On Getting Off Track, Losing the Failure Mindset, and Picking Up the Pieces.

Monday, May 5th, 2014

On getting off track, losing the failure mindset, and picking up the pieces.

I believe I still owe you guys a blog entry on the Warrior Dash and all the glory that I felt that day. Please bear with me because I feel that today’s post should be given more importance than my own victory story.

Lately I have had MANY friends and Facebook allies tell me that they feel badly about the fact that they have “gotten off track” or that they have “fallen from the journey.” Some have even gone as far as saying that they have “tried and failed” and can’t seem to get the motivation to keep going.

I get it. Really, I do. These are real human emotions that if we didn't feel them, well, we would probably be categorized as felines or simians (or insert your favorite animal type here).

I will start with those of you who think you have “gotten off track” from your journey. From the time you are born to the time you breathe your last breath, it is all ONE journey. Consider that when you gave your first scream or came out with a powerful fist bump proclaiming, “I’m here!” that you began your journey aboard the train named LIFE. Your parents bought you a ticket, put you aboard, and helped guide you from one destination to another, reaching each one with finesse and flair. You never got off that train. After all, it’s called LIFE and you’re still living it.

If you were to look on a map of roads that train tracks are laid on, you will quickly notice that very few destinations are reached using only straight tracks without having to go through stretches of tracks that contain curves, dips, or inclines. The train doesn't need to stop before taking a curve. The train seldom stops before driving through a dark tunnel. Heck, the train could run miles and miles on auto-pilot mode, right?

This is exactly like your journey!

You begin your journey, whether it is weight loss, fitness, education, pregnancy, health-related, etc., and just when you feel that you deviated from what you or others perceive to be the perfect journey, do you feel like you got off the track? Do you feel like your train stopped and you can’t get back on the tracks? Does this sound like what you feel like after you had a cheat meal, cheat day, or skipped a few workouts (if your journey is weight loss)?

Let me remind you now and hopefully it sticks: you will not reach your destination on a straight track. You WILL have curves. You will have dips. You will have inclines. You just will. Expect it. Embrace it. Thank Creator for it. This does not mean that you have “gotten off track.” I will even go as far as saying that this in no way indicates that you have “fallen from your journey.” This means that you are progressing on your journey.

This reminds me of the time that I was working out with Sean and felt that I couldn't go on. My body was not doing what he wanted me to do and I felt frustrated that my heart rate was raising and my breaths were getting shorter. I will never forget how he saved me from myself that day by reminding me that he never said my journey would be easy; he simply said that it gets easier. In other words, it will never be harder than that first day of my journey. I have faith in those words. Sometimes faith is all I have.

So the next time you feel that you are getting off of the tracks of your journey, remind yourself that although the shortest distance between two objects is a straight line, the lessons you teach yourself on those curves are well worth the time it takes for you to reach your destination!

The failure mindset; that nasty trait that some of us have when things just don’t seem to go our way. We deviate from our plan. We don’t meet a deadline. We break a promise to ourselves. We didn't hit that weight loss goal at the end of the month. These are all examples of events that are important enough to halt our journeys. They don’t have to. As a matter of fact, they shouldn't!

You’re going to fail. There. Yes, I said it. YOU WILL FAIL! If failing means that you didn't fit into the dress you planned so long to wear, then you failed. If failing means that you have to take an extra semester to graduate because you need 3 more units, then you failed. If failing means that the scale reflected a 3 pound loss instead of 9 pounds, then you failed. So. What now?

The test is not in whether or not you will fail (because failure is part of the human experience); the test is in what your action(s) will be to pick yourself up. Repeat it. THE TEST IS NOT IN WHETHER OR NOT YOU WILL FAIL; THE TEST IS IN WHAT YOUR ACTION(S) WILL BE TO PICK YOURSELF UP!

Will you throw together another outfit that makes you feel attractive and call it a day, or will you spend your time and energy thinking about everything you could have changed to ensure that you fit in that dress?

Will you congratulate yourself for the lessons you learned towards healthier eating and moving your body, or will you spend your time and energy counting how many times you ate a bag of chips or a dessert before going to bed?

Will you look at how far you have come (against the toughest of odds) to graduate with a college/university degree, or will you keep berating yourself for needing to take extra time to complete it?

What do you choose? What will you do? How will you react to failing?

This, my friends, is the test. I am here to tell you that the test is impossible to fail it because I have given you the answers: get up, dust yourself off, and remind yourself that it is all part of the journey!

If this doesn't work for you…if you can’t seem to pick yourself up after failing and you can’t figure out why, let me know. I will remind you of all the ways that you are NOT FAILING. I will remind you that your journey is one worth being on, and staying on. I will remind you that there is nothing wrong with admitting that you need a helping hand. After all, my hand has been held throughout my entire journey…why wouldn't I  be willing to hold yours?

So we have determined that our journeys have curves. So I have implored you to get back up after your failure. How, then, do we pick up the pieces?

It’s exhausting to fail. It’s even more exhausting picking up the pieces. Trust me when I say that there is equal value that should be given to each. Acknowledge the failure—then bury the anger and disappointment that accompany it. Seek ways to change your course. Change your mindset!!!!

Not every setback is a failure. Consider it a lesson. Consider it a building block towards your pinnacle of success. Consider it a tool to place in your leadership toolkit…you never know when someone will come to you upset about actions that mirror what you have been through. Use everything you go through to push yourself forward.

Gather momentum. Pause for a moment. Catch your breath. Start again. Eyes on the prize. Pause for a moment. Is there something you need to change? Does your path, although curvy, seem clear of debris and obstacles? If not, focus on the things you can change—ONLY ON THE THINGS THAT ARE WITHIN YOUR CONTROL! Catch your breath. Start again.

Picking up the pieces is a never-ending cycle. Trust and believe in your ability to keep the lessons you will need for later, and discard those that will continuously promote failure. Your journey is worth YOUR weight in gold. Don’t let anyone steal it from you. YOU control it.

Life is good. Really, it is. 

On Public Challenges...Again, Battling Mental Demons, and Searching for Excuses.

Part one of the Warrior Dash Series.

April 6, 2014

Like all good stories, this one begins with a public challenge. Wait, didn’t this whole journey begin with a public challenge?

There was an indication on my cell phone that I had been tagged in a status on Facebook. This is not something out of the ordinary, so I immediately checked my page to see what it said. My friend, Maria Mercado, thought it would be the right venue to call me out and challenge me to enter the Warrior Dash with her. I looked through the web site and immediately decided that it was not for me.

I turned off my phone and went back to work. Two minutes later I logged back into the web site. I spent a considerable amount of time watching the videos and checking out all of the obstacles. Those minutes spent watching the videos solidified my original thought that a race such as this was not for me, but my fingers did the talking for me when I logged back into Facebook and typed ‘I’M IN!’ for all the world to see…and that’s how this all began.

The mental preparation was the first to begin. I immediately began thinking about my wardrobe (a girl has to look cute!) and decided that I would wear something tight and cute. After all, being aerodynamic was going to get me over the fire hurdles faster and safer! The next thing I began to think about was that I needed to buy elbow braces, knee braces, and ankle braces—this girl is 42 years old and I can’t be messing with my joints at this stage in life, right? This is about the time that the loud voice in my head reminded me that BECAUSE I was 42 years old, I HAD NO BUSINESS DOING AN OBSTACLE COURSE RACE!

Paranoia naturally set in. What am I getting myself into? What if I fall and break my neck? What if I burn my ass while jumping over fire? What if I make it halfway through and stop? What if? What if? What IF? I knew that the only way to get over these feelings of apprehension was to call in the big dog; Joe Rose!

If you have been keeping up with my blog or with my Facebook, you will be very clear on who he is to me. He is my friend, my confidant, one of my trainers, and one of my biggest supporters. I knew that this race would be something that he would consider doing with me. Lucky for me, he immediately agreed to do it. Soon after, he announced to me that my other two trainers from The Training Zone, Sean and Trevor, would also be doing the race with me. Suddenly there was no way out from this public challenge; the point of no return was reached and there was only the future to look forward to.

I began doing strength training and started boot camp classes with my friend Jackie to work out every muscle in my body. If you have ever done boot camp, you will agree with me that those classes are pretty intense. I would begin sweating in my car from the nerves of going through the classes! I walked into my first class not knowing what my body was capable of doing in this type of a class. I am pretty certain that the head trainer at FitBody Boot Camp, Mike Cahl, took one look at me and thought he had his work cut out for him! He and the other trainers, Stacy and Daniel, had me jumping, contorting my body, kicking, punching, planking, and squatting to music I couldn’t stand!!! I did everything that my body was capable of doing, and I knew by week two that I was going to go into this race physically prepared to conquer anything.

Something was still missing.

As the days passed and race day neared, I began to seriously doubt myself and looked for reasons why I couldn’t do the race:

A)    I couldn’t afford it—the entry fee was already paid for.

B)    I had nothing to wear—my husband took me shopping for new gear.

C)    I didn’t want to slow anyone down—everyone was doing this FOR me and WITH me.

D)    Maria couldn’t get out of work to do it with me—the team kept getting bigger and suddenly there were 6 of us from OC and 4 from LA.

E)     The web site said the course was moderately hilly—there is a ‘random hill’ feature on the treadmill.

F)     I’m too old—the videos showed others my age completing the course.

G)    I’m too fat—this only works if you’re fat and not fit.

H)    I’m scared—yes! This one was the one that had to work for me.

That last one would have worked for me. Honestly, the voices in my head of self-doubt were so strong that I had myself convinced that there was no way in the world that I would make it to the race. The thought of letting everyone down was not devastating enough for me to muster up the mental fortitude that I needed in order to get over the hurdle—figuratively AND metaphorically.

On Friday, the day before the race, I walked into The Training Zone to get in a final workout before the race. The whole way down there I was thinking of the right words to use with my trainers to let them down (gently) by telling them I couldn’t do the race. Terror won. I lost.

Driving into the parking lot felt very familiar and set me in a mental place that I don’t find anywhere else but there. As I began to walk the steps towards the gym, I noticed that my posture improved and my mind began to clear itself of the self-doubting voices that kept me from embracing the challenge I was about to embark upon. And then I walked into the gym…

Trevor was sitting at the front desk. He lifted his head and when he saw that it was me, the broadest smile came across his face and through his eyes. It was at that precise moment that I felt all of the fear leave my body. I am going to explain a little here in the best way I know how. Trevor is like that pair of cleats that you wore as a child that always fit just right, never pinching your toes or giving you blisters in your heal. He is like the softball glove my brother bought me when I was a child—well loved and never let me down. He is like that book on your shelf that no matter what you are going through, you can walk up to it, open it to any page, and a passage from that page will make everything in your life make sense. That’s who Trevor is and I had him all to myself as I spilled my guts about everything I feared about the race.

It only took him a few minutes to convince me that not only was I invincible and well-prepared, but more importantly, that this race had nothing to do with time and everything to do with completion; he said, “You are not competing against anyone, Lori. We are all doing this for you so we will be by your side the entire time.”

Poof. It was like he sprayed from a magic can and my fear was gone. Minutes later, as if Trevor had pushed the imaginary panic button underneath the front desk, Sean walks in and immediately hugs me and asked me if I was ready for the race. For the record, I have no idea if there’s a panic button underneath the front desk. For the record, crazy, insecure women like me are the reason why all gyms should have panic buttons underneath the front desk!

I went home from The Training Zone without getting in a workout. The thing about this place is that sometimes all I need to do is walk in to center my soul. When my life is in disarray and nothing or no one can fix it, I know to go there. I was ready to take on the world when I walked out the door.

Then I realized that I didn’t have anything to wear…

On Bacon In My Pockets, Talking Dogs, and Hitting a MAJOR Milestone...

September 6, 2013

BEAST Mode Day 85: Last night before I went to bed I said a little prayer that I would wake up 50 pounds thinner. I began to pray, “Dear God, you know how much it would mean to me if you just tip the scale in my direction tomorrow morning. And while you’re at it, give me a little over 50 just to make it seem like I worked REALLY hard this week.”

I slept like a baby last night. I had a dream that I was running a marathon in the streets of Mexico and there were hundreds of stray dogs following me because they thought I had bacon in my pockets. One of the dogs asked me to slow down because I was running too fast for them and they had not eaten all day. I was so excited that a dog was talking to me. I was so excited that I was running faster than dogs! Those two factors made it perfectly clear to me that it was all a dream—the bacon-in-my-pocket part of the dream didn’t really phase me because I probably have done that dozens of times.

I ignored the call of my alarm the first time and slipped back into sweet, much-needed slumber.

Waking up on Fridays is bittersweet; it is WEIGH DAY, the moment of truth when I get on the scale and see the progress for the week. I anticipated this week’s WEIGH DAY about as much as a child anticipates opening up presents on Christmas morning because my first (what I believed to be) insurmountable target was on the horizon...the 50 pound mark!

This is the part where I vividly describe the way in which I stretched like a lazy cat before getting out of bed; where I describe the sensation of my bare feet hitting the wooden floor for the first time of the day; where I describe the anticipation that was building up as I walked into my bathroom, positioned my scale, waited for it to get to 0.0, and stepped on; where I describe how I exhaled as hard as my lungs would let me because in my head, my breath carries weight with it; where I describe the joy in my heart when I look down and see that number staring back at me in bold, red brightness. But I won’t bore you with all those details.

