Fit Recovery on “Sucking It Up” After Just Enough Turkey, Mashed Potatoes, Gravy and Green Bean Casserole.
That’s right folks. Green bean casserole. I like green bean casserole more than Oreos, I kid you not. Thanksgiving dinner is one of two or three meals a year that I get to enjoy the stuff because my wife and kids aren’t the biggest fans. Mix that with turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy and I truly know what Heaven is like. Add to that, some coconut cream pie, pumpkin pie, donuts (from Cops and Doughnuts in Clare, MI), Mama Cilli’s pizza and a ham dinner and Thanksgiving weekend is my idea of a “Cheat Weekend” if I were to subscribe to such a thing. We didn’t even get into breakfast, which consisted of French toast, bacon or sausage (or both) and milk… My trick is to eat small portions of everything except the big Four… Turkey, mashed taters, gravy and GBC.
For instance, when we went out for pizza at Mama Cilli’s on Saturday, I got a trip to the salad bar and only ate one slice more than half of a small 10″ pizza. I’d gone for a ride that day and skipped lunch. In the end, my calorie count for the day was right where it should have been (or close enough to it, I don’t actually count calories – I’m good enough about it to guesstimate). I could have polished off that pizza, it was spectacular, but after that last piece I was full and satisfied. To eat more would have only meant being uncomfortable and I simply don’t do that.
That said, I’ve taken too much time off the bike. We only rode twice over the weekend (Saturday and Sunday) and that was slow. I’m getting that little itch at the back of my melon that says, “Dude, it’s time to suck it up and work your butt.”
The problem is that doing so isn’t all that easy. Sure, there’s a small part of me that wants to puke in my mouth when I do my trainer session today – it’s raining, cold and I have to take my daughters to swimming practice tonight… I also have to head over to my bank and fill out some fraud paperwork because somebody has Wal-Mart’s online purchasing nailed (I would think twice before using their website to purchase anything – I never will again) and I’ve got some program stuff to attend to (it’s Fifth Step time for Bgddy) as well. On the other hand, the whole rest of my brain, the vast majority of it as a matter of fact, is saying, “Dude, just take it easy today. Work your way back slowly and you can puke in your mouth tomorrow.”
Another problem, even though the mirror may not show it, is that I feel chubby after last weekend. I hate feeling chubby, real or not.
So here I sit, writing this post. I’ve been up since 4 am, I’ve already gotten most of my work for the day done, and it’s time to suit up. Even guys like me, who on the outside, seem like they have it together, have days where we just don’t wanna – and mine are always preceded by an inactive or overindulgent period. Imagine that.
This, of course, is why I choose to lead a more disciplined life. I am big on the phrase “To thine own self be true”. I know who I am and I know that it’s a lot harder to get this train rolling than it is to keep it rolling.
Interestingly, I was talking with a friend of mine yesterday about a local guy who decided to lose weight. He was over 300 pounds the day of his decision and he, slowly, got into triathlon. Eventually he dropped enough weight that he could think about the longer distance 140.6. He’d lost more than 100 pounds as the story goes, and picked up a couple of big sponsors. They provided him with a very nice bike, travel expenses and the whole nine yards. He went on to complete his second Ironman but missed the cutoff time by ten minutes so he knew he wouldn’t be in the results. His sponsor then secured him a spot at Kona and paid for his coach… and he went off the rails. He gained almost half of that weight back and is now having to look at starting all over again. Not quite at square one, but his trip back isn’t going to be easy. Unlike true pros, his sponsor isn’t giving up on him. They’re trying to help, but it’s going to take a return to discipline to get him back.
Food tastes too good.
Now, I’m nobody special except in my own mind. I don’t have an awesome story (or perhaps I do, it’s up for a fair debate) and I don’t necessarily even want a sponsor. The only thing that drives me to suck it up is that I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I want to be one of those old coots who makes everybody wonder where all of that energy comes from. I know if I want to be active at 90 (and I absolutely do), I’d better be full speed ahead today. So right this very moment, it’s time to get up and get moving.
Ride hard my friends.
My old running buddy, being a member of good standing in the Christian population and having read the Bible enough to actually know it, solely because he had quite a few years to fill with nothing to do but read and lift weights, likes to say, “God doesn’t need my help. I need His.” I agree.
So, this post is for those few out there who might think shooting up an abortion clinic oops, a Planned Parenthood (ironic, that) clinic is a good idea. To you, specifically, God doesn’t need your help.
Jesus didn’t kill the whore, He forgave her.
So, as much as abortion breaks my heart, do us all a favor and skip the mowing others down part and blow your own head off first. After all, isn’t it in the Bible that we should carve our eyes out if they’re causing us to sin? It is, I’ll save you the trouble looking it up.
Put simply, your head is causing you to sin. You’re listening to that dumbass in your melon committee rather than seeking to do God’s will.
Look at this another way. We can all agree that Islamic extremists suck, right? Dude, that’s you, only Christian. You suck, so knock it off already.
And to that dipshit sitting in prison… You’ll be meeting Jesus soon enough (ironic that, too). Just remember this one thing when you do: Duck.
To others who misunderstood the reports about Planned Parenthood “profiteering” by selling aborted body parts, they’re just covering costs and selling those parts to scientists who use them to better understand diseases like childhood cancer.
Is it disgusting? Without question. It is not profiteering though. Should the practice be ended? If I had my way, tomorrow, but in reality the end is not much different than Monsanto genetically modifying foods. The world said we need food and Monsanto said, “Cool, we’re on it”. Monsanto has done more good to feed the hungry than every government program devoted to that, on Earth, going back 100 years. In the end, those baby grinding factories are at least doing some good with their hideous practice.
Now, that said, we have signs all about Town that say, “Pray to end abortion”. They don’t say (in small print), “If God ain’t working fast enough for your liking, light them bastards up”. In other words, your ego is messing with you. There is no God in ego. That’s all you.
God forbid, that asshole probably took out the woman who went in for her first consultation, decided she couldn’t go through with it and was ten seconds from turning to Jesus for forgiveness and help.
Look at this another way. I was a lecherous young man. I am the cause of more than one broken marriage. I was one of those drunks you curse when you’re heading home shortly after midnight in the New Year… one of those you pray doesn’t run into you. There’s a line of people who could have justified taking me out and traded their freedom for the rest of their life in the process.
However, I recovered. I made my amends, the best I could, and God chose to save my butt, simply because I asked. I then completely reformed my life and went on to help hundreds if not thousands do the same in theirs.
If someone had chosen to play God and take me out, not only would they have robbed me of the ability to repent and reform, they’d have taken away God’s ability to work through me to help others recover from a disease that does more damage to families than all of the tornados and floods combined.
So, please, before you even buy the pistol, think.
God doesn’t need my help. I need His.
Because the best case scenario is you rot in jail, robbing yourself of the chance to do some real good and then you have Hell to look forward to (especially if you die thinking you did right). Worst case, you rot in jail because you killed the people who God had chosen to actually play a part in exposing abortion for what it is… and unraveling the whole mess.
The Lord works in mysterious ways and only the truly contemptible think they have that mystery figured out before they stand at Saint Peter’s Gate.
Great Children Don’t JUST Happen – http://wp.me/p4733E-vN
In all seriousness, this is an awesome post. Check it out, especially if you’re new to the parenting game.
If I had to add one it would be this:
Raising great kids is a lot like raising a great marriage. You get out of it what you put into it.
Coming from a father’s point of view, if you think you’re just going to bring home the bacon and let your wife fry it up, to quote one of my favorite TV shows: Dude, You’re Screwed.
