I went back to the gym today – for the first time since July 8, which is pathetic. Granted, I had vacation Bible school last week, but I always have plenty of excuses to not go to the gym.
I really didn’t want to be there – but I forced myself to go, and had a decent, but not great, workout.
Weigh-in: 315 (down one pound in two weeks)
Treadmill: .5 mile walking
Bench: Pyramid 135×12, 155×10, 175×6, 185×4, 200×1, 135×15
Incline situps: 60 (2 sets of 30)
Leg Press: 2 sets of 250
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Today at the gym my 2 1/2 year-old daughter gave me a reminder, as if the top view of my belly wasn’t enough, of why I was there. She came with me and my wife today, and she sat in a desingated corner of the room for children. She watched PBS kids and read books and played with some toys while we worked out. We can usually see her, but she is really good at staying in her area.
At the end of the workout I was doing sit-ups on the incline bench. I could see her off in her area watching “Super Why.” Usually during my sit-ups I pull out my phone and do them while holding a picture of her smiling at me. Then when I count them off, instead of numbers I use the letters in her name. Since my return to working out, the most I’ve done in one set was 30.
This time, as I was getting to 30, I started struggling. When I got to 28, I was thinking, “almost to 30, then I’ll stop.” Then I heard my daughter’s voice calling out “One, two, three” in time with my sit-ups. She was counting them for me. I’ve never cried and done sit-ups at the same time, but I was close this afternoon. I got to 40. When I was done, she shouted in glee, “Daddy!” I walked over to her, bent down to give her a kiss, and she reached up to oblige.
Then at the last second she pulled away, crinkled her nose and said, “You’re all wet.” I was. For her.
Weigh-in: 316 (up four pounds in two days – that sucks)
Treadmill: .75 mile (.25 walking, .25 jogging, another .25 jogging after lifting)
Rowing machine: 1 km in 5 minutes
Bench: 135 3 sets of 10, 185 4x
Incline situps: 40 (1 set of40, afterwards my whole abdominen cramped)
Other: curls, triceps, back
Have you ever looked in your closet full of clothes and thought, “I have nothing to wear.” I have, and its not because of some kind of vain inability to make a decision. Its because recently, while I look at a closet full of shirts, I realize that the vast majority of them will be too small on me. Every day, I find a shirt I like, put it on, and then feel like Chris Farley. And don’t even get me started on the joy of trying to put on pants that reach around my waist.
The other day, I decided to clean out my closet. I filled up four garbage bags of clothes. About two of them were full of strangle-collar shirts. If you need some size 17 1/2, 34-35 shirts, you should go to Goodwill in Bloomington, because they’re going to have a lot of them on their racks pretty soon.
It provided good motivation for my workout today:
Weigh-in: 312
Treadmill: 1 mile (.5 walking, .5 jogging)
Bench: 135 10×3, plus a max of 225
Incline situps: 50 (1 set of 30, 1 set of 20)
Other: curls, triceps, back
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It is time to rename this blog. I started out shocked by the fact that I tipped the scales at 305, and dubbed myself the “Fat Pastor.” Today, on my third trip to the gym since Christmas, I took everything out of my pockets, got back on that scale, held my breath and found out that I now weigh 315. It is ridiculous. I am now “The Fatter Pastor.”
For the last five months I have had an abundance of excuses for not exercising. Some of them have been valid, some not so much. The bottom line is, today I am just under six foot two inches tall and I weigh 315 pounds. My resting heartrate was 80 beats a minute today, and after doing three sets of 135 on the bench press, I was wiped. All the progress I made six months ago is gone. I would say that I am starting from scratch, but I think its actually worse.
None of my clothes fit – not even my wedding ring. I carry my daughter upstairs to put her in bed, and I have to stop to catch my breath to say “good night.”
I’m disappointed with myself. I’m frustrated. And after a workout that six months ago I would have considered “light,” I am dead tired. I have to go to bed, I’m not looking forward to heading up the stairs, and that is pathetic.
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So, my quest to become a leaner, meaner pastor had a bit of a delay. I could list a bunch of excuses I didn’t get to the gym for almost two months, but I won’t.
