tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35254413574924300592024-03-04T20:10:39.123-08:00Coach GibbonsA conversation with my clients about exercises, work-outs and nutritionHeatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comBlogger127125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-12323750771497825842009-09-18T15:45:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.148-08:00Saga<p>Mornings in Seattle were always crisp as a Washington apple. In New Hampshire during summer, morning hints of a hot day to come when the air feels cool and heavy like a syrup sodden pancake left over after breakfast. I felt it one morning on the way to <a href="http://vialacteafarm.com/">Via <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lactia</span> Farm</a> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Brookfield</span>, NH where I went to buy raw goats milk and whatever other animal parts could be foraged from a freezer of last year’s leftovers. I could see the summer’s fattening stock still grazing in fields dashing my hopes of bringing any beef home for barbecue other than as guests to share my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">smores</span> with.</p><p><br />Unlike the renegades and rebels in other states selling raw products as ‘fish bait’ and ‘animal feed’ in order to circumvent homogenization and pasteurization laws, the folks at Via <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lactea</span> either have no psst! Program for selling raw cheese or the Tappers’ are just as suspicious of me, a foreigner in spite of my New Hampshire birth certificate, as the rest of the folks in town who reckon I’m a ‘<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">flatlander</span>’. Their ability to quote USDA Guidelines and their support of nitrites for cured bacon, of which they were sold out of anyway, was as suspect to me in this state where ‘live free or die’ is the motto, as it probably was to them that I could quote guidelines for selling raw hard cheeses based on aging. I had hoped a few more visits to the farmer’s market on Thursdays - a small huddle of tents, food, and family that look more like a reunion picnic - would send the whispered word of mouth to the Tapper’s that would earn me enough street cred for a password to some backroom refrigerator where they hoard the raw stuff. Raw, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">grassfed</span> cheese is one of the few places I could get a worthwhile dose of <a href="http://www.westonaprice.org/basicnutrition/vitamin-k2.html">Vitamin-K</a> in spite of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Paleo</span> camp’s stance on dairy in any form because it’s an allergen.</p><p><br />The one visit to their farm was the only day the sun would shine in the early summer of this little vacation destination. It stayed drowned by both economic woes and unseasonably rainy weather. The locals on the front porch and shuffling in the tight register queue of Lydia’s <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Café</span> could focus on nothing else but the brutal weather at first. It had one farmer lament that he had bothered to plant his tomatoes rather than rice. I was upset that it had washed away my plans to do the Agni <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hotra</span> ceremony on my father’s little plot since his garden too was swamped.<br />Conversation percolated in this daily social gathering reminiscent of a quilting bee without the quilts - which I’d guess were outsourced to Bangladesh. It left hands free to clutch the better-than-average free trade coffee and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">underpriced</span> bagel sandwiches. Folks discussed and weighed premonitions on when the water would let up. It would have had them flipping through the always-trustworthy Farmer’s Almanac if Franz <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">hadn</span>’t already pulled up Doppler Radar on his smart phone. After several days of foulness, the mornings gathering looked and sounded more like a Red Cross Shelter as we all huddled together and discussed the tragedy that was the community garden all rotten and limp. I assured the crowd that in cases of torrential downpour, my flip flops could be used as a flotation device. My pink sandals were a sunny standout among slickers and soggy baseball caps.</p><p><br />Lydia’s has a badly <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">feng</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">shui</span>’d dining area with four cramped tables that encroach on traffic to the counter. It causes complex coordinated shuffling to access the coffee <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">carafes</span> – it looks like interpretive dance inspired by <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tetris</span> - but as a result I was often in the center of the action despite the angling of chairs that sometimes signal my ‘outsider’ status. Bob, a former Washington lobbyist and current discussion moderator, always pulled me in, introduced me around, and then interrupted most of what I said with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">persistent</span> input that I don’t take personally. I liked him and so did everyone else even when his opinion was outlandish enough to be merely tolerated for the sake of harmony. His off-color comments described by him as a ‘turd in the punchbowl’ were followed by a few seconds of silence and a discrete change of subject. He’s a Baltimore Orioles fan and even that went without mention by most. </p><p><br />Bob knows many of the rumors in town simply because I think he starts them before he quietly slips off the front porch to get a walnut Danish at a table hidden in the bushes in front of the Yum Yum Shop –a bakery down the street. He has a particular taste for bad pastries and total strangers. I think he’s always bewildered on the days when he finds that both the Danish and the strangers are bland and stale. It makes it handy that he carries a handful of the day’s newspapers under his arm for back-up. There was no salvaging the pastry but, as for the company, a few frank comments always seemed to make things tastier. That and the Granite State News gives him something to grumble about. </p><p><br />Bob always starts with our group first though – even before the French club which, as far as I could eavesdrop, never spoke a word of French from the table in the courtyard. We were the social party he knew he sought until the mad scientist got the better of him and drove him to tinker with other peoples’ day. </p><p><br />Most mornings we had Cheryl who’s naturally nomadic but fenced in by a custody order. Intellectually she did all the wanderings that her feet <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">couldn</span>’t do. Franz and Louise who had the kind of strengths as a couple that, if you’re smart, would have you swearing an oath and traveling in their caravan. There was my other Bob, who found his struggle to remain optimistic surprisingly draining. His internal arguments over what not to say were more spirited than the arguments he would have started had he spoken his mind. Charlie was the misunderstood prickly patriarch with the sharp judgement to protect his soft heart. And, finally, Mark silently inspired us with all the passion of the gypsy musician he once was in the days he played with the Roma in Hungary.</p><p><br />At the end of the summer, my sister joined the group. To most, other peoples’ aura goes unnoticed but to Stacey, it sunburns. Is she fragile? No. But foul energy makes her own cantankerous spirit itch. She hears the voice of her intuition louder than any conversation in the room. It often drives her back to her comfortable home to an open book and a phone switched off. Knowing her the way I do, I could sense her own shifting energy as other people spoke about otherwise innocuous things. It was a polygraph of sorts. The only time I ever worried about walking into a shamanic stink eye or a voodoo curse like unwelcome wafts of perfume was when she was in the room looking anxious. Is there a secret symbol, an SPF, or an aluminum foil hat that could save me? Only she knows. And I think she really does know. I’m a little proud, slightly frightened and mostly fascinated by her.</p><p><br />Throughout the summer I kept <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">accidentally</span> running into I the writings of <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/martin_seligman_on_the_state_of_psychology.html">Martin <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Seligman</span></a>, one of the leading researchers in Positive Psychology, and I realized that the square footage of this little porch represented a chunk of my overall happiness. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">Seligman</span>, who believes that happiness consists of positive emotion, meaning and flow, makes the point in his TED Talk that my porch party was important. </p><p><br />Said <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">Seligman</span>, “I've spent my life working on extremely miserable people, and I've asked the question, how do extremely miserable people differ from the rest of you? and starting about six years ago, we asked about extremely happy people, and how do they differ from the rest of us? And it turns out there's one way. They're not more religious, they're not in better shape, they don't have more money, they're not better-looking, they don't have more good events and fewer bad events. The one way in which they differ: they're extremely social. They don't sit in a seminar on Saturday morning. They don't spend time alone. Each of them is in a romantic relationship and each has a rich repertoire of friends.”</p><p><br />Of course, also playing a key role in my overall happiness this summer was my friend Lance Uppercut (his choice of alias’ not mine) who agreed to be my lifting partner and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">chauffeur</span> as well as arranging for the spare room in his parents basement that would be my home. I worried at first, when scaled down exposure to Cindy (5 jumping pull-ups, 10 push-ups, 15 squats – five rounds for time) left him rolled up in an alarmingly compact ball for a man of 6’1” with a complexion so ashen I had to protect him from my Zombie Slayer nephew who was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">overzealously</span> awaiting his first confirmed kill. </p><p><br />Lance is also freakishly flexible which would seem like a good thing but not always. In <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">CrossFit</span>, most skill acquisition would, after some practice, look like a replicable and precise movement. When someone is learning, the ‘bar path’ is a bit loose and variable at first. With a person who is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">hyperflexible</span> and has limited spacial awareness – well let’s just say it increases the likelihood of unimagined outcomes. In other words, ‘bar paths’ that should not be followed by anybody at anytime and usually can’t be. </p><p><br />He practiced with an empty bar a lot. I held my breath a lot. No injuries ensued.<br />By the end of the summer he could clean like a champ, squat like a novice and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">deadlift</span> like a man who should practice more. He beat me at a workout or two that required 400 meter run intervals - my little legs could not compete with his galloping stride - but luckily the summer ended before I figured out how to ‘accidentally’ anchor one of his shoelaces to the neighboring treadmill before yelling ‘go!’. Competitive I will always be. And it sounds a lot wiser when you can declare it using Yoda’s sentence structure.</p><p><br />My personal fitness goals – because I always have them – revolved around detox, recovering from detox and gaining and maintaining a strong foundation. Detox and rest had finally resolves some shoulder and grip issues but left some weaknesses. My happy little skip through India had aggravated food allergies due to a monotonous reliance on eggs and a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">coulda</span>-been-anything protein powder as protein sources. Food sensitivities, beyond the standard allergen issues, are most often triggered by a lack of variety in protein which is why Paul <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chek</span> recommends a four-day rotation in his book ‘Eat Move and Be Healthy’. The problem, I found, was that it was expensive and frustrating to make this rotation work in a town where food quality was questionable and, in places like the Crepe shop, frozen, canned and preserved just short of a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">shellacking</span>. </p><p><br /><br />The <a href="http://www.ewg.org/">Environmental Working Group (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">EWG</span>)</a> listed the dirty dozen fruits and vegetables that contain the most pesticides as follows: Peach, Apple, Bell Pepper, Celery, nectarine, strawberries, cherries, kale, lettuce, Grapes, carrots and pears. Welcome to the entire produce department of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">IGA</span>. According to their site, “<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">EWG</span> research has found that people who eat the 12 most <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">contami</span>­<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-error">nated</span> fruits and vegetables consume an average of 10 pesticides a day. Those who eat the 15 least contaminated conventionally-grown fruits and vegetables ingest fewer than 2 pesticides daily. The Guide helps consumers make informed choices to lower their dietary pesticide load.” Did they really just say ‘pesticide load’ like it was a flippant RDA sort of thing? Toxicity trumped rotation especially because I found that after the first couple of weeks Lance starved his way through fish day and I chose <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">undesirable</span> bean alternatives to pork. We started carving away the corners of these days by jumping the gun on the tastier beef/cheese days. We slapped <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">grassfed</span> cheeseburgers on the grill before the sun could even set on ‘fish day’.<br /><br />The growing food sensitivities had weakened my core. I noticed this with the inability to stabilize the snatch. Paul <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chek</span> explains, “Internal organs borrow their pain-sensitive nerve fibers from the muscular system. This means that when an organ is in pain, the brain can’t determine if it’s the muscle or the organ that hurts. The brain only knows which segment of the spine the pain message came from. In return, the brain then tells all the tissues and organs on the nerve channel to behave like they’re in pain. Since pain always weakens muscles, the abdominal muscles generally lose tone and don’t respond to exercise like a muscle that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_37" class="blsp-spelling-error">doesn</span>’t think it’s in pain.” Pg 121<br /><br />This foundational work also gave me an opportunity to explore ‘flow’, a crucial part of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" class="blsp-spelling-error">Seligman</span>’s ‘happiness’ and a place in which skill and challenge meet in a state of concentration where an athlete ‘forgets <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_39" class="blsp-spelling-error">themself</span>.’ A state of flow is most readily available when both challenges and skills are higher than average according to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_40" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mihaly</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_41" class="blsp-spelling-error">Csikszentmehalyi</span> , psychology and management professor at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_42" class="blsp-spelling-error">Claremont</span> Graduate University who focuses on human strengths such as optimism, motivation and responsibility. By continually challenging myself with different rep, set, rest <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_43" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">parameters</span>, I was able to capitalize on my skills while experiencing the flow state by focusing on the finer details of technique.<br /></p><p><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_44" class="blsp-spelling-error">Csikszentmihalyi</span> talked about this in his <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/mihaly_csikszentmihalyi_on_flow.html">lecture for TED</a> and where he is described in his bio as the ‘architect’ of flow after extensive research on the subject. “Now, when we do studies, we have, with other <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_45" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">colleagues</span> around the world, done over 8,000 interviews of people -- from Dominican monks, to blind nuns, to Himalayan climbers, to Navajo <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_46" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">shepherds</span> -- who enjoy their work. And regardless of the culture, regardless of education or whatever, there are these seven conditions that seem to be there when a person is in flow. There's this focus that once it becomes intense, leads to a sense of ecstasy, a sense of clarity, you know exactly what you want to do from one moment to the other, you get immediate feedback. You know that what you need to do is possible to do, even though difficult, and sense of time disappears, you forget yourself, you feel time disappears, you feel part of something larger. And once those conditions are present, what you are doing becomes worth doing for its own sake.”</p><p><br />Clean, snatch, jerk, squat, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_47" class="blsp-spelling-error">deadlift</span> and press. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_48" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ecstacy</span>. </p><p>Again I make the point that the more complex movements have more to offer and not just because of their mechanical benefits. It’s the combination of skill acquisition and sometimes the surrendering of complete control because of that complexity. Says <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_49" class="blsp-spelling-error">Csikszentmihalyi</span> , “Your skills are not quite as high as they should be, but you can move into flow fairly easily by just developing a little more skill. So, arousal is the area where most people learn from, because that's where they pushed beyond their comfort zone and that to enter -- going back to flow -- then they develop higher skills. Control is also a good place to be, because there you feel comfortable, but not very excited. It's not very challenging any more. And if you want to enter flow from control, you have to increase the challenges. So those two are ideal and complementary areas from which flow is easy to go into.” </p><p><br />Add a plate and a rep, baby. That’s all I’m saying.</p><p><br />In New Hampshire, the challenge in training could sometimes be provided by the facility itself. Like so many conventional gyms, silly exercise contraptions crowded the room so tightly that I always felt like the kid busting through the roof of the snow fort. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_50" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gordo</span> was good about letting me shove around the apparatus artifacts for a little space but it still felt like cleaning on rails. Maybe that’s how Lance got so good so fast – he had no choice. Luckily, neither one of us ended up filling out an accident report but I had to be focused on form not pushing the ceiling on kilos. I learned to tear my eyes away from all the crazy-ass things people do in a gym and call ‘exercise.’ Even Lance turned into a bit of a movement snob when he watched people ‘squat.’ </p><p><br />I started taking <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_51" class="blsp-spelling-error">probiotics</span> twice a day - morning and night on an empty stomach - as well as cracked wall <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_52" class="blsp-spelling-error">chlorella</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_53" class="blsp-spelling-error">triphala</span>. I used New Chapter’s All-Flora as a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_54" class="blsp-spelling-error">probiotic</span> because I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_55" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> used it before with good results. Don’t ask me to remember why I chose the brand in the first place. I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_56" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> long since forgotten.</p><p><br />The argument for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_57" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chlorella</span> was summed up by <a href="http://www.healingdaily.com/oral-chelation/health-benefits-of-chlorella.htm"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_58" class="blsp-spelling-error">healingdaily</span>.com</a> It’s healing benefits were also discussed in studies on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_59" class="blsp-spelling-error">PubMed</span> - the legit peer –reviewed kind of study that appears in journals none of us have much access to otherwise and even when we do they’re a snore. “<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_60" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chlorella</span> is a powerful detoxification aid for heavy metals and other <a href="http://www.healingdaily.com/detoxification-diet/pesticides.htm">pesticides</a>. Numerous research projects in the U.S. and Europe indicate that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_61" class="blsp-spelling-error">chlorella</span> can also aid the body in breaking down persistent hydrocarbon and metallic toxins such as <a href="http://www.healingdaily.com/oral-chelation/mercury.htm">mercury</a>, cadmium and lead, DDT and PCB while strengthening the <a href="http://www.healingdaily.com/conditions/colostrum.htm">immune system</a> response. In Japan, interest in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_62" class="blsp-spelling-error">chlorella</span> has focused largely on its detoxifying properties - its ability to remove or neutralize poisonous substances from the body.” </p><p><br />“This detoxification of heavy metals and other chemical toxins in the blood will take 3 to 6 months to build up enough to begin this process depending on how much <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_63" class="blsp-spelling-error">chlorella</span> a person is taking. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_64" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chlorella</span> is a food. As such, it is almost impossible to take <a href="http://www.healingdaily.com/oral-chelation/chlorella-dosage.htm">too much <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_65" class="blsp-spelling-error">chlorella</span></a>. It is also this fibrous material which greatly augments <a href="http://www.healingdaily.com/detoxification-diet/enzymes.htm">healthy digestion</a> and overall digestive track health.” I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_66" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> been taking the prescribed dosage for two months now so I have no final conclusions.</p><p><br />The <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_67" class="blsp-spelling-error">Triphala</span> is billed in much the same way but I’ll throw you a little chunk of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_68" class="blsp-spelling-error">PubMed</span> from the abstract of ‘<a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/12065146?ordinalpos=33&itool=EntrezSystem2.PEntrez.Pubmed.Pubmed_ResultsPanel.Pubmed_DefaultReportPanel.Pubmed_RVDocSum">anti-diabetic activity of medicinal plants and its <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_69" class="blsp-spelling-error">relationship</span> with their antioxidant property,</a>’ just to show you I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_70" class="blsp-spelling-error">wasn</span>’t kidding and so that I get to look all <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_71" class="blsp-spelling-error">sciencey</span>. I’ll pretend for a moment that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_72" class="blsp-spelling-error">sciencey</span> sounding stuff <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_73" class="blsp-spelling-error">isn</span>’t wrong just as often.</p><p><br />“<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_74" class="blsp-spelling-error">Methanolic</span> extract (75%) of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_75" class="blsp-spelling-error">Terminalia</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_76" class="blsp-spelling-error">chebula</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_77" class="blsp-spelling-error">Terminalia</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_78" class="blsp-spelling-error">belerica</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_79" class="blsp-spelling-error">Emblica</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_80" class="blsp-spelling-error">officinalis</span> and their combination named '<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_81" class="blsp-spelling-error">Triphala</span>' (equal proportion of above three plant extracts) are being used extensively in Indian system of medicine. They were found to inhibit lipid peroxide formation and to scavenge <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_82" class="blsp-spelling-error">hydroxyl</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_83" class="blsp-spelling-error">superoxide</span> radicals in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_84" class="blsp-spelling-error">vitro</span>. The <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_85" class="blsp-spelling-error">concentration</span> of plant extracts that inhibited 50% of lipid <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_86" class="blsp-spelling-error">peroxidation</span> induced with Fe(2+)/<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_87" class="blsp-spelling-error">ascorbate</span> were food to be 85.5, 27, 74 and 69 micro g/ml, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_88" class="blsp-spelling-error">respectively</span>. The <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_89" class="blsp-spelling-error">concentration</span> needed for the inhibition of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_90" class="blsp-spelling-error">hydoxyl</span> radical scavenging were 165, 71, 155.5 and 151 micro g/ml, and that for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_91" class="blsp-spelling-error">superoxide</span> scavenging activity were found to be 20.5, 40.5, 6.5 and 12.5 micro g/ml, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_92" class="blsp-spelling-error">respectively</span>. Oral <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_93" class="blsp-spelling-error">administration</span> of the extracts (100 mg/kg body weight) reduced the blood sugar level in normal and in alloxan (120 mg/kg) diabetic rats significantly within 4 h. Continued, daily administration of the drug produced a sustained effect.” </p><p>These supplements will be part of a six month study at which time I’ll conclude my research with absolutely no clear conclusions based on the fact that I began this experiment with no baseline measures. I’ll offer results focusing on how I ‘feel’ confounded with lifestyle variables that further cloud my so-called results. I’ll still proceed partly because my gut says it will work fabulously and because what the heck else am I doing? </p><p><br />So far, I feel good. As a result of the Master Cleanse or coincidentally coinciding with it’s conclusion, I have no taste for chocolate at all, under any circumstances whatsoever. I do however crave black licorice which is used to treat adrenal fatigue when it’s not upping blood pressures and which still counts as ‘Candy’ though most people with a sweet tooth can’t even stand the stuff. This will count as an ‘outcome’. Might as well construct a vague measuring system of 1 to 10 while I’m at it. As unscientific and maybe even irresponsible as that is, my friend Michael Pollan would point out that all nutritional research is unscientific based, as I’ve quoted before, on the fact that we study nutrients but eat food. And black licorice is both weird and a little hard to find which, I’ve decided, makes it compelling data. I could cross-reference lunar patterns to see if that might have anything to do with it but for now, all I know is that chocolate and the persuit of chocolate no longer yanks me around.</p><p><br />My final nutritional challenge of the summer was to spend five days driving across country with Lance partly to see sights he’s never seen. He decided he wanted to test the marketability of his master’s degree in an urban job market. It’s a master’s in English Literature and the drive includes North Dakota. Between the two, disappointments were inevitable. Having both lived in Seattle and driven across country, I might actually be able to provide the kind of advice that could lessen the blows and the kind of disarming tactics that could wrestle the razor blade out of his hand before it reaches wrist. I also knew enough to map the Whole Foods markets from New Hampshire to Chicago and then plan for the lotta nada between Minneapolis and Seattle. </p><p><br />There are things you notice when you make that drive. First, do people in Gary, Indiana wear shock collars that keep them from leaving? I can’t think of a single reason not to leave that zip other than nobody told them they could go. Second, what is the connection between Pirates and Mini Golf and why do seriously landlocked states make any reference to pirates – ever? There are a lot of Pirate’s Cove Mini Golf’s in states that have no history of either pirates or coves. They have had and do have a native American population but any questionable reference is a ‘tomahawk chop’ sort of situation. Today’s pirates don’t seem to be sensitive to stereotypes. It will be funny when Seattle – the home of a lively pirate community and a whole lot people hyperfocused on political correctness – rise up and Mini Golf’s everywhere will have to retheme their parks around the only group we can stereotype these days – Bankers.