Posts Tagged ‘fitness’

When I first carved out this little corner of the intarwebs with but a left hand tossing painkillers and shots of Jameson down the hatch, I was writing purely for my own sanity.  I would mock my own crippled ass, and marvel at how difficult some tasks could be with only one usable hand.  All in all, more of you read that shit than my rants and running commentary.

It’s ok, I understand that I was a better writer while shitfaced.  It’s been a trait that I’ve been aware of for about a decade.  That, however, has positively jack dick to do with this edition.  I think I may have killed Jill 2.0.

That which hath gimped me, sans sling.

Remember this?  Yeah, very real fear.

That’s right, my precious repaired hand has given me reason to worry enough to call a physician.  What genius move did I do to cause this, you ask?  What could I have possibly done that would do more damage than a Tough Mudder (let alone two?)  I’m almost embarrassed to say, and it actually didn’t involve a foray into my boxers.

I played dodgeball…  for five freaking hours.

That’s right.  It wasn’t catching a fridge, it wasn’t doing dumb shit at the gym, and it surely wasn’t a marathon fap session in front of the tube.   I was playing a game that fellow 80’s children know and love.  I hadn’t played since maybe high school, and I was being called in as a ringer for my wife’s company team…  I figured, “Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?  We’ll play three or four games, get eliminated, and it’ll be fun!  I can’t wait to see what this body of mine can do compared to runt me.”

Yeah, I'm saying the same damn thing.

Shut up, Jean Luc.

So here I am, two full weeks later, and my wrist is snapping in ways it hasn’t since the doctor fixed the initial injury.  Was an astounding third place ranking in the tournament worth it?  Maybe.  Would I do it again?  Maybe–  it was pretty funny seeing what this body can do when I’m listening to Amon Amarth and playing a game based upon agility and relentless hostility.  There’s a certain delectable joy that can be derived when you’re playing against a team of high school varsity athletes, you’re the last one standing, and you gun down the three remaining members of their team with extreme prejudice.

Then again, that might also be how I threw my hand off my wrist.  That’s all I can figure happened.  The arm hasn’t thrown full power in years, it’s a lot stronger than it used to be, and Jill 2.0 isn’t as durable as she was in yesteryear.

Tomorrow I get to find out where I go from here, and if I’m going to be able to tackle Tough Mudder #3….  if my last workout is any indication, I’m seriously worried.



Acronym-related puns make THEMselves when you’re one of us… or I should say, one of T.H.E.M.  That’s right, your favorite band of masochistic miscreants took on another Mudder– this one touted as “Pittsburgh.”  Yinzers, time to get even more pissed than the 0-4 Steeler record, because this event wasn’t even in West Virginia and carpetbagging on the nearest metropolitan landmark.  Oh no, it was in Ohio.

I would normally make a “dirty flatlander” joke here, but we were at Powerline Park.  Those of you familiar with that place know that the terrain’s regularly used for goddamn ATV/Truck/Motorcycle rallies/races and general-purpose motorized fuckery.  Motorization is not part of the Tough Mudder unless your busted carcass is being carted to the EMT’s.

Ironically, easiest and most comfortable obstacle...  look at the WAKE off my hands!

Or drowned.

So last year I halfassed my training, but having a couch-tier fat fuck along for the ride both covered and injured my unprepared ass.  This year, I came ready to Johnny Badass this thing— as did the vets from 2012.  However, you clearly see no costume on me—that’s because the whole Vegeta thing fell apart with the foam wig idea, and my Deadpool getup was held up at US Customs for two fucking weeks.  The vanity training paid off anyway– I kept up with the military contingent of the team well enough.

Yeah, Pink.  Wanna fight about it?

Dirty and Happy is the only way to roll.

That said, there’s only so many times you can climb a goddamn mountain before you’d choke a bitch for a man-made obstacle.  The terrain this year was unreal.  Seriously, the cats planning Tough Mudder “Pittsburgh” (yes, I’m entitled to use sarcastiquotes for the venue) relied heavily on the mountain over hammer and nails.

I’m not complaining about how strenuous the track was (yeah I am), but this year was more of a cracked-out trail run than a Tough Mudder.  Cleveland 2012 had over 20 obstacles to conquer, but this year had maybe 14.  The rest of THEM would agree.  That’s right, we wanted to up the ante with more fire, electricity, water, and cannonballs.


