Eureka in my world (and welcome to it)

Friday I made what was, for me, an amazing discovery: My body can, in fact, produce the much-lauded endorphins after physical exercise. To make sure, I tested it out again yesterday, and yup! I’ve got those lovely little brain chemicals. How did this discovery elude me for decades? Running was no help—I never got any “runner’s high,” probably because I never lasted long enough to trigger those little buggers, always simply collapsing. I’ve never displayed much physical prowess—while I do have fast reflexes (and they pay off big time when playing piano) they don’t translate into running speed. Races in “physical education” (I didn’t learn a whole lot there) were a matter of torture, and back then it was all a matter of being the best. As I wasn’t even close to the best, I never experienced any rewards simply for moving. I have understood (intellectually, anyway) that some people enjoy physical activity just for its own sake. That enjoyment probably is a significant motivator for staying in shape, whereas my only motivation was negative—trying to pull on jeans that no longer fit. Well, I had enjoyed riding my bike, though I hadn’t done that for more than three years, as my bike was mishandled by the movers during my last move and I didn’t have any bike maintenance know-how. Without a vehicle to transport it to the nearest bike repair shop, I periodically attempted to put it back in order and gave up in frustration. My bicycle repair manual is very detailed, but it still stymied me somewhat. If I had known how certain parts of my bike assembly looked before they were thrown out of whack, it would have been easier to translate the instructions (and photos) into reality. But Friday was such a perfect day to be outside that I attempted repair once more. This time I succeeded! (At least the brakes appear to be working properly, and nothing else seems to be awry.) So off I went, on one of my favorite rides. There’s a lovely bike and running path through a sculpture park situated (unfortunately) alongside Chicago’s sanitary canal. Getting to the beginning of the path is a challenge, as it requires riding along one of Chicago’s crazy, biker-hostile streets before reaching the water treatment plant near the sanitary canal. Scary and smelly! After that point, all is good. Both days I rode for about an hour, returning to collapse not in agony, but in a quiet, good tiredness. And then I realized my brain’s chemical soup was bubbling happily. Ah, yes! Like the effect of a good beer without the somebody’s-sitting-on-my-head part. Now that I know what it is (and my muscles are telling me that they’ve been worked but they’re not giving me hell about it) I’m looking forward to more. Perhaps I’ll discover a bit more wisdom (and ditch some of the madness). Next plan: eat lotsa fish.