</p><p><br />And of course my favorite thing to notice on stretches of highway so boring that Lance and I started to bicker just for something to do, is fast food, bad food and nonfood dressed as food being sold everywhere. It was especially bad on toll roads where travelers are trapped into using rest stops because it costs money to exit. Did I mention, too, that I was drinking a gallon of water a day thanks to ‘detox’? That added to the number of stops we made, I assure you. Whatever they said in Fiber Menace about too much water damaging digestion didn’t take detox into consideration.</p><p><br />After passing corn field after corn field, it’s a great time to mention Pollan as well by quoting his most recent article and his entry into the healthcare argument in a piece that appeared in the <a href="http://www.honoluluadvertiser.com/article/20090913/OPINION03/909130336/Health+fix+lies+in+cutting+the+fat">opinion section of the Honolulu Advertiser on September 12</a>, “But so far, food system reform has not figured in the national conversation about health care reform. And so the government is poised to go on encouraging America's fast-food diet with its farm policies even as it takes on added responsibilities for covering the medical costs of that diet.” If he lost you at the mention of farm policies he states the argument more clearly, “To put it more bluntly, the government is putting itself in the uncomfortable position of subsidizing both the costs of treating type 2 diabetes and the consumption of high-fructose corn syrup.” </p><p>After Minneapolis, I ate some canned sardines but otherwise starved. I didn’t know where to find organic food and only Albertson’s was visible from the highway. Lance, who grew up with a nasty case of Ulcerative Colitis, and a healthy suspicion of most food, was as lost as I was. We decided to step it up and get to civilization as fast as we could.</p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-62714441289150773882009-08-18T11:32:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.148-08:00Helpless<p>Oddly, my reaction to the small varmint I like to call a ‘chipmunk’ jumping on my head sometime after midnight didn’t include screaming. Instead, after it let go of my scalp and bounced to the floor, we both laid in the dark perfectly still, wide-eyed and hyperventilating. It didn’t scurry and in fact, it landed on the floor with a heavy and graceless oomph which convinces my friend Mark that it was a rat instead of the cute, Disney-style chipmunk I will continue to picture (fingers in ears, loudly repeating ‘LaLaLaLa . . .’) I began to slowly haul up the covers which I had noticed with delight no longer smelled like my cousin Bobby’s wet Golden Retriever until I realized I could be hauling my little friend back aboard like some search and rescue mission. I let the covers back out and ruled out any trips to the out house, the only facilities at my Dad’s rustic camp. Damn the two liters of water I drank and damn <a href="http://www.chekinstitute.com/">Paul Chek</a> for making me drink them.</p><p><br />I was trained for this. A week earlier I bound out of bed with two simultaneous and incongruent thoughts: “That’s the biggest bug ever!” and “how the hell am I moving this fast!?” A beetle – much larger than a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_beetle">Japanese beetle</a> and slightly smaller than a Farfegnugen – was crawling across my left shoulder without prior consent. I consider most of my person a no-fly zone and will protect my air space from all things incapable of at least buying me coffee first. I turned on the light and then scooped up the Jurassic bug-that-time-forgot between the heels of the sneakers I was wearing on my hands like mittens. I crunched it in a way that the Buddha would not approve of and it merely looked at me annoyed. I kicked it’s carcass to the corner, too tired to check if it was dead or face the fact that I just bought myself some seriously bad Karma. I’m so being reincarnated as a housefly for this.</p><p><br />Sure, they were the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Pink_Panther">Cato Fong to my Inspector Jacques Clouseau</a> but it served as a sort of Ninja summer camp. That combined with the special form of psychological torture of living in a house full of antique dolls would prepare me for my return to mat combat – Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.<br /></p><p>Anyone who knows antique dolls knows that they have all the charm of mimes, circus clowns and the original <a href="http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimmtales.html">Grimm’s Fairytales</a>. Grim. Most of them were made to appeal to the same children who sang ‘Ring around the Rosie’ to capture all the obvious fun and frolic associated with mass death by bubonic plague. The dolls that didn’t look like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chucky_(Child">‘Chucky’</a> plotting to slit my throat were debutant divas that dressed better than me and disapproved of my lifestyle. They judged me with their eyes. Everything else about living in the Uppercut's basement for the summer was amazing and wonderful but the dolls were everywhere and they creeped me out. Like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terracotta_Army">First Emperor of China’s Terracotta Army</a>, it was Liz Uppercut symbolic defense against the oppressive dose of testosterone from three sons and a husband. My squat protocol was caught in friendly fire.</p><p><br />Also, working in a Crêpery – in itself testosterone suppressing – with a name so tacky it might as well have been a crepe-o-rama completed my psychological boot camp. My sister threatened to call often just to get me to answer the phone and have to say it. I hated her a little. And I tried, oh how I tried, but flipping fancy flapjacks to serve on paper plates was like wearing champion sweatsuits with Chanel. It didn’t work and I knew it didn’t work no matter how much I tried to focus on something else. </p><p><br />The owners got the idea for the pancake parlor at a ski resort lift-line in Breckinridge, Colorado where folks reportedly stood in line for 45 minutes for crepes from a kiosk. Most decisions made in sub-zero weather should be disregarded.</p><p><br />At Breckinridge, Kiosk crepes make sense where the ski-bum burnouts defy the social order by making bank in the x-games circuit. It’s an in-you-face to the elite who can afford lift-tickets and new equipment by ski bums who can’t afford to ski but are doing it any way they can, crepe kiosks included.</p><p><br />In Wolfeboro, serving crepes on paper plates and calling them ‘crapes’ with all the linguistic skill and class of a blue-collar middle-American ordering <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Breakfast_sandwich">McDonald’s croissant sandwich</a> is to do so without first bothering with silly stuff like demographics. Further, stuffing said crape with ingredients suited to a roach-coach taco is the sort of ‘close enough’ approach that’s embarrassing. It’s simple: Paper plate people eat hamburgers and mushrooms from a can, Crepe people use real utensils and have the kind of gentrified palate that makes listing Ragu Pizza Sauce among your ingredients comical. The only way to make sense of this would be to engineer a way to serve it on a stick out a trailer window at the state fair. I endured but not without my opinion periodically creeping across my features. I tried, but not hard enough, to be merely grateful for the extra income.</p><p><br />None of the locals who I had coffee with in the morning ever offered up their opinion of the International House of Crepes but they didn’t eat there either. I tried never to mention that we not only microwaved eggs but we did so in plastic containers, a practice as suitable for breakfast as gas huffing. We talked of other things while I drank my coffee suspiciously served somewhere other than the crepery. I even managed not to talk about the two twenty-something employees whose ADD, depression and OCD were all properly medicated while their sociopathic tendencies were not. That particular disorder which manages to dodge a landmine of meds will drive a future of blue-collar crime, tax fraud, shoplifting and high profile divorces. Perhaps my pain and suffering will net a tabloid payday when I can say I knew them before they were headlines.</p><p><br />I worked long hours which were detrimental to my training and my health. I even started to roll over cautiously in my sleep holding my arm just so to accommodate the spatula I imagined was still in my left hand. I wondered if my stomach was bothering me from the lack of sleep, the fourteen hour shifts or the celiac flare-ups from dreaming wheaty dreams of crepe assembly performed at a monotonous pace. I woke everyday to find the boss had ordered a completely new set of arbitrary, contradictory and nonsensical directions designed to trump the arbitrary, contradictory and nonsensical directions of days previous. I completely failed at the shrug-it-off resilience of the younger girls who giggled in the back room and messaged up-to-the-minute reports of drama and mayhem to laugh about later. </p><p><br />It’s funny now though.</p><p><br />“A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity, the optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty,” said Sir Winston Churchill but he didn’t mean to suggest that every opportunity is worth the cost of pursuit. A career in substandard pancake assembly was not a goal that inspired me. Even so, what motivates optimum performance from a team with varied skills towards a common goal even when teammates sometimes exhibit a questionable commitment to that end result? This is something I’ve dealt with frequently in coaching groups of athletes facing the same workout but with their own set of challenges. It’s helpful to first understand the concept of learned helplessness and how it affects perception given that things are going only as well as each person thinks it is.</p><p><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Learned_helplessness">Martin Seligman</a> first explored this theory in 1967 at the University of Pennsylvania in a series of experiments that would have PETA consider a Fatwa. He and Steve Maier shocked dogs giving some of the animals a means of escape and some no way out. After the first experience, dogs that previously had no escape were given options to dodge the shock but instead 2/3rds of the animals helplessly whimpered and exhibited symptoms similar to chronic clinical depression. </p><p><br />Or in the less severe and the less-likely-to-be-covered-in-your-health-plan version, ‘once shocked, twice shy.’ This is the common reaction to facing something you’re bad at by avoiding it all together or by a justifiable lack of effort.</p><p><br />One third of the dogs handled the situation differently. “Of the roughly 150 dogs in experiments in the latter half of the 1960s, about one-third did not become helpless, but instead managed to find a way out of the unpleasant situation despite their past experience with it. The corresponding characteristic in humans has been found to correlate highly with <a title="Optimism" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Optimism">optimism</a>; however, not a naïve <a title="Pollyanna" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pollyanna">Polyannaish</a> optimism, but an <a title="Explanatory style" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Explanatory_style">explanatory style</a> that views the situation as other than personal, pervasive, or permanent.”<br /></p><p>I think I’ve seen this so often because CrossFit coaches push this button more than trainers who teach a more predictable ‘Fitness program’. The fact that the workouts create an environment in which the athlete has no control over the programming, means that coaches often end up managing pessimistic explanatory individuals displaying an exaggerated stress response in part because the experience is designed to be so inherently stressful. As it was explained, “People with <a title="Pessimistic" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pessimistic">pessimistic</a> explanatory style—which sees negative events as permanent ("it will never change"), personal ("it's my fault"), and pervasive ("I can't do anything correctly")—are most likely to suffer from learned helplessness and depression (Peterson, Maier, & Seligman 1993).”<br />Because the movements taught by CrossFit coaches are complex enough to require significant practice before the athlete achieves mastery, the experience leaves an opening for the kind of pessimistic internal dialog that stymies a person. <a href="http://changingminds.org/explanations/theories/learned_helplessness.htm">Changingminds.org</a> explains it this way:<br /></p><p>How we attribute the events that occur in our lives has a significant effect on our attitudes and efforts in improving our lot. In particular there are three types of belief that affect us:</p><p><br />· Stable or unstable cause: If we believe that events are caused by factors which do not change, we assume that it is not worth us trying to change them. So if I believe my success is based on an unchangeable ability, it will seem that it is not worth my trying to improve myself.<br />· Internal or External cause: We can believe that events are caused by ourselves or something outside of ourselves. If I assume a serious car crash was my fault, I will be less likely to drive again than if I attribute it to a greasy road.<br />· Global or Specific cause: If we believe that events are caused by a large number of factors then we feel we can do less to change things than if we see few and specific causes</p><p>Trying to convince somebody who finishes their first CrossFit workout that they are not genetically blighted can be a tough task. Likewise, trying to get past the deflated “I can’t do anything right” attitude of a person who works in an environment in which seemingly random and sharp criticism is the norm is of equal challenge. I’m not trying to say, however, that either of these cases lead to chronic depression or, for that matter, pervasive pessimism but I am willing to argue that it can block further progress in any given area of a person’s life even if they thrive in other areas.</p><p><br />When I trained the soccer moms early in the summer, I was faced with examples of this mindset right from the start. What I saw as a coach were four women performing the workouts and experiencing the expected level of stress with little decay in form (objective event) while they saw something totally different. The argument I heard was that the workout was ‘too hard’ (subjective decision) in spite of the fact that they all finished the work in approximately 20 minutes without injury or changes in load or volume from the program originally prescribed. What I then asked was, “too hard based on what?” Simply, the DATA supported my argument not theirs.<br /><br />The basis for ‘too hard’ is the set belief that exercise looks, feels, smells and tastes like ‘X’ and that anything else is wrong. David Diggle describes this in his e-book, <a href="http://www.davediggle.com/mind-the-gap-book">‘Mind the Gap, The Science Behind the Sporting Mind</a>, “In order to reduce the overwhelming amount of information coming in through the five senses, the nervous system deletes, distorts and generalises this information to make it easier to deal with. It is those finer Internal Filters, formed and maintained by the unconscious mind, that instruct the Reticular Activating System. They specify what information to sort for, and it is usually those things that confirm an individual’s long-held beliefs and expectations.” In other words, CrossFit didn’t match ‘X’ for them and rather than seeing that as a challenge, they saw it as something wrong.