The Dreaded Burpee

Here's what happens...

You get there and you think, all is well.

She's really cute.  She has kind eyes and a sweet voice and she tells you not to be afraid to modify any exercise that you need to.  Got it.  I can do that.

"We're just gonna get started by warming up running around the track.  Go at your own pace and I'll flag you when it's time to head back."

Perfect.  I'm a runner.  This is what I do.  I'll smoke these bitches.

Um...okay...not so much.  That's alright.  Breathing heavier, feeling the blood flowing, I head back into the class.  This is doable.  

Let's remember that the only reason that I'm here is because in the last 6 months, I've had to change it up. 

For the first two years of my running life, I really only had to run...and mind you, I ran a lot...but I then had license to eat and drink what I wanted.

Post running my first marathon and inching closer to 40, this is not the case.  And so, upon the advice of my husband and good friends, I've surrendered to cross-training and lifting.  Apparently, I need to traumatize my metabolism...shock my system into submission.  At this point, I think the only thing I've traumatized is my ego.

Have you done a burpee before?  How about a mountain climber?  Spiderman push-up?  Side plank?  Kettle bells?  Jump squats? Weighted lunges?

Shit.  I thought long distance running was where the bad asses lived.  Fuck no.  The hard core mother fuckers are the people who do this cross fit noise.  Holy Mary Mother of God.

Allow me to share what happened this morning...After multiple sets of arms, legs, abs, and high cardio bursts, she announces that we're going to finish up with burpees because they really do the job and in a weird way, she likes them.  Oh God.  She wasn't the woman I thought she was.

Below is a you tube video if you have no idea what the Hell I'm talking about...

Suffice it to say that I do not look like her when I'm doing these bad boys.  No, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the five million mirrors that adorn the room we were in and what I looked like was a middle aged woman with a tank top that had flown over her head, her tummy or 'food baby' as I fondly refer to mine launching out of her tightened spandex pants and a face that looked like it was going to explode from lack of oxygen.

It really was a banner moment.

It was at that point that she said, "If you're hating these, keep going...your body will love you for it later."

Sweet Mary, Joseph and St. Jude.  My body may love me later, but my dignity has long since exited the building.

I'm mindful that there are people who are much older than me who are fitter, stronger, and completely capable of blowing my ass out of the water.  It is because of them...particularly, those more senior runners on race day that teach me who's boss...chances are they've been eating their Wheaties and doing their burpees.

God I hate these cross-train exercises...but I'm telling you what...if they make me run faster, live longer and have a smile on my face in the process...then, onwards and upwards...hopefully, with my tank top and dignity intact.

Getting Back Up Again

I spent most of the summer reveling in the fact that I ran a marathon at the beginning of May.

I also spent it drinking iced coffees...not black ones...more like Venti ones (which translates into ginormously fat sized ones) with caramel and vanilla syrup and cream (um, okay, extra cream).

And I spent it taking a long break from consistently running. 

It was probably a good thing. 

My body and my mind were exhausted from the training....but Holy Fuck...let me tell you what happens when you pound sugar like it's your job and stop all significant bodily movement...

Your flesh retaliates and pushes a big middle finger in your face and says, "Your free pass has expired and if you wanna keep playing this game, I'll give you something to cry about."  As if the reality of my swim suit wasn't enough.

And so, I put together my fall race plan...half marathons scheduled for September, October and November and devised my training program.  Six days of pain...including lifting, cross-training and of course, lots of miles.

And then, I started seriously getting back into it.  I revised my play list, bought new running shoes, set my alarm for o'dark thirty and made the commitment.  Allow me to begin by saying, "Why in the HELL is it so hard to achieve meaningful fitness goals and so fucking easy to have everything turn to shit in just a few short weeks?"  The universe is a cruel place.

I have a million running skirts, tanks, short shorts and they are all staring me in the face, begging to be worn again...feeling neglected in the corner of my closet.

And so, how do I get back up again?  Especially when it feels insurmountable and I know just how much work is required to get back to where I was.

This morning...I checked Facebook and found a status update from a friend who simply wrote, "Burpees...done."  And I wrote, "Burpees are my nemesis.  But when I do them well, I know I'm in a good spot."  And he wrote, "Most of the time, I splatter to the ground and pray to get back up.  But I suppose the getting back up is the point."

And there it is.

In everything in life, all that matters is that we get back up and make a choice to try again.  It doesn't have to be pretty.  It certainly won't look the way it has when we've done it in the past. It won't be perfect.  It will probably be painful.  Every fiber of our being will rebel.  But we have to choose to recommit to us. 

And so my mantras this week have been:

“It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.” Confucious

"It always seems impossible until it's done."  Nelson Mandela

Here's to getting it done...getting back up...affording myself some grace along the way and a stiff kick in the ass regularly.  I'm worth it.