And on the 5th day he crashed

Quitters fail, winners fail to quit. The hunger for success ain’t quenched with the bitter fruit of failure. It is not failure that makes the man, but what the man makes of failure. Living safe is merely the false walls erected to protect from failure. See yonder mountain? I shall conquer! Yadda, yadda, yadda. Blah, blah, blah. Platitude generator primed. Insert the obligatory flower sprouting out of a dry lake bed. FREEDOM!!! Then the cold hand of reality smacks the sense back into me. I nearly crashed and burned attempting a 10-day cleanse while still training. Failure gave me no options.  Unfortunately, HIPA laws prohibit full disclosure of my health information. What I can share is the experience of failing to complete the 10-day cleanse… two hours short of the halfway mark.

Have you ever seen the poor marathoner who lost all control of bodily form and function feet from the finish line? Poop stained zombie legs, gravity playing tricks on them, and the lights on upstairs while no body is home. The crowd anguishing. Grimacing at every step. Yet, the nonsexual voyeurism is must see -- even capturing the attention of the most squish of onlookers in the audience. Fortunately, that wasn’t me. I just wanted you to soak up that mental picture of poop stained legs. No, I could walk, and did not lose bowel control. The old #2 was taken care of with the morning saltwater cleanse. As your attorney, I advise you to be no more than ten paces from a well-stocked restroom for the next hour.

What I did experience rattled the cage. Cognitive meltdown manifested in difficulty to transfer rudimentary thought from my brain to my mouth. And the meltdown was quick. While collaborating on a presentation my assistant poked fun at me for saying funny things. I usually own funny with exuberance. Except this time, I was struggling to stay focused on simply staying focused. The words coming out of my mouth were not the ones intended, which set off alarm bells. Over the years of endurance training I have occasionally dragged my body into the low blood sugar stages. Not a healthy space to reside in for long, and one to quickly evacuate. I stashed a jar of peanut butter in my desk for this very situation. Three large scoops, and the cleanse was no more. Two hours short of completing the fifth day. The end was only the beginning of the real excitement. A panic attack.

Retracing the final hours of the cleanse has brought me to the conclusion that my body begun to go into caloric shock; and my brain, depleted of nutrition because the Master Cleanse drink was no match against five hard swim work outs, sent the brain into survival mode. Within minutes, the tunnel began to close. I struggled to break a $5 bill for the vending machine. I need granola bars, Sprite, and to calm the freak down! We all know there is no shame in having a medical emergency at work. But all hell would break loose if first responders were needed as a result of an ill-fated stunt. The lizard escaped and took the frontal cortex hostage.

After two hours of scarfing down vending machine treats, and some not so silent prayers to the Maker, I exited the panic highway. There is no doubt in my mind the peanut butter saved the day. This here bravado boy was heading down a steep slope toward zombie limbs and fecal leg-warmers if I had not quickly ate those three scoops of peanut butter. So, the next time I cleanse it will be cut to four days max… no work outs… and emergency peanut butter on my person at all times.   

Challenge Two: 20! Valley of Death (revisited)

The human form allows for a push-up to be a primary function of working out. Nearly all upper body exercises trace their lineage to push-ups. Raw as physics, elegant as creation. Body weight and gravity -- push the body away from the Earth’s gravitational pull as many times as possible. The simplicity. The beauty. The agony.

Revisiting the fractional push-up challenge excited me. Focusing on push-up training taps into my love for exercises that take me on a walk down the lonely road. Work has to be done, and on my own. The work Jaron assigned was a basic high rep, long rest set of push-ups. Twice a week for six weeks I did five rounds of forty push-ups on five minute intervals. Warm up the shoulders with a few sets of ten, then get it on! Two hundred push-ups across twenty minutes is middle of the pain spectrum for workouts. But two days later the soreness grenade explodes. Overnight, the sternum’s anger draws in the pectoral muscles, causing the shoulders to roll and the back to hunch. The toes hurt too. After being a fulcrum for all the push-ups, a slight drag to the step can be seen by the villagers. Envy not Quasimodo, the bells of my cathedral will ring once I can raise the hands above my belt.

The challenge goes as follows: Start with 20 push-ups, rest :30 seconds. Then proceed to remove one rep every round on :30 seconds rest, down to 1 rep. The Valley of Death version calls for going back up to 20 after hitting 1. Adding one rep each round. When all is said and done, it is a 420 push-up workout. This go around I decided near the bottom to revise the rest from :30 seconds to :20. Twenty-five minutes later the sweat poured and life was still grand.

Next challenge: Spartan 300

Hula-hoop ain't no punk

A few years back my ole swim sister from another mister, Tracy began diversifying her fitness plan with a hula hoop. I snickered at her assertion hula hooping is a legitimate form of exercise -- in the same pantheon of running, crunching, pushing up, pulling up, and so on and so forth. Yeah right! The water buffalo colony bobbing in the pool’s shallow end, and grooving to Jazzercise hits of the 80’s have a better argument for calling their social hour a work out than does Tracy. Keeping a plastic tube spinning is bygone child’s play. Maybe if you were a ten year old in 1952 hula hooping could be considered exercise. Interestingly enough, that era’s logic pool promoted smoking as a vacation for one’s throat. Kids, do your patriotic duty for the country. Hula hooping and smoking Camels keeps you relaxed and physically fit to fight those Commies. For Pete’s sake, Tracy watches television, responds to text messages, and reads academic publications during her forty-five minute “work outs.” This propaganda is brought to you in part by the generous donation by The Foundation for A Sucker is Born Every Minute. Got any Nigerian Princes who need support? I refused to buy her crap for years. Until I gave it a go last week. SON OF A MOTHERLESS GOAT HERDER!!!

