The Moody Bugle

The Toughest Question

Thu, 23 Oct 2008 20:34:53 GMT

So, there I was, sitting in a little booth at Pura Vida, the new fitness club in Cherry Creek, answering all the new member questions that Member Wellness Advisor Dr. Kathleen Gross was tossing my way. We were talking details so she could develop a training program that would take in my both my goals and limitations.

She was digging deep, but still hadn't struck the mother lode.

"What's your stress level? Where does it come from?"

"Any physical problems?"

"What is your usual workout like?"

"What motivates you?"

"What is your goal with this new program?"

"How many times have you started a program?"

Simple. Easy-peasy. Until she asked this:

"What are you so afraid of?"

And it stopped me in my tracks. I had no idea how to answer. Maybe I wouldn't have to answer. If I just came up with a catchy one liner, maybe we could just skip over this part. Or I could say "I ain't afraid of nuthin'" and let it go at that. But the 45-seconds of uncomfortable silence that passed since she asked the question (and as my brain made all the arguments for and against answering) made me realize that I was stuck.

She wanted an answer.

And I wanted to give her one, because, with one simple question, she had struck deep to the heart of the matter.

I counted back. Since the very first "Saving Moody's Heart" Series, I've done four series about working out and getting in shape. In each one, I've achieved at least a modicum of success and then -- let it go. Each time. This was my fifth try. Fifth.

Indeed. What AM I so afraid of?

Being laughed at for trying? That hasn't been a problem. While I don't like BEING the fool, I don't mind PLAYING the role. Since I started this so long ago, I've been praised by many, but also teased, laughed at, called a "Cheeseball," a "Fathead," any variety of words I can't really use here, and my favorite, "I can't believe that you're being seen as the face of Denver fitness." (What could I do? I thanked the woman for her kind words, then, sat quietly as she spent the next ten minutes explaining the notion of sarcasm. It was okay. I made her buy the drinks.)

What am I so afraid of?

That the journey is far more satisfying than the goal?

That once I reach the goal the story is over?

That a single goal is too simplistic? And once achieved, is easily lost?

Am I afraid of failing? Possibly.

But more likely, am I afraid of success?

Ah, now we have something.

With success, comes the responsibility to perform, not only at that level, but beyond that level into new and more demanding disciplines. Do I have the time, the heart, the discipline, the guts to do that? Do I have the motivation to reach beyond Ride the Rockies, June, 2009, and find more goals, more events, more reasons for staying fit other than the fact that the Moodys of history have an unpleasant way of dropping head first into the mashed potatoes at a young age? (You see or hear of two or three relatives doing that in quick succession and it kind of dulls the impact on your motivation. Trust me.)

Do I really have the motivation to keep trying -- one more time? Two more? How many more?

After all, life is so much easier if lived warm and cozy deep within the velvet lined trap of mediocrity.

So, what am I afraid of?

It was the best question I've been asked in years.

And I still don't have an answer for it.

RIGHT IN THE MEEDLE OF BROADWAY

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 23:11:07 GMT

After all that time spent in the gym, I figured it was about time to get into some serious pedaling. If I recall correctly from last year, about this time o' the year, I was trying to climb Squaw Pass Road (Is THAT happening again?) and Lookout. And even with that climbing, I realized on Ride the Rockies that I had fallen short in a very serious way -- seat time. Mon derriere was not quite accustomed to 3-6-8 hours in the saddle. My sit-upon could not be sat upon.

So, I've abandoned the gym until after the Ride, holding onto the active stretching knowledge that I got from Dan Linsacum to work up to enough flexibility to get my leg over the saddle, and have been riding on a regular basis. At the moment, I'm riding two different bikes, one is THE BIKE, the 2007 Specialized Roubaix Expert Triple, which is my go-to bike whenever the mood is upon me and the ride is important. (It's the primary bike and I've named it THE DONALD after my late father. I figured that naming it thus would give him one more chance to carry me on his back through a crisis as he did, oh, so many times before.)

