Get a Little Crazy

Although I have not been blogging about my training as much as I would like too, let me assure you that I am still going for the gold. As stated in my last blog about time management, I am juggling a lot of balls right now and time runs from me like a fat kid in a candy store. Finding the time to sit and right anything cohesive or thought provoking is a challenge to say the least. I assure you though, I am doing the one thing that makes for great reading and that is living my life to the fullest. That's the only way I am able to keep writing the things I do. This is therapy for me, so have no fear, as long as I am living my life, I will be writing it down.

I also need to take some time out to thank everybody for there comments and cheers of support, as well as the sending of  the virtual goodies. You have all been so awesome to me and I really want to thank you for that. I only wish I had the time to respond to each and every comment, but it is damn near impossible. I would be responding and posting more than actually getting out there and living a life worth writing about. So again, please take my heart felt thanks with throughout your own journey and I hope you enjoy the following tale of aching muscles, sweaty arm pits and a new found sense of self.

Just over a week ago, I decided to push my training to another level and hired a trainer. My last experience with a trainer, found me in an emergency outpatient clinic and a dire need for muscle relaxers just so I could move to sign the admission forms. One of the worst fitness experiences I think I have ever had. I classic case of juice head trainer not listening to the client. So I was pretty leery about this whole thing, but I felt like I had gained enough knowledge on my own to know whether or not things were going the way they should. I called my evil corporate gym and asked for a trainer that had experience with Triathletes. I was assigned one over the phone and a consultation appointment was set for the next day.
As I walked into the evil corporate gym, I looked over into the trainers bullpen and wondered who I was gonna get. The tall beefy, handsome trainer with the chiseled jaw or the petite, sexy, hardbodied fitness goddess with the perky personality. To my surprise... it was neither. Out from a side office, walks a short stalky Kenyan fellow, wearing strange shoes with toes and verbalizing in a thick accent. He certainly looked like he could kick my ass though.

The introductions were made and we set about negotiating the terms of my impending torture sessions. He showed me the plans, threw up the numbers, and we haggled for about two minutes. I decided on a three session package to start because it was the cheapest they had and right now times are tough for me. I could have said no and walked out I guess, but I was here to learn and I was on a mission. We agreed to the days and time I would train, shook hands then I was off. The whole time we chatted, I could not help but think I had seen this guy before. I racked my brain but to no avail. It was gonna bug me for sure.

Training day came around and I wandered into the gym, at the alotted time, ready to sweat. He had me jump on the treadmill and take a run for about 5 minutes to get the old muscles nice and loose. Like that little doo hicky that pops up and lets you know when the turkey is done, the beads of sweat on my brow indicated that I was ready to get down to business. With a 20 pound medicine ball in his hand and a couple of stretchy bands with handles attached, we proceeded to an area of the gym that housed the Nautilus machines.

As he to set up, I began to to get cocky, thinking that this would be a cake walk. After all, we are only talking about a ball and some rubber bands. How much damage could he inflict with those things? Apparently more than you could possibly imagine. I won't go into the gory details of the 40 minute hell that followed those misguided thoughts, but let's just say my cockiness gave way to just trying to keep myself from puking and crying at the same time.

The first session was done and I stood in the middle of the gym dripping sweat and panting like a big shaggy dog on a summer day. I didn't think I had that much sweat in me. It leeched from my pours in a steady stream, covering the floor and soaking my clothes in the classic V-shaped sweat stain. Almost instantly I could feel my muscles begin to ache. In that moment I knew the next day or so would not be real fun. I grabbed my gym bag from the locker and just headed out the door and down the streets, my heart still pounding from the beat down I had just experienced.

As a side note, I have come to discover that there are two reasons why there is a ramp in addition to stairs at the front entrance of the gym. Most importantly for those how are physically impaired and require a gentle slope to navigate through the hallowed doors. But the ramp is also there for anyone who just went through what I did. Let me tell you...walking down those stairs was a dodgy proposition. My legs were like J E L L O! It was all I could do to keep from losing it and falling flat on my pain riddled face.

For that night and the next day, as the pain intensified, I cursed that evil Kenyans name up and down. My god! Hurt sooooo bad. I couldn't walk right at all. I looked like a 90 year old man that had crapped his depends, shuffling down the street on the way to bingo. Holy crap! I was not happy and the thought of another day of this wasn't making me feel any better. But I perceived and after a fist full of Aleve and some other medicinal Voodoo, I felt a bit better by the time the second session rolled around two days later.

Second session came and went. This time around I felt stronger and was more mentally prepared for what was going to happen. My muscles were still sore, but I did manage to make it through the session with a decent amount of intensity. I actually managed to joke around with him and it felt a bit more like I was earning his respect. The worst part was the fact that I had still not figured out who he reminded me of.

Once again, I was sore for a couple days, but it was a good soreness. I felt tight and solid, my muscles in full repair mode. Things were really starting to shape up in a very short period of time. I knew that he was gonna keep upping the ante with each session, so I kept my mind focused on why I was doing this and what I was going to get from it. I have a triathlon to train for and I gotta go balls out as much as possible. Taking a body that has been sedentary for several years and sculpting it into an athletic machine, is gonna require the patients of the Pope and the ruthlessness of Genghis Khan.

My final session, a couple days later, was the most trying of the three. I found myself having to catch my breath a lot more and really having to tap into some inner part of myself that I never had before. This one definitely kicked my ass and he knew it. I staggered out of the gym and into the downtown streets dripping sweat and totally exhausted from the ordeal the evil Kenyan unleashed on me. The pounding of my heart in my inner ears, threw my equilibrium off just enough to make me stagger slightly as I headed towards another day of creative purgatory. With the slight stagger, my sweaty clothes and the muttering to myself as I cursed the Evil Kenyan, I must have looked like a homeless gym rat looking ready to beg for a spare power bar.

As I settled into my cubicle, sweat still pouring down my face, drenching my keyboard with saline, I thought back to what I had gone through this week. I realized that I was in for a very long and difficult trip to reach my destination a year from now and that I was up for the challenge. The best thing though, was the fact that I had also saw what I was capable of when pushed to my potential. A perspective I can now use as a benchmark for when i kick my own ass. I also gained a sense of accomplishment and a desire to show the world that the fat man they once stared at in judgement and disgust, will soon be an athlete to revere and envy.

On that 12 block walk to work I also figured out who the Evil Kenyan reminded me of. the height difference aside is was obvious to me now. It was Seal! Which explains the title of the blog and why I kept signing that song the entire time the Evil Kenyan was dishing out the punishment.

You know were never gonna survive unless we get a little...craaaaazy! And that is exactly what I intend to keep on doing.