Two hundred and eighty four pounds was the goal to hit this week in order to hit the 50-pound weight loss goal. When I looked down and saw that the scale read 282.6, it took everything in my core not to begin singing Eye of the Tiger and high-fiving my image in the mirror! I COULD NOT BELIEVE IT! I hit the goal, and then some, achieving a total of nearly 52 POUNDS!

Truth be told, I became extremely emotional. I slowly bent down to put the scale away and said a little prayer of thanks to Creator for every person who has stood by me while on this journey…

For my husband, Juanito, whose unwavering support I can always rely on. He is the one who listens to my bones crack in the morning and who hears the stories about why my muscles ache after a workout. He is the one who watches me eats food he can’t even pronounce without ever suggesting that I eat the same meals the family is eating. For shouldering the responsibility of the household because his wife is out walking her boon off or sweating in BEAST Mode at the gym, and never, ever telling me that I shouldn't be on this journey.

For my children, who have never once asked me why I spend time away from them working out or walking in the neighborhood. Who join me on walks to the park, do sit-ups with me on the couch, and eat my Greek yogurt before I can get to it all. I don’t know what I would do if one of them told me that they consider my journey to be a selfish act.

For my family. For my mother who has stopped offering me enchiladas and refried beans, but who now sends me home with bags of fruits and veggies and dry beans to cook at home. For not telling me that I am crazy for leaving my family every time I work out. For my sissy, Claudia, who always encourages me to jog just a little more, to eat healthy snacks, and who stopped inviting me to Cozy Corner for my corn dogs and fries! For my sister, Marissa, who every time she sees me tells me how good I look and reminds me that I have to eat in a way that is maintainable for the rest of my life—she grounds me! For my brothers for understanding that it may have taken me a very, very long time to find the motivation to finally begin this journey—and for never once criticizing me for being on it!

For my co-workers, who watched me go from chilli cheese fries and a cheeseburger for lunch to a variety of healthy meals instead. For telling me that donuts are the devil and not putting them out in the open where I could steal them.

For my core ladies both near and far, who continue to find ways to lift me up and motivate me to keep going on this journey. For posting on my Facebook wall or commenting on my status updates how the changes I have made in my life are helping them in some way. Little do you know that it is YOU who help me!

For Sean and Trevor at TZone Fitness, who work me to the point of delirium. For Sean, who from the first moment I walked into the gym has always called me a “champ” and has always told me that I could do ANYTHING…and proves it to me by making me try EVERYTHING! For believing that this fat girl who feared exercise would learn to love boxing gloves and interval training. For Trevor who is always a beacon of support when I see him at TZone. For taking care of me when I walk in and don’t find Sean there. For never letting me walk on the treadmill without at least a level 10 incline (boy does that burn the next day!).

For Joe, the man who refuses to take credit for any of this. For kickstarting this journey with a public challenge. For offering to train me only needing “a line in the ground.” For congratulating me on what I am doing right, calling me on what I am not doing so right, and for holding my hand every step of the way. For shouting “hard work…dedication” when all I want to do is cry from exhaustion. For accepting my text every Friday morning after I weigh in, and responding with positivity even on weeks when I only lose 4 OUNCES! You insist I owe you nothing. This holds as much truth as a hundred stray dogs running behind me in the streets of Mexico because I have bacon in my pockets. Thank you for teaching me to believe in ME!

I have so many more people to thank, but then it would sound as if this journey has come to an end. We are so far from that point. We have many miles to go and many more pounds to lose before my body is healthy, but we will get there!

Life is good.   

On Food Addiction and Cheat Meals: Confessions of a Fat, Angry, Food Addict

08/19/13

Today is BEAST Mode Day 67.

It has been a mighty long time since I have been at the keyboard to write in this blog. I have been so busy living and enjoying this epic journey that I don’t make the time to sit and reflect on how much has changed in my life. But this blog is not about exercise. It’s not about how much weight I have lost or how many miles I can walk now without feeling like I want to carry a scooter on my back or jets at my heels. This post is on addiction: in particular, food addiction.

I am pretty sure at some point in my life I have heard the term “food addict” being used around me or whispered behind my back. After all, I had to have learned the term from somewhere, right?

In my mind, an addict is someone who can’t stay away from the crack pipe. An addict is someone who can’t walk or drive past a bar without feeling the need to stop and sneak one in before going home. An addict is someone who can’t be trusted near a casino because paychecks will be gambled away. Those are all definitions of addicts. Food addiction…how could it be something real if we NEED food to survive?

The first indication that I am a food addict didn’t come to me by looking in the mirror. I remember so vividly when the light bulb went off in my head. Twelve years ago I was on my way home from work and before getting on the freeway, I called my mom to ask her what she had made for dinner. She let me know that she made enchiladas and rice and invited me over. This has always been one of my favorite meals! You would think this would have been enough to get me on the freeway and en route to my mother’s house. Nope. Before getting on the freeway, I went through the drive-thru of Del Taco and ordered two plain quesadillas, two small fries (one for each quesadilla), and two sodas—so the attendant at the drive-thru would think I was ordering for two people instead of pigging out in the parking lot by myself. This wasn’t the first time it happened, and it certainly wasn’t the last time that it happened.

Fast forward twelve years and the behavior has not changed. I had gastric bypass. I lost two hundred pounds. My addiction to food was not cured—it was only curbed for as long as it took me to learn how to cut a cheeseburger into a million little pieces so it wouldn’t get stuck in my stomach. I was a champ! Before I knew it, I was able to have a burger, fries, and a shake again! And then I graduated to Subway 12 inch subs because they were “healthier” for me. Let’s not forget the bag of chips and soda to wash it all down.

Forget about cheat meals…I was living a cheat LIFE!

I have no respect for the word “moderation” when it comes to food; I love food and the satisfaction it gives me to eat it. But does that make me an addict? Absolutely!

There have been a lot of people who have offered opinions on how I should eat while on this journey; some offer recipes for shakes and smoothies, while others offer great Pinterest links to food I can prepare in a healthy way and still enjoy. It makes me happy to be able to take this advice and apply it to my life. The competitor in me takes the recipe and adds a twist to make it my own (and in my head it is always better…lol).

My favorite advice (insert sarcastic, eye rolling image here) is the well-meaning, yet highly misguided, advice to go ahead and reward myself with a cheat meal. In all fairness to the person giving this advice, they may not know that I am a food addict. After all, this physique may have been achieved by something other than overconsumption of the wrong foods, right? WRONG!

In the interest of full disclosure, please allow me to state that I LOSE MY SHIT WHEN I AM TOLD TO HAVE A CHEAT MEAL. When I hear someone say to me, “You should still eat the foods you love, just eat them in moderation,” I want to run into a lane of oncoming traffic. When someone says to me, “You should reward yourself with your favorite meal when you reach a weight loss milestone,” I want to shave my head and ask for a padded cell. When someone says to me, “You can’t give up everything you love because you’ll just end up going back and eating too much of it,” I want to pull up my shirt and show them the foot-long scar on my stomach from the first time I (unsuccessfully) attempted to control this addiction.

