A Bump in the Road (or Catching up with the Wagon)

Long story short? I took on Jack Daniels and lost. I don’t care what that bottle said. Jack’s no gentleman. That fucker fights dirty.

The week started off fine. Better than fine actually. I thought it best to switch my workout schedule. I normally hit the fitness center or gym in the late evening. I knew that would be prime networking (read: drinking) time, so in order to avoid skipping a workout or an industrial accident involving a drunken bear and an elliptical machine (give that a minute, picture it, go on… you’re welcome) I did 40 minutes on the treadmill Sunday night and another 30 Monday morning at like 5:30. I rule. Good thing I was up early too. There was 1 treadmill, 1 elliptical, and 1 recumbent bike to go between 5 people by the time I left at a little past 6:00. And hotel hadn’t even filled up yet.

Then Monday night rolls around. Let’s do Italian. Boooo. The temptation was great (even more so after a drink or two), but I think I did all right. Some pork medallions and broccoli. After I finish the pork I realize it was probably dredged in flour, but I don’t care. Thanks Kettle1 and Chianti! Then back at the hotel, it’s more drinks and, oh look! Customers. In bed by 1:00.

Drunk-me decides 5 a.m. is way too early to be up for a workout when he sets the alarm and wakeup call and screws mildly-hungover-me over. When I finally get down to the fitness center the crowd is redonkuless. It’s also pouring rain. I don’t want my shoes and cloths soaked through. I have another leg of this trip to make and one suitcase. I’ve leaned the hard way that wet sneaker smell is an unstoppable force in a lone suitcase. In retrospect I should have braved the rain, bought some big zip-locks, and taken my chances. Instead I deluded myself into thinking I could make time for a quick walk/jog that night.

Riiiiight… Jamaican for dinner right after the show. Live steel drum band and all. Which would have been phenomenal if it weren’t for the fact that absolutely everything was glazed with mango or some other sickly sweet fruit. Even the jerked chicken entree- which I was banking on. So I had jerked wings and the worst Cesar salad in history (not that I had high expectations from a Cesar salad at a Jamaican joint). But it was a fun place and we had a good day at the booth. As for my alcoholic intake, all I can say is this: I dare you to spend a few hours in a self-congratulatory mood listening to live freakin’ steel drums and not get drunk. Seriously. Try it. Can’t be done. If you didn’t have any booze on hand, you’d find yourself building a still MASH-style in minutes. So be it. The diet’s intact, more or less. I miss a few days of exercise. It could be worse. And of course, it’s about to be.

My boss and I have a night-cap at the hotel. He’s off to bed by 10:30. The bastard. I brought my book and the bartender is cool so I stay for just one more. Idiot. In come the crazy Boston guys. They’re drunk. They’re loud. They’re busting balls. In short, these are my people. They’re looking for directions to some bar their cabbie couldn’t find. The cool bartender can’t help. Nor can the front desk. I could have ignored them. I could have kept my nose in the book. I could have honestly answered “no” when they asked me if I knew where the Orlando Ale House was. I could have. Instead I look over. They recognize the logo on my shirt as being from their hometown. They ask about the bar and I find myself saying that I didn’t know…

…but I’d bet my iphone did (yeah I’m that guy). One of them says he’s tried already. I turn my phone around to show him the location and ask if it’s his first day with the phone. Iphone smacktalk. I told you I’m that guy. Not exactly fightin’ words, but it’s enough. I am officially one of them. I could sooner wave my arms and fly than refuse to join them. Out I go. I pick the aforementioned fight with that asshole “Gentleman” Jack. Fun night. I win round 1.

Jack K.O.s me at 9:35 in the middle of round 2. It’s the next day and we’re at the booth by then. I hurt too much to have even thought about a workout. But I’m alive. Breakfast was touch and go. I don’t like eggs but force myself to eat egg whites with tons of hot sauce most mornings. Not today. We’re all a little green around the gills (most of my co-workers were pretty banged up at the Jamaican place) and one of the guys comes in with some provisions. He hands me the Mountain Blue Poweraid having forgotten that I’m off sugar. Before he can finish apologizing and offering to replace it with a diet coke I’ve unscrewed the cap and the high fructose heroin corn syrup is coursing through my body. I don’t know what that flavor is supposed to be, but in my current condition I feel like I’m tasting the color blue itself. It’s glorious. With a finish of crushing shame.

The rest of the day doesn’t go much better. A cheeseburger and snickers later, I swear off drinking. Of course I realize later that I have a Superbowl party to go to, the following Monday off, and a hotel to stay in that night. So much for swearing off drinking. Maybe I’ll be better prepared though. G2. Peanuts. And I don’t know what. I’ll think of something.

