Sixty and Negotiating
The Scale Wins Nothing Yet
The river path looked exactly right that morning. Cold air, bare cottonwoods, the Clark Fork running clear and indifferent, Missoula doing its thing whether you show up or not. There is something about that stretch of water that doesn’t care what you weigh or what promises you made yourself in January. It just keeps moving. So you move too.
Getting to sixty means you have probably tried most things. Under 220 felt huge once. Then under 210. Then the noon to 6 window, which worked fine until it didn’t, until a ride or an evening got in the way and suddenly the whole structure felt fragile. The 48-hour fast was a surprise, genuinely. The brain got quiet. Not the uncomfortable quiet of white-knuckling it, but the kind where you realize you might be more than just a series of hunger signals and calendar deadlines.
Now it’s March, the birthday is April 3rd, and 206 is the number on the scale. The gap between here and 195, or 185, depending on the day you ask, is six weeks of salt water and arugula smoothies and one meal and willpower and sunsets so absurd they almost feel like a bribe from the universe. That Missoula sky last week went full crimson and orange, the kind that makes you stop pedaling and just stare. It doesn’t solve anything. But it interrupts the arithmetic for a minute.
The body you want back isn’t really about the number. It’s about getting out there without fighting your own weight every climb, every trail, every morning. That’s the thing worth arriving at sixty for.
March 2nd Keeps Rolling
14 moments from March 2, across the years
Twenty-four years of March 2nds, and the through-line is unmistakable... wheels turning, always turning. Started in 2002 with muddy laps in Wallingford and guilty McDonald’s breakfasts during training phases. The young version of me was shedding pounds and chasing fitness with an enthusiasm that still feels familiar. Read more…