Women's Wellness Blog

7 Things About Things

Baby boomers like myself remember the perennial bestseller “7 Habits of Highly Effective People” as the consummate self help guide and author Dr.Steven Covey as the lifestyle guru extraordinaire. It spawned a plethora of sound alike and look alike tomes that all were based on 7 “somethings.” (7 rules, 7 guides, 7 pillars, 7 elevens, etc) I always wondered what was so special about 7 other than it sounded better than 16 Habits of Very Tired People, but from numerology to the Bible, 7 seemed to have a mystical book selling ability, so, in honor of 7, I humbly present the 7 Habits of Highly Healthy People. (To be distinguished from Snoop Dog’s autobiography, The 7 Habits of the High and Healthy People.)

1) They eat moderately and modestly.

There is no magic food! Eating kale and bean sprouts all day will make you boring and rabbit like. Eat a balance of protein, fat, and carbohydrates. It really is that simple. Many studies suggest that lowering the simple sugars and high glycemic carbohydrates (Google it!) will help you lose weight and maintain that loss. Going to extremes in your diet is unhealthy, expensive, and will give you bad breath. Also, eat fewer calories. If you like steak, eat steak…but don’t put two pounds of butter on your potato and keep the dessert under wraps. If you have your own private table at Dairy Queen, you need to cut back.

2) They are active.

You don’t have to run a marathon to be healthy. You don’t even have to run at all (I can’t believe I just said that!) You just have to get up off the “Couch of Doom” and move. You are designed to be in motion, all your muscles and bones are crying out to be pampered. A brisk walk or a Zumba class in ridiculous spandex will add years to your life if it is consistently practiced, and, more importantly, your children will be able to make fun of you later when they see your pictures.

3) They laugh at themselves.

This one is easy for me as my daughters continually provide reasons for me to laugh at myself. They are quick to point out I am not as cool as I think I am, which should be obvious as I am still using coolness as a human trait. Taking yourself and your horrible, stress filled life too seriously leads to physical and emotional stagnation. That doesn’t mean that a laissez faire attitude at all times is optimal, but lighten up to add years to your plight. Who knows…things could get better.

4) They join stuff.

Dan Buettner famously pointed out in his inspiring book on longevity, The Blue Zones, that people who live the longest tend to be social animals. They participate, whether it’s social clubs, scooter races, jello wrestling, or nude skydiving, people who continually engage tend to be healthier and live longer. This must be tempered by a heavy dose of common sense as joining a Justin Bieber fan club will immediately result in brain atrophy.

5) They are religious.

This one surprised me, given the whole martyr thing, but people who attend some form of religious service once a week tend to be healthier, as a group, than those who stay at home and do secular humanist things. No one religion has a monopoly on this characteristic (sorry Rev.Osteen) but it seems having faith, practicing your beliefs, and living by the creeds of your particular orthodoxy has a beneficial effect on health. That is assuming you are not a devotee of the Crusades or a militant extremist as their lifespans tend to be about as long as a Kardashian marriage.

6) They de-stress.

Stress kills. From hypertension to depression, daily stress can put more holes in your body than whiskers on a gerbil…and that’s a lot by the way. Some studies have shown that up to 70% of visits to primary care doctors are due to stress. If Obamacare would get rid of stress it might even work, unfortunately it seems to be having just the opposite effect. There are a number of ways to minimize stress and none start with X A N A X. Flower arranging,counseling, exercise, yoga, meditation, hunting, full contact karate, and attending city council meetings are just a few stress relieving activities available to the general public.

7) They serve others.

Volunteerism confers as much health benefit as a daily vitamin and generally cost less and won’t constipate you. The data is conclusive, if you focus on the needs of others and help them meet those needs, you will improve your health. You will be better psychologically, physically, people will like you, and dogs will lick your face. Believe me, no matter how miserable and decrepit your life is, someone, somewhere has it much worse, and it behooves you and the universe to find that person and help make their life just a bit more tolerable.

The United States never has to worry about Europe rising to conquer the world like Alexander the Great did once because this current generation will all be dead in 30 years or less. The reason…cigarettes.

I just returned from a couple of weeks in France and Italy (much different from my usual vacation to Statesboro!) and everyone smokes! I realize this is a monumental generalization, but the appearances cannot be wholly deceiving. Everywhere, and I do mean everywhere we went, folks -young and old- were puffing away like a never ending coal smokestack. Even though they had the decency to limit smoking in restaurants and hotels, half the service staff were standing outside their respective places of business on what seemed to be a permanent smoke break. Has the society that spawned Michelangelo and Leonardo not heard the message…this stuff is bad for you? Do the same people who carry the genes of Dante Alighieri and Augustine not get the fact that their lungs are turing into black goo? Maybe it’s their undying sense of carpe diem - living fast, dying young, and leaving a smelly corpse - that propels them toward small cell carcinoma. But whatever the reason, if I wanted to get rich I would open a boutique tobacco shop in every small Italian city.

And what is it with the miniature coffee cups? I realize expresso is very concentrated and “flavorful” but when I was given a cup that looked like it came from my daughter’s doll house, I longed for a simple Starbucks Super Grande Mocha. I hope I am not coming off as an ugly American, but if I am going to pay for a coffee, then give me a dang coffee, not some barely liquified sludge in a thimble.

Okay, maybe I do sound like a culturally insensitive lout, so I will temper my discomfort by something I did find extremely wonderful in Europe and that is the practice of not tipping. I am a terminal cheapskate, so I found this cultural concept refreshing and wise. Of course they build the tip into the cost of the meal, so it all comes out in the wash. If your service is exemplary you are free to reward the staff, but you are not compelled, as in the US, to shell out an extra 15% to a prepubescent, tattooed, and pierced waiter who hasn’t bathed in a week and brought you fish sticks instead of a fish fillet. In general, service was excellent as they knew it had to be to at least gain the possibility of getting a reward, whereas in the US some impudent waiters simply assume they are getting a minimum and the idea of actually working for a tip is lost in their entitlement attitude.

The street vendors in Europe, Italy in particular, are a hearty but respectful bunch. Unlike their counterparts in the Caribbean, where you can feel violated by simply walking through the market, these folks selling their wares generally leave you alone if you express no interest. If you stop to admire their Sistine Chapel painted on a plate, all bets are off. Once you acknowledge their existence you are a willing participant in the ballet of bargaining that characterizes this type of transaction. I bought both my girls scarves from a sweet older lady who didn’t berate me but explained in sensible rationale why her scarves were 2 Euros higher than her next door neighbor. Whether it was true or not was left to the gods, but I believed her and paid the extra. My daughter’s loved them so I felt the transaction was a success and relatively painless.

