Sore No More

I am currently in Day 2 of the studio-living experience. In an effort to further professionalize myself, I recently chose to move into a one-bedroom cottage behind a house rented by a pair of Cal Poly professors. This last year, I lived with four college guys, three of whom were on the Poly track team. Because I will return as a paid-assistant for the track team next year, I decided it would be a better idea not to live with athletes I happen to be coaching.

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.

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.

I'm Sore!

Great news: My chicken-apple sausage went untouched during a massive seagull raid at Avila Beach today. No sooner had Jason, MJ (roommate), Brandon and Jay's friend, Nolan, finished dinner and played three points of bocci ball did a flock of winged-rats descend upon our picnic area. We watched from 50-yards away as the seagulls ravaged our foodstuffs. Fortunately, the poop-bombers didn’t bite into the pair of chicken-apple sausages I had left on the table (nor did they reach my hot dog buns or cookies, leaving me the only survivor of the air assault). Another notch in the win column: no feces were reported on anybody’s belongings. They did, however, fly off with one or two uncooked sausages, dug into MJ’s hot dog buns and also knocked MJ’s remaining chorizo into the sand. Score that round to the seagulls.

Pesky birds aside, it was an awesome day. We Californians are truly blessed. Some folks in Middle America haven’t seen the ocean. The roommates and I, plus Jason, have made trips on consecutive days (it's a lengthy 10-minute drive on the southbound 101). The weather this week, as it should be, has been a tad hot, but is perfect in the evening. It’s closing in on midnight here and the temperature is comfortable enough that I’m shirtless wearing just a pair of shorts (on that note, I would like to recognize that the reaction David Beckham received for taking his shirt off following the San Jose-Los Angeles soccer match last Saturday was absurd – I can’t say I get quite the same reaction…shocking).

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. Mission: unaccomplished). See, I’ve come to the realization that I’m sore. Not just a little sore. We’re talking the it hurts to walk to the kitchen, legs won’t function, can’t lift my arms without igniting a forest fire in the biceps kind of pain. Jason and I have hit the weights pretty hard this week. I’ve moved up the scale from an infant fresh out of the womb to a full-fledged baby who has recently developed basic motor skills. The result is plenty of frustration and a heap of pain. The workouts, although not terribly difficult, have me hitting the bottle (of Ibuprofen on my desk).

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 Santa Rosa, Calif. last summer). Hopefully I’m not in this much pain come next Wednesday because I’m running that 400-meter either way.

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 San Luis Obispo.

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).

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 Brandon’s door,” I said. Plain and simple, that was it. Then MJ upped the ante, deciding it was necessary to put our living-room chair on top of the pong table so Brandon would have to crawl underneath to get out of his room. Not to be bested, Ryan thought it would be an even better idea if we tipped the couch on its end and push that in front of Brandon’s door, then use the pong table as leverage so Brandon couldn’t escape through his door, period.

Mission accomplished? Not quite. Brandon has three doors – one to the garage, one to the kitchen and one to the laundry room (which then has another door that exits perpendicular to the house’s front entrance). We proceeded to block his other two vestiges of freedom in similar fashions and laid in wait for the ensuing hilariousness.

“Awww you’ve gotta be KIDDING me. Are you guys serious right now? Really?”

After about 20 minutes, Brandon found the one weakness in our flimsy fortification, tossed aside the plank of wood guarding his escape to the outside world, climbed over the washing machine that stood behind the wood and returned to his autonomous lifestyle. Good times.

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.

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 Los Angeles. For those whose California geography isn’t up to par, Los Angeles is approximately three hours south of San Luis Obispo. This leaves me several options:

A) Drive to Los Angeles, enjoy a(nother) weekend vacation, spending approximately $60 in gas in the process, as well as various other inevitable expenditures (food, drink, lap dance…just kidding)

B) Have my buddy mail the shoes to San Luis Obispo (he does owe me gas money from a previous road trip)

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 9 a.m.). My compensation: A Big West Conference T-Shirt that our team received at no cost to Cal Poly’s coffers (and it’s not even my size). I realize that I was volunteering my time and I shouldn’t expect anything in return, but seriously? One Boys and Girls Club basketball team that I coached came up with a $50 gift certificate to Big 5 and a pair of Golden State Warriors tickets for attending two practices or two games a week for three months and all I can scrounge up for working at Cal Poly is a lousy T-shirt that doesn’t fit and didn’t cost our coach a penny? Thanks, Coach.

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 / 1 Grand Ave. / SLO Town, CA 93407), I would rather wait and see if my friend comes through via mail. A guy can dream, right?

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…

The Initial Spark

The last place I expected my inspiration for fitness to come from was my family. Back in the day (one year ago), I worked out 10-12 times a week, every week. Over a two-year stretch, the most days I took off in a row were 10. I was obsessed with working out. I had to be in shape. The motivation was simple: improve my performance – actually, it was mostly to keep from getting my ass kicked too badly on the track.

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 California Central Coast. I think the coach might have had a mental lapse (not a stretch) in deciding to keep me on the team. Short, slight-framed white kid who didn’t even make it out of his league finals meet in high school – sign him up for a D-1 school. OK, so I really wasn’t that bad. I was cut my first time trying out for the team, but worked myself into halfway decent shape (decent enough to keep up with the scholarship thoroughbreds in fall workouts) and deserved a spot on the roster the next time around. My time on the team was a fallacy, though.

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. Petaluma, Calif. even threw me a tickertape parade (I never understood that phrase, but it sounds cool). Basically, making the team was kind of a big deal.

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 Petaluma, Calif. This is the same town where, if jogging around town, cars would drive by really slow so that the occupants could get a good look and say, “What the hell is that dumbass doing?” Many a summer I would jog from my house to the track and find out later that a friend saw me (from the comfort of their air-conditioned house or vehicle). Later, said friend would ask the obvious: “So, why were you running?” I was always too polite to throw out a response like, “So, why are you 50-pounds overweight?” In the many summers my running buddies and I spent at Casa Grande and Petaluma high schools, we were more likely to see a group of social outcasts (I swear they were always those Everyone Else Is A Tool So I’m Going To Dress Up In All Black Because That’s Unique Even Though My Friends All Wear The Same Thing – We’re So Rebellious kids) than fellow runners. It was a culture shock when I moved to San Luis Obispo, Calif. where it was uncommon not to see a biker or jogger on a given day.

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?