What is important is that today I went back to the gym. I didn’t work out long. It was just a short walk/jog and a few arm exercises. I just wanted to wake up my muscles, and try to build a habit again.
I have set a goal to run a 5K race in Bloomington in March. The biggest upcoming obstacle is my CPE inernship. Starting in February I am not going to have a lot of free time.
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I have a confession to make. The last time I went to the gym was the Friday after Thanksgiving. It has been 10 days, and now I have a chest cold and almost no motivation to go. Cardio work would be miserable, and I can’t help but feel like I have lost so much of the progress I made over the past couple of months.
I had made so much progress. I had gotten my bench press up to 250. I was up to 20 minutes on the eliptical. I could do a set of 150 jump ropes without having a brain aneurism. I was able to do 60 sit ups on the decline bench. I was feeling better, and now its all slipping away.
I’m not sure what happened. I was growing frustrated by how exhausted I would get after working out in the morning, so I tried working out at night more often. The problem with that is there are a lot more excuses not to go at 5:00 p.m. At 5 p.m. I need to cook dinner, or spend time with my daughter, or work on a Bible study or on the bulletin. At 8 a.m. there isn’t much else to do. The problem is that when I went at 8, it wiped me out for the day.
I thought it would get better after getting my CPAP machine. This is a thing that helps me sleep. It turns out that I stopped breathing over 100 times in an hour. Sleep apnea can be deadly, and if it doesn’t kill you, it can affect your short term memory, heart condition, energy level, and weight. I got my CPAP machine, and I could tell an immediate difference in my sleep, but I am still not comfortable with it.
The frustrating thing about it is that we decided to go all in and buy the yearly membership. Since she wrote that check I have not been back. I need to wake up and start getting this done. I have no excuse, and this confession is cathartic. I might not be able to work out tonight, but I should. And I am going to go in the morning. I am.
Yesterday I feel like I made an important discovery. I worked out at night for the first time in my new endeavor, and loved it. I commented in a prior post on the stories I have heard about people that work out in the morning and how it gives them more energy thoughout the day. I have not experienced that yet. Usually, when I work out in the morning I have been getting worn out quickly during the workout and go home exhausted and remain so for the rest of the day.
I went to work out at about 6 last night, had an protein energy shake before working out, and then had the best workout I have had since I began. I went 15 minute strong on the eliptical, I bench pressed 250 pounds (which is more than I have done in over 10 years, and I did it without much difficulty). I then did 225 twice, and 185 10 times. I curled, did triceps, back, more chest work, a super-fast set of 100 jumping rope, and more ab work than I have been able to do. I worked out for about an hour and a half. Then had dinner, and was tired at 9 p.m. instead of 11 a.m.
There are still benefits to working out in the morning, but I can’t help but feel like my bio-clock is set for afternoon/evening activity. I wonder if anyone else has had similar or different experience when they start working out regularly?
So far, the exercise regiment has been going well:
Week of Oct. 12: Returned from vacation. Went to gym on Thu. and Fri. Goal Reached: I went back to the gym. I was afraid that my fervor would pass after the week off, but I kept going.
Week of Oct. 19: Went to the gym four times: Mon., Wed., Thur., Fri. Goal Reached: On Friday I bench pressed 225 pounds for the firs time in three years.
Week of Oct. 26: Went to the gym three times: Wed., Thu., Fri. Two Goals Reached: 1) I moved up to fifteen minutes of cardio on the eliptical. Next goal is 20 minutes. 2) I carried my daughter upstairs to bed, and did not have to wait to catch my breath before telling her, “goodnight.”
Week of Nov. 2: Was in Schaumburg visiting family. Went to gym once (so far): Wed.
Things have been going well. I am certainly getting stronger. I do not know how my weight is doing, but that is not really why I am doing this. I usually workout for 45 minutes, and my goal has been to keep my heartrate elevated the entire time. Things are gradually getting easier. For instance, my near-stroke inducing 100 reps on the jump rope can now be done with relative ease. And 20 sit-ups on the incline bench made me want to vomit. Now I can do two sets of 25.
