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Getting Started This winter has been a slothful one for me. Lots of movies, lots of fast food, lots of sitting on my ass. My tank ass. You see, I'm a writer, and tank-ass is an occupational hazard. Though to be fair, writers are just a subset of the typical overweight American, who spends far too much time on the couch with a remote control perched on his or her belly. But I'm digressing, so let me get back to writers for the moment. Writers make their living in front of a computer hunched over keyboards. Interviewing someone who climbed Mount Everest doesn�t mean we talk to them on a mountainside. Or even a hilltop. We speak to them over the phone, from the comfort of office chairs. Or recliners. When we schedule face-to-face interviews, we meet in a sit-down setting with a tape recorder on a table between us to capture the conversation. A restaurant is perfect. Especially if it has curly fries. So, it's no surprise that many writers are overweight. That doesn�t mean we want to be fat slobs or that we always have been, just that we�re lazy. We can conjugate the hell out of a verb but don't expect us to meet you on the second floor if the elevator is out of order. We�ve risen to the level of activity required for our jobs�a pulse and the ability to type�and let nature take its course. Such was the case for me, anyway. Once upon a time I was a multi-sport athlete, captain of both the track and cross country teams in high school. In college, I played intramural football and competed in 5- and 10-kilometer road races. After graduating, I became a fit and lean paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division. Occasionally, womenfolk would look upon me with lust in their eyes. Or at least they wouldn't gag. These days, I can't make the no-gag promise. I'd love to have a rap-star name like L.L. Cool J. (Ladies Love Cool James), but a more likely moniker for me these days would be L.D.L. Bill, both for the amount of bad cholesterol clogging my arteries and as an acronym for Ladies Don't Love Bill. I've become a 380-pound, middle-aged man who runs out of breath when I tie my shoes. Psst...I'm the one on the left 
Nowhere did the comparison of what I used to be hit me harder than when I interviewed the 2005 Miss USA, Chelsea Cooley. Not only was she gorgeous, enchanting, charismatic, and a host of other agreeable adjectives, but she'd also become a motivational speaker who encouraged others to reach their full potential. She was enthusiastic and convincing enough to make me think that even I could start participating in life once again.So, in an attempt to regain some health I've begun a walking program. That first day, I laced up the Nikes and hit the streets feeling confident. I should have brought more than just my Nikes with me. I should have brought a moped. That way, I could have hopped on it after I'd walked a measly half-mile when what felt like a dagger started piercing my side. Instead, I staggered back home in a stupor, wheezing, heaving, certain that someone had altered the dimensions of time and space. I had to have gone farther than one mile! Getting a ball rolling is much harder to do than keeping it in motion, especially when the ball is made of blubber. Simple things get me winded. Going up a flight of stairs leaves me gasping for minutes afterwards and tying my shoes usually leaves me out of breath and sweating for several minutes; when I bend over, my gut compresses as I stretch to reach the laces and I literally can't breathe. People either think I'm faking or that maybe I�m having a heart attack. A few people eyed me warily on that first walk, ready to call an ambulance if I collapsed. I wallowed for 6 days after that first trip outside, and then I took a second walk this morning. I did the same distance (one mile) and it was hell. But hey, I didn't feel like puking this time. That's progress. I�ve gotten the ball rolling and it�s getting the tiniest bit easier. That's something; not much, but something. Progress, Baby, Progress I only bitched and moaned about my sore legs for 3 days this time before heading back outside for another walk. Quite an improvement! Not only that, I added a half-mile to my walk this morning. A mile-and-a-half may not be much and I may have strolled at a turtle's pace, but it felt like a marathon to me. Surprisingly, I feel fairly good now, several hours after my walk. I don't think I've completely shaken off all the rust, but this is promising nonetheless. I'm even looking forward to my next walk. Bring it on! Sports Bras and Monkey Butt 
Fat people have many health and safety concerns. Sure, there's high blood pressure, diabetes, heart disease and death, but I'm talking about something really serious. I'm talking about monkey butt. When a fat person walks his thighs rub together, which is usually not a problem since the distance covered is usually proportional to the distance from the fridge to the recliner. However, when walking any distance greater than a few hundred yards, we've got to do something to prevent chafing. And that's why I say, "God bless Lycra," not just for the uniforms worn by professional women beach volleyballers but also for the way the skintight fabric clings to skin and prevents chafing (which, I'm sure, is the real reason the FIVB created the women's beach volleyball bikini regulations. Wink, wink). Lycra shorts allow me to walk without creating red welts on my thighs, thus sidelining me for days or