Deep in joys of exercise there is something affectionately known as 'the burn.' Certain popular phrases utilizing this term include, "Feel the burn," "Oh God, this really burns," and "Sweet baby Jesus, my ass is burnin'." Anyone familiar with long-distance running, contact sports, circuit training, wall-sits, wide pull-ups, diamond push-ups, six inches, plank position, pilates, plyometrics, Tae bow, Bikram yoga, regular yoga, dance, Zumba, Richard Simmons' Sweatin' to the Oldies, or any other activity that pushes the threshold of one's physical capabilitles is undoubtedly familiar with this fiery sensation. The burn is the thing that keeps working out from being comfortable; the ache that lingers for days. The burn is that thing that creeps up on you 30 crunches deep into a set of 60 and makes you tell your friend, the good-natured, sweet-faced, ready with encouragement personal trainer, to go fuck himself sideways. It's that thing we both chase and avoid, long for and fear; the thing that'll make you seriously consider cheating and quitting over and over again. The burn is the pain that comes with progress.
My big brother, AJ, is a proud member of the Marine Corps and he introduced me to the burn when I was just 17. While enrolled at the United States Merchant Marine Academy, AJ spent months at a time at sea and needed a way to stay in shape when he returned home in between tours. It was on AJ's suggestion (and military discount) that my family came to own our first set of workout equipment and it was on AJ's insistence that I became his designated workout buddy.
To be honest, I hated it at first. 'Hate' may not even be the appropriate word. I feared those workouts. You see, AJ learned how to exercise under the supervision of some of the loudest, angriest, meanest drill sergeants this great country had to offer. When he was my age, barely 18, he shipped off to the Naval Academy Preparatory School and spent 10 months in a boot camp, hell hole somewhere in the woods of Rhode Island. He didn't have the comforts of his family or his hometown or a gym in the basement of his parent's house. He had mud, New England's temperamental weather, and enlisted officers who's only job was to systematically beat the comfort out of him so that he might better survive under the duress of war. To this day AJ regards that year as the most miserable of his life.
Now, I don't want to paint an ugly picture of my brother. In fact, he is one of the most incredible role models I have ever had the privilege to learn from. He is warm, disciplined, and has within his pinky toe on a Tuesday afternoon more love than most people have in their whole body on their wedding day. However, in a training situation (such as teaching his little brother how to work out) AJ was nothing short of a pink, floppy dickhead. He did not tolerate excuses, accepted nothing less than everything I had to offer, made every muscle in my body burn beyond belief, and made it a point to belittle me when I burned the most. Under AJ's philosophy, emasculation was a tool for motivation: the more he said you were a giant, roast beef sandwich of a vagina, the more you would want to prove him wrong; the more humiliated your ego, the less you would care about how much your body burned; the more you hated him, the better you would be for it. Lying in a sore heap on the rubber gym floor, I knew in my heart of hearts that AJ called me 'the biggest pussy he'd ever seen' because he loved me.
And so, in those times when AJ was at sea, I thought only about preparing for his return. Everyday I forced myself downstairs into that cramped basement; through discomfort, through stress, through laziness, I willed myself to do set upon set of wide-grip pull-ups until I was good at them. In the beginning I was lucky if I could do sets of ten (on my last set, I'd normally only get four before I found myself pulling like hell and going nowhere, desperate for a fifth); in six months time I was doing three sets of 25 without even breaking a sweat. I came to love the burn. It's how I knew that tomorrow I would be a little better. It's how I knew that in a few months, when AJ was back, I'd make my big brother proud.
I told you I was a rock when I was 18 and that rock was igneous: forged in flame. However, after five years of sloth, the burn has faded into the long lost love of my life. I walked out on the burn way back when and now I'm a pathetic loser begging her to take me back. I want to feel that fire again, that sense of "I can do anything." I want to feel like my friend Bianca did last night when she screamed during her final exercise, "I feel like I'm gonna vomit BUT I LOVE IT!"
Fortunately for Bianca, I was there pushing her, shouting encouragements and laughing at her complaints, while AJ is not around to do me the same favor. AJ's halfway around the world flying Cobras in the South Pacific. We haven't been workout buddies for quite some time. There's no one here to push me but me.
Day 6. The first workout to ever make me feel lonely.
Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.
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