Hangin’ Tough

 

Fall 1997. That’s the last time I worked out at a gym. Sure, I purchased free weights and picked them up from time to time in decade+ that followed. But it hardly qualified as strength training. And never mind that I worked for a gym from 1999–2000 but never took advantage of my FREE membership. (heavy sigh)

 

This fall, after 14 years off, I started lifting again. It hardly happened on a whim. First, I thought about it for several months. Then, I spent several weeks exploring gym options. And finally, the fear-fueled procrastination ended. I met a friend for a “trial run” that would be my return to the weight room.

 

As I drove to meet her for that first session, I realized I’d forgotten a lock. Oh, yeah, you use a locker at a gym. The locker requires a lock. Right.

 

It seems my mind erased all recollection of previous weight room experiences. As we moved from one exercise to the next I repeatedly required explanation and instruction. How do you do a squat? What’s a deadlift? Where’s the pulley to adjust this machine for an extra-small human being? How bad will this hurt tomorrow, and for how many days after that? What if I can’t even lift the bar? Had I really done these things in THIS lifetime?

 

But it didn’t take long to remember why I once loved lifting weights. Seeing a roomful of sweaty, red-faced bodies; inhaling that blend of perspiration, rubber mats and disinfectant; and hearing the gentle clanking of weights reminded me what this place represented – strength, challenge, transformation. 

 

And when the subtle post-workout burn gave way to major I-think-a-semi-hit-me-in-my-sleep stiffness the next day, I didn’t mind … much. I suffered through it and returned to sign my contract, pay my dues, and become an official card-carrying gym member.

 

I’ve since added weight to the empty bar without predicament, experienced something near paralysis thanks to Russian hamstring exercises (apparently my hams need some work), and rolled my eyes at girls working out in their sports bras (I used to do that. Now I wear the same smelly T-shirt for a few visits.)

 

After three weeks back, I feel pretty acclimated. I’m grateful to be back and looking forward to seeing results in the weeks and months ahead. Once again, I’m reminded it’s never too late to rediscover something. I’m a ways from musclehead status, but I’m certainly looking forward to the journey.

Barriers be damned

When you lose weight, it often takes awhile to adjust to your new form. My fat years were but a blip in my lifespan, and I wasn’t that overweight. Nonetheless, my brain needs to catch up with my body from time to time.

It’s completely irrational. Yet, sometimes, even several years after losing double-digit pounds, I look at a pair of jeans or swimsuit bottoms and think, “There’s no way I can wear those.” Then, the item proves too big. I even worry that a weekend spent eating too much or too unhealthy means ballooning 30 pounds by Monday and having to start over again. The chubby girl lurks in my brain.

This seems to be my experience with fitness as well. Apparently my inner fatty ate the tenacious, goal-driven collegiate cross country runner (well, JV in D3, so we’re not talking anything amazing, but still athletic) who enjoyed rock climbing and downhill skiing and wanted to run marathons and scale mountains. The panting, hacking, pain-filled bike racing neophyte appears alive and well after more than three years in the saddle, just when I think I may have unloaded her. Even as I started allowing myself to acknowledge improvements this summer both on the track and the trail, I worried a few days off might render me back where I began – sucking wind and barely pedaling way behind the pack.

And this mindset followed me to the Fridley cross race on Saturday. I kept my expectations low. Perhaps a couple of recovery weeks meant complete fitness loss. Doomed, I would be mercilessly lapped and pulled from the race – or, worse yet, give up out of sheer exhaustion. At least I would get an intensity workout, right?

Riding the course surprised me. It seemed reasonable. I didn’t feel like a breathless heap of atrophied muscle. Lining up at the start felt exciting, not dreadful.

Even though this 30-minute race on a relatively flat circuit hurt far worse than Chequamegon with its 40 punishing miles, I hung in there. Even though the 80-degree weather left me a bit dizzy and longing for water, I pushed myself to tough it out. My heart rate spiked to a number it rarely reaches, and I probably looked incredibly slow in spots. By the end, I could barely run up the runup and I more or less stepped over the barriers – about knee-height of someone my size. But I had enough juice to pick it up on the flats, and that felt pretty good. I focused on cheering on and sticking with the other riders around me – I wasn’t off on my own. Something crazy happened, I had a great time and didn’t finish last.

With the taste in my mouth, I started looking forward to the next race. And this thought pretty much slapped my brain into reality: If I move backward, it’s because I’ve given up or slacked off. I’m not the same rider I was three seasons ago; I’ve improved. I have put in some hard work and am dedicated to taking it up a notch. It’s time to retrain my brain.

Back at it

Two years ago I lugged my mountain bike to several cyclocross races. Who cares if using the wrong equipment made the pain and suffering even worse, I was out there doing it! I’d just started bike racing, and fueled by obnoxious newbie enthusiasm, I wanted to sample the sport’s every offering. How many bikes could I collect?

Last year, I bought a Ridley XBow imagining how effortless racing would feel now that I wasn’t lugging around 30 pounds of mountain bike. Two races per weekend – why the hell not?

I participated in about 5 minutes of a single, weeknight race. My mistake: doing it three days after my first Chequamegon Fat Tire 40. Oh, another oversight: I had just left my corporate job, so spending $50+ on weekends of racing were out of the question. And then there was my month of travel spanning the second half of the season. I took the bike to a few practices, then put it away until spring when I didn’t want to muck my road bike up with salt. Why didn’t I buy race wheels for my track bike – or better yet, use the cash for my mortgage?

Much fitter and wiser this year, I allowed myself time to unwind from track season and the 40. Listening to everyone talk about cross made me cringe. Ick. My body recalled its last go-round with barriers, runups and a spiked heart rate. Maybe I could sell that bike and finally buy those track wheels or a full-suspension mountain bike.

Yet, sometime in August, I had marked my calendar to start cross the second weekend in October. I told my teammate. That meant no backing down. And when that fateful Saturday morning finally arrived, I wanted desperately to ignore it. But I didn’t. A sore wrist from crashing my mountain bike even offered the excuse I needed. Nope. I loaded up the truck and drove to Fridley.

Game on.