It’s below freezing. I’ve got three layers on my upper body and I’m comfortable. My head is merely “okay”, I’ve got a light balaclava on but anything exposed is cold. My legs and ass are freaking freezing, even with knee warmers over my leg warmers. Sadly, I didn’t think I’d need my foot covers because my wool socks are so good… I was wrong, my feet feel like bricks. Cold. Frickin’. Bricks.
My wife and I are on the mountain bikes so we’re not even moving all that fast. Still, it’s kinda ugly. We get 53 minutes in though, better than polishing the leather sofa with my butt – especially after everything I ate this weekend. That was Saturday…
We’re out Sunday too. We’re home so I’ve got my foot covers now and my feet are warm. My legs are cold again. I asked for a real pair of thermal tights for Christmas, the first time in years I’ve asked for something specific. Managing the cold on a bike is like trying tamp out a brush fire in high winds. Hands are cold, new gloves. Head is cold, new hat. Ears are cold, new hat with ear flaps. Core is cold, one more layer. Feet are cold, merino wool socks. Feet are still cold, foot covers. Eyes are cold, actually thought about goggles. Now my legs are impossibly cold and I have to do something about them.
The truth is, I just hate the cold. Below 35 degrees, I’m miserable. Oh, I put on a good show, but I hate it.
In the end, I’ll keep riding till it’s too icy for comfort – no matter how much I hate cycling in the cold, I hate cycling on the trainer more and as has been usual for the last four years, I’ll keep throwing darts at cold body parts till I finally get it right. Who knows, eventually I could come to love being cold – but I’m not going to hold my breath waiting for that to happen.
In the end, I’ll always suck it up, because there’s one thing I can think of worse than being a little cold and whiny… Being fat.
“If I got locked away
And we lost it all today
Tell me honestly, would you still love me the same?”
So asks a new song by Rock City featuring Adam Levine
So is asked what is tied for the dumbest question in music history. Don’t ask me for competing idiotic questions, they abound, but that’s not the point. Fair warning kids, you might need your “safe space” and your pacifier after this one – we’re going to leave the micro aggressions in the rearview mirror and tap dance on macro for a bit… To quote a legend, “It’s gonna get bumpy”.
The correct answer the question the song asks is “no”, which shall also be preceeded by a four-letter explicative that begins with the letter “F”. We’re not quite done with that answer though. Let’s press on ladies, with: “If you loved me, even a little bit, you would refrain from doing something so stupid that you could land in prison in the first place.”
Let’s look at that question another way: “Honey, if I lost control and beat the shit out of you because you didn’t have dinner on the table on time, would you still love me the same?” Put that way, hopefully we can all agree the answer should be “F@€k no! I would leave your stupid @$$ immediately if not sooner.”
Now, I’m not going to call for a boycott of anything, I’m not going to call for some idiot to go to sensitivity training. I am not going to complain about the younger generation “not getting it”. Nor am I going to whine that I need a “safe place” with a year-supply of fresh diaper wipes and pacifiers on the shelf so I can hide from the fact that the world is sometimes an ugly place. Boys and girls, Democrats used to call safe spaces “separate but equal” in the past, and used that to make people ride in the back of the bus, or go to inferior, run-down schools so those kids really had no chance to hope for anything better than a job in the “service industry” (as they call it). Look it up.
The attitude, that a person should forgive and love, unequivocally, the other for being a loser was around before Jesus roamed the Earth.
This reminds me of a funny ex-girlfriend. My then girlfriend and I were having a disagreement. She was verbally pushing my buttons and I, hers. On the way up the stairs she paused at the landing, wheeled around and punched me right in the gut. I’d seen it coming so I tensed up enough that I was able to keep my composure and I asked her, “What was that, should we call the cops and get you a room at the jail for a night?”
Her classy reply was, “What, now you’re going to be a pussy about it?”
I chuckled and said, “No dear, I’m not. You try that shit again and I’ll knock your block off.”