It is quite sobering to walk through a small enclave and realize people had been living there, in the same houses, for 500 years before the United States was even a glimmer in Jefferson’s eyes. We in the West have such a short term perspective. I distinctly remember walking through colonial Williamsburg a couple of summers ago and thinking how ancient and primitive the development was, yet walking the streets of Florence and Rome simple exaggerated the absurdity of that. 300 years is but a nap for most European cities and old is measured in millennia rather than decades. There were paintings in the world famous Uffizi Gallery in Florence that were older than Columbus’ fateful voyage to an aptly named New World. Walking through the ancient Roman Forum commanded both awe and respect for not only the ancient’s creativity and ingenuity, but also their love of aesthetics. These were amazing people and it saddens me that for years, during the Dark Ages, they were forgotten and left to crumble on the heap of history. I wonder if there had been a direct line of development from the Roman era to today, delving straight into the Renaissance and not wasting a few centuries in betwixt, would we be in a place of higher appreciation for art, philosophy and wisdom, as opposed to who the next Kardashian will marry?

That musing I will leave for another day.

I normally enjoy going to the bookstore, but today, while there, I inadvertently gazed into the abyss. I saw a series of books that made me wretch with disgust. So profane were the titles alone that I had to run screaming from the store as if escaping an oncoming fire. It was a group of books entitled "The Thirty Second_________" and you filled in the blank with Philosophy, Religion, Economics and so on.

These books professed to give you a thirty second explanation of all the great ideas, religious beliefs, economic theories, etc. so as to prepare you as a well read Bohemian. In fact, the book cover specifically asks the philosophical question, "Do you know enough about things to join a dinner party debate or dazzle the bar with your knowledge?" So the new standard of knowledge appears to be your ability to ruminate on it with a drunken colleague at the Wild Wings bar.

Call me old fashioned, but knowing more than a headline about, say, Kant's Cosmological Constant is a worthy goal. That is not to say everyone needs to be a PhD in philosophy, but neither is it helpful to just know enough to be profoundly ignorant. I would rather know nothing about Einsteins Equilibrium equation than know it's name so I can respond "What is Einstein's Equilibrium?" in a parlor version of Jeopardy. Knowing just enough to be dangerous is in itself a precarious situation. Suppose I had read the "Thirty Second Guide to Circumcision" and you were next on the chopping block. I think you would prefer I get the five volume course before sharpening your little tyke's pencil.

We live in a sound bite world. Some of us have the attention span of a hummingbird. We flit here and there and only ever reap a tiny amount of nectar. I don't blame the individuals, they are merely products of the environment. As with most things wrong with the world, I trace this fascination with anything superficial and fleeting to the subversively satanic MTV. If it couldn't be said, sung, or smoked in a two minute time span, it was not relevant. At its inception in the seventies, people would sit for hours mesmerized by the parade of spandex wearing, midriff bearing, puffed hair musicians with the occasional "news" report from the world of rock. The explosion of MTV clones ushered in the era of the thirty second sound bite which has forever changed our culture.

The science of neural embodiment looks at how cultural and societal shifts change not only our behavior but also the physical structure of the brain. Pre-1974 the part of the brain devoted to attention and reasoning was a substantial part of the neocortex. Today, this area is so small it makes Kim Kardashian's bikini look like a burka.

The demon possessed MTV was not the only culprit however. TV news broadcasts and video journals also specialized in "Wham bam, thank you mam" information dissemination. Imagine an expose on the abortion debate crunched into a one minute network news report. Can you say superficial?

Newspapers have always depended on headlines for readership and interest. I know I am guilty of scanning headlines and taking their half baked information as gospel and never delving into a more in depth discussion in the body of the work. For example, for years I thought Barney was a purple dinosaur puppet that appeared on a kids TV show. If I had read pass the headlines I would have realized he was an alien shape shifter sent by Xenon from the planet PBS-13 designed to infiltrate your child's mind and convince them that a single payer health system was best for the country. See what you miss if you stay only on the headlines!

How can you possibly do an ounce of justice to a topic like Buddhism or macroeconomic theory in thirty seconds? The headline answer is that you can't, but is there some value in knowing a little about a lot? The long answer is ...no. A jack of all trades and master of none is another way of describing a liberal arts graduate working at McDonalds. We live in an increasingly complex world and the idea of being a trivia whiz may get you kudos at the local watering hole but it will also get you a place in the unemployment line. I am not advocating for the dissolution of the Renaissance man/woman. A proper understanding of that term is someone who knows a lot about a lot, but for those of us with an IQ a few hundred points below Leonardo DaVinci I suspect it is better to follow your passion, get good at it, then branch out.

It took more than thirty seconds to write this, although you may disagree based on its content, so it is hard to believe that a thirty second education in anything is much worth pursuing.

