Every move comes with its own promises. Even little moves. When I came from my old city back to my hometown, I told myself I’d get up in the morning-ish, and go for a bike ride.
I love bike riding, but my first flaw was saying that I’d do it in the morning. SoI compromised. “I’ll do it at dusk, when it’s cooler,” I said. But everyday I am so bloated from eating until I have regrets at dinner that I can’t even think about that! Plus, riding around all day in a car without AC doesn’t make you like the outdoors.
A few months ago, I started trying to work out a little. Guys, I don’t go to the gym. In my four years of college when I had access to a great gym for free, I went to it twice – once during my freshman year and once during my senior year – like bookends to 4 years of bad food and drink decisions.
I was okay for a while. I did some workout videos on Saturdays and did little bits here and there on the weekdays. I even pretended to learn some Lady Gaga “Telephone” dance moves with my roommate, but she was much better and more dedicated. I hope it pays off in grad school. “Miss, you get extra credit just for being so bad ass.”
Then I slacked off. When Blueberry and I visited home for the 4th of July, we went out on a bike ride to celebrate the completely unseasonal nice weather we were having. We went down the hill I live on and by the time we turned the corner my mind was telling me, “uh oh, we’re in trouble.” I made it the whole time, but in that last stretch (after we went all over, by the way, I was cool for most of it) my legs were on fire.
I couldn’t help but remember when I first arrived in Osaka in January during my Junior year. I had been living with my host family for two days or so when they decided I could do the trek to the train station and back all by myself without getting lost. Getting to the station was fine, but on the way back…
Let me put it this way. My host family lived half-way up a small mountain. It was a rich person neighborhood, separated from the peons by cliffs and mountain biking trails. That’s right; people mountain biked where I lived. I made it back home that first day on my own, but the whole while after reaching the base of the mountain, I screamed at the sky, at the wind, the snow, and the middle schoolers getting up it faster than me.
Though, to be fair to me, even the middle schoolers took pause then pushed their bikes up this one part. I took a picture of this incline to show it to people back home, but it just looks like I tilted the camera to be funny. No. It was really that steep.
Exhausted, I got home that day and skyped with Bluberry. I remember telling him that as much as I liked these people, I was going to have to move into the dorms. Hills like this are carved with the tools of the underworld, I had concluded.
Of course, it wasn’t. I made it the whole semester and had legs toned like a greek statue by the time I came back. I could fly up the mountain, from base to home, in about 15-20min (as opposed to an hour and half, shamefully).
Then I came home and promptly lost it all.
And just like my legs then, my noble goals of getting in shape before Japan have turned into meaningless mush.
Since moving back home I have eaten:
- An Arby’s Chicken Salad Sandwhich
- A Bojangle’s Cajun Biscuit
- A Whopper Jr.
- A gyro from Showmars
- Some bacon-wrapped shrimp
- An avacado burger from Chilis
- and about $6 worth of fried Calamari.
Ah, but to be fair, I did go for another bike ride tonight and did much better. Which leads me to this PSA:
Kids, make sure your seat is at the correct height for your bum and your legs. It makes all the difference.
But still… Japan, you are going to kick my ass. AGAIN.
Hello, my name is Apple. 