Thursday, December 4, 2008
Back to Fitness...Again
Last we left off, my shoes had just arrived and I was destined for fitness glory. I stopped writing due to an excess of 50-60 hour workweeks. Fun times.
The real fun didn’t begin until October 6 while playing in a 6-foot-and-under intramural basketball league. Funny thing about health insurance, I don’t remember needing it before I didn’t have it. As soon as I go off my parent’s health insurance, bam — ruptured eardrum, head-splitting sinus infection, softball to the face and … dislocated thumb.
I felt quicker on the basketball court than ever before. My weight was down to 157 and the quality of my workouts was noticeably better than when I began my fitness quest in June. Then a guy undercuts my legs while I take off for the basket and, as gravity takes its course, I manage to place my hand where another player is placing his foot. My fingers were on the floor; my elbow was bent and palm elevated a few inches above my fingers when a 175-pound mass came crashing down. I felt the pop and instantly knew something wasn’t where it should be.
First came an expletive. Then, because I’m a fool who believes in happy endings, I glanced at my hand with hopes that the piercing pain wasn’t really that bad. Turned out the joint that connects the thumb to the hand was indented with my digit fixed in a different direction. I instantly surmised that this situation was, A) not good and, B) going to cost me a lot of money.
My epiphany was followed by a flurry of expletives, most of which centered on loud, uncensored F-bombs. The physical pain was pretty bad, but not the worst I’ve ever felt. What really jolted me was my lack of health insurance. How much was this going to cost? To be honest, I was pretty damn scared. My bank account and budget wasn’t prepared for an unexpected visit to the emergency room. Ugh!
Fast-forward to the ER where I sat in an empty lobby for 15-20 minutes before the receptionist called my name (she could have simply said, “Hey you, injured guy. Yes, you, the only one standing in the lobby,” but I guess names are a formality). After the highly unnecessary wait, she sat me down and asked probing questions like, “What’s your name/How do you spell that/What did you injure/When did it happen?” Then came the nurse who politely asked, “So what’s the problem here? You did what to your thumb? Is it still out of place?” YES! “Oh, well let’s bring you back right now then.” Gee, thanks…
Next came a 10-15 minute wait on a hospital bed before a doctor finally meandered over. He came to the conclusion that my thumb wasn’t where it should be. Then came the Novocain (of which I debated not taking due to its cost). The pain went away, but my thumb was still dislocated. Next came a series of X-rays and, finally, after the doctor discovered that there were no fractures or other irregularities that would prevent my thumb’s reunion with its hand, the deed was done. All that in just under one hour — it’s a good thing I wasn’t in a hurry to have my thumb popped back in place.
A few weeks later, I discovered the price of my ER trip: just under $4,000. Wow! I predicted somewhere near $2,500. Six X-rays, Novocain, a splint and 2 minutes of a doctor’s time for just $4,000 — something’s not right. Luckily I qualified for some form of county medical benefit and that dollar amount has been reduced to about $1,400. Still, that’s not exactly pocket change that I have stashed away for just such an occasion. I guess those new tires will have to wait.
Even more than the financial burden, the emotional stress has been overwhelming. Those who know me understand that sports are my life. I work in a college athletic department, my hobbies include watching sports, playing sports and reading about sports and I really couldn’t imagine a world without sports. Before the injury, an average week included basketball, beach volleyball, racquetball, weightlifting, jogging, golfing and cycling. I was slated to play rec-league basketball and dodgeball. My social stratification is largely based on sports. Sad, maybe, but it’s how I function.
Chock this one up to life experience. At least that’s what my mom told me. I guess complementing my 50-hour workweeks with a second job won’t be too bad. More life experience for me, hurray! Good times.
So, here I am, two months later, back to ground zero. I started my workouts up again this week and plan to update the blog every couple weeks. The only thing harder than getting started is getting started again…here goes Round 2.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Shoegate
So what? It's a pair of shoes, right? Nothing big. Nothing to fret over.
Turns out shoes happen to be a key component to a fitness regimen. For the last two months, I've worked out with two pairs of ASICS Cumulus VII's as an alternative option. They're nice shoes – or at least they were when I bought them two years ago. These shoes took me through my final season of college track. They've been through merciless workouts at Cal Poly, warm-ups at UCLAs Drake Stadium, jogs to the sand dunes at Montano del Oro, hill repeats on the "P" hill, 5-mile runs to campus, summer sprints at Petaluma High School and so on.
They're just shoes, right? Tell that to my arches. Every semi-fast run in my antiquated Cumulus VIIs leads to a persistent pain in my arches. It's as if Paul Bunyan set up shop hacking away at my arch. The pain hasn’t reached critical mass yet, but I have had to cut a few workouts short. No bueno.
I know, you’re probably pinning the blame on my ineptitude for leaving such a prized possession in the clutches of an evil tyrant (aka my best friend Andrew). Fine, but 60 days? Andrew visited me in San Luis Obispo 10 days ago with no shoes in tote. The injustice!
As previously noted, we are 2.5 moons into the Shoegate Crisis. Please, write your local senator and ask him to support the FREE FRANK'S SHOES campaign.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Damn Tobata!
I came in significantly below my goal of 12 miles for the week, all because of a CrossFit workout known as Tobata. Named after an old Japanese fellow, Tobata is a fat burning workout that, as explained to me by the instructor, is as effective as 20 minutes of cardio. The theory is simple: 20 second intervals interrupted by 10 seconds of recovery. Sounds easy, right? Just 20 seconds of boom followed by 10 seconds of fizzle. Too easy.
Naturally, it wasn't that easy (or else this wouldn't be much of a story). The workout on Thursday was a Tobata format for 12 minutes. First came speed squats (no weight, squat with proper technique as fast as possible) followed by push press with a 45-pound bar and box jumps. I started off with something like 19 squats in 20 seconds then 20 and then 19 again before the pain began to build. I struggled to 18 in the fourth set (half done) and grunted out 16 on the final four. During the entire series I kept a watchful eye on Sarah, a black belt of CrossFit if there were such a thing, as she pounded through her reps. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have tried so hard and maybe I could have regained my ability to move at more than a waddle-like stroll by today. But, she was there and she absolutely killed the workout. Sadly, my brain is programmed, 1) Not to lose, and, 2) Not to lose to a girl.
