My old tennis buddy, The Baseline Machine, emailed me last week with an offer to join her and two of her pals for a regular weekly match. The idea was that, if the four of us committed to playing once a week, even if one or two didn’t show, there would still be the possibility of getting in some games on a regular basis. Plus, by getting it on our calendars, we’d gradually incorporate the weekly game into our busy routines.
Everyone knows that making time for exercise is easier when it becomes part of your daily or weekly schedule, so I was quick to congratulate TBM for her initiative. Then I told her I couldn’t make it last Tuesday because I was traveling to Michigan to help my daughter move out of her college dorm. And now it looks like this Tuesday is not going to work out either, because I have a meeting that I may skip to go to the ballgame with said daughter, who’s suddenly become a big baseball fan. (There we were Friday night, sitting on the couch with a couple of beers watching the Twins trounce the Red Sox . . . . gets me all misty-eyed just thinking about it.)
There’s another small problem with TBM’s otherwise salutary plan: I seldom have an automobile at my disposal in the evening, so unless our tennis soirees are located within a couple of miles of my homestead, I’m not inclined to participate. I can’t see pedaling five or six miles just for the privilege of getting pounded by TBM or whoever else may show up – and then pedaling five or six miles home in the dark.
I did suggest that we reconnoiter at the Nokomis courts a couple of miles from my home, but that idea doesn’t seem to be getting a lot of traction with TBM and her pals, who live farther west. So I guess we’ll see what happens.
With my left knee finally ready to do battle, it’s kind of ironic that I haven’t been able to get out on the courts yet. Of course, the weather has not been cooperating — snowflakes were reported at the May Day Festival last Sunday — and I’ve lately been slightly obsessed with house projects on the weekends. The basement TV room is coming along quite nicely (see above). Plus, it’s the NBA playoffs. And the past three Monday nights have been taken up by a community ed French class that My Lovely Wife talked me into during a weak moment. (Nous allons parler francais!!)
That’s not to say I’ve been avoiding exercise. I’ve been mostly keeping up with my morning kettle-bell routine, and just this afternoon I dug out one of Harry Johnson’s cement-laden posts over on the side yard and managed to transport it (this could be a great sort of “paleo” workout; wish I had video) out to the alley without any discernible injuries. I just haven’t been playing tennis.
I know this is all about momentum. Once I get on the court again and get a couple of sets under my belt, I’ll be more motivated to get back at it on a regular basis — or at least less willing to make excuses for not doing it.
Pumping Irony
Craig Cox, EL’s managing editor, chronicles his adventures into the frightening world of middle-age exercise.
Recently in The blahs Category
Tennis Bum
Peer Pressure
Mr. Parkour (AKA my son) has
been on a bit of a fitness jag this week and, because I’m the kind of guy who
wants to support healthy habits, my poor, aging body has been pretty sore.
Tuesday night, for example, I was sitting in my comfy chair, sipping a cup of
tea and reading the newspaper when he arrived home from work raring to go to
the gym. This was about 8:30, a time of evening when I’m just beginning to happily
slide down the slippery slope toward bedtime. But, I rose up from my reverie
and, with MP and My Lovely Wife in tow, climbed into the car and drove across
town to the fancy gym in Minnetonka for a little late-night exercise.
We chose the Minnetonka gym
because, unlike my club a mile to the east, this one has a basketball court.
It’s been awhile since I last had a basketball in my hands, and I figured if I
was going to have to get out of my comfy chair and drive somewhere in the
middle of the night, there might as well be a hoop at the end of the trail.
A decade ago, my weekly
two-hour pickup game at Anderson school in South Minneapolis was pretty much my
entire fitness regimen. Sure, I bicycled a half-dozen miles to and from work
five days a week, but I never really worked up a sweat, so it didn’t really
count. Basketball, on the other hand, was something I looked forward to every
week. When I stepped out on the court, I could feel the adrenaline start to
pump, and I pushed myself hard for the whole two hours.
It’s been a dozen years
since I blew out my right knee and retired from competitive hoops, but I still
enjoy shooting baskets when I get the chance. I can work up a good lather after
about an hour and work muscle groups I never seem to get to during my regular
routine. That’s why on Wednesday and Thursday my body was so stiff and sore
that I was hard-pressed to roll out of bed.
The good news, though, was
that Tuesday’s hoopfest confirmed that my left knee has recovered sufficiently
to allow me to move laterally; stop, start, and pivot; and actually jump a
little — developments that all augur well for my return to the tennis court in
a month or two (if the snow here ever melts).
