Your master is not you.

Carl Jung argued against Nietzsche’s ‘overman’ philosophy, especially the idea that once God is dead to mankind there would be a great leap of enlightenment resulting in the creation of one’s own value structure. Jung believed that no man can create his own value system. Value creation is external, and the external value system directly impacts an individual’s motivation. We can’t merely tell ourselves to sustain a way of life. We are not our own slave. There are always outside forces pushing us. Motivating us. Scaring us. Shaming us. Robbing us. Complimenting us. Paying us. Preying us. Liking us. Working out is the greatest case study in Jung philosophy. 

New Year’s work out resolutions fail to launch in part because people believe self-affirmations and sheer willpower can fend off the opposition forces of years upon years of unhealthy behaviors and sloven ways. Yours truly included. There is no working out for work out sake in my Maslow's hierarchy of needs. It is an end to a means. I wanted to know the exact duration, the prize size, and when can I revisit ground zero bender. I fall back into bad ways before noon on January 1st without a short term end goal. A contest or competition is my preferred carrots on the stick. The beginning of this year has both; a weight loss contest at the day job during the first quarter, and then a swim competition in late April. I don't like to lose a $25 buy-in, nor do I desire to have my gut hang over my Speedo in front of 1000 of my closest swim friends... the latter is not something anyone wants to see or should be subjected to. After my Christmas holiday debauchery the belly is a bowl full of jelly. 

Lose 20 years and call me in the morning

“It's so hard to get old without a cause.” – Forever Young, Alphaville

Aging comes upon us all in different forms and fashions. Some people feel the gradual change in the early morning as they swing their legs out of bed; listening to the creaking and popping of joints. Others might come across aging in a flash as they lay recovering in the ER from a pickup basketball game injury. For me, aging arrived 600 meters into a 1500 meter swim this past weekend. (Do they make waterproof adult diapers in Speedo cut?)

My youthful mind must have been lost in pipedreams of going a best time with this 40-something aging shell. I should not complain, this recent 1500 meter swim (aka The Mile) ranked third fastest since I began swimming it in 2009. My 18:22 is way above my goal time of sub 17:30. The simple math of needing to shave off :03 seconds on each 100 split next time nearly crushed my resolve to continue swimming the race. Why did the pain come so early in the race? Where had the seven months of solid training gone? Has swimming and I fallen out of love? And, why am I talking to myself at the counter of a Chick-Fil-A? Priorities!... Order first, then mental melt down.

Thankfully in swimming there is always another race to attempt redemption from a bad swim. The 400 meter became the unlikely savior of my meet. In years past this swim has caused me fits. Middle distance combines the strategy of long distance with the backend speed of a sprint race. In previous years I would try to hold a faster pace to stay with the field, instead of swimming my race. Inevitably all my 400s end with me crashing and burning three-quarters through the race. The ghost of 400s past crept through my mind as I sat waiting for my heat of this 400. Then a lightbulb went off… I overheard a training partner tell another teammate his 400 strategy. “I am not going to kick in the beginning.” BINGO! I don’t use my legs in practice, so I shouldn't use them in a race. Why would my legs come to the meet if I’ve neglected them all year? Hell, I didn’t even send them an invite.  

I swam 300 meters with no kick. Then on the last 100 meters I unleashed the legs. Like pissed off hounds of hell my legs took out years of neglect on the end of that race. I blew past the swimmers pacing next to me, and made a solid run for the younger racers ahead of me. I split 1:05 on the last 100. (The first 100 split was 1:08.) I negative split the 400! We got it all wrong. The butler is innocent! It was my legs who killed the mile swim… I have cracked my aging code. Don’t kick until the end is near. Save the legs in workouts and in swim meets. If there was a World Record for the fastest torso in the water I’d be the greatest of the great in the 40-44 year old male age group.  

Here is to another 20 years of swimming, aging, and finding work arounds to keep this flesh ship afloat.   

Ahab

****####**** WARNING ****####****

Over compulsion, over thinking, and overweight are present below.