As I mentioned in my previous CrossFit entry, this Sarah girl is a machine and has obviously worked incredibly hard to be as fit as she is. Hence, I don't really feel too bad that she pretty much trampled me and my unborn children en route to the end of the Tobata. After the 10-second layoff between squats and push press, I breezed through my first set for 13 reps. (Damn me and my stupid competitive persona!). Next came seven. Then came six. Then six again. And again. And then it took everything I had to put up six more. (Still two sets to go.) At this point, I was sucking wind, my hands were on my knees and it was noticeably tough to get the bar to my chest to begin the set. Who knew 45 pounds could weigh so much? I didn't even care about competing anymore. I simply wanted to finish the workout.
After the push press, I felt a familiar feeling building at the bottom of my stomach. During my sports career up until the 2006-07 track season, I had one workout-induced vomit experience. (That all changed during my last year of track when I seemed to let loose every other week...when I wasn't injured). Had I not been in piss-poor shape heading into this workout, I think I could have pushed myself enough to make good on that blossoming sensation in my stomach. However, I was so drained by the time we got to box jumps, I simply couldn't exert the energy necessary to for a dinner-losing moment. I managed five box jumps for the first seven 20-second bursts and six on the last. Then came the eye of the storm.
Hurricane-savvy readers would note that the eye of the storm is a temporary solace. I say the eye because the next morning was even worse than the workout itself. Every bit of my quadriceps moans and groans when I do anything leg related. Roll out of bed, my quads are in pain; get up from a sitting position, my quads are in pain; climb up stairs, you better believe my quads are in pain (going back down a flight of stairs is even worse, making this weekend rather inconvenient for my cousin to hold his wedding reception in a building without an elevator).
It was an incredible workout, but...damn Tobata!
In other news, this is my last night in Petaluma. Tomorrow it's back to SLO Town to continue my fitness campaign with Mr. Jason "I Might Like Food But I Don't" Cater. Here's the weekly recap:
Monday
1-mile run - 2 laps jog/2 laps run straights-jog turns
Tuesday
Summer All Comers Meet @ Montgomery High School, Santa Rosa, CA
400 meter - Time inconclusive
Total distance run during the day (including warm up): 1 mile
Comments: I was disappointed that the timers missed me crossing the finish line (which is the only explanation I can offer because they clocked first place at 58.9 seconds). I may be in bad shape, but I'm not running 58.9 seconds for a one-lap race. Especially after timing 55 seconds over one month ago. Nonetheless, I felt strong during the race.
Wednesday
Gym - 24Hour Fitness
1,000 meters of rows
5 mile bike ride
100 abs
Sonoma County CrossFit
500 meters of rows
3-3-3-3-3 push jerk
500 meters of rows
Thursday
Track Workout, Petaluma HS
2.5 miles
1 mile warm up jog
1 mile @ 5:58
2 map cool down
100 abs
Sonoma County CrossFit
Tobata - 20 sec on/10 sec off for 12 minutes
Squats
Push Press
Box Jumps
Comments: What did I do to deserve so much pain?
Friday
Softball!
Comments: My return to the softball field following the infamous black-eye incident. Went 2-for-4 with a pair of singles, booya! Luckily softball isn't a leg-intensive workout or I would have had to decline the offer to play.
500 abs
Saturday
OFF!
Sunday
700 abs
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Sunday Recap
Here's my weekly rundown:
Monday
2 mile run
Comments: About halfway into the run, I realized my shirt was quite stinky. It was fresh out of the wash (allegedly), but the smell told a different story. Proliferating odor aside, I completed the run to my friend's house, a Mr. Robert Wheeler, without much fanfare.
Tuesday
2 mile run -- 1 mile @ 6 min pace / 3 min run, 2 min recovery, 2 min run, 1 min rec, 1 min run
Comments: I love this workout. Usually I do two sets and at a much quicker tempo, but, as is the theme of this blog, I'm out of shape. I was happy to cross the 1-mile mark with over 10 seconds to spare.
Wednesday
500 ab reps
Comments: My legs were a little torn up from three consecutive days of running (loosely defined). My quick-jogs were enough to sit me down today. I did manage to rack up 500 abs toward my weekly goal of 1,500.
Thursday
Warm up: 1.5 miles on treadmill (11:48)
Weight Room - Back/Biceps @ 24Hour Fitness
3x10 trunk lifts
3x10 rows
3x10 lat pull downs
1x20 back Xtensions
3x8 curls (each arm)
5-5-5 (5 half curls at each position and 5 full done continuously)
Afternoon - Track
Warm up: .5 miles on track, stretching, drills
2 miles @ 6 min/mile pace - Intervals, 1:30 lap, 1 min break, 1:30 lap, 1 min break
Comments: I was feeling these workouts at the end of the day. I scored a free seven day trial at 24Hour Fitness so I'm lifting there for the next few days. The track workout was satisfying. I wanted to quit after my third lap. I decided to take a 3-minute break after my fourth lap. Then, after pulling four sub-1:30 laps, I thought I would keep the same intervals until I couldn't hold pace. After a sub-1:30 fifth lap, I manned up and opted to stick to my original workout plan. It's so hard to challenge yourself when you're alone. If you have a workout partner, even if they're far better or worse, that person tends to push you to different limits than if you performed the same workout alone. Some people can train on their own, but I'm not one of those people. Being able to get through the workout without cheating was a huge boost for my confidence.
Friday
Warm up: 20 min stationary bike
Weight room - Chest/Triceps
3x10 dumbbell bench press (50 pounds)
2x10 dumbbell incline bench press (40 pounds)
3x10 chest squeeze (machine)
3x10 chest press (machine)
3x10 tricep Xtensions
Cool down: 5 min elyptical
Comments: I wanted to jump onto the treadmill, but my legs were simply too sore. My lifting was sub-par, so I added a set on the chest press machine. I haven't kept a steady routine while at home.
Saturday
Off
Comments: Family trip to Sacramento.
Sunday
Approximately an 11-13 mile hike through the Tamalpais State Park (originally mapped route would have been 4 miles).
Comments: We're dumb.
Goals From Previous Week
10 miles of running - Achieved (including cardio from the stationary bike, which I totaled to about 2.5 miles worth of running)
1,500 abs - Not even close. I'm sitting on 500 with the rest of the evening to knock out 1,000. Not gonna happen.
