So last Saturday I turned 39. Which means that, as of right now, I'm less than one year from turning the BIG 4-0. I suppose I should be all bummed and stuff about it, that I'm going over the hill and all, but somehow I just can't. Because right now I feel better than I ever have in my entire life. I keep thinking about all the things I am capable of doing right now, at this ripe old age, and rather than being down about the onward march of time, I am excited every day to see what is going to happen next. You see, going back through the years, I can see that there is not a single time in my life when I was ever capable of doing the things I am doing now. Ever. Not in my 20's. Not in my teens. Not even in childhood. And at any point in my life up until about 2 1/2 years ago, if you had told me what I would be capable of doing at the age of 39, I would have told you that you were nuts. Because I could never have imagined it would be possible.
I was a skinny kid until I was about 11. I was somewhat active, but kept most of my activities to kids stuff, not physically challenging activities. I was not athletic-minded and didn't much like PE class. I never matched up to my classmates in skills, speed and athletic ability. I sucked at jumping rope, I wasn't flexible, and couldn't climb that stupid rope in the middle of the gym. And I failed ski school, which is basically a badge of shame for a kid growing up in the land of future Winter Olympic hopefuls. By the time I was in my pre-teens, my eating habits caught up with my lack of physical activity, and I started to pack on the pounds. In Jr. High and High School, PE class was even more challenging than elementary school, but despite my being less than athletic, it wasn't so bad. I enjoyed many sports and games, played on the school's softball team for 3 seasons, and even went for a few rounds of Powder Puff football. Though that was more stupid than sport.
In fact, there was only one athletic activity that I really hated: running. In the other activities in PE class I could almost match up to some of the kids in the class in ability, but running pretty much showed me where I really stood in the scheme of things. Dead last. We would go out in the woods to run, and at first I could keep up with the pack, but soon they all left me behind. By the time I would drag my butt to the end of the course, the other kids had already gone back to the locker room. I hated being tired and feeling worn out, but even more than that I hated going back to that locker room and facing the other kids. I can't recall anyone ever picking on me about my slow running, but just that they knew how sucky I was was humiliating enough for me.
Then I got bronchitis. It was my junior year of high school. After I recovered, I discovered that I was having trouble breathing on occasion. My doctor diagnosed me with asthma, specifically asthma triggered by strenuous physical activity. I should have been bummed, but it was like a weight lifted off my shoulders. Because the doctor told me I didn't have to run in PE class any more. I took a note to my PE teacher and every time the class went running, I would either walk the short course, or just sit on my butt on the bleachers while they all trotted through the woods. And that suited me just fine.
There was one challenging physical activitiy I really did enjoy in my younger years, which was hiking. My dad would take us out in the woods and we'd explore beautiful forests, with streams and lakes and treasures hidden from the world that only the brave and persistent could find. I loved those hiking trips as a kid, but as I got older and heavier, they got more and more difficult. I'll never forget the day we climbed Mt. Rose. I was about 11 or 12 when we did that hike. It was the whole family out there that day. I don't remember where the trailhead was in those days, but I think it was about the same distance round trip as it is now from the highway summit trailhead, about 10 miles, with 2000 feet of elevation gain. Up until then I'd been ok on hikes, but this one kicked my butt. I had to rest a lot, and the last climb to the summit nearly got to me. I was sitting on a rock resting, and a stranger on his way down remarked, "Hey there! You should get going, your family is waiting up there for you! Your dad made it. Your mom made it. Your brother made it. Heck, even the dog made it!" So I got off my butt and made it to the summit. I don't remember much about what happened after that, just that it was hard and I was glad it when was over.
I did a few more hikes after that, but eventually it just got too hard. The last one I remember was hiking to Velma Lakes with my brother Mike and cousin Eric just after I graduated high school. I think it was only 3 or 4 miles to the lake, but I barely made it there. It was uphill most of the way and despite how beautiful it was, I hated that hike because I had to keep stopping to rest. The two guys were polite and waited for me for most of the trip, but at one point they ditched me in the woods all alone with the bears and mountain lions and wombats and rabid squirrels so they could go enjoy chilling by the lake while I tried to avoid being eaten. I survived somehow, but after that I didn't do much hiking, other than occasional walks along the trails in the woods near my house. By the time I moved to Long Beach I forgot all about hiking, putting it away in my mind with other rites of my childhood, the things that I'd loved, but let go of because I figured they were lost due to aging and my physical condition.
