Start the Clock

I've been challenged to a plank contest by my Dad--athletic coach extraordinaire. A few days ahead of me, he set his personal goal at 10 minutes and promises victory if I can hold the pose for eight. 

"Start at two," he suggested on the phone. "Increase by one for the next two days and repeat."

This is not the first time he has taken on the role of a personal trainer. Although not every attempt succeeded, his intentions were always good. He was my elementary school basketball coach and dubbed me "Power Forward" even if that couldn't have been further from the truth. He signed us up for a family tennis camp, and memories of my lessons still make me shudder. 

Yet from the wheel of his motorboat, he succeeded in pulling countless summertime skiers, including me. For thirty-seven years and counting, I've yelled, "Hit it!" and my Dad has given me a ticket to fly over glassy tree-lined coves again and again. Then there was the time during my eighth-grade year, I was wiping out at school. He started to take me running. Early mornings, we'd take the neighborhood loop side-by-side. My confidence was so low that my feet shuffled alongside his, but the lesson stuck: Running is still my stress-relief of choice. 

At seventy-three, my Dad is a yogi and a 5K medalist, a ready tennis partner and a competitive golfer. When the country closes for a pandemic, he follows the rules but he doesn't sit still. From the peace of his home, he has challenged me to a plank contest, so of course, I said yes.