A recent conversation about physical training made me think about the standards we sometimes use when discussing fitness later in life.
A person responding to something I had written began by saying, “I used to be a freak at the gym and I have no more left.” He then described a lifetime of extraordinary physical demands—more than a hundred high-altitude jumps, years of ten-mile runs, and the accumulated wear on his spine, hips, ankles, and knees that came with them.
He offered a benchmark: 100 push-ups in two minutes, 120 sit-ups in two minutes, and a two-mile run in twelve minutes or less. Do that after age 50, he said, and he would be very impressed.
So would I.
But I think there are two different things being discussed.
First, after placing that much demand on a body over a lifetime, I would be reluctant to look at what it can or cannot do today as some sort of failure of fitness. That is an enormous amount of mileage, impact, and physical stress to have asked of one body. He has certainly made his deposits into that particular account.
But I also think a standard that extreme can distort the larger conversation.
That benchmark would represent exceptional physical performance for a man over 50. Frankly, it would be impressive at almost any age.
But nothing remotely approaching that level of performance is required to receive most of the benefits I am talking about when I advocate for physical training as we get older.
The more interesting question, at least to me, is not whether a 55-, 65-, or 75-year-old can still perform like a 25-year-old.
It is how physically capable that particular 55-, 65-, or 75-year-old can remain.
Can you get yourself off the floor easily?
Can you carry something heavy without wondering whether your back will tolerate it?
Can you maintain enough muscle and bone to protect yourself as you age?
Can you walk briskly for a few miles?
Can you climb stairs without treating them as an obstacle?
Can you maintain enough balance, strength, mobility, and cardiovascular capacity that ordinary life remains ordinary rather than gradually becoming a series of physical accommodations?
Those questions interest me much more than whether someone can pass an extraordinary fitness test.
And this is where I see a strong parallel with retirement savings.
Nobody argues that unless you retire with $10 million there was no point in saving.
You save what you reasonably can, consistently, over a long period of time because even relatively modest deposits, compounded over decades, can leave you in a dramatically better position than making no deposits at all.
Physical training works much the same way.
Every workout does not have to be heroic. Every session does not need to leave you exhausted. You do not have to become an exceptional athlete. You do not even need to particularly enjoy every part of the process.
You simply continue making deposits.
A little more strength.
A little more muscle.
A little more aerobic capacity.
A little better balance.
A little more mobility.
Individually, none of those deposits may seem especially consequential. Over years, however, they can determine how much physical freedom remains available to you later.
That is the part of fitness I think is sometimes obscured by the extremes.
When people hear “training,” they may picture impressive bodies, difficult workouts, races, personal records, or people doing things they have neither the desire nor the ability to do.
But the objective does not have to be becoming some extraordinary physical specimen later in life.
The objective can simply be to arrive there with as much strength, capacity, resilience, and independence still in the bank as you can reasonably preserve.
Small, intentional deposits made consistently over time may never turn you into an exceptional athlete. But they can leave you substantially more capable—and with considerably more freedom—than if you had made no deposits at all.
That seems like a return worth investing in.