Here’s my problem though: I feel like my body muscles are getting stronger faster than my heart is. I am getting worn out so fast. After doing a set of sit-ups or bench press, my muscles feel like they can do more, but I just don’t have the energy. If I was a car, I feel like my engine just isn’t getting enough fuel. I am hoping this improves soon.
I am also waiting anxiously for the exercise to start giving me more energy. I hear people talk about the fact that when they exercise in the morning they feel better all day. I haven’t gotten to that point. After I work out in the morning, all I want to do is go to sleep, and I am wasted the rest of the day. There was a time when I stopped exercising at night because it made it difficult for me to go to sleep, but I think tonight I am going to try it.
Next Goals:
This is my second blog title inspired by a number. The first was the complete shock and awe I was hit with when I saw the big part of the scale get pushed all the way over to the right during a recent doctor visit. This one however, is good news.
If any readers are frequent weight lifters, you might recognize the number 225 as a significant milestone. Let me explain: when doing the bench press, which is the most basic of all upper body lifts, and the general gauge for strength, the bar weighs forty five pounds (aActually, it weighs forty five pounds regardless of what you are doing). Free weights come in the following sizes: 2.5, 5, 10, 25, 35 and 45 pounds. When you put one big one on each end, you have 135 pounds. When you put on two of the big ones on each end, you have 225 pounds. This is a real-man’s weight. This is the weight when you are first taken seriously. “Two plates,” is the standard test for most football players testing their strength. A top draft pick going into the NFL can do 30 or so in one set.
When I began my lifting a couple of weeks ago I put 135 on the bar and was unable to do 3 sets of 10. On Monday I was able to do three sets of 10 with relative ease. On Wednesday I did a standard pyramid, adding 10 pounds and deducting 2 reps each set, and finished with 2 reps of 185. So today I decided to test my metal, and do a good ol’ max. So I decided to go with two of the big ones on each side – Two plates – my first try in over three years at a real-man’s weight: 225.
I stood there looking at the weight, remembering a time when that was not a daunting task. It was mocking me, daring me to lift it. Telling me I was too old, too fat, and much, much too weak. With Metallica playing in my headphones, I started to get that old feeling – that feeling I loved so much when I played football – that heart-racing sense of fear and excitement, knowing that the moment of truth was an instant away. I was confident. I knew I was going to win, but I got a spotter anyway because I’m not stupid. I sat down on the bench, looked up at the bar mocking me one more time and said, “Fuck you,” and lifted it not once, but twice.
For the last couple of days I have done something completely new during my workout. Instead of counting my reps off to ten, I spell a word. With each rep, instead of exhaling “one, two, three…” I breath the letters of my daugter’s name. It is a constant reminder of why I am there. It motivates me to know that I am struggling for her. I get done with a set, and picture her at a high school graduation, in a wedding dress, holding her own daughter. Tired, out of breath, unable to lift my arms, I smile and push back a tear.
Today I realized that I what I am doing is working. I haven’t gotten on a scale in awhile because I’m not really interested in my weight. I am interested in being around to see my daughter grow up, and maybe get lucky enough to know her children too.
I gotta go, she just woke up from her nap.
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So I was all gung-ho about exercising and getting more healthy. I am not trying to focus on losing weight, but that would be a nice. I’d also like to lost an inch or two from the waist, so I could wear all those pants in my closet again.
Things have not gone real well thus far. On my third day of working out I was jumping rope when I stopped I had a huge head-rush. It was awful. My head felt like it popped. I was dizzy and I thought I was going to throw up. I considered calling 911 because I thought I had a stroke. But I drank a bunch of water, put my head down and was able to get back at it, and actually felt pretty good.
Then I went on vacation for a week. When I returned to the gym a couple of days ago I got back on the scale. You can foget about 301. Try 305!
Since my original rant I have now worked out four times, but this will be my first full week. Those were just warm-ups. And I can feel a little difference. When I bench pressed the other day I did three full sets of 135 pounds for the first time, so I am making progress. My brother-in-law got me a muscle magazine for some extra inspiration.
No excuses this week. Up at 8 every morning (but Tuesday). Work our for an hour, back home to start my day by 10. I can do this, right?
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The Fat Pastor 