The first week was painful. I reluctantly plodded to the gym, but I was determined. After those rough seven days, I was hooked. I no longer wanted to sit on the couch and watch TV for hours each day after work. I genuinely wanted to spend all my free time at the gym.
My routine always started with cardio, running about two miles on a treadmill at what I considered a decent pace. That was followed with a lifting regiment—nothing fancy, just your typical chest/triceps on day one, back/biceps on day two and legs/shoulders on day three. Three exercises for each muscle group, decreasing the sets of twelve, then ten, then eight while increasing the resistance in each set. I hit the gym every day, so I was able to get to each muscle group twice in a typical week.
It only took a month to start seeing results. The more weight I lost, the more it drove me to keep pushing harder and harder. Soon people started to notice that I was looking a little slimmer, and
that drove me to that next level. Soon, the speed on the treadmill never dipped below 10 mph, and I was running three, four, or five miles at a clip. I all but stopped drinking. I changed my diet; now I craved going to the gym every day.
As the months passed, the weight literally seemed to fly off my body. I wasn’t where I wanted to be yet, but I knew I was on my way and it made me feel good. I had to buy new clothes when my waist kept shrinking. When I would eat something unhealthy, all I could think about was how it was impeding my progress. I no longer craved greasy food or sweets—they began to disgust me.
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