Speaking of…

It’s official, however, we’re all addicted to this torturous pastime of ours.  Our fervor is to the point of picking specific challenges to dominate—naturally mine was Funky Monkey.  I ended up in the cold, unforgiving, muddy drink last year.  This year… well, Jill 2.0 handled it as expertly as if it were my dick—with no gloves or wrist brace because I’m a forgetful moron like that but that’s another sidebar entirely.

No gloves = better grip... who'd'a thunk?

I think these guns are borderline illegal, thanks to the NYS S.A.F.E. act…

Jill 2.0 is victorious!!

Sweet, dry victory…

Next year, we tackle Buffalo for the trifecta.  Seriously, you should get up off your Cheeto-chomping ass and join T.H.E.M.  You have a little over a year to get ready, and accept the fact that your definition of “ready” is going to be like a kid’s definition of the Tooth Fairy.  Sure, you know you’re right—but you don’t know how wrong you are.

Now quit cowering, I’m hoping for a horde of T.H.E.M. next year—and we roll as a team, nobody left behind. What do you have to lose besides your fallacious definition of badassery?

Over the fire, and into the drink, walkin' in fire we go!

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

Yes, I want you to be one of T.H.E.M.


They say that while searching for a job, you need to find purpose– or create documented results for the time spent.  Well no shit, ladies and germs, because otherwise you’ll go full-on Gary Busey watching your email box get the occasional denial-of-employment letter from an automated system– and nothing else (unless you’re me, and you get a glimmer of hope).  Something has to drown out the sounds of your bank account starving to death like it’s in a goddamn Sarah McLachlan commercial, and knowing you’re too broke to justify getting shitfaced, you need to find other diversions.

Since Cortana and I are getting married in less than 3 months, I’ve turned gym rat again– because after all, being a stupidly hot groom is a totally viable wedding expense.  Not to mention, we’ve got another Tough Mudder coming up in August.

This does, however, raise a bit of a problem.  Jill 2.0 still acts like a Rice Krispy Treat, and she’s done her fair share of hampering my workouts.

The gap...

Remember this?  Atrophy’s a bitch, even a year and a half later.

That said, I’m hovering around a quasi-lean 172lbs and getting stronger every day– with or without Jill 2.0’s help.  Something tells me that I’m going to not be down to my target of 165 by Old Heads Night Out III.  That said, there’s also another reason for it– I’m sizing up again, not just focusing on cutting fat, so I can’t get an accurate grasp of my gains/losses with just a mere scale.

But here’s where it gets weird, and this is me almost mocking myself with the realization.  Bear with me.  Trying to go to the gym every day, sometimes twice a day, kinda sucks when we’re getting a decent winter.  It takes some motivation to even get my ass out the door, I’ll admit it.  So, thanks to YouTube, I’ve been watching a lot of Dragonball Z, and Dragonball Z Abridged.

Stop laughing, I’m not done yet.

This gets better… or worse, I’m not sure yet.

Some of you are asking yourselves what character is my favorite.  There are a few of you who just realized that I was right when I said that this gets better.  So seriously, stop laughing.  I’m just warming up.

Oh yeah, the character.  I almost forgot.

Boom, bitch.

It’s not funny yet. Trust me. This is just the set up.

Yeah, this kind of ties back to my “that guy” moment, but still.  Hold your laughter.

So, Cortana’s “motivating show” is “The Biggest Loser” because it’s inspiring.  I will admit, because of her, I watch it– and that’s all I’m going to own up to.  The thought that just flipped through your head as you looked up at the picture, and back again, is partially correct.  Again, it’s not funny yet.  I’m getting there.  Patience.

However, yes, my motivator is that guy up there.  I go snap-crackle-pop at the gym, and I keep going.  I actively want a freaking gravity room.  Stop laughing, you can’t judge me yet.  I get mad because I can’t push myself hard enough because of Jill 2.0’s persistent wusstacular nature.  Why?  Because I want that build for the next Mudder.  Oh yeah, I want Vegeta’s build to run the Pittsburgh Mudder.

Dammit, people, slow your roll–  I know I’m 5″ taller than he is without the hair.

