I haven’t worked out in a month. 

I’ll blame it on my homework, the homework I should have been doing instead of sleeping in. The same homework that I vowed to complete with the stipulation that I wouldn’t work out another day until turning in the last assignment. I finished it last Sunday, the night before the due date. I hadn’t pursued my homework any faster, and had only given myself a lousy excuse for not exercising.

My foot hurts, so I’ll lay off going hard to give it time to heal.

I like this excuse a lot better. It makes me sound like freaking Sir Lance-a-lot saving a village from a dragon. “Sorry guys, I’d go run, but I’m too busy saving souls from eternal damnation to Dr. Scholls gel inserts.”

I deleted the Strava app.

I also deleted an entire paragraph ,about this morning’s routine, before writing this one. There’s no need in sharing my workouts. They’re not awe-inspiring. They’re crazy, sure, but I doubt any of my followers have been marking loops around the old pine in their backyard because of me. If I had kept sharing these routines, somebody would have turned me in. Those four hour loops around the old oak were going to get me on the short list for Guantánamo. 

I’ve got two months before the Elsie Enduro. I’m not where I want to be. This might be a good place for me. I need a solid kick to the sweat pants. At least that’s what my bathroom scale keeps hinting at.

Last-man-standings are hard, they’re even harder if you don’t train for one.

I guess I need to go do some push-ups with Eye of the Tiger blaring in the background. Or something.