At My Peak

Wait, is that Woody Allen?

Fall brings the changing of the leaves, cooler temperatures, pumpkin spice hysteria/overload and the joy of my annual physical. As I've just turned 50, and knowing that my doctor has been warning me for two years that the physical for my 50th would bring 'fun' things (colonoscopy), I wasn't looking forward to it.

Today was the day of my physical. First, I am delighted to report that there was no -scopy of any kind, rather just a referral and a sixty day window to get that done. Secondly, I can report that I am at my peak. Unfortunately, it's not my good peak so 'tis nothing to crow about.

As I sat on the exam table, scantily clad in a purple paper robe, facing my physician, he painted the following picture of my craptastic peak:

• I am at my heaviest weight ever. I won't reveal the number...yet, but it wasn't good.
• My bad cholesterol levels are the highest they've ever been.
• My good cholesterol level is heading towards ruin faster the Kardashians' sense of propriety.
• I am now approaching "Poster Boy" status for Potential Heart Attack Victim.
• On the bright side, my blood sugar levels were delightful.

As he laid all that out for me, the paper robe seemed to be getting tighter and tighter. I felt I might be turning the same shade of purple as the robe. But it wasn't the robe choking me out. It was my own shame recognition that this is all my own doing. I am at my craptastic peak because I've let myself get there. I'm the one who stopped running, something I thought would have been impossible. I'm the one who even last night at a donut place in Urban Space Vanderbilt had no problem whatsoever shoveling that pumpkin donut into his mouth. To be fair, it was delicious. I'm the one who let this happen. It's all on me. So my shame was at DefCon 1 as my good doctor went through the litany of sins that I'd committed against the temple that is my middle-aged body.

In high irony, it was a relief when he stopped that fusillade and moved on to the worst part of the exam. You know the one I'm talking about. The one that the late Joan Rivers riffed on how men really have it easy when they go to the doctor versus what women experience. She said something like this, "A man gets turned over on his stomach. He gets to pretend he's in a spy movie. 'I'll tell you nothing Nazi pig!'" For better or worse, that part of the exam was over in no time, sans a spy movie scenario.

But what is not over is the reality that I am at my craptastic peak. That's not a fun peak upon which to rest because coming down is going to be a nightmare. Usually, when climbing a peak, you nearly break yourself on the way up. It's the hike down off this one that is going to be, well, unpleasant. It's got to be done.

The climb down from Mt. Dadbod starts today.

Everything Must Go!

The Bible teaches in 1 (that's "First" not "one," Mr. Trump) Corinthians that "your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost." That teaching has spurned many to teach the value of treating your body like a temple, as opposed to an amusement park or a wrecking yard.

The fact is that in this life we've only got one body and we really should treat it well. The counsel to treat it like a temple is really wise. Some of us, though, have seen these temples of ours go through some unwelcome additions (weight gain), unexpected developments (Hello, MOOBS!), as well as some delightful renovations (like when I was at my peak running condition a few years ago). At this stage of my life, this temple of mine, this body, is feeling a lot like a neglected Trump casino. The original investment has gone sour and things have gotten unsightly and people really would prefer to keep the unsightliness covered up (several new rash guards were just ordered for the cruise at the end of the month - you're welcome, fellow cruise guests). Unlike Trump and his casino businesses, I'm not prepared to throw in the towel, declare bankruptcy, and walk away. There's still hope for another nice renovation.

That's the amazing thing about these bodies of ours. We can renovate them and I'm not talking in skanky Kardashian surgical fashion. With a little, or a lot of, work, we can literally reshape this thing. It's amazing what our bodies can do, like fighting off ailments, curing itself, and regenerating stuff. I was thinking about this as I donated blood this morning. Although it took me until I was 35 years old (because I was an EPIC chicken) to start donating, I've been an uber-regular blood donor ever since. The blood can go, as far as I'm concerned. It regenerates itself and in donating, I'm literally saving lives. I'm doing something good for my fellowman. In an effort to keep that doing good for my fellowman thing going, I long ago decided to be an organ donor. Once I'm dead, I will have ZERO use for any of my organs, so why not give them away? Seriously, if there's something useful, take it, use it, go on living with my spleen or my heart. I'd give you my gall bladder but that useless piece of junk took its leave from the temple here a few years ago. No gall bladder for you! To make up for that (no, not really), I recently signed on as a bone marrow donor. Again, as far as I'm concerned, it can go too. If a bit of my marrow can help someone with a blood cancer, I'm in. I can get along just fine without it. When I read the documentation associated with the marrow donation, I was in awe, again, of these temples - these bodies - that we possess.

So, sure, everything must go! A bit of blood every eight weeks. A bit of marrow when they find a match. An organ or two, or more, when I'm dead. Frankly, that's the easy stuff. The hard part? The necessary renovations to the Temple of Me that I need right now. Losing the moobs and the pillowy soft, middle-aged DadBod. That's the really hard part. And that foolishness, yeah, it really needs to go!

To find your nearest opportunity to donate blood with the Red Cross, go here
To sign up as an organ donor, go here or here
To learn more about marrow donation through DKMS, go here

Those First Bad Miles

@thetelegraph.co.uk
While not me, the sweat, pasty white legs, and expression are tragically familiar.

Once upon a time, I was a runner. No, really, I was. And by 'runner,' I don't mean an uncanny ability to run at breakneck speed whenever the "Hot Doughnuts" sign started flashing at the nearest Krispy Kreme. At the peak of my running, I was putting in close to 30 miles a week, got more than a few 5K and 10K races under my water belt. I paced a friend during one of his epic ultra marathons and I even completed two half marathons. I loved it. I loved the training. I loved the feeling of the sun on my skin. I loved the feeling of snow crunching under my running shoes. I loved the paradox of sweating as it snowed during a five mile run. I was never going to break a speed record or be first across the finish line but I loved how I felt. Oh, and I loved being twenty fives pound lighter than I am today.

And then one day, I didn't love it anymore.

Literally (thanks, Chris Traeger), it was over in a day. Well, maybe not a day, but it was shocking how quickly this thing I'd loved for several years disappeared from my life. Not shocking was how quickly the weight came back, giving me the #dadbod I now sport. The reasons for the 'falling out of love' are myriad and by and large, they are nothing more than a series of lame excuses. I'm not happy about it. I feel guilty in the company of my friends who run. While I am still a subscriber to Runner's World, I am embarrassed to read it in public. Somehow the visual of a magazine dedicated to running and staying healthy resting on my bulging gut as I read it on the train is all kinds of not right. Not right at all.

Several years ago, Simon Pegg (the pasty Brit about to have a seizure in the picture above) starred in a film called, "Run Fatboy Run." Pegg plays an out of shape, lazy bloke who decides to win back the affections of his ex-fiancee and son by running the London Marathon with an obscene lack of training. Without giving away the plot details, you can guess how it ends...of course, he finished the marathon (in ugly fashion) and wins back the love of his life. Go, romcoms! Because that's how life works, right?

Why the film reference? Because I woke up yesterday morning and said, 'I'm running again.' I laced up my beloved Brooks and like the Fatboy from the movie, I ran and I ran ugly. It was an ugly two miles yesterday. Some of the hardest two miles I can remember. But here's the thing...I liked it.

There will be ups (my manboobs flailing akimbo - Farmington Trail runners, you have been warned!) and downs (my uncanny ability trip while running). It's not going to be pretty, but as a Bollywood singer once warbled, "Love's never easy." I'm ready to fall in love with running again. So here I go.

Wish me luck.