Half Past Awesome

Smacking The Dirtbag

On September 12, 2010 two middle-aged heaping sacks of sluggishness will square off in Portland, Oregon for the Pints To Pasta 10k race. The Dirtbag and I are said heaping sacks of man-fat, and the event promises to be one in slow-motion, with me employing every dirty tactic I can come up with to sabotage my best friend. I’ll dump ExLax in his coffee, I’ll employ some kung-fu kicks to his throat at the starting line, I’ll get into his head by talking about how hot his wife is (he’s jealous and he hates it when I do this). He may be a man of honor and valor and Church and all that, but I’m a sneaky rat bastard. If I’m gonna fly all the way across the country, I’m gonna want to see blood.

Why bring this up?

Because along with being a sneaky rat bastard, I am also highly unmotivated. So unmotivated, I might try and weasel out of this commitment with sleazy tactics, like faking a pregnancy. I figure if I declare it publicly, I’ll have no choice but to enter or else face additional ridicule by you. And that won’t stand.

So, the training has begun in earnest. And by earnest, I mean I ran a mile today on a completely unrelated note. The crazy unhinged leader of CrossFit Springfield decided that a good way to end up the workout was to run 1.2 miles in conditions that rival the surface of the sun. With humidity. After getting tossed around the gym like a two-dollar hooker on dollar day, I stumbled outside, plugged in some kill-your-landlord Celticskapunk and began the plod.

It could have gone worse. No death, no near-death, and only mild heat stroke. If sweating truly is liquid fat leaving the body, then I should be looking a little less John Candy and a little more Jean-Claude Van Damme in no time. It’s as though gallons of Guinness and several hogs’ worth of bacon came cascading out today, even if the scale refuses to acknowledge it. 1.2 miles is a bit off from a 10k, but it’s all about baby steps.

And when the baby-steps mutate into awkward teenage lumbering? I’m coming after you, Dirtbag.

It’ll be ugly, it’ll be chaotic and it’ll be embarrassing on my part. But it’ll be ON!

Heart attack to follow.

Uli Amigos, Less Lardass CrossFit Craziness, Dirtbag

Who Took My Weights?

I drag my ass into “the box” (which is the cute vernacular used to identify the CrossFit Springfield gym) this morning after work. I’m late, and that’s nothing new in the least. The workout lined out for the day seems particularly brutal and completely out of attainable range (if you want to see it, look here. I won’t bore you with trying to describe the various gyrations). Lately, the ol’ relationship with the gym has been tenuous at best, despite several proclamations that it starts TODAY. TODAY is when I get back in the groove. TODAY is when I look the temptation that is bacon and beer in the eye and shoot it the bird. TODAY I stop being such a lazy fatass. Well, okay, maybe tomorrow.

See the dilemma? No?

It’s about self-loathing. It’s about the inflexible schedule known as “being a parent with kids out of school who  demand things like your ‘attention’”. But mostly, it’s about being lazy.

So what was a daily ritual of going to “the box” has become more like a recreational hobby. And, when the time came to saunter on over to The Wife’s 20 yr. high school reunion, the tragicomic results of treating it like a hobby came into laser-beam focus. I was thankful that I only knew one other person there, since it saved me the inevitable “MY GOD, you haven’t been missing many meals, have you?” conversation that take fun and awkward to a whole new level. To those people, their poor classmate simply married another fan of the Chinese buffet; to me, it was just another excuse to drink around strangers.

But I’m getting distracted here.

Today, like most days in the gym, I planned on doing the workout “non-prescribed”. What that means is, the masochists who run the joint make up a certain weight amount or form to use that they label “prescribed”. For example, the workout may call for 60 pull-ups (rx). I am good for maybe two pull-ups and then I fake it the rest of the way, using bands to assist or just crying in a puddle of shame and sweat. The prescribed version of a workout is generally reserved for the varsity level athletes, and one of the nice things about Crossfit is that they “scale” down the workouts so that someone in just about any condition can jump in and break a nasty sweat. Having never really lifted weights and having no desire to blow out a knee and toss my cookies simultaneously, I pace myself in terms of weight and form. And the truth of the matter is, I often cheat myself.

