echelon, fitness, goals, granparent life, Peloton

Progress Not Perfection

About a year ago I went on a hike. A short hike. Barely an incline. I almost died. I had to sit about five times, I cursed like a sailor, and requested that my car be brought up the hill (as my friend called it). To me it was akin to Mount Everest. My embarrassing moments were just that embarrassing. Staring at the finish line aka parking lot while just feet away seemed like miles.

Fast tracking to the end of this terror I made it to the car and cried all the way home. Not out of pain but the reality of how I let myself become a blob with no ability to walk a few miles upward.

Once upon a time I was in shape. The wedding. Check. After the wedding. Check. Pregnancy. Check. After pregnancy. Check. My son’s first eighteen years due to the country club life and the machines I had at my disposal. Check. Then real life hit. A few life issues mixed in with mid-life. Everytime I started the walk down the block, the online barre or pilates classes. I stopped. Made excuses and felt pure guilt at not being able to cross the line of consistency.

Covid-19 brought many of us to our fitness, social, emotional, or financial needs. For me I knew if I did not do something I would look like a parades floating balloon. Perhaps it was the social media perfection pictures that flashed at me during the daily boredom and scrolling hours or all the blogs of fifty somethings that look thirty. Whatever it was. It clicked. Onward to my echelon/peloton life.

The first seventy-three rides were of the twenty minute variety mixed with HITT, Tabata, pop and the low key variety. Today, I made a move. I went to thirty minutes. I did it. I survived and I will continue until I can go to forty-five minutes with the weekly goal of an hour. My goal is lofty but it will be achieved.

So, my shape is improving for me and my family, especially my grand-nugget who will never see his grandmother poop out at a park. Any park. Even one with great big mouse ears. Does my shape represent thirty at fifty-seven, no. But I am getting closer and feeling great about it!

echelon, fitness, goals, Peloton

Resistance 50…

I don’t ride fancy and I cannot do a resistance of 50. Nope. I am stuck in the 20’s. Don’t judge.

My desire to color coordinate my workout gear ended long ago. Just forcing the workout is my focus. Now for those moments in which my black matches perfectly, I feel like a rockstar. But shoes, I am all about the shoes. My shoes will always look cute unless my troubled foot acts up…then I look like a teacher, which I am. You know the sensible shoe type. #justaddcardigan. But with each ride I care a bit more about my former self and my matchy matchy outfits. There is hope. Today I looked rather sleek in my Amazon duped lulumon black leggings and matching stuff. It is a step that I owe to my newbie status and desire to truly show up.

While I am set and ready to go…there are groceries, baseboards, grading…you get it. Anything but the bike. I find myself staring, just staring at my new friend noting that an invitation is not forthcoming. So I either get on or on day two ruin my goal. That is not acceptable. I don’t know which is the hardest part of the activity, finding the ride you want or just getting on the bike. Since I am new to all of this I plopped myself into the six week beginner program and will supplement with three other rides per week from instructors I am finding a connection. These Perfect Peloton specimens are made of equal parts showman, psychologist, and athlete…or the other way around. They are amazing and a blast to suffer with. I love when they say 50 resistance or higher. Oh that one gets me. But a girl can dream.

After my daily ride, I complete the daily core challenge and I am rotating my body through ten minutes a day of weights. Only to find a variety of body parts crying as they preferred hibernation. This has been quite a wakeup call and while I will keep the weights in my repertoire a clean and jerk is not in my future. Just steady improvement, better fashion, and a resistance of 50 is all a girl can want. Oh, and weights above three pounds. Shhh.

Note: Today, I did my beginner ride with Emma Lovewell and her ab series. My arms were with Cody who I absolutely adore as his personality is everything. Afterwards, I lied on the floor for as long as possible due to inability to move, not laziness. Drank a gallon of water and applauded my efforts. I find the applause necessary. Truly. As for resistance my high was 22 and my low was 15 but my cadence was on point with each of the crazy requests.

Tomorrow is another day, another outfit, another mindset and hopefully even for a millisecond I can get to a resistance of 25 and look towards 50 without the amount of laughter it currently brings with each ride. It will happen. More importantly, I got on the damn bike and with each passing day this will become the habit I so desire.

echelon, fitness, goals, life, Peloton

Life in the Saddle

I have chosen to be an annoying beginning Peloton blogger giving you my every thought and sweat droplet. No. There are enough of those out in the universe in their super cute matching outfits and sparkly persona. They give me hope and an outward reason to get in that saddle. However, my challenge is to my myself, 100 rides before my 58th (April 19th) and my views are coming from a sense of reality along with my Amazon Lulumon dupes always black for that slimming look, ha. No. Black because they go with everything I am madly pulling out of my drawers as I make the mad dash down the hall from the work room to the fitness haven.

