Lifting weights is top of mind for me lately. I’ve read that it’s essential for building muscle tone, increasing metabolism, and for overall health as a person ages. But something stops me from grabbing the ten-pound dumbbells and getting to work. Every day that goes by without lifting weights, I tell myself I’m being unproductive. But the other night, I had an epiphany. I’m the furthest from lazy.
I do wind sprints at three in the morning.
My signal to start the wind sprints comes in phases and in different forms. I don’t hear a beep from my watch, a starting gun, or a coach’s yell. I’m hovering above my former 24-year-old fit body, dressed in a little bikini, lying in the sun at the beach. Then, the scene starts to change. I suddenly feel my bed shake, followed closely by the weight of my dog’s paws hitting the floor. I roll over and try to re-enter my dream, feeling the hot sun on my face. Only I can’t really enjoy the bliss because I hear someone, quite close to me, dry heaving in the sand.
“Rosie?” I say, as I bolt upright in bed. She answers with the sound of gagging coming from a couple of feet away. On your mark, get set, go!
I bet you’ve never done wind sprints in the dark, have you?
I can’t find my way to the bathroom in the dark without first putting on my glasses. So when racing is imperative, and I’m feeling sluggish, I’m not exactly prepared for the wind sprints. I’ve got to grab my gear!
Multitasking is my specialty. I throw off the covers with one hand, while feeling around my nightstand with the other. I must have my race spectacles. Now fully equipped, I know I’m already behind. It’s easy to catch up with Rosie because my race rabbit decoy is waiting by the closed bedroom door. I open it amid the continuous dry heaving at my feet. With the door open, it’s noisy as her four and my two legs are moving quickly down the hall. I am experiencing my first wind sprint. My arms pump back and forth while my bare feet slap the ground one after the other. I can now see the finish line of the sliding glass door. It’s a straight shot.
I have to keep moving.
Only Rosie the race rabbit doesn’t go towards the door. She chooses a parkour approach, taking a sharp right and crouching under the dining room table. My wind sprint now over, I stop running and switch to coach mode. I’m now squatting down to see my under-the-table athlete and noticing her lack of progress. A good coach would cheer her on, saying only positive things, “Keep going,” “You can do this,” or “Go! Go! Go!” But I suck at being a coach because I am demotivating, yelling, “No! No! No!” while gesturing toward the finish line.
I really shouldn’t be a coach.
Let me pause for a second to clarify a couple of things. On this particular night, my husband was coughing up a lung earlier. So, he was asleep on the couch, only six feet from the race course. For this reason, I don’t turn on the lights. I pat myself on the back because I am oh-so-sensitive to not disturbing his sleep by keeping it dark. I contradict myself by yelling at Rosie. I am half asleep, after all.
An extra-large hacking comes from under the table. From the sound of it, Rosie may have manufactured something wet, now living on the carpet. I don’t have time or the inclination to look more closely. This is my signal. The second wind sprint begins.
You see? I work out at any time of day. Dedication. That’s what it is.
This second wind sprint has me back in the race, in the lead, too. My Rosie, at my heels, races with me through a pitch black left-hand turn into the kitchen. We’re now moving in a SouthWest direction. We pass the oven, and I dodge the sharp corner of the granite counter pointed at my right rib. There is no rest for the weary because moments later, the corner of the kitchen table threatens my left hip. I theatrically swat the kitchen chair aside with my left hand to make way for a glittery finish. If I had socks on, I’d have slid with the pizzazz of an ice dancer and flung open the door. But, alas, no socks. I keep running full speed and stub my toe on the door while unlocking it. Rosie presses her nose against the glass because she’s misjudged the timing, too.
Cue the Rocky theme.
If Rocky were a dog like Rosie, this is her moment at the top of the stairs. I finally open the door. Like passing the Olympic torch to the next runner, I watch her go. My hopes and dreams leave with her. Rosie must continue on her own, and I have faith that she can and will. She trots to the grass and stands in the middle with her big nose pointed straight up in the air. Fresh air after rain will do that to you. I’m in the observation area, watching her through the window. Again, I’m not the most inspiring coach because I’m whisper-cursing Rosie for just standing there. I haven’t noticed any actual puking while she’s been outside, despite the dramatic wind-up through the house.
Time slowly ticks by.
Like a sloth, Rosie points herself in one direction and stays put, still sniffing. I decide to withdraw her from the competition and announce, “The fun is over.” Now back inside, I dry her paws and the two of us, still barefoot, head back to bed. By the time I reach the hallway, I step into what I soon find is a trail of bile. It turns out Rosie left metaphorical breadcrumbs, marking our way from the slider back to the bedroom door. She’s so considerate, making sure we don’t get lost on our return. I finally turn on the lights, grab paper towels and 409, and clean up the mess. I’m grateful it isn’t green and doesn’t carry the overwhelming smell of a sour, lumpy, bitter glob. Rosie doesn’t head into the bedroom, even though the door is open. Instead, she waits at the end of the hall, sitting patiently until I’ve cleaned everything.
We do have another round of sprints in the wee hours.
Round two isn’t as exciting or disorienting as the first, so I’ll save you the details. It’s strange. I don’t remember signing up for wind sprints, coaching, or the cleaning crew, but here we are. By the way, this isn’t a rare event anymore. It now takes place most nights, usually beginning at two or three AM.
They say it’s important to be consistent with your workouts. I’ve been looking at this all wrong. Wind sprints in the middle of the night, every night. Check.
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