An Aging Rookie
It's often said of rookies who have graduated from the college hardwood to NBA arenas that they have to wait for the game to "slow down" before they can feel comfortable with a basketball in their hands. The pros are simply bigger, stronger and quicker than anything these youngsters have experienced during their college years. The game is way more intense.
Rejoining my old b-ball buddies at the Anderson school gym the other night, I felt a little like one of those rookies -- although I don't think the game could slow down any more than it has over the past decade and still resemble basketball. Intense is not exactly the word I would use to describe what goes on here.
And I don't think I have to tell you that is a good thing.
Some things haven't changed: J.D. still runs the court like a madman, consistently scoring on fast-break layups; his brother, D.D. still has that little hook shot and a reliable mid-range jumper; and J.Y. (AKA Sleight-of-Hand) still can drive the lane for his patented scoop shot. It's just all done now in slow-motion now; they're all in their 50s, after all.
So I can't say that my re-entry into "competitive" basketball was all that daunting. We did play full court, however, so there was plenty of running involved. And the opposing team featured a mix of twentysomethings along with a few greybeards, so there were flashes of athleticism to contend with. Plus, we didn't have much in the way of reserves, so I ended up sitting down for only about 10 minutes during the two hours we had the court.
I think I did OK, though. Four of 12 from the field, a handful of assists, a handful of turnovers, an occasional rebound. But there was one moment early on that really made me wonder whether I belonged out there. I was posting up my defender down near the baseline, and when the pass came my way, I could hear my brain telling my arms to reach out to corral it, but my arms weren't listening. The ball bounced harmlessly out of bounds and D.D. gave me a look that seemed to suggest that I save future indications of dementia for other venues.
At home later that night, I waited for my body to react to the punishment it had received. It didn't take long. My knees, ankles and hips had begun a vigorous protest by the time I collapsed into bed, and for the next few days they continued to complain. Less than a week later, though, I felt pretty good (yoga and arnica work wonders) and a second round of hoops last week delivered less of a body blow than the first. My endurance has been fine, and the knees are holding up pretty well so far.
So I'm looking forward to getting after it again tomorrow night. I'm feeling less like a rookie already.
Me and Nat Hickey
On wintry Saturday mornings in my youth, I would line up with neighbor kids outside the gym at my grade school, waiting for one of the local teens to let us in for a couple hours of slightly supervised basketball chaos. We'd practice dribbling and passing and shooting layups and then finish up with a free-for-all game designed to put all those drills into practice but typically ended up with guys dribbling around mindlessly before hoisting up prayers that, if they were answered, rattled around the rim and dropped through. It was great.
Ever since that time, now more than a half-century gone, I've been entranced whenever I stepped out onto a basketball court. It's just something about the clean lines, the squeaky hardwood, and the orange-rimmed hoops that invites me to revisit those days when I could reliably bury that mid-range jumper under duress.
I was recalling those emotions Tuesday, when I spent a pleasant hour shooting hoops at a big gym in the western suburbs where you don't have to wait outside for somebody to let you in. The court here is clean and wide, with glass backboards and rims that aren't bent, and the basketballs aren't all slippery and worn, like the ones I grew up with. But on this weekday afternoon it's full of kids, burning off nervous energy. At one end of the court, six burly guys sweat and grunt their way through some primitive form of dribble-shoot-rebound-repeat. At the other, a collection of giggling high school girls in green-and-white jerseys run through some drills.
There are, thankfully, four other hoops and backboards on the sidewalls, so there's enough room for me to work on my shot. Slow and gradual at first, just a gentle rising from the floor and a flick of the wrist. Then more active, chasing down an errant shot and dribbling quickly (relatively) to my left before a quick (relatively) stop and, pushing hard off the floor and releasing the ball in a gentle arc toward the hoop. Swish. This is OK, I'm thinking. The knee is holding up, my shots are falling. I'm feeling like I'm maybe 50 again.
Later, I look this up out of curiosity: The oldest player ever to get on the court in a professional basketball game was Nat Hickey, and he was two days shy of his 46th birthday. Hickey was the coach of the Providence Steamrollers and on January 28, 1948, he put himself into a game. He missed all six of his shots and committed five personal fouls.
Hickey was 14 years younger than I am.