The secondary bike is no slouch, either. It's a 2007 LeMond Versailles, which I use as my rain and station bike. It, too, has a triple chain ring and comfort geometry, plus a range of 30 different gears, like the Roubaix.

How I wound up with two bikes, after having none as of last February, is an interesting story, get me sloshed sometime on the Ride and I'll tell you all about it.

So, anyway, on the weekends, during the week, during working hours (gosh, I hope the boss doesn't see this), I've been out pedaling. Any time to get the seat time.

Then, today, as I was flying down Broadway (start-stop-start-stop-start), a small pickup truck pulled over to the side of the street. A woman got out and gestured for me to stop. For a second, I thought I was getting nicked by Law Enforcement for an obscure cycling law (46.2 (a) -- Too Big a Butt for Too Small a Seat), but in fact it was Phyllis Boccuzzi (of Boccuzzifitness.com), an elite fitness coach and USCF/USOC licensed coach. We stood for a while on Broadway, chatting away, while traffic passed within inches, drivers honking, yelling, making interesting gestures of a singular nature, and Phyllis told me that she had been watching the training stories and that there was no surprise to her in the fact that my knees hurt on a regular basis. From her perspective, I was "crushing" the pedals. Crank, shift weight, albeit slightly, crank, shift weight, grind, churn, crank, crush. It gives you an odd "whoosh, whoosh, whoosh" sound as you ride, rather than the steady hum you should hear.

She told me to work on my pedal stroke to smooth it out, balance the effort, increase the efficiency, power and cadence. Without doing that, whatever miles I might put in would be junk. Make them work for you.

It was great advice. Out of the blue. Right there in the middle -- the MEEDLE -- of Broadway on a Wednesday afternoon.

What a moment.

And I couldn't help but think, as I pedaled (smoothly) toward Wash Park, what other sport contains people who will just pull over in the middle of the street, in the middle of a work day, toss out a bit of advice, shake your hand and drive or ride away?

Only cycling. It's a rare breed.

How's It Going? Better Than I Thought!

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 21:08:23 GMT

Time is growing short. Ride the Rockies is, what, six, seven weeks away? But am I getting any stronger?

I'm cross training like nobody's business, both to be ready for Ride the Rockies and what I hope to accomplish at the Velodrome track in the Springs. But I've got to wonder -- how's it going, other than slowly?

I don't know if it's the age or the mileage, but it has been a lot tougher to catch up with where I was last summer than it was to get there the first time. I'm getting there, but it's slow progress. Trainer Dan Linsacum is driving the cross training bus for me, and he's trying to make me succeed without serious breakage.

First, we always do something called active stretching. Five different exercises, five reps each, two sets, just to get the blood moving and the parts stretched out a bit. There's very little rest inbetween. 10-15 seconds, max.

Than, an energy development program, which is, essentially, cardio with resistance. That's on the Stairmaster today, with 10, 20 and 30 second intervals, ten to twenty minutes total, depending on the rest of the day.

That's followed by two groups of resistance training for strength and cardio (It always comes back to cardio. You'd think I almost had a heart attack once or something.) Romanian dead lifts are followed by BOSU push up, arm and leg raises (which are easy, I love 'em) and then a second set of exercises, with squat pulls, a one legged shoulder press (for balance) and tossing the old medicine ball around.

About then, I had to ask Dan: How am I doing?

"Your effort is 100 percent. There's no problem there. In fact, sometimes, I've got to slow you down a little. All these exercises are aimed at a goal, which is Ride the Rockies. A second goal, is to lose 30 pounds. I'm glad that's the SECOND goal. We'll lose the weight as your activity increases. Right now we want to focus on strength and balance and endurance."

Then, the capper for the day is a few minutes of boxing. I like boxing. I like to spike my heart rate. I like to punch things. It all makes me a much nicer person at the end of the day. Much nicer. Even you might like me.

Ah, but the weight -- the weight. It keep clawing at me, like a two ton mosquito in the middle of the night. Look. If you're under 50 and you've got to lose some weight, a bit of advice. Lose it now. Once you pass 50, you're going to discover that your body hangs onto weight like crazy Aunt Marge hangs onto her cats and old newspapers. It gets harder and harder to lose. No matter what the effort.