When Thursday evening rolled
around, I was still pretty stiff, but MP once again persuaded us to grab our
gear and hit the gym. This time, I avoided the basketball court and wandered
over to the stretching area, where I found a foam roller and worked out some of
the kinks in my calves and hammies. Then MP and I stretched a bit, before
testing each other’s strength on various resistance machinery. I’m not a competitive
guy, but I was happy to be able to keep up with him on everything but the lat
pull-down thingy. And at the pull-up bar, he quickly cranked out 10 reps with
no assistance. I needed a little help.
Still, I made it through the
evening without further injury — to my body or my ego — and the next day I felt
no worse than I had before. At my age, this is called progress.
This is all well and good,
but I have to admit that when Sunday morning rolled around I was quietly hoping
that MP would sleep in, so we wouldn’t be ushered out into a fast-building
blizzard to sneak in a quick workout before he had to go to work in the
afternoon. My prayers were answered when he wandered downstairs around 1 p.m.
hunting for some breakfast. I was all set to explain the importance of recovery
days, when MLW simply stated that we wouldn’t be going anywhere today. He
grumbled a little as he bent over his cereal, probably wondering how he got
stuck living with such slackers, but he didn’t seem too disappointed. There’s always
tomorrow.
Don’t Forget the Beer
We’re getting our annual
January thaw in February this year. The weekend brought balmy temps in the 30s,
and I took advantage of the nice weather to take the dog for a walk on Saturday
and Sunday. The dog in question is
our 13-year-old German shepherd-golden retriever-chow-collie mix, Brigit. She
is usually escorted in public by My Lovely Wife — even though when we moved into this
neighborhood last summer, our two former children/housemates and I enthused over the
opportunity to wander along the river or down by Minnehaha Falls, dog in tow. That
didn’t exactly pan out, which is generally OK with MLW, who likes to wander the
neighborhood with Brigit most mornings after she has her tea.
I bring this up because,
like getting to the gym on a regular basis, walking the dog requires that I
overcome some inertia. After a busy week at the office, there’s nothing I like
better than kicking back with a good book (or writing another inspired blog
post!) and gradually decompressing before I hit the entry ramp leading to
Monday morning. This is an easier decision when it’s 20 below zero. When the
weather is glorious, a little voice in my head tends to pound away at me until
I give in. It says something like, “What are you doing in the house, you miserable
slacker? How many days like this do you think you’re going to get before your
time on this earthly plane expires? Now, get your butt up out of that chair and
get out there!!”
It’s a persuasive argument.
But sometimes I need an objective, a practical reason for pulling on my jacket
and boots and heading into the public sphere — no matter what the weather is.
On Saturday I noticed I was down to my last bottle of beer in the fridge, so I
figured that was a pretty good reason to venture out. I could trek across the bridge to Village
Liquors — maybe three-quarters of a mile away — and restock. And, if I’m heading out anyway, why not take the dog?
I pause here to draw your
attention to a recent study, published in The
Proceedings of the National Academy of
Sciences, that suggests walking regularly may expand your hippocampus, the
region in your brain associated with memory. I was thinking of this when Brigit
and I set out for the liquor store, and it made me stride a bit more
purposefully than normal. Brigit, on the other hand, has no interest in
expanding her hippocampus. Walking for her is all about sniffing and peeing.
So, I was reduced to shuffling and stopping at irregular intervals, and I could vaguely picture
my hippocampus inflating and deflating at unpredictable moments. Still, by the
time we reached the bridge, the pavement was clear and the mysterious canine
signposts that so enthrall Brigit were nowhere to be smelled, so
we picked up the pace. While we walked, I remembered we were headed to buy
beer, so I figured my longer strides were having a good effect.
Brigit, I should mention
here, is not the most sociable of dogs. At the dog park over by the river,
she’s just as likely to frolic with a strange dog as chomp down on their
jugular. So, I’m always a bit nervous going out with her in public. If we meet
another dog on the sidewalk, you never know what’s going to transpire. That
makes it risky to tie her up outside of a liquor store, or any other retail
establishment, so as we approached Liquor Village I decided I’d just shorten up
on the leash, dash in with her in tow, grab a six-pack, and hope for the best.
