Friday, November 13, 2009

I don't know mercy, but I know pain. Sometimes I share it with the likes of you. Along with some of my raw nonsalted almonds.

Another three pounds down, which means I'll hopefully hit my goal weight in about a month, month and a half. But, like I said, I'm gaining muscle as I'm losing fat, so I don't want to have my eyes glued to the scale. My arms are getting hard, and there's suddenly a layer of muscle beneath the copious padding of my stomach, sort of like a box-spring under a mattress. It's kind of kooky. I have, I shit you not, actual obliques in the making.

Another cardio kickboxing session yesterday. There's always a point—or, as was the case earlier this week, several—during that class where my heart is beating so fast and I'm gulping in breath so raggedly that it occurs to me that I actually might die, crumpling into a big dead pile right there. My reflex is to stop, just stop! and allow myself to relax, possibly with a margarita. But the instructor is savvy enough to keep pushing me, via either commands or cajoling, until the end of the session, where I collapse into a sweaty heap on the mat and positively glow with accomplishment. It was a nice gesture yesterday when the instructor smiled at me on my way out and then said, "Hey." I stopped and turned. "You're doing a great job," she said. I blushed, mumbled my thanks and left. This is the best part of that place: I haven't yet seen a puffed-up attitude on anybody; everyone I've dealt with has been astoundingly encouraging and just flat-out kind. I'm the flabby duckling they've taken under their collective wing. It's very sweet.

A very short run this morning, since my calves and quads are sore as all get out from kicking the shit out of things. The combat gym is closed today, since everyone is going up to Denver to see one of their teammates fight. I, however, have a show to play tonight, and in preparation for this I'll just hit the regular gym during my lunch hour, rock the elliptical for a while, work my arms a little bit, and call it a day.


  1. Just read through all your posts - I had no idea you were seriously becoming Batman. Very cool. Shall I get you a cape for Christmas? ;-)

    Seriously though ... are you really off the sauce? As Nick told me earlier this week: Anyone with a decent amount of Retka in 'em will never quit drinkin'.

  2. I'm gonna punch you in the back of the head. We'll see how "Batman" that feels!

  3. Ryan—

    You just try. You'll pull back your arm for the punch, and then you'll look up, and I won't be there. Where am I? You look around, frantically. Oh no! I'M BEHIND YOU. And then I throw you off a cathedral.


    Yes, the Retka affinity for the sauce is well-documented. I drank for the first time in a couple weeks a few nights ago, so I'm not on the wagon or any other delightful recovery-speak euphemism. I'm just trying to be healthier, and drinking my weight in whiskey ain't so much part of that plan anymore.