Seriously Irreverent Musings

Author: hkraushaar (Page 3 of 15)

Luftgekühlt?

I used to take pictures of cars. Thousands of them, the vast majority with Porsches in them. Not so much anymore. I used to hang out with Porschefiles. Hundreds of them. They were my cronies. Not so much anymore. I used to drive my Porsches on backroads. Miles of driving on them. Not so much anymore. I used to wash my Porsches. Not so much anymore, though that may have more to do with the drought than anything else. I used to attend and write about scenic drives and cars and coffees. Not so much anymore. I used to go to Air-Cooled Porsche shows. Not sure if I will anymore, and that is the crux of my issue.

I am experiencing a significant first world problem. I am not sure how much I love my Porsches, the four wheeled kind, not my two-legged granddaughter, Portia, whom I love dearly, kind. I do not think I have any interest in attending Luftgekühlt 8, which will be held in October. This is a big deal. A Richter Scale event in my life worthy of the issuance of a tsunami warning.

Luftgekühlt, which means air cooled in German, is arguably the best Air-Cooled Porsche show in the world. I have been to four of the first six Luftgekühlts, and I have had cars on display in three of them. Attending Luftgekühlt was once the highlight of my year. It was a chance to stand next to Patrick Dempsey, to meet Magnus Walker, to kibbitz with Patrick Long, who is the event founder, to put my car in a unique environment, to see many beautiful Air-Cooled Porsches and to hang out with many of my cronies. I think even Pam would agree that Luftgekühlt is an epic event, even though she abhors it when I refer to it that way.

To put my problem in perspective, since December 2019 I have not attended many Porsche related events, meaning no scenic drives or cars and coffees, which has resulted in a near total absence of hanging out with my cronies, of having opportunities to snap Porsche pics, or to write Porsche blog posts. It’s not like the events didn’t exist. They did. I just did not go.

I have hardly driven either of my Porsches since December 2019, putting about 1,600 miles on my Cayman and about 800 on my Carrera. That’s 2,400 miles in over 32 months. Or put another way, I have driven them on average about 75 miles per month. The good news is that I have only bought gas twice in 2022 for them, less than two tank fulls in my Cayman, and none in my Carrera. The bad news is that I do not miss driving them.

I am worried about me. I think there is something wrong. Let me restate that: Since the onset of Covid, there is more wrong with me than ever before. Over the past two+ years, I have become a hermit. Well, more of a hermit, anyway. Some would say I have developed a serious case of hermititis. I would have to agree with them. The curiouis thing is that I am quite comfortable with my affliction. It does not bother me in the least.

Which leaves me with a question posed lyrically by the Clash: “Should I stay or should I go?”

Memory Day

My earliest memory of an event that blew a hole in my soul occurred when I was in middle school, a few years after the assassination of JFK. The specifics of the event do not matter, though it consisted of the abduction, mutilation and ultimate death of a child. Some fifty plus years after the event, I can still vividly remember sitting in one of the swings on the school playground with my feet gently rocking my body back and forth, while my mind reeled. I sat there like that for over half an hour trying to still my mind and stop imagining what that child experienced.

Thankfully, I have not conjured up that memory for decades. Sadly, it came roaring back unbidden this morning. I wish it hadn’t. It still cuts me to the core.

Over the years, other tragedies have moved me, some to tears, some to rage, some to fits of frustration, but none have had the same impact on my entire being as the one that occurred when I was in middle school. None, that is, until this week’s events in Uvalde, Texas, a place about which I had previously never heard, a place about which I wish I still hadn’t heard.

I have been dwelling on the event since it happened. When I first heard the news, I was shocked and dismayed, but I chalked my somewhat muted initial reaction up to being inured to mass shootings, as they occur so damned frequently.

But then the details started to come out. It was the details of the event that came out in the news conferences that transported me back to being in elementary school, trying to come to terms with a heinous act. It was the details that blew an atomic bomb sized hole in my soul. It was the details that crushed me.

I did not write this to make a political statement, though maybe I should have. I did not write this to advocate for better protection of our schools, though maybe I should have. I did not write this to advocate for mental health reform, though maybe I should have. I did not write this to advocate for a rational gun control policy, though maybe I should have.

No, I did not write this for any of those reasons.

I wrote this because I needed to. I wrote this because it was cathartic. My eyes filled with tears multiple times as I pressed the keys.

I wrote this because I can no longer spend half an hour in a swing.

… Tradition!?

In a couple of days Pam and I will celebrate our 42nd anniversary, though the word celebrate may be too strong, as we typically just acknowledge the day in passing. That’s not to say it is not an important day in our lives. It is. It just means that we are somewhat past the point of celebrating anything. It also turns out that we are being traditionally appropriate this time.

Being appropriate is a very rare thing for me, as I am never intentionally appropriate. I am consistently inner directed. I am unapologetically me. I like what I like. I do what I do. I wear what I wear. Heck, I still watch network TV, and my favorite zip up hoodie is threadbare at the elbows and is fraying at the ends of the sleeves. I claim it is comfortable. Pam says it’s disgusting. I’m sure she is right, but I can’t bring myself to admit it. Every now and then I could be considered appropriate, but it is a coincidence, not a planned act.

Pam, on the other hand, loves to be current. She loves to be appropriate. She is always reading the newspaper looking for trending things to eat, to do, to listen to, to watch. I love that aspect of her, as it pushes me to be more mainstream.

So as I approached our 42nd anniversary with nothing planned, I decided to research the traditional 42nd anniversary gifts. I wanted to know what I should be doing, even if I most likely would not be doing it. I was shocked to learn that I should be doing just about nothing. Wow, I thought, “I am good at that.” It turns out that there is no traditional gift, meaning, color or name to signify the event. The best tradition has to say is that, “The couple must be doing something right.” Geez, what a backhanded way of looking at it. A way that I thought was pretty appropriate.

All was not lost, though, as the 42nd anniversary does have a traditional stone. It’s called the Jasper stone, a type of stone I have never heard of. Once I looked it up, I understood why I had never heard of it. Apparently, is is an impure form of silica, riddled with a bunch of minerals, including iron, which gives it its red hue.

I was nonplussed by the Jasper stone’s composition and color. It looked like an almond to me. But then I dug deeper and was pleased to learn the true meaning of the Jasper stone. It is said to be nurturing and bring wellness through times of stress. It is also said that it provides protection, absorbs negative energy, promotes feelings of peace, relaxation and security, and balances the yin and the yang. Oh my!

Once I did my research, I was intrigued. I decided I should get Pam a Jasper stone for our anniversary. I mean, it is traditional. It turned out that it was not only traditional, but it was darn cheap, something else I found endearing about it. So I ordered one. Thanks to Amazon, it should be here before the big day. It is not wearable, though it could be carried in a pocket. It is not pretty, though it could be caressed. It is not extravagant, though it is thoughtful.

I was pretty shocked with myself. I was acting traditionally, with intention. Dang. Could this be the start of a new habit? Thankfully, my research was not done. It turns out that doing a home improvement project is thought to be a pretty traditional 42nd anniversary gift. Pam and I have a couple of big-ticket improvements to make. We have been procrastinating due to supply chain issues and general malaise, but we recently decided it was time to move forward again, without any realization that they were traditional anniversary gifts to each other. I was stoked, as that thought sunk in because I didn’t have to worry too much about becoming intentionally appropriate.

Happy Anniversary, Dear.

Year of the Glump

It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, but it did. I wasn’t ready for it, but I got used to it. Now I embrace it. So much so that my name on the Tonal and Peloton leaderboards is set to it or a form of it. That’s right, I have become the Glump.

My grandfather moniker was supposed to be Grump or Grumpy, mainly because I can be, but as Portia, our exalted granddaughter, could not pronounce her “Rs” in 2021, she started calling me Glump or Glumpy. So I became the Glump, and I wear that moniker proudly.

Thankfully, 2021 was a good year for the Glump. Given all the good that was going on, it was actually pretty tough, even for me, to generate enough glumpiness to really be glumpy. It turns out glumpy is actually a word in the English language, albeit the archaic English language, but a word nonetheless. It can mean sullen, gloomy, somber, sluggish. And while I do not generally earn those labels, I do embrace my moniker.

So why was I not generally glumpy last year? Mainly because the family was healthy and happy. Work was fun, even if I was too busy, which drove me to form a new business at the end of 2021 to actively pursue in 2022. Pam and I embraced our Covid driven, homebased lifestyle, which included going to Shelby’s every weekend to see her, Portia and Bryan. My sister and I have continued to have a great relationship, and Pam and I were able to visit her in Northern California in the fall. Shelby is expecting another child at the end of March. Kimberly is happy and in a relationship. I have not seen an airport in over two years. I was able to work from home all year. Life, in short, was good.

