this month.
Elizabeth Duclos-Orsello is a professor of American Ethnic Studies, Chair of a department at Salem State University, and consultant for non profits, universities and community groups on issues related to how groups and organizations can effect structural change with an intersectional lens at the core. She is also an RRCA certifiedrunning coach and founder of The Atalanta Effect running coaching for women.
At summer camp, I was notorious for taking the longest to get into the frigid lake for swimming lessons. Once the camp director had to yell at me to get me in the water for a swim test (I did pass and get my red cross badge). Over the years … nothing has changed. I have honed the art of slow immersion—one toe at a time, one ankle at a time, light splashes on my arms and face—often only to retreat out of the water before fully plunging in. No matter how many people said to me, “You’ll feel great once you’ve plunged,” I never found this encouragement a motivation. I know how great I can feel after a cold plunge. I just can’t bring myself to do it. You don’t need to tell me that doesn’t make sense. I know.
Until a few days ago.
I went to a spa for the afternoon with a friend. We followed the guidelines to the letter. 15 minutes in the sauna (or steam room, or hot pool), followed by a brief cold plunge, then a period of rest (in my case, with Marilynne Robinson’s novel Jack, which I’m loving). Repeat. And again. And again. For the first time. Ever. In my life. I walked right into the cold plunge. Not one moment of hesitation. Full immersion. Pause for a few breaths underwater and then climb out an unhurried pace.
I know that there are many stalwart winter swimmers and WimHoffers who read and write for this blog, so I feel some trepidation sharing this as a personal transformation. Yet, for me it is the kind of change that makes me pause and look around, wondering, “What happened? Am I me?” The seasoned cold wateristas may be wondering what rock I’ve been hiding under to not already be where I’m barely arriving. All I can say is, I’m late to the party and why I’ve arrived at this particular time is still a bit of a mystery.
Here are three personal theories:
In the last two months, I’ve been ending most of my showers with 100% cold water. At first, I could feel my body curling up like a hedgehog against the cold. Over time, I’ve become bolder. Face. Head. Heart. Back. Making sure to attend to each body part. I’m such a pro now that in NYC, the cold doesn’t get as cold as I’d like. When I was in Canmore or when I’m visiting friends in VT, the water is glacial. Such invigoration. And preparation (increasing resistance) for those cold plunges I did a few days ago, which are next level (for me).
Another possible reason: I’ve been in the process of changing a host of other things in my life. In particular, for example, my diet. As I search out low potassium foods, and replace my favourite foods (Avocados. Dark chocolate. Broccoli. So Many Leafy Greens. Sweet Potatoes. Salmon. Mackerel. To name a very few.) with less favoured foods. I am teaching myself to enjoy flavours that I’d lost the taste for, or never had—Asparagus, Parsnip, Green Beans, Shrimp, Clams. I am teaching myself to be different. Maybe my body is responding with being different about cold water?
A final reason (and you’ll notice my reasons are getting increasingly distant from the practical & physical conditioning I’ve mentioned above) is that my body knows it needs the shock to reset in this period of greater stress than I’ve ever before experienced in my life. Sometimes, as the cold water pours over me and I feel the edge of an ice cream headache (which does not come, interestingly), I can almost hear my adrenal glands stirring, flexing, considering whether they will begin producing aldosterone again (the hormone lacking with Addison’s Disease, which enables the body to process and get rid of potassium—I wrote about my diagnosis here). Other time, the awareness is more around the general need for a reset in my nervous system. I may have woken in the morning from some complicated and unsettling dream that mirrors the extreme distress of my divorce-in-process and which I have not quite succeeded in flushing out of my system during my workout. The icy flow over my body startles me into the here and now, offering perspective and, dare I say, hope. In other words, my body knows what it needs (cold water!) and my slow immersions and arms crossed firmly across my chest with shoulders hunched against the cold no longer suits my body. The cold has been transformed into a coping strategy. I’ll take it.
Of course, all this theorizing could fall overboard, if I tried winter swimming. For now, I’m not going to. I don’t need more tests of will and toughness. I have enough of those already. What I need above all right now is any reassurance that I will make it through this moment. So, I’m giving myself a high five for my new tolerance to cold water and adding it to my resources.
