Yes I Can!: Maintaining Motivation and Clearing Hurdles
  
Early in my enthusiasm for walking, I strode to workouts with the eagerness of an infatuated suitor. Curiosity and discovery propelled me. I couldn't wait to explore every aspect of this new relationship that made me feel so alive. I bought a black plastic sports watch to time my walks. Next came a portable tape player and a recording of up-tempo jazz to lift my mood on foot-dragging days. Before long, I'd found a group of walkers who worked out weekly with a coach. With a newcomer's passion for adventure, I entered track meets for senior athletes and discovered a physical outlet for my love of challenge. Along the way I discovered that physical pursuits succeed or fail on the fitness of mental skills.

On a hot August weekend, four members of my workout group paced nervously at the starting line of a 10K race and fretted about the heat. We felt the sizzle of nervous energy and questioned the naivete that had carried us to a neighboring state for a three-day track meet for athletes above the age of thirty-five. At 8 a.m. the air already held a stillness that predicted continuation of a weather pattern which had pushed temperatures above 100 degrees for the past two days. With six and two-tenths miles of walking ahead of me, it would be essential to pace myself. But I had a strategy in mind.

Among the walkers gathered for the event, I'd spotted a woman I recognized. Two days before, this woman had passed me in a shorter walk, moving easily ahead when I began to tire in the final minutes. Her steady step won my admiration. Today, I'd let her set my pace. My goal was to let her guide me toward a better racing style. At the starter's command, I held myself back, controlling the adrenalin that bubbled in my veins. "Easy does it," I reminded myself, as I moved into position at her shoulder. “Calm and steady. Arms relaxed.” I dropped back half a step as the pack spread out.

About 50 participants ranging in age from thirty-five to seventy stretched out along a course that looped through tree-lined back streets of a college campus. The woman ahead of me was ten years my senior, a national champion in her age division. My footsteps fell into rhythm with hers. Our arms swung like pendulums in synch, creating a momentum that carried me. If all went well, we'd cross the finish line in just about an hour.

For forty minutes I rode her shoulder. Then slowly, the rhythm shifted. My feet lost the beat. My arms fumbled with the pattern. She began to pull ahead. In a flash, despair filled my head: I can't keep up. It's too hot. What am I doing here? A mental battle erupted. Pick up your arms! Push off the toes, my inner coach shouted. I can’t. My legs feel heavy. I think I'm dizzy.

For the next mile, I dodged the attacks of an internal ambush. Through the cross-fire, I watched the back I'd set my sights on slowly move ahead. I felt defeated—unable to meet my own goal. What's the use? my mind chided. Disappointment blinded me and I stopped in the middle of the street. You see" it taunted. You couldn't do it. I knew it. This is embarrassing. You were really dumb to try. Frantically, I searched for rebuttals. Why continue? For me, the race was over. My ego raged at humiliation. It's in or out, it snapped angrily. Get moving or give up. Stubbornly, I leaned into a head wind of self-criticism and regained my footing on the route.

As I crossed the finish line, the elation of completion erased disappointment. I stepped into the happy camaraderie of women on the other side. We strolled the sidewalks to cool down, wearing our sweat and fatigue with pride. When I'd caught my breath, I approached the woman who’d walked away from me. “How did you do that?” I asked? I wanted to know how she stayed so steady. I wanted to know how she avoided the complaints and resistance that buffet me when I begin to tire. What does she do at that two-thirds point where I always want to stop? What magic keeps her moving?

“Oh," she laughed. “There's no magic. I just start singing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ to myself.” I stared in stunned amazement. “Yankee Doodle?” I gasped. I couldn't believe it. While I fought a frantic battle with resistance, she stuck a feather in her hat and rode away on the rhythms of a song. Abracadabra. Something flipped in my head. No magic. No mystery. No athletic wizardry. Her secret was nothing more than distraction--like entertaining a child with a key ring.

The mind, I've learned, can be a fussy child, quickly bored and easily distracted. “Yankee Doodle” replaced resistance with entertainment, creating a distraction from the mental temper tantrums that scream Why am I doing this? The stirring battle song of Revolutionary soldiers rallies the inner strength of the warrior in sports, as well as war. It leads an internal attack against resistance and self-doubt. I've been singing it gratefully ever since.

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