It's amazing how many excuses I come up with to explain why I can't go running. Today it was, "Nah man, we can't go running at noon...it's too hot out." The day before I was tired from standing on my feet all day at work. Earlier that morning I was groggy. The day before that I begrudgingly made it out for two miles, but the day before that I skipped out for a road trip to Los Angeles (couldn't turn down luxury box seats for a Galaxy match). Earlier that week I had a sore throat that sat me down for three days -- I probably could have run on the third day, but my legs were stiff from sitting at the computer all day...and I ate too much for breakfast...then ate a tasty, but greasy lunch...and capped the day off with a heaping helping of spaghetti marinara and pizookie (no room to run with that fantastic food lineup).
I've still got time for a run tonight, but I'm weighing my options. I should bite the bullet and get out before the sun goes down (check that, I just glanced outside and that is no longer an option...add writing blog entries to my list of excuses). I decided to wait until the end of the day, but then I ate a late dinner and Jason called me up and told me that we're bowling at 9 p.m. Bowling! I can't miss bowling! So, the run may be postponed for a later date.
The last two weeks haven't been a total waste. Although I've spent very little time physically preparing for a marathon, I've fine-tuned my diet to include the proper caloric intake for a runner putting in high mileage (note to self: better add miles to my workout plan or I'm going to get fat).
I also came to a troubling realization: running a marathon is going to be a lot harder than I thought. I put in a 6-miler last week along with a 4-miler and a 2-miler. That gave me a weekly workload of 12 miles. Added to my week one total, my mileage is at 20 total over 14 days. A marathon is 26.2 miles over about 4 hours (at my anticipated pace) and I could only muster 20 miles in 14 days. Uh oh. What have I gotten myself into? You mean I might actually have to push myself for this thing? Damn.
Week 2 Summary
Day 8: 4.6 miles, 35:19, heartrate of 132-138 bpm approx. 2 min after the run
Day 9: Off / Sick
Day 10: Off / Sick
Day 11: Off / "Sick" slash I'm a lazy bum
Day 12: 6 miles, 48:08, heartrate of 132 bpm approx. 2 min after the run
Day 13: Off
Day 14: 2.2 miles, 16:48
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Week 1
The goal this week was just to reintroduce my body to running. I've gone on maybe one-two dozen runs over the last two years (and most of those came during the summer immediately following the end of my track career as I trained with my buddy, Sky Taylor, who was trying to get a spot on the UC Davis track team).
Needless to say, with that sporadic training regimen, my body isn't exactly primed to start laying down 30-plus mile weeks. Overall, I tried to toss in some cross-training and just get my feet some use -- plantar fasciatis was a huge problem for me during my running career so I want to be sure I don't derail my marathon hopes by overtraining out of the gate.
I'm also planning to avoid weightlifting during the next few months while focusing more on bodyweight resistance exercises (push ups, pull ups, dips, etc.). Because I've never been a huge fan of weights, I'm perfectly fine making this "sacrifice."
In all, I put in 8 miles of jogging and 8 miles on the stationary bike during the week. My goal over the next seven days is to up my mileage to 15. That's closer to what I was putting in as a quarter-miler for Cal Poly during summer training (only those miles were accumulated in shorter bursts at a significantly quicker pace).
Here's a rundown of the week's events:
Day 1: 2 miles on the track, no time / 40 push ups using dome yoga ball (4x10 with narrow grip, wide grip, medium grip and 10 with the dome side on the ground using a wide grip)
Day 2: 6 miles stationary bike
Day 3: 2 miles easy jog, 19:30 / 100 push ups (4x25)
Day 4: 1 hour of racquetball / 2 miles on stationary bike / 30 pull ups (3x10), 30 trunk lifts (2x15 with 35 lb. plate), 30 shoulder press (2x15 with 55 lb. bar), burnout chin ups: 15
Day 5: No running / 2 sets of tennis / 100 push ups in 4:00
Day 6: 2 miles easy jog, no time at 10:30 a.m. / 2 miles on the treadmill at 4:30 p.m. / 30 pull ups (2 sets, 18 & 12), 20 dips (2x10), 200 abs (50 crunches, 25 side crunches right & left, 50 windshield wipers w/ 12 lb. med ball, 50 knees-to-chest)
Day 7: Off
Day 8 (today): 4.6 miles, 35:19, heartrate of 132-138 bpm approx. 2 min after the run
Needless to say, with that sporadic training regimen, my body isn't exactly primed to start laying down 30-plus mile weeks. Overall, I tried to toss in some cross-training and just get my feet some use -- plantar fasciatis was a huge problem for me during my running career so I want to be sure I don't derail my marathon hopes by overtraining out of the gate.
