Charlie
My husband has a recliner, and he’s not afraid to use it. At almost 80, he enjoys going toes-up in the afternoon — to listen to music, read, doze off for a few minutes.
But that’s not his natural mode; it’s more mine. When I met him, he was a jogger, often pairing up with his friend Jerry to run at White Rock Lake. I, on the other hand, used my body primarily as transportation from car to desk to kitchen…and on to bed.
As in many areas in our 40 years together, Charlie’s been a good influence on me. Never insisting, never nagging, he’s encouraged me. In return, I’ve played follow-the-leader. Not always happily, of course. Whining definitely has occurred.
Right now, he’s in the back yard chopping and piling and bagging and planting. He stops to make a trip to Home Depot. We have a yard crew — at last — to keep the front yard looking Lakewood presentable. But he won’t let them in our back yard. It’s partly territorial, partly an outlet for an excess of energy he’s had all his life.
Ashamed of my natural lassitude, I briefly took up jogging with him in the 80’s. The first time I made it around a quarter-mile track, I expressed alarm that I was breathing so hard. I was 26; he managed not to laugh out loud. Mercifully, his knees eventually complained, so he segued from running to walking, something I figured I could do.
I didn’t know the walk would be so long. We went to Europe, where I trailed Charlie through nine countries in six months. What I most remember seeing is my 50-year-old husband’s back with our two large duffle bags strapped over each shoulder; when we got home, his upper body looked…really good.
Having developed my walking chops, I gave in and bought hiking boots. I almost threw them away after we got lost climbing in Caprock Canyon on a 100-degree day without enough water. But, a dream-come-true hike in Alaska — where our destination perch gave us a view of Denali — made me glad I kept them.
In my 40s, I took up yoga. Exercise without sweating seemed more my style. I also took an early-morning walk before standing on my feet all day in a public school, so I was satisfied that I was getting enough physical activity.
Not Charlie. At 60, he took up bicycling, whirling around White Rock Lake several days a week. Not long after, he bought himself a kayak and joined a club. The next thing I knew, I had a kayak, too. We explored area lakes. When that proved too tame, I found myself portaging a kayak in California’s Russian River to avoid a dangerously churning patch of white water.
Bicycling started looking better; at least, if I fell off my bike, there would be no chance of drowning. One Sunday afternoon, after a quick practice spin in a parking lot, I bought the first bicycle I’d owned since college days. I was wobbly at first, but in no time, I had made my first circuit (9.2 miles) around White Rock Lake. I was almost 60.
My hyper husband and I started riding together. We got a rack for the car and sought out trails, pedaling not only in Texas, but also in Connecticut, Massachusetts, Ohio, Arkansas, Idaho, Montana, New Mexico, Colorado, and Prince Edward Island.
Getting on my bike makes me feel 12 years old again. Charlie feels the same way. When we’re moving along, side by side, we sometimes reach out and touch gloved hands in acknowledgment of the pleasure it brings us.
I’m 14 years younger than my husband and, for all our married lives, I’ve looked forward to a day when our energy levels would meet in the middle. It hasn’t happened yet. He still can ride farther and faster than I can.
What matters is that I try to keep up. And, when I fall behind, he waits for me.
