Field Note: What Am I Trying to Accomplish?

During a hike yesterday in Crystal Cove State Park on the Southern California coast, I found myself thinking about ankle mobility.

More specifically, I found myself thinking about ankle mobility, squats, lunges, and the frustrating reality that some of my recent training sessions have left me spending the next day nursing sore knees instead of doing the things I actually enjoy doing.

I had been experimenting with a simple dorsiflexion test. My right ankle doesn't move as freely as my left. Standing at a wall, I drove my knee forward until I felt stiffness and discomfort in the knee. A couple of slow breaths later, the stiffness eased and the knee moved a little farther.

As I hiked, I started following the thread.

Why am I so interested in improving this?

The obvious answer was better squats.

But that answer didn't feel complete.

The deeper answer was that I want to hike. I want to descend trails confidently. I want to carry a pack, climb stairs, paddle canoes, play with dogs, and say yes when friends suggest an adventure.

And that led to a more uncomfortable question.

If some of my training is making those things harder rather than easier, what exactly am I trying to accomplish?

That question landed harder than I expected.

For a long time, strength has been one of the ways I've understood myself. I've competed in powerlifting. I've coached barbell lifts. I've spent years pursuing strength, and much of that journey has been worthwhile. It taught discipline. It taught patience. It introduced me to good people. It gave me confidence in what my body could do.

But somewhere during that hike, I began wondering whether I had allowed a tool to become a destination.

A squat is a tool.

A deadlift is a tool.

A kettlebell is a tool.

A hiking boot is a tool.

The purpose is something larger.

The purpose is participation.

Around the same time, I had been reading Dan John, a longtime strength coach and athlete known for cutting through complicated training questions with disarmingly simple ones. One of his recurring questions is:

What are you trying to accomplish?

When I answer that honestly, my goals are surprisingly simple.

I want to hike mountains.

I want to carry a pack.

I want to paddle a canoe.

I want to ride a bike.

I want to watch hockey with friends.

I want to coach athletes.

I want to laugh often.

I want to remain curious.

I want to be available to the people I love.

I want to embody agape love as best I can.

None of those goals require me to win a powerlifting meet.

None of them require me to tell people I'm a powerlifter.

In fact, many of them require something more difficult.

They require honesty.

Honesty about my age.

Honesty about my body.

Honesty about what actually brings me joy.

The older I get, the less interested I am in proving that I can still do what I did twenty years ago.

The more interested I become in making sure I can still do the things I hope to be doing twenty years from now.

There is a difference.

One is performance.

The other is stewardship.

I think many of us accidentally let the metric become the mission. We start measuring things because they matter. Then one day we discover we've started living for the measurement itself.

The irony is that easier is not always lesser.

Sometimes easier is wiser.

Sometimes easier is healthier.

Sometimes easier is more authentic.

Sometimes easier is more playful.

Sometimes easier is the path that allows us to keep showing up year after year.

There is nothing noble about being injured in pursuit of a goal that no longer serves your life.

There is something deeply worthwhile about remaining capable of loving, serving, exploring, playing, and connecting.

At sixty-five, I am less interested in proving I can outlift younger men.

I am more interested in making sure I can still say yes when life presents an adventure.

A steep trail.

A canoe trip.

A hockey game with friends.

A long walk with someone who needs company.

A chance to help.

A chance to love.

Maybe that's what authentic athleticism looks like now.

Not becoming less.

Becoming more aligned.

Strong enough to play.

Strong enough to explore.

Strong enough to care.

Strong enough to remain available.

And perhaps most importantly, wise enough to know the difference.