Let's be clear - NO SWEATING

Trainer: “What’s that?”


Me: “Where?”

Trainer: “There, on your shirt.”

Looking down I saw a few dark spots and my mind raced through the last hour trying to remember if I’d spilled anything down the front of me. There was that water bottle that “leaked” when my arms were to weak to hold it to my mouth. Maybe I drooled when gasping for air. Nope. It was none of that. Looking pretty smug, my trainer insisted it was …SWEAT.

I hate to sweat and do just about anything to avoid it. It’s been my number one rule for working out – no sweating. First of all, I don’t like to look all gooey, and second, people tend to stink when they sweat. I’ll have none of that, thank you very much. People tell me it’s probably been one of the reasons I don’t see much progress in my body transformation, because if I’m not sweating, I’m probably not working that hard. Hmmmpf. In the past when things got tough enough to cause sweating, I quit. But, alas, in the battle to gain back control of my flabby legs, I completely forgot about my no-sweating rule. So there I was, standing in the middle of the gym, with a dark band of sweat stretching from one side of my stomach to the other. Now, that brings up an entirely different set of problems, the least of which being my stomach sticks out far enough just at the middle for the shirt to absorb the beads of sweat. Seems I’ve been able to hide my middle area to the point I completely forgot about it.

(Just to be clear, this is not me.)

Before you think I’ve turned into a sweat hog, it’s important to note that it’s 106 degrees outside. At home, as soon as the inside temperature rises to 78 degrees, I’m all over that thermostat. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why I won’t tolerate 80 degrees in the house, but I’ll suffer through 106 in a gym full of stinky bodies, while sweating myself, and adding insult to injury, paying to do so. Being publicly ridiculed for wearing a bathing suit on a beach in Belize is apparently more motivation than keeping my no-sweat rule.

On the floor for the next set of fire hydrants (okay, I’m not sure that’s what they’re called), I take a couple extra seconds to tuck my shirt into the top of my pants.

Trainer: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Tucking in my shirt.”

Trainer: “Why?”

Me: “So you don’t see my fat, sweaty belly.”

I’m not sure, but I think I heard him say something like, “Oh my God,” and although he hid it well he might have rolled his eyes.

Would everyone please just turn around?

My war against my thighs (them currently in the lead) is slowly progressing. I've been pretty good about showing up at my personal training sessions, walking/running, and re-learning to ride a bike. Attack. Conquer. Move on. Next up? Swimming. Almost as scary as riding a bike with an additional complication which I'll explain below. 

We have a pool in our backyard and I've spent hour-upon-hour in it. If you want to get technical, I haven't actually been "in it." More like "on it" as I float on a raft with my feet dangling over the sides. See, I don't like to get my face wet. Not even in the shower. This could be a problem for the swimming lesson. Every time I even think about putting my face in the water I get the heebie jeebies. My kids have made fun of me for years because they think it's about the hair. Truth be known that's part of it. I don't look very good with soaking wet, flat hair. I also don't wear my hair in a ponytail, nor is it short enough to not worry about it. Maybe my hair is the problem? 

Since I was about to brave the waters for a little swim workout (it's important to note here that our pool is a whopping 7 yards in length; hardly an Olympic distance, but it's filled with water so that should be enough to see if I'd sink or swim). As soon as I'd made up my mind up to actually do it, there was a quick trip to the sporting goods store for protective hair and eye gear. In the swim aisle I stood there looking at dozens of options for caps and goggles. Finally, I decided based on price … the most expensive. The reasoning was if $9.99 goggles worked, the $29.99 should work better. The cap, basic white with little bubble things on it, and clear goggles with a little bit of marine blue on the sides. I thought I'd chosen well. As soon as I left the store I took a pic and sent it to my daughter. Who responded with, "LOL what ARE THOSE?" I'm three miles from the pool and I've already had my first failure. A fashion one, but a failure none-the-less. 

My first swimming fashion failure. 

Home, I shoved my hair under the cap and attached the goggles to my face. Little straps fell to each side, so I pulled them — my eyes immediately pulled away from the sockets. Are they supposed to do that? Half my cheek was sucked into the plastic frame, but it did feel airtight. In the water, face down, I opened my eyes and could see! Wow, all these years and it was neither my face nor my hair that shorelined me, it was getting water in my eyes I didn't like. Okay, maybe I can do this. Back and forth I swam, gasping for air, but I could still swim. Dear daughter stopped by to see with her own eyes, and snapped a couple of photos that instantly made it to Facebook.

Me racing toward the raft, where I'm most comfortable.

Proud of myself, I sent my trainer a message. He responded he'd be happy to have me join him at his training pool where, although not a swim instructor, he could give me a few pointers. Cool. Except wait — I haven't been seen in a swimsuit by anyone other than my immediate family in oh, about 15 years. Uggg. Now what? I tried to cancel by "letting him off the hook" but he wasn't having any of that. Crap. I needed to figure this out. A drawer full of suits, all styles and sizes... would there be one, just one that was appropriate for this type of thing? Gawd. Sick to my stomach I found one lone, solid black, fairly new suit I must have purchased in a moment of depression. This could work. 

The day of the lesson nerves consumed me all day. But, I showed up.

The swim facility is a huge, medically based fitness center and after getting a pass, the desk clerk pointed me toward the locker room. Period. I was like a lost puppy. There are some things to know if you're going to swim in a public facility. In case you haven't spent much time in a spa or fitness facility with a pool, in many areas clothing is "optional." Now, for some of you this is not a problem. Apparently. I have spent my share of time in spa settings and have come to expect to see a variety of body shapes and sizes "covered" with a scanty towel, around the waist, at best. (For the record, I'd just like to say that just because you can, doesn't mean you should.) Now I'm really scared. I found a woman actually older than me and finally get the nerve to ask her about the lockers. I did this for two reasons. First, because she seemed to know her way around the place, and second, because she was, well, older than me. Anyone glancing our way would certainly see this. I hoped. It also seems you're supposed to bring your own lock. But, I was lockless. Frustrated with not knowing what I was doing, I trekked back to the front desk where the clerk offered to hold my personal belongings under the desk. Back inside it was time to change and I realized I'd forgotten one other critical piece of equipment: a portable pop-up screen. Why didn't i think about this before? I could hide behind it while changing (50% because I'm shy, and the other 50% because other people are not shy). 

Twenty minutes later I'm suited up and head to the pool, only to read the sign that says you must shower first. I didn't see any showers. Maybe because I was afraid to look any where other than my feet … back to the front desk to ask about the showers. Surely, my trainer has given up and gone home. Nope. He's a stubborn cookie. 

Thirty minutes later, I'm suited, showered, and at the edge of the pool firmly wrapped in a towel. Uggg. Taking off the towel to get into the water is the WORST PART. 

<NO PHOTO HERE>

My trainer had already been given explicit instructions: he must turn his back to me when I get into the water and also ask everyone in the pool to do the same. He thinks I'm crazy but he's a kind soul and tells me it's not a big deal. (My getting into the pool — this just after he refused to ask the others to turn around per my request.) 

The pool is a lot bigger than ours at home, and the other end seemed miles away. While I'm sure he was silently laughing at my goggles, he told me to "go" which I did. Up and back. He says, "This won't be as bad as I thought," we laughed and spent the next 50 minutes working on my technique. At one point he had me holding on to a little kiddie paddle kicking thingy and kicking across the pool. His movement solid and straightforward, mine... all wiggly. This, he says, is because we need to do more work on my core. Which I plan on doing as soon as everyone leaves to go home so I can climb out of the pool.  Swimming is going to be a lot harder than riding a bike. 

Snacks not included?????

I've learned something about riding a bike: it's easier staying upright if you're moving. It's apparently much harder trying to balance while sitting still. That was the major mistake I made the first try. Paralyzed by fear of tipping over, I tipped over while standing still. Getting ready for my second try, my daughter loaned me the following: (Just call me second hand Rose.)

Bike.
This bike has been "around the block" a time or two. It's a decent starter road bike and at least three other newbies have started with this bike, before investing in something equivalent to a BMW auto, (at about the same cost.) It came equipped with cages on the peddles and those scare me a little. Since getting my flip flop tangled up and tipping over, I want my feet free-wheeling so I can get my foot on the ground as fast as possible. She wanted me to use them, I wanted them off. We compromised. Right foot in the cage, left foot no cage. I just need to remember to fall to the left.

Shoes. 

Not sure when tennis shoes weren't good enough for bike riding, but apparently now you need a special shoe for the peddles. They feel sort of like football cleats and my initial concern (after worrying about spiking the wooden floors) was tipping over and twisting my ankle before I even got outside. But, I managed to do both without injury to floor or self.

Snacks. 

Okay, this was an honest mistake. My racing friends always talk about gels, and nutrition bars, and staying hydrated while biking. I love snacks (can't get to the stop sign down our street without breaking into the Cheetos) and if biking calls for snacks, then this is a sport I'll love. Imagine my disappointment when my daughter thought I had lost my mind asking about Cliff bars when we were only going around the block. New goal: Ride farther so I can justify taking treats. Or, maybe pasta and a solar cooker?

Helmet.
Now, the helmet is a problem all on its own. What the heck? How are you supposed to look cute wearing one of those things? Again, these weren't necessary 50 years ago. You just learned to fall and break your arm or something else besides cracking your head. I am very picky about my hair. I love my hair stylist and I'm in her chair every other Friday. I'd change my gyno before I'd change my hair stylist. So, I'm scared to death she'll see me this week and notice the ridge (i.e. helmet hair) around my head. She notices these things. It won't be pretty. Please pray for me.

Gear in place and ready to ride, my daughter helped me balance and get my foot in place for the most leverage on the push down. So far, we're off to a good start. As soon as I felt the wheel start to turn I yelled at her, "Don't let go, don't let go." She ran with me for a couple of steps, (picture a parent trying to teach a six-year-old for the first time") and she held onto the bike for added stability. As soon as she saw I was moving she did what any good instructor would do, she let go. Holy cow I was riding. Two house lengths before I freaked out and tested the brakes. Everything worked just like it was supposed to. With my feet on the ground I turned around and headed back shouting, "I did it. I did it!" A few more practices rounds and I was ready to take off on our first ride … all the way around the block. (It's a big block.)

Our friend, Darlene, joined us and there we were … My daughter cute as ever, Darlene in her professional biking attire, and me, in my workout clothes and Channel sunglasses. Darlene is fairly new to biking too but she's caught on pretty quickly. I presume the racing jersey and aerodynamic sunglasses have played an important role in how much she's improved. By nightfall I'd be shopping online.

Missing but also important: padded shorts. Funny, I don't remember so many "things" hurting when I rode as a kid. But now at age 57 I'd rather some "things" not hurt. So since this virgin ride I now have the most expensive pair of black shorts I've ever bought. The good news is, that although they are skin tight, they hold in all the soft, jiggly parts and with the extra padding in the seat, I look rather awesome. I might start wearing them to the grocery store, or out to see a movie with friends.

Let it go!

Trainer: "Let go!"

Me: "NO."

Trainer: "Let go!"

Me: "I can't."

Trainer: "Yes you can, let go!"

While this could have very easily been a battle about me letting go of his throat, it was actually my first day on the treadmill. Starting off at a reasonable walking pace, my trainer wanted to see my running form. Him kicking up the speed a couple of notches, me grabbing onto the side bars for dear life, it was a battle for control. See, I have a "thing" about falling flat on my face on top of a road moving fast beneath me. Every time I'd start to let go I had a little panic attack, thinking about creating a scene fit for a comedic movie. I'll do just about anything to avoid public humiliation so I begged, "Slow it down, slow it down and I'll let go." I was sort of like the kid who promises to not run away if you let him up. 

After finding a pace I could tolerate, I let go with one hand. He smiled as if to say, "Seriously, that's all you can do?" Yep. He wasn't buying it. Finally I took both hands off the bars and found a comfortable rythymn. There was one catch though... I couldn't take my eyes of the dashboard. It was if I found my balance there and even the slightest glance right or left would have sent me tumbling. 

Trainer: "What are you looking at?"