     Words are powerful and powerfully funny at times. I just returned from a medical mission trip to the island of Jamaica. I have been going here with a team for several years and it is an ever challenging and amazing experience. The people are wonderful and so appreciative of the little things we do, and there is no question that the blessings that fall on the team dwarf the good that is doled out in the form of antibiotics and steroid cream. Every trip and team has its unique personality and their are stories to tell and embellish after each seven day sojourn on the island.
     We partner with a ministry that has been firmly planted in the poorest parish in Jamaica, and we return year after year to the same ramshackle “clinics” to find a warm and joyful population eager to see the doctors and nurses from the States. One of the great benefits to our team is the fact that Jamaicans speak English which greatly simplifies our diagnostic querying. There remains some challenges as the words are heavily accented and often flush with the native Patois, a mixture of Latin, Spanish, Portuguese, Chinese, Japanese, Amerindian, and English along with several African languages. At times I feel somewhat akin to a southern East Tennessee hillbilly (which I am) trying to communicate with a Jersey shore bling queen.   Needless to say there are occasional consequences to misuse and misinterpretation of phrases.
     On our first trip to Jamaica, many of us were in the habit of using the term “little buddy” when referring to a small male child. Those of us who are old enough to remember also recall the Skipper’s favorite name for the hapless Gilligan was “little buddy”. This expression was almost automatic for me to employ as a young man would hesitatingly sit in the chair across from me wondering what the white doctor from the US was going to do to him. (Thank goodness none of them knew I was a gynecologist!) I would routinely start each encounter with, “Hey little buddy”, or “How’s my little buddy today?” Since I generally have the observational skills of a blind rodent, it took me a while to pick up on the confused and often surprised expressions on their face. I just thought that they were apprehensive about their impending exam. Due to the matriarchal nature of the Jamaican culture, virtually all the parents we saw in the clinics with their kids were mothers; however, I had the good fortune (and as you will see the ultimate humiliation) of having a father bring in a young boy about midway through the clinic. I greeted the tyke with my traditional, “So, how’s my little buddy today?” The child, about 12 I guessed, looked at me, looked at his dad, and burst out laughing. I get that occasionally, especially from my own family, so I didn’t think it that unusual until the father pulled me aside and reset my cultural sensitivity button. It turns out that “little buddy” in the Jamaican culture is a slang name for the male genitalia. So all morning I had been asking young children how their wee wee was doing, and even more troublesome, how my wee wee was doing! After effusive and voluminous apologies I contemplated how many young men I had traumatized that day, but I suspect none more than I.
         One afternoon we were asked to go the a local primary school in Jamaica and do a brief presentation on why we were there and a bit about what we did at the health clinics. It was a great opportunity to interact with the kids and begin to build relationships that form the foundation for the ministry. There was a variety of ages, mostly first through fifth grade, so we knew we needed to keep the explanations on a relatively simple level, much as we would do if we were talking to a room full of congressmen. I opted to just say I was a doctor who delivered babies and did surgery and elected not to go into detail of the life of Ron the Roto-Rooter, and other folks on the team followed suit. David talked about fixing bones, Susan talked about nursing and Ben, our pharmacist, talked about his job. Being a jokester, he began by saying he sold drugs. This got an interesting reaction from the teachers, so he quickly countered as to what kind of drugs and why he was not carrying an assault rifle. Shifting gears fairly rapidly (I think the principal was close to ending the session prematurely at this point) he decided to talk more about what we were doing in Jamaica. He talked about the medicines we brought with us in our suitcases and how we divided them up and placed a three month supply in little sandwich baggies for distribution. We gave a three month supply to last the folks until the next team came, and the most efficient way we have been able to accomplish this is to buy out all the baggies at Target and use the zip lock style as our pill bottles. So he said, “We take all the medicines, put them in baggies, and give them out to people we see in the clinics.” At this the kids burst out into uproarious laughter that was so loud it was heard in the next parish. It turns out, we learned later, that baggies was slang for women’s underwear! The kids thought it was great but puzzling why we placed Tylenol in Aunt Jameka’s underdrawers.
    These embarrassing but entertaining incidents remind me that everything we do has to be viewed in the cultural context of where you are. Watch your words, and be careful where you put your medicines!

I'm getting ready to take a road trip with my oldest daughter. She is in college in Chicago and is coming home for the Summer, and she has to return with her car as she will be spending a substantial portion of next year studying abroad. Studying overseas is a bit of a stretch for me as when I was in college the only study abroad was literally studying a broad (for anyone under thirty, that is a slang name for a woman).
    I am a bit leery of her driving 15 hours by herself so I am flying to the Windy City and driving back as her wing man. We plan on stopping in Knoxville for the evening and then plugging into Augusta the next day. I am really excited about spending time with her as she is much brighter than I, and she always teaches me something interesting. For example, did you know that henna tattoos date back to the Roman Empire? They were used as makeup, decoration and to advertise fertility and availability. Today we simply use Facebook. Anyway, she is majoring in journalism and theatre, basically unemployable professions, but she will be very well spoken and confident. Actually I am envious of her choices as I would love to have had a better college experience. She is going to London and Florence, while I went to a windowless lab at the basement of the biology building. I've often said that true happiness is knowing that your kids are following their passion. Well, I should be ecstatic then.
    It's a 14 hour drive that will take us through Indianapolis,Cincinnati, and Lexington before arriving in Knoxville for the evening. I went to high school and college in Knoxville so it will be special to share that with her.   She will get to see where I walked 10 miles through the snow barefooted to get to school and visit my house where we went to the bathroom outside until I was thirteen. Of course none of that is true, but she has to understand how good she has it by me fantasizing about had bad I had it. Actually Knoxville was a wonderful place to grow up and my middle class, non abusive upbringing was about as free from trauma as an episode of Leave It To Beaver. But I do feel a certain obligation to embellish a bit if it leads to a greater appreciation of my offspring's fortunate station in life.
    My daughter is like me in many ways. We are both introverts and would choose a good Grisham novel over a cocktail party. I mentioned to my wife the other day that I was loading my iPhone with podcasts to listen to on the trip. She immediately chastised me stating that I should not listen to anything at all and spend the entire 14 hours engaged in meaningful dialogue with my daughter. My wife is an extravert if you couldn't tell. She sees this as an amazing opportunity to quiz, interrogate, and otherwise hassle my daughter with the sole purpose of bonding. I honor and respect her opinion as she is right in most everything, but in this situation she is horribly misguided. Both my daughter and I also see this as a bonding experience but one that is cemented in silence with the occasional burst of conversation. This is antithetical to everything extraverted, as their idea of hell is more than 10 minutes of silence. When my wife is out of town and I am not at work, I can go days without uttering a word. My eldest is much the same.
    My daughter has made this trip with her mother before, so I will be interested in her perception of the contrast. It's not that we won't talk, it's just that we won't talk about drivel and silly things. When we do converse, I suspect it will be meaningful and fascinating, something along the lines of where to eat or which Stop and Shop has the cleanest bathrooms. I get giddy at the thought of it. I do think we will have a grand time, just in our own introverted way.
    We probably won’t have to worry about directions on the way home. We now have fourteen different devices to guide and confuse us. We have a Garmin, a Tom Tom, Mapquest, OnStar, iPhone App, and an ancient document called a road map. I find it is telling that if any of the digital directors disagree I always go back to the US Road Atlas from 2000. It’s never led me astray whereas that dang English accented woman from the Garmin has sent me down a number of rabbit holes. The iPhone App is great as long as you are in a service area and you don’t have a finger tremor. Have you ever tried to follow the route if there is the least bit of shake in your fingertip? All of the sudden you are looking at a map of Sudan. I can shake all I want and my Atlas still points me to home.
    Maybe I’ll just let my daughter guide us while I withdraw into my introverted cone of silence.

     I’ve crossed the finish line at the Boston Marathon five times. Five times my family has waited anxiously for me, hoping I wasn’t too sore so they could go shopping later that afternoon. Five times I felt the elation of completing the super bowl of marathons; the longest running, most celebrated event in running history.
     Yesterday, those memories were forever stained with the blood of an eight year old waiting to see his dad cross the finish line, much as my daughters had a few years earlier. Viewing the horrendous video in loop after loop of replays, I spotted the large official time clock that sits on the top of the finishing banner. It displayed 4:09 at the time of the blasts. If I had been running this race and had been consistent with my prior Boston times, I would have been about a mile back on Commonwealth Avenue approaching the turn onto Boylston street. I would have been stopped and rerouted, confused about the events. Honestly at that stage of the marathon, most of us are not thinking that rationally. We are a bit dehydrated, thoroughly fatigued, and thinking of one thing; seeing our loved ones at the finish. I would have come around the turn on the final stretch, hugging the edge of the road feverishly surveying the crowd for a glimpse of my family. My pace would pick up ever so slightly as I got one last surge of adrenaline seeing the finish line draped in its iconic Boston Athletic Association unicorn symbols. But I would continue to gaze into the crowd, wanting only to see my wife and girls cheering for their dad for doing something a bit crazy.

     I only wanted to see my family.

     Monday, April 15 there were thousands doing the same thing. I can guarantee that most of those 26,000 runners were searching the spectators for a face or faces that only they knew best. On this Monday, one dad searched in vain. He would not see his little boy waiting for him at the finish. He would not see him alive ever again.

     These tragedies are universally abhorrent, but we can’t forget they are intensely personal. We are all collectively saddened by the evil and senselessness; however, in the end it’s not about terrorism or politics, it’s about a dad and his child. May God bless and watch over the three souls who are running with Him right now, and continue to watch over the families and injured who remain behind.

I ran and finished my 24th marathon this past Saturday. It was on the mercilessly undulating Atlanta course weaving itself through the hills and valleys of such spots as Virginia Highland and Druid Hills. You would think I would have had a premonition of the topography based on those neighborhood names, but I was blinded by catacholamines from training runs. There were about

12,000 runners, 10,000 in the half marathon and 2000 brain damaged body fat haters in the marathon, and I am always amazed at the relative diversity of folks running. There are people who you would see on the street and not immediately assume they were runners, some even you may suspect were taste testers at the Twinkie factory, but nevertheless, they were there and getting it done. It takes a special brand of courage to lace up the shoes, knowing you are overweight, and vow to complete a race. Many people stay out of gyms to avoid the snickers and stray looks from the Barbies and Kens who pride themselves at having 2% body fat, so it is especially heartening to see folks of all shapes and sizes at races. What I have also discovered is that, in differentiation from the health clubs, runners embrace these folks and see them as fellow strugglers on a path to wellness. There is a respect and acceptance of those who don’t have the expected anorectic body habitus of a marathoner as runners understand you can’t fake covering the distance. And for most of us, it doesn’t matter if you cover it in three hours or five hours as simply putting one foot in front of another for 26 consecutive miles is proof enough of courage,persistence, and a bit of lunacy thrown in. It is a unique breed that wishes and then accomplishes this, and it proves there is an outlet for us all.

     At the same time as the race there was another event going on in the city that, at first, didn’t resonate with me, in fact, I was arrogantly judgmental regarding it. It was a Furry Fandom convention. For the uninitiated, such as I was, the Furry Fandom community is a group of folks from around the country that dress up in full furry animal costumes and get together to socialize and talk about...well, their costumes. According to that bastion of accurate detail, Wikipedia, Furry Fandom is defined as "the organized appreciation and dissemination of art and prose regarding 'Furries', or fictional mammalian anthropomorphic characters.” Translated, it is people dressing in costumes

walking around the hotel getting to know each other. My first thought upon seeing them walking down Peachtree Street was that it was a group of NCAA mascots promoting the final four, but I quickly realized no college team had “Sesame Ceide Bun”, a strange conglomeration of a cat and a wolf, as a mascot. These “Furries” seemed quite harmless, and actually many were very friendly ( a bit too friendly when a hamster-like six foot thing tried to hug me!), and they did provide some fascinating people (or animal) watching during dinner at a close by restaurant.

I bring these interesting folks up because as I thought about it, they were similar in many ways to the runners, like myself. Granted, they were very different also, but I wanted to focus on the similarities to drive home a point. Both groups are viewed by the general public as outliers. I can’t tell you how many times I have been stared at in disbelief when it comes up in conversation that I run marathons. The general comments range from incredulity to pity, and I imagine the Furries get the same reaction. Runners do what they do for many reasons, many of them intensely personal, and my guess that Furries have altogether legions of reasons for their hobby, but they common thread is that they do it because they want to, and other people’s opinions be damned. There is no more diverse group than runners, people from every socioeconomic strata, every possible religion, race, culture, and political persuasion, and, as I learned from both their website and my discussion with them, Furries are college students, bankers, dads, moms, and even Republicans! If you have ever seen me run, especially in the warmer months, you know I can wear some pretty outrageous costumes (I call them running clothes), in fact my daughters often refer to me as a geriatric Richard Simmons when I don my running attire. I don’t have to tell you that the Furries seem to have cornered the market on outrageous costumes, but I will say that many of them looked a great deal less frightening than I do after a long run. Runners love socializing and getting together at races to talk about, what else, running, and with conventions around the US and the world, obviously Furries enjoy the same. The topics are a bit different, as a typical running seminar will give pointers as to how to avoid bloody nipples and chafing body parts whereas the Furry convention discussed inflatable furs and therianthropy (look it up, I did!). You tell me which is more bizarre!

     The point is that our human need to socialize and identify with others of similar ilk is achievable in many ways. I realized that at its core, running is both an individual and communal activity and it happens to be my idiosyncrasy. Dressing up in furry costumes may be your obsession, but it is no more or no less unusual than a bunch of chaff protecting, anorectic appearing, nipple guarded folks assembled at 7 AM to run, walk, even crawl if needed, to complete 26.2 miles.

What To Expect While You Are Expanding: A tongue-in-cheek expose on the 264 days of purgatory

          Let me say at the outset...I am a man. There. It’s out there. So it is obvious I have absolutely no credibility when it comes to gestation. I have never, nor God willing, will ever be pregnant, so me ranting about pregnancy is a bit like Hillary Clinton going on and on about prostatitis (not prostitutes, mind you). Nevertheless, as one who has delivered a gaggle of babies (that’s Latin for a lot) and who has two fruits of my own loins, I feel somewhat qualified to satirize what is for some a glorious and beautiful experience. I hope to not offend those five people who indeed think pregnancy is a breeze, but for the million others I hope this provides some yuks. If you have ever been pregnant, or ever will be pregnant, or ever knew someone pregnant, then hopefully you will find your misplaced sense of humor and enjoy my diatribe. I must give credit to Heidi Murkoff, the author of the real What to Expect book, as she has given me abundant ammunition or inspiration - it depends on how you view it- to structure this expose. I am using some of the the chapters of her book as a guideline for my rants. It’s the least she can do after selling two gazillion copies while my books only made the bestseller list in Portuguese. Apparently Brazilian women are more interested in hormones than          babies!


Chapter One: Before You Conceive Getting pregnant is by far the most fun of the whole enterprise. My advice is simply practice, practice, practice. Practice doesn’t make perfect, as most women will tell you, but it can be more invigorating than, say, cleaning the cat litter box. Now I realize that those of you who have children already are at a grave disadvantage. One, if you have any short term memory left, you would be playing racquetball instead of making another baby. Most of you repeat offenders had your neurons devoted to the birth experience disintegrate moments after giving birth the first time otherwise the world would be filled with only children. This selective amnesia is God’s way of perpetuating the population. An accurate recollection of a previous pregnancy and birth is by far the most effective birth control imaginable, easily surpassing castration and nunnery vows. Once you have perfected the art of shrouding these memories as cloudy, vague remembrances, somewhat akin to the recall of a twelve martini new year’s eve party, then consideration of a second or third child enters into the realm of consciousness. The greatest stumbling block at this point is twofold, desire and opportunity. It is safe to say that in folks with one or more kids, sex drive has generally driven off and not even MapQuest could find it. Libido is a multifaceted drive that is more complex than a quantum physics lecture so trying to give a generalization about cause is like explaining why Brittany Spears is still relevant; it is just not possible.

     The three top reasons for a low libido are stress, fatigue, and husbands. Welcome to the world of a mom! I have yet to meet a mom who didn’t dine at the table of stress and then have a big helping of fatigue for dessert. It’s hard to feel like Lolita after 14 hours of diapers, a condescending boss, self generating, undefinable large loads of laundry, and a husband who thinks affection means turning down the TV while making love. At the end of a mom’s average day she is about as frisky as a sloth on Quaaludes, so when Danny the love sponge comes waltzing into the bedroom “bringing sexy back” draped in his worn tighty whities and smelling of coffee and “Polo”, no wonder she doesn’t just ravish him. Guys, get a clue, you have to romance her a bit if you want her to subject herself to another pregnancy. Do something special, like take a shower or floss, before becoming the love machine you ridiculously imagine yourself to be. The second barrier to becoming with child is finding the opportunity to make another little junior. For most couples you only need 1-2 minutes (never mind the movies, we all know the reality here), but even finding this time may be difficult. We at What to Expect recommend an industrial bank vault lock on your bedroom door for starters. In the rare event that either one of you is “in the mood”, it is very likely that within seconds of disrobing little Sally or Johnny will come bouncing through the door, regardless of the time of day or night. It is if they are implanted with a microchip that monitors any change in ambient temperature of your bedroom and if things start heating up their brains unconsciously guide them to your room like a homing pigeon. I suspect it is an evolutionary adaptation to prevent multiple children and maximize the inheritance for the only child. In defense of men who have long sense forgotten the term foreplay, keep in mind that you are looking at a very narrow window of opportunity so any perceived “extras” are subjugated to the “let’s just cut to the chase” rationale. If the padlock idea is not feasible, then having a date night and actually going to a motel may be reasonable. It is important that this be done with your spouse as otherwise it defeats the purpose. Unfortunately most motels that charge by the hour have other drawbacks like a lack running water and working toilets. The motel idea may seem a bit far fetched and expensive to some of you, but it sure beats being accused of “hurting mommie” by your snooping 4 year old. Consider it an investment in marital tranquility as your wife will be so enthralled by the peace and quiet she may actually enjoy herself for once.

Dr.Hiram Sidenstrykersham, famed sexologist and recent parole candidate, states in his numerous scientific studies that, “Libido, or sexual appetite, is as varied among humans as it is in the animal world. I have studied the bull moose extensively and have determined that there are sexually charged moose and frigid moose. They are easily distinguished as the more aggressive moose will belch loudly while rubbing his belly on a nearby tree. This is strikingly similar to the libidinous male human who also will belch and rub his belly on anything nearby.” It should be noted that in most of Dr.Sidenstrykersham’s studies the female moose consistently complains of a headache when approached by said former male moose.

There are a few things to think about (besides conception) before becoming pregnant. It is essential to be at an ideal body weight and physically fit. You can stop laughing now. Really...stop it. Being in shape before getting pregnant will reduce the likelihood that you will gain 75 pounds during the pregnancy. You will most likely only gain 70 pounds if you are fit beforehand. It is important that you eat a diet full of fruits, vegetables and tree bark, as that is what most stuff good for you tastes like anyway. Folic acid is a key nutrient that has been shown to reduce the instances of birth defects. Folic acid can be found in such foodstuffs as beans, peas, turnip greens, eggs, liver and kidney. Basically you can kill a chicken and eat it in its entirety, including the liver and kidney , and prevent your baby from having water on the brain. Of course you will probably get hepatitis and terminal diarrhea, but this is just the beginning of the tradeoffs you will make for the baby. Folic acid actually comes from the latin word “folium” which means “leaves that taste lousy”, so "bon-a-petite!" It is a little known trivia fact (at least Wikipedia says so) that folic acid supports healthy sperm, so both you and your sperm donor (i.e. husband) can benefit from supplementing B9 (folate). There’s nothing like atomic sperm to make a cervix happy!

It is generally recommended that you avoid certain foods and medicines while trying to get pregnant. A few that come to mind are cocaine, crank, blow, weed, bennies, Acapulco gold, beasties, happy dust and ecstasy. Also, it is recommended that you limit your alcohol intake. I realize there are a number of Brandys, Jenns (gins), Martins (martini), and Chardonnays (yes, I have seen this!) running around out there and I suspect there may have been alcohol involved someway, somehow, in their conception; yet this is not the recommended approach. While we are on the topic of names, do your baby a favor and don’t get too cute or too “ethnic”. Remember, these kids have to survive middle school where every “Jack Cass” or “Ben Gay” gets beat up every day at lunch, and “Barbie Dahl” and “Ima Hooker” grow up to fulfill their named destiny. Anyway, if you are lucky enough to actually find yourself pregnant, then it’s time to move on to the next chapter. One final bit of advice. Buying eight pregnancy tests will not change the result. Trying to hit that little dot on the stick with your pee that many times will only leave you more frustrated and you will still have the same outcome on test eight as you did on test one.

