Updated: Oct 7, 2019
It's 2007, I'm outside in a park. It's hot and sweaty.
My first outdoor exercise class is about to start. Two people have shown up. My new business partner turns to me and asks, "Should we cancel it?"
I have decided I'm becoming a personal trainer, and we're starting here. I've got some exercise bands, a few dumbbells, and a jump rope.
A couple years earlier, I walked into a gym in an effort to get back into shape. A former 3 sport athlete, I had let it go. Outside of the occasional pick up game of basketball, I was not doing any exercise and was in night clubs and warehouses in South Beach and across the western hemisphere 5-6 nights a week.
The amount of smoke I ingested would lead me to wear a 3m mask as my 'gimmick' in later years of my DJ career.
After flailing around the gym for a day or two, I decided to hire a trainer and learn how to work out. I had been in competitions from the age of 8, but as a runner and swimmer I had never learned how to lift weights and had certainly never learned how to eat right.
Through the rows of machines and dumbbells, I watched the trainers.
One in particular seemed to be busy and seemed to pay attention. I watched for weeks from a treadmill, waiting for the right opportunity.
He turned out to be very nice and willing to help.
The first day we sat down, talked a little and figured out the right package. I bought the biggest one I could, with the most sessions.
It was a stretch, but I was committed and ready to serious change.
Before we worked out, he gave me a single piece of paper and mentioned I should pay attention to my eating. It was an insanely simple program. We went down to the exercise floor.
I did an exercise or two and immediately had to run to the bathroom.
I stayed there for 20 minutes having explosive diarrhea.
That was the end of our first session.
My body was rebelling, wondering what the heck I was doing.
I had a raging headache.
I had run to the gym and now had to crawl home. ...and I was hooked.