Monday, March 14, 2011

Training and Travels

Five days a week, monday through friday, the alarm goes off at 4:50am.  On weekends, I sleep in -- which means the alarm goes off at 6:00am.  I get up that early to go to the gym.  I wake up, drink half of a Met-RX Meal Replacement Shake (the second half of which I drink post-workout), which is followed by a chaser of Grape Force-flavored MRI Black Powder, which is a pre-workout kick-in-the-ass.

I go to the gym, work until the urge to vomit is too much to bear, and then shower and continue on with my day.  All of this is to keep age at bay.  It's what I do, and it's pretty much all I have.  I perform this exercise in discipline and self-loathing six days a week.  I can't do it seven days because my gym is closed on Sundays, but that's just the kind of pussies they are.  I'm kidding.

Now, six days a week, I watch what I eat.  After the workout, at say 7:00am, I have the rest of the MetRX.  Then three hours later I have a whey protein shake or Power Crunch Bar, three hours after which I have lunch, and then at 4:00pm I once again have they whey protein or Power Crunch, only to finish the circuit when I have a sensible dinner.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Again and again.  Six days a week.

Sundays, however, are mine.  And that is when my veneer of My Body Is A Temple crumbles away to utter dietary chaos.  And the chaos involves road trips.

There is this great place in Burbank called Chili John's -- it's a classic diner, with a horseshoe bar, and is pretty much unchanged since the place opened in the midst of prohibition.  It serves three kinds of chili at varying degrees of lava, with or without beans, and plain or with rice or pasta.  It is the shit.

I was in there a couple of weeks ago, and was talking with the owner about the place -- that her family moved there from Green Bay, Wisconsin in the 1920s, and started up the place.  Then she showed me this book called Southern California Eats.  The book is all classic diners and coffee shops.  I immediately went home and ordered the book (as well as the second volume) from

Three weeks ago, I started a new ritual.  Every sunday, I pick a place from the books, and just go.  And in my travels, I eat cheeseburgers, french fries, and milkshakes with the abandon of a death-row inmate consuming his last meal on earth.

I like the ritual because it gets me out of the house, out of my comfort zone.  It gets me out to new places -- and knowing that I'm going to be eating a ton of delicious, yet heart-clogging stuff on a sunday means I need to get my ass in gear the other six days a week.  I train to earn that day.  That alarm goes off in the pre-dawn dark, and any urge  have to hit the snooze bar with a hammer or chuck the clock into the nearest woodchipper is held back by the delicious sounds and smells of my sunday meal -- so it gets me motivated the way I need to be.

And then on monday, my body says "fuck you", as it not so kindly reminds me that my age now starts with the number "four".  And now there's also a "one", which is really just the single, extended middle finger of my age telling me what it thinks of me and my bullshit.

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