Karma has my number on speed dial. When I sarcastically informed Tracy of plans to give her hula hoop work out a try, I had no reference point to begin from. And who would have thought I needed one? It’s a freaking hula hoop. A plastic tub, spun around my hips, while squandering precious work out time. Things quickly turned ill once the realization set in that I had never successfully hula hooped before. With the help of my wife, being laughed at (not laughing with) by my kids, many YouTube videos, and three days of failed attempts to get the dang tube of torture to stay spinning around my hips, I finally got the hang of it. That is if the home audience considers getting the “hang of it,” as an all-out :30 second burst of frantic sweaty hip convulsions. If so, then I am hula hooping. Repeated for twenty minutes constituted a quasi work out. The ribs, gut, and hip bruising will fade with time. The pride… that could take a while to heal.

Can I get extra addiction with my cheese?

The month long vegan experiment comes to a close. No fanfare. No physical ah ha moments. No food rage. No honorary membership into PETA. I ate animal free one last meal, then the next meal animals were back. The mystique of living beast free piqued my interest. I enjoyed exploring a growing culinary culture and their fans. Even after losing ten pounds during the month, vegan ain’t my bag, baby. These teeth are meant for gnawing on meat and chewing on cheesy cheese. Oh yeah, cheese! 

Throughout the experiment I craved cheese on a visceral level. As would the ancient warrior reach in the still wee hours of the morning to itch a long severed limb, I found myself sprinkling imaginary graded cheese over food in a quiet desperation. I know the cheese is imaginary!... Walmart does not carry my favorite pretend blend. When coagulated cow utter juice is always available the thought of life without does not cause pause. Nor should the concern be there. Until my voluntary animal restriction removes a foundational source of pleasure. It’s only a month. Four weeks. Wisconsin is still in business. Cheese fuels my chi, and evidence points to ancient aliens using a technique to float blocks across rivers of molten cheese whiz while constructing my food pyramid. Thank goodness tofu stepped up and brought the comfort consistency!

In years past, this bean curd cousin of Jell-O only saw action from the culinary JV team. I occasionally sucked down tofu infused miso soup during a pregame throat lubing before a gut busting all-you-can-eat sushi main event. Tofu, you put the time in and stayed true to form. We’re calling you up from the practice squad. Once Destination 195 concludes in December tofu has a strong possibility of making the maintenance diet traveling squad. I'll dress the tofu in cheddar, Monterey Jack, Kraft singles, Swiss, or gubment cheese. The addiction has variety.

Zeal with Your Meal

The transition to vegan consisted of me eating animal flesh and animal by-products one meal, and then not eating animal flesh and animal by-products the next meal. Flipping the switch took as long as it took me to write the first sentence. No weeping, wailing, or gnashing of teeth. However, I am nowhere near receiving a PETA endorsement for No Fat Jokes Please. The sins of bacon past won’t be atoned in one month. A vacation to a country don’t make a local. And not to mention kicking my cowhide dress shoes up on the table soiled the immigration hearing for my temporary asylum request into PETA land. 

Vegan is a phase for me, not a conversion. Merely a sabbatical into the dietary component of a broader subculture, which I hope to infiltrate and gain favor. One week into eating food my food eats, I am blown away by all the suspicious looks shot my direction when people hear “vegan.” (I only sit at the carnivore kid's table during lunch.) Even after they claim reassurance that my buoyant faculties have not sprung a leak, the disdain lingers in the air like an insipid flatulent. Didn’t yo mama learn you nothing? If you keep making that face it will stick.   

I tip my free-range hat to real vegans. Especially the ones who wear the lifestyle on their sleeve. DNA testing is conclusive that they are dietary cousins to multilevel marketers, life coaches, and life insurance salesmen. Most straights, myself included, become fleeing cockroaches when their zealot light enters the room. I have faked more incoming phone calls and conjured up countless fictitious appointments to escape the zealot’s gravitational pull. Until now! I am zeal without cause. I am the leaf eater at the butcher’s shop. The house cats have the same rights as the kids.

For the remainder of my vegan exodus my canned response to the most aggravating one-word question, “Why?” will be answered by an equally annoying one-word retort, “Because.” Then I’ll draw in close with the countenance of a skilled CIA operative sent by the top brace in Langley to recruit double agents. Trusting no one except for my table mates. “I am looking for…” nervously glancing left, then right, upward toward the ceiling, then below the table, “…for a few good partners to build a vegan based revolution. Can I count on you?” If they get cold feet and deny my offer, I will quickly leap from my chair, leaving them to settle the check and gratuity, as I race toward the maître d' yelling Viva les Légumes!!!

