When Dave and I had our SERFing adventure, I had one thing that would keep me actually going to the gym: Dave. Dave would knock on my door at the (then-ungodly) hour of eight in the morning. Dave would keep me from skipping reps. Dave would, mostly, keep me from cheating.
When I was in cross country in high school, one thing kept me from running: Mr. Steve. Mr. Steve would make us run sprints barefoot across the football field. He'd make us run fartleks. He'd make us, well, run period.
Whenever I try to run or lift as a solo endeavor, Doctor Wellness and Doctor Lazy fight it out within my psyche, and Doctor Lazy tends to win (he then goes and gets a beer).
What I need is somebody to yell at me.
So today, Camden guilted me into signing up for "boot camp," which is a short name for "run a few laps, do too many situps and pushups and things, then repeat ad nauseam." It's three days a week for the next five weeks. I pay the instructors to yell at me and make me run around (actually, they don't yell, they're very friendly. But still).
I'm now laying in my bed with the best post-workout high I've had in years.
"Well, I only had ONE doughnut today."
"I can't go running today, it's Saturday."
"I could walk over, but then I'd have to *carry* this six-pack. I'd better drive."
Yep, that's me.