Pumping Irony

Craig Cox, EL’s managing editor and resident geezer, explores the joys and challenges of aging well.

Monthly Archives: October 2010

Experience Life Magazine

Good Vibrations

When you get to be my age, it’s natural to want to
gain a little edge here and there against the inevitable forces of physical and
mental decline. That’s not to say that I’m a fan of Big Pharma ads for the
latest miracle drug, but I do find myself intrigued by bits and pieces of
research showing that some random bit of behavior may improve my chances to
arrive someday at a happy old age.

 

So, I was intrigued today when I stumbled upon news
of a study out of the Medical College of Georgia that suggests that a person of
my vintage might maintain his bone density by simply employing a regular dose
of vibration alongside his tibia,
femur and other vital skeletal features.

 

This, of course, immediately makes me start humming
an old Beach Boys tune, but that shouldn’t negate the impact of this particular
study, published in the current issue of the journal Bone. Weak bones, you’ve probably heard, break when you fall on
them or whack them against something. It’s a real issue for older folks –
especially those who apparently aren’t getting their recommended daily amount
of ngngngngngngngngngn.

 

MCG researchers treated 18-month-old male mice
(equivalent to 55- to 65-year-old guys) to 30-minute vibratory sessions for 12
weeks and found that the regimen “improved density around the hip joint with a
shift toward higher density in the femur, the long bone of the leg, as well.”
The study also noted an increase in bone formation among the lucky rodents.

 

It turns out that this vibrational approach has been
around since the 19th century and has resurfaced now in gyms and rehab clinics
as a viable treatment option — particularly for people with limited mobility. Here’s
how it works:

 

“The scientists theorize that the rhythmic movement,
which produces a sensation similar to that of a vibrating cell phone but on a
larger scale, exercises cells so they work better. Vibration prompts movement
of the cell nucleus, which is suspended by numerous threadlike fibers called
filaments. . . . All the movement releases transcription factors that spur new
osteoblasts, the cells that make bone. With age, the balance of bone production
and destruction – by osteoclasts – tips to the loss side.”

 

This is great news for bone-density-craving seniors
with really large cell phones they can set to the vibrate mode — especially
those who have friends who will call them repeatedly throughout the day while
they’re watching game shows.


For the rest of us, there’s always exercise.

Experience Life Magazine

Immune to Logic

I’ve been battling a bit of a cold for the past few
weeks, somehow managing to keep it at bay with a regular regimen of sleep,
vitamins, and the occasional intervention of Echinacea and homeopathic aconite.
All in the service of buttressing my 59-year-old immune system. As the Zen monk
said as he fell from the 20-story building: “So far, so good.”

 

I’ve always been of the opinion that a hale and
hearty immune system is the key to a graceful aging process, but suddenly I’m
not so sure. A recent piece in The New
York Times
suggests that a powerhouse immune system might just backfire on
you — especially if you’re trying to beat back the common cold.

 

The writer, Jennifer Ackerman, is an expert in this
area — or so her resume would suggest. She’s the author of Ah-Choo! The Uncommon Life of Your Common Cold, and she argues that
it’s a too-aggressive immune system — not that pesky cold bug — that causes
those sniffles and sneezes. She points to a 1984 study at the University of
Copenhagen that compared the nasal tissues of people suffering from severe
colds with samples from those same people after they had recovered. “To the
scientists’ surprise, none of the samples showed any damage to the nasal
tissue,” she writes.

 

“Here was a new insight in cold science: the symptoms
are caused not by the virus but by its host — by the body’s inflammatory
response. Chemical agents manufactured by our immune system inflame our cells
and tissues, causing our nose to run and our throat to swell. The enemy is us.

 

“Indeed, it’s possible to create the full storm of
cold symptoms with no cold virus at all, but only a potent cocktail of the
so-called inflammatory mediators that the body makes itself — among them,
cytokines, kinins, prostaglandins and interleukins, powerful little chemical
messengers that cause the blood vessels in the nose to dilate and leak,
stimulate the secretion of mucus, activate sneeze and cough reflexes and set
off pain in our nerve fibers.”

 

So, it appears that my highly functioning immune
system isn’t really fighting off the cold bug that’s been hanging around our
house. It’s actually creating the symptoms I don’t quite have.

 

Oh, wait. Here’s the kicker:

 

“There’s another intriguing paradox here. Studies
suggest that about one in four people who get infected with a cold virus don’t
get sick. The virus gets into their bodies, and eventually they produce
antibodies to it, but they don’t experience symptoms. It may be that people
like this are not making the normal amounts of inflammatory agents.”

 

I think I get it now. Maybe I’m one of those people
who get a cold that’s not created by our own highly functioning immune systems
because my immune system isn’t really functioning at a high level, but at a
level that doesn’t quite create cold symptoms, making it possible for the cold
virus to enter my body and also not create cold symptoms.

 

Glad I cleared that up. I’m feeling better already.

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Experience Life Magazine

Sixteen Tons

There’s a scene
in Shane, one of my favorite
westerns, in which the gunslinger Shane (played by Alan Ladd) and the
homesteader Joe Starrett (Van Heflin) do battle with a gnarly old stump in
Starrett’s dusty front yard. They go after it with axes for a while and, when
they see it’s weakening, they just start pushing on it like nobody’s business.
Starrett’s wife, the lovely Jean Arthur, implores her husband to “hitch up the
team” to finish the job, but Joe will have none of it. It’s personal; kind of a
test of his manhood.

 

That scene has
come to mind on a couple of occasions this past week, as I’ve been digging out
some fence posts in my own homestead. These aren’t any ordinary fence posts. As
my neighbor, Joe (just a coincidence), put it the other night, when he found me
staring dejectedly into a 4-foot hole embracing one of these posts, “Harry put
those in. He didn’t mean them to be moved.”

 

Harry would be
Harry Johnson, the previous owner of this house, who sunk those posts back around the time Shane was playing in the theaters, when concrete must have been cheap and plentiful. This particular
post is one of four Harry planted to hold up a grievously ugly chain-link fence
back by the garage, where My Lovely Wife would like something more dainty.
Hence, the harvesting of the posts. Or the attempted harvest. The lower 4 feet
of Harry’s 8-foot steel pole is encased in concrete and, after two prolonged
episodes with MLW’s ancient garden spade, I can move it around in the hole
pretty well, but can’t quite muscle it up to the surface.

 

MLW has
responded with her best rendition of Jean Arthur, encouraging me to “hitch up
the team” (which, in modern terms, means calling a contractor friend of mine to
get the number of this guy named Schmitty who owns a front-end loader and could
take care of Harry’s posts in no time flat. But I’m feeling a little like Joe
Starrett — that post has gotten the better of me and I feel like I’ve got
something to prove now — so I’m putting off that call.

 

Besides, I’ve
got other fish to fry. MLW has been after me to patch up a crack in the house’s
foundation before the ground freezes, so yesterday we went to the hardware
store and picked out the nicest long-handled shovel we could find for under $15
and I set about excavating around the southeastern corner of the foundation,
which as fate would have it, required that I unearth another of Harry’s
well-planted fence posts in order to get at the crack.

 

I’m used to
these sorts of family handyman setbacks, I should note; a surprisingly high
percentage of these little household projects I undertake feature some obstacle
or other (besides my own ineptitude) that I had not initially expected. It’s
just the way it is. In this case, Harry’s post and its requisite 700 pounds of
concrete was tightly hugging just the part of the foundation where the crack
appeared. So, I started digging and a while later had an impressive pile of
dirt amassed nearby. Harry’ post, however, remained firmly rooted. I dug some
more, this time employing some of MLW’s gardening tools to unearth the earth
between the post and the foundation. Each time I dove in with the hand trowel
and dandelion weeder, a slice of Tennessee Ernie Ford‘s 1955 hit, Sixteen Tons, played in my head: You load sixteen tons / what do you get? /
another day older / and deeper in debt.

 

This seemed to
spur me on, though, and eventually I was able to break through a clod of clay that
revealed the bottom of Harry’s handiwork. I backed out of the hole (St. Peter don’t ya call me / cause I can’t
go / I owe my soul / to the company store)
and the post fell harmlessly
away from the house.