I’ve since hopped back on the wagon, and I won’t know how much damage has been done until tomorrow when I can get to my scale. I’m not looking forward to it. Thursday and Friday were workout free as well. See, to top it all off I’m visiting my folks. It’s sort of taken all my will avoiding a diet freefall and/or killing one of my progenitors. But I’m back now. And more pissed off than before.

Trust me Daddyfiles and KingHippo. This is your one and only opportunity. Make the best of it if you can.

Our First Guest Contribution (or TheBear Was Too Lazy to Write One Himself)

Okay so I’ve gone radio silent for a few days. I could lay out an elaborate series of excuses, but I choose not to insult your intelligence. Most of them amount to either “I was too drunk,” or “I was too hungover” anyway. I’m going to put together a halfway decent post today (about this week’s full blown stumble). You might still be in this Daddyfiles. In the mean time I’ll share with you the contents of my last pledge email (with the author’s permission, of course).

I’ve been told once or twice in my life that I have a gambling problem. In fact, I even once bet on one of the contestant’s early demise…(Sorry about that, Bear – you proved me wrong!) Naturally, when I heard about the contest, I had to get in on the action.

I thought about my pick long and hard (that’s what she said). I re-ran different scenarios over and over again to the point that my wife said, “For the love of Christ, just f’n pick someone and come to bed!”

Here’s my breakdown:

King Hippo – Cool name, nice finishing maneuver (insert your own Ric Flair “Woooo!” here) , but I don’t know enough about you to give you any serious consideration. Plus, if someone punches you in the mouth, your pants fall down, leaving you with an exposed bandaged belly button… Too risky…

Daddyfiles – Your name spells out your downfall. People always joke about how kids will change your life forever. They aren’t kidding. Having recently joined “Club Fatherhood,” I know how tough exercising (or doing anything for that matter) will be. Just yesterday, I was by myself watching the kid, and I had to take a dump. A chili-related dump, nonetheless. Do you know how hard it is to take a dump with a 10 month old climbing on your lap or trying to reach into the bowl to fish out your nuggets? If you can’t even take a dump in peace, exercise will be a huge uphill challenge. Best of luck to you, though…

The Bear – When the Bear gets on a kick (on anything, by the way), he’s unstoppable. The bear became the best sleep-smoker I know, he once made a rousing speech about why you don’t see dick in “R” rated movies (to a standing ovation, I believe), and I think he skipped a whole semester mastering the silo level in James Bond: Goldeneye for the N64 (although, he forgot to plant all the bombs). Conclusion: the Bear is dedicated once he puts his mind to something. Although traveling certainly won’t be his friend, I think that the Bear has what it takes to bring home the gold.

For these reasons, I pick the Bear. My pledge is $51. (I’m going “Price is Right” here – I don’t want to flip a coin with anyone else that pledges $50 once the Bear wins.)

Good luck to everyone!

Ryan S.

Weight, Weight Go Away

I’m getting a little pissed.

I went running three times this week out in the freeze your nuts off cold of winter in New England. With the exception of some Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies, one pasta dinner and one lunch filled with Chinese food I’ve been true to my diet. So I’m exercising and I’m eating right, I’m watching my portion sizes…but the weight won’t seem to come off.

I immediately lost eight pounds at the start of this competition and I haven’t budged since. I’m still sitting exactly at 240 lbs. And I’m getting pretty fucking irritated about it. TheBear is losing weight like it’s going out of style. KingHippo is…well, we have no friggin idea what he’s doing because he refuses to comment here and he prefers to go incognito. But I’m worried my plateau is lasting just a little too long and I’m losing ground I may not be able to make up.

Who knows, maybe if I just keep it up I’ll lose a shitload of weight all at once. I’m not planning on giving up, that’s for sure, but I would like to see more results.

For what it’s worth, I can now run a mile in 9:45 and my 2-mile average is 10:42. I’ve already cut almost 4 minutes off my time since I started.

Proof of Fatness

I made a bet with another blogger a couple of weeks ago when the Patriots played the Ravens in the playoffs. I’m a huge Pats fan and I bet my Ravens fan buddy Joeprah that the fan of the losing team would have to write up a cheer, perform it on camera, post it on our respective blogs and finish it off with 10 push-ups.

Unfortunately, the Patriots lost and so did I. So this is me paying up, and it’s proof that I’m at least doing some physical activity. Also, let it be known I’m the only one so far with the balls to post my picture.

Week 2 Status (or A Pattern of Ass-Whupping Emerges)

You know what they say. One is an isolated incident. Two is a pattern. Three is the beginning of an ass-whupping. Or is it a trend? I always get those confused. The week two weigh-in results (a day early, I might add) revealed a second straight week of double digit losses. Eleven pounds bitches! That’s a total of 23 pounds for those scoring the game at home. If I can take off at least 9 more this week I put myself into that 5-6 pounds per week range for the rest of the competition.

