I just worked out for the seventh day in a row. Let that sink in … because it’s insane.
I think the only time I have worked out seven full days back to back was during “The Biggest Loser.” I don’t even think I ever worked out seven complete days in a row when I was working at Lifetime Athletic. So what’s come over me? Unparallelled willpower? New Years motivation? A new-found addiction? I suspect it’s sheer drunken endorphin highs.
The first few days of working out were because I had somehow convinced my friend Ryan to train me and, shockingly, he obliged. By the time New Years day had rolled around we were on day four of working out and I was psyched. I wanted to make my new year an ongoing commitment to good health habits, like last year when I ran the Commitment Day 5K. Another 5K seemed as good idea. I tackled that. The next day I asked my new trainer what we were going to work out as we had done a leg day, arm day and back day. He told me we were doing a chest day.
The next day when I went to run for my warm-up, my chest felt sore. I don’t ever recall my chest being sore, but it was a new and semi-unwelcome sensation. I reveled in it, however, because I thought, if things are sore, then things are happening in there and that’s good. On the sixth day of working out I put together a circuit. When I thought a warm-up of four rounds of 25 squats coupled with four rounds of 30-second wall-sits was a good idea, the sweat pouring off my face and quivering legs would’ve begged to differ. The rest of my circuit didn’t improve much from there.
The next day, day seven, could have been a rest day. My new trainer even gave me the go-ahead. I should have taken his advice as the culmination of six days of pushing and pulling heavy things, myself included, left my body begging for mercy. Normally, I would have tangoed with that mercy. But for some reason on the seventh day, I didn’t want rest. I didn’t want to take it easy. Despite my aching limbs, I felt anger. Just a whole lot of anger toward my life. Toward not being as successful as I imagine I ought to be. Toward football (it was on TV bugging me so it got some misdirected anger too). So I channeled all of that anger into a supremely psychotic run. Truly. The entire run was sheer profanity. But it felt incredible. All that anger was propelling me to accomplish more than I had in a long, long while.
My chest muscles (that I didn’t even know did anything for me until a day ago) felt tight and hot. My arms ached and my thighs burned. But I ran. And cursed. And ran. And cursed. After I had exhausted my mantras of F. Football. F. This. F.F-ing. F. I didn’t feel so angry anymore. I felt strong and emboldened. And maybe a little insane.
By this point, I had completed a run-down and had ran a little over three miles. I didn’t want to quit, however, so I started mixing in some sprints, amping up my speed. My body was agreeing with me suddenly, as if it had this running thing down. At this point I am slightly embarrassed to say my new mantra wasn’t disparaging football, but instead building me up, chanting: fuuuuh-KING gazelle! over and over while my legs powered down on the treadmill at incredible speeds.
In reality, I am certain I am one of the least graceful runners on the planet and the farthest thing ever from resembling a gazelle, but in that moment, I truly did feel some sort of gazelle-like, animalistic prowess inside of me that kept me moving on what should’ve been my rest day. I ended up getting in 4.5 miles and any animosity I had been harboring about my life, my body, or even football, had dissipated and been replaced by what else? Endorphins. Skyrocketing endorphins of delight that had me jiving and wanting to fist pump (I didn’t though) all the way home.