Nearly every early morning body ache is preceded by a wonderful work out the day prior. This phases leg day has become a muscle hangover mini-series. After Saturday's brutal round I struggled through Sunday with the usual grunts and groans, which convinced me to just suck it up and bite the dog that bit me. First thing Monday morning I jumped on the StairMaster and climbed the Sears Tower (70 steps per minute for 20 plus minutes) and then 10 minutes of the slow grind (10 minutes, 15% incline at 3mph). Oh the hair of that dog!
During our weekly workout, Jaron came clean that his Thanksgiving plans may result in a complete backslide of all progress gained -- three football games, an industrial grade 7-Eleven Slurpee straw plunged into an adult juice box for a Vegas turkey day of underwhelming proportion. And he is going to need to arm himself... to the teeth!
It should be noted for future lawsuits and or movie rights, we at No Fat Jokes Please do not promote or condone vice or debauchery -- our choice is always to recommend a clean lifestyle promoting prolonged life... that is until it comes to Jaron. He is the trainer not the example. So as the numbers below indicate his slide toward his original weigh in could possibly come true in a few short days. Ooooh and one must'n forget the Aussies... the sweet Aussies are expected to arrive in Vegas sometime next week. (Get caught up on the reference in last weeks post "Taking odds on one-legged tortoise") All the gastric and malted love Krause will partake in makes my expected Thanksgiving menu look like a long-haired freaky people's rabbit food buffet.
Bitter transparency:
JBK: 194.9 & 17.9%
Me: 218.3 & 20.2%
In Utah, before moving back to this fickle bitch of a town with which I have such an unhealthy love/hate relationship, I couldn't go anywhere without being recognized as a trainer. I worked in 7 gyms within our franchise over the four years I was with them. But it always seemed that I would be outed as such whilst doing something I preached against: boozing it up at a bar, ordering a couple Double Doubles animal style, huffing on a cigar. My response, as always, "I'm a do as I say, not as I do kinda trainer". Well, in this contest, I am having to play the role of MY trainer, not just JT's. Holding oneself accountable for poor decisions is not so easy, as it turns out. Probably why I'll never go wanting for work. And so, I will drink my cheat meals this extended weekend, and suffer the consequences! Next week I plan to kick my own ass back into gear. This, of course, would be an entirely unacceptable response, if it were not me I was responding to. Hate ending sentences with a preposition, but I'm not sure that would have made any more sense had I employed proper grammar. I don't care what it takes, I am not regressing this week! Sometimes you gotta play hurt. So, neither bleary eyes, nor throbbing head, nor churning stomach shall stay me from the swift completion of my appointed workouts. These Aussies may be my undoing, but this is going to be one damn fun/brutally miserable week in the life of an unrepentantly devout ODJ practitioner.
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