Six months ago, I weighed in at 195.4 pounds. That was after I came in higher at a doctor’s appointment and began making adjustments a few weeks before because walking up the hill to my barber was strenuous and I felt like I was going to die when I walked with a friend all of one mile.
Last month, I did a four-mile loop like nothing, I try to pedal for at least half an hour on the exercise bike and now I’m down 15 pounds, five of which were shed in the past 31 days.
In short, I’m down since January the equivalent of an average male bald eagle carrying a four-pound bag of sugar.
I’m 180.2 pounds as of this morning.
I hit a plateau after losing the first 10 pounds. It was annoying, but I resigned myself because I said I wasn’t going to do anything I wouldn’t normally do (other than adjusting my meals) in the course of trying to lose weight.
I used to bike a lot, and I’ve said I would walk/bike to work if I didn’t have to go through Shockoe Bottom at night and I didn’t nearly rip my face off the last time I rode a bike back in 2009. (Seriously, I really screwed up my face in 2009, if you didn’t know me back then. The doctors were surprised by how well I recovered. In the days following the crash, I was given information about plastic surgery.)
That said, I’m toying with cycling 30 minutes a day five days a week to mimic what would happen if I didn’t have an aversion to riding a real bike or the trip to work didn’t involve going down nearly 50 feet and climbing up about 190 feet.
I’m five pounds off of where my doctor at least wants me to be and 20 pounds off my January goal for June, which probably was completely unrealistic without really working out. And, again, I don’t want to really work out, because if I ever say “screw the gym,” I’d be back where we started.
Well, the celebration’s over. It’s time to keep moving.