That punch to the gut was the beginning of the end of that relationship. First, had I stuck around, eventually she was going to take another shot at me. Second, I would have responded by punching her square in the mouth**, probably landing myself in jail. Third, I couldn’t stop asking myself, who in their right mind would stick a relationship out through that? Why?! While I firmly believe in the old “men don’t hit ladies”, I certainly don’t believe in sticking around to be a punching bag for a bitch with issues either.
For the first time in my young life I started to understand that just because I happened to be dating a woman, or in this case, living with one (out of wedlock), it didn’t mean I had to stick with it as if I were indeed married – if the woman I was with wasn’t capable of giving me the relationship I wanted, there was no sense in prolonging the agony, hoping for a change that would never come.
I broke things off, entirely, within two months and I would go on to take a little more than a year off, no relationships, to work on being a better me so I could attract a better woman. She wasn’t so lucky. She expected me to stick around, so the break up hit her pretty hard. She ended up in a psych ward shortly thereafter. Now, you might think, “Oh, how sad for her.” and I agree, but I called it right when I decided not to stick that unnecessary drama out…
At the end of my hiatus from dating, when I was ready, I met and dated a woman who just didn’t want to commit. I broke up with her immediately. Why waste my time? After all of that work getting myself straight, I fully got it: If the woman I like can’t give me what I want, move on and find the one who can.
I started dating the woman who turned out to be my wife shortly thereafter (like a week later, maybe two at the most) and we’ve been together since… More than 20 years and my wife is everything I hoped for. Now the relationship is worth sticking through the hard times… but because I picked a good woman, those hard times likely won’t involve either one of us enduring a long stint in the slammer. Incidentally, we both laughed and answered the question the same way: “Um, no.” The kids were listening so we didn’t bother with the explicative.
Now, to young ladies… If the question, “If I went to prison, would you still love me the same?” seems like a romantic question, there’s something wrong with you that needs to be fixed. Seriously. Real love is never having to ask that in the first place. Real love is a man who asks, “Honey, shall I grill steaks for dinner tonight, or would you like to go out?” Real love is “Would you love me the same if I was a carpenter?”, not an inmate.
So, if your man sings you that song, with a sparkle in his eyes, he obviously has no clue what love is. Run away. Very, very far. Very fast. Don’t wait until it’s too late and you have to answer that question for real.
**My thoughts on how things should be handled when it comes to physical assault in a relationship: Obviously, there should be none. Zero, zip, nada. However, perhaps I’m a bit old-school in believing that ladies should never be struck. Now, here’s the trick: a lady would never strike a man, more than a slap, which is fair and good. On the other hand, I also believe in equality. If a woman is going to punch like a man, she has every right to be treated equally. If that angers you, well okay. What makes a woman so special she can hide behind “the lady clause” and run around trying to be a thug? It doesn’t work that way. I think the belief that a woman has the right to commit assault without expectation of reciprocity falls into the macro aggression category, but who knows, there was no such thing as micro aggressions when I went to college, so I only learned how to make a living, not tap dance on eggshells. And it shows from time to time. My apologies.
Wind is an ugly thing. Sometimes.
For most, the wind brings out that inner whiny brat that screams, “But I don’t wanna! ” The wind does that to my wife, God Bless her.
It used to me but after 25,000 miles, the wind now elicits a wry grin from me. The wind, she’s a real bitch so as I’m clipping into my pedals, I’m thinking some exceptionally impure thoughts about what I’m about to put her through. Oh, she’ll smack me around a bit, there’s no doubt… But I’m gonna win. I will ride that ride with a smile on my face.
It was ugly. A minimal chance of rain (15%), but the sky was plain old ugly. Wind out of the north at 15 to 25 mph, give or take, but only on the high end. That said, at 58 degrees, the temp wasn’t all that bad.
