50 in 5, and 6

The domestic pandemic entered its second year a few weeks back, keeping me out of regular swim training indefinitely. I ain’t about to swim on my own. Luckily for me, easy exercises for 30 minutes a day over two months got me to a point where I now feel comfortable to begin something that resembles working out – and less like a GenX mall walker with a Cinnabon hangover. 

It is time for a challenge!

Lose 50 pounds over the next five months, and get a six-pack of abs in the process. The last time I earned a six pack Bill Clinton still had intern privileges.

My consultant of crunches, The ODJ, is up for dietary and work out mastery required for this challenge. He will be taxed to the max while developing an exercise regimen to get me one ab... much less six of them. Hopefully his lingering injuries will turn the corner soon, so we can get back to the gym together – if not to motivate, surely to publicly fat shame me into shape. Traditional motivation techniques are hyperbole to The ODJ; he believes in a more direct style of bring your manhood and fragile ego into the octagon.

Fun begins February 1^st, and ends July 1^st. Just in time for my biennial Tennessee pilgrimage. 4th of July party sponsored by Krystals. 12-packs of steaming hot gut bombs to cover up the six-pack of ab gain. The perfect reward for months of hard work and dedication.... What???... Do you think that is odd???... These are challenges, folks, not lifestyle changes!

30 fo 30

It has been six months since my last entry. I experienced a rapid descent into complete fitness and nutrition failure, which began the day after completing Jillian Michaels workouts and The ODJ’s Groundhog’s Day Food Challenge. Complete failure! 

I allowed back ever pound, plus an extra seven for good measure. I gained it all in less than five months -- a personal high and fastest increase. The digestive system was thrown out of whack by the excessive healthy food during the low-calorie high intake portion of the food challenge, causing me to fear the good. To add insult to gut injury, the continued pandemic restrictions has prevented real swim training, which is the best system regulator. 

My years of empowering fat storage, followed by wild weight loss programs, has been the driving force behind No Fat Jokes Please powered by the ODJ. However, this most recent loss-gain cycle was nasty. The record weight gain would've been ok on its own, but I experienced new body calamities: aches that mimicked post workout strains while not having worked out for months; food went from comforting the soul to taking on back ally addiction qualities; there was prolonged gut pains that sent me back into the arms of bland processed foods; and gym conditions deteriorated to new levels during extended pandemic restrictions. I am winded just writing. 

By Thanksgiving week my waistline had used up all the extra elastic. Seams holding my slacks together were beyond structural integrity parameters, within days of an embarrassing crotch blowouts. Catastrophic zipper to belt ripping is a sure bet at that gut size. An office walk of shame was in my immediate future -- my dress coat tied around my waist and pride in ruins. With gravy and stuffing only days away, things had to quickly change.

First off, I dropped my guilty pleasure sodas. Second, got off the “Wo unto me” chocolate medication. Lastly, white ain’t right... Stopped all bread consumption. Getting down with brown!

The diet was in some form of repair going into the worst eating season of the year, which only gave me a little time to focus on workouts. Son of a fat woman’s high heel pump! I was needing to go strong during the most restrictive mask and occupancy mandate of the entire pandemic. Challenge accepted.

Challenge was accepted with zeal. Then I began my first work out... NOPE! No strength or endurance could be mustard. There was no way I was jumping back into an ODJ program at my current state of fat and fatigue. Time for remedy... aka remedial workouts. Think of them as one step above water aerobics. Introducing “30 for 30” workout program.

30 days

30 minutes of activity

            Push up, jump rope, crunches

            Planks and prayers

            Seated stationary bike 

            Neighborhood power walk    

            Rowing machine and push ups

If all goes well, I will be in decent enough shape to complete an ODJ recovery day workout by Inauguration Day.  

The finish is harder than the start.

90 days of Jillian Michaels workouts

51 days of low-calorie intermittent fasting meal plan

20 days of Modere probiotic supplements

100 days and counting of a pandemic preventing swimming

Every so often I become attached to a workout-diet challenge Jaron sets forth – longing for a few more days, as if reading a great novel that I don’t want to end.

Completing the Groundhog’s Day Diet in support of my 90-day Jillian Michaels' exercise program caused me to feel a small hole open up in my life. The routine became comforting – an autopilot of sorts that steered me to great results in less than two months. This was the most drastic weight loss in the shortest amount of time: 35 pounds in 51 days.

In the decade-plus I have been documenting fat cycles, which are periodically interrupted by skinny me, I loved this program. Clarity and energy flowed freely with the cleansing nature of the meal plan. Jillian’s workouts were low impact with enough variety over the 90-days that I did not get bored. With the gyms and competition pools closed, having a home-based video workout made life easier. (Important caveat, Jaron would never condone mass produced video workouts. Something about generalization is an abomination. Bunch of other big words.)

There are hints that the ODJ is putting together an organic meal plan for August. Just in time for the 8^th anniversary of our great “Destination 195” program.

Until that time, could someone tell me where to find the chocolate covered raisins?! Need to bulk up to before the next challenge.

Stockholm, my Gretel

With less than a week left on the Groundhog’s Day Diet I am suffering from meal plan Stockholm Syndrome. I am currently dining with id’s autopilot – same meals, same times, same places. The daily routine has drawn me closer to my capture – longing for the same shall hold no shame.

But wait, there is more!

Fat guy me tendencies will always be there. He is held up like a warlord in the deep recesses of my mind where flattered egos dare not venture in the fear of finding one’s true self sucking down milkshakes with extreme prejudice. All the while fat guy me plots a revenge so great that my stretchy paints will be overwhelmed by gut rolls and jelly thighs. She can’t take much more, Captain!

I am expecting to be down over thirty pounds in seven weeks after the GDD is completed midweek next. At this pace I’ll be 195 pounds by Labor Day. With that type of momentum, I might as well just consider buying a quaint cottage in Stockholm to continue my summer of slim. Relocate to one of them thar pet groundhog friendly HOAs.

But wait, there is more!

Hansel and Gretel were fools to think the birds would leave their breadcrumb alone. Rookies! Fat guy me placed donut cairns all along the trail, because he knows my weak constitution will fold like a cheap menu at the first all-you-can-eat Twinkies & fried chicken joint I happen across. That feed trough will point me right back to fat guy me’s lair of simple carb comfort by Halloween.

But wait, there is... nope... never mind... Just s'mores!

Put down the cheeseburger, nobody gets hurt!

The engine’s roar could be heard a block away, then quickly drowned out by a siren’s wail. Neighbors pay no mind when police go code these days – times are strange. Probably another marriage resorting to fist and nails therapy. But then another patrol car follows. Then another, and another. People step out on their front porches.

This ain’t a domestic issue, this is menace.

“EXIT THE VEHICLE.” The programmed voice came over the SWAT megaphone. A boom, followed by yelling. The straights are scared stiff. The faint smell of chemical repellent wafts across the backyard BBQs and pool parties. Silence. Threat neutralized. Normalcy returns.

The 11 p.m. news reported that a disgruntled man tossed a flaming trashcan through a gym’s plate glass window. “The arresting officer reported,” the plastic faced news caster read from the prompter, “that the unidentified perpetrator, before being tased and maced by SWAT, had become agitated with gym staff for not providing him access to a treadmill that would, in his words, ‘out run a bad diet.’ Now to Janet for our weather.”

“Thank you Ron. I guess he could not, [add air quotes Janet] “Out run a bad case of whoop ass,” Ron.” [Janet to wink toward camera for added affect.]

GDD

Shelter-in-place and nonessential business closures have stripped away all the frills and randomness of the outside world. Wake, rinse, commute, lunch to-go, commute, isolate, repeat. The Great Pause caused the Universe’s DVD to skip.

In honor of all those who cannot tell if today is Tuesday, Saturday, or Yesterday -- for the poor souls forced to watch major league reruns on ESPN Classic -- to all the February “natural” blondes who are now May proud multi-dimensionalist -- I offer up the Groundhog’s Day Diet.

The scientific name for the Groundhog’s Day Diet is Low-Calories/High-Volume. I will be having the same three meals each day for as long as possible. The ODJ's money is on eight weeks. Any time after that could result in mild insanity or bouts of face eating. Coincidentally, eight weeks seems to be the length of time that the majority of non-Chinese humanity is willing to obey state recommended lock downs.

Breakfast:

Egg whites with one whole egg scrambled

Turkey sausage

Salsa for flare

Lunch:

One hardboiled egg

Low calorie dressing

Unlimited amount leafy greens. (Or anything not fun.)

Dinner:

Skinless chicken or fish, or both

Unlimited amount of leafy unfun greens.

Add salsa for excitement

Snacks:

Whole pickles

Celery

Rice cakes

English cucumbers

It is important to note, over the past decade The ODJ and I have concocted numerous diet-exercise combos. During that span of time he has tossed around low-calorie high-volume – and every time he has presented the plan, I looked away in horror. My fragile constitution avoided eye contact with that bucktoothed Punxsutawney light bender. 

