Pushing Forward

Vernon, my trainer, thinks he's funny.

In the course of my workouts, one of the things he has me do on occasion is grab two 25-pound dumbbells and walk up and down a flight of 17 steps. We started with three trips - up and down, up and down, up and down. That nearly killed me.

The next week, he wanted me to do five. He stopped me at three, apparently because my breathing pattern had lapsed into something you might hear at a Lamaze class.

Then last week, without warning, he sprung the five trip thing on me again. Told me he had a "treat" for me, then handed me the weights.

And this time? I made it. Nearly died in the process, but I made it.

So there is progress being made.

Afterwards, Vernon was very encouraging, obviously proud of the strides I'm making. Like a good trainer should be.

But I guess he can't help himself. While I'm lying in a pool of my own bodily fluids, gasping for air, he smiles and says, very quietly:

"By Christmas we'll be doing 10."

"We," he says. Which means I'll be trudging my you-know-what up and down those stairs, lungs on fire, while he stands at the bottom and counts. "We" would mean he's walking with me, carrying one of the weights.

What is this "we" I keep hearing?

In all seriousness, Vernon is the perfect trainer for someone like me. If he were one of those super-intense, over-the-top, muscle-bound screaming idiots that fits the stereotype, he'd have lost me after the first week.

But his quiet intensity, his encouragement, his patience...it's a great fit with my personality, and is the reason I believe I've responded so well.

I also need to apologize to him here. It's Saturday, and I'm in the Clemson press box right before kickoff of the Georgia Tech game.

That means it was a bad meal this morning. But I'll be back on track this afternoon.

And I'm sure "we" will work it off on Monday.

Right Vernon?