Doing the "Walk"

Birdie, our Border Collie Corgi mix, and I, have been on a roll lately with our daily walks.  In the past week, since retiring, I have determined that I cannot spend my retirement lounging in my recliner.  Though comforting, my mid-section is rebelling and making a move to be the predominant feature of my physique.  It is prepping me to be a department store Santa come Christmas and I won’t need a pillow to round out the costume.  With some hesitation and reluctance, some optimism, and a whole lot of prompting from the dog and wife . . . we transitioned to walking . . . lots of walking.  I figured out if I was going to walk I should go all in . . . both feet, literally.

It's not like walking hasn’t been a part of my life’s regime.  Until my wife retired a year ahead of me, it was my task to walk the dogs.  Four to five evenings–weather permitting, I walked the dogs.  Yep, that’s right–dogs, Birdie and Quinn (a tiny miniature Dachshund).  Such a combination is an adventure.  Quinn’s idea of a walk is from any room into the kitchen.  But she put up with it because she wanted to be where her sister was.  It was half walk, half drag . . . constant encouragement . . . and at times, pick up and carry.  At all times being stared down with a look of “what the hell!”  The point is that I walked the dogs.

Once my wife retired she finagled walking the dogs from me.  She convinced me to relax and rest after a hard day at work.  She’d walk the dogs, besides she needed exercise.  Who was I to argue? For over a year she became the primary dog walker.  The dogs didn’t complain . . . especially Quinn who recognized a downgrade when she saw one.  Less distance, less effort, and less time from napping.  It worked well . . . 

. . . until I retired.

Walking the dog duties have been split since I have retired.  Birdie walks with me.  Quinn protests with the wife as they attempt to walk.  Birdie gets longer and more vigorous walks with me.  Quinn, when she is not protesting, gets shorter and more pedestrian walks.  Birdie loves walks.  Quinn, at best, tolerates walks.  Remember she is a miniature Dachshund.  That means everything has to be just “right” for a walk.  There can be no wind.  No moisture of any type–no snow, no rain.  No weather.  It has to be perfect.  If forced to walk when she doesn’t want to, there are two results . . . she plops her butt down, spreads her front legs and dares to be pulled to walk.  We live on a dirt road and proof of resistance is well documented in the trial she leaves down the road.  This typically leads to the second result . . . she gets picked up and carried.  Which she enjoys and loves.  Either way the wife gets more exercise than she bargained for.  The bottom line is that the dogs get walked in some shape or form.

As I stated earlier, Birdie and I have been on a roll since starting.  We have walked all over the community and so far have not repeated a single route.  That is the nice thing about living in a small rural community in Montana . . . there are lots of places to go strolling.  Lots of variety in the landscape.  Lots of doggie and wildlife scents . . . lots of pee mail.  Birdie is on scent overload and I am combatting elderly tummy spread.  We are both happy.

At the same time, I worry.  I worry that I might kill my pup.  I stand at 5’10” in height.  Birdie stands 15 inches at her shoulders.  She is a small dog–that is her Corgi side.  My strides are much longer than hers.  Like every exercise optimist I use a Fitbit to monitor my physical activity.  It tells me how many steps I walk each day.  On our daily walks, Birdie and I are averaging 7,500 steps.  Well, that is what I average.  I imagine that Birdie averages two to three times more steps since she is so short.  In my estimation–in doggie steps, she is walking between 15,000 and 22,500 steps.  For the two of us that equates to about 3.7 miles.  We’ve been cooking it and we both sleep well at night.

Still, I worry.

Luckily her breeding makes her smart.  Probably smarter than me.  She does know her limits and is not afraid to let me know.  She either intensifies the pee mail reading, constantly stopping, and attempting to get every word of what she is sniffing.  Or she slows down to a crawl or Quinn pace/  Thus far our walks have not been a problem for her.  It’s tough to wipe the smile off her face at the end of our walks.

I’m not sure if Birdie and I will continue at our torrid pace.  The competitor in me says that we are just beginning.  That we are setting the baseline for walks . . . that the sky is the limit.  There is much of our area we have not explored . . . adventures not taken.  We have many walks ahead of us.  It is important.  Each afternoon, Birdie comes and sits at my feet and stares . . . watching for that moment, that moment that I move towards the door and utter those two words, “Let’s go!” It makes her day.  Together we are happy and filled with joy.  At this rate I won’t be playing Santa at Christmas.

 

Envy

At least twice a year I come face to face with my nemesis—the scale.  Twice a year I attend health screenings sponsored by my employer.  There I am poked, prodded, measured, and weighed.  I’m not sure if this is a proactive act towards good health or a wicked reminder that none of us can escape entropy.  Entropy basically is a fact that all things break down over time.  At this point more time has passed than remains.  Trust me . . . entropy is present in my life and my nemesis is more than elated to point this out.

I’d wouldn’t say that I have a love/hate relationship with the scale, it is fairly one sided in our relationship—I hate the scale.  The scale is blunt in its assessment and revelation of the facts.  There is more of me than I care to acknowledge.  The scale points that out.  My entropy has headed south and over the belt.  Though I have never had six-pack abs, what I do have would better resemble the Pillsbury Dough-boy.  The scale never lies . . . JERK!

 

This bi-annual encounter with the scale has created a bit of envy in my psyche.  Though I try hard to not be superficial when it comes to appearances, I cannot help but notice that my physique is far from what our advertorial society deems as “ideal”.  Where the non-achievable Adonis is shoved down our throats, I’m stuck on the opposite end pointing towards . . . well, I said it earlier—the Pillsbury Dough-boy.  I envy those on the Adonis side.  I loathe them.

 

This wasn’t always the case.  Most of my life I really didn’t care what I looked like or how I stacked up to others.  I had come to accept myself for who I was . . . a balding, slightly overweight, growing old person.  Then one of the grandchildren asked if I was going to have a baby!  Bless her heart.  She was too young to understand the science of it all and that females were the only ones capable of birthing a child.  Yes, after a while, I put her back in the will.  Suddenly I became aware of my dough-boy physique and all those who were not . . . dough-boys that is.  True, most were 30 to 40 years younger than me, but I envied their appearance.  I longed to look like that.

 

Envy appeared thanks to a curious infant who wanted to know . . . are you having a baby?  That and the fact that our nation will soon be led by the poster child of envy—president-elect Donald Trump.  He is the epitome of envy.  Just listen to the man speak about how he envies so much of the world around him . . . constantly hailing himself as “better” than everyone and everything else.  Throughout his political career (in fact, his whole life) he has been envious of his opponents . . . especially their crowds.  He is quick to point out that his crowds have been bigger and better than anyone else’s in history.  His life is bigger and better than anyone else’s.  He is driven by envy.   His gold game.  His mansions.  His spouse.  His kids.  His wealth.  The bragging comes out whenever his envy appears.

 

My favor bout of Trump envy came about when he was campaigning in Pennsylvania prior to the election.  The location was Latrobe—birthplace of Arnold Palmer.  There he spoke about Palmer and referred to the physical features of the famous golfer.  See and hear it here.  Peg Palmer Wears, Palmer’s daughter, responded to the vulgar statement confirming the “orange one’s” envy, “I think Trump seems to be fairly obsessed with these things, just like crowd size.”  The president-elect—the most powerful person in the whole world—has made envy acceptable.  If it is good enough for the president-elect, then it is good enough for me.

 

As much as I want to embrace envy . . . I can’t.  Brad Pitt is hanging out somewhere in that Pillsbury Dough-boy physique . . . just waiting to be released . . . to be set free.  No one exiled me to the “land of popping fresh dough”.  As much as I wish I could, I have no one else to blame for my present demise and shape.  It is my fault.  My inactivity.  My gluttonous behavior.  Though it seems to have silently snuck up on me over the years . . . I have no one to blame except myself.  Envy seems the best way to deal with it . . . the easy way out.

 

Loathing is not the answer to the source of my envy.  No . . . we all know the answer to ridding myself of this envy.  Diet and exercise.  Neither are any sane person’s ideas of a solution.  But the reality is there.  Towards that goal I have started walking more.  The dog loves that.  But that is not enough.  I bought a stationary bike.  What a vile piece of torturous equipment!  I can see why for most people it becomes a clothes rack.  Yet it is necessary if Brad Pitt is ever going to return.  It is the only way . . .

 

. . . only way I can reclaim that slimmer and trimmer version of myself.  Yet there are moments.  Moments when the lungs are burning and pushing for any air, they can find . . . when the legs are aching . . . that my mind thinks, “Envy ain’t so bad.  Plus, it is easier on the body.”  Then I think of how ridiculous envy makes one look and sound . . . think of Latrobe, Pennsylvania and Arnold Palmer . . . the “orange one’s” remarks.  The stationary bike doesn’t seem so bad after all.  I don’t want to be like “the Donald”.   

 

Motivation?

As I have gotten older, the body has gone south for the ages . . . or, in other words, I have allowed myself to age naturally.  I have put on a few pounds over the years . . . seen a Dunlop take shape around the equator . . . and, I have basically gotten out of shape . . . way out of shape.  There was a time that I was somewhat of an athlete.  I did sports through junior and senior high . . . track was my best sport . . . which lead to me running track and cross country for two years in college.  I lettered on all levels of competition.  I continued to do sports and run well into my late 30s and early 40s.  I was competitive.  I usually finished in the top ten percent of most of the road races I ran in.  I have a box full of medals and trophies from those glory days.  But, something happened and running became work . . . exercise hurt . . . and, my darn shin splints made me a virtual cat on the ceiling whenever anyone or anything bumped my shins.  Running died . . . and, the expansion began.  The motivation was lost.

Once a person gets him or herself in shape the goal is to stay in shape.  It is easier to stay in shape than it is to get into shape.  A rule of thumb I was taught many, many years ago is that it takes two days to catch up for one day of missing a workout.  I figure that if that rule of thumb is true it will take me about 32 years to get back into shape!  Remember, exercise is painful . . . exercise hurts . . . exercise means breaking a sweat . . . I am getting too old for all of that stuff.  Just thinking about it makes me want to sit back in my recliner, pop a brew, and revel in the good ol’ days when I actually did run . . . what Bruce Springsteen refers to as the “glory days”.  When I think back about how hard I used to work at staying in shape and running competitively, I get tired.  There is not much motivation there to break a sweat and get in shape.

Oh sure, I know that by getting in shape I will improve my health . . . I will live longer . . . I will have more energy . . . my mind will work better . . . I will be a two-by-four, I mean, stud.  I know that it would make my doctor happy . . . make my wife happy . . . make my exercising son and daughter-in-law happy.  As much as I understand this . . . and, as much as I love them all . . . all I can think of is how much work and pain it will take to get back into shape.  Still, no motivation.

Then I read an article on the Last Best News website about a 44-year old mother of six who set a world’s record for the mile in Texas.  Chris Kimbrough is a native Montanan living in Texas who took up running later in life.  In high school and college she was a point guard, running came later.  On November 2, 2014, she broke the world record for the mile . . . but, not just any mile . . . she broke the 17 year old record for the women’s beer mile by 13 seconds.  She ran 6:28.6 in her first effort.  That is pretty impressive considering that she had to run the mile and also drink four beers.  You can read her story here or watch the video here.

Here is how the beer mile works: the race begins with the competitor drinking a beer (the beer must have an alcohol content of at least five percent) and then running a quarter mile . . . this must be repeated three more times.  So, that is four beers per mile.  Chris ran the mile and drank four beers in a little over six minutes.  Shoot, there are times when I am driving in my car in downtown Billings that I cannot even get a mile done in six minutes . . . even without drinking four beers.  Even more amazing is that she kept it all down at the end of the race.  Pretty amazing athlete . . . pretty amazing beer drinker.  I don’t know too many people who zip through four beers in six minutes without having to run a mile.

Who knew!  Who knew that there was a sport that combined beer drinking with running.  Who knew that one of the things I love now could be combined with something that I loved long ago.  Who knew that I could find motivation and inspiration in a bottle . . .

I am so inspired and motivated at this point that I am actually considering the idea of putting on the ol’ running shoes and putting in the miles once again.  I have something to shoot for . . . a goal to achieve.  I have even done my homework . . . the men’s world record for the beer mile is held by James Nielsen who ran a 4:57.1.  Okay, I admit that I am motivated, but I am not that motivated . . . I can’t even tie my shoes in 4:57.1!  I also checked to see what the Montana record was for the beer mile . . . 5:42.0 by a guy who set the record in 2004.  That is quite a record that is not quite in my reach either . . . but, I am motivated . . . I am inspired.  Beer and running . . . I haven’t done that since I was a minor stealing beer from upper classmen in college. 

But I am motivated . . . or it could be the beer I am drinking.  Either way it has got me thinking . . . I need to start doing something and training for the beer mile just might be the trick to getting it done.  I know because of my age I should check with my doctor before starting any strenuous exercise program . . . I’ll probably leave the beer part of the training out of the announcement—besides I have been working on that one for quite some time already.  I’m sure the doctor will give me the thumbs up. 

