- SMWI*: Saturday Morning Workout Inspiration. Spoof of Nike’s “swoosh” symbol and “Just Do It” exercise ad campaign.
- Source: TheMetaPicture
Tag: healthy-living
Saturday Morning Work-out Inspiration?
Running. Besting 100-year Old Men.
5:50 am. I’m off. 100-year old men running marathons and I’ve been filling the couch. Now there’s inspiration.
45F according to Weather Channel. Walk outside. Feels like 60F. Strip off running jacket. Fat man goin’ to fly.
Feeling HEAVY. Thanks to my enabler friend Lori. She sent a can’t miss recipe after last week’s Spaghetti Bolognese post. Zeke (dog) and I were sniffing around like crack addicts for 10 hours while the bolognese simmered in the slow cooker…with the aroma from the meat sauce oozing into every pore of the house. When the 6pm dinner bell rang, I was at the table with fork, salt shaker, large plate. Salad? NO. Bread? NO. Vegetables? NO. Keep all distractions out of the way. I told Zeke to stand back, I needed room to feed. Four plates later (at least I stopped counting at 4), I was licking my plate…and telling myself, maybe it’s time to stop. Bliss. Peace. 10 years from today, new FDA research will find that eating Spaghetti Bolognese extends life. And you’re going to think back and say that crazy man was right. You read it here first.
Back to the run. So, here we are. The day after. A DIRIGIBLE. LARGE AND BLOATED. On the road again trying to knock out some lbs. 100-year old running man drifting in an out. I’m half his age and can’t get the pistons firing. Wonder if he lied about his age. (That’s not nice. But something seems off. He looks better than 100. Hell, he looks better than I do.)
On February 23, 2013, 101 year-old Fauja Singh finished the Hong Kong 10km (6.25 mile) event in one hour, 32 minutes and 28 seconds. (That’s it! I’m going to kick his a** today. I’m sick of being embarrassed by 100 year old men. It’s sad. Really it is.) Continue reading “Running. Besting 100-year Old Men.”
Running. Like a Hippo.
6 am. I’m off. No slackin’ today.
32F. Feels like 27F according to Weather Channel.
Spring? Laughable.
Snarky Man is on the move.
Black wind breaker. Blue sweat pants. Red shoes. Black Chargers Tuk.
(How do you spell C-L-A-S-H?)
Reach for draw string to synch up sweats. Only find one end. The other end is buried in hole about an inch back. Are you kidding me? Paused for 1 second – – no chance I’m going back to change. Veer way wide of the Man today. He going gangster. Let his sweatpants hang off his a**.
THE MOOD.
It all started yesterday. 3 am.
Morning ritual of stepping on the scale. Followed by Morning Delusion. LED flashing. Flashing. Flashing. (Think 10 pm on Christmas Eve as a Child .)
And then BAM.
Followed by SHOCK.
The scale reports a new 5-year high.
“Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are.” — Augustine of Hippo
I don’t know who Mr. Augustine is. But I’m looking like a Hippo. I have one daughter and not two. And her name is Anger.
I get off the scale. Inhale. Exhale.
Technology! Has to be that I jumped on the scale too quickly. It didn’t find its equilibrium. It needs to set itself.
I gently step back on. (Like, if I treat it more kindly, I might get a better outcome.)
Flashing. Flashing. Flashing. Flashing. Flashing.
DAMN IT!
Enough. We enter Day 1 of my new weight reduction program.
And as I reach Post Road on my run this morning, I recall my first day…
Running. In Confessional.
I’m off. 35F. Feeling good.
It’s the day after Good Friday.
The title of LaDona’s post banging around in my head like a 50 Cent Rap song – – the tricked up Chevy heaving up and down to the beat:
This Place Was Made By God.
This Place Was Made By God.
This Place Was Made By God.
I look around. Trees reflecting on the still waters of the Long Island Sound. Sun’s up in its full magnificence. Sky is a brilliant blue. Who else could have made this?
She goes on. This place was made by God, a priceless sacrament; it is without reproach.
(She’s so d*mn sure.)
And on. The most sacred day in the Christian calendar, and indeed, in Christianity itself. Inspiration for stunning, poignant music across the centuries. Even if you don’t believe, or if you do and God seems far away, the music speaks. And touches. And heals.
(I’m right there with you Sister on the far away part. And right there with you that the music speaks, touches and heals)
Then the mind, faster than a switchback on a BC mountain highway, turns to a conversation with a colleague on Thursday: Continue reading “Running. In Confessional.”