Confessions of an Adult-Onset Athlete
One woman’s journey from college couch potato to competitive marathon runner.

WEB-EXCLUSIVE COMMENTARY

By Lisa Bergtraum
Newsweek

Updated: 8:02 a.m. ET Sept. 13, 2005

Sept. 13, 2005 - As a kid, I shunned physical activity: the merciless rhythms of jump-rope and hopscotch, the treacherous heights of the jungle gym above bare concrete, the cruelties of dodgeball and kickball. They all made me cringe and reach for a book instead. In high school, I got a note from a lenient doctor (alluding to “lower back” problems) to escape gym class once and for all, and I ruled out applying to any college that imposed a P.E. requirement. Carrying books around campus would be my only exercise.

How is it then that in the past five years I’ve run two marathons, a dozen half-marathons and maybe a hundred races in all? What can account for my purchase of a set of dumbbells, padded mat and a shelf of well-thumbed books about exercise, including a memoir by an ultramarathoner?

I used to marvel at anyone who jogged by my park bench, or tossed a Frisbee past my blanket on the lawn at Central Park. Even when I joined Lucille Roberts, my virgin foray into gym membership at the age of 35, I stared in awe at those who coasted on treadmills while I was perched on a stationary bike, slowly grinding the pedals (and my teeth). I was sure I would never be able to manage more than a five-minute walk on that conveyor belt. And I couldn’t help but resent the presumed self-satisfaction of the physically fit: the smug pride of having a low heart rate, boosted metabolism, and greater longevity.

I tried other machines initially, zoning out on the Stairmaster, or imagining a Viking voyage as I rowed. Then one day I tried the treadmill. Over the weeks that followed, I began to walk a little more briskly, and now and then tossed in a few seconds of awkward hops. Once or twice I fell, skinning my knee. Nobody laughed–nobody even broke stride–and I got back on the treadmill. One day I worked up the courage to hit the pavement at Central Park. Lots of people were there, dozing, sitting, walking or running. I started out tentatively with a slow jog around the reservoir, pleased when I had completed the circuit and still had energy to spare. Soon I became curious about other routes and ventured onto the park’s loops of paved road and paths, gradually tackling longer distances. This became a beloved ritual, during which I savored the chance to dream, remember or fantasize. I felt like Snoopy re-enacting flights of the Red Baron: here’s the great sprinter, speeding for the next water fountain! Here was some of the fun I’d missed having as a kid. I found myself growing stronger while carrying a lighter load than usual: only the keys in my pocket and few worries.

Once the thought of “training” for anything athletic would have made me snicker. Now I consult my heart-rate monitor before I rise from bed in the morning to make sure I haven’t overtrained (which is indicated by a faster resting heartbeat). My running pals both delight in and poke fun at our subculture, with its special gizmos, guidelines, lingo: words like “fartlek” (a Swedish word for a run that features continual, spontaneous changes in pace). Some of us travel far from home, to little-publicized, little-attended races, just for a better shot at winning what we call “hardware” (trophies).

Not everyone understands this. “Thank you for asking,” I told some fellow guests at an inn this summer, when I’d confessed I was in town to run a 10K and they graciously volleyed with a few questions. “Some people’s eyes just roll back into their heads, when I talk about this stuff,” I told them.

One friend, a mother of two and fellow “adult-onset athlete,” discovered her stellar running talents when she was well into her 30s, had quit smoking and needed an outlet. Now her trophies fill her younger son’s bedroom. He is 7 and learning irony. “He noticed,” she told me, “that my second-place trophy this year for the Rubin Run is actually taller than last year’s, when I won.” They know what we like, those race directors, what keeps us coming back.
Her sons have also learned that it’s never too late to find a new joy–and that women can be strong competitors. Their mother, who recalls seeing few options as a girl besides cheerleading, now competes for an elite women’s running team.

I join her for short, quick runs, and another friend for slower endurance sessions. After so much running, sometimes I feel tired of it, especially when a sore ankle or knotted calf muscle nags me throughout the week. But it doesn’t take long before I sign up for another race. I save all the souvenir T shirts and paper bibs with my numbers, keep track of my personal records and, every now and then, can exult over an age-group award (that innovation courtesy of the late Joe Kleinerman, coach and cofounder of the New York Road Runners Club, who died in 2003 at the age of 91).

I�m 46 now. I�ve progressed from running 10-minute miles to finishing the “Fifth Avenue Mile,” an annual race, in 6:34. But even after all the races I’ve run, I will never forget the thrill the first time I finally caught sight of the balloons that arched above the finish line. Amazement, pride at the distance I’d traveled, and relief flooded my body. I had chills. (Or maybe I was just dehydrated.) And what crossed my mind? “I feel like a kid,” I remember thinking. The kid I never got to be.

� 2005 Newsweek, Inc.

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