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E-Grrrl is playing softball and while she practices at the school, I walk on the track. Last week when I stepped onto it for the first time, I was beyond impressed. It was perfection--a brightly marked red oval of shock-absorbing material. It reminded me of all the spring afternoons I spent working out during track season.

My pal Low Maintenance Grrrl and I were co-captains of our high school track team. She ran middle distance and the mile, and I ran the mile and two mile. We wore ill fitting dorky uniforms, froze at the beginning of the season and cooked at the end, got nervous before meets, rubbed Tiger Balm into our sore calves, complained about our shin splints and won a lot of races cheering each other on.

Low Maintenance Grrrl was a remarkable athlete, strong and sure and able to play a variety of team sports successfully. Me, I was skinny, not especially coordinated, but I was a decent runner by sheer strength of will. I was helped along by a serious set of long distance legs.

Our track team in rural Virginia won the district championships every year I was a member of the team. As I recall, we never lost a meet. The miracle of our success is that we didn’t even have a track. Yes, you read that right—we had a championship team but not a track. Not even have a cinder track, let alone one as beautiful and high-tech as the one at my children’s school. No, Low Maintenance Grrrl and I trained by running around a bumpy grass field, the distances marked by our coach. We never had a home meet, all our competitions were away.

I kept running long after my high school years, but I stopped competing. Around the time I was 30, my doctor suggested I pursue other types of exercise because running was too hard on my back. I gave it up reluctantly, and while it’s been years since I’ve run, I still miss it. When I stepped onto the track last week to walk, every fiber in my being wanted to run. Instead I dutifully took my place in a lane and started circling the practice field like a dog on a leash.

Before my health problems started to take their toll, I was known as a fast walker. I can’t tell you how many times my college friends begged me to slow down because even when I was just walking across campus, I had a tendency to shift into high gear. When I was a youth group leader, E and I would lead hikes and I regularly left kids half my age in the dust.

Oh how the mighty have fallen. Last week I started walking on the track at what I thought was a good pace, and I found myself consistently being passed by other walkers. Let me tell you, this was beyond depressing.

When I developed cardiac problems a few years ago, I was shocked. I’d always been an exerciser. All my stats were awesome—I had very low blood pressure, remarkably low cholesterol. But for reasons that can’t be explained, I developed a heart arrhythmia. I have to take medication twice a day to keep my heart beating regularly. The meds actually slow my heart rate down and in the process, have slowed my whole life down.

Mentally, life in the slow lane is hard for me to take. I used to have a lot more energy and stamina. When I realize I’m being passed on the track, my long buried competitive streak surfaces and all I want to do is pull ahead.

“I will not be passed! I own the inside lane! I’m going to kick your ass. I’m going to leave you huffing and puffing behind me.” Yeah, in my wildest dreams.

Since I’m not the Grrrl I used to be, I silence the voices in my head, swallow my pride and try not to feel old when someone flies by me on the right and effortlessly scoots ahead.

OK, I didn't bank on having to downshift so much in my 40s. Still, I’m happy that despite leaving my running days far behind, I continue to move forward and keep my own pace. I may be slow, but I’m determined not to spend my life on the sofa, even if it means getting used to occupying the outside lane.

April 25, 2006