Mein Kampf

Today Aaron referred to my personal trainer (his little brother) as Little Hitler. I do want to set the record straight. I may have given people the idea that he is some kind of Snidley Whiplash kind of task master but that really isn't true. Sure he keeps making me do more reps each week (I'm up to 12 for most machines and 15 on some) but I think next week I go back to eight but add some more weight. He is rather pleasant to work with and hardly ever yells at me. He even helps me when I can't quite make the last rep or two of the third set. I may be even getting stronger (go figure) because yesterday I was able to do all three sets of overhead presses without his help.

I thought I had become a 265 lb weakling through many years of disuse and sedentariness but then I remembered how wimpy I was in high school. What brought this to my remembrance was the semi-fond memory of a fishing/water skiing trip that Brad, Chad, and I took to Mackay Dam in the summer of 1966 or 1967. Chad had a cool pale yellow Studebaker convertible and a boat, and a boat trailer, and skis. I had little brains, fewer arm muscles and lived on the way to the lake.

I had seen people water ski before. How hard could t be? All you have to do is hang on to a rope and skim lightly over the water. Even bugs can do it. Evidently bugs weigh less than the 200 lbs I weighed at the time. Brad and Chad both did quite well. In fact Chad could start on one ski instead of having to drop one off after starting with two. My turn.

I'm in the water, ski tips just above the surface, eagerly anticipating the jolt of the rope. Whang! There it is. Odd, shouldn't I be skimming merrily along the surface of the water? Why do I seem to be swallowing vast quantities of lake water? Perhaps they should have mentioned letting go of the rope.

After an inordinate amount of time I realized the surface of the water really should be below me and I had forgotten my gills. Air became enough of a priority that I figured out all by myself that letting go of the rope would be a decent thing to do. Having more stubbornness than brains, or muscles for that matter, I had let them drag me around the lake far too many more times when, wonder of wonder, I am on the skis and ON the surface! Woo Hoo! Whee!
At this point the boat motor ran out of gas.

Going down. Bottom floor. Dead fish, old tires, bottles, fishing gear, Jimmy Hoffa. I struggle to the surface and wait for Brad and Chad to stop laughing and refill the gas tank. I was fairly successful after that fiasco and even attempted that drop-off-one-ski thingie. A faceplant at 30-40 mph cured me of that thought. Hmm, maybe after I lose some of this tonnage and gain some muscle I'll give it another try.