Marshall Ramsey

It’s halftime and here’s the score:

Twenty-four days into PLS Summer Training, I am down a whopping four pounds. (212 lbs. to 208lbs. ). But the scale doesn’t tell you the whole story this time.  When I was 16 years old, I weighed 165 lbs. and wore a size 34 waist.  I am 45 years old, weigh 208 lbs. and wear a size 34 waist.  When I started PLS in 2012, I wore a size 41 waist.

It’s called muscle.

I can see muscles in my stomach. I don’t have a six pack. But I at least don’t have a 2-liter.

So how was today’s workout you ask?  We got to slap the #$%& out of some tackling dummies.  I loved that for some reason. I channelled a rage I haven’t felt since I was tackling quarterbacks a long, long, long time ago.  I sweated a lot. Did some burpees, mountain climbers jumping jacks,  worked on the weights and did a drill where I had to put the ball in a bucket. That was fun. And I sweated a lot.  A lot.

It’s halftime.

Time to evaluate my goals and see what I need to adjust to reach them.  What do I need to do to get to the next level?  That goes not only for my fitness, but my life and career as well.  But I can say without a doubt, I am in the best shape of my life.

I finally figured out what “Next Level” means. Because the humidity has risen to the next level. We’re going to need freakin’ gills to breathe before the end of the summer. It was like running through syrup today.

And I’ve never looked at a Chips and Salsa dish and thought, “That could really hurt me.” I will now. Thanks Morgan for making me scared of a platter.

Running around with a 45-lb. plate just reminded me how sucky it was to weigh 45 pounds heavier than I do now. I’m in no mood to go back to Fatville ever again.

I hiked my leg like a dog in Clark’s station. With both legs. Just thankfully not at the same time.  I think that would hurt.

I ran and bunny hopped over bags.  I’m sure I looked like an idiot doing it.

And the cherry on top of the sweat sundae was running around the track and up and down a metal stadium nearly twice.  By the time I got to the end zone for the final stretch, I was not only drenched in sweat, I was pouring sweat like someone had turned on a faucet.

I opened up my Facebook this morning at 4:09 and saw that Eric died of melanoma. I survived melanoma.  So you want to know something, I haven’t got a thing to complain about.  None. Nothing. I’m alive. I saw the sunrise. I have the gift of another day.

I just wish Eric did.