I'm also planning to avoid weightlifting during the next few months while focusing more on bodyweight resistance exercises (push ups, pull ups, dips, etc.). Because I've never been a huge fan of weights, I'm perfectly fine making this "sacrifice."
In all, I put in 8 miles of jogging and 8 miles on the stationary bike during the week. My goal over the next seven days is to up my mileage to 15. That's closer to what I was putting in as a quarter-miler for Cal Poly during summer training (only those miles were accumulated in shorter bursts at a significantly quicker pace).
Here's a rundown of the week's events:
Day 1: 2 miles on the track, no time / 40 push ups using dome yoga ball (4x10 with narrow grip, wide grip, medium grip and 10 with the dome side on the ground using a wide grip)
Day 2: 6 miles stationary bike
Day 3: 2 miles easy jog, 19:30 / 100 push ups (4x25)
Day 4: 1 hour of racquetball / 2 miles on stationary bike / 30 pull ups (3x10), 30 trunk lifts (2x15 with 35 lb. plate), 30 shoulder press (2x15 with 55 lb. bar), burnout chin ups: 15
Day 5: No running / 2 sets of tennis / 100 push ups in 4:00
Day 6: 2 miles easy jog, no time at 10:30 a.m. / 2 miles on the treadmill at 4:30 p.m. / 30 pull ups (2 sets, 18 & 12), 20 dips (2x10), 200 abs (50 crunches, 25 side crunches right & left, 50 windshield wipers w/ 12 lb. med ball, 50 knees-to-chest)
Day 7: Off
Day 8 (today): 4.6 miles, 35:19, heartrate of 132-138 bpm approx. 2 min after the run
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I'm Going to Run a Marathon
DISCLAIMER: I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M DOING THIS!
I am going to run a marathon. Me, the guy who ran sprints throughout his unremarkable track career. The guy who has never run further than 7 miles in a single workout, never raced a course longer than 3.1. The same guy who believes eating dessert should be considered a sport and has gone on the record on multiple occasions claiming, "I hate running," is going to take on a marathon.
It was sometime near midnight on Thursday or Friday of last week when Joe Okafor's name flashed across the bottom of my Facebook toolbar. "Frank, you wanna run a marathon?" Joe and I ran track together at Cal Poly (it was a brief together...I was cut after a month or two and Joe didn't go out the next season when I resurrected my lackluster career). Still, we stayed in touch a bit and played on a few baller-status (loosely defined) intramural basketball teams. However, neither of us has maintained any sort of running routine since wrapping up on the track multiple years ago, so I assumed Joe's random midnight request was alcohol-induced.
A few days later, Joe was still serious about running a 26.2 miles. With my lack of employment leaving a hefty chunk of free time, I figured, why not? So, just like that, I've decided I'm going to run a marathon.
I don't have a training plan in place, a race picked out or a pace to aim for, but the rough draft version includes a marathon that takes place in about three months (ideally on flat ground) with a steadily increasing workload at a snail's pace. Joe is set on competing (urrrr, watching others compete while we trudge along at the pack of the pack) at Lake Tahoe or Big Bear in late September. I plan on trying to convince him otherwise. As beautiful as those runs might be, they're both at altitude.
