Tanking

My motivation is in the tank today, for many reasons, most of which are work related.

I know I should probably work out my frustrations on the bag tonight, but my evil voice is telling me to go home from work by way of Dairy Queen, get a burger --no, a cheeseburger with mayo, onion rings and a big old chocolate shake -- extra thick, put my gym clothes on, put on Fit TV, chow down while watching others work it, and go to bed.

I already consoled myself with a chocolate chip cookie from the bakery down the street -- it wasn't the SuperHuge Triple chocolate cookie, just a normal chocolate chip. Meager, really.

But like Mom makes.

With lots of Butter.

And Sugar.

And Chocolate.

At least I drank my coffee black, as if that smidgen of milk I would have used saved me from jumping off the caloric ledge.

If nothing else, I need to think of the weddings I have to go to next week -- one in Las Vegas, the other in San Diego. Think about the strapless bridesmaid dress, sans fat roll at the underarm and back of the dress. At least it's purple; I look good in purple. Think about the jiggle -- which will be well controlled by a good fitting pair of Spanx.

OR, what if I scrapped kickboxing for a pedicure?

Even Linda Hamilton has GOT to appreciate a nice pair of smooth feet and red piggy-toes . . .

My Gym Partner's a Monkey . . . .

Why can't I stop giggling. . . . . .


(I'm not making fun of GymBuddy who, incidentally, swears she was not spooked, only TIRED -- uh huh -- it's the title of a cartoon I found this a.m. while drinking my coffee)

Banana anyone?

But, Seriously . .

GymBuddy made a rare appearance at mid-morning spin on Tuesday, and there was almost a throw-down.

I need to preface this by saying I am not attached to a certain bike or location. The spin room is not big enough that a shift to the left or right will cause a great scenery enhancement – what you see will likely be the same five-feet to the left, right, front of back of you (although, if you move to the back of the room, that is likely what you will see – backsides. But I rarely take my eyes off my heart rate monitor, so that is not an issue.) And the bikes are the same – it’s not like there’s a combination of Schwinns or BMXs or Murrays in the room, they are all spinners.

I typically use the same bike unconsciously – I am barely awake at 6 a.m spin on Thursdays, so my body just gravitates there out of habit, not some great bond with my steed of steel.

But I learned early on, that not everyone is like me. GymBuddy, sadly, has not.

When she saw me not on my typical bike, she decided to try it out for a class. Only to be greeted by an unfriendly, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” when the Thursday a.m. bike’s betrothed entered the room and saw GymBuddy on “her” bike.

GymBuddy does not kid; she carries a gun for cryin’ out loud (she’s a cop)! And she does not respond well to those types of introductions. A friendly request may have gotten her to move, (maybe not) but Gym Buddy, instead settled into the saddle with a wicked smile.

And so ensued the nitpickery, though neither addressed the other directly -- the jilted’s whining about her displacement, and GymBuddy questioning the purpose of her wearing sunglasses in room lit only by a string of Christmas lights. (I can’t say I understand it either; if I want the room darker, I close my eyes.)

I thought, for a moment, spin was going to turn into kickboxing.

However, I truly enjoyed the comedy show that played out before me.

But I do think GymBuddy was spooked – she didn’t show up for spin this a.m. – our usual 6 a.m. meeting. She claims its because I kept her out too late last night.

Whatever . . . . . .

Denying my Maternity

For years I long held the belief that my parents were not my parents. Specifically, I was convinced that I was an alien child -- brought to earth in a pod and stolen by those people I knew as Mom and Dad.

I got over that by about the time I was 15, and realized there was no denying they were to they were, and I was not E.T.

Well, today there was evidence that I may not have been all wrong. At least as far as my mother was concerned. She revealed something to me that made me believe there was NO WAY we could be genetically related.

"I love lunges!"

Are you friggin' kidding me? Who's the alien now? I friggin' loathe lunges! Every morning I hear "snap, crackle, pop," and it's not me cereal talking to me. It's my knees. Whenever I bend them, they talk back to me -- stairs, lunges, bending over, you name it, they bitch. And hurt! With my father going in for a knee replacement soon, I think this is evidence that at least he and I are related. . . .

LUNGES! She could have at least revealed she lived in a Hippie nudist commune in the 1960s, or voted for Gov. Deval Patrick, but not "I love lunges!" What kind of freak is this woman portraying herself as my mother?

A squat I could see, but lunges? They hurt me; I can get down, but getting up is another story. My knees bend, but my muscles don't want to hoist me back up; my lower legs become paralyzed. My legs literally freeze and it is everything I can do right myself. I soldier on, I do them, but one day I will stay frozen in a half-assed genufleciton pose and need to be carried out by the knees by EMTs.

"I love lunges!"

WHO IS THIS WOMAN??????

Quad Knot

Is a quad knot a legally accepted form of a knot by the United States Navy, Coast Guard or Boy Scouts of America?

Doesn't matter. I've got them, and the quad knot comes in a pair. One for each leg.

I can trace its origin back to Tuesday morning spin. All was going well (average heart rate 143), until towards the end, we isolated our leg muscles -- standing tall, no bobbing and no movement in the hips on down, the only thing moving was my legs.

Or should I say seizing, like pistons in a motor when you should have had an oil change 30,000 miles ago . . . .

And now it is as if my leg musles are perfectly isolated -- right in the middle of my quads.

The Competition

For years, I have been my own worst enemy. When I should have been my own private cheerleader, I was often my most vocal naysayer.

Well I (think) I have finally moved on -- to my own best competition.