Importantly, I have continued to embrace exercise and movement, something that is crucial to sustained health as I age. As I sit here writing this on New Year’s Day, I have already finished my first strength workout of the year. I completed the 16th and final workout of a four week program I began in early December. At first I was bummed that I would not finish the program on New Year’s Eve, but it actually feels really good to finish it on New Year’s Day, as it has given me a great sense of accomplishment to start the year.

So how much exercise did I do in 2021? In short, a whole lot. Thanks to modern technology, I actually know what I have done. I mean, my Tonal tracks pretty much every strength movement I do. My Peloton tracks every stationary mile I ride. My Fitbit tracks every step I take, while tracking the miles I have moved and the total beats of my heart. Of course, Fitbit is not super accurate with respect to heartrate so I also wear my Scosche arm band heart rate monitor while I exercise. Frankly, the only thing I do not track is what I eat, mainly because I am happy with what I eat. At least most of the time.

My Fitbit told me I took about 2.5 million steps, either walking or running during 2021. This translates into moving about 1,000 miles. It would have been more, but I stopped running when I suffered a stress fracture in my right foot at the end of January.

My Peloton, which I bought in early March after my stress fracture healed, told me I “rode” 1,000 miles in the 10 months I had it.

My Tonal told me I lifted over 1.1 million pounds in 2021. What it didn’t tell me was how many calisthenic type body weight movements like lunges and regular squats and split squats and burps and burpees and pushups and crunches and planks I did in 2021. Suffice it to say I did many. My Tonal did tell me, though, that I spent over 50 hours under tension during the year, meaning 50 hours doing weighted reps of many different movements, and it told me I lifted the equivalent of an Airbus A380.

I would have been proud of my accomplishments if I had done them in my 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, or pre-Medicare 60s. Having done them while on Medicare just makes them more meaningful.

I did a lot last year. I expect to do at least as much this year. And I hope I continue to wear my moniker because I like it. Not because I earn it.

Pressing It

It’s mid-December. How the hell did that happen? I couldn’t believe Thanksgiving, as late in the month as it was, got here so quickly. Now Christmas is just around the corner. Many people have issues during the Holiday Season. I don’t. I have issues when they end.

Ever since I have been a young adult, I have always dreaded the first week of January. Not because I had made a boatload of resolutions, because I usually hadn’t. Not because I had gained a bunch of weight, because I usually hadn’t. Not because I had to return to work after many days of vacation, because I usually didn’t. Not because I had missed a slug of workouts, because I usually hadn’t. Not because I would miss holiday music or Hallmark holiday movies, because I knew I wouldn’t. So what gives? Why the dread?

I think it has always related mainly to, sorry Billy Joel, my New Year’s State of Mind. I live my life in a very orderly rut, a rut that I flow through without lots of thought. That is not to say that I do not make changes in my life. I change, but I change the way glaciers used to change before global warming, very slowly and very subtly. And those changes are not marked by the calendar. They are marked by need. Generally, this has worked out very well for me, and I have made significant changes over a long period of time. But there is something about the first week of January, all fresh and new, that just makes wonder if I need to pop out of my rut and press reset. It is this wondering, or maybe more accurately any FOMO, occurring as, sorry Andy Williams, The Most Wonderful Time of the Year draws to a close, that causes me to dread the first week of January.

Ironically, this year is different. There is no dread in my head. There is no wondering. I have pressed reset.

Over the past several months I have been dwelling on the most asked of questions: “What do I want to do with my life?” At 66, well almost 67, I should have made those decisions already. And to a large extent I have. But, as I wrote about earlier this year, the specter of a rapidly diminishing quantity of quality time remaining has been causing me to assess just how I want to spend my next chunk of quality time.

After much thought, I have decided to continue to spend major portions of my life doing exactly what I am currently doing. I am really fortunate, as I am, sorry Tim McGraw, generally Living Like I am Dying. But I have decided, despite how much I enjoy my work, to change how I work, to change with whom I work, and to change how much time I spend working.

For good or bad I am not ready to retire. So instead, I have decided that at almost 67 it is time for me to become an entrepreneur again, something I have not been since 2004. For the past four months I have been laying the groundwork to start my own consulting entity. I would have preferred to transition to it earlier in the year, but I had to finish several projects in which I played a key role, forcing me to live in my current rut for longer than I should have.

That’s the bad news. The good news is that, sorry Carly Simon, my Anticipation about starting anew in January has put a damper on my dread. In fact, there is no dread. Just the opposite. I feel more alive and excited about the future than I have in years. I cannot think of any better way to defer retirement. Or any better way to spend my time.

As far as I am concerned, the first week of January cannot arrive soon enough. I can only hope that by the time next year ends I will be firmly ensconced in my new rut and dreading the first week of January yet again.

