I’m one week away from the finish line, and I feel incredible. Well, sort of. I spent my evening glued to the toilet and violently vomiting for four hours with what I think is the stomach flu, but hey. Flu aside, I’m crushing it.
Last Friday, for time, I completed 21, 15, and 9 reps of biking for calories and thrusters at 55 pounds, then 15, 12, and 9 reps rowing for calories and hanging power cleans at 55 pounds, then 12, 9, and 6 reps of lateral hops over the barbell and overhead squats at 35 pounds. I finished in 27:20. Then I ordered takeout.
I’ve never been a snacker. As a child, I generally avoided chips, crackers, and popcorn, and, surprisingly, I wasn’t fond of candy. I preferred cheese-based foods (artificial or otherwise), and actual, decadent dessert. Like Velveeta and crème brûlée. Or a maple-glazed doughnut with custard.
It was a successful first week. I lost four pounds (which I suspect has more to do with water and weigh-in times than actual fat loss), increased my skeletal muscle mass by a tiny 0.2 lb., and decreased my body fat percentage by 1.5%. After a disciplined week of eating piles of vegetables and performing challenging workouts, those numbers were nice to see.
It’s January, and true to New Year’s call for resolution, I’m embarking on a 10-week fitness journey prompted by Lake State CrossFit, in partnership with Complete Nutrition, and despite my general disdain for the millions of people who believe January 1st is the only time to get healthy.
My trek to the grocery store via bicycle was an overambitious endeavor prompted by unusually warm weather, no food, and a lack of car insurance.
For the first time in my adult life I’d forgotten to renew my coverage, which was due on a Sunday, and I was too busy sleeping in and sipping mimosas to bother with things like bodily injury and property damage liability. Then I found myself (sort of) car-less with a naked fridge, and a sister needed to eat.
This is where shit goes south.
Each December, I compile a list of things to do and accomplish during the upcoming year. Some things are vague and perpetual, some things are oddly specific. Regardless of its contents, its purpose is to encourage new adventures, and spend some quality time galavanting beyond the confines of the comfort zone. Because that’s where growth happens.
I used to equate running with the same horror as voluntarily hacking off a limb with a blunt, rusted saw. If you’d asked me to choose between a casual afternoon jog, or a root canal sans anesthesia, I might’ve actually preferred the root canal.