"I think a lot of people who come to visit Mauna Kea come for a reason," said James Kimo Pihana, a ranger with the Office of Mauna Kea Management. "People challenge the mountain. The mountain always wins; it is people who lose. But the mountain accepts challenges."
]]>"I think a lot of people who come to visit Mauna Kea come for a reason," said James Kimo Pihana, a ranger with the Office of Mauna Kea Management. "People challenge the mountain. The mountain always wins; it is people who lose. But the mountain accepts challenges."
'To The Summit,' by Bret Yager for the Hawaii Tribune-Herald
So far, so good. I've been meaning to jot down notes about the workouts, and life in general, lately but if there's one thing I've learned in the past year, it's that I don't write much when I'm doing heavy code work during business hours.
I've been surprised by how many people remember me from my prior stints at the gym. Quick, sweaty conversations: where have you been? the new tattoo looks great, when did you get it? are you training for anything?
I've deliberately chosen not to progress as fast as I could have. I started at twenty-five minutes at level three, and have progressed up to forty-five minutes at level six. Memory tells me that I was doing forty-five minutes at level nine when I stopped.
It's not where I was, but it's progress. That, plus keeping a reasonable eye on my calorie intake, seems to be working. Progress is slow, but steady. As July creeps closer, I suspect Adam and I will work out where, exactly, in the forest we want to go rambling, and that will determine the last couple of months of workouts.
That, and the hills of Seattle, will tell me how much more work I need to do before October. After my chat with Alice on my New Year's trip, I worked out the cost of getting Jeff and me to Hawaii to see them and realized that it could be done rather easily, as long as I planned ahead.
A few months later, the slush fund for the trip now has $1600 in it, and as soon as we clear our vacation dates with our respective workplaces, I can buy airfare. We have only the most nebulous of plans for the nine-ish days we'll be there, but the prospect of doing photography at 14,000 feet was exactly what I needed to nudge me back into the cardio work I was so good at a couple of years ago.
So -- Hawaii. One island only: the Big Island. (Hey, it's where our friends live.) By dint of island choice alone, we'll miss most of the major tourist traps; now all I have to do is plot out what camera equipment to take, and do whatever's necessary to prepare myself to deal reasonably well with the altitude so I can do photography atop Mauna Kea.
I don't expect to function well up there; I just want to function well enough so that I can come home with photos that will make you all hate me.
I mean, if that's not a reason for getting back in the gym, I don't know what is.
]]>In real life, you get the questions as you go along, and you answer as best you're able with the information you have at the time.
I stopped going to the gym around the time I started my current job. I worked a lot of overtime, especially in the first six months, and I started promising myself that when life got a bit easier, and I wasn't so mentally exhausted, I'd make time. I didn't expect eighteen months to pass before I finally hit that point; me, who was so religious about going to the gym every day.
]]>In real life, you get the questions as you go along, and you answer as best you're able with the information you have at the time.
I stopped going to the gym around the time I started my current job. I worked a lot of overtime, especially in the first six months, and I started promising myself that when life got a bit easier, and I wasn't so mentally exhausted, I'd make time. I didn't expect eighteen months to pass before I finally hit that point; me, who was so religious about going to the gym every day.
I did it, mostly because I was shamed into it. A friend who works harder and longer hours than I do made the time, and every time the subject came up my stomach churned with guilt. I knew I needed to return, knew that restarting workouts would do good things for me, but had to work up the bravery to walk in the door.
The funny thing was that it was different from last time. Last time, I was scared to walk into a gym, period. I didn't think people like me could find a home there, but I had been proven wrong. This time, I was afraid of the questions that I knew would come from the owners of a small, family-owned gym like mine: 'Where have you been? Why haven't you come in?'
I screwed up my courage on a workday afternoon, after stopping by the vet's office to pick up something for the cats. I made the familiar turn and drove down toward the nondescript metal building. I'd built a lot of my character in that building, and proven to myself that I could do a lot of things I'd never before believed I could do.
Eighteen months gone, and I opened the door and it was the same.
Lynn, the owner, looked up from the desk. "Amy! Where have you been!"
(The sound you didn't hear at that moment was my resolve banging on the doors, trying to leave the building before anyone saw its utter mortification.)
I smiled and told the story of the girl who got her dream job, and who discovered later on that dream jobs sometimes have the unintended side effect of being life-consuming creatures. I showed Lynn the gym barcode that I still had on my key ring, just because I'd been too chicken-shit to take it off, and asked if he could restart my membership.