Let me tell you about my one experience running at high altitude. It was a warm, midsummer day at Lake Tahoe. I was in the best shape of my life, getting ready for my senior year of track at Cal Poly. The first half mile went smoothly, but my condition rapidly approached late-night-at-the-bars status. I carried a moderate pace through a paved trail near our cabin and thought nothing of the shooting stars that kept flashing out the corner of my eye (probably not all that uncommon in the clear, unpolluted night skies of Lake Tahoe, but highly unlikely with the sun at high noon). Soon after, the pavement started to sway and a group of small forest critters openly began to mock my running form in a Southern twang akin to my former college coach, Terry Crawford. (The last statement might be slightly fictitious, but every Cal Poly track alum can at least appreciate the humor of a squirrel yelling, "Readyyyyyyyy!")
The rest of the run didn't go so well (especially the part where I stopped and walked back to the cabin with my head hung in shame for flaming out before the mile marker). Twenty-six-point-two miles at that altitude? Not gonna happen unless they have complimentary oxygen bars at checkpoints stationed 800 yards apart.
My fitness right now is pretty crappy so this is going to be a bit of a challenge. I'm not in the worst shape of my life (see: three months ago), but I'm hardly ready to run a marathon. I've put about four miles under my belt so far this week and my legs feel great (or at leas they would if I hadn't added 6-7 miles on the bike and multiple games of racquetball). Still, I'm going to put in another 3-4 tomorrow and aim for a longer run on Saturday or Sunday. I don't know my definition of "longer run" yet, but I guess we'll find out.
The way I see it, if I train for the next three months, I should be able to handle a marathon. It's a lot harder to compete in a marathon than it is to run in one. I'm not trying to throw down a ridiculous training regimen complete with 100-plus mile weeks and a perfect diet to compete for a quick time (there's no way I'm giving up my passion for chocolate chip cookies and all other things sweet just to run a marathon). I just want to say that I have run 26.2 miles and didn't quit. So, let's get this marathon thing rollin'!
I am going to run a marathon. Me, the guy who ran sprints throughout his unremarkable track career. The guy who has never run further than 7 miles in a single workout, never raced a course longer than 3.1. The same guy who believes eating dessert should be considered a sport and has gone on the record on multiple occasions claiming, "I hate running," is going to take on a marathon.
It was sometime near midnight on Thursday or Friday of last week when Joe Okafor's name flashed across the bottom of my Facebook toolbar. "Frank, you wanna run a marathon?" Joe and I ran track together at Cal Poly (it was a brief together...I was cut after a month or two and Joe didn't go out the next season when I resurrected my lackluster career). Still, we stayed in touch a bit and played on a few baller-status (loosely defined) intramural basketball teams. However, neither of us has maintained any sort of running routine since wrapping up on the track multiple years ago, so I assumed Joe's random midnight request was alcohol-induced.
A few days later, Joe was still serious about running a 26.2 miles. With my lack of employment leaving a hefty chunk of free time, I figured, why not? So, just like that, I've decided I'm going to run a marathon.
I don't have a training plan in place, a race picked out or a pace to aim for, but the rough draft version includes a marathon that takes place in about three months (ideally on flat ground) with a steadily increasing workload at a snail's pace. Joe is set on competing (urrrr, watching others compete while we trudge along at the pack of the pack) at Lake Tahoe or Big Bear in late September. I plan on trying to convince him otherwise. As beautiful as those runs might be, they're both at altitude.
Let me tell you about my one experience running at high altitude. It was a warm, midsummer day at Lake Tahoe. I was in the best shape of my life, getting ready for my senior year of track at Cal Poly. The first half mile went smoothly, but my condition rapidly approached late-night-at-the-bars status. I carried a moderate pace through a paved trail near our cabin and thought nothing of the shooting stars that kept flashing out the corner of my eye (probably not all that uncommon in the clear, unpolluted night skies of Lake Tahoe, but highly unlikely with the sun at high noon). Soon after, the pavement started to sway and a group of small forest critters openly began to mock my running form in a Southern twang akin to my former college coach, Terry Crawford. (The last statement might be slightly fictitious, but every Cal Poly track alum can at least appreciate the humor of a squirrel yelling, "Readyyyyyyyy!")
The rest of the run didn't go so well (especially the part where I stopped and walked back to the cabin with my head hung in shame for flaming out before the mile marker). Twenty-six-point-two miles at that altitude? Not gonna happen unless they have complimentary oxygen bars at checkpoints stationed 800 yards apart.
