I have been negligent in my responsibilities in keeping this blog current and guilty of providing you with little in the way of interesting content over the last few months. I have failed to live up to my expectations and, most likely, yours. To try and explain this behavior, words like implosion, meltdown, and buried come to mind, yet they are far too melodramatic to use in this context and I feel they sensationalize what is at the heart of the matter.

I’m simply too fucking busy.

Now, if I were busy researching a cure for cancer or solving the world’s overpopulation problems, then I have no issues with using the overworked excuse to justify my absence here. However, I’m not pursuing anything so lofty for mankind. Tossing myself into the pressure cooker of my life, I have finally reached a point where I simply do not want to take on one more damned responsibility or agree to one more commitment…no matter how tempting.

You see, I’ve always been one of those “inch-thick, mile-wide” kind of guys. In more polite terms, a Renaissance man. I’ve always believed that life is too short to be tied to one hobby, activity, or avocation. Therefore, I’ve ping-ponged between triathlon, archery, guitar, cycling, running, painting, meditation, martial arts, woodworking, urban farming, dog training and countless other pursuits. And as a result of that approach, I’ve yet to master any one of those pursuits and it’s safe to say that I pretty much suck at all of them.

While this makes me a rather interesting person in social circles because I can usually find something in common with nearly anyone who has a pulse, it does leave me feeling rather flighty. Even more so when I look back at my life and see many of the open loops that I would like to close before I take my final curtain call in the off-off Broadway production of “The Life of Hak.”

One of those loops I wanted to complete is triathlon. I returned to the sport in 2006 to relieve some work-related stress and to pick up where I had started many years earlier. Like many, I was infected by the multisport virus and fell in love with triathlon people. Runners were nice, but rather manic and a bit touched in the head (the exception being trail runners who are some of the coolest folks out there). Roadies, well, I still haven’t learned to like most of those pricks…although I do appreciate their skills. I’ve found the sport of triathlon, however, to be filled with a beautiful camaraderie of people looking to test their limits as well as lend a helping hand to others. I have seen no greater group of cheerleaders than top age groupers who stay near the finish line to offer encouragement to all of those who follow behind. You don’t see that in many other sports.

For the past two years, I have been trying to live that triathlon lifestyle of squeezing in multiple training sessions between a job and family. As one who has the attention span of a three-year-old, it should come as no surprise that I’ve also tried to integrate the triathlon lifestyle with those of a parent, employee, writer, and several other avocations and goals to which I have committed myself. What I’ve found is that no matter how hard and creatively I’ve tried, I can’t successfully weave together those somewhat incongruent existences into one seamless me. I’ve floundered for 20 years to succeed at somehow achieving near mastery of one subject while simultaneously being the Renaissance man. I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I’m feeding a dead horse. It ain’t gonna happen.

The decision to go back to school last year to pursue a second career as a physician is what forced me to really take a long hard look at reality. It’s funny how having no time forces you to jettison parts of your life that take away from your dreams. It has also shown me that I am not the hot-shit multitasker I thought I was. There is no such thing as multitasking. There is only being in the present moment. In a nutshell, that’s what life boils down to. Being 100 percent committed to what you’re doing right here and right now…not chasing mental fireflies in the twilight.

I have also learned, viscerally at last, that my family comes first. Not being around to enjoy many meals with them over the past year has made me appreciate my time with them even more. Anything that takes away from those shared moments and memories needs to be re-examined.

As a result, I have come to the conclusion that the triathlon lifestyle needs to be jettisoned. Until my children are older, there is simply no excuse for me to take away one hour of the three I have with them on weekdays to ride a bike, drive to the pool, spend at the gym, or train at a yoga studio.

After all, what makes my long Sunday ride more noble than a crack addict passed out behind the alley dumpster when it comes to my kids’ perspective? An absentee father is still an absentee father no matter the cause.

So, I’ve semi-retired from triathlon because I have way too much shit on my plate. Where do I go from here? Give up completely? Replace triathlon with another less time-consuming activity like competitive bread buttering?

Or perhaps better put by extreme mountaineer and fitness innovator Mark Twight: “But there is a way out. Live the lifestyle instead of paying lip service to the lifestyle. Live with commitment. With emotional content. Live whatever life you choose honestly. Give up this renaissance man, dilettante bullshit of doing a lot of different things (and none of them very well by real standards). Get to the guts of one thing; accept, without reservation or rationalization, the responsibility of making a choice. When you live honestly, you can not separate your mind from your body, or your thoughts from your actions.”

More in a couple of days…

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I’ll be more specific in the next few days when I have a moment or three to string coherent sentences together.

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Once such event that reinforced that conditioning was my youngest daughter’s soccer wrap-up party the other weekend. Yes, their spring season had come to an end and her team won’t reconvene until the cooler temps arrive in the fall. Having 8-year-old girls practicing in 98-degree temps with full sun exposure apparently isn’t healthy for children.

When did kids get so fat?

Anyway, we’re at the pool party and my wife and I are having fun watching the kids frolic in the water. Out of the dozen or so girls on the team, 10 were obese. I’m not talking about having a little extra baby fat, I’m talking double-fisted Twinkie-eating-hand-me-another-grape-soda-mom kind of fat. Lest you think me a physique snob, my wife, who is very sensitive about these matters, was the one who pointed out that one girl looked like she was pregnant. Huge abdominal distention.

Ummm…who gave this kid more ice cream?

What makes this even more depressing is that these are active kids. They play soccer for chrissakes. They’re not like the kids that sit on their asses playing video games or watching Nickelodeon all day. These kids run up and down the field during practice and pump their little legs and lungs like crazy.

I wanted to run up to the parents and shake the crap out of them. “Do you see what you’re doing to your kid!”

Of course, if I did that, I’d be kicked out of the party and shunned for all times. But somebody needs to wake these parents up.

What authority figure can do that?

The pediatrician.

While these professionals still have some respect and credibility among their patients, it’s time for them to step up and call it like they see it. “Mrs. Smith, your daughter is suffering from a serious disease.”

Mrs. Smith:”Oh my God! What is it? Cancer? Leukemia?”

Pediatrician:”I’m afraid you’re not so lucky. Those diseases, while painful and often fatal, will end your daughter’s life far quicker. No, you’re daughter suffers from CTT.”

Mrs. Smith:”That sounds horrible! What is it?”

Pediatrician: “Chronic Twinkie Toxicity. Yes, Mrs. Smith. Your daughter is a fat ass.”

Mrs. Smith: “But…but…she’s just big for her age. Can’t you just give her a pill?”

And so it goes….

Throwing Political Correctness out the window

Finally, one physician has the cajones to call a spade a spade. Perhaps more apropos, a lard ass a lard ass. Or, as we used to say in the farmbelt of Ohio: A corn-fed gal a corn-fed gal.

Dr. Jeremy Brown, an ER doc in Baltimore, is doing the right thing: “Obesity is not only about health risks, which include diabetes, joint pain, congestive heart failure, strokes, back pain, sleep apnea, depression, infertility and erectile dysfunction. It is also about the root causes and our society’s denial of the woeful impact obesity is having on Americans’ health. Let me “not fail to see what is visible” is the line I recall from the Prayer for Physicians attributed to the great physician-philosopher of the Middle Ages, Moses Maimonides, a copy of which hangs over my desk. Non-traumatic knee pain in an obese patient is a sign that she needs dietary counseling, not radiographic imaging.”

You can read the full story, Tackling a Taboo, by clicking here.

For those who feel the need to write me about how insensitive I am to the needs of plus-sized people, to you I say, “Piss off.” I will not lose a moment of sleep on whether or not you take care of the amazing hardware system you were given stewardship of when you took your first breath outside the womb. What you do with your body is your business.

However, if you have a child and are letting them destroy their bodies and health, or worse, emulating your destructive habits, then wake the fuck up.

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Doctors seem to be inventing more and more of these unflattering terms as obesity becomes more prevalent in our society. Keep your ears open for Polydipose Dysfunction and BW (beached whale).

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Food obviously plays an important roles in our lives. It’s what nourishes us in the womb and once we start the dying process upon our “hatching.” We can use food for fuel, performance, escapism, and even as a source of slow suicide.

The Casales Family of Cuernavaca
Note the abundance of fresh fruit and veggies
…and soda. Weekly food bill: $189.09 (U.S.)
Favorites: pizza, crab, pasta, chicken.

Twinkies around the world
First, take a look at this great photo essay by photographer Peter Menzel and author-journalist Faith D’Alusio. Some of these photos from their book Hungry Planet: What the World Eats have been floating around the Internet for quite some time and I’m finally getting around to sharing them here. They represent an amazing vision and, at least to me, provide a poignant reminder of just how vital food is to our existence.

The Revis family of North Carolina
Lots of pre-packaged food. Weekly food bill:
$341.98 (U.S.) Favorites: spaghetti, potatoes,
sesame chicken.

As you look at the photos, pay attention to not only the volume of food, but to the quality of the food each family consumes in a week. Just because a diet has a high proportion of fresh produce (like the Casales family of Cuernavaca), doesn’t mean they’re healthy. Nor does it mean that if you eat only pre-packaged junk food, like the Revis family of North Carolina, does it mean you’re going to look like Fat Bastard. The Casales look like they could lose a few pounds while the Revis appear to just fine. Of course, what we can’t see is what’s going inside their bodies. Yet, compare both of these families to the Ayme family of Tingo in regard to food volume.

The Ayme family of Tingo
About as fresh as you can get, but not much of it.
Weekly food bill: $31.55 (U.S.) Favorites: potato
soup with cabbage.

Fascinating.

This photo essay shows just how little food we need to survive and somewhat thrive and with that in mind, just how much we overeat when given the opportunity.

What can we learn from this? Well, not too much the more you start asking questions about diet and lifestyle choices. The more I tried to pigeonhole a family based on their food selection and volume, the more questions I had. Nonetheless, the book is a remarkable journey into the nourishing wisdom of food.

Granny screwed me over
On a related note, scientists now think what your grandmother ate for breakfast while she was pregnant with your mom might determine whether or not you are prone to diabetes when you get older. On Nova last night, they ran a show called Ghosts in Your Genes. In a nutshell, think of your genes as letters of the alphabet. How those letters are put together determines who you are. Since we share 98 percent of the same “letters” as chimps, our words are obviously put together in a different order than theirs.

This is where all of the good
stuff happens.

Many people have believed that the genes you receive from your parents are what you get and that’s that. How often have you heard about genetic potential as a limiting factor in athletics?

Well, turns out that another field of study is challenging that. Epigenetics research focuses on the “dark matter of genetics.” It’s the stuff between the genes that actually switches a gene on or off. Hence, the aptly named program, Ghost in Your Genes. What makes all of this so intriguing, and why I’m bringing it up here, is that your environment influences this process. Quite literally, what your grandmother ate for breakfast 50 years ago can impact your life today.

How are our various gels, performance fluids, supplements, etc. impacting our lives, but the lives of those to whom we pass along our genetic code? What about the stress that our sports put on our bodies? How does doing an Ironman today affect the health of your granddaughter 60 years from now?

Check your local TV listings to catch this program if you can.

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However, upon my return to civilization, I have some very cool things I want to share with you that have been simmering on the back burner.

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Even mice know that exercise does wonders for your neurons.

The power of the simple act of movement never ceases to amaze me.

Need to lose weight? Get your ass off the practice coffin (couch) and move.

Need to clear your mind? Get on your bike and break a sweat.

Need to hold a fatal disease at bay? Start running.

Yup, it’s true. New research coming out of the University of Oxford and the Howard Florey Institute shows that running in an exercise wheel delays the onset of some symptoms of Huntington’s disease in a mouse model of the fatal human disorder.

Woody Guthry eventually succumbed from
Huntington’s disease…as did his mother.

For those who are not familiar with the disease, Huntington’s causes disability and eventually death when affected people develop clusters of a defective protein in their neurons and shrinkage of brain areas associated with movement. Famed balladeer Woody Guthrie died from the disease and it was believed he had inherited from his mother, who had also succumbed to Huntington’s. And therein lies the rub: The disease doesn’t historically doesn’t reveal itself until after you’ve had children so it is easily passed from generation to generation.

An estimated one in 10,000 Americans has Huntington’s disease, with about 30,000 known cases in the United States. About 150,000 Americans may be at risk of inheriting Huntington’s disease from a parent.

The research team suggested that benefits stem from stimulation of neuronal receptors and other molecules that prolong normal function and delays motor deficits. In other words, exercise gets your noodle all fired up and lubricated.

Even more fascinating, particularly in light of the huge number of lard-ass kids we seem determined to send to an early grave with obesity-related diseases, was how the exercise affected young mice.

“Of particular interest was the fact that the wheel exercise was started in juvenile mice, much earlier than in a previous study that showed more limited protective effects of physical activity,” explains Anthony Hannan of the Howard Florey Institute.

Start them moving young and keep them moving.

Friends, there’s your dose of science for the day.

Ref: Wheel running from a juvenile age delays onset of specific motor deficits but does not alter protein aggregate density in a mouse model of Huntington’s disease. Anton van Dellen, Patricia M Cordery, Tara L Spires, Colin Blakemore and Anthony J Hannan. BMC Neuroscience (in press)

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After a nice ride through a few rollers on Highway 9, I’ve reached the entrance
of Zion National Park.

The view sans my fat head.

The family and I just returned from a short trip to Zion National Park and we didn’t even go into the park proper. Hey, we can’t believe it either.

There are just so many things to do in the area and trust me, when you have kids and a pool at your disposal, they are not going far from the damned pool.

Anyway, I was at least able to get away from the crowd (we were traveling with another family) and take a fairly leisurely ride from our cabin to the entrance of Zion. Once I got my gear assembled, hydration set up (it was in the low 70s and very sunny and dry), and lathered in sun screen, I took the Orbea out for the 25-mile round trip on a few of the rollers on Highway 9.

The shoulder is narrow at points, particularly as you approach the towns of Rockdale and Springdale, but is otherwise satisfactory for not getting swiped by any errant RV sideview mirrors. There are a few rough patches on the pavement, but hey, the scenery more than makes up for any pedaling inconveniences.

An hour later, I hit the entrance to Zion, took a picture with my cell phone and turned around. On my way back through Springdale, I saw my wife and kids in the truck with the other family in tow. I guess they couldn’t wait for my return. It was apparently time for lunch.

For those of you who have never been to Zion, your dining choices are limited to expensive and palatable food to not-so-expensive and “I paid how much for this luke-warm piece of crap?” Those choices, however, were better than what was waiting for me back at the campground. Then again, in hindsight, maybe not.

Anyway, since I wasn’t expecting to meet them in town, I had no shoes and was walking around in my brightly colored cycling team kit and barefoot. I had to find some footwear quick but was stymied by the fact that I was stuck in the middle of a money gauntlet for the foreign touristas. To make a long, and painfully embarrassing story short, after 30 minutes of combing nearly every store on the main drag, I purchased a$28 pair of women’s sandals so I could join the rest of my group in the restaurant.

What we sacrifice for our sport, eh?

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I’m taking a short hiatus from publishing this week, although I do hope to get some more great content put together over the next few days so the entire week won’t be completely dry. I’m also dangerously behind in my calculus homework and need to invest several days in what could turn out to be a quixotic attempt to get current…so updates may be a bit sparse.

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You can have your soothing wind chimes, I’ll take the beautiful sound of clanging dumbbells any day.

In fact, you can shove your Prozac, your Xanax, your meditation, your Dr. Phil, the equally sophomoric Secret, your comfort food, and your whining. Instead, take this pill, the one that weighs 45 pounds and is made of solid iron. It won’t sedate you and it definitely won’t deaden your feelings, but it’ll flatten that thing gnawing on your soul.” - T.C. Luoma, T-Nation

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