I walked 61 miles this month.

I set this small, rather kitschy goal as a nod to my August birthday and to conclude the mourning period for the collapse of my 60th year grande finale European vacation hijacked by Covid19. My goal-setting bar is pretty low these days, so this little walkabout challenge is aligned with the triviality of my current status.

I remember the days when only my scheduled, tracked, and recorded runs counted as exercise. Walking, beyond social visits with friends, was for less hardy souls or reserved for challenging hiking treks. (Nobody has a rack of medals from neighborhood walks.) I always enjoyed seeing older people out walking, or parents with strollers, or race walkers with their arms tucked tightly by their sides. But in my mind, runners like me were bolder or stronger or more something or maybe just more than them.

Then I stopped running for five years. I suppose I was too busy…

I woke up from my fitness coma this summer, when all my power and motivation and capacity was so far down memory lane that I had to muster the images of heart rate monitors and finish lines. I was soundly inside the I used to… stage of life, squinting to see my younger, healthier self.

It’s not like I am dormant. I still play outdoors, but my frequency and intensity are no longer present. My activities are low impact, random, and sporadic, which somehow feels like an obligatory rite of passage, or maybe an earned concession of a slower state of being. All good if done with intention, but that wasn’t the case with me.

So, I set my first fitness goal in several years. I would walk 61 miles in increments of my choosing. I would listen to new podcasts and music. I would watch birds and boats and maybe run on the new high school track. Since it wasn’t particularly daunting, I made room for the endless possibilities that a low-hanging-fruit kind of goal offers.

I am done now. I quietly completed my 61st mile this morning. No fist pump or medal. I simply smiled to myself and said You really enjoyed that game. You ran intervals, you walked along craggy shorelines, you climbed those hills without too much panting.

I don’t know what I’ll do with this new-found, albeit likely short-lived, emotion. Perhaps I’ll set a new goal as a sort of contentment contract with myself through September. Perhaps I’ll set an interval schedule until I can run 61 miles again. Or do 61 pushups. Or kayak 61 miles. Or eat 61 donuts if those efforts fail.

In the meantime, I’ll lace up my shoes in the morning and listen to something new.

A kitschy 61 miles