Monday and Tuesday

Last week was good for my strength workouts (I made it to all four), and good for my book (hit a groove and wrote a ton), and good for my poker (regularly cashing in my online game), but not so good for my running.

As usual, I blame the heat. It gets too hot too fast in the morning and when opening the front door feels like opening a preheated oven door, it’s hard to visualize a happy ending to a long run or walk. Instead, you imagine yourself as the Incredible Melting Man.

I did play some basketball on Saturday, which went well enough, but my aerobics were not great otherwise.

Then, on Sunday, I started the Omada program, which started tracking my food, weight, blood pressure, and exercise. It has been interesting how I have psychologically reacted to this - I have been posting my meals, which makes me less inclined to eat two bowls of Cheetos while watching Peaky Blinders (good show so far).

I have also become more motivated to exercise, just so I have something to post on the app. Case in point was today. I’d run 4-plus miles yesterday with Danica, so I was feeling like I would rest today and try again tomorrow. But when I loaded my blood pressure reading into the app, it flashed the number of steps I’d taken yesterday and the number I needed to take today.

So I opened the oven door and took a five-mile walk. It was pleasant enough for the first three miles, and then the temperature started to get to me. I finished by sheer willpower (plus I wasn’t sure how I’d get home if I stopped - Uber?)

It’s not like I don’t know what this app is doing. But since its interests align with mine, I’m willing to be manipulated.

Now I’m off to another strength session with Art.  Onward!

Friday and Monday

Short entry today, not for lack of exercise effort. I was just busy this weekend and need to catch up.

On Friday morning, I woke up feeling sore. I’ve been exercising twice a day at times and it was catching up with me a little. So when I got to the starting spot, I asked Danica how she was feeling.

“Funny you ask,” she said. “I’m feeling a little sore here,” and pointed at her hip.

“Funny you say that,” I said. “I’m feeling a little sore here,” pointing to my right glute.

“Then let’s walk,” she said. And we did, going to the neighborhood pond and back, talking about this and that.

On Saturday, I returned to basketball after several weeks of recovering from MOHS surgery. I did not play well, but it was good to get back on the court.

On Sunday, I registered for a program called Omada, sponsored by my medical insurance for health coaching to accelerate weight loss and cut down my hypertension. I am always a little suspicious about insurance companies asking you to join programs that gather your personal health data, but as a retired dude, I am at no risk of losing my insurance due to preexisting conditions. I will post more on Omada as it goes forward.

Today, I was up again early and we went back to running. The intervals are getting longer, so I think I am advancing. The heat is still ridiculous, however, and these runs are always ending with me soaked to the skin. I really need to hydrate - I don’t want to be that guy who drops dead in the middle of a run.

Onward!

Thursday morning

So my running buddy Danica told me on Sunday that she would not be available to run again until Wednesday morning. Scheduling problems.

Wanting to keep the momentum going, I thought I’d be good for Wednesday morning, but then I remembered that on Tuesday night I was playing in a poker tournament at my friend Jimmy’s house with 28 other guys. The game usually runs long and I knew I would not be up for a 6:00 run the next morning.

So I texted Danica and suggested a Wednesday night run.I was startled by her response.

To this suggestion, she was even more emphatic - a hard no.

So I did not run on Wednesday, but did get out on Thursday morning. As we walked to the starting point at the entrance to the neighborhood, I teased her about her animus against night time exercise.

“I think I’ve only run once or twice at night in all these years,” she said. “When I get home, I don’t leave the house. We just watch TV or read.”

We debated the merits of exercising after dark, and she emphasized, “That’s the only time I get to spend with my husband.”

I understood that. Now that my kids are out of the house and I’m retired, the only time I see Lisa is when she gets home from work, and I feel bad when I’m out playing cards, leaving her home alone all night. (In my defense, I made $535 in Tuesday night’s tournament. I should buy her some flowers.)

