Tag Archives: exercise

Fat again

So, it happened. The thing I promised wouldn’t happen happened. The thing I swore I wouldn’t become, I became. I was another short-term success story. I’ve read that as many as 80% of people who have substantial weight loss gain it back within two years. Count me as one of the 80%. I got fat again. There are a lot of reasons it happened. Injuries, change of jobs, and grief are the top three candidates.

In case you missed it, this is how I went from Fat to Fit the first time:

In 2012 I dropped about 70 pounds. I followed a very simple formula: exercise more and eat less. I used the Lose It app on my phone to track every calorie burned and eaten. I learned a lot about portion size, and saw big changes from making little choices like fruit instead of hasbrowns at breakfast and broccoli instead of fries at dinner. I started exercising more, starting with the elliptical machine, and working my way up to jogging. I started my program in January, and in June 2012 I ran my first 5K in 36:00. In 2013 I stopped tracking the calories so comprehensively, but kept making good choices, and kept running. In June 2013 I ran another 5K in 26:28, which earned a trophy for second place in my age group, and remains my personal best. I added longer distances, including two five miles runs that I completed in under 50:00. In 2014 I slipped a little, but somewhat intentionally. I went to the gym a little less frequently so I could spend more time with my preschool daughter, but in May I completed my first half marathon. At that point it had been two and half years since I embarked on a new fitness journey. I felt good, and believed that I had made changes in my life that would be permanent.

Then it all came apart.

Injured at the Bix7 in July 2014.

One catalyst was an injury I suffered at the 2014 Bix 7 in Davenport. This is a huge event, one that is a part of the culture of the Quad Cities. Everyone who runs in this area has run the Bix. It counts as the National Championship for 7 mile runs. It features two large hills. On the second one, at about the 3 mile mark, a muscle in my calf popped. I couldn’t finish. I went to the doctor and he didn’t seem to think there was any structural damage. So I laid off of it, and let it heal. A couple of weeks later, I would run again and start to feel good, then it would pop again. So I would wait a few more weeks, and try again, only to hurt it again. So then I waited a month, got in worse shape, and tried to start again. It would be going well for a few weeks and then pop! After about six months of starting and stopping, I settled on stop. Also in July 2014, I started a new job. I went from being an associate pastor to the solo pastor. This meant more responsibilities, more preahing (thus less blogging), more stress, and more demands on my time. It became harder to get to the gym – or at least easier to find other things to do, especially one I was discouraged from being out of shape.

My memory of when a 3-mile jog was a light warmup weighed heavily on me. I became discouraged by how far I had fallen. I blogged less. Again, there were a lot of reasons I strayed from this blog. One was that my creative outlet was being met by preaching every week. I was prolific on this blog when I preached about once a month. When I started preaching 48 times a year, I found less time, and less creative need to write here. Second, I focused more attention on the Pulpit Fiction Podcast. Since 2013, my partner Eric and I have released over 300 episodes. I focused my social media attention on the podcast first, my new church second, and the Fat Pastor third.

The real reason I stopped blogging was simple. I was embarrassed.

Over the course of 2015, I slowly gained more weight, and worked out sporadically. After two years of finding a way to get to the gym, I found plenty of excuses to stay away. And for me, it all flows from regular exercise. When I’m exercising regularly, I eat better. I sleep better. I study and preach and write better. When I wasn’t exercising regularly I ate crap. The route from my church to home passed a Hardees, a Wendy’s, and a Taco Bell. Taco Bell is my personal Satan. On any given day you could see the passenger seat of my car littered with brown paper bags from fast food places. It wasn’t uncommon for me to have a Wendy’s lunch and a Taco Bell dinner (Mexican pizza, two soft taco supremes, and sometimes a Meximelt too). While I was already falling down this spiral, my Mom died.

This sent me reeling in ways that I didn’t even notice at the time. She died in August 2016. I spent the next year in and out of depression-like symptoms. I had low energy, so I wouldn’t feel like working out. I was depressed, so I sought comfort in bad food. I felt terrible, so I would punish myself with self-hating thoughts. I hated getting dressed because none of my clothes fit. No, I didn’t hate getting dressed. I hated myself. I would think to myself, quite often, “I hate myself.”