Not So Piefect

It is Black Friday morning, and as I sit here writing this, I am reflecting on Thanksgiving, dipping a perfect piece of mandelbrot into my perfect cup of Peet’s coffee, all the while listening to Arlo mutter about Alice, Fasha and Obie.

Black Friday has been a mixed bag so far. Despite awakening in a food, drink and sleep induced fog, I had a great, though eye opening, both literally and figuratively, workout on my Tonal. I took advantage of a Black Friday sale by buying more Peet’s coffee. I bought some bagels. I ate breakfast. And now I am sitting here reflecting, dipping and sipping.

On the surface, Thanksgiving was perfect, or in the context of my thoughts last night, piefect. It marked a return to normalcy after last year’s small, muted, stunted celebration. We had 14 people for dinner, which may have been a record for us, including our kids, son in law, grandchild and many members of Pam’s family. Everything worked perfectly. Everybody contributed. Everything was done on time. All expressed our gratitude. No one yelled or argued. Portia was happily running around, talking up a storm, and eating lots of pie. Every thing was perfect. And, shockingly, nothing was amiss. Or so it seemed.

I have been taking the lead role in making Thanksgiving dinners for about 20 years. It is a role I never envisioned for myself when I was younger, but one Thanksgiving I told everyone at the table that I was doing the cooking the following year, even though I had never cooked a turkey in my life. It’s worked out pretty well, and no one wants me to stop. It has become a labor of love.

But labor it is. I refer to Thanksgiving as my version of The Longest Day. My day has evolved and my work load has lessened over the years, but it is still stressful and a lot of work. It starts Wednesday evening with pie making, something I am a relative novice at, having made fewer than ten pies in my life. But apple pie defines Thanksgiving, so that is what I make. And this one was damn near piefect, even though I felt it was going to be less than piefect as I fumbled around making the crust and getting it into the pie plate. On Thanksgiving day I make the hors d’oeuvre dish, a vintage egg paste that is an homage to my late mother, Helen, and requires a Foley Food Mill, an anachronistic device I watched my mother use over sixty years ago. Then it’s on to making the turkey, the turkey stock and giblets (wing tips, not neck or innards) to be used in the gravy, the creamed spinach and, last, and most assuredly the most difficult dish to get just right, the gravy.

Thankfully, I have lots of help. Shelby made the stuffing. Kim made the salad and a healthy version of cranberry sauce she made from scratch. Bryan made the macaroni and cheese. Pam continues to make the yams, which are the not candied in the least, the mashed potatoes and the green beans. Andrea and her family, bring a pumpkin pie. Mitch and Dale bring Dale’s pecan bars and drive down from San Francisco. Lois makes and brings the aforementioned mandelbrot and brings Sees candy.

I went to sleep last night feeling great, tired and full, but great. As I was working out this morning and doing a set of iso split stance chops, a fiendishly difficult exercise, it dawned on me that I had sinned yesterday. My sins were not sins of action, but they were sins of omission. And our Thanksgiving was not so piefect after all.

First, and less importantly, I apologize to Arlo Guthrie, as I failed to listen to Alice’s Restaurant yesterday, thereby making Thanksgiving day less piefect, which is why I was listening to it this morning. Alice’s Restaurant is a funny song, but it is also a protest song, a song which is more significant now than it has been in decades.

Second, and much more importantly, and why I am writing this with tears in my eyes, I apologize to Onesimus (smallpox), Edward Jenner (small pox), Louis Pasteur (rabies), Max Theiler (yellow fever), Thomas Francis (influenza), Jonas Salk (polio), Albert Sabin (polio), Maurice Hilleman (measles), Richard Mulligan and Paul Berg (recombinant dna technology), and Katalin Kariko (mrna technology), because I omitted to thank them for developing ground breaking vaccines or technologies which have led to the development of the covid vaccines. I apologize to Donald Trump and Mike Pence for failing to express my gratitude with respect to their efforts in initiating and managing project Warp Speed to combat covid. I apologize to all the scientists around the world, who worked on the development of the covid vaccines, for failing to thank them for their tireless efforts on our behalf. I apologize to Dr. Anthony Fauci and Dr. Scott Gottlieb, who spoke the truth throughout the pandemic, for failing to thank them for their honesty, knowledge, communication skills and professionalism during extremely turbulent, stressful times. I apologize to Joe Biden, Kamala Harris, Gavin Newsome, and Eric Garcetti, who made the distribution of the vaccines a national, state and local priority, for failing to mention their leadership in getting the infrastructure mobilized to get the vaccines distributed. Lastly, I apologize to all the doctors, nurses, support personnel and volunteers who spent inordinate amounts of time putting shots in our arms.

As I finished my set of iso split stance chops, I was stunned, not to mention somewhat disturbed. While we were waxing poetically last night about our gratitude over our return to normalcy, our collective health, our happiness to be with family, and our joy at consuming massive quantities of piefect, fat laden foods, I did not adequately thank those many who provided the foundation for our piefect evening. Sadly, I did not even note my failure. A failure I will ensure never recurs.

Happy Thanksgiving.

47

47 is an odd number, literally. It is close to 50, a nice round, even number that is worth commemorating, but 47 is not 50. So why am I writing about 47? It has nothing to do with the number of the next POTUS. It is not the number of years I have been married to Pam, my saint of a wife, which is only a paltry 41. It is not the number of years since my high school graduation, which is 48. So WTF am I writing this for? Frankly, I could have just written about the number 1, which is the real significance of 47 for me.

In the summer of 1974, 47 years ago, I began my first physical, not spiritual, rebirth. In the summer of 2020, 1 year ago, I unknowingly began the rebirth of my physical rebirth. Simply put, I changed my exercise regimen dramatically in my 47th year of exercising. That is why 47 is so significant to me. And that is why I could just as easily have written about the number 1.

I did not expect this change. I did not seek this change. I did not even understand that I needed to make this change. Nor did I understand just how important this was going to be for me. The reality was that I had been in an exercise rut for years, smugly thinking that I was fit. And to some extent in one dimension I was.

As the summer of ’74 began, I had just completed my first year at UCLA, and, frankly, I was overweight and out of shape, having skipped most forms of exercise for the prior couple of years. I don’t really remember what prompted me to step foot onto the red clay track at Beverly Hills High School, my alma mater, but I did. It was not pretty. It was not pleasant. But at least that first outing was brief, possibly only a single lap, a lap during which I probably walked more than I ran. And while my start was inauspicious, that single act was the catalyst for the commitment I have made to exercise ever since.

Running became my go to form of exercise. My raison d’etre in the exercise world. I could never explain why. I was never more than marginally good at it. But I was that guy. The one that everyone got irritated with. I ran. Not because I had to. But because I liked it. I liked to run without music in my ears, as I just loved the sound of my heart beating in my chest and of my feet slapping the ground. I felt bad if I didn’t do it. Yeah, I was that guy for 46 or so years, while covering about 25,000 miles.

Of course, running was not the only form of exercise I did, but it was my favorite. During the rest of the 70s and through all the 80s and 90s, I did other things along with running. I spent lots of time playing pickup basketball until I realized that it was too easy to get hurt and keep me from running for months. On a whim in the mid 80s, I decided to check out a Masters Swimming workout at the Jonathan Club. It turned out that if I liked running, I was actually naturally good at distance swimming, despite having never done any organized form of it. So for the next 17 or so years, I swam with a Masters team, logging somewhere over 6,000 miles in the pool and ocean. In the late 80s, I dabbled in cycling and did several international distance triathlons and, later in the 90s, bike centuries.

But since I stopped swimming in ’03, I became much more one dimensional. I ran. I sort of lifted a few weights, but there was no organized or thoughtful or consistent approach to my lifting. I didn’t realize it, but my body was changing in ways that were not positive. My running stride was shortening. My mobility and balance were waning, and most of all my core and glutes were pretty much useless. But I still smugly believed I was fit. And in a cardio sense, I was. I just assumed that my physical degradation was due to aging. I began to wonder just how much longer I could run.

Then Covid happened, and I was not lifting at all, not even sporadically. That was when my Tonal entered my life. I had no expectations for it other than replacing my disorganized, unthoughtful and sporadic approach I had towards weightlifting and for keeping me away from Equinox. It enabled me to do both of those things admirably, I was wrong in thinking that was all I would do with it.

I recently celebrated my 1 year Tonalversary. It is shocking to me just how much fitter I am today than I was a year ago. Let me be clear, I will never be the guy who focuses on building big delts, lats, pecs or biceps or getting super strong. I am not interested in those traits. On the other hand, at 66, I am totally interested in maintaining muscle mass and bone density, in training all the muscle groups in my body, in improving my balance and mobility, and in maintaining my cardio fitness levels. When I got my Tonal, I had no idea just how important all of these goals were going to be to me. Nor did I realize how effective it would be to enabling me to achieve them.

