For those of you who are frequent readers, you may recall that I’m currently on vacation. As one way of thwarting the addition of several unwanted pounds, I’m trying to keep up with my exercise. So yesterday morning I headed off for the hotel gym.I got there around 7:30 a.m. and was pleasantly surprised to see the room fairly full with several  sweaty hotel guests–all, I presume, with the same goal in mind as my own. But, the biggest surprise of all was that these other gym goers were almost all boomers! There were bald heads and grey hair everywhere I turned. I smiled to myself with the thought that the “forever young generation” was trying like heck to make that old chestnut into a reality. I was amongst my peers, clad in workout gear, ready to build my heart rate, and pump iron in my own attempts at anti-aging–or at least slowing the tick-tick-tick of Father Time and the spread-spread-spread of Mother Menopause.

As I stepped up on one of the treadmills, a younger man climbed on the one next to mine. He was likely in his late thirties and looked fairly fit. Each of us started rather slowly and then began to build both the incline and the speed to higher numbers. But, and I’m still grinning immodestly, I kept on increasing my speed while he remained at a rather moderate pace.

I realize there is a certain etiquette observed while at the gym and one huge faux pas is glancing over at your neighbor’s numbers as they’re working out. I tried to avert my eyes but they kept wandering to his machine. I couldn’t get a reading but, just for good measure, increased my speed again so there’d be no doubt as to who the true jock was.

Yes, I may have been behaving more than a bit childishly as my competitive streak emerged with unbridled force, but I had the feeling I was making a statement for all of us women over fifty. I was my own  Olympiad, proudly bearing the torch for my gender and generation. Who says we older gals are over the hill? I was handily beating this young stud and, even though I was beginning to turn beet red and sweat profusely, I wasn’t backing down. 

It was then that he made his move. He started revving the treadmill’s speed faster and faster until he started jogging at a fairly fast clip. Wanting to best his speed, I increased my own. However thankfully, at this point, I came to some semblance of sanity and did have the good sense to check the heart rate monitor. The numbers I saw gave me the immediate feedback that I was about to suffer from  some type of unfortunate cardiac episode, so I reluctantly backed off and decreased my speed to something more sustainable.

At any rate, although the young man did finally beat me speed-wise, I was able to keep up my workout a full ten minutes longer than he. So, I guess we old gals do rule–one way or another. My personal moral for this tale of  sweat and glory is: it ain’t the speed–it’s the spunk. And, my friends, although we may not make olympic material these days, we ladies over fifty have got that in spades!