Muscle Memory? Never Met Her

So, I Have Been (Over)Thinking Again.....

Anyway—I’ll try not to overshare, but sometimes you need the backstory to understand the current chaos.

So I’ve exercised my whole life. Not in a gym—obviously-eww—but consistently. And yet... I’ve been unfit my entire life. Why? Because my exercise has always very intentionally included zero cardio.

Because why—why—would I voluntarily gasp for air when I could just stretch dramatically and call it exercise?

Eventually (read: I got old), things started to hurt. Not that virtuous post-workout soreness—no, this was chronic, creeping, everything-is-wrong kind of pain. Yoga? Hurt. Pilates? Worse. Made me mildly homicidal.

So I did what any rational (or teetering-on-homicidal) person does after exhausting all options:I stopped. Everything.

Then COVID hit, and in a turn of events, I joined the global masses and... started walking. Didn’t make the pain worse (didn’t exactly help either—but let’s not split hairs).

For four solid years, I walked 10 to 12 km a day. Every day. Rain, shine, public holiday, personal crisis—didn’t matter.. I’ve mentioned this before, but indulge me—some of you are new to this emotional roller-coaster.

Walking turned into hiking (yay evolution), but I kept up my weekday pavement pounding like a law-abiding citizen . Until…… the pains got worse.

Google kindly informed me that increased blood flow from walking can increase pain. (Thanks, Internet, for diagnosing me with everything from inflammation to arthritis to demonic possession.)

So a few months ago, my walking habit began to dwindle. And then, as if the universe really wanted me to quit, it rained. A lot. Perfect excuse. I stopped.

“But you’re still hiking, so it’s fine,” everyone echoed, annoyingly, like some kind of unsolicited motivational chorus. No, Sharon. It’s not fine. Hiking is not walking!

At the end of last year, I had boldly declared 2025 my “Year of Saying Yes.” to group weekends, communal living, camping all of it. So, yes, I’ve been saying yes to it all. How’s that going? Still don’t love it. Mildly hate it. But also: weirdly proud.

Now, next year is intended for multi-day hikes. Relax, I’m not becoming Bear Grylls. I said slack packing, and a maximum of two nights. (This is growth, not insanity.)

So, one of my hiking buddies-slash-guide—who I specifically instructed to nag me—sent me a multi day heads up for next year. I panicked but booked it anyway. Because once the deposit’s paid, there’s no escape. That’s the law. (Also known as: the sacred rite of non-refundable commitment.)

Apparently this is me now: a sweaty, semi-feral architect of my own misery. Planning it. Funding it. Volunteering for it.

Which brings me to the actual point of this rant: Muscle memory.

Yes, apparently one needs to train for multi-day hikes. So I began walking again:2.5 km before work, 2.5 km after. After day two, sore shins! That’s 5 km. Measly. Split like a sad little sandwich. I mean—I've knocked out 30 km in a single weekend, people. I have receipts.

How—after about a year of hiking, sweating, and scaling hills—every Saturday and every Sunday, are my shins acting like it’s their first day on earth?

How is this level of betrayal even legal?

Turns out my muscles—much like their owner—have the memory span of a goldfish. What memory? Where? Never heard of her.

Fitness, I’ve decided, is a slippery little gremlin. There are so many versions of “fit.”

You think you’re in decent shape… right up until life serves you shin splints—after a five-kilometer “walk.” Split in two. With a snack break. And maybe a nap.

Turns out every one of those smug little muscles wants its own personal invite to the party. Training one does not mean the rest magically step up. They sulk. They protest. They go on strike. And honestly, who in this day and age has time for full-body upkeep?

Apparently… me. Somehow.

So here I am. Shins ablaze. Dignity in tatters. Sarcasm fully operational. Back on the pavement like the overly ambitious goblin I am. Send thoughts. And possibly ice.