He pulled out a piece of paper and started writing down my information. He remembered it, even after eighteen months. (My resolve started looking longingly at the glass doors again, whispering, "We could make a break for it and be out of the parking lot in fifteen seconds...") I signed my name on the form and looked around briefly.
It hadn't changed. I was the one that was different.
I wrote down the new gym hours and headed home, promising to return as soon as the new sports bras had come in. My old ones had seen so many workouts that they were nearly worn out. New bras and new shorts just seemed right, somehow.
I did it, too, restarting on Valentine's Day. I went straight from our traditional Valentine's Day dinner at Hooters to the gym. Love my spouse, love myself, I muttered.
I walked in, thinking I would huff and puff and turn red in peace, but that was not to be.
"Amy! Where have you been?"
(Crap.)
I gave an abbreviated version of the same story. I tied my shoes and tried not to embarrass myself on machines that were so familiar eighteen months ago. I remembered what levels my prior workouts were at, and tried not to push myself too hard on the first day. My body did it once; it could do it again, given time and conditioning.
The next day? More people, the same question.
Today? A fellow gym rat. "I wondered where you'd been."
It's funny, exasperating, and embarrassing all at once. I'm mortified that these people, who saw me so strong and so determined, are seeing me start over from scratch. Alternately, I'm gratified. These people were a daily part of my life two years ago. I did miss them, and it was a comfort to learn that I was missed as well.
I have no anonymity at this gym, but maybe I'll have support. Until I gain back some of the ground I lost, I think I need the support more than I need that particular patch of pride.
* * * * *
Of course, there might be a moral to this story, but in truth, these events were set in motion before I decided to rejoin the gym. Last night, I spoke with Brad at great length about Jeff's and my plans to visit him and Alice in Hawaii later this year. We talked about what we'd like to do while we were there. I mentioned the telescopes.
"Of course," he said. "Now, I can probably get you in the telescope, but remember, it's 14,000 feet above sea level."
"So being in good shape wouldn't hurt."
"It'd be a pretty good idea."
Figures.
]]>"I envy you that."
"Yeah, well, I've been off for a while. I'm capable of better. This bugs me."
"Funny, I've been saying that myself."
]]>"I envy you that."
"Yeah, well, I've been off for a while. I'm capable of better. This bugs me."
"Funny, I've been saying that myself."
I told him I liked the pants, and that they cracked me up. He grinned. "Yeah, if I'm gonna lift, I wanna be comfortable." I did my lunges, finishing out my second group of weights exercises, and sat down to have a snack. (Two bites at the end of each group of weights seems to be the right amount.) We started talking about hiking and working out, and after his first set of pec flys he draped his arms over his knees and said words that still shock the hell out of me every time I hear them.
"You know, I remember when you first started here."
(It boggles my mind. Really.)
"You came in as part of a January crop, when lots of new people come in. I know it's bad, but I'd do my workouts and watch the people on the aerobic machines and try to guess which ones would make it." He nodded. "You did."
"Not many do. A lot of them burn out pretty quickly."
He nodded, and quirked a half-smile.
I learned that he was a competitive weightlifter. He mentioned holding a record or two. I wasn't surprised; he wasn't terribly tall, but under the baggy shirt and pants, there was definite musculature. That, and I'd seen him successfully do a full set of bench presses at somewhere around 315 pounds.
I pointed over at a machine I'd been dreading all day. "I'm trying to talk myself into doing a round of hack squats today. I know I need to do them, but it's damn hard at the end of a workout."
"Yeah, but they're worth every moment." I stared off, deep in thought. "C'mon, you know you need to do it. Think about that hill. Go plate up and do it."
After finishing my between-group snack, I headed over to the machine and waited until it was free, then plated up. (I'm NOT telling you the pitifully low weight. Oh no. Allow me that small piece of dignity.) While Pajama Guy stood there talking with someone, I finished the first set and stepped out of the machine to take a breath. I wasn't sure if I could finish the second set, but I decided to try.
I started breaking form around rep five, and by rep eight, I knew I was probably in trouble. Then it happened - an exhalation of breath that sounded like a tortured "nine!" and there I was, learning firsthand what happens when you work most of your leg muscles to failure on a hack squat.
Yes, indeed, folks, you land on your ass—and if you're me, you do it in front of a competitive weightlifter.
That's ok. I didn't need that dignity anyway.
]]>"Oh, God. What?"
]]>"Oh, God. What?"
