Flying High Now

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While driving to my last boxing class this morning, I saw people jogging. Nice folks, a leash in one hand and a coffee in another. Others walking and talking.

And I thought to myself: Why can't I exercise like normal people?

Saturday classes at the boxing gym are notorious for their intensity and difficulty. And that's saying something because the weekday classes, which are 20 minutes shorter, can really kick your butt.

Comments on last Saturday's class:
"That felt like the time I ran a 10K."
"I've been working out here for a long time, and that was the hardest class ever."
"I was sick for three days."
"I went home and laid on the floor so I wouldn't vomit."

Personally, I had broken out in a cold sweat in the hot room and nearly cried. These were not what-a-hard-workout tears, but instead an all-systems-are-shutting-down involuntary reaction.

Today was another tough Saturday, made manageable by the thought that it was the last, and by the Rocky soundtrack playing throughout. Normally we get Black Eyed Peas and other pumped up music, but there's nothing like those Rocky tunes for helping you find the will to carry on. Today was the first day I got to hit the bag filled with sand (rather than air or water), and I don't know that I could have done it without the Italian Stallion.

Greg and I tried to do a post-boxing class exit interview, but it didn't go so well.



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