The Glowing Edge

Tag: mental attitude

  • Overcoming Reluctance to Train

    Overcoming Reluctance to Train

    You might think that I wouldn’t have any trouble overcoming the “I don’t want to work out today” blues, as much as I train. You’d be wrong. For me it happens about once a week.

    However, I’ve been doing it long enough to have developed a few tricks to deal with my periodic reluctance to train or go get my workout done.

    1. Set a goal you can keep

    This is where it all begins. If you work out I’m guessing you have a goal in mind, even if you haven’t put it into words very clearly yet. Do that. Put it into words. Why are you packing up all your crap and heading to the gym every week? Be able to name your answer every time that question shoves its way to the forefront of your reluctant-feeling brain.

    Oh, and make it a goal you can actually achieve. My main training goal is to be in the gym three times every single week. I set it there because I know I can do that, and more. So when I actually train four times a week (which is nearly every week), I feel like I’m going a step above. I’m a rockstar.

    2. Keep your gear always packed, always in the car.

    I can work out any day of the week at any time, because I always have my gym bag packed and ready. Every time I get back from the gym I carry out the sweaty stinky stuff and go put the clean stuff in, ready for next time. There’s also a non-melty power bar of some sort in there, so that I don’t have the “I’m famished” excuse.

    Probably the nicest side-benefit of this is that I can stop at any cool new park or trailhead I happen to discover, pop the trunk, change shoes, and I’m off. Not my regular workout, but a fabulous addition which really lifts my spirits.

    3. Know your biggest excuses, and defuse them in advance.

    My biggest excuse for not training used to be the fact that I hate taking a shower in a crappy gym. The way I defused it was by visiting my all-time favorite luxury bath goods store (Hello, Lush!) and stocking up on the best soaps, shampoos, and other fragrant treats. I put them in my gym bag, and poof! Suddenly I’m looking forward to my shower.

    Now my go-to excuse is “I don’t feel like going.” For this one I offer “discounts.” Rather than my regular 30 minute cardio sprints session, I tell myself I can simply run easy for 30 minutes. Or something similar. Generally what happens is that I get to the gym, get started, and my spirits improve! I find myself rising to the bar, even though I’ve told myself I can take it easy.

    4. Give yourself incentives.

    Once in a while I promise myself one of my favorite post-training treats: a berry smoothie. These babies are better than fried donuts at the fair, in my estimation. One cup of frozen raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries, a scoop of protein powder, a scoop of creatine (on weightlifting days), and a splash of orange juice. If I have plain yogurt, I’ll throw that in too. This is my version of the Scooby Snack, and I will pretty much walk over hot coals to get it. Can you say Incentive Program?

    Another way my husband helps is by offering to meet me after my hardest boxing nights and take me out for a drink. I adore him for this, I truly do! A man and a martini can very nearly heal the world and bring about world peace in my universe.

    5. Keep it interesting.

    If I had to run on a treadmill for 30 minutes I would probably expire from misery. But tell me I have to throw sprints on jump rope for 10 minutes, do spin bike hard for 10 minutes, row for 5 minutes, and run stairs or do box jumps for 5 minutes and I’m all over it. Ta-daa! There’s your 30 minute cardio.

    6. Shorten that damn thing!

    Here’s the deal. Most of you are spending too much time in the gym. This is because you’re slouching around, watching television, trying to avoid the next set, or simply moving too damn slow. If you put some intensity into your workout you don’t need to be there for three hours. Or even two hours. Hell, you can be trained, changed, and outta there inside of an hour if you work it just right.

    Dump your endless, boring, low-level cardio jog for a series of hard sprints and recoveries in whatever thing you do — run, bike, swim, row, heavy bag, etc. You can even incorporate skipping, jumping, ladder drills or agility dot drills. Whatever it is, do it in intervals and do it hard. Recover for 30 seconds or a minute from each hard interval, and start the next one.

    Get a solid 30 minutes in and move on. Studies show that this method actually burns more calories (if that’s what you’re trying to do) than the death-by-treadmill stuff anyway. (Google Tabata workouts and read up on it if you like. Or just ask any boxer in the world.)

    7. Don’t train hard all the time.

    When I have a fight I’m training for I ramp up my workouts 7 weeks in advance. Afterward, I take it easy — I don’t ditch my training, I just relax the pace. I’m not a machine, I’m a human, and I allow myself to enjoy the ebb and flow of a healthy life.

    Nobody stays in peak condition 100% of the time, nor should they. Maintain a solid baseline, and jack it up for the important stuff. That’s what makes staying healthy sustainable.

    What are your tricks to beating the “I don’t want to work out” blues?

    Leave me a comment and tell me how you overcome your reluctance to train.

    Image by Steve Maw on Flickr

  • Fear Factor

    Fear Factor

    I must not fear.
     Fear is the mind-killer.
    Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
    I will face my fear.
    I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
    And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
    Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
    Only I will remain.

    In Frank Herbert’s Dune, Lady Jessica teaches this litany to her son Paul Atreides, who uses it to survive the psychologically excruciating “death-alternative” test of the gom jabbar. If I had to depend on that little mantra I’d be toast.

    Fear is my companion, every single time I get in the ring. It actually does it’s worst work the night before I know I’m scheduled for ringtime. I think, “My stomach just isn’t right tonight,” and after a bit I remember, “Oh, I’m anxious about sparring.” Then I start to churn.

    I have a stupid-long list of what I’m afraid of: What if I suck? What if I get in over my head? What if I have to take some really earth-shattering hits? What if I get in the ring with someone who’s significantly heavier than me and unable to control their punches? What if I can’t get my breathing right and run out of air? What if my trainer makes me keep going even after I’ve got no hits left in me? Will I look really sloppy? Will my trainer be embarrassed at how pitiful a boxer I am?

