I’m into fitness, Take 15: I’ll be damned if I’m letting food win

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I knew those 30 pounds came off way too easily. I mean, seriously, who loses 30 pounds in two months? OK, maybe if you weigh 500 pounds. Or, if you stop drinking soda, stop eating dairy, ignore those golden arches, run three miles a day in 100-degree temperatures and lift weights like there’s no tomorrow.

That was the recipe for going from 247 in mid-July to 217 in mid-September. And what do I weigh four months later? About 215 pounds. What am I doing differently? Oh, there’s the rub.

Still a workout warrior, I burn 6,000 calories or more a week.

I’m still a workout junkie. That has not changed. I average burning 800 to 1,000 calories a day with a combination of running, lifting, Tae Bo and situps. I’m going to change the routine in a few weeks, but the calorie count won’t change.

So why am I not losing more weight? There could be a lot of explanations. Maybe I’m putting on muscle. I like that one. The girlfriend’s very sweet to say that. Maybe I’m just supposed to weigh 215 pounds. Even at 5-foot-8, I have broad shoulders and a wide frame (and haven’t looked this good since Hootie and the Blowfish was popular). That’s why I’m supposed to weigh between 188 and 199 pounds. Those explanations don’t cut it.

It’s the intake. The food. The sodas here and there. Those fuckers add up. Of course, there was the dairyfest I indulged in on Christmas. The body simply does not respond well to any of that shit.

One thing I've cut way down on is beer. Not easily, of course.

I went into Christmas break (Dec. 22 to Jan 2 at work) weighing about 215 pounds. During that stretch, which included turkey dinners, pie, cheese, pop (all the garbage that fueled the 310-pound Ernie of a few years ago), I gained eight flippin’ pounds in less than two weeks.

At the same time, I was not as obsessive about working out. Probably less than half the calories burnt compared to usual. And I clearly paid for it.

The good news is I dove right back into the routine when I got back to work. In two weeks, I was down to 213 pounds. I’d just finished the longest run of my life. Then the girlfriend and I went on a road trip for the weekend.

It was good, but I paid for it.

The last day of that trip include a stop at Shakespeare’s in Columbia, Mo. Great pizza. Too good. Great beer. Also too good. The scale before bed? 218. “I fucking knew it.” Those where my words.

So, I punished myself today at the gym. Back down to 215 pounds. But how do I get over the next hurdle, the one that I’ve been tripping on for four months? It’s not complicated … eat better.

Even with a great workout routine, you’re not losing weight unless you eat what you should. That means really committing to not drinking pop, which is delicious but evil. Not splurging on the occasional dairy. Avoiding those “empty” calories.

What I can tell you is that there is no way in hell I’m giving up on this project. Not after 95 pounds, 10 inches off the waist, the infusion of confidence it comes with. And certainly not now that I’m 20 pounds away from reaching the summit.

So, suck it cheese, soda and junk food. I am going to beat you.

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