Less is More
Less is More
Less of me that is. Not less of my dazzling personality, mind you, I mean, I could never deprive you, my faithful readers of any less Vince. No, I am speaking of the actual me, the flesh and blood, sinew and bone Vince. All the Vince that tips the balance on the scales, Vince. Less is more.
This morning I am 187 pounds. A mere seven pounds from my long promulgated goal of 180 pounds. The last time I was in the 180s, to the best of my recollection, Ronald Reagan was in the White House. How shocking is that?
At 187 pounds, I should be around 14% body fat. In theory. I think I may have lost a little upper body muscle mass. And someone commented that other day that my ass was disappearing. But hey, that could be body fat as well. It’s funny the places one notices the absence of blubber.
At around 190 pounds it hit me with no small amount of shock, that my head was shrinking. Strangely enough I am still labouring away with a little double chin, and I suspect that my Santa face will be among the last vestiges of stored calories to depart. No, it was the skin around my eyes and temples that I noticed shrinking and withdrawing over cheek bones and a skull that hasn’t seen the light of day in about two decades. It is like the flood waters of the Missippi returning to the Gulf of Mexico. Leaving behind a new mud flats and an all new flood plain. The skin is definitely thinner around my beady little raccoon eyes. I am begining to look a little bit like a Marine boot camp drill Sargeant.
What else is shrinking? My hands. And feet. Then wrists and ankles. Like a receding glacier, the layer of subcutaneous fat that I pack around has been retreating from the frontiers of my body, taking refuge and making a last stand around my mid-section. But even the fat around my belly button and draped over my kidneys is taking on the weary appearance of a snow-capped mountain peak in August. What were once generous drifts are thinning away, taking on a decidedly straggly appearance.
I can see the vague outline of abdominal muscles that I thought I had left behind in my youth, high school drop-outs. And over the rest of me, the retreating lipid cells have revealed a lost network of veins and muscles. I still don’t have the peg legs of an endurance runner but I no longer resemble a sumo wrestler. My shoulders and arms now have definition and in profile I almost look as if I have a waist.
People I know do a double take when they see me, not sure if they are seeing all of me, and I am sure wondering when the rest of me will show up. The oddest thing is noticing that people I don’t know, are also looking at me differently. It was my good mate, Kevin who pointed this out to me and it is undeniably true. I feel like the librarian in the Bond film who has loosened her bobby pins and shaken out her extravagantly long raven tresses from the spinster’s bun, removed her horn rim glasses, and voila, revealed the Bond girl that always lurked beneath the surface.
As for people now asking me for diet advice. Well, that’s just preposterous. But I can see their point. I may not have the slightest idea what I am doing or talking about, but you can’t argue with the fact that I have lost the equivalent of a small child in weight, say a pre-schooler, maybe four, going on five… As I get queried on my diet and exercise routines, I can see the eagerness in peoples faces as they await the big reveal and then I completely understand their disappointment when I tell them that in addition to my new diet, I am also running fifty miles a week. Everybody would love to be a size six and squeeze into that sexy little black dress – only the hard-core are prepared to run fifty miles a week to do it.
The mildly amusing part of this is that I really could care less about my physical appearance. I am much more interested in how much faster I am supposed to get with every pound that I shed. But of course I would be lying if I said I didn’t like the idea of being the prettiest girl at the dance. Okay, I’ll settle for cute in the right light, you know, in the shadows over by the bleachers. After a case of beer.
On Sunday we went out and did 27K (17 miles) in 2:40, with ample and leisurely water breaks along the way. We were pushing the pace a little, but my heart rate never deviated much beyond 70% of my maximum heart rate. On Monday morning I felt fully recovered. It will be interesting to see what tonight’s 8K tempo run will bring…
Less of me that is. Not less of my dazzling personality, mind you, I mean, I could never deprive you, my faithful readers of any less Vince. No, I am speaking of the actual me, the flesh and blood, sinew and bone Vince. All the Vince that tips the balance on the scales, Vince. Less is more.