No more! I do this for those stuck on repeat.

Today is not a new day. Today is the same day.

COVID video workouts

Our eldest daughter interrupts the pushup set in search of taco sauce. She is tonight’s short order cook. The freaking dog won’t stop licking sweat off my forehead as seconds tick slower and slower during a prolonged plank set. -- ”TAKE THIS TIME FOR YOU!” Constant encouragement from the exercise televangelist. “YOU CAN DO ANYTHING YOU PUT YOUR MIND TO!” -- The wife and I are executing decent Warrior II poses during our second week of Jillian Michaels at home work outs. Then a nerf something of the sort whizzes under my extended arm. And that damn dog is still licking!

One month into the COVID isolation the only part of life not on pause is my weight.

Call it a hunch, but I strongly believe that I knew way back last fall of the pending pandemic and outright panic run on the super markets this spring. Or call it lucky laziness. Either way, I already tacked on an extra supply of gut cushion coming off of a spectacular Hallow-Giving-Noel season.

I am the Nostradamus of flesh expansion… storing up my Quarantine-15 weight back in January when most people thought the Coronavirus was a Tijuana hangover.

These days the battle of the bulge is an evolving exercise regimen resembling a Norman Rockwell painting commissioned shortly after immerging from a decade long isolation with his progeny.

“IF YOU KNOW YOUR WHY, THE HOW WILL BE EASY!”

Going the Social Distance

Sir, something has to be done to combat the panic. It’s not a panic, you fool! It's stress eating.

March 16^th, 2020

Nevada’s governor orders closure of all nonessential businesses for the next 30 days. Gyms and public pools are on his list. 

Oh man, COVID-19 lock-down has postponed my triumphant return to the gym and the swimming pool. Unfortunately, the governor’s strict orders leave limited workout options. P90X? Burpees and push-ups? Wall sits and planks? All good possibilities for winter confinement, but the weather is amazing right now! So it pains me to write this... the time has come to lace up my running sneakers. 

With tons of free time and fresh air after work, the best cardio exercise for these trying days ahead is running. Not the worst option on the table. Yet, running is pretty freaking crappy at my weight and fitness level following months upon months of little to no real activity. To make matters worse the words of the immortal ODJ race through my head. “I only run from cops and bears.” Vegas ain’t got no bears, and I pull over when the lights begin flashing. 

It’s time to run Forest! 

Sure wish I had lost fifty pounds before the apocalypse began. (That stupid two-month Tough Mudder Bootcamp experiment was nothing but an exercise pep-rally.)

My first runs did not disappoint. Fat thighs rubbing, wheezing, and cotton-mouth really boosted the confidence. Mothers shielded their young children from the sight of this physical specimen galloping down the sidewalk. “Mommy, mommy! The big man looks hurt.” She shoots the concerned child a look of “Don’t stare, it is impolite.” The mother then quickly shoots me a look of “Please wait to expire until you’re around the corner. I have a roast in the crockpot, and the bike cop will want a written statement.”

As the virus keeps our routines on pause, I will continue to run my runs. Slow and painfully. Share a prayer that the hoarding herds overlook IcyHot and Gold Bond in pursuit of toilet paper.

Stars & Bars

I needed a fresh distraction while on swimming hiatus. Food had done an exceptional job through the holidays. So much so I spent most of my waking hours considering which healthy foods to avoid. Unfortunately, after a few weeks the glutton grew the waist so rapidly that the seams of my stretchy pants resembled bow strings. Ready. Aim. FIRE!

With three months until I return to the water, and no leeway in my britches, I had to find a fix. Purchasing new clothing was not an option, (out of principle and lack of approval from the ole lady.) Sure wish the corporate world took in consideration alternative dress codes, such as those one might find at a dotcom startup. Basketball shorts and Adidas sliders. (Shirts optional.)

Back to the gym, I guess.

Then out of nowhere the mass marketing gods sent me an email offer. Six weeks for $99. Join us at any Tough Mudder Bootcamp location near YOU!

Deal! Signed up the next day.

I liken TMB’s training philosophy to adults attempting mutated Presidential Fitness Test exercises amongst a middle school girls basketball game… lots of cheering, dance music, matted hair, high fives, ten-inch vertical jumps, and full body convulsion at the chin-up bar.

Who would’ve thought at forty-something I would wake at 4:30 in the morning to sweat like a pig at a barbeque and slap hands with complete strangers just for a gold star on a poster board.       

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.  

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…