Due to my football team's lack of skills, football season for me is now over. No more entire weekends of watching TV the whole day. No more Monday nights of doing nothing. It's time to bring the troops back in and start progressing on our march.
Currently, I sit at a staggering 192.6 (I was surprised it was that low). I'm now wearing a B-cup and I keep getting phone calls from the local OB/GYNs trying to drum up my business. I'll have no more of it. I'm lazy and I look like shit. Well, I look as bad as a hot guy can look.
So, the troops have been brought in to discuss the latest iteration of Operation: Fat Bastard, which we're considering calling Operation: Fatter Bastard. I always like to give the guys not only a goal, but a deadline in which to accomplish the goal.
Despite being off any and all payrolls, I'm still going on my golf trip this year. Jennifer and I are leaving just past midnight on the morning of May 9. That gives me just shy of four months to drop some pounds. As is normally the case, the goal is for the scale to start with a 1 proceeded by a 7. After that, I don't care what it says.
I gave the troops their orders today and away I went on the dreadmill. It's been over two months since I'd turned the thing on and I was happy I remember which buttons to push to make it do things. Sadly, just programming the time, my weight, and the speed and incline, I worked up a bit of a sweat. But because I'm a warrior, I continued.
My intent was not to jog today, but simply make sure my shoes still fit and to get my body accustomed to the beating it was going to take. I thought a couple miles of walking would be a good start.
Slowly (3.9 MPH), and with a gentle incline (3.0) I began with left foot in front of right foot, then right foot in front of left foot. Nothing to it, I thought. I was listening to The Promise by When In Rome and kind of lost track of what was going on. The song ended and the aching in my knees suggested I'd been on the dreadmill for quite some time. Yep, one minute and 20 seconds to be precise. Two minutes later the little shin splinty things started to act up.
Fortunately, about that time, Monty walked into the mancave. This was odd because I clearly remembered letting both dogs outside before I went upstairs. I paused the forward march and ran downstairs. Yep, the back door was standing wide open. I'd yell at Hayden for this, but since it was me, I'm going to let it slide.
Back up to the dreadmill, Monty followed and was dying to get on. She'd put one paw on and then watch in horror as that paw slid towards the back. It took her about four attempts before she decided to lay on the floor next to me and keep and eye out for insurgents.
I stopped at 2 miles for a variety of reasons. First, it's a nice round number. But mostly it was because my feet were burning hot. I'd lost feeling in both knees around 1.3 miles so I was able to continue, but my feet were on fire and judging by the smokey scent in the air, they might have been.
Two miles and about 355 calories burned in the books.
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