Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Walk This Way (Or, the BFMF Virtual Tour)

Now that spring is here in fits and spurts I've been able put aside exercise DVDs and get outside to exercise.  So, screw you Tony Horton and all your P90X friends who invaded my cold, cold basement to mock me with your freakishly taut faces and cement-filled pecs and glutes. Perhaps, yes just perhaps, it's possible that I'm slightly bitter because after nearly three months of looking at this man's Grecian Formula dyed noggin I am still unable to do one pull-up. And how pathetic that my push-up prowess seems to max out at five (and if we are being completely honest, my form goes down the crapper after the second one).

Tony's motto is, "Do your best, forget the rest." My motto is, "Hey, it's better than nothing." You know that part where Tony breezily says (between his 29th and 30th pull-up) that most people give up waaaaay before they've reached their max burn?  Yeah, that's the part that usually finds me and my tuckus plopped on the sofa couch flipping through decorating magazines from the 90's.  Thanks for the tip, Ton hon, but I'll think I'll just sit this round out while you and your fellow aerial gymnasts slash aspiring actors slash brain surgeons slash Miss Utah runner-ups slash GAP models circa 2003 grunt out another set of one-handed, reverse spin pull-ups with a bench squat breather in between.  Hey, whatever happened to the stencil craze anyway??

I have a walking loop that takes me around both our lakes and is about 7 miles start to finish.  One foot in front of the other - that's an exercise routine that I can manage.  I even got a blister so do not get all up in my face Horton and accuse me of cowardice when faced with building core muscle mass cuz I limped my spare change back home like the true Nike geriatric advertisement that I am.

View BFMF Walk in a larger map

The loop starts at the southern tip of Lake Fasanerie and winds around past the swans...
to the northern tip where the retirees hang every day drinking beer and shooting the scheisse.
From there we knock off a few decades and pass the skate park which is basically a living testament to the gospel of Ed Hardy and Converse.

Then we get to the grilling area.  The accursed grilling area where my best intentions of living a healthy lifestyle filled with organic-cotton underwear and wheatgerm-garnished entrees is diabolically undermined by the aroma of charred flesh speared on metal skewers.  I am concurrently repulsed and yet drawn like a moth to a hickory-smoked flame.  Few people understand the woes of a vegan wanna-be with an Achilles heel for cased meats and lighter fluid-laced meat. Sigh.
Fortunately, the scent of shish kebab is quickly replaced by the nostril tingling odor of freshly churned manure. What's that you ask? Why, again, do you call it BumFeldmochingF*ck? Observe...
Past the cabbages and the turnips we hit Feldmochinger Lake.  Same procedure as Fasanerie except that there is an all-nude sunbathing area at this lake unlike Fasanerie which seems to top out at topless.  Yup, I peek.  Every. Time.  And I always think of my younger brother who was 14 the first time my family traveled to Europe.  While walking through a public park in Switzerland rife with topless sunbathers he suddenly and inexplicably faced a reoccurring wardrobe malfunction.  His shoelaces kept coming untied.  And untied.  And untied.  My father finally figured out that every time my brother bent down to retie his laces, he was sneaking a covert underarm gape. Clever boy.  Still works like a charm.

After my gawker stalker lap around Feldmochinger Lake I trace my steps backward until I end up here...
This is approximately 200 yards from my house.  It is a rescue / observation station that is replacing the old, small rescue shack.  It's big and my sinking fear is that there are plans to put a little snack bar on the lower level.  Which means cased meat. Grilled. Wafting. Waiting. Oh so patiently waiting for my triumphant return. Unless I go all Winona Ryder and glut myself to the point of puking on Farmer Fritz's five-finger discounted rutabaga, I could end the summer significantly larger than I started.  Looks like I'll be seeing you in November, Tony.

No comments: