Training Session #18- June 20


5:40 am to 6:10 am


Outdoor, 71 degrees

Training Maxim:

No hurry. No pause.

Training Performed:

30 consecutive minutes of walking, jogging- 1.2 miles


Concluding a disappointing training session with a set of 50 sit-ups.


On the heels of yesterday’s accomplishment, I attempted to conclude my walking/jogging with jogging the last quarter mile like I did yesterday. But today I failed. Today, my left leg did not cooperate and, maybe it was mental fatigue, but I didn’t have the grit, like I did yesterday to power through.

We do not possess finite qualities of grit. Grit is not like a coin, something we drop in a piggy bank and save for when life requires a withdraw. Grit is momentary. Sometimes we have it. Sometimes we don’t. All we can do is condition ourselves, through practice and training, to know how to make the withdraw when the moment demands it.

We often think that if we can accomplish something once, we will be able to accomplish the task with less effort the next time. I was guilty of this naivete today. I thought yesterday’s victory entitled me to victory today. This is dangerous thinking. Because if you assume a task will be easy, and it’s not, you’re most likely not mentality sharp enough to slice through sudden difficulties.

Quote I’m Thinking about Today:

“Your struggle is your gift.”~ William Hollis

Checkout Chapter 2 of my serial story “The Man with the Hole in His Brain

“He’s a writer again. His words walk a tightrope of transparency and vulnerability while attempting to maintain a masculine balance. He writes to entertain. He writes to discover truth. He writes to feel strong. He writes to fill the hole in his brain with imagination instead of hopelessness and resentment. He writes secrets he can’t tell his wife. He writes to make his father proud. He writes in case he dies young. He writes so his voice may one day comfort his children when they’re older and far from home. He writes for Ms. Baker/ Mrs. Cleary. For Fire Hydrant. For himself. Because twenty four years ago he gave up on a dream. He let an opinion dry his pen, quiet his voice. When he was a boy he let the critic win.”