Not There Yet

Dearest Rachel –

I keep hearing from people that one of these days, working out will be second nature to me. There will come a point in time, or so I’m told, in which I can’t go a day or two without exercising like I do at the gym. Not so much out of guilt – that, I’m already dealing with – as I simply won’t be able to imagine going without for too many days in a row, it will be so much a part of my lifestyle.

Although she hasn’t said so in words as much as her own lifestyle, Erin is one of those people. Ever since I challenged her to train for the marathon alongside me – and, unlike me, determining that she both liked it (although she insists that she still prefers bicycling as a general rule) and was actually quite good at it – she’s made running, in particular, an integral part of her life. Between practicing for (and running in) various races, working her graveyard shift at UPS, and sleeping to recover from the both of them, it’s a miracle she has any time for a social life at all. Although, to be fair, the running community, even within the church, is large enough that she can often work out and socialize at the same time. Not that this multitasking involves us; still, she does her best to join us when she can, as long as we don’t mind if shows up straight from a workout (and I could probably go into detail about a rejoinder to that; you’ll recall I described her as fit some six years ago – imagine what she looks like now. And, as you might guess, you’ll have to do just that, as she still refuses to be photographed).

For all that I’ve heard to this effect, however, I’m not there yet. In fact, I don’t know if I ever will be.

Oh, it isn’t as if there are moments when I feel like it’s accomplishing something. It wasn’t that long ago that I was actually rather exultant about rowing a mile in under seven minutes, and I still keep an eye on the clock as I do it to ensure that I’m maintaining a pace of 100 meters every twenty-five seconds (although after the first 200 meters, calculating the checkpoint time on the fly proves to be an exercise itself in mental gymnastics). I’ve switched my cycling routine to a heart-rate management program as opposed to straight-out racing, where I have to keep up (and occasionally switch) both my heart rate and the RPMs while pedaling, and burn between three and four hundred calories over ten miles in about half an hour. Likewise, I watch as the calories burned goes up as I do while walking a fifteen-degree incline on the treadmill, as I ratchet up the speed as far as I can take it before reducing the slope. And the results when I get home and weigh myself before showering off all that sweat are reasonably gratifying as well.

But no, I can’t picture a point in time when I’m ever going to enjoy doing this as part of some life routine. A morning like today comes around, when I’ve only reported in once, and I find myself wanting to just skip it. If nothing else, my right arm from the elbow to about halfway up to my wrist is a bit sore – nothing incapacitating, but enough to certainly feel it when I stretch my arm out. I’m of the understanding that this means that the muscles are torn, and will build back stronger, given sufficient rest, which is just one more reason to not bother with the gym on a day like this when I’m not feeling it. And I know that you might want to make jokes about soreness in that particular arm; go ahead, get it out of your system…

Anyway, this internal debate is important because I need to know how to start the day today. Once again, Kirsten needs a lift to get to work this morning, and I need to figure out whether to shower before leaving the house at all, or if I should just head out, as grotty as I am, go to the gym after dropping her off, and then take a shower.

So, how to decide? The thing is, as gratifying as my numbers are after I work out, they don’t ever seem to stay there. After coming down slowly but steadily from a peak of 280 early last year, I’ve been yo-yoing on either side of 250 pounds, depending on when I check myself. I work out, my weight goes down; I eat a meal, my weight goes up; I work out, my weight goes down; I eat, my weight goes up. The last time I weighed myself was after working out on Wednesday, when I registered 249.5 (and that was only half a pound less than when I woke up that morning). Since then, I’ve gone a full day (and a full meal at the folks) since; odds are, I’m probably well over 252. So I told myself that I’d go in if my guess proved to be accurate, while if by some miracle it was under 250, I was doing well enough that it wouldn’t be necessary (but which would mean I’d have to get into the shower right away, so I’d be clean and dressed and out the door in time to get Kerstin to work).

I stepped on the scale: two hundred and fifty-one pounds.

As decision-making calls go, this was like flipping a coin and having it land on the reeded edge.

Well, it was under 252, and as you can tell from all that I’ve already written you, I didn’t want to go work out. I took that shower. Kerstin got to work with maybe five, ten minutes to spare, I got in a little shopping before breakfast (and for breakfast, for that matter – haven’t gotten enough fruit lately in my diet, so I did a little something-something about that), and I killed enough time back at the house so that I didn’t show up at the folks’ door at such an ungodly hour as I had yesterday. As far as workdays (and mornings) go, this worked out (pun not intended, but feel free to snicker if you want to) pretty well.

Now, I just need to figure out what to do over the weekend.

And with that being said, honey, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.