Conferences With Powerlifters

I'm the demo for the deadlift. As I'm setting up, a big guy--the size of a Laz-Y-Boy--yells, "It ain't right 'til your shins are bleeding." I figure this is as good a time as any to ask for solutions to this very problem, which I'd been having.

"What do you do about that, by the way? What do you wear--shin guards?" I ask.

"Nothin'," he says.

"So just... hamburger."

"Yep."

I've Been Elsewhere.

Have you been looking for me? Sorry I've been away.

This is a season of interviewing for a new job, pursuing a certification for a different job, having to schedule random other exams in order to qualify for the cert for the second job, and still working the first job in the meanwhile. And preparing for a son's debut as Crocodile Guy in the third grade musical, and working to convince older son to not wear underwear beneath his biking shorts.

Speaking of biking--I'll tell you more about the new jobs later--I've been posting updates on our fundraising pages. What fundraising pages? Our family will ride 30 miles in Wisconsin this summer to raise money for diabetes research. It's personal for us, as Crocodile Guy son has type 1. We've raised four of the six thousand required for us to go, and it's been a real bonding experience for the family. Read more about it here, and give if you can:

Simon's page

My page

Apologetics of the Body

And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?

And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

--Walt Whitman, "I Sing The Body Electric"

I bought a 50-pound bag of rice not to cook but to lift over my head and throw to the ground. I heard of a hill and drove the twenty minutes there to run it up and down, then drove the twenty minutes back.

I was asked by someone who doesn't know me well if I'm "still competing," and when it became clear she knew only the part of me that buys the rice and runs up hills, this bothered me.

And it bothered me that it bothered me.

So let's run up that hill together and see what's at the crest of my approaching midlife career shift, a certification in personal training after years of working in the arts and activities of the mind.

I think what we'll find is that the body needs no justification. Call me a gym rat, laugh at football players on a scholarship, assume the thick-necked among us are dumb, and I will tell you your identity cannot hide from your body image and abilities. I'll tell you that working with people on health and wellness means I have access to their full selves, because parts cannot be separated out without absurdist efforts.

Day One of theatre games with homeless women I told them that their bodies--prostitutes, some of them, sexual abuse survivors nearly all--their bodies are temples. Their bodies are homes, the only kind they have right now, the only place of regular familiarity; they must honor and care for what has been given.

But you might next scoff at my efforts to sculpt the deltoids and I'll remind you that God considered the human body the most worthy vessel for his arrival on earth, its frailties vehicles for a grand story of hope and, finally, strength.

No justification needed. Except to myself, for my feelings of discomfort. This woman knew only that I work in fitness, a field so branded by shakeweights and top ten tips that it's hard to appreciate the true successes. I wanted her to know that I read Yeats at home, and Zizek, and I teach theatre sometimes, and write some plays, and there's a book I'm trying to get published.

Because the body is tied up with the mind and soul, so, too, are my thoughts. It's embarrassing to admit how long I'd gone without purposeful movement, which is, as it turns out, how I learn and process the world. Because of time wasted, I want to help others see the big picture. The view from the hilltop.

I will have you, too, lifting that giant bag of rice once (and if) you're ready. Then maybe we'll talk recipes, or philosophy, or how you're feeling about it all. I'd like to think I'll draw like-minded clients, at least in spirit, the kind who'd appreciate an intuitive trainer.

One who likes the books but throws them out sometimes. With her nicely-sculpted arm. A June exam, here I come.

good boys/lifting/bad things

I was accused this morning at breakfast for not keeping up with the blog.

"But I have nothing to say," I protested, feeling at once morally upright and also dishonest. For many thoughts have come to me, but none warranting an entire post. And now that I've ventured onto Facebook, those thoughts want to go shorthand for immediate consumption and liking.

The epigraph to Mastermind: How To Think Like Sherlock Holmes gives credit to Ortega y Gasset for this:

Tell me to what you pay attention, and I will tell you who you are.

Yawning bunnies, Gasset. Cats in boxes, guns, Thomas Kinkaid paintings with religious sayings and also what we had for breakfast. Yummy! You like this.

I regret not having spent the winter months developing a deeper mindfulness, since you have to lay dormant anyway. And here we are in April--never mind this morning's snow--and the outside beckons, or at least the guilt to get the kids moving and out there. As the wind blows leaves and litter through the air today, I will throw a few thoughts around.

good boys
Many of you know we're raising money for diabetes research and a bike ride this summer. I've written elsewhere detailing each family member's contribution to the cause, with Simon's being the selling of comics at school--copies of hand-drawn originals, which are quite well done. Some kids have balked at his permission to do such a thing, even for charity, and others are happy to buy; he's made about 6o bucks.

Each afternoon he comes home from school and reports on the cash before dropping it into a jar. Recently, he arrived with a few extra bucks from his friend, who is selling his own wares for our cause.

This friend is making duct tape wallets, selling them to friends, and giving the proceeds to Simon for our ride. A twelve-year-old boy. A wild one, too--I've taken him and his brother to the movies, and these kids can't stop moving or talking. But his heart is right where it needs to be.

Now when Simon comes home, he reports on what he's made and what his buddy made, then drops both into the jar. I can't get over this act of generosity.

lifting
First instinct is to say rest cured my elbow of its two-year stint with lateral epicondylitis, but in the end recovery came, I believe, from not hitting stuff. This obvious fact was a good reason to finally end my stint with boxing, because I really do wish to have all parts functioning well into old age.

And this includes my head. There's no getting around the fact that in boxing, you get hit where your hard drive is stored. I have taken just two hard hits to the head, and that was enough to make me question the whole enterprise, at least for myself. Deep down, I regret having not had the time to study boxing properly, to make defense an instinct, because I do love the sport and feel I have the smarts to strategize, as well as the strength and power to do some damage. In the end, I didn't get that far, though I had a few moments of glory.

So I'm back to lifting, and enjoying the pure strength of it. In the final analysis, I am a meathead. I like muscle and I like lifting heavy stuff; there's not much more to it than that. I should be training for that aforementioned bike ride, but doggone it if it doesn't interest me at all, beyond doing something for diabetes. If I'm going to get calluses anywhere, I'd rather they be on my hands and not my butt.

There's a deadlift competition in July, and I've told myself to train slow and steady out of recovery. This was mostly working until last week, when I thought I was adding 5lb plates to either side of the bar but they were really tens. This went on for a couple of sets, while I was "taking it easy," and only when cleaning off the bar did I do the math properly. And patted myself on the back.

bad things
As the boys grow into new interests, memories return from my own childhood, and I tell them stories. Lately, many of these stories seem to reinforce exactly the things I don't let them do. Constant video game playing (though I had to collect quarters and get myself to an arcade). Junkfood eating (not my fault, but a fact). TV always on (also not my fault, though I could have diverted my attention).

Then you start to remember those who wronged you, or educated you in ways beyond your age, and though emotions are still part of those memories, you recall that you survived. And you know that your kids will, too, because you turned out mostly okay. With a lot to say, even when you stay quiet.

Their Stories Leave With Them, Unless

As I turned into the parking lot of the church today, an ending felt at hand: this funeral would be the final gathering for my friend Norm, the last of the official celebrations, and though we'd still speak of him at the Y, still honor his favorite chair, in time other people and activity would fill the space that he once took up on this earth.

But of course he occupied a large part of many hearts, and I'm sure that others find, as I do, that memories flow easily this week. Norm sneaking out of his chair to unplug the vacuum cleaner while I was using it. Pulling me off to the side (while I was vacuuming) to tell me I was made for bigger things. The story of sponsoring a girl's tuition to art college, just because he noticed her talent.

That these memories live in me and in others is reassuring, because Norm and I had held several conversations around the idea of collaborating on a book of his stories. A war vet and successful businessman, he had some tales to tell.

"People will like these stories," he'd say to me, and then, "What up, yo?" a non-sequitur of slang that I could never quite answer with anything but a laugh.

I never doubted his appeal. Seemingly mild-mannered, the man could surprise you. He'd carefully park his Astor Martin in the handicapped space at the Y, but rev that thing up on the highway. He'd pull out his saxophone and play a tune when a business deal closed with success. When I directed him to the best corned beef in town and the store later stopped carrying it, he talked to the owner, leveraging his power in the food industry.

"You notice it's back on the shelf now," he'd say with a wicked grin.

It wasn't but a month or two ago that Norm approached me again about the book. He really wanted to get his stories down and I was willing, but he didn't call. A couple of weeks ago he took a fall; this past Saturday, he suffered a massive heart attack and died.

Norm's stories, some, went with him. Those that didn't should be shared. It's a reminder to get stories while you can, write them down, even, and when the time comes for the final chapter, turn back to page one and start reading again.

161 digits and $425 for diabetes

You came through, peoples--you responded to the challenge and gave lots of money toward our goal of 6K. Your reward is here: a recitation of 161 digits by the boy himself.

Not bad, huh? It was a happy Pi Day indeed, with pi and actual pie and a party, to boot. Amazingly, the insulin dose at lunch today came out to 3.14; it's like the calculator knew.

If you didn't have a chance to give, there's still time to do so. Visit my JDRF page. Much appreciated.

And a hearty thanks to all donors who stepped up to the pi plate!

Theo's Pi Challenge (time-sensitive material)

UPDATE: Pi Day is here, and we're thankful especially for the 11 people who stepped up to the pie plate and donated. Look for a video of Theo's recitation of 150+ digits within the next 24 hours. And no, it's not too late to give! Theo worked on a few extra digits just in case. 

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As you've read here before, my older son and I are riding thirty miles through Wisconsin to raise money for diabetes research, in honor of my younger son, who has type 1.

And as you know from reading here, you get the raw deal from me. No cover ups. On facebook, I posted the video you'll find below; here you'll get the full story.

Because there are two of us riding, we must meet two fundraising goals, totaling 6K. And while the cause is important to us, it's difficult to ask for money. Sometimes I just want to tell people what we're doing, but the telling naturally tends toward a request. And sometimes I want to turn people over and shake the change from their pockets, because life with diabetes is hard. And researchers have been making steady progress that deserves more money to continue. (Never mind that Theo is dead set against an artificial pancreas; he might change his mind down the road.)

Each of us have been working toward raising the 6K. I'm the manager of this operation, handling the marketing, thank you letters, and coordination of family efforts. Greg is planning a hymn sing to raise some cash. And he's watching the kids tonight while I work concessions at a Bob Seger concert (proceeds from our booth are divided among the accounts of the riders).

But I'm most proud of the kids. Simon, a gifted artist, has been selling his comics at school for a buck a piece. It's tough for him to draw attention to himself, but he met the task and is keeping them coming by offering a new comic every Monday. The response from his fellow students has varied from jealousy that they can't sell their own comics (we received special permission from the principal) to a kid who paid Simon twenty bucks of his own money and asked that he receive just two issues. (He also promised he'd cure diabetes. He was frustrated when he said this, like, why do all this fundraising stuff? Just cure it already.)

And Theo's doing his bit, too, as you'll see below. The other day he looked at some postcards I made to advertise our campaign and he said, "Mom, for the bike ride you're all emotional and stuff, but around here, we're just like, har har, diabetes." Which about sums it up--life lived with diabetes is travelling down the road with blinders on, because there's so much management just to keep him alive. But when the time comes to talk about it, and draw attention to the disease, you face what you're up against. It's good to do every once in a while. Every 30 miles or so, you stop and take in your surroundings, good and bad. Then you get back on the bike and keep going.

Check out Theo's challenge. It's only good for a few days, though you can donate all the way through til summer. If you're so moved, donate at ride.jdrf.org (rider Amy Scheer).