“How are you active?”

My husband and I recently returned from a honeymoon filled with hiking, canoeing, and adventuring. During our trip, we became friendly with another traveling couple. At some point in conversation my blindness came up, to which I was asked, “out of curiosity, how are you active? You mentioned you enjoy running and hiking, but you also just said you can’t see…”


The lay public often is unaware of both the barriers faced when pursuing an active lifestyle and the accommodations and alternative sports available for disabled athletes. As a recreational runner and fitness class attendee, I certainly cannot speak to the vast ways in which people with disabilities accommodate their training or sports. Instead, I offer my experience as an example for how I learned to accommodate my vision loss in pursuit of fitness.


I started going to the gym in college. I wasn't an athlete growing up, so I couldn’t fall back on muscle memory. Instead, I embraced being a novice. I asked friends who regularly used cardio machines to show me how they worked. I learned to feel for the buttons I needed: start, stop, increase incline. I listened for the beeps to signal changes in my settings. After I felt comfortable with cardio, I began asking friends to describe how to use various weight machines. I approached exercise with open curiosity and a willingness to ask questions. If I couldn’t figure out how a machine worked with poking, prodding, and adjusting, I asked someone to show me. I made countless novice mistakes. I found the machines most accessible to me and abandoned others. One feeble attempt at a stair master led to a nasty fall and deterred me indefinitely. Despite embarrassing moments, I developed a sustainable system; I memorized where my favorite equipment was and how to use it. I couldn’t see the numbers on weights, so each time I lifted a few and settled on some that seemed adequately challenging. Though I was intimated at first, over time the gym became a space for me to develop my body’s strength rather than focus on its limitations.


About a year after discovering the gym, I decided to try running. I started by run/walking indoors, alternating between the treadmill and track. On the track, I relied on both my limited sight and the sounds around me to guide me. When it wasn’t too noisy, I could easily hear where the machines were or if there were other people near me. After months on the track, I decided to try heading outside. My sight affords me the ability to see sidewalks and paths, but I was fearful of getting lost or hit by a car. I chose to run in familiar areas with little traffic. I ran during daylight hours when roads were least populated. I only crossed the street at stop signs. At first, I would circle the same few blocks. As I ran more, I learned to listen to my surroundings to keep myself safe. Over time, I gained confidence in my ability to run safely outdoors in familiar areas with minimal traffic.


I’ve since had the privilege to take my running to more settings. I still employ the same strategies. I minimize crossing the street or running near traffic. I only run in unfamiliar settings with someone sighted. For the last couple years, I’ve run at the lake near my apartment. Even on the protected path, I often find it too crowded to safely and enjoyably run alone. I limit my runs to times when the path is less busy. I choose when and where I run outdoors strategically. Still, I end up tripping a lot. Despite the occasional scrapes and bruises, I've fallen - literally - in love with running outside because it makes me feel capable and independent. Though I personally haven’t used a running guide before, I fully intend to take advantage of a valuable resource, United in Stride, that connects blind and visually impaired runners to local sighted guides


When I moved to California seven years ago, I began hiking. I started off with easy paved paths. Over time, I became more adventurous, going on steeper and narrower trails. I always brought my little adventure dog, Milo. Hiking with him by my side provided me with physical cues about the terrain. I could feel based on the movement of his leash how steep the incline was. He would avoid puddles, branches, and logs, so I follow his lead. Even with Milo by my side, I never hike alone. I always go with someone who can read maps and make sure we’re on the right trail. I often use hiking poles to feel the terrain. And I still rely on others’ to point out major obstacles in the path and to provide occasional step-by-step guidance: big rock on left, step down on right, go over tree root . I only hike with people I trust who are willing to go at my pace.


To answer the question posed: the way I am active is by doing what works for me. How I choose to exercise looks different from someone who is able-bodied. I am deliberate about pursuing the forms of movement that are enjoyable and accessible for me. I am able to run, hike, and do yoga by being patient, accepting, and compassionate towards myself and my changing abilities and needs.