I hope you found time to talk with the trainers yesterday. I hope they had a good turnout. My wife signed up after receiving promises, in writing, that I would have nothing to do with her training. She reads my blog you see, cuz I make her.I'm jawing a bit with my trainer working through some test about what I'd like to see at the gym. Those are tough when you're happy, I'm good but I try to provide some feedback. I'm telling her that I'm considering doing this ten minute STRETCH course, I don't mention my motivation, my sad weepy tale of the bike bottle cage and my inability to reach it.
My trainer glances at some clock, "It's about to start."
"Do you get sweaty?" You wouldn't want to be in a meeting with me if I've been sweaty.
"No, I sink you should go."
OK she didn't say it with a heavy German accent but she wanted to and it was totally implied anyway.
I go figuring a few folk will show up, stretch for ten minutes and then wander off.
Nope. This stretch thing is the cool down for something called Strength & Tone. This course, led by Diablo, is packed full of serious athletes, all of them female. This explains last Friday. It's well documented that prolonged exposure to this much concentrated estrogen would gender confuse any male.
The girls are telling me, in a manner that suspiciously resembles the Fun Run coaxing, that I simply must do this thing called ZUMBA. They're saying, "You may want to rename theLibrarian after you take that course!" I'm thinking of renaming theLibrarian anyway - the name doesn't 'work' for her. I told them OK but after I sprinted back to my desk I googled it and discovered ZUMBA is Aztec for "Dance Till You Puke in Joy!" A mouthful, but accurate - google it yourself if you don't believe me.
Go on!
Sucker :-)
Anyway, so what? I want to experience as much as I can, ya know? I'll try Zumba and this Strength & Tone thing but schedules must be observed. I'm not sure I can fold it into the routine. I do this stretch thing and I feel better that Diablo didn't call out the crotch ripper or anything that would have blown the back end of my jeans out. I'm certain quite a few folk are appreciative of his consideration. Thing is I can't, as I sit here typing this, remember even one of the stretches. That's OK, I'll go back.
Today was a tempo workout. I chose an upright bike for forty-five minutes and just died on it. I achieved my objective but at what cost? I went for forty-five minutes on the bike with and average HR of 144 bpm. I'm pleased but I only had one out of body experience. That's where I'm just gone, peddling on autopilot. You can lose a lot of minutes that way as opposed to watching that darned clock click down in slowmo.
IronMan is setting up for a rack run and goodMood is watching him and asking questions. I'm humping this stupid upright to nowhere sucking wind and wishing my thighs didn't hurt. They are feeeeeeling it today, the treacherous bastards and I'm starting to wonder if I'll be able to walk when I get off this thing.
Suddenly IronMan appears all shimmery in my anaerobic gaze, "Twenty minutes to go? Man!" I realize he fully intends for me to do a rack run myself. STUPID BLOG! Where are the EMTs? Where are my attorneys? I gasp something back before returning to my misery, myopically staring out at IronMan and goodMood starting their runs, blinking at the sweat in my eyes. I think they did three runs each but I don't know up to what weight, maybe 85 pounds, whatever it was it was impressive.
I destroy my rhythm standing up in the pedals, it's a little trickier on an upright than a real bike, the thing getting kinda wobbly. My pal the coccyx explodes in pain before I brutally shut it down. No time for that! I gingerly sit back down and resume finding my cadence.
Sweat is running down my forearms making drip drip drip puddles on the support legs of the bike. That's new, I idly think. I risk checking the time. Seven minutes, the clock running in geological time now, each tick taking ten seconds. I'm not irritated, I'm resolute. I'm going to finish this thing. It's personal now.
The last two minutes are the worst. My legs have nothing, I'm dialing back from 8 to 6 and pedaling faster to keep the HR up. I don't know why.
Thirty seconds, through sheer force of will I'm making my legs move. I don't know why I have nothing, I just don't. Deal. I wish I had eaten a little more of that pear this morning.
It's over. Time's up.
I pedal slowly trying to catch my breath, not doing a very good job at it. I hop off the bike, nooooo, I manage to get off the bike. My coccyx again voicing its displeasure but not as loudly, more in relief. I stagger around in an anaerobic daze. I think I talked to people. I'm doing stretches to help mitigate the lactic pain that will soon drop by and then head over to the dumbbell rack.
IronMan has laid out three sets of weights for me, 3, 5, and 8 pounders. You pick them up, do five, then the next weights, do five all the way to the top and then work your way back down.
By the time I'm at the eight pounds IronMan is standing near me, he says, "You have good form, you might want to go to ten pounds." He's involved in some other masochistic thing with goodMood where they're laying manhole covers across their thighs and doing some arm thing. I appreciate that both he and goodMood are keeping an eye on my form. I go to ten pounds.
It's an interesting exercise, going up wasn't too bad, going back down I'm feeling it in the biceps. The three pounder actually felt like it was exercising a different part of the bicep by the time I got back to it.
I watch IronMan and goodMood, both determined to destroy themselves now. goodMood is wondering if he'll be able to lift a coffee cup later, it's gotten to that. IronMan wheels and orders me to do another set.
I do, feeling the burn even more - I'm going to have to continue practicing these things. IronMan says my form is fine. Form is important in everything you do, or injury or loss of benefit will result - at least that's my understanding.
I put away the dumbbells and head for the lockers. I pass my trainer deciding she must be renamed. theLibrarian is NOT her name, doesn't work, what does?
Time for ABS. The TOSRVs are in Vegas and Kojak is at Mardi Gras so turnout is lighter. I go about five minutes before it gets ugly for me. My trainer looking over and is trying to encourage me but for some reason, like on leg lifting anything my thighs are saying, "After later" and then various sections of my abs are destroyed piecemeal and I'm done. I feel like I went down swinging though.
I help put stuff away and then ask my trainer if I can talk to her for a minute, "theLibrarian just isn't working for you. I have to change your name."
She says something about not wearing her her glasses recently that I didn't quite catch because my mind jumped tracks and I need to be brutally clear. I love those tiny glasses, I'm jealous that they work on her and on me I'd look even dorkier. I plod on not wanting to sidetrack the conversation, I'm about to collapse. I'm tired.
I ask her, "Do you have a red scrunchie?" I'm thinking Powerpuff Girls particularly Blossom (who wore the big red bow). She wanders over to some bag saying no she didn't think so, locating the pepper spray I presume. I'm not sure if asking what color of scrunchie one wears has crossed some line or not. Probably not, she probably just thinks I'm weird, I get that A LOT.
She's looking at me questioningly and I go for broke, "Well I was thinking Powerpuff Girls, particularly Blossom who wore..."
"BUBBLES! That was my nickname in college!" She breaks into a huge grin.
Sometimes it just all comes together. No longer
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