I need to get it off my chest

funny fit motivation #22

Like trying to lift the bar after having a failed attempt at bench press without a spotter.  Just because you’ve added a tad too much weight as a result of feeling much younger than the middle-age you are, only to realise that feeling younger doesn’t necessarily constitutes being younger.  Not like that’s ever happened to me. I’m  just saying one might be pressurised to stretch yourself when all the people around you are so fittin’ buff.

There is this gym I go to.  A lovely airconditioned venue with a pool and machines and everything.  A wonderful place where crazy people like me, choose to put their bodies through all types of torture.  We even pay a monthly membership to be able to do so.  It’s like that place Tom Cruise stumbled  upon in “Eyes wide shut” but without the masks.  And the sex.  And the hot woman.  It’s basically not like that place at all, if only for the excess bodily fluid. Continue reading

Soliciting sex in the gym? Or is it just me.

“If you pay me, I’ll make you sweat.”

I was sitting at a machine where you attempt to increase the size of your biceps by lifting weights tied to a wire.   It’s not a medieval torture device or a prop from Game Of Thrones, if you were wondering, it’s basic gym equipment.  Biceps are muscles covered by a shirt, unseen throughout winter.  Summer arrived in all it’s glory, which implies: Sun’s out, Guns out.  (Thanks Channing Tatum) My own biceps are more like little, pearly-white revolvers, hence my need for growing them, so I can get them tanned.  I know, it’s a process.

Next to me was a personal trainer.  Or a sadist. Or a female version of the twisted sicko, idolised as Christian Grey.  Any of these references would be accurate in describing those people with genetically gifted, perfect bodies who find some weird sense of achievement in causing extreme and long-lasting pain to people who has the genetic make-up of a whale or worse.  These whales and other McDonald-eating victims are fooled into thinking that they can also achieve the body of a heroin-addict.  Provided that they do everything that they’re told.  And drink Diet coke.  Like some cult in Utah. Continue reading

Two face – A case of temporary schizophrenia

two face

Courtesy of the guy who played two-face in the movie…

I am less than pleasant when I wake up in the morning.  I am Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey and Shitty all in one.  The thought of an alarm clock shattering the silent night evokes feelings of anger and dread, similar to those I had when I tried to finish 50 Shades of Crap.

I don’t mind if a wake up from a pleasant slumber, WITHOUT the assistance of an alarm, but the early shrieks of that little piece of shit, every weekday, is enough to make me want to murder someone.

‘Cause it happens at 04h30. ‘Cause I go to the gym. Continue reading

Too much caffeine

cat on caffeine

I workout six days a week.  I take a few supplements.  I have no excuses.  I need all the help I can get.

I bought a new “fat burner” recently and started incorporating this product in my daily fitness/diet regime.  It’s required to minimise the effect of demon donuts and other pitfalls/temptations that I encounter daily.  It’s about achieving balance.  And needing assistance, as my metabolism doesn’t seem to be able to operate on its own anymore.

The first time I took the prescribed dosage I  was feeling mildly light-headed at the gym, and being a man, I was filled with pride, looking at the additional discs I was putting on the edges of the bar.  I felt strong and awake, which seems odd, but at 05h00 in the morning, my eyes might be open but I’m definitely not awake.   My personality only kicks in around nine.  So with the extra 5 kg in each hand, I was looking at the other buff twenty-year-old dueche bags with a true, but unintended Mr Bean expression.

The second time I took the prescribed dosage later in the day, I was feeling heavily light-headed at the office, and being a man, I thought I was going to die.  It has to be said that one capsule looks like your basic suppository, only less lubricated and bigger.  I’m also now fully equip to be a drug mule and swallow condoms filled with cocaine, that’s if my current career plan doesn’t pan out.  (Which is to rule the world, off course…)  The trouble is that the prescribed dosage is four capsules, and I was wondering what kind of sadist it takes to develop such big pills.

I realised too late that one of the main ingredients of this supplement was my old friend, Caffeine.  And he came barging in through the front door like he owned the place/body.  Twenty minutes after swallowing the four pillow cases, I had a slight buzz.   In time the buzz escalated to a full-on out-of-body experience.  I had a serious craving for Ritalin and would have chewed it down like popcorn, for my leg was shaking uncontrollably without anyone tickling my nipple. Or is that stomach?  Anyhow, I was convinced that Scotty has in fact “Beamed me up!”  It also dawned on me how David Blain is able to levitate.  My caffeine/blood ratio would have made any Columbian coffee lover proud.  At the last minute I opted out of phoning Starbucks for supplementing their coffee with my piss, as it might have been too strong.

