My trainer is a firm believer in lean protein, limited carbs, and yes that does include wine, sadly. A somewhat amused, yet indulgent smirk is the response I receive to my weekly query as to whether his position on this has changed.
Despite his possibly firmer than necessary stance on this, we talk about food… a lot. I don’t mean the typical conversations one might have with their trainer about healthy choices, and whether or not to supplement with protein shakes. That’s not the kind of food talk I mean.
While heaving a 20-pound medicine ball at me that he non verbally indicates I am to catch while in a reverse lunge, he might casually mention the meal he had the night before; pasta with cream sauce and sweet bacon. His eyes sparkle with delight as he details it’s silken texture.
Stacking plate after painful plate onto a barbell for me to squat, he will ask my preference regarding a perfectly grilled steak; rare or medium? Would I choose a more peppery sauce or should it be finished with a buttery, red wine demi-glace?
As I run up and down flights of stairs, two at a time while carrying a set of 15-pound dumbbells, he salivates over charcuterie, sushi and pizza; crust thickness being a particular point of interest; he prefers thin and crispy.
Reminiscing about a recent cheese and wine pairing, he tips his head to one side as though gazing lovingly at the object of his affection, as he insists that yes I am capable of 15 more and no my forearms will not, in fact, burst from the exertion.
Restaurants are not exempt from our discussions. As he steadily increases the weight I am to chest press, we cover location, 15 pounds. Ambience and service, 20 pounds. The menu, seasonal or fixed, 25 pounds. Finally, as he stands behind me preparing to steady my exhausted arms, I hear what was ordered. The duck breast at King and Church is to die for. The pasta in Parkdale knows no competition. Pizza used to be a west end specialty, but the east is winning him over.
I realize it sounds like a rather dubious method, but have you ever had a pet that was food motivated? Would perform any trick if there were a liver treat in hand? Come rushing in at the sound a box of crunchies being shaken into a bowl? I believe my trainer may be a genius. He picked cues up from me early on. It was likely the width of my hips and softness of my belly, but he knew I was a foodie.
Under his tutelage, I now know that I can have the foods that I so adore… once a week… at one meal.
I trusted him immediately. His passion for food equals, perhaps even surpasses my own. You need only to glimpse his remarkable physique to see that his methods are clearly effective.
Everyone has different ways of motivating their clients. Perhaps he barks militarily at others, or when a gentler touch is required, he is probably quite kindly. I don’t know, but I do know that when he directs me to hang from a bar and swing my legs up to meet his hand-held impossibly high, 387 times, I happily oblige knowing the he will reward me with images of a decadence which I will add to my once a week wish list.
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