I breezed through the first program I tackled. It was a pure beginner program, and I kept my weights low to ease into using the machine. Then I started the second program, and all my illusions of fitness evaporated when I tried my first Bulgarian split squat. After lowering the weight to the bare minimum and falling out of most of the reps, I realized I needed to press reset. My mobility and balance were awful and my glutes apparently had not been used in years. That was about 11 months ago. Suddenly I was not so smug. In fact, I was pretty depressed. All I wanted to do was to avoid doing another Bulgarian split squat. I mean, who needs them, I asked myself.

Then I got mad at myself for being so lame. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I needed them. So I decided to incorporate body weight versions of them into my pre-Tonal warmup stretches. At first, I was happy doing one on each leg. Then two. Then three. Since then, I have done about 1,000 of them. They are now one of my favorite movements. They have become the poster child for the rebirth of my physical rebirth and the genesis for restoring my belief in incremental improvement, despite being on Medicare.

With the help of the Tonal Coaches and community, I have transformed myself. Over the past 11 months, I have mastered many, many movements that I would have thought impossible to do a year ago, movements that have enabled me to focus on my core and my glutes and on a lot of other muscles in my body. I have lifted over 850K pounds in that time, a low number compared to most Tonal users, but a significant number to me. I cannot even count the number of burps, burpees, mountain climbers, squat jacks and other body weight exercises I have done. Sure, I still have limitations and physically cannot do a goblet curtsey lunge consistently right, but mentally I believe that I can and will master them.

Due to a running induced metatarsal stress fracture in January, I stopped running. I began to believe that I would never run again. I could not exist without cardio and had no interest in returning to Equinox, so I bought a Peloton bike, which I have used for cardio for the past six months. But spinning is not running. I will continue to use the bike because of the ease in which I can get a great cardio workout. But returning to running has been lurking in the recesses of my mind for the past month or so. I miss it. So much so that the other day, I put on my running shoes after doing a core workout on Tonal and went for a run. My pace was slow and easy. My distance was short, under a mile. My cardio was a bit labored. But my stride was remarkable. It felt long and fluid. My glutes were firing. My core was stable. I realized I would still be doing some form of running for years. I thanked my Tonal the whole way.

Pilates and the Super Model

Forgive me guys for I sinned about five years ago in the middle of a Pilates class. I actually told a Victoria’s Secret model clad in spandex doing Pilates on the floor next to me that I thought it would be better if she was not there. Shocking, I know. Maybe even unbelievable. I know that, too. Most likely I was in a fugue state. Nope, I think I was still sane. So what was I thinking?

As I leisurely walked to class, I had no idea I would be sinning within 30 minutes. All I was thinking about was that I hoped that I would not be the only person taking the class. That sounds weird, too. Right? Everyone wants a private lesson for the price of a group lesson. Right? Well, not everyone.

I had started taking Pilates with my wife a year or so prior to that night. We would go together. That is, until she decided that she needed her own workout and migrated to barre classes, classes I knew better than to attempt. So I kept going to Pilates. Alone. Sometimes my friends, John an Kris, would be there. Other times my friend, Daryn, would be there. And still other times some of my neighbors would be there. But many times it was just me.

At first, that was cool. After all I was getting private lessons at a bargain price. Eventually the allure of private lessons faded when I realized how much I was being scrutinized by the instructor. Every move. Every rep. Everything. It was unnerving. To some extent it was annoying, not because she was wrong, but because I was never going to get it right.

Anyway, as I was walking to class that night, I just wanted to have someone, anyone, in the class with me. The more the merrier.

So I walked into the studio and saw the teacher. I did not see anyone else. My heart sank. Then the teacher said those fateful words, “Harry, I think the super model will be in class with you tonight!” My heart leapt. “A super model? How super?” I asked. She said, “Think Victoria’s Secret!” I did. My heart leapt higher.

The clock wound down to the start of class. No super model. My heart sank again. Soon I was in the opening movements of the class. I heard a stream of corrections. “Harry, straighten your legs.” “Harry, point your feet.” “Harry, slow down the movements.” You get the point. I was under the Pilates microscope yet again, and there was no super model or anyone else to deflect the teacher’s attention.

After about 10 minutes, the studio door opened and in walked the super model. My jaw dropped. My heart leapt, more because I was not alone than for any other reason. Well, maybe not more than any other reason. The teacher introduced us. Her name was etched into my mind. Mine never permeated her consciousness. I told her I was really glad she was there. Most likely that did not penetrate her consciousness, either. None of that mattered. I was not alone. I could have a few moments of peace. I would not hear the steady stream of form corrections, or at least not as many. Actually, it was better then I thought it was going to be, as the teacher sort of forgot I was there. I heard nothing. Yippee.

