Before I decided to do the race, I didn't run too often. I would mostly head to the gym, do some lifting, get a gnarly swoll on, and call it a night. But so much of the Mudder relies on cardiovascular endurance rather than brute strength. I don't mean to brag, but sometimes I don't even need to make two trips when I bring the groceries into the house. That's how much I teetered toward brute.
I started working out at a pretty early age...
(A buff baby is a tough baby.)
So you can imagine that I was more bulky than I was sleek, considering that, despite not actually working out since I was a toddler, I have always concentrated on size. Get bigger! Get buffer! Get stronger! BE A MAN!
I knew that I could complete most, if not all, of the obstacles in this race - some might be more cumbersome than others, but I could git 'er dun.
The solution was simple: I needed to run more, but we've already discussed that. But if that's all I did, wouldn't that end up counter productive to the obstacles and things that do require strength? I had to still mildly work out so I could still throw my body weight around. I created a workout circuit type thing that would concentrate on pushing and pulling while maintaining balance, all while concentrating on using my body weight, or something of similar mass to create resistance.
Here are the results...
(Photos are in no way altered in post production.
Model has been not been retouched.
Photos taken four months apart.*)
I didn't always follow the regimen I had set for myself, only because I realized where I needed to improve most was in running. And this is a good thing. I don't always have to be working out to be "buff."
I used to go to the gym because I wanted to be so yolked that I could take my shirt off at the beach, pool, or supermarket and have women flock to me to continue my disrobing, right there in the frozen food aisle. Shortly after graduating high school, I realized this was never going to happen. So, I stopped working out, got fat once I moved to college, and then I started lifting again.
Lifting weights is actually very therapeutic, for me, at least. I really enjoyed it when I first got back into it, and then I started working out just because it was one of the few things I liked that was healthy for me. It feels great to be sore, and the fatigue is indicative of being one step closer to a Greek God...or as life would turn out, a Costa Rican court jester. However, because I always tried to lift heavy, I never had that lean muscle this race requires. So I tried to get it in three short months, because that was feasible.
Before moving to Santa Monica, I went to the gym during off hours, so I didn't see all it had to offer in terms of eccentricity. While spending time at the LA Fitness in Santa Monica (the capital of narcissism, apparently), I grew to hate, or at least develop a strong distaste for, some people at the gym.
There's the guy pumping his ass full of steroids, HGH, and some sort of equine estrogen. The sort of mutant that spawned from the blood and semen of a locker room shower. After a nuclear spill. And eating paint chips. He flexes at his reflection constantly, only putting his Starbucks mochachino-soy-latte-nonfat-double-extra-shot-two-pumps-vanilla-with-whipped-cream trenta to curl 200 pounds about 19 times. Then he walks around for 30 minutes chatting with his simian homies before leg pressing a dump truck.
(I wanted to censor him, and show a Starbucks cup. This is the
best of both worlds. This man is scary. You could see his penis.)
Then there's the guy that works out in every bit of Ed Hardy gear he owns, sparkling like a sleeping limb, and overpowering everyone within a 20-foot radius because he used three cans of Axe. Please, sir, do not wear this. It looks like Ke$ha shit on you. And you'd probably smell better. If you insist on wearing this stuff, don't do it at the gym. Wear your shitty clothes... oh, YOU ARE (who didn't see that joke coming? So cheap). You paid for that? You paid upwards of $90 for that? And now you're sweating in it? STAAAAHHHP. I keep stepping on your stupid rhinestones.
I guess I can see the point if they wear it now. Our buddy Eddie made some pretty expensive clothing, but now even some of the top-notch disco balls on his website are selling for less than 20 bucks. Including tax and shipping. That's cheaper than other workout clothes.
(You might think this is blood/semen mutant. You'd be on the
right track, but the difference usually comes in the subtle form
of blinding light radiating from his "Swarovski crystals."
These guys also bulk up with Target-brand protein shakes
and live chickens because they spent all their extra cash on
visually offensive outerwear instead of high-quality steroids.)
Of course, there are the people that have NO clue what they are doing. I don't really hate these people. It's the wandering aimlessly that gets to me. If you know you're a bit lost, which you clearly are, and you clearly understand because you keep reading all of the directions, get out of the way or ask a question. Asking things: good. Spinning in circles and struggling so hard you fart and nearly blow out your o-ring: bad.
I will give them credit, though. Oft uncoordinated, lumpy, unfortunate looking, and definitely out of shape, they are doing something to benefit themselves and improve their quality of life. It's just so hard to watch them struggle and putter around the gym floor. The worst part seeing someone turn red, with veins popping out all over their neck and head, all while using the wrong form (which is, incidentally, why I can't work out in front of a mirror).
Ah, but after all the complaining, weightlifting will always be my favorite form of exercise. There's something so awesome about pushing hunks of metal around douche bags and geriatrics until you sweat and cramp and you smell like a sweatsock in an Armani Exchange. Gyms, a little slice of heaven.
*Total fuckin' lie.
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