This could be exciting.  I could get me a sponsor . . . like one of the local breweries.  They could supply me with the beer for training . . . put their logo on my shirt . . . great advertising seeing that logo and those empties on the side of the track.  Just thinking about it inspires me . . . motivates me.

But, first . . . there are some reality checks.  The temperature outside is a minus five degrees . . . maybe I should wait until the winter is over sometime in late June or early July to start running.  I like a lot of different beers and breweries . . . should I go with an IPA or EPA or Porter or Stout or . . . it could take me a while to test them all out before I decide on a training brew . . . might take months or years.  I’d have to find a training partner . . . well, not so much a training partner as a designated driver . . . four beers in six minutes is above the recommended amount for driving . . . how would I get home from the track?  And, last but not least, I should probably run it by the wife . . . running—check, beer—I seriously doubt it.  And, to think, I could have been a contender!

Well, at least the motivation is here for the time being . . . ask me in the morning . . . it might be gone.  I wonder if FitBit makes a counter that counts the beers while logging the miles?  A “beer mile” . . . who would have ever thought!

Living Longer

Okay, M. Scott Peck stated in his book The Road Less Traveled that the root of all sin is laziness . . . that humans are always looking for the easy way out . . . looking for the ultimate loop hole.  He says that was the original sin of Adam and Eve, they took the easy way out to knowledge instead of waiting for God.  I am human.  Laziness is ingrained in to my genetic make-up.  And, I will admit that I have been searching for the easy way to live longer without dieting, exercising, and basically becoming a monk in some hermitage in the middle of nowhere.  If there is a way to add years to my life without doing the work . . . well, I am all for it.  So, you can imagine the expectations I had when I came across an article on the Internet proclaiming sixteen—not one or two, but sixteen ways to live longer.  I was ecstatic . . . there was hope without having to break a sweat or giving up steak!

With great expectation I read the article . . . now, I am not so sure . . .

The first suggestion right out of the gate was to enjoy more sex.  Sex boosts the immune system, reduces stress levels, and can even curb one’s appetite.  Now I am not going to argue with the experts, but . . . why is sex the answer to everything?  Should I run out and have sex every time I feel a cold coming on?  Should I have sex whenever I am feeling a little stressed?  A little hungry?  I guess there is a reason that Viagra is such a hot-selling drug . . . people would always being doing “it” because people are always getting sick . . . always feeling stress . . . and, hungry.

Adopt a dog.  Having a dog will make one more active and reduce the risk of heart disease . . . reduce stress and lower the risk of cardiovascular disease.  Well, I have two dogs . . . Dachshunds.  Dachshunds are not what I call the quietest dogs in the world as they bark constantly . . . make a lot of noise.  Someone told me it is because they have “little dog syndrome” . . . I think it is because they have big yappers.  I feel my blood pressure rise whenever they start to bark, which seems to be all of the time.  That can’t be good for the ol’ ticker.  Not sure this one is true.

Drink coffee.  Coffee can reduce the risk of diabetes, cardiovascular disease and Alzheimers.  I can’t stand coffee . . . never have been able to stand coffee, much less drink coffee.  I am a tea drinker.  I guess this one is not going to add years to my life either. 

Be positive . . . this was discovered to be one of the most common traits among centenarians.  Being easy going and having a positive attitude added years to one’s life.  Yeah, right!  And, I’m going to start drinking coffee tomorrow morning.  I don’t think my attitude is going to help me out too much here.

Run for five minutes each day . . . by doing this for five to ten minutes each day will reduce the risk of heart disease by 58 percent.  About the only running I do now-a-days is from the bedroom to the bathroom in the morning . . . comes with age.  I guess I could increase that if I ran downstairs to the other bathroom . . . that would include a staircase . . . or maybe running down the block to the gas station and using their bathroom.  It is a thought, but it tires me out just thinking about it.  Another article I read said that laughing a hundred times was like running for fifteen minutes . . . I’d rather laugh than run. 

