Tag: Fitness Journey

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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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Why Breaking My Routine Made Me a Stronger Runner

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

I used to do resistance training the chaotic way—every body part, every day, every time. Basically, the “if I train everything, something has to improve… right?” strategy. Then my wife gently pointed out that muscles need rest, variety, and apparently not a daily existential crisis.

She was right, of course. Summer proved that. Between mowing, trimming, leaf wrangling, and whatever mysterious outdoor chores magically appear when the weather is warm, I barely had energy for running—much less full-body resistance training every single day. So, I surrendered. I broke the routine into sections like a civilized human being.

Now I rotate muscle groups throughout the week, giving each part its moment to shine (and suffer). Some areas get a twice-a-week spotlight; others politely wait their turn. Suddenly, life is manageable again—chores, running, and training all coexist instead of staging a coup.

Today was the start of a new week, which means pull-up day.

A sacred day.
A day of decisions.

Should I plateau at 10 pull-ups, a number respectable enough to put me in the “not bad at all” category? Or should I chase 11, knowing that someday my body will politely inform me, “This is your limit, sir”? Since I haven’t reached that point yet, I went for it. Eleven. Next week, twelve. After that… we’ll see. One day, gravity may win. But not today.

After conquering the pull-up bar and demolishing breakfast, I got ready for my run. The temperature, however, had other plans. Today’s forecast: “Cold. No reprieve. Wear pants.” My body does not negotiate well with sudden temperature changes, so I usually wait for the warmest part of the day in winter—just as I run early in summer to avoid roasting like a forgotten croissant.

But since the temperature was stubbornly staying in “absolutely not shorts” territory, I layered up: long sleeves, full-length pants, the whole winter runner look. Forty-five minutes later, I hit the pavement.

And—I beat my target pace.
No new personal record, but I landed the delightful honor of “second fastest ever,” which is basically the silver medal of running days. I’ll take it.

If I hit my target time later this week, I might just set a new record. And that is a very good reason to look forward to the next run… assuming the weather cooperates and my muscles don’t file a formal complaint.

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The 2 A.M. Core Confession: My Abs Woke Me Up to Their Potential

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Written October 8, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, my bladder and abs formed an unholy alliance to drag me out of bed at 2 A.M. I shuffled to the bathroom, realizing that every step reminded me of my “brilliant” idea to double my planking sessions. Who knew maintaining balance while half-asleep could turn into an anatomy lesson? Now I have muscle soreness.

Four hours later, I woke again—this time to my alarm—and poof! The soreness had vanished. My abs, it seems, have mastered the art of the disappearing act. Still, I knew the reason: I’d been quietly upping the ante on my core workouts.

Our trusty planking machine (the second one, because the first one heroically died in service) has become my new favorite torture device. At first, I could barely hold position without feeling like a beached seal, but slowly, rep by rep, I found my rhythm again. Yesterday, I even did two full sessions. Yes, two. My abs have filed an official complaint with muscle soreness.

And it’s not just planks. Push-ups are back on the menu too. I used to do gymnastics, so I don’t mind a little resistance—unlike my wife, who used to treat muscle training like a personal insult. Cardio? She’ll run through a thunderstorm. Dumbbells? She’ll suddenly remember a “pressing” laundry emergency. But recently, she’s warmed up to resistance work—and dare I say—actually enjoying it.

The Way I Create My Goals

I don’t make big, dramatic annual goals. Instead, I chase small, nearly achievable ones, the kind that trick your brain into thinking you’re on vacation instead of a fitness plan. Tracking progress helps, mostly because it keeps me honest when I start slacking off. Sometimes, I have to lower reps; other times, I focus on perfect form. Nothing kills progress faster than sloppy posture—or, worse, an injury.

Unlike my wife, I don’t worship muscle pain, but I do pay attention to it. When it fades, I know it’s time to increase either weight or reps—but never recklessly. Every adjustment means recalibrating my diet too. My biggest challenge? I can’t eat as much protein as a normal adult. It’s a delicate balance: push too hard, and I risk losing muscle instead of building it.

So when I woke up sore this morning, I didn’t complain. I celebrated. It means I pushed just enough. I did about the same ab workout today, so we’ll see if tonight brings another surprise wake-up call from my overachieving core. If it does, I’ll just tell myself—half asleep and half proud—that progress sometimes hurts… and sometimes it wakes you up at 2 A.M.

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This is What I Learned: Lessons from Today’s 10K

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Written October 4, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

I keep reminding myself that progress isn’t a straight line—it’s more like a hilly trail with a few unexpected potholes. Today was one of those “downhill” days.

When you chase a goal and the results don’t match your effort, disappointment sneaks in like a side stitch. For me, that moment came during today’s 10K.

Maintaining a 10K pace has always been tricky—it’s long enough to test endurance but short enough to tempt you to sprint too early. My wife once said that mid-distance runs (around 10–21 km) are the most deceptive: go too fast at the start, and you’ll spend the rest of the run questioning your life choices.

I’ve been running for years, so I’m no rookie. My app gives me pace updates every quarter-kilometer, helping me track my rhythm. Lately, though, I’ve wanted to push harder. Sometimes that push pays off; sometimes it backfires and slows me down overall.