We continued to work on the reformers for about 10 more minutes and then the teacher said it was time to do floor work, something I never did. Apparently, floor work is reserved for those that are good at Pilates and had cores and buns of steel, which I did not. So we got on the floor and the workout continued.

But it was not like any workout I had ever done before. Apparently, super models are really good at Pilates, or at least this one was. The teacher could not push her new prize student hard enough. Of course, the teacher was indirectly pushing me way past my abilities. I was dying. I was schvitzing. My moves were becoming more and more spastic as the sets and reps wore on. The only good news was that the teacher ignored me.

Eventually, we took a break. That was when I looked over to the super model and said, “I really wish you were not here!” Maybe, by that point I was in a fugue state afterall.

Time

To quote the Chambers Brothers, “Time Has Come Today.” I have always liked that song, even if I was about 12 when it was released, and even if I could not relate to it at that time. Most likely, I would have needed a dose of Timothy Leary to “get it” anyway. Now fifty-some years later it is beginning to weigh heavily on my mind.

Time Has Come Today is a call to action. When it was released it was about social justice and ending the Vietnam War. In a broader, world wide context the song is just as, or maybe even more, appropriate today than when it was first written, but that is not why I am writing about it now.

At 66, I am staring down the gun barrel of my own mortality. Well not really, but I am reaching the age where my QTR, or quality time remaining, is rapidly diminishing, leaving me with a host of long ignored and perpetually postponed life decisions. Decisions like how do I want to spend the quality time I have remaining. Like what will make me happy. Like what will make me feel good. Like what will keep me healthy. Like… Like…. Like…. Like…. While the questions are easy to pose, the answers are elusive, or, more likely, obscure.

I am a very fortunate guy. Despite my generally grumpy, curmudgeon-like outlook on life, I am actually pretty happy. Thankfully, I do not have a host of major issues to deal with. I have a great family. I love the work I do. I enjoy pursuing healthful activities. I enjoy my friends. My body and mind are functional. I do not have financial stress. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I have very little free time to spend on anything else. Which leads me right back to the question of the day: If I had free time, what would I want to do with it? In other words, how do I want to spend my QTR. Frankly, I have no idea.

Sporadically, in life we face times like these. Times that are watersheds in retrospect. Times where big decisions are made. From birth to our late teens, we have very few such decisions to make. Then all of a sudden, we have to pick, and get accepted by, a college. That was pretty easy for me, as it was UCLA or junior college. Even worse, we have to pick a major. For me, that was a simple choice, as I hated to read and—ironically—write when I entered college. Thus, it was easy to choose a major like mathematics. A paltry four or so years later, we have to pick a career or decide to stay in school. Again, that was pretty easy for me, as I opted to get an advanced degree. But unless we are lucky enough to be born with a significant trust and gobs of family money—which I wasn’t—sooner or later we have to pick a career, go to work and earn a living. Oh, yeah, we also have to decide if we want a spouse and family. But once those big choices are made, we generally have a long time to just stay the course, with periodic mid-course corrections. Until the specter of QTR looms large. Then it is time for the biggest life decision of all.

So here I sit, writing this and mulling over my life and how I want to spend what is left of it. So far, I have really enjoyed my day. I was up at the butt-crack of dawn because I don’t really need much sleep. I worked while it was still dark. I threw balls to Jake, the dog, after it got lighter, which is why at 12 years old he is still a spry guy. I did my 45 minute Peloton Power Zone ride, getting my heart rate into zone 4 and schvitzing enough to leave a puddle under the bike. I fed and walked Jake. I ate. I worked. I did my weekly personal banking and credit card reconciliations. I helped Pam unload the groceries. And I sat down to write this. All before lunch. All in all a pretty normal Saturday for me. And that is the problem.

I have been on the treadmill, literally and figuratively, of life for quite some time. It feels normal for me to do some work almost every day of the week—at all hours. Frankly, it feels good to be mentally engaged 24/7. It gives me purpose. It fills up my time. I am never bored—unless I have nothing on which to work. Again, that is the problem.

