The Filthy Two

Last night I was challenged to a workout by a friend of mine called the Filthy Two. Offered really. He had devised a body weight workout of repetition and time, involving push ups and either pull ups or bicep curls. This is an adaptation of another, more intense workout, he says. I say challenge, because it sounded difficult and I love to prove I'm up to the task. A little bit like Marty McFly, part of me never wants to back down from a challenge. I mean, I know what's dangerous or impossible, or at least I think I do, but sometimes I don't know what is prudent. That makes all the difference.

Despite my routine of push ups at work, it's not really a replacement for a healthy, sweaty workout. Exercise? Yes, technically. Good for me? Better than nothing. Preparation for difficult things? Not hardly. This filthy workout starts out with successive push up intervals of fifteen (I could change the number to suit me - which I will next time) every minute. That means only twenty to thirty seconds of rest between intervals. Same with the pullups/bicep curls. After three intervals, my arms were dead. You see, at work, my intervals are spaced out by an hour, leaving plenty of rest. So now, with more than ninety percent of the workout left, my body was as strong and helpless as an injured baby rabbit. I was unable to even contemplate trying the remainder. But the challenge sat there, unabated.

I squeaked out a few repetitions per interval remaining. The bicep curls fared better. They involved using something like rubber surgical hose. But it sure did burn. I did the final push up repetitions on my knees. So sad. At least I didn't cry. Outwardly. It was a thoroughly humbling experience.

I know I've said this before, and I'm not sure why it bears repeating. I suppose the lesson I learned is that no matter how well I think I'm doing, I can always be shown a better, harder way. I remember when I was a kid, some wise person said, "There's always someone on the planet who is better than the best." It sounds like a paradox. I thought about Olympic Gold Medalists. I mean, they're supposed to be the best in the world. Yet, there could always be someone in the outlying areas who doesn't compete, but who is very capable; someone who could unseat the hero of the sport in front of a shocked populace.

Push up performance, especially at this low level, hardly seems like a worthy topic. But it indicates, at least for me, a pattern of ups and downs, feast and famine. We all go through periods of excitement and encouragement, then boredom and fatigue. I haven't really learned anything, per se, other than the feeling of my body's shame at being weaker than I thought. Aging, such as it is for someone so young, is starting to become more of a hindrance to my freewheeling attitudes toward fitness. Pretty soon, life, as well.

Every moment of this day I've felt the soreness, the pain, and the uncomfortableness of jumping in the deep end without my floaties. Next time I'll try not to wreck my 4x4 into a limo and maybe just do what I can and go on from there. Greatness is a road with a map you make, not busting ass through the untamed forest because you see something shiny on the other side.

Oh! But had I only done but a few push ups! They always said gradual increases, and now it is all but a lake of fire!