In the course our drowsy meanderings I noted how hard it must be for many of those who took up the Challenge, now four days into it. Dieting, when one has not yet locked on like a bulldog with his jaw stubbornly set on a meaty bone, can be an ungracious taskmaster — a nauseating undertaking.

Building muscle and losing fat, seemingly mankind's number one pursuit along with stockpiling money, is tough for anyone. No argument. It's especially hard for those no longer driven by youth and naïve expectations - for those not necessarily conditioned folks who know life enough to know life isn't easy. It's hard, near impossible to process the goal, engage the unwilling patience, endurance and perseverance when each day, every step reveals no apparent progress, no change significant enough — the accumulated extra pounds successfully concealing the long un-stimulated muscles from view. How hard it is to keep going.

Sometimes I'm grouchy in the morning and have a dim view of life. I'm best left chained up in the back yard to a big tree on those days. Ask anyone. I merely mentioned that at times I hated my 6am descent into the Dungeon, (during those glorious Golden Days of Bodybuilding History) knowing it would be three grim hours before I'd see daylight again - month after month, with no letup for years. Force feeding, experimenting, guesswork, and an occasional nod of approval from another inmate. Significance amongst few. Laree's mouth opened, closed and opened again, only to declare, "I thought you always loved to train!" It was my turn to do the mouth opening, closing sequence, "What are you nuts, sweetheart?" I lovingly responded and then I said, my voice rising in pitch, "Love it? I dragged my torn, be-splintered body out of the smelly gym, only to stuff it with two 12-oz cans of chunk tuna, a quart of low fat cottage cheese, 16-oz of lean ground beef, a gallon of non-fat milk and six eggs," before I again squeezed myself through those dark-foreboding doors the following morning. "Love it?" this I gaggled as I packed my bottomless gym bag with its endless supply of needs for the day.

I loved the thought of it always: training, weight lifting, whatever it was, before I knew what it was. And I loved it while I less-than loved it on a day-to-day basis, when it stood still and I ached and who cared. There comes a time when, believe it or not, something happens, sort of suddenly in slow motion, like taking with intense care a photograph of the same unchanging scene time after time in black and white and one day you look before discarding the polaroid result and notice a dash of color. You appear, you materialize. You close your eyes long enough to open them and see a separation, a line, a distinct sweep, mound or roundness in the correct place, a desirable absence in another. This is all it takes, all that is required. From here hope is braced with trust and cradled with love. And it's not a love of your body or success or pursuit or self, it is just for a moment, love. Call it inspiration or even thrill if "love" is too gushy or phony for you. I know a guy who likes to ride broncos and says it's the same thing for him — 8 seconds on the back of a horse that's fit to kill. Spontaneous, undiluted love. 

Have I mentioned lately that I don't accomplish anything that is good without prayer? Thank God.