Tag: Fitness Journey

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Rain, Runs, and Relentless Grass: A Nashville Tale

Brian’s Journal after Brain Stroke

Written September 24, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Nashville’s weather has been auditioning for the role of “most indecisive character in a soap opera.” One minute, sunshine. Next minute, a full-on rain performance with dramatic flair. Naturally, my lawn has been the stage victim—too soggy to mow the other day, yet somehow already plotting its overgrowth revenge.

Today’s to-do list included a 5 km run. Did the rain stop me? Not exactly. Did it try to slow me down? Absolutely. Imagine running while the sky wrings itself out like a wet towel over your head—that was me. By the midpoint, I felt as if the rain wasn’t just falling on me but siphoning my energy straight out of my legs. The cool air stiffened me up, and my pace slowed, but hey, I still finished. That’s a victory in my book.

Meanwhile, the lawn continues to mock me. Mowing is no small affair here—our backyard is hillier than a rollercoaster ride. My wife used to mow it with a non-electric push mower, which I now realize was basically a medieval torture device disguised as gardening equipment. She took breaks between passes; I just sweat and pray.

The funny part? Last summer was so scorching hot that the grass barely grew, and we actually wished it would. This year, it’s making up for lost time—rain, warmth, repeat. Nashville weather is playing chess, and I’m just a pawn with a lawnmower.

When I got home from my run, I weighed myself and noticed I was down four pounds compared to yesterday. Before you think I discovered some magic weight-loss hack, don’t get excited—it was probably the difference between “pre-breakfast” vs. “post-liter-of-water.” For the record, one liter equals about 2.2 pounds. Math: not glamorous, but it explains a lot.

The weighing ritual has become part of my daily routine, thanks to our electric scale. My doctor loves the log—apparently, sudden spikes or drops are like plot twists in my health story. I keep myself steady around 150 pounds, with about 132 of that being muscle (the other 18? Let’s just call them “personality”).

On the food front, my wife has recently developed a habit of stockpiling bananas. She snacks on one before her workouts. Bananas may contain potassium, which I need to watch with my kidneys, but I figure one or two won’t send me straight to the ER. Plus, potassium helps with energy—something I probably could’ve used before running in the rain like a damp tortoise.

Slow or not, I ran today. The grass may wait, the rain may fall, but showing up matters more than the stopwatch. Someday, I’ll be a faster runner. For now, I’ll settle for being the guy who outpaces his lawn.

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How Lawn Mowing Became My Ultimate Workout

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Written September 26, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning started like any other—I finished breakfast, charged my headset to full, and headed outside to battle the lawn. After a week of warm weather and rain, the grass had been growing like it was still mid-summer, even though the forest behind our house had already started to show its autumn colors.

For several days, I had been waiting for a clear sky. Finally, the weather cooperated. I set a three-hour alarm so I wouldn’t miss our take-out order later, then started mowing with determination. The grass was longer than I’d hoped, which made the task slower. By the time my alarm went off, I had only managed half the lawn. The hilly back area alone can easily take more than three hours. Realistically, it’s a two-session job. So, I gave in, showered quickly, and went to grab lunch.

But after eating, I laced back up and went out for round two. Another three hours of mowing later, I was finished. My wife asked why I insisted on doing it all in one shot, but I was stubborn—I just wanted the lawn done.

A Workout I Never Expected

The surprising part? I could handle it. My years of consistent cardio and resistance training gave me the endurance to push through. My wife kept encouraging me with this project of stroke recovery through exercise. Even before my brain stroke, I doubt I could have managed this much work in a single day. The experience reminded me that recovery is possible with discipline and exercise.

When I had my stroke, I couldn’t walk for three months. Even after leaving the rehabilitation center, I needed a walker and my wife’s help. Noise overwhelmed me, and I suffered constant neurofatigue. It felt like the exhaustion I used to experience after playing multiple chess games in a day.

Six months later, I was walking short distances with frequent rests. By 18 months, my wife returned to work, and I was managing my own medication. It was slow progress, but it was progress.