Now you can start laughing… but keep it to the “oh holy shitnuggets” chuckle, because we’re not quite to the funny part yet.

So yeah, I’ve set myself a body-image goal that is almost unattainable (especially considering that I like my dick original size, so ‘roids are completely out).   Now, we couple it with the fact that to be one of T.H.E.M., you have to wear the jersey…

Yo quiero 1-6-0....

That’s right, I tapped in to Maxie last year. If you don’t get the reference, that’s all well and good… for now.

This year, the other captains realized that all black doesn’t attract the attention of the photographers very well, so we’re possibly opting for hot pink.  I had no part in this decision making process, but I wholeheartedly support it…  Why?

It feeds into this:

Yep...  you're starting to get the idea.

Playing connect the dots yet?  If so, you’ve already figured out that I’m already devising a way to make a foam wig– and keeping it stuck to my noggin.

That’s right, I’m all for it because it plays perfectly into the original idea.  I want an anime build akin to the Saiyan Prince up there to run the Mudder…  why, you ask?  Wait, you’ve stopped laughing long enough to ask why?

All for a picture:  when I go off the obstacle entitled “Walk the Plank,” I’m going to be falling in a 3/4 dive… so that I can time the perfect freaking DBZ punch to impact the surface of the water.

Narcissism aside (or I should say, at the forefront), I derive this motivation and goal just for the most epic cosplay picture ever taken.

Now… you can laugh.

I am.
Now Jill 2.0 had better get on board with the plan, because failure’s not an option– and no matter what, the physical result will be sweeeeeeet.


Yes, ladies and germs, in order to check the ill-effects of stress levels at critical, I have made it a priority to get my happy ass back in the gym.  You know, exercise fixes everything and all (and believe you me, it does).  Not to mention, finding that elusive half hour to an hour a few times a week has done wonders for my back– not just a non-destructive vent for stress.

Thanks to my genetics, I’m already toning back up from the damage of a sedentary career choice.  Luckily that damage was held to a minimum by a novel concept called “self control.”  That’s another rant entirely– but back to the mission to get my old body back (gimped ass wrist still hampering me and all) while preventing the urge to channel Wayne Brady in all of his glory.

The parts are still lurking... but....

It’s still there, waiting to be rediscovered… Ok– pay no attention to the situational sarcasm… the smirk… AND the sarcasm playing off the narcissism…
I just want *this* back in all its glory, I don’t have far to go, but Jill 2.0 is playing as much Hell on those plans as my work schedule.

Annnnnnnnnyway, when you’re all done mocking my choice of visual aid (or done wiping up the drool, your choice), let’s get back to the gym.  The gym is, as the title betrays, the very heart of this issue.  I work out at Nautilus, and as you can tell by the link– it’s not inexpensive.  In fact, if it weren’t for a smoking deal that I got on my membership, I couldn’t have afforded it nor would have considered it.

Previously, I’d work out with… we’ll call ’em D-Block and The Reverend.  It was a cheap gym, one of those 24 hour establishments, one that allowed us to sign in guests at a whim without surcharge.  There were no surprises with the old set up, before Jill befell her original injury.  Having a workout regimen and a running crew made it infinitely easier to get a hardcore routine, blah bla’ blah blah blah.

Now, I’m paying nearly twice as much for this gym (which does have far superior facilities) for diminished hours– and I can’t even sign in a damn lifting buddy.  Even this I can hack, and accept it as just an “adjustment.”  However, there’s one adjustment that just seems a touch too far– even a year after having had the membership.

Goddamn old man balls.

I know we’re all rocking various variants on the same equipment here (albeit with differing mileage)… but for the love of Alcohol– cover your shame!

Guys, I know we all have dicks.  We all have balls.  Some of us feel proud of their equipment from achievements past or present.  I get that.  It’s part and parcel to being a dude.  However, what the Hell gives with old men and locker room nudity?  I’m not a prude, in fact– I’m pretty far from it.  That doesn’t mean that every time I go to the gym, I appreciate receiving a complimentary steaming eyeful of pre-McCarthy-era cock’n’balls out for a stroll.

