Half Past Awesome

Coach G & ThunderChicken play firemen

Today’s workout at CrossFit Springfield consisted of a position called The Plank. It’s a basic push-up position, except your elbows are on the ground, and the goal is to maintain a rigid pose or something. Not too hard in theory, it is stupid-crazy to maintain for more than about 10 seconds. Eventually your knees sag, your ass begins to raise up in protest and you find yourself within tongues distance from the floor, stupidly debating ideas like what the floor might actually taste like. From what I understand, this exercise is supposed to work your abs. My fat gut begs to differ.

I thought I was really hitting it well. It felt like I was ramrod straight, what with all the burning and stuff I was feeling and the sore elbows. (Man…..out of context that last statement is really, really, well, you know….but it’s not, so stop thinking it.) Meanwhile, as I was hanging out in the plank position for a virtual lifetime, I hear screeched from one corner of the gym “ULI! DROP THAT BUTT! NOW! NOW!” That tone and timbre could only be produced by one person I know: ThunderChicken.

Yeah, we’re back to meeting up at his 5am classes. He’s positively thrilled that I am gracing his training once again, since I bring the kind of workout ethic that he likes to highlight as “What Not To Do”. The other morning, I actually finished the warmup run first. FIRST. In no way does that mean anything, since I usually finish the actual workouts last, but I’m in dire need to shed something like 37 pounds in the next three weeks (got that 10k and a hockey tournament). His response to my run? “What are YOU doing coming in first?” That’s the sort of motivational speech I like in a trainer. If I hadn’t been experiencing a mild cardiac episode, I mighta punched him, thereby breaking my knuckles across his jaw. That’s the kind of chemistry you just can’t fake.

So he keeps howling that I need to drop my ass. He’s letting all kinds of shit slide with other people, the other 31 sufferers all coming up with ways to endure the pain. I’m cheating like mad, and he’s busting my chops with each infraction. The penalty for dropping a knee is a round of burpees, yet another sadistic exercise. I keep earning rounds and rounds of them, oblivious to his harassment.

Finally, he can’t take it. His screaming is going unheard. His pleas, unanswered. He grabs some weight plates and puts them on my backside area in an attempt to get me saggin’. I was having none of it. I fought the workout; I lost. And then it hit me as I fell to the floor yet again: the man is obsessed. Is it my copious capability to sweat? My ability to have my stomach drag the floor in a full push-up position? Was it the sweet odor of failure I was emitting with each collapse? My God, the man’s become a stalker. I should by all rights be creeped out, but honestly I’m a little flattered.

Deny it all he wants, he’s got man-crush issues. I can’t say I blame him. The only way I’m gonna break him of that is to punch him right in the face. And as soon as my knuckles are tough enough? I just may try it. But I better keep training in the running department, because I’m gonna need to be fast.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist

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

Johnny says.....

1. Those who pretend their pets are children

These people are seriously off their rocker, although they are the first to insist that they are just “normal parents”. Oh yeah? Does your dachshund have teething issues that keep you up at all hours? Do you have to buy $36,000 worth of diapers for your cat? (and if you do, then I stand by my sanity statement). No. Feed the little bastards, show them some love and teach them not to crap in the house, and basically you’re set up as a pet “parent”. And dressing them up at Halloween only makes you seem a little creepy, although sometimes it comes off as very funny. You’re confusing the term “parent” with “owner”.

2. Those who have children and act as though they are the first people to have ever had them.

Segueing from my first topic, I just love it to no end when a new parent thinks anyone else in the whole world (outside of immediate family) cares when their kid takes their first dump, or sleeps through the night or “graduates” from pre-school. These are not parental breakthroughs, people. And if your kid is truly and honestly the smartest individual ever to walk the face of the earth, no other parent really wants to hear how their own kid is shamefully second-rate. So do your little Mensa dance in your own house, and let every other parent in the world think THEIR kid is the smartest one in the tri-state area.

3. People with fish on their cars.

Worst drivers ever, and usually with the road manners of a rabid wolverine. I don’t think Jesus would condone you cutting someone off and flying the bird as a symbol of victory. You wanna wear the badge of your faith on your vehicle? Then act as if Jesus really is your co-pilot, not whoever that is your chatting on your cell phone with at this very moment. The Old Testament is very clear about this.

4. The Kardashians. Or any reality-television family, really.

You people do NOTHING, and yet command an enviable salary for said skill. Somehow, it was decided to publicize every mundane moment of the lives of these people and declare that they are stars. Then, when they make a statement like “I’m just fat” or “I slept with the entire special teams division of the Oakland Raiders”, it is somehow worth print, discussion and television air time. And I hate myself even more for mentioning you here. Damn you, dark headed beautiful idiots.

5. Talk radio hosts

I’ve listened to talk radio on and off since I was eighteen, mostly because there’s really nothing worth listening to in the middle of the day, and I used to find the dialogue intriguing, if not prone to whipping me up into a political lather. Now, as I get older and a little more mellow, I realize that these chowderheads do nothing but fire people up into a frenzy and offer nothing of real value to the conversation. The ability to politicize every single event and cater to your worst fears of an impending threat of communism (Vietnam, anyone?) now just come across as whiny, pathetic attempts to profit from your ire. The BP oil fiasco is no more the fault of Obama than Katrina was the fault of Bush, and yet, there they are, assigning blame and working us into a tizzy.

