Fit for travel. Fit for life.

Beep. The Kettler announces today’s regime. I take a deep breath and start rowing. 45, 77, 83, the strokes per minute are climbing. I steady around 90 and relax into my rythm.

“What are my plans for this morning?” I close my eyes and wander off.  I need to write that article about the football radio before the world cup is over, those invoices need to be sent off, … my list continues.

I catch myself in the mirrors with deep concerns etching my brow. I smile. Relax. And take in my reflection. It’s encouraging watching bingo wings morph into little muscle shapes. Pink is flushing my cheeks and droplets are starting to glisten. I drift back a couple of years and remember how difficult this used to be. My word, I still feel embarrassed …

Growing up in South Africa in the 70s and 80s we had an active, outdoor lifestyle. Running, jumping, climbing trees, roller skating, endlessly running up/down the gazillion-degree incline at Bonza Bay beach. We were fit, healthy and pretty much carefree. Shortly after high school, however, I got asthma. First it was this “annoying cold” that wouldn’t go away, but it persevered … and gradually stole my active breath.

Asthma can be triggered by lots of things. One of them, exercise. The more you do it, the tighter your lungs get. You gotta try this … block your nose and breath ONLY through a straw. And try running around the block like that. (No seriously, share your experience in the comments below.) But here’s the weird part … the more exercise your lungs get, the stronger they become. Huh? It’s like trying to get that job in the first place so that you can gain the experience the bosses are looking for …

Over the next decade, my level of fitness allows me light activities, like walking from my car to my desk; behind which I spend way too many hours. I keep myself skinny by not eating. Sweets and chocolates? Heavens, no! 

I dread strenuous social events … would love to take part in Action Cricket, but what if I get another asthma attack? Wheezing pathetically in some corner? Not the attention I’m looking for. So I put on a brave face. An excuse isn’t hard to find. And ‘cos I look fit and healthy, people have no reason to believe otherwise. 

Until …

He appears. My epitome of a man; fit and active with a zest for life. One I used to have. A feeling of freedom I secretly crave. He is eager to participate, so we happily take delivery of two gleaming red mountain bikes … my beau calls my bluff.

Our first ride together, Marcel zoots off like a 6-year old. Popping wheelies, zig-zagging across the road, riding in circles, up and down hills effortlessly. Calling on my limited childhood biking days, I pedal off enthusiastically, eating the tarmac underneath me.

My heart starts fretting, getting louder until it’s screaming, “You bleeding idiot! What are you doing? I’m not equipped for this!!” I don’t care. I want to go on. I have to. Marcel is a blip on the horizon.

The dot gets bigger. I figure he’s coming back. I pedal even harder, determined to be that free child again. I reach a slight downhill. Awesome!! I ease off the pedals and let the wind tickle my nose and whizz in my ears. The magic continues as I start seeing sparkly bits … shiny little stars turning the landscape bright white. Blood ebbs from my cheeks. I’m no longer feeling so good. Suddenly this is a VERY stupid idea.

I’m gonna faint!!

I stop on the sidewalk and clutch the handles, urging them not to let go. Marcel pulls up and looks at a rabbit-in-headlights in complete silence. He doesn’t let on how horrified he is. (We’re not even 2km from home!) I’m horrified. Is this what I’ve become? Thwap! Take that … reality gives me one big fat slap in the face. 

I WANT MY BODY BACK!! One that I can use for whichever purpose I choose. So I set myself a goal of keeping up with Marcel.

That was the easy part. The rebuilding begins. We scuba-dive. I take a crash course in manual labour. We trade our mountain bikes for city bikes, hoping the comfort factor is more encouraging. I find a great medicine that prevents asthma attacks instead of fixing them. We buy a stepper. I hate it. We get a walker. I can’t take the metal-on-metal screeching. The manufacturer can’t find the problem (or solution) so we tell them to keep it. Finally, after much surfing, Marcel finds the answer: a rowing machine.

I start off slowly. Resistance set to 5, with 10 minutes a day. In full confidence, Marcel increases the resistance to 10. It can’t get tougher than this. Just faster. Gee whiz, I’m battling. It’s soooo hard. I don’t feel like it and want to give up. My average strokes a minute? A measly 36. Perservering, a month goes by. SPM increases to 58. A couple months later, my time increases to 15 minutes. Nowadays, I do a consistent 20-minute or 1800 strokes (9km’s) whichever comes last. COOL!

I’ve had my fair share of bumps, bruises and owies. My hands have cramped closed, my  back’s “gone out” more times than I’ve wanted. But through being active and listening to pain, I’ve discovered our healing ability is an asset we maintain through care and regular use. Getting to know this marvellous machine I inhabit has given me a deep sense of achievement. I know what I’m capable of.

I’ve moved from being a “can’t do” to a “I’ll give it my best damn shot!”

My drive to be fit, strong and healthy isn’t for anyone else. It stems purely from “wanting to do”. And boy is it worth it! I’m living life to the full. During our travels, I devour activities with gusto. I’ve even lifted the taboo on an odd choccie or two! But I have adjusted my goal …

I’ll never be in the same physical league as Marcel, so I do my best to keep up. His physical boundaries extend way beyond mine. Fortunately, we’ve adapted quite well. For instance, when we go cycling, Marcel dashes off at speed and comes back to face it all over again, this time at Victoria-pace.

I know if we ever wanted to raise our game, like running the London marathon or cycling the Two Oceans, that it is possible, with a lot of effort and dedication, but unnecessary for now. My fitness level matches our lifestyle.

I know that wherever we are or whatever we do, I’m ready to give it a go … because I’m fitter at 40 than when I was 20!

ps. thank you, my hero, for rescuing a damsel in distress. And for expecting her to cycle off into the sunset alongside you!