Challenge One: Solo hike to Mt Charleston Peak (revisited)

The 2012 Destination 195 program that Jaron designed focused on workouts, with the dietary component being a simple 1800 calorie max. I added in “challenges” during that program to keep blog content fresh. The first challenge came in week three – a solo hike to Mt Charleston peak. (2012 Mt Charleston) Six years later I am in far better shape for the hike, and still attempting to keep the blog content fresh. I began at the same time as 2012, 6:00 a.m. I reached the peak at 9:50, which crushed the last mark by an hour. The final round trip time beat 2012 by an hour as well.

Hiking is way, way down on my desirability list of physical activities, especially in the mountains of Southern Nevada. Even though the views are spectacular, it is hard to walk and enjoy the sites because of the rugged terrain. Every foot placement of the 17 mile round trip is stepping on or around rugged rocks, ranging in size from pinballs to microwaves. The smaller ones are precocious and surly. Once out of the tree line footing becomes a cross between drunken pack mule and giraffe ice skating on the smooth slate leading up to the exposed peak.

Walking with my head down and eyes scanning the path immediately in front for ankle killers provided an interesting perspective. At one point I stopped using the hiking poles to see if my mind could become lost in the moment. Left was only the sound of my footsteps creating a low repetitive clanging of decomposing granite. The pain, the world, and pretty much any voluntary thought slipped away. The walking mediation worked until the ascent to the peak began. I need something more powerful to pass the time and distance. Boredom is worse than the elevation or middle-aged knees. Surprisingly, an interval exercise did the trick -- counting each time my hiking poles touched the ground up to fifty and then looking at the peak. Repeating the interval made the twenty minute trudge endurable.

At the peak I enjoyed the vistas for a few moments before descending. As I passed fellow hikers on their way up they commented, “The hard part is done for you.” So says they. The heart pounding slog up is brutally replaced by the knee pounding slog down. But once home… a shower, a bowl of soup, and ibuprofen make the world right again. Now, where is the celery? Vegan for a month is the next challenging mountain.

The Cleanse: Postmortem

As the cleanse ended on the fourth evening I felt a longing to continue the journey beyond the outer banks of fringe. Going in I had already decided the fourth day would be my exit point. Mentally I set the max at four days because the weekend had in store a grueling 17 mile round trip hike to the peak of Mt. Charleston. What I discovered at the end blew me away -- I could’ve done six more days with ease. But as noted in Drifting the sea in a cup 'o salt things looked sketchy from the beginning.

The first day freaked me out. I am not eating for 96 hours?!?! That inner monologue on a loop caused me to guzzle lemon cayenne water faster than a dehydrated rain forest. Flames in the shipping and receiving docks heightened the angst too. By the second day the anxiety of not eating dissipated slightly, as did the fire trail through my system. I figured if my favorite biblical leading man, the Great I AM, could do forty days and forty nights, then 1/10 of that time is doable. Here’s to you brother.  

36 hours in I swam my first work out, which people on Facebook and in reality felt would be the point my wagon’s wheels flew off. However, I made it through. As a matter of fact, I crushed it! For the swimmers in the audience, the main set of 10 x 300 freestyles culminated with a 3:08 pull. (The first 100, sub 1:00.) Our time in the water ran out before my endurance ran out. The tank had more fuel to give, and my energy level could have pushed me through another hour. The cleanse had brought about a revitalization in the water… No… A renaissance. I feel 20 years younger. So magic cayenne infused water, keep on keeping on. By the next swim work out on the fourth day I went for it all. I would push myself to the crash point. Go ugly early on I.M. day. (Butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, and freestyle, for the non-swimmers.) The first set out of the shoot -- a 400 I.M. swim for time. I had not swam that distance in a race or in a practice since Bill Clinton enjoyed intern privileges. In honor of Slick Willy I felt the best way to crash and burn, pass out, and then earn an insurance sponsored ride in the wee onngg wee onngg wagon had to come at the hands of the four-headed beast. But guess what? Cruuussshed it. I pushed our top I.M. swimmer for the entire 400. So much so, he finished and the first thing out of his mouth was, “Where did that come from Jarvis?” I knew where it came from. THE CLEANSE!

Four days ain’t enough. The outer banks of fringe is the apex to pass through, not the edge. Physical, mental, emotional, and a myriad of other relating to adjectives were expanded upon, not contracted. There is more to be gained. Before Thanksgiving I will complete a full 10 day master cleanse. My six hours of nightly sleep, 5:30 a.m. swim work outs, full work days, evening cardio, and family time will benefit greatly. Until then…

  

Drifting the sea in a cup 'o salt

Phase two: The Cleanse

Observation from the outer banks of fringe.

The liquid diet is much easier than I predicted. However, the mission nearly self-destructed on the launchpad. I learnt a valuable lesson: following directions while extreme dieting is crucial. Instead of using sea salt in the morning 32oz salt water drink, I cut corners with iodized table salt. A pinch tossed over the shoulder for the challenge and Lot's wife. I only made that mistake on Day One, after it took me four hours to gut down the East River. Drinking table salt water ranks up there with licking a 9-volt battery or chomping down on foil with a mouth full of amalgam fillings. (The other days of sea salt water only took an hour.)

Jaron gave me the heads up to situate my mornings near a fully functional restroom with poor acoustics. If the evolutionist community's claims are founded regarding our ocean origins, then the way my bowels fast tracked the salt water out of my body leads me to believe our digestive systems still holds a grudge for the species changing scenery. Columbia, T minus 10 seconds until complete evacuation. The bottom of that bottle causes a swift shuffle, shuffle, plop, plop. Repeated for thirty excited minutes. Then the rest of my waking hours are spent sipping on the watery lemon cayenne maple syrup vat.