My fitness right now is pretty crappy so this is going to be a bit of a challenge. I'm not in the worst shape of my life (see: three months ago), but I'm hardly ready to run a marathon. I've put about four miles under my belt so far this week and my legs feel great (or at leas they would if I hadn't added 6-7 miles on the bike and multiple games of racquetball). Still, I'm going to put in another 3-4 tomorrow and aim for a longer run on Saturday or Sunday. I don't know my definition of "longer run" yet, but I guess we'll find out.
The way I see it, if I train for the next three months, I should be able to handle a marathon. It's a lot harder to compete in a marathon than it is to run in one. I'm not trying to throw down a ridiculous training regimen complete with 100-plus mile weeks and a perfect diet to compete for a quick time (there's no way I'm giving up my passion for chocolate chip cookies and all other things sweet just to run a marathon). I just want to say that I have run 26.2 miles and didn't quit. So, let's get this marathon thing rollin'!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
No Excuses
This week's goal: no excuses.
Plain and simple. No days off because I'm busy watching South Park re-runs. No skipping workouts for social endeavors (there's always time in the day to catch a quick workout). And, most importantly, no more slacking on my ab exercises (it's not really that hard to bust out 200-300 ab reps every other night, or is it?).
Plain and simple. No days off because I'm busy watching South Park re-runs. No skipping workouts for social endeavors (there's always time in the day to catch a quick workout). And, most importantly, no more slacking on my ab exercises (it's not really that hard to bust out 200-300 ab reps every other night, or is it?).
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Running Again
Kudos to Eric and Brian for winning the office pool for, “How Long Before Frank Gets Injured While Playing Intramural Basketball?” Eric had the closest bid at 25 minutes. Brian had the most accurate prediction with first game, injury followed by reentry to the game.
I made it 22 minutes without incident. Then came a freakish foot complication that could best be described as a sharp pain on the left side of my right foot that magically appeared at the outset of the second half. Luckily, I manned up and made a return in garbage time of a 60-13 blowout in which my team led 37-0 at the half. Yes, we’re talking basketball (and Justin, I’m still sorry you had to play with that collection of … not so good basketball players).
Playing basketball is a terrible idea for me. I have no business being on the court. Everytime I step on, something ridiculously unfortunate tends to happen. There was the time last year when I ran full-steam ahead into a teammate’s shoulder (this teammate happened to have about eight inches and 100 pounds on me). The result: ruptured eardrum and one hell of a headache. Then there was the time I strained my groin while dribbling the ball upcourt (I switched direction and felt a pop. How old am I again?). My personal favorite, of course, is the time a guy jumped and landed on my thumb, promptly causing multitudes of pain and opening up a floodgate of F-bombs.
Basketball is not my place, but, like a dumbass, I keep going back for more. Impending injuries notwithstanding, I am managing to get into some kind of shape. Jason and I have stepped up the lifting regimen and we’re even including cardio exercises. Honestly, ever since my lackluster track career concluded, I’ve had no desire to begin a consistent cardio workout schedule. There have been moments where I took to the track with wide-eyed hopes of a renewed interest, but every attempt has been stamped with a bold FAIL.
Tonight, for the first time since I can remember, I ran. I’ve never been a runner. I’ve run track since the seventh grade, I’ve run alongside some elite athletes and trained with some noteworthy names, but I’ve never been a runner. Runners run because they want to. I ran because I wanted to make a team, because I wanted to compete. All those years that I worked my ass off at Casa Grande High School over the summer, running bleacher laps with Nash, the Wheelers, Sky and the rest of the crew, it was all about competition. It’s easy to tell whether you like something or not. Could I live without running? Absolutely. As soon as my track career ended – no more races to run, coaches to impress, opponents to beat – I stopped running. And fuck, who can blame me? Running sucks – all you do is run! There’s no ball, no points, direct contact with your opponent. At practice, you run. At meets, you run. In the off-season, you run. There isn’t really much to it.