With eleven weeks until the 1500 meter freestyle race in Commerce, California I have decided to forego weightlifting for the remainder of my training. I need more water time to ensure I have the base to push through the last 500 meters of the race. My workout schedule into tapper, which should be two weeks out from the December 1^st meet, will be Monday – Friday mornings 5:30-7:00 (4000 – 4700 yards per day) and Saturday a long cardio session in the gym. If I get a free lunch in my work week I get 30 minutes of cardio as an added bonus. Stopping weights this far out of a shave meet is a calculated risk.

By putting down the weights and shifting focus to the pool I gain increased flexibility and endurance, but will lose a great source of leg strengthening and weight loss. Even though I am two decades removed from my competitive swimming days I have not lost the feel in water. Unlike people who begin swimming for competition sake in their adult years, typically they are training for triathlons, I grew up in the sport with a distinct advantage over the best of the triathlete transplants. Swimming comes natural to me no matter how fat I get. My long arm stroke, two-beat kick, and rapid heart-rate deceleration makes me a very efficient swimmer. Good for training now as a fat forty-something, and will also benefit me well into my old age… but bad for weight loss. For years swimming has not been my primary weight loss because I have relied on weightlifting and stationary cardio machines. Many non-swimmers get too enjoy swimming as a phenomenal source of weight loss. Not I. When it comes to training I can swim long distances at a speed that will crush most non-native adult swimmers, yet I am running the risk my weight will still be to high going into the meet. I must continue a restricted caloric intake and healthy dietary choices.

At the beginning of May I committed to a “Biggest Loser” work weight loss contest with a very high 249 weigh-in. After twelve weeks of gym, swim, and diet the scales subtracted twenty pounds. (I took second place.) Since early August when I added a fourth day of swimming I have lost seven additional pounds; 222. My first 1500 short course meter swim came after the first Destination 195 contest in 2009: I weighed 209, my driver's license claimed I was 33 years old, and I wore a full body race suit. (The suits were banned a month later.) The clock read 17:42.48. To give perspective of that time compared to all other 1500s without the suit and heavier weight.

2009    17:42.48   209 lbs

2010    18:13.84   215 lbs
2011    18:21.70   220 lbs
2014    18:25.13   224 lbs
2015    18:44.27   231 lbs

To amp up my fixation with the 1500 meter race to Level: Stalker Tunnel Vision Obsession, and because I have a lot of me time in my head from 5:30-7:00 a.m. Monday – Friday, I do hypothetical 100 split calculations for the race. My 2009 pace averaged 1:10.83 per 100. If I were to drop the pace to an even 1:10.00 per 100 meters this coming December I would finish 17:30.00, which would put me a solid #2 in the country for my age group. Pull out your smart phone and launch the stopwatch app to see what .83 of a second looks like. Hit START with your index finger, then touch the top of your phone with the same finger, and back to STOP as fast as you can. That little participation exercise is roughly the amount of time I will need to shave off each 100 meter split to break 17:30.00. A faster turn over, more water caught at the point of entry, or a list of ten other possibilities could easily remove the eight tenths needed. What if I could take off two more seconds per 100 meters?... 16:59!!! This race is my white whale.    

My name is, what?

15 weeks to go before my 1500 meter freestyle. (Short course meters for the technical types.) I have taken four pounds off in two weeks… 227. There are 28 more pounds to go. I can race at 210, but it won’t be easy to go under 17:40.00 unless I am closer to my goal. Chop wood, carry water. During this run for 195 pounds has seen me swimming more than past challenges. Four days per week in the water, with gym time two days. If my schedule permits I take a lunch or two per week to put in 30-minutes of cardio. Jaron and I have been regular gym rats since early spring, and neither one of us enjoy coming to the gym above and beyond the wonderful banter we provide each other. But there is a point when new material runs slim, and we are not fans of recycling anything other than cans and bottles; so we have been forced to look outward across the gym for humor. The birth of the nickname backstory.

Don’t judge us! I am well aware people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and creeds enjoy creating fictitious backstories of characters on reality’s stage. Jaron and I nickname people just in case they are decoying us with silent ear buds to eavesdrop on our clever conversation skills. Backstory authoring at the gym is gold -- repetitive behavior, consistent attendance, and a wealth of odd. Our fellow muses have yet to disappoint. To protect our content the nicknames of the cast is all that will be provided at this point:

 

Shrek
Aryan Brotherhood
@CardioGirl42
Alumni Association
Narwhal
40-year old stripper
Modesto
Wife beaters (the white tanktop undershirt)
Bernie Sander’s accountant brother
OEM
Sling Blade
Gandpa’s Happy Blue Ball
Tennis pro
1982 Mr. Olympia regional finalist
Volleyball twins  

   

Happy 5th Anniversary Destination 195!

Lay off me… I’m STARVING!

                                 -Chris Farley

Happy 5^th anniversary to the 2012 Destination 195! Challenge; the only successful descent to 195 pounds since my wedding prep in 2003. My motivation to get skinny leading into my wedding was for posterity sake… Didn’t want to be fat-faced in my wedding photos. I won’t be around in 300 years to defend the chubby choice. Vanity is one way to get it done.

When Destination 195! Blogging came to life in 2009 I had been enjoying married life, two kids, and the middle American dream for a good stretch. Very little motivated me to lose weight. I’m comfortable in my skin, world. Take me for who I am and stop interrupting my nap! However, I had not completely lost my primal urges to look good for the wife. She occasionally gave me the Pillsbury Doughboy tummy poke, yet never held the pounds over my head. She was good, so I was good. Who knew, but it only took a dare to get me going again. (Check out the early No Fat Jokes Please entries to gain perspective - especially if you are not the type of person who has ever chugged a full bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch for $5.00.) I don’t climb mountains just because they are there, I climb mountains because a buddy bets me I can’t climb the mountain while holding up the universal simple for acting like a complete wuss. The dare is the fundamental motivator for my weight loss. There is nothing left to prove to myself. I just need rub it in the rube’s face who dared to dare me to climb that stupid mountain. That and my desire to break 18:00 minutes in the 1500 meter freestyle at the December Masters swimming regional championships. Either one will work!  

Here are the past numbers, cuz I don’t hide from the scale:

2003    

January 1^st starting weight 234         

June 21^st ending weight 195

2009   

July 14^th starting weight 235              

Nov 5^th ending weight 214

2012    

August 1^st starting weight 231          

Dec 1^st ending weight 193

2017    

August 1^st starting weight 231           

Dec 1^st ending weight TBD

Hopefully history will use the revisionist eraser to block out my piss poor 2009 results. Unlike years past where my weight cruised around the uncomfortable, yet manageable 230 plus range, this year I had to lose 20 pounds to get back to the common starting weight. Since changing careers in 2015 the weight climbed a steady upward grade to a peak of 250. This past spring I required no extra time with wardrobe to get into my Matt Foley costume. Well, la-de frickin’ dah there is another fat guy with an office job. Mr. Foley, let’s get this challenge started again. And rumor has been confirmed, Jaron will be along for the ride to encourage, craft workouts, and join in on all the gym shenanigans.

Endurance phase

If stability phase is proof fat guy guts throw off the center of gravity, then endurance phase should spotlight fat guy gut cutting into recovery time. Not for this guy! I cannot escape the fact 40 pounds of extra flab is stowed away in the pockets of my skin suit, but my body lives in the past and pulls from skinnier days. Involuntary delusions of past grandeur help my recovery time to be that of a Kenyan distance runner. Heart rate spikes are quickly lowered in the matter of seconds. Jaron believes it has to do with my consistent years of adult swimming, cardiovascular memory, and unadulterated American fat guy strength. Think retarded strength with higher test scores and a hint of cheap chlorine cologne. For 235 pounds I am light on my feet and ready to grind out sustained pain.

Endurance phase allows me to hit the gym, plow throw sets with little rest, sweat like a pig at a BBQ, and then glide through interval cardio training. From bar-code scan to sweaty exit is roughly one hour.

