The Waking is the Hardest Part

My phone started buzzing at 5:30 this morning.

As it always does.

That was followed by...

All aboard! HA HA HA HA HA HA! a'ight, a'ight, a'ight, a'ight (echo)

That’s the beginning of Crazy Train.

By Ozzy Osbourne.

My own personal ring tone.

The sound I wake up to every morning.

I set my alarm for 5:30.

So I can leave the house by 6.

And be on the elliptical machine by 6:30.

That’s the goal.

Every morning.

That’s the result.

Many mornings.

Some days are a little slower out of the block than others.

But the good news is I usually get the gym four or five mornings a week.

Actually, we get to the gym four or five mornings a week.

My 12-year-old son and I.

Now I consider myself a pretty good negotiator.

I credit it to my many years of playing fantasy sports.

But talking a 12-year-old boy into getting up at 5:30.

Four or five times a week.

To work out.

Now that's quite the challenge.

At first I just asked if he wanted to go.

Guess how that turned out.

Then I hinted that I thought it would be good for him.

Strike 2.

This is where it gets dicey.

One more strike and I’m out.

So instead of taking a risk, I went for the sure thing.

A sports analogy.

That’s what we do.

I asked him how many times Michael Phelps cursed at his mom when she woke him up at 4:00am to go to swim class.

For a brief moment I wondered if this was where he was going to throw a shoe at me.

Or if he was actually going to bite the hook.

Fortunately when I looked him deep in the eye, I could see the light.

The light from where the light bulb had gone on.

I knew I had him.

I told him that Michael probably cursed at her EVERY day.

Maybe even twice a day.

But she believed in his ability and recognized that he had the opportunity to be special.

And nothing was going to get in the way of that.

I told him I see the same thing in him.

That was a few months ago.

And for a few months we’ve been working out together.

Almost every day.

Not exactly P90X.

Not even p9x.

It’s a handful of weight machines.

Abs, delts, pecs, lats, traps, arms, legs.... whatever. 

Followed by a half-hour (or so) on the elliptical.

Ta-da.

We’ve got a workout.

Some days our workout qualifies as “something is better than nothing.”

Other days I actually break a sweat.

But everyday is great.

Me and my boy.

Just the two of us.

Building castles in the sky.

Just the two of us.

I’m not so sure I have a Michael Phelps on my hands.

But the fact that he is still going is a victory in itself.

And he seems to be sincerely enjoying himself.

Which is a bonus.

Not to mention he has mastered the face of looking like he is lifting 2500 pounds.

When it’s only 25.

I should know.

I invented that face.

While the results in the gym are certainly paying off, it’s the entire morning that is special for me. 

The discussions we have on the car ride to the gym are nothing short of perfect.

Sports.

Music.

School.

Food.

Whatever.

An uninterrupted conversation between a boy.

And his dad.

Take that Harry Chapin.

Sure, there has been more than a morning where there’s been no conversation at all.

I credit that to the pitch-dark departure.

But those rides are just as heavenly.

I split my time 50-50.

Between watching the road.

And watching my son sit next to me.

Sleeping.

Nothing more peaceful than that.

Nothing more perfect than that.

Who knew that working out could be so much fun.