What is it with old guys holding court in the buff?  Is that one of those old-timey rituals of male bonding before bromances became popular?  I’m not going to apologize here– if your equipment is merely for show until you go full-on Cialis Cowboy– why the Hell are you wandering around with it (as well as the other extraneous gravitationally-distorted bits) flapping in the breeze like the rest of us don’t mind?  I’m so glad you want to advertise the inevitability of geriatric wasting…  however your *ahem* little public service announcement can get crammed back up your wrinkled asses at your next colonoscopy appointment thank you very much.

Newsflash: my corneas tried to kill me last night, but the only things that stopped them were my retinas– because they were pissed that the corneas let those wretched images through, and my retinas weren’t about to let those traitorous bastards win.

Old man balls, ladies and gentlemen– the very bane of “better” gyms everywhere.
Yes, I dedicated an entire entry to old man balls.

Ladies, does your locker room etiquette have similar nauseating disparities– or is it just Thunderdome in there?


So……….. back when I was languishing on the couch for weeks at a time, I watched a lot of TV.  When I say a lot of TV, I mean more than a kid with crappy parents.  Then again, from posts like this, you’d probably figure these facts to be self-evident.  I only say these things because I’ve been away for so long.

Interesting sidebar.  I’ve been gone for months on end, yet I’ve cranked in over 4500 unique hits.  How in the Nine Levels of Hell does that work?

Anyway.  Back to the task at hand– TV.  More importantly, how I was introduced to an epic case of masochism known as the Tough Mudder.  One wonderful evening, Cortana and I were sitting on my parents’ couch… and we saw that blubbering tub of unbridled excitement, Bert the Conqueror, doing one.  Only now, after having done one myself, do I realize that it’s highly likely that he ran through a few obstacles and called it a day.

That’s right, ladies and germs.  Not even a year after having Jill rebuilt into Jill 2.0, I went and proved my level of badass…. and it’s over 9000.  Let’s back up for just a teensy-weensy second here.  Just running the 2012 Michigan/Ohio Mudder wasn’t the best part.  The best part?  Was T.H.E.M.  We are everything that’s right (and wrong) with a team, and I wouldn’t run this insanity with anyone else.

See T.H.E.M.?

Minus one, these are the T.erribly H.ysterical E.gotistical M.aniacs—- better known as T.H.E.M.

It’s almost cute when you look at all the excitement that accompanied our war paint.  We all had an idea of what we were getting ourselves into, but none of us had a damn clue.  Let me put this into perspective, I’ve never been one who’s taken his limits too seriously.  After all, I can readily think up about a half dozen occasions where mathematically–  I should be as cold as the Titanic.  Anyway.

All jocularity aside, Cortana and I made a few calls– and we did our run April 14.  I could pretend that I was actually in the gym like a beast for the last month and a half, but between the aforementioned “employment issues” and being sick– yeah no.  I figured that I’d already got most of my body back, and I’d let willpower handle the rest.  Mind you, I am no runner, but I’m a beast at the obstacles (and surprisingly little issue out of Jill 2.0).

The Bars of Doom

So I didn’t quite make it all the way across these INCLINING monkey bars— but I got farther than 90% of my team.

However, my major hampering milestone was not the 12 miles (well actually it was, but I digress).  It wasn’t the rebuilt wrist, although I did have to put it back into place a few times.  No no.  My biggest issue stemmed from hypothermia.  The “official” recorded temperature makes one think it was a balmy 60 degrees.  Surely you jest, if it had been 60, I wouldn’t have pulled my quad around– oh– mile 8!  When we got to our cars, my thermometer said 52.  It was also windy, and we were constantly ending up in either mud– or ice water.  You know you’re freaking cold when jumping in the water hazard feels like it warms you up.

At one point, there’s a nice little obstacle called the “Electric Eel.”  Yes, if you’re wondering, some asshole had the bright idea to mix  electricity and water.   Think about the gratuitous assholery involved with creating this sadistic obstacle for just one second.  Instead of your mundane “crawl through icy/muddy water beneath barbed wire” routine–  oh no, we had live wires.  Some of you have already reached the punchline of this joke, but oh no– it gets better.  Yes, if someone’s ass is too high in the air, everyone in the water gets nailed— but to get out of the obstacle?  You have to either shinny through them, or have someone else brave enough to do the grab-and-drag routine with you (and be willing to eat a shock along with it).  There is no way around the wires.   Hypothermia’s a very odd beast, because every time I got hit with current (reportedly up to 10k volts)– it didn’t hurt, but I was well aware that I’d been hit.  I’d feel my muscles spasm, etc., but it didn’t actually hurt.