Finding Strength in Small Victories

I lost some mobility, and I still can’t drive or travel as I once did. My wife keeps a close eye on my health, especially with my kidney condition, so we live more cautiously. But at the same time, I’ve gained something—strength and resilience I never thought I had.

So when I finally put away the mower after nearly six hours of work, I felt more than just relief. I felt grateful. Grateful to finish what I started, grateful for the progress I’ve made since my stroke, and grateful for the strength that lets me tackle challenges like this head-on. I made a remarkable stroke recovery through exercise.

Next week, I’ll trade the mower for a rake to collect leaves—a much lighter chore by comparison. For now, I can enjoy at least a couple of weeks without wrestling the grass.

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Cold-Weather Running and Cookie Emergencies

Written September 14, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today officially marks the start of my cold-weather running schedule. Translation: my sneakers are now bracing themselves for frostbite, and I’m mentally preparing to turn into a human popsicle on the sidewalk.

Over the summer, I had been relying on puff pastry to keep my weight steady. Why puff pastry? Because with my kidney issues and a long list of food restrictions, flaky dough filled with my wife’s homemade jam is basically the culinary equivalent of winning the lottery. Grocery store premade dough + jam = the fastest way to eat happiness.

This summer was more fabulous than usual. I didn’t even mow weekly—my lawn got to cosplay as a wild prairie, and I didn’t complain. But since mowing season has ended, my activity level plummeted faster than a cookie jar in a toddler’s hands. So, no puff pastry this week. Instead, it was time to deal with something far more sacred: my emergency cookie supply.

Now, what is an “emergency cookie supply”? Glad you asked. Six months ago, in a stroke of pure genius (or hunger-induced paranoia), I stashed a package of ready-to-bake cookie dough in the downstairs freezer. This was a just-in-case backup plan for those dark days when the grocery store failed me or when I forgot to buy cookies—which, let’s be real, is a tragedy that no human should endure.

Being me, I even set a Google Calendar reminder to pop up six months later: Bake those cookies or banish them forever. You see, I don’t believe in freezer purgatory. If I wasn’t going to eat them, I’d at least bake them and let the house smell like victory.

So today was the day. The oven fired up, the cookies baked, and soon the upstairs smelled like a Hallmark movie marathon. Oddly, these heavenly aromas don’t tempt my wife—she’s not into sweets. (I know, I don’t get it either.) She only took half a cookie out of politeness and declared, “Not so bad.” Translation: “Thanks, but no thanks.” She’s cautious about diabetes since it runs in her family. I, on the other hand, am cautious about running out of snacks. Different priorities.

To avoid eating each cookie like it was the size of a steering wheel, I baked them extra small—bite-sized, calorie-friendly, and perfect for sneaky nibbling between runs. Mission accomplished: cookies baked, freezer cleared, snack emergency avoided.

And honestly? Nothing feels more triumphant than winning both at baking and freezer organization on the same day.

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The Not-So-Great Shoe Debacle (But Progress Was Made)

Written 08/20/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I was rudely awakened—not by an alarm, but by a rebellious cramp in the back of my left thigh. A charming start to the day, really. My prime suspect? The shiny new pair of running shoes I recently introduced to my feet. It’s like they met on a blind date and instantly agreed they were not compatible.

The shoes are the same model as my last beloved pair, so in theory, this shouldn’t be a big deal. But as every runner knows, shoes have personalities. Some are loyal sidekicks, others are just fancy-looking foot traps. I guess mine are still deciding which path they want to take.

Despite the cramped beginning (literally), I laced up and hit the road. My ankles still muttered complaints from previous runs, but they didn’t outright revolt. So… small victory? The pace was slower than I’d like, but hey, I made it through the entire distance without feeling like my lower limbs were on strike. That’s progress. Limping progress, but progress nonetheless.

Honestly, I expected to be breaking in these shoes faster. I’ve already had two failed attempts at conquering a 10K with them—both derailed when my ankle started sending distress signals halfway through. But today? Today felt different. Not “I can crush a marathon” different, but “maybe I won’t need to ice my feet for an hour” different. It’s the little things.