60-90 seconds rest
Arms & Triceps
Standing cable press  45 lbs
Weight assisted dips  110 down to 80 lbs
Machine flies 90 lbs
Alternating hand step up push ups on bench 6 per arm

Back & Biceps
Weight assisted wide grip pull ups  110 down to 80 lbs
Bent over long bar row narrow grip  100 lbs
Rope cable curl biceps 50 lbs
Rope cable upright rows 50 lbs

Legs
Walking lunges 12 steps 25 lbs in each hand
One leg extensions seated  80 lbs
One leg curls standing 70 lbs
Donkey calf 150 lbs

Cardio
options (30 minutes)
Sears Tower stair master (110 floors in 30 minutes)
Seated stationary bike 5 minute warm up then 2 minutes at level 15, 3 minutes rest on level 12
Elliptical 5 minute warm up then 1 minute fast, 2 minutes rest

Destination abhors ambiguity

Try something the next time you participate in a repetitive fitness activity; pushups, lap swimming, running, burpees, etc. Instead of doing a set number per round, give yourself a time. “One minute of pushups.” Or “Run for an hour.” I ain’t no gambling man, but I’ll take odds you would rather do double the amount of reps if you were told to repeat until the clock says stop. I will go a little meatier with my bet, and postulate that most people actually do less reps in the timed sets. Because if form issues are not in play, the output will always be greater for defined number of reps. Speed is on our side when counting down reps. One closer to finishing. While timed sets trigger the brain’s conservation mode.

I shudder at the thought of time being the destination. It is worse than watching paint dry. It won’t dry if you’re watching it!

Jaron occasionally slips in timed sets of pushups, burpees, prison squats, or a myriad of other core basic exercises. Inevitably I gravitate to an exact number of reps I will do; no more no less. The clock becomes white noise. Time is meant for rest intervals and race paces. It has no business being a destination.

The mind of a repetitive athlete likes to know what it is latching on to. Without the cadence of a defined diminishing number the inner wimp wins. Less intensity, longer delays between reps, and stopping short, to name a few. I rely on reps during my swim sets -- I will use mental mile makers to help me sustain the pain... Three-quarters of the way through the set. Half way through. “I have fewer to go than I have done so far.” But if time is dictating the set, a cruel uninterested lord complex comes over the clock. Once an amoral tool quickly turns on me. Time is slave to no one, yet it mocks ruthlessly when given control of the destination. Tick-tock, tick-tock.     

G-O-A-T

Greatest of All Time... The debate format that turns my stomach every time I walk into a room of pontificators. Halitosis of the brain filling the air with society’s mental decay. Call him what you may, but at least the fool has an errand. At worst, the chin music has a beat. The G-O-A-T ushers in the numb.

I once relied on headphones to pump the motivation sounds of alt-rock. Today, they are a refuge from the verbal diarrhea coming from remedial class rejects, which is invading my mental comfort zone. I might need a safe word. The mutual pooling of “like” and “you know” can cause irreversible IQ in laboratory rats. The only politics they know is what Facebook tells them. Talking weather is unpredictable and religion is being practiced in the mirror, so no need to discuss. All aboard the G-O-A-T merry-go-round.

G-O-A-T debates are multigenerational turf wars over who’s childhood great would win in a fictional competition in the already absurd gamification of ancient military exercises. Psychologist have found the music we listen to at 18 and 19 years of age will stick out as the greatest music of our generation. I would submit for sports, the age of emotional coding is around 10 and 11. People’s passion to defend their G-O-A-T’s honor is only matched by religious zealots and amateur multilevel marketers. Daring to desecrate their G-O-A-T god is punishable by… nothing… this is ridiculous. Just punching air.  

When I am feeling conversationally sadistic the best course of action is to drop the G-O-A-T grenade in a group of intoxicated sports freaks, then step back to enjoy the verbal stench consume all surrounding intellectualism like a black hole. Take a deep breath.          

In the name of shame

249.6

 

The official weigh in for the Summer of ODJ Challenge. There it is, presented for all gluttony. That is 1/8^th quarter ton for the people following along with the fuzzy math edition. A new high point. Shattering the previous 2012 starting point by seventeen pounds!  

Posting my starting weight is very important for Jaron and me. We do little in our friendship that is not in the name of shame. Motivation by embarrassment is the Joel Olsteen of ODJ. The preposterous prosperous gospel is giving us lazy slobs a get out of self-loathing jail card, and it sure as heck ain’t shedding no pounds. I have to go with extra strength negative reinforcement ---- Peer pressure is for youngsters. And prizes are for the sheeple. But shame is for the hardened, nothing to lose crowd.

