by Lisa Ferrari
We find an area of damp sand that’s hard enough to walk on without being so squishy that we lose traction.
Kellan has us warm up by jogging a bit and doing burpees and lunges and air squats to get our legs and butts warmed up.
He reiterates five or six times how important it is to warm up and to have a good sweat going and to then stretch very lightly before attempting something like this.
“Okay,” Kellan announces, “one hundred lunges. No stopping.”
We have the beach to ourselves. “Fifty per leg?”
“Heck no. A hundred per leg.”
“So it’s actually two hundred lunges?”
“Technically.”
“Have you ever done this before?”
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“I collapsed and puked.”
“Okay, now I’m scared.”
“What is there to be scared of? So your legs burn. Big deal. So you fall down on the sand. Big deal. So you vomit. Big deal. You’ll live. And your legs will get stronger for it. Shock your muscles to make them grow. Now, with that being said, if you only get to sixty or seventy and you’re rolling around on the sand in agony, we’ll stop. It’s great to be all macho and say you’re going to do two hundred lunges but you always have to be willing to abandon your plan if your body can’t sustain it. It’s a fine line. You don’t want to quit too soon or give up, but you also don’t want to cause an injury. As long as we feel good, we keep going. If you cramp or something starts to hurt, your knees, ankles, lower back, we stop. Avoiding injury is more important than trying to be all hardcore and shit. If you train at eighty to ninety percent, you’re still training. If you hurt your back or pull a hamstring or twist an ankle or mess up your shoulder, you can’t train. So now you’re not only not training at the previous eighty or ninety percent, you’re training at zero percent. That sucks. You’re not going forward. You’re standing still. And maybe going backward if you can’t train at all.”
We jog a bit more, do some jumping jacks, more lunges, some butt-kickers, some toe touches, some calf raises, and more burpees.
After about fifteen minutes, I’m definitely warm. Kellan asks me if I’m ready. I’m scared and nervous but I’m as ready as I’m going to be.
“Remember to keep count,” Kellan says. We’re standing on the wet sand, side by side, ready to go. The empty beach stretches before us a long, long way.
I’m totally intimidated.
“Aren’t you going to keep count?” I ask.
“Yes, for myself. We’re going to wind up working at different rates. So we have to count on our own. Pay attention because if you lose focus and can’t remember if you’re on lunge thirty-four or forty-three, the rule is that you always choose the smaller number. Which means doing those reps over again.”
“Do we count each lunge like one, two, three, four, left, right, left, right? Or do we count in pairs like one, one, two, two, three, three?”
“That’s up to you. Personally, I like to count in pairs. To me, going one, one, two, two, three, three all way up to a hundred is far easier psychologically than counting each individual lunge and having to go all the way to two hundred. It doesn’t matter how you do it, but stay consistent and try to stay mentally focused so you don’t lose count.”
“Okay.” I decide to count in pairs. Kellan is right; counting to 100 is far less terrifying than counting to 200.
“Ready?” Kellan asks.
“Ready.”
“Good. I love you. And I’m proud of you.”
“I love you too. Why are you proud of me?”
“Because it’s your birthday. Most people are sitting on their asses watching TV or eating but you’re getting ready to do a buttload of lunges. Something you’ve never done before, pushing your body, learning something about yourself.”
“I’m proud of you, too.”
Kellan gives me a kiss.
“Ready, set, go!”
Kellan starts lunging. I watch him take several big strides. He looks over his shoulder at me. “Claire! Come on!”
“Oh! Right!” I’m supposed to be doing this, too.
I begin lunging.
I start with my right leg because it’s weaker than my left. Kellan says everyone has certain parts of their body that are stronger than others, usually from regular use. Your dominant hand is almost always stronger than your non-dominant hand. Try opening a bottle or jar with your non-dominant hand.
Oddly, however, my left leg is stronger than my right. Kellan says this is true for most people and the reason is because they use their left leg to get in and out of their car several times a day. It’s not a lot of activity, but it’s enough to create a slight imbalance in strength.
I count steadily, lunging one leg at a time in a steady rhythm, trying not to go too fast too soon. I don’t want to get to 40 and burn out.
One, one.
Right leg, left leg.
Two, two.
Right leg, left leg.
And on and on.
Kellan is about ten feet in front of me and getting further away. But his legs are longer.
He looks over his shoulder at me and pauses for about ten seconds while I catch up to him. Again it’s as if he can read my mind, like he knows what I’m thinking as I’m thinking it. I love that about him.
Not to mention his intelligence, his business acumen, his kindness… and of course his perfect, big and muscular body, including his perfect round ass that I’m watching work as he lunges beside me. And of course his beautiful blue eyes. And his big beautiful penis. I could think about that all day. Having it in my mouth, feeling the head against the roof of my mouth, so soft. Having it inside me while Kellan makes love to me.
“Claire!”
I come back to reality.
Kellan is standing there, watching me, waiting for me to catch up.
“What?”
