Success!!!! And then .. .. . .

Last night, marked a yoga milestone.

I was able to bend forward and touch the floor. Not palms flat on the mat, more like fingertips with pressure. Miniscule achievement, yes, but I'll take it.

Wore the heart rate monitor to spin today. Quite the challenge. I was out of my zone even before I started warming up. I would adjust the tension, slow my cadence, it would come down a bit, but still out of the 55 to 70 % range it should have been in.

It wouldn't stop beeping. I resisted the urge to rip off the watch and toss it out the doorway into the outer room. I was getting nervous that it was going to flat line.
I spent a total of 6 minutes "in the zone," only about 13 percent of the time.

I think today was the slowest I have ever peddled a bike. And I don't think I have ever taken so many deep cleansing breaths to lower the heart rate. It was almost like yoga in on wheels.

Though I wasn't going very fast, all that concentrating and adjusting did cause me to break out into a nice sheen of sweat, as opposed to the deluge of moisture that usually accompanies my Thursday morning spins.

Going Retro

I figure I can stop complaining about how sore my body is, because in reality, it’s not really sore at all. Sure there were a few days when movement was nearly impossible, but for the most part, I spend a lot of time marveling at how sore I am not. That means one of two things: I doing things right, or I’m doing them wrong.

With GymBuddy still in recovery, I figured Saturday was as good a day as any to attempt the 20/20/20 class (that and the guilt from ditching on Tuesday). The class is divided into 20 minutes of cardio drills, 20 minutes of kickboxing and 20 minutes of resistance training, not necessarily in that order, that is just the order in which I memorized the description from the gym pamphlet.

You can usually tell what you will be up to the moment you walk in because Deb has all of her equipment set up.

So I was greeted with the kickboxing bag. Fantastic! I am so digging the kickboxing class. I am nowhere near Chuck Norris perfection, but I enjoy working at.

Not nearly as psyched when she announced, as the class began, “All right, everyone go grab a jump rope!” in a voice that was just a little to enthusiastic for my pre-caffeinated psyche.

My jaw dropped. My facial expressions were a mixture of uncontrollable awe and outrage. Are you f$(#(@g kidding me? I was 9 years old when I last jumped rope, and that was at recess. Granted, then I could double Dutch like nobody’s business, but that was 24 years ago. Back when I had a jump rope, and a 20-minute break called recess.

Jumping when you are, say, 65-lbs is fun. Jumping rope when you are more than double weight is defies the laws of physics. Now, it’s more like trip rope, than jump rope. It took all the coordination I had. Wrists twirling, legs jumping. Jesus, there were going to be injuries.

I swear, if I had seen that jump rope when I walked it, I would have walked out. I said as much to Deb, and she told me she would have chased my sorry ass down the driveway and brought me back kicking and screaming. (That’s why I love her. She can deconstruct any excuse I may throw at her.)

One deep breath, a quiet prayer to any playground God that was listening, and I was off for . . . .two jumps. Landed smack on the rope. No one saw that. . . One more time. . . . Four jumps. One foot on the rope. Bound to dislocate a shoulder. No one saw that either.

But hey, wait a minute. This jump/trip thing is happening to everybody around the room, at various intervals. I don’t feel so bad.

I don’t know how long we lasted. That was just our warm up. Deb said the key was to be light on your feet and alternate feet rather than the two-foot jump. Light on your feet? I haven’t yet figured that out. Some people had, bouncing like there were springs attached to the feet, effortless. I caught myself in the mirror -- I looked like a mastodon pillaging a village. Nothing light or delicate about these feet.

Anyway, I survived the jump rope.

Oh, yeah, there was actually class, too. All things considered, it was worth pushing through the jump rope to get through the class, which was pleasantly enjoyable.

It’s now Tuesday. I’ve been a little slow in updating the blog, something I promise to work on.

Today was the return to instructor’s choice. Definitely much better on the second time around (except for the damn beat step. Simplest thing in the world, but damn if I can’t get it right. Throw in a tap, kick and I am all sorts of confused!).

Today was the first day with the heart rate monitor. It’s like a portable EKG machine -- a strap with the monitor goes around your chest, feels a bit like an underwire. I thought mine was nice and secure, until I bent over to pick up my t-shirt, the strap came undone, went flying across the room. My cat damn near lost a paw. Note to self: make sure the strap is securely fastened.

The readings are transmitted to a digital watch you can wear around your wrist.