I’ve recently become painfully aware of the labels that define me. And I don’t have anyone else to blame but myself. One of the curious results of the sound bite, Internet culture is identifying yourself with a paucity of terms. Whenever you create a “profile” whether it is on Twitter or Facebook, you must describe yourself in as few words as possible. Many times they request a series of single adjectives or nouns to say what or who you are. Now this can be a positive as it forces you to narrow the scope of your own perception. This is the extent of the introspection that some of us achieve. It can be painful as we see our life reduced to two or three terms that even we struggle to elucidate. It is difficult to honestly asses ourselves especially when the purpose of the assessment is to identify us to others. I have yet to see terms like argumentative, withdrawn, or hard to get to know in someone’s profile. We also tend to exaggerate. I know one young lady who listed herself as regional sales manager for a multinational corporation only to find out she sold Tupperware from her home. Technically she was correct, but I would argue that maybe there was a bit of hyperbole in her resume. But we are all guilty of this, and understandably when our online persona is largely protected by firewalls, relative anonymity, and our own creative license. It’s not only the online dating services that experience character inflation. But getting back to my original thought, I was forced to consolidate my persona on a website recently and it gave me pause. How do I define who I am and how accurate is that? Am I being honest with myself and with others? For example, one of the characteristics or labels I attached to myself was that of marathoner. Now I don’t question my right in using that term, I have completed 23 marathons, but what does that mean and how does that define who I am. I guess this came to a head when I was no longer able to run long distances for a while as I was dealing with a minor medical problem . I realized I had invested a great deal of my identity in being a runner. I found that many others I know had also, as many of the conversations I would have with friends and colleagues would begin with, “Have you got any races coming up?” People identified me as a runner, so it was not just my perception; however, what would I be if I was no longer able to run. I suggest that I would become a raving lunatic because running is a major source of stress relief for me, but nevertheless, I realize that the simple act of putting one foot in front of another shouldn’t define who I am. That was to tenable, to transient, to fragile to be so important. Running is something I do, not something I am; for that distinction is to vital to be laid at the feet of any one activity. Tomorrow I could be hit by a beer truck and no longer be able to pound the pavement, and then who would I be? If not a runner, what? So it became clear to me that no one activity should serve as a defining characteristic of my life. This applies to vocations also. Yes, I describe myself as a physician, but again, it is what I do, not who I am. In this world of “So what do you do” as the initiator of many new conversations, we are more and more pigeonholed into our profession. I believe that is why so many find retirement disastrous. If you see your profession as a singularity in your being, then in retirement you not only lose your profession, but also your identity. There are some things I placed on my bio that do have permanence. I am a father, a husband, an author. Those things will not change, even if my kids disown me (which they have threatened to do) I will still be their father, and that is a role that can’t be underplayed. This label does not say whether I am a good or bad father, that assessment is unclear, but it better defines who I am as a person infinitely better than “marathoner”. Likewise I will always be able to claim the title “author” having had three books published. Even though they are out of print and you would probably have to go into the basement of Amazon.com to find them, they are still there and able to be read. Granted I still cringe a bit when I or someone else refers to me as an author as I still maintain Hemingway and Poe are authors while I am a part time writer, yet the fact remains I do have some books out there. I guess my point is that there are some things that we think define who we are, but in actuality are just descriptions of what we do. My prayer is that I am able to distinguish the difference as circumstances and activities change, but hopefully character doesn’t.

There is power in the written word. I know this is not some grandiose revelation on par with global warming or Justin Beiber’s twitter musings, but nevertheless, texts can transform individuals and society. A well crafted paragraph can make the most mundane appear clad in rapturous glory. I just finished a marvelous book on punctuation. Yes, I said punctuation. If you would have said that a book on commas and apostrophes could tickle my gizzard like a prat fall by Jim Carrey, I would have snickered in your face. Now it is hardly fair to compare a quotation mark to Jim Carrey, although both can be very annoying and you often don’t know what to do with either, this tome certainly supports my premise that almost any subject - well structured and woven into written language - can be rendered fascinating. The genius of many science writers, for example, is not their mastery of equations and incomprehensible synaptic connections, is in their ability to make physics interesting and understandable. I consider it genius to be able to transform quantum mechanics and biochemical genomics into readable, even exciting prose. It is much more common and pedestrian of these braniacs to frightfully pierce those of us with lessor intellects with their barbed jargon and make us feel like a blond super-model at a Mensa convention. The real superstars of the scientific realm are those visionaries like Richard Feynman and Michio Kaku who can take black holes and space-time continuums and make them as understandable as compounded interest. They have a gift for making the complex simple without diluting the wonder, and this requires not only a massive understanding of the topic but a mastery of language. Granted, some of this transformation may be accomplished by a wordsmith editor who transforms a unreadable rough draft into a shiny pearl, but I suspect that these titans of the intellect submit drafts that are polished, punctuated and polemically correct. At least I want to believe that. This genius is not limited to science writing, as it can be applied to any challenging study. I am particularly flabbergasted by those who elect Christian apologetics as their chosen form of diatribe. Now there is a topic as potentially complex, confusing and uncomfortable as a preacher at a LGBT convention. As you know, apologetics is a logical defense of the Gospel which, for many secularists, is a contradiction in terms. The genius of G.K. Chesterton or C.S.Lewis is in their ability to take highly complex theological concepts and make them understandable to the masses. What I find truly fascinating is that they accomplish this without compromising the integrity of the Scripture or the sanctity of the topic. I suspect the real reason for their success lies in using their first two initials in all their writings, which puts J.R.R. Tolkien in a class all by himself. For evermore I will be known as J.R. Eaker, as if this will transport me into literary hyperspace. Realistically I suspect Lewis, in particular, is the best thing to happen to apologetics in the twentieth century as his books on pain, evil, and foundational Christian beliefs prove my premise that words are transformative. And it is not just the words, but how they weave them together in a majestic, multicolored tapestry that resonates with so many. Both Lewis and Chesterton can write in such a way as to explain the complicated to believers and non believers alike thus reinforcing their almost universal utility in evangelism. They educate those who are followers of Jesus, and convince those who are not, and this is not an easy bridge to cross. They do it with words and word pictures that are painted with a pallet of logic and truth thus providing a masterpiece that can be appreciated by those well versed in art appreciation as well as those who think stick figures are neat. A third area that illustrates my belief in the power of words is in storytelling. Everything we do, experience, even think, is in some way a story. We crave stories as the sustenance that feeds our passions. We love the stories of others almost as much as we love our own story, even if we don’t realize we are in one. A powerful story teller can enrapture an audience and transform thought, but in verbal form this medium is limited. This is changing as YouTube and various other visual and auditory storytelling venues are universally assessable, however the written word still can take you to places that other media can’t. I believe this is due to the individualized, intrinsic filter that all words pass, the human brain. Lacking the immediate stimulation of the visual queues as a video possesses, the written word creates brain images unique to that individual. If two people watch a Beyonce music video, they both see much the same thing (although your reaction may vary depending on your age, marital status, and understanding of the term “bootylicious”); however, if two people read an essay on the rise and fall of the “bootylicious” genre( I just wanted to use that term again) you will find two different experiences because the brain fills in the sensory gaps. This doesn’t mean that any medium is superior, as I have as much respect for a Spielberg as I do for a Longfellow, they are just different in their impact on the individual.