Me: "Shut up. I'm running." Well, I only said that in my mind because I actually like and respect this kid and his abilities as both athlete and instructor. When he signed up for this job, he probably thought he'd be working out strong, world-class athletes. Instead, he has clients like me..ridiculously weak and out of shape...so I keep my smart comments to myself ... in a stare down with the red numbers on the dash.

As if to taunt me, the computerized equipment reflected I was burning 197 calories per hour. PER HOUR? I'm about to kill myself either by heart attack, or trip and splat, and I'm only burning 197 calories per hour! When I stop I'm going to shake this machine a little and see if I can get it working again. Like a vending machine that keeps your money and doesn't deliver the PayDay candy bar, the treadmill takes all your sweat and delivers back a piddly .15 pounds and that's if you can go for the full hour. Based on my calculations, I burned exactly .025 of an ounce. Ridiculous. 

After a few minutes he gives me what I need most: encouragement. He makes a comment about me having pretty good running form and he's not sure where I learned that, unless it's some natural athlete recessive gene. At first I thought he said "naturally pathetic" and that's what happens after years of having your mind tell you what you can't do. It occurs to me that my biggest obstacle will be just that — what I believe I cannot do. So, the conditioning and training will involve more than my old, tired body. It will require I retrain my mind into believing I can do more. I'll try not to confuse that with eat more.

Let's make ice cream instead

It’s been three weeks and I’m already discouraged. Still sore and bruised, my "bike disaster" injured knee won’t let me workout the way I want to. Okay, let me rephrase that – I’m already working out harder than I want to but my knee won’t let me workout the way I should. So, I’m not ready to show off yet and frankly, patience has never been one of my virtues.

During the session, my trainer pays close attention to detail and tries his best to make sure I’m developing core strength. I’m so accustomed to using my arms and legs and back that it’s like my “core” has been on vacation. Nice life my core has had, but vacation time is over. It’s time it starts pulling its own weight and gives my extremities a little break. Seems I tense my shoulders and sway my back out of habit, but I’m slowly learning how to use the right muscles. It takes a lot of repetition but he keeps on eye on my form, quickly pointing out any errors. It’s not as easy as it might seem.

On the floor, we’re back to the “lift and squeeze” routine when I hear, “Everything should be turned on.” Immediately I think to myself, “What kind of a place is this?” when I feel a little poke in my side. Realizing he’s talking about my core I’m like, whew, because there is not one thing that’s a turn-on about this workout. Nothing. Nada. Zip. You know what would be a turn-on right now? If the weighted ball I raise high above my head then slam to the floor was instead the Play and Freeze ball — you know, the one that makes ice cream! I’m pretty sure that would make me work just a little harder and I might actually like it.

But, the little jab is a good reminder I’m working (as opposed to thinking about making ice cream) on my total body’s fitness, not just my legs or abs – the areas I’m most worried about. I tightened my stomach muscles as much as I could while secretly wishing he’d sprain his finger as he pushed against such rock-solid mass. Just writing this almost made me laugh out loud. I settled for his reassurance that I’m “getting it” and I guess the finger sprain will have to wait for another day. In the meantime, I think there might be something to this ice cream freezer ball as a motivator idea, so I plan on talking to my trainer to see what he thinks. Just as soon as he gets his finger out of my ribs.

My five seconds as a TRYAthlete

Not to be confused with TriAthlete, I am a TryAthlete. After spending three days with my daughter on a road trip to watch her and a couple of her friends participate in an Olympic Triathlon (including her first ocean swim), I got this crazy notion that with some training, I might be able to do the mini-mini-mini sprint triathlon in the fall. I mean really how hard could a 400-yard swim, 8.5-mile bike ride, and 2.9-mile run be? I could dog-paddle the swim and walk the last two miles and still finish, right? The bike part would be ... easy. 

So the weekend my daughter was off on another adventure (climbing Mt. Whitney --the highest point in the US-- with her friends, including my trainer) I decided to take her bike for a little test drive. Never mind that I was wearing flip flops and shorts, and haven't been on a bike in something like 30 (well maybe 40) years. I remember riding my own bike all those years ago, even without hands. I was sure I could do this, even though that childhood bike was a 20" girls style (no bar) Schwinn. It might have even had a basket, but that image isn't (thankfully) really clear. 

