My dad apparently thinks my exercise experience of late has been frantically lifting Doritos into my mouth (not wholly far off), because his latest email to me about our potential mountain climbing adventure reads:
“Climbing uphill is nothing like walking or running; it’s very hard physical labor.”
Thanks, Dad. As if it wasn’t already intimidating enough to have your 56-year-old father in better shape than you.
(This isn’t entirely inaccurate: last Christmas, we went on a 5-mile run together and I ended up shitting in the woods. SHITTING IN THE WOODS LIKE A BEAR. Yes, I had food poisoning, but it wasn’t the best intro to him that I’m a capable jogger, with a soft j).
I’d of course also venture to argue that much of last year, I ran 12-15 miles a week and took several yoga classes in addition. I also ran not just the 10k I set out to achieve, but a 15k as well (which was incentivized by chocolate at the end; a related but entirely more appealing conclusion from my run with Dad).
I can freaking train, dammit. And this bucket list was worth nothing if not to challenge myself.
I’ve traveled to Ecuador and road-tripped Thailand. I’ve saved money. I’ve learned Spanish, taken auto classes, learned to knit, read the classics, published a book, swum with sting rays, surfed in Hawaii, won major business, and volunteered weekly for six months.
If nothing else, I’ve proven to myself that I have willpower, which is something I didn’t realize until literally just now. Climbing a mountain will be, what, 8 hours out of my life? BRING IT, MOUNTAIN. I WILL SHIT IN YOUR WOODS LIKE THE CHAMPION I AM.
AND I WILL DO SO BEFORE I TURN 29.