Goodbye hamburgers. I’ll see you again on the fourth of July. It’s been good. I still care for you deeply, you just can’t be part of my life right now.
Yeah. This is when I start to get annoying. I’m going to be one of “them”. I’m in training.
And I DO love hamburgers.
Don’t get me wrong, by “I Do love hamburgers” I don’t mean the overly trendy grotesque monster gourmet burgers slathered in cheese and an assortment of odd ingredients (I am I admit partial to one called a Sk8R Boy that is made with peanut butter and banana and bacon, though I can never finish one). I mean a basic condiment, single burger, basic meat, basic bun hamburger. I much prefer homemade but I will happily have one from (in order of preference) Dairy Queen, Burger King, McDonalds (just a small single burger) and if pressed, Harveys. I also hardly ever have them really but at least once a week due to enforced eating out and sheer laziness.
But they are henceforth evil, at least until July 4, 2016.
I’m in training. I’m in training for a Spartan Race and I am REALLY REALLY old. Okay, not REALLY old, just old in my mind. I’m forty-eight and will be forty-nine before the race. Sure I have the mind, hobbies, tastes (and sadly for my wife, libido) of an eighteen year old nerdy college student, but the body, it’s old.
What is the Spartan race? Well, it’s a five kilometer run up and down a ski hill with fifteen of twenty one random obstacles. It’s hellish. It’s not one of those “tough” mud races aging soccer moms love. It’s difficult. If you cannot finish an obstacle on the first try, you have to do thirty burpees. Yoips! Yoips I say!
I have run many five kilometer races in my life. Many ten k’s and four half marathons. Up until a few years ago I played soccer year round (still wish I was by my wife keeps reminding me of this FANTASY that she has that my knees don’t like playing anymore and I hobble for days after I play..women.) In recent years, I’ve alternated between road races and weights at the gym. I’ve never done anything like this. I have modified my training regimen to be focused on other muscle groups, more bar-work, box jumps (my scarred shins hate me), hanging L-sits etc. And now, three and a half months away, a shift must occur. I need to reduce mass, run and that means sacrifice.
Goodbye hamburgers. Hello chicken and fish. Hello high protein low carb higher number of veggies and less fruit. None of this is terrible to me as that’s most of my normal diet but yeah, no more weekly hamburgers.
But why you may ask, why do this, why not just run more and do more weights? It’s working. You have really defined legs and arms and shoulders and you certainly wouldn’t want to get punched by you. Because age. I hate age. I hate getting old. I hate being older. I hate the speckling of gray in my thick youthful hair. I hate wrinkles. I hate reminders that I am a little over two years from being the same age my father was when he died overweight and unhealthy. I am Peter Pan, or I was. Lately I feel like “The Pan” as played by Robin Williams, who accidentally got old.
Age sucks donkey.
SO I am in the race with coworkers much younger. I am working out three to four days a week and bumping that up to five. I am preparing for the final obstacle, the leap over a pit of fire. Then I can die a Vikings death. No not the one involving scurvy on a stinking boat in the middle of the Atlantic, lost and alone. The other one! The glorious one! To Glory! To Valhalla, oddly via Sparta!
I am so going to scarf down a triple meat DQ brazier burger and chili fries on July 4 and wash it down with about four cans of German beer. Damn, I should probably quit beer too.