Oh yeah, by the way, did I mention that I had to sign a freaking death waiver to participate in these shenanigans?  Did I mention that I also paid to do this?

Death from above!

If you look reallllly closely up above (next to the fat one of T.H.E.M.), you can see the number 160 on one of the jerseys. There I am. About to jump about 25′ into the ravine below. The impact with the water actually broke the lens right out of my sunglasses.

You know that’s a long way down when you have the time to complete entire thoughts before you hit the water.  Yeah, I paid to be awesome– as did every one of T.H.E.M.  However, all proceeds of Tough Mudder benefit The Wounded Warrior Project.  I think that more than justifies the investments made.  I’m not just talking money, or time, or energy.  I’m also talking determination.

…..and here I thought I had an obscenely high pain threshold before.  All in all?  We’re doing it again next year– but more like August.  So if we have to wait for anyone, none of us end up limping the last four miles cheering to each other “When I say ‘hot,’ you say ‘tub!'”

Battle damage and all.

This is what it means to be an unstoppable bad ass. This. Right here.


I know last time I sat down at my keyboard, I was a bit of a raging bastard.  Yes, I still stand by my words, and I still feel justified in every last one of them– it’s still posted, isn’t it?  Anyway, today’s been a perfect bookend to the deicidal  fury of Friday, and the subsequent smoldering up until yesterday’s tirade.

First off, I got an important phone call (neither from work, nor from the previously alluded-to company) and it freaking made my morning.  That was great, then I found out that the duster I’d bought for Halloween was at the UPS Hub.  Between these two levels of awesome, was a priceless bit of WTF.

Yes, I am pretty fluent in Text– just like my other written/spoken sub-languages: Sarcasm, Typo, Drunk, Condescending, Legal, Medical, and Psychotic.  Get used to it, but I digress.

Since I’ve been working on dropping the couch-poundage that I packed on during the whole Jill-in-cast period, it only makes sense that I work out as well as diet.  I don’t just work out, I kick my own ass.  Since Jill’s still recovering, I’m only working lower body (giggity), cardio, and core– the last being the only one I habitually used to work.  From the get-go, I know this is going feel pretty damn awkward– like the first time I started hitting the gym like a narcissistic perfectionist three years ago.

Holy crap, they DO have a sign for that!

It's not worth it if you didn't work for it.

Did I remember to add in that this is, like, the second time I’ve gone to this gym– ever– to use the membership that I signed up for before I had surgery?  If you’ve ever joined a gym, you know the whole new-gym feeling that I’m trying to work out.  On top of that, I’ve gotta watch what I do so as not to aggravate the wrist– but still hammering away at the flubber using exercises that I don’t normally do.

When feeling out the new gym, you also get to see the scenery.  Compared to my old gym (which shall remain nameless because I’m not going to get hit with a libel/slander suit from those freaks), Nautilus is very different– and pretty bad ass on the level of equipment.  There’s a bunch of old dudes, a few really fit dudes, and a similar juxtaposition for the ladies.  Am I there for the scenery?  No, but I do have eyes.  Seriously.  Anyone who tries to claim otherwise is a hypocrite, and should be hit in the mouth with a tree branch.  Before anyone tries to throw the “pig” card out, one– you’re a hypocrite (see above) and two– my girlfriend and I have already had conversations about this and we had identical thoughts on the subject.


Peek a boo?

Yeah, people think they can surreptitiously stare. Most are really bad at it. The best part is, they're clueless.

I’d kicked my ass for the better part of an hour, throwing a small amount of core in between the bike and the elliptical.  First, I caught a few girls looking.  Cheers, apparently I hid my weight gain well.  In the middle of my bemusement, a guy ran past the elliptical on the track.

This is the point where I closed my eyes and focused on the DevilDriver blaring in my headphones– just to not crack up.  Flattery is sometimes funny, and it’s not like I’m a freaking phobe.  The funny part of this is, the size of the indoor track requires something like 16 laps to run a mile.  He.  Kept.  Passing.  By.  And.  Never.  Got.  Better.  At.  Staring.