My wife, the wise one, reminded me that all shoes need time to mold to your feet—and feet, in turn, need time to stop being drama queens. She’s right (as usual). So, I’ve decided to stop glaring at my shoes like they’ve betrayed me and start giving them the benefit of the doubt. Patience, grasshopper.

In other athletic news, my planking routine is going strong-ish. I recently had to reduce the time a bit—mainly because my abs filed a formal complaint—but I’m still going for over 3 minutes. That’s miles better than where I started (which was more like “floor faceplant after 30 seconds”).

Like everything else lately, it’s a jagged progress graph. Some days I feel like a fitness superhero. Other days, I feel like I’ve been defeated by a foam mat. But I’m learning that “hard but doable” is actually the sweet spot. It means I’m pushing myself, but not to the ER. So here’s to small wins: less foot rebellion, slightly happier ankles, and core muscles that are screaming just a little less. With a little luck—and a little more patience—Friday’s run might just feel like the start of a comeback.

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Breaking in New Running Shoes: Why 5K Felt Smarter Than 10K

Written August 17, 2025

Reviewed 8/26

Hello ,Dear Readers,

This morning I laced up my brand-new pair of running shoes, ready to conquer a glorious 10K. The shoes looked sharp—clean, crisp, and full of promise—even though they’re identical to my old pair. (Funny how a new version of the same thing feels so much more exciting. Humans are weird that way.)

But here’s the plot twist: I called it quits at 5K.

The reason? A deadly combo—rising heat and the dreaded “new shoe syndrome.” My left ankle kept threatening to roll with every stride, and I wasn’t about to limp home like a tragic marathon meme. New shoes are stiff, unyielding, and about as cooperative as a cat during bath time. My wife usually ends up with blisters. I, on the other hand, get sore feet and near-miss ankle sprains. Either way, not ideal for the long run.

I’ve been down this road before. Every new pair puts me through the same initiation ritual. Still, I secretly hope that one day a new pair of shoes will turn me into Usain Bolt overnight. I’ll never forget my first authentic running shoes—the way they felt so light I swore I’d dropped five pounds just by lacing them up.

For now, my old pair graduates to “walking shoe” status, still good enough for daily steps but no longer up for the big leagues. The best part? My running app now tracks mileage per shoe. No more clunky Excel logging. It automatically records distance, pace, and ties everything neatly to the shoe’s lifespan. Pretty slick.

I’ll admit I was a little disappointed. I wanted that solid 10K, especially since recent Saturdays have been hijacked by other plans. But next weekend, I’ll try again. With the laces cinched a little tighter and the shoes a little more forgiving, I’m hopeful they’ll finally cooperate.

Until then, I’ll settle for the small win: no blisters, no twisted ankle, and a shiny new pair of shoes with their whole running life ahead of them.

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The Great 10K Redemption Run (a.k.a. Oops, I Forgot—Again)

Written July 9, 2025

Reviewed 7/26

Hello Dear Readers,

Ah, Saturday. The day I had grand 10K ambitions… that ended halfway through. I was determined to make up for it on Monday. But here’s the plot twist: I completely forgot. I mean, the kind of forgetfulness where you only remember after you’re cooling down, patting yourself on the back like you nailed it. Spoiler: I did not nail it.

So, Wednesday became the new redemption day. This time, no forgetting, no excuses. I tied my shoes like a warrior preparing for battle and hit the pavement early—like, pre-sunrise early—because in Nashville, once that sun is up, you’re basically jogging through a sauna.

Last year, I used to run around lunchtime. Which sounds bold until you realize I was just marinating in humidity with each step. But I’ve since evolved. These days, I run before the cicadas even start singing, and I must say—it’s a game-changer. Cooler temps, fewer bugs, and I get to feel smugly accomplished before most people even finish their first cup of coffee.

Now, Nashville weather has been acting like a moody teenager this year—storms, rain, sudden downpours that cancel both my runs and my yard work. My schedule’s been bouncing around like a squirrel on caffeine.

Still, there’s something magical about running in bearable weather. I used to crawl through summer runs, but now I glide (okay, maybe “glide” is generous—let’s go with “lumber efficiently”). It also helps that I finish my workout early enough to make the rest of my day feel productive instead of… sweaty and sluggish. My wife’s been team Morning Everything for years—turns out she was right. Again.