This death-spiral continued until I had gotten up to 360 pounds (30 pounds more than when I refocused on my health in 2012). My whole body hurt. I was out of breath all the time. Simple tasks like picking something up off the floor were difficult. After walking up the stairs to my office, it would take me a couple minutes to catch my breath before I could say hi to the secretary. Tying my shoes was difficult, and would leave me gasping for air and muttering to myself, “you are a piece of shit.”

The Challenge

One day in August my friend texted me a challenge. He saw that I had posted something no Facebook about being frustrated with my fitness and health. He proposed  challenge. We would both work on getting healthier, and whoever lost more weight by Thanksgiving would win. We exchanged some baseline information, getting details about where we were physically. When I told him where I was, his response was, “Jesus Christ, you’re going to die buddy.” He was right. I was going to die. That is where I was heading, and I knew it. At our official start to The Challenge, I was at 358 and it took me 16:00 to run a mile. The memory of the 8:40 pace for a 5K mocked me.

A few days after we got started, on the anniversary of my Mom’s death, I was at 360. I was on the treadmill, struggling to jog for a minute without stopping. Sweat pouring down my face, legs in pain, air hard to find, I cried. I cried as my heart raced, and for a moment I thought I was going to drop. And then it happened. I wanted to.

The grief.

The shame.

The pain was too much to bear, and I thought to myself, “You are going to die right here on this treadmill.” And I let out an audible response: “good.”

I didn’t die. I finished my mile a few seconds faster than the one I had run two days earlier, which was a few minutes faster than that first one. Four days later I was back, and ran it 20 seconds faster. I was sore, there was pain. I started doing more elliptical machine to alleviate the stress on my legs. As I grew faster and stronger I started feeling better about myself. I started tracking my calories again. Profits at the Taco Bell dipped in September. Then one day I looked at the floor of my car. It was littered with VitaWater bottles, the ones I would buy after every workout, instead of paper sacks.

This morning I weighed in at 318. I’m winning The Challenge (We bet dinner. He’s buying regardless. Winner gets to pick the spot). I’ll let you know who wins at Thanksgiving. Here’s the thing, I’m winning no matter what. This has never been about a number, or a weight, or about fitting in my clothes again. I feel so much better. I’m not in pain all the time. My heart doesn’t race any more – except for when I kiss my wife. I feel stronger, more patient, and more efficient. A few weeks ago my family went to a State Park. I was able to hike and climb and play with my girls. My daughter has noticed that I’m in a better mood and not as tired. It’s about making life-giving choices.

Today I was running a 5K on the treadmill, my third this week. My goal in August was to do a 5K in under 36:00 by Thanksgiving (which was the time of that first 5K back in 2012). As the mileage was ticking up toward 3.1, I realized I had a chance to beat that goal a few weeks ahead of schedule. I had to keep up my pace for one more minute without stopping. Sweat pouring down my face, legs in pain, air hard to find, I cried. I cried as my heart raced, and for a moment I thought I was going to drop. And then it happened. I pictured my girls. I decided to run toward them.

The joy.

The love.

The grace of God washed over me, and I thought to myself, “Finish this for them.” I turned the pace up on the treadmill a little faster, and I finished it in 35:40.

My friend John quite possibly saved my life. He got me going. He helped shake me up, and gave me something on which to focus. I don’t really care if I win The Challenge, because no matter where I am at Thanksgiving, I know that I won’t be finished. I stopped believing in “Before” and “After” a long time ago. There is only “Now,” and a future with me in it.

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.” (Frost)

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I’ve lost 70 pounds, but I’m still The Fat Pastor

I high-fived my doctor today.  I had my annual physical.  It was a year and a day after stepping on the scale at that same doctor’s office and reading that I weighed 329 pounds.  Today my doctor looked back at what I weighed last year.  When he saw that I today I weighed 259, he gave me a high-five.

I have gone through a transformation in the last year.  I have transformed my habits.  I have transformed my priorities.  In so doing, I have transformed my body.  More than this, I have experienced spiritual transformation.  I pray more.  I study the Bible more.  I have discovered that when I am more disciplined in my eating and exercising, I am also more disciplined as a follower of Jesus Christ.  I am still transforming.  I am striving every day to Love God, Live Well, and Do Good.

I have lost 70 pounds in 366 days, but let me be clear – I am still The Fat Pastor.  For one thing, I am still overweight.  One year ago I was 34% body fat.  Today I am 25% body fat.  That is a great improvement, but it is still too high.  I literally have too much fat on my body.