I haven’t seen a digital watch since about the last time I jumped rope -- Fourth Grade. (Many things in my life have some Fourth Grade reference. That was the year my mother gave me a “shag” haricut and I looked like a pilgrim for my school photo; that was the year I lost my pants in gym during dodge ball. They were the greatest pair of jeans. They had a picture of Benji -- the poor man’s Lassie -- on the back pocket. The zipper was broken. We were playing Dodge Ball. I was the favored target. Every time I bent down, it would get drafty. I would have to run back to my corner and discreetly zip up. Well, on one duck, the snap went with the zipper (no buttons back then) and as I ran back to the corner, Benji slid down to my ankles, exposing my Tuesday labeled underwear on a Thursday morning. I’m still traumatized.)

When we were kids my brother had a friend with a speech impediment and was always so proud of his DIG - I - TELL watch. I think of Jimmy every time the alarm beeps.

Yes, there is an alarm, which after you program it, beeps when you break a range. I am not supposed to surpass 75% of my maximum heart rate. It didn’t take much to set the alarm off. I felt like a time bomb. Every few seconds the damn thing would beep.

The theory is that you don’t have to totally exhaust yourself to achieve calorie and fat burn. You can push yourself to a level that doesn’t give you much benefit. After today -- which my DIG - I - TELL watch informed me I spent 38%t of my workout “in the zone” -- I wonder if I got any benefit.

I used to measure a good workout by the amount of sweat and the strength of the odor coming off my body. I was barely winded. I could breathe, was a little sore from the lower body moves, but was working at a snail’s pace to keep my heart rate from maxing out.

This may take some getting used to.

The Difference Between 5:15 a.m. and 5:15 p.m.

One word: Guilt.

I faltered.

I woke up at 5:15 a.m. on Tuesday morning, setting my alarm the night before with the intent that I would go to the dreaded instructor’s choice class.

I can’t really say what went wrong there, other than I rolled over and went back to bed.

After, of course, a moment of pondering.

What seemed like a good reason for shutting the alarm off, rolling over and going back to sleep only looks like a weak excuse in the cold hard light of day.

5:15 a.m rationale: I have to work late tonight, 4 p.m. to 12 a.m., and Wednesday night, the same. I need my sleep to function. Sleep is good. No worries. Now back to Tom Brady and that dream . . .Where were we . . . . . .

5:15 p.m. rationale: I feel like crap. What the hell was I thinking? Maybe 6 a.m. was too early. I could have made 9:15 a.m. spinning. Ugh!!! Weakling . . . .Where are the cookies?

11:30 p.m.: Crap! I hoped my absence went unnoticed, but as I check my home e-mail, I see an e-mail from Deb Dushku at f.i.t., the subject line reading simply: “!” To anyone else that is just an exclamation point. But I know what it truly is: a bitch slap to my motivation. I hesitate to open it, but I do and it reads, “I can’t believe you didn’t come this morning! You let your brain beat you!”

Damn that gob of gray goo! She’s right. It did get the best of me, seducing me with the promise of sleep and Tom Brady – who I am not particularly attracted to in real life anyway. Gisele can keep him. Not really sure what that is about. . .

But I do appreciate the check-up. Now that I know I am considered a 6 a.m.’er, part of that elite pre-dawn club of fitness warriors and that my absence will be noticed, I’ll be there.

Though I am a few days removed from the Tuesday break down, I continue to rationalize. You see, GymBuddy is out of commission for a bit, thanks to her gall bladder, or as it is now, lack there of. Though she didn’t attend instructor’s choice the first time, and told me she would likely never, and she has bagged out on a few other classes (see previous posts), there was always the hope she would be there. Knowing there was no hope for that, it made getting out of bed that much harder.

Having traveled with her, and having seen her lumber into spinning on Thursday mornings, she truly is the definition of “not a morning person.” So I always showed up because I can only imagine bearing the brunt of her wrath were I not to.

Get well soon, GymBuddy! My fear of you is my motivation!

In all seriousness, Thursday morning spinning is not the same without you singing along next me!

My Mission

I will master the push-up.

Allegedly the bent-knee modification is supposed to be easier, but I find the standard push-up to, in fact, be easier. But, it could be because I am doing it wrong.

I like to think I have a nice straight line, but occasionally I will catch a glimpse in the mirror and see some-sort of bastardized downward dog, which I like to call, “slouching puppy,” which apparently is not a recognized fitness posture.

