Primal Stride

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I was embarrassed to be seen exercising in public.

That was strange to me because the process of exercising was intended to help make me feel more comfortable with being seen in public. I was intent on increasing my fitness level and sculpting my body into something I could be proud of. Why was I so terrified to have people see me struggle and sweat? Because I thought they cared.

In the quagmire of self esteem issues surrounding obesity, one of the biggest I often let get to me was the belief that others were watching, judging, and making fun of me. I was so convinced of my own importance that I assumed everybody I passed on the street was watching me. Going to the gym wasn’t so bad because it was easy to find somebody lower on the fitness totem to assume all the “watchers” were staring at and judging.

But then I quit going to the gym. I’d realized that there was going to be a time in my life when I wouldn’t have a gym nearby. I wanted to see if I could fight my way toward health the same way I’d lost it: alone.

I started walking outside. The first time I went out was for just a few miles in the early evening. It was warm and I was certainly the laughingstock of the town for being so gross and sweaty while everyone else went about their day. I convinced myself they were laughing at me but I wasn’t about to give up. I walked at night.

I was a mess. I was slow (still am), awkward, and very round. I picked a route that started with a very steep hill and slowly curved back toward my house. Just a few miles. Just enough to get my heart going for at least 45 minutes. I went out nearly every night and lost my breath on that hill. My heart was pumping blood for two full-sized adults rushing headlong up a hill. Rushing is perhaps the wrong word. It was more like two people slowly jostling up a hill.

But I did it. I kept doing it. I didn’t stop.

When I started jogging I was only able to go for a few hundred feet. I’d pick an object and run to it. At first it was a certain light pole. Then I worked up to running past the light pole and to the end of the street. (It was a very short street, mind you.) I kept working, kept building up, kept improving.

But it was all in darkness.

A conversation with a woman on Twitter changed everything for me. She had a lot of weight to lose. She told me she’d joined her local gym and simply needed to work exercise into her schedule. It turned out she was only a mile or two from her gym. When I asked her why she didn’t just walk to her gym, lift some weights, and walk home, she said something that could have come out of my mouth:

Oh, I plan on exercising outside once I’ve lost some weight. Right now I wouldn’t want my neighbors to see me exercising. It’s too embarrassing!

Hearing it from somebody else made me realize how irrational I’d been. I headed out for my walk at 5:30pm the next day. Everyone was headed home from work. Traffic was heavy and there were people all around. None of them seemed to be looking at me. How could they not be? I was the huge sweaty dude attempting to jog in front of them! Wasn’t that funny to them?

There was no response. No honking horns, no jeers, no covert giggles. Nobody cared. Not a single person seemed to notice me.

There was one exception. A little old lady sitting in a wheelchair in front of her retirement community smiled and waved as I passed. I smiled and waved back. I was free.

That happened more than 40 pounds ago. I’m not out of breath after slight exertion or terrified of being seen exercising. But I still worry about people seeing me. I’m still embarrassed to be the fat guy in my group of fit friends. I’ve heard hundreds of people expound on how sad it is that we judge books by their covers and how I shouldn’t pay attention to people who think less of me because I’m overweight. But I’m not sure I agree with them.

A book’s cover typically gives some hint as to how much care was put into producing the entire package. Right now I’m the 359-page, glue binding, floppy paperback. I’m hoping, with a lot of effort, to edit myself down to a crisp 263 pages. A hardcover with perhaps a sewn binding. Something that says, “you’re about to have a quality experience.”

When I saw that #359 was gone I smiled. But I didn’t grin. I’m saving my grins for when I really need them. Like when I see little old ladies in wheelchairs who would give anything to be able to borrow my legs for a run along the beach!

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