For the last 10 years or so, I have been calling myself an athlete. It’s a very grand title for a middle-aged woman who has never run a complete mile on pavement, who has been fighting with her body since she tried her first “miracle diet” at 11 years old, who regularly goes mountain-biking with her family and vapor-locks at the top of small hills, afraid to put her feet on the pedals, let go of the brakes and coast with momentum. The word athlete connotes skill, physical fitness and daring. I don’t have those things. What I do have, and am slowly building, is persistence. More days than not I put on an athlete’s clothes and shoes and do the things that athletes do — I work my muscles, cultivate new skills, create pain to create growth.