Across the way from my apartment, there is a street that takes a sharp incline for about a block or two. The slope is at the exact angle that has caused me to cough and pant like an arthritic pekingese when I have attempted to summit it in the past. I do not imagine that this thoroughfare would provide much of a challenge to your average pedestrian. A reasonably determined cyclist could ride up it with some effort. For me, though, The hill has been as insurmountable as the upper Andes. My respiratory system has made it emphatically clear that the two things it dislikes most in this world are cold moist air and walking up steep inclines. Even the thought of climbing this summit in winter is enough to start mutters of insurrection from deep within my lungs
I hate this hill. The fact that somebody thoughtlessly christened it "Pleasant Street" does not help.
Recently I have walked up Pleasant Street nearly every day. I know that Cambodia there will be jungle trails to hike and temple stairs to climb. I don't want to miss out on the wonders these have to show me. While it is true that the tropical climate is usually kinder to my body, I don't want to trust solely to that. My illness has weakened me and I need to work to regain some of my old strength, so I fight the hill.
It is not always easy to convince myself to do it. After a long day at work, I often just want to curl up and watch live streaming bird-feeder cams with my cat. Once I have sat down and kicked off my shoes I can almost convince myself that it wouldn't make a difference if I stayed here where it's warm. No one would know or care if I skipped a day. This of course isn't true. I would know. I would care. So far this has been enough to get me into my walking shoes and out the door. To date, I have only been stopped by some freezing rain and a massive headache. Once outside, Pleasant Street looms. I can't simply walk past it or go back in. I no longer permit myself to ignore it. I cross the road and begin my ascent.
On a good day I can make it to the top without pausing to catch my breath, but the effort still leaves me winded. If it is still light enough, the view from the top is decent enough. I can see the frosted slopes of the Berkshires that surround the town. It is not nearly attractive enough to reward my efforts, but it gives me something to look at while my breathing returns to normal. I could simply turn around and go home from here, but I rarely ever do. Sometimes it is because I need to go to the bank or pick up groceries or some other errand that I used as a motivation to get started. Most days, though I know I have already tackled the worst of it and now that I'm already moving I might as well keep going. I usually wind up walking about a mile or so. I walk bit faster than I did when I started this routine and I don't need to pause on the smaller hills anymore. In fact, Pleasant Street doesn't look as steep to me anymore. I'm convinced my struggle with it is now partially psychological.
I have not, as long distance runners would try to convince you, learned to love the cold and the struggle. This hill is still a part of my day that I would rather avoid. I know however that every step, every cough and every muttered curse will pay off in a sunrise from Angkor Wat or in flushing out some secretive creature on a trail in the Cardamom Mountains. My lungs need exercise to recover from the deterioration undergone from my ailment, no matter how much they protest otherwise. I will not let their frailty rob me of a chance to see gibbons in the wild.
If my behavior is going to have to be dictated by any portion of my anatomy, I'll be dammed if it's a literal pair of windbags
I hate this hill. The fact that somebody thoughtlessly christened it "Pleasant Street" does not help.
Recently I have walked up Pleasant Street nearly every day. I know that Cambodia there will be jungle trails to hike and temple stairs to climb. I don't want to miss out on the wonders these have to show me. While it is true that the tropical climate is usually kinder to my body, I don't want to trust solely to that. My illness has weakened me and I need to work to regain some of my old strength, so I fight the hill.
It is not always easy to convince myself to do it. After a long day at work, I often just want to curl up and watch live streaming bird-feeder cams with my cat. Once I have sat down and kicked off my shoes I can almost convince myself that it wouldn't make a difference if I stayed here where it's warm. No one would know or care if I skipped a day. This of course isn't true. I would know. I would care. So far this has been enough to get me into my walking shoes and out the door. To date, I have only been stopped by some freezing rain and a massive headache. Once outside, Pleasant Street looms. I can't simply walk past it or go back in. I no longer permit myself to ignore it. I cross the road and begin my ascent.
On a good day I can make it to the top without pausing to catch my breath, but the effort still leaves me winded. If it is still light enough, the view from the top is decent enough. I can see the frosted slopes of the Berkshires that surround the town. It is not nearly attractive enough to reward my efforts, but it gives me something to look at while my breathing returns to normal. I could simply turn around and go home from here, but I rarely ever do. Sometimes it is because I need to go to the bank or pick up groceries or some other errand that I used as a motivation to get started. Most days, though I know I have already tackled the worst of it and now that I'm already moving I might as well keep going. I usually wind up walking about a mile or so. I walk bit faster than I did when I started this routine and I don't need to pause on the smaller hills anymore. In fact, Pleasant Street doesn't look as steep to me anymore. I'm convinced my struggle with it is now partially psychological.
I have not, as long distance runners would try to convince you, learned to love the cold and the struggle. This hill is still a part of my day that I would rather avoid. I know however that every step, every cough and every muttered curse will pay off in a sunrise from Angkor Wat or in flushing out some secretive creature on a trail in the Cardamom Mountains. My lungs need exercise to recover from the deterioration undergone from my ailment, no matter how much they protest otherwise. I will not let their frailty rob me of a chance to see gibbons in the wild.
If my behavior is going to have to be dictated by any portion of my anatomy, I'll be dammed if it's a literal pair of windbags
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