A Song of Icy Hot and Fire: A Metaphor of Thrones

I write to you today from the comfort of my bed chambers and within walls of the tranquil manor I have established in the Northern reaches of the realm. I write to you because there have been whispers in the streets…

…whispers, of another call to arms.

Roughly 1 year ago I found myself shuffling through the mundane tasks of my ordinary routine, wondering if there was more to this life, or if I was destined to live out the rest of my days in unremarkable mediocrity.

What transpired next was not the result of some glaring enlightenment, nor was it a response to a life-changing event. I simply made a decision. It was a decision to break free of the bonds that held me captive in this dungeon of depression, uncertainty, and fear. And just like that, a dream was born and an insuppressible desire overcame me.

I would become the King of this empire.

I did not know at the time how I would achieve the title, nor what kind of sacrifices it would entail, but I knew that once I sat upon that throne and gazed down upon my domain, none of that would matter.

And so, Ser Daniel of Leesburg, Ser Anthony of Richmond, and I, Ser Guyelle of the North Naruto, began our crusade. Under the tutelage of the Hanson Brothers we forged a plan to train in the art of swordplay and warfare, raise armies, and tear through the countryside laying waste to all those territories that did not recognize me as the one true King of these lands.

The initial excitement at the prospect of taking the throne by force and becoming the most powerful man in the realm slowly faded, soon to be replaced by the harsh realization that this journey would not be as easy as I had originally envisioned. During the summer months the sun beat down upon our exposed backs and furiously scorched the earth with heat akin to that of a dragon’s breath. The battles were bloody and the marches seemed to last an eternity. Our armies suffered many injuries and casualties. Even Ser Anthony lost his leg in one particularly grisly battle and had to reluctantly remove himself from the campaign.

There were times when I began to question my desire. I contemplated halting my expedition and returning to the safety of my dull yet comfortable life on the farm. And yet, with the fleeting hope that somehow all these trials and tribulation would be worth it at the end, I pressed forth.

The war took me to the far corners of the world. I traveled to Flagstaff Arizona to learn and train from the legendary warriors, Maxwell of the South Sasuske(the soberest of humans but the fiercest of fighters) and the slight, mysterious assassin known only as Le Yeesh; To the seductive and musical streets of Nashville; To the eastern coast of the realm known as the Outer Banks, where the sun is unforgiving the roads are long and tedious. Once I traveled to Richmond and went to do battle alongside Anthony only a day after being wounded by a swarm of the legendary giant Wasps of Ashburn that reside under my back deck.

Months crawled by. Summer came and went. The brisk and cool air of Fall arrived. As we marched closer to my birthright, I caught sight of my reflection one morning in the calm autumn waters of a nearby stream. The face that stared back at me was not that of the soft and unsure boy who left home 4 months earlier with a dream and a sword. The face that now stared back belonged to a man whose body had become lean and battle-hardened, whose demeanor was calm and prepared, whose eyes were tired but focused.

Alas, on November 16^th I had finally arrived outside the gates of my destiny. My kingdom loomed before me, and I stood primed and ready to take my seat on the throne. Though the keep cast an immense shadow across my army, my skills in battle had been honed the previous 6 months with the toll of a thousand souls and so we stormed the gates with the discipline and confidence that had been forged from countless battles heretofore.

 The siege lasted only 2 hours and 35 minutes. I had won the crown.

The celebrations lasted days, the battle wounds healed, and I basked in satisfaction for some time. My thirst for power had been quenched. Truthfully, I did not want the crown, I only wanted to prove that I was capable of attaining it. After the war, I gave up my title, retired to country side, and soon once again found myself bored and anxious. Is this the end? Is this all that I am capable of? Am I now destined to live out the rest of my years in complacency? Can I die happy with that notion?

No, no, no, NO! I will make another decision!

I will take up arms once more! I will not just challenge the realm, but I will challenge the world! I do not know where the road shall take me, whether I shall finally satiate my desire to conquer and achieve all I set out for, or whether I shall suffer a far fall from grace only to be remembered as a fool and a failure, if remembered at all.

TAKE UP YOUR SWORDS MY BROTHERS AND RIDE WITH ME ONCE MORE!

Beyond that horizon is immortality…TAKE IT, IT’S YOURS.

 

Advance in Perfect Nonchalance

Drinking Beers and Training Like Animals.

It was a motto, a mantra, a mindset.  That was nearly two years ago, and life goes by quick.  What's changed in two years?  Anything?

Am I still drinking beers and training like an animal?  Let's break that question down separately:

Q1.  Am I still drinking beers?

A1:  The short answer is yes.  The longer answer is longer.  I certainly continue to drink beers, and on occasion, revisit my wilder days, reaching back to when I cut my teeth at JMU.  Very rarely do I actually enjoy that anymore.  I guess when you turn 27 and have been working for two years, your body craves rest and relaxation more than drunken nights and hungover mornings (or maybe full hungover days).  The beer I drink is far different as well.  I hardly ever drink light beer anymore, and instead prefer my microbrew/craft beers (preferably from Virginia).  Call me a beer snob, whatever.  But to really answer the beer question, we should stop beating around the bush: Beer is not Paleo-approved...

Q2:  Am I still training like an animal?

A2:  Let's see.  At the time of my most recent postings, I had just signed up for the Richmond Marathon as a way to keep myself busy, mentally and physically, or to self-medicate if you will.  I quickly learned that it's not easy to balance a full-time job, marathon training, and hot, humid Richmond afternoons, if you want to train effectively.  And, in reality, my body felt like shit.  My left hip hurt me constantly, I felt terrible running, and running was no longer enjoyable to me.  So I quit.  I gave up running for about 4 months.  I started lifting weights again.  I rehabbed my poor little torn pec, and was able to put up a solid 145 pounds on the bench press.  I was jacked -- at least I thought.  In reality, I got fat.  I was doing zero cardio, save for my 10 minute warm-up on the elliptical.  I had not found Paleo, and was still taking down far too many carbohydrates when it wasn't needed.  I got fat.  My girlfriend (You read that right.  She's back.  And I'm happy), told me I was gaining muscle.  In reality, she knew it:  I got fat.  Something had to change.

The magic of the needles.  The first step to getting back on track was getting my body (mainly my left hip) feeling better.  That's when I found dry needling -- and was able to fix my hip.  I started running again.  I also dabbled into the paleo diet for a while, which opened my eyes to the way I had been eating, and how un-necessary it was if I wasn't running 80 MPW during marathon training.  I slimmed down.  On a long weekend vacation to Charleston, sitting on the train, I decided that I was going to run the Richmond Marathon in 2013.  I wrote a loose training plan for how I would structure my build up, and how my mileage would progress from mid April through mid November.  I bought a new book and committed to a new marathon training program -- the Hansons Program.  I got back in shape.

In early July, I started training.  I was working out.  Doing mile repeats on the University of Richmond track at 6:30 in the morning in the stifling humidity.  My mileage was increasing.  Eight mile tempo runs at race pace were tough, but do-able.  I was getting fit.

That's when we really took "Drinking Beers and Training Like Animals" to heart.

On the Friday before leaving for our week-long beach trip to Nags Head, Kyle arrived after I'd returned from work.  You might remember Kyle.  We decided on an easy 7 mile run before our 15 mile long-run on Skyline drive the next day.  The run went well.  We celebrated being on vacation with a pasta dinner and a couple bottles of wine at my girlfriend's house (yes, her again).  That ultimately turned into many more beers, Cranium, rooftop pool sitting (with beers), and a 3 AM lift session in my apartment gym (with beers).

Waking up the next morning was tough.  And we still had 15 miles on the schedule, on Skyline drive.  That plan quickly changed, and we decided to stay local.  My typical long run route of Riverside Drive is not Skyline, but it's certainly not easy.  Remarkably, I felt great!  The humidity was down and a coolness was in the air, even on a mid September late morning.  I got through that run with nothing but tired legs.  I was optimistic.

Then I realized I'd lost my wallet the night before.  After searching everywhere, It was nowhere to be found.  I resigned myself to the fact that (on the eve of a week long vacation), I would be without my wallet, drivers license, check card, and credit card, in Nags Head.  Foreshadowing of what was to come?  Maybe.

Then I found my wallet.  I still have no idea where it was, but it had been turned into our apartment's management office.  I've probably never been happier in my life.

We decided that instead of waking up early and doing our 8 mile training run the next morning, we would sleep in a bit, and run in the evening after getting to Nags Head.  That plan was awesome, until I had 3 beers, wings, and watched the damn Redskins get their asses kicked that afternoon before my run.  Needless to say, all of that plus already tired legs made that run pretty difficult.  Also, Kyle pushed the pace.  Asshole.  It might have been then that I started to notice a tightness in my left groin.

Monday's run was mediocre at best, and I knew that Tuesday was my last set of mile repeats before switching to longer, strength based intervals.  Lucky for us, we found a track nearby.  What wasn't lucky for us was 20+ MPH winds smack in the middle of our workout.  I believe my goal time was 6:00/mile x 3 miles.  I believe my splits went something like this: (6:07, 6:32, 6:47).  I also felt increasing pain in my left hip.  I was in desperate need of a day off.  Luckily, Wednesday was just that.  I rested.