So it comes down to do you focus on quality or quantity? The workouts are generally timed, so you can post a great time if you just mash your hips into the floor and scream out and call that a push-up. Or you can take the slow train and do it right. And right there, glaring on a white board is your name, your time and if you rx’d it. No one really cares what your time is, they care what their time is, especially as compared to the group. I like to make up obnoxious times with weights that are physically impossible, just to see if trainers like ThunderChicken notice. He always does.

For reasons unknown, I stopped caring about the time component today. Maybe it was the extra pot of coffee. Maybe my brain was short circuiting in the humidity, but somewhere along the line, I decided to do the workout with prescribed weights. And it damn well killed me.

As the rest of the class was finishing up, making pretty little sweat angels on the floor, high-5-ing and heaving in labored wheezes, I wasn’t even close to done. There was no sense of grit or sand or raw determination pushing me. No “Eye Of The Tiger” playing in the background. I just wanted to do it for real. My back was shrieking as though it’d been tasered, my knees wobbled like I was trying not to crap my shorts and I was leaking sweat in reportable quantities, but I decided to truck on through. Finally, one guy was left on the floor with me, and I was using him as motivation, unbeknownst to him. Each lift he did, I was just copying him. I actually grunted like a choking troll, but was too wiped out to be embarrassed.

Finally, sweet release came as the weights smacked the floor one last time. I did it. DEAD LAST IN CLASS.

29 minutes and 50 seconds later, and with eyeballs drowning in sweat it was over. I was more than 10 minutes behind the leader, and I couldn’t have cared less. For one, glorious, heave-free moment, doubled over in front of a fan, I felt the satisfaction of doing it right

Tomorrow? There’s no telling about then. I might slip back into a more casual relationship with this whole fitness business or maybe I push myself like a lunatic again. But that moment back there, all alone in a pile of accomplished sweat stains, that was pretty awesome. And that calls for a cocktail.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, The Wife

I Can Relate. Really.

Dear Uli,

It has come to my attention that you posted an essay two days ago that was scathingly mean-spirited and caused not only hurt feelings, defensive outbursts and muttered threats, it also re-affirmed the label many have come to associate with your style of writing: condescending asshole.

So, as a response and defense of the people who you insisted could “kiss your ass”, your rational side will now argue the merits of those who you seek to defame and libel. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two; maybe you’ll continue to be a jerk, but either way, you’re gonna sit down and listen to yourself.

People You Slandered On June 7th And Their Defense

1. Those who pretend their pets are children. Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe these folks just haven’t had the opportunity to have kids yet, or even ever, whether by the choice of regularly scheduled vasectomies or by a cruel twist of fate? You didn’t once address the empty nester (ie-your mother) who finds solace and comfort in partaking in one-sided conversations with his/her furry friends. Maybe cats like to be led on leashes throughout neighborhoods. Any way you cut it, you’re being an insensitive cad for looking down your nose at animals in costume. Get a life; better yet get yourself spayed and neutered.

2. Those who have children and act as though they are the first people to have ever had them. Don’t you remember the joy of The Heathens first sleeping through the night? Didn’t you claim that it was up there with the invention of the internal combustion engine and the polio vaccine? How quickly we forget. You’re a parent, too, you putz and can’t you just, for once, allow parents the world over to share in their triumphs? Share them with any and all? Ps- you just stopped wetting the bed at 34, and yet you crow on about it day and night. Classy.

3. People with fish on their cars. It is not just any old halibut, you know. It is the Ichthus, a sacred and historic symbol meaning “fish” in Greek. Commonly seen as IXOYE, or Iota, Chi, Theta, Upsilon and Sigma, it first gained popularity in the 1st and 2nd centuries A.D., not on the back of Chevy Tahoes, as you seem to suggest. This symbol denotes a believer in Christ, not a bad driver, and nowhere in the Old Testament is this addressed, as you claim. Christians in days of old had to convey their spiritual status in a non-verbal way to avoid persecution at the hands of the Romans; Christians today would probably enjoy beating you senseless with a fish, Greek or not.

4. The Kardashians. Or any reality-television family, really. There is no argument to be made here, except that you have no scientific proof that the Kardashian girls slept with the entire Oakland Raiders Special Teams. Not even a lurid video, which, coincidentally, is what it takes to make it as a reality “star” these days. So find that tape, already.

