“It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.”
~ A League of Their Own
A lot of people joke about their trainers “trying to kill them” during their workouts. I am here to tell you, that sentiment is not always a joking matter. For the past six weeks I have been on a minimum of two hours daily workout regime. I wanted to see what would happen, or what would change in someone’s life if they actually had the time (and energy) to dedicate to moving their body. Ideally, that’s a story I’d like to sell, so I’m not going to get into the specifics of it. I will say, though, that after six or so weeks of pushing myself to the max, the energy part of the equation starts to wain.
Anyway, I’m not here to whine about my workouts. The truth of the matter is, more often than not, they suck. I train hard, I train serious; that’s what it takes to get the results I’m after. The other afternoon, however, something bizarre happened to me. I was alone in the gym pushing through what just might have been the most difficult heavy leg program trainer boy has ever concocted while he was upstairs watching soccer and eating (typical!), when I felt myself start to fill with rage. So much for that whole endorphin theory, eh?
I often kid about experiencing “rage blackouts” like Summer Roberts from The OC, but this was the real deal. It felt like hot lava was boiling up in my veins—even hotter still than my burning leg muscles—and all of the sudden I found myself grunting my way through sets like a muscle head trying to impress the ladies at Venice Beach. I was alone, and frankly my grunting is probably even more unattractive than theirs, so thank goodness for that!
It was then that the strangest thing happened: I found myself clapping. Loudly. To or at myself, I’m not sure? And then I would just pace back and forth shaking my head in disbelief that this was happening. I wish I had video because I must have looked schizophrenic. Needless to say, it was a scene.
I’ve never been the cheerleader type. In fact, I get thrown off when praise comes my way when I’m trying to work. Apparently though, when I reach my true fitness breaking point, I give myself a brief standing ovation, shake my head in dismay and get back to it. It’s good to know that I won’t actually go postal or pass out, I guess?
It’s supposed to be hard, I get that. I respect that. But I swear to the powers that be that lately, my trainer is trying to kill me.
Have you ever found yourself doing strange things to make it through your workout? What keeps you going when all you want to do is quit?