I just don’t get it. I mean, two years ago I was a healthless wreck. I drank more alcohol than most rock stars, smoked over a pack of cigarettes a day, and my diet consisted of every staple of mexican food, which, let me tell you, is not famous for its health benefits. Sure, it’s delicious and spicy, but let’s face it: Flour, fat, salt and corn dough. Yumm-O!
Oh! and my fitness? Well, suffice to say the most exerting thing I did on an average day was pull my pants back up after taking a dump. To say my body was wandering into the dark woods of obesity would be an understatement. At 110 Kg, I got tired of the same 3 “fat” jokes over and over again. I prayed unto the lord that my peers would be, at least, creative with their taunting, but to no avail.
And my mental health didn’t help either. I was in a very bad state, mentally. Depression, anxiety, you name it, I probably had it, to an extent.
Did I mention all of this was after my heart trouble?
Then, I was fortunate enough to move up north, and of all people, I wound up staying with my sister and her husband, who just so happened to be health freaks. I don’t mean it in a bad way, although if they ever read this they will think I do. But I don’t, honestly.
And my whole life changed.
For starters, smoking is a no-no almost everywhere in Canada, and that included my sister’s place. So, if I wanted to smoke, I had to put my shoes on, walk down the stairs, open the door, smoke, climb back up the stairs, remove my footwear, and resume whatever activity I was engaged in at the moment. Too much of a hassle, really, so I started to smoke less. Especially once the stupid winter arrived.
I was short on funds for a while, which also meant (and even moreso at these insane canadian prices) no booze. Or very little. Not that I missed it a whole lot, don’t get me wrong. I’m not bitching, I’m explaining how things were changing.
The food at my sister’s place was also a lot healthier than what I had been stuffing myself with. Oatmeal, pasta, and salads, basically. And whole wheat bread.
Oh, and since they live in a little town, I basically walked everywhere.
I guess I’m very thankful to my sister and her husband for letting me stay at their place for as long as they did. But I’m even more grateful for the conscience they created within my feeble mind. I moved to my own place (yes, THAT place) a new man. Still fat, but with a conscience. Then I started working (and it was a really physical job) and I lost a lot of weight. When the opportunity to jump on a forklift arose, I knew I had to get my fitness elsewhere, so I biked for a while until I was a victim of theft.
Those of you who know me personally may lean towards thinking of me as somebody with no discipline. And while that is a cute misunderstanding of my person, and I understand it to a certain point (it always revolves around my insistence upon ignoring the perils of smoking), let me say to you that such is not the case. Here’s proof.
It would be so much easier to go to the supermarket and buy 30 boxes of Hungry Man Microwave dinners, and survive on that, and trips to whatever burger joint I happened to walk close to. But no, in my days of not being able to grocery shop properly (remember everything got stolen?) I always made it a point to at least visit the chinese buffet once a week to stuff myself full of green food and fish. Now that I’m able to buy food for myself, holy fuck, you wouldn’t believe what I buy. Green peppers, red peppers, yellow peppers, cabbage, lettuce (both my namesake and Romaine), rice, beans, red onions, white onions, cherry tomatoes, normal tomatoes, potatoes, broccoli (yuck!), 2% skim milk, etc.
It would have been fun (and I had the monetary possibility, no nay-sayers and the schedule to boot) to keep a constant flow of alcohol in my system. But I limited myself to the weekends, and since I was on mandatory overtime, that meant only once a week.
Even through the harshest days of this Canadian winter (sure, this ain’t Nunavut, but it still gets cold), even through the worst rainstorms, I usually walked to work and home. A one hour walk, both ways (well duh). Tell me that’s not discipline. A mere two quid would put me on a fucking bus, for crying out loud.
Which brings us to the present.
After my bike got stolen last year, I became a bipedal creature, walking to and fro. Well curse me and my discipline, if I had a fucking car I surely wouldn’t walk, but bear with me. Yesterday I purchased a new bike. My days of taking an hour to get to work seem to have come to an abrupt end.
I decided a thursday night was as perfect a time as any to go to work on my brand new bike. But how long would it take me to get to work? Keep in mind I live in a new place now, so I have no idea. I start work at 11.30 PM, and on foot it takes me an hour. Surely a bike is faster than my shoes, right? Of course, there’s that steep hill I now hate. I decide not to take too much of a chance, and leave the house at 10.45 (ooo! 15 minutes later than when I walked!).
I’m in good company. I have an Anthrax CD on my discman, and boy oh boy, is it ever a coincidence that the first song that plays (I always set the discman to Random Play) is “Fueled”. I make it to the expressway in record time, and cross it into a minor hill. I turn left, and the song ends. If I ever needed an angry song to push me to climb that fucking hill I mentioned earlier, well the ghost of John Bush heard me (and he ain’t even dead yet), and “Inside Out” starts playing. I contemplate the hill while the lyrics “I thought I knew what provocation was” fill me with defiance. “Fuck you, hill, I must, and I will ride my bike to the top, lest a curse fall upon my only child!”
Well, if I hadn’t made it, I wouldn’t be gloating, now, would I? But at what price?
After that, I knew I had overdone myself. But I wasn’t even half way to my destiny. So I pedalled on. When I got to the half-way point, I checked my watch. In astonishment, I discovered it had only been a mere 8 minutes since I had left the house. Upon arriving to the next traffic light, I noticed with glee that the light was red. A perfect opportunity to regain my breath, or so I thought. As soon as I started pulling over, the light turned green. CURSE YOU, TRAFFIC LIGHT!
Finally, and against all odds, I made it to work, dragged my bike inside and punched in at 11.02. A mere 17 minute bike ride. Not bad for a first time! Oh no! what’s that? Everything is turning black!
As fast as I could I made it to my locker and sat down. I even pretended to take a long time changing my shoes. The funny thing is, I wasn’t sweating profusely, my heart wasn’t racing, I wasn’t panting or anything. I just felt weak. Weaker than weak. Fuck. I finally regained my composture (or so I thought), grabbed my stuff and headed out into the plant floor. Well, a mere 50 feet later, I had to plop my ass down in the lunch room. A good two or three minutes later, I managed to get up. Usually, I have to walk all the way across the plant to retrieve my forklift, but last night somebody was kind enough to leave it very close to me. I managed to drive it across the plant, to meet my bosses and shit, see what’s new, and since I had a couple minutes left before my shift officially started, I went outside. I didn’t even hear the buzzer go off, but on my way back inside I stopped and splashed water on my face. When I looked at my face in the mirror, I noticed I was pale (more than usual).
Anyway, long story short, it took me about an hour to feel better, but eventually I did. See? Evil never dies!
I was, I’ll admit, a little afraid of the bike ride home, but as it is a little more “downhill”, I made it with no worries.
Fuck, if I had known eating well and exercising and losing weight and smoking and drinking less would put me in a situation I was never in when I was a fat drunk smoking lazy (well, I tend to exaggerate) idiot, I’d still be fat!
Anyway, I’m taking the bike to work again tonight, so we’ll see what happens!
The Iceberg.