One thing I've realized -- I was always able to 'cheat' a bit in the past and get away with it on the scale. No more. Despite the siren song of the dessert tray that I still hear each and every night.

Oh, my.

******************

AN UPDATE:

After my story on the cross training program ran, Trainer Dan Linsacum decided to see if we had made any progress AWAY from the scale. It turns out that we have. In the two months of training we've completed, my body fat has dropped by more than two percentage points, my blood pressure has taken a nose dive, from 138/99 in February to 115/84 this week. My shoulders, biceps, thighs, calves and forearms have grown, while my waist has somehow misplaced a full 2 1/2 inches. No wonder my pants fit. Well, fit better.

So, we are on the right track. The weight is not necessarily going away -- depending on when I weigh, what I wear and which scale I use (and if I'm thinking light and airy thoughts), I'm down anywhere from 1.5 to 5.5 pounds.

None of that -- and I mean none of that -- is bad.

We're on the right track.

And just seeing those numbers has put me in a tremendous mood.

A Participant, Not a Spectator

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 21:15:00 GMT

Over the past few weeks, I've been dealing with a midlife crisis of sorts. (Midlife, HA! How many 100 year old Moodys do you know?) I've been bothered by my exercise efforts, which seem supreme ("Can't Bre-a-the"), versus my exercise results (slow weight loss, slow return of fitness, hips that feel like they're coated with sandpaper). Anyway, if you've been following this blog, you know the riff I've been playing. Darned depressing, if you ask me.

But, today, I got a boost. The workout wasn't any easier, but I did stick with it, even when I couldn't seem to catch my breath. I made it all the way through, including a few moments of high heart rate were I looked at the monitor and dimly realized that if it went a few beats higher, a red light would go on between my ears, a bell would ring and I'd win a free ride in an ambulance.

Anyway, there I was, walking between exercises (schlumping between exercises) when Ted, a friend of mine at Matrix Fitness, wandered past and said, "You know, it may hurt to put in the effort you're putting in every day over here, but remember something -- at the end of the day, you're a participant. There are participants in life and spectators. You're a participant."

And, somehow, that made me feel a lot better.

No, I'll never be able to race Taylor Phinney. (I could. I'd lose.)

I'll never see 145 pounds again -- until I've been dead for a couple of months.

I'll never this. I'll never that.

But, as my wife and other friends keep reminding me, "You're trying."

I am. I am awfully trying.

I may not be good. I may not be fast. I may not be thin.

But I'm in the game.

I'm a participant. The gym. The track. Ride the Rockies.

I'm a participant.

That is the greatest compliment I've heard in years.

Struck by a Reality Overload

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 23:20:11 GMT

So, Tuesday afternoon, I was up in Boulder at the Boulder Center for Sports Medicine, talking to Juniors World Champion Cyclist Taylor Phinney, son of Connie Carpenter Phinney and Davis Phinney. We chatted for a few moments, a humble, focussed kid and an ego-driven, highly unfocussed reporter, then set up to videotape one of his training sessions. Taylor was joined by other riders, a group that included state champs, solid riders and promising juniors: Jamie, Jesse, Janek, Robin and Coach Neal Henderson.

On computer trainers, Henderson put the group through an interval training session, taking them up to max, then pushing beyond, with eight intervals for 40 seconds, followed by 20-second breaks, a drop down to easy pedaling, back up to max for 7 intervals of 40 seconds each, followed by the 20 second break, then again, through intervals of 6-40's and 20s.

Hey, I thought, that's nothin! I've done that many intervals.

So fat, so silly, so full of hot air.

I hadn't bothered to look at the gearing the guys where riding in, or the resistance on the trainer. These guys, these high school students, where ALL in the BIG RING up front and one of the small guys in the back, like 51-53 x 12-14. Those are the gears I use when I'm riding downhill. Like down a mountain side. They were using them for their regular interval training -- with resistance -- and -- early on, anyway -- no one was really breaking a sweat.

That came later. As did the look, the sounds of effort.