I didn’t want people to cause havoc in the streets.

I remember once as a student, we were enjoying bottomless coffee at a café, waiting for a concert.  (Not sure why we didn’t have beer)  The effect was the same.  My hands  didn’t feel like my own and my retinas refused to do what it was supposed too, i.e focus.  In fairness, it must have been quite difficult as my pupils were the size of space itself.

After failing miserably at any attempt to sleep last night, I finally arrived back in my body this morning.  It was good to have my brain back in my skull.  It was even better to have my legs under control and I’ve never appreciated being able to see properly, as much as today.

This is not a debate on supplements, for I know there are a million people who are probably shaking their heads right now, thinking how irresponsible I am.  So, for those critics, I just want to say that I have reduced my dosage this morning.  I might be addicted.

The Demon Donut

Like this, but EVIL!

Like this, but EVIL!

I embarked on a six-week Shortcut-to-Shred fitness program five weeks ago.

Why?  So many reasons.  Want to loose weight, want to feel better, want to reverse the aging process, want to drop body fat, wanting to try something new, wanting to kick-start 2014, wanting to proof something, wanting to detox, not having a life, seeking attention, not loved as a child, just plain bored or completely cuckoo.  Pick one, or all of them.  This is not the point.

The program consists of weight training and cardio six times a week and then an eating plan to support the effort.  As any great sportsman will tell you, which is why I’m not telling you, results is based on 10% exercise and 90% of what you stuff your face with.  You are in fact what you eat.

So when I decided to embark on this short six-week journey to hell, I had to suppress every single alarm bell that went off in my body.  It was a cacophony of complaints  from my feet to my brain.  My body just went rogue for a week and I had to remind my legs how to walk.  My mind evaporated into some abyss and the words why?… why?… why?… echoed loudly every time I got on a spinning bike.  My stomach refused to co-operate and I was stuck with a very weird bowel routine.  The final volatile reaction was when my liver got whiff of the fact that I was going to reduce my alcohol intake.  I still don’t know where he went.  But I pushed through with the plan, for I can be extremely spiteful.

As you may gather, the road to hell is paved with aching limbs, sore muscles, weird indigestion, long playlists, gallons of sweat and shitloads of misery.  And finally at the end, when you see the smoke and fire and the smell of sulphur fills your nostrils, when you’re about to give up, then, and only then do you see all your lost fat lining the sidewalks and you dare break a smile, even if it is just a little one.

But then there’s the eating. Or maybe the lack of eating.  Or maybe the lack of choices for eating.  I’m so sick of eggs and tuna, that I’m convinced that once bird-flue hits South Africa, I will not only get it, but I will be able to transfer it to fish with one simple sneeze.  I’m checking for fins every time I shower.  The diet excludes anything remotely tasteful, for it would be the end of everything if someone dared to invent a food product that’s both tasty and healthy!  God forbid!  So other than the fish and eggs I’m also stuck with the excellent choices of fruit, nuts and broccoli. (You should check out my forearms!)

The weird thing is, under normal situations I’m not a sweet tooth.  Stuff like chocolates and ice-cream doesn’t bother me at all.  One of the lessons I’ve learned during this five weeks is that once you embark on a journey where you purposefully exclude that stuff, it WILL bother you.  Immensely.  To the point of looking like a crack addict every time you see a kid eating a chocolate bar.  You will consider beating that little five year old to smithereens, just to take that damn bar from him. You will spend countless hours lying awake thinking of that ice-cream place you walk by every day.  The tubs are screaming your name.  Shut up! Shut up!

I resist, for I’m the man.  For I’m strong and I’m forty.  No little thing wrapped in paper will beat me and cause me to break my commitments to the gods of fitness and dieting.  Who is actually a lot less popular than the gods of sex, drugs and rock-a-roll, by the way.

My colleagues, knowing that I’m in my fifth week of saying NO to basically everything they offered me, has (1) Stopped offering me anything and (2) Started to unhide their food.  Now a wide array of pizza slices, cup cakes and chicken mayo sandwiches are flashed in front of me, like strippers at a bachelor party.  I’m still strong, I will not falter.  I will not be tempted.

But yesterday I fell.  I toppled from my throne of sobriety and good intentions.  I’m lying in the dirt.  And it’s all because of that damn demon donut.