Ten Commandments of Good Health Many years ago a desert dweller climbed a mountain and talked to a bush on fire. What resulted was a set of laws that was to revolutionize mankind’s behavior. These were not ten suggestions formulated by a long range planning committee nor were they ten proposals put forth by a strategic consultant, they were commandments from a Holy God. These laws have become almost universally accepted, even by divergent religions, as wise and worthy of adopting. With all humility and a sincere desire to be unpretentious (I am not even worthy enough to scrape the grasshoppers from Moses’ designer goat skin sandals), I propose the Ten Commandments of good health to serve as a lamppost for your journey down fitness lane. It seems unfair to hurry through these guidelines, so I will opine in both this month’s and next month’s column to cover them all. Commandment One You Shall Exercise: Live Longer, Reduce Stress, and Grow Your Brain Exercise is the elusive fountain of youth. If you are heavy, harried or hormonal, moving with purpose is a critical part of the solution. Everyone knows exercise is good for you, but few of us follow through. Exercise begins above the neck with a commitment to self and family. Part of this motivation lies in the hidden benefits of exercise that are not common knowledge such as the prevention of breast and prostate cancer, reduction in the onset and progression of Alzheimer’s disease, and as a cure for clinical depression. Start with a simple walking program and free yourself from the “couch of doom”. Commandment Two You Shall Rest: A Nap a Day May Keep the Doctor Away We live in a hurry-up culture where “Just Do It” supplants “Let It Be”. Busyness has become a virtue that is without merit. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings only in those who haven’t learned the discipline of relaxation. Certainly there is a place for goal setting and industrious behavior, but there is also a purpose in rest and play. Relaxing on purpose is healthier than just doing something aimlessly. A major area of our lives that is most affected by this culture of chaos is sleep. The average adult requires eight hours of restful sleep a night to function best the next day. The average adult actually gets around six hours of sleep a night. This obvious disconnect leads to chronic fatigue and foggy thinking. 40% of Americans (100 million people) are moderately to severely sleep-deprived! Commandment Three You Shall Not Worry: Make Stress Work For You Stress is the little yapping dog biting at the heels of our health. It is generally an annoyance, but, if it goes on long enough, can become a festering wound. There are a number of books and counselors that provide a wealth of guidance on effective stress management in a world that oozes anxiety. Studies indicate that up to 75% of visits to doctors are related to anxiety. Stress is simply a perception of an internal or external event and thereby can be influenced by our thoughts. One person’s stress is another person’s opportunity. You will never be without stress, but you can control and minimize the adverse effects. Commandment Four You Shall Get Checkups: Prevention Pays Lifelong Dividends A healthy mind and body is dependent on action and education, not passivity and ignorance. You must be an advocate for you and your family’s well-being by embracing prevention. Men are especially negligent in this arena, and often decisions regarding family health are delegated (by default) to women in the household. Seventy percent of health decisions involving the family are made by mom, which includes checkups, vaccines, nutrition, and screening tests. Most importantly, the woman, by her actions and decisions, sets the tone for current and future health decisions. A major health care crisis today is not cancer, AIDS, or heart disease, but people not making healthy, proactive lifestyle decisions. We have to transform a system based on sick care to one that truly embraces well care, and that can only be achieved by practicing individual, responsible prevention. Commandment Five You Shall Not Be Gluttonous: Eat Your Way to Good Health We are often called a society of consumption. The talking heads are referring to consumerism; however, the real consumption issue is what we eat. Our diet has more of an impact on our health and longevity than almost any other activity. Content and quantity are the evil twins of gluttony. There are four simple guidelines that, if followed consistently, will provide a foundation of healthy nutrition that will build a legacy of wellness. Simply stated, eat balanced, low fat, low sugar, and high fiber meals. It is possible to alter the health inheritance of our kids and grand-kids by changing how we think about food. You can spring the family from the prison of poor nutrition and not be held captive by your genetics through a simple and doable eating plan. We truly are what we eat. Next time…what else but six through ten!

We are poised on the precipice of destruction. Armageddon is but a moment away.