So, knowing I was beat, I made a strategic retreat in this discussion and we talked the rest of the run about television shows worth watching. Our consensus picks: The Righteous Gemstones, Schitt’s Creek, and The Good Place.

Another loop - and we’ll try again tomorrow!

P.S.  Note that the second mile was a little bit faster than Sunday’s second mile.  Progress!

Sunday morning

Danica and I had another nice run on Sunday morning - the same three-plus mile track, the same interval training approach (although Art corrected me at my workout on Friday - "They're fartleks," he said, which I kind of already knew, but there's something about that word that seems unserious).

But, oh my - for the second time, I had to be up at 5:40 a.m. to beat the heat.

If you don't already know, I am not a morning person. I lead a rich and interesting sleep life, with dreams as complex and satisfying as Russian novels, none of which I remember when I awake, which gives me another incentive to sleep some more, so as not to leave that world behind, forever lost.

The melody of the only song I've ever written was composed in my sleep.  "Witness Stand" is a blues in B flat, which is not a classic blues key, but it was what was on my mind when I woke up, raced to a piano, and captured the chord progression before it disappeared.

I've written hilarious jokes, poignant poems, and whole television series plotlines in my sleep. In my retirement, it's probably my most productive time, but gone like Snapchat before I can pour milk on my cereal.

So, you understand why I like to sleep and not get up early to go running.

And yet, there I was, walking up the street with Danica to the starting point, at 5:40 a.m.

In a way, this is very affirming, because it reflects that I am committed enough to getting into half marathon shape that I am willing to sacrifice something that means so much to me.  I used to do it when I was training for marathons with my friend Chad, pretty much for the same reasons, even in pre-climate change 1994. Houston gets hot in the summer, always has and always will.

The run was nice. We were both huffing, but also aspiring to improvement. Having both done the long runs before, we have that internal confidence that we can get back to where we once were.

That confidence was tempered, however, by a greater appreciation of our ages.  She's 57, I'm 59, and as often happens when people our ages spending time together, our conversation turned to the looming challenges of mortality. Wills need updating, retirement plans need nurturing, and friends keep turning up in the obituaries. It's the black cloud on the horizon that we are running away from.

And maybe that's why I am willing to get up at 5:40 a.m. As the man says, you can sleep when you're dead. 

I still want to beat my pension fund.

P.S.  Look at those splits!

I'm back (again)

I'll bet you thought that I had given up.

So did I.

But, as in so many things in life, you never know. (Deep, right?)

Here’s how I got back. The other day, I was visiting my buddy Sean, who lives down the street from me. Sitting at his kitchen island, I was chatting with his daughter Abby while Sean dried out the cardboard round from a frozen pizza in his oven (don't ask).  

(Side note: Abby, who is 24, I think, still refers to me as "Coach Scott" many years after I coached her in volleyball. I find that charming and wonder how many other now-grown men and women still remember me as "Coach" from my days coaching kids' volleyball, basketball, and soccer.)

After a while, Sean's wife Danica came home and joined the conversation.  We talked about this and that, and then, at some point, I brought up that I had signed up for the Half Marathon.

"You?" she said.

I wasn't sure how to take that.

"Yes, me," I replied.

"Oh, well, that’s great," she said. "I haven't run in forever."

Danica had been, for a time, a serious runner, working out with running groups in Pearland and training hard. Moreover, she and my friend John were also my workout buddies for a couple of years when we trained together for the 2012 Half Marathon.  (I finished in 2:28:07, edging out her time of 2:30:41, and John beat both of us with a 2:19:38.  She would go on to much better times, while I did not.)

"So, let's start," I said. "How about Thursday?"

She mused on that for a moment.

"Maybe,” she said. “You know, you were always good at telling a story that lasts exactly 3.1 miles. Text me and we’ll see."

The next evening, I texted her and we agreed to meet for a run around the neighborhood at 6:00 a.m. in the morning.  I set my alarm for 5:40 and went to bed.