Thankfully, the joint was
empty. I grabbed my beer, paid the clerk (who handed me a dog treat), and got
out of there in no time flat. We headed back over the bridge leaving no
casualties behind and feeling generally upbeat about the state of my hippocampus.
Maybe that explained why I
reprised the dog walk on Sunday. I remembered that I had already laid in a
supply of beer, but I also recalled that it wasn’t such a bad idea to get
outside with the dog. Besides, MLW had gone off on her bicycle for the first
time this winter, braving the narrowed thoroughfares, gutter puddles, and ice
patches. I couldn’t really come up with a satisfying excuse for staying in. So
Brigit and I sloshed around Minnehaha Park for bit, watching young people
climbing around among the ice formations below the falls. No dogs here, either,
which made the journey, on the whole, almost tranquil.
I was on a roll at that
point, so when we arrived back home, I grabbed the ladder from the garage and
climbed up to the roof to inspect our ice dams, which were thawing so nicely
that I resisted the temptation to go at them with my hatchet. I did scrape away
at them a bit with my roof rake — a great core and upper-body workout in any
weather.
My rather convoluted point
here is that, once you overcome your inertia, exercise occurs rather easily. And
if it involves grabbing a six-pack on the way, even better — a cold beer tastes
mighty good when you’re ready to relax.
I Wonder as I Wander
A while back, I
read a quote from His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who was asked something about
what one needs to live a satisfying life. His response: “Routine.” I was
thinking about that last night as I was bouncing from one station to the next at
the gym. I really need to settle on a specific routine rather than wandering
around so aimlessly.
It’s not that I
don’t have some idea of a regimen. I always do about 30 minutes of cardio on
the Elliptical Death Machine (I’ve been avoiding the stationary bikes lately
for some unknown reason — oh wait, I know why: They’re even more boring than
the EDM) before descending into The Pit or wandering among the push-pull
machinery. And I almost never
stretch, if almost never doing something can be seen as part of your routine.
And though I always leave the gym feeling more awesomely manly than when I
entered (who doesn’t, right?), lately it feels like I’m not really moving in
any particular direction.
Plus, I don’t
like the feeling of standing in front of the dumbbell racks with no real clue
of what I’m going to do next. All around me, gigantic guys in sleeveless shirts
(if you’ve gone to all the trouble of getting a tattoo . . .) are muscling up
impressive poundage as if each particular exercise actually fits into some sort
of plan, and I’m standing there
scratching my head, trying to remember the difference between a Bulgarian Split
Squat and a compound row. The last thing I want to do is imitate what some
freak of nature next to me is doing with those 60-pound dumbbells or
impulsively slap a bunch of iron on a barbell and find myself hideously
overmatched.
Several months
ago, I had a pretty decent free-weights routine going: barbell squats, dead
lifts, bench presses, tricep extensions, bicep curls, and overhead dumbbell
presses. But the barbell squats killed my knees, the deadlifts hurt my back,
and one gracious P.T. suggested maybe I should modify my approach for the good
of my overall longevity. She was right, of course, because I’m still alive, but
I’ve been kind of lost in the wilderness since then.
I could seek out
one of the other kind P.T.s (she’s since moved on) for advice, but that’s not
really the cut of my jib. I like to figure things out for myself, especially
when it comes to endeavors such as gym wandering, during which I prefer to stay
under the public radar (yes, I know, I’m writing a blog about it, but try to
ignore the incongruity; if I can, so can you). Besides, I have hundreds of
articles about workouts in the magazine’s archives I can draw upon, if I so
choose. But then, of course, who wants to wander around the gym carrying some
Xeroxed pages from the magazine? Where would I put them while I do my Bulgarian
Split Squats? And who’s to say I could accomplish even a poor rendition of a
Bulgarian Split Squat?
Anyway, you get
my drift: In order to do something different at the gym, I need to arm myself
with some new information — and then actually follow those directions. It’s a
tall order for a guy who’s sort of come to the realization that the biggest
draw at the gym is its flat-screen TVs–where else can I catch The Biggest Loser or Sports Center? The only TV at my place
is controlled by my 22-year-old daughter, and I pity the fool who gets up in
her grill while she’s watching Numbers.
But, maybe it’s time to push the envelope a little. I’ve got nothing to lose
but my self-respect.
No Complaints
Well, the weekend came and
went and I was somehow able to circle my way around whatever it was that was
bothering me last Wednesday. This H1N1 flu scare has everyone I know walking on
eggshells, and while I don’t tend to panic about these sorts of things, you
never know. . . . It seems as though two days of working at home and a decent night’s sleep did the trick.
