As you age, stuff happens that no amount of mental toughness can forestall. The pulmonary embolism, brought on by a long flight at age 56, scared the hell out of me. For months afterward, I was shaken. I could have died. The breast cancer, the following year, was less existentially scary but far more painful. My bones started thinning around then, thanks to the medication I took to prevent a recurrence of cancer. By the time I joined Starting Strength, the osteoarthritis in my knees was causing a limp.

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When you lift heavy over time, you build reserves of strength. You accrue power for now, and also for later. It requires facing your own physical limitations (and maybe your own mortality). This self-knowledge can come at any age, but it came to me late and only when the evidence was undeniable.

In class, we proceed slowly and carefully. With every lift, Jeremy observes the alignment of our joints and the angles of our backs, occasionally issuing corrections: “chest up,” “drive with your hips”. In the squat, after shouldering the weight, I back up from the rack and consider my feet, how they feel on the floor. I suck in my breath, pull my shoulders back and fiercely compress every muscle in my core. I am making my body into something firm and hard: a lever, a hinge. I sink down, then push with my hamstrings, glutes and quads until I am standing again. Then I exhale.

I keep a record of my progress on my phone. It’s two steps forward and one step back. I am squatting 29 kilograms right now, which is more than I was squatting at Christmas and less than at Halloween. In the culture of my gym, it’s all baby weight. I am a novice here, a fresh beginner; sometimes, with my grey hair and arm flab, I worry that I’m ludicrous. But the gym is cool. Nirvana is playing, and we cheer each other on through whatever we, individually, are struggling with. Whatever the number on the iron plates, this is hard. I have a goal for my squat, but I won’t say it out loud. That would be getting ahead of myself.

Here’s what I’ve noticed. My trousers fit. I can carry the cat litter bag up four flights of stairs without any fuss. I can move the biggest cast-iron pan out of the oven and easily lift my suitcase into the overhead rack. My walk to the subway is pleasurable again, and my last bone scan showed improvement.

The New York Times

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