“Yeah, but it looks weird.”

I needed a way to get exercise as I aged. I wanted to be in shape, but I didn’t want to hurt myself. I had been a runner for years. I loved the workout that lasted thirty minutes and how I felt afterward. And I liked how impressed people were that I had run a marathon or that I ran in zero-degree temperatures. Unfortunately, my knees began filing formal complaints. Eventually, they won. I learned what many runners learn too late: running is not gentle on joints.

So I went looking for something else. Something that would challenge my heart and lungs, get me into excellent shape, and not grind me down in the process.

That’s when I discovered power walking.

Not strolling. Not mall walking. Power walking—the competitive kind. Arms pumping, landing on the heel and pushing off on the toe, one foot always in contact with the ground. It looks, admittedly, a little dramatic.

And it works.

Power walking engages 95% of one’s muscles. My heart rate climbs into the 150s and sometimes 170 if I’m pushing. I now clock under an eleven-minute mile. It’s intense. I get the same cardiovascular benefits as running—arguably more, because I’m engaging nearly every muscle group. And when I tell people about it, the response is often the same.

“Yeah, but it looks weird.”

Video of author power walking

The first few times someone said that, I felt a flicker of something old inside me. A reflex. The younger version of myself—the one who cared deeply about how people perceived me. The younger version who wanted so much to be liked.

We’re trained early, especially as women, to monitor how we appear. Are we graceful? Are we pleasant? Are we doing this in a way that looks appealing? Even our exercise is supposed to look good. There’s an unspoken rule that effort should be attractive.

Power walking does not care about being attractive. Your arms pump hard. Your face gets red. Your hips move with purpose. You look like someone intent on getting somewhere quickly, which you are.

This “weird” sport took me to the Illinois Senior Olympics, where I won a gold medal in the 1500-meter power walk in 2025. A gold medal. I’m now training for the Senior Olympic games in both Massachusetts and Illinois. If I qualify, I’ll go on to the National Senior Olympics in 2027.

When I train on the lakefront path near my home, I get runners giving me perplexed looks that sometimes morph into disdain. Recently, I walked toward two male runners who looked at me with confusion, as if to say, Why aren’t you just running? And then they looked at each other with amusement, as if to say: Why is she moving like that?

I smile to myself.

Sometimes I imagine explaining that I hold a gold medal in this funny-looking sport. That my resting heart rate is enviable. That my knees are intact. That I will likely still be doing this twenty years from now. Instead, I do something else.

I go faster.

Lately, I’ve been passing runners. The same runners who might glance sideways at my exaggerated arm swing. There’s a particular satisfaction in that moment—not because I need to defeat them, but because it affirms something I’ve come to understand: Looking impressive and being impressive are not the same thing.

We spend so much energy, especially as women, trying not to look foolish. Not to stand out in the wrong way. Not to move too boldly or take up too much space. But foolish according to whom? Impressive by whose standards?

If someone looks askance at me on the path, that’s fine. Maybe my movement disrupts their idea of how people should exercise, particularly women. Maybe they just don’t like anything unfamiliar.

That is their issue.

My focus isn’t on them. It’s on my heart, pounding strong. My lungs, expanding. My legs, carrying me forward at a pace I worked hard to earn.

It turns out there’s a strange freedom in no longer optimizing for approval. In choosing strength over aesthetics. In choosing longevity over applause.

You might think I look ridiculous.

I’m still passing you.