Yet even if I lose another 70 pounds, have 7% body fat, and can run a marathon in under 3:00:00, there will always be fat that I can trim from my life.  I am, like John Wesley said, moving onward to perfection.  Until I am there, I will be laden with fat.

The difference between fat and fit is choices.  I make fat choices when I choose a mindless television show instead of time in study.  I choose fat when I spend too much time on facebook instead of cultivating relationships.  I choose fat when I refuse to help a neighbor.  I am fat when I objectify a woman.  I am fat when I contribute to an unjust society. I am fat when I forget the needs of the widow, the orphan, the poor, and the oppressed.  I am fat when I am blind to racism, sexism, homophobia, or any other way that humans try to divide and separate and subjugate.

I’m trying not to be fat any more.  I’m trying real hard.  I draw strength from the love and support of family and friends.  I draw strength from the encouragement of a remarkable facebook “following.”  I draw strength from the words of the prophets that remind me that God’s love and God’s promise of a new day is something for which we can all strive.  I draw strength from the Church as the Body of Christ in the world.  Above all, I draw strength from the grace of Jesus Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit.  I draw strength from knowing that it is not my strength on which I must rely.

Jesus said “You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your being, and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment.  And the second is like it: You must love your neighbor as you love yourself. All the Law and the Prophets depend on these two commands.”

I try to love God.  I worship, and I pray, and I read and listen to God’s Word.  I come to Table of Grace.  I fall down in confession, and I rise up with the Holy Spirit.  I try to live well, because I take seriously the oft-forgotten command to love yourself.  I try to do good, because it is through doing good for others that we best express our love of neighbor.

I am The Fat Pastor.  I’m trying not to be. With God as my strength and my salvation, I will be The Fit Pastor someday.  Until then, I’ll keep on my journey of transformation.  Thank you for going on this journey with me.

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Left: December, 2011.  Middle: June 2012, immediately after first 5K. Right: January 2013.

Left: December, 2011. Middle: June 2012, immediately after first 5K. Right: January 2013.

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This is not a treadmill. This is my time machine…

Image“This is not a treadmill.  This is my time machine.  When I’m on it, I see the future.  And I see me in it.”  I started to say that to myself yesterday as I ran.  It has become my mantra.  Yesterday I ran farther than I have ever run before.  Three miles in under thirty minutes has become my standard run.  Yesterday I decided to do it twice.  I ran 3.06 miles in thirty minutes, then took about a two minute break to stretch and get some water.  I ran another 3.07 miles in thirty minutes.

The longest I had ever gone before was five miles.  As I approached and then passed five miles, I was thrilled to know that each step I took was pushing my boundaries.  Every step I took was pushing me a little further than I thought possible.  At the same time though, I was getting tired.  I was keeping the same pace, but I wasn’t picking up my legs as high as I had been.  It was getting more and more difficult to control my breath.  I knew I wanted to reach six miles, but I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to do it.

And then I said it.  “This is not a treadmill,” I whispered to myself.  “This is my time machine.  When I’m on it, I see the future.  And I see me in it.”  I kept going.  I turned off the little TV monitor, and could see my face in the black screen.

“This is not a treadmill…” I said again in barely a whisper.  With every step I was redefining who I was.  With every step I was transforming.  With every step I was leaving behind a less healthy me.  “This is my time machine…”  I said again, this time a little louder.  Someone standing next to me might have heard, but I was alone.

I passed five and half miles, and knew that the end was getting closer.  I was getting stronger.  I felt energy surge through my body.  “When I’m on it, I see the future…”  I said out loud now.  And I saw it.

I saw first days of school.  I saw softball games and ballet recitals.  I saw slumber parties and Phillies hats at Wrigley Field.  I saw broken hearts and mean boys.  I saw high school basketball and halftime dances.  I saw first loves and Prom.  I saw piles of books, messy desks, and graduation gowns.  I kept running, and turned up the speed on the treadmill.

I saw silver streaks in the hair of my wife, and wisdom wrinkling her eyes.  I saw light in her eyes, felt the warmth of her smile, and was briefly taken back to the first time I saw her, the first time we kissed.

“And I see me in it,” I was almost shouting now. I felt the same flutter in my heart that I did 15 years ago, but now it has depth.  I saw her clutching my hand as we drive away from a dorm.  I saw her fixing the veil she wore on the head of our daughters.  I saw myself dancing with a beautiful woman in white to Isn’t She Lovely, and with another to Lucy in the Sky.  I saw babysitting and storytelling.  I saw ravioli cutting with another generation, crowded laps, and adventures I cannot even imagine.