In the past week (yes, I have been a little slow at updating. . .The sneaker fiasco threw me for a loop), I have had great bonding moments with my heart rate monitor. I feel like each time I walk through the doors for spin or kickboxing, or whatever, I feel is a new day for improvement because at the end of each class, I can prove it!

For instance, Tuesday was the first day at spin -- after the Hell Ride -- where I could try to keep my heart rate in "the zone." I thought I was doing fabulous -- mostly in the 142-147 range, with a few blips when I would change positions. However, at the end of class, I was disappointed with how low my average was -- 131, which is toward the high end of my recovery zone. After sulking for a bit, I realized that I hard started to time my workout too soon. I started it when I sat on the bike and was warming up, which lowered my average.

So on Thursday, I started it after I was warmed up, and ended it before the cool down, for an average of 142!

Needless to say, it was a moment of total elation! I think I am getting it!

And I am getting the confidence I need to face the scale, as well.

But I am not ready to deal with numbers just yet . . . . .

OOPS!

I would like to take this moment to thank everyone in kickboxing last night for not pointing out that I was wearing two different sneakers -- A Nike on my left, and an Asics on right!

Not sure how that happened, other than I keep them both in the same closet. I didn't notice until this morning when I found them where I dropped them on my way in last night, and yes indeedy, they were 2 different shoes!

I have moved the Nikes-- my old workout shoes that are just too comfy to part with, but I keep for chores around the house -- to a different closet to avoid further confusion.

At One

I am feeling a supreme sense of oneness with my hear rate monitor. Now that I know my numbers, it is good to know where I need to be for my workouts.

Kickboxing has always been a challenge for me, but I can say today that I was in “The Zone!” My heart rate was an average of 152, which means I was right in the middle range for my fat burning zone for kick boxing!

At the sake of jinxing myself -- Whoooo-hooooo!

Tomorrow I return to mid-morning spin and add a muscle conditioning class. I am focused on five days of cardio and two days of muscle conditioning.

My Magic Number . . . . .

Is 167. That’s not my weight (although not far from it), but my threshold -- my heartbeats per minute before I feel like I am ready to crap out.

Today was the lactic threshold ride, which helps you determine where your fat burning and aerobic zones are. Not gonna lie to you -- it was tough.

We started at a recovery rate, just going ‘round and ‘round on the pedals, warming up, and then every 2 minutes worked to increase your heart rate by five beats, until you were at a number where you could maintain it, but not able to maintain anything above it.

167 was mine, and I held it.

And held it.

And held it some more.

For about 15 minutes. Until I wanted to kill somebody, particularly those people who weren‘t personally "there" yet and who I blamed for prolonging my hell.

But I did it. My legs were burning, I was dripping in sweat, I wanted a drink, andI developed a spectacular cramp just under my right shoulder/at the top of my ribcage in my back.

But I was able to maintain it.

And I feel like a rock star.

The key was deep inhales and exhales, and talking myself to work through the discomfort. I have learned that when it starts to feel uncomfortable, breathe deeply and work it out; you reach a point where you can eventually break through it.

The other key -- the heart rate monitor. I didn’t think it was possible to be so connected to an inanimate object as I was to my heart rate monitor. I kept my eyes trained on that with nothing going through my head but the “HOLD THAT NUMBER” mantra. And it worked. I would think it, and it would appear on the watch face.

My butt, however, is mucho tender. There was no standing for 45 minutes. It got so numb there I didn’t even realize I had an ass.

I am well aware of it now.

Spinning Out of Control

GymBuddy is talking nonsense.

She wants me to get a road bike -- to actually ride outside -- **GASP**

Nay, Nay.

It was only after much trepidation that I would take an indoor spin class. Stationary cycling is perfectly fine for me. Hell, when I am weary on a Thursday morning, I can even close my eyes. Try doing that on the road!


Spinning is safe. For me, as well as the rest of the world. There are no on-coming cars in that square of a room at f.i.t., there are no sand patches, and no need to wear a helmet.

I am still recovering from a road ride trauma one Easter Sunday when I was 9. Almost got killed when my bike hit a patch of sand going downhill on a busy street. When I finally did manage to crash safely on the sidewalk, I wound up with a bloody knee and a hole in my good white Easter tights. I was nearly run over, and all my mother cared about was the fact that I ruined my white Easter tights because I was too lazy to take them off before pulling my jeans on.

And have you seen the tires on road bikes? There are inch worms that are thicker than those things.

I like going nowhere on my bike.

Laces on the Bag!

Despite still being unable to control my heart rate, there has been a major kickboxing development.

I am able to lift my leg and KICK THE BAG! I'm not talking grazing the bottom of the bag and -- by the grace of God not falling over -- I mean, shoe laces square in the middle of the bag on my side and slap kicks!

I am not sure when it started, but I noticed it last night in the middle of some kicking drills. Suddenly, I wasn't just swinging my leg out from the knee; I was lifting my leg from my abs, through my butt and actually extending out, planting a hell of a kick (If I do say so myself!) And of course as soon as I noticed I was doing it, I wasn't able to do it anymore . . . .all was fine until I engaged the brain!

A word of caution, however, when demonstrating your success to others: NEVER, NEVER do kickboxing show and tell on someone who is not paying full attention to you.
My brother and I were walking into a restaurant after my class to celebrate his 30th birthday, and I was a little too eager to show off my moves. He failed to understand that it required him to stop walking. Rather than gain his admiration, I gave him a birthday kick to the crotch.

My kick, apparently, is VERY effective. . . .