Goals for Next Week
53 second 400 @ all-comers meet, Tuesay
12 miles of running
1,500 abs
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
CrossFit
So I reached for my cellular and, much to my surprise, the caller identification read "Danny Schmieding." One, I didn't know I had Danny's number. Two, why was he calling me?
Danny and I were best friends back in the McDowell Elementary days. It was a love-hate relationship. Don't get me wrong, we weren't abut to throw down. At worst, I might have told him, "You can't come to my birthday party," and he might have said, "You can't watch Wrestlemania at my place." We didn't have more than a few tiffs in our years as neighborhood buddies, but we always had a friendly athletic rivalry. We were always out to one-up each other.
In those days, we were nearly identical in athletic ability. Our basketball team was a dynasty, our baseball team was one of the best in the league and we set a meet record at the West Side Relays in the sprint medley. Basically, we were used to winning. However, we were both so competitive that we would get frustrated when one outperformed the other. The rivalry became more intense when we both settled on track and field, a largely individual sport, as our primary interest.
When we entered high school, Danny and I parted ways. He hung out on the lawn by the front office while I assimilated into a clique of freshmen jock-types in the quad by the library. The distance put a serious strain on our close bond. Actually, Danny was simply more developed socially. He had friends at the school who were older while I struggled to find an identity. I tried kicking it with Danny and his group, but I never felt like I fit in, and so our best-friendship ended. Even though we hung out on occasion in high school, it was never the same.
On the track, Danny and I found ourselves competing for a spot on the varsity 4x100 relay team. I remember being incredibly jealous that he made the squad as a junior while I had an absolutely terrible season. It wasn't Danny's fault -- he was running faster than me, period. Still, I held it against him a bit. The next year, I was the more successful runner. Danny couldn't replicate his previous season's success and, although we both made the relay team, I could sense a mounting frustration from him throughout the year.
After high school, Danny and I parted ways more permanently. I saw him around town on occasion, but we haven't hung out since our high school days.
Here I was, on my way to an Oakland A's game with my dad, and here comes this random phone call. Danny and I exchanged the mandatory pleasantries, then he got down to business. (That sounds less friendly than his proposal actually was). Turned out, Danny was pioneering the development of a new workout philosophy in Sonoma County called CrossFit and he wanted me to drop by the gym to give it a try. I jumped at the chance to spend some time with an old friend and, at the same time, experience something new.
After doing a little research, I found that CrossFit is a program that originated in Santa Cruz, Calif. It incorporates a workout-specific warm up with a timed set of exercises. The CrossFit website describes the regimen as "broad, general and inclusive." Whether you're 80-years-old, recovering from injury or perfectly fit, CrossFit's primary principal is scalability -- in other words, they use the same program for everybody, but scale the amount of resistance depending on the person's fitness level.
Tonight was my first workout with Danny and his crew. My first reaction was, "Wow, this is just like the Spd Factory." Danny set me straight. While the Spd Factory uses several CrossFit principals, their workouts are more sport-specific. Honestly, I didn't see too many differences except in the warm-up. At the Spd Factory the warm-up was mostly agility oriented while CrossFit was more tailored to the actual workout.
At first glance, the workout seemed fairly simple. There were three exercises: front squats, dumbbell push ups and sit ups. The first set was 21 reps of each exercise then a round of 15 reps and then nine reps. The workout intensity increases big time, however, because everything is full-go. You're working against the clock. As soon as you begin the workout, you find yourself driven to compete against everyone around you. As I completed my first task, 21 front squats, I looked around and noted how far I was ahead (or behind) the others. Forty-five reps of three different exercises -- cake, right? As soon as the competitive juices get going, that workout suddenly becomes much more difficult.
I completed the workout in 9 minutes, 20 seconds. Once again, my weakness was sit ups. And, for a second straight week, I watched a woman beat me up in a timed workout. She did more weight than me on the front squats and pounded out those sit ups. I could sit here and tell you that I've only been working out for about 45 days and that I ran 2 miles earlier in the day at a quick pace, but I honestly don't feel the need to toss out any excuses. That girl was impressive. She is flat out in better shape than me and gender has nothing to do with it. The 20-something-year-old even had the energy afterwards to further dazzle me with a series of deadlifts, several using just one hand. If only she could run -- she would kick the crap out of almost all the Cal Poly girls in the weight room, every sport included.
Thanks to Danny I've experienced a new method of working out, one that is quick (we were done in under 45 minutes), do-able and self-motivating (every time out you're competing against the clock and your peers). I'm already looking forward to my next CrossFit experience.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Sunday Recap
Monday
Weightlifting workout @ Lakeridge Fitness, Petaluma, CA
Chest, Shoulders, Triceps
10 min warm up on treadmill
3x10 dumbbell bench press (45 lbs, 50 lbs, 55 lbs)
3x10 chest squeeze (machine)
3x10 tricep extensions / flatback on bench using 40 lb db
Military Press burnout using 45 lb. bar(25 reps)
Comments: Usually there's more to this workout, but I was limited to 45 minutes of workout time (the length of my dad's, aka my ride, aka my way into the gym, treadmill routine). I also happened to spend time chatting with an old friend for about 5 minutes. Still, I was happy to get into the gym for a second straight day (I worked back and biceps on Sunday).
Tuesday
Off
Comments: Softball to the nose = black eye, hefty blood loss, mild concussion and lack of motivation to go on the planned 2 mile evening run.
Wednesday
Redwood Empire Summer Track Series, Montgomery High School, Santa Rosa, CA
40 min warm up - 4 laps walk/jog, drills, extended dialogue with several old running buddies
100 meter - Time yet to be determined
4x400 relay - second leg, guestimated split of 55-56
Comments: One, I'm still struggling to find a proper warm up routine. Check that, I have the right routine, I just need to plan accordingly. Just as at the Atascadero meet, my legs felt thoroughly unprepared for a race when the gun went off for the 100 meter. Despite my pedestrian pace in the 4x400 relay, I actually felt strong. I certainly could have run faster. After the race ended I recovered quickly, didn't feel like vomiting and maintained use of all bodily functions. Great success. I was very disappointed in my performance during the 100, however. After getting bumped by a 40-year-old wannabe sprinter in the "Main Event" heat, I went head-to-head with a familiar face in the "Real Event." I knew, despite very little training, that I would blast past everybody at the meet with the exception of Dmitry, a 30-something former collegiate runner at UC Davis. I convinced Dmitry to run with me in the last heat (otherwise I would have run alone) knowing that he would challenge me. Still, I didn't expect him to beat me. Before the race I told my buddy, Mike Wortman (a former junior college teammate) that I expected a strong first 50 meters followed by a gradual decline. I always break quick out of the blocks, and Wednesday was no exception. I built a lead over the first half of the race, then realized I hadn't put enough separation between us. One of the worst feelings as a runner is leading a race that you know you're about to lose. I felt him moving up behind me, but I couldn't do anything about it. As he pulled alongside me with about 20 meters to go, I put together a last ditch effort and drew even for the next few strides. Dmitry put the finishing touches on me with about 5 meters to go, winning by no more than a foot. In my head, I knew it wasn't that close. I knew I couldn't have won.
