By Marcie Summerlin For the Journal
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When it comes to my husband’s health, though, I can be the tiniest bit of a nag. I was adamant about his behavior shortly after his retirement. He wasn’t following the guidelines I’d read about preparing for that stage. Although I’d gently remind him each day that he wasn’t getting enough exercise, I didn’t receive a positive response. Before I left for work, I taped to the bathroom mirror articles on swimming and a map to our gym, but the cues went ignored, too.
Because he was now detached from the work world, I had another concern. Most males stay healthier in the long run when they have social connections. My male’s social group was the dog and me. How could we keep him engaged?
Neither of us excel at conversation when my husband expounds on topics dear to his heart, such as Civil War battles, beers of the world and the Atlanta Braves. I’d envisioned that when he retired he would join some group dedicated to one of these rarefied interests, say “Lee’s Modern-Day Lieutenants” or “Southwest Beer Fanciers.” I even looked forward to the annual dance or cruise the organization surely would sponsor each year.
What happened to our wellthought-out retirement plan for him? Had I not communicated it clearly?
Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t idle. Our aging house was benefiting from his lavish attention. The floors and windows stayed spotless. The garden was infused weekly with rose bushes. Cabinets and metal chandeliers were painted. He got more done than Santa on Christmas Eve, but, according to articles about healthy older males, he wasn’t doing the right stuff.
That solitary activity wasn’t raising his heart rate. My concerns were understandable, right?
Out of the blue
But our lives hummed along. I rose at 5 a.m. to go to the gym before work; he climbed out of bed at 5 a.m. to start early at ignoring my hints.
I was resigned to put up with clean floors, great flowers and supper on the table when I arrived home. I can get used to anything after a while.
When his epiphany came, I was surprised. After a typical workday, I found my husband at home grinning like a turtle that has found a piece of melon. He handed me a brightly colored brochure with bicyclists pedalling on the front. “Look! I’ve signed up to do a 100- mile bike ride!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I fired off challenges, including that he didn’t own a bike, hadn’t ridden in years and couldn’t ride 100 miles.
He was ready. He now had a bicycle and knew of a national charity that would train him for five months to go the distance.
The event was a fundraiser for cancer research, and in exchange for the training he’d raise money for the organization by asking people for donations.
I begged him not to solicit anyone I knew. Not to worry, he said. He’d already drafted a letter sure to make people thrilled to contribute. Who was this person?
Apparently, he’s the retiree I’d imagined. I had to admit he’d nailed it — social group, exercise and all for a good cause.
My Lance Armstrong clone started training immediately for the century. That’s the term for a 100-mile bike ride. His typical morning regimen before a ride involved loading up on carbs (formerly known as bagels), hydration and — Holy Toledo — spandex. Also, many energy gels and bars were stuffed into his jersey pockets.
Note to fashion industry: Why can’t all my blouses have fabulous elastic pockets on them like cycling jerseys do? I could dispense with purses.
As the training miles increased, the weather forecast took on supreme importance. Before long, the Weather Channel announcers seemed to be part of our family.
The weekend rides jolted me. I resented being left behind. But how could I complain when it was for charity?
Getting involved
Well, easy. The charity’s director had heard this from participants’ spouses, and she had a solution: Drive the support and gear vehicle.
The SAG vehicle carries the food, water, air pump and extra clothes the cyclists need. I followed her suggestion. Driving was better than sitting at home as a cyclist’s widow.
Amid the flat tires, steep climbs, wind and heat, I began to realize how tough a century ride is. Occasionally the people with cancer accompanied me to cheer on the riders, and I saw why the riders made the commitment.
After my husband rode his first century (yep, he did it!) he became a program mentor and then a team coach. He helped novice cyclists complete an endurance challenge while making a huge difference to people.
On one trip, an 8-year-old patient, her mom and her little brother joined me in the SAG vehicle. They yelled their hearts out for the team. The mom and I found that neither of us had any sense of direction, which occasionally caused us to become lost. We quickly rejoined our riders, and they seemed to forgive us.
Despite the seriousness of the cause, we shared plenty of laughs. On one of my favorite rides, a participant’s husband brought spray paint and rolls of banner paper. He painted jokes for the cyclists to read as they pedaled by us. At the end, riders called out “It’s the Sign Guy!” and thanked him, saying the anticipated comic relief encouraged them.
We incorporated many rides into vacations. By the time my husband became a cyclist, I’d forgotten about my retirement plans for him. None of my schemes of group Civil War re-enactment dinners or chess club cruises came to fruition. But he found an opportunity to get in shape and improve the world.
Marcie Summerlin became a staff member at The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society after her husband’s first bike ride with its Team In Training program.
(c) 2008 Albuquerque Journal. Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning. All rights Reserved.
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