The athletic day of rest.
Actually, that’s Friday.
Saturday is actually athletic day of long run.
But that didn’t mean I was gonna sacrifice a second sleep in day to follow Tiny Brazilian and Endong up to McAfee Knob for sunrise.
4am start? 2:30am wake up?
I’m not gonna say I didn’t consider it. Strongly. I may have even set an alarm or two.
But then my brain was all, “whoa slow down chick. We are emotionally prepared to sleep in tomorrow. We can’t just go taking that away from us. I was promised two days in a row of sleeping in! I’ll get homicidal!! I’ll kill someone!!! I swear I will!!!!”
Soooo, hey TB? I think I’ll pass on this one.
Instead, I awoke at a reasonable Saturday morning human time. Enjoyed a full pot of coffee. Another chapter in Beth Macy’s Dopesick. Just some light reading.
And then took myself to Carilion Westlake for some Beautiful Beastie time.
In this class, BB uses words like “drop and stop” and “not done yet” and “squat.” She uses that one a lot. A LOT a lot. We basically squat through every single track of the workout. Shoulder work? Let’s squat while we do that. Biceps work? We should squat some more. Lunges? Let’s break em up with some squats. And then? And then after all of that? Comes the actual squat track.
Tiny Brazilian was making noises.
Well, of course she came to Body Pump class after McAfee.
Did you really think she wouldn’t?
Everyone’s Favorite Husband, who is henceforth known as The Voice of Reason, suggested that we not go too heavy on the weight given our plans for tomorrow morning…
Don’t worry. You’ll hear about that one tomorrow, I’m sure.
And I, being all kinds of reasonable, agreed with him.
But Tiny Brazilian, not being any kind of reasonable, threw a good 500 lbs of weight onto her bar.
For the warm up.
At one point, BB asked the class who was staying for RPM.
I’m pretty sure everyone said yes.
But apparently that’s just a defense mechanism they’ve all developed to try to reign BB in on the reps. I guess thinking she’ll go easy on the squats if she thinks they’ll be cycling immediately after class.
I hate to tell them, but they wrong.
Death Click Class (It’s called RPM on the schedule if you’re looking for it. I think the person that makes the schedule has not taken the actual class.)
So Tiny Brazilian, Voice of Reason, and Mama Ange and I get all set up in Death Click Class. It takes some time because TB and I struggle with the numbers.
I took some pics of mine for future reference.
That’s the setting I absolutely don’t want in the future.
That’s the setting that makes my special place sad. I have not experienced that special place sadness in class before, because I’ve always made BB set my seat for me. While I absolutely didn’t pay any attention at all to what she was setting it to.
I tried to do it myself today.
I can’t ever let that happen again.
But check out home girl’s quad back there.
That’s what 500 lbs of weight on Body Pump day after a sunrise hike up McAfee does for you.
And so we get all set up. And then look around the room. And realize we’re the only ones there. Not a damn one of the other 15 people followed us over from Body Pump.
So I’ve whined about this class before.
But allow me to whine again. For those that aren’t keeping up.
Plus, it’s my blog and I do what I want here.
This class is designed to either vastly and quickly increase your endurance. Or spin the will to live right on out of you.
There’s a lot of death clicking. And stand up peddling. And envisioning places like Roanoke Mountain. And peddling like the group is taking off without you and you don’t know the course. (So basically every trail run I’ve ever been on.)
And Voice of Reason back there has already hit 10 miles on his bike and you’re still trying to make it to the 5 mile mark.
And TB is beside you making little woo hoo sounds. Like she’s the happiest little crazy chick in the world.
And Mama Ange is just killing it, cycling along without even a peep of whininess.
And just about the time I’m pretty sure my will to live is about to slip right out of my grasp, the music stops.
Because that means…
Hot tub time is my favorite time.
It’s a little dangerous because I spend several minutes contorting my body into positions it was never meant to be so I can force the jets to massage all of my parts.
No. Not my special place parts. That’s a no go zone for at least the next week.
But my calves and Achilles and feet and hips and back and shoulders.
I’m hoping we’ll be allowed to keep going back.
Tiny Brazilian and Mama Ange and I.
Because we spent an uncomfortable amount of time talking about our special place parts and other topics that should probably stay among the ladies. And we had this conversation in the locker room. The coed locker room.
Right outside where the elderly gentleman was changing.
And gentleman seemed to be the absolute correct label based on the look on his face when he emerged from the room…
Into the middle of our conversation…
After all of this, I went home. Showered. And laid down. For a quick nap. A quick two hour nap. Two hours. TWO. Hours.
I swear when I woke up, it was 2030 and I hadn’t gotten any of the work done that I needed to.
But turns out it was only 2:30 and I still had plenty of time to adult.
I’m still pretty sure I aged a good ten years during that nap, though.
I mean, I woke up just resentful as hell at being awake.
It took another thirty minutes to convince my body that I’d let it return to this delicious comfort position in just a few hours.
And that I’d let it sleep until at least 3am…
Because Sunday is athletic day of adventure.