Time to get serious
Headed home from a night out Saturday, I stopped to get a couple of cinnamon rolls for breakfast.
I do not need cinnamon rolls.
This I fully realize.
So they sit on my kitchen counter, ‘cause I cannot force myself to throw them away, either.
What I need to do is get my supple ass cheeks over a bike saddle.
Or up a trail.
Or slip ‘em into a kayak seat.
This I know.
And I’m off to do just that – go for a long ride with the chancellor of the Institute for Advanced Hedonism, then get cleaned up and go for a Nordic walk with the ladies (because I am their muse).
“You have to wear your backpack, too,” one said.
She’s (nagging) watching out for me, my fitness level, as well.
I fully realize what needs to be done.
I need to do more. Get up a half-hour earlier, go to bed a half-hour later.
And move.
(and move some more.)
I got picked up to climb Mt. Shasta. The climb is being comped, sponsors have been lined up.
still, it’s complicated.
I’ll be in the Midwest from May 17-29. On June 2, I’m leading a hike with dogs for a nonprofit.
The next weekend, I’m supposed to do a two-day climb on the mountain.
Time is not my friend.
And neither is my body, I’m afraid.
I have all the aches and pains of a 44-year-old who has been somewhat cavalier about the treatment of his body in the history that is me.
I’m beat to shit.
Beat down.
Beat up.
Mistreated.
This is why I think I’ve gotten two major colds in the past three months.
It’s gotta stop.
The rolls are going to be donated to the first homeless person I run into on the way to the trailhead.
I’m going to eat a healthy breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every day. And two healthy snacks.
I’m going to take my supplements. Every day.
I’m going to move, every single day. Rain or shine – I have new raingear, no excuses – whether I feel like it or not.
Because when I get done moving, I feel better. Fortified.
And those aches and pains will go away.
Right?
I do not need cinnamon rolls.
This I fully realize.
So they sit on my kitchen counter, ‘cause I cannot force myself to throw them away, either.
What I need to do is get my supple ass cheeks over a bike saddle.
Or up a trail.
Or slip ‘em into a kayak seat.
This I know.
And I’m off to do just that – go for a long ride with the chancellor of the Institute for Advanced Hedonism, then get cleaned up and go for a Nordic walk with the ladies (because I am their muse).
“You have to wear your backpack, too,” one said.
She’s (nagging) watching out for me, my fitness level, as well.
I fully realize what needs to be done.
I need to do more. Get up a half-hour earlier, go to bed a half-hour later.
And move.
(and move some more.)
I got picked up to climb Mt. Shasta. The climb is being comped, sponsors have been lined up.
still, it’s complicated.
I’ll be in the Midwest from May 17-29. On June 2, I’m leading a hike with dogs for a nonprofit.
The next weekend, I’m supposed to do a two-day climb on the mountain.
Time is not my friend.
And neither is my body, I’m afraid.
I have all the aches and pains of a 44-year-old who has been somewhat cavalier about the treatment of his body in the history that is me.
I’m beat to shit.
Beat down.
Beat up.
Mistreated.
This is why I think I’ve gotten two major colds in the past three months.
It’s gotta stop.
The rolls are going to be donated to the first homeless person I run into on the way to the trailhead.
I’m going to eat a healthy breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every day. And two healthy snacks.
I’m going to take my supplements. Every day.
I’m going to move, every single day. Rain or shine – I have new raingear, no excuses – whether I feel like it or not.
Because when I get done moving, I feel better. Fortified.
And those aches and pains will go away.
Right?
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