It is also bad form to stare at the floor. You should be looking straight ahead. I find it necessary to look at the floor, just to calculate the rate of impact and how to avoid chipping a tooth or breaking my nose.

Once I have worked out that equation, I am usually looking down to figure out where the disconnect is between my brain and my arms. I’m not sure what part of “lower” they don’t understand. “Bend, dammit!” is also not an understood command. I know the message to lower is being sent, but it gets detoured and winds up at my hips. Again, the “hip-up” is not a recognized fitness move.

There are times when I believe I have accomplished a push-up, only to find that I am the master of illusion. There I am, struggling with all my might, shaking with the effort to lower myself, and just when I think I have achieved one, solid push-up, I check myself in the mirror only to find I have not moved. Not even budged. Chalk that one up to my overactive imagination.

As if the push-ups weren’t bad enough, there was a new move today, where we lay on our side, knees bent and in line with the hips, lower arm is curled up to touch the opposite shoulder, while upper arm is planted straight down, on the floor. The key is to raise your upper body from the floor, not with your abs, but with your arm.

I was pushing. I was pushing. I was pushing.

I was going nowhere.

Tested

Kickboxing on Monday kicked my butt -- I mean my gluteus maximus (not sure if this is the right spelling. As a writer, you would think I'd have a dictionary handy. . . ) is really sore, not sat-too-long-on-the-bicycle-seat sore, but a deeper hey-I-didn't-know-I-had-muscles-there kind of sore.

I never planned on going to a 6 a.m. class on Tuesdays. I work nights, so Tuesday is my day to sleep in. Except for today. I decided to try instructor's choice, which turned out to be a bad choice on my part.

When I say bad, I am not dissing the class -- it was a good class. It was bad because, for the first time, I wanted to quit. Grab my water bottle, bundle up. Exit stage right. Go back to bed.

I am used to grabbing equipment before class begins, but there was no equipment today. Just what God gave me. And I prayed that what was ahead of me was not a glorified elementary school gym class. I was seized by flashbacks -- of dodge ball, of running in place, of chin ups and suicide drills.

Then the music came on, the warm up began, and we started -- jumping rope with no rope, partial jumping jacks morphing into to full jumping jacks and back to jumping rope, repeating that series non-stop for what seemed like a thousand times.

The point was to work at a steady pace, keep my heart rate controlled. There was no friggin' way I could do that. I was dying. (really, not so much an exaggeration).

I had to stop. Everything was tightening up. The mind and body did not want to do this this morning. Then we added jumping jacks and a kickboxing jab. Again for eternity. Everything was slowing down. Everything was telling me to run to the bathroom, make an excuse, sneak out. DO NOT CONTINUE.

Except for that little voice that said, simply, No. Go slow if you have to. Do three , then rest. Do anything you need to do to not quit. I knew I would absolutely hate myself if I walked out.

So I carried on. 45 grueling minutes later -- tire runs, squats, push ups, working my abs from my legs up -- I was done.

Not gonna lie to you -- I hated it. But I felt good. I did not quit.

Now, a few hours later, the knees are grinding-- making a noise like I am walking on crushed rocks when I go up the stairs. That was the reason I gave up the treadmill --I could walk for miles, but could not climb the stairs to get out of my workout room. Nothing I have done so far has aggravated the knees, except this.

Maybe I can modfy it somehow. Maybe I will get used to it.

Dare I say it -- I'll see what happens next Tuesday.

ZUMBA!!!!!!

Me Like Zumba!

Something about the word Zumba makes me feel like channeling Cookie Monster.

Zumba, a Latin dance-inspired cardio workout, was the offering this morning, led by Ann Saldi, the Master Instructor of New England.

First, I DON’T dance.

Anymore.

As a kid, I used to square dance, but that’s all Alabam-lefts, daisy chains and yee-haws -- basically line dancing couples grouped in fours. I can still do a mean do-si-do, but it’s far from the Cha-Cha, droppin’ it low and pattin’ my weave.

I’m an American mutt – mostly Irish and French Canadian, which usually means just add alcohol (music optional) for the dancing to begin. The booze probably doesn’t mean I dance any better, it just makes me feel like I’m on Fame, and I am going to live forever.

But I digress. . . .

Latin dancing involves a lot of hip action, and I’ve got a lotta hip to activate. It all looks so fluid – feet stepping, hips swaying, but I felt like I was dancing in Super Glue. My mind is willing, but my body is so damn rigid when it comes to movement.

Once I got passed my self-consciousness and realized that we were all “Zumba Virgins,” I could let go and have some sweaty, clumsy fun. I could shake it. And it kept on shaking, even when I stopped.

Toward the end of class, I was getting’ my groove on, finding my own suburban-white-girl-American-mutt rhythm. Doin’ some salsa, some mambo, even a teensy bit of hip hop.

Note to Beyonce: Look out biotch. I’m right behind you. . . .

Spinning in Paradise

For this week’s class we were to mentally transport ourselves to a tropical island for a hot ride.

Enter Jimmy Buffet.

First the good news: I peddled standing up!

For about two minutes during a jump drill (stand/sit).

That was it. The thighs were shaking, and I had an entire island yet to cover.

However, next time I go to an island, I want a drink in my hand and my ass in a chaise.

Complete Cycle

Wednesday marked one week at the gym: one full rotation of yoga, spinning, muscle conditioning and kickboxing.

GymBuddy joined me at yoga this week, albeit briefly due to a deficit in her time telling ability.

I noticed this week, that I was actually able to flow from pose to pose, as the name of the class implies: FLOW yoga.

With one week behind me, I was able to concentrate on the movement and the poses, rather than learn them. Don’t get me wrong, I am still learning as I go, but they are becoming more familiar. Now that I am not struggling so much with where my feet and hands need to be, I can actually flow. I am rather proud of my warrior poses. I feel like Xena, the Princess Warrior.

This week brought something new: the side plank pose. Not sure if that is the official name, God knows I should know it, given the amount of times I have stared at magazine layouts wondering how those models seemingly defy gravity, and usually with a smile.

To accomplish this, you have to lift/balance yourself one your right hand and right foot, rotating your body to the side. When complete, you look like the diagonal arm of a triangle -- your right arm extended and your body descending down to your feet. The slowly raise your left arm to the ceiling.

All of which I was able to do. Momentarily. My arm started to shake, and then, at the most inopportune time, my labrynthitis kicked in, enabling me to flow into my next move: the yoga belly-flop. Thankfully, the lights were off so the visual collapse was hidden, but not much could be done about the great OOMPH!

I will say briefly, by way of an explanation, that labrynthitis (not even sure if I am spelling this right) is an inner thing that I can best describe as a great, but brief, wash of dizziness. I’m still getting used to dealing with it, which came upon me suddenly last year. The dizziness itself lasts no longer than the snap of a finger. Those little finger-snaps of dizziness can last a few days, a few weeks or a few months, and are usually prompted by slightest movement, such as just shifting my eyes. I can never tell, just as I can never predict when they will start.

It’s been a few months now since the last bout, but side plank pose was just not the right time to return.

Back to yoga.

By the time we shifted to the other side of the body, I was begging for some chanting and the sound of little finger cymbals. Can I please get an “OHM?”

Not likely. This is yoga is not for the touchy-feely.

Or the dizzy.

Day 4: Kickboxing

Dear God, I looked like a ragdoll in a windstorm.

There was nothing pretty about this.

Left jab. Right jab. Got that. Jab, upper-cut combo. Got that. Hook, upper-cut combo. Got that, too.

Add kicks. Don't got that. Goes back to that whole coordination thing.

I started off strong, but by the time we added the kicks, I had hooks and jabs flying, but could barely get my legs off the ground for a good kick. I mean, a chihauha on a fire hydrant can lift its leg higher off the ground to pee than I can to kick.

Then I get flustered, loose my concentration. Forget my lefts from rights. I've got arms going everywhere and legs that want to go nowhere.

Deb, my instrcutor, says it comes in time. All of this is a learned behavior. I need kickboxing SPED.

But, I feel good. It felt good to get sweat in my eyes, despite the stinging. It felt good to feel my blood pumping though my body, and feel like my face was in an oven. It felt good to know that my fists, if nothing else, landed on the bag with a vengeance.

Now, the rug burn on my elbows, not so good. The cool down started with a yoga plank pose, bending the knees only to tap the floor and then straigtening again. Seems I was putting all my weight on my elbows and not spreading it out to my toes. Let's hope this clears up by yoga time on Wednesday.

Dawn of the Dead

I am moving like a zombie -- stiff legged with bulging eyes.

The legs are from the squats, the eyes, the pain in my thighs.

I am talking can't-bend-my-knees-or-sit-to-pee kind of soreness. I just sort of stand and straddle. Maybe I should have titled this: "My Weekend as a Man."

