doing the body good
A few of us created monthly challenges a few years ago. From 5-mile 3am runs filled with burpees to 60-minute EMOMs, we (dis)affectionately called ourselves the Individuals Doing Increasingly Outrageous Things Syndicate - I.D.I.O.T.S. for short. After some fits and starts, we’ve found a few ways to be accountable to ourselves and each other. You can find them below, along with some of our writing on the topic.
finding the catalyst
I was pushing 250 pounds, struggling to fit into that 46L jacket as I hit 30 and a half. My triglycerides were far from normal. And my blood pressure? The jury was undecided as to whether it was weight- or stress-related but it didn't matter. I wasn't doing jack-shit to address the cause(s). I was someone who thought he could still eat and drink (and drink) like a guy in his early twenties but was sadly misinformed.
The thing is, at the time, I didn't feel fat. I carried my weight pretty evenly. Sure my waistline was pushing 40, but dammit, I could still run like I did in high school, right? Who the fuck was I kidding - I looked like I had eaten my younger self.
As I started to write this week, I questioned why it’s taken me so long to go into detail on this topic while at the same time being deliberate with the drip feed approach. Perhaps it’s because being honest about such a personal topic is akin to stretching a muscle: you can’t do it all at once as you’re liable to hurt yourself, so it’s best to ease into it. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t sure how what I’m about to share would be received in one gulp; would it be too preachy, too holier-than-thou, too old-man-yelling-from-the-front-steps-to-turn-down-the-bass-in-your-car. Or, could I simply be waiting for the calendar to align in such a way (as I’m wont to do) to have this come out the day after hitting some milestone?
Regardless, it’s time.
This is about how, after years of missing all the signs, the data finally drove me to remove alcohol from my life, and why me, my family and my community are better for it.
with a little help from my friends
We started with a five mile run plus 200 burpees and 100 pushups to be done in under an hour. At 3:00 in the morning in shorts and a t-shirt in January. Jeremy roped in another friend and now we were all on the hook to one another to get in done in a week. We all did it on different nights, all when it was freezing out, and all in the week we agreed on. It was a brutal workout and I felt incredible after it. I can say for certain I’d still be thinking about doing that workout some day if I hadn’t made myself accountable to two other people.
We kept workouts like that going for months. A year or so later I mentioned to Jeremy I wanted to do a punishing amount of reps of one exercise in one month to see how far I could go. I asked him if he’d hold me to 2,500 pushups.
“Ten thousand sounds better,” was his response.
Thirty days later I’d done 10,001 push ups (the extra to remind myself there’s no finish line).
Want to give the next 10thousand1 challenge a try? We start the first of every month.
Or maybe just start with one?
The second was from an old Tim Ferriss podcast where whoever he was interviewing said his only goal in the morning is to do one push up. Just one.
It’s so brilliant. Achievement begets achievement so give yourself a fucking break and start small went the reasoning.
Sometimes you do one push up and call it. It’s a win and it’s not about any bigger goal. One pushup will not prepare you for anything other than two pushups. It’s self contained in this magical way where the pursuit is literally the achievement. No metaphors necessary. How wonderful.
the importance of knowing when to stop
My streak ended with a whoosh, a whimper, and a whisper. A whoosh: bombing down a hill in Rockefeller State Preserve at a sub-6:00 mile, a smile on my face the day before my right shin pain started - pain I hadn’t had since high school. A whimper: two weeks of the bare minimum hoping it would lower the mileage enough to keep the streak alive and heal up - it didn’t this time. A whisper: my body telling me to take some rest and doing so - after not listening to the twisted right ankle that likely led to that same shin working harder, and getting hurt in the process.
My run streak lasted for 599 days - 4% of my life. Sure, it led to the best blood work of my life, provided me with identity, reminded me of the power of community, taught me to push through the tough moments, and allowed me cover the most mileage in my life. But I became mindlessly wedded to continuing the streak. In Self-Reliance, Emerson said, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen, philosophers and divines.” I was foolishly consistent to tacking on another day to the streak at the expense of my overall health.
Curious to see evidence of the streak? It’s all there in Strava. It keeps us accountable and while encouraging others.