Did I hit my target pace today? Nope. But let’s be honest, trying to increase speed and distance at the same time is like trying to cook a five-course meal while juggling flaming swords. A noble idea, but not exactly sustainable.

I’ve also been doing a ton of yard work lately, so my legs are staging a silent protest. I’m learning to listen to my body—well, mostly. Sometimes I still push it to the edge of “nap-or-collapse” territory. But I remind myself: even if my pace isn’t perfect, I’m still out there. Still moving. Still logging the miles.

Running is a fickle friend—affected by the weather, your sleep, your breakfast, and even your mood. One off-day doesn’t mean failure. When I zoom out and look at the big picture, I am getting better. And that’s what really matters.So here’s to Wednesday’s redemption run: a full 10K in the books, a slight smile on my face, and hopeful legs for Friday. Who knows? Maybe next time I’ll remember my plan before the run. Stranger things have happened.

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Running on Fumes (and Firecrackers)

Written July 5, 2025

Reviewed 7/20

Hello Dear Readers,

We had a great time at the party last night, but let’s just say we rolled in about 30 minutes later than ideal. Not a huge deal, unless you’re someone (like me) who runs on a strict internal clock and a slightly wobbly energy meter.

My wife, the human embodiment of discipline, woke up this morning like it was any other day—well, almost. She admitted to hitting snooze a little more than usual, getting up 30 minutes late. No surprise there; we did go to bed 30 minutes late. The math checks out.

But here’s where things get interesting: while she nodded off the moment her head hit the pillow, I spent a solid chunk of the night listening to our neighbors’ amateur fireworks show. Think of it as the sleep-deprivation remix of the Fourth of July.

Still, I tried to stick to my routine. I laced up and headed out for my usual 10k… and promptly called it quits at the halfway mark. My body wasn’t just politely whispering, “Maybe not today”—it was staging a full-blown protest. No energy. No spark. Just a very firm nope from my muscles.

Meanwhile, my wife? She powered through her usual workout and tackled 90 minutes of yard work like a caffeinated superhero. By the time she was done, she looked more refreshed than when she started. And then she casually transitioned into business mode or housework—honestly, I lost track. She’s kind of unstoppable.

As for me, my energy levels tend to drain faster than a phone with too many background apps. My doctor reminds me regularly that my body doesn’t bounce back the same way a healthy adult’s does. A little push can feel like a marathon. And today, that 5k was all I had in me.

Tomorrow’s our designated rest day—at least for me. My wife, of course, plans to get back out there in the yard. I’ll offer to help, but let’s be real: a slow walk sounds more my speed. We’ll see what happens.

If the weather behaves, I’m eyeing a proper 10k comeback on Monday. But first, sleep. Beautiful, uninterrupted sleep. Time to recharge the system and stop running on leftover firecracker fumes.

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Good Morning, Cardboard Chaos and Core Pain

Written May 10, 2025

reviewed 5/24

Hello Dear Readers,

Today I woke up with my body sending out what can only be described as an RSVP to the Pain Party. Most notably, my left shoulder/back area felt like it had gone a few rounds with a grizzly bear in its off-season. Every deep breath came with a charming reminder that, yes, I am no longer 22, and yes, running with sore muscles is about as fun as assembling IKEA furniture without instructions.

My grand plan was to knock out a casual 10k before heading to my sister’s shindig this afternoon. Reality, however, had other ideas. After dragging my slightly disgruntled limbs through a 5k, I waved the white flag. Enough was enough—this wasn’t the Olympics, and I wasn’t trying to impress Zeus.

When I whined—uh, consulted—with my wife about the mystery ache, she casually mentioned it might be from my recent plank marathons. Apparently, the floor space I’ve been using is less “yoga studio” and more “cardboard jungle.” Ever since we got back from Indiana, I’ve been buried in a sorting spree of my ancient Magic: The Gathering cards. Yes, the relics of my nerdy youth have staged a comeback, occupying approximately 47.3% of my study floor. (I measured emotionally.)

