Tag: Fitness Journey

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Why You Shouldn’t Drink a Milkshake Before a 10K

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today’s plan was simple and efficient: visit the running shoe store to get my wife a fresh pair of shoes, then stop for a milkshake on the way home. We had a flier for a free milkshake, so naturally, we synchronized errands like responsible adults.

My wife takes running attire very seriously—and for good reason. She firmly believes that the wrong shoes invite injury, and improper clothing invites heat stroke, hypothermia, or, at the very least, regret. I don’t argue with this logic.

While we were there, I also replaced my aging cold-weather running pants. My old pair had reached the end of their honorable service, so I upgraded. Once we got home, I immediately put the new pants on and decided to break them in properly—with a full 10K run.

We don’t go out much on her days off because she usually has a long list of chores. But she’d already declared weeks ago that her running shoes were overdue for replacement. This outing had been scheduled in the household calendar long before the milkshake entered the story.

The milkshake, however, was my personal motivation.

My wife isn’t interested in milkshakes. She always takes one sip of mine, politely declares it “too sweet,” and hands it back. I, on the other hand, was thrilled. I hadn’t had a milkshake in years. Years.

And then I made a terrible decision.

I drank the entire milkshake right before heading out for my run.

Running with a belly full of milkshake is… not ideal. No matter how delicious it is, milkshake-fueled jogging is not a performance-enhancing strategy. This is a lesson I will absolutely remember: milkshakes belong after runs, not immediately before them.

The run itself was hard. I fought to keep my pace from collapsing more than 50 seconds below my target. I finished 49 seconds under instead—which is technically better, but emotionally still rough. By the end, my legs were fully aware that I had tried very hard.

They may become even more aware tonight.

I’m considering doing my weekly squats this evening instead of tomorrow. That would give me an extra recovery day before my Monday run, which should—at least in theory—help me be faster then.

So today’s takeaways:
  • New shoes: excellent
  • New pants: promising
  • Free milkshake: delicious
  • Timing of milkshake: catastrophic

Still, lessons were learned, gear was upgraded, and the run got done.
Next time, I’ll earn my milkshake the hard way—after the finish line.

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Too Cold to Run, Smart Enough to Plan Around It

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

I have been exceptionally cold in Nashville lately. We’ve had mornings starting at 11°F, which feels less like weather and more like a personal challenge from the universe.

My wife, unfazed, went out for her morning workout anyway. Her internal temperature sensor is clearly miscalibrated, I blame her time living in the frozen wastes of Canada. She claims her winter running jacket feels perfectly warm at 11°F. Apparently, such jackets exist. I have never owned one and therefore remain skeptical.

Last night, it snowed. Snow itself doesn’t concern us unless it requires manual labor. We are fully prepared—with two bags of salt and a snow shovel standing by like emergency supplies. Fortunately, the snow didn’t stick. The temperature crept above freezing just long enough to melt it away.

Unfortunately, that did not mean warmth was coming back.

Once I realized we wouldn’t see anything above 40°F, I immediately began dreading my run. Since I’ve already hit my yearly running goals, a dangerous thought appeared: Maybe I can take a break.

And just like that, I declared today a no-run day.

That said, I know the rule my wife lives by: skip once, and you must go back next time. Otherwise, skipping becomes a habit, and habits quietly erode commitment. This is probably why she still works out in conditions better suited for polar research.

I, however, have a different constraint: my body does not cope well with extreme weather. This is less a motivational issue and more a survival preference.

Looking ahead, Saturday promises temperatures in the 40s. Not pleasant—but tolerable. I’ll definitely be running a 10K then. A 10K in the 40s isn’t fun, but it’s manageable with the right layers and the correct amount of complaining.

This has led me to consider a new idea: a temperature-based exception rule.

Something like:

  • If it doesn’t get above 40°F by 1 p.m.
  • And I’ve already hit my current year’s goals
    → I’m allowed to skip the run without guilt.

I suspect this would reduce unnecessary stress and make running feel less like a punishment issued by the weather. It may also be wise to establish an upper temperature limit as well—though running early in the morning usually solves that problem.

For now, winter and I have reached a temporary ceasefire. I skipped today.
I will run next time.
And that, I think, is a reasonable compromise.

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Sore Quads, Smart Squats, and Rethinking My Training

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

I’ve been running for nearly a decade. A few years ago, I added resistance training. And yet—brace yourself—there’s one thing I somehow never did: leg strength training.

Yes, I run. A lot. I convinced myself that running was leg day. Turns out, that logic only works until it doesn’t—usually in the form of injury. Somewhere along the way, it finally clicked: runners also need resistance training for their legs.

My wife has known this all along.

She does resistance training six days a week, and she works her legs especially hard. Her reasoning is simple: cardio doesn’t fully train leg strength. Recently, she’s taken it even more seriously, and the results are obvious. Her legs are noticeably stronger than before.

So I made a decision.
I would join leg day—late, but sincere.

I introduced squats into my routine, and my quadriceps responded immediately by filing soreness reports. That’s how I know something new is happening. I do have to be careful, though. Once a week, I already run 10 kilometers, and our neighborhood is aggressively hilly. My legs aren’t exactly underworked.

Still, the soreness tells me something important: I’m using muscle fibers that running alone doesn’t reach. Whether increasing strength first will eventually improve my speed is still an open question—but early signs suggest I’m on the right path.

As with everything else, I’m introducing this change slowly. My kidney condition limits how much protein I can consume, so I can’t afford to destroy too many muscle fibers at once. At the same time, muscle growth requires some breakdown. Balancing those two realities is the real workout.

To stay honest, I track my biometrics using our scale—water percentage, protein, bone mass, muscle mass, weight—and I cross-check all of that with quarterly blood work. Numbers don’t lie, even when motivation does.

For now, the goal isn’t speed.
The goal is durability.

I’ll continue monitoring, adjusting, and easing leg exercises into my routine over the next few months. After nearly ten years of running, it seems only fair to finally give my legs the attention they deserve—outside of just asking them to carry me uphill.

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One Push-Up a Week and a Year of Quiet Progress

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today marks a small but meaningful milestone for me—one that took an entire year to earn.

About a year ago, I started doing push-ups once a week. I began at 20 and made myself a very modest promise: add one more rep each week. No heroics. No sudden transformations. Just one extra push-up. Today, that number reached 72.

When you have compromised kidneys, muscle-building looks a little different. I can’t eat as much protein as a healthy adult male, so progress doesn’t arrive quickly—or loudly. I started running about a decade ago, but it was only in the last few years that I began adding other forms of exercise. Even then, I did it cautiously.

Summers are already physically demanding thanks to lawn mowing and general activity, and my body doesn’t recover the way it used to. So instead of piling workouts on top of each other, I started doing something less exciting but far more effective: adding things slowly.

I also tweaked how often—and how much—I train. Rather than working everything in one session, I focus on a few selected muscle groups each time. The goal isn’t exhaustion. The goal is regeneration. Training your body not to recover is not a win.

Since switching to this approach, something unexpected happened: it worked.

My wife mentioned that I look noticeably leaner than I did a few years ago, back when running was my only form of exercise. I’ve noticed it too—mostly because my pants are tighter. And no, it’s not because my legs suddenly bulked up. Progress shows up in mysterious ways.

The push-up plan itself has been almost comically simple. One rep per week. That’s it. Occasionally, I misremember what number I hit the week before, which means I may have skipped a number or repeated one. But honestly? I don’t care. What matters is that I showed up every week for a full year.

That alone feels worth celebrating.

I’d like to reach 100 push-ups someday, but that will take most of another year—and I’m perfectly fine with that. I’m not in a rush. Each week, I’ll try the new number. If I succeed, I’ll add one more for next time. Thanks to a spreadsheet, I can now be reasonably sure I’m not accidentally cheating or sabotaging myself.

A fitness journey doesn’t need to be dramatic to be real. It just needs to be yours. I’ve accepted my kidney disease and built my workouts around what my body can actually handle.

And one push-up at a time, it turns out, is more than enough.

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When One Missed Task Knocks Over the Whole Day

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today, I learned—once again—that my schedule is only as intense as its weakest forgotten task.

