If you don’t know what a crab crawl is, I really can’t show you. I look like a dog rubbing his butt on the carpet when I crab crawl. Thanks to really, really, really messed up shoulders, it’s my weakest exercise. Of course, I had to do it 40 yards this morning.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. But it does make you thankful it’s dark at that time of morning.
This weekend, I ran 12 miles. In a row. And nothing was chasing me. Well, yes, a few things were chasing me: Heart disease, diabetes, depression, some types of cancer — you get the point. I got up at 5:30 and hit the trail on Saturday. The cool weather was a gift after a brutal summer. I still managed to sweat a few buckets. I looked like I had been for a swim, not a run.
I title this series of blogs “The Advertures of an Awkward Athlete” because I am not pretty when I work out. I don’t look good in my outfits. My hair is a mess and I look like a Clydesdale. I probably don’t smell good, either. I really don’t care. I bumble, stumble and fumble. But I get out there.
The statistics are there in black and white. And the obituary page confirms them. I’m at an age where males like me just drop dead from heart attacks. I’ve had cancer once (melanoma) and don’t want it again. I am on the board of the Diabetes Foundation of Mississippi and really don’t want to play around with Type 2 Diabetes. I don’t want to be a statistic.
So I crab crawl. I rub my butt across the turf and struggle. I run, I struggle and I get my heart rate elevated for at least an hour a day. Why? I do it for my boys. They need a dad in their life. And I’m proud to say, they are learning to love exercise, too.