Now He’s Just Messing With Me

One of the reasons I right a blog is to communicate with my trainer.  You see, he reads the posts so I always know I can drop some things in that he will eventually address when I see him at work.  I also write for my kids.

I’m all caught up with blogging!  Cheers!

This morning, after having read my recent posts about how excited I was for him to continue training me (and indeed to push with me beyond my weak limitations and transform me into something resembling him) he approached me in the halls.

Man, that was a long sentence, yet not a run-on kids.

“I signed you up for something,” he said.

I wondered inside if it was the gin of the month club.

“It’s a series of workouts that will just come to your inbox every day!” he said, his smile beaming brightly.  This I found odd since he never smiles at work.  He took the old teachers’ adage “Don’t let the kids see you smile until Christmas” and replaced Christmas with second coming of Christ.

My smile, however, slowly started to fade.  I see what he was doing and it makes sense; but for a moment I felt as though he was saying “Hey, buddy… You are beyond hope.  Clearly you’re not hitting my heights so here’s another plan that doesn’t involve my involvement.”

It didn’t feel much better when he added something about how these workouts are designed to get you off the couch and able to run a 5K.  Thought I already did that.  I’m confused.

Then he explained that the “5K” in question is a Spartan race.  Apparently there are a group of people around the world who enjoy torturing themselves.  The “baby” Spartan involves running 3-5 miles and leaping over fire.  Actual fire.  No shit.

OK, I guess he’s thinking higher of me and my ability than I realized.

He’s going to run a Spartan and he wants me to run it with him.  As a team even!

“Dude, this sounds pretty decent,” I said.

Then he broke it to me that he has no intention of running a Spartan.

“Those nuts are cut throat,” he said.  And he paused between “cut” and “throat” for emphasis.

Now I’m really confused.

“I just like their training ritual.”

Still unsure of whether he actually meant that or was just trying to pass me off to an automated trainer I asked a few more questions.  Topping them was the natural follow-up:

“So, if I’m not running a Spartan, what am I doing?”

“Easy,” he said, “You’re running a Tough Mudder with me in the fall.”

Holy hell.  A tough mudder is like a Spartan on crack.  He’s run three of them.  They actually electrocute you in these races.  I’m literally not even joking.  They wait until you’re within striking distance of the finish line and tie you down so they can strap a live wire with 220 volts of juice right to your scrotum which, covered in mud, acts as the perfect conduit for tears falling straight into the pit of hell.  After a moment, they pick up your lifeless, infertile body and toss it over the finish line.  But you get a shirt.

“You think I can run one of those?” I asked.

I’m touched.  He believes in me.

Or he’s just messing with me.

I thought about this more and more all day.

After dinner I texted him.  “Can’t figure out what plan to do from this Spartan thing…”  He responded that I should do something a little different tonight.

“Do a 15 minute plank.”  He told me it was OK to stop the timer but that I had to get a solid 15 minutes of plank time.

30 minutes later as I lay lifeless on my kitchen floor, my core long since combusted, my dreams of attaining the ideal male form crushed by a beast of a trainer, I wondered if he was sitting at home laughing at me.

Actually, he was at home doing an insane workout (and probably laughing at me).

After I showered and got ready for bed, I texted him to tell him I had finished.

“Good job, man,” he said.  “Should’ve started you at 8 minutes.  15 is badass.  It’s what I did last time I tried that one.”

I am so very, very confused.

Couldn’t he have just shared some of his HGH and called it a day?  I’m totally kidding as he’s a bona fide naturalist.

I suppose tomorrow we’ll discover what bizarre movements he “believes in me” that I can do.  If I ever actually run a tough mudder I just hope I don’t bring down his team.


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