Sometimes I wonder if I am a workaholic. I know I have compulsive personality disorder in my genes, as my mom was a compulsive gambler. No doubt I enjoy a routine and find it hard to change it. Work enables me to stay in my rut. In the past when I have pondered this, I would re-read the definition of workaholic, and I realize that I did not work to avoid pressing or emotional issues. I worked because I had too much to do. Or so I told myself then. But more and more I am coming to understand that I am so inured, and that my soul has become so psychedelicized, to working long hours that I have accepted them as being the norm, or the price I pay for loving what I do, with the result being that I have suppressed my desires to do other things. Covid only made the situation easier to ignore, as there was not much else to do anyway. But now as we are beginning to open up and do more things and as my QTR continues to diminish, the true cost of those hours has become more apparent. But is it high enough to cause me to act? I think it is.

Which brings me back to Time Has Come Today, and its call to action. I need to change my life now. I need to work less. Not because I have a pressing need immediately, but because I will never know if I have a need until it is too late if I don’t. I have to give myself time before I have any clue as to how I want to use it if I ever want to have the time to use it differently. In some respects it is like creating the space to build a field of dreams, but that is a topic for another post.

DOM Me

You’d think that after 46+ years of cardio, I would know better. But then you would also think that after 46+ years of running, I would not have run myself into a metatarsal foot stress fracture in late January, causing me to rethink my dedication to running now that I have aged sufficiently to take Social Security without a penalty. If you thought either of those thoughts, you would be wrong, very wrong.

While Covid has been a devastating year for so many, it has been a watershed year for me, especially as it relates to my exercise routines. As I have written about before, I am now more focused on strength training than cardio for the first time in my exercise life. Most of that switch relates to my weight training on my Tonal, but part of it relates to my stress fracture, which caused me to skip cardio for about six weeks, as I was waiting for it to heal and was waiting for my Peloton Bike to be delivered.

So here I am in late April after my first Tabata workout on my Peloton, with my heart rate still high as my body tries in vain to return to homeostasis by metabolizing the lactate in my muscles. Of course, I am also waiting for a serious amount of DOMs to hit me tomorrow. DOMs, more accurately known as delayed onset muscle soreness show up between 24 and 48 hours after the workout causing them. I have had them many times over the years. As I mentioned above, you would have thought I would have known better, but sometimes shit just happens.

I have been spinning on my Peloton for just about eight weeks, long enough to graduate from the beginner and advanced beginner classes, long enough to begin to take the regular classes and learn about the various instructors, and long enough to get my legs into a modicum of cycling shape after not having ridden in over 20 years. To put it bluntly, I have been sort of babying myself, coasting by on light resistance and high revs as I got my body into cycling shape. In other words relying on my cardio base while my legs start to strengthen. I even faked my way through a power zone test using the same strategy. My power results were pathetic, as my heart rate never entered zone 4 even though my legs were sobbing. But, hey, I met myself where I was, and I earned the score I got.

I am not interested in using my Peloton as a way to enable me to ride outdoors on the weekends, having given up outdoor cycling in the late 90s. I am not interested in using my Peloton as a way to replace live spinning classes or as a way to make spinning into the cornerstone of my exercise regime. I am interested in using it as a way to replace running as my go to for cardio training and as a way to complement my strength training which means I need to avoid the dreaded cardio zone 3 muscular destruction and spend lots of time in cardio zones 1,2 and 4.

That is why I subjected myself to a Tabata workout. I have done lots of interval training in my life, having run with a track club in my early thirties and having swum with a masters swim team for almost 20 years. But I have really not done many intervals since the early 2000s, except for a few treadmill classes at Equinox. While I had heard of HIIT, I had never heard of Tabata. Maybe I should have read more about it before I decided to do a 30 minute Tabata class. DOM me.

In my eight short weeks of Peloton, I have learned that there is enough variability in the bikes to detract from relying too much on the leaderboard for specific positioning. But it is accurate enough for me to get a pretty good perspective on where I fit relative to the population of riders taking a specific class. It is also really good for understanding a class’s popularity, as least after the fact. Lately, I have been taking classes where the leaderboard informs me that well north of 50,000 people have taken them. After my Tabata class, I was not surprised to see that only about 6,000 people had taken it. I knew why: It was tough. But, DOM, it was effective.

I learned just how effective as I watched my heart rate get well into zone 4 and nudge zone 5 for over 10 minutes during the 30 minute ride. The first time I had entered these cardio zones since I started with Peloton. I also racked up about 10 minutes in zone 3 while I was either on the way up into zone 4 or back down into zone 2. Due to the two to one work to rest nature of Tabata, I did not stay in zone 2 very long.

So as I sit here writing this with my heart hammering and my DOMS lurking on the horizon, I wonder when I will have the courage to knowingly subject myself to this level of self abuse again. Knowing me, it won’t be long enough.

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