The Post-Apocalyptic Workout

Day 77: Faster Slackmistress! Kill! Kill!

The Second Challenge has been posted.

Day 59: Fathead!

The end of week eight proves that the zombies aren't the only thing experiencing corpse bloat.

Previously:

This Week:

My weight is up but my measurements are (mostly) down.  I blame this on my parents, as they forced me to join them in Florida and feast on the innards of the bugs of the sea and consume many alcoholic libations.  Also, the whole point of having parents is that you have someone to blame things on.  This is why orphans are sad.

My husband said to me why don't you lie about your weight?  They're not gonna know.  But I feel like lying about that starts a slippery slope that ends in book deals and Oprah. 

Okay, I know, like that's gonna happen again.  Waitaminute...

Anyway, the only place I lie about my weight is at the DMV.

Moving on.

This the Final Week of the Couch-to-5K.  Spinning has mostly fallen to the wayside as has weight training as I gear my body to put one foot in front of the other for thirty minutes straight.  Sunday was my first outing, and at 8:00am I strapped on my running shoes and kissed Mr. Boy and Daisy the WonderDog goodbye and told them to shoot my ashes from a cannon if I didn't make it home alive. 

With the help of Google Maps, I had plotted a course to run outside.  We've had fabulous weather here in Los Angeles, and it only seems fitting that I start taking it to the streets, just like Michael McDonald.

FORTY minutes, people.  Forty mothereffing minutes.  In a mothereffing row.

A hair under three miles. 

Today I   left at 3pm to try it again.   However, I didn't follow my own advice on dumbassery  - that 2.5 pounds I gained over the past two weeks all must have gone to my head - as I hadn't eaten a damned thing (minus coffee) all day.  I bonked after 1.7 miles and walked the rest of the way but can I just have a moment to say I - the fat, slow kid who huffed and puffed through Hernia Hill - ran 1.7 miles in a fasted state.

Will try again tomorrow, sans dumbassery. 

And next Monday I start the next training phase of the PAW.  Stay tuned....

 

Day 45: Workin' It.

Sunday began week seven of the Post-Apocalyptic Workout.  Let's see how I'm doing, shall we?

Previously:



Today:

(I get faster, I get stronger, I get better at looking like a complete goof in my Scorecard pictures.)

I haven't turned into Terminator 2 Linda Hamilton yet, but today I did something that I don't think I've ever done before: I ran 25 minutes.  In a row.

I imagine this doesn't sound like much to the average runner or natural athlete, but for me it's been monumental.  I've always hated running from that fated first Friday of 7th grade gym class when we had to run The Mile.  You didn't have to provide more information like that, every kid knew it and (almost) every kid dreaded it.  We were instructed to "stick with people who ran at our pace."  While I played Volleyball and Basketball, I was at the most capable of short bursts of speed.  But endurance, and the regular thump-thump-thump of my Reeboks hitting the grass behind Hadley Junior High gave me nightmares.  It was a loop around the field, then across the street into a wooded area that's since been paved over by a housing development - the only time I've been thankful for suburban sprawl.

I'd line up with "the fat kids."  Every Junior High had them, and it gave them a moment to laugh at someone else for not fitting in, and I was happy to provide the service.  My friends would always urge me to keep up with them, but at the halfway mark I'd feel my lungs ready to burst out of my chest.  The second half of the run was down a dusty path punctuated with knee-high weeds, and during the Autumn and Spring months my allergies would  protest violently.  When I crossed the finish line, I was a puffy-eyed mess of phlegm  and sweat, and as my gym teacher took down my 13+ minute time, she'd shake her head and say I know you can do better than that.

Like anyone, I have a tendency to procrastinate.  When I'm overwhelmed with too much to do, my default is to sit down and do nothing.  But it I get myself out there, if I can separate my ass from the couch I have a tendency to push myself way beyond my limits.  When I was  rocking the sub-20% bodyfat  back in 2000, eating little and working out and lifting even more, I was constantly injuring myself because I couldn't quiet that I know you can do better than that. 

I thought about that the first time I completed the 20-minute run.  It was sheer hell.  I'm screwed, I thought, but at my next run I tried something a wee bit different: I backed off the speed, and instead of starting faster and slowing down, I started slower and sped up.  That was the first run that I felt like I could be good at this.  I could get faster.  I could go longer.  I just needed to trainer smarter, not harder.

