SWARTHOS

I’ve come to the twisted realization that sharing my workouts online is not just a desperate cry for accountability, but the adrenaline-fueled spark I need to stave off the creeping malaise of mediocrity lurking in the corners of my soul. Therefore I’ve made the reckless decision to resurrect my workout postings—because nothing fuels the fire of motivation quite like the public spectacle of my own sweaty, chaotic attempts to claw my way back from the brink of self-destruction.

Let it begin again

I was somewhere around mile 20 on the bike ride when the beet powder began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “This is it, I’m finally doing it.” The euphoria of those high-protein shakes coursing through my veins felt almost like a cosmic alignment—my body transforming into something resembling a finely tuned machine, or maybe just a deranged beast set loose upon the world. Either way, there was no turning back.

The morning jog/walks with my canine companion are a surreal experience. There’s something about the rhythmic slap of running shoes against asphalt and the frantic embrace of a dog’s pulling leash that tends to rattle the neurons awake. The sun starts peeking over the horizon, casting shadows that dance like madmen on the pavement as I huff and puff my way toward whatever dystopian fitness paradise lies ahead. It’s a meditation, really—two meals a day, comprising mainly hard-boiled eggs and an ardent devotion to water and vitamins. I’m convinced those little capsules are filled with vibrant dreams—little nuggets of potential that might just transform me into a lean, mean fighting machine.

Lifting weights has become my sacred ritual, my equivalent of religious fervor—just me, the barbell, and the spirit of high reps with low weight. It’s a beautiful charade of calculated struggle, where the good pumps I get are like badges of honor, symbols of battles fought against my own lethargy. Each drop of sweat a confession, every grunt an incantation summoning newfound strength.

But what am I training for? The question hangs in the heavy air, like the scent of sweat and resolve. Am I chasing some archetypal vision of health, a shimmering mirage of peak physicality? Or am I just trying to outrun the chaos that’s always nipping at my heels? Either way, I feel it deep in my bones—I’m on track for something. What that something is remains a tantalizing mystery, a cosmic riddle waiting to be solved.

When I arrive at that destination, wherever it may be, I’ll be ready. And I’ll know that all those beet shakes, high-rep pump sessions, and zen-like dog walks were merely a prelude to the grand spectacle that lies ahead. Saddle up, my friends; the ride has just begun.