Desert Fitness Challenge

In the land of the unemployed, one has ample time to partake in benign activities such as watching reruns of the Big Bang Theory, doodling on old receipts, writing blog posts at 10 AM, and getting in a bit of exercise. In that order. When the time comes to get my ever-expanding bum around the block, my current preferred method of exercise is dune walking. Mostly because running around the neighborhood is getting boring, and I'm not a fan of jiggling past construction workers in my gym shorts.

So, into the wild it is.

Dune walking is great. If you live in a desert area, give it a go. And by great I mean horrible, but it does it's job. Imagine climbing up a mountain that a fights back. Go too slow and the loose sand starts effortlessly delivering you to the point in which you started.

Doesn't that sound delightful?

If I'm having a difficult time scrambling up the sandy peaks, I do one of two things. Maybe both simultaneously, depending on the amount of gasping and "F*** this"'s coming out of my mouth.

There is one thing that will always make me hurl myself out of the way at a record speed. My greatest fear, after haunted houses that have people that jump out at you. Which, for the record, should be illegal.

If I can can convince myself that there are scorpions somewhere by my feet or on my person, I can quite effectively terrify myself so much that I haul my adrenaline-filled ass up the dune as quickly as possible. My fear is pretty warranted. Scorpions are all over Namibia. Freaky little Decepticon-looking, armored aliens. Not to mention that some of them are LETHAL. I hate them I hate them.

Anyway, the other thing that gets the juices flowing is to pretend I'm Bear Grylls on Escape From Hell. I should probably be embarrassed by that, but then again I should probably be embarrassed by a lot of things that I'm not.

In the Namib desert, it's easy to pretend that you are in the middle of nowhere, struggling to survive in the wilds of Africa, your brute strength and critical thinking skills the only tools you have to get out alive. Really makes the heart start pumping and your legs start moving with more conviction.

You lean mean extreme survival machine, you.

Then I look down at my thighs and Nikes with the hot pink laces and realize that I am, in fact, not Bear Grylls, I am Frodo Baggins in neon trainers.

Eh, I can be happy with that.

After an hour of romping around, my leg muscles start seizing up, and, wishing I had a sandboard to ferry myself back on, I turn for home.

Thus is the saga of Mailin and the Sand Dunes.

Conquering flab, one day at a time.