Yesterday was a recovery day. I slept in till 4:30, did an Insanity Max Recovery workout (50 minutes, countless push-ups), then played outside a lot between bouts of work.
Every good fitness routine entails one rest day and one recovery day every week. A rest day is supposed to mean no serious exercise. The recovery day means moderate exercise, the kind where you don't throw up. Shaun T, the Insanity instructor, interprets "moderate" somewhat liberally.
The word "recover" comes from the same unpronounceable French that gave us "recuperate." Meaning, restore. You get a sense that, before God rested on the seventh day, he did something restorative on Wednesday. Like, I don't know, inventing fruit.
In the experimental fitness group I've gathered, one participant is a cancer survivor and one is recovering from neck surgery. Neither one is resting, believe me. They're restoring. They're coming back.
Speaking of which, the person above is my son, George, taken when he was starting middle school in a strange city. He was miserable and had put on weight. (The cast is from the one time he went downhill skiing after moving back east.)
Now here's a picture of him taken a couple weeks ago, running Harvard Stadium.
As someone old enough to collect an impressive number of life mistakes myself (including yanking my family around the country), I believe that recovery is the key to success at just about anything, including training to run my age up Mt. Moosilauke.
Or maybe running my age is the recovery.