5. Talk radio hosts. Yeah, these guys are blowhard shills for those who think Dick Cheney is really a stand-up guy, one who only shoots people in the face if they really, really deserve it. But you, sir, are a communist for suggesting that independent rational thought is the domain of silly liberal whale snugglers. And you should be shot.

6. Part time workout ninjas. Okay, you really crossed the line here, you sniveling wimp, incapable of more than two pull-ups (and that’s with a good breeze). Although you tried to weasel out of accusing fellow CrossFitters of basing all conversation on military-like acronyms (WOD? CTB? KTB? XRZXRX? Who talks like this anyways?), you’ve pissed off a lot of peers who are capable of one fingered push-ups with 45 plates on their backs. They will have their revenge, and it will come in the form of a very public humiliation.

7. People who live in heaven and insist on shoving it down your throats. Let’s just face the facts here, you jealous scumbag. You’ve left living on both the Central Coast and the State of Alaska, and now you’ve got sour grapes. There’s no denying the fact that San Diego is beautiful, just as there’s no denying the fact that you married a Springfield local. So just get over yourself and take delight in all that the Ozarks has to offer. Shut up, already.

8. Those that make kids toy packaging. Simple solution: stop drinking and trying to open kids gifts. Your slander of the toy packaging engineers will not be tolerated much longer. As well, you have no proof that they are any kinkier than the vast majority of society, so stop the implications.

9. The Lyrical Jackass. What can I say to that? You’ve pissed him off and you deserve the shunning. Embrace it. Revel in the shame of a failed friendship.

10. The doctor who’s gonna be gloved up tomorrow. Well, “tomorrow” has come and gone, and since you didn’t ask for the finger exam and you didn’t press the issue, you didn’t get the sweep. So why did you insist on screaming? Quit being such a damned baby, you’re embarrassing yourself and the fire department as a whole.

There you have it, you pretentious boob. Now, if only you’d listened to any one of your multiple personalities, perhaps you wouldn’t be so quick to generalize, stereotype and offend everyone around you. Maybe it is MY ass you should be kissing.

Always,

Uli

Uli Family DysFUNction CrossFit Craziness

Do You Know What Nemesis Means?

“But this time…
…I do want him to go down in the fourth.
And I DO mean it, this time.” -’BrickTop’ in the movie “Snatch”

TODAY it began in earnest. We left for our trip out west somewhere around April 15th, returned somewhere around the 25th and I’ve been to precisely two (2) workout sessions from then til this morning. That’s almost a month. One month is more than enough time to re-animate all the latent laziness and idling lard-assedness in my system. One month of crappy food. One month of getting sweetened up shit-laden coffee as opposed to the standard black fare. One month of the jump rope in the rolled up position and the gut in the horizontal extension mode. It’s as though I’ve gone back beyond square one and am now looking upwards out of this hole wondering just how the hell did THAT happen?

Here’s the thing about gyms: I hate ‘em. Even the highly-touted CrossFit Springfield intimidates and annoys me at times, and this is because I feel so far behind the 8-ball that the path of surrender seems much more inviting. Give in. Order some Sesame Chicken and a gallon of beer and talk about how you might’ve turned out, if only. Slip the belt out a notch and begin to justify the acquisition of multiple chins. What the hell, grow a goatee like every other man out here over thirty in an attempt to cover up said chins. I watch people get stronger and faster at the gym and I remain annoyed at my u-shaped biceps and catastrophic wheezing sessions. Here are three reasons I feel behind said 8-ball:

ThunderChicken Goes Nuts

Jeremy Skips To His Loo

G. Gets Freaktastic

You know about “Ryan” aka ThunderChicken.(no? well there’s a post here and here to catch you up. ) The other two are owner/trainers of our CrossFit gym and yes, this is how they go about their daily lives. These boys mean business. It’s amazing to watch the transformations these people can inspire in others who work out there. I am not one of those people who has had an amazing transformation, and I blame no one but me. I’ll see a little drop in weight or belt size, get cocky and wipe out 32 Guinnesses to congratulate myself. This does not lend itself to being in the kind of shape these guys are sporting. In fact, a more accurate picture of the look I’m cultivating goes a little something like this:

And deep down, I’ve been in a superfunk for the last three weeks. Not super-funky ala Rick James, I mean SuperFunk as in bummed and I can’t nail down why. Family is good, friends are fine, life’s trucking by at a reasonable pace. And then, this morning it hit me:

I’ve been missing the pain.