Arm warmers, knee warmers, my Hammers kit, a head sweats cap and my new Sugoi Zap rain jacket (oh, now that’s a rain jacket, but that’s for another post, another day) and I was perfectly comfy. Perfectly matched for the crappy weather. It was bad enough I took the Trek and my wife took her Secteur.
Mrs. Bgddy and I rolled out with a goal of 25 miles. I took the first three miles into the wind and my wife took the next two with a cross tailwind – she’s a funny one my wife. Let her pull and she’s two or three miles an hour faster than what she’ll do with a train in front of her. The next – hang on, let me count them – fifteen and a half miles were mine.
We were cruising into this little town about nine miles in, I had my head down and shoulders up so I could block more wind for my wife and here she comes, cruising by. I was dumbstruck for a second before I saw the Gaines Township sign… That turkey was racing me for a Township sign! I mashed on my pedals and caught her, but she swears she edged me out. We’d have to go to the tape on it so I reluctantly gave it to her.
What she didn’t know was that there was a second sign (still doesn’t) an eighth of a mile up. I took that one, it wasn’t close. Mrs. Bgddy caught me napping at another one a mile later, when she asked to check out a road we’d never ridden before. I was three feet shy of the back of the sign when I turned around because the pavement ended and the road turned to dirt. Crap.
It had started sprinkling a little bit, certainly enough to notice, but I stayed high and dry in my quintessentially perfect rain jacket. As the rain picked up and wind intensified, I got faster. Unfortunately my wife had the opposite reaction. I ended up pulling away from her whenever I tried to drop my shoulders and cheat the wind a little bit. I picked up another Township sign along the way.
We lumbered along till we finally hit mile 15 and had a bit of a break from the wind. We turned west and had a bit of
a cross tailwind. I accelerated. My wife didn’t. So I took our City Limits sign too.
It was sprinkling again when we rolled into the bike shop parking lot and went in to say hello. After talking to the fellas a bit and teasing my wife about the new Madone 9.9 I’ll be getting sooner than later, we split for home. We spent just enough time in the shop to freeze once we stepped outside. Crap.
A little more than five miles later we rolled into the driveway.
Sometimes they ain’t pretty, you just have to put your head down and get it done but it sure beats gettin’ fat.
This post was written earlier, maybe late October… We are taking the mountain bikes out today… No wind, for once, but I’ll need all of my cold weather gear… 20 degrees this morning (-4C).
I always love sleeping pill commercials… Butterflies and rainbows, happy prancing unicorns… It’s all so wonderful! Especially getting to see a fellow unicorn get some air time… I can remember back in the good old days when we took, what was it? Sudafed? Yeah, but that was before they were making meth out of it, so there’s that. In college I used to down a couple of Sudafed because my roommate needed my Magic CPAP Machine… He snored so loud it was like trying to sleep above a freight train (I had the top bunk because ain’t no way that big fella was climbing to the top bunk). The only hope I had was to fall asleep (or pass out) before him.
It was a fun time. Not really but whining is unbecoming…
In any event, as one might imagine, medicated sleep may be “technically” considered sleep by some but I can think of a much better way of getting some shuteye:
Now, if you know anything about bikes, that’s an old-school racer right there. Aluminum frame, chrome-moly fork, down tube shifters… It’s a bit heavy, the frame is about a pound heavier than today’s modern frames and it’s exceptionally stiff – which means its fast but you can feel every grain of sand you run over. What differentiates this bicycle from my Magic CPAP Machine and my over-the-counter Anti-Alzheimer’s Machine is that it takes some serious work to keep it rolling. This means you’ve really gotta put some ass into it. In other words, if I want to sleep like a baby, all I’ve gotta do is take the Cannondale out for a ride with the guys. Of course, to make it really tough, throw in those down tube shifters… It’s a tough bike to ride, but it is definitely cool – and good for a great night’s sleep.
So, don’t bother with drugs, buy an advanced mechanical sleep inducing machine of your own. Turn out 50 or 60 miles and find out what it means to sleep like a baby.