At some point, I enjoyed running. I can’t pinpoint that moment. Even in fifth and sixth grades, when there was only one meet, the Westside Relays, I ran to win. In the limited practice sessions leading up to that one meet, I distinctly remember being immensely pissed when two guys in my class beat me in one of our “long distance” workouts (it was 800 meters, tops). I couldn’t stand losing. Just like I couldn’t stand getting my ass kicked as a junior while my sister mopped up league titles. I couldn’t stand ending my senior season by disqualification only to see a repeat in my final year of junior college. I couldn’t stand getting cut by Cal Poly. I ran because I didn’t want to get beaten, not because I had fun doing it.
Tonight, I ran for fun. No watch, no goal, no competitive motivation. All I had were my Asics and an irritable bowel. (Note to self: steak and garlic bread is better suited for a post-workout meal than a 10-minutes before-workout meal. This blog was getting too sappy – had to loosen the mood a bit.)
This might just be a two-week phase that goes stale after again realizing that running sucks. I can’t even guarantee that I’ll run tomorrow (in fact, I can almost guarantee I won’t because I know I’ll be sore and I’ve become a pansy in my old age). I truly hope this is the spark that gets me back into running, but I know there are no guarantees. If I don’t want to train, I’m not going to force myself.
I made it 22 minutes without incident. Then came a freakish foot complication that could best be described as a sharp pain on the left side of my right foot that magically appeared at the outset of the second half. Luckily, I manned up and made a return in garbage time of a 60-13 blowout in which my team led 37-0 at the half. Yes, we’re talking basketball (and Justin, I’m still sorry you had to play with that collection of … not so good basketball players).
Playing basketball is a terrible idea for me. I have no business being on the court. Everytime I step on, something ridiculously unfortunate tends to happen. There was the time last year when I ran full-steam ahead into a teammate’s shoulder (this teammate happened to have about eight inches and 100 pounds on me). The result: ruptured eardrum and one hell of a headache. Then there was the time I strained my groin while dribbling the ball upcourt (I switched direction and felt a pop. How old am I again?). My personal favorite, of course, is the time a guy jumped and landed on my thumb, promptly causing multitudes of pain and opening up a floodgate of F-bombs.
Basketball is not my place, but, like a dumbass, I keep going back for more. Impending injuries notwithstanding, I am managing to get into some kind of shape. Jason and I have stepped up the lifting regimen and we’re even including cardio exercises. Honestly, ever since my lackluster track career concluded, I’ve had no desire to begin a consistent cardio workout schedule. There have been moments where I took to the track with wide-eyed hopes of a renewed interest, but every attempt has been stamped with a bold FAIL.
Tonight, for the first time since I can remember, I ran. I’ve never been a runner. I’ve run track since the seventh grade, I’ve run alongside some elite athletes and trained with some noteworthy names, but I’ve never been a runner. Runners run because they want to. I ran because I wanted to make a team, because I wanted to compete. All those years that I worked my ass off at Casa Grande High School over the summer, running bleacher laps with Nash, the Wheelers, Sky and the rest of the crew, it was all about competition. It’s easy to tell whether you like something or not. Could I live without running? Absolutely. As soon as my track career ended – no more races to run, coaches to impress, opponents to beat – I stopped running. And fuck, who can blame me? Running sucks – all you do is run! There’s no ball, no points, direct contact with your opponent. At practice, you run. At meets, you run. In the off-season, you run. There isn’t really much to it.
At some point, I enjoyed running. I can’t pinpoint that moment. Even in fifth and sixth grades, when there was only one meet, the Westside Relays, I ran to win. In the limited practice sessions leading up to that one meet, I distinctly remember being immensely pissed when two guys in my class beat me in one of our “long distance” workouts (it was 800 meters, tops). I couldn’t stand losing. Just like I couldn’t stand getting my ass kicked as a junior while my sister mopped up league titles. I couldn’t stand ending my senior season by disqualification only to see a repeat in my final year of junior college. I couldn’t stand getting cut by Cal Poly. I ran because I didn’t want to get beaten, not because I had fun doing it.
Tonight, I ran for fun. No watch, no goal, no competitive motivation. All I had were my Asics and an irritable bowel. (Note to self: steak and garlic bread is better suited for a post-workout meal than a 10-minutes before-workout meal. This blog was getting too sappy – had to loosen the mood a bit.)