Running as fast as my legs could take me, I passed six miles.  The time on the treadmill ran out, so I slowed.  I wiped off some sweat, maybe a couple of tears, and then I stepped off the treadmill.  Only it isn’t a treadmill.  It is a time  machine.  When I’m on it, I see the future.  And I see me in it.

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Goal reached

goal

Weight on Feb 13, 2012: 329

Goal set a few days later with Lose It!: 260

Weight on Feb 8, 2013: 259

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February 8, 2013 · 11:23 am

#Fat2Fit Update

All my life, I’ve been on the hefty side.  I was an offensive lineman in high school and college.  I’ve never been a great athlete, or had an Abercrombie-like physique, but I grew up healthy and active.  In college, I played a lot of basketball and lacrosse (but I always preferred to be on the ‘shirts’ team).  Even through seminary, I took regular long walks, played on softball and basketball teams, went to a gym regularly and remained in decent shape. My first driver’s license listed me at 6’2″ 235 pounds, and when I graduated seminary I was about 260.  After becoming a senior pastor in a small town, I promptly put on about 30 pounds.  I stopped going to the gym.  I no longer played on any teams.  I sat a lot, and ate a lot. When I started my blog in 2008, I weighed Three Oh One.

For three years writing this blog, I would exercise  in streaks.  I would workout regularly for a few months, get stronger, and stop putting on weight (I seldom had any weight loss to speak of).  Then I would get sick, or get really busy, and I’d find excuses to stop going to the gym for months at a time.  In the meantime, my cholesterol remained high, my weight would creep up, and my health suffered.

In October 2011, I joined a gym here in Moline.  When I started, I couldn’t jog on the treadmill for two without terrible pain in my feet, ankles, and chest.  For three months, I was in a great routine of going to the gym three times a week.  Yet in February 2012, I went to the doctor and found myself staring at a scale that read 329.

Once again, I rededicated myself to getting healthy.  This time I had a tool.  With the Lose It! app on my nook and computer, I started tracking everything I ate.  I realized that the last four years was simply a steady increase in weight and size.  When I would exercise, the increase would stop, but I never did any significant weight loss because I never significantly changed the way I ate.

I didn’t make any drastic qualitative changes.  I simply made better quantitative choices.  I logged everything, and found myself craving salmon instead of burgers, and vegetables instead of french fries.  When I stayed under my caloric allowance, I lost weight.  In three months, I lost about 40 pounds.  I went to the doctor again, and found that for the first time in my adult life, I was in the healthy range in cholesterol.  My clothes fit again.  I felt better and stronger.  For the first time in my life, I had clothes that were too big on me.  I have some jeans from last winter that look absolutely ridiculous.

Since dropping down to 288, I stopped paying such close attention.  I stopped using Lose It! and kept working out.  The for the last four months, I stopped the weight loss.  I realized that this wasn’t a problem I had conquered once and for all.  I still have a lot of weight to lose, and I want to lose it.  I’ve started using Lose It again.  Since keeping track, I’ve been under my caloric budget for 13 of 14 days.  It feels good again.

The remarkable thing is, I feel like when I am disciplined in my eating, I am more disciplined in other areas as well.  When I control my appetite, and don’t succumb to every craving, there is a positive ripple effect that is far-reaching.  I know a lot of this has been about weight, and a number on a scale.  I know that the scale is only part of the story, but for me it is an important part.  I feel good.  I am still fat.  I still make fat decisions all the time, but I’m working on it.  God is working in me.

For four years I’ve been The Fat Pastor.  At times that has been more true than others.  Right now I believe I am closer to being The Fit Pastor then I have ever been.  I appreciate the support of my friends on facebook, my twitter followers, the people of my congregation, my friends, my family, and my amazing wife.  I don’t know if I’ll ever change the name of this blog.  I’m sure there will always be fat in my life that I would like to trim.  With the Holy Spirit strengthening me, I have trimmed a lot of fat already.

I will always be striving to live well and do good.  Thanks for striving with me.

Fat is not the opposite of thin.

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Fat is not the opposite of thin

Left: This picture was taken in December, 2011. Right: Taken in June, 2012, immediately after finishing my first 5K.

Fat is not the opposite of thin.  At least in my way of thinking, it’s not.  When I created this blog and started calling myself The Fat Pastor, I did so with the intent of changing the name someday.  I never wanted to change the name of the blog to The Thin Pastor.