</p><p><br />I pointed out that at any time the women could stop the workout if it was indeed ‘too hard’. But, I’ll admit that something about the ‘3-2-1-Go’ of a CrossFit stopwatch says otherwise and it’s tough to convince anyone that stopping is an option. Seligman did further experiments to prove what a difference that understanding can make.</p><p><br />“A similar experiment was done with people who performed mental tasks in the presence of distracting noise. If the person could use a switch to turn off the noise, his performance improved, even though he rarely bothered to turn off the noise. Simply being aware of this option was enough to substantially counteract its distracting effect (Hiroto and Seligman, 1975).”<br />If simply stopping was the answer, what would motivate an athlete to work through it? That’s where a good coach or a good boss recognizes that each person has a different set of challenges that require a different set of tools. Dave Diggle, a former Gymnast and Gymnastic Coach addressed this.</p><p><br />“When dealing with someone whose value system conflicts with your own, you feel it is impossible to communicate with them in their or your current state. By changing some of your behavioural traits either permanently or short-term you can align your behavioural compatibility, allowing you to communicate and influence their behaviour and development before returning to your preferred core values. A double agent if you like. Pg 65”<br /><br />As a coach or a boss, that forces you to ask yourself the question, do you want to be right or do you want to be successful. If you’re concerned about being right because you’ve been a coach or a manager for so long and you have a certain amount of data that supports the fact that you know what you’re talking about, you may find yourself technically ‘right’ and in reality, unsuccessful.<br /><br />That’s where having a goal and a clear ‘moving towards’ motivation matters. Having a clear picture of ‘success’ and the factors that would define success is a lot more motivating than a picture of the failure one hopes to dodge or the list of ‘don’t like’ gripes to avoid. And simply designing around potholes and pitfalls doesn’t give clear direction either.<br /><br />Diggle says, “People move either toward or away from what they do or do not want in life. An example of this is we all know of someone who has tried to lose weight or get fit. Some people do it with ease, while others live on the diet and exercise rollercoaster, losing weight only to put it all back on and more. Oprah Winfrey is a famous and classic case of ‘away from’ motivation, although she talks very optimistically and passionately about her career, she continually talks negatively of not wanting to get fat again or being fat.”<br /><br />“Those who are ‘away from’ motivated will constantly talk about what they don’t want or want to be. These are the people who say,” I don’t want to be fat,” or,”I don’t want to be unfit.” Sure, this holds some intrinsic repellant motivation initially, however the instant you are not ‘fat’ or ‘unfit,’ your motivation goes and the momentum slows down to a stop. This leaves you desperately short of motivation to continue on your path, and certainly with no room to excel.”<br /><br />As in all things, balance is the key. Diggle describes the following, “People who move ‘toward’ their target too strongly or blindly may never get around to doing those unpleasant things along the way which are necessary, such as technique foundations or specific physical conditioning. This may leave you vulnerable long-term and expose you to injury. Alternatively, people who are too ‘away from’ motivated may never move until things get bad enough to force their hand. This could be too late to make up the lost time, and leave you wondering,”What if...?”<br /><br />The key ingredient to motivation is balance and a willingness to be able to do the things that at first may appear unpleasant, while avoiding the relative comfort and safety of staying snugly in ‘average.’<br /><br />This left me with some interesting decisions to make this summer. I found myself weak and struggling after doing a detox. I had tendonitis in my right knee, a souvenir of speed work in India, shoulder issues I’d been dealing with since my sleepless in Seattle days and undernourishment from a traumatized digestive system yet I didn’t want to lose any more ground.<br /><br />Having to back down to my lowest point ever in a strength protocol was demoralizing for me. My friend Lance enduring endless ‘remember when’ details comparing my current ‘mortal self’ with the athlete I’d been. Not only was I unwilling to acknowledge my current condition but I was also unwilling to accept that where I’d been hadn’t been particularly great either. I was snugly average blaming all of my obstacles on genetics, age, IQ, social status, etc. trying to push forward in spite of the results I was getting. In truth, to become a better athlete than I was, and that’s the goal, would be to tear some things down to start over and to incorporate the missing pieces – rest and recovery – in a program that was smarter not harder.<br /><br />Dan Ariely, a behavioral economist, demonstrated the power of the default in his book <a href="http://www.predictablyirrational.com/?page_id=17">Predictably Irrational</a> and in his talk for TED in which he asks, <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/dan_ariely_asks_are_we_in_control_of_our_own_decisions.html">‘Are we in control of our own decisions?’</a> His studies show that, when it comes to answering complex questions or making hard choices, we tend to go with the default. He demonstrated this by showing that organ donation statistics vary in European countries from 4 to 100 percent depending on how the question is worded and what ‘checking the box’ means.<br /><br />He also tested a scenario in which a patient was scheduled for hip replacement before the doctor discovered that the patient had never been prescribed a particular drug. In the case of one alternative drug vs. hip replacement, doctors chose to pull the patient back and try the pain killer. When the choice was complicated and there were two untested drugs, the doctors chose to go ahead with the surgery. The default was easier.<br /><br />I see this all the time when I have a lengthy and maddening discussion about compound free-weight movements vs. Cybex only to see the person amble off to exercise with the cyborgs in spite of the sense I make. It’s predictably irrational that they can work out WHILE drinking coffee and watching the game. It’s the default.<br /></p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-29748436647264229532009-06-18T08:10:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.148-08:00The Master<p>The first thing anyone raised in a small town will tell you is that there’s absolutely, positively nothing to do. It leaves most people with only two choices: find creative ways to continually complain about the nothingness or gossip about anyone doing anything other than complaining about it. What’s especially interesting in this neighborhood is that all the teenage boys seem to do their complaining while absentmindedly playing the guitars they taught themselves to play because there was absolutely nothing to do.</p><p><br />To combat the neighborhood malaise, my sister and I decided to make Easter a little more interesting by involving the Cul de Sac in an Easter Egg hunt. It included all the neighborhood teenagers, featured physical challenges for extra points and was followed by the stuffing of a record number of <a href="http://www.marshmallowpeeps.com/">Peeps</a> in their mouths. Dubbed the ‘peep smackdown,’ it rewarded the winner with not only bragging rights but still more peeps to eat at a more recreational pace if, at that point, they could still stomach the damn things. I vetoed the ‘Headlamps at midnight’ plan my sister devised for the hiding of eggs with the excuse that the candy inside would get damp in the dew when in truth, after hearing the <a href="http://fishercatscreech.com/">caterwauling of a fisher cat</a> nights earlier, I was more concerned with what I’d find hiding in the dark already. </p><p><br />My uncles left a wildlife book at my Grandmother’s house that Stacey and I used to paw through when staying over night. Unfortunately, thanks to its unnecessarily fierce illustrations, my sister felt certain a bobcat would attack through her second-story bedroom window. As a result, I have a pretty spotty recall of the fisher cat given that Stacey demanded all attention and fears be directed towards the all-powerful wall-scaling, insulated-glass-breaking and undoubtedly poorly mannered child-eating beast that is the bobcat. In fact, she whispering warnings of impending assault across the room one night until I was so scared that I stealthily tip-toed across the room and jumped in bed with her. My sudden pounce was so startling that it resulted in piercing screams from her answered by the piercing screams from me until me discombobulated dad came up to sort out the clinging mass of screaming noise under my sister’s covers.</p><p><br />Having heard a howling fisher cat just days previously screeching, screaming and trampling through the brush, me thinks her fears were misplaced. The sounds were far more threatening than anything slurred by a drunk on Seattle’s streets – the kind of midnight confrontation I’m more prepared to deal with – and I cared not to meet the maker of such mayhem. It aligns with my theory that the notion ‘bad things don’t happen in the country’ would be completely exposed as myth if bodies that went missing and mauled could actually be found. Mostly they’re not and murders go unsolved. The facts are then misrepresented in the statistics where ‘disappearances’ are barely noted. I prefer city stats where fatalities are more straightforward and where fewer people are dragged off by sharply pawed predators.</p><p><br />Instead, at 8 a.m., a time on Sunday morning that to a teenager is actually ‘mid night’, we hid the eggs sans headlamps and then sipped coffee until the ten o’clock start time when the neighborhood teenagers rolled straight out of bed into a groggy congregation in the living room for the reading of rules. Most of said rules were designed to keep the participants from ignoring the physical challenges I’d designed to stress diaphragms through higher heart rates rather than the mustering of competition-level belches which was a more common means of exertion.</p><p><br />By 11 a.m., all the calories expended by running, push-ups, squats and burpees were restored with medicinal doses of refined sugar plucked from plastic eggs as well as all the other edible prizes shared and scoffed down with coffee coolatas from a Dunkin Donuts run. And with that success and perhaps the contact high, I elected to design a scavenger hunt for my nephews because I was bored and so were they. I learned two things: I can’t think like a teenager and they have syrupy slow synapse.</p><p><br />The teenage years are for intracranial housekeeping, the sloughing off of synaptic pathways that have been ignored for some time to make way for sleeker systems without all the clutter. Apparently, they’re heads look a lot like their bedrooms though, unless skulls are more permeable than I think, probably aren’t saturated with Ax body spray. The junk, which is mostly movie lines and pop songs gumming up the works, gets swept out during sleep which is why teenagers need a lot of it. </p><p><br />I interrupted that very process with another ten o’clock start time and then challenged some of the threatened synapse of their downsizing brains by forcing the boys to run around town solving algorithms and collecting stickers all in the hopes of winning UFC on pay per view. My friend Chris and I thought it was a great idea and he even handed out stickers from the meat room at IGA where he cuts chicken and where the boy’s would find him when they solved an algorithm in the store with the answer ‘breastman’ which just proves what a good sport he was about the whole thing. It became less of a good idea as the afternoon wore on and I followed them around town offering hints to move things along. They got stuck in the condom isle of Rite Aid and Chris, recently sprung from his job among the cooling carnage, intervened stating that no teenage boy wants their aunt helping them with this subject. </p><p><br />During the design phase, I thought it was funny to send groups of boys into the drugstore to huddle around <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mandelay-Climax-Control-Gel-Oz/dp/B000MNQQJ4">Mandelay Climax Control Gel</a> but after waiting twenty minutes, I was ready to speed it up. The scavenger hunt was not intended to be a full day ordeal or require the purchase of mid-puzzle pizza to sustain the troops but here we were and there it was. The next time I’m bored and we do a scavenger hunt, we’ve agreed that all questions will be based on the same five movies that get watched every weekend.</p><p><br />Poking along the dial-up synapse in a group of teenage boys had me pondering a spring clean-up of my own sluggish processes. My digestive system had been limping along since India and yet, in truth, it’s always just sort of limped along. I didn’t realize how genetically blighted I’d been until I watched the rest of my family clutching their guts with various complaints. Gunnar and Dustin, though they have delicate systems masked by the no-holds-barred tussles they’re always starting and by generous slurps of the family aperitif Pepto, also suffer from Buffalo Chicken Amnesia in which they complain of some mysterious gastric upset that aligns perfectly with a trip to Huck’s Hoagies for a Buffalo Chicken Sub. Dockside Burgers stuffed with waffle fries seem to contribute to this mysterious malady unsolved by modern science. </p><p><br />Sandor Ellix Katz, in his book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Revolution-Will-Not-Microwaved-Underground/dp/1933392118/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245338324&sr=1-1">‘The Revolution Will Not Be Microwaved, Inside America’s Underground Food Movements’</a> quoted a 1999 report by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention that said, “Unknown agents account for approximately 81 percent of foodborne illnesses and hospitalizations,” [pg 61-62] Katz points out that food related illnesses doubled between 1994 and 2001, and pointed out that Genetically modified foods first entered the market during this period. For the sake of liability, I would like to point out that of that 81% of foodborne illnesses and hospitalizations, a very small fraction have actually eaten a buffalo chicken sub and even fewer have eaten them at Huck’s Hoagies.</p><p><br />“In the past decade, GM ingredients have saturated our diet in the United States through their widespread presence in processed foods. As of 2004, 85 percent of soy and 45 percent of corn grown in the United States was genetically modified. Try finding processed foods without either corn or soy.” [Pg 61]. That particular point was spelled out on food labels and made pretty clear to me even before I read ‘Twinkie Deconstructed’ or before <a href="http://www.michaelpollan.com/">Michael Pollan</a> essentially asked the question, ‘what if we’re really corn’s bitch?’ And, yes, I’m willing to guess which side of the statistic’s buffalo chicken subs falls. I’m pretty sure they’re not organic and lovingly prepared fresh each morning at 3 a.m. </p><p><br />Said Katz, “Boosters of genetic modification point to the fact that we haven’t all died or experienced dramatic illness after a decade of widespread consumption of GM foods. However, the causes of disease are not necessarily obvious, dramatic, or immediate. Often epidemiology (the study of disease transmission) takes decades to understand the impact of certain practices on health, such as smoking tobacco or eating Trans fats.” Frankly, I’m not waiting for death or dramatic illness. I find abdominal distention uncomfortable and inconvenient enough. </p><p><br />Having eaten more processed food than I normally would, I was considering a detox as a sort of post-India and post-processed-debauchery reboot. My friend Taha had recently done the Master Cleanse again, a detox that involves a ten day monodiet drinking nothing but a concoction of equal parts maple syrup and lemon juice diluted in water and finished with a dash of Cayenne pepper. It didn’t sound like something I was going to love as much as tolerate but ten days isn’t a long time and it sounded just wacky enough to be backed by some mystical properties or profound healing alchemy. And its history reinforces that notion.</p><p><br />In 1941 Stanley Burroughs, a former vaudeville performer who gained attention by curing various illnesses with the use of color therapy, wrote the Master Cleanse to cure stomach ulcers in a moment of ‘divine inspiration’. Not only did his ‘Lemonade Diet’ treat ulcers, his clients were reporting that many other conditions cleared up or improved as well. This led Burroughs to conclude that his diet was a cleansing program and he wrote up his findings and recommendations. Since then many people have written about their remarkable results and celebrities have embraced the plan as a quick way to lose a few pounds.</p><p><br />Had it been anybody other than Taha, I’d have filed this somewhere between nephrology and shock therapy. Taha however does research more diligently than me including a successful test of multiple brands of digestive enzymes in small bowls of oatmeal lined up on his kitchen counter. And when pressed for answers I’m more of a library card-catalog of good resources, Taha can answer questions regarding health as if he designed the human body himself. His accent, courtesy of Kenyan prep schools, is also dreamy and makes me want to do what he tells me even when it sounds a little ‘out there’ (The value of vasodilatation caused by smoking half a cigarette post exercise was one of the arguments he offered which gets filed under, ‘requiring more research’ but, as I said, knowing Taha it’s probably right on.)</p><p><br />The other aspect that made it appealing is that Taha never seemed low on energy and lost none of his strength during the ten day fast. I remember the first time he did it, he jumped up on the pull-up bar a couple of pounds leaner after his fast and cranked out a personal record. Nothing about his experience sounded bad especially since I’d grown tired of the hunting and gathering and because my sister, who was preparing for an advanced yoga teacher training with Anna Forest, was just as eager to do it evidenced by her text message on April 23rd:</p><p><br />Stacey/7:33p Must do master cleanse. . . .fart . . . burp . . . . ugh</p><p><br />Me/7:38p I hear you. I don’t care if I ever chew or poo again. I’ve had it with the whole damn system.</p><p><br />Considering that all my salads were brought to me courtesy of South and Central America and my meat could have been wombat as far as I could tell, I had grown tired of the compromises. The hours it had taken me to fly and drive to this hamlet had been withering to me and I had NPR podcasts on my I-Pod to keep me going. My veggies were less travel-savvy and getting less nutrient-dense by the second. Being picked over at a local grocery store dying of loneliness since the locals abandoned it for a Super Wal-Mart was the last soul-sucking insult to my soon-to-be-meal.</p><p><br />With very few organic choices and no access to information on growing practices, my salads were surely dressed in pesticides, herbicides, fungicides and Cindy’s Kitchen Ultimate Blue Cheese which was the only one intentionally added to the list because it’s yummy. In Paul Chek’s ‘How to Eat, Move and Be Healthy!’ he notes that ‘a study of 110 urban and suburban children who ate primarily organic foods had significantly lower organophosphorus pesticide (nervous immune system disruptor) exposure than children on conventional diets. Out of the children tested, only one did not have measurable levels of the pesticide in their urine.” [Pg 57] My salads were all seasoned with pesticides and there wasn’t a lot I could do about it here.</p><p><br />According to Katz in The Revolution Will Not Be Microwaved, “The World Health Organization reports that three million cases of pesticide poisoning occur every year, resulting in more than 250,000 deaths.” Though the most obvious impact is to the workers with the closest contact you have to wonder what damage is done even with trace exposure. Consider or at least spell and then pronounce dibromochloropropane. “In 2004 thousands of Costa Rican banana pickers filed a class action lawsuit in Los Angeles against two chemical corporations (Dow and Royal Dutch/Shell) and three fruit corporations (Chiquita, Del Monte and Dole) over exposure to toxic pesticide, dibromochloropropane, which was banned in the United States in 1979 but is still in use in Costa Rica. The chemical is suspected of causing sterility, testicular atrophy, miscarriages, birth defects, liver damage, and cancer when inhaled or absorbed by the skin.” Slap-on-the-wrist fines were paid. [Pg 113]</p><p><br />I crossed bananas off my shopping list and jumped online and got the basic directions to the Master Cleanse which seemed simple enough. I began a flurry of text messages with Taha in Seattle who would be my lifeline during the whole detox as well as my researcher-by-proxy. I know there are books explaining the Master Cleanse and even if I didn’t know, it was the books for sale that I first skipped over in my Google search for raw data. I was eager, I was ready and I had a few days off from work so I was jumping in without all that meticulous and time consuming data I was always busying myself with. The websites I skimmed urged me to go for it and even skip the prep since most of the anonymous self-declared experts said it was unnecessary. I cherry-picked advise from questionable websites written by people who could have said with equal authority that the cleanse allowed them to poop a demonic spirit and I’d have missed it or nodded like I was paying attention. “Mmm . . . demonic spirit . . . yep, mmm hmmm . . .”</p><p><br />The text messages began:</p><p><br />Me/8:42p Got the recipe for the master cleanse – skipping the ease-in and going for it J won’t be a problem except for, ahem, the coffee . . . .</p><p><br />Taha/8:43p Sweet. Use organic mp, lemons, and cayenne. Get the smooth move and consider enzymes for an extra boost.</p><p><br /><a href="http://www.tealand.com/smoothmove.asp">SmoothMove</a> tea is made by Traditional Medicinals and according to the website, “provides gentle, overnight relief from occasional constipation.” If by gentle they mean the following scene as described by my sister who was driving down the highway when ‘relief’ arriving in the form of cramps, upper-lip sweat, and the Rain Man style muttering of combined prayer and pep talk as she raced to the nearest gas station then, yes, gentle is the word. Senna leaf says the website, “promotes bowel movement by direct action on the intestine.* A single serving provides an effective dose of sennosides from senna leaf, which have proven stimulant laxative action. We include additional digestive support with fennel, orange peel, cinnamon, coriander and ginger to ease discomfort and reduce cramping.” After experimenting with various doses of this tea myself, I would suggest a more heavy-handed use of the ‘additional digestive support’ thanks. </p><p><br />Michael D. Gershon, M.D. author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Second-Brain-Groundbreaking-Understanding-Disorders/dp/0060930721/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245338626&sr=8-1">'The Second Brain'</a> is less moved by its merits, “As I noted earlier, “natural” is not necessarily synonymous with good, or even safe. Plants are out there making all kinds of perfectly natural things that are toxic to people and animals.” Gershon continues, “Senna, however, has a following and carries a relatively low medical profile. There have not been many studies of its effects, but one that I remember well, presented at a gastroenterology meeting in England, showed slide after slide of distorted and dying enteric nerve cells removed in biopsies from the colons of patients who developed pseudo-obstructions after taking senna. Certainly, there is not yet any conclusive evidence that proves that senna causes harm. Still, when it comes to “regularity”, I think that a bowl of crudités – or, if worst comes to worst, prunes – has a lot to recommend it.” [Pg 169-70]</p><p><br />Taha/8:44p Also the tea company that makes smooth move has very good chicory and everyday tea that you can use.</p><p><br />Me/8:45p I can’t get organic lemons here – already tried. Maple is made down the street by a friend. Can only get organic cayenne 30 minutes from here.</p><p><br />By the way, it’s important to note that it would be unwise to inquire if the maple syrup in New England is organic. It’s boiled sap. It doesn’t get more organic. Inquiries such as this get you talked about a lot more than you would have been talked about anyway. But given that the fumes of processing Fenugreek generated by Frutarom in New Jersey caused a caustic cloud known as <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/06/nyregion/06smell.html">the maple syrup mist over Manhattan</a> should have you reading labels for, if not organic, at least authentic. Who knows if fenugreek is used to make artificial maple but it’s known for encouraging lactation not detoxification which could lead to some unexpected results. </p><p>Me/8:46p Stacey has the smooth move tea – do you use that instead of the salt water flush?</p><p><br />Me/8:48p [in regards to the enzymes] I can pick those up this week. Is it ok to supplement like that? It doesn’t mess anything up?</p><p><br />Taha/8:48p Use salt water flush every three days. I did two of them.</p><p><br />Me/8:49p Not every night like they say? Cuz frankly that seemed pretty burley.</p><p><br />My impressions of the salt water flush were colored by a non-official website which described the downing of two tablespoons of salt in one liter of water to be consumed in one glug that will then pass straight through the imbiber. That sounded only slightly less pleasant than shot-gunning Schlitz or swallowing a Tasmanian devil and pointing him to the exit. </p><p><br />This flush recipe was the route I would take a couple of times during my ten days and before I read the book ‘The Complete Master Cleanse’ in which Tom Woloshyn said, “Please do not drink the quart of salt water all at one time, as you will probably throw it up and be disgusted with it. I take about ten minutes to drink my salt water, and I warm it to body temperature before consuming it,” the quart, not liter though the measure is damn near the same, of water was mixed with two teaspoons not tablespoons of salt according to Woloshyn who explains, “The salt water is mixed to the same salinity as your blood. When you drink this mixture, the salinity causes the water not to be absorbed into the bloodstream.” </p><p><br />Gershon discusses this method in The Second Brain and explains it as follows, “Another approach is to provide the bowel with a load of salt that it is unable to absorb. The laxatives that work this way are called saline cathartics. Milk of magnesia (magnesium sulfate) is a well-known example of such a laxative. The salt, which stays in the lumen of the gut attracts water by osmosis. The result is to increase the pressure inside the intestinal lumen, which stimulates the peristaltic reflex.” [Pg 168]</p><p><br />The correct measures as well as the explanation of why and how the salt water flush works were the sort of useful tidbits from the book I could have shared with my sister when she asked compelling questions like, “why do you do the saltwater flush and how does it work?” Instead, the answer, “I don’t know. It’s probably in the book,” or “I’m sure Taha knows” where the standard answers for the duration of the detox. Besides all the other things that Taha knows, he knew that all the information I needed was in the book that I clearly should have read first. This was mentioned in that very first text message exchange.</p><p><br />Taha/8:49p You should get that book . . . It does a good job of telling you how best to implement the mc. Eg how not to create large batches of the mixture and stuff like that.</p><p><br />Me/8:51p I know – I’ll get the book. I’m just eager to start.</p><p><br />Taha/ 8:54p Be not overly eager young jedi . . . Do it right, you will reap the benefits. Call me before you start for tips and tricks.</p><p><br />Me/8:55p I’m starting tomorrow :)</p><p><br />We started our first day badly by premixing the liter of maple syrup and lemon juice with the cayenne and then, with burning lips and scrinched noses, dubbed it ‘Swill’. By the end of the day and the end of only one of the two liters each, we both started our epic caffeine headaches at about the same time. Stacey went to her room where she tried not to notice how much blinking hurt and I practiced a squinty, thousand-mile stare from the couch. I spent that night feeling like my teeth were going to fall out if my head didn’t crack open first. She and I left the house at different times in the morning and I received the following message the next evening:</p><p><br />Stacey/ 5:41p Great we’re caffeine junkies.</p><p><br />Me/5:42p Awesome. Is it a gateway drug?</p><p><br />By then, I had started to experience leg pain that began like a little achy sort of antsy feeling and then escalated. I sent a message to Taha:</p><p><br />Me/5:45p My sister was throwing up last night, we both had splitting headaches and my legs hurt so bad I can’t sit still. Caffeine withdrawal – joy.</p><p><br />Taha/ 7:41p Nice . . . You’re detoxing . . . Hang in there . . .</p><p><br />Me/7:42p Dude – it hurts like hell. I can’t sit still, I can’t lie down . . . .</p><p><br />Taha/ 7:43p Take more enzymes and watch a movie or something . . . . </p><p><br />Me/ 7:52p In other words, “suck it up, sister.” Whatever happened to rubbing my belly and feeding me brownies?</p><p><br />My messages got more desperate as I became more sleep deprived. </p><p><br />Me/10:13a Ok, this is serious. My legs hurt so badly that I walked in circles all nigh and never slept. I can’t keep this up much longer. Is this normal?</p><p><br />Taha/ 12:11p Hun, there is no “normal” with the MC. Everyone has a unique experience. In the accounts I’ve read some people get extremely sick in the middle then improve drastically towards the end. NB that you are detoxing 38 years of toxification. Did you start taking enzymes? If you take systemic ones it might help with the pain</p><p><br />Interestingly, he called me ‘hun’ which is a word used only by experts of Norse sagas or raspy New England toll both matrons. And no, I hadn’t started taking the enzymes since the selection at the one ‘health food store’ was bleak.</p><p><br />Me/8:09p Did salt water flush. Um, thanks for the warning. Valuable 411. Wasn’t too bad. (He warned me that under no circumstances was I to pass gas unless I was sitting on the toilet since it would probably consist of at least eight ounces of water) My legs are still bad and I can’t sit still or lie down for long but I ran 400m plus 50 sit-ups for four rounds and still finished under twenty. It was the only time my legs felt ok</p><p><br />Taha/ 8:11p Um . . . that’s not light cardio you punk . . . .</p><p><br />Me/ 8:12p Oops. It’s the whole ‘go’ or ‘stop’ thing – can’t seem to find a middle gear. It helped for awhile :)</p><p><br />Taha: 8:13p Seriously . . . . take it easy or you’ll get sick . . . Either way you’ll learn about your body :)</p><p><br />Me/8:15p Yes. I’ve already learned my legs are a toxic waste dump. It explains the thick ankles – they were just polluted.</p><p><br />Taha/ 8:34p Haha . . . It’s like you’re going ‘green’ one limb at a time . . .</p><p><br />Me/8:37p Dude, I’m either going to be 100 percent clean or diagnosed with bone cancer. This is one of the most excruciating things I’ve ever dealt with and I’m just scared there isn’t going to be an end soon.</p><p><br />Taha/ 8:38p Doooood . . . . . . . Chhhhiiiiilllll . . . . .</p><p><br />Me/8:39 Gladly. Got a tranquilizer dart?</p><p><br />I realized that I was being a smidge dramatic but at the same time I’d been thinking about my mother through most of my experience and for some reason I felt as if the pain I was feeling was beginning to approach the pain she had felt through the last year of her life with bone cancer. There was no way in which I could be sure of that and yet that day I had started to feel a sense of awe for what she’d endured. </p><p><br />I later sent Taha this update:</p><p><br />Me/10:05p Stacey quit maple syrup after she threw it up six times on the first day. She’s drinking lemon water, using raw honey and swallowing a capsule of cayenne.</p><p><br />According to Woloshyn in The Complete Master Cleanse, “Maple syrup’s properties are what make it suitable for a cleanse. Maple syrup contains a number of minerals and vitamins, in trace amounts. Depending on where the syrup was collected, the amount of nutrients varies, as does the taste. Both are determined by mineral content in the soil and the growing conditions of the maple trees.” He then lists the nutrient content as: Potassium, calcium, magnesium, manganese, phosphorus, sodium, iron, zinc, copper, tin, sulfur, silicon, Vitamins A, B-1, B-2, B-5, B-6, biotin, folic acid as well, as a trace amount of amino acids. I, of course, had no information to give my sister since I was still operating without the book and she elected to go with the advice of her naturopath who approved of the alterations. Probably a wise choice. I, however, was doing the Master Cleanse, was writing about the Master Cleanse and wanted to test the results of the Master Cleanse which didn’t allow me to go rogue. Taha, a scientist down to his last mitochondria, had the following to say:</p><p><br />Taha/ 10:09p They specifically tell u not to use honey because it’s bee puke. . . Jeez . . . There’s like 3 ingredients to this . . . You can’t just change 33% of the ingredients . . . . And expect to see valid results</p><p><br />Woloshyn spells it out, “You must never substitute any artificial sweetener, such as Splenda, Equal, aspartame, or honey (which has been predigested by the bee). Honey is created from nectar and natural sugar.” His argument against honey is the difference in nutrient density but for ten days this shouldn’t have too great an impact. Some practitioners allow their clients to do Agave Nectar but for no longer than ten days because of the nutrient deficiencies that occur.<br />Two days later, Taha checked in again:</p><p><br />Taha/ 1:14p MC status of the day?</p><p><br />Me/1:16p Tough sleeping but I’m ok during the day as long as I’m standing. No hunger, high energy. Everything is great other than the legs.</p><p><br />Taha/ 1:23p Nice . . . You’re working out of the whole kudos. . . It gets easier now.</p><p><br />Me/ 2:55p Oh, and my mouth tastes like ass no matter how many times I brush my teeth. I actually woke myself up with the foulness.</p><p><br />And not only did I wake myself up but the cat woke me up as well. Smelling what was obviously a rotting rat carcass and feeling it necessary to investigate, Lu Lu stuck her little snout in my mouth and jolted me to life sometime around 3 a.m. – the obvious height of my oral funk. </p><p><br />Taha / 4:07p Hahaha . . . . Is your tongue white?</p><p><br />Me/4:07p Give me a sec – I’ll go check . . .</p><p><br />Me/ 4:08p It’s completely white!</p><p><br />Taha/ 4:08p Wow . . . You’re doing such an amazing service to yourself</p><p><br />Me/ 4:12p Seriously. I’m blaming India for my HazMat status. I should be roped off with warning signs.</p><p><br />After seven days of not chewing food and not tasting anything but lemonade and an assortment of herbal teas that may or may not have been allowed since several sights supported non-caffeinated tea while Woloshyn allowed for only mint tea, my palate was ready for something new and exciting. Everything around me smelled wonderful and I began plotting my first meal the way some people plan for retirement. Taha and I talked about cravings on the phone the night before and it got my brain nibbling.</p><p><br />Me/4:11p Today I really wanted chocolate or Swedish fish or chocolate covered Swedish fish. Maybe coffee.</p><p><br />Taha / 4:24p Apparently . . . . As you detox . . . . You crave foods you had cravings for in the past</p><p><br />Me/ 4:40p Thin crust mushroom, onion and black olive pizza. Slightly greasy with pepperoni that’s crisp and curled on the edges.</p><p><br />Stacey, who I’d seen very little of as she traveled around teaching various yoga classes had been experiencing her own array of aches and symptoms and chimed in from somewhere up north with her own report of cravings.</p><p><br />Stacey / 3:53p I want a pretzel.</p><p><br />On day eight I took a dramatic nosedive for reasons I can theorize but never know. First, I’d been working out through the whole thing which ‘The Complete Master Cleanse’ has mixed advice about. The book reports people doing cleanses for a full year and training for triathlons during it but then suggests that you don’t do anything excessive or extreme. Helpful. Also, I hadn’t gotten the dosage right on the SmoothMove tea and wasn’t having the required number of bowel movements. I also had, coincidently or not, started using a ‘Fasting Support’ tea that could have thrown me under the bus. The exchange of text messages follows:</p><p><br />Me/3:27 Day 8 – random vaginal bleeding and a urinary tract infection. It’s 3p – just put my pjs on and a movie in. I was a walking environmental hazard.</p><p><br />Taha/ 3:33p Just looked into it and your menstrual cycles can reset. How do you know u have an infection?</p><p><br />Me/3:37p Urgent need to pee, small squirt of urine following by a gripping pain in the bladder. It’s funny, I just finished my period when I started the cleanse.</p><p><br />Taha/ 3:38p Thank u for the graphic detail.</p><p><br />Me/343p It’s a pretty powerful thing if I can get my period ramped up in eight days and ready to go again. As you would say, that’s some crazy shit.</p><p><br />Taha/ 3:39p Gosh if someone was reading my text messages I wonder what they’d think</p><p><br />Greater joy was to follow:</p><p><br />Me/3:44p Day nine – migrating back pain, bleeding from urethra, throwing up. No period – that was the UTI. Feel like death. Freezing cold. Not moving from couch.</p><p><br />Taha / 4:41p Wow. . So are you going to do it for longer then?</p><p><br />Me/6:19p I’ll finish up today since I’d rather not throw up solid food and then I think I’ll eat tomorrow. I have to work a double shift Thursday and I need to be ready.</p><p><br />Me/9:12p I finished today but I’m out of lemons so I just might wrap it up a day early. Today was bleak. Lot’s of pain. Threw up a couple of times and stayed on the couch.</p><p><br />Since I hadn’t squeezed in the second saltwater flush, I elected to do it on the morning of day nine which was probably my first mistake of the day. My second involved my reentry into the world of solid food. As much as I scoffed at the ‘ramp-up’ I was equally skeptical of the exit strategies particularly because I was leery of fruit juice which has always kicked my ass, sucked my energy and put me straight to sleep. On top of the UTI and my downward spiral, I didn’t like the idea of adding a bunch of sugar. I went with the admittedly ‘fuckit’ answer of a hardboiled egg, devoid of fiber I reasoned, and thoroughly chewed. I was optimistic when Taha sent me a text:</p><p><br />Taha/ 11:36p How’s the taper off coming along?</p><p><br />Me/11:47p Good. I was ok this morning. Did the salt water flush had some tea and then started in with hardboiled eggs. Still bleeding a bit though.</p><p><br />In the middle of that night, after several hours of suffering with chills and a cramp in my gut that felt as if the entire egg had reassembled itself and lodged in my intestines, I woke up my sister. We briefly discussed going to the hospital – something neither one of us ever really consider which could, at some point, catch up with either one of us – before she sat next to me on the bed, did some energy work and talked to me until I was ready to try and sleep. </p><p><br />This was how I began my next month as a zombie under the same roof as my nephew Dustin, self-proclaimed expert in surviving the coming Zombie apocalypse. Lucky for me he had yet to purchase the 3 ½ pound ax ideal for beheading – the only viable method of killing a zombie – as the weight has a decent bite but a nice graceful arc that’s easy on the arm when mowing down multiples of undead. It was on sale at Leow’s and I think he saw it as the ideal gift for his upcoming birthday. I turned to Taha yet again in the hopes that he had zombie anti-virus:<br />Me/4:37p Intestines didn’t recover and I wanted to pick your brain. I was up last night w/chills and cramps – almost went to ER. Also had some stuff to share of interest.</p><p><br />Taha/4:43p Oohhh . . . Not good . . . Yup we should chat</p><p><br />Me/4:48 Oddly, when I ate I became irrationally angry. My sister did reiki on me at 2a because I thought I had an intestinal blockage. It’s still troubling me.</p><p><br />Taha/ 4:49p I kinda though that would happen when u said you were going to eat boiled eggs . . . But I guessed you knew your body better than I did. . Evidently not :-P</p><p><br />The body I’d come to know over the next month was not only fifteen pounds lighter and considerably weaker, but one that would continue to operate like the undead I’d become. I went back on the master cleanse after two days of cramps, headaches, chills and fatigue simply to get some calories into my system. I drank lemonade for two days while fighting dehydration, a UTI and continued cramps that left me writhing, squirming and exhausted. Then I eased off of it with a vegetable soup cooked to mush in the Crockpot with ginger and garlic. In the next week or so I could make it through eight hour shifts at work nibbling on small meals of raw vegetables that I came to crave but was unable to eat any protein. Three days after the fast I started drinking coffee again – another sound use of ‘fuckit’ logic. </p><p><br />I tried hiding my big, ghostly hazel eyes and my pale lifeless face under the mop of unnatural black hair whenever Dustin walked into the room talking about tunnels under Garwood’s restaurant where team Fox Trot, his group of zombie survivalists assembled on Facebook, will hide until their escape to Canada where zombie’s and lovers of trans fat starve to death and where Fox Trot will begin the business of repopulating the planet. Had I been a mole, I’d be sending coded messages to my lifeless brethren, undoubtedly on Facebook saying, ‘eckchay arwoodsgay asementbay’ or something less obvious given the mad zombie extermination skills of my nephew. </p><p><br />I ate little. I slept a lot. I watched the entire first season of The Tudor’s on a bootlegged CD with the same sluggish synapse of a teenager. Karma, baby.</p><p><br />The percentage of protein to carbohydrates – so thoroughly skewed from my normal intake – had me up several times a night to go to the bathroom to pee urgently. It was hard to tell with the lingering urinary tract infection if that was a warning sign of blood-sugar crises but it wasn’t good. Also, the chills persisted usually late in the day. I was frustrated at the gym by the weakness I was feeling and though I understood that I was at where I was at, I was feeling like a ‘mere mortal’ for the first time in a long stretch of strong-like-bull antics. Where was my pull-up PR, I wondered as I dangled weakly from the bar one frustrating afternoon.</p><p><br />Oddly I felt like, for the most part, the detox was a good thing even though I had no proof that it did anything other than make me sick. And even that was in question since my execution of the Master Cleanse was so poorly done. I felt like I was on to something, and I ordered a detox kit from Dr. Mercola’s website that promised the Club Med of cleansing and I gladly drank the gritty, lumpy and swampy post-meal concoctions I would refer to as ‘bog water’ while my face naturally contorted into one of those expressions that mother’s warn will freeze that way.</p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-59082637902258646662009-04-17T13:40:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.148-08:00DeconstructedThe very idea that you can take one egg yolk and a cup and a half of olive oil and turn it into <a href="http://allrecipes.com/HowTo/Making-Mayonnaise/Detail.aspx">mayonnaise</a> stretches my imagination. With this, I’m just a flat earth-er who would have been happy to persecute <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galileo">Galileo</a> while he was under house arrest had he been going on about sandwich spread instead of heliocentrism. I’m assuming that’s why, in spite of all my culinary escapades, I’ve always sucked at mayonnaise.<br /><br />I stood in the kitchen in my sister’s pink fleece Eeyore pajamas - the only article of clothing that, when paired with a XXL red Michael Jordon Hoodie stolen from a nephew, can beat back the relentless chill - trying to whip up a batch of olive oil mayonnaise the old fashioned way; with a flimsy balloon Wisk muttering the mantra ‘must not break mayonnaise, must not break mayonnaise . . .” My body swiveled like a dashboard hula dancer gyrating over frost heaves as I tried to generate momentum from the hip. It would have looked intense if I wasn’t all pink, fuzzy and floppy socked. It turns out, the only thing intense about it was the likelihood that the synthetic ensemble would ignite and catch fire given the friction, my own rising body temperature and a spark of frustration.<br /><br />Apparently the fastest way to break an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emulsion">emulsion</a> is to seethe while stirring much like the fastest way to get killed in a horror movie is to check out the basement. At about a cup of oil poured a tablespoon at a time followed by frantic whisking, my mayo curdled into grainy lumps – technically flocculation, which is roughly reminiscent of the expletive I actually used - polluting a pool like the tide that had finally come in on my Exxon environmental mishap. I might have saved it with an extra yoke but I let it flatline if only so my arm could rest and my pajamas could cool below melting point. Lite Olive Oil - $7 a bottle, Organic Cage Free Omega-3 Eggs – 31 cents each, Coleman’s Dry Mustard – a few pennies per tablespoon, being defeated in the kitchen by a flimsy utensil and a couple of ordinary ingredients – priceless.