I'm not thinking about competing at even the level of 1948 pre-NBA basketball, when two-hand set shots ruled and the game was more horizontal than vertical. And, frankly, the chances are that a couple of the guys I'll be going up against in a couple of weeks will actually be older than me. Still, a day after my pretty moderate workout, my knees are tweaky, my quads are aching and even my ankles are sore. It occurs to me, briefly, that this could qualify as craziness.
Danger Signs?
I had an interesting revelation last week. After a long absence, I headed downstairs to the gym after work on Tuesday and dragged myself through about a 45-minute workout, including a stint on my old nemesis, the Elliptical Death Machine, and a trip to The Pit, where I got reacquainted with some heavy (for me) iron.
A week has passed and I've only just recovered, hence the revelation: My morning body-weight and kettlebell routine is way too wimpy to be doing me much good, if soreness is any measure of workout goodness. My morning regimen gets my heart pumping and I'll break a sweat if I push through three series (which takes about 15 minutes), but I have to admit that it's not that much of a challenge anymore. And fitness, I'm told, is all about pushing yourself beyond what you think you're capable of doing.
This is not a groundbreaking discovery, I know, but it says something, I think, about how easy it is to imagine that you're making progress when you're not really doing anything but coasting. I like to imagine that I'm more active than a lot of sixtysomethings, but that's not saying much, is it?
So just when I'm thinking that this past week's worth of soreness was some kind of a sign -- a kick in the pants, if you will -- I run into an old basketball buddy at the co-op on Sunday. And what does he do but issue an invitation to rejoin the old crew on the hardcourt after the holidays.
This is suddenly an immensely attractive idea -- another sign that it's time to ratchet up the intensity of my workouts. Later that day, I'm talking on the phone with my tennis buddy (and former b-ball teammate), M.E., and I'm making a case for the two of us to make a comeback, and he actually seems mildly interested, which I take to be another sign that I must be on the right track.
So, I'm thinking I'll rev up my workouts through the holidays, get over to the big gym and work on my jumper, ramp up my endurance, and push myself a little more. See what happens when I have a goal, when I'm participating in a competitive sport I really enjoy.
Then it occurs to me that my left knee has been kind of achy ever since I left the co-op on Sunday. I wonder . . . could that be a sign?
Nah.
Welcome Winter
Two of my three brothers have fled the Great North Country already this fall -- one to the Gulf Coast of Florida, the other to the desert of Arizona -- and the other one will be heading to the Sunshine State in his RV in less than a month. All in a feverish attempt to avoid our four-month adventure called winter. I'm not the most compassionate guy in the room, but I gotta say I feel sorry for them.
Last Saturday brought us our first authentic snowfall of the season, an event that always makes me grateful for central heating and lightweight snow shovels -- and the beginning of the walking season. My faithful bicycle gets a well-earned vacation after its annual eight-month stint carrying me from Point A to Point B and points beyond, replaced by the dusty boots in the back of my closet. And I begin to recalibrate time.
Cars get you places in a hurry without any effort. A bike will get you there a little later, and you might work up a little sweat if the wind's against you. Walking is a whole different thing. You can't be in a hurry, first of all. Especially when there's snow and ice under foot. So, everything slows down, which allows you to notice stuff you might otherwise miss: the naked squirrel nests in the leafless trees, the beached logs peeking through the thin ice just upstream from the Ford Dam. All part of the exquisite wreckage we know here as winter.
"In the coldest and bleakest places," Henry David Thoreau wrote, "the warmest charities still maintain a foothold." He believed that such extreme weather "drives away all contagion, and nothing can withstand it but what has a virtue in it." Which is another way of saying that our brutal winters build character. "All things seem to be called in for shelter," he argued, "and what stays out must be part of the original frame of the universe, and of such valor as God himself."
I'm not ready to elevate my daily commute to such lofty heights, but I'm glad to get back out into this bleak landscape every day. Not simply because it gives me a regular opportunity to practice a little mindfulness (ice underfoot helps one focus like nothing else), but because it forces me to really experience the season -- to slow down and see and hear and feel everything it brings.
Yesterday, I hitched up the dog and we walked down to the river. The sun was high and the afternoon was mild -- maybe 25 degrees -- and the sidewalks seemed a bit less treacherous than they were earlier in the week. But there was no reason to rush, especially with Brigit inspecting every tree in the boulevard along the way. So we meandered slowly down the hill and across the parkway to the edge of the bluff, where the Mississippi presented itself in its patchy new winter garb. Years ago, MLW chronicled the gradual freezing of nearby Minnehaha Falls -- it starts at the bottom and moves to the top -- but ice takes over the river in more random patterns, I've noticed. First there's a few thin flakes floating by, then some larger floes, which eventually blend together until the last oval of open water is captured and immobilized until March.
It's not there quite yet, I noticed, as Brigit and I made our way over the crunchy snow toward the road leading to the lock and dam beneath the Ford Bridge. That's when I noticed the flash of red attached to a bare oak on the bluff. We approached silently and discovered a pileated woodpecker searching for a little lunch. It's not the first time I've been rewarded with such an encounter on a walk in these parts, but it always gives me pause. If I had thought to bring a camera, I would've snapped a photo and sent it down south to my brothers. With best wishes for a lovely winter.
You're Not Getting Older, You're Getting Stronger . . .
My daughter, The Boss Mare, called me from Michigan this morning to report that she'd had a flat tire on her way to some horse-related function an hour-and-a-half away from her college apartment. It's not that she needed advice on how to change a tire (I just assume she orders the tire to change itself); she just needed some dough, as usual. The call interrupted my zazen session, from which I normally segue into my workout, and it woke My Lovely Wife, who requested information. Bottom line: no workout.
It reminded me how easy it is to avoid exercising -- especially for older persons like myself. I mean, let's face it: Spending hours hoisting serious iron or logging miles on the dreadmill isn't going to radically transform those parts of our anatomy that have succumbed to gravity over the years. And, really, when you get to a certain age you're not in the habit of taking your shirt off in front of strangers, anyway. It's not about building a beach-ready body.
In fact, it's kind of hard to know what benefits all the sweat and soreness actually deliver. Conventional wisdom tells us that when you get old it's simply inevitable that your body is going to break down, so what's the point in fighting it?
Well, new research from the University of Pittsburgh suggests that a regular fitness regimen does make a difference. Indeed, those who maintain a regular fitness regimen into their 60, 70s, and beyond can enjoy the kind of strength, energy and vitality of people 20 years their junior.
It's long been thought that aging brought an inexorable loss of muscle mass and an inevitable infiltration of fat, but this latest study found that, with a regular exercise program, participants as old as 81 could retain the same level of muscle mass as folks in their 60s. "We think these are very encouraging results, lead researcher Vonda Wright, MD, told The New York Times. "They suggest strongly that people don't have to lose muscle mass and function as they grow older. The changes that we've assumed were due to aging and therefore were unstoppable seem actually to be caused by inactivity. And that can be changed."
While the participants in the University of Pittsburgh study were competitive athletes with intense training regimens, Wright noted that there's no reason to believe that a more moderate program wouldn't have similar effects. The key is simply to get up and move your body everyday in whatever way is most satisfying and sustainable. You may find that once you overcome your inertia, exercise will get easier and more enjoyable.
And by maintaining muscle mass you'll be more mobile and, thus independent, well into your 80s. Because you never know when somebody might need help changing their tire.
Living Longer -- the Old-Fashioned Way
Everyone wants to live a long and healthy life, right? So doesn't it just make sense to develop a drug that eliminates the cells in your body that contribute to aging?
That's what researchers at the Mayo Clinic seem to be suggesting by their work on so-called "deadbeat" cells. Their findings were reported in Wednesday's edition of the journal Nature.
It's a simple concept really: When aging body cells gradually stop dividing and settle into a sort of couch-potato stage called cellular senescence, they can begin to damage adjacent cells and cause tissue inflammation. A healthy immune system can evict these senescent cells for a while, but eventually they start to pile up like empty beer bottles before recycling day and pretty soon you're sliding down that slippery slope toward an early date with the local mortician.
But what if you could drive over to your local pharmacy and get a bottle of pills that, once ingested, would send some hard-to-pronounce chemical on a search-and-destroy mission to just zap those bothersome cells into oblivion? According to Jan van Deursen, a Mayo Clinic molecular biologist and senior author of the study, eliminating these cells in genetically engineered mice delayed the onset of many age-related disorders, including muscle loss. "Therapeutic interventions to get rid of senescent cells or block their effects may represent an avenue to make us feel more vital, healthier, and allow us to stay independent for a much longer time," he said in a statement released by Mayo.
I suspect we're a ways away from such a drug hitting the market ("Ask your doctor if Cellatak is right for you."), so in the meantime, you might try a simpler -- and less expensive -- approach to maintaining your vitality as you glide into your golden years. Study after study over the past several years have shown that exercising regularly can keep you feeling fit and spry no matter how many years you've got under your belt. A 2001 study at the University of Texas, for instance, found that men in their early 50s could regain the cardiovascular capacity they had in their 20s after only six months of modest exercise -- less than five hours a week.
"People forget that exercise is medicine," says Ralph Brovard, a sports medicine specialist at St. Paul's Regions Hospital in this 2004 Experience Life story. "Daily exercise is perhaps the most powerful tool you can prescribe for yourself; a variety of regular activity helps prevent cardiovascular disease, type 2 diabetes, osteoporosis, arthritis and just about every other affliction that strikes us as we age."
I know that it's comforting to imagine a future where we can switch on our good cells and discard our bad ones by simply ingesting a pharmaceutical. It would make getting and staying healthy so easy and painless. No sweat required.
But I'm not going to wait around for those TV commercials for Cellatak. I'm going to get up in the morning tomorrow and wake up my senescent cells the old-fashioned way -- with a bunch of pushups and some quality time with my kettlebell.
Redefining Cancer
The other day, I was playing golf with my two older brothers and a friend -- all retired -- and overheard my senior sibling mention that he had just been in to see his doctor. This is none of my business, of course, but when he mentioned that he'd been subjected to 10 biopsies of his prostate during that visit, and was headed back in a week for more of the same, I couldn't help but comment about the story in that morning's newspaper arguing, rather convincingly, that this sort of thing is pretty much a waste of time and soft tissue.
Typically, my opinions about conventional medicine are seen as fairly goofy among this group. (They're constantly trying to convince me that I am essentially committing suicide because I refuse to have a colonoscopy.) But on this occasion, they actually seemed to be agreeing with me. According to this most recent research, they noted, prostate screening seldom prolongs life and often leads to "false positives" that persuade suddenly panicky men to accept surgical procedures that result in all sorts of nasty side effects, not the least of which are incontinence and impotence.
And the kicker, they said, is that even if you do have prostate cancer when you hit your 60s or so, it's probably not going to kill you, because it's a very slow-growing cancer. So why even bother with the screening and treatment?
My big brother took this all in and even joked that his doctor kept calling for more biopsies so he "could pay for a new boat." But I could tell that he wasn't likely to question anything on his next visit. That's the way it goes between doctor and patient for the most part. Especially when there's a whiff of cancer in the air.
So I wasn't surprised a couple of week later, at our monthly poker game, when he reported that his doctor had done two more biopsies. The good news is that everything was benign, but what if it hadn't been? What do you do when your doctor hits you with the "C" word and you have to decide whether to submit to treatment that more likely than not is going to mess with your plumbing in ways you may find rather discouraging?
And how do you make that decision when you're regularly buffeted with information about conventional medicine that can't help but erode your trust in the whole system? Just last week, for instance, the University of Minnesota School of Public Health reported that the flu vaccine we're all supposed to be getting in order to keep us alive through the winter only works in about six out of 10 cases. And you may recall the study a couple of years ago that suggested mammograms may not be as reliable as we'd all been told. In fact, as Gina Kolata reported recently in The New York Times, any kind of cancer screening may be not just unnecessary, but harmful.
"Cancer experts say they cannot ignore a snowballing body of evidence over the past 10 years showing over and over that while early detection through widespread screening can help in some cases, those cases are small in number for most cancers," Kolata writes. "At the same time, the studies are more clearly defining screening's harms."
This is, obviously, a huge shift in the way we think about cancer treatment in particular and the whole notion of invasive medicine in general. But -- primarily due to the alarming rise in health-care costs -- it's a discussion that has moved from integrative and alternative health advocates into the mainstream of the medical establishment. Even Dr. Otis Brawley, chief medical officer of the American Cancer Society, admits that doctors are "backing away from" the accepted notion that any sign of cancer is a death sentence -- a view that has governed most conventional cancer treatment since 1845.
In fact, researchers now believe that the vast majority of cancers "grow very slowly or stop growing altogether," Kolata writes. "Some even regress and do not need to be treated -- they are harmless."
As Brawley puts it, "We are going from an 1845 definition of cancer to a 21st-century definition."
Both of my parents went through that 1845 version of cancer treatment: surgery, radiation, chemo. My father lasted about a year; my mother went from a vibrant 80-year-old to a helpless invalid within a couple of years. I can't say for certain whether they would've lived longer without that treatment, but I know they would've lived better. And I hope my big brother will think twice before deciding to go down the same road.
Mission Accomplished
My 44-day fitness challenge ended this week with kind of a whimper. I didn't do any running or play three sets of tennis or enter a triathlon. But I still feel like I learned a few things about myself: Like, it's the things I do as a matter of course (meditation, morning kettlebells, bicycling to work, weekly yoga) that have the biggest impact on my health. And that getting to bed early gives me the best chance to make the day a success. And that all the work I'm doing on the house and yard has a serious fitness component. And that, yes, sometimes reality intervenes -- and that's OK. I didn't do as much running as I hoped I would, and I didn't give up sugar altogether, but I have to say I feel at least as good as I did 44 days ago, and that should count for something.
Day 40, Monday, 10/17
Well, my 44-day fitness challenge is winding down, so instead of ramping up my workouts to gain momentum, today I didn't exert myself at all beyond my 2-mile bicycle commute. I should, however, mention my efforts at cutting back on processed sugar. As you may recall, my glucose level was slightly elevated, and I've known for some time that I need to be more mindful about my sugar intake. But I'm not ready to dive into the kind of detox diet that various doctors and nutritionists are preaching. I can't imagine spending two or three weeks drinking nothing but green tea and eating some tasteless broth.
I have in the past week moderated my wine consumption quite nicely, enjoying a single glass with dinner rather than lingering at the table with a refill (or two). This doesn't qualify as processed sugar, really, but it is a certain habit I'd like to moderate. I've also reduced my tea drinking to three or four cups a week. I want to watch the amount of caffeine I'm consuming, and because I like a teaspoon of honey with my chai, that is reducing my sugar intake as well. I long ago gave up on donuts and other pastries -- although MLW and I will share a dessert when we're dining out. And then, of course, there's dark chocolate. But everyone knows that's medicinal. On the unprocessed sugar side, I'm still enjoying fresh fruit as often as possible (bananas and raspberries or blueberries in my breakfast yogurt, a mid-afternoon apple), and I don't think that's a bad thing. Everything in moderation, MLW says. Even moderation.
Day 41, Tuesday, 10/18
Fitness isn't just about building rippling abs and buns of steel. It also means keeping your brain in shape. So Tuesday nights this fall, MLW and I have been taking a French class through our local community education program. Sitting in a high school classroom brings back all sorts of bad memories of my teen years, and revisiting verb conjugation can be awfully humbling for a guy who's supposed to know something about grammar, but it's actually been a pretty gratifying experience so far. And, before the recent cold snap hit, we had been riding our bikes a couple of miles to and from the school, so it has involved real exercise, as well. Drove the car tonight, though. C'est que c'est.
Day 42, Wednesday, 10/19
Up late last night and, of course, that required that I sleep too late for a morning workout. (So much of my day depends on when I get to bed the night before.) A brisk bike ride up the hill, though, always gets my heart rate up.
Day 43, Thursday, 10/20
An abbreviated workout (30 pushups) this morning, then yoga in the afternoon. Five miles on the bike also counts for something, right?
Day 44, Friday, 10/21
I figured since it's the final day of this fitness challenge, it would only be fitting to actually work out this morning. So I ran through my full 3X kettlebell circuit before breakfast. You know it's a good workout when you really wish it were over, and I really wished it was over about halfway through. (Goblet squats are just brutal!) Worked up quite a lather. Always feels great when you're done, though. Later, I had a nice chat with my wellness coach, who said I was doing really well. And she didn't add, "for an old guy."