Consider this a public service announcement. Consider this a blog post from an angry, fat, food addict who is asking for help staying away from food—not for help finding ways to go back to my old self. Consider this—the first two weeks on this journey were spent hating myself and the way my body was reacting to the detoxification. I was going through withdraws. I hated everyone around me who still ate fries. I couldn’t turn on Facebook without seeing the foods I loved taking up my newsfeed. I was in an ugly place and everyone around me suffered for it.

I don’t want to go back there…ever. I am in a place on this journey in which I can share a table with someone eating fries or fried food and I have no desire to reach over the table and share (steal) the meal with them. It is a good place to be, but by no means is it easy—it just gets easier. I love being able to say no to dessert and mean it! I love being able to come up with different recipes that keep me on track. This, also, is not easy—it just gets easier.

So for all of you food addicts out there (you don’t need to raise your hands and admit to anything), just know that getting healthy and making healthy choices is not easy—it just gets easier. And for all of you out there who live with food addicts or who have food addicts in your inner circle, no matter how well intentioned you are (and I believe this to be the case ALWAYS), do not tell a food addict that it is perfectly ok to have a cheat meal. You wouldn’t tell a heroin addict in recovery that it’s ok to pick up the needle again as a reward, would you?

Phew…I feel like a big weight has just been lifted. I have been wanting to get this out for so long. I can now go back to the lighter posts that tell of my adventures while hitting the pavement or hitting my trainer’s gloves.

Life is good.

On Why I Hate My Trainer. But I Really Love Him. Or Maybe I Love To Hate Him.

About BEAST Mode Day 20.

I would like to find the person who invented treadmills and hug him/her. To take it one step further, I would like to find the person who invented treadmills that incline and beat them…yes, I did say “beat them.” And while I’m on the beating path, let’s also seek the person who invented medicine balls, boxing gloves, and resistance bands. I would like to get them all in a room, ask them for their motivation behind their inventions, and then (without warning) thank them for their inventions with a good, old fashion beating with my chancla.

Last Wednesday I went to work like any other normal Wednesday. My training was scheduled for the middle of the day, so I had arranged with my co-worker to be able to take an extended lunch. I said to Dennis, “I just need an extra hour to get there and get back. I have a lot of comp time so it won’t be an issue.” He looked at me as if I had just spoken in a different language, one that he didn’t understand. You know that look. It begins with what can be perceived as an understanding look, moves along to the confused look, and ends with a WTF look! He replied, “Girl, take an extra hour and a half. Do not come back here without a shower!” This is why I love where I work. There is 149 percent support for the journey that I am on!

It was time to get ready to leave and I quickly got dressed in one of the back rooms and walked towards my car. On the way to the parking lot, a student I had not seen all summer asks me if it was my day off. I thought it was kind of strange to ask that because I don’t typically show up at work on my days off. I said, “No, I am just on my way to lunch.” She responded, “Oh, it’s because you usually dress in business clothes and today you are in that.” I quickly responded, “This? Oh yeah, sorry. I am on my way to see the personal trainer.” What came next was the most profound reaction I have had to date. She was drinking one of those Naked juices that looked like one of my green smoothies. She opened her mouth so wide that it began to drool out of the side of her mouth. Her head moved as if she had just gotten pegged by a dodgeball at full force. She chuckled, although I still don’t know if it was because of her embarrassment at having green drool land on her white tank top, or if it was because the thought of me going to see a personal trainer was the funniest vision in the world.

I just left her there in mid-thought and continued walking to my car. It was the most self-reflective 200 feet I have walked in my life. I wondered if this was everyone’s reaction when I tell them that I am on this journey. I wondered if secretly, faces across Orange County suddenly found themselves covered in green drool from learning that I am finally doing something to take control of my health. Then I got in my car. I stopped wondering, suddenly, because ever since I began this journey, everything makes me cry and I didn’t want to cry.

It took me 45 minutes to get to the Training Zone. Have you ever driven the 55 South, until it ends, in the middle of the day at the beginning of summer? If you have, you will know that you can get out of your car and get to your destination faster than you would if you waited for traffic to clear. “Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize,” is what I kept telling myself when the moments began ticking away and noon was quickly approaching.

Noon = The Wicked Hour.

Have I told you that the Training Zone is located in the same lot as a pancake house? Have I also told you that the Training Zone is located in the same lot as a liquor store—one that sells delicious Twinkies and Chocodiles and Hostess coffee cakes? Focus, Lorena, Focus. This is why I call noon “The Wicked Hour,” because so many other forces are pulling at me as I walk from my car to my destination. It’s like the moment I get out of my car the pancake house slings its web at me and lands on one of my legs, then the liquor store lings its web at my other leg, and they are both tugging at me in different directions trying to win my love. But then I look behind me and see my destination and I am awaiting some more web slinging to occur.

I’m waiting. I’m still waiting. I wait another second or two until it hits me like a bucket of cold water on the hottest day in the 909…the Training Zone doesn’t sling webs. They don’t go after your limbs and try to convince you that you need them in order to be happy, they let you lead yourself there with the very core of your heart that knows that the changes that happen within those walls are lifelong changes—the kind of change that is going to last longer than the taste of sweet, warm syrup hitting the tip of my tongue or the temporary memory of my childhood that the bite of Chocodile will provide. And so with this newfound respect of my fat little heart, I walked with an extra bounce in my step right into my session with Sean.

I don’t write reviews on Yelp. I probably should. It could easily replace Disneyland as the “Happiest Place on Earth” because it just feels right to be there. That is, until I watch Seans fingers begin to push buttons on the treadmill that he shouldn’t be touching.

Huh? Que? What is this feeling in my legs? Is this thing going up? Why is that number higher than a 1? Incline? Is that even legal? Doesn’t this guy know I don’t walk hills? Ok, what did Joe tell him…maybe he shared with him my discussion with Tish on Sunday about my unwillingness to hike up hills. It’s only five minutes into my workout and I already want to go home!

As I am walking on this torturous device, Joe’s wife (Crissy) arrives to join us for our workout. It was so nice to finally meet Joe’s wife. We had met through Facebook before that day, but meeting her in person and thanking her for her continued support was a great feeling. But there was no time for anything because Sean moved me along to my crazy stretches that still test every muscle in my feet to hold up this little body of mine.

Lift one knee with my hands while the other leg holds my weight. Walk forward and do the next leg. Keep doing this until I reach the end of the carpet. Ok, now turn around and do it all the way back again. Sound easy? Try it…I dare ya. You will be surprised the amount of focus that it takes to keep good posture, relax my face, and remember to switch legs. I still mess up every time and I still laugh at myself when I almost fall over as if I had a tall IPA in the car before I walked in.

What came next is still a blur to me. I probably should have written this blog right after I got home, but I don’t know if there would have been a clean version to put out because there were many times during this workout that I wanted to punch something. Or someone. So, I am going to give you a glimpse into the memory of a workout that still won’t leave me.

Rewind to a week ago before Sean knew that I used to play sports. That was a different Sean. He was  Sean who enjoyed getting a sweat out of me with tasks that were relatively moderate. Now let’s fast forward to a Sean who now has knowledge that at one point in my life, regardless of how big my body was, I was an athlete. You remember the torture he put me through last week when he made me throw the medicine ball against the wall? Then I am sure you can imagine my fear when he walked over to the medicine ball again and showed me the next exercise on his list.

“I’m just going to roll this to you and I want you to pick it up and throw it right back at me. Throw it with everything you have,” he said. From behind him I can hear Crissy say, “Throw it like you want to hurt him, Lori!” She’s my kind of girl. She knew exactly what I wanted to do. I pick up the first one and throw it. Hard. I can hear it land in his hands with that little smack that gives me satisfaction in knowing that it I gave that ball my all. The fourth, fifth, and sixth throw were still pretty good. And then it happened: butter. My arms turned to butter. Bending down was easy, but throwing that medicine ball with all of my might became so difficult that I wanted to just walk it over to him and say sorry for wanting to hurt him with the first few throws. One would think that he would see the anguish on my face and call it, but he just kept rolling it. And rolling it. And rolling it. And I kept throwing it. And throwing it. And throwing it, until I thought my arms were going to stay attached to the medicine ball on the next throw because I could no longer feel them.

“Ok, go get some water.”

When I get back to him I see him adjusting the levels on the “bench of DEATH” that we use to do my couch sit-ups on. As I wait for him to adjust the height of the backrest, my mind rewinds to the first day I had to do them and suddenly recall that it was never that big of an incline. To make matters even scarier, Joe lets out a chuckle and says, “That backing gets lower and lower every week until one day it’s going to be flat!” Instead of agreeing or disproving us, he says, “Ok, you know what to do here. Give me twenty.” I gave him twenty and rested for one minute. And immediately had to give another twenty. I hate sit-ups. I lose my mind because I always forget to breathe, and I am sure that the faces I make on the way up are not something I want to see anyone else make.

I don’t even have time to think about how tired I am because Sean has disappeared and I know what this means; he is going to come back to me with something round and painful. It was smaller than a medicine ball, and looked like a soccer ball wrapped in duct tape. He places it down in front of me on the ground. “Ok, I want you to put both of your feet on the same side. Next, you will lift your legs over the ball and put them on the other side.”

If my stomach were flat, and on my best day, this exercise would still be difficult. My stomach is not flat and it didn’t feel like it was my best day. So when I begin to complain and say to Sean that I couldn’t do it anymore, it was as though it went in one ear and out the other. “I. CAN’T. DO. THIS!” I get out in between breaths and lifting my legs. “Yes you can. You’re doing it,” he says without skipping a beat. Tears are starting to form in the back of my eyes because my mind keeps telling me to quit, but my body obeys the command to give just a little more. And then it was over. The ball was taken away and I put my emotions back in check. “Go ahead and grab some water,” Sean said as he put away the ball.

Then I saw him toying with the resistance bands, you know, the elephant tails I keep complaining about. I could not believe it when he chose the thicker of the two and showed me how he wanted me to do the next exercise. He didn’t, however, tell me how many I had to do. Being the ever-so-diligent-and-obedient woman I am, I said, “You didn’t tell me how many to do.” I then hear him say, “Ok, then, go ahead and give me thirty.”

If you have never felt the burn in your arms while working with resistance bands, then you probably are wondering why I am even whining. I know, I should quit the sniveling. It’s not like I was climbing a mountain or running a marathon. I determined on #13 that resistance bands were indeed the enemy. The burn I was feeling in my arms was quite possibly enough to make me go crazy. I asked, “How did you all of a sudden turn into Mr. Thirty when everything we did last week was twenty?” Crickets. Sean looked at me and smiled. I want to be a little bug in his head and figure out what he had in mind for the next exercise.

“Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three…twenty nine, THIRTY!” I wanted to make sure that everyone in Orange County heard that one because no way, no how, was I going to give one more repetition. Butter arms.  “Go ahead and get some water,” Sean says, as he disappears for the final time.

If you’re keeping count, he’s already disappeared two times. And both times that he came back, he returns with innovative ways to make me sweat and want to cry. Pink boxing gloves? Is he really walking towards me with pink boxing gloves in his hand? I could not believe it. I have never boxed in my life, let alone worn PINK boxing gloves. Where was I?

I slip my hands into the gloves and it felt so natural. As he places the Velcro over my wrist, I lose myself in all the boxing movies that I had watched growing up. Suddenly I am Mickey Roone in “The Champ” and Ricky Shroeder is going to show up in my corner to root me on. Sean says, “Ok, you are going to give me 50 cross punches with everything you have. You can make any faces you want because nobody is watching here.” I look around the room to see if there are any cameras. He sees my fear and assures me that there are no cameras in the gym. I say, “Are you kidding me? Don’t you know that TMZ is always watching me?”

And I begin to punch. Hard. Twenty get done. Thirty are done. Forty—easy, peazy. FIFTY, done! “Go ahead and sit down and catch your breath. I need you to remember to breathe,” he said. How the hell am I supposed to breathe when all I am thinking about is trying to figure out If he’s making me punch more than fifty punches?

“Alright, back up and give me fifty more.” Was he kidding? Am I being punked? Does he know that I just sat down after giving him fifty punches already? Did he care? Did I have a choice? Yes, I had two choices: I could give up and thank him for the sweat running down my back, or I could get up and get through the fifty more punches like a big girl. What did I choose? My body chose for me. I really, really hate when it does that. In my mind, there was no way that I had fifty punches to give. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kick everyone something. I wanted so badly for this to be over and go home and read a book—or write a blog.

My body stood up and got in position to give Sean fifty more. I groaned as I crossed my punches; left arm punching into his right hand. Right arm punching into his left hand. I wondered if he knew what was going through my head? I wanted to find that little space in the middle where I would miss his hand and land squarely across his face. In that moment I could only think violent thoughts. I wasn’t even paying attention to the count. I was sure at that point that he knew I wanted to punch him because my punches were all landing in the center—he was smart enough to not wait for my punches to land, but to follow them and make them land. FIFTY! “Ok, go ahead and sit down.”

I was so proud of myself. I was done. My workout was complete and I could have my protein bar and relax. I said to Sean, “Is today because I wrote about you in my blog? I promise not to write about you anymore!” He laughed a little. Does he laugh like this in real life, or do I just imagine him laughing at me because I don’t think I was joking in that moment.