<br /><br />I was left with fetal mayo suitable only for stem cell research and a thorough working of my last nerve anatomically positioned in my wrist. ‘Whipping mayonnaise with a flimsy wire Wisk’ even sounds like an expression of frustration one would use in New England where locals have been known to describe feelings with obscure references such as, “it’s like sucking swamp water up your ass with a bent flavor straw!” or so said my high school boyfriend’s father frequently as if I could totally relate to the futility of it. I think I couldn’t. Until now.<br /><br />This was not my first failed mayo and yes, I have mayo baggage. The alchemy of emulsions escapes me always but my brother-in-law Rolfe eats so damn much mayo that I felt compelled to throw myself in front of his fork for the sake of his arteries. But for me, it’s easier to construct a fertilizer bomb in my sister’s kitchen which would have been no more dangerous to Rolfe than his mass consumption of canola and Soybean oil – the coming together of the two agricultural evils known as corn and soy, Boris and Natasha - and all the raw materials he’d need to plaster shut his aorta. Granted, all that fat had been stoking his metabolism without adding a pound of insulation to his tall, efficient frame. Rolfe, nicknamed “the mountain man” by my sister, has already wandered out to the tent platform in the backyard this week to sleep under the stars and inhale the smells of sprouting spring on the brisk unwilling-to-let-go-of-winter breeze while I stayed inside huddled under three comforters refusing to roll over and risk straying into unheated-sheet territory. I slept in the hoodie and refused to take off my bra to avoid the three seconds of chill while Rolfe headed outside with a pillow and only the one pair of socks. Boggling. It would be too ordinary to see the man felled by the food giant Hellman’s when he’d dodged hypothermia and the sort of snorting, drooly things that I’m convinced hang out just past the tent platform.<br /><br />Besides my history of unstable emulsions, my tools were simply not up to task and I knitted my eyebrows and occasionally threw a stink-eye into the bowl when I’d pause to add oil as if I could intimidate my ingredients. Sure, I’d save him from canola only to give him indigestion with all the foul energy I was adding. Frankly, I should have left mayo alone but I had gotten cocky.<br /><br />For weeks I baked for the bookseller testing recipes, swapping out the more harmful ingredients for healthier substitutes, locally sourcing products of greater quality, using as much organic ingredients as possible, making things tastier given those parameters and still keeping an eye on cost. I was beginning to fancy myself a chef but it was also an SAT word problem coming back to haunt me. At moments like this I think of Ludwig Von Beethoven who used exactly 60 coffee beans to make his coffee and he was, after all, a creative genius. I like to compare myself to him only at these moments but not as much when I’m reminded that he died alone, grouchy and with few friends. Perhaps the pursuit of perfection makes you a genius or being a genius makes you tolerable when your pursuit of perfection makes you a royal pain in the ass. Hmm, this opens up a new area of painstaking research.<br /><br />Searching this town for real ingredients had already proven more challenging than you’d think so I started looking in obscure places just to be thorough. This included a curiously named <a href="http://www.osjl.com/about/default.aspx">‘Ocean State Job Lot’</a> which is curious because it was here in the ‘Granite State’ while the ‘Ocean State’ was several hours south and it seemed just unlikely enough to qualify as the last stone one would tentatively turn. I got past the overwhelming stench of vulcanized rubber, and even that ‘high ceiling that leaks’ feel which I’d describe in those words like I was telling ghost stories in an attempt to capture the reason places like this freak me right the hell out for my audience. I grew up shopping in the depressing maw of Ames department store – the only department store - dodging the 30-gallon garbage cans catching spring’s thaw between water stains and racks of unnecessarily perky, stiff, pastel outfits warn by me, my classmates and famine refugees in third world countries benefiting from Red Cross donations.<br /><br />Passing first the clothes racks in Ocean State Job Lot, I began to wonder if the only thing laundered here was money. The random collection of food items, unconvincingly labeled ‘Gourmet’ in case you weren’t clear that the price is a steal, hinted that these foods were either being punished for delinquent behavior on the assembly line or they were inadvertently exposed to trauma that nobody wanted to talk about. The website explained this odd collection in a tone that reminded me of some thuggish mafia heavy politely explaining the finer details of lone sharking, “Although we are known as a closeout company, we prefer to think of ourselves as opportunistic merchants."<br /><br />Be assured that with no assistance from Ocean State Job Lot, I successfully concocted a maple sticky bun that took two risings under the woodstove and came in at a reasonable cost but only because the backyard maple syrup was donated. Otherwise, it was costly, labor intensive and left puddles of sticky maple syrup and gluey board flour everywhere. If it was my kitchen I would have seriously considered torching it for the insurance money after the first batch rather than cleaning it.<br /><br />As it was, I’d been trying not to leave a huge environmental impact short of trekking out my own poop in Ziplocs. My sister was already waking up to a sink full of dishes which would lead me to believe that the secret to Abercrombie skinny is that my nephews only eat when they’re sleeping. Between that and hunting socks like wild game, there’s not a lot of time left over for hosing yourself down after a tarring and feathering with syrup and flour.<br /><br />Some underutilized areas of the kitchen seldom made the cleaning roster after yet another sink full of dishes but luckily the main area of disregard was something I generally avoided entirely myself: the Microwave. Given the opacity of the door, it makes a lousy terrarium but farming is in our blood and perhaps that’s what inspired my sister to grow fauna in a ring around the rotisserie. Though I sounded like Kasandra continuing to yell the insistent and yet ignored alarm, I am sure that subjecting this already radiation resistant strain to continuing zaps like a single-celled <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Incredible_Hulk_%28TV_series%29">Dr. David Banner</a> will only make it stronger and maybe even a little angry.<br />Does the fact that this master race can already withstand two minutes on high better than singed popcorn left five seconds two long concern anybody but me? You’d have to think after all the hygiene violations in India; I’d be willing to spread this stuff on toast like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marmite">Marmite</a>. Maybe since I refuse to use the microwave I’ll not only avoid the obvious risk of infection but I’ll be spared as a sympathizer when it stages its coup. I’ve already spotted the advanced team holding position near the shower drain and once that’s secure, I fear the take-over bid is imminent. In the meantime, I just go about my cooking projects in the otherwise clean kitchen but pause to throw a few sacrificial crumbs in as an offering before quickly slamming the door.<br /><br />One such project was a lemon bread that used so much zest that there was a growing pile of naked lemons littering the counter with that sad sheared-sheep look. I was embarrassed to look at them directly. I tried for awhile to make salads with a lemon juice and olive oil dressing but my consumption slowed and I instead watched them wither. I was too engrossed in the lemon bread geometry to stop and chew through lemony roughage.<br /><br />The bread, a sort of pound cake, was a whole different kind of problem. According to Shirley O Corriher in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/BakeWise-Successful-Baking-Magnificent-Recipes/dp/1416560785/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1240001144&sr=8-1">‘BakeWise: The Hows and Whys of Successful Baking,’</a> it takes a perfect balance of flour, sugar, fat and eggs to make a perfect cake. She explains, “Flour and eggs contain the proteins that set to hold the cake. They are the structural elements; however, they can dry the cake. When some of the proteins in flour form gluten, they absorb water, which removes some moisture from the cake. Egg whites are incredible drying agents.” My first task with this recipe provided by a local cook was to replace the all-purpose flour with cake flour which I believe yields a more tender cake.<br /><br />“Sugar and fat, on the other hand, make the cake tender and moist but they can wreck the structure. Fat coats flour proteins to prevent their joining to form gluten, and too much sugar prevents proteins from setting, so that the cake ends up being pudding,” says Corriher. This cake was short on sugar but was glazed with a sweetened lemon juice glaze that made up the difference on the top of the cake but didn’t sink as much as I’d hoped even when I poked the whole cake with holes before pouring on the glaze.<br /><br />Using Corriher’s cake math to tackle the problem, I started tweaking the measures. Why is it that I’m unwilling to balance my checkbook but balancing cake ingredients suddenly seemed like a necessary but long-lost life skill? “For a successful cake, the structural elements (flour and eggs) have to be balanced with the structure wreckers (sugar and fat). If you have too much flour and/or eggs the cake will be dry. If you have too much sugar and/or fat, the cake will not set. The perfect balance of the four main ingredients creates a moist, tender cake.” Pg 12-13 Oh, sure there’s the fancy footwork of adding a third of the dry ingredients followed by half of the wet followed by a third of the dry followed by half of the wet and finally a third of the dry. There’s also the one-egg-at a-time dance in conjunction with beating the butter like stepchildren but, once the flour is added, taking a manic mood swing towards tender-loving care.<br /><br />Like Mayo, this requires an understanding of emulsifiers like eggs, butter and cream. Why bother? Because Continental Baking Co., the maker of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twinkie">Twinkies</a> and other so-called food companies, don’t care to use eggs, butter and cream anymore and have moved on to synthetic emulsifiers and mechanized processes that are frightening.<br /><br />After a disillusioning stint as a biochemist for Quaker Foods, Paul A. Stitt in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fighting-Food-Giants-Paul-Stitt/dp/0939956004/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1239993844&sr=8-1">‘Fighting the Food Giants’</a> makes the comment, “Quaker doesn’t do animal feeding studies on most of its products anymore, because too often these tests show their ‘foods’ are incapable of sustaining life.” This is an observation Stitt made after finding a 1942 report in which rats fed Puffed Rice cereal died after only two weeks which was considerably faster than the rats fed nothing at all. When confronted with this information that by that time had been available for thirty-eight years, then Quaker Foods president Robert D. Stuart III said, “I know people should throw it on brides and grooms at weddings but if they insist on sticking it in their mouths, can I help it? Besides we made $9 million on that stuff last year.” Stitt surmised, “Why, they figure, should they waste money on tests that are just going to tell them things they don’t want to know? In reality most of Quaker’s research efforts are aimed not at finding new products or improving the old ones, but in cutting the cost of production.” Pg 65<br /><br />“Proteins are very similar to certain toxins in molecular structure, and the puffing process of putting grain under 1500 pounds per square inch of pressure and then releasing it may produce chemical changes which turn a nutritious grain into a poisonous substance,” Stitt said in explanation of the health implications of puffed wheat. Regarding the extrusion process used to make other shaped cereals, Stitt was quoted in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cereal-Killer-Alan-L-Watson/dp/0972048111/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1239993913&sr=1-1">‘Cereal Killer’</a> by Alan L. Watson saying, “[extrusion] destroys the fatty acids; it even destroys the chemical vitamins that are added at the end. The amino acids are rendered very toxic by this process. The amino acid lysine, a crucial nutrient, is especially denatured by extrusions.” Watson points out, “all dry boxed cereals are made in this manner – even the dry boxed cereals sold in natural food groceries,“ and yes, to be clear, those are the boxes you pay a couple of extra dollars for because they are ‘healthy.’<br /><br />When it’s not the process that’s unhealthy it’s the additives designed to do what real food does at a fraction of the cost. One of the most mysterious and yet ubiquitous is Polysorbate 60 which, it turns out is corn syrup and palm oil that have both been hydrogenated, pressed, hydrolyzed, fractionated and hydrogenated to create a high-performance emulsifier added to Twinkie’s ‘creamy filling.’ To find out exactly what it is, Steve Ettlinger went to Uniqema under the Delaware memorial bridge and wrote about it in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cereal-Killer-Alan-L-Watson/dp/0972048111/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1239993913&sr=1-1">‘Twinkie, Deconstructed’</a>.<br /><br />“Corn syrup and palm oil are pumped at a temperature of almost 500 degrees into six-thousand gallon reactor vessels and blended with a secret, proprietary catalyst for ten hours. What emerges are tens of thousands of pounds of thick, waxy liquid sorbitan monostearate, or SMS,” [pg 194] describes Ettlinger in a process that doesn’t sound even remotely ingestible. What makes PS-60 is the next step described by Ettlinger, “When chemists learned that the petrochemical ethylene oxide reacted with other chemicals to make them water soluble, they tried it on SMS, and polysorbate 60 was born.”<br /><br />If you’re not scared already, Ettlinger said, “Ethylene oxide is an excellent but entirely unlikely food chemical, seeing as it is highly explosive (it was used in tunnel-busting shells during the Vietnam War), a known human carcinogenic, and a respiratory, skin, and eye irritant.” But I’m sure we would never be misled if it were discovered that PS-60 is really bad for you or something. Of course, when it comes to food, we only ever find out if the toxin kills you quick like a bunny. Not so much if it’s slow, painful, and results in healthcare profits.<br /><br />“Ethylene and oxygen are mixed – carefully – in a forty-foot-long cylindrical reactor filled with a catalyst, a thin layer of silver on an alumina, silica, or ceramic base in the shape of thousands of 3/8-inch diameter pellets, packed into inch-wide tubes within the reactor. The EO is then cooled and liquefied so some can be shipped in special, protective cylinders to the polysorbate plants, but the bulk of it is used to make polyester fibers and PET, the plastic in our ubiquitous soft drink and water bottles. Much of the rest goes into ethylene glycol for antifreeze, polyurethane foam, and brake fluid.” Which I’m sure would make a great cocktail at your next mixer, if only it didn’t taste really, really bad.