To me, fat is the opposite of fit, and fitness has little to do with the size of one’s body.  Fitness is a state of mind.  It is not about diets, weight loss, and scales.  I’ve lost about 35 pounds since February, and I celebrate that, but my celebration isn’t about the weight loss.  It is because I’ve changed my mindset.  I celebrate the lifestyle change that has taken place in my family.  All the other stuff is great.  I love the looser fitting clothes, the lower number on the scale, the lower cholesterol, and improved resting heart rate, but those things are byproducts of a more important transformation.

Fatness is a state of mind that goes beyond the shape and size of my body.  When I was fat, I didn’t care what I ate.  I made unhealthy choices at restaurants.  I ate too much at home.  I snacked when I wasn’t hungry.  I satisfied every craving.  When I was fat I slept in instead of going to the gym.  Excuses not to exercise were easy to come by.  When I was fat, I acted fat and I ate fat.

Am I still overweight? Absolutely.  I’m 6 foot 2 inches, and weight 290.  The ideal weight for my height is between 170-200.  Honestly, I cannot picture myself at 200 pounds. Am I still fat?  Sometimes.  But not nearly as fat as I was.  Now, I am able to resist foods that are empty of nutrition.  There is an open bag of Doritoes in our kitchen (a visiting friend bought it and left it there).  The life expectancy of an open bag of Doritoes last year at this time would have been about 18 hours.  It has been untouched for six days.  At restaurants I order dinner salads.  At home I cook more salmon, fewer boxed items, and rarely take seconds.   On the Fourth of July, I got up at 7 a.m. just to run a 5K.  My perfect birthday had to include a trip to the gym.

Do I still make unhealthy choices sometimes? Of course.  I have too many refills of cereal at night.  I could probably do without the handful of M&Ms with my popcorn during movies.

People have been asking me, “So are you going to change the name of your blog?”  I don’t know.  I don’t feel like it is the right time.  I have made a lot of changes, but I’m still striving to live well and do good.  Will I ever arrive, and feel the need to change the blog?  I don’t know.  I know it’s not about a number I’m trying to reach on a scale, or a time I’m trying to beat in a 5K, or a weight I’m trying to lift on the bench press.

When will I be the Fit Pastor, and not the Fat Pastor?  I’m not sure, but I like the path I’m on.  I’ll just keep taking it one step at a time, walking humbly with my God.  I love the fact that so many are on this journey with me.  I appreciate every reader, commenter, facebook “fan,” and twitter follower.

We follow a God that is in the business of transforming lives, and through those lives God transforms communities, nations, and the world.  I know that God can transform me from fat to fit.  I want to be more than a witness.  I want to be the evidence.

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5K Results: 1214th overall, 89th in age division, 1st in weight class*

On June 9, 2012, I ran in my first 5K.  I ran as a part of Team Hope in the Susan G. Komen Quad Cities Race for the Cure.  It is something that I’ve been blogging, tweeting, and status updating about a lot in the last few months, so I thought I’d share my experience.

I took my shirt out the night before the race.  I should have been in bed.  I was a little worried because I had just spent the last few days at Annual Conference, at which I did a lot of sitting, a little walking, and no running.  My last run was Monday, and the race was Saturday.  I had hoped to get a run in on Wednesday or Thursday, but I got back to the hotel exhausted each night after conference.  Plus, on Monday night I re-tweaked my knee and strained my calf.  It wasn’t exactly the week of prep I had been hoping for.  I laid out my shirt and bib, drank a few glasses of water, and went to bed shortly before midnight.

At 6:30 my wife and I are up.  We get our girls up, and we arrive at our team’s meeting place at about 7:30.  I had a bunch of glasses of water, and one little breakfast wafer.  I’m worried that isn’t enough food for before a race.  I don’t like to workout on an empty stomach, but the anxiety suppresses my appetite.  There are a few extra things I have to put on – the shoe chip, the number bib, and the “In memory of” paper.  On it, I write simply “Aunt Jean.”

As I walk from our church to the starting line, I start to get emotional.  I see other teams.  Teams with names of survivors.  Teams with names of women that have died.  I see one 10 year-old-boy whose “In Memory of” paper simply says, “Mom.”  I wipe a tear from my eye as I think of all the women that are represented here.  I feel a surge of energy as I think of the women in my life.  I have their power.  My heart starts to race like it did before a football game.  “It’s game day,” I think to myself.  I’m excited.  I’m ready.  I start to think of my Aunt Jean, and I feel a twinge of guilt because I know that I’m not doing this for her.

