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?

The Weather’s a Trickster, and So Is My Mind

Written January 20, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today, Nashville has officially decided to test my limits. It’s the coldest day of the season so far, and yesterday, it even had the nerve to snow—just a little. But instead of sticking around like a proper winter scene, the snow pulled a vanishing act. Gone. No trace. Like it had second thoughts about being here, this left me with an internal debate: No snow means the roads are fine, so I should go run. But the air feels like it was imported straight from the Arctic, so maybe I should… not.

Cue the battle of wills. On one side, the rational me: You’ll feel great once you get going! Running in the cold builds character! Think of the endorphins! On the other side, the devil on my shoulder: It’s freezing. Your couch is warm. You could stay inside and drink something hot like a civilized person. The devil makes a compelling argument.

Nashville’s weather, I’ve realized, operates on its own chaotic logic. We don’t get those long, predictable seasons like in Portland, Oregon, where I used to live. Instead, we get extremes—either melting asphalt in summer or air that bites in winter. My body, thanks to an uncooperative autonomic nervous system, doesn’t adjust well. Before my brain stroke, I used to think my wife had the most finicky internal thermostat—too hot, too cold, too humid, too dry, never just right. Now? I am the reigning champion of temperature intolerance. The gold medalist of feeling the weather too much.

So, I compromised. Instead of heading out first thing in the morning like usual, I postponed my run. Maybe if I waited, the temperature would rise a little. Maybe the sun would be kind and throw me a few degrees of mercy. Spoiler: It won’t. Today is one of those days where the high temperature and the low temperature are essentially the same. In other words, cold now, cold later, cold forever.

Eventually, I’ll have to face the inevitable: bundling up like I’m about to summit Everest and forcing myself out the door. The plan is simple—hit my target pace for the first 5K, and I get to stop early. One hour in the cold, no more. If I don’t hit that pace? Well, then I’m stuck running the full 10K as punishment. My version of self-accountability: run fast or run more.

I know, logically, that once I start moving, the cold will be less of an issue. The first five minutes will be miserable, but then my body will adjust, and I’ll find my rhythm. I always do. The real challenge isn’t the temperature—it’s shutting up the part of my brain that keeps whispering excuses.

So, off I go. Because if I give in to the couch today, what’s stopping me from doing it tomorrow? And the next day? That’s how routines fall apart. That’s how discipline slips. And that’s not happening.

Not today, Devil.