The first crack appeared when I realized I hadn’t prepared the kombucha bottles on Wednesday. Typically, I fill them with sanitizing solution so they’re ready to rinse on Thursday and usable by Friday. This time? Completely skipped. That meant starting the process today and planning to rinse them after we returned from my sister’s house. Already, the day was improvising without my consent.

Next came the laundry problem. I had also forgotten how being away would collide with my laundry schedule—specifically, sheet-changing day. We do have a second set of sheets, but the matching pillowcases disappeared during one of our last two moves and have never been seen again. That meant the current ones had to be washed, dried, and put back on the bed all in the same day.

No pressure.

After my shower, I started the laundry, timing it carefully in my head and hoping it would finish washing just in time to move everything into the dryer before we left. This was optimistic math.

One thing occupational therapy taught me after my brain injury was how essential time management systems are. Trauma made me more forgetful and shortened my attention span. I can easily lose track of what I’m doing—or what I was about to do.

So, through trial and error, I built a system. I remember one anchor task in the morning and linking everything else to it in a chain. Wake up → medication → breakfast → next task → next task. It works beautifully… until it doesn’t.

Holidays are natural enemies of systems.

I love Thanksgiving. Truly. But it rearranges routines just enough to break everything quietly. I suddenly realized I’d missed a few steps earlier in the week, and now I was paying for it in delayed laundry and bottle logistics.

We had already told my sister we’d be on a specific schedule. The plan was to complete everything before leaving. Reality disagreed. The washing machine still needed ten more minutes when it was time to go, meaning the dryer would have to wait until we returned.

At that point, I could feel the pressure building. Too many tasks were being deferred to “later,” and I knew that meant a busier, more chaotic evening. Still, there wasn’t much choice. The schedule had already gone off the rails—I was just managing the damage now.

Some days, the system wins.
Some days, the holiday wins. Today was clearly the latter—but at least I know why.

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When Snow Is on the Schedule but Motivation Is on Hold

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Last night, I made the mistake of checking the weather forecast. There it was in bold, unforgiving clarity: snow scheduled for today. I don’t mind running in the cold, but snow running? That’s where my enthusiasm politely exits the building.

This morning, the very first thing I did was rush to the window like a weather detective. No snow yet. Victory—for the moment. The temperature had dropped, though, and it was barely going to crawl past 40°F all day.

We’ve had a suspiciously mild autumn this year. Just recently, we enjoyed a 70-degree day. I think that spoiled me. Cold now feels rude. Still, I reminded myself: at least it’s not snowing. Our neighborhood is hilly, and I vividly remember my wife and I nearly slipping just walking up the hill in front of our house on a previous snow day. Ice plus gravity is not a friendly combination.

Had it been snowing, the day’s running plans would have been instantly canceled—no debate. But since the ground was still clear, I was forced to consider actually going out into the cold. I wasn’t thrilled, but I figured that after breakfast, it might be slightly more tolerable.

Meanwhile, my wife casually goes out for exercise at 5:00 a.m., when the temperature is even lower. I still don’t understand what kind of heroic software runs her internal system.

I, on the other hand, require mental push-ups just to step outside in cold weather.

After feeding both my kitten and myself, I consulted my weather app for the optimal escape window—only to be informed that snow was still very much expected. The app cheerfully announced it would start within the hour. In other words, science had just handed me a perfectly legitimate excuse to make my run short.

And I accepted it without protest.

The exercise journey, I’m learning, is full of negotiations—with weather, with the body, and especially with the mind. A decade ago, my resistance to running was far worse. Now the resistance is mostly emotional… but I still show up more often than not.

Even a little bit of exercise counts. Even showing up mentally counts. And looking ahead at the week, both Wednesday and Friday promise better running weather—so I’m choosing not to feel too guilty today.

Sometimes progress means running.
Sometimes it means strategically retreating from snow.

Both are survival skills.

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Shorts Weather, Long Distance, and a 10K Victory

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today’s mission depended on one critical variable: temperature. I waited patiently for it to rise just enough to justify running in shorts—quite possibly my final bare-legged appearance of the year. Once conditions were approved by the unofficial weather committee (me), I headed out for my 10K run with one ambitious goal in mind: hit my final speed target for the year.

The last two runs were hard 5Ks, and I’d pushed aggressively for pace. Somehow, my body had recovered better than expected, which gave me hope. Dangerous hope. The motivational kind.

After the first quarter kilometer, I was well ahead of target. That early success flipped a switch in my brain: Maintain this at all costs. Each pace announcement reinforced the fantasy that today might actually be the day. Naturally, I pushed harder.

Now, the body is essentially an energy budget. Spend too much too early, and you go bankrupt before the finish line. I knew I was overspending. By the end of the first kilometer, my head start had shrunk—but I was still safely ahead, so I continued the dangerous strategy known as optimism. By the 5K mark, I had beaten my target pace by a comfortable margin.

But I wasn’t content with “comfortable.”

I wanted a new personal best 10K.
I wanted my first ever sub-9-minute-per-kilometer 10K.
And I still had half the distance left to survive.

The final two kilometers were brutal. My lead evaporated faster than my confidence during those last pushes. Every step felt like a negotiation. With three seconds to spare—three—I crossed the line under my sub-9 goal.

I did it.
New personal best.
Goal achieved.
Shorts weather honored.

For a brief moment, I considered retiring for the rest of the year. After all, it’s still early November. Why not celebrate with a well-earned vacation from running? That thought lasted exactly as long as the walk home.

Instead, I doubled down.

Next year’s goal is already on the table: shave off another full minute from my pace. Is it realistic? I honestly don’t know. But it’s achievable to try—and that’s the part that still matters most.

So on Monday, the next mission begins.

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When Muscles Protest but Motivation Wins the Argument

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today, I fully expected to fail my target pace before I even tied my running shoes. My legs were still filing formal complaints from yesterday’s effort—the direct result of pushing hard for that shiny new personal best the other day. Consecutive personal bests are a bold request of the universe, and I had already braced myself for disappointment. Pre-disappointment, if you will.

And yet… the goal refused to leave my head.

The first pace announcement came in, and to my surprise, I was slightly ahead of target after the first quarter kilometer. That tiny lead was just enough encouragement to make a reckless decision: push harder. Hope is powerful—and occasionally unwise.

For a while, it worked.

Then reality caught up. By the end of the second kilometer, that early lead had completely evaporated. My legs stiffened like they had clocked out early. I tried to push again, but my body had officially entered “no further negotiations” mode. No matter how much I argued with my pace, it refused to come back down.

In the end, I missed my target—but only by about ten seconds. I also logged my eighth-fastest run ever, which is not exactly a tragedy. I was still more than a minute faster than Monday’s run, so overall, progress was very much alive… just not wearing a gold medal today.

Now the focus shifts to recovery. My next run is a 10K, not a 5K, and that’s a different kind of negotiation altogether. Pace management over 10 kilometers is much trickier—start too fast, and the second half will collect its revenge with interest. I’ve been running for nearly a decade, and yet I still struggle with pacing like it’s a lifelong riddle.

My body condition and temperature affect my running more than I’d like to admit. Recovery is especially tricky with my kidney condition. Even after a few days of rest, it’s not unusual for my body to feel like it hasn’t fully recharged. The last two sessions were particularly hard pushes, so caution is now my training partner. I may not be improving at the speed I imagine in my head—but I am moving forward. And more importantly, I still have something to run toward. These days, the hope matters more than the stopwatch. Performance fades. Motivation, when treated kindly, sticks around.

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Cold Weather Running, Frustration, and Nietzsche: A November Runner’s Tale

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

I can’t believe it’s already November. One week we’re basking in warm weather, and the next we’re suddenly living inside a refrigerator. But cold or not, I refuse to stop running. I simply layer up like an onion with cardio goals.

This morning, my fitness tracker declared I had “high energy” and was in a “cardio-ready state.” Lies. All lies. My 5k quickly turned into a comedy of disappointment.

I blasted out of the gate so strongly that by the first quarter kilometer, I was a glorious 40 seconds ahead of my goal pace. Unfortunately, by the time I hit the first full kilometer, that 40-second buffer had vaporized—like steam on a cold morning—and I was actively fighting gravity, time, and possibly physics to keep from slowing further.

