BahamaMan’s BodyBlog

            I’m a huge non-fan of most “inspirational” sayings and metaphors for life.  You know, like “Somewhere someone is training harder than you.”  No sh*t.  But I bet that someone didn’t stay up all last night with a sick kid, either.  Or, “Everyday a gazelle wakes up on the African savanna knowing that it has to run faster than the lions that day.”  Wow, man, like pass the bong.  Actually, Young gazelle wakes up and sees sick, slow, OLD gazelle struggling to get to his feet and knows he can mail it in that day.    

            There is some worldly wisdom however, boiled down to a few words, that does SPEAK TO ME.  “Just do it” is deceptively profound and pumps me up.  “The journey of a 1000 miles beginning with one step” is an oldy but a goody.  And call me a softy, but Margaret Mead’s “Never doubt the power of a few to change the world…” still gives me goosebumps.

            A long while back my dad sent me a letter with a message that still motivates me twenty years later.  I got the letter back when I was not too long out of college, back when I was really too young to comprehend the value of the message.  (But I’ve hung on to it all this time.)

            The letter was a single piece of unlined white paper (now yellow and getting brittle) with the following couple of handwritten sentences and 6 typed paragraphs:

            “Mike, I read this recently and was very much impressed by what it had to say.  Read it, think about it, and read it again from time to time.  I believe it does a good job of describing what life is all about.  Love Ya, Dad.”
 

                      
                                      The Station
            Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision.  We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent.  We are traveling by train.  Out the windows we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving at a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hill, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls. 

            But uppermost in our minds is the final destination.  On a certain day at a certain hour we will pull into the station.  Bands will be playing and flags waving.  Once we get there so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle.  How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes for loitering – waiting, waiting, waiting for the station.

            “When we reach the station, that will be it!”, we cry.  “When I’m 18.”  “When I buy a new 450 SL Mercedes Benz!”  When I put the last kid through college.”  When I have paid off the mortgage.”  When I get a promotion.”  “When I reach the age of retirement, I shall live happily ever after!”

            Sooner or later we must realize that there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all.  The true joy of life is the trip.  The station is only a dream.  It constantly outdistances us.

            “Relish the moment” is a good motto, especially when coupled with Psalm 118:24.  “This is the day which the Lord hath made; we shall rejoice and be glad in it.”  It isn’t the burdens of today that drive men mad.  It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tomorrow.  Regret and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today.

            So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles.  Instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less.  Life must be lived as we go along.  The station will come soon enough.

            I framed this piece of paper and hung it on my wall several years ago and, like my dad recommended, I read it “again from time to time.”  The significance of the message rings truer every year as my train draws slowly, but nonetheless non-stop, closer to the final station.

          When I was 10 I wanted to be a baseball player.  When I was 13 I wanted to be a professional bodybuilder.  When I was 19 I wanted to be the next Arnold.  When I was 21 I wanted to be a biologist.  When I was 23 I wanted to be an environmental scientist.  When I was 24 I became a husband.   When I was 25 I tried being an environmental scientist.  When I was 27 I became a graduate student (again).    When I was 30 I became a father.  When I was 32 tried being a teacher.  When I was 34 I started being a conservationist.  When I was 38 I thought I wanted to be a writer.  When I was 40 I thought I wanted to be a personal trainer.  When I was 43 I lost my job being a conservationist.  At 43 I became a personal trainer.  At 44 I became/thought I wanted to be/tried being…

          Certainly, there have been times in my life when I have envied people who knew what they wanted to be when they were like 5-years- old and then became it and are still doing it when they are, oh say, 44.  Lord knows I feel sorry for my wife sometimes (okay, most of the time) for being married to such a vocational gypsy.   And sometimes I feel like there is something wrong with me for not evolving deep into something.  You know, moving up some kind of ladder.  Moving into a corner office; into a job with lots of responsibility.  Having said that, I can’t imagine how boring it must be to be the same thing for like 20 years.  I think I would go insane.

          (Perhaps I have real issues.  Or maybe one huge issue.  An issue that even has a name.  Perhaps Oprah or Dr. Phil or maybe Oprah and Dr. Phil have even done shows on my issue.  Maybe it’s called “perpetual adolescent syndrome” or “arrested development syndrome” or “failure to grow-up syndrome”)

          I guess the one constant in my life, one of the things that I am proud of, is that I have always stayed in pretty good shape.  No matter how happy (or unhappy) I was doing what I was getting paid to do, I’m proud of the fact that there were no lost years.  And during the most uncertain times in my adult life (of course I wonder if my adult life has begun yet) I have always known that at least I could control what kind of shape I was in.  That my fitness is the one of the few things I could control.

So, here I am.  A buff-as-hell forty-something that’s still trying to figure out what he wants to be when he grows up.  Am I a club of one or am I part of a silent majority? 

            Way back in the last century lots of people thought that climbing never-ending flights of stairs and pedaling to nowhere was the best way to get and stay lean.  So, everyday in gyms across America hundreds of thousands of people sweated it out on cardio machines while they listened to there iPods, watched TV, and/or checked out the rear of the person on the machine in front of them.

            Day in and day out all these people spent hours on all these machines convinced that their “workouts” were really helping them shed unwanted fat.  They watched the calorie counters on the LED displays go up and up.  Visualized themselves in skinny jeans and/or diving into a DQ Blizzard.  Bragged and complained about how hard they were working to stay fit.

            But some of these cardio addicts, somewhere deep into their second hour of going nowhere, fast, on the treadmill, began to question the sanity of their actions.  Looked around at all the still not lean people sweating on the ellipticals.  If this is what it takes to fit into my skinny jeans and enjoy the occasional DQ Blizzard, they thought, two hours of this stuff everyday?  I give up! 

            Many of these people walked right off their treadmills and out of the gyms and were never seen again.

            Then the 21^st century brought enlightenment.  Scientists began to measure exercise afterburn and discovered that lifting weights could burn as many or more calories than traditional cardio.  A separate, but related breakthrough was made at Tufts University.  Researchers there coined the term Sarcopenia to describe the phenomenon of age-related muscle loss. 

            And in one of those ah-ha moments that can change the course of history, someone (perhaps one of those ex-cardio addicts) reasoned:  We know that muscle is a very metabolically active tissue.  And we know that most Americans start losing muscle pretty much the day after they get out of school.  So maybe the answer to getting and staying lean is not doing loads and loads of cardio, but rather building muscle and keeping it into middle age.  And since lifting weights can burn as many calories as cardio…And because doing cardio everyday can interfere with muscle building…Why should anyone waste valuable gym time doing cardio ever again?!

            Someone reasoned this and it made sense and the word began to spread. 

            Then something magical happened.  The cardio machines in gyms across America became less popular and began to gather dust.  People began lifting weights and the crickets got run out of the power rack section of the gyms.  These newbie weightlifters were no longer slaves to cardio, spent significantly less time in the gym, reclaimed their lives, (re)built muscles AND got lean.

            But the best part of this story, the part that give me chills…is that the ex-cardio addicts, many who had not been seen for years, began to return to the gyms and started lifting weights.  And within months, that’s right within months, I said within months, they were all in their skinny jeans and enjoying an occasional DQ Blizzard. 

             True story (for the most part).

     Way back in the last century, when I was a skinny 13-year-old trying to gain weight, one of the guys at my beloved Belleville Weightlifting Club gave me a copy of a book titled appropriately “How to gain weight”.  I can still close my eyes and see the cover of that little old paperback with a Charles Atlas looking guy on the cover staring at me in all his buff, albeit rather smooth, black-and-white glory. 
     The piece of advice from that book that I remember to this day was a very straightforward guideline on how to conserve energy throughout the day and thus help with the weight gaining effort.  The book said something like, “When possible, walk instead of run; sit instead of stand.”  Made sense.  And to this day I avoid running (though mostly because running hurts me!)
     Fast forward 30 years or so and someone actually quantified the value of being the opposite of lazy to gain weight (which not a whole bunch of grown-ups want to do).  Namely, some folks with letters behind their names concluded that doing a whole bunch of little things that might be considered fidgeting can burn a bunch of calories throughout the day. (Who knew?!)  Specifically, and I quote from a May 25, 2005 report on ABC’s Good Morning America:
 
“A new study from the Mayo Clinic shows that fidgety people can burn up to 350 calories more a day than people who sit still simply by doing what they do best — fidgeting. If you decide to forego the gym — chewing gum burns 11 calories an hour (if you chew six pieces at a time), standing instead of sitting can burn up to 20 calories an hour, and toe-tapping can burn nine calories an hour. If you spend two hours of your work day standing instead of sitting, you can burn an additional 340 calories a day, which can translate to a loss of 40 pounds a year for heavier people.”

     Of course, this finding supports my theory that losing weight isn’t as hard as most people try to make it.  That there are opportunities to burn calories all over the place; opportunities that don’t involve treadmills or gyms or weird home exercise equipment, or fat burners.  Opportunities that don’t cost any money (well, other than buying a bunch of gum). 
     Several of my favorite suggestions for adding some “fidgeting” to your day/week include a) standing (and even pacing) at your kid’s soccer game instead of planting it in your lawn chair, b) standing at lunch instead of sitting (like you do all day at work anyway), and c) sitting on a stability ball at work or at home instead of becoming one with your fancy office furniture/lazy-boy.  There are, of course, scores of other good examples of “fidgeting”.  Just watch a 6-year-old for awhile and take notes.
     People, the reality of this whole lose weight/gain muscle thing is that it ain’t rocket science.  It’s just that lots of folks try to make it seem complicated (so that you will buy their supplements/magazines/equipment/etc). 
     Me, on the other hand, I like keep the message simple.  Like, “When possible, stand when you could sit; run when you could walk.” 

Awhile back, my wife and I both played hooky from work.  She was just back from 10 days out of town so we took the kids to school and then hung out together to talk and stuff J

After a round of “talking”, we went out for brunch.  It was a spring-like day in southern Illinois so I wore shorts.  Our waitress, in the course of our ordering and “how’s the food” conversations, commented on my legs, saying something like, “Well, you can afford to eat so much, being a runner and all.  And look at those legs.”  My wife noted that I was actually a bodybuilder.  I added that I’ve never run 2 miles without stopping in my life!

It’s not the first time my natural bodybuilder legs have been confused with runners legs (hopefully they’ve all thought more sprinter than marathoner).  And while I don’t have Tom Platz legs or anything (younger guys, google Tom Platz), I do have a decent set of sticks that are in proportion to my upper body.  

Oh well, it’s one of the realities of being a natural bodybuilder:  When you wear regular clothes, you look, well, pretty regular.  Now,  I’m not a fan of wearing tight clothes (as opposed to Under Armor Guy), and I’ve pretty much come to grips with the fact that I don’t look like a bodybuilder in street clothes, but sometimes everyone wants to show off, just a little. 

In the spirit of full disclosure, I have been “shirt off at the party” guy.  The gory details are that after a few drinky-poos I was persuaded by some of my wife’s lady friends to take off my shirt (I know, a total jag move, but the firewater was talking to me).  The lady friends were, shall we say, very “Oh my gawd” and got kinda touchy.  Good for ego, bad for relationship.  Note to self:  Even if wifey says, “Sure, go ahead”, don’t take shirt off at parties.

Anyway, one of my goals in bodybuilding was to build a bod that most guys would like to have (as opposed to a freak physique).  I think I’ve done that and I continue to work with my genetics to build the best body naturally possible.  But I do want everyone to know one thing… “I’m not a runner, damn it!”

            A couple of years ago I was diagnosed with degenerative disk disease.  I remember the moment of truth vividly.  Doctor walks in holding x-rays, sticks them in that light box, sits down on the little stool and says “Yep, you’ve got degenerative disk disease.  Not surprising really.  You’re 39, you’ve had a spinal fusion.”  Blink, blink.  “Oh yeah, and life’s a bitch and then you die.”

            Thanks for the great bedside manner, doc.  But hey, DDD was better than what my borderline hypochondriac-self had been trying to turn the nagging lower back ache into during the last few weeks as I’d been gimping around like an old man.

            “Are you taking anything for the pain?”

            “No.” (I hate taking any kind of pills.)

            “Well, I recommend you start on Ibuprofin and we can get you started on physical therapy.”

            Pills maybe, I thought.  But there’s no way I’m going to pay good money to have some 20-something show me how to lift things properly. 

            I gimped out of the office and to the pharmacy.  But those 20-something PTs never got a dime of my money (ha, showed them!). 

            Fast forward a couple months and my daughter and I started taking TaeKwonDo classes.  The back was still bothering me, but I was determined not to be one of the stiff, bent dads watching their kids from the sidelines.

            And then something amazing happened.  After a few months of TKD I was off the Ibuprofin and pain free.  My theory:  I was stretching for the first time in my life as part of the TKD training.  (hmmm, maybe that’s what those 20-something PTs would have done with me.)

            Needless to say, I’ve become a huge advocate of stretching.  Stated another way:  I believe stretching can work apparent miracles.  One more time in a more useful way:  If you have lower back pain attributed to DDD, start stretching.  Stretch, stretch, stretch!

            With my DDD in apparent remission, I was running around like a kid playing soccer, basketball, doing TKD, rough-housing with my aspiring WWE star; all essentially pain-free.  Then I tried a long-jump.

            The thing is that my daughter, a budding track star, is a sprinter and a long-jumper.  Being the fit, helpful dad that I try to be, I’ve done some research on long-jump technique and have been trying to coach my young Jackie Joyner a bit.

            Then I tried to lead by example.  Bad idea. 

            Oh it wasn’t a 100% effort mind you.  More like about 75%.  But the mistake was not in the level of effort.  Rather, the mistake was my failure to consider the physics of 200 pounds becoming airborne then landing in surprisingly hard sand.  Specifically, I had failed to even back-of-the-envelope consider IMPACT FORCE (I’m assuming there is such a variable in physics, and if there ain’t there should be).

            Well, on impact I experienced two very noticeable sensations.  My knees, having bent further and more forcibly than they had since I was about eight and jumped out of my grandfather’s apple tree, began tingling.  And my lower back…how should I say…got woken up.  It didn’t tingle or hurt immediately, but I had this sinking feeling, kneeling there in the sand, that I had just really f*ucked up.  

            When I wrote this, it was with my laptop computer between my legs; legs stretched out to the sides as far as possible.  I would occasionally lean forward and feel the stretch in my lower back, groin, and hamstrings.  The good news turned out to be that although my back definitely got woken up, I didn’t PISS IT OFF.  And a couple of weeks of stretching got me back to 100%. 

            But legal-sized post-it note to self stuck in a prominent place:  Stretching good.  Long jump bad (when you’re 40+, weigh 200 pounds, and have degenerative disk disease.)

            It’s definitely not my style to pimp training techniques.  Too many gurus out there already.  But, this is big, and it can help you get big, and it’s something that most folks aren’t doing.

“He who wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens or skill.  Our antagonist is our helper.”

                      
                          — Edmund Burke

            When’s the last time you felt the adrenaline rush of competition?  Had to take a nervous pee before you stepped on the field?  Stared into the eyes of guys that wanted your championship ring?  Heard people cheering for you?

            Or when’s the last time you just competed against yourself?  Challenged yourself to jump higher or to be faster or stronger than you’ve ever been?

            Unfortunately, for most 35 and olders those feelings, those personal challenges are distant memories.  Competition for “grown-ups” is mostly coming to bat with runners on the corners in a church-league slow-pitch softball game, striving to become employee-of-the-month, and/or trying to break your record time in the daily commute.

            No wonder you feel old!

            Let me relate a couple of stories:

            I recently mentioned to the grandpa of one of my daughter’s friends that I had started doing timed sprints (we were at a track meet).  He related the following story.  “When I was about your age I remember trying a 100-yard dash with one of my sons.  See, I used to be a sprinter in school.  Anyway, I got about halfway into it and fell.  Rolled head over heels.  Felt about this small in front of my boy (holds up thumb and forefinger about an inch apart).  There’s a timing required in running that you lose that if you don’t do it.”

            No shit Sherlock.  The same thing happens to tires that you don’t use.  It’s called dry rot.

            I also told a group of 40 and 50 something buds at work that I’d started sprinting.  They looked at me like I was crazy.  “You call a 440 a sprint?  I don’t even know if I could make it once around the track.”

            Gazing into my crystal ball I see my work pals growing old before there time.  What am I talking about, they’re already there.

            Finally, some of my wife’s friend’s husbands crack nervous jokes at dinner parties about how I get on stage in my underwear. 

            Meanwhile, said husband’s wives are grabbing my knee under the table. (Okay, metaphorically grabbing my knee.)

            Look, although it seems that schools these days are doing their best to convince our kids that physical competition is bad (as in “Hey Johnny, whadya do in PE today? Not much, Dad, just some more of that cup-stacking game”), we 30, 40, and 50-somethings KNOW that competition is good.  And at 30, 40, and 50-something physical competition is more than good; it’s essential.  It’s essential because competition keeps you mentally and physically strong.  Competition helps you keep your edge.  Competition makes you feel alive.

            I highly recommend getting as good as you can get at something that is physically challenging and competing, no matter how old you are.

            ‘Cause if you ain’t competing, you’re a spectator.  And watching from the sidelines, pudgy and/or bent, contending that you coulda been a contender, is no way to spend the rest of your life. 

            I remember talking to some single guys before I got married.  I remember them saying things like, “I just can’t imagine waking up next to the same person for 50 years.” 

