Once I learned to flip, there was no going back. Life was truly never the same, as gymnastics suddenly became the grounding element in my life. And then one day, sometime in college, it all came to halt. I stopped coaching (I got a different job), and with that I also stopped having a reason to be a gym rat daily (this gave way to me trying many other sports, some of which I still love, but none as much as gymnastics).
Two weeks ago I went to my old gym for an adult gymnastics class, something that never fails to make me feel old and weak and also young and nostalgic at the same time. We did bars (which was always my least favorite event) but sure enough my muscle memory held on: glide, toes to the bar— Kip. Switch kip. Free hip, cut kip. I found myself in the air again, older sure— but the muscle memory was there. In a way nothing had changed and in others everything had.
About 15 minutes in, I spun around the bar and felt a familiar and unpleasant sensation: a rip. My palm cut open (like a popped blister, but almost and inch across). Damn does that sting! At 15 years old, a rip was nothing: a causality at most. You got back up and kept going. Man I was strong then. And that’s how it goes: a mixture of rediscovering why I loved the sport in the first place — reinforcing what I always have known, which is that I simply love gymnastics, all of it - and learning how I have changed.
