A Gut Feeling

For most people there are few things more discouraging than weight gain, but herein lies the problem: what happens to people when they get discouraged is they tend to give up. More times than not this leads to further reinforce the behavior that lead them down the path to weight gain because their behavior is what contributed to the weight gain in the first place, but there is comfort to be found in their normalcy.

I was always in particularly good shape growing up. Instead of video games and vegging out on the couch watching television, I was involved in some form or organized sport since first grade or so. My mother tells me now that I brought a flyer home from school advertising the local T-ball league and was adamant about playing. My parents took me down to register earlier than I had ever been up on a Saturday morning before to sign up for the next league. This very early Saturday morning was the beginnings of quite a successful venture into sports. I quickly progressed and by the next year was ready to move up to the farms league. The major difference from T-ball to farms is that instead of hitting the stationary ball off of a rubber post centered over home plate, a pitching machine was now used increasing the difficulty level. One day after farms practice, my coach at the time approached my father and said that he thought I should be moved up to the next league, which was minors. In minors the pitching machine was replaced by an actual pitcher! "How hard can this be?" I thought to myself as I had already proved quite successful at hitting.

I quickly found out how hard it actually was, when I hadn't gotten a single hit in the first few games that season. This was nothing like hitting in the farms league.The ball bobbed, pitched, and curved through the air at different speeds and never in the same spot twice; there was nothing normal about this and I wasn't comfortable when I went up to bat. The pitching machine burped out balls one after the other at a consistent pace and location making contact much easier than the guessing game I was dealing with now. The coach had taken full use of the minimum playing rule and only gave me one at-bat and three defensive outs each game. I felt something unfamiliar for the first time and I didn't like it: discouragement.

My parents house was located at the end of a dead-end dusty dirt road that was strewn with potholes so badly there was no way to avoid hitting one while driving in a car. One day after coming home from a game, bouncing in and out of potholes I saw something jostling in my vision in my neighbor's side yard that intrigued me: a batting cage complete with a pitching machine. Could this be a sign of some sorts? My neighbor had built it for his son and daughter to use for practicing their hitting but they were quite a bit older than I was and had since moved on to other things. My dad asked if we could start using it and my neighbor agreed. Soon my dad and I were going down there almost daily and before each game to practice hitting. He had made a bet with me that if I hit a home run that season he would buy me a go-kart. There was a small hole in the black netting at the top of the cage that I would always aim for. This was my "home run" hole. Every time I watched the ball soar through this hole, over my neighbor's shop, and into the adjacent field I knew my go-kart was that much closer. Soon my dad and I would have to bring extra zip-ties with us to repair the new holes my powerful drives would make.

I don't remember exactly which game it was, but I remember the field. There was a small creek that seemed to have more cat tails in it than water that hugged and traced the outfield fence. The pitch came across the plate no different than it had earlier in the season, dancing as the seams of the ball tugged at the wind in every direction turning itself over and over again. I remember the feeling of the ball coming off the bat as I made contact; there was something different about this hit- it was not normal. I felt the usual pinging of the aluminum meeting the hard surface of the ball, but there was a weightlessness to it. My eyes never stopped tracking the ball as it kept climbing up into the air and further away from me. It had already passed the imaginary "hole" in the sky that I pictured and I knew that I had just gotten myself a go-kart. I turned my feeling of discouragement into the driving force that allowed me to reach my goal.

Fast forward many years and I sat on the edge of my bed getting ready for class at CSU Sacramento. Traditionally the last article of clothing for people to put on is their shoes and as I bent over to pull my sneakers on that is when I felt it: my gut. Yes, I struggled to bend around my gut and wished my arms would somehow grow like a Stretch Armstrong to hook my shoes past my heels. A familiar feeling set in again: discouragement. It was not like this mass of flab had spontaneously spawned over night while I slept off the stresses of a typical college kid's life. It had steadily ballooned as I became complacent with the new lifestyle I had adopted; replacing home cooked meals and sports with late night trips to the fast food drive-thru and hours of sitting studying for class mindlessly eating. 

I was not going to let my gut get in the way of my life anymore- not just from keeping me from getting my shoes on easily, but keeping me from feeling comfortable in my own skin. I would not approach someone and strike up a conversation, I had lost a great deal of my friends as they either did not go to college or moved away to continue their schooling. I had not made any new friends in any of my classes since I did not feel comfortable approaching anyone and starting a conversation and since I was a Nursing pre-major most of the people in my classes were girls, which just made me feel more self-conscious about my weight. Since no one talked to me I sat in my classes lonely- just me and my gut. It was not a friend to me, did not do anything to help me, so why was I keeping it around? I had let myself down and that is when I decided that I would change that.


Change was not going to come easy and it was not a comfortable process, but the question I posed to myself each day was what was less comfortable: struggling to put my shoes on each morning and huffing and puffing as I transcended the stairs to each class to sit alone surrounded by my classmates, wearing baggy shirts to try to hide how big I had gotten, or changing my lifestyle to become healthy again. I had again let my discouragement become my source of encouragement, and the only feeling I have for my gut now is the great feeling of success as I got rid of it.

Starting line

It was about this time last year that I sat straddling a red Cannondale hybrid bike that I had borrowed from my friend Rick to try out riding for the first time. The frame was a bit too small for me- I didn't know anything about bike fitment at the time- and must have weighed just shy of 30 pounds with the commuter rack installed on it. For my first ride out I attempted to ride from CSU Sacramento to Folsom lake and back on the American River bike trail-around 50 miles. On the climb up to Beals point I almost collapsed  due to lack of fitness in spite of having (and liberally using) the "granny gear" but finally made it to Folsom lake albeit after stopping to rest twice along the way. The view from the lake was spectacular and the water was glistening high from fresh snow melt rushing down the American river from Tahoe.

On the way back down from Folsom lake I stole a glance down at the cycling computer and to my astonishment saw the readout on the computer creeping up, 21,...22,...23mph! The cocktail mixture of fear and adrenaline pumping through my veins was quickly sobered when I heard a whoosh and saw a blur pass by me on my left. The source of the "blur" was a cyclist descending at speeds that I didn't know were possible without a motor attached!

I was not a cyclist, just a guy with a bike; two seperate objects the bike controlling me more than I could control it. My inputs were jerky, cadence akward, and fitness inept. As my maiden voyage was crawling to an end, I peeked down at the computer again, only to be discouraged to see the readout flickering between 5 and 6 mph. The stinging in my legs was only drowned out by the fiery pain and protest that my rear-end spat up at me, but I had finally made it back to my car. I was hooked. I gave the hybrid back to Rick at the end of that week and went and bought my own bike; a race red Cannondale CAAD9. It looked fast just sitting there and begged to be ridden. I rode everyday that summer and couldn't get enough.

I climbed Beals point again today, almost a year after my virgin trek up that hellacious grade. I looked down at my computer as I neared the top of the climb and smiled: 23mph; the exact same speed that I had reached descending this climb one year ago. Here I am 60 pounds lighter, with tan lines cut crisp from my jersey and bibshorts and legs clean-shaven showing the definition in my calves with each pedal stroke. I command my bike with a telepathic connection, I simply think and I am there. When on my bike we are connected as one; one cannot exist without the other. My current weekly commute is 200 miles a week with a metric century on the weekend or race training ride. I sit at the top of Folsom lake with my trusty Cannondale steed and reflect on who I was and who I became in this last year of riding: I am a cyclist.