Cover photo courtesy of Alex B. Clark
By Rachel Toor
The aging train goes in one direction. We all know that. Still, most of us—especially those who pride ourselves on physical prowess—are like Cleopatra: queens of denial. Nothing makes you look old like saying you’re old.
That’s why I’m excited to be doing a new column for this publication, which I’ve read since moving to Spokane in 2006. I want to use this space to explore what it means to be a person at a more mature advanced stage of life who is still trying to run up that hill. Sometimes, however, that hill will be more metaphorical than geographical.
At 63, after spending more than half my life as a fairly decent runner, I don’t see myself as over the hill. This summer, after taking a COVID-inspired break from racing, I once again pinned on bib numbers to hit some trail half-marathons. I remembered it was a big part of my identity: I’ve authored a few books about running, written for nearly every national running magazine, been sent to cover marathons in Singapore, Thailand, and Israel, and survived a brutal 100-mile, five-day stage race in the Himalayas.Â
I tell myself I’m still doing the Kate Bush thing: runnin’ up that hill. I’m slower, sure. I take walk breaks. Sometimes—gasp—I even stop to enjoy the view and sniff the flowers. I try not to measure myself against my former self and fail at that regularly. But even though it’s an urban myth that sharks die if they stop moving, I know for a fact that I’m not ready to turn to Netflix-and-chill full time. (Though a little Netflix, a little chill, is essential.)
As with most athletic feats, the mind is the muscle that matters most. I’m trying to train mine to accept the things I cannot change (the aging train) and figure out how to live in my current reality. I suspect I’m not alone in this.
Many elders do the “organ recital,” talking endlessly about the things in our bodies that are breaking down. I like to listen in because it’s good to know what might be in store before you have to figure out on your own that when the inevitable happens and you need drugstore reading glasses to see a menu, there are options like monovision—a single contact lens that allows one eye to devote itself to things up close.
And because my running partners tend to be 20 or 30 years younger, I try to remember I can’t keep up—and instead be grateful they slow their pace for the privilege of receiving my endless stream of wisdom nattering.
Committing to writing about being active will give me a smidgen of accountability. For most of my adult life, I’ve been able to get away with doing no exercise. Which is to say, I have always seen running as a way to have good thinking time, to be social, to get introvert recharging, to push myself to find my limits. Never as exercise. I have never been a gym rat and hate water more than most cats. (The ocean, lakes, rivers: totally lost on me.)
But, I remind myself, the aging train has left the station. Recently, I texted my best friend a sentence that shocked us both: “I wore my Birkenstocks to Pilates.” I have hated those German tourist sandals since 1976. But my feet, they’re failing me. The T-Rex body of a runner doesn’t age well when schlepping bags of dog food. Something must be done. Even if that means being tortured on a rack.
So, I invite you to share my journey as I keep trying to run up that hill.
Rachel Toor teaches creative writing at Eastern Washington University. She lives in Spokane with her (hot younger) husband Toby and her (brilliant) dog Harry.
