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Experience Life Magazine

Half-Way There: Checking In on Those Goals

Back in October, I posted a few of the goals I want to accomplish before my 20s come to a close. Now that I’m almost half-way there, I figure it’s time for a check-in — and reality check.

My year as a 29-year-old has been jam-packed so far, and is only getting busier as 2012 progresses. That always seems to happen in the spring, but this year is a bit crazier than ever with two family weddings and all the associated events.  Seeing as my family only has two free weekends from NOW through July 14, I’ve had to revise a few of my ambitions. My original goals are in italics; my progress so far and/or revised goals follow:

  • Complete my third half marathon. UPDATE: I would typically run a half in the spring, but I simply don’t have the time to properly train right now between professional and personal responsibilities. Once the weddings are over and I have my weekends back, I’ll be able to fit in those essential long runs. With that in mind, I will be registering for the Medtronic TC 10 Mile in July — and crossing my fingers that I get in via the online lottery.
  • Complete an individual sprint triathlon and a team International triathlon. UPDATE: Complete a team International triathlon.
  • Begin a 200-hour Yoga Alliance-certified yoga teacher training program. UPDATE: I’m attending an information session on April 24th for a nine-month yoga teacher training that begins in September. Can’t wait!
  • Plant a REAL garden. UPDATE: My husband and I are starting work on our raised garden bed next weekend.
  • Try rock climbing. UPDATE: This one’s still on my list and definitely doable before the big 3-0.
  • Go on a yoga retreat, even if it’s just for a weekend. On a cold January weekend, I attended Blooma‘s level 1 prenatal yoga teacher training. It started on a Thursday night and ran all day Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I consider this a retreat — it was restorative, life-changing and EXACTLY where I was meant to be at that moment. (I’ll share more about this experience in my next blog post.)

I’m pretty pleased with where I stand with my goals right now. I still have a ways to go on a few of them, but I’m having a lot of fun working toward them — and not taking myself too seriously if things don’t go exactly as planned. That mindset supports the intention I’ve been embracing since New Year’s: “Slow down and enjoy.”

Experience Life Magazine

Birkie Fever

Birkie Fever

Another Birkie (the American Birkebeiner ski marathon) has come and gone, a wonder in itself given this winter’s lack of snow.

My Birkie was a roller derby of sorts. My back had been sore for weeks and I wasn’t sure if I could ski the race. I loaded up on ibuprofen all week and had a deep tissue massage to work out the kinks; things seemed to be working well enough to ski the race, so I decided to have fun, go easy, and see how my back felt.

Conditions were perfect — upper teens to 20s, sunny, pretty fast snow, and fast skis. I tried not to go too hard, trying to get a feel for what my body could handle that day. I mostly do freestyle, or skate-skiing, which is how I ski the Birkie. The technique requires a powerful crunching motion in your core, which can aggravate a sore back. So I had to focus on not overdoing that so as to not make my back pain worse. I skied the first half of the 50k race, which is uphill for 23k, and then got a new drink bottle from my Team Birkie support crew at the “OO” feed stop, which is the midpoint of the race. After skiing away with my bottle, I stopped to get some water from a volunteer. At that point some guy who couldn’t stop skied over my skis while I was standing there and knocked me down. I felt a sharp pain shoot through my groin and left leg. After untangling myself I merged back into the race — onward! Then, at another feed station, a guy ran into me from behind. I didn’t turn around to look at him, but I just thought to myself, Come on, people —control yourselves! And then, going around a fast downhill corner, I caught a washed-out classic track and took a spill in the middle of the trail. Luckily I didn’t get hit by other skiers and picked myself up and continued shaking my head over my “take it easy” Birkie.

I was still having a good race and had just climbed “Bitch Hill,” a long uphill climb at 40k, and had started skiing downhill when I hit a crazy patch of something sticky and orange, probably a spilled bottle of sports drink, right in the middle of the trail. I somersaulted nearly off the course and into the woods, and when I landed I was lying on the ground with a broken pole in my right hand. Great! I thought, and then I yelled to the skiers behind me to watch that patch.

I had about 9k to go and had to pole with my left arm the whole way, losing all my momentum and chance to finish with a good time. And there were still some big, long hills left to climb, as well as the flat 4ks across Lake Hayward and down snow-covered Main Street to the finish line.

Skating and poling with one arm, I gave thanks for those “single stick” (one arm) workouts I’d done earlier in the season with my Team Birkie group. I just kept focusing on enjoying the moment for what it was — an unexpected challenge —and tried to keep my energy output at a measured pace so I could make it to the end. After all, I’d never had to deal with this before and didn’t know what was required of my body.

I’d long forgotten how my back felt — now I was focused on my left arm and if I could keep up the repetition of relying on only it and the skating motions of my legs. I concentrated on just moving forward — I knew I’d eventually finish and it would all be over.

Finally, I made it across the long, flat lake and onto Main Street, where the snow that had been brought in to cover the street had turned into about six inches of deep, sugary corn snow from all the skiers who had passed through it. All you can do is try to maintain your balance, trying to not fall down in front of the cheering crowd, and get to the finish line a few hundreds yards ahead. As I crossed the line, I saw my wife, Kathryn, snapping photos of my relieved but disappointed face. I’d made it through another Birkie with more challenges than I could have imagined. And my back would end up more sore than when I started. Yes, the Birkie always provides a story, and I’m happy to be able to tell one, even though I don’t need that much excitement.

After assuring my wife that my pole was the only thing broken, I made my way to the changing tent, where dry clothes, and warm food awaited. There begins the part of race day where all 9,000 skiers have stories to tell. It also signals the end of one ski season and the beginning of the next, as we begin thinking of how we’ll start training for next year’s race, and the stories we’ll have to tell.

Skiing down Main Street with one pole

After the Birkie, on Hayward's Main Street

 

Experience Life Magazine

Training in the Dark


Our most recent training video (I’m the third skier)

Five a.m. wake-up calls are becoming familiar to me lately. The funny thing is that I am not a morning person, and the only time I’ve been known to get up that early is for a colonoscopy or to ski the American Birkebiener each February. But now I’ve been waking up at 5 to train with my new ski group, Team Birkie, a program that seems designed not only to teach us to ski the Birkie better, but to practice waking up for the race.

Team Birkie is a master’s ski group formed by some skiers who wanted to help support our local skier Matt Liebsch, who won the Birkie in 2009. Through our membership fees, we’re helping him cover travel costs for the training and racing he needs to do to pursue his dream of making the 2014 Olympic ski team. And he is helping us pursue our goals of becoming better skiers — and ultimately to ski a faster Birkie.

As an older guy who sometimes needs extra motivation to keep from doing the same training year after year, I had my concerns about joining the group. I weighed the commitment of time and money with the rewards of a more inspired training routine. I didn’t know when I joined that we’d be meeting so early, but breaking from my old training regimen and embracing the chill before sunrise has given me more than just better ski technique.

I’ve gotten to roller ski by headlamps before dawn and do two-hours of intervals before I’m usually awake, all while learning from an Olympic-caliber skier with great knowledge and ability. And I’m enjoying the rewards of these new challenges, of being accountable to my group and myself, and to helping a talented skier pursue his aspirations.

Plus, for an afternoon person, I’ve seen some beautiful sunrises along the way.

Experience Life Magazine

Midwest Muscles

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(Photo courtesy of Flickr)

Since I moved to Minneapolis six months ago, I’ve been continually amazed by the women here. Damn, they’re strong! I’m not talking about women in their 20s, 30s or 40s. I’m talking 50 plus, “une femme d’une certain age,” as the French say. Take my kettlebell class, for instance. There are no men in it. Just women who are my age, or close to it. I’m 62. Whether they’re doing jerks, snatches, lawnmower pulls or planks, I can barely keep up with them. I don’t think it’s just me, either. I’d like to see how many of those pumped guys in the free weight room could get through one of our hour-long circuit training classes. What are Minneapolis women made of?

I don’t just mean the ones swinging iron cannonballs through their legs and over their heads either. For my first three months in Minneapolis, before I rented my own house, I stayed with a friend’s mother named Mary Ellen who lives in Bloomington. She’s 83. By the time I’d get up at 7, she had already been up for hours cleaning, doing laundry and cooking. Even when it was 15 below zero, she’d be outside walking my dog and scraping the ice off my car windows. When I went to visit her the other weekend, she was gardening. No kneeling stool for her. She was on her knees, on cement — jeez, what I’d give to have her synovial fluid! I wish I could say Mary Ellen’s amazing strength comes from nutritious food choices. But her pantry staples include M&Ms, Cool Whip and margarine.

There’s a grandmother in my Pilates class who told me that her daughter is a germophobe and makes her kids continually wash their hands. I told her that children need to be exposed to germs in order to develop immunities. Paraphrasing an article I’d once read, I told her, “Studies show that people who grow up on farms don’t develop allergies because they’re exposed to everything.” “I grew up on a farm,” she told me, “and you know what, I’ve never been sick a day in my life.” Mary Ellen grew up on a farm too, with eight brothers and sisters who are either still alive or lived to a ripe old age. Her mother just died at 100.

I don’t know if the women in my kettlebell class grew up on farms. I’ll have to ask them. Better do it before class, though, while I still have some breath left. I’ll also have to ask my next door neighbor where she grew up. I just met her over the weekend. She had a hoe in her hand and was ripping out weeds in her backyard. Turns out she’s in her 90s and still teaches English at a Catholic high school.

Wonder if she does kettlebells?

Experience Life Magazine

Giving Boot Camp the Boot

Boot camp.jpg
Photo courtesy of Flickr

In last month’s blog I wrote about joining a Life Time Fitness boot camp class at the ripe old age of 62. I had hoped to keep you apprised of my progress, which I’m afraid isn’t going to happen. There will be no Hallmark TV movie or AARP magazine story to herald my success. After two weeks, I had to give boot camp the boot.

I had to admit I couldn’t do it.

A former pro football player named Walker Lee teaches the class that I joined at the Highland Park club. Outside of class, Walker comes off a low-keyed, quiet kind-of -guy. But when it comes to boot camp, watch out: He’s definitely in touch with his inner Attila the Hun.

Boot camp lasts three months, and takes place four evenings a week. Did I really think I could defy getting older by subjecting myself to such intense physical activity? What was I trying to prove?

After my first week, I was ready to report Walker to Amnesty International. Still, I refused to give up, reasoning that it would get easier as I built my stamina. Besides, I liked going home all sweaty and totally exhausted, knowing I could eat anything for dinner — if I only had the strength to open the refrigerator door.

For almost three weeks, a Civil War raged between my Mind and Body. While my Mind said, “You can do it,” my body countered, “No you can’t.” In the end, my Body planted the flag of victory. As Walker was chasing me around a large exercise ball, prodding me with the words, “Go Johnny go! Faster Faster!”, I felt something snap in my left leg.

As I limped to the side of the exercise room, Walker asked me if I was OK. When I told him what had just happened, he said, “Oh, you pulled a hammy.”

A hammy? Now how cute is that? Sounds like something Kermit the Frog would say to Miss Piggy.

Because I pulled my “hammy” on a Thursday night, I figured I’d have Friday and the weekend for it to heal. I’d be back in boot camp on Monday, raring to go. Maybe if I were a few decades younger, that might have been the case. When Monday came, my ability to walk was up there with James Caan after Kathy Bates hobbled him in Misery. I wonder if she knows Walker?

After a week of missing classes, I went to see Walker, who was working at the club’s information desk. “What should I do?” I asked him. “I don’t want to quit boot camp, but my hamstring isn’t healing.” I expected Walker to go into full drill instructor mode: “Johnny, you’re a wimp! Get back to class, but first drop and give me twenty!” Instead, he said: “Only you can answer that question.” Great, now he’s channeling Yoda from Star Wars.

It took a few weeks, but I finally did find the answer to my question. My body was right: The degree of physical exercise that boot camp offered was too much for me. But my mind was right too: As we get older, we need to challenge ourselves. In the great American spirit of compromise, I made a truce. I quit boot camp, but I didn’t quit exercising. I learned that when it comes to fitness, if one thing doesn’t work for you, there are a million alternatives that do.

And so, I am now doing kettlebells.

So far, so good. After an hour of doing cleans, jerks and snatches with a cannonball-like object, I still leave class worn out. But not so much that I can’t open the refrigerator door.

Experience Life Magazine

Giving Age the Boot

When I was in my early 20s, the fitness movement was just taking off. At the time, I was working as a newspaper reporter in San Francisco, which is my hometown. In those days, San Francisco didn’t have many health-club options outside the YMCA. As the baby boomers (we’re the generation that refused to grow up) signed up for the fitness revolution, membership at the Y began to swell.