What could possibly initiate such depressing diatribes? I walked into my house the other day and found my youngest daughter watching something on TV called "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo" and I have no better explanation than the end is near. For the gleefully uninitiated, this latest entry into the moronic genre of reality TV follows a pack of genetically inbred humans who literally live on the wrong side of the tracks as their domicile sits precariously next to a railroad crossing. The family, and I use the term with caution, consists of a grossly obese, foul mouthed mother who gives new meaning to the words trailer trash. I think most folks who live in trailers would be offended to be in the same category as this behemoth. She constantly delights us with such admonitions as "Huh?" and "I'm going to kick your a--" , reinforcing the fact that you can reproduce like a rabbit with only the equivalence of the rabbit's intelligence. I'm sure there are some redeeming values to this woman, yet the producers seem content to portray her as a monolith to idiocy. The seventeen year old daughter is pregnant and single...of course. I wonder if she got knocked up at the request of the show's sponsors to fulfill some stereotypical portrayal of the southern adolescent; however, after she opened her mouth it was clear that she needed no coaxing to go forth and multiply. The husband (I assume they are married) is a good ole country boy whose major contribution to the show is to provide bizarre pets for the family. The episode I saw had him purchasing and delivering a tea cup pig to the clan to cheer up Honey Boo Boo after losing a glitz pageant. The problem was after about ten minutes it became difficult to distinguish between the kids and the pig. The "star" and show's namesake is a chubby child who gained fame on Toddlers and Tiaras, that chronicle of legalized child abuse. She had the camera men laughing so hard in one episode that one fell off his dolly, probable the closest she will ever come to sweeping someone off their feet. There is nothing more enticing then seeing a 6 year old grab a handful of her generous belly fat and say, "How ya like my jelly belly?" It makes me want to run right out and buy the Girl's Club a Twinkie farm. This poor child is destined to be one of those kids sitting in the clock tower of some university with a Kalashnikov taking pot shots at passersby. I can't even imagine the psychological effect she may experience viewing this show after puberty and having to face other middle schoolers, who are known for their compassionate ways. Personally I think both the producers and the parents should be brought up on charges of child endangerment for relegating this child to a lifetime of ridicule, but I guess if you name one child Pumpkin and the other Honey Boo Boo you haven't really set the bar too high. As I watched, I found myself praying that these caricatures would be from Texas, Mississippi, or some other Southern state that could handle the abuse. Anything but Georgia. We are still reeling from the Deliverance stereotype and that was more than 40 years ago. I still have some friends in Vermont ask me every now and then if I would squeal like a pig. I cringed in disgust as a sign burst onto the screen, "Welcome to McIntyre, Georgia" followed by the family standing proudly by their railroad squatting house. This happy domestic tranquility was interrupted by one of the darling daughters passing gas louder than a passing train whistle. Just what Georgia needs, another TV portrayal of the result of multiple generations marrying their relatives. The episode I was forced to watch, sort of like coming onto the scene of a terrible car wreck, involved multiple vignettes, including the Redneck Games and a glitz pageant. The Redneck games consisted of a variety of "competitions" ranging from belly flops in a mud pit (and believe me, no one got hurt because there was enough belly on most to cushion a massive direct blow) to bobbing for pigs feet. I don't know why they just didn't pass out antibiotics for the inevitable Salmonella poisoning but I suspect no self respecting bacteria would have anything to do with these folk's bodies. Honey Boo Boo and her clan participated in various events but seem to relish wallowing in the mud pit above all else. The irony and symbolism was not lost on me or most of the audience I am sure. In a global, Internet connected world where people in Uzbekistan can view the same shows as someone in Milledgeville, it seems somewhat important that there be some standards for transmission. Now I am a First Amendment guy and censorship is tantamount to blasphemy, but maybe we can limit what shows up on cable by clicking right on past Honey Boo Boo and keep such garbage off the airwaves. Then all we will be left with is a moronic show about rich mutants who have the same IQ as their Southern brethren called The Kardashians.

Just as President Obama’s beliefs on homosexual marriage have “evolved” so my feelings about the run/walk/run method of training has evolved. He originally felt that marriage was between a man and a woman but once his enlightened and all wise 10 year old daughter opened his eyes, he evolved to an understanding that it didn’t matter whether you were married to a man, a woman, a sheep, or a park bench, as long as you were committed and shared a passion for loving, you should be able to live together as “married”. I didn’t need a child prodigy to help me in my revelation on training methods, just a book and aging joints. As maturity and age has taken reigns of my running career I have decided that my goals are not to set personal records (PR in runner jargon) but to simply enjoy and survive. I want to be running marathons, albeit very slowly, at age 80. I would rather be a spindly old codger out there still searching for the porta potties, at a much more frequent rate mind you, then watching on the sidelines. It means nothing to me now to say I did a sub 4 hour marathon if it resulted in a limitation of longevity. Instead of going by the adage, live fast, die young, and leave a good looking corpse, I want to live slow, die ancient, and leave a corpse that has 15% body fat and blisters from my last long run. So that brings me back to the run/walk/run training method for distance runners. This is a concept created and made popular by running guru Jeff Galloway, author, Olympian, and all around good guy who has been training marathoners for many years. He is convinced after working with countless runners of all shapes, sizes, and ages that the key to staying injury free is to allow for multiple brief rest breaks throughout a training run. These walk breaks are in a ratio to time run, for example, I have been doing a 5/1 ration meaning that I run for 5 minutes and then walk a minute. To the purest this sounds like complete heresy, tantamount to a politician telling the truth for a few seconds in between his regular spouting of lies, but it all depends on your goals. If you want to run for the rest of your life then this is a good method. If you want to set age group records then stick to your maniacal training and I will visit you in the old folks home after your knee replacement. Actually Galloway claims that many of his devotees actually complete a marathon faster using this method than with the traditional run until you drop philosophy. The idea is that you lose only a few seconds per mile with the walk breaks and can more than compensate with a slightly increased pace during the running phase. I have not been able to achieve that level of accomplishment yet, but my times have not been much different. the biggest difference I have noticed is how I feel the next day after a long run. In the past, a twenty miler would require a shelf load of Motrin, ice packs and going down stairs backwards for a few days. Now with run/walk/run I feel as spry as Neal Patrick Harris in a show tunes revue the next day and have even gone for a short run to get the juices flowing. This was inconceivable with my prior training methods and I have seen my times stay essentially the same. Call it maturity or dumb luck, but I am a believer in this method of training. The hardest part is applying this technique during a race. I only use this method in the marathon as for me it doesn’t really apply with shorter distances. The challenge is to use the ratio from the very beginning of the race. Galloway and his minions are adamant that for proper benefit you must begin the alternating strides from the first mile on. Anyone who has participated in a large marathon (i.e. Chicago, New York etc) realize that stopping to walk in the first few miles is setting yourself up for shoe marks up your back as the stampeding hoard propels forward like a swarm of locusts on the Oklahoma prairie. Most big city marathons are run on paved streets and there is usually space on the fringes by the curbs that allow for walking; however, in some, such as Boston, the route is populated from the beginning with crazed spectators lining the roads sometimes 4 deep. So not only is there the psychological barrier to early walking in a race, but also the physical restraints of how to do it that must be overcome. I remember thinking many times when seeing a fellow marathoner walking before even the first mile is traversed that this poor fool will never make 26.2 miles if he is already walking because in the past I would only walk when my legs were threatening to go on strike if I didn’t. At the time I didn’t know this was a strategy for longevity and simply interpreted it as poor preparation and bad luck. I got a hint that there was something else going on however as I began to notice these walkers passing me during the running phase of their approach, only over time to stay so far ahead thatI would not even come close to catching them as they hit their next walk break. Maybe there was something there I thought through my fatigued and foggy brain. Once I adopted the run/walk/run method, I now gladly join these early race walkers and glance at them with a knowing smile and mutter”Galloway?” to their smiling acknowledgement. We have become a brethren understanding the benefits of lasting exertion at the expense of hip replacements and pot bellies. We are the running Gnostics challenging the orthodoxy convinced that our knowledge based on experience and a willingness to experiment will be our running salvation. I did a twenty miler yesterday using the run/walk/run method and this morning I am getting to go on a bike ride with my wife. Not bad for a 53 year old, but hey, I’ve still got 30 years of running in me.

About the Author

Ron Eaker

Popular Posts

Blog Archive

Label Cloud

Contact Us

Search This Blog

Subscribe

Popular Posts

Popular Posts