I, Bronze God

Back when I was a teenager, oh these many years ago, I used to run like the wind. I wasn't in track or cross-country, but I still ran between five to ten miles a day.

Yes, a day.

And I'm talking running, not the jogging you see some geezers doing, where a normal person can out-walk their run. I'm talking, double-time-blow-your-doors off fast. I'm sure at my peak I could have easily completed a marathon.

Part of my typical running trek was up one of the longest and steepest hills in the town of Minot, North Dakota. Running in the summer, I'd go shirtless; back in the day, nothing got the honnies faster than a shirtless dude with a boss flowing mullet. Within weeks of half-naked marathon running, my hair was bleach blond and my skin a deep dark brown. All the running gave me a six-pack and even though I only weighed about 130 pounds, I was in the best shape I'd ever be in my life.

Twenty-some years later and I'm in the worst shape I've ever been. As a teenager, I did everything humanly possible to add bulk to my frame, including chugging god-awful protein shakes. They never helped. Nowadays, I eat a cashew and observe it instantly stick to my gut. I don't know what became of my once hummingbird metabolism, but it long since ceased hovering in mid-space and now reclines comfortably on the couch.

I have made numerous attempts at combating this. Not long after Hallie was born, I hit the gym. I stuck with it for nearly a year and was close to bench pressing 250 pounds before I used my daily schedule as an excuse to stop. I wielded such dynamic physical prowess, I could rip entire phone books in half with my bare hands.

Oh wait, that's some dude I saw on TV. I got that confused with my ability to crush empty beer cans on my forehead.

But even though I was getting stronger in a relatively small amount of time, I lost interest and quit going. Just two years ago, I started up again. This time, I was going to stick to a strict cardiovascular workout. But again the momentum faltered and I quickly found myself paying a monthly YMCA bill for nothing.

Rationally, my behavior makes no sense. I know working out isn't just healthier, it makes me feel better. After awhile though, I forget what it feels like to not exercise. I get lazy. I quit. I coast on a year's worth of working out and then hit rock bottom with a sagging waistline and developing man bosoms.

I don't want to have to buy and don a manziere.

So, I'm once again trying an exercise regime. This time, I have a two tier approach. Step one: get back in running shape. There's no way I can run the distance I used to as a teenager, and not just because I don't have the time. I can, however, run a modest amount each day, maybe a mile or two or three. I need to jump-start my too dormant metabolism, get its coal-furnace burning, its pistons firing at a shadow of its former glory. That should take care of the gut and emerging man-boobs. Man is not meant to jiggle when he runs.

Step two is to get a membership to a modestly priced gym that's reasonably close to my house. Just a few years ago, I was close to benching 250 pounds. But not quite. And that was after only a few months of pumping iron. If I stuck with it, I could easily hit 300 pounds. And then I could walk around threatening to rip the heads off people that look at me cross-eyed. That would be tiiight.

I need to get my weight down first. I'm at around 210 right now. I think I'll start pumping iron when I get it down to 190. I think 180 would be the sweet spot. The problem with lifting though is you actually gain weight; Muscle weighs more than fat. If I can get down to 190 when I start lifting, the weight gain from there would theoretically be muscle. I can handle being 210 pounds of muscle.

I've got a picture of me when I was 17. I was at the lake with my friends and a bud of mine clicked a picture of me standing next to my car. Blond, tan, six-pack: I can barely recognize that person today. I think I'm going to put that picture next to my nightstand to motivate me not to quit this time.