I was chatting to a colleague about work, for we are extremely professional, whilst behind her, tucked away in the corner of her table, was the box.  I heard a faint whisper, just loud enough to draw my attention away from the lady.  She was still talking, but I only saw her lips move and my gaze focused hypnotically on the box.  The demon donut was getting louder.  Shamelessly exposing it’s sugar and cinnamon covered body.  A weird little twisted mental lapdance.  Flashing and taunting.  I couldn’t look away.  I was weak.

The lady,  realising I was lost to her, proceeded with the most vile act known to man.  She offered me one…  The heartless bitch.  But I knew my anger was aimed at the wrong player on this stage of deception and lust.  It was the donut.  He was using the lady.  And he was laughing loudly.  There was only one thing I could do…

I grabbed the shocked little fuck and bit off a big piece.   There was a milli-second of absolute silence, but as I was grinding his body between my teeth, he was bellowing in agony.  I swallowed him with glee.  And bit off another piece.  His screams now turned into violent burst of pain and horror.  I proceeded methodically, wanting him to feel every bite, every little piece of his body disappearing, slowly.  Until there was nothing.  And I smiled.  I felt whole.  For revenge is sweet.

Then I took a long shower, trying to wash the filth off my soul…

When 3 feels like 40 but looks like 70

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Torture device used in the Middle Ages
http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

Today was a cardio day.  Or as it’s known in my house: Torture Tuesday.  For those uninformed coach potatoes out there, cardio consists of exercises that reduces the viscosity of bodily fluids and thereby increase its mobility  (It’s a pleasure ;-))  The fluids being blood and sweat off course.

Now the obvious question would be ‘Why?’  Why would I want to get up at five in the morning, on a shit-its-still-cold spring morning to go for a run.  The answer is that my metabolism hasn’t just slowed down, it retired.  It’s sitting somewhere on a beach on a deck chair slugging back on beer and Margarita’s with his toes in the sand.  So in the absence of my calorie destroying partner, the only way I can retain a pre-obese BMI, and still enjoy wine and pasta, is by getting of my ass.

So off I went.  It’s common knowledge that we all want to look like Captain America or Flash when we run, whilst we actually resemble Ace Ventura exiting the cave after being attacked by Bats.

It started great as I was entering the empty street, which didn’t surprise me for I know there are not that many loony’s living in our neighbourhood.  Then I got to the T-junction and I had to make a choice of running up or down the next street that had a slight incline of about 3 degrees.  It became quite clear that when you are faced with an up or down hill situation in life, don’t listen to the small voice that tells you: “You’ll be fine, it’s not that bad.  Your fit, your capable, you can do it!”

I am such an idiot for listening to that little mother%*^$%!.

The little incline turned out to be the footpath to the top of Kilimanjaro.  Very different from the stable running I normally do on a treadmill, I must add.  By the time I reached the top I cursed myself and every other Rocky impersonator who ever jumped up and down like some crazed lunatic.  You know who you are!  I barely had the energy to turn and check for vehicles before crossing the street, nevertheless turn around with a hoody and lift my arms and jump.  That scene is a farce, by the way.

I really wanted to sit down and cry but determination forced me to keep on running.  Or it may have been the two young joggers coming towards me at that very moment.  The greatest thing about reaching the top of anything is the fact that there is a decline at the other side.  The bad thing about said incline is that you have to control your speed, otherwise you might end up running like a cart-wheel speeding up, and those never ends well!

People passing me looked away quickly and I didn’t have the energy to figure out whether they were rude or just plain scared.  Seeing a wide-eyed, heavy breathing, sweat-covered, crazed, cart wheeling jogger at 05h30 in the morning will frighten anyone!

To say I was exhausted reaching home might be accurate, but it’s difficult to say as the sweat in my eyes made it impossible to identify the right remote button for the gate.  There was a real chance of me setting of the house alarm and causing havoc to my sleeping family.

I walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle, which fortunately had enough water in for the required four cups.  Getting water would have been like lifting a three-ton truck.  I was convinced that I forgot my body somewhere along the route and now my soul was seeking refuge.

My beautiful wife came strolling down the stairs in her luscious, pink gown.  Her eyes widened and we had the following conversation:

Wife: “How was the run?”

Husband: *Hanging on the kitchen counter for dear life, with excessive breathing that should only be heard in an eighties porn movie*

Wife: “Guess it was tough then?”