“Ok, last fifty. One last set and then we are done here.” At this point my ears were deceiving me. Did he just say one more set of fifty? Didn’t I just do TWO sets of fifty? Was this chap out of his mind? Butter arms. I didn’t even know how I was going to lift my arms to get my backpack on, let alone give him fifty more cross punches. But there was that challenge again and my body doesn’t do well with giving up.

Thirty. Thirty nine…FIFTY! Suddenly I was no longer Mickey Rooney, I had graduated to Super Mex status and was Julio Cesar Chavez (because my face is not as pretty as Oscar de la Hoya). And I was a champion. I felt like a champion. I couldn’t believe that I had done this without killing Sean or killing myself.

The gloves came off and my body was overwhelmed with emotion. My eyes were full of tears. I am not quite sure why this happened; perhaps it was because I conquered the lazy demons; perhaps it was because my body had been pushed to the point of breaking; perhaps it was because the words that Sean had said to me earlier wouldn’t leave my thoughts, “It will never be harder than it is right now. It will get easier and we will bring you back up, but it will never get harder than it is right now.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a parting wisdom from a man who believes in my success.

Until next week, stay away from those Chocodiles…and give me FIFTY!

Life is good.

On 4-Milers, My Pantry Cleanse, and Superman...yes, Superman!

On BEAST Mode Days 17, 18, and 19.

When I was a child I remember going to Mile Square Park to look for guppies in the lake, play a little bit of soccer with my siblings (as all good Mexicans do), and sit around waiting for my mom to serve me a torta the size of football. I remember water balloon fights, watching archery, going down the one hill on my skateboard without a helmet, and carving Mick Jagger’s name into every tree in my path (ok, this last one may warrant its own blog post. You’ll have to wait for that one!).

I am sure if I really think about it I must have looked around and watched people as they walked by me in their neon Dove shorts and requisite leg warmers—you know, getting a fashionable workout on. However, I never thought of the park as a place for me to exercise at. Fast forward to the adult me; I still didn’t see the purpose behind driving to a park just to walk around in a big square without having easy access to get back into my car quickly.

I should probably explain; it’s not that I have social anxiety and hate to be away from my car. It’s just that the farther and farther I walk away from my car, it is that much farther that I have to walk just to get back to it. I never saw the point…until three days ago on BEAST Mode Day 17. This was supposed to be the big day when members of team L@s Muert@s had agreed to do an early morning (7:00 a.m.) walk at Mile Square Park.

I arrive on time. Yes, I’m being serious. Actually, no, I’m not. I arrived early. I kept hearing in my head a line that I read on Angel Ortiz’s Facebook page that said something like, “I grew up with the mindset that if you are not early you are late!” I was early. I looked around and no one was there yet. Woohoo! That meant that no one was going to show up. I could go home and make breakfast and call it a day. As luck would have it (and I have been finding this to be the case more often than not, lately), I stare straight ahead and there is Joe walking towards me with a grin on his face as if he knew I was thinking that I had gotten out of it. His friend, Tish, showed up to walk with us also.

We stretched, chose a direction, and began his pedometer. In the beginning it was really easy. He asked us to stay on the grass to give us a little more resistance in our walking. Uhm, ok, did he not notice that the grass was wet because it was 7 o’freaking clock in the morning? We walked. And we talked. And the next thing we knew we were at the two mile mark and he asks me what I want to do. I was feeling like a champ. I was keeping hydrated with the water in my backpack, only by now it felt like the water I was drinking was going directly to my socks because our shoes WERE SOAKED FROM WALKING IN THE GRASS! I get it that my shoes are from Wal-Mart and they only cost $9, but aren’t they meant to stay dry?

Tish began to talk about the paths that she walks on and the inclines that they contain and it makes me feel a little better that I don’t walk with her regularly. Three mile hikes, really? Who has time for that when I can walk on flat land? “Not me,” said the little voice in my head. Listening to her speak was distracting me from the distance we were going. Although I had never met her before, she spoke to me as if we had known each other for years. I liked her!

And then we hit the three mile mark and I can almost smell the apples in my car. I know. This sounds totally stupid, but apples have suddenly become my best friends. I carry them in my backpack. I have them in my drink holder in my car. I have some in the fridge at work. I am going to name my next kid Apple. Ok, now I am taking this a bit too far. No more kids for me!!!!

Three and a half mile mark. Joe’s phone is about to die and we can no longer listen to music as we walk. Listening to the music helped keep me from talking, which in turn kept me from huffing and puffing. So we began to talk again, but this time it was about breakfast burritos. WHY? Why did they have to mention breakfast burritos when I am trying to focus on the apples in my car? Cruel world just take me out now!

The distraction that the breakfast burrito caused me was enough to get me around the last bend of the park without feeling like I was going to pass out. Our pace picked up a little bit. It was the home stretch. All I needed was a few more feet and I would reach my destination, and then all of a sudden Joe and Tish say, “This is our car.” It was over. The four miles were done. I was sweating like I had just ran a marathon, and my head was spinning with emotion over having completed the four-mile journey.

It was such an incredible feeling. I hugged Joe and Tish and walked to my car very slowly. As I opened my car door Joe and Tish drove by me and honked, waving a final goodbye. That’s when I got emotional. I opened my car door and sat down. I started to go for my apple when I realized I JUST WALKED FOUR MILES! I couldn’t believe it. I get lazy to drive four miles, let alone walk four miles. I knew that I probably could not do it every day. But I did it that day, and that’s all that mattered!

BEAST Mode Day 18

I was feeling a little brave from the 4-mile walk the day before so I figured it would be no problem to walk to work. It’s just under two miles from front door to front door. What’s two miles when I just finished walking four, right? Wrong! So, so wrong!

There were three things that I did not take into consideration before making the brilliant decision to walk to work:

·         I had to walk by a Jack in the Box on the corner. God was good to me that morning because he placed blinders on my eyes so I wouldn’t look that way. He should have plugged my nose, too, because the scent of hash browns almost did me in!

·         I sweat like a pig. Did I really think I was going to be able walk to work without sweating and then work a full 8-hour day in the clothes I walked in? Ugh. That was a major fail for me that day.

·         If I wear walking shoes to walk, why did I wear my famous indoor soccer shoes (Pumas) to walk to work? Can someone please tell me how that little bit of logic flew out the window?

By the time I got home from work in the evening, my arches were screaming at me. I strolled home slowly (because it was hotter than Hades outside) but that didn’t stop the pain from creeping in on me. In typical Lorena fashion, I ignored it and focused on the rest of the family’s needs for the evening. I knew I wasn’t going to walk the next day.

