Tag: comeback story

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When Pace Takes a Vacation but Discipline Sticks Around

Written April 5, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s 10K was less of a triumphant dash and more of a slow-motion struggle through a vat of soup. And not even the good kind. I had high hopes, but my target pace waved goodbye around kilometer three and disappeared into the haze. Disappointing? Yes. Defeated? Not quite.

Maybe it was the hours of mowing yesterday that zapped my energy. Maybe it was the humidity clinging to me like an overly affectionate sweater. Maybe both. Either way, my legs were staging a silent protest, and I wasn’t exactly in the mood for negotiations.

Running, I’ve realized, isn’t just about fitness. It’s about strategy. And in my case, environmental diplomacy. High humidity? Slippery slope. Bone-chilling cold? My body doesn’t thermoregulate like it used to. Wind, rain, pollution? I might as well be battling the elements in a Shakespearean tragedy.

This past week, Nashville’s spring air has been more “dust and doom” than “fresh and floral.” Toss in a humidity level that could make a rainforest jealous, and you’ve got the perfect storm for a sluggish run.

But here’s the thing—I log everything. Not because I’m obsessed with stats, but because I believe in the long view. My wife, ever the voice of reason (and wisdom), tells me not to ride the emotional rollercoaster of daily metrics. “Zoom out,” she says. “Don’t get caught up in the noise.” She’s right, of course. She usually is.

She barely checks her logs, preferring to focus on the process over the numbers. For her, it’s all about clear-headedness and Stoic discipline. No drama. No spirals. No “I ran three seconds slower, therefore I’m a failure” kind of thinking. Just steady progress.

I, on the other hand, am more of a grind-it-out type. Motivation is fleeting. Vision is sacred. Discipline is king. After all, I’ve clawed my way back from a place where simply moving my limbs felt like a miracle. Now, every step I take is a quiet rebellion against the limitations I once knew.

My wife often tells me she’s proud of me. That I’m her inspiration. She reminds me that not everyone bounces back from a brain stroke and decides to chase 10Ks for breakfast. She’s gently pushing me to become even healthier than I was before—and I’ve decided to take her advice literally.

Running is more than a hobby. It’s part of my mission to keep this body functioning, thriving, and dancing its way through life. Even when the weather’s rude. Even when my pace falls short. Even when progress feels like wading through molasses.

Success hasn’t shown up lately, but I know it’s lurking out there—probably waiting for the humidity to die down too. Until then, I’ll be tweaking, adjusting, experimenting. I may have overdone it early in the year, sprinting into a wall of fatigue, but that’s part of the journey. Now, I’m learning the rhythm of resilience. One humid, hopeful mile at a time.

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Pushup Tuesday: A Tale of Perseverance and Pec Pec Glory

Written March 18, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Tuesdays are for pushing—literally. It’s the day I dedicate to pushups, and no, not the orange-flavored frozen kind (though that would be delightful). I recently learned that working the same muscle groups on back-to-back days isn’t all that effective—who knew muscles liked variety too?

So, Tuesday is all about the push. And boy, do I have a pushy goal: 50 pushups in one set. I’ve been flirting with that number for weeks, always coming up short by a few reps. Just a handful away. Maddening.

Once upon a time, I was that gymnast kid who could whip out pull-ups and pushups like it was recess. But then life threw a massive wrench—aka a brain stroke—into my plans. Suddenly, workouts weren’t even on the menu. For a while, waking up was the main event. I spent the early months either unconscious or living in a dreamy fog of naps and nurses.

In the long-term care facility, my goals were humbler: eat without assistance, sleep through the night, and make it to the washroom without drama. Glamorous? No. Necessary? Absolutely. After mastering those, I graduated to walking, then stairs. Eventually, pushups re-entered the scene, stage left.

Starting over was humbling. My muscles had vanished like socks in the dryer. But I began again. Slowly, consistently, and with enough stubbornness to rival a toddler refusing vegetables. Over the years, I climbed back up to almost 50 pushups. Almost. That word haunted me.

Until this morning.

Today, with a bit of grimacing and a lot of determination, I hit 50. One clean set. No collapsing. No swearing (well, not much). Just pure, triumphant effort. And let me tell you—after weeks of frustration, it felt like winning a mini-Olympics in my living room.

Now, I’m not raising the bar just yet. I’ll keep 50 as my goal until it feels like a warm-up. Then I’ll inch it up to 55. Might take a week or two—or more—but I’ll get there. One push at a time.

What I’ve learned is this: small victories matter. This is my personal Kaizen—steady, deliberate improvement. Over the years, I’ve gone from zero to 50. I’ve hit plateaus, adjusted goals, and made peace with slow progress. Sometimes, I aimed too high and had to scale back. Other times, I surprised myself.

But through it all, I’ve become more patient. And more hopeful. Because if I can rise from not walking to nailing 50 pushups… who knows what else is possible?