This might just be a two-week phase that goes stale after again realizing that running sucks. I can’t even guarantee that I’ll run tomorrow (in fact, I can almost guarantee I won’t because I know I’ll be sore and I’ve become a pansy in my old age). I truly hope this is the spark that gets me back into running, but I know there are no guarantees. If I don’t want to train, I’m not going to force myself.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Swim Day Numero Uno
My Wednesday morning began like any other day -- until about 8 a.m. That's when, largely unsatisfied with my night's REM total, I dragged my lazy butt out of bed and to the Cal Poly Rec Center.
Jason and I (Terrance, the original advocate of nautical workouts, was nowhere to be found) trudged our way through the locker room and out to the pool deck. (Worth noting, Jason was much more enthusiastic than I). As I stripped my layers off -- sexy time -- I gave the water a vapid stare and boldly pronounced, "Damn, I really hate swimming," repeated that insightful phrase several dozen more times and then timidly hopped in.
The water wasn't as cold as I expected, but it certainly wasn't as warm as I had hoped. Luckily San Luis Obispo has been enjoying a sudden onset of global warming symptoms (namely temperatures in the 80s -- somewhere, a Green Peace supporter with a PhD in tree hugging and a minor in marijuana production is incredibly worried. I know, I know -- global warming is bad and we're to blame and the world is going to end. It's OK, my conscience is clear -- proudly recycling since circa 1990).
So, back to the news. If there's anything I'm ever good for, it's a plan. I might make it up as I go along (or modify the original plan mid-swim, as the case may be), but here's what we were going to do: 200 yards of breaststroke, 200 yards of freestyle, 200 yards of backstroke and 200 yards with a kick-board. The troubling thing is, I truly expected to complete that workout before getting in the pool.
About 50 yards into the workout, I was "feeling it." Not the same "feeling it" like the Golden State Warriors when they outed the Dallas Mavericks two years ago in the NBA playoffs. This "feeling" started in my diminishing biceps and ended in my empty stomach. Still, I pressed on.
At 75 yards, Jason and I paused to reassess our workout goals. We decided that we would complete 100 yards of each stroke, take a break and then try to do another set for a grand total of 800 yards.
I breastroked/did my best to avoid drowning for a final 25 yards and then kicked into freestyle mode. After 50 yards at a pace that gave me deja vu (from my days as a youth learning to swim at the Petaluma Rec Pool), I opted to forgo my final 50 yards and pull out the kick-board. Meanwhile, Jason the Dolphin swam on.
While flutter-kicking 155 pounds of dead weight to the wall and back, I had plenty of time to think about my incompetency in the pool (and gasp for air, for which I was severely lacking). I remember doing swim workouts while on the Cal Poly track team. One time, Coach Williams asked us to freestyle across the 25-yard pool. I whomped on everybody, touching the wall in time to glance back at the rest of the crew. Then, after the next group finished, he said, "OK, again." My again version was just as fast as everybody else. Again, Version 2.0 was embarrassingly slower than the rest of the group and Again, Version 3.0 almost left me at the bottom of the pool. Damn, I hate swimming.
When my 50 yards of flutter kicks were over, I was ready to get out. My stomach status was akin to those early mornings at the dunes (where I left a bowl of Raisin Bran, a bagel, toast and various other food items scattered about the sand and surrounding bushes). I hunched over in the pool and tried to will myself to feel better. I wanted out of that pool, but first I had to let my stomach settle. Then came Jason, bless his soul. "Come on Frank, we gotta do work. Just down and back of backstroke. No problem."
Ugh, sure why not. I backstroked furiously (at the pace a furious geriatric might move) and touched the far wall in time to realize there was something special brewing in my stomach -- let's call it sea sickness. As I stood there, nauseous enough to know that whatever Jason was saying wasn't going to get me to swim back), I floated like a piece of driftwood back to the other side of the pool, jumped out and dried off. In the meantime, I could do nothing to suppress my stomach's urge to heave-ho. On my way to the locker room, I conveniently passed a guy and a gal I had met while hot tubbing a month ago. While they made pleasant conversation, I hunched over with my hands on my knees and tried to interact. After about six words (Oh hi...Frank...Happy New Year) I broke the conversation with, "Sorry, I'd love to chat, but I honestly feel like I'm about to puke."
