Given our deep-seated commitment to fitness, I should be a Peter Attia stan.
No, I’m not a Stanford educated MD, but I know a lot more than him about the fragility of life. At the end of his 60 Minutes profile, he talks about living into his 90s in order to spend meaningful time with his grandchildren. Admirable goal fo sho.
But then he naively explains how he also charts his 75 patients’ lives long into the future. Each of whom pays over $100k for his team’s work up and counsel, but I digress.
Someone has to tell him. And them.
Peter, all our exercise does is improve our odds of living longer better lives, but it doesn’t guarantee shit. There’s still a chance that at some point some of our cells divide uncontrollably, ignoring signals to stop. Or we could get hit by a car while completely exposed in our Zone 2 groove. Or [fill in the blank]. Related. There’s no guarantee your kids will have kids.
Control is a complete illusion.
Granted, no one is going to pay six figures for my advice, but here it is anyways. Focus on your current family not your future one. Live this year like it might be your last. Because it could be.
Owe the Slo-mo Turtle* an apology. Of sorts. One day last week I was running around baby Cap Lake when I had an inconvenient epiphany. Of sorts.
After pulling the plug on the run, I did what I almost never do. I pressed pause and sat on a bench by the lake to gather enough energy to scale the 4th Street bridges. And I reflected on all the things I do every day to extend my life, like run, lift weights, and eat vegetables. I don’t do those to consciously extend my life as much as I do to improve the quality of however much time is left.
But still, it’s hypocritical for me to be critical of the SmT for doing everything in her power to beat back MSA’s progression. Yes, it does make it harder to care for her, but I’d have the same inclinations if I was in her shell.
Because there’s no way to control for all the variables, and there’s no counterfactual, I don’t know whether her efforts are having any real effect. I see them more as grasping at some semblance of normality.
Today the SmT fell asleep while eating lunch. Afterwards, Hospice Audrey, a very nice PLU grad, came for a visit. We talked about sleep among other things. The SmT is bothered by sleeping way more than normal. Audrey encouraged her to listen to her body. As I repeatedly do.
She’s not good at that. She’s choosing to crawl into the ring with twenty-something Mike Tyson.
All of us are trying to delay the finale. Aren’t we? All of us fight inevitable decline in some combo of small subtle ways and larger more dramatic ones. Don’t we?
Sorry SmT, upon further thought, we are more alike than different.
*Another nickname for the GalPal inspired by her morning routine.
A year ago or so, when my wife’s Multiple System Atrophy (MSA) really started to take a toll on her and us, one of her close friends pulled me aside and said, “You’ve run a lot of marathons. This is going to be another one.”
It’s an apt metaphor until it isn’t. Apt in the sense that caring for my wife is daunting and it requires real endurance. And ultimately, it’s exhausting.
But when running marathons, there are markers every kilometer or mile that help you carve the total distance up into more manageable parts. “Okay, now I’m half done.” Or “Okay, now I just have to gut out a measly 10k.”
With MSA there are no markers unless you count steadily worsening mobility, steadily losing one’s voice, or steadily losing. . . pick the system. Despite my wife’s steady decline, I don’t know how to pace my caregiving, so cliché alert, it’s literally one day at a time.
Two aspects of it are especially hard.
The first is the utter selflessness required. A traditional marathon is almost entirely physical. It mostly boils down to whether you’ve put in the miles or not. In contrast, this caregiving marathon is entirely spiritual. Very simply put, the question is whether I can let go of all of my personal hopes and dreams to meet my wife’s immediate needs. All day. Every day. Over and over. And over.
I want to waste some time watching bad television, go away for the weekend, and sleep through the night uninterrupted, but I can’t do any of those things. Or much at all because there isn’t time.
We’re fortunate in that we’ve hired some help, which means I can squeeze in runs, rides, and swims, and thereby flush some of the stress. But some inevitably accumulates.
Recently, I approached a crosswalk in our nearby traffic circle at the start of a run. Not seeing me and thinking she would just roll into the circle, a driver approached the crosswalk way, way too fast and nearly clipped me. I straight-armed her bonnet and lost my shit. So much so she looked scared and immediately turned apologetic. For those scorekeeping at home, my anger was worser than her speeding. “Who have I become?” I wondered.
Which leads to the second challenge. Instead of mustering some semblance of self-compassion, which I’ve become convinced is probably the key to a good life, I continually beat myself up, concluding I’m not nearly up to the spiritual demands of providing the patient, selfless, and kind care my wife would undoubtedly provide me if the situation was reversed.
So, instead of saying to myself, “Ron, you’re doing the best you can to be as selfless as possible in very difficult circumstances.” I find myself thinking. “Because I lack the requisite spiritual depth, I’m doing a shit job caring for my wife.” Those are not constructive thoughts. But, they are mine.
You know what “they” say, “Common sense is not common.” Well worth a listen. Two critiques. They don’t pay enough attention to how to help sedentary people begin moving and there’s no mention of the role genetics play in longevity.
Dude rolls into the Plum Street Y sporting his own 7 foot 45 pound bar like it was a javelin and he’s an ancient warrior. Everyone has their own way of signaling toughness I guess. I just bench 125 pounds in five sets of five to let everyone know I’m not effing around.
Guess the Y’s eight or nine bars just don’t feel right? The mind whirls. Does he take his own eggs to his favorite breakfast place? His own range balls to the driving range? His own violin to the symphony concert? Just how far does his self sufficiency go?
Same day I refrain from telling another strange denizen that his too many to count tats looked just plain awful. Just in case he’s like the elderly bloke next to me with 255 pounds on the bar.
YMCAs are right up there with public libraries as the (dis)United States best hope for not completely unraveling.
In late December, since my Olympia “Y” pool was closed, I visited the Lakewood, Washington “Y”. And today, I swam at the Santa Monica, California “Y”.
Now, the obvious question is why didn’t I swim in Santa Monica College’s Olympic-sized outdoor pool. Two reasons. Most importantly, I’m stupid. Secondly, it was raining, and not having a locker, I wasn’t sure if I could keep my towel and sundry-related items dry. Upon further thought, I’m sure I could’ve stuffed them under a bleacher, so, see reason one.
The results are in. Lakewood GOLD; Olympia SILVER; and Santa Monica a distant BRONZE. The GalPal had the perfect adjective for Santa Monica—rough. So rough, but instead of dunking on the fine people of Santa Monica, let me highlight the things that earn a “Y” the most points in my rigorous reviews and associated rankings.
Cleanliness. No hairballs floating around in the pool or in the sinks or showers por favor.
Showers that stay on. Talking to you Olympia. I work out too hard to also have to punch the shower knob every 30 seconds. And it’s hard to really enjoy your shower when all you can think is “It’s about to cut off isn’t it. Now? Now? Now for sure!”
HOT showers. Not warm. Go ahead, scald me. Promise I won’t sue.
Water pressure. Go ahead, by all means, blast me across the shower floor. See above, I’m not litigious.
Sink facuets that stay on. Talking to you Olympia. . . Briggs and Plum Street. The faster I can shave, the brighter your review/ranking prospects.
Have a large digital clock poolside. This should prob be number one. Ignore this criterion at your own risk. Talking to you Olympia.
Nice benches to sit on, not stools (Lakewood) or short slabs of wood masquerading as benches (SM).
From this foundation, I could get all bougie and add in carpeted locker rooms, sauna and steam rooms, and and and, but then the “Y” might loose it’s greatest asset, its relative accessibility and middle class vibe.
As a result of running 4.2 miles yesterday morn, I maintained my now twenty-five year long streak of running at least 1,000 miles a year. On Gull Harbor Road, at mile 999, I thought to myself, what if that oncoming car just drifts over the fog line and takes me out? Of course, I still have the lateral movement of an elite punt returner.
For the record, the streak continued at the intersection of 47th Ave NE and Boston Harbor Rd as I turned the corner with TSwift, Bon Iver, and Evermore.
This one was was tough, especially after dealing with blood clots in early August and then chronic achilles tendonitis which I haven’t managed smartly.
Bagging a thousand used to be easy, especially when doing half marathons, marathons, and/or triathlons. Hitting four digits was just a routine annual byproduct of being ready to race decently. Now that I’ve retired from competition, the lengthy streak itself is the only motivation. And being fit and enjoying life more as a result of improved physical, mental, and spiritual vitality.
On top of the running, I’ve swam just over 200 kilometers and rode just over 5,000 miles this year, so a decent bit of cross training.
I enjoy swimming and cycling a little more than running these days because they’re less difficult. To continue the streak, I have to sublimate my ego, and let go of pace. I suppose, as I run shorter and slower, I will contribute to the common good that is Strava endurance athletes who can feel better about their relative performance.
I don’t know how long I can or want to keep it going. The key to extending it will be doing a better job of listening to my body in terms of how often, how far, and how “fast” to run. More specifically, I suspect I will need to run shorter, even slower, and more often to extend it.
Thanks to my ace training partners for their continued inspiration and company most Saturdays. MARN, who decided to take up marathoning in his sixth decade. The Byeson, who is a marvel at 5+ years older than me. The Pal, who is somehow getting faster in his fifth decade. And the undefeated University of Washington Husky who effortlessly rows, cycles, and runs right past you.
Thanks especially to the GoodWife for stirring my inner-athlete the most this year. Despite serious health challenges, she is channelling her father’s spirit and is displaying real grit, regularly walking, swimming, and cycling. Watching her pick her way up, down, and around Natches Peak trail in early October was inspiring beyond words.
If I stay healthy and can be half as tough as her next year, the streak will continue.
“Exercise can be an act not of vanity, but of psychological self-care. Many wars are being waged against women—against our bodies, our rights, our sizes, our images of ourselves, and who is and isn’t allowed to claim this identity. For a long time, I felt that by rejecting movement, I was rejecting an idealized and impossible body image, that I was learning “self-acceptance.” But really I was just sabotaging my own mental health.”
As she highlights, those “wars” sometimes apply to men too.
I’m going to assume a few things. First, you’re unfamiliar with the San Luis Obispo Swim Center. Second, the next time you’re passing through the Central California coast, you’re gonna want to get your swim on at the Center.
I can’t quite explain how infatuated I am with the Center, an outdoor Olympic sized pool that has three generous lap swimming shifts a day, year round. Owned by the city, it single handedly proves the public sector works. Built in 1979, it’s “Exhibit A” of substance over style. The “locker room” doesn’t have lockers, people just leave their post swim accessories—shampoo, soap, shaving cream—splayed on wood benches and on their towels near the showers. It’s the epitome of rustic minimalism. And it works beautifully at keeping all the classist dilettantes away.
Thursday pre-dawn, the Center’s Sinsheimer pool was set up long course meters. I split my lane with another dude. Air temp in the mid-30s, I couldn’t see from one end to the other because of the steam rising from surface. Just like the old days when the mighty Cypress High Centurions water polo team practiced before first period. Saturday noon, I had one of the twenty 25-yard lanes spread across the beautiful behemoth to myself.
The only negative, besides the Pacific Northwest winter weather, was the cashier who charged me the senior rate, $3.75, without any questions. Dammit, I wanted to pay the $4.25.
After Saturday’s swim, I chatted up an eight-year old swimming stud* and then read the Center’s rules and policies while waiting for the GalPal. Allow me to highlight the most important rules and policies to help you avoid an embarrassing infraction.
Proceeding from “fairly easy” to “impossibly hard”.
1st. And I quote, “Guests currently suffering from active diarrhea or who have had diarrhea within the previous 14 days shall not be allowed to enter the pool water.”
2nd. Horseplay, sitting on shoulders, or throwing of guests is not allowed.
3rd. Animals are not allowed to enter the water at any time.
4th. Excessive displays of public affection are not allowed.
The Good Wife struggles mightily with the last. To reduce the odds of an infraction, I purposely pick a lane a safe distance away.
You are welcome.I hope you enjoy your swim(s) half as much I enjoy mine. Long live the Center.
*My new eight-year old friend swims, plays soccer, and baseball. “Yeah, I always make the All-Star team,” he said matter-of-factly, “but I don’t get to play because I have to visit my family in Greece.” “Always?!” What, has he been named to eight All-Star teams in a row?! I spared him a “family privilege” talk.
Pressing Pause 