Thursday was another 8 mile tempo run.  After one mile, feeling pain in my left leg and absolutely suffering otherwise, I pulled the plug.  Another day of rest, try again tomorrow.  Tomorrow was no better.  I was limping on my left leg.  I didn't know what was going on.  I was pissed.

Fast-forward to the part that I realized that the pain in my left leg was probably a stress-fracture in my femur.  In my heart, I knew what it was.  But I took a week off to see if maybe it was just something muscular and it would go away.  Dry needling didn't help at all.  I was still in pain.  So I got a bone scan to confirm what I already knew:  stress fracture in my femur.

All the while, I had the Ragnar Relay fast approaching, which would serve as a nice break from the monotony of marathon training.  I was fit, I was running one of the longest legs, and I was ready to throw down with my team.  Well, not anymore!  I missed the race, and with the assistance of my trusty crutches, started my 8 week healing period. (And oh yeah, that obviously meant that I couldn't run the marathon in November).

And and heal I did.  I ran for the first time (ironically enough), on the eve of the Richmond marathon.  It was a mile of one minute jog, one minute walk on the treadmill.  It was not much, but it was something.  Slowly, I started building.  I ran 3 miles at once, no walk breaks.  I ran 4.  I ran 5.  I even ran 7.  I was also lifting weights again.  I started doing squats.  I was doing weighted lunges.  I was running tempo runs!  I was doing ALL of that, every day, with hardly any days off.  I was being an idiot.

On the morning of the Super Bowl (February 2nd I believe), I woke up with a throbbing in my leg.  The throb was familiar.  I had an 8 mile run on the schedule for the day (shorter than my typical Super Bowl 10 miler, but I was just building back up after my injury).  I wrestled with what I should do, given the familiar throb in my leg.  Against my desires, but going with my best judgement, I didn't run.  I took 3 days off.  I tested it out the next week and something just didn't feel right.

You guessed it.  RE-FRACTURED MY LEG. 

I kept lifting weights.  I kept riding the elliptical.  The pain didn't go away.  I downgraded to the bike.  The pain didn't go away.  I cut out all cardio, and kept lifting weights.  The pain didn't go away.  I finally realized that I needed to completely shut down, to let my leg heal.  So I got back on my crutch.  I stopped exercising.  I stopped walking at lunch.  I let myself heal.  And finally, I did.

I ran for the first time in late April, and now, coming full circle, I had the next Ragnar Relay less than 2 months away.  I was not going to miss out.  I built up slowly.  I didn't lift my legs.  I pushed the envelope, toeing the line of training too much.  But ultimately, I ran the race. 

I sit here today, over two weeks removed from Ragnar.  I took a week off, and rested.  I have now started training.  My leg is still sore from time to time, but I am running, and I am confident that I am healed.  I now have the opportunity to build appropriately, so that this time, I don't screw it up again. 

So am I still training like an animal?  That's debatable.  At 27 years old now, I like to think that I've learned some things.  I like to think that I've matured in the sense that I won't make those mistakes again.  I'm still pushing the envelope, and still making some bad decisions, but I hope that this has taught me that lesson.  DON'T BE AN IDIOT.

So now the goal is to turn my body into a machine.  I want to run, I want to lift.  I want to do pull-ups and push-ups.  I want to run a half marathon in a respectable time for a guy who weighs 140 and benches 150 for 3 sets of 8.  I want to avoid injury.

Drinking beers and training like an animal?  Maybe having a beer and training like a caveman.

Or maybe I'll just throw caution to the wind...

WE'RE BACK

so cue the music and run in time.

Daisy

The soundtrack to my life these days is Brand New's Daisy, their most recent release following the epic The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me.  The perfect blend of raw yet melodic dissonance is precisely the way that I am feeling in my heart and in my head.  Each morning, I listen to the first 6 songs on the way to work.  On the way home, I drive to the last 6, culminating with a bonus version of the third track on the album, "At The Bottom."  Fitting.

"Wait. I watched you through out your bouquet.  Now I think about you every day.  I'm alone now in my bed."

We are taking the easy way out.

On another note, the humidity continues to be stifling.

Self-Medicate

I signed up for the Richmond Marathon in November. Self-medicate, self-medicate, self-medicate. Trial of miles, miles of trials. Self-medicate, self-medicate, self-medicate. As endurance athletes, we treat our extreme manic depression with endorphins through high levels of endurance activity. Self-medicate, self-medicate, self medicate... This will be my 8th marathon.