For me, those sounds come earlier. Much earlier. Like during warm up.

And, suddenly, I had an epiphany.

Who the hell was I kidding?

I'm not a racer. I'm not even that much of a rider. I can do enough not to embarrass myself in front of small children, but anyone who knows anything has only got to look at my form to determine that God did not build me for such activities.

It's like that way with pretty much everything.

I play bridge, but I can't keep the suits straight. (A cousin lobbed a soda bottle at my head after one particularly stupid play.)

In chess, which I love, I'm a patzer, a patsy, an easy mark.

In cribbage, I'm an easy skunk.

In golf, which I played for years, including two on the high school team, I'm clearly a duffer. (Ask me sometime about the slice off the tee in Three Rivers, Michigan, that darned near took out the front window of a passing car ... hoo-hah!)

In most of what I do, especially when it comes to athletic activity, I'm an amateur. Not a gifted amateur, mind you, an amateur, pure and simple. One step, perhaps, above a novice, thanks to the books and equipment I've bought along the way, but a beginner, nonetheless.

In the end, I'm essentially stumbling down the road, bumbling down the path and wobbling around the track -- and it is the track that has got me worried.

I mean, you see somebody really, and I mean, REALLY good, like Taylor Phinney and his roomful of compatriots, and you really begin to question your own lopsided passion for a sport that torques your back and burns your knees and gives you a set of saddle sores that even Gene Autry would admire. You question your bike handling skills, skills that will be necessary, if not life-saving, on the track. You question your speed, your endurance and your will to do it. You even question your courage, as you realize that you're stepping outside your comfort zone in a way that may just bite back. Even Taylor Phinney told me, "Those mass start races on the track? Wow, they can get dicey."

And he's a World Champion!

All these thoughts keep crowding into my head like a bunch of empty, worthless boxes being stuffed into the walk-in attic of my mind. They threaten to push aside the passion and the joy and the thrill of not only riding, but taking on a new challenge every year, another route for Ride the Rockies, another way to ride as fast as I possibly can in a circle with 33% walls. I want to move them out, but they tend to take root quickly and refuse to leave.

But, then again.

Maybe ... maybe ... if I just say 'the hell with it," and go ride my bike.

That should blow the stink off me. That might just move a few boxes.

That's -- is a plan.

What a Drag It is Getting Old ...

Tue, 08 Apr 2008 20:19:08 GMT

Saturday and Sunday this past weekend, I was working on a number of honeydew projects in the backyard, bending, painting, cutting (slicing fingers) to help my wife prepare for the high school after prom party this coming weekend. And, by Sunday afternoon, my back had locked up big time.

I tried a new trick I had heard about to loosen it up, but that just torqued it all the more, and, by late Sunday, I was wandering the aisles of the local pharmacy, looking for pills, formulas and emolliants to relieve my pain.

As I walked, I gathered, which I tend to do in a store, picking up whatever seems like it would help. This cream and that lotion and this wrap and ooooo some hair color that only hides a bit of the gray (not like the black exterior enamel I've thought of using ...), and another wrap and some No More Hurting Back pills. When I looked down at my little basket, I suddenly realized that I wasn't shopping for me, I was shopping for my grandfather. This was all the stuff that had lined his medicine cabinet when I was a kid. Same boxes and bottles, only 20 times more expensive.

I thought about it for a minute and retraced my steps. First, the analgesic cream went back, and the heating linament. Then the wraps and the hair color, which I realized would only postpone the inevitable, then the pills and the wraps. When I finally left the store, I was carrying four AA batteries and a sore back.

The sore back, I could put up with. I've had 'em before, and I would have 'em again.

I could always stretch that out tomorrow at Matrix. Or get a rub down.

What I still have yet to deal with is the fact that this shell I laughingly call my body isn't quite what it used to be. A few more things are wrinkled. A few more pounds refuse to leave. A few more aches and pains seem to have set up permanent residency in my hips and lower back.

They slow me down. They get in my way. They torque me off.

They don't stop me, but they do make me admit, Mick was right.

It certainly is a drag getting old.