On Exercise Now

For more than fifty years I have exercised almost every day. During my twenties and into my sixties I ran from four to twenty miles almost every day. I ran through every season and in any meteorological conditions. I ran in more than half of the states in this country and even in my explorations in Europe. During those years sometimes I also would ride my bicycle for long distances. Little deterred me. When I would head out to the roads my body accompanied my consciousness and I didn’t consider the exercise was for my body but rather was about something else, was about being alive and exploring the possibilities of that body. Four miles, six miles, ten miles—running even three marathons— was all about exploring what the body could do accompanied almost always by an active and curious mind. Often while I ran I wrote early drafts of whatever piece in which I was then engaged, and would address conflicts I was experiencing in my life; on the roads I engaged in wonderful and stimulating conversations with myself and enjoyed some wonderful thoughts and ideas  about the work and the world. I remember that I composed the eulogy for my father with tears on the Red Cedar Trail as he lay dying. I would feel my body as I ran and would study each physical sensation I felt in it, relishing even the discomforts and sometime pains I might experience. The roads were my study, my meditation room, sometimes even my lavatories.
     And now I still exercise every day. When I stopped running in my late sixties I took up spin cycle and hatha yoga at the local Lifetime Fitness Club. Two or three days each week I would ride the stationary bike I followed the instructor’s commands accompanied by high-volume musical playlist. On the other days I join a yoga class and follow the yogi’s directions. My pilse rate stayed slow and my weight unwavering. But something had definitely changed: I exercised now with the purpose of simply maintaining the very existence of the body; I exercised not merely because I was alive, but I exercised so that I might stay alive. I would declare that every day I exercised was a day I would not die. Back then, well, the exercise felt different, and the pains and discomforts were not evidence of decline but spoke rather of growth. Back then to exercise was to be alive. Now it was to keep alive.
     I no longer run long distances and I miss the freedom and joy I experienced on the roads. Today I walk a two to four miles almost every day and sometimes commit to a half-hour of yin yoga practice, during the pandemic the latter undertaken solitarily in my office. My exercise now is a charm to ward off death. It is a seismic shift in my existence.