Eat, drink, move, sleep

I was bummed to miss out on a group ride this morning (thanks to a sleepless night) so I took my freshly-tuned-up bike out for a quick spin through some streets on the south shore of Staten Island. Ended up stopping at three parks before powernoia set in and I called it a day.

Wheels keep turning… #spring #bike #bicycle #salsa #casseroll #salsacasseroll #park #bloomingdalepark

A photo posted by Allie (@averbovetskaya) on

The last time I was on my bike, my life was very different. Things are slowly becoming normal again and it was amazing being back in the saddle. My current situation doesn’t allow me to commute by bike anymore and I work on weekends (preventing me from going on long-distance rides) but I miss my bike to the point of tears sometimes so I’m making it my mission to make time for the things that are important to me.


Where I decide to lift things up and put them down

In July 2012, I bought a book on a topic that I’d been curious about but had been incredibly intimidated by for a long time: The New Rules of Lifting for Women: Lift Like a Man, Look Like a Goddess, by Lou Schuler with workouts by Alwyn Cosgrove and nutrition information by Cassandra Forsythe. Cheesy subtitle aside, I was drawn to this book because it speaks frankly about women’s abilities in the weight room. Schuler understands that women can work out just as hard as men and, with the help of his co-authors, provides a six-month training program for women to follow.

For three years, though, this book sat unread on my shelves. Then, two weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to make some changes and fitness was one aspect of my life that always felt out of control. Sure, I biked to work on a regular basis and bragged about how I didn’t need to pay for a gym membership. I was still weak and flabby, though, and I was keenly aware of that. Then, in September, I moved in with my parents and lost my bike commute, putting an end to the only form of regular exercise I had. I began to spend at least two hours a day on a bus—in addition to the 8 hours I sit at my desk—four to five days a week. I also have a weekend gig where I assist at a library reference desk so that’s another 8 hours of sitting and 1-2 hours driving to & from work every week. That left me with one free day a week that I usually spent curled up with a book or Netflix, being too tired to do anything else.

Finally, enough was enough. I couldn’t continue living this sedentary lifestyle anymore so I joined a big box gym. Luckily, my sister is already comfortable in the weight room (with the help of personal trainers and time spent in a boxing gym) so she helped me work out that first day. (We had limited time so we only did squats and calf raises.) Then, later in the week, I took advantage of a LivingSocial coupon offered by a local yoga studio and took my first ever yoga class. I went to a basic yoga session with my sister (who had been to yoga classes at her gym before) and a couple of things happened:

  1. I managed to keep up with the class, surprising myself, my sister, and the instructor (and gaining the respect of my classmates).
  2. I found my sister’s strength and flexibility awe-inspiring, instilling in me a more profound respect for her while motivating me to be more like her.
  3. I cried during savasana (corpse pose), releasing some emotional baggage I’d been carrying around with me since July.

The experience was invigorating and solidified my plans to work out on a regular basis. This is when I pulled out my copy of NROLFW, downloaded & printed the workout logs, pulled out some old workout apparel (that needs to be updated, stat!), and hit the gym one more time with my sister to learn how to properly execute the ten exercises I’ll be doing during the first stage of the NROLFW plan (which lasts 6 weeks out of the plan’s total 6-month regime). I then added each workout to my calendar, ensuring that I would be held accountable for my actions and have no excuse for slacking off.

Everyone, even my sister, thinks I’m insane, though: I’ve scheduled my workouts for 4 in the morning, three times a week. This is so I can catch the same bus to work and be in the office at my regular 7:30 AM start time. (This is so I avoid traffic on my bus commute, something I’d never had to worry about before.) I’m usually home by 5 PM, which gives me plenty of time to make & eat dinner, pack lunch, watch TV or read a magazine/book, spend some time with my cats, and prepare for the next day before heading to bed. On the two “rest” weekdays each week, I plan on taking a spin class at the gym as well as continuing a weekly yoga session at the studio. My energy levels skyrocket after physical activity so I expect to be tired but, really, I’ll be invigorated-tired, not lazy-tired.

This has been my first week following this schedule and I’m loving it so far! I’ve always been one of those people who feels better in the mornings (and succumbs easily to sleep in the evenings) so this is sort of my ideal schedule. The gym is super quiet at 4 AM, allowing me to focus solely on myself and feel less self-conscious of my weak muscles. I already feel stronger, which is a great motivator to keep going.

Onward and upward!


I’ve trained for decades in the art of patiently waiting for people to butcher my name. It’s often a teacher or customer service official who has to read aloud from a list. I listen to them breeze through Daniel and Jennifer and even Dwayne, but inevitably, there’s a break in their rhythm. “James! Carrie! Karima! Stephanie! Kevin!” Pause. “Bar—” Pause. They look around the room and then look back at their list. Their confidence falters. The declarative tone applied to the names before mine gives way to a weak, interrogative stumbling:

Barry? Barrington? Baracuda? Bartuna? Bartender? Bartunda? Bartholomew? Bart? Baritone? Baritone Dave? Barathunde? Bar—? Brad!!

The person who called me Brad was engaged in the most lazy and hilarious form of wishful thinking, but all the others kind of, sort of, maybe make some sense. This experience is so common in my life that I now entirely look forward to it. Like a child on Christmas morning who hasn’t yet been told that Santa is a creation of consumer culture maintained by society to extend the myth of “economic growth,” I eagerly await the gift of any new variation the next person will invent. Can I get a Beelzebub? Who will see a Q where none exists? How about some numbers or special characters? Can I get a hyphen, underscore, forward slash? Only after letting the awkward process run its public course do I step forward, volunteering myself as the bearer of the unpronounceable label and correct them. “That’s me. It’s Baratunde.”

—Baratunde Thurston, How to Be Black

My first name doesn’t come on magnets