I even managed to do a
little work on the house on Saturday (got the storm windows on in plenty of
time for our current warming trend . . . geez!) And, then on Sunday, I dragged
my tennis buddy, M.E., away from his household duties and we managed to get in a
set of tennis before the Vikings game.
The tennis was forgettable.
I played putridly, he played slightly less putridly, and the result was 6-4 in
his favor. I noted afterward that he had called it an “exhibition match” prior
to us warming up (he was concerned about his stiff shoulder), but he’d conveniently forgotten that point after he hit one
of the few good shots of the day — cross-court winner at set point. Whatever.
Besides, it was a beautiful
day. I wasn’t sneezing and blowing my nose. My fever was long gone. What’s to
complain about?
We retired to his living
room for three hours of watching large men collide with one another before I
headed home. There, My Lovely Wife reminded me that we still needed to get to
the co-op if we wanted to eat, so I climbed on my Schwinn and pedaled the 6
miles along the river to the store. The bike path was packed with happy
Minnesotans enjoying the balmy weather after a week of brutal early-winter
temperatures, so I settled into a nice rhythm and marveled at the fall colors
on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi.
Home again with the goods,
we put together a meal that miraculously coincided with my son’s emergence from
his room and my daughter’s return from work. And while it wasn’t exactly a
Norman Rockwell moment (he wolfed down his meal while describing some horror movie
he’d been watching; she grabbed a plate and escaped to her basement bedroom),
MLW and I enjoyed a fine repast among the cacophony.
And why not? For the moment,
at least, everyone was healthy. What’s not to like about that?
Awkward Mornings
One of the buffer guys at the gym on Monday was wearing a very tight T-shirt with this message: “An awkward morning is better than a boring night.” I’ve had a few awkward mornings since I last posted — though not for the reasons his T-shirt is implying. I spent last week with My Lovely Wife and the kids (Nora, 20; Martin 17) up north at the family cabin (Woman Lake, Longville, Cass County, Minnesota) fully intending to jog the mile to the lodge at daybreak each morning to fetch the newspaper (and donuts?) and then maybe walk/jog on the way back before doing some stretching/meditation/pushups on the deck overlooking the lake.
The first morning, My Lovely Wife and I did, indeed, rise at a reasonable hour, pulled on our sneakers, hitched up the dog and set out for the lodge. After a few minutes of walking, we broke into a jog that lasted about a minute. Hmmm. We walked awhile more. Jogged about 30 seconds. Hmmmm.
Did I mention that the lodge sells real tasty donuts?
I should point out in our defense a few mitigating circumstances: 1) The cabin’s water heater was not in a functioning mode for the first two days of our stay, and My Lovely Wife prefers (no, strongly prefers) to end her run each morning with a refreshing warm shower. 2) She’s accustomed to running alone (with the dog) and at a pace that favors her bum knee; I run a little faster, at a pace that favors my bum knee. 3) We were on vacation, for Godsakes!
Away from our familiar surroundings and freed from our daily routine of dog-walking, bike-riding and gym-going, we found ourselves slogging through awkwardly guilt-ridden mornings lounging with the newspaper (which, after that first day, we simply retrieved with the Crapmobile) and nibbling on the aforementioned donuts.
We did swim nearly every day, which for me is about as challenging a workout as I know (I tend to sink like a stone), and I did on a couple of occasions manage to crank out a set of “Dr. Oz” pushups — which are fast becoming my favorite basic exercise.
But mostly I sat on the beach, reading (Points of My Compass, by E.B. White; Messages From My Father, by Calvin Trillin) and enjoying the sun, sand and surf. We didn’t even take the canoe out of the boathouse. At various moments during the week, I thought wistfully about the gym and the workouts I was missing, but it was never enough to get me to pull on my sneakers again.
Martin and I did play mini-golf. Twice. Didn’t really work up a sweat, though.
Anyway, it felt good to be back in the old routine again on Monday. I weighed myself before the workout and was pleased to learn I was carrying around about the same load I’d been toting before all those donuts (162.5). I took it easy on the cardio side of things, opting for 20 minutes or so on the Elliptical Danger Machine (no heavy-duty interval stuff yet) before diving into a fairly ambitious 30-minute lifting session that got my heart rate up and reminded me once again how much I enjoy this stuff.
I haven’t had a donut all week.
My Car Ate My Workout. Really.
I trekked through the beginnings of a classic March blizzard yesterday morning, workout gear in my backpack, fully intending to hit the gym after work. Really I did. Then, about 3 p.m., my lovely wife called me on my cell to notify me that the Crapmobile (my 17-year-old son’s not-so-affectionate moniker for our ’91 Honda) had bit the dust in the parking ramp next door.
She was on her way to an appointment with a Life Time Fitness personal trainer downstairs, but clearly that was not going to happen, since she had to call a tow truck now and it would be an hour, at least, before salvation would arrive, and because the Crapmobile’s disabled ball joints had actually led to the wheel bearings falling from wherever wheel bearings are supposed to be and the front axle collapsing there on the upward slope of the ramp, she would be standing there directing traffic around our little blue wonder for the forseeable future.
I dutifully notified the aforementioned P.T. that my wife would like to reschedule her appointment during a time when she wasn’t directing traffic in a parking ramp. Then I headed next door to survey the damage and lend moral support.
Our poor little car was indeed immobilized (though a couple of fairly muscular trainers showed up later with the idea of pushing it into a less inconvenient position until they noticed that it wasn’t going anyplace unless they picked it up and that picking it up would be a problem, since it was a car . . .), and my poor wife was thus destined to resolutely await the arrival of the tow truck.
Did I mention that we were having our annual late-March blizzard? Well, by the time the tow truck had hooked up our crippled little vehicle and headed off to the auto hospital, there were about 6 inches of slushy snow on the ground and a rip-roaring northwest wind propelling it through the air in a particularly unpleasant manner.
Was I going to let my lovely wife traverse the storm on her way home all by herself? I don’t think that’s what a guy like me does, do you? No sir. So, we tromped our way through the tempest toward the river, picked up a bottle of wine at the liquor store, caught the first bus we saw, transferred to the train heading south, and walked the last four blocks home, where we had a nice spaghetti dinner with the kids (none of whom seemed surprised that the Crapmobile had broken its leg), after which I watched the Twins game.
So, that’s why I didn’t go to the gym last night.
Exercising Without Exercising
Talk about failure (see previous post). Five times this week I have schlepped my workout gear across the icy Mississippi to the office and four times I have schlepped it back home with me, unused. As I’ve previously mentioned, reality intervenes: domestic responsibilities, work deadlines, the list goes on.
At least I’ve been able to get in a good long walk every day (though March in Minnesota is the cruelest month of the year — 20 degrees one day, below zero the next). And, as the Mayo Clinic points out, 30 minutes of walking each day is enough to boost my immune system, clean out my arteries, and increase my stamina. What more could a geezer want?
Well, resistance training, if you must know — which has its own rewards.
So, the good news is that tonight the planets somehow have aligned and I will head downstairs after work and do all that stuff I’ve been thinking about — but not doing — all week.
It all makes me think maybe I should get up an hour earlier and haul my butt to the gym before work in order to get back on track. You know — show a little discipline, get into a good rhythm, really commit to this stuff.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Backsliding
A nasty cold/flu bug has put me off my game this past week, plus it’s been too cold for my normal walking commute, so I’m beginning to feel a little out of sorts, fitness-wise. It’s fascinating to see how easily I can develop inertia, how the gym gradually loses its familiar tug after work. I’m not really backsliding, I tell myself, because I shouldn’t go work out when I’m sneezing and coughing all over the equipment. Nor should I tax my system too much when I’m not getting enough sleep at night.
The pessimist in me, however, can see myself sliding into fitness neverland unless I pull myself up off the floor and get back to my routine. I did finally walk to work this morning after several sub-zero days off, and that did get my heart pumping a bit. But, I thought it was instructive that I forgot my workout gear.
Kelly James-Enger, writing in EL’s July/August 2005 issue shows some sympathy for folks like myself, who find themselves a little stymied and stuck. “No matter how motivated you are, you’ll still skid into obstacles from time to time,” she writes. “Plan now for how you’ll deal with conflicts in your routine, like business trips, sick kids or the American Idol finale. Aside from time constraints, some of the most pervasive problems are boredom and frustration.”
Her prescription is simple: Shake up your routine — lift more with fewer reps, jump on a new piece of equipment, set new goals (do I even have any goals?), etc. It’s good advice, and now that my nose has stopped running, I think maybe it’s time for the rest of me to do the same.