 

This was good, I
thought, noting that Harry had perhaps run short of concrete on this project –
only about 3 feet of cement wrapped itself around the post. And the hole was shallow
enough that I could push down on the top part of the pole and maneuver the
concrete-encased part nearer the surface.

 

This is where
Jean Arthur and MLW would have me hitch up the team, of course. But where they
might’ve seen a big old chunk of Harry’s concrete, I was looking down at a
terrific opportunity to channel Marty Gallagher and deadlift that sucker right
up to terra firma. So, I got my feet set on either side of the hole, tested my
bum knee a little, then went into a squat, grabbed hold of a small piece of
pole sticking out of the cement and, taking one deep breath, lifted it up and
out. It wasn’t what I would call effortless, but I think Marty (and Joe
Starrett) would’ve been proud.

 

Harry? Not so
much.

Experience Life Magazine

Dock of Ages

A week ago, this
knee thing had me a little worried, but it’s been improving pretty steadily in
the past few days, to the point that Saturday’s annual taking-in-the-dock
ritual didn’t even do it in.

 

I think I’ve
written before about this little exercise: yanking heavy metal stanchions out
of the frigid water, pulling up decking and beams, all while trying to avoid
toppling into the drink. My workout buddy (and son), Mr. Parkour, joined me
this time, happy for an opportunity to flex his newfound muscles in a daring
new venue. We were joined by My Lovely Wife’s brother, S.P., who has sort of
taken over the overall project in the absence of his brother, K.P., who bore
the burden himself for several years before deciding that maybe somebody else
could get up early on a weekend morning and drive four hours north for the
opportunity to deconstruct a dock that he maybe trod upon only a couple of
times during the previous six months. I could go on, but you get the picture.

 

It’s an
interesting thing, these family cabins. Minnesotans love the idea of decamping from their urban or
suburban homes for the rustic charm of a northwoods refuge, but when you really
get to thinking about it, it’s like having a second house, which means somebody’s
got to take care of it: cut down the weeds, fix the sump pump, clean up the bat
guano, etc., etc. We’re lucky, relatively speaking (get it?), since this is a family cabin, and thus shared by several
families who would prefer not to own a cabin themselves. That way, each of us
can put off regular maintenance projects in the hope that someone else who
actually makes it up there at some point will pick up the slack.

 

The annual
taking-in-of-the-dock, however, is not something you can put off until someone
else forgets to do it. Come December, Woman Lake will be encased in a large and
powerful sheet of ice, which tends to convulse angrily during the colder months
of the year and, we’ve always been told by our elders, would snap that dock
like so many matchsticks should we be so foolhardy as to leave it in the water.
So we go up there each fall to rescue the dock, which MLW’s father pretty much
designed and built with his own two hands, making it a kind of pilgrimage, I
suppose, except that most pilgrimages are once-in-a-lifetime journeys with some
spiritual significance and this one has more to do with the fear and loathing
engendered by a large sheet of demonic ice that I’ve frankly never actually seen
in operation — which might qualify as a spiritual crisis if you really take the
time to think about it, but I’ve never really seen it that way.

 

It is, however,
a helluva workout — and I mean that in a good way. I could see somebody like
Jon Hinds at the Monkey Bar Gym in Madison throwing a dock into a swimming pool
and getting his clients to take it apart without getting wet: wrapping a long,
thick rope around the stanchions and yanking them out of the water, hauling
4-by-4-foot decking and 16-foot beams — a lot of pulling and lifting and
squatting and lunging. We worked up quite a lather in the 90 minutes or so it
took the three of us to dismantle the monster and stacking the parts up in the
boathouse.

 

S.P., who’s a
cycling and swimming fanatic, remarked when we were finishing up that his
father had to give up on taking in the dock at a certain point because he just
wasn’t fit enough to manage it. I didn’t say anything at the time, but it
occurred to me as Mr. Parkour and I were heading home that I could be making
this pilgrimage and hauling in that dock every fall, well into my 70s, if I
stayed in shape.

 

I’m going to hit
the gym tomorrow anyway.