Now, my wife is not a fan of clutter. She approaches “stuff” with the same energy Marie Kondo would use to evict a raccoon from a linen closet. So, naturally, I’ve been trying to downsize the collection. Thankfully, a colleague of hers wants some of these dusty treasures. Apparently, old cardboard can still spark joy—or at least a trade.

The real issue? Sorting thousands of cards takes room. A lot of room. So I’ve been planking between booster packs and binder piles like some sort of core-strengthening archaeologist. My wife suggested—read: strongly recommended—that I plank in her room instead, where there’s actually space to extend my limbs without risking a landslide of mana.

Why didn’t I take her advice earlier? Well, I’m stubborn. Also, it felt like cheating on my routine. But considering my left side now feels like it’s been betrayed by my own ribcage, I’ve rethought my loyalties. She’s probably right. (She usually is. Don’t tell her I said that.)

I cleared a bit more space today, and voila—planking is no longer a game of human Tetris. The pain has subsided after some careful stretching and a moment of self-pity. Once I finish sorting the last of the cards—hopefully by mid-May—I’ll officially reclaim my floor and return to planking with dignity (and less groaning).

Lesson learned: Sometimes it’s better to abandon your makeshift gym and just listen to your wise, clutter-hating spouse. Especially if you enjoy breathing pain-free.

Until next time, stretch wisely and store your cardboard carefully.

—Your slightly sore, slightly wiser blogger

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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?

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When Running Slaps You With a Reality Check (But You Learn to Laugh Anyway)

Written March 13, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday’s run? Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a Rocky-movie montage moment. My pace was dragging, my energy was shot, and the only thing sprinting was my inner critic. I pushed myself hard—maybe too hard—and when the numbers didn’t reflect the effort, I ended up in a full-on sulk spiral. Funny how chasing a goal with everything you’ve got can sometimes leave you feeling like you’ve been chasing your own tail.

Enter my wife, voice of reason, and resident bookworm. She told me about a book she reviewed—an advanced reader copy, no less. The book pointed out something profound: People often give up on their goals not because they lack motivation but because they’re too attached to the outcome. Oof. Guilty as charged. The same part of our brain that processes disappointment also houses our drive. So when that number on the scale or running app doesn’t look pretty, it punches our motivation in the gut.

Which explains why so many well-meaning folks throw in the towel on fitness goals. Or weight-loss goals. Or, say, not-treating-your-watch-like-a-judge goals like me.

But here’s where I’m learning to pivot. I try to zoom out. Instead of obsessing over yesterday’s data or last week’s sluggish stats, I look at the bigger picture. Okay, sure, last week wasn’t stellar—but I’m still running significantly faster than I did last year. And I don’t just mean by seconds. I mean full-on “last year me would’ve called this a miracle” levels of improvement.

Plus, it’s not just about speed. Running clears my head like nothing else. It gives me that sweet sense of accomplishment and resilience. My stamina? Way up. Five years ago, I’d be toast after a mile. Now? I’m a machine. A slightly wheezy, occasionally grumpy machine—but a machine nonetheless.

And let’s not forget the curveballs nature throws. Last summer? Total disaster. Heat waves turned every run into a survival challenge. I wasn’t logging progress—I was logging complaints. But I adapted. I started running earlier in the morning to dodge the furnace-level temps, and boom—problem, sort of solved. Sometimes, disappointment is just disguised data. It tells you what needs fixing. And once you tweak the system, you start winning again.

Now, logically, I know speed isn’t everything. The effort I’m putting in matters more. But let’s be honest—speed feels more real. You can see it. It’s flashy. Tangible. And occasionally heartbreaking.

Still, I don’t want to eliminate the disappointment entirely. Strange as it sounds, it fuels me. That tiny spark of “ugh, I want to do better” is often what lights the fire under my shoes. As long as that frustration doesn’t morph into burnout or self-loathing, I say let it stay. Harness it. Let it challenge you, not crush you.

So here I am—still running, still chasing, still learning not to take a bad day personally. Growth isn’t always linear. But if you look back far enough, you’ll see just how far you’ve come—and realize the finish line isn’t the only victory worth celebrating.