Kettlebells don't ring. But my quads are making some noise.

One weight, two weight,
Red weight, blue weight.

Look at those brightly colored tools of the fit-person's trade.

They're Suess-ish. Almost like toddler toys.

But kettlebells are not toddler toys. They're implements of hurt.

Their bright colors are a distraction - making nearby humans drop their guard. "Aw, look how cute the little guys are!"

Kettlebells are the fitness world's peacock. We're drawn in by the showy display, only to spend the next hour being chased around the zoo by an angry bird pecking at our legs.

Of course The Landing instructor John is the Master Of the kettlebell Puppets. And those of us in class are The Unforgiven. I'll recall The Unnamed Feeling Wherever I May Roam.

Apologies for all the Metallica song references - it's just that I've never been to a fitness class that had a heavy metal soundtrack. But John's class does. Besides, John doesn't seem to be an Enya-loving sort of instructor. He's goateed. And bald. And tattooed. And doesn't resemble Susan Powder (remember her?) in the least.

And the content of his kettlebell class includes kettlebell swinging, tossing and tapping. Of course there's plenty of squats, pushups and planks to fill in the gaps.

Kettlebells, see, aren't used in the same fashion as standard hand weights. Remember your gym teacher, coach or aerobics instructor admonishing you to not "cheat" by allowing momentum to move your weight? (ie, "Don't swing that 10-pounder to work your bicep. Bring it up sloooowly")

That ain't the case here. Momentum is your friend. Until you're on repetition number 58 and then momentum doesn't seem to be a friend at all.

I had a wee li'l 10-pound kettlebell. Teeny little guy he was. But I tell you what. After swinging and squatting with that softball-sized accoutrement of health, it might as well have been a watermelon. Or a Volkswagen.

I asked John if he'd ever been employed by the FBI for use in suspect interrogations. He said no. I think he was lying (FBI affiliates are trained to be sly like that).

This workout was tough - maybe even more intense than Zack's pushed-to-the-brink cardio pilates class.

Fellow Quester Alex (in the green hat) and I paired up for some band work. You can't really tell from this photo, but my expression is a solid mix of "help!" and "make it stop!" (Blame Jeff's sweat for clouding the lens.)

But as it goes with hearty workouts like this, I awoke this morning to a thorough soreness and pain that says "Ow...and hell yea, I done my muscles good."

Check The Landing website for kettlebell class schedule

And the "Bad Eater Award" goes to: the girl with the Sixlet hangover

This bad eater's slippery slope started with a Harbormaster.

And it ended with the ceremonious dumping of Sixlets, Flying Saucers and candy cigarettes into the household garbage.

See, I've fallen off the wellness wagon. In a hard way.

If my fall were more than just figurative, I'd be trapped supine in a full-body cast, drugged to the hilt, sipping pureed bologna through a straw and dictating my woes to a helpful, though grossly underpaid, hired nurse.

That's how severe this chuck-from-the-wagon was.

While I could blame myself - and admit to my own poor choices along the way - I find it more comforting to point fingers elsewhere. It really was my boss' fault, after all. It was his bright idea to conjure up a Harbormaster pizza from Portland Pie last Friday.

I mean, I was all set with my scrumptous spinach wrap. But you can't say "no" to the boss - not in times like these. My company's for sale, people, and I don't want to be recalled in meetings with the new owner as the employee who has a "team player" problem.

So I had a slice. Then another.

And all weekend it was a parade of processed cheese, deep-fried potato products and sugar candies in shapes inappropriate for a child's consumption.

And I'm not even a "sweets" person. You can salt my fries every night of the week, but someone else needs to take that Hershey bar home.

But then, there I was in some candy shop in Old Orchard, buying up goodies of yesteryear like I was stocking Willy Wonka's bomb shelter.

I had Sixlets and Dimples and those Flying Saucer things that melt in your mouth. I had chocolate cigarettes and Whoppers and those colorful candy dots on paper.

I rode a sturdy sugar high straight through to Monday morning, where I found myself crashed and burned on the floor of my family room - a Sixlet hangover too powerful to overcome.

I couldn't rally myself for the 7 am training session at The Landing.

Instead, I wavered in and out of consciousness throughout the morning.

When my sensibilities returned, I sought out my candy-coated nemesis. The leftovers teased me with each sugar freckle. They begged to be unrolled, doled out and consumed. They wanted to take the fast-track commuter train from wrapper to stomach to blood stream.

Instead those chocolaty remnants met the bottom of my trash barrel. You were fun while it lasted, my sweet friends, but you're no good for me.

With Satan's food now tossed, Spinach Wrap and I are free to pick up where we left off. It'll take time, of course, for me to regain his trust. But I think we've got a long and happy future together.

Spine, I got your back: Svaroopa-Style Yoga

It's funny how laziness works.

Nine times out of 10, I'd choose an hour of one-on-one time with the sofa over 60 minutes of heavy exercise.

I'll wait patiently for the elevator rather than take the stairs (Besides, I think we should all work to keep stairwells clear in case of an emergency. Yes, that's it. An emergency).

I'll choose cereal over any meal that requires more than five minutes of preparation (because when you're hungry, you're hungry).

It all amounts to a little thing called sloth. And mastered it I have.