The biggest take-away from this brief cleanse experiment is how bored I am. The absence of food during the cleanse has yet to drive me to hallucination fueled hunger rage, as predicted. There are no hunger pains. I am just stuck in the waiting room of life. Sitting tight until I add back eating, which is a good portion of my day-to-day existence. This is what I imagine life would resemble if sleep got dropped from the required voluntary functions. Just counting the tick tocks in the middle of the night.

The discussing, planning, preparing, and consuming of food is far more consequential to human social structures than I ever expected. Sitting at a table with no food on my plate while others consume sets off primal alarm bells. The tribe does not relax well when one is going without. Hunter instincts take over. Was the kill not large enough?  Nurturing kicks in too. Are you feeling ill? Nope, just cleansing the system with a little flaming citrus brew and hoping their restrooms play loud death metal.

Cleanse the mind, the body, and the sol…ar plexus

The food challenge enters a new phase: The Cleanse. Two plus months of bacon, beef, cheese, peanut butter, and then more cheese on top for good measure -- all of which has created a back log on the plop-plop production line. Keto clog is fo real and not to be taken lightly. (Animal grunting in the stalls attracts unwanted attention.) It is time for a change. And the change is coming. But first, my system needs a flush. Detox the intestines before introducing a diet void of animal flesh or animal byproducts. One month of eating the food my food eats. Vegetarian. Hurts to write that word in direct connection to my dream lifestyle. It is the Voldemort of food consumption. Diet-That-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned -Or-Maintained.

Before the redirection, I have been advised by Jaron to begin the transition from Keto to Veto with a five day cleanse. Lukewarm saltwater as soon as I wake, then a full frontal assault on my gut with the ubiquitous lemon water, cayenne pepper, and maple syrup witch’s brew known as the Master Cleanse.

Thank goodness for the remaining 20 pounds of blubber to provide sustenance. A cleanse constitutes 55 calories for every 8oz of brew. What the freak am I getting myself into!?! Bacon is good. Broccoli is blah. 55 calories is a joke. I consume a dozen calories dreaming about dessert. There will be more calories burnt shuffling between urinals and the porcelain thrown. Sleep is the only escape, and I am not above wearing incontinence briefs to give the bladder and bowels a fighting chance through a fourteen hour night of sleep.    

Four of a Swine

 “I can hardly remember how I built my bankroll, but I can’t stop thinking about the way I lost it.”   -- Mike McDermott

“Send us among the pigs; allow us to go into them.”

Mark 5:12

Keto is a culinary poker game with the devil. My devil is carbohydrates. I have won hand after hand after hand over the past two months. Down 35 pounds by eating In-n-Out Flying Dutchmen, medium rare steaks, pounds of cheese, over easy eggs, butter-butter-butter, rivers of ranch, and bacon as far as the eyes can see. This has been the best food challenge of the Destination 195 era, hands down. But the devil won’t be bluffed forever. My devil is turning into Teddy KGB from Rounders. His patience is wearing thin with my dietary grinding. Check. Check. Check. Well, you feelin' satisfied now, devil carbs? 'Cause I can go on bustin' you up all night.

In addition to slow playing devil carbs, time restricted fasting is accelerating the weight loss. The current program requires me to consume all calories within a six hour window, and to finish my last bite no later than four hours before bedtime. The optimum state is going to sleep with hunger creeping in. I wake at 4:30 a.m. to swim 90-minutes, then wait until 12:00 to eat. I eat dinner the moment I get home, then do a :20 minute exercise of running or plyometrics. When food is only fuel, my mind gets bored pondering the devil’s hand.

People ask me daily, “How long are you planning on doing this diet?” As if my weight loss is too quick for their comfort. There is no denying the current food plan is unsustainable. Jaron and I knew going into this challenge fringe diets are short lived, and should never be viewed as lifestyle changes. Come on people! Who on Sam’s hill would ever believe fasting 18 hours a day, snacking on bacon covered butter, and drinking ranch would be healthy? It is ridiculous… Logic tells me that weight loss should not come from the flesh of the beast… Vegetables are logical… bacon and butter is alternative facts… You know what?..... I am freaking done!.... This diet is a house of cards…. Swine lives matter…. No more bacon…. NO MORE MEAT!!!... I am going vegan.

To be continued.              

Disciple of Sleep

“Yea, all things live forever, though at times they sleep and are forgotten.”  -- H. Rider Haggart

Our bodies come from this organic space ship. On loan, flexible, and resilient to abuse. But part of the rental agreement built into our dirt suit is a daily shut down of the consciousness. Sleep is where the body’s recovery from the day’s output occurs. The mind processes all the day’s inputs into the brain during sleep. All the while dreams entertain us through the wee hours of idleness. Sleep is the third member of the physical trinity. I would argue sleep remains far more universally accepted and constant compared to food and water whims. If attention is paid to personal sleep patterns, a time traveler of our collect primitive selves is nightly present.

