Mostly retired

So, Jarvis, how long you been out of the pool this go around? Ooooh’bout 35 pounds.

Last summer my masters swim team was forced to find new accommodations after our primary training pool went down. A few dedicated souls joined me at another pool for swimmer-lead workouts. Long story short, it did not keep me in shape. A month after the team reunited, I was out. Out of shape. Out of inspiration. Out of time for the swim meet season.

It don't take a $20 co-pay to prescribe a cure for the nasty out-ofs fever. Starve a cold feed a flu, and get lots of rest. "Yes doctor, I concur. A good ole fashion retirement is what this boy needs."

I retire like KISS or The Who. Always leaving open a return avenue for a fifth or sixth farewell tour. Liken it to when Miracle Max in Princess Bride informs Fezzik and Inigo that Wesley was mostly dead; not all dead. Mostly dead meant he was slightly alive. This how I manage extended periods away from swimming; mostly retired.

This past year’s mostly retirement came five months ahead of prior sabbaticals. Instead of early February, which in the past allowed me to train through the gluttony months, I threw myself into the oncoming lane of an extended holiday season. Toss in a family trip to the South for an extra kicker.

October to January is where permanent weight stakes claim to my body. I stepped away from the pool, the gym, and healthy eating. (I make bad decisions in threes.)

Back to work in January… until then, extra frysauce and stretchy paints.

   

Burn the size 38s!

Take a moment to image an alternative past where Ms. Cortes overheard Hernando’s plans to burn all his ships upon arrival… “Oh hell no Herny!” She could be heard from the kitchen. “You best be keeping a few boats, just in case.” Reminding him of all the past missions that were supposedly successes, but quickly turned ugly once the locals organized. Sending him and his men back home – spirits crushed – needing to start all over again. Again.

Fast forward, Hernando orders the ships to be torched. (His mama raised no fool. Plus he ain’t crossing the wife either.) “Hey guys,” Hernando exclaims, “don’t sweat the fire on the water… Think of it as theatrics.” He has a fire walk planned for later, after Antonio Robbins gives a riveting self-empowerment speech. The crew is ensured that if they fail, no biggie, extra boats are anchored up the shore. Merely motivational.

Sailing back to Spain with less boats, in cramped quarters with dejected conquistadors, surely is a better option than the possibility of failing and having no return ticket. The natives are far less forgiving than the Queen. Well that fiction pretty much sums up my reality following last year’s extreme weight loss challenge.

After losing 52 pounds in four months my clothing draped over me. Nothing fit. My dear wife bought a whole new wardrobe. (She even picked up a few things for me too.) I loved the new skinny look, but hated the added clothing expense. So be it, the weight was off, and I had no plans on going back.

Donate the fat me clothes!... Burn the size 38s!

My wife -- Ms Cortes to my Hernando – quickly sprung into action. “Honey. Sweetie. Pooh Bear. I’m digging the new less of you. But, is it wise to give all your 38s away? Let’s keep a few.” Right there is when I gave myself unconscious permission to put back on the weight. And put it on I did. 32 pounds in nine months.

I only have a few pairs of 38s left to wear. The extra boats safely anchored up the shore. Having to wear the same few pairs each week is embarrassing enough, but then toss in a flaming torch to the ego as I look at all the new 36s collecting dust. Damn that woman and her sensibilities.

Here I am again: September, another three-month training camp before me, and the boats are in the closet. Once I shed the 30 will I finally burn all the 38s?

Stay tuned.

Challenge: Spartan 300 Workout... 2019!

The Spartan 300 is a timed challenge broken down in a series of six sets, with a defined order. The original version of the workout is the one I adhere to, and promote.

25 pullups

50 135 lbs deadlifts

50 pushups
50 24-inch box jumps
50 Floor wipers pressing 135 lbs
50 36 lbs kettlebell single-Arm clean-and-press
25 pullups

Jaron introduced me to the challenge in 2012, near the end of our epic Destination 195 run. He threw down a goal time of 25 minutes. If memory serves me well enough, and the Russians have not tampered with the archives, I clocked in at 33:24. Embarrassed and publicly shamed, I busted butt for two months to avenge my honor. In late February 2013 I broke 25 minutes (24:22). Today, on the cusp of my 43rd birthday I dropped my personal best time to 23:14.   

Over the past six years I toyed with attempting another run at the challenge, but Jaron was not greenlighting any workouts because of my weight. After the Destination 195 wrapped up I ballooned rapidly back out of a healthy weight range to properly train for the Spartan 300. Pullups at 250 pounds are ill advised… each rep produces a sound in the shoulders similar to a lovelorn professional boxer speed bagging Rice Krispies Treats. Not to mention the impact on the knees and lower back while box jumping is no diggity.

Naturally, the Spartan 300 was the first thought in my head when Jaron’s dietary mastery helped me shed 50 pounds by Thanksgiving last year. We had a two-month window to train before my next swimming program began… just as we did in 2013.

