We’re recently returned home from a four-day weekend. I hesitate to call it a vacation because that might conjure up images of my beloved spouse and me sipping on a hot toddy while relaxing by the fire.
Avid readers may recall that vacationing with my Pat is reminiscent of time spent with a fitness guru at workout camp.
The trainers on “The Biggest Loser” have nothing on him!
I’ve spent many vacations trekking through the wilderness with that man. We’ve navigated rugged terrain, crossed rapid streams and hiked our survival gear up steep slopes with nary a Sherpa in sight.
In fact, I’ll never forget the mountain vacation when he talked me into a bike ride by telling me how easy it would be. With the wind in my hair, I coasted downhill for 8.3 miles. I steered with my knees, gave the day an eight-mile-smile and thought to myself, “My and how grand!”
It was the uphill return that dealt me fits. Although the lean and fit could pedal their bikes at high altitudes without so much as breaking a sweat, it was a horse of a different color for a woman such as I.
First of all, did you know that a gal has to pedal nonstop to ascend the most gradual of slopes? And I don’t even want to tell you how brutal the real inclines were.
As my husband cruised along effortlessly with our boys, I pedaled my way to nowhere. I was chugging like a steam engine as I moved at a tenth of a mile per hour. My hair was wet, my thighs were begging me to stop the insanity and my lungs were demanding that I send out for oxygen.
Upon our return to the cabin, I fell onto the sofa and I’ll be danged if that man of mine didn’t ask, and I quote, “Who’s up for a little nature hike to Peak Nine?”
“Oh, I so would,” I replied with a set jaw, “but I don’t want to.”
Although that trip is in the past, I still get short of breath just thinking about it.
Therefore, when I planned for Chicago, I didn’t pack cute shoes. I downsized my purse into a practical pouch and threw in a water bottle. Knowing, as any woman who’s married to the young Jack LaLanne type, that we would be moving from destination to destination by foot, I also threw in heavy gloves, a scarf and a six-pack of Chapstick.
I was just about to zip my suitcase shut when I received a phone call from my niece who not only happened to have the same four days off, but really wanted to go along.
“Absolutely,” I told her with love, “but I don’twant you to hate Pat when you get back.”
“What do you mean?” she asked with blissful ignorance.
“Here’s the deal,” I informed her quite bluntly. “Your Uncle Pat is a diehard and thrifty traveler. We won’t be pulling up to luxury hotels and tipping a valet to park the family sedan. You’re going to want to bring your sneakers, sweat pants, and you might want to throw in a little Tylenol for aches and pains.” Being the dear that she is, she informed me that she works out regularly, Jazzercises and has been known to Zumba on occasion.
I got the feeling that her Uncle Pat didn’t scare her in the least.
I don’t think it was the walk to, in, and around the Magnificent Mile that brought her down. The wind in her face didn’t seem to faze her. She tolerated the snow and the rain and matched her uncle step for step as he said to no one in particular, “Hey, let’s go and look at this building that’s only two miles away!”
I was so exhausted that I was looking for someone to swing my arms as I walked. Meanwhile Elizabeth jogged across the
streets and bounced up on the curbs with the grace and elegance of a ballerina.
She held up like a true Olympian. In fact, I don’t think she was the least bit discouraged until she woke up on day two and realized that we were going to do it all over again. But she did it and I’m here to report that she even wore cute boots in the process. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes.
When we dropped her off at home, we invited her on our next trek, which holds the promise of more sightseeing and perhaps the possibility of covering the peaks of the Rockies on foot.
“I would,” she replied as she all but ran into her house to get away, “but I seriously don’t want to.”
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at [email protected].