Yo! Go On, Motivate Me.
You know what motivation is, right? But you don’t know where to find it, how to get it and keep it?
Well, the wise man makes more opportunities than he finds.
It’s mind boggling when you consider just how many millions of points on the internet supply advice on this particular topic ala Tony Robbins, Oprah and Co. Here’s my own tiny $0.02 contribution to the bank balance of confusion.
I started working out at home, a little two-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica off of Ocean Ave. with something called a Bullworker when I was 16 or 17 years old. I was just this scrawny, ugly, spotty kid in very bad shape, the proverbial 98 lb. weakling.
I began to train, slowly, randomly, cluelessly, stubbornly, desperately, ceaselessly trying to learn how to healthy and strong, as if my life depended on it, as it most certainly did.
It’s kind of funny how things often turn out, So much for the ancient history. I’m now 60, living in the UK, still training, as I have done pretty much non-stop for the last 40 years or so…and, oh yes, also running afor a living. I have no plans for retiring anytime soon.
Most of us believe (or hope, or pray) that motivation is a bus that schedules a stop right outside our house, beeps its horn and patiently waits around while we get it together enough to saunter on out, while the driver obligingly holds the busdoor open.
Uh-uh, nope, not in my experience, not the way it works, as far as I know. Motivation is more like a pit-bull chasing down the postman as he’s peddling away on his bike, hell-bent as fast as he can go.
Lest it gets dull and worn, motivation is the blade that you seem to be obliged to keep sharp day after day and one that only works in proportion to your ability to ensure it stays that way.
And how do you keep this blade of motivation so nice and sharp and shiny? Well, an answer to that one, but one that probably won’t satisfy, is this: depends on what you have at hand—a rock, a bootstrap, another piece of metal, a diamond, your shirt sleeve, the bark of a tree…or maybe just a cheap, cheesy thing you bought off the QVC Fitness Channel in 1975, when you were 17.