Outside of swimming four mornings a week, the past two months have been all Spartan 300 prep. A highly recommended program for combining at home and at gym workouts. Yet, it is vitally important to me that I defended the purity of each exercise. While training I kept in mind exactness to form and technique. Making a run at the challenge is all about slowing that vile beast whipping through my circular system at blackout speeds, while the stopwatch overlord waits for no one. Form and technique have to come second nature on the day of. There is singular focus during the challenge -- managing the heart rate spikes. Once the spikes arrive, there is nothing to do but push until the fairies dancing on edges of the blackout box begins to close. Then pause comes. There ain’t a human alive or ever lived who can do this without pauses. YouTube “Spartan 300 Challenge,” and witness each fine specimen walking around the gym with a dumbfounded expression, involuntarily torso heaving for oxygen, and hands on their hips like bewildered gunslingers pacing aimlessly in search of an ever-allusive firing point. Nearing the end, each rep pushes the spikes into the pass out zone. It took me over a minute to complete the last ten pullups.    

In no particular order, these are the sets I trained based off of my daily location. (Kettlebells and box jump were the only ones I combined.)

Pushups

3 x 10 warm ups
5 x 40 on 4:00

Pullups

10 x 5 on 1:00 rest
Alternating wide and underhand
(chin over the bar, and straight arm for the challenge)

Deadlifts & Floor Wipers

135 lbs or 155 lbs
5 x 10 both exercises in a set
1:30 rest
10 deadlifts
10 left/right floor wipers

24-inch box jumps

10 x 10 on 1:30
(Jump and step down one leg at a time, not jump down) 

36 lbs kettlebell single-arm clean-and-press
5 x 10 alternating each arm
10 right
10 left

Shallow Panic

“Children, never swim alone. You can drown in a teaspoon of water.”  – My 3^rd grade swim teacher 

A few weeks back our training group was warming up with a descending set on 50s. Four on :50 seconds, four on :45, then :40, and finally four on :35. A set we do multiple times a week; going back many months. I make the effort each time to swim breaststroke the first round, backstroke the second, and then freestyle the last two rounds. The breaststroke is no Sunday stroll – the weakest of the four strokes for me. On this day swimming breaststroke was no different. I went last in the lane, and pushed to make the time send off. Backstroke would be easier. Then freestyle the easiest. Except this time, when I pushed off for the backstroke round there seemed to be a different sensation. Something does not feel right. No air. Each breath just drew in enough oxygen to keep me from passing out. My breathing quickly changed to shallow gasp. Where is the air?!? As if I swam through a pocket of outer space. The vacuum of space has no end. Each gasp seemed to grab less and less air. My throat constricting. I’M SUFFICATING! The lizard snapped his chains. Free at last. He raced to the frontal lobe, claiming marshal law. I lost control of my command center, so void of agency I jumped me out of the pool.

Since beginning swimming at age 12 I have logged over 10 million yards. (Roughly swimming from San Francisco to New York City, and then back.) Of those yards swam, hundreds of thousands have been spent underwater training my lung capacity. Breath control in the water is rudimentary for me. One foot in front of the other. Blinking. Breathing. However, this instance was the first time I fled a pool. Screw woman and children, good luck to the elderly, and forget the dogs and cats -- I had to get out. The grasp of time and space takes on a very finite existence when air alludes. And Death taunts. What the hell is going on!?! You’re dying man. I gotta get it together. It’s too late man, you’re dancing with me now. Breathe. Don’t pass out on the deck man, or you’re mine. Breathe. They’ll have to call 911, and it’ll take too long. Breeeeathe!

I walked around the pool deck to regain my faculties. Breathing in and out. Filling my lungs to the max with every breath. Oddly, no other swimmers seemed affected by the sudden loss of air. Actually, the air was fine. It was entering my lungs in volumes. My lungs were perfect. Then it hit me… panic attack. I quickly recalled my wife describing similar sensations when she had them in her early 20s. She talked of attacks hitting her randomly; struggling to breathe, needing to flee, and the feeling she was dying. Holy crap, my first panic attack. And it would not be my last.

Over the past month a hand full of stimulus have induced panic attacks; the suffocation sensation during swim workouts is one of them. Most of the attacks are coming as a result of amplified responses to my existing proximal anxiety. (If you can imagine experiencing claustrophobia in an open field.) I will detail in a future post my two decades long battle to mentally and physically manage this odd form of anxiety. Most recently, I began detoxing myself from the medication prescribed to me two years hence - in pursuit of nonchemical means. My physician and I felt stepping-back the pharma mercenaries were necessary to combat emerging dark thoughts and dreed. The retreat looks to have backfired in the short term. The lizard prince is no longer sedated. Shackles off, with a dictator’s lust for power consolidation, he is seeking permanent voting rights.