Thursday
Spd Factory, Petaluma, CA
SPARQ Training
1 hour workout that included a number of explosive, speed oriented drills. I can't remember the entire workout. Included several drills on a ladder, 3 sets of 10 split-legged jump squats, 3 sets of 15 ball slams (16 lb. med ball), 3 sets of 5-yd. slides/10 sec and several other plyometric drills. The "Workout of the Day," a set of exercises done for time, was three cycles of 500m rows on a sliding seat, 15 dumbbell bench presses on a physio ball (also referred to as an ab ball) and 50 sit-ups using an ab mat (an apparatus that slides under the lower back). Completed this sequence in 16 minutes and change.
Comments: Back in the day, I would have nailed that workout and mopped up everyone during the "Workout of the Day." However, this turned out to be yet another sobering reminder of how far away I am from the glory days. I flat out sucked at everything except the 5-yd. slide drill. I nearly tied the top mark of the day of eight cone touches (established by a Div. I-AA football player, Joe Trombetta). I was just a couple feet away each of the three times I tried. The rest of the workout consisted of me trying not to look like an idiot as the high schoolers, prepubescents and soccer mom in attendance kicked my butt at every drill. I was the 10th fastest finisher for the "Workout of the Day." There were 11 of us. And I utilized a furious finish on the rowing machine to pass my 13-year-old counterpart to avoid last place. (I know the other youngish kid cheated during the ab portion of the workout -- no way that butterball outdid me! And the older guy, I don't even know if he finished. So really I was eighth. Sadly, the soccer mom really did beat me. She was on soccer-mom steroids.)
Friday
Off
Comments: Too sore to even contemplate a workout.
Saturday
Off
Comments: Ego still damaged from getting waxed by a soccer mom. (An incredibly fit one at that).
Sunday
1.5 mile easy run
100 push ups in 5:54
150 ab reps
Comments: The legs are still woozy from Thursday. Still, I managed an easy run to work the cardio a bit. I felt much stronger than in previous runs. The push ups were a huge improvement from when I first began this back to fitness effort. Still, I want that time to drop under 3 minutes. My ab routine for the week was pathetic -- 300 total reps? Wow, lazy ass.
Workout Goals for Upcoming Week: 1,500 reps of abs (I've been slacking and need to get back on top of my core conditioning), 10 miles of running, weight room 3-4 days
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Apparently My Baseball Skills Have Left Me
It seemed like a fairly routine groundball. The guy hit a solid shot straight at me. I was playing a fairly deep shortstop, but calmly put my mitt on the ground and waited for the ball to find its way to my glove. Instead, the ball ricocheted off the lip of the infield and made a beeline for my face.
After a momentary pause (did that really just happen?!?), I reached for my nose. As expected, I was gushing a familiar red liquid. At first, I tried to wipe away the blood using my hands. That technique was about as useful as Amy Winehouse's latest stint in rehab. I knew it wouldn't help but I had to do something. It turned out this was the perfect day for me to wear by highly absorbent, white Nike athletic shirt. I actually tried as hard as I could not to bleed on my favorite workout shirt, but was largely unsuccessful.
Despite my predicament, I kept my dignity. There were no whimpers, tears or profane verbiages. I maintained a smile, laughed a little, cracked a few jokes. A guy watching our ragtag game of softball from near the basketball courts alongside the field had this concerned yet intrigued look on his face. It looked as if he wanted to ask the obvious, “Are you OK, man?” but his eyes were too preoccupied with my bloodied face to say the words.
I drew even more stares from a pair of teenagers sitting on a park bench under an overhang. One of the guys saw me heading their way and (indiscreetly) alerted his friend that a hideously decorated face was approaching. Then there were the middle-aged Latinos whose jaws dropped as I continued my walk to the bathroom. (Isn't staring rude or something?) Another group of parents (this happened to be a rather busy park) did the double-take, glancing my way, then back to their conversation and quickly back to me. That 50-yard walk made me think I was going to see a crooked nose, black eye and a new hole in my head.
When I arrived in the men’s room, I found neither a mirror nor any paper towels. A little woozy and my vision starting to blur a bit, I didn’t even think to check the stall for toilet paper. Instead, I wandered into the women’s room next door, politely asked if anybody was inside (as if it mattered at that point) and pulled a few yards worth of towels from the dispenser.
My machismo quickly faded during the drive home (yes, I was smart enough to drive myself home). I suddenly didn't feel so great. A bit dizzy, I walked through our front door and explained to the family what happened. For all my grief, all I got out of my dad was an, "Ah, doesn't look so bad, you'll be fine." I'm used to my dad's expert medical analyses from years of alleged minor injuries (like my ruptured eardrum, torn ligament and fractured wrist -- just walk it off, everything will be fine). Eventually, I just stopped telling him about my injuries. I thought the symptoms of a mild concussion might spark some interest, but apparently I was wrong. My mom, on the other hand, has this tendency to overreact. She seemed genuinely worried about my black eye and blood-stained apparel, but I'm not about to head to the emergency room.By the way, in case you haven't figured it out, I’m home for the next few weeks (as in the place where I grew up, aka the folks’ humble abode).
Before the game, I figured I would play for an hour or so, be back in time for dinner and then head to the track for an easy mile, stretching and drills. Now I’m writing to you with a wicked headache, a black eye and badly-bruised nose. The positive spin: My room isn't turning anymore and the bleeding has stopped.
Mild concussion aside, who’s ready for a track meet tomorrow? I know I can’t wait.
Until today, I’ve maintained a steady workout schedule. To be honest, my head is still throbbing so I’m cutting this entry short. There will be more to come on my training regimen after tomorrow's meet. I couldn’t skip out on this Frank Moment. Time to grab another bag of ice and up the Ibupofen dosage. Sure is great to be home.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sore No More
My studio is reminiscent of what a loner, self-sufficient Alaskan wilderness junkie might occupy (only the San Luis Obispo “wilderness” happens to be slightly more populated). My residence measures 11’x 19’ and has a full size bathroom (that tilts on its side so that you're walking uphill on your way out) thrown in at no extra cost.
The rustic, lakeside cabin (minus the lake) reminds me of a vacation home my parents might rent. (Note that my family is aptly nicknamed the Griswold’s, a movie reference to an old series featuring Chevy Chase where the parents and kin closely adhere to Murphy’s Law.) Another definition might be 'fixer-upper.' The long wall opposite the front door is made of (what used to be) red brick. The colors have faded over the years and now range from a dull red to pink-bordering-white. The other three walls are covered by 6-inch wide planks of varnished wood. The ceiling matches the wooden walls while the carpet is a tightly-knit matting of various hues of brown. A small cut of linoleum juts out aimlessly near the “kitchen” area (composed of a gas stove and a sink). Adjacent to the stove is a brick fireplace, which now houses my television.
It's a bit of a step down from the master bedroom I called home last year, but hey, for $525 per-month, I’m not about to complain. Instead, I’m planning to embrace my redneck-like digs. First, I want to redecorate the interior, perhaps with a Confederate flag, a NASCAR banner and an autographed poster of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour guys. The exterior is rather rugged already, but I think a vintage car with corrosion marks, missing tires and a cracked windshield could add to the flavor.
Most importantly, I need an animal head to mount on the fireplace mantle. The animal head is paramount to any redneck home. I want something unique and ferocious, uber-manly. Right now my heart is set on a Sasquatch. Nothing says ‘I’m a man’ like Big Foot’s dome mounted on your wall. Or maybe I could go out to the hills and kill me a cougar using my bare hands – that would be pretty hardcore. Right now I’m rocking something slightly less vicious: A knee-high felt penguin wearing a red beanie, scarf and mittens. If I want others to take my redneck image seriously, I at least need to upgrade to a mean-looking squirrel.
Sadly, I believe I am precluded from joining the redneck community. My college education, full set of teeth and lack of persistent body odor would stand out like George Bush at a Green Peace rally no matter how much I changed my image.
Working out during the moving process was equally as dreadful as all the boxes and cleaning. Plus, I didn’t account for the extended half-life of the nuclear pain in my butt following that Atascadero All-Comers race last Wednesday. My upper hamstrings ached straight through the weekend, making everyday tasks like sitting down, laying down and standing up inappropriately difficult.
Despite the egregious pain in my ass, I managed a plyometric-based workout on Friday, back and biceps on Saturday and a 1-mile time trial on Sunday. I ran the time trial with Jason and MJ. It was a foregone conclusion that MJ would destroy us (being that he’s currently a Division I runner while I’m in the has-been category). MJ cruised the first 600-meters with Jason and me and then steadily spewed dust in my face en route to a 5 minute, 25 second clocking. I maintained hope that I could muster a kick in my final lap that would narrow the gap to MJ — and I did. I gathered myself and ran a brilliant lap, my feet floating along the track as if I had wings on my feet. I gapped MJ, coming within 10-meters into the last turn. Entering the final stretch, I let out a roar and went shoulder-to-shoulder for the final 50-meters. Oh, it was a race for the ages as we dueled over that last half-stretch, a pair of formidable opponents with bragging rights on the line. I leaned at the finish and barely overtook MJ for one of the most improbable upsets in the history of track and field.
At least that’s how it happened in my head. In reality, I was 200-meters behind MJ when he finished, but the previously described pipe dream has more intrigue. Truth is, just like last week, my legs promptly gave me the finger when asked to move faster. My time was a marginal improvement from one week ago as I clocked 5:57 while Jason regressed at 6:16.
The good news from the last month of workouts: I’m finally getting past that beginner’s soreness. Everybody goes through a period of hellish pain when they first begin a workout regimen. Eventually your body adapts and the recovery time decreases. The soreness I felt after that 400 is gone, my legs are recovered and, for the first time since beginning in late May, I have noticed significant improvement in my performance. Eventually, I’ll drop a few pounds (sorry Chrissy, I’m still a 165-pound fatty), but for the moment, I’m just happy to be pain-free.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
A Nauseating First Race
I can think of several positives that came out of last night’s all-comers track meet. At the top of the list, my name won’t pop up on any Google searches linked to the race because, thankfully, the guy in charge of such insignificant nuances managed to type my name into the results as Frank Stranz;.
Yep, the race went that well. I clocked a rather unimpressive 55.75 in my return to the quarter-mile. I managed about a 27 second split for my first 200, but my legs decided to ignore my request to speed up over the next 200. My pre-race game plan was to cruise the first turn, gently pick up the pace over the next 100 and then try to negative split (run faster than my previous 200-meters) to the finish line. I was able to manage a rally through the third-hundred, passing the race-leader out of the final turn, but my legs quit on me shortly after. I managed to hang on for the win, but it wasn’t an attractive finish.
After I crossed the line, pride set in. I decided that, because I ran so slowly, I couldn’t appear tired to any of the 200 or so strangers in attendance. Rather than curling up in the fetal position on the side of the track, clutching my throbbing hamstrings and closing my eyes to impede a blossoming headache, I stood tall with hands at my hips. Smart guy that I am, I set up camp at the opposite end of the track, leaving me 100-meters away from my water. That distance might not seem like much, but, after sprinting (loosely defined in this case) a quarter-mile, that 100-meter walk might as well be a hike up Mt. Everest. First, my vision went a little hazy as I tried to slow my breathing, (unsuccessfully) presenting the facade that I was already recovered. Next went the legs, my steps becoming more visibly labored as I neared the midway point. Soon after, a fun feeling found its way into my stomach (aka nausea). Boy, don’t I love running the 400. Remind me again why I gave up this sport?