Brita, Cartel, and Iron

These are the things that I've decided that I am very partial to at the moment:

1. Brita Water Pitchers
This item that I inherited from my old roommate upon my return to my old apartment is really hitting the spot right now.  First of all, we don't have an ice maker in our freezer, so we have to do it manually, with those little ice cube trays.  Pain in my ass.  Since I'm not motivated enough to make the ice cubes, I drink the water at the coldest temperature that it comes out of the tap -- not terribly cold.  Although I am too lazy to make ice cubes, I do like cold water, particularly after a run in the brutal Richmond heat.  My Brita not only provides me with excellently cold water, but clean as well.  Plus one for Brita.

2. Cycles by Cartel
This album, released by Cartel in 2009, is a redeeming effort following their previous effort, Cartel (which was terrible).  This album is the perfect soundtrack to an acute post-breakup life.  It has the right mix of upbeat pop songs to make me happy, while also blending in typical "emo/pop punk" lyrics that help poor sad souls (me) and highschool losers alike (not me) get over lost romances and romances that will never be.  Kudos to Cartel.

3. Lifting weights
Today I benched 100 pounds on my 4th set, 8 reps.  This is the first time I have benched a triple digit number in 11 months.  All in all, I am getting into that "obsessed with lifting weights" zone that I get into 2 to 3 times per  year.  It is my goal to continue lifting 3x per week through the rest of the summer, while I simultaneously increase my running volume.  The current loose goal is either the Richmond Marathon or Half Marathon in November.  I'm not concerned with a concrete goal or training plan at the moment, just trying to get back to fitness.

All three of these things are contributing to my overall goal of self improvement.  In times like these, it is important to go back to the drawing board and determine where improvements can be made.  This is a very epic time of my life.  I am starting my first real job as a physical therapist in 2 days, and am finally making the transition to adulthood.  Along with that comes a strong desire to be a better person.  Armed with my Britra, Cartel, and Iron, I'm confident I'm moving in the right direction.

Realizations

Approximately one month from now will mark the 1 year anniversary of The Legend of the Torn Pec -- my most epic weight room war story.  While I would love to say that the notorious event happened while I was attempting to bench a new one rep max of 280 pounds (just to be clear, I have never lifted, nor will I ever be able to lift 280 pounds), the reality is that it happened while on my third rep (of 5) lifting 155.  Mediocre at best.  As the bar crashed to my chest to a soundtrack of tearing muscle fibers, the weight room attendant quickly rushed to my assistance.  The details of our conversation are vague to me, but I do remember him trying to help me differentiate what muscle I had injured -- my response to him was a curt, "Dude. I'm in Physical Therapy school.  I'm pretty sure I know what happened."  It was clearly not a time for politeness.

Today, I returned for the first time to lift weights at Cary Street Gym, the site of the legend (disclaimer: that is only half true, I have lifted weights there recently but not in any structured manner).  My first lift of the day was, you guessed it, the bench press.  I have only just started bench pressing again in the last 3 weeks, and my weight has been low -- very low.  I have worked my way up from 65 pounds, and am now able to lift a whopping 95 pounds!  Unfortunately, this amount of weight does not do much to impress the "Alpha Male" weight lifters that inhabit the weight room at 4:30 -- prime lifting hour.

As I progressed through my 4 sets, starting with 75 pounds and finishing with 95, I began to notice various lifting duos glancing at this skinny kid lifting his cute 95 pounds.  And they were smirking at me.  Me.  In my head: "I fucking tore my pec the last time I was benching on this bench you asshole."  Me. In the weight room: *continues to lift cute 95 pounds while listening to my music in my headphones* Which brings me to my next realization.

Today was the very first day that I felt old working out at Cary Street Gym, a gym predominately used by VCU undergraduate students.  Maybe it is purely psychological since I have recently graduated and am begin to start my first real big boy job -- but today even the biggest meat head looking douche bag looked young to me.  It didn't bother me, per say, but it was an interesting realization to have.  Something that further amplifies the change that is taking place in my life right now.  While I plan to reap the benefits of my student privileges to use Cary Street Gym through the end of the summer, I will not be terribly upset when I have to start paying my 30 dollars a month to become a member of Gold's Gym, the land of the young professional meat head douche bags.

The last realization I had today happened when I was walking back into my god-forsaken, depressing apartment.  As I was walking into the front doors, a couple that I have frequently seen in the past was walking out.  Over the last couple of years, I always saw this couple sitting outside together smoking cigarettes.  Often times when I would see them, I would be leaving for or returning from a run.  The fitness elitist that I am, I would always spew internal verbal venom at their lack of initiative to partake in any sort of fitness, and the senseless practice of repeatedly smoking ciggys together.

Today, when I passed them, they were dressed in workout clothes, water bottles in hand, and bright exercise-esque shoes on their feet.  They looked healthy.  It made me realize that people can change.