6. Part time workout ninjas

You work out? That’s great. You really badass and want the world to know it? Um, ok, that’s a little much for me to admire (outside of sites dedicated to the workout. Like Crossfit. I’m talking about in social settings, so don’t jump my ass over this, Thunderchicken). I think it’s commendable that folks are out there who are genuinely improving their physical and mental well-being; I just don’t need to know the details of how much you lifted after your dentist appointment and how much you “owned” this or that. Ok, I get it. Flex your muscles, be proud, whatever, but I’ve noticed that the most fit among us rarely have to advertise it. And I count myself among the most unfit.

7. People who live in heaven and insist on shoving it down your throats

Guess what? San Diego is apparently heaven on earth. I know this because most people I know who live there and are on Facebook insist on posting photos of sunsets there and declaring how they’ve somehow staked a claim on paradise. Look, I’m not a fool: I realize how nice it is to live in Hawaii/The Hamptons/NYC, and I realize you’ve figured out how to afford it, and that’s just ducky. Just know that for someone living in Tucumcari, New Mexico, the 726th photo from your condo showing the waves breaking at sunset may be just the trigger for him/her to begin a homicidal rampage. Don’t be a d-bag….chuckle amongst yourselves at cocktail parties about how “the other half” lives and leave the rest of us alone.

8. Those that make kids toy packaging

Just how much theft of toys is happening in stores that their designers require parents to have a mechanical engineering degree to liberate the crappy plastic gift from its crappy plastic packaging? I have to use a Leatherman tool, tin snips and my oxy-acetylene torch rig during the holidays just to hasten the process. There is enough sealed plastic and twist ties to make me believe that there are some kinky mofo’s in charge of packaging. Creepy bastards.

9. The Lyrical Jackass

He knows why.

10. The doctor who’s gonna be gloved up tomorrow

As part of the Fire Department HazMat physical I’m taking in the morning, I get the ol’ exploratory sweep. There’s nothing pleasant about that for anyone involved, but there will be screaming. I’m getting all clammy and my knees are sweating just thinking about it.

Uli Wandering Ponderings "Ryan" the Sadist

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

In one of our final installments of Cast Updates, I thought you should meet some of the latest players. This way, when random references are made in posts, you can put a face to the poor saps I mingle with on a semi-regular basis. Without further ado, I present four more cases for self-medication.

Mr. Double Dutch

Thunderchicken: also referred to as “Ryan The Sadist” in posts, Thunderclucker is a coach at the local CrossFit Springfield. He’s also an MMA fighter and some sort of former college football stud – all traits that lure me into talking trash to him whenever I get the chance. Thunderchicken spends an inordinate amount of time picking my brain for creative ideas, only to claim them as his own later. As soon as I figure out his Achilles Heel? I’m gonna use it to choke him out until he either declares me superior or at least acknowledges the guy who comes up with all of his brilliant ideas. In the meantime, I’m sure he’ll continue to screech at me in the gym, and I’ll be left to sob in my own pool of sweat. You can catch posts about him here, here and here.

Hotwire In Heat

Hotwire: here’s a man who you will find in the dark corners of the greater Springfield metroplex, making deals and getting people to owe him life-debts. Normally in the company of his best friend and business partner Taco, Hotwire is in the owner of an electrical company, but he’s never far away from his wide menagerie of toys and good times. One of the calmest people to roam the planet, he is, in my own words, painfully stable. That is, until you’re in his debt – then you owe, and he’s gonna collect. I try and crack his facade of mellowness on a daily basis. No such luck. He takes great joy in my fear of electricity, and torments me about it every chance he gets.

Tall, Dark & Hairy

El Jefe: A good friend for almost a decade now, El Jefe is a fellow firefighter in Springfield, driving Ladder Truck #3 as well as owning his own HVAC business. More importantly, he was the co-founder of the motorcycle gang I started, despite my not owning either a motorcycle nor the license to operate one. He’s also a fellow California ex-pat, us having grown up 25 miles apart. El Jefe is a rabid concert fan and can appreciate a wide range of music from Metallica to Flogging Molly; this is a founding principle of our as-of-yet-unnamed gang. As soon as I pick up the dual sport in a couple of weeks, I plan on us wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting public. At the very least, we’ll wreak some mild irritation on our wives.

Gar, me hearties. Gar.

Smoothed Out Pimp

The Pimp & The Pirate: One was Firefighter Of The Year. The other one is bald. One walks with a limp. The other one is the station captain at Firehouse #2. One rides a Harley and invented his own form of martial arts he calls “Crocker-ate” (Crocker being the town from which he hails). The other one screams at homeless people on a regular basis, yet will describe himself as “compassionate”. Any way you cut it, you can’t have one without the other at Station 2, and together they make up half of the Engine crew. They profess a jacked-up deep and abiding bromance for one another, spending an unhealthy amount of time together, both on-duty and off. Nobody else understands the chemistry these two have, yet both are convinced they’re going to the top of the department – together. They’d have it no other way.

Uli Amigos, Tales of Misery "Ryan" the Sadist

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

"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

Hey.

I had a funny essay started earlier.

It was entitled “Intellectual Man Candy”, and I swear, it’ll make you laugh.

But I can’t finish it right now.

Know how I know?

I mis-spelled the word “jet” and “stalker” earlier. (Let’s not get into the hows and whys with regards to my use of both words, okay?)

How for the love of all things good in this world can you not spell “jet”?

I’ve slept for 13 hours, and still look and feel like I’ve gone three rounds with “Ryan” the Sadist at CrossFit.

I think it’s a cross between swine-flu, TB, hypochondria and a touch of imagined herpes.

But I’m not a doctor.

I think it would be best if I held off on posting until I’m not under the influence of cut-rate Day-Quil and bad coffee.

At least I should be able to spell by then.

Uli Uncategorized "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness