Mt Democrat, Mt Cameron, and Altitude Sickness

After the poor planning and research of our Mt Harvard hike and my poor life choices before our Quandary hike, when we decided to tackle to Mt Democrat-Mt Cameron-Mt Lincoln-Mt Bross loop in one day, I made a concerted effort to learn from past mistakes and prepare properly. In the end, it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

We started our trek early under perfect weather conditions. I had gone to bed early and slept well. I had put down a bunch of water on our drive out. I had even eaten breakfast (which is something I no longer do). As we took the trail toward Mt Democrat, I felt good.

My ascent was slow and steady, as always. I know I will never be fast uphill. Not running or hiking. Just never. But we made it to the saddle between Democrat and Cameron easily enough, veering off to ascend Democrat first.

After the trail branched, the incline increased dramatically. As it always does when it is too high for any life to grow. The hike started at 12,000 feet, well above treeline, so the entire route was the hard part of hiking 14ers. Yet it was all so much shorter than the previous hikes that started lower that it seemed like it would be easier.

Seemed.

We made our ascent up Democrat at a reasonable pace. One of us was struggling with motivation. I always struggle with incline. However, overall, it went surprisingly smooth and well. Considering how painful the previous ascents had been, Democrat came fast and easy.

We took a quick rest to have a snack and enjoy the view then turned to the descent. Like always, I bounded down ahead like a mountain goat and fully enjoyed the way back. By the time I reached the saddle to take the turn for Mt Cameron, I was feeling great. The same euphoria at the base of every hike coupled with the motivation to move to the next mountain.

Yet this is where my hike began to unravel.

As we regrouped and turned to take Mt Cameron, my struggle with the incline steadily increased. It felt different than muscle fatigue, but I dismissed it. Then a nagging headache started tapping on my forehead. I adjusted my hat, adjusted my pack, drank more water, had a snack. Yet the headache persisted and burrowed deeper until nausea bloomed in my belly.

At this point, things did not feel normal or right. Something inside me kept whispering, something is wrong…something is not OK. But I dismissed it. The headache and nausea increased, and hiking became suddenly daunting. More daunting than usual, more daunting than at my most exhausted. It did not feel like normal fatigue. Instead, it felt like I had absolutely nothing in me. No go, no gas, no juice, NOTHING.

I dismissed it and pressed on anyway. At shameful and unimaginably slow pace, we made Cameron.

Once we summitted and turned to the gradual saddle between Cameron and Lincoln (the slight distance that disqualifies Mt Cameron as an official 14er). I did not feel great, and the headache and nausea did not abate, but I could at least move. I figured I could make it the 300 feet to summit Lincoln since we were already there.

I was wrong.

A few steps up the final ascent to Lincoln, I simply could not. My body had nothing. It felt like I could not breathe. My chest hurt as if something was compressing my lungs. I sat down on the trail, and that was all I had. I shooed the rest of my party on to summit and stayed exactly where I was.

In all honesty, I don’t remember much vividly from when the headache started. I know I stumbled my way up Cameron. I know I sat down on the trail. I know I was struggling to breathe and just wanted to lay down on the rocks and sleep so I stood as I waited for them. By the time they returned (which was not long), I was in rough shape, barely functioning.

We turned to Mt Bross to make an immediate descent. If I could not make 300 feet of Lincoln, I could not make anything but back to the car. Unfortunately, we made a wrong turn. Instead of following the trail that cut across the top of Bross’s stained and scarred face, we wandered down a dead end. With the risk of mine shafts anywhere, we had to turn back around. Trying to ascend again destroyed me. When we returned to the top of the trail, I had to collapse briefly.

Finally, we made it across Bross’s mangled face and began to actually drop in altitude. I continued to struggle. Whenever my heart rate climbed, my headache pounded harder. Whenever the headache increased, the nausea pressed on the back of my teeth. I still could not breathe, but moving downhill, I did not need to fight for it as hard.

However, Bross was a terrible descent. Huge boulders and slippery scree the entire length of the mountain. Everyone suffered. Everyone was miserable.