I let the soreness linger in the back of my mind when I went to bed that evening. “Oh, no, this is not going to slow me down,” I thought. I know myself very well; if I lost the motivation to get up and move, it will be lost forever. I fell asleep a little sad that evening.

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BEAST Mode Day 19

There have been very few times in my life that I have opened my mouth (or sent a text) and later regretted my actions. But I am about to tell you about one of those times.

On Tuesday Joe sent me a text asking me how my revamped “pantry of sin” was treating me. You see, I have a pantry at work that I keep snacks in. Before this journey began, I had candy, chips, saltine crackers, granola bars (the kind with chocolate chips), and a few more snacks that maybe I should keep to myself…lol I was returning to work after a 12-day vacation, and knew that if I wanted to remain successful on this journey, the “pantry of sin” needed a cleanse of its own.

My office is on the second floor of a two-story building. Right beneath my office is a dumpster that is used by the school cafeteria, which is also beneath me and I can smell the fries cooking all day. Whoa, lost my train of thought for a moment. Back to the pantry…so on the first day that I returned, I ceremoniously threw away the snacks off the balcony and into the dumpster. Goodbye Pringles. Goodbye Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Goodbye full-fat saltine crackers. Goodbye Quaker Oats granola bars with the yummy chocolate chips. Hello apples. Hello Pop Chips. Hello non-salted trail mix.

Then I asked the question about the pain in my arches. I regretted the question as soon as I hit the send button. Somehow I knew that he was going to come back with one of two answers: lay off the walking, or “here are some alternative exercises you can do instead of walking.” (un)Lucky for me that he came back with BOTH answers.

 I knew that I was not going to be able to stop walking because it was my only form of exercise. I needed to keep my body in motion or else I would pay harder when I go see Sean, the trainer over at Training Zone OC. No way, no how. Have you read about the beatings he gives me? This was not an option for me. Joe knew that I didn’t want to lose out on my hour of cardio, so he assigned me two exercises to do: bicycle crunches and the “Superman” were what he prescribed as my workout of the day. Are you kidding me? Bicycle crunches? Lift my legs in the air? Me? Has he lost his mind? Then he wants me to do the “Superman” as if it were something that my body naturally does?

All day at work the thought of doing these exercises plagued my mind. How am I supposed to do these? Will he really know if I don’t do them? After all, can’t I just say that I did them and talk about the muscle group that I worked with these exercises? I’m sure GOOGLE is good for at least a bit of explanation on the benefits of bicycle crunches and the “Superman.” But then I said, again putting my foot in my mouth, “I’m going to have my kids take pictures of me doing this so they can crack up…lol” What was his response? “Blog it!!”

Here are the pictures of me doing the bicycle crunches. I died halfway through the first set of 25. My legs were going to fall off, my head was spinning because I couldn’t keep an accurate count, and the thought of having to repeat it was nauseating. I let my legs rest for thirty seconds and up they went again. My legs were going every which way making sure that I got those pedals turning. What was I thinking? Walking was much, much easier than what I was subjecting my body to.

(Wolife thought it would be fun to jump on my stomach while I was doing this.)

The next thing I knew, I had finished six sets of 25. I couldn’t even feel my legs anymore. My hips were screaming at me to get up off the floor. But then I turned over. I needed to get these “Superman” exercises out of the way. Did I say that the bicycle crunches were hard? They were child’s play compared to having to hold my legs and arms up in a Superman pose while simultaneously planking on a yoga mat. I am pretty sure I wasn’t doing them correctly. But to be quite honest, I had no idea what I was doing because I COULDN’T FEEL MY ARMS AND LEGS ANYMORE!

With sweat rolling down my face and my body screaming “Mercy” in several different languages, I realized that I should not have said anything about my arches. I should have just sucked it up and taken a leisurely stroll around my neighborhood. No one would have been the wiser. I could have posted a Facebook update letting everyone know I walked around the block that day and I would have fooled everyone into thinking that I was sweating. But no, I let my fingers do the talking for me and ask for an alternative beatdown.

Here is the picture of me doing the “Superman” with Wolfie helping me. This was towards the end when I couldn’t hold my arms up anymore. He was laughing at me in the beginning, but by the time he saw I was “in it to win it” with this exercise, he was saying, “Good job, mommy!” That’s my boy!

 

I learned my lesson that day. Somehow, from somewhere deep within my body, healing promptly arrived to my arches. By the next day my arches were completely pain free. I like to think that I willed myself to get better, wanting never ever again to do those darn exercises.

With healed arches and a new appreciation for floor exercises, I walked into the Training Zone OC to meet with Sean. But that was on BEAST Mode Day 20, and that workout gets an entry all on its own.

Life is good. Enjoy the journey.

On Medicine Balls and TWENTY Counts...What The????

07/01/13

 

This post is about BEAST Mode Day 14

Last week I left you hanging. Sorry for that. I remember writing about my adventures at The Training Zone with Joe, and I stopped short of writing about my experience with the new and not-so-easy-on-me Sean. It has been five days…I think I have recovered enough to write about it.

It was the second day in a row that I found myself walking into The Training Zone. This time I brought my own towel, my own water, and a backpack with my protein bar and carb boosters (you can’t be a super hero without the right tools, right?). It was a quiet hour, as it was just me, Joe, Sean, and a very pretty client who was scheduled at that time. Wait, I haven’t even mentioned how excited I was to see Sean back in the gym.

The treadmill is my best friend. I have decided since the very first session here that my favorite thing to do is get on the treadmill and work up a bit of a sweat. I wish I could put a computer on the treadmill and do my work from there. But alas, I was not allowed to stay on the treadmill because next on the list were my lunges and those crazy exercises where I pull one leg up and balance my weight on the other foot. I must admit that these have progressively gotten better since the first time I tried them. The first day I was in there, I could not keep my balance and kept falling over like a baby taking her first steps. I was bad! But this time my feet had an easier time keeping my body balanced; I wasn’t as shaky or afraid of falling over. Talk about a confidence booster!

What happens next is going to take you by surprise. Heck, it took me by surprise to hear him say it. “Ok, I need you right here to do your sit-ups. Give me a set of 20.” Let’s rewind back to the first session I had done with Sean—which was only one week previous to this. The sets consisted of repetitions of 5 (FIVE), not 20. My mind was doing somersaults and my stomach began to freak out, or was it the other way around? I have no idea. All I know is that I was given a directive and I complied.

“Three, four, five….eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” I counted out.

“Ok, take a minute and relax. You’re going to give me another 20.” I looked around. I honestly thought he was talking to someone else. Me, 20 more? I still had proof of the workout he sent me home with that specified reps of FIVE, and now he was giving me TWENTY?!?! Where was my benevolent trainer? Who took the kind, gentle trainer and replaced him with Mr. TWENTY?

