Today's Comfort, Tomorrow's Discomfort
Our bodies are remarkably good at giving us exactly what we ask of them. Physiologists call this the SAID principle: Specific Adaptation to Imposed Demands. Lift heavy things and the body builds the capacity to lift heavy things. Climb hills, breathe hard, and the heart and lungs answer the call. The other half of that bargain receives less attention. When we stop asking, the body stops offering. Muscle, bone density, aerobic capacity, balance, even the quickness of our reflexes are all metabolically expensive to maintain, and the body is a frugal accountant. What we don't use, it quietly lets go.
You've probably heard the old saying: "You don't stop playing because you get old; you get old because you stop playing." Swap in running, dancing, lifting, or climbing stairs two at a time, and it holds up. Having just turned 60, I've thought about this more than usual. Part of the decline we blame on aging is real. A surprising amount of it, though, is just detraining. We slowly stop doing hard things, the body adjusts to the smaller life we're living, and then we take that smaller capacity as proof that we're getting old. The cause and the effect get reversed.
Long days in the saddleI'm living a version of this experiment right now. On November 3rd I put the car away for a month and committed to getting everywhere by bike, including my commute of about 30 miles each way. I call it "Ride Into the Darkness," since the days are getting shorter and colder with every ride. Nearly two weeks in, I can tell you that cumulative fatigue is real. No single ride is the problem; it's the stacking. My legs feel heavy each morning, I'm hungrier and sleepier than usual, and some days my body is plainly asking for a break that the challenge doesn’t accommodate.
That fatigue is teaching me the other half of the lesson. A hard effort is only the signal; the adaptation happens in recovery. Push too little and the body has no reason to change. Push without recovery and the body struggles to keep up with the demand. This challenge doesn't offer easy days, so I can't lean on rest the way I normally would. Instead I'm paying close attention to sleep and food, and to what I do off the bike.
So I'm offsetting the bike in two small, deliberate ways. Cycling is wonderful for the heart and legs, but it holds us in one shape for hours: hips flexed, spine rounded, arms mostly along for the ride. So each day I row for five minutes. It's a short dose, but rowing links the push of the legs through the trunk to the pull of the arms, and that reminds my body that it works as one connected system. I also do Pilates every day to keep my hips and spine mobile and to restore balance in the deeper sense: left side and right side, core and periphery. The bike is a repetitive, symmetrical motion, and over time small imbalances can creep in. Pilates gives me a daily chance to notice them and even them out.
Comfort isn't the enemy. But a life lived entirely inside the comfort zone tells the body its extra capacity isn't needed. The art is in the dosing: enough challenge to send the message, enough recovery and balance to let the body answer.
Meditation helps here too. Discomfort is a sensation, not a prescription. When I meet the heaviness in my legs with curiosity instead of complaint, I notice it shifting from mile to mile, and I find my edge is usually further out than I thought. So this month, I invite you to find one place to lean into that edge, on purpose and with care. Your body is listening, and given the right support, it will rise to meet you.
Our bodies are remarkably good at giving us exactly what we ask of them. Physiologists call this the SAID principle: Specific Adaptation to Imposed Demands. Lift heavy things and the body builds the capacity to lift heavy things. Climb hills, breathe hard, and the heart and lungs answer the call. The other half of that bargain receives less attention. When we stop asking, the body stops offering. Muscle, bone density, aerobic capacity, balance, even the quickness of our reflexes are all metabolically expensive to maintain, and the body is a frugal accountant. What we don't use, it quietly lets go.
You've probably heard the old saying: "You don't stop playing because you get old; you get old because you stop playing." Swap in running, dancing, lifting, or climbing stairs two at a time, and it holds up. Having just turned 60, I've thought about this more than usual. Part of the decline we blame on aging is real. A surprising amount of it, though, is just detraining. We slowly stop doing hard things, the body adjusts to the smaller life we're living, and then we take that smaller capacity as proof that we're getting old. The cause and the effect get reversed.
I'm living a version of this experiment right now. On November 3rd I put the car away for a month and committed to getting everywhere by bike, including my commute of about 30 miles each way. I call it "Ride Into the Darkness," since the days are getting shorter and colder with every ride. Nearly two weeks in, I can tell you that cumulative fatigue is real. No single ride is the problem; it's the stacking. My legs feel heavy each morning, I'm hungrier and sleepier than usual, and some days my body is plainly asking for a break that the challenge doesn’t accommodate.
That fatigue is teaching me the other half of the lesson. A hard effort is only the signal; the adaptation happens in recovery. Push too little and the body has no reason to change. Push without recovery and the body struggles to keep up with the demand. This challenge doesn't offer easy days, so I can't lean on rest the way I normally would. Instead I'm paying close attention to sleep and food, and to what I do off the bike.
So I'm offsetting the bike in two small, deliberate ways. Cycling is wonderful for the heart and legs, but it holds us in one shape for hours: hips flexed, spine rounded, arms mostly along for the ride. So each day I row for five minutes. It's a short dose, but rowing links the push of the legs through the trunk to the pull of the arms, and that reminds my body that it works as one connected system. I also do Pilates every day to keep my hips and spine mobile and to restore balance in the deeper sense: left side and right side, core and periphery. The bike is a repetitive, symmetrical motion, and over time small imbalances can creep in. Pilates gives me a daily chance to notice them and even them out.
Comfort isn't the enemy. But a life lived entirely inside the comfort zone tells the body its extra capacity isn't needed. The art is in the dosing: enough challenge to send the message, enough recovery and balance to let the body answer.
Meditation helps here too. Discomfort is a sensation, not a prescription. When I meet the heaviness in my legs with curiosity instead of complaint, I notice it shifting from mile to mile, and I find my edge is usually further out than I thought. So this month, I invite you to find one place to lean into that edge, on purpose and with care. Your body is listening, and given the right support, it will rise to meet you.
Comments