My running app updates me every quarter kilometer like a friendly but brutally honest coach. Each announcement informed me that my pace was either the same or a second slower. Meanwhile, I felt like I was pushing harder than a Black Friday shopper. Yet the data said otherwise.

Cold weather is always more brutal for me. Ever since my brain stroke, my body adapts to temperature changes about as gracefully as an old computer installing a software update. So I have to be very deliberate about my clothing: too cold and I stiffen up; too warm and I overheat. Dressing for a winter run feels like preparing for a NASA spacewalk—one wrong layer and the mission goes sideways.

Even with all the challenges, I finished my 10k only 21 seconds behind my target pace. Not ideal, but far from a disaster. And I was much faster than last week’s 10k, so progress is still happening—just slowly, like a stubborn download progress bar.

Running is one of those long-term investments that requires patience… and more patience… and then even more patience. I’ve been running for nearly a decade, and while 5k used to feel like medieval torture, once I learned to run 10k consistently, the shorter distance stopped scaring me, but chasing a target pace? That always requires grit, stubbornness, and the willingness to suffer a little.

Cold days make it harder—pushing harder doesn’t guarantee results. Sometimes your body simply files a complaint.

My wife always reminds me: One day at a time. One step at a time. Every project has ups and downs, and effort still counts even when the outcome isn’t what we imagined.

Nietzsche might call today’s struggle a small act of “self-overcoming”—choosing the higher challenge instead of the comfortable shortcut. So instead of dwelling on today’s frustrations, I’m choosing to see it as another step toward a stronger version of myself.

And honestly? That feels like its own victory.

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 A Quiet Halloween With My Family, the Power of Small Traditions

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today is Halloween—a day for candy, costumes, and the annual realization that we bought way too many treats for the number of children who actually show up at our door. My wife, ever the organized one, stocked up a full month in advance so she wouldn’t have to run to Target in a last-minute panic. We didn’t buy much this year, partly because we’ve learned our lesson: our neighborhood has fewer children than a retirement village during nap time.

My wife still feels a little sad about it. Back when she lived in Canada, she used to get over 130 eager trick-or-treaters in a single night. Meanwhile, in Portland, we got zero. Nashville is somewhere in the middle—technically there are children, they just don’t seem particularly motivated to walk to our house.

Since supply far exceeds demand, each tiny visitor gets the full VIP candy upgrade. But tonight, the doorbell barely rang. Maybe kids nowadays collect candy with efficiency—three neighborhoods, one Tesla-chauffeured parent, and they’re done. Or maybe the cold weather scared them back into their cozy living rooms. Either way, we were ready; they were not.

My nieces, on the other hand, were thrilled. My sister started sewing her daughter’s costume in August. August. That is Olympic-level parenting. She loves crafting, so Halloween is basically her personal Super Bowl.

I don’t wear a costume, but seeing kids dressed up always brings back happy memories from my childhood—when Halloween meant adventure, sugar, and a truly questionable amount of independence. But tonight, with even fewer visitors than last year, I eventually turned off the porch light and declared the event officially concluded.

In better news, our cat had a fantastic Halloween. We got her a festive Halloween-themed collar, and she strutted around as if she were the CEO of Spooky Season. My wife has already purchased a Thanksgiving-themed one, too, so clearly the cat is celebrating more enthusiastically than we are. I took some photos to send to friends and family. When your cat is basically your child, this is entirely acceptable.

Halloween is also my toothbrush-switching day. My birthday sits exactly six months away, so it works as a built-in reminder. And when I change toothbrushes, I also check the thermostat batteries and the smoke detectors—basically a seasonal home maintenance celebration.

After my brain stroke, I had to rebuild my habits from scratch. Memory becomes unpredictable when your brain has taken a hit. My wife helped me retrain my routines, one slow step at a time. In the beginning, my hands didn’t cooperate well, so even simple tasks felt like climbing a mountain. But I kept going. Today, I’m proud to say my routines are stronger—and more intentional—than ever before.

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