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.