Working Out.

That’s freaking right. I’m back on my regimen.

I decided that since College Football season ended four months ago, it was probably a good idea for me to get off of the couch and move around, even if it is just a little movement. I mean, at this point, any movement is good.

Unfortunately, I found a park three blocks from my apartment equipped with a huge/soft/well-shaded dirt running trail that surrounds several acres of lush grass. The reason why this is UN-fortunate is because shin and knee pain from running on asphalt/concrete surfaces is my go-to excuse for not taking my daily runs anymore. The “hard surface” excuse jumped my former #1 excuse of “the weather” when I moved from Indianapolis to Los Angeles back in September. When it’s 70 degrees and sunny every single day and you live 800 feet from and amazing park it is really difficult to come up with new #1 and #2 reasons NOT to exercise. So, I recently decided that is was probably better to put my energy into working out, instead of thinking up new excuses not to.

For those that do not know me, I have been tinkering with the idea of Triathlon for about three years now. Before I moved to L.A. (seven months ago), I was back in Indiana running about 20 and biking around 75 miles each week. I was in “Phase 2” of about 68 phases that would constitute me being ready to compete seriously in full-scale triathlons (and by “compete seriously,” I of course mean “finish…any of the three disciplines”).

Hey, at least it was a start.

At least I was working out five days a week. It got to the point where I would get restless and somehow saddened in those atypical instances when my social schedule would actually impede me from training on a given day. Holy balls, that seems like a lifetime ago.

But, now I’m back in the saddle-like a porn star fresh off of an antibiotic dosing schedule.

My first day back, I was five strides into my run and feeling pre…..tty good about myself …until a lady pushing a baby in a stroller with ONE HAND blew by me in the middle of what must have been her 94th mile. I know this because I saw her pushing that monster truck stroller around the track during my nearly 45-minute STRETCHING routine (and who knows how long she was running before I arrived). You know, this is exactly what you DON’T need when you are five strides into your first day back after a seven-month workout hiatus. It’s like, just when you start to feel proud of yourself for putting the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos back in the cupboard and lacing up your Sauconies, some lady five months out from giving birth blows by you on her 94th mile whilst pushing said offspring in a stroller WITH ONE HAND and checking her split times on the wristwatch on her free hand. Honestly, I wanted to stop running, rip my ear buds out, throw them on the ground, kick someone’s dog and walk home with my head held low. But, I kept on. I kept on limping along, gasping for oxygen like the fat guy in every movie that is trying to get in shape (usually while smoking a cigarette during some sort of cardio).

It hurt a lot. It hurt both physically (lungs, muscles, joints) and emotionally (Stroller Lady), but I did it. And, I have been back three to four days a week for five weeks now.

Shouts out to all of my people in the gyms and parks getting their swagger back and helping to slim down this robust nation. Don’t let the “Stroller Ladies” of the world get you down.

And attention Stroller Lady: In a few more months, I will be back at the top of my game. When that day comes, I will be raging through the park kicking over every stroller in my mother-freaking path. Be ready for that. You might want to put a chinstrap on that infant, because I am NOT playing games out here.

Fear me, bitch.


You’re welcome.

-Todd