Pain in the Pecs
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It’s hard to type today. My pecs hurt so much I can barely move my arms due to my latest workout where Mike’s agenda came out – finally. The Biggest Loser contest at The Sports Club/LA – Orange County.
At least that’s what he called it. Down by the locker room, I saw the real name – InBody Competition – which confirmed for me that Mike does, in fact, believe Erin and I could be the biggest losers at this place. The contest involves body fat. You measure it on day one and day 30 and whoever loses the most gets a $500 Sports Club gift certificate. Somehow, in the last month that I’ve been training with Mike, my body fat has increased by 6%. I would have a better chance at winning if it was an out-of-body contest.
Erin, on the other hand, has dropped five pounds and her pants are loose. I think it’s because Mike likes her better and gives her less strenuous workouts, not setting her up for failure.
Last week, after a particularly tough leg workout, Mike demanded that I show up for a rev class at the club the next morning. I will admit that the idea of spinning on bikes in a gym with a bunch of other sweating people (I do not sweat, by the way, which Mike says is yet another sign of my demise) is not something I look forward to putting on my weekend schedule.
“Not possible,” I told him. Kids' dance classes, football practice, weekend errands.
“Well then, walk the hills by your house,” he said, “and send me a text when you’re out there so I know you’re doing it.”
The next morning, I wake up at 6:30 a.m., throw on my sweats and head out to the steep hills of north Laguna, where I live.
“Hi Mike,” I text. “I have to tell you, yesterday was a little intense for me. My inner thighs hurt so much I can barely walk. I’m letting you know I’m on the hills now, as you asked.”
I get a text back. “Sounds like you had a rough night.”
Strange response, I think, until I look down and realize I did not send the text to Mike Brandmeier, I sent it to another Mike, and I have no idea who he is or why he’s in my address book.
I send another text to the other, stranger Mike. “Uh, sorry. Meant to send that to my trainer. That was about an exercise workout by the way.”
“Whatever,” the stranger Mike texts back.
I think this is very funny and I laugh my way through the hills, like one of those people you see in the supermarket talking on a Bluetooth that you think might be talking to themselves, except in my case, there is no phone attached.
Next week I see the nutritionist (so I guess the birthday cake I ate today is going to go on the “no” list) and a guy who measures heart rates to determine a prime target zone. Maybe that will help change my status to “winner.”
