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.