Good god, I'm pathetic…
I could make excuses if I wanted. I just
came off an absurd two-year run of injuries and illness.
Broken bones and ruined shoulders and life threatening infections
requiring lengthy hospital stays don’t make it easy to stay
fit.
But let’s be honest.
I could have eaten healthier, I didn’t need to chase those
Percocets with a half-dozen beers. It’s all my own damn fault.
Maybe partially my wife’s for loving me unconditionally.
But now I’m healthy again, or something resembling it, and I
have a good forty pounds I’ve gotta shed before winter. I can fuck
around in summer slop all day long, but if I want to blow the dust
off that gorgeous pintail gun I picked up two years ago I need to
be lean and mean.
Which means exercise everyday and lots of veggies and no more
beer. The last is probably for the best, when a lady at the
recycling center comments on how many empty Pacifico bottles you’ve
got it may be time to take a break.
Lest you make the same mistakes I did, here’s the reality of
being a fat surfer.
Your ribs hurt: I don’t
mean the standard soreness you get after a really long session,
every session feels like a mule kicked you in the rib
cage.
Don’t give in and slather your pits in vaseline or whatever
other gunk they sell fatties specifically for that reason. Embrace
the agony. Let every burning stroke be a reminder, you look like
shit, you surf like shit, and you deserve every ounce of pain.
Your arm-pits too! Arm-pit rash?
That’s a thing? Good god, I’m pathetic.
Don’t give in and slather your pits in vaseline or whatever
other gunk they sell fatties specifically for that reason. Embrace
the agony. Let every burning stroke be a reminder, you look like
shit, you surf like shit, and you deserve every ounce of pain.
Your boards don’t work anymore: All
those stark white high-perf rip sticks piled in the corner are a
recipe for struggle and pain and blown sections and self-loathing.
No more blow-tails, no more airs, just bog and struggle and fucking
suck. You’ll find yourself thinking, “Wow, longboarding is super
fun, maybe I should add a few more to my quiver.”
Don’t do it! That way madness lies.
You look disgusting: You know that
gorgeous piece of ass who’s always out at your local break?
The one who only surfs okay but rocks a thong and jams mind blowing
duck dives? Wouldn’t it be nice to go chat her up, maybe lure her
to your place for a few glasses of rotgut followed by an intense
session of slap and tickle? Well, guess what? It ain’t
happening.
Maybe you could’ve pulled it off, once upon a time, but the
moment you catch a glimpse of your saggy hanging paunch in your
driver’s side window reality’s gonna give you a kick in the nuts.
You look like her dad, and no girl wants to bang her dad. Well,
some do, but that’s a ball of crazy best avoided.
You’ll want to kill yourself when buying
clothes: Want to end your day sitting in your
car sobbing hysterically? Go ask the teenage wage slave at your
local shop if they have any board shorts larger than a 38. The eye
roll followed by “No” is a soul crusher.
All memory, no muscle: The best sessions
are the ones when you aren’t thinking at all. Your mind goes blank,
the body takes over, and you’re flowing effortlessly from bottom to
top, fading perfectly into the pocket, nailing late drops like it
ain’t no thing.
But when you’ve packed on a thick layer of blubber it don’t work
like that no more. When you’re slightly inside and the wave of the
day rolls straight at you and your mind says, “Just spin around and
two stroke in, you got this,” you’re in for a ride.
Because it takes four strokes to get your fat ass over the ledge
now, and you’re a split-second slower than you used to be. And now
that guy, the one you used to sneer at when he blew a
perfect barrel or bogged off the top and flailed over the falls, is
YOU.
