The Rise of Recomp

A long time ago (2015) in a gym far, far away… I started a blog for accountability. And stopped writing the blog. And started again. And stopped again. You probably get where this is going. Each time was supposed to be the One, the version of me that would finally stick. Spoiler: they didn’t.

Fast-forward a decade and here we are again, same guy, different decade, different town, different blog, same goal; to be the best and fittest version of me that I can be. This time it’s The Recomp Chronicles. A little older, possibly a little wiser, but finally honest enough to admit that maybe the journey doesn’t need to be cinematic (I was really dramatic before, oh woah is me). It just needs to keep going. Some weeks rock and I hit PRs and feel unstoppable, other weeks I hit walls and eat Krispy Kreme and want to just get fat and invent a suspension chair.

This past week was a de-load; lighter weights, slower pace, more thinking than doing. And that’s fitting, because it’s hard not to look back at all the other “Day Ones.” The Michigan posts, the false starts, the posts that never made it past the first week. Turns out I’ve been the main character in the longest prequel series ever written.

But things feel different now. Time will tell if it really is, but so far, I’m feeling good. As I found when I quit smoking back in the day, after dozens and dozens of starts and stops (stops and starts?), I only have to succeed once. So I keep moving forward on this journey, through the good (Yay 320 leg press) and the bad (I swear I didn’t eat the entire box of cereal…), the recovery and the sleepless nights.

And by “succeed once, I don’t mean that I will never screw up and over indulge in ice cream, or pasta, and don’t get me started on holiday cookies and Thanksgiving food coma. What I mean is this time I fully understand that I will make mistakes as I go, but this time I will not quit on myself because of it. I’ll be like one of those old sticky wall toys, the kind that’s lost its shine, covered in dust, a little crusty, hanging there by one arm but refusing to let go. I’m faded, stretched, but still holding on.

That’s the voice I want to bring to stage. I’m not the reboot, just the continuation.

Still lifting. Still losing. Still showing up. Usually.