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.  

Your master is not you.

Carl Jung argued against Nietzsche’s ‘overman’ philosophy, especially the idea that once God is dead to mankind there would be a great leap of enlightenment resulting in the creation of one’s own value structure. Jung believed that no man can create his own value system. Value creation is external, and the external value system directly impacts an individual’s motivation. We can’t merely tell ourselves to sustain a way of life. We are not our own slave. There are always outside forces pushing us. Motivating us. Scaring us. Shaming us. Robbing us. Complimenting us. Paying us. Preying us. Liking us. Working out is the greatest case study in Jung philosophy. 

New Year’s work out resolutions fail to launch in part because people believe self-affirmations and sheer willpower can fend off the opposition forces of years upon years of unhealthy behaviors and sloven ways. Yours truly included. There is no working out for work out sake in my Maslow's hierarchy of needs. It is an end to a means. I wanted to know the exact duration, the prize size, and when can I revisit ground zero bender. I fall back into bad ways before noon on January 1st without a short term end goal. A contest or competition is my preferred carrots on the stick. The beginning of this year has both; a weight loss contest at the day job during the first quarter, and then a swim competition in late April. I don't like to lose a $25 buy-in, nor do I desire to have my gut hang over my Speedo in front of 1000 of my closest swim friends... the latter is not something anyone wants to see or should be subjected to. After my Christmas holiday debauchery the belly is a bowl full of jelly. 

Lose 20 years and call me in the morning

“It's so hard to get old without a cause.” – Forever Young, Alphaville

Aging comes upon us all in different forms and fashions. Some people feel the gradual change in the early morning as they swing their legs out of bed; listening to the creaking and popping of joints. Others might come across aging in a flash as they lay recovering in the ER from a pickup basketball game injury. For me, aging arrived 600 meters into a 1500 meter swim this past weekend. (Do they make waterproof adult diapers in Speedo cut?)

My youthful mind must have been lost in pipedreams of going a best time with this 40-something aging shell. I should not complain, this recent 1500 meter swim (aka The Mile) ranked third fastest since I began swimming it in 2009. My 18:22 is way above my goal time of sub 17:30. The simple math of needing to shave off :03 seconds on each 100 split next time nearly crushed my resolve to continue swimming the race. Why did the pain come so early in the race? Where had the seven months of solid training gone? Has swimming and I fallen out of love? And, why am I talking to myself at the counter of a Chick-Fil-A? Priorities!... Order first, then mental melt down.

Thankfully in swimming there is always another race to attempt redemption from a bad swim. The 400 meter became the unlikely savior of my meet. In years past this swim has caused me fits. Middle distance combines the strategy of long distance with the backend speed of a sprint race. In previous years I would try to hold a faster pace to stay with the field, instead of swimming my race. Inevitably all my 400s end with me crashing and burning three-quarters through the race. The ghost of 400s past crept through my mind as I sat waiting for my heat of this 400. Then a lightbulb went off… I overheard a training partner tell another teammate his 400 strategy. “I am not going to kick in the beginning.” BINGO! I don’t use my legs in practice, so I shouldn't use them in a race. Why would my legs come to the meet if I’ve neglected them all year? Hell, I didn’t even send them an invite.  

I swam 300 meters with no kick. Then on the last 100 meters I unleashed the legs. Like pissed off hounds of hell my legs took out years of neglect on the end of that race. I blew past the swimmers pacing next to me, and made a solid run for the younger racers ahead of me. I split 1:05 on the last 100. (The first 100 split was 1:08.) I negative split the 400! We got it all wrong. The butler is innocent! It was my legs who killed the mile swim… I have cracked my aging code. Don’t kick until the end is near. Save the legs in workouts and in swim meets. If there was a World Record for the fastest torso in the water I’d be the greatest of the great in the 40-44 year old male age group.  

Here is to another 20 years of swimming, aging, and finding work arounds to keep this flesh ship afloat.   

Ahab

****####**** WARNING ****####****

Over compulsion, over thinking, and overweight are present below.

With eleven weeks until the 1500 meter freestyle race in Commerce, California I have decided to forego weightlifting for the remainder of my training. I need more water time to ensure I have the base to push through the last 500 meters of the race. My workout schedule into tapper, which should be two weeks out from the December 1^st meet, will be Monday – Friday mornings 5:30-7:00 (4000 – 4700 yards per day) and Saturday a long cardio session in the gym. If I get a free lunch in my work week I get 30 minutes of cardio as an added bonus. Stopping weights this far out of a shave meet is a calculated risk.

By putting down the weights and shifting focus to the pool I gain increased flexibility and endurance, but will lose a great source of leg strengthening and weight loss. Even though I am two decades removed from my competitive swimming days I have not lost the feel in water. Unlike people who begin swimming for competition sake in their adult years, typically they are training for triathlons, I grew up in the sport with a distinct advantage over the best of the triathlete transplants. Swimming comes natural to me no matter how fat I get. My long arm stroke, two-beat kick, and rapid heart-rate deceleration makes me a very efficient swimmer. Good for training now as a fat forty-something, and will also benefit me well into my old age… but bad for weight loss. For years swimming has not been my primary weight loss because I have relied on weightlifting and stationary cardio machines. Many non-swimmers get too enjoy swimming as a phenomenal source of weight loss. Not I. When it comes to training I can swim long distances at a speed that will crush most non-native adult swimmers, yet I am running the risk my weight will still be to high going into the meet. I must continue a restricted caloric intake and healthy dietary choices.

At the beginning of May I committed to a “Biggest Loser” work weight loss contest with a very high 249 weigh-in. After twelve weeks of gym, swim, and diet the scales subtracted twenty pounds. (I took second place.) Since early August when I added a fourth day of swimming I have lost seven additional pounds; 222. My first 1500 short course meter swim came after the first Destination 195 contest in 2009: I weighed 209, my driver's license claimed I was 33 years old, and I wore a full body race suit. (The suits were banned a month later.) The clock read 17:42.48. To give perspective of that time compared to all other 1500s without the suit and heavier weight.

2009    17:42.48   209 lbs

2010    18:13.84   215 lbs
2011    18:21.70   220 lbs
2014    18:25.13   224 lbs
2015    18:44.27   231 lbs

To amp up my fixation with the 1500 meter race to Level: Stalker Tunnel Vision Obsession, and because I have a lot of me time in my head from 5:30-7:00 a.m. Monday – Friday, I do hypothetical 100 split calculations for the race. My 2009 pace averaged 1:10.83 per 100. If I were to drop the pace to an even 1:10.00 per 100 meters this coming December I would finish 17:30.00, which would put me a solid #2 in the country for my age group. Pull out your smart phone and launch the stopwatch app to see what .83 of a second looks like. Hit START with your index finger, then touch the top of your phone with the same finger, and back to STOP as fast as you can. That little participation exercise is roughly the amount of time I will need to shave off each 100 meter split to break 17:30.00. A faster turn over, more water caught at the point of entry, or a list of ten other possibilities could easily remove the eight tenths needed. What if I could take off two more seconds per 100 meters?... 16:59!!! This race is my white whale.