Now you’re all in big, big trouble.

Of course, that 9 pounds isn’t going to go easy. It’s a trade show week. I’m on my way to Orlando now. Trade show weeks are typically an excuse to eat at really good restaurants and get really drunk on the company dime. Last year we went to a steak house that served potatoes fried in duck fat. How does that sound to you? That’s right. Fucking awesome. (From the health conscious out there we also would have accepted “gross,” or “like the fattest thing since the deep fried candy bar.”) And it’s not just the food. In previous trade show weeks I’ve been so drunk that once I was thrown out of a bar for impersonating a bouncer. And then there’s the unfortunate incident in which I allegedly made out with a woman sporting a she-mullet. What? It was the deep south. These things happen. Forget the detrimental effects of the booze, something tells me that exercise and diet will be very difficult to maintain with a perpetual hangover.

I could try not drinking. But I’ll be honest with you here, that’s not bloody likely.

Wish me luck. Or better yet, tell me I can’t do it.

Lighting the Fire

I have to be honest with you…I wasn’t properly motivated for this challenge. At least not until last week.

Unfortunately, a co-worker of mine died last week. His wake and funeral were Sunday and Monday, and that meant I had dust off the one suit I have. The last time I wore it was to my grandmother’s funeral in July. What can I say? I’m just not a suit guy and I don’t have a job that requires that kind of dress code. So I fished it out of the closet and started to get ready.

The only problem was it didn’t fit.

And it’s not like it was just a little snug either. I mean it REALLY didn’t fit. I could get the pants to button but just barely. And even then it was so awful looking that I couldn’t wear it out of the house. But the jacket was the worst part. When I tried to button it I looked like Chris Farley trying on David Spade’s coat in the movie Tommy Boy. My gut was way too big and the jacked bunched up like fucking crazy.

Honestly, it was embarrassing enough to look in the mirror and see the results. But it was even more devastating to see the look on my wife’s face. Without saying a word she screamed “Holy shit, that’s disgraceful. Lose some fucking weight immediately!”

So boys and girls, that was rock bottom. But it also served to light a fire under my ass.

I’ve been eating great all along with no major mishaps. So far I’ve lost 7 lbs which is good. But the problem was, I wasn’t exercising. Either I had to take care of my kid, work or some other excuse. I’ve been doing push-ups and sit-ups around the house, but nothing major.

Well today I had the day off and despite the weather, I hit the running trail for a 2-mile jog. I’m happy to report I did the first mile in 10:31. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but for an overweight guy who hasn’t run in months, that’s pretty damn good. I walked for half a mile so I wouldn’t overdo it, and then I finished strong the last half-mile. Total time 24:58. Not good, but I’ll take it.

At the very least I proved to myself I could do it. Even in the freezing temps and 15-20 MPH winds along the Cape Cod Canal, I got it done. And the first one is always the hardest. Now I’m motivated and when I get in the groove there’s no stopping me. It’s just a matter of getting in that groove.

Let’s see TheBear and KingHippo do that. What’s that boys? You can’t because you’re lazy lard asses? That’s what I thought. So thanks to Chelseadawg for putting her faith and $50 on me. I just wanted to let you know I’m going to massacre these other two fat slobs.

Who else wants to bet on the winner??

Week 1 Status Report (or let the domination begin)

Let it be known that in a mere 7 days I have officially lost 12 pounds (5 better than my needed weekly pace). That’s just about where I wanted to be. I’m not banking on maintaining this pace, mind you. I know as well as anyone that the first few weeks are where you see the biggest losses. That said, I think I can maintain 5-6 pounds a week with ease once we’re in the thick of it. My initial plan is to target big losses early. One or two more good weeks like this, I’ll be cruisin’ and DaddyFiles and TheKing are fighting for second.

While I’m happy with the overall performance, there’s plenty of room for improvement. On the diet side of things, I’ve been overdoing the peanuts, sunflower seeds, and diet soda. Not exactly pizza, ice cream, and beer to be sure but supposedly they can all slow you down and I’ve had a ton of each (especially peanuts). As for the exercise, I’m already past the point where a decent walk leaves my back sore. How that happened so quickly is beyond me, but I’m not complaining. That said, I’ve already stumbled here. I haven’t had a decent workout (30minutes or more) for at least three days. The whole theft of my entire fucking life in a bag sort of derailed all my weekend plans.

But that’s all behind me. I’m looking forward now- to crushing the spirits of my fellow competitors.

You bitches.