No personal pics of my rolls. I am vain and try to live in a vision of ten years ago. The truth would not set me free. Anyway aren’t you tired of those and doubt the reality of the before and after magical wand. No. Ok, just me. My looks are roundish and a cross between Ava Gardner, Molly Ringwald and Captain Kangaroo. Back to the roundish. Not completely. I have great shoulders and wrists and enough grey hair to be one of those instgrammers showing their magical tresses and pretending it does not age us. It does. But I love my grey and my freckles.

So, follow my dribble as I will keep it real. The pain, the dread, the peloton high, the laughter. All of it during these days of challenge because my sport days (former figure skater) are long behind me and my cycle reason is weight loss, health, and just to enjoy the ride.

Note: I am on ride fifteen with five other peloton classes. It is a start and tomorrow is another day.

Happy Riding! Yogadivamama1234

life

Its Exhausting Being Me

Epilepsy is the one modern mystery left to man and an exhausting condition on its best days. Please note this author ain’t complaining. Not my style. And I know I am lucky. I have it all advanced degrees, career, driver’s license, and one kid. That was all we were granted and probably the reason I teach and have unnatural desire to organize toys, anyone’s toys. Its not you or your skills it is my own inner need. My mothering was done before my time. I was always meant for more. So if you got toys, give me a call. Or if you need additional mothering as I am sure my kid would like a break. He is a good sport.

My story like others begins out of true fear. No one teaches epilepsy in school. Diabetes, yes. Epilepsy, no. My first experience was riding on a city bus to my figure skating lesson, oh yes. I was sporty too. A woman burst on the bus and screamed, “I am epileptic move.” Now, I was eleven and currently experiencing auras on a daily basis in quiet fear. While I thought the declaration was over-the-top, she scared me for many reasons so I moved the hell away. I got off the bus and walked the rest of the way to the rink in tears. I knew I would be that woman. Better dressed, less vulgar. But that was me. With every step towards the rink and a coach who had already called my grandfather for my being tardy I had apologies coming to many but mostly to myself for my living in fear.

As the story goes my boughts of no speech continued. Each getting longer and longer but my fear and lies covered them up. Not well. But my ability to focus on the world around me caught everyone off guard as once it passed no one could tell the difference. Silent periods continued to grow longer with each passing episode but my odd ability to jump back into the conversation, with increased slurred speech, worked. I chalked everything off to fatigue and exhaustive days between school and the rink. Others, just shook their heads and labeled me as a rebellious teen. The game was exhausting as was the daily fear of what was around the corner and who would see it and when would my academy award winning acting breakthrough to the obvious secrets I was keeping. I was scared.

My first big seizure was in a bathroom. I just fell, seized alone, and bit off my tongue. Just clumsy right? Yup. Got a week off of school, lots of rest, ice cream, and my game was extended. Not even EMTs felt I needed hospitalization. My grandparents became like hawks circling their prey and waiting for a misstep. They knew. I knew. We all buried the truth as who doesn’t want a perfect kid. And it was such a heavy badge to wear and at that time late 70’s not one with honor.

A week later. The curtain came down on my show. The seizure was witnessed and hospitalization followed. Now, I knew what the tests would show. My grandparents kept talking in hushed tones of C words but I told them they had nothing like that to worry about. I was right but the doctors made my diagnosis like a death sentence, meds, no driving ever, no kids, university too taxing and on and on and on. My grandparents listened with tears streaming down their faces. As soon as the doctor left I looked at them and said. “Whatever he said, we are not doing.” Let’s get these meds and get the fuck out of here.” I got a life to live, and I am gonna live! My grandfather laughed and my grandmother almost scolded me but beating the big C was good enough for her. I promised to take my meds, stop driving for a year, but I would go to college and I was going to stage a sit- in hospital style until they agreed. They did. I was sprung and my first course of treatment began.

My story starts there, fourty-seven years ago. Today is a bad day. My mind scrambles into a million pieces trying to find the calm my brain needs to slow it down and focus on anything that is not repetitive in sound or feeling. On days like this I write. I listen to music, I do yoga, I watch movies. Anything to remove my brains overdrive and fixations. My sensory overload is at its max. Thus, hearing daily sound in stereo. The toaster, the baggies opening for breakfast goodies, the refrigerator door, the butter opening and closing…the insanity is my sanity on bad days and the view of life it brings me is priceless. Loud, priceless, and a gift that took me years to embrace and overcome the looks from an uneducated public not understanding that it is not a sentence of death or oddity but one of heightened life.