Exercising Without Exercising
I didn't do much that would count as actual gym-type exercise this week, but I'm going to say it was pretty productive anyway. An interesting age-related (I think) conundrum surfaced, and I finally made some real progress toward finishing the basement.
Day 33, Monday, 10/10
Don't let anyone tell you that yard work doesn't qualify as exercise. Yesterday's digging and hauling left me feeling like I'd been hit with a wheelbarrow full of concrete this morning. My back, my legs, my arms -- even my hands -- hurt. Had a heckuva time dragging myself out of bed. Still sore at the end of the day. Maybe some stretching tomorrow.
Day 34, Tuesday, 10/11
(Warning: The following item discusses bodily functions that some readers may feel are inappropriate to mention in polite company.) Aging delivers lots of minor annoyances, but none more interesting to me than the connection between my adrenaline levels and my urinary tract. It seems that whenever I find myself in a situation that elicits a major rush of adrenaline, my heart starts beating faster (which is expected) and my poor bladder suddenly shrinks to the size of a tea bag (which is annoying). This can be slightly inconvenient if, for example, you're sitting in the chair at your dentist, as I was this morning. I don't really mind going to the dentist, but I think it's fairly typical for patients to feel slightly on edge when even the most highly skilled technician is scraping and probing around in your mouth. Anyway, I'm reclining there making small talk with the hygienist and listening to my heart thumping in my chest and gradually experiencing that unmistakable urge to visit the men's room. Is there some dentist office etiquette reserved for these occasions, I wonder? And what exactly is it about adrenaline that would trigger such a reaction? It wasn't like I'd been quaffing coffee all morning prior to my appointment. Anyway, I was able to excuse myself during a break in the action, and my hygienist didn't seem at all fazed. Pretty annoying, though.
Day 35, Wednesday, 10/12
I was thinking about yesterday's adrenaline altercation and made a point today to slow way down and breathe and try to be completely present in everything I do. That means actually paying attention to the computer keys under my fingers and noticing the feel of the pen on paper. This is often a great way to tamp down those nasty stress hormones that can do serious harm to your body. I felt like I was pretty successful until about mid afternoon, when I found myself sliding back into multi-task mode. Interesting experiment.
Day 36, Thursday, 10/13
Did three rounds of my favorite kettlebell circuit this morning before work and made it back to yoga this afternoon after a two-week hiatus. JS, our yogi, is usually pretty easy on us, but today she had us trying to do the bridge pose. I was able to get my butt off the mat without much difficulty, but then she said I needed to lift my head off the ground with my arms arched behind my shoulders. After some rearranging of the concept in my brain, and much grunting and groaning, I was able to get my head off the mat for a couple of seconds. Have I mentioned that yoga is hard?
Day 37, Friday, 10/14
Breakfast meeting made any morning workout impractical, so I'm calling this a recovery day.
Day 38, Saturday, 10/15
Spent the better part of the day putting up insulation and drywall in the basement. Mr. Parkour stopped by to help in the afternoon. Pretty beat by 7 p.m.
Day 39, Sunday, 10/16
A little stiff from yesterday's labor, but I managed to convince myself that a half-hour kettlebell workout this morning before breakfast would be just the thing. And I was right. Felt great afterwards, and headed back downstairs around noon to finish the work I started yesterday. Finished up around 10 and soaked in a hot bath for a while, hoping that would take the edge off my sore muscles tomorrow.
A Breakthrough
You know, just when you think you're backsliding on your workout routine, sometimes a breakthrough just comes out of nowhere. That's how things went for me this week. I'm going to say that it's just a way that the universe is telling to me to hang in there.
Day 26, Monday, 10/3
Where did that momentum go? I slept fitfully and awoke this morning with a stiff left knee and a sore back and a serious disinclination toward exercise. Climbed on my bike and felt better a mile later at the office. My fitness guru, SW, stopped by my office and inquired about my jogging, suggesting that I embrace chi running, a form of jogging that's easy on the knees and pushes the heart rate in a good way. I've done a little research on this approach, but can't say I've actually tried it. And, the way I'm feeling today, I can't imagine exploring anything new. I need a good night's sleep. We'll see if I'm more adventurous tomorrow.
