And so we begin ...

Some time ago, while on the stationary bike on the gym, I started wondering how much I weighed when I was racing really, really, well (39:20 10K PR, 18:36 5K) I figured I've gained 10 pounds since then, most of it in the past 5 years. Ten pounds X 16 oz./pound X 28 grams/oz. (don't ask how I remembered that) X 9 calories per gram of fat yields 40,320 extra calories I've neglected to burn off. Divide by 100 calories per (light) beer and it's roughly 400 beers*. Actually, it's 403.2 but I didn't think "403.2 Beers" had a good flow (so to speak) and I think I burned up the extra 3.2 while doing the math (I had to figure it right then, right there, on the bike, sans calculator)

I had originally thought I could burn them off at a nice one a day rate (using the industry standard of 100 calories per mile: run three miles in the morning, and only drink two beers at night yields a net loss of one). Throw in some marathon and triathlon training and it becomes a walk in the park.

Not so fast, sis.

Miss a run, have a couple extra on Wednesday night, and bang zoom, you're back into a deficit.

It's ten weeks 'til the Distance Run, five months until the Philly Marathon (a long shot, that) and six months left in the year.


Wish me luck

Father's Day 2005

I celebrated the end of this Father's Day, the same way I celebrated the end of my first day as a father, November 19, 1999.

I sat out on my front porch with a bottle of Chimay Blue (aka, Grande Réserve) and a Punch Grand Cru cigar. That was the beginning of the slow shallow downward spiral from stud triathlete (on first glance anyway) to the slow, fat, pale old man I am now.



Rebuilding the Monster

I need to rebuild my Monster.
He’s in need of some repair.
His belly’s gotten a little soft. He’s lost a little hair.
I haven’t used him much lately,
I haven’t had anyone to scare.

My Monster needs a little work.
He should get back to the gym.
He’s not as fast as he used to be.
His arms are getting thin.
He definitely should watch what he eats -
The fat and sugar are just killing him.

I will get him an outfit,
He certainly deserves a new suit.
Something that looks dignified; not clownish or cute.
He’s much more frightening in his rags,
But he is still my friend, the poor brute.