    My list of excuses for bailing is even longer. I minutely inspect myself for injuries that might prove problematic: my knees might be hurting, or my right shoulder could be starting to give me trouble again. I consider my energy level and my mental state, what’s going on at work, home, Taiwan, Nigeria, Israel. Once I move out of the country I can really expand on my theme; world hunger is just as dependable excuse-wise as teen driving.

    I can run this damn hampster wheel for hours, no lie. Do base-jumpers do this? Trapeze artists? Matadors? I would do better if you just popped into my office and told me to spend the next 10 minutes jumping rope because I was going to step immediately afterward into the ring. I’d jump rope, I’d fight, and we’d all be happier.

    What’s even worse is the fact that I do fine in the ring. (Did I just say “what’s worse is I do fine”? Yeah, thought so.) I might take a beating, perform well, or go back and forth between holding my own and looking like crap. I’ll have a glorious punch here and there, somebody will rock me a time or three, but mostly it’s just damn hard work, and work I love once I’m actually doing it, and not just getting ready to do it. And in some screwed-up way I love it even more once I’m out of the ring. It’s not at all a feeling of “Thank God I’m done with that,” it’s more “That was incredible, I can’t wait to do it again!”

    I keep waiting for this fear factor to shift down in intensity (perhaps after I’ve been boxing two years? Three? Ten?) but meanwhile I seem to only have two alternatives: either I live with the fear and box anyway, or I let the fear kick me to the curb and make me give up boxing.

    So far it looks like fear and I are roomies for the duration.

  • Dealing with a Visiting Boxing Team

    Dealing with a Visiting Boxing Team

    legohulkOn Saturday our boxing gym hosted another gym for some sparring; an event I expected to be utterly ordinary.

    An interesting mix of people showed up: fighters, trainers, a promoter, and a few girlfriends, moms, and children. Some fighter from a reality boxing show was there, too. Other than my trainer Bonnie, I was the only white girl — and we were certainly the only female boxers — in the place.

    Originally I had plans to get a few rounds in with a couple of the guys on my team; a warm-up for them, work for me. We knew the visiting gym wouldn’t have anyone for me to fight; this was mostly about letting some of our men get sparring experience with new fighters.

    They got that, but what I got was an education.

    Our visitors were an hour late and huge. Men bared acres of scarred and inked flesh, flexed, and gleamed. Bonnie pulled on rubber gloves and set out spit buckets in the corners; I’d never seen either in our ring before. Yeah, we get blood, but not much blood. And we just drink water from our water bottles between rounds; nobody actually spits it back out. Everyone was guardedly polite, but it was clear that this was going to be a showdown.

    As soon as the crowd arrived, I shelled off my gear and quietly told my trainer that I’d get my rounds another time. I could see this was going to be way out of my league.

    It was promotion politics, egos, and the inevitable pound out. I saw one fighter whose duct-taped hand wraps looked like he’d secured gauze-covered baseballs to the backs of his hands. I had no idea how he’d manage to get his hands into gloves. Nobody warmed up, they ducked between the ropes stone-cold.

    The first round brought first blood and for me it was downhill from there. No one was calling down their boys; nobody was pulling punches. Every throw was loaded and every round was a beat-down. There were a few questionable hits and tactics, but mostly it was a monsoon’s worth of testosterone and I didn’t belong there.

    One of our pro boxers was dogged in the ring by a faster, heavier, amateur slugger whose fists sounded like stacatto bursts of small arms fire. Two heavyweights squared off, barely moving, and tore each other down with one bomb after another. Both of them had shirts covered with blood smears at the end of the second round.

    The men crowded around the ring and the wives and girlfriends stayed off to the side, tending children and chatting, or looking on dispassionately from the outer edge. It was hot and loud, my head was buzzing, and I was pale as milk. I had forgotten to eat lunch, and my blood sugar was plummeting. After seeing one of our boxers take a hit behind the ear that took his legs right out from under him, and seeing another go to his knees twice from the power of the punches he was taking, I was pretty sure I was in the wrong sport. I packed up my gear and bailed.

    The next morning I arrived in the gym severely rattled.

    I found my trainer cheerfully putting two other laughing, sweating women through a training routine. Bonnie called me in and made me follow every set they did. By the time we finished the session I was feeling better. I joined in the group class that was just starting as the personal training ended, and sweated out my fears, enjoying the mock groans and real grunts of effort all around me.

    I felt strong; I was soaring through the workout with energy to spare. My team mates drifted in and I tentatively asked them how they were feeling.

    One had a minor black eye, but none seemed any worse for the wear. For them, it was just part of the ebb and flow of boxing. Yes, they took a beating, but they weren’t troubled. One was already going over his weaknesses in the ring and laying out plans for improvement. I told them how caught off guard I had been. They listened attentively and calmly began rebuilding my confidence. You’re going to do just fine, they promised me, and we’re going to help you. It’s all about time and experience; you’ll get where you need to be.

    After an hour and a half of training, Bonnie put me in the ring for a couple of rounds with my teammates. They were fast, serious, and made me work hard. Then Bonnie got in with me. “For the next two rounds,” she told me, “I’m not going to say a word; you and I are going to box. You listen to your teammates, they are going to coach you.”

    And they did. Tim took the lead. To the rhythm of his instruction I drove out my shots, took my hits, and worked a little bit of strategy. I ducked, cut angles, and pieced together short combinations. I blocked some hooks and got rocked by others. I left the gym that Sunday on wings.

    That night I dreamed my teammate’s voice, shouting constant direction and encouragement from my corner. I am in love with boxing again. Let the journey begin.