This morning I am 187 pounds. A mere seven pounds from my long promulgated goal of 180 pounds. The last time I was in the 180s, to the best of my recollection, Ronald Reagan was in the White House. How shocking is that?
At 187 pounds, I should be around 14% body fat. In theory. I think I may have lost a little upper body muscle mass. And someone commented that other day that my ass was disappearing. But hey, that could be body fat as well. It’s funny the places one notices the absence of blubber.
At around 190 pounds it hit me with no small amount of shock, that my head was shrinking. Strangely enough I am still labouring away with a little double chin, and I suspect that my Santa face will be among the last vestiges of stored calories to depart. No, it was the skin around my eyes and temples that I noticed shrinking and withdrawing over cheek bones and a skull that hasn’t seen the light of day in about two decades. It is like the flood waters of the Missippi returning to the Gulf of Mexico. Leaving behind a new mud flats and an all new flood plain. The skin is definitely thinner around my beady little raccoon eyes. I am begining to look a little bit like a Marine boot camp drill Sargeant.
What else is shrinking? My hands. And feet. Then wrists and ankles. Like a receding glacier, the layer of subcutaneous fat that I pack around has been retreating from the frontiers of my body, taking refuge and making a last stand around my mid-section. But even the fat around my belly button and draped over my kidneys is taking on the weary appearance of a snow-capped mountain peak in August. What were once generous drifts are thinning away, taking on a decidedly straggly appearance.
I can see the vague outline of abdominal muscles that I thought I had left behind in my youth, high school drop-outs. And over the rest of me, the retreating lipid cells have revealed a lost network of veins and muscles. I still don’t have the peg legs of an endurance runner but I no longer resemble a sumo wrestler. My shoulders and arms now have definition and in profile I almost look as if I have a waist.
People I know do a double take when they see me, not sure if they are seeing all of me, and I am sure wondering when the rest of me will show up. The oddest thing is noticing that people I don’t know, are also looking at me differently. It was my good mate, Kevin who pointed this out to me and it is undeniably true. I feel like the librarian in the Bond film who has loosened her bobby pins and shaken out her extravagantly long raven tresses from the spinster’s bun, removed her horn rim glasses, and voila, revealed the Bond girl that always lurked beneath the surface.
As for people now asking me for diet advice. Well, that’s just preposterous. But I can see their point. I may not have the slightest idea what I am doing or talking about, but you can’t argue with the fact that I have lost the equivalent of a small child in weight, say a pre-schooler, maybe four, going on five… As I get queried on my diet and exercise routines, I can see the eagerness in peoples faces as they await the big reveal and then I completely understand their disappointment when I tell them that in addition to my new diet, I am also running fifty miles a week. Everybody would love to be a size six and squeeze into that sexy little black dress – only the hard-core are prepared to run fifty miles a week to do it.
The mildly amusing part of this is that I really could care less about my physical appearance. I am much more interested in how much faster I am supposed to get with every pound that I shed. But of course I would be lying if I said I didn’t like the idea of being the prettiest girl at the dance. Okay, I’ll settle for cute in the right light, you know, in the shadows over by the bleachers. After a case of beer.
On Sunday we went out and did 27K (17 miles) in 2:40, with ample and leisurely water breaks along the way. We were pushing the pace a little, but my heart rate never deviated much beyond 70% of my maximum heart rate. On Monday morning I felt fully recovered. It will be interesting to see what tonight’s 8K tempo run will bring…
posted by Vince Hemingson at 7:46 AM
1 Comments:
"Everybody would love to be a size six and squeeze into that sexy little black dress"
Vince, I think you've got a while 'til you get there. And I think it'll draw a bit more attention than that skirt you wore in some previous marathons. Meantime, congrats on the changes! It feels good, doesn't it?
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