I’ve been missing the self-inflicted humiliation.

I’m depressed about avoiding the place that depresses me.

So I went in, and I wish I could say I suffered greatly. I wish I could say I was putting up weights that would make lesser men quiver in fear. The reality is nowhere near that. In actuality, I lifted barely above the weight of three pints of Guinness, and I gotta be honest, it felt great. It was pitiful enough that G (pictured above) made sure to mention: “Well, Uli, sometimes less is more, I guess”. So nice of him to try and find the positive – he’s a great coach, and well intentioned and all, but the truth is, I welcome the humiliation. Feeling like I have nowhere to go but up is somewhat inspirational. It’s as though each day I’m starting anew, like my body has low-grade Alzheimer’s. And I’ve been missing that feeling.

So today I started at the gym. And I do mean it, this time.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness

Abs To Envy

The other day, I saw a tee shirt on a fellow member of CrossFit that boldly stated

“Run Faster Than A Lifter, Lift More Than A Runner” (or something to that effect).

I kinda liked it, in that it seemed to cover several disciplines with one cutting remark. The only problem with sporting one of several types of tee shirts and shorts and other paraphernalia offered in the CrossFit world is my own personal hangup:

It never pays to boast or threaten when you can’t follow through yourself.

Since I can’t, at this juncture, run faster than lifters and I can’t lift more than a second grader, to wear a shirt declaring these attributes seems to be the acme of posing. And I just can’t tolerate posing or posers (poseurs? It seems like posing to spell it like that. I dunno).

But I digress. Some people are so immersed in singularity of purpose, everyone else looks like pikers. Take, for example, another brother of mine who goes by “Nan” around here. Here is a video of him squatting 1000lbs. or more (look for it around minute 4); this is a kid that was a rail thin teen survivor of cancer who, after completing several turns in the sands of Iraq for the Marine Corps, came back and began efforts to become insanely strong. Granted he looks like a tick and his thighs make pretty music when he walks, but the mofo is freak-strong. I might be able to out-run him but that’s cause he may well have a cardiac event beyond 20 yards. On the other hand, both Dirtbag and RoJo are committed runners, but I doubt I could outlift them. This is because Dirtbag is strong and fueled by rage, while RoJo is short, angry and a cop, thereby giving him unlimited potential to get pissed off and lift a lot of weight in a short amount of time. There’s no way I could outrun either of them, not unless I knee-capped them first.

This brings me into the class of people who like to loudly profess, “Well, I’m a jack of all trades and master of none”, as though that were something to be proud of. That’s like saying you don’t always wash your hands after using the toilet, but you usually get your underwear back up over your shins before you leave the bathroom. Great.

And so the struggle continues. I go to CrossFit most days, have what looks to be multiple seizures as I struggle through the workouts, and there have been some small gains. I’ve learned how to badger Thunderchicken without him turning on me and crushing me like a grape. I’ve learned how to properly lift for the first time in my life, even if it involves using PVC pipe instead of weighted bars. I run (let’s be honest here, I jog) up to 2 miles for different workouts, and have yet to have a major stroke – plus my two mile time is under 45 minutes, so there’s that. Best of all for the first time in many years, I’m not completely embarrassed to look in the mirror. I should be, but I’m not.

You probably won’t catch me in a trash-talking CrossFit tee shirt just yet, though.

I should probably be able to do more than two pullups first.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, Dirtbag, RoJo

Morning Face

4:02 am – Alarm begins its relentless attack. Self-loathing is the first conscious thought. Smash the snooze.

4:07 am - Litany of excuses for NOT working out begin to stream into consciousness. Excuses make sense. Smash snooze.

4:12 am – The Wife shares her feelings: “Get your ass outta bed and get to the gym. I love you. Now, go.” Stumble around blindly. Smash toe on kids toy. Mumble curses under morning breath.

