Self-Propelled

Over a year and a half ago, I found myself back in the gym after a lengthy hiatus. I've always had to work really hard at managing my weight and without regular exercise, I can turn 1600 calories a day into a pretty chunky me. Like a lot of things in my life, this trip to the gym was inspired by a motorcycle trip. It was January and in a few months I was going to trailer my Aprilia down to Deal's Gap to ride with some folks from my "internet home." I'd never met any of them in real life before, I'd never ridden Deal's Gap before and honestly, I'd never really used the Aprilia like a real motorcycle before...

I think the realization that I was plumping up again came in several forms, mostly photographic, you know the "who the hell is that fat guy standing next to my family in that picture" kind of thing. My riding gear was getting tight too and I hate to buy more of that stuff. Knowing I'd be a lot more comfortable on the bike carrying a few less pounds around seemed to be motivation enough to get me back in gear. Or maybe I was just done being chubby, who really knows?

The first night back at the gym was a lot more stressful that I expected. I had no plan, I simply got dressed and drove over. When I walked through the door, while nothing had changed per se, I felt seriously out of place. Even now, I am not sure why I stayed as my first instinct was to go home and think about it some more. I did stay though and wound up on a treadmill. Over the years, the treadmill was the piece of equipment that I avoided most. What could be more boring than walking or running nowhere? That night, I hopped on a treadmill because there was no other equipment unused and I knew it was now or never. Twenty minutes of walking and jogging on that thing was the most depressing time I may have ever spent in my life. Well, maybe not the most depressing but there was no avoiding the fact that I was seriously out of shape.
I'll spare you the blow by blow but here's the summary - I got mad at myself, therefore I became determined, kept going to the gym, went from walk/jog to jog to run. I lost a few pounds before the trip and felt pretty good. I continued to run, started running on the street as well and ran a few 5k's. By the next Deal's Gap trip this past spring, I was really feeling good about myself.

The one thing that I had not shaken from the first time back at the gym was my need to distract myself from the fact that I was exercising. Kind of like burying your peas in the mashed potatoes, I needed to shift my focus away from the activity. I indulged myself in all manner of Walter Mitty-esque escapes; racing in Dakar, supercharging my Triumph, anything that made my brain busy enough to avoid thinking about running. These little escapes were not helpful, they were absolutely mandatory. Any time I really thought about running, I nearly stopped in my tracks. I often joke that for most of my life, running was a penalty, not a pleasure. Heck, when I played football, it really was a penalty - screw around in practice and you did laps.

That all changed the other night. I was chugging along my usual short route when it occurred to me that I wasn't really thinking about anything. Sure, I had the MP3's going as usual but I was not mentally dragging a knee or slewing a pro-rally car sideways, I was right there....running.
It was really amazing, I kept waiting for the inevitable desire to stop in my tracks and it never came. I picked up my pace and it was still ok. I just kept going, most likely with a really stupid look on my face. Twenty-one months and over 40 pounds later and suddenly, I'm a runner? I guess so... A jogger might be a better description, I am not about to threaten the guys running at the front of my bracket but I hate the whole activity a lot less. I'm not much for signs but if I was, I think this might be a good one.

Perhaps you are this far into the post and wondering, "seriously, this can't be the point, can it?" Sorry Sunshine, it sure is.