I refused to vomit as we descended the rocks. I knew puking would make me shaky, and I did not know if I could navigate the terrain with unsteady legs. However, once we finally reached the grass, I sat down and puked my guts out. I wish I could say it made me feel better.

The valley where we started was still gorgeous. My favorite flower (the columbine) was everywhere. I wish I could have actually seen and enjoyed it. I suffered severe tunnel vision. All I wanted to do was lay down in the car.

When we did finally reach the parking lot, I took off my boots and lay down in the passenger seat. The rest of the group had their celebratory beers and make PB&J sandwiches, but I just wanted to die. The ride down the trail was not much better. I had to vomit again when we reached the highway. Then I passed out for the rest of the trip.

Altitude sickness.

It took me about three full days to recover. I felt better after my car nap but still miserable. It was difficult to walk. I got winded just moving around the house. I have lived in Colorado, skied and hiked frequently my entire life. This is the first time I ever remember experiencing altitude sickness.

Maybe it was because I was in Dallas, near sea level a few days earlier. Maybe it was because I was still suffering a lingering cold. Maybe it was because the hike started above tree line. Maybe I wasn’t hydrated enough. Honestly, I have no idea. Altitude sickness can really strike anyone at any time under any circumstances. I can’t say it makes sense in this instance, unless it happened just to punish me for thinking I was prepared.

I feel like I should be super frustrated and disappointed to have made it so close and been taken out. I guess I am disappointed that I did not get to enjoy the hike, that I got so sick. However, I was so utterly miserable that I don’t really care that I couldn’t make the last summit (or two). It was unpleasant enough to overshadow any ambition I had.

Part of me wants to redo Cameron, Lincoln, and Bross. Part of me doesn’t care. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. I’m just relieved that the sickness has passed and I can breathe again.

Christina Bergling

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Mt Harvard and Quandary Peak

In October, we embarked on my husband’s goal of hiking 14ers in Colorado. We decided to press on it this summer. We started off by hitting it hard, doing two 14ers in two weekends.

Mt. Harvard

First, we decided to tackle Mt Harvard. My father, who avidly hiked 14ers at my present age, warned us that it was going to be challenging. While we believed him, we overestimated ourselves and underestimated the snow.

As my father forecasted, the hike began gently. The first couple miles wound lazily up gentle forest switchbacks. Snow began to appear on the edges of the trail or hidden in the shadows of the trees. I was so excited to see snow after such a disappointing and fruitless winter. As we continued to climb, the snow patches thickened into drifts that began to slow us down.

The winding forest trail eventually sprawled into a large valley beset by the breathtaking peaks of the collegiate 14ers. As the sun show brightly in a vividly clear sky, the scenery was sublime, and our spirits bordered on euphoric.

 

As we moved out of the gentle valley, the snow increased. We navigated through drifts that were mostly crunchy on the top, yet when my leg plunged through the surface, the snow came up to my vagina. The struggle started comical but gradually grew more arduous as the drifts grew deeper and wider until we faced long, uphill spans of slippery snow. Anxiety crawled on my skin as my paranoid steps tempted exacerbating my hamstring/hip injury.

At the first ocean of snow, I nearly declined to continue. I did not want to get more hurt, but I decided to give it a try. It was less challenging than I expected, so I pressed on. We broke past treeline and approached the rocky step switchbacks.

As we ascended the large, flat rock islands amidst shifting gravel, I wondered how I would ever descent such terrain without killing myself. I fought the increasing incline with decreasing oxygen and remembered that there is a distinct reason trees do not care to grow that high.

We made it all the way to the final ascent, the last cairn where we could see the summit. I saw a trail of steep and slippery snow and large boulders. Here, I decided to accept my limitations. It felt ridiculous to come so far, to be 1 mile and 1,000 feet short of the summit and stop. Yet my instincts banged and hollered to not risk it. So, for once, against who I am, I didn’t.

While I am exceedingly stubborn and often push my body too far, this 14er pursuit is not my dream. I am a supportive partner who will take any excuse to be active, punish myself, and be outside in the mountains. But it’s acceptable if I don’t make every summit or I’m not there for every hike. I am a tourist and a tagalong here, the support staff doing the planning.

Two of us stayed at the cairn for three hours while the other three continued.

Then, the weather decided to turn on us. The morning sun folded under thick clouds, and a piercing wind battered us. We sat on the cairn, had a frozen dance party, and waited. For a while, we could watch their tiny forms ascend. Then they vanished for what seemed like an eternity. We almost resigned ourselves to migrate lower when we finally spotted them–a red shirt, a white shirt, and a black shirt–hiking and sliding back down.

Only one of us was able to fully summit (my husband). One was 10 feet short. One was 100 feet short. It sounded quite intense at the top, so I made the right decision to stay behind. I am no rock climber. I am uncomfortable with heights.

Since we only hiked up Pikes Peak, Harvard was our first decent of a 14er. Turns out, my body is built for coming downhill, just like running. As we approached the boulder stairs that made me so nervous coming up, the footfalls suddenly made complete sense. My feet, never entirely graceful, just knew where to go. I bounded down the hill like a mountain goat and had so much fun doing so.

The descent was never-ending though. The snow had softened during the day, and we continually plunged through the surface. It was daunting and repetitive, and the miles just dragged on. But many hours after we projected, we made it. We did our group hug in the parking lot and hurried off into the night for real food and sleep.

Quandary Peak

The next weekend, we aimed a little lower. We went up to Breckenridge, stayed overnight, and set out early to attack Quandary Peak. An easier and shorter hike (recommended by my father).

This trail started narrow and quite steep as it climbed up the hill. The switchbacks drew up the side of the mountain quickly. The sun had just broken the horizon, and the temperature hovered in the limbo where I roasted in my fleece but shivered without it.

I, in my infinitely stupidity and relentless affinity for poor life choices, got to carry a pretty severe hangover with me. What could have been a gentle and pleasant hike was instead quite uncomfortable for me. My thighs balked at the activity immediately. Nausea flirted with my throat. I suffered for my foolishness.

After a couple miles in the trees, we arrived at the customary rocky stair-like switchbacks. We also reached the snow, but it did not compare to Harvard. These drifts were ankle-deep rather than vagina-deep. Instead, our unexpected challenge was the wind. By the time we broke treeline, the wind was near unbearable. At points, I had to struggle to move against it.

There always seems to be one factor that we did not plan for on these hikes. Every mountain seems to teach us something new. Don’t underestimate the mountain. Don’t trust trail estimates. Don’t forget your yaks. Don’t forget your windbreaker. Don’t get drunk the night before. So many lessons.

By the time we passed treeline and battled the wind, I thought my hangover had broken. The trail flattened out a bit before the final ascent, and I was feeling good.

I was wrong.

The final ascent of Quandary did not have switchbacks. No, it climbed straight up the ridge to the summit. And it was terrible. At tackling the extreme grade, my hangover resurged over me. Every four steps, I stopped to evaluate my need to vomit. I moved painfully slow up the final ascent. But I did make it.

We crested the hill and enjoyed a nice flat portion before the summit. The wind even finally died down for us to enjoy our celebratory beers.

Then the descent. My favorite part. All the euphoric rush of victory floating on down the mountain.

The snowy descent did make me a little nervous. Again, I did not want to slip and further injure myself. But I found that sliding down the mountain (in established butt trails that didn’t go off the side of the face) was a much quicker and more fun way to get down. Aside from the horrendous stinging of the cold. Worth it.

The descent was pleasant and so much shorter than Harvard. The wind had died down, and the weather was temperate. It was just nice.

We made it back to the car by lunchtime and were able to enjoy the hot tub in Breckenridge before heading home. While Quandary was not as scenically gorgeous as Pikes Peak or Harvard, it definitely was a more pleasant hike overall. If you subtract the idiocy of my hangover.

Currently, we have two more 14ers scheduled for the summer. Perhaps another one or two in the fall. If nothing else, we have made strong strides on my husband’s goal. And I have seen some beautiful things.

Christina Bergling

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Surgical Options

Now looks like a good time to start over. Again. It seems like I have done nothing but physically start over for the past four years, and (if I’m honest with myself) I think I’m having a small adult tantrum about it.

When I was violently ill through my entire pregnancy, I thought it would get better when it was over. When the birth was rough, I thought it would be fine after I recovered. When recovery stretched out into years, I thought it would normalize eventually. When I pulled my hip, I thought I could run through it and get better. When I tore my hamstring (and apparently my labrum), I thought I would suffer the couple months and be back to normal. When my hamstring finally healed after 18 months and two PRP injections, I thought it might finally be over.

Yet here we are.

Nothing has been debilitating or unbearable, just an endless string of discomfort and inconvenience, of tasting recovery or “normal” just to be shoved back to square one. And perhaps the root of my suffering is the resistance to the idea that this is my new normal, my foolish attachment to how I should be after all these changes.

Maybe this chapter of my life is about a series of physical recoveries, rather than the mental and emotional recoveries in the previous chapter. Maybe life is all just a series of events and recoveries.

Or maybe I’m just whining.

I went to my orthopedic for my steroid injection follow up today. At my previous appointment, they injected steroids into my hip joint to troubleshoot my continued pain. Though my hamstring showed healed, the pain continued as an unusual presentation for a labral tear. The shot helped. A lot. For about a week before its effectiveness started to fade.

Since the shot seemed to indicate the root of the pain, we discussed options. I could do nothing and live with the current discomfort level. I could do maintenance steroid injections until they lost effectiveness. I could do PRP or stem cells to stimulate healing, despite the lack of evidence that the labrum can heal itself. Or I could have laparoscopic surgery.

I found myself torn between the extremes, as always. Nothing or surgery.

Typing it out, my logic does not make any sense, but my instinct was to do nothing. To just continue to deal with it. It seems ridiculous after lamenting the issue for nearly the past two years. It seems like it should be an easy answer to finally fix it. Yet it was the idea of recovery that tempted me to stay with the pain. Though I am known to develop Stockholm Syndrome type attachment to my pain.

I didn’t want to face another lapse, another step back after it took this long to regain this ground, after how many times I already had to retread. Spoiled complaints of the mostly functional. Yet beneath that is the fear.

Exercise and endorphins are the foundation of my precarious little balance on life. It sounds silly to say that two weeks on crutches could be unbearable, but… I know that if I don’t exercise hard enough in 2-3 days, the depression starts to swell and my thoughts begin to twist and contort. I know that it’s just one step back towards that darkness. So the idea unnerves me, and my self-preserving instinct is to just not. To just run through it.

Truthfully, I still want to do that now. Just keep running and tell myself the nerves will give up.

More superficially, I am frustrated to release the progress I’ve made. I’m reluctant to go back to adding miles and shaving off seconds, to rebuilding the muscles and conditioning that abandon me so immediately. I finally got back to where I thought I left. I even just said, foolishly aloud, that I was finally almost there so it must be time for something to send me backward.

With this injury, the universe takes what I say way too fucking literally.

However, after being scolded by at least three people, I know that all of this is my stupid, irrational fear and obsessions clouding an easy and obvious decision.

So, next step, surgery…

 

Christina Bergling

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Healed

It has been a while since I posted! Honestly, I was exhausted of posting the same thing (plus I was painfully busy). Trying and failing to lose weight. Trying and failing to recover from my hamstring injury. The same circle for over a year and a half. It had to be as mundane to read as it was frustrating to endure.

However, I can finally say with some measure of confidence that I have progress on both fronts!

Following my latest PRP injection several weeks ago, I returned to my orthopedic for a follow up. While my injury was definitely improved, the pain lingered. My doctor offered further injections, but I requested an updated MRI to see where we were and if any progress was being made. Last week, I had the MRI with additional contrast this time (which I mostly slept through), and today, I got my results.

The MRI revealed that, compared to my previous MRI over a year ago, my left hamstring appears NORMAL. Meaning I have actually healed!

My two hamstrings looked the same on the MRI. All the time and pain and resting and injections have ultimately done something. I had a mini celebration when my doctor told me and then had to struggle to focus on the rest.

So why am I still in pain? The MRI also revealed a tear and some other issues in my labrum. However, I do not present with labral tear symptoms. The pain should be in my groin rather than at my hamstring attachment. So we did a steroid injection into my hip joint as troubleshooting. If it has an effect, it must be an odd presentation of the labral tear. If not, perhaps to physical therapy to work out the last of the pain.

In any case, MY HAMSTRING IS HEALED!

As far as weight is concerned, I think fasting is my answer. I have been fasting (as described in The Obesity Code) since January-ish. I have lost 20 pounds with no rebound. I don’t think or obsess about food. In short, I feel like myself again, physically and mentally.

The fasting suits the binge and purge nature inherited from my eating disorder days but reapplies it in a way that it balances my body’s insulin rather than destroying my mind and body. It just works for me. It is so much simpler and easier than I thought. I am saving a shit ton of money on food, brain power on not having to plan, and soul on not torturing myself by counting the calories in every bite.

FREEDOM!

And it’s working. Slowly and steadily. To the point that I don’t care anymore. I’m just happy.

Some days, the fasts are not easy. Some days, I don’t succeed. But I just let those days fall away and try again the next week. I can have pizza and beer until I’m sated and know that my Monday morning fast will balance me back out.

I think this might be my solution. It was a long and maddening journey to get to both of these points, but I’m happy to finally see them.

PLUS I am running more and faster again. I might even be able to fully get back to that. This is a running blog after all…

Christina Bergling

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Doctor vs Doctor

It was been 19 months since I went into the splits and tore my hamstring. Yesterday, I went to a new orthopedic.

I began treatment with my first orthopedic about a year ago, last January. He gave me a steroid shot and sent me to physical therapy. After dry needling, massage, and strength training did nothing or potentially made it worse, he finally sent me for an MRI. He told me I had a minor tear with no details. He gave me a PRP injection then told me we were at the end of my treatment.

I had this initial PRP back in May. It cut my pain in half, so a vast improvement, but then it just plateaued. It was better but not recovered, improved but not healed. I was fine to deal with it. Besides, my doctor had given up on me and told me there was nothing more he could/would do for me. However, when the pain seemed to increase again and it was driving me from my bed at night, I decided it was time for an evaluation. If nothing else, to verify I wasn’t making it worse.

I understand that hamstring injuries are notoriously slow to heal. Yet the lack of any progress and appearance of regression concerned me. Also, my doctor’s treatment (or lack thereof) left me with so many questions. Was I doing something that could be making it worse? At what point should I be worried? I had to know, so I got the referral for a new doctor.

After just my one visit yesterday, I can say that my experience with this doctor is a night and day contrast to my previous orthopedic. I did not know the extent of my dissatisfaction with the first until receiving the superior treatment from the second. Allow me to compare the two experiences.

My first doctor and his nurse were very rushed and impersonal. They asked questions but did not seem to actually listen to the answers. I spent extended periods in the lobby and patient room, waiting. I told them in my first visit that I was there to resolve my pain. I then repeated this every visit, yet they never wanted to treat my pain. They only wanted to get me back to activity.

Conversely, this new doctor and his nurse were extremely friendly and attentive. At each stage, I waited for normal and reasonable amounts of time, yet they continually checked in on me to communicate a status update. They were so attentive that it was startling. They also both connected with me. They looked into my eyes when they spoke to me. They responded to the previous thing I said. They waited for me to speak as if they wanted my answers.

I felt so much more comfortable at the new office. I felt like I actually mattered instead of being dismissed and ignored.

When my first doctor got my MRI results, he told me I had a minor tear. That was it. Despite any queries, he only said that and also that the technician probably would have never seen something so insignificant had he not pointed it out. He and his nurse seemed to trivialize and minimize my injury at every appointment. Their dismissive demeanor made it feel like they either did not believe I was injured or doubted its severity.

I learned yesterday from my new doctor that this same MRI showed that I had a labural tear tear in the same hip. The outside of that hip also showed inflammation, most likely from the injury I had before the hamstring. He told me my hamstring had a partial tear, approximately 20%. However, he said, the tear was not on either edge, instead it was in the center of the hamstring, making it extra difficult to heal.

All information that would have been useful A YEAR AGO.

My first doctor told me I could have a steroid shot and gave me one. He told me I could have a PRP injection and gave me one. Then he terminated my treatment, deciding he was done and there was nothing else he could do for me (another indication to me that he did not consider me actually injured).

This new doctor explained my six different options and quoted me the out of pocket price for anything not billed to insurance. I could:

  1. Get a new MRI
  2. Get one or more PRP injections
  3. Get stems cells from a donor
  4. Get stems cells harvested from me without anesthesia
  5. Get stem cells harvested from me with anesthesia
  6. Have the reattachment surgery

Not only did he provide me these options with price tags, he then walked through the pros, cons, and his experience with each choice. He told me that surgery would be his last resort because, with my injury, it could potentially sacrifice the 80% healthy hamstring to repair the 20% damaged. He told me he would prefer the biologic options (PRP, stem cells), but PRP has the most data and evidence behind it. If he did stem cells, he would recommend harvesting my own to eliminate risk of cross-contamination or rejection.

Then he encouraged me to ask questions and share what I thought I would like to try first. I opted to start with another PRP injection, which he then provided me at this same appointment. Then he set a follow up appointment to check how the PRP took and determine next steps.

Yet, with all this, the most glaring and important distinction between the two doctors and my experiences with them was the administration of my PRP injections.

At my first PRP injection, the nurse took my blood and spun it down in the room with me. When the doctor came in, he had me bend over the examination table. This aggravated my injury and felt very awkward. The nurse jabbed the ultrasound into my butt while the doctor stabbed the needle into my tendon. Afterward, he informed me this was all he could do for me. When I told him I really needed something for the pain, that the constant pain was affecting the rest of my life and making me short with my children, he reacted as if I had never mentioned pain and was drug seeking. He gave me Tramadol. As if being unconscious would solve my problem.

Yesterday, the nurse took my blood. While she was waiting for it to spin down, she checked in on me and told me how much longer I would be waiting. She set me up laying on the exam table on my stomach with a pillow. When the doctor came in, he covered me (as much as he could) with a paper blanket. He informed me he was going to start the ultrasound and placed it gently against me. He told before he marked for the injection and inserted the needle. He communicated each step before taking it. After, he sat down with me, and we discussed recovery and expectations and follow up appointments. He shook my hand before leaving. Then the nurse came in and set up my appointment before walking me out.

The two experiences of the exact same procedure were so different, so polarized. After the first one, I felt very uncomfortable and unnerved, generally unhappy. Being bent over the table, stabbed, and then dismissed so impersonally made me feel violated somehow. It never sat right with me and doused any hope I had that the injury pain might actually subside.

In contrast, I left yesterday’s appointment feeling optimistic. I felt like the doctor had actually heard me and I once again had options. And even if my circumstances do not change and the injury does not heal, I at least feel like someone gave a shit and tried. It was simple subtleties and seemingly insignificant details that made me feel violated and dismissed versus cared for and treated. I don’t think anything unethical or inappropriate happened at my first shot and I don’t necessarily doubt my original doctor’s medical knowledge, but I do see now how wholly unsatisfied I was with the treatment I received from him.

These experiences reminded me how individual doctors are and how unique a medical experience can be. Getting an injection is not just getting an injection. The circumstances, environment, and care are crucial factors. I am hoping a more favorable experience cultivates more favorable results as well.

For now, I will be on the couch, willing my body to heal itself.

 

Christina Bergling

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Back Again

I went for a run yesterday. A real run.

Embarrassingly, I have not gone for a real run in a long time. I have gone for runs, sure. Group runs at various paces for various distances. I have been content to jog and cut off miles, which is very uncharacteristic of me. I have even gone for solo runs. Yet I have been talking myself into keeping them short or slow.

I am not entirely sure what had been happening. I felt gun shy about running. In theory, I told myself I missed it and wanted to return to longer and harder running, yet I would permit myself the excuses for it not to happen. Again, not like myself.

I would say it was perhaps my perpetual hamstring injury, but that has not hindered me from running or exercising in the past 18 months, so why now?

I have definitely been distracted by other fitness pursuits. bodyboss was extremely time-consuming. Then there is barre. I have been practicing a lot of belly dance for an upcoming performance I’m traveling to next month. I also picked up a hip hop class (I am terrible, by the way). So maybe I have just been too distracted.

Whatever the bullshit reasons and excuses, I finally forced myself out for real yesterday. I didn’t permit myself the 2 mile or 3 mile I have been clinging too lately, even though they have come to feel like my comfort zone. I forced myself to do the 5 mile route, with the 2 horrible hills.

And it felt great. It felt just like it always did. It sucked; it hurt; I wanted to die. Then it was the amazing high. It was all so familiar, so comforting, so exactly how I left it. I even ran faster than I have been lately. I even managed to improve after such neglect.

That was comforting. Now, I remember why I need it. I recall it’s place in my life and my fitness routine. There may not always be time to satisfy it, but at least now I can keep in mind why I should try and prioritize it.

After reading The Obesity Code and recovering from mild surgery, I find my exercise addiction tempered. Finally, it is not the end of the world if I can’t fit in a workout every day. Finally, I am not doubling down on workouts multiple times a week. Finally, I am allowing myself rest days. It feels foreign and awkward but also like a relief. I have no intentions of falling off the fitness wagon entirely, so I am hoping this reduction is actually healthy.

In all my questing for the next time and the answer, I am hoping this is actually it. I might have just needed a good run for it to feel right.

Christina Bergling

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bodyboss: My Review

I made it. I completed the bodyboss program. I even completed it on an accelerated schedule to finish before I had minor surgery, which may or may not have hindered the results. Either way, DONE! Now, for my review.

I HATED bodyboss, every single damn workout. To be fair, I hate strength training, particularly high intensity interval training (HIIT). And most of all, I loathe jumping. That pretty much defines bodyboss as a workout program.

It touts being just 24 minutes a day, 3 days a week. Lies. With warm up and cool down, it was an hour per workout. Plus the program included additional workouts for all the non-bodyboss days. So, in truth, it is about an hour a day, 6 days a week like any other workout program. I ended up skimming it down to just the meat of the bodyboss workouts so I could fit it in with my running, dancing, and barre workout schedule.

The program is divided into 4 3-week cycles. The first 2 cycles were manageable and built on each other nicely. Aside from the very annoying limitations of my hamstring injury (which bodyboss aggravated perhaps even worse that barre), it was acceptable.

Then week 7 hit. The program escalated drastically. It started included box exercises. I do not have a box and had zero desire to find a reasonable facsimile.  The number of exercises also increases from 6 to 8 and the reps climb to obscene numbers like 50. I never got to the point of being able to do 50 reps of 8 exercises in 8 minutes. The pain in my hamstring was too great to push through so many reps of exercises that made it angry, so I had to modify the program. Again, I’m not sure if that hindered results.

The workouts continued to build. More reps. More stupid jumping. I just pressed on. I just did what I could do as hard as I could do it. Frustrating, yes. Disheartening, yes. I wanted to quit before every damn workout, but I did it anyway because I was more than halfway there and I said I was going to finish.

If you asked me if I thought bodyboss worked for me before the numbers, I would have said absolutely not. I would have said it was complete bullshit and a waste of time. However, the numbers present a different case.

Final results:
Pounds lost: 5
Body fat percentage lost: 1%
Inches lost
Bust: 2
Waist: 1.5
Hips: 2

Challenge time
Before: 6:47
After: 3:49

The pounds and fat lost are negligible, but the inches and time on the challenge are relatively significant.

So, how do I feel about it when comparing experience to results? The results definitely temper some of my negative feelings because they make the suffering somewhat worth it. I have zero issues suffering, if it does something. The entire program, it felt like it was doing absolutely nothing. That turned out to not be the case.

So would I do it again? Honestly, maybe. It all comes down to the hamstring. I absolutely would not attempt it if I had any continued hamstring pain. At all. However, if my pain was actually alleviated, if my injury actually recovered, I would actually like to retry it. Both to see if I could do better and to see how my hamstring was actually impacting my progress.

Alas, for now, the hamstring injury continues to be never ending. So for now, there will be no second round of bodyboss. Instead, I am recovering from my laparoscopic surgery then getting back to running, dancing, and barre. It will all be so much simpler without cramming bodyboss in there.

The journey continues.

Christina Bergling

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