Once or twice a week (depending on how my knee is feeling) I substitute a lunch-hour lap swim for one of my short, easy runs. I usually arrive just a few minutes before the open lap swim begins, while the IU Master's Swim Team is still having their daily practice. If you've never heard of a "Master's" athletic team, it's the name given to a group of endurance athletes that are usually 45-50+. Master's competitions are biggest in swimmers, probably because swimming leaves the least wear and tear on the body, so people who began in their early teens really are masters at it by the time they reach 70. My guess is that a lot of them are former runners and cyclists as well. The first few times I arrived early on accident, and felt a little annoyed when I had to sit and wait. Lately, however, I aim to get in there at least 10 minutes before I'm allowed to enter the pool. I love to sit and watch them for a few minutes, and I've found that once they're done, I leap into my workout with far more gusto than I do on other days.
Athleticism looks very different on the master team members. It looks like a self-assured, steady-stroked confidence that I don't see in the perfectly fit 19-year-olds at the larger fitness center across campus. They swim far faster than me, but this is not so impressive (I've always been one of the world's slowest swimmers. My body just does not perform the same in water as it does on pavement). When they swim, it looks so natural and consistent.
These women are nothing like I pictured aging to be when I was a little girl. Young women in our society are taught to fear reaching the age where they lose control of their bodies and their skin. We are taught that when you grow up and become a mother, you eventually get old and spend all of your time crying over the loss of purpose and your expanding hips. The older I get, the more I realize, however, that there are so many ways to grow up and then grow old as a woman, and these ladies are the picture of what I want aging to be. After their final sets of 50 meter sprints and slow cool down, they peel off their swimming caps and then lounge in the shallow end for a few minutes gabbing about their children's latest problems or the academic or recreational project they've been working on. They chuckle together and tease, then lift themselves out of the pool and towel off as they enter the locker rooms in small gangs. They don't look like women that have lost control of their bodies. These women carry themselves with an air of confidence that you can only earn after years of struggling with identity the way that all of us do. They own their different balances of muscles, their well-defined quads and rippling shoulders. My favorite part is the way that they all treat me. Most women of my age are polite to one another in the gym, but we give one another that infamous glance of comparison. These women give me smiles of approval or camaraderie. "Have a nice swim," or "lane's all yours," they always shout as they pass me by.
And this is what I love about sports as a girl. Athleticism is about control, not finish lines, and not perfect bodies. When everything else in my life seems to be falling apart or under scrutiny, I have the right to go work out, and I can look however I want to when I do it. I can wear make up if I want, or not. I can wear pink or black and any kind of shoes that feel good on my feet. Female can mean so many more things than I thought it did when I was a tiny child, and these women have spent decades figuring out what it means to them and running with it.
A few days later I was out for a hill run around town. After the first few miles of hill repeats, I descended into the park for a lap or two of recovery. That was when I passed a small girl of about 5 years old holding her father's hand. She had a little pink skirt with frills and big clunky ugg-boots that her little legs were struggling to lift with each step. We were moving toward one another on the path, me much faster than them. Her father did not pay any attention to one more runner in the park, but I quickly realized that the little girls eyes were glued to me. For the first time since I started the run, I became aware of how I must have looked. Left foot, then right foot striking the asphalt, shaking my sparkling shoelaces in the sunlight as my heals moved from under me to behind in a steady, powerful rhythm. My arms were swaying at my sides and across my stomach in bright purple flashes of compression sleeves against my black shirt and black spandex pants. I could feel beads of sweat falling from my bright pink headband that pulled my tangles of blonde curls away from my salty brow. She was following each step, each swaying arm, and giving me a look that was so familiar. It was the same stare I'd given those women at the pool, and I felt flushed with pride and responsibility. I smiled back at her as if to say, "that's right, you can wear your pink however you want."
It's a truth that took me many years to discover, but I'm so grateful that I did.
Athleticism looks very different on the master team members. It looks like a self-assured, steady-stroked confidence that I don't see in the perfectly fit 19-year-olds at the larger fitness center across campus. They swim far faster than me, but this is not so impressive (I've always been one of the world's slowest swimmers. My body just does not perform the same in water as it does on pavement). When they swim, it looks so natural and consistent.
These women are nothing like I pictured aging to be when I was a little girl. Young women in our society are taught to fear reaching the age where they lose control of their bodies and their skin. We are taught that when you grow up and become a mother, you eventually get old and spend all of your time crying over the loss of purpose and your expanding hips. The older I get, the more I realize, however, that there are so many ways to grow up and then grow old as a woman, and these ladies are the picture of what I want aging to be. After their final sets of 50 meter sprints and slow cool down, they peel off their swimming caps and then lounge in the shallow end for a few minutes gabbing about their children's latest problems or the academic or recreational project they've been working on. They chuckle together and tease, then lift themselves out of the pool and towel off as they enter the locker rooms in small gangs. They don't look like women that have lost control of their bodies. These women carry themselves with an air of confidence that you can only earn after years of struggling with identity the way that all of us do. They own their different balances of muscles, their well-defined quads and rippling shoulders. My favorite part is the way that they all treat me. Most women of my age are polite to one another in the gym, but we give one another that infamous glance of comparison. These women give me smiles of approval or camaraderie. "Have a nice swim," or "lane's all yours," they always shout as they pass me by.
And this is what I love about sports as a girl. Athleticism is about control, not finish lines, and not perfect bodies. When everything else in my life seems to be falling apart or under scrutiny, I have the right to go work out, and I can look however I want to when I do it. I can wear make up if I want, or not. I can wear pink or black and any kind of shoes that feel good on my feet. Female can mean so many more things than I thought it did when I was a tiny child, and these women have spent decades figuring out what it means to them and running with it.
A few days later I was out for a hill run around town. After the first few miles of hill repeats, I descended into the park for a lap or two of recovery. That was when I passed a small girl of about 5 years old holding her father's hand. She had a little pink skirt with frills and big clunky ugg-boots that her little legs were struggling to lift with each step. We were moving toward one another on the path, me much faster than them. Her father did not pay any attention to one more runner in the park, but I quickly realized that the little girls eyes were glued to me. For the first time since I started the run, I became aware of how I must have looked. Left foot, then right foot striking the asphalt, shaking my sparkling shoelaces in the sunlight as my heals moved from under me to behind in a steady, powerful rhythm. My arms were swaying at my sides and across my stomach in bright purple flashes of compression sleeves against my black shirt and black spandex pants. I could feel beads of sweat falling from my bright pink headband that pulled my tangles of blonde curls away from my salty brow. She was following each step, each swaying arm, and giving me a look that was so familiar. It was the same stare I'd given those women at the pool, and I felt flushed with pride and responsibility. I smiled back at her as if to say, "that's right, you can wear your pink however you want."
It's a truth that took me many years to discover, but I'm so grateful that I did.
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