Flab, sweat and tears

Promises. Resolutions. Both meant to be ignored or broken. I know this topic very well. In November of 2010 I decided to act on one of my New Year’s Resolutions. A resolution I’d made many times since the birth of my youngest daughter just over 24 years ago. My theory then was, it took me nine months to put the weight on and it will take me nine months to take the weight off. Years later my line changed a bit and I was laughingly saying “and, nine years to take it off.” Ha ha ha. Then nine years became 19 years and I stopped laughing about it and just gave up. Over the years I gained and lost weight. Not once did I ever feel fit or healthy. Just frustrated and tired.

Time flies when you don’t take your health seriously. In my annual visits to my family physician, I’d bitterly complain about how my hypothyroidism had left me fat and unfit. He’d smile the smile that tell me I was full of crap since we both knew the medication kept my thyroid levels bang-on. And if the good doctor wasn’t offering any miracles, I just changed my tune and tried running— again. And back to the doctor I’d go to whine about my inability to get the breathing right, hoping he’d see how my very obvious, yet mysterious, problem was impeding my road to fitness. Nothing. He hinted perhaps my, ahem, lack of cardio fitness was an issue. Whatever. Then I read an article about being fat and fit. I’d found a way around my fat problem. If I could convince myself I was fit and since I was obviously fat, well, bingo. Problem solved. Until I looked in the mirror or went for a bike ride or a walk. Geez, eh? I had the fat figured out. Just couldn’t get a handle (except a love handle) on the fit.

So, back to November 2010. Six months ago. I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone, especially myself. I took a long, hard look at the photos taken on our annual family “Bike Ride of the Apocalypse” from Brockville to Picton. While the trip wasn’t difficult, the photos pushed me over the edge. Eeek. The dimples on my knees had dimples. Even my face was fat. I felt sorry for my beautiful Marin and every one of its 21 gears. I decided to roll me to a gym. I had a plan. A plan as well-thoughtout as all of my other “get thin projects.” I was going to dig out the PlayDri, stuff myself into some comfy sweat pants and strap my sorry self to a treadmill with a note taped to my big, bouncy bum: “Come back for me in 45 pounds.” That was my plan. I’d go back to skipping meals and drooling over real food. I’d be a martyr. Who knows me better than, well, me. Right? I knew what to do to get quick results. And then.

And then, it turns out there was someone who doesn’t believe there’s any such thing as a quick fix and who would get to know me almost as well as I know me. I didn’t go out looking for a trainer, but Paul Brinco turned out to be the person who wasn’t about to let me take on the treadmill, my “Post-it Plea,” or any other piece of gym equipment, until I faced myself. Mmmm. After a tour of his gym, he promised he wasn’t going to stand by and let me run myself into the ground, physically or mentally, anymore; but, he was going to stand by me while I worked my way healthy. Indeed, he has.We talk about me as a whole package—as a person who is a writer, a cyclist, a parent, a partner, a photographer and a fairly healthy person who just needs to put her total self at the front of her own line. What a novel idea.

Just over six months have passed since my first encounter with the mind/body/health obsessed Paul and his business partner/wife, Jennifer. And stand by they do by while I sweat, stretch, lift, elliptical and pedal my way from frightening to fit. Almost 20 inches of flab have moved on to make room for a delightful mass of hardworking muscle. My cycling game has improved so dramatically I actually shifted away from the granny-gears and shaved 12 minutes off my last 40-kilometre ride. Somewhere in those six months I became reacquainted with the me I’d forgotten all about. My “Body by Brownies” has become a “Body by Brinco, a work in progress.”

Next hurdle? The 50-kilometre Ride for Heart and Stroke in Toronto on June 5. I’ll be the County Cyclist with the smaller behind, the same old Marin and a bigger smile for the camera!

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca