Sorry for the blog radio silence folks. My arms have been too fucking sore to type.
After the Green Vegetable Detox Cleanse was complete, it was time for the intensive fitness regime.
“Regime” is a suitably apt description, because three weeks in, I think my personal trainer has all the attributes of a third-world Dictator – oozing charm and charisma, but liable to rip you from your bed in the wee hours to inflict excruciating torture.
Anyway, the first thing Gaddafi sorted out was my diet and supplement plan.
Imagine my joy when he handed me a bag containing 30 premium grade, NZ rib fillet steaks.
I was to have one every morning for breakfast to sort out my protein requirements and energy levels.
“Don’t mind if I do”, I said to myself eloquently, “I fucking love steak”.
Well now I hate steak.
I never usually eat breakfast, so slugging my way through a steak every morning has proven quite challenging. I almost miss the Brussels sprouts…
Besides the requirement of plenty of protein, and the right amount of good fats, the rest was obvious – don’t eat junk or carbs.
Half of that was easy – I don’t like junk food anyway – but I am seriously jonesing for some vegemite on toast.
We then did an intolerance and allergy work up, and found that I am gluten and lactose intolerant. So no bread and milk for Uncle Gaz-gaz. Actually that reminds me of an amusing David Mitchell rant on QI:
“Actually we’re supposed to live till we’re 250. But no, we’ve been eating all this poisonous bread and milk all the time, we can barely limp past 98!”
The real downside is the cheese. I love cheese. A frisky Moscato and a silky Camembert go together like… well, wine and cheese.
Since I’m not supposed to eat carbs, the gluten intolerance is redundant anyway. But fuck the lactose intolerance. I will not be prejudiced towards cheese, no matter the consequences (and I’m pretty sure there will be consequences…).
The daily physical training started with basic stretching and simple exercises to get me back into the groove. We now alternate days of boxing, with cardio and weights. Normally, I wouldn’t go for a run if you paid me. Now, I’m paying someone to make me run. It hardly seems fiscally equitable.
Stupidly, I actually thought the boxing training would be fun. It’s not. I think it is best described by a line I’m stealing from the late, great Douglas Adams in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”:
“It is unpleasantly like being drunk”.
“What’s so unpleasant about being drunk?!”
“Ask a glass of water”
My boxing trainer is having a title fight on Good Friday, so he has turned me into his personal punching bag. He is amazing. And powerful. And terrifying.
If I drop the pace, it’s 100 star jumps. If I cower in the corner crying, it’s 100 star jumps. If I lose count in the middle of my 100 star jumps, it’s 100 star jumps.
Thankfully he hasn’t demanded I do 100 push-ups, cos that shit ain’t happening. Indeed is it wrong for me to pray that he’s taken a few too many uppercuts, and doesn’t have the visual or mental acuity to read this blog?
Regardless, if I let my guard down, I get a punch in the face. If I don’t kick him hard enough, he demonstrates, with great vigour, just how hard he wants me to kick him.
The shit is real. Frighteningly real. But it is also exhilarating.
All in all, the training hasn’t come easy. After a leg curling session (single leg curls), I’m embarrassed to admit I was hurting so badly, I had to take a cab home from the gym rather than make the 5 minute walk.
For most of the first week, I was so sore, if I dropped something on the floor, that was precisely where it would remain.
Another day I couldn’t lift a cup of coffee to my face.
That was all pretty dismal, but now a few weeks in, I’m starting to actually enjoy it.
Not only that, I’m feeling fantastic and have heaps of energy.
I’m also down a shirt size, and have discovered two more usable holes on my belt – I was wondering what they were for.
My personal trainers say shit hasn’t properly started yet. Three weeks ago, that would have been a worry.
But now, I say bring it on!
Walks away humming*:
“Rising up, back on the street. Did my time, took my chances. Went the distance, now I’m back on my feet, just a Gaz and his will to survive…”
* Actually, I did no such thing. My motivational gym song is actually Fatboy Slim’s “Right Here, Right Now”, but its lyric deficiency would have made it a lacklustre way to end this story…