After the first attempt to mount the bike, I was sure the seat was too high, so my husband adjusted it to the the lowest position. I wanted to be as low to the ground as possible. Our house is elevated with a slopping driveway, and I was at least smart enough to realize it wouldn't be a good idea to start from the top. I had a sensation of speeding out of control down the ramp, straight into the street, where I'd promptly be hit by a car. I walked the bike down to the street (so far so good) and right in front of our house, slowly climbed atop. My husband, standing next to me, made sure I had my flip-flopped-clad feet squarely on the pedals before letting go. With my right foot, I pushed down on the pedal. Oh crap. The wheel turned suddenly to the left and before I could make a complete motion with my left foot, I was on the ground! What seemed like about five minutes in slow motion, actually happened in less than five seconds. As I slowly got up my husband suggested we try this again .... after dark, where no one would see me fall! Which would have been hilarious had I not actually been hurt. My injuries were as follows: cut and bleeding toe; cut and bleeding heel; strained ankle; bruised and swollen knee (both inside and out); sore hip, wrist, elbow and low back. Now, you're probably asking how on earth could I have gotten so hurt by basically sitting up and falling straight over? Honestly, I have no idea, but it is frustrating. Days of working out to get me to this point and I undo everything in a split second! 

As my daughter has just finished her 18-hour mountain hike, I texted her to share my biking experience (after reassuring her it was her old bike, not her new race bike.) She felt badly I got hurt, but she was thrilled I actually got on the bike. Not so thrilled about the flip flops.  I tell her I'm done being a TRYAthlete, as there's no way I'll be ready for the mini-mini-mini sprint in the next three months, but she has tons of confidence I can do it. 

Think they'll notice the training wheels? 

This is squeezed, dang it!

Well, so far I've survived my first steps toward fitness: the trauma of being seen by other people, getting myself shoved into a sports bra (much like an obstacle course,) and the humiliation of not understanding the moves (left leg right arm, or right leg right arm?) 

My lovely "beast" of a daughter has kindly dumbed down her workout routine in order to improve morale, (not hers, mine.) She's strong and flexible and capable (did I mention she's also beautiful?) and is my biggest cheerleader in my quest for all things firmer, especially my legs. Well, that's not exactly true -- she's my biggest supporter to a better, healthier, more active lifestyle. She has stayed with me for the first few days, probably just to make sure I'm actually going. We warm up and stretch on the floor, and I watch her like a hawk so I'm able to mimic her every move. This observation is so intense that I find myself adjusting my towel to be in place just like hers! "MOM!" she says ... and we fall to our sides in laughter. 

My trainer (who is also her trainer) calls out two sets of instructions ... one for her (highly-skilled) and another (modified) set for me. It goes something like, "Taylor, stand on one leg, pick up that 20 lb weight, and bend forward at the hip, keeping your body in one straight line ... do that eight times then switch legs. There is a name for this move, but like most of them, I can't remember. Karen, do the same thing, but don't use any weights." Watching my daughter effortlessly bend, stand and bend again looks pretty easy. She makes me want to try harder. I stand on one leg, reach our my arms and wobble like I'm on a tightrope. Looking over my shoulder to see if anyone sees me jerking like I'm experiencing an electrical shock, I try again. Fail. From behind I hear, "Karen, let's move you to the wall ... just reach out and touch the wall with your thumbs." So, we've modified the modified routine. This is about as dumbed down as it gets. Red-faced I move the the wall and pray everyone else is too busy with their own workouts to notice. Six times each leg. Whew -- it's over.

One of the key elements in this training is to improve my core strength. I'm still not exactly sure what that means, but both my trainer and my daughter tell me it's important. That must be the reason for this huge beach ball because hip lifts are so much easier from the ground. Almost every exercise includes tightening my stomach muscles and squeezing my glutes. My trainer, realizing we have a lot of work to do here, reminds me several times to "squeeze." Instead of yelling to him, "They are squeezed!" I pretend I don't understand the instructions.

I close my eyes and recall my body of 30 years ago. I need to keep going.  My goal continues to be wearing a bathing suit in Cabo, and that's enough motivation to bring me back -- at least one more time.