The optimum sleeping conditions are dark, quiet, and cool rooms. A modern cave. Since Edison introduced the incandescent light bulb, humans have disrupted circadian rhythms. Go camping during anytime of the year. Drowsiness sets in as the day moves toward dusk, then gives up to night. Then the body begins to wake as the sun’s rays chase the stars away. Stepping down interior lighting an hour before bed will soothe the ancients inside our system. Then go to bed in very low light. Most importantly, go to bed in the same sleeping spot in the house every night.

Familiar sleeping settings are vital to long term healthy REM sleep. The people populating the dawn of time needed to be reassured the bumps in the night were not coming to eat them while sleeping. This is why people get crappy sleep in hotel rooms. It is not the pillows, or jet lag, or fools next door, or all the other excuses. – Nope – That foreign cave ain’t a proven safe place for the gazillion year old part of our brains that grants the unconscious mind control to offline our fight or flight lizard brain. I submit, Grade-A sleep only comes from exact positioning in the same bed, night after night, for years upon years.

My wife calls me a “sleep princess.” Once I have my cave dark, cool, and quiet, then the real princessing begins. A ceiling fan on high for great air circulation. The fan is also a great source of white noise, which blocks out disrupting sounds of harmless bumps in the night. I always sleep on the same side of the bed. Then come the pillows. There is a human ecology PhD dissertation in my pillow placements.

I will not yield my sleep. Dogmatic, yes. Sleep is the gateway to my fitness, family, and financial livelihoods. With zero chemical stimulants in my life, 4:30 a.m. arrives on the weekday’s alarm clock and my body’s internal clock on the weekends. Rigid and ritualistic sleep is renter’s insurance for my dirt suit.  

Wet dreams

I have swum millions of yards over thirty plus years of competitive swimming. Every training lap has been in six pools. Hours upon hours in the same pools, with the same scenery. Then how come I can't have a normal dream about swimming? Never in one of the pools I have trained in before. They ain’t even in the same configuration from dream to dream. And I use configuration lightly. The aquatic complexes in my dreams are expansive natatoriums, either designed by over medicated third graders or Soviet era architects with penchants for steampunk dirigible hangers and inflated senses of special utilitarianism. A fully functioning newspaper pressroom in the deep end makes complete sense. Vet your sources. You misquoted the Queen on page 4.

Recalling swimming should be an easy transition from the conscious space to the subconscious realm… a concrete rectangle hole, clear water, red and blue lane ropes, and eight black lines on the pool bottom. What in the name of Ken Kesey’s imaginary narwhal would John Wayne be necking with Doris Day on an inflatable alpaca while we are in the middle of a sprint set? Entering sleep’s darkness surrenders any and all control over the evening’s REM swim practice. At least my suit is tied and goggles fit, because this is a 3-1-1 call to Oz's police station. 

The frequency of strange dreams is increasing as the board certified professionals refine my medication cocktail. Swimming through the water early on in the REM cycle is an interpretive dance of flight and underwater breathing. Every child fancies the dreams where flight is possible. Every swimmer dreams of underwater breathing… It ensures better shoulder rotation. How blissful these dreams can be. Then the spicy food enters the digestive track.

Once capsaicin chemicals pollute the intestines, weird gains creative license for the balance of the evening. My elegant stroke degrades, resembling grandma’s mallard duck whirlybird wind spinner in a molasses river. The water is quickly replaced by a poorly maintained cricket pitch. It is very challenging to get full power out of my butterfly kick when the country club’s grounds keeper goes cheap with Astroturf. The economy is booming you insolent bastard. Spring for the good stuff! The board will be receiving a strongly worded email. I don’t dare get out though. The sign clearly reads, “No rain checks for turf conditions.” I might be in the grips of a spicy food induced trip, but fiscal responsibility is multidimensional. Better finish the workout before the alarm goes off.

New hair cut?

The journey from fat to fit is chock-full of experiences. Happiness and bliss are mere specks in the rear view mirror before anyone notices I have made forward progress. At least I can drive with my pants buttoned up while weeping over the sight of the road ahead filled with a joyless, carbless existence. Hey kids, only 25 more miles until we can stop at the largest air and water buffet west of the Rockies. 

Besides the massive mood swings toward the foul, there has been little change to my body. Even though I have lost 17 pounds at the time of printing, the general population of friends, family, and coworkers won't see much change for 10-15 more pounds. Usually the first roadside indication people are sensing change in my body comes in the form of a cock-eye head hinge. You know that one: eyebrows scrunched, head to the side, as their brain plays the game, "One of these things just doesn't belong here." Stopping midstride in front of a person is unnerving - - especially for the normals. I enjoy those moments, and having no desire to rob them of their satisfaction in solving the puzzle, I just stand there mirroring their hinge and facial expression. They are locked into this awkward moment and I ain't got nowhere to be, so we are taking the ride! Quick, think of something. He ain't saying anything. Why the hell is he standing there head hinging with that stupid face. "Uh, hey Jarvis...uuuuhhh. How's it going? uuuuh... New hair cut?" Even if my head garden has not been pruned by the skilled sheers of a mediocre strip mall stylist in months, the answer is always a resounding, "Yes! And thank you for noticing."

Next stop on the road trip to Destination 195... Dietary one-upmanship by those in the fit clique. Then off to the weight loss equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition -- endless variations of the question, "How did you do it?"

Better me. Better see. Better we!

A friend recently commented on age and diet. “The hardest part is even though we work out and burn calories,” which I interpreted as calories into the mouth are calories worked out of the body. Accounting 101, first in \ first out. She quickly burst my rudimentary logic bubble by adding, “you can’t eat whatever you want.” That is complete hogwash! Fake news. I reject reality and submit my own. I work out therefore I shall eat what pleases. Then my belt buckle exploded in the gym's locker room after a work out. Duly noted universe. 

Dieting and fitness are means to many ends: More energy. Greater strength. Increased vitality. Less stress on the belts. And most importantly, looks. I would be a charlatan not to admit one of the biggest driving forces sustaining me over the weeks and months to work toward a firmer, leaner, younger looking body, is to catch the wife checking me out. The serotonin levels sky rocket when she stops short for a second helping of eye candy. With a little less of me strutting through the house, she realizes that her man's dad-bod is shedding away towards an echo of the chiseled glory days. I am, reward.  

If there are any married men in the audience, they know. They know how it feels to catch her in an extended gaze. A double take. Experiencing déjà vu in the walking flesh. Shazam! Look at my man and his fine self. MEEEOW. Oh how sweet it is men to have yo woman gawking. That’s right… take it all in, cuz there’s more coming from where that came from, honey. She is frozen in awe. But the frozen awe ain’t permanent with married women. Awe is quickly thawed by the heat of jealousy. She knows her man is getting it together again. Look’n all thirty-something, thinking he is twenty-something. If she knows and notices him, then she knows the women of ill repute are not far behind. The temptress and her harlots. Every married woman is taught from diapers to finishing school that hordes of fast women down at the juke joint lust for a handsome married man to soil.* Gotta have a plan ladies.  

A fit man disrupts the relationship power dynamic. Married women can see the shift in balance the moment her man walks in the door. It’s the clothes that tip her off. A former fat man who is now a fit man wears the only clothes he owns -- holding off on needless clothing purchases until the bitter end. A fit man means a new wardrobe that she can buy. The wife likes to shop for her man. This is the perfect time to modernize his look. However, a fit man needs skinny clothes, and skinny clothes are in the young hot and hip sections. These are the clothes she has desired her man to wear since meeting him. Her dream come true, a fit husband fashionably dressed… Yet, how will she keep the harlots at bay? Catch-22. So what’s you gonna do honey? I know you like what you see. So, you'd better be ready for the fit me.

*Better Homes and Gardening (1952) “Keeping your marriage strong and your man in his recliner with a great martini.”

A fast is fast

Entering my third week of Ketogenic meals and time restrictive eating the biggest surprise has to be my enjoyment of consuming all calories within an eight hour period. I begin calorie intake at noon each day, which allows me to enjoy dinner with my clan. The meal selections need work. Right now most pairings consist of lettuce, red meat or dark chicken meat, cheese, eggs, and bacon. Lots and lots of bacon. Oh bacon, how I love thee. Bacon is the carnivore gods’ candy. I need a moment… Ok, I am back.

Going into this dietary challenge, the eight hour window gave me great concern. Four days a week I wake at 4:30 a.m. to put in 90 minutes of swimming, and a fifth day I am up at 5:30. Challenges don’t scare me, but there were serious concerns of failure to launch when The ODJ prescribed this diet. I have been known to gnaw on shoe leather if food ain’t in my belly shortly after climbing out of the pool. To witness me in full panicked desperation for sustenance by 9:00 a.m. is to witness a man on the verge of a lizard brain coup d’état. In the past, I would be stripping off tree bark in my business park well before 12:00 p.m. However, the hunger apocalypse has yet to come. These past few weeks have been mind expanding. Noon comes with the calm passage of time. There have been no guttural cries. No full-body tremors. No wild-eyed predator outburst in breakfast meetings. Just a daily stomach growl that comes a calling mid-morning, but with a shot of cold water the beast returns to sleep.

Time restricted eating is alright by me. I won’t ever guarantee success of the keto part of the challenge. Carbs have a gravitational pull on me greater than seven pissed-off black holes. At least there is the reassurance if (more like, when) I fall off the “no carb” wagon I won’t be sucking down their sweet goodness until after the noon hour.

In the beginning there was stability

Working out gets serious when the gym sauce mixologist concocts a witch’s brew of stability. It also means the return of the fitness kingdom’s court jester… Stability ball. This freaking rubber globe is the heckler to my fragile ego’s chronic stutter. So jolly looking. Innocent and juvenile. “Bounce, bounce, bounce.” Says the Pied Piper. “Come out and follow… I’ve brought the big fat squishy orb to brighten your day.” Yeah right! Ask the rats how that lemming’s song ends.

Constructed of $.35 cents worth of high grade PVC and has a non-slip surface, this unassuming jokester aggravates the humanity out of me. The Eddie Haskell of the exercise world will pull a chair right out from under me before affixing the halo of cuteness for the world to see. I once drop-kicked a stability ball across the room in justifiable rage – by the scowls shot in my direction from my fellow patrons, you would’ve thought I had just punted the Pomeranian of a wheelchair-bound blind widow.

Let’s begin the precarious tightrope walk of public humiliation by inflatable sphere and gaining greater strength, agility, and most importantly, stability.