I won't go into the juicy details, but needless to say, my day devolved from there. Damn I hate swimming.
Jason and I (Terrance, the original advocate of nautical workouts, was nowhere to be found) trudged our way through the locker room and out to the pool deck. (Worth noting, Jason was much more enthusiastic than I). As I stripped my layers off -- sexy time -- I gave the water a vapid stare and boldly pronounced, "Damn, I really hate swimming," repeated that insightful phrase several dozen more times and then timidly hopped in.
The water wasn't as cold as I expected, but it certainly wasn't as warm as I had hoped. Luckily San Luis Obispo has been enjoying a sudden onset of global warming symptoms (namely temperatures in the 80s -- somewhere, a Green Peace supporter with a PhD in tree hugging and a minor in marijuana production is incredibly worried. I know, I know -- global warming is bad and we're to blame and the world is going to end. It's OK, my conscience is clear -- proudly recycling since circa 1990).
So, back to the news. If there's anything I'm ever good for, it's a plan. I might make it up as I go along (or modify the original plan mid-swim, as the case may be), but here's what we were going to do: 200 yards of breaststroke, 200 yards of freestyle, 200 yards of backstroke and 200 yards with a kick-board. The troubling thing is, I truly expected to complete that workout before getting in the pool.
About 50 yards into the workout, I was "feeling it." Not the same "feeling it" like the Golden State Warriors when they outed the Dallas Mavericks two years ago in the NBA playoffs. This "feeling" started in my diminishing biceps and ended in my empty stomach. Still, I pressed on.
At 75 yards, Jason and I paused to reassess our workout goals. We decided that we would complete 100 yards of each stroke, take a break and then try to do another set for a grand total of 800 yards.
I breastroked/did my best to avoid drowning for a final 25 yards and then kicked into freestyle mode. After 50 yards at a pace that gave me deja vu (from my days as a youth learning to swim at the Petaluma Rec Pool), I opted to forgo my final 50 yards and pull out the kick-board. Meanwhile, Jason the Dolphin swam on.
While flutter-kicking 155 pounds of dead weight to the wall and back, I had plenty of time to think about my incompetency in the pool (and gasp for air, for which I was severely lacking). I remember doing swim workouts while on the Cal Poly track team. One time, Coach Williams asked us to freestyle across the 25-yard pool. I whomped on everybody, touching the wall in time to glance back at the rest of the crew. Then, after the next group finished, he said, "OK, again." My again version was just as fast as everybody else. Again, Version 2.0 was embarrassingly slower than the rest of the group and Again, Version 3.0 almost left me at the bottom of the pool. Damn, I hate swimming.
When my 50 yards of flutter kicks were over, I was ready to get out. My stomach status was akin to those early mornings at the dunes (where I left a bowl of Raisin Bran, a bagel, toast and various other food items scattered about the sand and surrounding bushes). I hunched over in the pool and tried to will myself to feel better. I wanted out of that pool, but first I had to let my stomach settle. Then came Jason, bless his soul. "Come on Frank, we gotta do work. Just down and back of backstroke. No problem."
Ugh, sure why not. I backstroked furiously (at the pace a furious geriatric might move) and touched the far wall in time to realize there was something special brewing in my stomach -- let's call it sea sickness. As I stood there, nauseous enough to know that whatever Jason was saying wasn't going to get me to swim back), I floated like a piece of driftwood back to the other side of the pool, jumped out and dried off. In the meantime, I could do nothing to suppress my stomach's urge to heave-ho. On my way to the locker room, I conveniently passed a guy and a gal I had met while hot tubbing a month ago. While they made pleasant conversation, I hunched over with my hands on my knees and tried to interact. After about six words (Oh hi...Frank...Happy New Year) I broke the conversation with, "Sorry, I'd love to chat, but I honestly feel like I'm about to puke."