In case you can’t tell by the title of this post – I LOVED THIS BOOK!
I confess, though, when I first got an email offering me a review copy of Tough Broad, I thought it had been sent to me by mistake.
I mean, I can be a pretty tough broad but the book’s tagline ‘From Boogie Boarding to Wing Walking – How Outdoor Adventure Improves Our Lives as We Age’ did not seem to be relevant to me at all.
I like being outdoors but I don’t consider myself to be particularly physically adventurous.
Is that a weird thing for a martial artist to say? Maybe. But TKD is just part of my routine now so it doesn’t register as requiring much adventurous spirit at this point.
When I thought about it, though, I realized that I was probably just the right person to read it for the blog. I’m not adventure-seeking but I’m not totally averse to trying new things and maybe this book would help me consider being a little more adventurous.
Gold star for Caroline Paul and Tough Broad! Image description: a photo of the book Tough Broad leaning against my monitor stand. There is a metal gold star ornament on the white desk in front of the book and the word Fun can be seen on a small piece of paper to the left of the book. The book’s cover features the title, the author’s name (Caroline Paul) and the tagline ‘From Boogie Boarding to Wing Walking – How Outdoor Adventure Improves Our Lives as We Age’ as well as a photo of a person in a harness standing atop the wing of a small plane.
That being said, I was expecting to enjoy the book but to have to dig to find connections to my own life. I assumed that the women Paul profiled would be VERY different from me, inspiring as all hell, sure, but they would probably be lifelong adventurers, wired for being outdoors and for staring danger in the face.
Instead, Paul’s excellent writing offered me instant connections, showing me a range of women who were adventuring at their own level and facing challenges in very relatable ways. Sometimes she’s introducing her readers to women just like them, making adventures seem like something they could start right away and other times she is showing those adventures as just out of reach right now – but definitely possible with some focused effort.*
And Tough Broad is not just a series of examples of inspiring, adventurous broads. Paul weaves key elements of research on aging into each section, making herself and the various adventurers examples of the research results in action. It’s much easier to understand how the value of play factors into the aging process when you’re reading about a 97 year old boogie boarder than when you’re just thinking about it in the abstract.
I took over 16 pages of notes, connected so many dots, and had so many insights while reading this book that I am going to have to write separate posts about different aspects in order to keep my ideas organized. For now, though, let me say that if you think you want to shake up your activities a bit and try something new, Caroline Paul’s Tough Broad is an excellent place to start.
Personally, I’m already considering what more ‘outdoor adventure’ might look like for me right now. I have no plans to become a daredevil but Paul’s book has me fired up to find ways to get outdoors to have even more fun even more often and, as she recommends, to do it completely on my own terms.
*To be clear, she’s not suggesting that we all can or should run out and learn to skydive or do other intense adventures. She clearly recognizes and states that we all have different abilities, capacities, and resources, and that everyone’s adventures will be different. But she IS reminding us that adventuring is not just for the young and she’s inviting people of any age to be open to finding their own adventures.
Given that this post is being read again–it’s showing up in our reader stats–I’m guessing some of you have as a spring cycling goal making the move to clipless pedals.
Both are feeling pretty motivational right now. Streaking on!
A 10 year old commentator on my Duolingo performance declares that my French is improving, but I have a lot of work to do on my Rs. Thanks J!
I like the extra XP that come with the Zwift streaks. I’m currently at level 43 in Zwift and you get extra XP for each week you maintain your streak, making it faster to move between levels.
I’m easily motivated by the gaming features in Zwift. I did a long hard ride Wednesday morning just to try to win the funky bike, the Atomic Cruiser. Instead, I won the orange headphones in the big spin.
Orange headphones The Mighty Metropolitan
The Big Spin is extra-gamey since it’s just really a regular group ride, but at the end, there’s a spinner that gives you a prize.
Not all streaks grab me, but these two, along with the 224 workouts in 2024 feel pretty motivational right now.
I’m still trying to work out a regular Zwift schedule for the spring. My regular activities are physio and personal training. I’m also bike commuting some days and dog walking. Hot yoga is an occasional late evening activity.
I like the Herd early morning rides best, as well as longer endurance rides with my TFC teammates on the weekend.