4:13 am – A glance into the mirror confirms it – God, I’m an ugly mofo first thing in the morning, and it ain’t gonna get any better throughout the day. Self-loathing begins to reach critical levels as I catch a whiff of my own breath.

4:16 am – Vigorous brushing, face splashing and cracking of joints do nothing to improve appearance. Shrug and accept lot in life, all the while pining for a wasted youth. Thoughts of coffee begin to dominate and overwhelm as I realize I really don’t care how I look.

4:17 am – Attack first pot of  coffee and begin mad dash for gym, but realize am walking out the door without shorts on. Stop for a moment to appreciate the enormity of consequences if I show up without pants. Hilarity? Restraining order?

4:20 am – First of the acceptance that this is really happening. No going back to bed. Vow to go to bed by 7pm tonight.

4:21 am – Gaze longingly at house, knowing that warm bed is 106′ away. Double check to make sure I’m wearing shorts.

4:22 am – Plug iPod into Toyota’s stereo. Decide to crank music to “11“ to punish those sleeping in the house.

4:22:30 am – Realize they can’t hear it in the house. Curse violently at steering wheel, take another shot of coffee.

4:25 am – Pull out of driveway, realize that I’m too old to headbang without getting a severe concussion. Seethe inwardly.

4:30 am – Pot #1 of coffee begins to kick in and I begin silently hoping for a deer to jump into my path, just to add some spice to my morning commute to the gym.

4:35 am – Why spice it up when I can swerve all over the road trying to find the perfect song to scream along with?

4:40 am – Realize I’m glad it’s dark out, so I can conduct full conversations with myself, complete with sweeping hand gestures, without other drivers staring at me. Congratulate myself on such stealth. Out loud.

4:43 am – Take too long staring at heavy equipment on highway lit up by floodlights. Road chaos, followed by road rage, followed by cursing of indeterminate origin.

4:44 am – Start alternating shots of coffee with hits off the water bottle. You know, cause I believe in hydration. Plus, too many coffee stains on t-shirt this early in the morning just adds to peoples perceptions of my mental stability.

4:46 am – Think to self: “screw what people think. I love coffee and I’ll wear some if I feel like it”. Kidneys begin to quiver in protest.

4:50 am – Wrap up conversation with self with a loud and violent debate over whether I’ll make it in time to 5am class.

4:53 am – Start up another round of yelling at traffic engineers for their idiotic placement of stop lights. Begin to mull over merits of blasting through red lights. Unable to go full outlaw, I decide to obey the rules, but fume on the inside. Consider writing a very stern letter to City’s Traffic Engineering Department. Get more irate as I realize nothing will change. Damn you, bureaucracy. Damn you.

4:55 am – Slide in to parking lot of gym. Quick glance in mirror confirms suspicion that I look like a homicidal maniac. Pleased with self. Guzzle one last swig of coffee and tumble out of truck, tripping on non-existent obstacle in parking lot.

4:59 am - Shoot fellow CrossFit member curious look when he asks if I “am always this ‘up‘ this early?” Consider ramifications. New cycle of self doubt and self loathing begins.

4:59:30 am – Realize today’s workout consists of 2 mile run. Begin to experience chest pains upon realization.

5:00 am – Seizing (or seizure) of the day begins.

Uli Less Lardass, Tales of Misery CrossFit Craziness, The Wife

Somehow a chicken drinking beer seemed right

Sometimes those closest to us make choices that, at the very least, are hard to understand. When they do, it’s never easy to shake the funk that follows. I recently found myself in such a funk.

And here’s where the beauty of the fire station kicks in: your co-workers are forced to spend 24 hours with you, and as such, we all become de-facto therapists for one another, unwilling to leave any stone unturned in our search to humiliate each other. JoBoo and I were soaking up the last of the suns’ rays yesterday evening out in the engine bay, keeping an eye on the barbecue grill as the flames were licking the walls of the firehouse, each of us wondering who would get up first and deal with it. We were discussing such issues, waiting for dinner and lazily noodling out ideas for improving our lot in life. As I sat there unloading my burdens on him, it struck me that what we really needed was a good house fire.

