Stirring Point

The sun peeks through the window and finds the edge of an already warm bed. I lay there, eyes aloft, wondering how I’ll muster the energy to stand. I overdid it yesterday and now my joints are cast in hardening plaster. Stiff ankles lead to plodding steps, and a craned neck lists right in a half-cocked expression. My blood pumps like sludge, slowing the muscles from waking the way they used to. I did too much. I always do.

It’s been more than a year and I’m still taping a pinky toe that may blow out sideways if I’m not careful. Knobby knuckles from years of grabbing rigid cotton gis disfigure my fingers. These days, it’s a chore to keep them straight. My body seems to be folding inward like a hedgehog. Hands, shoulders, hamstrings—everything curls and bows. My 40s have become a grand act of contraction.

Some yoga, a massage, or a routine of deep, targeted stretching—these would all certainly help. At this point, though, being drawn and quartered seems more fitting. I need to be stretched like taffy to the edge of capacity, then rolled out and stretched again. 

There are plenty of middle-aged maniacs pushing the boundaries of their physicality, too. Colorado is home to every brand of athlete and it’s quick to remind me that I’m not unique. My poisons of choice are running and grappling, both of which ask as much of the mind as they do of the body. Like an addict, I fiend for the endorphins that come with pushing through resistance. Too much of both at the same time makes a puddle of my strength. But my mind needs to blow out the carbon because the tussle is where the magic happens. Somewhere around the second or third desire to quit is when the drugs begin to dump.

When I work hard enough, my days off land like a winning lottery ticket. Relaxation is indulgent and I gorge on the joy. To sink into a reading chair or watch a long film feels like manna from the heavens. A decadent meal evokes divine providence. One soft sip of wine consecrates the day. It takes so little to feel so good when indulgence is only a pit stop.

On days when heavy resistance is mandated, my bed is more like a tomb where I go to die for 7 to 8 hours. Then I wake to the sun against my covers and crawl like the tin man from the warmth of my sheets. Another day awaiting a grind. Another day to put in some work. Sign me up. I’m dope sick and need my fix.