Another one bites the dust (or all hail the king)

So one of our members has been forced to bow out. It seems Jimbabwe pulled a hammy playing basketball this week. He didn’t feel he could remain the necessary exercize program with a nagging injury. The pussy.
Without any pledges to his name he was easily replaced. Ladies and gentleman, I give you KingHippo! He’s a bit shy. Actually he’s a big-brother obsessed conspiracy theory whack job. But we’ll drag him out in the days to come. If only to defend his honor.
Wondering why we picked someone afraid of the interweb to participate in a blog? Simple. He’s really fat.

A Test (or These Fuckers at US Airways Love Your Bags a Little TOO Much)

Writen on my I Phone Friday, January 15th 2010, 11:45 PM (eastern time).

I swear I am being tested. I write this from just outside the US Airways baggage claim office in the recesses of Logan Airport’s terminal B. Actually it’s ground level, but spend enough time here and it feels like the recesses. The predicament I’ve been in for the last 3 hours is my own fault. Mostly.

Earlier today I caught a tight connection in Phoenix exacerbated by the fact that my incoming flight was delayed for deicing (which always takes longer than they say it will). I made that connection with a few minutes to spare. However, that still made me one of the last people on the plane. And thanks to the decision by most major airlines to charge for checked baggage, being among the last few people to board a full flight invariably means there will be no room for your carry-on. Don’t worry, say your flight attendants, we’ll check your bag on to your final destination. We’re going to stick this flimsy piece of paper that more resembles a note from your mom than anything that in any way might be a reliable means of tracking said bag, give it to this guy over here who looks at us as though we’re asking him to personally walk it all the way to Boston, and by some miracle it’ll be waiting for you when you get there. Wink.

Imagine my surprise when it didn’t turn up. Imagine my further surprise when I realized the quintessentially rookie mistake I had made. I grabbed my wallet and phone before handing my bag to mister personality but forgot my fucking car keys. Asshole.

So what in the holy hell does this have to do with weight loss? Well nothing. Until you consider the fact that the last time I had anything to eat was 9 hours ago at breakfast 6:30 mountain time. Oh, and the only places open this time of night at any of Logan’s 5 terminals are 4 dunkin donuts and a news stand with a busted credit card machine.

My bag, and therefore my car keys, are lost in airline purgatory (“I don’t understand sir, the system says it was on the plane. It should be on the next one. Probably.”). The next flight is 4 hours away which may or may not contain my salvation. And the only place with anything to eat is carbs are us. And my phone just exhausted the last of its battery.

Every fiber of my being wanted to walk up to the lady at Dunks, buy every last bit of sugarry goodness behind the counter, and demand she not watch as I stuffed my face with sweet, sweet stress relieving shame. I am happy to report I did not do this. But it was a near thing. In the final moments as the last of my resolve dwindled, the credit card machine at the news stand came back on line. I now had the privalege of paying 42 dollars for 3.5 ounces of unsalted cashews and a charger for my phone.

Even as I finish writing this, the bags for the last flight from Phoenix are slowly rolling past. It’s not on it. Son of a bitch.

Update:  It’s been stolen.

Life on the Road Obstacle #1 (or Screw You Fratboy)

Writen on my I Phone Friday, January 15th 2010, 11:30 AM (mountain time).

Greetings from 35000 feet above the grand canyon and the once mighty Colorado river. Just checking in to let you know I rule. Don’t get me wrong- I’m still fat. Real fat. But I’m less fat.

I’m still a few days away from the first official progress report/weigh in, but all indications point to an intimidating initial performance. Daddyfiles has plenty to be worried about right now. And not just his inability to please his wife with his tiny, tiny penis.

I’ve been completely adherent to the diet. Better than that, I’ve put in a minimum of 30 minutes of serious exercise each of the last 4 nights. But Jesus, this is already a pain in the ass to maintain while traveling.

Life on the road weight loss obstacle #1. The hotel’s “fitness center” consists of a single treadmill, a yoga mat, and some medicine balls. Seriously? Medicine balls? Is this 1957? People still use medicine balls? Oh and the one treadmill has been occupied by the same 165lb. ex-fratboy MBA, 7 habits, solutions-based, yuppie 2.0 fuck for the last 40 minutes who, every time you check in to see if he’s done training for the Boston Marathon, looks at you like your fatness is contagious and your mere presence just bought him another 10 minutes of hill training.

Solution: A lot of people don’t know this but many hotels have agreements with local gyms. Most will give you a couple of day passes gratis, while the rest can at least offer a discount on a few visits. I worked out this week at nexus fitness. Granted you get a lot more of those looks at the gym, especially a high end gym like this one. But at least there’s a variety- ranging from the ever-popular and dismissive “Seriously, who are you kidding?” to the superior “Your existence offends me. Be gone from my sight.” Sure, not everyone gives you these looks but even the rare encouraging “good for you, fat guy” nod feels patronizing in these places. That said, I’ll take free weight dumbbells, and the good treadmills with the little fans over medicine balls any day.

And screw you fratboy.