 

Losing weight to feel good and spreading the joy of feeling good is noble… (Add wink and finger gun for dramatic effect.) Let’s all sweep the cavalier dung droppings of motivating others under the yoga mats. If you ain’t working towards a personal end game, then you’re probably a narco-disciple of self. With more internal consumption than a Utah based multi-level marketing supplement company.

No weak stomachs in the slaughter house.   

 

They’re baa-aack… Stability

Back to basics with stability redu. Stability would not be hell on Earth without 4-2-1 count. Nothing like a four count motion, with two count pause at the summit, and one count at the rest point to remind me fat guy strength has no chance in the stability phase. I am Fezzik. I am the Brut Squad. I am powerless to stabilize. Trying to hit a fly out of the sky with a boulder is easier than resisting gravity on one leg. May the farce I live in at the gym know me once again after this challenge is complete. Fat guy strength is so much better than a physique. Remember children, if you don’t have dreams you won’t have nightmares.

We are the Penn & Teller of social media workout evangelist... Expose the magic for all to duplicate. We got day jobs, and our egos are well-worn. 

All sets are 3x12 and 4-2-1 count unless noted. 

Back & Biceps

Weight assisted pull ups – wide overhand 100 or 120 pounds

Reverse push ups – Smith machine

1-leg dumbbell bicep curls 25 pounds 4x12

Reverse flys – dumbbell on lower back horse 7.5 pounds

Chest & Triceps

Dumbbell press on stability ball 50 pounds

Stability ball push ups – narrow arms military style

Bench pushups – wide arms

Plank pushups

Legs

Hack squat – machine

1-leg standing reach with dumbbell (no 4-2-1) 25 pounds

Peewee Hermans (no 4-2-1) 12 reps each leg

Core

Pike ups with feet on stability ball – push up position

Plank roll-outs on stability ball – feet narrow
1-minute planks

V-ups

We’re back!... sort of.

“It’s déjà vu all over again.”
                                    -Lawrence Peter Berra

Taking a page outta the playbook of KISS, The Who, and the Clintons… We are back! This blog has died and resurrected more times than Bill Murray in Groundhog’s Day. Lazarus is sick of our zombie tendencies, but Doc Holiday is excited because our hypocrisy knows no bounds too.

 

I quit apologizing years ago for dragging Jaron into my failed attempts at weight loss. However, he knows when a weight loss contest is on the horizon there are two sure bets: first, fun Jarvis takes second chair to grumpy starving Jarvis. And second, the dust will be blown off of No Fat Jokes Please.

This blog reanimates more than Bernie in Weekend at Bernie’s. For our younger hipster crowd, that is Bernie Lomax of the 1989 subcult classic. Not the bastard Vermont socialist love child of Doctor Emmett Brown and Larry David. For the next 12 weeks I am competing in two weight lose contest. One at work, and one with Jaron “The ODJ” Krause himself. The latter is because the pending pool season requires Jaron to renew his subscription to the doctrine of when the suns out, the guns shall be out.

The work contest has yet to determine prizes. I am guessing a 5 night 6 day Mexican Riviera cruise, or possible a $5 gift card to Chili’s. The contest prize with Jaron is the same as in the past; the fatter fool at the end buys all-you-can-eat sushi. Trophies aside, both contest are grudge matches with no restrictions on creative gamesmanship. No holds barred. If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying. Call the Tijuana nutritionist. East German female Olympians. Nuff said!

 
What a momentous weekend to fire up this ole digital dumping ground. Today is the 25^th anniversary of the Rodney King riots. The matchstick to the powder keg of racial tension in the land of smog, sponsored car chases and NWA. Ice Cube has really gone wealthy white guy with his cash cow Are We There Yet franchise. I still can't afford Dre's earphones.

Ironically, today is the continuation of the National Football League’s annual slave trade… better known as The Draft. Replaced are the shackles and cotton fields with Rolexes and football fields. Billionaires making more millionaires than Ed McMahon. In twenty years most of the current gridiron gladiators will be drooling shells of their once greatness. Pissing in the stove as a result of years of brain trauma. No need to fret over this annual Faustian ritual… the money will be enjoyed by children, spouses, and agents for years after eulogies are delivered. No motivational post here.

Enjoy the fat shedding reunion tour!