“Focus.”
“I am focused.”
“No you’re not, you’re staring at my ass. I’m on seventeen. What number are you on?”
Crap. I have no idea. The last number I remember saying to myself was 12.
“Uh-huh,” says Kellan. “That’s what I thought. You’re on sixteen. But don’t lose track again or I’m going to make you start over at zero.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would. I thought you had a whole bunch of people to prove wrong. Your mom. Your dad. Denise.”
Crapola. Kellan is correct. As always.
“Okay. Sixteen.” Lunge. “Sixteen.” Lunge. “Seventeen… seventeen…” I do my best to stay focused. I think about the numbers. And my legs. And the sand. And my balance. And on not falling down, which I nearly do several times because the sand is a bit soft. There is a large group of seagulls standing on the sand up ahead. I wonder if we’ll reach them before we reach one hundred.
At 30, my legs are starting to burn.
At 45, my legs are starting to hurt.
Five reps later, Kellan shouts, “Halfway done! Keep going!”
The burning intensifies as we go into the sixties. At 70, I begin to think I can actually do this.
At 75, I realize we’re three-quarters of the way done. I can definitely do it.
Eighty comes and goes.
Ninety.
Kellan has slowed his pace. We’re lunging at the same time but with his larger stride length, I’m not catching up to him.
Ninety-five.
I keep going, going, going…
One hundred!
“Keep going!” Kellan calls over his shoulder.
“What?” I was so looking forward to being done.
“See how many you can do. Keep going!”
I take a deep breath, let it out, and resume lunging.
The burning in my thighs has mellowed to a tolerable level. I’m beginning to feel my glutes now. With each lunge, I can really feel
that side of my butt working. By the time I do another 25 per leg, I’m feeling confident.
By 140, I’m no longer so confident. I’m breathing heavily and I’m thirsty. I’m wondering why we didn’t bring a bottle of water.
But I continue lunging.
My mom. My dad. Denise.
My mom. My dad. Denise.
147.
147.
148.
148.
149.
149.
150.
150.
Kellan stops and waits for me to come alongside him. “Want to keep going?”
“Yes.”
I stay focused on my reps.
“How many is that?” he asks.
“One-fifty.”
“Nice. How many you going to do?”
“Two hundred.”
“Excellent.”
I continue lunging. Kellan follows suit. But he is taking longer breaks than I am between lunges. I begin to pull ahead of him. He’s struggling a bit. I hear him grunt several times and look back to see him with one knee on the sand, catching his breath.
“Keep going!” he shouts.
I keep going.
At 160, I’m not sure I can make it to 200.
At 175, I know I can’t make it to 200.
But then I think of my mom, my dad, Denise, and Calista.
Calista and her perfect legs and ass in that tiny little bikini.
I’m not going to lose this role. Not to her, not to anyone. I demand that the universe give me that role!
With each lunge, I say the number to myself.
185.
Only 15 more.
Ten.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
I keep going.
Screw it.
But at 202, my right leg and my right butt give out and I fall over onto the sand. It’s the first time I’ve actually fallen, which I consider impressive.
I look back and see Kellan following me with his phone. He’s recording this.
I stand up.
Or try to.
My legs are jelly. I look like a baby giraffe, wobbling on stiff legs, my knees locked as I finally manage to stand upright.
Kellan approaches with his phone in my face. “How many lunges was that, Claire?”
“Two hundred and two.”
“So, a hundred and one lunges per leg?”
“Heck no, two hundred and two lunges per leg.”
“So four hundred and four lunges in all.”
“Correct.”
“That a girl.” Kellan holds up his hand for a high-five and I slap it. He puts down the phone.
I walk slowly back and forth, waiting for my rubbery Jell-O legs to recover while Kellan taps at his phone. He posts the video to Instagram, along with several photos. ‘Getting it done on the beach. #M100s #100Lunges #PerLeg #glutes #quads #hammies #holdthebacon #NavySEALsEatYourHeartOut #IronBorn #IronPrincess #IronQueen @RealCalistaRoth’
“Well done,” Kellan says finally. “I didn’t expect you to do that many.”
“Why? Because I’m a girl?”
“Not to be completely sexist, but yeah. I’ve trained a lot of people and most guys can’t do that. Men typically have greater lower-body strength. Women definitely are tougher, of course. But watch, over the next week or so, there are going to be a bunch of copycat YouTube videos and Instagram posts of people trying to do four hundred lunges.”
“Four hundred and four.”
“Right.”
I look at Kellan’s phone and see he tagged Calista. “Why did you do that?”
“Psychological warfare.”
“Huh?”
“She needs to know that you’re coming for her.”
“Won’t it make her work harder? We’ve already seen her carrying guys on her back and climbing the steps down in Redondo Beach.”
“It might. But she also might get intimidated to the point of getting scared. Then she’ll see that she’s not training as hard as you are. She’ll convince herself that she can’t compete. She’ll beat herself. By the time we go down to see Sheila and Aaron and Rami and Heather and everyone at Paramount, Calista will already have lost.”
Kellan and I walk down the beach, back toward the hotel.
By the time we’re back in our suite, my legs feel better.
But then I sit on the toilet to pee and I can’t stand up after I’m finished and I realize they don’t feel better.
Kellan runs a hot shower for us.
We kiss and wash each other, especially each other’s genitals. Kellan gets hard. We try to make love but Kellan’s legs are shaking. We laugh and decide to save it for later.
We dress and drive across the bay to have a nice dinner at a Mexican restaurant right on the water. We order fajitas, skipping the chips and tortillas and rice.
Kellan gives me a birthday card. With butterflies in my stomach, I read it:
My Beloved Claire,
The past months have been the best of my life. I owe everything to you. You are my best friend, my lover, my fiancée, my partner forever.
Take my hand…we’ll make it I swear!
I love you.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Love Always,
Kellan
I start to cry.
It’s the best card I’ve ever received. They are the nicest words anyone has ever written for me.
I pretty much attack Kellan right there in our red vinyl booth in the middle of the restaurant. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him hard. I want to climb into his lap and make love for about a thousand years.
I at last manage to remove myself from Kellan.
I read the card again. I begin to cry all over again. Crying and laughing. I particularly love the part about taking Kellan’s hand. He sang that to me at the Glass Turtle the night we did karaoke. I got drunker than drunk so I would be brave enough to get up and sing. I sang “I Touch Myself”. It’s a hackneyed, tired thing to do, something big girls like me do to feel sexy and dangerous, and I don’t know if I would do it again. But singing to Kellan felt good. Scary but good. And hearing him sing to me was nice. Having him hold my hair while I vomited Captain-and-Coke in front of 50 people was nice too. And waking up in the morning and finding that he was still in my apartment and had been awake all night taking care of me was best of all.
Chapter 10
DURING THE NEXT two weeks, we resume our training at home.
My birthday was a wonderful excursion. Surprisingly, my legs didn’t hurt all that much in the ensuing 48 hours after doing 404 lunges on the beach. Sure, I was sore and I grunted and groaned getting in and out of my car and on and off the toilet. But Kellan and I soaked in the spa almost every night and he showed me how to massage my muscles and stretch after each workout in order to speed up the healing process. And all the morning cardio helped work out the lactic acid as well.
One day, Kellan takes me to his preferred spray-on tan place. We each wear our bathing suits as the nice woman Pam (one of Kellan’s personal training clients) sprays us with an airbrush sprayer thing.
The tan makes a dramatic difference in my physique.
That night, after we finish a rigorous back day, we practice posing in front of the mirror. Kellan says I should do a show some day. He says I would do well. I may not win my first show, but I would do well.
The notion of standing on stage in my bikini and heels, flexing and posing and sticking my butt out and being judged by a bunch of people is beyond intimidating. But when I accompanied Kellan to the Hollywood Classic and watched his guest posing routine and saw, and heard, everyone going bonkers watching him flex on stage, it definitely made me want to get up there as well.
Maybe someday.
For now, we have a movie audition to land.
The next day, I have lunch with Denise and
she makes a bunch of Puerto Rican jokes when she sees my tan for the first time.
I swing by my parents’ house to see my mom, knowing full well she will react poorly. But I haven’t seen or spoken to her in a while.
My expectations are met.
And then some.
My mom goes on and on, saying I look like a black person and what am I doing and there’s nothing wrong with the way God made me, plump and happy. She says I’m spitting in His face by changing myself.
I calmly explain that the tan is temporary and will wash off and that it’s simply to help my body look more muscular because that is what they’re looking for in the movie audition.
When she begins railing against the entertainment industry, I do my best to use Kellan’s redirection technique. Rather than respond to her attack, I ask questions about her and her knitting and my dad and his golf and Beth and her love life, trying to see if Beth has told them about her relationship with Chris.
My mom repeatedly says, “Don’t change the subject, Claire. I don’t like that.”
I gather Beth has said nothing. Wisely, in my opinion. I’m quite certain Chris is good enough for me but for reasons understood only by our mother he won’t be adequate for Beth.
I don’t even want to go there.
Eventually, I tire of the repartee. Which is of course a character assassination of me. My mother repeatedly glances at the beautiful diamond ring on my finger. But she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t ask to look at it. Friggin strangers have commented on it, practically tearing my arm off as they grab my hand to examine the ring.
But not my own mother.
Before I lay into her, I bail.
I get in my little red Pontiac Solstice and drive home with the top down, listening to the radio, determined to be in a good mood. I like to drive with my left hand at the twelve o’clock position. This habit enables me to look at my beloved engagement ring as I drive home.
It makes me smile.
By the time I pull into the driveway, I’ve forgotten all about my mother.
THAT NIGHT, KELLAN and I blast our shoulders and follow it up with an hour of cardio. I whip up two protein shakes, which is interesting because I can barely lift my arms.