Eating nuts.  Eating nuts several times per week reduces one’s mortality rate and lowers the risk of diabetes.  I love legumes . . . nuts of all types; but, as I have gotten older, my digestive system has begun to dislike nuts more and more often.  I pay for eating too many nuts . . . even if laughter helps the digestive system improve its ability to poop, nuts work faster in my body.  I guess I could laugh and eat nuts before the next colonoscopy . . . at least my system would be cleaned out.  I am not sure this will add years to my life . . . and, besides, what quality of life would it be if it was all spent in the bathroom!

The next suggestion . . . have a purpose . . . I might be able to do.  I have a purpose: I want to live longer.  I do not want to die.  It is as simple as that.  Towards that goal I will continue to search the world over for the easiest ways to live longer that do not involve diet or exercise.  Not bad, after eight suggestions I finally found one that will probably add about a week to my life.  I think I am on a roll.

Eat more fish . . . particularly salmon, tuna and mackerel . . . live more than two years longer on an average than those who didn’t.  As long as I can deep fat fry those boogers in oil I think I can choke them down with a side order of French fries and a couple of beers.  I guess I should kiss those extra two years good bye.

Floss every day . . . flossing removes oral bacteria which reduces inflammation which dentists believe to be linked to higher risk of heart attack and stroke.  I think this is some sort of conspiracy by the string industry to sell more string . . . I hear the string market has been down for a couple of decades.  Flossing is some sort of punishment that dentist came up with to torture people in-between visits to the dentist’s office.  I guess this will get easier with age . . . when the false teeth, the chompers come into play.  When I get my first set of dentures I promise that I will floss them every night before I go to bed . . . should be easier when I can hold them in my hands.

Smile more . . . duh!  Smiling hurts my face.  Enough said.

Drink more wine.  About a glass of wine a day lowers the risk of cardiovascular death more than avoiding alcohol altogether.  I can handle that . . . besides, if one glass is good, two have to be better.  I just wish the beer industry would get up with the times.  I like beer better.  Beer is cheaper.  Plus I can drink it straight out of the bottle, whereas when I swig out of the wine bottle the wife gets a little annoyed . . . and that takes years off of my life!

Stand more during the day.  Ha!  The mind says stand, but the body says lay.  Gravity usually wins this one.  This goes against nature.  Ain’t going to add any years standing, when you don’t ever stand.

Avoid fizzy drinks.  Apparently fizzy drinks have a negative effect on the body’s cells and actually are linked to aging.  No more pop . . . no more soda . . . but I draw the line on beer.  This doesn’t sound easy.  I want easy.  I want my beer and age together.  Oh well.

Catch more sleep.  Ha!  Remember those two Dachshunds?  They think breakfast is served at 4:30AM every morning.  They also think—now that it is getting colder—that my bed is their bed . . . and, they don’t share very well.  There is also nocturnal sounds that emanate throughout the bedroom every night that make sleeping difficult . . . both sides point their finger at each other.  Who knew Dachshunds snored!  I’d catch up on my sleep during the day, but my employer frowns on naps.  Sleep is not going to be the key to longer life for me.

I laughed at the next one . . . being social.  Darn it!  I am an introvert.  Introverts age twice as fast as extroverts when they have to be more social.  Shoot!  Just thinking about being more social made me lose a couple of years.  I guess if having more friends and being social will allow me to live longer . . . I ain’t going to make it!

Volunteer.  People who volunteer are believed to live longer.  If you ever saw what I make at my jobs you would probably already think that I volunteer enough.  I guess that is what happens when you work for the state . . . you volunteer a lot.  And, by living longer you can do it for even longer.  Seems like a Catch-22 plot to me.

Sixteen suggestions towards a longer life.  Only one suggestion even came close to adding time to my life . . . one thing . . . having a purpose!   That purpose is to live longer . . . to live longer without having to work at it through diet and exercise.  That is the American Dream . . . longevity without effort.  Yet, M. Scott Peck said that would also be the downfall.  There is no joy in Keenerville, the mighty John has struck out again.  I will probably never know what it feels like to be a 100 . . . or 90 . . . or even 70 . . . because I have not found that magical method of adding years to my life without putting forth any effort.  It is a pipe dream . . . a fart in the wind . . . that is never to be caught.  Yeah, I am lazy . . . but I am human . . . and, I am American.  An American with a purpose . . . to live longer with no effort.  I will continue to contemplate how I will accomplish this as I eat my Big Mac, double fries, fizzy drink, while frowning, and knocking back a couple of beers because the wine is too sweet.  At this rate I might die at a younger age than I actually am . . . what would M. Scott Peck say about that?  One can only dream.