Now, let me be clear: I do not wish for someone’s home to burn down. It’s just a given fact that fires are going to happen, and if they’re inevitable, I’d just as soon they happen on my shift in our district. There’s nothing like a good worker to remind you why you signed up for this gig, why you spend a third of your life away from home, subjecting yourself to the whims and fantastic bureaucracy of local government.

When we finally sat down to eat, The Wife decided to make an appearance, coffee and kids in hand, knowing I could use a little uplifting. The boys were climbing all over the ladder truck when the tones struck for a house fire. This part was cool, since my boys aren’t at the station too often anymore, and what can beat tearing out of the firehouse, lights blazing and siren wailing – especially if you’re six. What I didn’t know was that she decided to follow the howl of the wind-up sirens and the column of smoke in the sky to the scene. And, as we rolled up and got to work, heavy smoke pouring out of the basement windows, The Heathens got to witness just what it is I do when I leave every third day. Chaos, smoke, flames and a cacophony of noises and smells and sights. After we had the initial attack set up and I was tooling around the pump panel, I finally noticed my family standing behind me. The look on their faces was enough to make all the other bullshit seem pretty irrelevant; I was never more stoked to be their dad than in that moment. No matter what my job on the fire ground was, I was part of something big in their eyes, and, when you realize how important you are as a parent to them, it’s pretty humbling. Heathen 1 came up to me, hugged my leg and said “Daddy, please be careful”. No worries, son…. I’ve got half a dozen jackass co-workers who keep me in line, even when I can’t. When we sat down to dinner at 9:15 pm, I realized that all things considered, this life is pretty damn fantastic.

I considered that victory #1 in my defeat of the funk.

Victory #2 came tonight.

The folks at CrossFit Springfield decided to host a social night with everyone toting in side dishes while a man named Jay smoked enough meat for a small army to consume in the snowing sleet-rain-crap we call weather in Missouri. It was nice enough to not have people see me in all my sweaty, nasty glory for once, but rather, showered, shaved and slightly less stinky. But, and this is important, it got my pitiful ass out of the house and surrounded by folks who are upbeat, positive and generally in a same mental reference in terms of getting slightly less fat. There was a copious amount of beer flowing, families mingling and, in the middle of it all, “Ryan” The Sadist, holding court and telling tall tales. A couple of other firemen were there as well, and, as ever, we gravitated to one another and immediately began regaling one another with bullshit and laughter. As each Guinness was cracked and another plate of delicious food was passed around, I could feel the mood lifting. These? These are the moments when we’re glad to have the friendships we do, and I’d be well served to remember these facts. Whether shooting the bull with JoBoo behind the rigs while sunning like lazy cats or in a group of one hundred, those moments we get when we’re in the company of good people? Yeah, that’s good stuff, and moments we need to treasure.

I might lose sight of that fact from time to time, but I hope you know this: I’m a grateful mo-fo for all that you bring to the table.

Thanks, amigos.

Uli Amigos, Less Lardass, Siren Songs "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, JoBoo, the Heathens, The Wife

Black: Not As Slimming As I'd Hoped

In the ongoing soap opera known as Trying To Be Less Of A Fatass, I seem to encounter speed bumps on a semi-regular basis. One of the greatest obstacles is a slavery to habit. Sundays at the firehouse are a prime example; as opposed the rest of the work week where we eat at 11am and 5pm, Sundays are  reserved for a brunch that would make a sumo wrestlers heart skip a beat. Bacon, biscuits &  gravy, pancakes, scrambled eggs and fried potatoes are never strangers to the brunch table and I’ve been seduced by all of them. The scale confirms this less-than-ideal affair of the clogged arteries. And, as I try to make healthier choices, nothing sucks harder than eating turkey “bacon”, avoiding the potato pan and nuzzling up to a bowl of oatmeal.

As with all routines in our lives, habits dictate our patterns. Methheads on a bender will spend hours peeling back stolen electrical wire insulation to get at the precious copper that will fund their next hit; RoJo will dictate large portions of time to organizing his sock drawer so that all of the seams line up; The Heathens are devoted to waking up at 5am and making sure their parents are awake too, so that they can discuss their latest Transformer-inspired revelations. Creatures of habit, all. And one of my many habits is to consume food the way I did at age 18, when I had the metabolism of a hummingbird. Always the skinny kid, I ate without consequence until my mid-twenties, as did many of us.

