Cartwheels are the best.
No, THE BEST.
When spring hits and that fluffy green (allergy-inducing) stuff develops on open fields – or when a large empty carpeted hallway opens up from your hotel room/elevator – it’s Cartwheel Time.
Cartwheel Time (CT) has been one of my favorite pastimes since I could master fine motor development. CT started sometime before I actually took up gymnastics but lasted well after I quit the sport and morphed into my cheerleader identity that took me into my 20s and jived well with my Cruise Director (aka: Life of the Party) persona that celebrated CT sometimes at 4am in the parking lot of a Taco Bell.
Ahem.
I coach a group of girls through Girls on the Run and we encourage any and all means of moving with the goal of always moving forward. There are a couple of girls who enjoy breaking up their run/walks with cartwheels. I like this very, very much, and I decided to participate this week since I’m back running-without-injury again and enjoying the heck out of this weather.
During spring break, I had my first assistant coach-ship with a local soccer non-profit camp where the girls (outnumbered by both adults and boys) had NEVER SEEN AN ADULT DO A CARTWHEEL. Naturally, that, too, called for CT.
I experienced an Achilles injury that same week of camp, which is probably coincidental, but I’ve come to find out that it stems from an underlying instability with my hip. At the time, of course, I had no idea how these seemingly un-relatable things were connected. And 7 weeks of physical therapy later, here we are:
Hurting myself with cartwheels.
And yes, my PT said, “maybe you should not be doing cartwheels rn.”
When I say “hurting” I’m not talking about a legit injury, but my hip flares up and when I did a cartwheel last week I couldn’t walk immediately after (and not because I kicked myself in the face or anything). My hip has been angry with me since we had to start regularly doing things like Single Leg Glute Bridges and Banded Monster Walks to make it stronger. It’s a sort of tough love situation where my hip needs to be told to “simmer down now” during certain forms of activity and remind us how we’re in it for the long haul.
I turn 41 in, like, 10 days. I no longer care if I have big boobs. Being untanned is acceptable. I give zero fucks about my un-dyed grey hairs. Facial peels left my face glowing for a whole three weeks and basically reverted back to where I started only $300 broker. Where is this going?! Look, I don’t really care if I’m a fast or slow runner (only that I can run!) or if my VO2 Max is optimal for a 19-year-old (it is, so OK I’m kinda braggy and this is awesome). But cartwheels… not being able to do cartwheels because my hip hurts is the saddest of sads for my aging body.