The last time I ran over the Mass St. bridge I was shirtless, sweating, breathing easy-ish and listening to Girl Talk. When I ran over it last night, I was wearing running tights, thermals, gloves, a stocking cap, freezing, suffocating, and listening to Girl Talk.
The last time I felt this awful during a workout I was doubled-over a bench two-thirds the way up the Griffith Park trail to the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles. I told a French family I was fine by asking “Comment ca va?” with a chapped smile and a pale face, before bidding them “A tout a l’heure” and walking up to the observatory for water and death. It’s all the French I could muster from two years of not paying attention in class. I felt about that bad sucking down winter air yesterday.
Triathlon season started yesterday.
America is out of shape. If it was in elementary school, it’d be the fat kid who sits alone during lunch, wiping spitwads off the back of his neck. The only difference is that kid didn’t deserve those spitwads. America The Fat Kid does; it got fat on its own accord.
All I want to do is not get fat. Not just “not get fat,” but be in shape. Good shape. Fight Club shape.
At a moment’s notice I want to be able to run a 5k, swim a mile, take my shirt off and wink at whoever is around, broad jump eight feet, stretch and touch my toes, and bench press one-and-half times my own weight.
Being a commitment-phobe and someone who gets bored with routine quickly, I found triathlons are my best motivation to get shredded (blog lingo), because I can do something different every day. But I’ve given myself a cardio off-season, so I’m not breathing as well as I did this summer. A hand injury gave me a resistance workout off-season for a few weeks as well.
Thus, tri-season started yesterday.
You know the drill: time to get it together and fire back up. Lose the Holiday rust and sharpen the six-pack (if applicable). It’s time to lift, and run, and bike, and swim, and play basketball like I have a shirtless photo-shoot in a month. My first triathlon is in June, and if I want to improve on last year, it’s go-time.
Also thus, this blog begins today.
I’ve trained long enough using knowledge I’ve researched on my own that I think I can prescribe a lifestyle that could work for normal people to stay in moderate shape, at least. Also, it provides a big-brother-like eye on my workouts to make sure I’m not cutting my routine short.
I also have my triathlon buddies, who are my real buddies, too. Nick and Brad. Together we sign-up for triathlons, 5k’s, and soon-to-be marathons, adventure runs and warrior dashes. We guilt the shit out of each other to make sure we’re all putting in our time. It works and we wind up racing pretty well. We also feel pretty good.
The three of us play on a rec basketball team together, and we’ve played entire games without being subbed out. Then we swim a mile and do core exercises. That’s freedom. Freedom to do any physical activity without hindrance because you’re in shape and because you feel like it. Freedom, because we can go places on foot most people go in cars.
I’m sure I’ll talk about what workouts I do, what I’m eating, why I skipped a workout when I shouldn’t have, how a race went, how I tried to out run a bicycle to showcase my beastmode. But again, I hate routine, so I’ll tell you about what’s pertinent and whatever else pops up. People (usually in trucks) like to tell runners they’re a “queer” or “gay” or “really gay,” so without a doubt I’ll have an awkward run-in to share in no time.
First up for me today: exchanging my horrible, cheap thermals I thought would be perfect for outdoor-running for actual outdoor-running clothes. Running on a treadmill works for a day, running outside works all the time. And if I plan on running at all this winter, I’m going to need arctic gear.