Husband: *Looked up at the wife with his most condescending effort possible.  Still breathing heavily and thus only managed a weak smile.  Tried to stand up straight and look the part…*

Wife: “Goodness love, how far did you run?”

Have to interject here, as the wife really seemed sincere and concerned for my well being for I must have looked like a refugee from Syria.

Husband: *With every effort the vocal cords cooperated* “Not…too far….I think…about….3 km….It feels….like I did…forty….”

Wife: *Smirking smiling as she turned back up the stairs* “Looks like you did 70…”

I am sure I heard her giggle at the top of the stairs.  There is such a fine line between love and hate; isn’t there?

Post 101 – Failing your medical…

The title might be misleading.  This is not a crash course on blogging, or a secret to making money whilst blogging, or any tips on how to get more followers.   This is actually really my 101th post. Yes, I am impressed myself.  But that normally does not last very long…

As I failed my medical today.  I also didn’t realise you can, but in fairness it’s not like I am dying or anything, I only failed the hearing test and by fail I mean I have to redo it.  (Aced my eye test by the way, if anyone asks)

The nurse seemed very concerned and asked whether I was doing something the night before that might have affected my hearing, but some things are just not meant to be blogged about, well at least not on this platform.  I replied to her question with a very quick yes.  Truth is I really didn’t hear anything, but before you feel pity for my loss of hearing let’s first assess the test.  (It also have to be said that this is an Executive Medical for management on our plant, so the facilities I am about to discuss does not necessarily reflect the country medical progressiveness.  Or maybe it does..)

You are put in a very small soundproof box with a door.  A relic from a Vegas magic show where the person inside is either going to be sawed in half or replaced by a tiger.  There is a dodgy pillow, that has seen more asses than a New York subway bench, lying on a very uncomfortable looking chair.  When the nurse opened the door there was a moment when we both just looked at one another and then at the chair.  She nudged her neck and her eyes said clearly,

“Sorry Sire would you like us to bring in the Iron throne for you?  Go and put your ass down in that excuse of a chair.”  So I did, nervously.

Then you have to take the set of earphones that was lying on a side table, dust them of and place them on your head.  These earphones was used by Noah to soften the noise of all those  animals in the Arc.  I believe that something that old should not be placed close to any open crevice of your body, especially if said crevice is only inches from your brain.  (Which I do use from time to time.) Now I am sitting there with this thing on my head wondering what other living things are ready to go spelunking down my ear channel.

You get a button that you have to press every time you hear a beep through the earphones. This is not half as exciting as it sounds.

Instructions given, Nurse Ratchet closes the door and you are left with silence.  I hate silence.  It makes me think.  And I didn’t bring my laptop into the booth.  Soon the silence becomes deafening until it’s finally broken by the sound of my own blood pumping.  And a very strange zinging sound in my ear that I have not heard before. Echoes of creatures having fun in my ear maybe?

And you wait.  For the beep.  And you hear nothing.  And you wait. Still nothing.  And you become worried as small droplets of sweat flood your palms.  And questions race through your mind like: “Am I deaf?  Was I only communicating through lip reading?  OMG.  What is happening to me!!! Help!!”  And then the inevitable happens,  you press the button.  Three times in quick concession.  Who wants to get out of the booth and get a hearing aid fitting right of the bat, right?

Then nurse Ratchet looks up from the monitor, moves her glasses and mouths:

“The test hasn’t started yet.”  And you feel like a 40 year old prick.  No, it’s not a nice feeling.  And it all goes downhill from there.

Eventually you hear a beep. You happily press the button trying to proof to the nurse without a sense of humour that you can manage miniscule tasks.  She doesn’t look impressed.  Screw her.  You hear the beep and press the button and the sun shines once again in the land of me.

Until you hear nothing… the sun drops from the sky and the sweat return.  You hallucinate the beeps and the whole test becomes a farce of assumption, timing, guessing, pressing and panic.  All in a quest to desperately try and hear anything, which you don’t.

Eventually they let you out of the booth, broken and beaten and we are back at the beginning of the post.  So I have to go through this pleasant experience once again on Monday.

There is one advantage of this, I now have proof that I am not able to hear the wife (or kids) whilst watching tv.  A medical professional said I have some kind of hearing problem.

A stick and a ball

Golf… I don’t play, I rather drink at home.  And Saturdays are for, well all together now, “Doing nothing!”  I have quite a few friends who play.  (Yes I have friends!) They call it the sport of business men, drinking men, serious men.