But once the decision to work out has been made, something tricky shifts in my noggin. I think it's called "motivation." And I think it has something to do with the chest squeezing effects of a sports bra. Once that puppy is on, my determination is transformed. It's like Superman's cape.

I'm ready to lift heavy objects and sprint to distant destinations (or in loops. Sometimes I think if I run around Mackworth Island fast enough, I'll set it to spinning in the Atlantic like some monstrous merry-go-round).

But low-impact yoga? P'shaw! Where's the caloric benefit in that?

It's like Clark Kent transforming into Superman in order to take a super nap.

But hey, if it's part of Quest for your Best, then I'll give it a whirl. Open mind, open mind, open mind.

For my first yoga feat, I opted for Svaroopa style yoga®: "with the use of props and a focus on awareness, Savroopa Style Yoga® helps to release the very deepest layers of tension stored in the muscles supporting your spine."

My spine could probably use some love. He's always been such a supportive fellow.

Instructor Dean Cilley had us all recline back onto blankets, propping our legs up on supports (made up of more blankets). The goal: straighten and lengthen that spine.

Dean came by each of us one by one and asked if we wanted help further lengthening our spines.

Um, okay.

He reached his hand under my shoulder and made the slightest adjustment. And I could feel the change. He did the same to the other shoulder and then my hips. And holy Savroopa, the difference was remarkable. I felt looooonger. Spacious. Unkinked.

We lie there for a while, conscientiously breathing in and out.

Throughout the class we used props (blocks and blankets) to position ourselves, then ultimately ended up back in the original position.

And by the time class concluded, I didn't want to get up. I was comfortable. Relaxed. Mellow.

It wasn't what I imagine most yoga classes are like. I never heard "downward dog" once. But it was an ideal introduction to the peculiar yoga world - and evidence that sweat isn't a necessary ingredient in the art of "doing your body good."

And my spine said it was probably the nicest thing I ever did for him.

You earned it, buddy. You earned it.

Death by Pilates

Zach Labbay tried to kill me.

The trickiest of fellows, he was even able to make the attempt appear self-inflicted.

I do accept some responsibility. After completing a fairly intense personal training session with Catherine and the other Questers on Monday morning, I should have gone home.

Instead, I lingered, encouraging my heart rate to return to normal while I swigged off a bottle of water.

Jon lingered too, chatting about the 8:00 am Cardio Pilates class.

"You staying for it?" he asked.

Hell no, I thought. Before this program had even started, The Landing owner Deanna had mentioned how hard this class was. And she's IN SHAPE.

But then I'm a glutton for punishment. So I've got that.

I'd taken a pilates class once a year or two ago. Our time was spent on the mat, crunching and posing our bodies to the point of fatigue. It was all about the "core," I was told. But every part of me hurt afterward.

Zach's class, I soon learned, was more akin to a military boot camp. Perhaps the kind intended to force the weakest links to forfeit, cry and leave the field in shame.

We ran in place, lifting our knees high, then dropped down to do pushups.

We lunged and jumped and lunged again.

We sprinted around the mats and dropped to the floor for more pushups.

When Zach directed us to our mats I thought the hard part was over. But no, there was ab work to be done. There was a battle against gravity to be fought.

I wanted to bail. I wanted say "Enough!" and escape back to my apartment and cuddle up with some hash browns.

But I stayed. And sweat. And panted. And wrote a brief will in my head.

And just when my quads could take no more - just when my gluts were about to tear from my backside and die - we were done.

Done!

And for the rest of the day I moved with amplified confidence. Pride in its purest form.

Of course this morning I can barely move at all. But it's that good sort of immobility.

It's official. I'm losing it.

Three weeks have passed now - and I feel like I'm running in place.

Maybe that's because I spend a good deal of time on a treadmill at the gym and sometimes, when you step off too fast it feels like you're still moving but not really going anywhere.

Or maybe it's because I'm still using the same smug belt loops and those snug jeans from last year still feel like a vice.

Fine. I can be patient. I work at Blethen - I've mastered the art of waiting...waiting...waiting for something to happen.

Anything yet? Nope.

So I stepped on the scale during this morning's weigh in with little expectation. The scale's screen blinked a few times - maybe waking up from a dream about running and salt shakers (it's going around these days).

And there it was. A 1.6 pound loss.

It's no record, but it's something. I'll drink to that. Or I won't. Maybe that's my problem.

Trainer Catherine talked to us about our eating habits this morning - mine being a day-long graze. I don't eat much at any given sitting, but that constant hand-to-mouth adds up to enough calories to power a small brewery.

I'm still grateful, though. It could be worse. I caught the tail-end of Oprah yesterday (um, on accident or something) and there was a fella on there that had once weighed over 1100 pounds. He lost 900 of it in 19 months - resulting in a trim gentleman of 198 pounds (that Richard Simmons really knows his stuff).

He even made the Guinness Book of World Records for the most weight lost by a human.

The second chapter of that story, unfortunately, has him gaining back every single pound.

I can't fathom how that happens. I don't think he really knew either. He said that as soon as he reached his goal of 198, he immediately went out to celebrate. One hot dog led to two, three, four and that led to fries and that led to cheese fries. 'Tis the slippery slope of pub food.

And as he's describing this return to gluttony, all I kept thinking was, "That's heartbreaking...and it's making me hungry. Do I have any potatoes?"