"Stairmaster, honey. Start slow. It's gonna work your quads harder than the elliptical will, and your knees can take it." He stared for a second. "You've been off for a while, but you're still strong. Start on about level four. Don't do more than five minutes on your first day. Do the rest of your cardio on the elliptical machines you're used to. Start building up." He nodded. "But you know how to do that."
I did.
See, a confession: lots of aerobic machines make me nervous. I don't fit terribly well on most of them, what with absolutely nothing in the world being designed to fit those of us who are 5'1", but even more than that, I hate looking like an idiot. I'm the kind of person who will wait to try out a new machine until no one else is around, just so I've got the comfort of knowing that if I tump ass over teakettle, nobody but me saw me do it.
Deniability is nearly everything, and bribery covers the rest.
I'd been staring at that Stairmaster for two years but had never gotten on it. When I did, I gained a new respect for any person who did regular workouts on the thing. My quads lit up, registered a protest, and almost immediately went on strike.
I toughed out four minutes and was so glad to get back on the elliptical machine that I considered giving it a big, sloppy kiss.
Every day since, I've pushed myself a little harder. Another couple of minutes here, a few more pounds of weight on an exercise there. It will come. I have done this before. I am not a skinny girl, and I will likely never be a skinny girl, but I know that this body is capable of strength because I have proven it before.
My reward? The weekend after next, I'll buy myself the hiking socks I want at REI.
In the meantime, I can't move much tonight. Those quads? I wore them out. What they've got left right now could be euphemistically described as "nothing."
Tomorrow I'll get up and do it again.
I hadn't voiced exactly why I was doing this until I was talking with a couple of people at the gym today. I mentioned that I was going hiking on Memorial Day weekend, and that I was doing prep work for it. He smiled and nodded and said, "We don't do these things because they're easy. We do them precisely because they're hard, to prove to ourselves that we are capable of doing them."
Indeed.
]]>I will not let my weight dictate what I can or cannot do in this life.
The fat girl struggling on the elliptical survived by reminding herself of all the things she wanted to be able to do. Climb stairs. Dance. Run.
Hike.
]]>I will not let my weight dictate what I can or cannot do in this life.
The fat girl struggling on the elliptical survived by reminding herself of all the things she wanted to be able to do. Climb stairs. Dance. Run.
Hike.
In the time that's passed, I've lost over fifty pounds total. Ten came back through a combination of holidays, lack of exercise while ill, and spending extra time away from the gym to paint the house. Great excuses, but no more. There's more to be done, and weightlifting to resume—no matter how much it hurts the first week (and it will, very much; I know my body).
I've known for a while that I have a few friends in Georgia who greatly enjoy hiking and backpacking. For my entire adult life, this has been something that Other People did, and not me; not me, who not so long ago struggled to climb multiple flights of stairs.
Through talking, suggestions, and other machinations, we have a date, and we have a plan. They have hiked a few sections of the Benton-MacKaye Trail in Georgia and Tennessee before, and have wanted to return back to do more.
This time, I'm going with them. Over Memorial Day weekend, we're going to tackle sections 3 and 4.
Section 3, 5.6 miles
"This section of trail, while relatively short, is the most difficult for its length because of the repeated long ascents and descents. Its entire length earns it a 'Most Difficult' rating. Three peaks with elevations over 3000' comprise this section. Wallalah Mountain, Licklog Mountain, and Rhodes Mountain all require significant climbing…"
Section 4, 5.3 miles:
"This section of trail runs northwest along the Union-Fannin County line before turning west along the crest of Wilscot Mountain. The difficulty of the hike along this section is 'More Difficult'…"
As of this afternoon, I'm back in the gym. As soon as I'm certain that I'm capable of handling it, I'm back to weightlifting too.
I want this, and I am capable of doing it.
Time to train.
]]>Yeah. Forty-five minutes at level eight, biznitches. (If you said "huh?" then read this entry for the explanation.)
One more level to go and then I will—finally—be back to my pre-pneumonia fitness level.
Whatcha wanna guess I want for my birthday? Admittedly, that's two days from now, but you know what? I think I might just have to go for it.
]]>Yeah. Forty-five minutes at level eight, biznitches. (If you said "huh?" then read this entry for the explanation.)
One more level to go and then I will—finally—be back to my pre-pneumonia fitness level.
Whatcha wanna guess I want for my birthday? Admittedly, that's two days from now, but you know what? I think I might just have to go for it.
As flimsy excuses to drink go, I think this one would be better than most.
]]>