Fast forward about 15 years, to the day I looked at my 300+ lb lard butt in a hotel bathroom mirror, and decided to do something about it. You guys know the rest. I went for walks, stopped eating so much junk, lost a bunch of weight, and started to feel good. And then I became a runner. So now you kind of get the idea how much this running thing means to me. Because it's not like I was ever a good runner at any point in my life and lost the ability. No, up until recently, it was always difficult, horrible and humiliating. Which is why it's so darn liberating to do it now. Every time I run I'm stomping on my old habits and ways of thinking, and showing them who's boss. I'm reveling in freedom from the bonds I put on myself in my younger years, when I compared myself to the other kids, told myself I was a failure because I wasn't as good as them, and accepted being out of shape as a fact of life. And the best thing about being a runner is what it has done for my overall physical well-being, in strength, persistence and endurance. As much as I enjoy running, more than that I enjoy being able to do other things that for so many years I had assumed were lost to me, but are now once again within reach because of my improved physical ability.
So in an attempt to wrap things up, I'll go back to why I'm so stoked about turning 39. About a year ago, I visited my dad for his 80th birthday. There was only one thing that the man of the mountains wanted to do to mark that momentous occasion: hike to Mt. Rose. Yep. The one and only. So I took my dad and the poor unsuspecting Filipino guy that I'm married to, and we got on the trail. My dad was a real trooper, he made it 4/5 of the way in before he decided it would be best to call it a day. But he told us to go up to the summit and meet up with him later. So we did. And this time it was a different story. I didn't drag up that hill. I charged up it. The wind was blowing, the sun was glaring, and there was little air to speak of up there close to 11,000 feet elevation. But I conquered that peak, and came down wanting to crow like a whole flock of roosters. When I got home to Southern California, I found myself researching places to hike, hoping to rediscover the joy I'd had exploring the back country when I was a kid. I found lots of descriptions of hiking adventures, and remembering how I loved the mountaintop hikes the most, I sought those out the most fervently.
Last fall, I took the plunge and went on my first serious SoCal hike. I took on Mt. Wilson. It seemed like it should be a moderate hike for someone in my physical condition, but I overestimated my ability and didn't plan properly, so of course, it didn't go well. For more on that, read my "Just Keep Climbing" post. Like my misadventures in the woods to Velma Lakes, it was grueling and difficult and got me down because I didn't finish it the way I'd dreamed. But instead of giving up and throwing in the towel like my old self would have done, I was determined to show old Mt. Wilson who's boss. And so in April this year, I went back and did just that. It was an awesome experience, exactly everything I'd hoped the first one would be. And the confidence I gained from that hike set the stage for planning my 39th birthday adventure.
The mountain hike I've read the most about on various hiking websites and such is the hike to Mt. San Antonio, know colloquially in Southern California as "Old Mt. Baldy". At 10,068 feet, it is the tallest peak in the San Gabriel Mountains. It is accessible by two trails: the "Devil's Backbone" trail, which is nearly 7 miles from the trailhead to the summit, and the "Ski Hut" trail, which is 4.5 miles. Both routes challenge hikers with nearly 4,000 feet of elevation gain from the parking lot to the summit. Most hikers do a loop, taking one trail to the summit and taking the other one down, in order to enjoy all the views that the hike has to offer. Now, I'd done the two Mt. Wilson hikes solo, but had been advised not to take on Baldy the first time alone. So as my birthday approached, I begged the poor unsuspecting Filipino guy to come with me so I could hike Mt. Baldy to commemorate the day. He was a little leery, so I told him it would be the same as Mt. Rose. I think I bald-faced lied. Poor guy. It's a good thing that he's a really good sport. Or I'd probably still be there on Mt. Baldy, alone with the bears and wombats, because he would have abandoned me there halfway up the crazy-steep Ski Hut trail that I made him hike if he wasn't.
So, in the end it was a great day. Despite a little grumbling from my other half on the ascent and some difficulty with the descent on my part, we really enjoyed the hike. We came, we saw, we conquered, we bought the T-shirt. And I came home with yet another awesome experience for my collection. And that's what my life really boils down to right now. I might be getting older, but the way I see it, in my situation, I'm actually getting younger. As I continue to work on improving my fitness level, I can do more and more things I never imagined possible, and the best part is that I know I'm not nearly close to being at my peak. I'm already setting goals and making preparations for the next level that I'd like to reach, with confidence that with patience and determination, I can achieve those goals just the same as I've reached all the others that I made. Less than a year from now I will turn 40. And I'm confident that rather than going "over the hill", instead, to commemorate it, sometime next summer I'll be going "up a hill". A big one. Not sure which one yet, though Mt. Whitney is first on my list. It's an awesome feeling to me that despite our culture's emphasis on basing our abilities on age, the approaching age of 40 does not scare me, that instead it inspires me to prove that age is just a number, and we are only as old as we let ourselves be. It might seem like a cliché, but the very life I'm living is proof of it!
So, my friends, I hope you enjoyed my longer-than-usual stream of consciousness. I promise to do a post with more pictures and less blah blah blah soon, but until then, keep reading and reposting if you think your friends can stand me. Thanks so much, and see you next time!
-MaryAnne
