So the diet seems to be going relatively well. I’ve lost 13 pounds, cut my sugar consumption to a lifetime low and I’m even working out, sorta. So my question is,
When I’m I gonna start feeling ‘great‘?
Not that I’m feeling particularly “bad” but as I’m sure you know every diet, workout program and gym promises that I’ll have hitherto untold amounts of energy, stamina and all around good vibes. That I’ll be able to play ball with the guys, walk the dog through a spring meadow and have a night on the town all with a smile on my face because I feel so good. Well, I’m waiting.
I’m not expecting miracles and in the interest of full disclosure I don’t have a dog or the desire to play ball with the guys. I just want to feel up to it should the mood strike me. As for nights on the town, I once went clubbing with a temperature of 102, so feeling “fair to middling” isn’t keeping me at home. I also live in Los Angeles so I know that it’s possible to look great and still feel like crap. We call that show business, kids.
There’s also the very real possibility that all those TV, diet and workout people are a bunch of liars that only want to sell me something and that the former “fat” girl who lost half her body weight at gym X still cries herself to sleep every night because being “fat” wasn’t really her problem to begin with. All this leads to the startling revelation that felling “great” is more a matter of attitude than one of physical being. Well that’s just great: not only do I have to eat vegetables on a regular basis, I now have to cultivate a positive outlook as well. Now I know that my readership is made up of kind and caring people, but please don’t send me any ideas for achieving a positive life view. This week alone I’ve encountered Scientologists, Jehovah’s Witnesses and a lovely (if smelly) pack of Hare Krishnas. If I didn’t listen to these “very happy” people face to face, I’m pretty sure an email ain’t gonna cut it either. I’ll have to find it myself, and I start my quest this weekend in the Nevada desert in a place called Las Vegas.
Stay tuned.
Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles. He has no idea why.
Being a former English major and a firm believer that books are better than almost anything else in the world, it’s probably to be expected that I would turn to literary sources when seeking fitness inspiration. My search for the perfect combination of compelling content and scintillating style, however, has been largely unsuccessful thus far.
English writer Alan Sillitoe’s short story, “The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner” (1958) was my first attempt, and those of you who’ve read it know that it’s less about the agony and ecstasy of long-distance running and more about society, crime, and feelings of youthful rebellion. All fine subjects in their way, but not exactly the literary equivalent of listening to “Born to Run.” Perhaps the pregnancy hormones running amok through my body at the moment also had something to do with my impatience with the story’s testosterone-tinged “angry young man” perspective: I just couldn’t identify.
My next choice— Dean Karnazes’ (nonfiction) story of his rise (and rise, and rise) to the heights, Ultramarathon Man (2006) was even more of a disaster when it came to the ability to see personal potential in another’s story. As I have trouble bending over my mountainous belly to tie my shoes and then waddle through my wimpy 5-mile runs, it’s tough to glean encouragement from the words of this superhuman with his self-proclaimed “ripped-like-a-boxer” body and driving need to run a hundred miles at a time, wolfing down pizza and tacos en route. On the contrary, Karnazes’ story had the opposite effect of causing me to echo the somewhat defeatist fitness mantra of our hilarious Bob Speck with a resounding “As if!”.
Thankfully, relief was found— but in an unusual place: the children’s section of the public library. A randomly-selected book I’d picked up to read to my son turned out to be the story of Canadian sportsman and cancer activist Terry Fox (1958-1981). It’s actually part of a series you may have seen called Valuetales. Each book in the series features a famous person from history and presents that person as the embodiment of some positive characteristic: There’s Harriet Tubman (the value of helping), Hans Christian Andersen (the value of fantasy), Louis Pasteur (the value of believing in yourself), Cochise (the value of truth and trust), and George W. Bush (the value of willful stupidity). Ok, I made up that last one, but you get the idea. To make these somewhat didactic stories more palatable to young readers, each subject has an imaginary but always incredibly cute sidekick— Terry’s are 2 running shoes, Speedy and Spunky.
Before you vomit, let me just tell you that it is not the book’s prose style, or the illustration (Terry, actually very handsome, comes off looking like Howdy Doody) that grabbed my interest. Rather, it was the fact that Terry was a normal guy, a young man who loved all sports (especially excelling at basketball) but was struck by a nondiscriminating disease during his first year at college and had to have his leg amputated. Not letting that stop him, he continued playing (wheelchair) basketball and running, and decided he would use his personal tragedy to make a difference for other people in his situation. The Marathon of Hope he began in 1980, a run across Canada, raised $25 million for cancer research and showed people all over the world that an “average guy/gal” could have a lasting and positive effect on the lives of others.
Terry’s cancer came back, this time in his lungs, and he ultimately had to stop his Marathon of Hope after running 3,339 miles on his prosthetic leg, but he remains in the hearts of those everywhere who know what it is to be challenged— maybe in much smaller ways than he experienced himself— and to struggle to show some kind of (even fledgling) determination in response.
The running I can do, even if I have to crawl every last mile… I am not a dreamer, and I am not saying that this will initiate any definitive answer or cure to cancer. But I believe in miracles. I have to.
So don’t discount the kiddie section when looking for your fitness motivation! Something you find there just might help to make you a little more speedy and spunky.
Jeanine Casler lives, runs, and writes in Evanston, Illinois. She’d love to hear any suggestions YOU have for literary-fitness inspiration.
I accomplished a goal that has bedeviled me since fifth grade. No, not getting chosen first for kickball in Mrs. G’s class. Sadly, that particular desire never came to fruition. No, instead I am referring to the evil little puzzle that was maliciously marketed to pre-teens in the early ‘80s, that apparently simple box guaranteeing unending glory should its solution be unlocked, that six color conundrum that inspired frustration and rather unorthodox methods of completion: I am referring to the Rubik’s cube.
Should you not be familiar with the satanic creation, please google it.
It has appeared again in our schools. Spatial geniuses everywhere are flaunting their abilities to manipulate space and time, earning adoring looks from friends by taking a scrambled cube, twisting it five times, and handing a perfectly organized, completely color-coded puzzle to amazed on-lookers. These gods walk the halls, flowers and offerings strewn before them like the pages from a calculus book.
It took me over two decades, but I did it. Admittedly, most of those decades were spent ignoring the puzzle that my parents bought me for my twelfth birthday. In fact, I actually solved it in one day— approximately one week ago. Since then, drunken with satisfaction, I have scrambled and solved the cube numerous times.
Of course, I did look up the solution pattern. Does that count as cheating? Hey, at least I didn’t break the cube apart and reassemble the bits; that was my solution when younger. Other inventive solution seekers, I’ve heard, tore the stickers off the faces and pasted them back on in roughly the correct place. No, last week, I solved the monster by twisting and turning.
So with some bemusement, I thought of my younger self, a twelve-year-old boy who grew increasingly frustrated with a puzzle he couldn’t understand. My older self knows that I learn best by following patterns and developing a deeper understanding through self-guided repetition. To understand how to solve the Rubik’s cube, I had to solve it again and again and again. Others could develop the patterns, either consciously or organically. Not me. I follow the steps, developing my understanding by slowly walking the same pathways, seeing the nuances over time.
Yes, I am the anti-genius, the person who does not experience the light bulb popping into existence over his head, but instead builds the light bulb, piece by piece.
Oddly enough, that’s how I build physical skills, too. Whether I’m mountain biking, kayaking, or yoga-ing, I learn through slow repetition.
Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.
Now that my diet is in full swing I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s time to start working out. Since I’m not ready for a gym and a personal trainer is beyond my budget, I thought I’d start out slow at home and work my way up to one of L.A.’s moderately priced sweat palaces. Considering that my activity level over the past few years can be described as glacial at best, I knew I was going to need some kind of help. During my lunch hour a few days ago, I headed off to the local book/music/video uber store to find that help…a workout DVD.
After finding the Fitness section between History and Documentaries, I was greeted with more than a few choices. There were at least 75 different possibilities and even after weeding out the pre and post natal titles the selection was still overwhelming. As I browsed the slim, black boxes I found it impossible to make a decision. It seemed that for every possible type of workout video I had a reason (or excuse) not to pick it up. Yoga? Too mellow. Pilates? Too too. Kick boxing? I have breakables. Boot Camp? Problems with authority. The Bollywood Booty workout? Don’t get me started. None of them spoke to me. Most of these DVDs seemed to be marketed to a female audience with skinny, perky blonds manically grinning on the covers. The few that featured men showed slope headed, screaming steroid cases in muscle flexing poses. Neither of these extremes are my scene.
While I may never find exactly the workout video that I’m looking for, it would be nice to come close. So seeing as Big, Gay Al’s Big, Gay Workout (with Hi NRG dance music and hunky shirtless guys) probably will not be hitting the market anytime soon, I’m turning to you dear readers. Any recommendations for something to get my lumpy ass off the sofa and into a pair of size 34 jeans?
Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles. He has no idea why.
I hopped on my road bike again after a relatively lengthy hiatus. Early sunsets, late working hours, an aching back, and the holiday vacation had curtailed my riding habits, but even so, I spent more time this past year riding trails than zipping along asphalt. The reasons center on my sense of well-being: woodchucks rarely roar past me at fifty miles per hour, and though squirrels cuss me out something awful, their worst words don’t offer the same threat as various epithets snarled at me through the windows of jacked-up F150s and stripped-down Geo Metros.
But I’ve lived long enough in my neighborhood that I can piece together a ride relatively free of high-speed roads and road-raging lemming-bots. So early this week, I pulled on the spandex (I know, bad picture—keep moving), eased the bike from the shed, and rolled out the driveway.
If you’ve perused this blog before, you know that sometimes I lose myself in giddy descriptions of mountain biking. Patience, balance, a willingness to take risks—all those qualities meld themselves into a sport involving knobby tires, fallen trees, big rocks, and stomach-lurching descents, fingers tweaking break levers.
Road riding, or at least my version, generally simplifies matters. Rolling along blacktop involves two major qualities: speed and dirty teeth.
Within half a mile, I found my first downhill, a gentle slope that, nevertheless, lasts long enough for a rider to build speed. Lance Armstrong and his records have nothing to fear from me, but I still loved the zzissss of my thin tires on the pavement, the weightlessness of screaming down the road, the revolutions of my legs as they drove me faster, faster, faster…More hills followed, as they are wont to do. My quads remembered, vaguely, the circles.
At its best moments, road biking makes you feel weightless as you swoop down the grades, through the intersections, up the next inclines, the humans in their cars looking at you with surprise and jealousy.
I rode for thirty-five minutes, listening to the wind, breaking from gravity (or convincing myself that I was doing so. Oh—and the dirty teeth? I smiled for the entire ride.
Who doesn’t love being Peter Pan for half an hour?
Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.
