The Undefeated

  I have been running a beginner’s walk/run class at the local high school for a dozen years now. That is, a Spring class and a Fall class, both comprising 12 weeks, wherein we start at the level that most middle-aged couch potatoes can handle, and move on up incrementally from there. I call it my caterpillar-to-butterfly metamorphosis show, acted out in 12 progressive stages to a final curtain closing three mile road race, often coinciding with one of the several Turkey Trots hosted on Thanksgiving Day in various towns here on the Cape.

  I used the word incremental advisedly, because making the challenge very gradual and very gently is the key to not losing too many members to a program they may have considered too difficult, too entirely sweaty and hard , in the first place. But each week is a march forward nonetheless, and if I can just keep them enthusiastic and motivated through the initial six weeks, I got ’em hooked, because now they have gotten over the aches and pains of long unused muscles and limbs. There is progress. The magic appears when they are actually able to discover the freedom of movement long buried under layers of fat, inertia, or just plain laziness.
  This comes about most obviously in the workouts themselves, but often are more dramatic in the subtle form of performing daily chores like walking up and down stairs, getting in and out of low-slung cars, and simply getting around more easily — particularly if one has a rather physical job, such as a nurse or waitress. Doing the dishes, vacuuming, folding laundry – you name it, it’s now easier. The best of all is the act of dressing — those jeans no longer need a veritable shoe horn and horizontal plane to climb into. Presto! We take a glimpse into the mirror and the waistline bulge seems a little flatter.
  My ninth week challenge is to stand (alone) naked in front of our bedroom mirror and speak the lines, "My name is Alice, and I am getting more and more gorgeous every day." (well, I said it was a challenge) And yet surprisingly enough, most raise their hands and state that they had indeed spoke the words, done the deed. And then I tell them that is always okay to speak the truth, and all it is is an honest statement.
  I should tell you that the demographics of the class are as diverse as the Cape Cod population. This term I have them coming from as far away as Medway and Provincetown, ranging in ages from 17 to 62, and comprised of about every occupation from doctor to teacher to clerk to nurse to chef to musician, etc. You name it, we got ’em. Exercise applies to all, but particularly necessary if the client’s day is mostly spent sedentary. The body cries for work!
  My one misgiving about this is the lack of men the class attracts – only three in the current class of 42 who signed up in late August. Apparently men feel they can handle their own exercise, thank you very much, and point to their (former) sports history as proof. Well, that was then, this is NOW. And what, might I respectfully ask, is that bulge hanging all over your belt, sir? Would it be a lack of discipline? Would not a bit of motivation from a regular troop of whooping cheerleaders/classmates give you a weekly hot charge? Are you man enough to try?
  And so on. Each week on Wednesday I try to make it a little different, and each week brings me to a state of euphoria, because we have learned to make the class fun, and essentially breed a family of friends convening together each week to this athletic show & tell. Last night was our annual Halloween week, with everyone coming in costume. The old coach appeared in his full-bodied gorilla suit, and one lady had actual electric lights blinking from her fairy princess skirt, while another came as the devil in one of my patented Run Thru Hell T-shirts.
  To add to the overall picture, I have mid-term grades assigned strictly for effort, not accomplishment or talent level, so that diligence and attendance get top priority. After all, this is not the training ground for the Olympics. The coveted award I name as the Little Engine That Could Award signals out that student who has demonstrated a particular example of overcoming a handicap.
  Despite the scarcity of men that appeared at this year’s registration, I did have the unlikely application of a 17 year old high school student, Spenser Laviliere, join the ranks from day number one. His resume included drama, chorus, and  band, but with nary a sport in sight. His mother, a teacher at the high school, had decided that if he did not want to join a sports team, then he could improve his health a bit by jogging – even if it was with a bunch of old ladies.
  Spenser proved a winner from the very start, if one does not have to use that term in the sense of adding up an athletic score. And he decidedly does not have the natural grace or body that would remotely suggest coordination or the chiseled look of the Grecian discus thrower. However, he does have a great attitude. He does have a winning smile. He does have enthusiasm, and no problem integrating with the group. No generational gap for him! And best of all, he appears bright and early each and every week, right on time, reporting  that he follows the class schedule of jogging on his own at least four days a week.
  The growing sense of physical well-being is new to him, and the confidence that comes with it. Lately, there has been much talk about the ongoing problem of bullying in schools. We all read the alarming reports, or have perhaps attended local PTA meetings concerned about it. Not an easy solution. One can imagine an ungainly non-jock like Spenser, with essentially an interest in academics and the arts, to perhaps be a likely target for bullying. Particularly, I might say, with the misfortune to have his single parent a teacher at the very school he attends.
  Well, serendipity-like, because it was the week that they conducted a seminar on bullying, one evening we were in the group jogging by the back of the high school when a gang of teenagers yelled out from the basketball court, "Oh! Isn’t that our sweet nerdy Spenser, getting his little exercise in jiggling along with his chubby elderlies."
  To which, I most proudly report, Spenser turned with this huge toothy smile , and while not breaking stride, laughed, "Yeah, this is Spenser, alright, getting fit with my friends here and having a blast!"
  And you know what? He looked it. There was no posturing, no posing here. He was having fun.
  After that display, who else could I bestow on the Little Engine That Could Award? And somehow I knew the perfect prize for the perfect winner.
A shiny jet black lump of coal to keep those fires a-burning. STOKED!