Hitting a Wall

I should preface this post by saying that I didn't literally hit a wall. That is, unless you count using my legs to climb up the mirrored wall for a handstand in last week's Cardio Sculpt. Or if you count the times I slam my fist against the treadmill whenever I finish a running segment of my Couch to 5K program. The subject of this post, however, is strictly a metaphorical wall.


Last November, in the meager beginning of my exercise epiphany, I flew to Portland, Oregon for Thanksgiving. My sister Kim took advantage of my new found zeal for healthy living and suggested we go for a quick run downtown. I took one look at my sad excuse for exercise attire (this was definitely in the pre-sports bra and pre-spandexy gym pants days) and then took another look at the rain/leaf covered pavement, and grimaced. But Kim is very difficult to say no to. Not unlike my gym instructor, Kim has her own kind of infectious energy that you sometimes find yourself swept up in. We started running and I was fine for a good forty seconds before I felt like my lungs were about to cave in. I slowed down, ready to stop, when Kim bellowed out "That pain you're feeling, it's all the fear leaving your body. Just keep going, Angie. Let the fear out!" When you're 100 pounds overweight and you're running on wet pavement with heavy legs and unpredictably wobbly ankles, and then you hear a petite, athletic chick say that kind of Biggest Loser psycho babble sentence, your eyes will start to zero in on all the rocks within arm's reach.

Now, nearly a year later, I've been thinking about that quote a lot lately. It does have some element of truth to it; although I could never say it to someone while keeping a straight face. I have become much more aware of the moments in class when I choose to rest, or stop when I feel my muscles screaming out in pain. Something will happen, like I'll try to catch my breath in a dance, or my thighs will start burning while I'm running on the bike, or everything will just be too much all at once. So I will stop, or I'll slow down, or lower the resistance. The relief from these moments is temporary before I become frustrated by chumping out instead of conquering the moment.

This was definitely the case last night in Kardio Karate. Kardio Karate is pretty much exactly how it sounds. It's a series of punches and kicks (and squats) that move at a fast enough pace to keep your heart rate up for an hour of cardiovascular exercise (ten minutes into class I looked up at the clock and was like, "SERIOUSLY!? THAT'S ALL YOU GOT FOR ME!?"). I actually think that this class was much more physically challenging than HIIT (although I am certain that I will be eating my words in the near future). For one thing, I spent the majority of this class completely confused by the fast paced routine (even though Chrissy repeated it at least 100 times). I always assumed that because I'm pretty good at following the instructions of a recipe, I'd probably be alright following the instructions of a Chrissy. This is not so, or at least not for now. Secondly, I am not a terribly coordinated person. I know that this is a strange admission from someone who loves Zumba as much as I do; however, Kardio Karate is definitely not a Zumba class. There's no personal rhythm that you can add to a jab and you can't improvise a hook. The movements are structured, swift, and powerful. My movements are soft, wobbly, and unbalanced. At one point in the class we did Karate Kid kicks (so named by my friend Mary) and each time I jumped and kicked, I would land and wobble a bit before regrouping. It felt like every one of my lackluster punches or kicks were hitting invisible walls of my own making.

 Throughout the class I would check out my reflection in the mirror, and even more so when I stripped off my top shirt and finished the class in my tank top. Because I have serious issues with my arms (and about half of my female readers just nodded in agreement), I do not strip down lightly. It is a sign that my physical exertion has won the battle against my physical insecurity. Last night's class was the first time I ever stripped down to a tank in the main class room, though. It's a very scary thing to look over at your bared body parts moving around in wall to wall mirrors. What I saw was the physical embodiment of my internal struggle. As much as I want to be like the Karate Kid in this class, my body still resembles Kung Fu Panda. I think that what bothers me the most about the times when I have to stop, slow down, catch my breath, or lower the resistance is that I feel like there's this healthier version of myself trying to bust out and keep up with the Chrissys, the Kims, the Jessies, and Marys in my life. When I hit my walls, I feel like the current unhealthy version of myself is saying, "That's OK. Just stay here with me, it's what you know".  And there's a part of me that would love to just stop right now and be content with the weight that I've lost. This blog could just be about a Fat Girl's experience with working out. The Fat Girl would not have to actually change, per se, but just tell a story about the interesting characters and awkward moments that happen in a gym.

The problem with this is that on Sunday afternoon I actually climbed over my first wall (figuratively). As I mentioned in an earlier post, I've been doing the Couch to 5K running program. I've been progressing quite well because the running segments were only 3, 5, and then 8 minutes at a time. On Sunday, I was supposed to run for 20 minutes in a row. I have never ever run for 20 minutes in a row, not even when I was at a healthy weight (at like, age 7). In my mind I kept hearing "Can't. Can't. Can't" and then "Must. Must. Must". I went to the gym, climbed onto the treadmill, and put one foot in front of the other. I had already figured out that 20 minutes running=five songs on the ipod. After each song I told myself, "OK, one down _____ to go". But at some point I stopped reminding myself to just keep going. I was going. And when "Shake it Out" came on, I could see the end just ahead of me. And I started to cry. Again, let me just say that I do not recommend crying while running. The noises that escaped my throat were borderline Wookie-ish. Finishing that 20 minute run was amazing and awful all at once. It was awful because absolutely no one was there to see what I had done. I wanted to hug the first familiar face I could find but it was 1 o'clock on a Sunday, so the gym was pretty much dead. In retrospect, I think it's better that it happened this way. My accomplishments are mine, after all. Just as my walls are mine, too ( I relished in my post-run glow for a good thirty minutes before I had to plaster it all over Facebook).

In light of my 20 minute run, I have to start pushing myself more in the other classes. I am at the point in this journey ( blech, journey's bad enough so I'll refrain from using the word 'crossroads') where I need to just start climbing the damn walls, already. So yeah, in the end I guess Kim was right about "just letting the fear leave my body" because this is definitely a 'mind over matter' matter. I'm just really glad that none of the instructors say that kind of cheesy crap, though. They keep their encouragements simple, straightforward, and usually summed up in these four words: You can do this.