I had plenty of time to ponder my race and fitness after reaching my final destination as I collapsed on the ground not to be disturbed for many minutes. I warmed up too soon (about 45 minutes too soon), it was cold out (what happened to that wonderful weather we had last week?), my legs really weren’t ready to race (still sore from my 1-mile time trial on Sunday), I was nauseous before the race even began (due to a poor race-day diet) and blah, blah, blah.
One thing I’ve learned in my track career is that every runner has a pocketful of excuses to justify their performance. If they ran well it was because the conditions were great or their legs felt awesome or they finally came out of the blocks properly. After running a poor race, runners turn to the usual suspects – there was a headwind, it’s not my event, my hamstring has been bothering me, my legs just didn’t feel good, I waited too long to get moving. It’s all BS.
Truth is, the clock doesn’t lie. I ran a 55.75 second 400 yesterday. It wasn’t a 54.75 or a 56.75. It doesn’t matter if I consider myself a long jumper, miler or a shot putter. Excuses are there for the insecure. I’m in terrible shape. I haven’t maintained a stretching routine for over a year, I’ve put in a total of three track workouts in the last month and, in turn, I ran a slow time. I know I can run better, but who cares? Fact is, I didn’t run faster. It is what it is.
That said, it’s back to the training routine today. By the end of July, the final all-comers meet on the schedule, that 55.75 is going to drop.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
I'm Sore!
Great news: My chicken-apple sausage went untouched during a massive seagull raid at
Pesky birds aside, it was an awesome day. We Californians are truly blessed. Some folks in
A great day on the beach it was, but today also proved to be a sobering reminder that I’m entrenched in my training regimen. (That was supposed to sound Rocky-esque, cue the inspirational music and let the workout montage begin.
I’m approximately three weeks into the fitness journey and I can honestly say that I remember why I quit in the first place (way back at the end of the 2007 track season). Pain sucks, man. Not to mention my arches are killing me. My right plantar fascia has yet to heal (and is possibly worse off than when I injured it back on June 6). I’m fairly sure the whole situation could have been avoided if I was wearing a pair of shoes with these new-age mechanisms called ‘arch supports.’ The veteran pair of running shoes I sported on that day were quite possibly a bad idea. Three weeks behind us and that pair of running shoes I left at a friend’s house in Van Nuys have yet to appear on my doorstep. I’m strongly considering purchasing a new pair.
Despite the arch problem, I’ve decided (using all my wisdom) that it would be a smart idea to compete at an all-comers track meet next Wednesday. I’ll tape the arch and lace up my now seemingly-ancient pair of spikes for the first time in about a year (I did make two appearances at all-comers meets in
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Introducing Jason Cater
Quick recap of my last few days: I’ve been cussed out by a drunk roommate for, of all things, placing a dirty dish that he left by the sink in his doorway (coincidentally, I wasn’t the culprit). Sunshine (another roommate) and I purchased 40 goldfish and gave them a new home in Brandon’s bathroom sink (shhh, don’t tell the animal activists). I spent two hours in traffic driving from a suburb in San Jose to the McAfee Coliseum in Oakland (total distance traveled: approximately 45 miles) and then was forced to pay full price ($15) for parking to see a soccer match that was already half over. I, along with three friends, also visited the Tech Museum in Downtown San Jose (making us the oldest visitors without a parental leash).
Quick synopsis of my weekend: I still don’t understand why my roommate cussed me out (and it was nice of him to apologize to me…which, naturally, he didn’t). The prank was hilarious (although it would have been funnier had we bought the hamster instead). I would like to write a letter to the San Jose Earthquakes regarding game protocol when a crowd of nearly 40,000 is expected (a cop directing traffic might have been slightly more efficient than the lights at the three intersections we crossed – the lights, lacking any capacity to judge the situation, were timed for a typical Saturday evening, only there were a few thousand extra cars on this evening). Also, charging the inevitably-late fans full price for parking even though the game is half over is ridiculous. Finally, despite the menacing glares we received from various children while waiting in line for the virtual bobsled, the museum was worth the price of admission.
Wait, what was the point of this blog? Oh yeah, fitness. I did manage a few trips to the gym over the last six days. On Friday, I pounded out 600 repetitions of abdominal exercises (which, for future reference, will become 600 reps of abs for simplicity’s sake) along with 600 jump ropes, two sets of 10 squats with a paltry 135-pounds and a routine Jason (workout buddy) and I call ‘super legs.’ Super legs are three hamstring strengthening exercises using a medicine ball. You lay flat-back on the ground, prop your heels on the ball and lift the butt off the ground for the first exercise. For the second, you place your feet on the ball and push your feet into the ball to elevate your butt off the ground. The third exercise combines the previous two – place your heels on the medicine ball then roll the ball onto your feet while lifting the butt off the ground. Seems easy, but trust me, the hammy’s will feel it.
Saturday and Sunday were off days for travel purposes. Jason and I made a last-minute trip to the Bay Area to watch the David Beckham Show (aka Major League Soccer) in San Jose, spent the night at my folks’ place in Petaluma, Calif. and then drove to San Francisco to watch the final game of the Bay Bridge Series between the A’s and Giants. After the game, we hopped in the car and watched some $40 worth of gas fly out the tailpipe en route to
A little sluggish from all the driving, Jason and I managed a lackluster effort at the gym on Monday. Luckily it was an upper-body day, because I’m not all too keen about having bulging biceps anyway. There are plenty of guys who can brag about their upper body lifting routines at the Rec Center, but I’m the guy who laughs at the frat-boy muscle-heads who spend as much time flexing for the gym mirrors as they do thinking about their next tanning session (yes, one frat on campus has a mandatory tanning quota to meet). The typical frat boy walks around the gym with their chin pointing somewhere toward the ceiling, their chest is puffed out and their arms don’t so much swing as their shoulders do swivel. Those guys have quite the impressive upper-body physique, but do me a favor and look at their legs the next time you see one of these monstrosities – scrawny they are. A lot of frat guys I know happen to be decent human beings, but their gym behavior suggests an extreme case of narcissism as well as a touch of douchebagitis.
Today, Jason and I got back to the leg routine and actually put in some quality work. Translation: I'm in pain even while laying down. It's a wonder I decided to give this working out thing up in the first place.