Day 3: Muscle Conditioning -- I Feel the Burn

I have met the enemy, and it is rubber: The resistance band.

I think I need start slow with this one. Perhaps start with a shoe string and work my way up through office supply-grade elastic. And then move to fitness rubber.

I made the acquaintance of the weighted bar. I think it was originally developed by intelligence officials as a form of “intensive interrogation.” With each squat I wanted to cry, “Please stop. I know no national secrets.” Starting level: 2.5 lb weights on either end. It’s only up from here.

Next up, dumbbells. I’ve used then before, in fact earlier this year I could have said I use 10 lb weights regularly, but oh, how the mighty have fallen! I am starting at the bottom with 3 lb dumbbells. But the difference is that I am no longer cheating. When you use them properly, those 3 lb dumbbells might as well be 30-lbs.

I know I should feel no shame, but they are florescent green. I’m pumping a glow stick, while everybody else is pumping iron.

My dream is to have arms like Linda Hamilton, circa Terminator 2. It won’t happen overnight, but hopefully something will sprout by summer.

Inhale . . . .patience. Exhale . . . .I will improve with time. Focus. They will be back . . . .

I was warned by my instructor that I will be sore in the morning. That was at 6:45 a.m. Night has just fallen, my body has decided not to wait to a full 24 hours to react. The only thing not sore is my fingertips, so I will stop now for fear of straining them, too.

The Begining

I could have asked my husband for anything for Christmas, but what I really wanted was a gym membership.

I searched high and low for a place that felt right, and tried a class with a friend at a small group fitness center -- f.i.t. (First in Training) in Hopedale. I loved it. So now I prepare for the journey -- on a bike, on a mat or on a bag. Whatever the road brings I am up for it.

Already I find myself saying things I never thought I would ever hear come out of my mouth: "I'm taking a spin class" ; "I have a kickboxing class in the morning."

To understand the wonder of this is to know me; to know that I have a hard enough time doing simple things simultaneously, like, say, typing and writing, and that grace is not something that comes naturally to me. And the most stunning thing of all is not the activity, but the fact that it is a group activity. I am one who does not like to feel vulnerable in public. (Warning to self: Success at the gym may lead to dancing in public. * GASP* Well, only if success at the gym somehow breeds the knowledge of how to boogie.)

Kickboxing is a work in progress, I am still pretty much all legs and arms akimbo, but a good instructor is key. Knowing before I even put on my gloves that it was OK not to be able to keep up with the rest of the class, was a relief. And to know that she wasn't afraid to stop and show me how to do things right BEFORE I say "OWW!" is also a great help.

So after taking a few drop-in courses to feel it out, I am now an official member, and I started this week.

Encouragement and tips are welcome, and maybe I can return the favor.

How have a first two classes gone?

Day 1: Yoga. Multi-level flow yoga, to be precise.

Holy Mother of Mary my body doesn't move! The next time anyone thinks yoga is easy, try the bow position: get on all fours, bend your left knee up and reach back with your right hand and grab-- yes, grab -- your left ankle. Don't shift your weight, and hold if for five breaths. 5 BREATHS!!!!? I'm too busy trying not to bring all 150 lbs of me down on my face, I'm am getting a Charlie Horse in my thigh, and you want me to freakin' breathe? I returned to all fours and admired those who can do it.

What I learned: This is going to take a lot of patience, but I am determined. And that I am 5'3'': 5-feet of ass and leg, and 3-inches boobs, shoulder and head. Yup, folks, someone stole my middle! With those proportions I believe it is a definite impossibility that I will ever be able to "hinge forward at the waist" while standing and place my palms flat on the floor. So like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, I am hoping the miracle of yoga will lengthen my spine and make me a piece of putty.

Day 2: Spin

o'dark:30. (5:30 a.m.) 5 degrees. I went to bed in Bellingham, Massachusetts and I woke up in North Dakota. Why am I doing this? It's coming back to me know: legs, waist, and the chance to have a torso through the yoga miracle . . .

Today is spinning. A fancy name for "stationary bike ride and sore ass." You can put three-feet of gel on top of that seat and your whooo is still going to hurt. I am praying for the day I can stand up in the saddle to give my butt a much needed break. Hear that knees? You will have to learn how to pump a 45-lb wheel and 150lbs of me. We'll work up to it slowly.

For now, let's relish the accomplishment: 45-minutes of constant peddling, at varying intensities. I did not throw-up.

I will be standing for the rest of the day.