Easter Sunday, instead of filling my face with chocolate. I went to my usual circuit class. I’ve graduated from the beginners class and now complete the full forty stations, even if I do almost throw up at a couple of them. It’s been a while since I’ve done this sort of training. When I hit perimenopause, the persistent fatigue and dwindling motivation meant I did little more than a brisk walk or some gentle yoga. I presumed this was a consequence of ageing. Priorities, preferences, abilities change. And while I never thought this would happen to me, honestly, I didn’t have the energy to fight it. I don’t think I’d be exaggerating to say that I lost myself. And not just in the way I trained. I forgot who I was. Where I had come from. What I could do. I forgot I had grit.
Raised with Grit
I was raised with grit. A black belt by the time I was 11, I probably threw my first punch before I could walk. When my dad realised the limitation of the Shotokan Karate we practiced, he introduced us to other fighting styles to balance the playing field. Boxing, wrestling, judo.
Every few months, those members of his class who were willing, took part in Animal Day, as named for the no holds barred fights that left us bloody, battered … and sometimes unconscious.
It didn’t matter than I was his daughter. If (when) I was knocked down, I was picked up and thrust back onto the mat. There was no room for tears. Nowhere to run when the fear threatened to take me out before the fists had a chance.
Violence was just a part of my life. Watching boxing, and Greco-Roman-Wrestling. My dad knocking a guy out in our local working men’s club. The threat of challenge from a reckless rival with a point to prove was ever present and, dare I say it, exciting.
But as I got older, that veil was removed, and I saw the ugliness of violence. I lost the stomach for it. Or, more likely, realised I never had one in the first place. I’m far too sensitive to watch other people suffer. So I left all of that behind.
Still, I liked the grit. That ability to push myself beyond what was conformable. The confidence to have a go and see.
There is no Land Rover
When I was a teenager my dad, because of his line of work, had interesting associates (I once picked up the phone to Reggie Kray). As a result we – him, his wife, my sister and I – found ourselves acting the part of VIPs on a bodyguard training course. Ran by former members of the military elite – charismatic, capable, eyes of steely focus – the training was rigorous, testing the physical and mental resilience of those candidates who thought themselves adept enough to protect the lives of others.
One of the assessed exercises involved a long, punishing run, with heavy packs, across difficult terrain while barraged with taunts and threats from the staff. The assessment would finish, the candidates were told, when they touched the waiting Land Rovers, there to transport them back to base with the promise of a meal and a hot shower.
Once the Land Rovers came into view, the relief the candidates felt was overwhelming. Pushed to their physical limit, they dragged themselves those final few steps …
Only for the Land Rover to drive away.
The lesson. You can’t be complacent. What if there is no Land Rover? Can you do what’s required? Can you go the extra mile?
Some couldn’t do it. Angry, beaten, crying, they dropped where they stood, even knowing the consequences. Only a certain type of person, those with exceptional mental resilience, could muster the stamina to continue. That, apparently, was the type of person you wanted to protect your life.
Remembering
I remind myself of this story when I run. Knowing that if I’m running three-miles, I tire with half a mile to go, but if I’m running six, passing mile three (or four, or five) doesn’t break my stride.
It was only at my circuit this week though, that I remembered how strong I could be. Maybe it was the vibe, the Eye of the Tiger blaring over the sound system, the camaraderie of my fellow circuiters. But I felt a return to my self. A return of the strength I hadn’t been able to access, hadn’t even realised that I’d lost.
I don’t necessarily mean a physical strength, although that too. What I’m talking about, is that mental grit. The determination that saw me complete the Paris marathon while injured and physically beat. Or showing up week after week at my counselling course even while discomfort left me wanting to crawl out of my skin. Taking the leap and leaving my job despite the almost overwhelming fear that I could be making a huge mistake.
As always, I have been contemplating this with regards to my writing. Up to now, I’ve been timid. I’ve limited my aspirations because who am I to dare to dream and what if I fail and look like a fool.
I’ve realised that I need to think bigger. To dare to try, regardless of the outcome. To let go of a desired end result entirely or risk limiting myself to only that which I can perceive. There’s a magic in the not knowing, if only I have the courage to dare greatly.
