A couple of days ago I was at the gym, doing my thing on an elliptical and zoning out. I tuned back in when a couple got on the two treadmills directly in front of me and began jogging. They moved in perfect unison, their footsteps synchronized. As they warmed up and bumped up the pace, they remained perfectly in sync, the clomp-clomp of their feet never once getting out of rhythm.
When I was in Duluth for Grandma’s this past summer, I saw other couples like this. Usually husband and wife teams that obviously trained together and moved seemingly as one as they jogged the marathon course.
I sighed as I wiped down my machine. They were still moving perfectly, not even looking at each other to gauge pace.
I look at those couples that train together, that find a physical activity they truly love and share it with each other, and I wish the mister and I could be like that. It would be lovely to have a work out buddy and to develop that sort of in-tuneness without words.
But the mister and I won’t ever be those people.
He is one of the most supremely physical people I know. He thrives with exertion, finds enjoyment in challenging himself physically. I love this about him, and not just because it’s gifted him with impressive shoulders and a butt you can bounce quarters off of (although, BONUS!). He skis and rock climbs, but his favorite sport is mountain biking.
I, on the other hand, am remarkably uncoordinated. I fall off of bicycles at stop signs. My sports of choice include knitting, reading trashy romance novels, and using a laser pointer to torture my dog. I run merely because it is an expedient way to burn calories and make room for additional chocolate cake. I’ve yet to find a physical activity I love with the sort of ferocity the mister feels for mountain biking. I enjoy my kickboxing class, but I never come home from it grinning like I won the lottery the way he comes home from mountain biking.
I have gone mountain biking with the mister exactly twice. Once he dragged me on a three hour bike ride through tick-infested woods and I learned that it is possible to curse steadily for three hours.
The second time, we unloaded our bikes from the pickup and set off across a graveled parking lot to get to the trail. I fell down in the ditch at the edge of the parking lot.
I want to be one of those girls, all ripped and fit and ready to bound off on an adventure at the slightest opportunity. But I'm not. I want the mister and I to do the same sport so often that we just click into it, coordinated and synced and completely fluid. But we don't.