Note to Younger Self: Learn to Enjoy Exercise

As you can see by my photo, I'm not exactly Adonis. But years ago I was an active United States Marine, and as part of that, you can believe I got a lot of exercise in. I went from being a lazy nerd to a lean, mean, fighting machine mostly by exercising so hard each morning I could barely stay awake for classes in the afternoon.

The Marines weren't a great experience for me at the time, although looking back they were the best thing I ever did. At the time, however, I had flat feet (which I didn't know about) and long runs made me so sore that walking was very painful. I also smoked, as did many of my comrades. How we could run five miles and then light up a cigarette remains amazing to me. We were invulnerable.

So because of the daily pain, I got to the point where I hated exercise, even though I really enjoyed some of the runs in the service (and I enjoyed being in such great shape too). When I got out, I immediately stopped exercising -- and put on 40 pounds in short order.

Oddly enough, I got back into exercising by beginning to run again. I found that with a desk job I could run hard in the morning and rest my feet the rest of the day and it worked pretty good.

I had split up with my first wife. In the process I had managed to lose everything I owned -- clothes, pictures, furniture, books. Everything in my life up until I was 22 was completely gone forever. I was basically homeless. It occurred to me that the world is a cold and lonely place, and either I could spend my life complaining or I could do what I could to get in shape and get back out and re-engage with society. I thought a great way to start was walk-running each morning before work. It wasn't a lot, but it was something I could do. I could control.

I was staying with my grandmother in an humble farmhouse in Bedford, Virginia. She didn't have much -- a wood stove to cook by and running water from a well house. The floorboards creaked, and the house moaned under even a moderate winter wind. When she gave me an upstairs bedroom, we turned on the light and wasps came out of their winter nap to fly around the room to see what was up.

The room never got above 50 degrees or so, and if it wasn't for an electric blanket and a lot of covers it would have been miserable. Instead it was a fantastic place to sleep. Each morning around 4:30 or 5 I would wake up and quickly jump into my exercise clothes placed strategically close to the bed the night before. I would quickly tip-toe down the steps, doing my best not to wake anybody up. Out into the backyard, where the screen door would loudly protest my departure no matter how much I tried to silence it.

Usually it was cold -- 20 or 30 degrees. Sometimes it was warmer, say in the 40s, and it was raining. It never mattered. I was here for "my time". I was here to do something for myself.

Away I would trot.

The dogs would usually follow me for a bit, then figuring out that I had obviously lost my mind scattered back to under the porch where it was warmer and dryer.

At first I wondered how I could get out and exercise so early in the day. How could I see when it was still dark? But I figured that my eyes would adjust. There was always the moon and stars to go by.

The thing I remember most from twenty years ago? It was quiet. Except for the wind slowly toying with the trees, it was quiet.

I would jog as far as I could, then walk until I felt like jogging again. This is a simple system to learn how to run long distances. Eventually I got so I could jog a mile, so I increased my walk to two miles. Towards the end I had a seven-mile jog/walk that took more than an hour to do.

I never saw anybody else.

No cars. No walkers. No houses. In the entire seven mile walk, there were two houses I passed, both of which were far off the sleepy little gravel road.

As Winter turned into Spring, I got to see more of the sunrise at the end of each run

I had lots of company, however. Most days I surprised deer as they slept along the road, and on a few occasions I saw large bucks run into the thicket along the railroad tracks. Possums, out on the town for the night, hurriedly move out of the way once they realized I was there. I saw many raccoon. In the Spring, the bunnies were too numerous to be counted.

And I had my thoughts.

I found as I got more and more endurance, I learned to relax into the run and enjoy myself. I contemplated where I was in life and where I wanted to go. I thought about mistakes I had made, and learned to live with where I was and where I was going. Somehow it was all easier because I could see myself each day doing more and more running and less and less walking. I could see progress. I felt that if I could do a little better here each day then perhaps I could do a little better other places each day too. Perhaps, just perhaps, success doesn't come overnight. Perhaps it was just like this: starting wherever you were and pushing a little at a time. We must imagine Sisyphus as happy. Contented.

Things started to open up. I went from a temp job to a permanent job (my last corporate job, actually). I started dating again. Problems with the job? Problems with the girls? As I ran each morning I could reflect back, make decisions, relax into enjoying life instead of being uncomfortable with it.

Yes. It was painful. Exercise is like that. But then again, so is life. I learned that a little bit of pain up front can save you a boatload of pain later on. What was a little bit of pain? Life was painful anyway. I could either choose the time and place for pain, or life would choose it for me.

The way back home. It was the last half mile or so. By this time, I was usually into my kick and loving it

The last mile or so was the best. Western Virginia is hilly country -- there was very little ambling along a straight or level stretch. Instead it was always interesting: curving, weaving through trees and over hills. The coming sunrise would begin to illuminate the woods, and I would begin my kick.

A kick in a run happens when you know you're close to the goal line. You screw up your courage and let go with everything you have. Let all the reserves loose. You run as hard and as fast as possible until you reach the finish line. Your heart is pounding, your breath is ragged. Your legs are heavy and you're fighting with yourself over just how much "give it your all" means. You don't dare look at the entire hill in front of you -- it's too much. Instead you kick as hard as you can one bit at a time, looking about 20 feet to the front for planning. Then suddenly the hill crests, your legs lighten up and you're bounding down the road towards the old farmhouse.

It's one of the best parts of a run.

Into the yard I'd fly, usually singing, calling out, or mumbling a cadence to myself. The dogs would perk up, realize it was the same idiot that they saw an hour earlier, and go back to sleep.

I'd walk through the backyard, panting, stretching, relieved, and relaxed. The rooster would begin to crow, and I was happy with life. The rest of the day would be fine.

I got away from those morning walks. I moved out, got a promotion, met the girl of my dreams. Over the next twenty years I would waver back and forth: half of me too busy to waste so much time on something so trivial and half of me missing the feeling I had those country mornings when the world seemed so young and full of promise.

My grandmother's gone three years now, the old house scheduled for a bulldozer. All up and down the road there are subdivisions instead of trees. Next year, folks say, the road will be paved. Today I stand in the yard and hear dogs barking, car engines revving and chainsaws and lawnmowers fighting back the forest. Life moves on.

But if I had to tell my younger self anything, it would be continue to exercise you dumb puck, continue to find time for yourself doing something healthy each day. Life is short and noisy. It's easy to put your health on a back burner. It's always going to feel odd to be up a zero dark thirty trotting off into the cold night. There are so many ways to forget.

Don't do it.