Meanwhile, I’m sweating like a Steeler Fan in the Dog Pound– so I’m starting to wonder if I’m actually looking apocalyptic, and I’m having the trainwreck effect on this particular Takei (off topic: having a gay man as one of my closest friends for like six years has given me impeccable gaydar.  This one was a bottom.  Yeah, that precise.  Anyway.).  I figure that maybe a little eye contact might pass along the hint, “yeah, you’re busted, I’m feeling weird here.”  Yeah, he totally didn’t get the point– or couldn’t find a damn to give.  I will never know.

It didn’t stop me from putting in a solid hour and a half workout, put out 9 miles on the bike/elliptical, burned somewhere above 600 calories for the workout.  I say it wasn’t too bad of a second day back.  I am pretty stoked for this.

Hell, I got good news, and I got a chuckle in today.  I’d call today a win… but I’m not sure which way to look at the funny part.  I mean either I’m a hot mess, or things are going to get downright awkward once I get my bodyfat percentage down.


Well, several friends of mine have inquired about the kind of maniacal weight loss bullshit lurking in the back of my masochistic mind.  The way I see it, I have about 20-25lbs to drop before I even think about trying to get back to physical upgrades.

So, here we go.  Humor aside, take a glimpse into the “super cereal” way I’m viewing this undertaking.  Believe you me– this stage of post-op recovery is going to on an epic level of dedication.

Under each category is a choice, to keep the monotony away.

Totally symbolic, of course

It sounds more dedicated than "Crash Diet," don't you think? Exactly my thoughts.

The Kamikaze Diet
Not for the faint of heart.


  1. One (1) banana, one (1) light yogurt
  2. One (1) banana, one (1) hard-boiled egg
  3. Small bowl of oatmeal, with cinnamon


  1. Tomato salad w/ diced mozzarella
  2. Tomato salad w/ diced avocado
  3. Baby spinach salad w/ diced tomato and 1 scoop cottage cheese
  4. Roasted pepper & spinach wrap


  1. Baked salmon/tilapia over baby spinach & diced tomato
  2. Tuna salad stuffed avocado
  3. Miso soup w/ 6 pcs of tilapia/salmon sushi
  4. Baked salmon/tilapia w/ side of roasted peppers/carrots
  5. Stir fry of peppers, broccoli, snow peas, tofu
  6. Arribiata Puttanesca (my recipe, my secret) sauce w/ tofu shirataki (instead of pasta)

Snackage (unlimited)

  1. Carrots (raw or roasted w/ cinnamon)
  2. Sugar snap peas, or snow peas
  3. Celery
  4. Cherry/Grape Tomatoes

Snackage (sparingly)

  1. Cheese
  2. Peanut butter or Nutella wrap
  3. Apples/Oranges/Clementines
  4. Tortilla Chips & Salsa  (can be subbed in slightly larger quantities for lunch)
  5. Raw almonds


  1. Coffee (black or w/ splenda)
  2. Green Tea (hot or chilled) (can be doctored w/ honey, splenda, or crystal light)
  3. Other teas (same as above)
  4. Fruit Juices (must be 100% juice, drink sparingly)
  5. Water

That’s fairly complete, but then again– my friends also know me as a foodie as well as a… participant in the alcoholic arts.  I will be allowing myself one “F’ off” meal every two weeks, just to keep it interesting– to keep me dedicated– and to keep my body remembering what it’s like to crush a burger and wings.

As for the booze front, I’m sticking to Micky Ultra variants in small quantity, as well as straight (non sweetened) whiskeys and bourbons.  I’ll have to do some research, but now that I’m going to have an insanely high activity level–  drinking occasions will naturally be fewer.

As for supplements, well– here’s a quick list of what I take, some AM, some PM, some both.  If you want clarification (or have any questions), comment and I’ll respond.

  • Multivitamin
  • Chromium picolinate
  • Echinacea/goldenseal
  • Omega 3 w/ glucosamine
  • Green tea extract
  • Acai extract
  • Ginseng complex
  • Royal jelly
  • Multi-amino supplement
  • B complex
  • Milk thistle
  • Cranberry extract

…  Yes, I can down a fistful of pills without hesitation.  Don’t judge me.