Elsewhere, I made a partial admission as to the nature of why I do the things to myself that I do in the name of fitness. I’m going to try and enumerate as many of them here as I’m aware of.
In the fall of 2004, I gave blood for the first time since High School, and, as part of what Florida Blood Services does as part of the donation process, in addition to taking a blood pressure/pulse reading, checking your iron, doing blood typing and whatnot (if anyone cares, I’m A+), you can call up the next day and get your cholesterol levels. Mine total cholesterol was, at that point, a shocking-to-me 242. Hello, wake-up call.
Also, some unflattering pictures of me, sans shirt are hanging around from this and that vacation.
But, even beneath the desire to live forever, and look good doing so, was something I’ve carried in the back of my mind from my days as a scrawny little fucker who could run forever, but was otherwise your stereotypical 98 pound weakling (okay, I was a hundred and twenty pound weakling, and was damn good at whatever sport I put my mind to, but still – scrawny bastard; I’ll see about finding pix from those days to illustrate).
When I was running cross-country in high school, and my dad was doing marathons, there was the colloquially-amusing concept of the “short fat guys’ run” as something of a co-event at some races, where one of the conditions of participation was that your pants’ waist measurement had to be bigger than your inseam.
My ultimate goal is to disqualify myself from that race.
So, yeah, there’s my baggage, and that’s a part of what drives me.