Shifting Paradigms, or, an Endomorph's Lament

Shifting Paradigms, or, an Endomorph's Lament

To those of you that know me, it's no secret that I have struggled with body fat for most of my life. I have memories of being very, very little having to look around my belly to get a glance at my toes. When I'm naked and I lie down either supine or on my stomach, the outline of my body is similar to that of a short-legged toad that's been splayed out on the dissector's table. And yes, it's bothered me most of the time.

It's also no big secret that one big draw to endurance sports for me is a lifestyle that promotes weight loss, specifically body fat loss. For some reason, simply going on a diet to "get thin" only gets me so far - what has consistently brought me to my lowest numbers on the scale is the idea of an upcoming public display and the chance to spend a Saturday morning in pursuit of a shiny finisher's medal.

Since I started training for the season at the beginning of this year, I've reaped the benefit of so many hours at the gym and outside - I've been able to shed about 15 lbs. It feels good, yes, and it motivates me to continue, but I also find myself in a peculiar and troubling position. Every morning when I step on the scale, I still look down and see a healthy serving of pudge blocking the view of my toes. After that moment every day, I find myself peeking into mirrors and other reflective surfaces around the house to check out my profile and see if my Hitchcock's Curse is visible to the rest of the world under my shirt. Depending on the time of day, whether or not I have done my workout or not, how many meals I have eaten, etc, etc, I fluctuate between being mildly pleased, happy to the point of being smug, and downright disgusted. Even though I'm pretty sure that my figure can't change all that much during the course of a single day. But, in my heart of hearts, I know that, barring a lengthy famine, no matter how hard I work, I will probably always carry around a little spare tire. Hello, my name is Peter the Napalmbrain, and I am an endomorph.

But a reason to get fit is not the only thing that draws me to train for races. I find great personal satisfaction in going out there and challenging myself to see how fast and how far I can go entirely under my own power. It becomes a great form of meditation to learn to align your mind and body, to find a rhythm in the pedals or in the sound of your footfalls and let that rhythm take over in your mind until it shuts out all distractions and you find yourself just moving forward, almost automatically, over any and all obstacles. If you've trained well enough, the idea of a 'finish line' diminishes until it almost disappears, and then you're just out there, enjoying the gift of your body with a group of other people.

Oh yeah, and passing those other people feels pretty good, too.

I've kept pretty good track of my progress since the beginning of this year: I've now clocked a 5K at a faster pace than I've ever run, and did that off the bike in a triathlon; I've logged more hours on a bike since last summer than probably in the rest of my cumulative years; I can comfortably swim a mile; so why do I wail so over being able to grab a bit of skin around my midsection? I'm as fit as I've been probably since high school, or maybe ever. Get over it, Pete... right?

Yesterday I had the chance to log some volunteer hours at the St George Ironman, as part of the body marking team, painting bib numbers on people's arms and their ages on their legs. It was a parade of chiseled perfection, to sum it up. Both men and women, I painted arm after sculpted arm, leg after shapely leg (but just with the paint roller, dear). Each athlete who came through was a living testament to the years of training and sacrifice that they had gone through in order to reach the level of badassitude that they will be displaying on Saturday.

Did I feel envy or inadequacy? Yeah. Come on, get real. But as I progress down the path of fitness that I've chosen to follow, I've come to realize that the good feelings that come to me through exercise and racing are not a result of my ability/inability to hang with such Adonises (Adoni? Charlie Sheens?) on race day; rather they are the natural consequence of putting in the effort and sacrifice necessary to reach a goal. I remember now the lesson that I wanted to drill into all of my cello students' heads - playing music, or in this case racing, is most satisfying when we know that we've put in the practice and work necessary to do our best. It's not about the instrument we play or the other people that we play around; it's about striving to do our best. And once that's done, playing (or racing) becomes truly a joy, anywhere we are.

I want to finish the Kokopelli triathlon in the fall with a big smile on my face. If I put in the hours before then, it's certainly within my grasp to do so, and when I cross the finish line, I won't be looking down to see if I can see my toes over my belly.

End transmission.