Randi you lied to me. But I will forgive you because you were just trying to lessen the abject fear you saw in my face. I arrived 40 minutes early so I could claim my piece of real estate on the hardwood floor. Once I had secured my ‘spot’, I commenced walking around the big studio with nervous anticipation. I said to myself I may have bit off more than I could chew. However I was determined to find out what the hubbub surrounding Tabata was all about. After class I decided that water boarding might be less torturous. For me I was in anaerobic cardiac arrest for 60 minutes. Well not really but I have never felt so unable to breathe since my last marathon. There was no time for water breaks. Kristen did not once say: Hydrate. Frankly there wasn’t time to. Tabata was 60 minutes of extreme fitness and I realized quite clearly that I have been sleep walking through my exercise regimen these past 7 years. Admittedly as a sexagenarian I did pretty well but there were several times during the class that I felt like quitting but my heart wouldn’t buy it. There was not a moment in the hour that I could think of anything except where I was. There was nary a moment to even think what I would write in today’s entry because it was a death march. I realized that my fitness level was that of a neophyte once again. Having said that I am more motivated than ever to recapture most if not my entire athletic prowess that had left with Father Time.
As the workout drew to a close Kristen had us sitting with hands folded in prayer and I thought how appropriate I was praying that I was still alive and that the ‘event’ was over. Spanky and Our Gang sang a song in 1967 and it hit home: Sunday Will Never Be the Same.
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