Kickboxing was a rough one yesterday. We eschewed our usual amount of bag time in favor of circuits. Circuits go like this:
There are six stations set up, at each of which you are to perform a specific exercise. Examples include box dips, squats with a 40-pound weight, cherry pickers with a heavy-ass medicine ball, box jumps, etc. Simple, right? You are allotted one minute at each of these stations, in which you are to perform that exercise with full intensity. (Stopping to catch your breath is the enemy.) Then, quickly to the next station! And to the next! And the next! Don't stop! And so on, until you've done the full circuit. Then you get 20 seconds to get a drink of water, and then you do another circuit. And then another one. And then you fall down on the mat and cry like a child.
Needless to say, a very good workout, and I did another one after work, with half an hour on the elliptical and some weights. I also showed my wife some of the circuit exercises, and she looked at me, the sidelong glint saying, You are crazy. Why would you voluntarily do this to yourself? It's happening—the obsession with my mission has already begun to alienate me from others. Don't worry, though: my secret identity of Thousandaire Playboy Aaron Retka is still safe. For now.
Anyway. I'll hit the gym again today to help preemptively squash the zillion-calorie meals I'll be eating this weekend. And if running at 9,000 feet ain't good for the heart, I don't know what is.