I will not trash anything that has the potential to create millionaires.  Unless its slot machines and/or casino’s or pyramid schemes.  But I have to admit, as I was typing the word “S P O R T” in the same sentence as golf, I couldn’t control my own laughter.  In my mind sport = exercise, which implies an activity that increases your heart rate and pump blood faster.  It is supposed to create a range of motion that extends further than an elbow and a glass of beer.

A few of my friends have taken up golf as a sport based on the fact that “We need to start doing something.  We need to become more active.  We just sit around and gain weight.”  I have sprayed numerous mouthfuls of liquid and choked on several food items when this specific discussion is recycled.  Especially when they start motivating each other to take up golf.  My point is being outside in the sun, with shorts on, doesn’t immediately qualify as being active.

Golfers hit a little white ball with a club, get in a car and drive as close as they can to where the ball is, endangering numerous lives doing so.  Then they hit the ball again, drive, hit, drive, hit until it is sunk into the little black hole.  Everybody says yeah and repeat the whole process another 17 times.

Now this scene plays out totally different when the late arrivals on the golf course are stuck without golf carts.  It’s swearing and cursing and complaining about the inefficient resources and the demise of good, solid management.  The reason for the unhappiness is evident as these poor players now have to, heaven forbid, walk!  (The horror!)  There will be sweat!  (No, stop!)  There will be heat!  (I can’t take it anymore!)

And the gates of hell opens when there is nobody to carry their golfbags around the course.

Who decided that golf should be classified as a sport?  What was the criteria used?  I mean if using a stick and ball is the only requirement, then we can also include sex in the Olympic games.  (I can hear the support right through the screen!)

For most men standing around a fire; topics of conversation are limited to politics, cars, women, sport and golf.  (Note two separate things.)  I’m always there to correct my friends, and then I end up being bombarded with handicaps and putting and drives and par and birdies and you name it.  I never learn, but if the shoe fits…

Most people assume I play, and it’s probably due to my chosen career as a marketer.  So when I’m asked what my handicap is, my reply: “Golf”.

(Maybe my cynicism stems from the fact that I can’t hit the damn white ball.  No, that can’t be it…)

I stepped on a bee.

I’m guilty of homicide. Or maybe manslaughter, as it didn’t happen on purpose.  I wouldn’t harm a fly…wait…I would.  I would crush those annoying flying vermin in a heartbeat.  But I never meant to hurt the bee.  It’s not my fault I stepped on an insect with suicidal tendencies. Besides he might be dead, but I was stuck with the discomfort of a swollen foot and rigid toe, that became an exact replica of a thick vienna.

Like most tragedies, it happened unexpectedly.  A perfect summer’s day.  The sky was cobalt blue, and the sun was playing hide and seek behind puffs of cotton ball clouds scattered across the sky.  The butterflies were dancing amongst the flowers and even the ants stopped working to bask in the smiling sun.  I know, for I was playing outside with the kids, passing a rugby ball.

Son decided to show us some “trick passes”, which just became ingenious ways of throwing the ball on the ground.  It spend significantly more time there than in the hands of the three people, supposedly playing.  In one moment Princess, intercepted one of the trick passes and thus changed the rules of the game.  Son gave chase and Princess passed the ball to me, about five metres too high, and it landed on the edge of the garden.  It was on.  It has to be said that I need distance to gain speed and needless to say Son got to the ball first.  Remember before you judge, he is 12 and I’m 40.  Anyhow once you have speed and momentum, stopping is a little more complicated.  Unless you fall.   Which I did.  Spectacularly. And once on the ground I grabbed my foot, thinking it to be broken, as a dull pain shot up my calf.

“What’s wrong”, Princess asked genuinely concerned.

“I don’t know, I think I might have torn a ligament in my toe.”  I said without any medical training whatsoever.

“How?”  Son asked. The hysterics was bubbling violently beneath the concern.

“I don’t know,” was my honest answer, as thoughts of a fragile, geriatric man flashed through my mind.

I got up again, not seeing anything suspicious, but the dull pain was still apparent.  So I did what any grown man would do in that situation, I called for my wife.  No I didn’t.  I wanted to, but I didn’t, for I. Am. Man.

I slopped back onto the grass and commenced a thorough search and rescue of my foot region.  Two keen wide-eyed kids loomed over my shoulder.  Then I saw it, stuck between the big-toe and the one next to it (what’s it called?), the entrails of my victim.  The last weapon he will ever hope to use.

