Burnin’ Blubber

I’m not a prize physical specimen.

My wife loves me, which is very fortunate for me. My kids love me too, which is also fortunate. My daughter once told me she likes the big “pillow” I have in front, as it’s good for laying her head against when watching TV.

The problem is, my being overweight is not a good thing for my long-term prospects.
My health is already in question, what with high blood pressure, heart trouble and sleep apnea. I take enough pills in the morning that I can almost skip breakfast.

Listening to the radio on the way in, the guy who filled in for Paul Harvey today informed me that large amounts of belly fat is the biggest risk factor for heart disease. Then he said a healthy man should have a waist size of less than half of his height. I’m six foot one, but by this reckoning I need to be seven foot three. According to the health web sites, my body mass index has me spilling right out of the “overweight” category. Yikes. And here I’ve been walking around thinking “Well, there’re guys fatter than me. I’m okay.” Guess not.

No, this is definitely not a good thing. Michael is only four. If I’m going to see him graduate, get married and have children, I’m going to need to be around a while longer. I have to do something.

This is not the first time I’ve had this thought, either. I’d begun plans several times to help me drop the pounds. I tried LA WalletWeight Loss once a couple of years ago, but I just couldn’t keep with it. The program isn’t bad; they let you eat pretty much whatever you want, and they don’t ever bring up the dreaded word “exercise.” But they really limit your quantities of food. And you have to journal about every single thing you eat. In a tiny little book. There’s not enough room in those things to write what any average human would eat in a day, unless you write in microscopic letters or in code. You have a two by three inch square space of lines and that’s it. A typical entry: “Breakfast: ½ cup Special K, 8 oz water. Lunch: One apple. Half grain of rice. Dinner: Sniffed slice of whole wheat bread.” I’m convinced their thinking is that if you’ve filled up all the space, you’re through eating for the day.

While on the program, I was constantly ravenous. The “counselors” at the centers, after taking my weight, would reply to my pleas for greater portions with helpful comments like “I can’t understand why you’re still hungry,” and “have you spaced your proteins?” and “drink more water.” Having lost a grand total of 16 pounds (not counting the pound and a half my wallet lost paying for their “services”) in the three months I was actively participating in the program, I’d had enough. Enough of mouse-sized portions and barrel-sized doses of water. I sloshed out of there like a sodden sponge and decided never to return.

But I left with my un-health relatively intact.

I’m surrounded by healthy guys. My brother has been lifting weights and keeping himself in prime shape for most of his life (he got all the self-control genes in the family). He’s my hero: when he puts his mind to something, he goes about accomplishing it without diversion or complaint. My boss is a surfer and cyclist. He does annual bicycling competitions, like riding around Oregon. I mean around the perimeter of Oregon. With a running start, he could probably leap into a low orbit. One of my co-workers is a cyclist and fitness enthusiast too, and is as rugged as hewn granite. To look at him, you’d swear he burns 100 calories a minute just reading a book. On his list of accomplishments is competing in the Iron Man triathlon, placing in the top 20%.

I’m no Iron Man. I couldn’t even be considered aluminum, plastic or Styrofoam. Now, if they had a doughboy triathlon, I’d be a front-runner. First leg: munch three miles of Hershey’s with almonds. Second leg: gulp down two gallons of mint chip ice cream. Final leg: eat 26 glazed chocolate doughnuts.

Well, this has got to stop. And I’ve been saying that for years.

I think it was the photo that really kicked it off this time. My wife took some pictures of me just this last weekend, and I cringed when I saw them. My face looked very much like a ripe tomato; rounded, plump and pinkish. This is not a desirable look.

So I’m hitting the gym at work. And why not? It’s free. Yep, our company provides a free weight room with a fleet of Stairmasters, stationary cycles, open weights and various fitness machines.

Having gone through several semi-successful but clearly impermanent bouts with this gym in times past, I knew what I was doing. I waddled in there Monday to begin my training, dressed down and got on a bike.

This bike had a lot of settings. I didn’t see one called “Geezer” nor did I see a “Marshmallow” setting, but it did have a button called “Fat Burn.” This was supposedly a lower intensity workout than “Cardio”. Well, I wanted to burn fat. So I chose that, entered my weight and age, and plugged in 30 minutes for time. Surely, I can manage that.

Exactly 90 seconds into my ride, my legs felt like burning tires. If I’d seen a cloud of black smoke billowing outward, I wouldn’t have been surprised. My heart rate displayed on the readout at a brisk 97, which would be great if I were 80 years old. The little sticker on the machine says “stop immediately if you feel pain, dizziness or shortness of breath.” I was sporting two out of three. Can I go home now? I think I need a doughnut.

I cleared that setting and stopped pedaling. Guess I’m not burning fat today. That was supposed to be a low intensity session! If that’s true, then the “cardio” setting must be short for “cardiopulmonary resuscitation required.”

I burned a grand total of 27 calories in the three and a half minutes I rode.

Pathetic.

I started pedaling again, set the machine to manual level 3, and gave myself fifteen minutes of ride time.

I made it to twelve before my leg muscles and butt bones told me they’ve been punished enough for one day.

On Tuesday I rested from my workout.

But I went back for more today, and set the level to 7. This time I burned 125 calories. Woohoo! I’m not exactly burning off the Big Macs yet, but I’m movin’ on up.

By golly, I’m determined. Determined to not be a plump tomato any more. I’m either going to lose the weight or grow fourteen inches taller. Whatever it takes.