The next morning, I woke up at 5:51 (I'd set the alarm for 5:40 p.m., instead of 5:40 a.m., a subtle act of self-sabotage, I guess), and had nine minutes to get to the meeting place.  I dressed quickly, grabbed my shoes and socks, and fast-walked barefoot to the meeting place.

"You could have put your shoes on," she said as I approached.

The heat, even at 6:00, was oppressive and damp. We set out, doing short intervals from one lamppost to the next, alternating running and walking.  I think it went pretty well - at least I didn't pass out.

We talked about various things (all covered by runner confidentiality) and did a solid two-plus miles before walking the rest of the way. 

As always, she's good company and I don’t think I slowed her down much.

We will try again this weekend.  Woo hoo!

June 21

I had a nice walk yesterday. It was a little involuntary, but nice.

Here's what's going on. Yesterday, I went in to see my doctor for my annual ultrasound and ABI test. It's the usual "patient in the dark" procedure - the technician globs some gel on an ultrasound wand, gets readings at various spots in your body while furiously typing into a computer, then hands you a tissue and sends you on your way. Sometimes, I never know what the results were, which is good, I guess.

Before I went into the ultrasound room, however, my doctor talked to me about my weight.

"It's not good," he said.

"I don't know why," I said. "I work out five days a week now, plus basketball on Saturdays."

"Uh-huh," he said, looking down at my chart. "I think I'm going to start you on Ozempic."

This threw me for a loop. I'd heard good things - rapid weight loss - and bad things - gallstones, diarrhea, burps that taste like rotten eggs, lesions, and even something called "Ozempic face" where the elasticity of the skin on your face doesn't keep up with your weight loss.

Ozempic face.

"It's worked really well for other patients," he said. "Just a needle in your belly once a week."

Yuck.

As I was driving home, I got a text from the CVS telling me that the Ozempic prescription was pending insurance approval. For once, I was rooting for the cheapskates at Cigna to put a kibosh on this strategy.

I started canvassing my friends and family about my doctor's plan, and they were pretty uniformly against it.

"Um, no, dad," Sarah said.

"You need a new doctor," Josh said.

"You know that the way it works is by making you so sick, you have no appetite," my friend Elizabeth told me. "That's no way to live."

When I told Art, both of his eyebrows went up, an extremely rare occurrence. 

"I think it's a bad idea," he said. "You just need to commit to better choices. You want me to start making your dinner?"

As tempting as that was, I couldn't impose on him. I could bankrupt him, the way I eat. 

He then told me to eat lots of fresh vegetables, eat smarter proteins, and start drinking water instead of Diet Coke.

He also told me to get back on the 500 calories of cardio a day plan. "You have 400 calories left today," as he pointed to the treadmill at the gym.

When he told me that, I had just finished a workout with Sarah (a new and happy development for the summer) and she gave me a subtle stink-eye about having to stay any longer at the gym than necessary. So I told Art we needed to get back home, but that I would do it that night.

"Uh-huh," he said. "How do I know you'll do it?" He knew the non-existent value of my promises regarding self-directed exercise. 

"How about this?" he said. "If you don't do it, you pay for your partners' workouts for next week."

Not being made of money, I respectfully declined.

"Okay," he countered. "If you don't get your 400 calories in tonight, you walk a half-marathon with me this weekend."

Having "walked" with Art before, I knew that 13.1 miles would be three hours of aches, chafes, and blisters at a pace that would melt the soles of my shoes. Plus, it would be three hours in early Houston summer, where the morning "breeze" would be slow-roasting me like a pig on a rotisserie spit.

"Sure," I said, precisely because I knew it would make me go.

So, when I got home, I worked a little on my book, then I went outside and power-washed the sidewalk in front of my house. (Side note: there is nothing more satisfying than etching grime off of concrete and exposing the clean white surface underneath. After I was done, I went outside three times to admire it again and again.)

