The crappiness of the weekend workout is simple, my week of work is over, why do I have to do more? Everyone around me is done and having fun, why do I still have to do stuff?
But, Bomber, these people have real jobs and you only have to workout an hour a day, how does that even compare? Well, what I am doing is a real job. For starters, I make money from this blog - in fact, my last week's earnings bought me a breakfast combo from McDonald's. And, secondly, this whole thing acts as a sort of internship where I am getting the "experience" necessary to get a lucrative, high-paying job...stripping. All I need is a stripper name and a song. They should probably play off eachother. Suggestions would be appreciated in the comments section. I'm thinking 'Bang Bang Bomber', where my thong has a gun on it, and I fire it towards the crowd during the various gunshots in any DMX track.*
After spending two hours, burrito-wrapped in my Grandma's blanket on the beach, re-learning grade 8 geo's concept of the moderating effect of water, bitterly attempting to have a beach-day, I returned home to hit the pavement in search of a new best 5K time. This time I had headphones that you do not buy on an airplane, so that alone put me in good stead to beat my previous best, 22:47. I sat in my basement, eyes ablaze with a firey determination that would have scared the caked-on poutine out of Maurice Richard's bowels, slowly and meticulously lacing my sneakers up, blood coursing through my race-track of a circulatory system, faster, and faster, all the while, Eye of the Tiger, blasted through my ear drums, starting to build, starting to hit its fever pitch. I bolted up my steps like they led to the Philadephia Museum of Art**, making my way to the starting line, a busy, busling Queen street.
Rural Alberta Advantage crackled, and danced through my headphones, into my eardrums, hypnotically demanding my hypothalamus send torrential waves of world-conquering hormonal warriors throughout my body. I made it to the half-way point - the LCBO - at 10:37. If I could keep it up, I would crush my time like a beer-can on oh so many Nascar fans' foreheads. For this, I needed to bring out the big audio guns, the one thing that can squeeze every ounce of hormone-juiced ability out of me - Big Shiny Tunes 2. Yeah, yeah, I know, but we are chained to the nostalgia of our old musical choices; in my best year of hockey, this was the only album we listened to and it brings back all of those teeth-chattering, white-knuckled, heart-pumping, back-hand top-corner moments of pure adrenaline.
Prodigy, 'Breathe', and Blur, 'Song 2', squeezed down on my hypothalumus like a 13-year old touching a tit for the first time. I was about one km out and, 'Semi-Charmed Life', came on - this wouldn't cut it. I frantically punched down on the skip button finding the one song that could get it done: Marilyn Manson, "Beautiful People".
You can't see the forest for the trees, And you can't smell your own, And on your kn - bam! crossed the finish line. Time?
21:55
The scene was filled with jubilation, joy, contentment, pride, and one scared older lady with her dog who had no idea she was walking through my finish line. The sweet, sweet, taste of victory -- tastes like rum and sounds like whatever the fine ladies at Jilly's prefer to dance to.
I woke up late on Saturday, realizing I had to get home for Easter by dinner-time. I quickly ate, summoned up the hangover courage, and plowed through Shoulders, Triceps, and Arms. I clocked out, my work for the weekend was over.
Highlights: Last 500 metres, I came upon a crowd of 6 people blocking the sidewalk, as I popped onto the street, a chunk of phlegmy awfulness shot into my mouth, as I ran by the crowd I attempted to get rid of this pesky disturbance powerfully propelling half of it out of my mouth until it got snagged by the other half, causing it to fling back into my face. So, yeah, I spit on my face in front of a bunch of people.
State of Mind: I will go into more detail in the next blog about where I am now, but, in short, I am at a point where I enjoy working out, it has become as an integral to a good day as a morning poop, shower, great dinner, and beating Millard in NHL 10.
Rating: 5K: P90X + S, T & A: P75X = P82.5X
* And, yes, there was a Simpsons' episode that had a grown-up Bart stripping under the name, 'Bang Bang Bart', but, he did not have a gun on his thong or seamlessly choreograph his gun-shot-thrusts to one of the greatest poets of our generation, DMX.
** The building 'Rocky' ran too.
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