I took that with me into today's 25-minute run, and while I'm still slower than the 10-minute mile that the Couch-to-5K assumes you are, I'm gaining ground.   In six short weeks, my endurance has greatly improve, people keep remarking that I've lost a ton of weight, I'm a little sore and tired but I haven't injured myself, and I've been able to accurately judge what my body can take.

I have until the Apocalypse to get faster.  I can work on it.

...

I owe a great big Mea Culpa to the people hanging out at the PAW:Home Game Board.  To say that I have a gazillion and one commitments would be the apex of understatement, and the board is one of those things that's fallen through the cracks.  I was thinking of asking the awesome crew at the Zombie Squad if they'd take the PAW Home Game Refugees in.  What say you? 

Previous scorecards can be found here.

Day 29: the Good, the Bad, & the Ugly.

I look more dorktastic than normal in this week's scorecard.  I attribute it to the oh shit, it's 7:15am on a Sunday and I have to snap this quickly before I head to the gym.


Previously:


Today:



The Good:
My endurance has definitely improved.  While my pace on the Couch-to-5K isn't the 10-minute mile they imagine you'll run, it's definitely improving.  Today began week five, and the idea of running five minutes in a row didn't inspire feelings of impending doom.  I'm getting stronger. And while some days the idea of going to the gym (or back to the gym, if I've worked that morning) make me want to stab myself in the eye, I'm going, dammit.

The Bad:
While I mentioned Friday that I want to use the scale as tool of measurement and nothing more, this morning's number was accompanied by a ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!  UP TWO POUNDS?!  However, this is precisely why I take measurements.  Clearly something is happening, and my clothes are looser.  And I swear to you I didn't get hit in the face with a shovel, it was early and I needed to get my workout in before I headed to my new job.  (That's four, if anyone was counting.)

Currently I'm eating between 1400-2000 calories a day, with most days falling in the 1500-1600 category.  I've made the executive decision not to start my diet until the next eight-week challenge.  Because I don't wanna.  Yes, I'd like to lose some weight and it would be nice if it magically fell off my body, but it would also be wonderful if the Universe was one big Puppy Bowl (and someone dropped a bag of money off at my door.)  But in the grand scheme of things, not really a problem.  I'll get over it.   (Interspersed with periods of whining, but I bet  you guessed that already.)

The Ugly:
Guess who was back at the gym with her boyfriend this morning?  He kissed her and went to do curls in the squat rack; she took to the elliptical at the end of the row of treadmills.  She looked at him, and I smiled at her.  She turned away, clearly uncomfortable.

But not uncomfortable enough to chat with the trainer.

Trainer: You're here early.  Got plans for the Superbowl?
Girl: [indicating toward her boyfriend] He's going to a sports bar.
Trainer: You're not going with?
Girl: You couldn't pay me twelve thousand dollars to go to a sports bar.
Trainer: Twelve thousand dollars?  Really?
Girl: Really.
Trainer: I'm not a fan of sports bars, but I think my price would be less.  Maybe a thousand bucks.
Girl: Okay, twelve hundred.  But after taxes.
Trainer: You've given this some thought.
Girl: I think a lot.

At this point, I stumble and almost fall off the treadmill.  Recovering, I send a psychic message to the trainer.  JohnEdwardsJohnEdwardsJohnEdwardsJohnEdwardsJohnEdwardsJohnEdwards.

Trainer: So, your boy John Edwards dropped out of the race.

YES!

Girl: Yeah, I'm so upset.
Trainer: So who're you gonna vote for now?
Girl: I don't have a choice.
Trainer: What do you mean?
Girl: You can't vote Republican*, so you only have one choice of who you can vote for.  Which sort of  ruins the whole point of voting, because voting is all about choice.

Okay, I lied.  This last part?  Totally the good.

*For the record, I'm a Democrat.  But stupidity clearly cuts across all parties.
 

Day 17: Scorecard/Survival

Please excuse the goofy grin.  Looking fabulous and sexy sans makeup and in one's workout clothes is thankfully not crucial for post-apocalyptic survival, although those Resident Evil movies claim otherwise.

...

On a serious note: 

While not completely relevant to this blog, actor Heath Ledger died of a reported drug overdose today, although it hasn't been discovered if it was accidental or intentional as of this writing.   I wrote more on the subject at the slack daily, but there is a point that I make there that is relevant here, and that is this: survival isn't just something you need for the apocalypse.   You might need it to get through your day.  Fighting for your emotional survival is just as important as fighting for you physical survival.  It may make us frail, but it also makes us human. 

While I may crack wise, there are days where I have to fucking fight for it.  But I do.  And I'll continue to.

I hope that you do, too.