Now would be the time in another setting where the writer would describe how his children inspired him to live better, how the radiating pains shooting down his left arm made him find religion or something like that. Well, those guys can suck it. I’m making the change towards healthier choices for one reason only: it sucks being a mid-thirties fat cliched caricature of yourself. You know it, I know it and since you’re not doing anything about it, I guess I’ll take responsibility for myself.

This came to a head at a local gas station/convenience store with a name I loathe (see my feelings here). I always pay at the pump, seeing no need to venture into the vipers den of M&M’s, 9682-ounce sodas and nasty looking hot dogs on rollers. But this time, I was forced into the situation: I needed to buy a days’ supply of cat food. Mortally embarrassing enough that you purchase cat food at a gas station, I’d be forced to enter a place where Monster Energy Cold Coffee drinks would beckon to me, those damn sirens on the rocks. I began to get a little clammy.

I headed in to the belly of the beast, confident I would not disappoint Ryan and all the other CrossFit fanatics by giving in to the deliciously sweet sights and smells of a highway convenience store. I grabbed the box of overpriced feline food (really? 4 bucks for a days supply? I swear those cats are so fu*#ing unappreciative of my efforts), and calmly strolled up to the counter. Goddddddd, I wanted to buy something, anything. The habit is strong and bred deep within me. I looked over some candy bars, kinds I don’t even like, with an instinct to impulsively purchase. Alcoholics don’t hang around bars, so what the hell was I doing here? Pork rinds were gazing at me longingly, and I found myself eyeballing the lottery tickets as though I might take up gambling today. What the hell is going on here?

Chaotically, I walked to the register and back into different aisles several times, just convinced that I needed something. The corners of my mouth started to water as I began to convince myself I really WAS hungry. After all, I hadn’t eaten in several hours, was working in the shop, c’mon, what’s wrong with a little pick-me-up? Damn, I’d make an ideal drug addict, I follow the script so well. My mouth began watering as a new concept entered my consciousness: beef jerky. My mouth is literally beginning to water at the corners, even as I write this, because beef jerky is so awesome. I found myself at the register, standing in a puddle of my own drool as I rolled the idea over in my mind. I had to excuse myself once again, to dash into the aisle that held my own version of manna. Aisle 3.

At this point, you expect me to tell you of my overwhelming mental strength, where the voice of Ryan is screaming in my head about “form” and not being fat and how I used this imagery to walk away from the sodium-laced death known as jerky. That would make a really cool finale to this story, and maybe it would inspire you in your own journey to better health.

That thought never even crossed my mind.

Finally, box of cat food in one hand and bag of teriyaki beef jerky goodness in the other, I left the store, the checkout clerk shaking her head at the weird dude who obsessively went from aisle to counter and back 23 times, leaving large puddles of drool in his wake.

Beef jerky has protein in it, right?

We’re all good, then.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, RoJo, the Heathens, The Wife

"No, it really IS a Rolex...see?"

There is a scene in the 2004 remake of “Man On Fire” where the protagonist Creasy (Denzel Washington), while engaged a murderous spree of vengeance, is questioning a corrupt cop in Mexico. The cops’ name is Fuentes, and as part of a  vigorous interrogation of the filthy scum, Creasy has ominously placed a five minute time-bomb in Senor Fuentes’ rectal region. Fuentes is furiously bargaining for his life, trying to bribe his way into salvation, when the following conversation takes place:

Fuentes: A last wish, please, please. Please.
Creasy: Last wish? I wish……. you had more time.

You can well imagine what happens next.

I love that movie.

But, it is more than just a great scene where the flawed hero exacts revenge on someone worthy – it’s a universal wish we all have, especially as we grow older and the time span between years shrinks. Right now, this very moment, I’m cramming in our little conversation here while waiting for The Heathens to return home; then it’s a quick buzz to the CrossFit torture palace, off to the firehouse to cover a shift for three hours, then home at 11pm, up at 4am, back to gym, then another shift cover (48 straight with firefighters makes for some ADD-addled moments) and back to my own fire station. All this before Friday. This is not a complaint, however. Life is good, sometimes better than that, and I’m grateful for all the positive aspects we can experience.