Today I crossed the 10K finish mark but didn’t smash through the wall I’ve been chasing. Still, I think I might have cracked it a little. Whether that crack grows or seals itself back up—well, the next few runs will tell.

Even though I haven’t hit my target pace yet, I’m still improving. My 10K average today was faster than my last year’s normal 5K, and that’s worth celebrating.

Yesterday, however, was a slog. I had zero energy—felt like my batteries were running on nostalgia alone. I started strong today, but by the end of my first kilometer, my early lead had vanished. My wife reminded me that cardio readiness fluctuates daily. Sadly, my app doesn’t track that—just my pace. My watch focuses on blood pressure, which, given my health priorities, is fair—but I wish it could multitask.

The biggest lesson? Patience. You can’t sprint your way through every wall. Some need chipping away, one steady stride at a time. My app logs prove I’m moving forward, even if the pace isn’t dramatic.

Maybe I’ll break my progress into smaller goals—a few seconds faster here and there—until the “personal best” feels inevitable. For now, I’m calling today’s run a success. Tired, yes. But still moving forward.

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Muscle vs. Scale: The Real Weight Loss Struggle

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Written October 1, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Laundry: my most persistent rival in this fitness journey. Forget to do it one day, and suddenly tomorrow’s run is delayed because someone (me) had to play catch-up with socks and T-shirts. So yes, today’s run started later than ideal. But the good news? When I finally did step on the scale afterward, my weight had dropped back into my “target zone.” The not-so-good news? It was clinging to the ceiling of that zone like a cat refusing to leave its perch.

Now, here’s the sneaky thing about scales: they’re master illusionists. The number looks comforting, but sometimes it’s smoke and mirrors. In my case, this “drop” was less about losing fat and more about muscle quietly packing its bags. And no, I wasn’t thrilled to wave goodbye.

For the past couple of months, keeping my weight steady has been a balancing act. When I was mowing the lawn twice a week, I could eat with a bit more freedom. Now that the grass has slowed down, I can’t just eat like a hungry teenager and expect the scale—or my muscles—to cooperate. My wife, however, cracked part of the code. She used to be a stress-snacker, but now she manages cravings with weekly emotional reflections. (Honestly, it’s impressive. Imagine fighting potato chips with philosophy. And winning.)

She also panics whenever her muscle mass dips—which, honestly, is fair. Her solution was to up her protein and resistance training. And she’s right: when you shift focus from “weight loss” to “body composition,” progress looks very different. She’s building muscle now, even if the scale doesn’t move much. That’s when you realize that chasing a smaller number isn’t always the smartest goal—sometimes you need stronger, not lighter.

I’d love to copy her playbook, but my kidneys have me playing by different rules. Protein is like a VIP guest for me—I can only let a limited amount in. That means, while other people might just “eat more protein” to protect their muscles, I need to approach the puzzle differently. Still, I’ve managed to keep over 125 pounds of muscle packed into my 150-pound frame. That’s leaner than most guys my age, which makes me quietly proud—even when the scale pretends otherwise.

Sure, I’m a few pounds heavier than before my recent spike and drop, but I’m not losing sleep over it. (Well… unless laundry decides to strike again.) The truth is, both my wife and I now obsess more over body composition than over plain weight. And when she tells me she’s impressed with my progress, given the dietary limits I juggle, it means more than any “perfect” number ever could.

At the end of the day, the scale might tell part of the story, but muscles, mindset, and resilience are the real plot.

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Why I Gained Four Pounds Overnight—and Why It’s Actually Good News with My Kidney Condition

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Written September 29, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

My legs and I are currently on speaking terms again—barely. Yesterday’s 10K run left me hobbling like I’d just completed a marathon with bricks strapped to my ankles. Recovery is not my strong suit; thanks to my kidney condition, I heal slower than the average adult male, and unlike gym bros, I can’t just down a mountain of chicken breasts to bounce back.

My doctor did let me nudge up my protein intake a bit, but it’s still a delicate balancing act. During summer, I was burning calories faster than an ice cube melts in Nashville heat, so keeping my weight steady was like playing nutritional Jenga.

Today’s run was… let’s call it “character-building.” I aimed for 10K, but my body voted strongly for “more like 5K.” Fatigue, poor sleep, temporary weight gain, and a side of sore legs made sure my performance stayed humbling. And speaking of sleep—last night mine was about as restful as trying to nap during a fire alarm test.

Dinner probably didn’t help. My wife, who avoids meat like it’s auditioning for a horror movie, made vegetarian chili to sneak in some extra protein. Tasty, yes. But let’s just say it left me producing enough gas to qualify as a renewable energy source. Add to that the three liters of water I downed, and I was on first-name terms with our bathroom.

The scale added its own drama this morning: four pounds heavier than Saturday. It is not as bad as you think when you have a kidney condition like mine. But before I accused my chili of conspiring against me, I noticed the breakdown. According to the fancy metrics, over half of that gain is muscle, and a quarter is water weight. My wife—now practically a part-time sports medicine researcher thanks to her own fitness challenges—reminded me that recovery often means muscles hoard water like dragons hoard gold.

So yes, the numbers will bounce around, but in a couple of days, I’ll be back in my target range. In the meantime, I’ll keep running, keep eating cautiously, and maybe keep a safe distance from vegetarian chili before long runs.