Chest / Triceps

3 x 12 Stability Ball Chest Press – 50lbs dumb bells

3 x 12 Cable / Rope Tricep Press Outs

3 x 12 Stability Ball Pushups J

3 x 12 Plank Pushups

Legs

3 x 12 each leg Machine Leg Press with one leg

3 x 12 each leg Bench Step Up Pee-Wee Hermans – 20lbs dumb bells

3 x :45 seconds Linebacker Squats

3 x 12 Donkey Calf – 125lbs

Back / Biceps

3 x 12 Deadlifts – 155lbs

3 x 12 Narrow Grip Rows – 120lbs

3 x 21 Bicep 21’s (full / upper / lower)

3 x 12 Reverse Flys – machine – 105lbs

Core / Shoulders

3 x 12 Stability Ball Plank Rollouts

3 x 30 Stability Ball Mountain Clibers

3 x 12 Hanging Knee Tucks

3 x 12 Shoulder Press – machine

(Rest 60 seconds between each round, and then 20 minutes of cardio)

Voices from the pantry... Part Two

There are some things I should never laugh about during a nutritional challenge. Carbohydrates are one. Don’t let their sweet fulfilling disposition be mistaken as goodness. Carbs have a mob boss’s sense of humor. I’ll crush your diet, your wife’s diet, your kids’ diet, your neighbor’s diet, and yo greasy greasy granny’s diet too. Breaking up with carbohydrates is the only thing worse than laughing in their general direction. Quitting the mob is easier… turn state's witness, leave your old life behind, break blood oaths, and forever be watching you six. Carbs just haunt with guilt and bullhorns.

When Jaron decided the first nutritional challenge should follow the Ketogenic philosophy, I knew my life was about to become very complicated. The Carbs crime family would not be pleased. Oh man, my constitution is weak and family bonds are strong. Jaron did not holster his diabolical pen with the food intake challenge. In addition to ketogenics “keto”, he added time restrictive eating. All of my 1800 – 2000 calories are to be consumed within the same eight hours, daily. Starving for the first six waking hours before eating all high fat low protein no carb lunches, snacks and dinners; then no boredom snacks at the end of the night. For a bonus agony, the constant mental Chinese water torture of carbohydrates reminding me who I am is omnipresent. You can’t survive without us Jarvis. We are family. You are turning on the family. You don’t want to make us mad. We own the pantry. Just dandy.

On the brighter side, I get to eat tons of pork rinds.

Voices from the pantry... Part One

“I’ve gotten used to ignoring them and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me.”  - John Forbes Nash

I only tried psilocybin once in college. I have been clean of distilled drink and THC for fifteen years. To ensure a trifecta of soberness, no caffeine in a decade. Each day my mind is lucid the moment the alarm clock buzzes at 4:30 a.m. There is little escape from reality with a head free of chemical vice. So why are there voices coming from the pantry?

I should bring the readership up to speed on my latest revelation. Recently, the thought came to my head, “What if I took control over food?” Luckily the pondering came to my head first, and not to my stomach. See, if that thought had entered my stomach first, this post would never be. Just writing the words “control” and “food” in the same sentence has set the beast within my gut afoul. Brutal dictators possess a softer disposition than my stomach scorned. A cunning overlord to the brain, hands and mouth... manipulating the four senses at the slightest hint of hunger. It should come with no surprise to find out I experienced full body dread when my neutered brain became cavalier and confronted stomach.

He could have tried it first unconsciously. No, not idiot brain. He left the intercom on when he called the stomach via the central nervous system. 

Uh… hello…brain calling… um yeah so, Lord Master Stomach I was just up here thinking. Uh..mmmm…uh, what if we laid off the muscle guys for a spell? They can’t even do one pull up or run a mile without a ten-minute union break. Uh, um, uhhhh. I was doing more thinking, and we could stop consuming copious amounts of the crap you force hands to shove into mouth, then the skin could take a rest from constantly stretching... Ok. I said it. Hope we are still cool. I will be up here daydreaming if you want to discuss. 

Stomach did not likey. Did not likey one bit. Thank goodness the creator did not give a factory reset button as an optional upgrade to the belly button. My stomach would have pushed that button. Might have even burnt this body down. Civil War. Ugly divorce. Dogs and cats. Coke and Pepsi. Yet... I likey. I likey a lot! Chill out stomach and get back in your lane. 

Born was the idea of focusing on food consumption as my challenge. And who else better to concoct a twisted set of dietary challenges? THE ODJ!... What will the master blaster of pain exploitation come up with? No clue. But it’s going be huge. Epic. Game changer. And a plethora of other clichés. Or, it’s just gonna suck and cause me to complain all the way through. Either way, the resulting reactions should make for quality fodder.

(I will get to the voices next post.)

Library card and $9.99 gym membership

We don't need no education 

We don't need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone

                                                “We Don’t Need No Education” - Pink Floyd

“You dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda got for a dollar fifty in late charges at the public library.”  -- Good Will Hunting

Recently, I toured UNLV’s Student Recreation and Wellness Center. A Massive 184,000 square foot exposed steel beam and masonry cathedral to co-ed fitness. An early 21^st century high-bay laboratory to self-preservation in the modern age of predestined indentured servitude. Six stories of offset multilevels with open air basketball courts, indoor soccer rinks and racquetball courts. Even the underutilized lap pool is of the highest quality and standards. The television walled cardio room projects silent images of corporate sponsored mental palate cleansing cocktails of talk shows, reality tv, and cable news.

