Please, no more mountains. ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

5.1 miles on my Garmin, no record, no credit. No badge points. Wasted uphill mileage would have counted as stairs climbed. I didn’t realize that the gadget wasn’t in my pocket until I returned from my run and Tim said, “Nance, I don’t think your Fitbit is syncing.” “Really?” I reach in my shorts’ pocket, and it’s not there. “It must have fallen out of my pocket.” “Bummer.” Frustrated, I think of the $99 spent on this baby-finger sized electronic that I’ve become attached to. It’s “way to go,” “you’ve climbed 25 flights,” “1331 steps to go!” prompts have led to a weird sense of satisfaction. And the taunts with Tim and Katie like “get moving” have been a new-age way to connect on a different level. Tim and Katie gang up on me and tease me about my crazy lifestyle. Katie claims she must read more than me, and Tim says he doesn’t have the luxury of multiple walks across campus. The subtle competition facilitates creative banter.  Defeated, I think of Tim Healy asking me last spring about why I bought a Garmin watch. “Nancy, you’ve been running for 30 years without that thing.” “But now I know exactly how far I run.” Tim Healy  just shook his head.  What would he say now about mourning over a misplaced Fitbit. He’s a purist, and I think I am one, too, but I can’t squelch my disappointment over not having my steps count. My husband Tim walks in the kitchen and says, “Nance, here it is. It’s charging on the counter.” Instead of feeling relief, I’m annoyed that FB is not storing my morning run, not to mention the strolls around the house and the trips to the bathroom. I clip FB to my shorts, go about the rest of my day, and manage to reach my daily goal of 15,000 steps – only because we are on vacation and I have forbidden us from taking a van anywhere. Kevin and Brigid are ready to trade me in for a new mom. As we’re going to bed, Tim realizes that his Mr. FB was in another pair of shorts. “Bummer,” I say.  “That whole mountain climb won’t count.” But we both know that it does.

I am in Steamboat Springs, CO, with Tim, Brigid, and Kevin, and right now, to me, it is the most  beautiful place in the world. This morning, Tim dropped me off at the Steamboat Fitness Studio for a Core Yoga Vinyasa Flow class that almost killed me. I’ve gotten over trying to pray my way through poses and have learned to rely on my breath – with the coaching of many instructors.

After yoga, Watson and I ran along the Yampa, and as I watched him veer off the path for occasional drinks from the crystal clear river, I was struck by his eternal gratefulness for the cool water. His tail wagged rythmically as he completely immersed himself in the gift. His beautiful simplicity and joy permeated my thoughts.

While running, I day dreamed about all the family and friends who would love to see what I see.  Katie, Bethy, Brendan, Bobby, mine and Tim’s brothers and sisters, our mothers, the Biesens, running soulmates, Chicago friends,  book club, our travel group, Valpo friends, U of I dinner group, the Masters Swim team…. But they’re not here. Appreciation for them overhwhelms me, but presence here and now is what matters.  My desire to share all that I love about Steamboat – the peace in these mountains and this spectacular valley – takes me on a path to the future. I need to stay here. Thanks for the reminder, Buddha. What a fluke for me to discover Buddha’s quote printed on the studio yoga mat this morning.

At the Y, the senior citizens’ conversations in the women’s locker room teach me how to be. One elderly lady said, “I was going to go the store, but I can’t remember what I was going to get.” Another asked, “Were you going to bake?” The puzzled woman responded, “No. I don’t think so.” Another asked, “Were you going to try a new recipe?” “No. No new recipe.” “Did you run out of something you need in the bathroom?” With great patience and understanding, they help each other. I hope my friends are like that for me when I get older. Last Thursday at the Y, a senior said, “Oh my, I forgot that yesterday was the third Wednesday of the month, and I missed our lunch.” Another said, “Oh we missed you, but I forgot that Tuesday was the third Tuesday, and I missed breakfast with my book club.” As the ladies commiserated about the complications of the calendar, I asked, “Is today the third Thursday?” “Yes, yes, it is.” “Shoot,” I said, ” I’m supposed to bring desserts to St. Terera’s on the third Thursday. I forgot!” The faintest,concerned low murmur breezed past my ears, “Oh my, she’s young.”

Swimming is brutal. The persistent clock is the enemy. Improvement plateaus are endless. Our Valpo Masters coach Robert pushes us – the nerve of him. Where does he come up with his intervals? Sometimes I think he forgets we didn’t swim with him at Wabash. Lane 2 – Stacia, Tom, Olivia, and sometimes Jim – is my only motivation for getting in the Valparaiso YMCA pool at 5:30am. on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. We’re like a family – we encourage, we tease, and we bicker. And we get frustrated. We lost a beloved member Dave to injury, and now the traitor has opted to swim at Valparaiso University. We miss him and want him to come back, but he says we’re too fast. I say Lanes 3 and 4 are the speed demons. We’re fun.

Lane 2 puts up with corrections in grammar – “You are going to swim slowly not slow. Use an adverb.” Lane 2 puts up with getting smacked by my lazy left arm when I get tired. Tom got punched in the head last Saturday. Lane 2 shares tips – rotate, bilateral breath, explode off the wall, kick harder, try these hand paddles, there’s a deal on fins at Swimoutlet.com.

Lane 2 encourages; a simple “you can do it” is all it takes to make the interval. Our coach would prefer like less chatter from Lane 2, and maybe we’d each shave off a whopping two seconds from our best 100 if we knocked off the banter. But I go for the company. They make me laugh – really hard- at least once a day.

Lanes 3 and 4 are full of focused fast swimmers, some ranked nationwide as triathletes and masters competitors. They seem to glide effortlessly through the water. My husband Tim belongs in Lane 3, but sometimes he joins our lane when he feels like dogging it, usually on Saturdays. Lane 1 consists of the true heroes exhibiting perseverance; some could move to Lane 2, but they don’t. Maybe we talk too much.

Lane 2 is my home for now, and we’re an odd mix (redundant after already stating what time we swim). Olivia is thirty years younger than the rest of us, and we’ll miss her when she leaves for Penn State to pursue her PhD. I suspect that when Olivia is fifty, she will still be in the pool. I hope we have set that example for her. I hope she continues to smile, greet others warmly, and take turns leading. We all tell each other “great workout” and “have a good day” as we exit the pool. Little things are actually very big things.  They keep me from hitting the snooze button.