Rock(y)ing a Weekend Workout

Yesterday, I hit the gym. Plagued by the gremlin gnawing on the inside of my left knee cap (albeit somewhat gently), I opted for...discretion. (They say it's the better part of valor, you know.) So, in the company of my beloved, I headed to the gym, via "THAT WAY." We started off our workout by pumping some iron, he lifting weights in his own manner, and I in my mine--a 2 x 12 circuit workout of lunges, squats, leg curls, push ups, and planks.

While Jared headed for some pickup hoops, I headed for the elliptical, dead set on getting my long run miles in (7-10) before physically running them at next week's first official group run. On the elliptical for 97 grueling minutes, I read the Glamour magazine kindly provided by the woman who cut my hair that morning, then last month's Runner's World. At this point, having been increasing both the incline and the level of difficultly with every 10 minutes, I ducked my head, gritted my teeth, cranked up the volume on the iPod, and dug in for another 35 minutes of rotating. With 2 minutes to go, Jared arrived fresh off the courts to check out my progress. Grimacing, panting, and dripping sweat from every pore, I grinned and told him my body felt like I'd gone for a long run--but with no joint pain. Success!

We stretched, showered, and headed off to Pemberton Market, a little local place down the street from our apartment, for gooey, cheesy, Sicilian-style sandwiches, thick with prosciutto, provolone, and lettuce.

Later, I thought about my workout at the gym, and how I could best describe it to readers of my blog. Unfortunately, there is only way to do so. Thus, I've hired Sylvestor Stallone of 1985 to do a semi-accurate representation of my cross-training efforts of Saturday. (Note: Though I asked Sly to wear performance gear, he insisted on tight black jeans and a leather jacket. But to each their own...)



Yeah, that's right. Boston (as represented here by Russian phenom "Drago"), you'll be my bitch come April.