Apparently, I’m an Athlete Too

Yesterday was too damn hot to ride horses.

Like, why is the air touching me? hot.

So instead of canceling Ella’s lesson entirely, we decided to work on the part of goat tying that doesn’t actually require a goat.

Or a horse.

Turns out, unfortunately, that part requires us.

And somewhere along the way, I seem to have forgotten that rodeo has a human athlete involved.

I preach this shit CONSTANTLY to my students.

Be quicker.

Get stronger.

Move your feet.

Use your body.

React faster.

Don’t just sit there waiting for your horse to do everything for you.

Your horse is an athlete, but so are you.

Blah, blah, blah.

Coach Whitney has LOTS of wisdom.

Actual Whitney, apparently, has the cardiovascular endurance of a baked potato.

Welcome to Wednesday Night Goat-Tying Boot Camp

Since Ella is getting ready to learn goat tying, I set up a few little relay races.

First up: two buckets about twenty feet apart, one filled with water, one empty, a cone in the middle, and cups to transfer the water.

Run.

Scoop.

Run.

Dump.

Repeat.

Ella versus me.

This seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea when I invented it.

And for approximately eleven seconds, I was an athlete.

Then my lungs filed a formal complaint.

But we're competitive, so obviously we kept going.

Then came towel tying.

If you've ever watched a good goat tier, their hands are FAST. Grab. Gather. Wrap. Tie. Done.

So we raced tying towels to work on hand speed and dexterity.

Except my hands apparently received the message that my quote-unquote "29ish" birthday is approaching and decided it was time to become arthritic Victorian grandmother hands.

My brain: GO! GO! GO!

My fingers: Best I can offer is this weird claw.

Fantastic.

Then we did another relay involving stacking cans and moving them into buckets. More running. More bending. More quick hands.

And somewhere between the water buckets and my fingers forgetting their assigned duties, I had a realization:

Oh, shit.

I'm out of shape.

Not "I don't like what the scale says" out of shape.

Not "my jeans don't fit how I want" out of shape.

I mean my body isn't keeping up with the life I expect it to live out of shape.

And that hit differently.

Because I was STILL out of breath an embarrassing amount of time later.

Ma'am.

It was twenty feet.

Nobody asked you to qualify for the Olympics.

Maybe We've Been Measuring the Wrong Damn Thing

We talk so much about getting "in shape" as adults, and almost immediately, the conversation becomes about weight.

Lose ten pounds.

Fit into the old jeans.

Get the summer body.

Shrink this.

Tone that.

Whatever.

But yesterday, I wasn't thinking about what my body looked like.

I was thinking:

Why the hell am I still breathing like this?

I was thinking about stamina.

Strength.

Agility.

Balance.

Coordination.

Mobility.

Quickness.

The ability to bend down, stand back up and not have my knees submit a two-week notice.

And maybe that's a better measurement of health than I've been giving it credit for.

Because I'm getting older.

I know. Devastating.

Apparently aging doesn't only sneak onto your face in little lines or show up as a silver hair that has the AUDACITY to grow straight out of the top of your head like an antenna.

Sometimes it shows up twenty feet into a bucket relay with a teenager.

And I don't like that.

Not because I expect myself to magically have the body I had at 20.

I don't.

This body has done a whole hell of a lot of living since then.

But I also don't want to shrug and say, "Well, I'm getting older," while slowly surrendering things I could actually work to keep.

I want to be strong.

I want stamina.

I want my body to be capable.

I want to ride.

Run.

Lift.

Climb.

Work.

Play.

Compete.

And yes, apparently get my ass handed to me by a 16-year-old carrying a cup of water.

And Then There Was the Bigger Lesson

Here's where Ella accidentally taught the teacher something.

I stand in that arena and ask these kids to become athletes.

I tell them their horses can't do all the work.

I ask them to get faster.

Stronger.

More coordinated.

More disciplined.

I ask them to practice things they're bad at until they're less bad at them.

And then what?

I sit in a lawn chair scrolling my phone while yelling,

"MOVE YOUR FEET!"

Well... shit.

Kids are paying attention to what we do a whole lot more than what we tell them to do.

Our own kids.

Our students.

The younger people at work.

The people we're mentoring.

Whoever happens to be watching.

Maybe I don't need to outrun a 16-year-old.

Thank God, because current evidence suggests that's not happening.

But I can let her see me try.

I can let my daughters see me work at getting stronger instead of hearing me complain about getting older.

I can let my students watch me suck at something, laugh at myself, catch my breath and go again.

I can show them that adults don't get to stop growing just because we're the ones holding the clipboard.

That's the example.

Not perfection.

Participation.

Maybe one of the best ways to ask young people to chase hard things is to make sure they occasionally see us chasing something hard, too.

So, yes.

Yesterday I got humbled by water buckets, towels, canned goods and a teenager.

My lungs nearly left the chat.

My fingers temporarily retired.

I discovered muscles I apparently haven't been consulting lately.

And we laughed our asses off.

But I also drove away thinking about something I hadn't thought about in a while:

What am I asking my body to still be able to do ten years from now?

Not what do I want it to weigh.

Not what size jeans do I want to wear.

What do I want it to DO?

And am I doing anything today to help Future Whitney still do it?

That's the question I'm carrying out of yesterday.

Maybe it's worth asking yourself, too.

What do you want your body to still let you do at 40? 50? 60? 70?

Pick up your grandkids?

Swing a leg over a horse?

Hike?

Run?

Garden?

Travel?

Work cattle?

Dance like an absolute idiot at somebody's wedding?

Whatever your answer is, maybe that's a better reason to take care of yourself than a number on a bathroom scale.

As for me?

Apparently I have some conditioning to do.

Because those damn 16-year-olds are getting entirely too comfortable.

And "29-ish" year-old me would like a rematch.