“Good job, Lori. You got this,” I heard from across the gym. That was Joe. Doing his routine. Listening to Eminem while I was listening to my heart beat out of my chest. I couldn’t get distracted or show weakness because I didn’t want to start over.

“Eleven, twelve, thirteen…eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” I counted out.

“Yeah! Go ahead and get some water.” I felt dead. My legs moved because my head willed them to, and this exercise didn’t even have anything to do with legs! What was going on with my body? I couldn’t keep thinking about it because I was going to either throw up or cry. Or both, because if I threw up I would probably cry from embarrassment and I couldn’t throw up because Sean is putting up this new studio in the gym and how would that look? Really, think about it? New wood. A new window. New vibe. Nope, somehow I don’t think that getting sick in the gym would enhance the clients’ experience. And so I continued my workout.

Have you ever held a medicine ball? No? Me neither. Have you ever thrown a medicine ball against a wall? No? Me neither. Disclaimer: throwing a medicine ball against a wall shall not be compared with playing handball in a racquetball court with a tiny blue ball that weighs mere ounces. Nor should it be compared with throwing a soccer ball to your fullback when you’re too tired to kick it to the power forward. For some reason, a soccer reference that Joe and I had spoken about while I was on the treadmill made its way into Sean’s ear.

“Ah hah! I hear you used to play soccer. You remember this, don’t you?” as he gives me an example of how he wants me to throw the medicine ball against the black wall in front of us. “Go ahead and give me TWENTY.” What the? Where did this twenty figure come from? I wanted to remind him that FIVE was my lucky number but he beat me to the punch by reminding me to hold my posture or I would hurt myself.

“Seven, eight, nine…eleven, twelve, (breathe) thirteen…nineteen, twenty,” I said out loud for fear that nobody heard me and thought I was playing around. Because, you know, I make things look so easy and complete all my tasks with finesse (this is obvious sarcasm). My arms are Jello. My hair is sticking to my head and I could feel the sweat roll down my face. At this point my brain reminds my body that my keys are in my backpack by the door and I left my truck unlocked—always looking for that quick getaway!

“Ok, so now what you are going to do is stand sideways and throw it back at the wall, like this,” and he shows me an example again of what I should look like while doing these medicine ball exercises. “Do TWENTY on each side.”

Ok, where’s Trevor. Surely there must be someone in here who has not lost his mind. The day before, Joe worked me out like I had never worked out in my life. Sean was working me out like I was being punished for considering shoving a Reese’s peanut butter cup in my mouth prior to driving down there. Yes, Trevor, where was he? Every time I see him he is smiling and that must mean that at least he would see the benefit of letting me off easy. The seconds kept ticking away and I was still standing there with a medicine ball in my hands and a wall waiting to get beaten.

I remember when I did Toastmasters a few years back and I cried during my first speech. I absolutely hated speaking in public. I had this fear that I felt was insurmountable. The only tactic that worked was the old grade school, overused, over-prescribed tactic that teaches you to picture everyone in the room naked. Within two months of joining Toastmasters I was winning regional contests in public speaking. I know, I know, what does this have to with the workout session with Sean? Here it goes:

Using the same tactic of replacing one object with another (a clothed, intimidated audience member with a naked, unassuming audience member), the power is stripped of that which is holding you back from achieving the task at hand. For me, in that moment, throwing that medicine ball FOURTY more times seemed more difficult than singing the National Anthem, naked, in sweltering heat, while wearing a transparent trash bag. But what came next was genius; when I had to throw the medicine ball leading with my left arm, I replaced the medicine ball with Sean’s head…yes, Sean’s head was a medicine ball!

“Fourteen, fifteen, (I’m still smiling), sixteen…nineteen, twenty,” I counted. I walked over to get some water and came back read to go again. Only this time, I led the medicine ball against the wall with my right arm. It was Joe’s turn.

“Six, seven (that one was for challenging me in public to enter this 10k), eight, nine…twelve (I don’t feel my arms any more), thirteen, fourteen (that was for making me jump the day before while wearing pants that kept falling), fifteen, sixteen…eighteen, nineteen (just one more…this one for making me listen to Eminem while I work out), TWENTY!” I felt like Rocky Balboa reaching the top of the stairs. Fireworks were going off in my head. The ticker tape was falling from the sky because I had won the game and there were witnesses!

There was only one thing wrong: I wasn’t Rocky Balboa. I hadn’t climbed up any stairs, and the fireworks that I thought were going off in my head were really going off all over my body. How could I go on? Do people really do this voluntarily? If so, why? I found myself in a trance-like state walking towards my water bottle and towel. Butterlegs. That is what you could have called me in that moment and I would have answered to it like a dog responding to its owner’s whistle.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sean adjusting the orange band that we use for stretching and resistance. You remember last week when I wrote about the band the thickness of an elephant’s tail? It was still there. In the same place. Mocking me. “Ok, one last thing. Watch what I do and watch my posture,” as he showed me how he wanted me to pull the band towards my left hip with both hands…TWENTY to each side. I died. I secretly began wondering if I had brought any sharp objects in my backpack that could be used to “accidentally” cut all of the resistance bands in the gym. But there was not time for that. The longer I thought about ways to sabotage the last five minutes of my session, the longer it would stall just getting it done.

And so I got it done. And done. And done. And there I was again with that feeling of accomplishment that can only be achieved by completing a task that I would have never imagined completing before. I have no idea where the strength came from. I have no idea why my body kept going even though my mind was giving it excuses on why it should just collapse and give in to the fatigue.

Was it the chocolate protein bar that was waiting for me in my backpack?

Was it my desire to tell everyone that I made it through another workout session that pushed my mind to the point of explosion?

Or simply, was it just another day on this very public journey that taught me if I put my mind to something my body will comply?

Whatever it was, from wherever the motivation originated, I knew I was one day closer to achieving my goal. But there was one lingering question that I needed to ask. I walked over to Sean and Joe after drinking some water and reminded him that he sent me home with a workout that included only reps of FIVE and here he was having me do reps of TWENTY. I didn’t so much ask him a question but really stated a fact and followed it up with the requisite huffing and puffing. His response was quick and concise.

“Yes. It’s because I know that you will be able to do five at home, but I have no idea how your body will react to reps of TWENTY. That is why I have you do TWENTY here so I can make sure that you can do it and do it in a controlled environment.” There it was: simple, sweet, and kind. His response served as an affirmation that I am on the right path with the right people.

The road while on this journey may not always be straight: there may be a moment or two where I will find myself stray…and that is ok. As long as I remember that the straight road has people like Sean & Trevor, Joe, Ray, my sissy (Claudia), Maria, Vix, Linda, Juanito and the kids, and the rest of team L@s Muert@s to keep me motivated. We have a long, long way to go, but we trek together one day/one step at a time!

Life is good…especially when you are surrounded by good (magnificent!) people.