When it was suggested that I write a blog for the website, it never occurred to me that I might have something to say, something that might be considered valuable to others. But, as I considered this more, I thought that everyone has a story to tell, something about which to talk. As I discussed possible topics with my wife, she suggested I start by telling my own story, and how that relates to fitness and staying in shape. I have told a version of this story many times, but this blog has given me an opportunity to give it some legs, so to speak.
My story starts as I graduated from college in South Carolina. A part-time football player, and full-time partier, I left school weighing a solid 50 pounds heavier than I entered-and not in a football kind of way, but a “sure I can eat 24 donuts right here, right now” kind of way. The excesses of late night boozing and trips to dueling Waffle Houses (directly across the street from one another!) put me comfortably in size 42 jeans. Which, I think, could’ve covered my Chevy S-10. After the “summer of Murrath”, named for my ex-college roommate our de-facto social chairman for the summer. He seemed to alternate between sports bars (the wing specials!) and strip clubs (the buffets!) for any and all planned activities, with everything washed down by copious amounts of beer. The summer of ’92, although somewhat depraved, was not one of deprivation. Looking back, it seems as if I can actually feel myself getting fatter as I tell the story. I was not getting any smaller. Fun fact-I actually rendered a talking scale in New Orleans speechless. I stepped on and as it went to report my weight-it’s mechanical voice trailed into a strained garbled mess of digital sounds, with the digital screen finally flickering to black.
At home, meals were even less structured and nutritious, as I gravitated towards things that were, on hand, plentiful, and, further down the list, actually edible. In any case, at the end of my movie (Barbarella!?), and after consuming the better part of a bag of deep fried mozzarella sticks (it should be noted at this point that I have a strong dislike for cheese, which, at the time seemed inconsequential) and an entire jar of spaghetti sauce, I felt not so great. And as I lay on the couch, that’s really all you can do, trust me, I thought I’ve gotta do something or else I’ll be 400 pounds by Christmas (mmm, Christmas…) So for some reason, still unclear to me, as running was akin to cheese in my mind, I thought it might be a good idea to run to the end of my street, which was a little over a half mile away. I laced my shoes, a crusty (literally) old pair of Nike Pegasus from college and started my first run.
I made it two doors down before I had to walk. I continued on finally reaching the stop sign at the end of the street about 15 minutes later (30 min. /mile pace!), only to realize I had to come back. When I got home that night, I vowed to do it again the next day only better. I went inside wrote down the time to which I would compare tomorrow’s time, and in some ways I’ve never looked back.
I like looking back, though. Even though I barely connect with my former self. I obsess over workouts, both missed and completed, get up early, run in the snow and rain, things my less than disciplined former self would never thought reasonable. As a lover of history, I like looking back as a way to understand. And my main understanding is that I have really loved this journey. And my journey, like the journeys that many of us undertake every day, transformed me. It helps me to remember exactly how hard the journey was and is. How hard it was to start and stay on a path. It helps me to remember that I do have the discipline to succeed. If you can get up at dawn to squeeze in a workout you might not otherwise get, if you talk yourself into a second workout in the afternoon because the guy who finished ahead of you probably is, if you have the strength to do a strength training workout after a 90 minute run, if you have the courage to start...then you have equipped yourself with some powerful tools: self-confidence, mental toughness, and a sense of purpose. I’ve realized I can tackle anything. I hope you remember your journey, and how you’ve gotten where you are, where you going, and where you’re coming from. Running helps me remember. My hope is that it’s that way for you.
Everyone has a great story to tell, all different, all encouraging. Let me know if you’d like to share yours. Write me at mike@ypsirunning.com if you’d like to see it on the blog!
My story starts as I graduated from college in South Carolina. A part-time football player, and full-time partier, I left school weighing a solid 50 pounds heavier than I entered-and not in a football kind of way, but a “sure I can eat 24 donuts right here, right now” kind of way. The excesses of late night boozing and trips to dueling Waffle Houses (directly across the street from one another!) put me comfortably in size 42 jeans. Which, I think, could’ve covered my Chevy S-10. After the “summer of Murrath”, named for my ex-college roommate our de-facto social chairman for the summer. He seemed to alternate between sports bars (the wing specials!) and strip clubs (the buffets!) for any and all planned activities, with everything washed down by copious amounts of beer. The summer of ’92, although somewhat depraved, was not one of deprivation. Looking back, it seems as if I can actually feel myself getting fatter as I tell the story. I was not getting any smaller. Fun fact-I actually rendered a talking scale in New Orleans speechless. I stepped on and as it went to report my weight-it’s mechanical voice trailed into a strained garbled mess of digital sounds, with the digital screen finally flickering to black.
At home, meals were even less structured and nutritious, as I gravitated towards things that were, on hand, plentiful, and, further down the list, actually edible. In any case, at the end of my movie (Barbarella!?), and after consuming the better part of a bag of deep fried mozzarella sticks (it should be noted at this point that I have a strong dislike for cheese, which, at the time seemed inconsequential) and an entire jar of spaghetti sauce, I felt not so great. And as I lay on the couch, that’s really all you can do, trust me, I thought I’ve gotta do something or else I’ll be 400 pounds by Christmas (mmm, Christmas…) So for some reason, still unclear to me, as running was akin to cheese in my mind, I thought it might be a good idea to run to the end of my street, which was a little over a half mile away. I laced my shoes, a crusty (literally) old pair of Nike Pegasus from college and started my first run.
I made it two doors down before I had to walk. I continued on finally reaching the stop sign at the end of the street about 15 minutes later (30 min. /mile pace!), only to realize I had to come back. When I got home that night, I vowed to do it again the next day only better. I went inside wrote down the time to which I would compare tomorrow’s time, and in some ways I’ve never looked back.
I like looking back, though. Even though I barely connect with my former self. I obsess over workouts, both missed and completed, get up early, run in the snow and rain, things my less than disciplined former self would never thought reasonable. As a lover of history, I like looking back as a way to understand. And my main understanding is that I have really loved this journey. And my journey, like the journeys that many of us undertake every day, transformed me. It helps me to remember exactly how hard the journey was and is. How hard it was to start and stay on a path. It helps me to remember that I do have the discipline to succeed. If you can get up at dawn to squeeze in a workout you might not otherwise get, if you talk yourself into a second workout in the afternoon because the guy who finished ahead of you probably is, if you have the strength to do a strength training workout after a 90 minute run, if you have the courage to start...then you have equipped yourself with some powerful tools: self-confidence, mental toughness, and a sense of purpose. I’ve realized I can tackle anything. I hope you remember your journey, and how you’ve gotten where you are, where you going, and where you’re coming from. Running helps me remember. My hope is that it’s that way for you.
Everyone has a great story to tell, all different, all encouraging. Let me know if you’d like to share yours. Write me at mike@ypsirunning.com if you’d like to see it on the blog!
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