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?"