I am running in memory of her.   I am inspired by her.  I am strengthened by her, but I do not do this for her.  I kiss my daughters as the people that are with them make their way back to the “Strollers” part of the starting area.  I am waiting in the “joggers” section.  If this moment were all about Aunt Jean, I would be with them.  I would walk easily with my girls and hold their hand as we were united in solidarity.  I’ve done that kind of walk before, and I hope to again.  That’s not what this is about.

I am running for myself.  I am running for my life.  I am running because I want to be better, feel better, and live better.  I am running to be a better husband and father.  I am running because I want to see my girls graduate college.  I am running because I want to be a better pastor.  I am running because I want to be a witness, no, I want to be evidence, that transformation is possible.

It hurts a little to think in such a selfish way, but it is true.  On the way to the race, my daughter asked me, “Are you going to win, Daddy?”  I chuckled and said, “No, sweetheart.  It’s not that kind of race.  There will be lots of people that finish before me.”  ”

“Who’s going to win?”

“I don’t know.  I’m not really trying to win.  I’m not trying to beat anybody but myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I only want to beat my old self.”  I’m not sure if she understands when she asks, “So are you going to win?”

“Yes,” I say.  “Yes I am.”

I’m standing with 8,500 others, getting ready to start.  The people are packed in, and there is a lot of energy.  A survivor says some things that I can’t listen to.  The national anthem is sung, and goosebumps raise on my arms.  We start.

The pace is extremely slow at first, and we are a good 100 feet from the starting line.  My wife and I are together as we walk toward the starting line.  She has never gone 5K before.  She’s hoping to finish in an hour.  I’ve done it a few times on the treadmill, and six years ago I ran a 5 mile race in St. Louis, but six years is a very long time.  In February I set a goal of 40 minutes.  I have since updated that goal to a 12 minute mile pace.  It takes awhile to get to the starting line, and when we do we let go of each other’s hands.  I start to jog.

Before the race

The energy at the start of the race is high.  There are bands playing.  There is a high school cheer squad.  There is heavy traffic as I weave between people still walking.  I finally make my way to the edge of the street and try to get into an even pace.  My mouth is full of cotton by the time we reach the first watering station.

When we reach the mile marker, there is a turn-off for those just doing the walk.  I keep going.  My first mile is under 10:30, which is pretty fast for me, and I get a little worried.  Usually when I’m on the treadmill I walk when I get to the first mile.  I keep going.  I might not be doing this for Aunt Jean, but I can feel her power.  I push and tell myself to keep going.

It is a fairly hot day, so I decide to jog on the shady side of the street.  I’m astonished at how many people continue to line the course.  We pass another band.  We pass some front yards, and I give high-fives to a bunch of people as I jog by.  I pause for 30 seconds to walk at one water stand.  I pass a guy in a clown suit cheering us on.  I pass an extremely large woman hip-hop dancing and cheering with a microphone.  We run through a Mexican neighborhood, and people are on their porches playing Latin music cheering us on.  The support may seem silly, but it helps.  I know I’m not alone.

I pass the second mile marker at about 22:30, 1:30 ahead of my 12 minute mile goal.  It starts to hurt.  I walked twice for a total of 45 seconds in my first two miles, but we make a turn and head directly into the sun.  After a short time I start to wonder how they picked a course that is uphill both ways.  I walk more.  I jog more.  I see the really good runners doubling back, running against traffic just for fun, I guess.  “Show offs,” I mumble between heavy breaths.  I walk more.  Every time I start to walk I see my girls.  I jog more.  I see their smiles.  I remember my oldest daughter counting out my sit-ups at the gym when she was two.  I tell myself “you are strong enough.”  I tell myself, “For them.”

At the end of the long straight away there is a turn, and  the third mile marker.  I’m at about 35 minutes.  I have something left.  I stop jogging, and I start running.  I run hard.  I kick my legs, and as I make another quick turn I see the finish line.  Now I am flying.  A woman next to me starts to run too.  We cross at about the same time.  The official clock reads 37 minutes, but I know it took at least a minute to get to the starting line.  Somehow I reset my stopwatch during my final kick, so I’ll never really know my exact time, but I know it is right at a 12 minute mile pace.