weeks.But my thighs are not the only thing I need to protect. I am a sweaty beast. Generally, I think most fat people sweat more than skinny people, but for me it goes a step beyond that. I was a sweaty beast even when I used to be skinny. Since I sweat so much, my t-shirt gets soaked and starts to swish back and forth against my chest like the dangling towels in a car wash, which chafes my nipples. Runner's nipple is more common than you might think, affecting the slim as well as the stout. I learned this lesson the hard (and sore) way years ago when I ran ten miles and came home with bloody nipples. That's why beneath my t-shirt I wear Underarmour, a skintight top that eliminates chafing on my nipples. Unfortunately, the size that fits my chest doesn't fit my gut too well, and it tends to creep up my torso. I'm constantly tugging at it, pulling it back into place near my waist. Even though it's hidden beneath my shirt, I hate the sense that I'm wearing a sports bra. And I do not want anyone to start calling me "Jugs." Man's Slobberiest Friend Psst...I'm the one on the right 
My best friend, Dawn, has three rottweilers, each with a name that begins with the letter M: Morgan, Madison, and Mackenzie. She calls them her "3-M Security System." No thief with a shred of brain tissue left in his noggin would dare break into her house. But, if they did, her dogs would welcome the treat.Anyway, One of my favorite walks is to trek around Dawn's neighborhood with one of the dogs in tow, or, as is more often the case, with the dog towing me. When we start out on the walk she'll get so excited about every little thing that her enthusiasm rubs off on me. It's infectious, and not in a bad way like the clap; This is "good infectious," like when you hear someone in the office humming the tune to Desperado and it bounces around in your head until the next thing you know you're scrunching up your face and singing what you think are the lyrics (but really aren't) in a squeaky little voice that gives everyone in the surrounding cubicles something to laugh at, and God knows, the world needs more laughter, which is what makes it "good infectious" in the first place. Now, where was I going with this? Oh, yeah. Strange thoughts will bounce through my head when I'm out walking: Why is a package called a shipment if it comes in a car buts it's called cargo if it arrives by ship? How did Pet Rocks ever become a fad? Will Steven Seagal ever have any talent? So this afternoon, another strange thought occured to me while I was walking one of the dogs. It occured to me how her reaction to the walk was a metaphor for every relationship I'd ever been in. I know, I know, it sounds like I'm reaching, but bear with me. Whenever I show her the leash, she jumps all over me, panting, licking, squirming with excitement. As we start walking, she tugs at the leash to direct me, telling me which way to go as if she's the boss of me. Halfway through the walk, the tug-of-war subsides and she falls into step beside me, tired of trying (in vain) to change my stupid ways. By the end, she's worn out, head lolling, eager to head into her air-conditioned dog room, shooting me a look that says "Because that's the farthest away I can get from you." Just like every woman I've ever dated. Terry...Bless Her Heart 
My smurfy little friend called me up last night to ask if I'd like to go for a walk with her this morning.
The main reason I call her "smurfy" is because she's so tiny. I can wrap her entire body around my midsection...literally! If she had a buckle and hasp on her head and feet, I could wear her like a belt! The other reason I call her "smurfy" is because she's so lovably naive. She's as gullible as I am devious, which works out great for me but not so much for her. Doesn't matter how many times I fib, she always takes me at my word (Insert devious laughter here).My description of her above is far too unkind to be accurate. See, Terry is one of those altruistic people who will do anything to help a person in need. Me? Not so much. I'm more of a mistrustful git. My credo is: "The masses are asses." But not Terry. She's always thinking of others. Which brings me back to her phone call. Terry knew I'd started walking and was having a tough time of it, so she offered to drive out to Poquoson (a half-hour from her house) and walk with me in the mornings. Either some of her charitableness rubbed off on me or perhaps I just didn't want her to show me up because I suggested we share the driving and I would go out to her house to walk next time. The great thing is that my exercise program now includes a sense of accountability. When I was on the track team, we had two-a-day practices, a voluntary one in the morning before school and a mandatory practice after school. I wouldn't have gotten up early to go running during the school year if it weren't for the peer pressure that went along with it. Same thing now. Sure, I'm walking by myself already, but there are days when "not feeling like it" wins out over "got to get up and do it." But when I'm supposed to meet someone for my walk, there's no room for "not feeling like it." Also, the company makes the walks more enjoyable and the variety of location is a nice change of pace. This morning, we walked behind the Poquoson Library on a path called The Canal Walk (though the canals are just ditches that fill with stagnant water so the mosquitos can breed) and we did 3 miles! Not only did I complete the walk, but I didn't go into cardiac arrest...woo hoo! In a couple of days I'll drive out to Newport News so we can go behind the Mariner's Museum and hike a a portion of a park path called The Noland Trail. As the saying goes, variety is the spice of life. Or is it Tabasco? I never can remember. Boo Flu Today started out grand. I had my first 4-mile walk of the year and felt pretty good afterwards. I then went over to my sister's house to catch up with family...all of whom are sick. I don't know if they passed it on to me or if it had already been germinating inside of me, but a half-hour after I came home I was feeling lousy. I've got the flu and am going to bed. Ugh! Call Me Dr Pepper  I was knocked out for a couple of weeks, the first five days because of the flu and then the remainder with a lingering cold. I was taking all kinds of medicine and sleeping extra hours and basically babying myself too much. My first walk since catching the flu was yesterday, which was a 2.2 mile hike to the stoplight and back. While I haven't been logging any miles this month, I did make one big change to my lifestyle that should have a major impact on my health: I stopped drinking Diet Dr Pepper. "Big deal," you might think, but only if you didn't know how much I was chugging. Anytime I went out, I brought a Diet Dr Pepper with me. On long trips, I'd bring a cooler with sodas packed on ice. And any time I ran out, I'd stop at one of the billion-or-so fast food joints and grab a fountain drink. I drink a lot more water since I began walking, and consequently my soda habit has dropped off to one in the morning and another sometime during the day; but at my peak I was drinking a six-pack of soda every day. Dr Pepper ran a contest where consumers could send in the UPC symbols from cases, 12-pack boxes, and 2-liter bottles to win prizes. You could win T-shirts and ball caps and various trinkets. If you drank tons of the stuff, you could win an I-pod. I drank enough to win two. Of course, I didn't read the fine print (while quantities last) and waited too long to claim my prize. Even so, I stayed faithful to my drink of choice, my brown ambrosia. So what's the big deal? Not only does soda strip the enamel off your teeth (or "tooth" if you're from West Virginia), but its ingredients have also been linked to cancer. And although I've been drinking "Diet" Dr Pepper, the 1 calorie listed on the can's nutritional content is misleading. Sweeteners added to the soda trick my brain into thinking I'm eating something delicious and sugary, and when my system doesn't get the actual sugar, it rebels by cranking up my cravings, turning me into a doughnut-devouring zombie. There is a physical reaction that comes along with kicking the habit. Depriving myself of caffeine made my sleep pattern screwy for about a week. Then there were the headaches, pounding and insistent. As powerful as the reaction was and as lousy as I felt, I knew I'd feel better once I got through that phase. Sure enough, after five days, my head started to clear and I felt awake in a way I hadn't in a long time. If nothing else, my withdrawl symptoms lend practical evidence that soda really is bad for my system. Here's hoping this actually helps to tame my cravings. Snowball Effect I'm amazed at how far I've progressed. I'm walking longer and taking less rest between walks. I'm not concerning myself with pace; I'm just logging the miles. This morning, Terry and I walked the entire Noland Trail, which is 5 miles over hilly terrain. Wow! I didn't think I'd be at this point for several more months. I've been rapidly upping my weekly mileage from 2 miles the first week (I started on a Sunday, so the 6-day break and the next walk were all in the same week) to 4 miles the second week, and nine miles the third. This week I logged 15-1/2 miles walking two days on and one day off and then repeating. Once I took that hard-as-hell step of getting out of my chair and out onto the street, my legs started remembering what they were built to do - walk! And I'm feeding on my own success. The more I walk, the more I want to walk. I want to go longer every time; I don't necessarily feel that way when I first head out the door, but once I get in the groove I don't want to stop. And, best of all, I've got more energy during the day. I feel like I'm a great big snowball rolling down the hill, picking up steam, becoming unstoppable. Man Down Turns out I'm stoppable. How ironic, considering my last entry. Here's what happened: I was rough-housing with Dawn's dogs, running around the house, throwing them thither and yon, when my knee gave out. I already have a bum knee (I tore ligaments in my knee two years ago) and know I need to avoid high-impact stuff, but I've been getting cocky with all my newfound energy. Now I'm all gimpy and unable to walk. Harumph. Of course, lots of people are worse off than I am. As the proverb says: "I cried because I had no shoes, then I met a man who had no feet...and stole his shoes." There, I feel better now. (Not) Getting Back in the Swing I've been having a hard time getting back in the swing of things; I haven't walked since I hinked my knee ("hinked" is a technical term; it's synonymous with "schlinked"). I keep telling myself, "I'll walk tomorrow." But then tomorrow comes and I put it off another day. I've been busy, but that's no excuse. Which got me thinking: "I should think up some good excuses for not walking." So, here they are, all my great excuses for putting off my next walk: Top Ten Reasons to Procrastinate |