After that, I was wiped, but the prospect of Art's walk loomed over me. So I took a shower to get the grime splatter off of my legs, then laced up my shoes and walked in the dark until I got the calories in. Then I showered again, and slept the sleep of the righteous.

I am eating right, exercising more, and looking over my shoulder, trying to outrun the Ozempic vampire.

Onward.

P.S.    Here's a recording of my weird new dog Frankie. For a small dog, his bark seems to come from a deep, dark place in the depths of his old dog soul. He may be the best burglar deterrent I have ever owned. 

June 5

Hi!

I’m writing this from the balcony of the Houston House of Blues, waiting for one of my favorite bands to take the stage.  I’m here alone because it’s hard to explain to my friends how much I like this band without getting one of those looks.

“Toad the Wet Sprocket?”

“Yeah. They did ‘Walk on the Ocean.’ You’d know it if you heard it. No? ‘Fall Down’? ‘All I Want’? No?”

“What, do they perform in frog outfits? Are they some kind of art collective? Toad… the Wet Sprocket?”

Sigh. Even my wife begged off. Sometimes it feels like being Joe Schlabotnik’s only fan.

Anyway, what I feared at the beginning of this quest has come to pass - it’s now HOT. 

The additional complication now is that about a week ago, I had my face peeled off with a dermatological procedure called photodynamic therapy. It was to clear a bunch of pre-cancerous keratoses from my face, in lieu of freezing a bunch of individual spots.

I was told to be much more careful being out in the sun while my face heals. So, I have been - lots of sunscreen and couch-lounging, waiting for the danger to pass.

So when Art asked me why I hadn’t made any new entries in a while, I told him that I was following doctor’s orders.

He arched an eyebrow.

“Don’t you have a treadmill?”

“Yes, but it’s out of order. I need someone to tighten the belt and lube its joints,” I said.

“You know, you can get a new treadmill,” he said, arching the other eyebrow.

“I could,” I said, “but I won’t.”

Here’s what I know about treadmills: you buy one with the best intentions, and then they eventually (and inevitably) become a really expensive laundry rack. It’s why my old treadmill is in the garage - Lisa challenged me to tell her when I’d used it last, and I couldn’t remember.  And when I turned it on, the belt was sliding under my feet (a very vertiginous feeling, kind of like that scene in the opening credits to “The Jetsons”):

It also started making a funny smell as it ran, which could have been friction, or the accumulation of sweaty bacterial sweat from when I used to use it.

But all it needs is a tune-up, and after my son’s move-out last month, we have room upstairs to store it. It may take some spousal convincing, however, since she has a Plan for the upstairs that probably does not include featuring a decrepit treadmill in the middle of one of the rooms.

Anyway.

I am still committed to getting into half-marathon shape by next January, so this morning, I took the bull by the horns (brief aside: Who takes a bull by the horns? That is an idiotic idiom, and should really denote someone who wants a painful death, which now that I think about it, is kind of appropriate when talking about getting into half-marathon shape in June.  End of aside.) and I took a 4.5 mile walk at a clean 16 minute pace. Aside from some chafing, which I should have prepared for, it wasn’t so bad after a long layoff. And then an hour later, an hour with Art, doing arm exercises at the gym.

Tomorrow, the same, except that I will be working out at the gym with my daughter! So great - except that tomorrow will be working out the quads, which is kind of the worst for a first gym workout with a trainer.  Lots of squats. I hope Art will be kind to her.

The next couple of months will be pretty important to how the rest of the year goes. I play in the Main Event of the WSOP in July, I’m still working on my ethics book, and I need to start laying the foundation for 13.1 miles in January.  No more procrastinating.

Last thing: we have a new family member. We adopted a 12-year-old dog whose owner is in hospice care. He is every single day of his twelve years, with an apparently benign mass in his chest, a leaky eye, some patchy fur, and long claws that click on the floor. But how can you not love this old man, especially the way his paws splay out?

Onward.