As a 25-year old, my response was something like, “I can’t imagine waking up next to a 75 year old woman either, but right now future wifey  is HOT and I’m VERY into the idea of waking up next to her.” 

            Fast forward about six years from wedding day and I’m holding our little girl in my hands.  Before that moment, friends warned wifey and me about the terrible twos, puberty, boyfriends, etc.  But AT THAT MOMENT all I remember thinking about was how beautiful and perfect she was.

            My point in relating these stories is two-fold with respect to the quest of many people to get fit and healthy.   

            First, when analyzed with a calculator, who in their right mind would attempt to get and stay fit (or for that matter, get and stay married or become a parent)!  For instance, imagine having the following conversation with yourself before your first workout, “Let’s see, I’m 30 now and I want to stay in really good shape until I’m at least 70.  In order to do that, I’ll need to workout three times a week.  Three workouts times 52 weeks a year for the next 40 years: (click, click, click) 6, 240 workouts.”  Or, “Okay, because eggs and breakfast are really good for me, I’m going to have 3 eggs for breakfast everyday for the next 40 years.  Three eggs times 365 times 40:  (click, click, click) 43,800 eggs.”  Real buzz kill, right?

            Second, what if someone with a crystal ball was able to tell you that during the next 40 years you will have to deal with the following:  blown knee, two pregnancies, bad back, teenage kid with issues, death of several loved ones, arthritis, and elderly parents.  Why try to stay fit and healthy?  There’s clearly going to be WAY TOO MUCH OTHER STUFF GOING ON to get in 3 workouts and 21 eggs a week, right?!

            But just like with marriage and parenting, if you don’t take getting and then staying fit one day at a time, you may never start.  You know what they say about journeys of 1000 miles. 

            And so who cares if at 35, you blow out your knee right after your second pregnancy and gain 40 pounds.  Do you know how sweet it’s going to feel to work that 40 and then some off!  And how cool is it going to be at 45, to be able to play some one-on-one with your teenager while the two of you work thru his issues.  And when your best friend dies of a heart attack at 55 because he was overweight and smoked; you aren’t, you don’t, YOU WIN!

            So, take the fitness journey one day at a time.  Before you know it you’ll be that 75 year old Enjoy all the benefits and perks of looking and feeling great while those around you are sinking deeper and deeper into the couch…or worse.

With apologies to Jeff Foxworthy I offer the following observations on a certain segment of the bodybuilding community:

            If you wear Under Armor to church…you might be a musclehead.

            If all your t-shirts are sleeveless…you might be a musclehead.

            If you own a pair of clown pants…you might be a musclehead.

            If you have a collection of spaghetti strap t-shirts with gym logos…you might be a musclehead.

            If your wife/girlfriend’s chest size is a higher number than her IQ…you might be a musclehead.

            If your wife/girlfriend wears mostly tube-tops…you might be a musclehead (or a biker).

            If you remember your training partner’s birthday, but forget your wife/girlfriend’s…you might be a musclehead.

            If you’ve ever used the term “the iron” to refer to weights (as in, “the iron never lets me down”)…you might be a musclehead.

            If you regularly refer to your arms as “the guns”…you might be a musclehead.

            If you know the exact girth of your forearms and neck …you might be a musclehead.

            If you care about how big your arms look when folded (think Uncle Rico)…you might be a musclehead.

            If your favorite pose is the crab most muscular…you might be a musclehead.

            If you spend more time in the gym than with your wife/girlfriend/kids…you might be a musclehead.

            If you spend more time at work thinking about working out than working…you might be a musclehead.

            If your motto is “Go big or go home!”…you might be a musclehead.

            If you know your one rep maximum for concentration curl…you might be a musclehead.

            If you spend more on supplements in a month than you do on rent/mortgage…you might be a musclehead.

            If you eat more food in a week than a family of four…you might be a musclehead.

            If you care about who wins Mr. Olympia…you might be a musclehead.

            If you have a lifetime subscription to Muscle and Fitness and/or Flex and/or Muscular Development and/or Ironman…you might be a musclehead.

            If you regularly quote lines from Pumping Iron (as in “you’re just a baby, Lou”)…you might be a musclehead.

            And, if you have anything related to Arnold tattooed on your body…you might be a musclehead.

            Now, I kid because I care.  And there are more than a couple of these “definitions” that apply to me.  But I suggest that if you answer “yes” to ten or more of these, you might want to seriously consider joining Muscleheads Anonymous.

            Good luck in rehab.