KVETCHING TIGER ACHING DRAGON

I hate exercising. I do it all the time but I hate it. I have a co-worker that drives me crazy by constantly talking about how much she loves working out because it makes her feel great. I work out because if I did not I would be the size of a small Ukrainian village. I’m not talking about a tiny hamlet of Slavic dwarfs. I’m talking about a small city of big hearty meaty Ukrainians. I work out because I want to maintain some semblance of good health and I desire to keep my girth somewhat less then ginourmous not because ‘it makes me feel great’. Think in terms of a necessary evil.

Back when I traveled for work and was basically living on the road, I would occasionally get into a good workout regiment. It would last for a while but then a few months later my life would be uprooted again. My nifty disciplined schedule of running/ aerobics/ cardio would soon end up in ruins. Because of that my weight has seesawed up and down as frequently as a small Ukrainian village concubine (I have got to get my head out of Eastern Europe).

Since I settled down and got married I have had a very consistent exercise routine. I ran a few miles a day until I hurt my back, then, upon my chiropractor’s advice, I switched to 50 minutes on an elliptical five days a week. When that started hurting my knees I went back to minor weight lifting and running four miles most every day. Through all this I have gained and lost the same 25 pounds several times. The weight usually drops if I am good and stay away from too much beer and fried food but then again everything tastes great with Salo* on it.

I have a hard time sticking to a very healthy diet. The bad stuff tastes so damn good. I would hate to be mowed down by a bus and find myself laying in a hospital bed near death and with my last breath saying I should have had that bleu-cheese burger and fries for my last meal yesterday night instead of that bowl of carrot sticks and rice cakes.

So a couple of months ago a friend was trying to get back on track with his weight as well. He had been going to a ‘boot camp’ exercise program three mornings a week. Apparently these are very popular. You show up at 5:00 am and pay a faux drill sergeant to bark out orders like “ run 3 laps” or “do 2 minutes of push-ups”. He was having trouble getting back on track and I thought, since the pounds were sneaking back up on me, it might be worth a try so I pulled the old ‘I’ll go if you go’ thing.

Setting an alarm for 4:20am is bad enough. Setting an alarm for 4:20am to get up and go to boot camp for and hour is as miserable as the Mongols overthrowing Vladimir The Great’s 200 year-old empire. (I must have some crazy Ukraine fever). I was a cross between apprehensive and scared the first time I went (to boot camp not the Ukraine). It ended up being much easier then I expected. Things like squat jumps, pizza walks, football drills and luggage lifts worked out muscles I had not used for years, but I could do all the different exercises pretty well.

After the first month, I started integrating the boot camp workout with my usual running and stuff. The next step was to modify my eating habits with slightly better options and a lot better portion control. Things were going great until two weeks ago. We were getting into place for the last drill of the day, a sprint across the gym. I took off and felt a pop on the back of my calf. I assumed it was a cramp or charlie horse so I finished the run and subsequent stretches.

I limped home. I limped around at work. I limped with my wife. I limped with my friends. I limped for about four days assuming things would get better. My leg didn’t. My wife and co-workers have taken credit for convincing me to go to the doctor, but like the peaceful Orange Revolution of 2001 to over turn the rigged Ukrainian Presidential elections, the truth was obvious to the participants that trying to pretend the inevitable was not real just was not going to work anymore.

It took the doctor about 30 seconds after looking at my swollen and multicolored leg to diagnose a torn tendon. She sent me for an MRI to see ‘not if’ but rather ‘how bad’ it was. I got to the place on time for the test but they were running an hour or so late. The receptionist suggested I go have lunch. I went down the street and had a small snack and a couple of beers. The only bad side effect of that was instead of fearing claustrophobia during the MRI, I worried about the possibility of desperately needing a restroom.

Bladder intact, I made it through the MRI and eventually got good news from the doctor the next day. It does not look like I need surgery but I do need to wear a very large strap on boot for a few weeks. The doctor phoned the prescription into the nearest medical supply place which happens to be a tiny storefront with half the shop dedicated to medical stuff and the other half to small cheap collectable figurines. It looks like my nickname will be Boot-Boy for the time being. My boot might be big, ugly and uncomfortable but I bet it could kick some Bolshevik ass.


* Salo—salted pork fat, similar to bacon but with significantly higher ratio of fat to meat, or occasionally raw pig fat (sometimes jokingly referred to as Ukraine's "official food". Other Slavs sometimes call Ukrainians by this name as they find the thought of eating it unpleasant). (wikipedia)

http://www.ukraine.org/