I won't go into the juicy details, but needless to say, my day devolved from there. Damn I hate swimming.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Thumbs Down
Well, I missed the chance for an inspiring New Years Resolution post about how I'm going to try hard, rededicate myself and whip myself back into shape. Opportunity lost.
Truth is, I'm lukewarm on fitness right now and it all dates back to that catastrophic venture into a 6-foot-and-under intramural basketball league. One dislocated thumb/torn ligament really derails a fitness plan in a hurry.
In a few days, I'm going to see a specialist who will hopefully not (but likely will) advise me that surgery is necessary to repair the torn ligament I have in my thumb. If the doctor confirms my suspicions, I will elect to forgo surgery because I obviously know more than the dude with the PhD (slash I can't afford it). I will then wait until I have a job that offers health benefits and look into my surgery options. After that whole process plays out, I might be able to bench more than the bar-plus-10s on each side without excruciating pain, thus regaining my manhood.
(Note to self: remain positive)
In other news, Jason "I Might Like Food But I Don't" Cater and Terrance "Oh" Grady dragged my lazy/depressed/daydreaming-of-5-foot-10-160-pound-Asians-
landing-on-thumbs ass out of the house to run some dunes this morning. Good news: I didn't puke. Bad news: I didn't puke. It's a bittersweet workout. If you lose breakfast, you actually feel better for the rest of the routine. If you can't get it out, you feel nauseous for the next couple hours. My stomach is still turning (although that burger, fries and chocolate milkshake probably didn't help much).
I'm planning to incorporate swimming into future weeks. Terrance has convinced me that aquatic workouts are absolutely necessary to achieve my fitness goals. Why I yielded to his outlandish argument, I'll never know. Let's look at a case study of why Frank doesn't belong in the pool:
A) I'm a natural sinker
B) I don't do morning workouts (and Terrance wants to swim at 8 a.m...candy-ass I am)
C) Water + Winter = Cold; Frank + Cold = Bitter
D) I manage to get a cramp every time I go swimming
E) I complain a lot and swimming gives me more material to work with because it's a miserable sport (much like track...maybe this could work for me)
That was fun. Well, time to close this one out. Stay tuned for the continuation of my case study on why I don't belong in the pool.
Truth is, I'm lukewarm on fitness right now and it all dates back to that catastrophic venture into a 6-foot-and-under intramural basketball league. One dislocated thumb/torn ligament really derails a fitness plan in a hurry.
In a few days, I'm going to see a specialist who will hopefully not (but likely will) advise me that surgery is necessary to repair the torn ligament I have in my thumb. If the doctor confirms my suspicions, I will elect to forgo surgery because I obviously know more than the dude with the PhD (slash I can't afford it). I will then wait until I have a job that offers health benefits and look into my surgery options. After that whole process plays out, I might be able to bench more than the bar-plus-10s on each side without excruciating pain, thus regaining my manhood.
(Note to self: remain positive)
In other news, Jason "I Might Like Food But I Don't" Cater and Terrance "Oh" Grady dragged my lazy/depressed/daydreaming-of-5-foot-10-160-pound-Asians-
landing-on-thumbs ass out of the house to run some dunes this morning. Good news: I didn't puke. Bad news: I didn't puke. It's a bittersweet workout. If you lose breakfast, you actually feel better for the rest of the routine. If you can't get it out, you feel nauseous for the next couple hours. My stomach is still turning (although that burger, fries and chocolate milkshake probably didn't help much).
I'm planning to incorporate swimming into future weeks. Terrance has convinced me that aquatic workouts are absolutely necessary to achieve my fitness goals. Why I yielded to his outlandish argument, I'll never know. Let's look at a case study of why Frank doesn't belong in the pool:
A) I'm a natural sinker
B) I don't do morning workouts (and Terrance wants to swim at 8 a.m...candy-ass I am)
C) Water + Winter = Cold; Frank + Cold = Bitter
D) I manage to get a cramp every time I go swimming
E) I complain a lot and swimming gives me more material to work with because it's a miserable sport (much like track...maybe this could work for me)
That was fun. Well, time to close this one out. Stay tuned for the continuation of my case study on why I don't belong in the pool.
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