I almost collapse at the end.  I catch my breath, grab a cookie, and a bottle of water.  I want to hug my daughters.  I want to tell them that I won.  Instead, I grab an extra water bottle and turn around.  I go back to the final 50 yards and wait.  I don’t cheer anyone on because I have no energy left.  Then I see her come around the turn. I go to her and take her hand briefly and say, “You can do this. We can do this,” and she nods.

She starts to jog again.  I jog alongside her.  Now she can see the finish line, and she starts to run.  I run alongside her.   She runs harder then I’ve ever seen her run.  We started this thing together.  We finish it together.  I give her the bottle of water, and she drinks.  She catches her breath, and we hug.  For a moment I think we’re both going to collapse.  We just lean into each other and cry.

We finished the race.  We met our goals (she crushed hers – she actually finished at a 15 minute mile pace).  We have done so much more.  We have transformed our lives.  We have changed our bodies.  Together, we’ve lost about 60 pounds.  Together, our clothes don’t fit quite the same.  Together, we are healthier and stronger.  We started this thing together, we still have a long way to go, but I know that we are going to finish it together too.

After.

Eventually, we find our daughters.  They aren’t too keen on hugging us because we’re soaked in sweat, but they both accept a couple of salty kisses.

My oldest asks me, “Daddy, did new, strong, healthy Robb beat old, unhealthy, fat Robb?”

“Yes,” I say, and I laugh because I know she gets it.  “Yes he did.”

*There actually are no rankings for weight class, but if there were – I’m pretty sure I would have won the 275 pounds and over category.

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Sweat is fat crying


If this is true, then my fat is in a deep depression.  Since February 15, I’ve lost about 40 pounds.  In a week, I’ll be running in a 5K.  In February, when I weighed 329 at the doctor’s office, I set the following goals to reach in June: weigh under 300, bench press over 300 and run a 5K in less than 40 minutes.  As of today, I weigh 288.  I stopped gaining as much strength when I started to really take off weight, so I don’t think I’ll get to bench 300.  I’ve changed the way I eat.  I’ve changed the way I workout.  I’ve changed my life, and it feels good.

 


 

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I take it back

A few weeks ago I wrote a blog called “I want to get punched in the face.”  Let me just say now that, “I take it back.”  I do not want to get punched in the face.  Getting punched in the face hurts.  It is not fun.

I’ve been going to about two boxing classes a week for the last few weeks, and it has been fun.  I love hitting the bags.  I love going through the combinations.  Until Wednesday night, I even loved sparring.  Guys have been really cool about taking it easy on me.  I’ve sparred with a couple of different guys, and we’ve traded some light punches, worked on some combinations and counters, but nothing real hard.  After each round I am wiped out.  Even though I know we’re not really fighting, there is something about sparring that turns up the adrenaline.

I said a couple of weeks ago that I wanted to get punched in the face.  Most of my sparring didn’t include very many punches to the face.  There were a couple, but none that were very hard.  Then came the shot I took last Wednesday night.  I made a few mistakes.

1. I was sparring with someone I didn’t know.  Big mistake.  The guys I had sparred with before were guys that I watched for three weeks before I stepped in with them.  This guy was a new guy (at least to me).  I watched him spar once, and he seemed like he was punching kind of hard, but I didn’t think much of it.  The guys I spar with punch each other hard, then turn it down a notch to fight the new guy.

2. I didn’ t wear headgear.  But I never wear the headgear.  It doesn’t fit (big surprise).  I think this guy interpreted my unadorned head as  a sign of toughness instead of what it really meant – a sign of big-headedness.

3. I let him punch me in the face.  We were sparring.  He was dancing around a lot.  Every once in awhile he would take some weird dipping punch at my stomach that meant nothing.  I was getting bored.  I decided to scrap with him a little.  Then he punched me in the face.  It hurt.  We kept going. It’s not like he knocked me out.  I wasn’t cut (though there was a distinct mark on my cheek the next morning).  I wasn’t injured.  It just hurt, and I decided that I had been terribly wrong before.

In conclusion: I no longer want to get punched in the face.  I tried it.  It sucks.  I will probably continue boxing.  I will probably keep sparring, just not with young kids that want to prove something against the Fat Pastor.

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I want to get punched in the face

So my journey to battle middle age and a bulging belly continues.  Last summer I tried to reclaim my youth by joining a football team.  It was an absurd proposition that turned into one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.  I’ll never forget the feeling I had on the first day of full-contact practice.  I looked around and saw a bunch of guys younger, more fit, bigger, stronger and meaner than me and I wondered, “What the heck am I doing here?”

I was a little worried about how I’d do but it turned out, I held my own.  I wasn’t the most valuable player on the team, but I certainly had value.  I started a few games.  I had some minor injuries (my shoulder finally stopped hurting about a month ago, so I can do push ups again).  I made a lot of friends and developed relationships that opened up dicussions about God and religion.  Like I said before, it was a great experience.

A few weeks ago I had  sense of deja vu as I walked into a boxing class.  As I looked at a bunch of guys that were younger, stronger, more fit, more experienced, and more fit than me, all I could think to myself was, “What the heck am I doing here?”

Since moving this spring, I’ve been looking for a gym and I’ve been intrigued by a multitude of martial arts gyms in the area.  After doing some calling, I finally decided to give a boxing class a try.  A few years ago my wife and I took a cardio kick-boxing class.  We really enjoyed it, and I dropped a lot of body fat doing it.  So I found a boxing class that was fairly reasonable and decided to give it a try.

Let me tell you one thing, this is not a cardio kickboxing class.  I walked into the gym and saw a dozen guys punching, kicking and clutching at each other.  It was a mixed martial arts class that was going on before the boxing class, but I had a feeling I was stepping into something I had never experienced before.  This was not a bunch of people punching bags to the beat the music.  This was a bunch of men and women learning to beat the crap out of each other.

I have never punched another person in my life – at least not with any intent to do any harm.  But there I was on the first day of class going through punch combinations against another person.  Again, we weren’t hitting bags, we were hitting each other.  Granted, I was mostly hitting gloves, but it was still a very strange feeling.  Our coach is Nile Pena.  He comes from a boxing family.  His Dad has had a gym for years and has trained Olympians and world champions.  He knows what he is doing, and he’s a really good teacher.  The hour and a half workout went something like this:

Jumping rope.  The other people in my class picked up the rope and jumped for three minutes straight.  They didn’t miss.  They didn’t pause.  They just kept going.  I would go for awhile, then stop and catch my breath.  Then go for awhile, then try to do the cool shuffling style they were doing, then get tripped up.  The I would go for awhile, and stop to put my arms up to breathe.  They just kept going.

Combinations.  We would go through combinations to try and simulate fighting situations.  We worked on footwork, throwing punches, moving, bobbing and weaving. 

Bag work.  Mostly for strength and conditioning we hit the bag for awhile.

Sparring.  Put on the headgear (they don’t have any that fit me – big surprise), put in your mouth guard and box.  I sat this out for the first few weeks and watched or did bag work.  Guys would box for three minute rounds.  No one was throwing knock out punches, but they weren’t playing paddy-cake either.  It looked like so much fun, but I didn’t have the courage to try at first.

Sprints.  Well, sprints is a relative term.  I keep going, which is the important thing.  I’ll work up to sprinting.

Last night I sparred for the first time.

After watching for a few weeks I decided to give it a try.  There is a guy in the gym that has clearly been fighting for a long time.  That was the guy I wanted to spar for a few reasons.  One, there was no way I was going to hurt this guy.  Two, he was super laid back and really helpful.  I told him to talk to me to let me know if I was doing anything wrong.  I did not want to be the guy the comes and starts throwing haymakers to a guy that could clearly destroy me if he wanted to.

As we started, my heart was racing.  I threw a couple of jabs half-heartedly.  He countered a couple of times and sort of tapped me on the head.  We danced around a little bit, and he told me, “Come on, throw some punches.”  So I started to a throw a little bit more.  He threw some back.  That helped.  When he hit me, I felt like he was giving me permissino to hit him back.  I tried some combinations.  He countered and tagged me in the face a couple of times. 

I sparred two more rounds.  One with another guy who was just as helpful, and one more with the first guy.  There is no question that if we were really boxing, I would have been knocked out – quickly.  But I got some good punches in, and I took a few decent ones.  I’m looking forward to doing it again.  I know it sounds crazy, but I want to get punched in the face.  I’m not sure if I’ll ever do anything more than spar, but it is a lot of fun.

After every class I go home exhausted, soaked in sweat, and feeling really good.  I’ve been trying to get there two nights a week.  Hopefully it continues to be a great experience.  At the very least, it will give me some blogging material for awhile.

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