Day 27, Tuesday, 10/4
Dr. Mehmet Oz told my colleague LB in an interview a few years ago that he rises each morning and does ten sun salutations and then 20 pushups--10 with one leg raised and 10 with the other leg raised. Dr. Oz may be one healthy dude, but I trumped him this morning by doing his one-legged pushups, adding another 10 with both feet on the ground and then cranking out 10 minutes of girevoy. This time, I kept track of my lifts and recorded 78 clean and jerks with each arm in each five-minute span. Gotta say, Dr. Oz: You can keep your sun salutations. Give me my girevoy and get outta my way.
Day 28, Wednesday, 10/5
Everybody needs a recovery day, so I'm going to call this mine. Yoga tomorrow!
Day 29, Thursday, 10/6
For the second consecutive week, work obligations kept me from my yoga class. I did manage to make it to my bi-weekly acupuncture appointment, where Dr. Needle noticed that my heart pulse was a little stressed. "No kidding," I replied. An hour later, all was well.
Day 30, Friday, 10/7
I think one can make a good argument that a round of golf does constitute exercise--even if you're moving from tee to tee in a golf cart. There is still a fair amount of walking, not to mention much bending and torso twisting. I played 18 holes this afternoon with my older brothers and JE, a family friend. They're all retired, which means they get a lot more time on the links than I do, but I think I held my own.
Day 31, Saturday, 10/8
It's funny how one's day takes shape, exercise-wise. There I was innocently sitting zazen and letting all the random thoughts and plans drift in one side of my consciousness and out the other when it became clear to me that I was going to pull on my sneakers and do a little jogging. My back had stiffened up after yesterday's golf outing, so I did only a mild kettlebell routine (no squats) and several minutes of stretching before I put on my running shoes and headed out the door. Last time I did this, I was careful to pace myself and I started out toward the river in the same manner as before--small steps, calves tightening slightly as I headed down the hill. I crossed the parkway and headed north on the jogging path for about a block, waiting for the endorphins to kick in and drown out the boredom. At about 44th Street, I noticed a woman loping up a path that led to a clearing overlooking the river, and I veered off in that direction, thinking maybe there would be some pleasant distraction. As I reached the clearing, I noticed a sign designating the Winchell Trail, and it suddenly seemed completely logical to head into the woods.
I've read about trail running and, in fact, had half-heartedly invited my son (Mr. Parkour) to try it earlier this summer. This despite some trepidation over the condition of my tweaky left knee. I'd seen videos of real athletes skipping over tree roots and rocks and sprinting up picturesque hills, and fantasized that perhaps this sort of challenge would cure me of my running blues. But here I was now, carefully navigating a couple flights of steps down into the forest and moving gingerly along the trail. And, much to my surprise, I found myself opening up my stride and actually running. Yes, my lungs were burning, but my legs were holding up quite nicely as I zigged and zagged through the trees. I sprinted up a small incline and looked to my left to get my bearings and found I'd traveled all the way to 42nd Street. I paused for a moment to catch my breath and headed back along the trail, passing a couple of hikers who (it might have just been my imagination) seemed to be impressed by my exertion. I powered back up the hill to 44th Street and headed south toward the sign marking the entrance to the lock and dam. I can do this, I told myself and, indeed, I made it all the way without any cardiac-oriented event.
It all brought back memories of junior high cross country, where a guy like me would just run as fast as he could for as far as he could--no race strategy, just chase whoever was in front of me. The overworked lungs and rubbery legs felt surprisingly familiar as I walked across the parkway boulevard toward home. But it felt good. So good, in fact, that when I hit the hill leading back to 46th Street, I broke into a sprint like the good old days: a hop and a skip and then a surprisingly pleasant dash up the incline.
You may recall that it was less than a year ago that I despaired about ever being able to run again after my battles with knee trouble last summer. So, I'm going to chalk up today's workout as one big breakthrough--at least until I try to drag myself out of bed tomorrow.
Day 32, Sunday, 10/9
I felt surprisingly OK this morning. My back is still a little sore, but my legs feel great. Still, I decided to leave the kettlebell on the floor and take it easy. I did get out in the garden this afternoon and worked up quite a sweat with some landscaping work, but I don't think I really pushed myself too much. I'm still basking in the glow of yesterday's trail run and looking forward to reprising that in the week to come.
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