I just want to make those positive aspects last a little longer, take time to enjoy it all. Like a kid slowly pulling apart string cheese, as opposed to cramming it all down your throat, some things take time to be parsed, enjoyed, savored even. I like making a cup (or pot, or two pots) of coffee last two hours while shooting the breeze with a good friend. I enjoy the hassling that goes on between firemen after a union meeting, when we get a chance to flap our jaws with brothers from other stations. You can’t really buy that entertainment. When The Wife has a particularly engaging client down in the salon, I’ll happily idle away ridiculous amounts of time listening to their latest tales of woe and scandal.

Most would label this behavior “procrastination”. And by “most” I mean “my wife”. While this seems to make sense when you see the piles of work that need attention at our house, I might beg to differ. I enjoy these moments where we interact and bullshit and trade in on our mutually shared experiences. Yes, yes, we all have obligations like feeding our kids and not letting them become methamphetamine pushers, important little footnotes that we have as parents. I’m just hoping that we all get enough moments where the laughs come freely, the needs we have as social beasts are being met (with the exception of The Dirtbag and Bones, two people in my life who would enjoy most aspects of living in a cave) and we can just think “yeah, it’s all good.” Even in our darkest moments, none of us look to the dishes for consolation when a loved one is stricken with a disease – we turn to those we can embrace, those who support us, those we love. Those with whom we spend time.

Even a guy with a bomb up his ass knows this.

Uli Family DysFUNction CrossFit Craziness, the Heathens, The Wife

"Ryan" getting deep into it

A few nights ago I experienced a first. While awaiting our turn “in the box” at the CrossFit gym, three guys who are varsity-caliber athletes were in a training evolution that mandated taking their shirts off and tossing heavy weights around as casually as I might flick away a sweaty towel. Of course, “Ryan” was a part of this group. It turns out that these boys are competing in CrossFit regional feats of manliness in St. Louis over the weekend (see here) and are shoveling in last minute workouts to fine tune their grunts and wheezes.

MEANWHILE, the working class mortals (the rest of us) were getting our warmups in before another session of torture, when, out of nowhere, I start hearing some cat-calls. And, no, it wasn’t callous dudes whistling at the women in the gym – rather, out of nowhere, a couple of the ladies were verbally swooning over these muscle-y he-men as they pounded out one lift after another. And, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the Wife, who was NOT there for a workout (but to pick up the boys), hanging around, just to, in her words, “check it all out”. Her version of “checking it all out” involves her jaw hanging slack with a little drool coming out of the corner while these taut bastards are hefting the iron.

From the far side of the group my buddy’s MOM Beth says “Hey, how can I concentrate with all this Man Candy happening?” This was answered by a bunch of agreement in the form of cackles and hoots by the ladies and none of which was noticed by the lifters; it went over like a turd in a punchbowl to the rest of us boys in the group.

“Sorry Beth, I’ll try to reign it in!” I shouted back at her, as though she were referring to my self-perceived manliness. This at least earned a chuckle from the rest of us emasculated-types. I feel a need to stick up for us, the muscle-challenged. The workout continued in earnest, with the guys focusing on strength and form and the ladies focusing on the bodies of the bad-asses working out behind us. Inspiration through envy I suppose.

After the class, I caught up with Beth as she was describing her feelings about either the workout or tax laws, I couldn’t really tell. Nonetheless, I apologized for distracting her with my distinct lack of muscles and excess body hair. I can’t help it if I toss manly pheromones out like so much candy at a parade. It’s not my fault. She just laughed at me, dismissively. She said to her conversational partner, “Oh yeah, this is Uli, you should read his stuff, it’s really funny.” Although thankful for the compliment, when I step into the gym, it’s all about making my body look less like melting wax and more like chiseled cheese.

It must be time to come to terms with reality.

So I looked her right in the eye, and I said, I says, “those boys may be Man-Candy, but I’m Intellectual Man-Candy, and you can’t find that in any old gym. Take a moment and drink it all in”. I then attempted to flex my giant hair as if to prove how big my brains are. It ended up looking more like I was suffering an aneurysm, which in turn led to more laughter.

I just can’t win.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, The Wife