So much so, that the weight room had to be moved from the Y’s dank basement to a sunny, warehouse-sized space on the fifth floor. I remember when the new fitness space was unveiled. It had something few gym-goers had seen before: Nautilus machines, rows of them, shiny and new, like Cadillacs in a showroom. During the Y’s busy hours, members queued up five-deep to use them.
In the early 1970s, the face of fitness was indeed changing.

I don’t know what happened to the gnarly old Russian power lifters and disgruntled Korean War vets who worked out in the Y’s cramped, free-weight basement. They never came upstairs to use the new fitness area. It was during this time that the Y became a co-ed facility, which put an end to nude swimming in its Olympic pool.

As the fitness craze continued to explode, more and more health clubs began opening in San Francisco. It wasn’t long before I said good-bye to the Y, and joined a snazzy club that had opened in the financial district. It offered aerobic classes, then a novelty.

Since the early 1970s, there’s never been a period of my life that I didn’t belong to a health club. Back in my San Francisco days, I never thought that would be the case. I used to think that working out and looking good wasn’t something older people were into. Unlike today, you didn’t see many older people at the health club. If you were older and wanted to look younger, you got a facelift.

I use to reason that when I got to be an old man of 50, I wouldn’t have to take out another health-club membership. Or carry a goofy gym bag. My youth would be gone. As Marianne Williamson says, after 50 the grace period is over. Might as well sit back and let gravity and dehydration do its thing. Yes, I reasoned, there’d be an upside to getting older. By not having to rush off to a gym after work, I could join my co-workers for happy hour at the local bar. Instead of lifting weights, I could be lifting martinis. Life in the 21st century would be easier.

But when I finally did turn 50, I encountered one of life’s many ironies: I needed to exercise more than ever.

I didn’t know that when I was in my 20s or 30s. Not many people outside of Jack LaLanne knew that then. We didn’t have all the anti-aging research we have now. We didn’t have Experience Life magazine to inform us about the lifelong advantages of staying fit.

As research continues to show, the body doesn’t have to wave a white flag to the march of time. Breaking into a sweat on a regular basis is the best anti-aging medicine there is. Since coming to work for Experience Life last February, I’ve learned a few things: To do nothing — to not work out or eat right — is to risk losing 10 percent of your bone mass per decade after the age of 40. Weightlifting and resistance training not only slow muscle loss, they can even reverse it. With each decade after age 30, inactive people lose 10 percent of their VO2 max — that being the maximum amount of oxygen a body can take in during exercise. Working out can slow that loss by as much as half.

Being able to retain oxygen gives you more stamina. This is especially important as we get older. We all know that life puts a lot of demands on our time. As we get older, though, those demands — job responsibilities, family, social engagements — tend to become less. That gives us more time to do fun things like ride bicycles, kayak and roller blade. To never grow up! Isn’t that why we baby boomers started the fitness revolution in the first place? Sorry, Tinkerbell. You don’t need fairy dust to stay young. You need stamina.

For me, stamina is best taken in the form of treadmills, group cycling, yoga, kettlebells, circuit training — just some of the cool things that health clubs offer today.

Now that I’ve passed the age of 60, I still carve out time for the gym.

Here’s why: Daily exercise prevents such age-related afflictions as cardiovascular disease, type 2 diabetes and arthritis. And even though I have arthritis, I find it better to go to the gym and deal with my discomfort rather than surrender to it; I know that inactivity would only make my condition worse. When I think of doing nothing, I see my grandmother, who also suffered from arthritis, sitting in an easy chair in front of a Philco TV set rubbing her swollen joints. In my mind, she was always old. The irony is, she was younger than I am today.

Here’s another one of life’s ironies: When I was a really young man, I got my induction notice to be drafted into the Army. Because I knew there was no way a wimpy kid like me could survive boot camp, I wrangled a medical deferment from my doctor.

Who could have predicted that 45 years later I’d willingly enlist in a boot class camp at the Life Time Fitness facility in St. Paul? But last week I did just that. It’s an incredibly tough workout, and not just physically but mentally, too: When I think I can’t do another pushup, I have to stop my brain from tweeting my body: “Give it up. Your grace period is over.” Instead, I have to think, “You can do this because you never stopped doing it.”

– John Stark, Experience Life Executive Editor