I pulled it and examined the small stinger with disgust.  I exclaimed loudly:

“I was stung by a bee.  Shit!”

(Murphy, my best friend, will allow me to step on the only known bee who’s afraid of heights and can’t fly!)

Then the laughter commenced.  Falling down, exploding with hysterics, my kids were rolling on the grass.  It was the most beautiful sound in the world.  (And is more proof that humans are programmed to laugh at one another expense.  As was this story).  I joined in the laughter, and my toe forgotten, ended up in a tickle/wrestling/climbing extravaganza.

What I didn’t know was that the venom of the suicidal bee was spreading and slowly making its way from my toe to the rest of my foot.  After an hour my foot resembled the shoe of Ronald McDonald.  I had a slight discomfort when walking, but this was greatly enhanced by awesome acting.  Resulting in the kids laughing all over again.

That evening, tucking in Princess, she said: “Today was a great day, dad, sorry about the bee-sting.”

I smiled, kissed her forehead and said, “Don’t worry, it was worth it.’

Bedtime came and the wife gave me sympathy, tea and a tablet for allergies.  I got up the next morning, looking down at my brightly red, excessively swollen toe and smiled, realising that spending time with your kids are the greatest investment one can make in life.  It’s absolutely priceless.

My toe returned to its normal size after two days, but I’m glad to report the memory will lasts forever.

Good pain?

I am in physical pain.  Typing this creates involuntary eye twitches as my arms need to be picked up.  I knew this would happen, and I still did it willingly.  Idiot anyone?

I used to go to the gym everyday non-stop for the last four years.  Maybe missing a day here and there.  I would wake up @ 05h00 every weekday morning and go for my daily workout.  Weekends were created for doing nothing.  I didn’t aim to look like anyone, I just wanted to stay fit and toned, throwing some weights around.  This also prevented me from kicking the dog, screaming at the kids and killing my boss.

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What the f*ck are you smiling about?
Thanks http://www.freedigitialphotos.net

I say used to, as I have not been in the gym since last November.  I finally convinced the lazy guy in the mirror to get off his ass and dragged him out of bed the day before yesterday to start some exercise again.  Secret revealed.

I decided to list the ten things I learned this week as a warning to others who wants to (a)Stop or (b) Start exercising.

1. It hurts.  Like hell.  Not lifting weights for more than 9 weeks make your muscles forget why they are attached to your bones in the first place.  My body savoured the beer and sugar it was getting and now my muscles are screaming and cursing for what I  am putting them through.  They are acting out and refuse spitefully to co-operate with me, even if I want to, let’s say, pick up a pencil or walk.

2. Everyday new muscles and body parts will join the revolution that is now rampant in my body.

3. You lose strength.  Don’t get me wrong, I never aimed to be an Arnold, but I took pride in my ability to bench press a weight close to my own bodyweight.  This week I was less than succesful.  I think I might have bench pressed the bodyweight of an 8 year-old.  It might be due to my age, but I prefer to blame it on my long absence.

4. People will assume you have died if they see you every day and then suddenly not at all for three months.  It is probably due to the fact that there are only about twenty people alive at that time of the morning.

5. It still sucks to wake up when half the world are still asleep.  The half of my world being my wife and kids.  You ask yourself why you do it, while doing it.

6. Keeping your stomach contracted, to avoid showing the extra calories that you have been storing over christmas, can only be done for about 3 minutes max.  Then you pass out.

7. The crazed bodybuilders still focus on their own form in the mirror, dressed in their brightly coloured vests.  They avoid any human contact until they finished their bicep curl with a load “Uuuurgggh” and dropping the weight with a load “clunk”.  I call it the soundtrack for duechebags.

8. Crazy humans that wake up early to do any form of exercise (running, cycling or going to gym) are still a minority.  We should be thankful.  There are some concerns as this disease does spread during summer but the virus causing the urge to exercises dies in winter.

9. Some people still cannot drive at that time of the morning, even if there’s basically no vehicles on the road.

10. Runners still think that they can play chicken with most cars, so they will occupy most of the road.  I still think petrol is not that expensive, why run?

11. Did I mentioned that it hurts? Like hell?  Where is the friggin’ truck that reversed over me, twice?

Someone said to me this morning, “It’s a good pain, it means my muscles are working again”.  Yeah right, who asked you, shithead?  You’re not the one who has to slither down the stairs and crawl to your car.  The moral of my story is:  “Never stop once you start.”