Because he will be a main character in this blog, let me take this chance to introduce the man that is Mr. Jason “I Might Like Food But I Don’t” Cater. Jay is about 6 feet, 2 inches, maybe 185 pounds and intends to tryout for the Cal Poly basketball team this fall. He tried out a couple years ago, but missed the cut. Now, he’s motivated to give the Mustangs another go. I first met Jason on a basketball court. His roommate and another close friend of mine, Terrance “Oh” Grady recruited Jay for our intramural basketball team. Terrance promised me a baller and, when Jay stepped onto the court, I shot Terrance a curious look. With his loose-fitting t-shirt, his shorts that sagged enough to reveal a pair of checkered boxers and a scraggly mop of hair didn't look like a guy who narrowly missed making a Division I basketball roster. (Did I mention he was white?) Just about everybody at Cal Poly is white, but Terrance, being black, promised me a guard who nearly made the Cal Poly team. I expected, well, somebody a bit different. Nonetheless, Jay was a true baller, nailing down over 30 points, mostly from beyond the arc, in our first game. His quick release and ability to spot up from anywhere on the court were a great asset to our team. Beyond the intramural basketball court, Jason and I have become good friends.
Jason, by the way, is absolutely devastated right now. A diehard Lakers fan, tonight’s game, a 131-92 romp by the Boston Celtics, ended his team’s attempt at history. Tired as I was, the Lakers absolutely lulled me to sleep in the second quarter (not hard to do during NBA games what with all the lengthy media timeouts). I loosely affiliate myself with the Golden State Warriors so my championship dreams were flushed away several months ago (or so it seems – the NBA playoffs are gruelingly long).
In any case, time for me to shut down for the evening and jump in the hot tub. Worth noting, we don’t have a hot tub at our house (but the gated complex at De Tolosa Ranch isn’t a bad alternative…too bad our key, aka Sunshine because he was 6 foot, 6 inches and could reach over the fence to open the door, is home for the summer).
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Injury Numero Uno
Turns out, tomorrow didn’t quite fit into my schedule. Two other events clouded my ability to run (or so I like to think). One, the UEFA European League Championships commenced (that Portugal-Turkey game, although meaningless to me, was a must-see). Two, MJ and Ryan (roommates) felt it was our duty to barricade Brandon (another roommate) in his room.
It all started as MJ and I wrapped up a game of water pong. “We should put the pong table against
“Awww you’ve gotta be KIDDING me. Are you guys serious right now? Really?”
After about 20 minutes,
Rest assured, I did return to the fitness world on Sunday. It was a sad showing. I went on a run (slow jog) to the “lake” (I use the term loosely…more like football-field-sized pond). The workout was pretty bland – 10 minutes out, 10 minutes back with a 3-minute breather in between.
I had a recurring thought on the return trip: “I need new shoes I need new shoes I need new shoes…” My arches hate me right now.
Monday came and, rather than run, I returned to the tennis courts. Originally, I promised myself I would run after the all-important tennis match. After I felt a pop in my right arch (also known as the plantar fascia…even though I didn’t receive a degree in exercise science or kinesiology, I’m fairly keen on the musculature and bone makeup of a person’s lower half due to the enormous amount of injuries sustained in that region over my collegiate track career) I decided that running might not be the best course of action. I did, of course, play the match out for fear of succumbing to pansy-itis.
A conspicuous clicking sensation in my arch relayed the message to me that I had, indeed, suffered an injury. One day later, in all my brilliance, I let myself get suckered into playing basketball. Originally, the plan was to lift weights. Four games of basketball later...quick question for the reader: Does your body speak to you? Mine does. My arch was screaming at me to the tune of, “Frank’s-a-dumb-ass (clap-clap clap-clap-clap).”
Running is now out of the picture until the inflammation dies down. What a glorious start to my journey back to fitness.
Friday, June 6, 2008
One Day Down, What Happened to the Rest?
My “Back to Fitness” escapade took a brutal turn one day after beginning this blog. In all my brilliance, I managed to leave my only pair of viable running shoes at a buddy’s house in
A) Drive to
B) Have my buddy mail the shoes to
C) Buy a new pair of $80 running shoes
D) Ask my former track coach for a new pair of shoes via our sponsor, ASICS. I mean, I did work an entire year for free as a volunteer assistant coach. Any kind, decent person would compensate a volunteer for attending practice five days each week for seven months, including a number of Saturday practices (conveniently held at
As funny as I think it would be to march into Coach’s office and politely ask for shoes (or demand them), I’ve decided that I would rather not be physically attacked by a woman in her late 50s. Although paying another $80 to buy the one pair of running shoes I trust (the ASICS Cumulus, amazing shoe…please address the endorsement check to Frank Stranzl /
Practically new, well-cushioned, proportional, hole-less running shoes sadly not at my disposal, I set out for the track on Tuesday with my aged pair of older Cumulus VIIs. Part of that statement is true and part of it is false; you take a guess.
Think about it.
Those of you who predicted that I did, in fact, go out and buy a new pair of running shoes, please be reasonable. The truth: I didn’t exactly make it to the track. I was going to. But then I got back from campus, laid in bed, got working on an assignment for my new job and, well, Mike Tyson might as well have landed an uppercut square on my chin. I was out, done, curled up on the couch watching TV.
Wednesday was better. I grabbed the old running shoes and left for the track. Mind you, these are the same shoes I wore through months of Cal Poly track and field training. I bought two pair of the same shoe in August of 2007 and alternated them out until the end of the season in May 2008. Even though they didn’t see the track for lengthy stretches of time due to a steady stream of injuries, these shoes are well past their prime. Neither pair has any traction left, the gel-cushions are non-existent and pieces of rubber have begun to dislodge from their proper location. Otherwise, these dandies are peachy-keen.
The workout went as crummy as expected. I ran eight-300s (track lingo for eight 300-meter runs). It was continuous with alternating paces. The goal was to run four-300s at a 6-minute mile pace and the other four at whatever pace I needed to recover. Back in the day, I could hammer out 10-300s at 45-seconds apiece with the same amount of break. To give the non-track reader an idea of how far off I am right now: A 6-minute mile pace translates to 1 minute, 6 seconds to finish 300-meters. Honestly, it really is difficult to show up to the track and throw down a workout of the quality I put out when, one year ago, that same pace was nothing but a warm-up. At the end of the workout, I felt like somebody just zapped the energy out of my legs. I wanted to do more, I wanted to go faster, but my legs wouldn’t turn.
In lieu of an easy recovery-day workout on Thursday, I stayed at home and played water-pong with the roommates. (The game is otherwise known as beer-pong/Beirut, only we had water in the cups and didn’t drink the contents…we’re addicted to the game and, rather than consuming copious amounts of alcohol every night of the week, we substitute the key ingredient in beer pong with H20. Check out the rules at Wikipedia.)
One day later, I am happy to report that I still haven’t returned to the track. God-forsaken place that track business. I did manage to play two games of tennis, but I highly doubt the slightly-athletic movements I made in a small, confined space resulted in a quality workout. Back to the track tomorrow…
Monday, June 2, 2008
The Initial Spark
See, I used to be a Division I athlete (sort of). I ran two years at Cal Poly, a small D-1 school on the
Each fall I would run at the front of the pack, sometimes beating out scholarship athletes who sat on their ass all summer. As the year went on, the genetic beasts would slowly pass, and then crush me. I never contributed a point to the team at a conference meet and didn’t improve my time after setting a new personal-best my first time in uniform. (In all fairness, I only ran in three meets my first year on the team and was injured for more than half the season my second year on the team.)
I like to think I was the token “Rudy.” I showed up to practice on-time every day (a task worth noting at Cal Poly), kept the thoroughbreds honest and generally kept a low profile. God (whether you believe in him or not; I do, so you’re going to have to deal with a smattering of pious references) didn’t intend for me to be a college sprinter. I should have guessed when I topped out at 5 feet, 8 inches and a scrawny, distance runner-like frame, but I’ve always been stubborn and kind of had this dream to be a D-1 athlete. Most frustrating about my experience at Cal Poly was watching naturally-gifted athletes frequently waste the opportunities granted to them. I would have offered my first-born son (Frank Stranzl VII) for an athletic scholarship. True story. Part of a college education paid for with the stipulation that I must run track. What a tough life. And yet I see scholarship athletes disappear, never to be seen again, on a yearly basis. Apparently running for a college education cramps their social lives.
My fun (cliché as it sounds) was just being on the team. You see, I was really stoked about making a D-1 roster. Making the team settled the score on one of my lifetime goals. My friends from back home congratulated me and everything.
Before I became a Mustang, I was that shiny-eyed kid (a 21-year-old kid at that), who was totally amped out of his mind that he got to workout with his heroes. (A bit melodramatic?) I truly held college athletes in high regard. I envisioned a group of highly motivated individuals who lived and breathed track and field, athletes who wanted nothing more than to win that conference title. After all, D-1 athletes are machines built for sports, people who are competitive, dedicated and driven, right? Not so much. A number of the assholes, I mean the God-given, genetic freaks, don’t give a crap about the team, couldn’t care less whether their performances improve and don’t even enjoy working out. WTF mate? If I only had the talent that some of these people did. Maybe if my diet had included Jaeger Bombs, Natty and Jose Cuervo I would have been a better runner. I knew I did something wrong – instead of HGH and anabolic steroids, I should have been boozing it up at the bars. What was I thinking? Bitter, I am.
(Rants such as this will be frequent. My obviously skewed view of the world and how it should work creates ample opportunity for me to get pissed off.)
Succinct wrap-up of what you just read: I used to be in great shape. Now I’m not. More importantly, but less relevant, I’m resentful of the genetic lottery and people who fail to live up to their full potential. Moving on…
A few days ago, I was home in the fitness bastion of
Ahem. So I was back in PTown and my dad asks me if I want to go to the gym with him on Saturday morning. Stunned, mostly because he never once watched or offered to work out congruently with me in all my years of running track, I told him I would love to go to the gym the next morning. Eight hours of sleep later, I woke up and, sure enough, he wanted to go to the gym. I spent 20 minutes on the treadmill, lifted some weights (some meaning about as much as an infant fresh out of the womb) and was very proud to see my dad trudging away on his treadmill for the better part of 45 minutes. I was feeling that 20-minute treadmill session with all of about two-dozen workouts to my credit since the conclusion of my illustrious track career. Still, I was happy just to be there with my dad (gotta love those father-son bonding moments).
One morrow later, my dad asks me again if I would like to join him at the gym. “Whoa, hold on a minute here. It’s Sunday, the day of rest. And it’s still the a.m. I was up late last night – well, ok, maybe not, but I’m still tired and it is Sunday. And we worked out yesterday. Do we really need to go at it again today? I’m sore, too. If I go, I might tire myself out too much and be sore for our intramural basketball game in a couple days. It’s a playoff game, so I want to be ready to go. I mean really, if I don’t go it’ll be fine. I’ll just do some push-ups and sit-ups and call it a day. That’s plenty. No need to overdo it.”
Then it hit me. I was showing all the symptoms of a lazy fat-ass. (Sorry if you happen to be one, but take offense anyway. It’s nothing to be proud of. I’m a mean guy, I know, but somebody had to say it. There will be no political correctness in this blog). Seriously though, I’ve put on 15 pounds in the last year. Not an astronomical amount, but when you consider that one year ago I was 15-pounds lighter and it was mostly muscle, that’s a mind-boggling number.
I’m not quite ready to join reality television’s Biggest Loser yet, but I am ready to put myself to the test. You see, one of my best friends is a big guy. In fact, he’s a huge guy who happens to be closing in on the century mark…times four. He’s put on about 100 pounds in the last two years. I’ve always given him a hard time about his weight because, quite frankly, he has the ability to change his life and I’m worried about him. More on Big Jon later.
I’ve always thought that, if he really wanted to, he could drop that weight. But, here I am putting on some weight of my own. Is it fair of me to tell him to shape up when I can’t? In all fairness, he has terrible metabolism and he’s genetically fat, or so I’ve heard from him before (because the liter of soda he drinks almost daily and his fast-food diet has nothing to do with his obesity), but I’m holding a double standard here. Sure, I’m not 400 pounds and gaining weight at the same rate as Big Jon, but I am gaining weight.
The perceptive reader will note that I am not fat and that this really isn’t a miracle story about how I dropped a million pounds and now I’m going to be on a Subway commercial. This account will cover my journey back to fitness – all the indecision, the excuses, the unwillingness to commit to a regular training schedule that everyone goes through. More important, I want to find what motivates me, and others, to workout. The only reason I hit the track over my years in competitive running was to improve performance. Now, without the bonus of competing for a team, where am I going to dredge up the necessary motivation to get back in shape?