Sharp lines pull the eyes down corridors lined with the best money can buy exercise equipment. Our handler pridefully notes the machines get heavy use during the bustling fall and spring semesters. But today the student population is light following the start to the summer term. Yet, the ghosts of exercises past are present -- stationary cardio workouts motivated by endless streaming tracks mixed by unrepentant hip-hop wordsmiths. Hey young ladies, it ain’t misogyny if you can dance to it.

A chemically enhanced uber-happy college ambassador bobs past. Not glancing once to his six. A freak of nature. Comfortable strolling backwards with the ease of a safari tour guide riding on imaginary rails. His jazz hands pointing out the facility amenities included in the massively overpriced experience of state school tuition. In tow, prefroshes and their parents. The eyes tell the tale. These are the damned. Time-share fresh fish sucking down the hook. Enthusiasm completely sucked out after the walk from the university book store to the dining hall, and through the immaculate dormitories.  Mindlessly shuffling past us, daydreaming their debt infused futures in the American Dream of the next generation having things better than the bygone ones. Doubt takes hold somewhere between the stair-masters and sexual assault response campaign posters.  

At least the federally subsidized cool air provides reprieve from the oppressive early summer Vegas midday furnace and distraction from decades of loan slavery. It’s a dry heat folks, and the gym provides free towels.

The Mormon and madman

“There he goes. One of Earth’s own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and to rare to die.”

 Jaron, the beast known as The ODJ around these parts, has departed the great desert meadows for grander adventures along Huntington Beach, California. SoCal’s tweaker Riviera. He shall be missed by Las Vegas barkeeps and aimless suburban socialites avoiding strings. May the cool ocean breeze not turn you soft my friend. You are UNLV stock… U Never Leave Vegas.

 

As for my workouts… now that the conductor of the pain train has taken an out of state work assignment I expect to be a more obedient gym rat. Unlike most trainers, Jaron did not charge me for work outs. I got what I paid for. Cheap laughs and half-hearted effort. And that was what I brought to the table. We spent more time creating back stories for our fellow gym patrons than actually working out. (See My name is, what?) We were the fattest people in the gym, but knew more about fitness than the certifieds on staff.

For nearly 25 years of sailing away on conversations of the odd and askew, Jaron’s latest sojourn will be my gain. Or, my loss. If keeping score in pounds I will take the latter. 250 miles of Mojave separates us for the next 3-5 years. Peace be with me. Grateful is my humor, because our conversations will continue via text. With the thumb typing speed of hyperactive 15 year old gossipy girls and the Monday morning whit of Winston Churchill after a weekend bender at Stalin’s, the Mormon and madman will be alright. Now where are my workouts?!?!

Hands of Time

I have spent my entire adult life in Las Vegas. Those who move here, by choice or compulsion, are quickly confronted by two cities with one name. There is the illusionary neon canyon 45,000,000 people visit each year to play. Then there is the real one. Strip away The Strip and the city is Bakersfield with an unfounded self-esteem. This big city in a small town requires more wit than brawn to survive. Vegas locals are Br’er Rabbit. Collective tricksters bought into overt bending social norms for the perceived pleasure of outsiders. Oh you sweet marks, rest your head in the comfort palaces. Leave your treasures then leave. Dare you move here. Our life is the brier bush. Live here at your own peril.

We may survive and thrive in this social and environmental waste land, but not without a price. As Jaron and I survey the gyms we attend, there is a clear and present difference to us folk. We age more rapidly than the rest of western civilization. Blame it on the hard water, or the sun, or the fight for dominance. Those who have yet accepted their lot in this hyper aging process put on the trappings of a decaying society. Men dressed in the mindset of Forever 29, while females chemically coat their faces with zeal. The ladies do a much better job at disguising their age. However, they cannot hide their hands. Women’s hands are nearly as accurate as a driver’s license, carbon dating, or counting rings in a tree trunk. It’s rude to ask a woman her age, but not to shake her hand.  

Out of sight, never out of mind.

I may not get to see you as often as I like.
I may not get to hold you in my hands all through the night.



But deep in my heart I truly know, you’re the one
That I love, and can’t let you go.
                        -- A poem from my junk food.
                         
One of the unhealthiest aspects of any long distance relationship is the follies of the last days before departing from one another’s arms. Attempting to squeeze in an entire relationship. Happiness, sorrows, fights, make-ups, doubts, commitments, and resolve to be there. Planes, trains, or cars separate the lovers with the ease of the western winds. Until they meet again.

How I wish my long distance relationship was a little further than the couch to the pantry. I prepare for a weight loss contest with reckless abandonment… lines of glutton off the countertop and shots of gravy at two o’clock in the afternoon. Not to mention the night terrors over the reoccurring nightmare of walking through the grocery store snack isle with only raw kale and empty Little Debbie boxes. NOOOOOOOO!!!

 I don’t know when I’ll be coming back again. It just depends on how I’m thinning. Monday begins another weight loss journey. For a season I must be away from my food loves and food lusts. May I find false happiness in the bottom of a salad bowl until the sweet relief of comfort food returns to my palate.