<br /><br />“After some deodorizing and purification, out pours greasy, tan goo: polysorbate 60, ready to be mixed with oil and water. I’m warned not to taste a sample. It is so bitter, and the aftertaste on the back of your tongue is so cloying, that an engineer sternly cautions me, saying “You won’t be able to taste your dinner for a week,” wrote Ettlinger. Could I have been the only one who read this and wasn’t dying to put some of this stuff in lemon bread? Granted, PS-60 appears in very small amounts but without it, Twinkies would take much less than a year or so to spoil thus contributing to waste which in turn increases the cost to the manufacturer. This is why my lemon bread is $2.50 a slice.<br /><br />Much like PS-60 replaces butter and cream, artificial vanilla replaces real vanilla in most if not all readily available baked goods. The difference in flavor is astounding but most people have so little exposure to real vanilla that the tragedy of it is lost. Were we to rely on real vanilla, which can take five to six years from the time it’s planted to the time that it’s sold, we’d probably purchase fewer baked goods making desert the rare treat as it’s intended rather than the accompaniment to every meal. We’d also enjoy it more.<br /><br />In Seattle, I’d slice open three or four pods of organic vanilla and stuff them into a fifth of rum to marinate for a month so that I could have decent vanilla to bake with. The month of agitating the bottle every few days seemed like a painstaking process until I read how vanilla itself is pollinated, ripened and cured as described by Ettlinger, “Vanilla beans, which are actually not beans at all but the fruit of the only tropical orchid in the world to bear fruit – are famously difficult to grow and process. Vanilla only grows in tropical, equatorial climates, where the flowers are pollinated by hand in hillside gardens, a technique discovered in 1841 in French Madagascar. The delicate act takes place between dawn and noon on the one day in its life that the flower opens (the unlucky flowers drop to the ground). The beans first ripen on the vine for nine months before being harvested green and flavorless, when the curing process begins. They are dried for three to six months in special boxes and the open air, and are brought in each night and when it rains. Each pod is turned by hand as needed. Curing is an art but technically a way of inducing natural enzymatic action, or fermentation, to create aroma” (Page 203).<br /><br />In contrast, artificial vanilla, or synthetic 4-hydroxy-3-methoxybenzaldehyde, starts with another flammable and carcinogenic component Benzene. “Artificial vanilla manufacturing starts a long way form the flower fields, with crude oil and one of its basic components, benzene, a colorless, sweet-smelling, flammable liquid solvent, one of the so-called aromatic compounds in flowers, fruits, and vegetables as well as in crude oil (the major source), natural gas and coal tar.” I can only imagine the chemistry undergrad who sat in the lab sniffing benzene while finishing up a midterm and deciding some time around 3 a.m. to put this stuff on ice cream. To her, that may have been a great idea.<br /><br />“At the refinery, benzene is oxidized at the steam cracker and reacted with propylene (also from petroleum) to get cumene, an important industrial chemical, which is then further reacted to get phenol, a clear, sweetish-tarry-smelling liquid that used to be sold under its common name, carbolic acid, as a sore throat remedy (it was the first surgical antiseptic used by Sir Joseph Lister, who invented the mouthwash that still bears his name). Phenol is still used in antiseptic products; it was reacted with formaldehyde to make the first plastic, Bakelite, too, but is now mostly used to make polycarbonates (including CDs) and plywood glue, with leftovers going into artificial vanilla.” And, again, the food industry calls this innovation and even ‘product differentiation’ while the medical establishment calls it <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pica">Pica</a>.<br /><br />In case you think we’ve reached the almost –radioactive end of the trail, Ettlinger continues, “The phenol is condensed into white crystals called catechol, an oily methyl ester used in photographic developers, which is liquefied and catalyzed into guaiacol, a yellowish semisolid, light-sensitive alcohol that has a slight smoky/woody/spicy vanilla scent. This is dried into off-white crystals or liquefied and sold by the major chemical companies to the major flavor companies for further processing into vanillin” (Pg 207).<br /><br />The final step –by now I think it would have been easier to drink Hemlock though I’m not sure it tastes anything like Vanilla – Etllinger describes as follows, “Next, the guaiacol is reacted under high temperature and pressure, with a dash of the corrosive, solid glyoxylic acid so a sweet cherry hint (or “note”) develops in addition to the almost delicate, sweet benzene odor. And Bingo: bright, white, aromatic vanilla-smelling crystals drop out of the liquid. Pure vanillin, if you can call something synthetic pure.”<br /><br />The final product is mixed with propylene glycol, also used in sexual lubricants, to moisten, smooth out and thicken the product as well as hint that your body has been totally screwed. Like the programmers at Microsoft that program little jokes into their code, this has got to be the kind of thing scientist’s who make this stuff chuckle about as they nibble <a href="http://www.itppeople.com/macrobio.htm">macrobiotic</a> lunches grown in biodynamic window boxes at their home. At very least, ‘artificial butter flavor’ hints that something about the product isn’t quite right, explains Ettlinger, “Packed carefully into twenty-five-kilogram drums and sealed with a layer of nitrogen to protect it from moisture and fire (it is so highly flammable that a vapor mixture can actually explode) it must be stored under refrigeration. On top of that, due to the strength of its apparently awful (but nontoxic) smell, diacetyl must be kept separate from other chemicals and treated carefully to guard against leaks. The containers are labeled “harmful if swallowed,” both ironic and ominous for a food ingredient” (Pg 212). Sure, they add more ingredients after this to ‘round out the flavors’ like, um, more chemicals and of course some lube to make your Twinkie experience more satisfying and no-less explosive.<br /><br />I finally got my hands on fresh, real vanilla here thanks to Karen at the Bookseller and I was itching to make something with it. I suspected Gunnar had never had real vanilla and I greeted him at the door with, “Quick, what can you put whipped cream on!” which oddly didn’t concern him. He went with Brownie Sundaes and one again the ‘Aunt’ pummeled the crap out of the Personal Trainer and I was handing over my debit card for a quick trip to the store for ice cream and brownie mix. I didn’t even wince knowing I’d be making boxed brownies, a favorite that I haven’t been able to supplant. My nephews’ prefer a palate of hot, sour, pungent and sweet in the form of Spicy Buffalo Doritos, Super-sour gummy worms, pungent plates left under the bed next to equally pungent socks and Dunkin Hines Brownie Mix both baked and sashimi-style spooned straight from the bowl. I replaced the vegetable oil with butter and used yokes instead of whites to make up for the lesser emulsifier and tried not to mention the PS-60 in the ingredients to my smiling and momentarily full nephew.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-53794639177972404322009-03-28T09:54:00.001-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.149-08:00Labor<p>“It’s a beautiful day out!” said the man walking a surprisingly swishy dog for rural New Hampshire on a road meant for Point-A-to-Point-B sort of business and not for meandering. He said it with such a genuine grin, you wouldn’t have known it was code for ‘what are you doing here’ unless you grew up in these parts and knew the language. The password is a tilt of the head and a ‘Can’t complain!’ with an equally blinding flash of cheer. My mind doesn’t translate from regular English to New Englander that fast anymore and I said something robotic and unconvincing that made me sound like a flatlander or, for those unfamiliar with the term, a vacationer visiting from any state south. I rejected “Yup, it’s a pisser” at the last possible moment knowing that it would work but only if I could say ‘pisser’ without pausing to look at the word in a squinty, suspicious sort of way like I was examining a yard sale appliance. </p><p><br />I was walking the two-plus miles back to my sister’s house after spending the afternoon in the bookstore which was the only place I could find that had the five vital things that would keep me sane, internet access, cell phone coverage, hot coffee, a reliable heating system and, well, books. When I got off the plane in Logan Airport in Flip Flops it was clear how unwilling I was to grasp my situation. Winter and I bitterly parted ways long ago and I stopped returning its calls. My inability to keep the woodstove going was either because I no longer knew how to load the wood in ‘blazing inferno’ formation or because the damper needs to be turned in another direction besides ‘towards Mecca’ which was my first guess. My last effort produced the equivalent in BTUs of warming your hands over a baked potato. The meager clothing options to pilfer in my nephew’s closet tells a sad tale about how unhip warmth must be and the unwillingness of my sister’s cats to drape themselves over my cold feet even while walking had me seeking relief in the less rugged climate of retail-turned-Red-Cross-shelter.</p><p><br />Given the frigid and slick conditions, I was impressed with all of the extra effort I’d expended hiking back and forth into town like some burley mountain women trudging along in an ‘ain’t nothin’ kind of way. I considered stopping to track and trap small game all <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grizzly_Adams">Grizzly Adams</a> like so I could roast a vole over the woodstove if I ever figure out how to get it hot enough. Having to check the internal temperature of the little carcass with a meat thermometer, however, is way to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Graham_Kerr">Galloping Gourmet</a> for rustic rodent roasting and I doubt I can find a thermometer with ‘Varmint’ listed on the dial. </p><p><br />Long ago I had shunned the idea of paying extra for a lighter laptop because I thought that sort of feature was only for slack-armed sissies but the load felt suddenly significant. Any idea I had about counting this forty-minute schlep as exercise was completely squashed by <a href="http://www.aasgaardco.com/">Mark Rippetoe</a>, coach and author extraordinaire, when someone asked him if adding a walk was beneficial to strength improvements to which he was quoted as saying, “Walking for an hour is not exercise. It’s shopping. If you count it at all, in any way, as part of your program . . . well, I’ll be disappointed.”</p><p><br />After each of my non-exercise treks that first week, I set myself up at the corner table to get my e-mail done and do some necessary cyber surfing unfortunately, by Saturday I’d established a sort of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Majlis_al_Shura">Majlis Al-Shura</a> – a Saudi-style, town-hall airing of grievances to the prince in residence - through no fault of my own. Folk here like to refer to this practice as ‘shooting the shit.’ As each person came in, they spotted me and whether or not I had any earthly clue who they were, they’d ask about my trip to India and gossip about people I’d never heard of which is, I’m guessing, how they knew who I was after various like-minded chats throughout the town. I doubt it’s the only thing they know about me. </p><p><br />In some regions of this country, Americans square dance, polka, play jazz or rap, New Englanders <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Shoot%20the%20Shit&defid=584043">shoot the shit</a>. If you aren’t familiar with the term you can’t do it and shouldn’t try. At best, you’ll get your feelings hurt and at worst you’ll end up walking straight into a nickname that you’ll never shake. Just ask my friend, Booger. Shooting the shit is essentially a call and response game of wits that’s part teasing, part stand-up sarcasm and part gossip. It involves a lot of ribbing and a stealthy sizing-up and is based on the desire to figure everyone out. Consider it a residue of the Puritans without the float test which is still practiced in this country and called ‘water boarding’. </p><p><br />In the Pacific Northwest this style of communication is unwelcome and will quickly get you shunned in a snitty-passive aggressive sort of way but it’s an essential tool here and it’s worth spending some time developing your game given that conditions force you to depend on neighbors to drag you out of snow banks from time to time. To survive in Seattle without earning a reputation as a nasty S.O.B., if north westerners would ever refer to somebody in such a pedestrian way, I learned to bury every third thing I was going to say behind a wholesome, supportive grin. </p><p><br />With the way I operate, I first threw myself into the viper pit of shit-talking, no-holds barred sarcasm peppered with the foul-mouthed expletives and colorful references to naughty bits with a fervent hope that I wouldn’t get tagged with an unsavory pseudonym. I joined a construction crew to help finish a summer home on Lake Winnipesaukee and I was trying to blend before I became the Piggy in this <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_of_the_Flies">‘Lord of the Flies’</a>. If you’re looking to acquaint yourself with the more colorful characters, this would be the place to do it.</p><p><br />I had promised my sister I’d be home from India for my nephew’s graduation and that created some scheduling issues. I now find myself with a couple of months to kill while I formulate my next diabolical plan. It reminds me a little of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hogan">Stalag 13</a> – given my necessary confinement in subzero conditions while I dig an escape tunnel out past the gate. Not that I don’t love my family but this is New England at it’s bleakest – March – and when I agreed to teach a boot camp at <a href="http://www.gordosgym.com/">Gordo’s Gym</a> in Wolfeboro along with my day job, I pictured lots and lots of push-ups performed at my command and with precision not soccer moms squatting in <a href="http://www.sorel.com/Subcategory.aspx?top=2">Sorel’s</a>. </p><p><br />I’ve been working with my brother in-law once removed – I believe we refer to that as ‘ex’ – helping finish out the miles of pine trim in a home with a fabulous view and lots of windows. ‘Finish carpentry’ for those of us who aren’t nearly clairvoyant with molding measurements or are interested in keeping most of their fingers, looks a lot like sanding. Lots and lots of sanding. Eight hours a day as a matter of fact and after my first week I’d nearly run out of games in my head to make sanding interesting.</p><p><br />The first day on the job, I was privy to a conversation amongst the crew about whether or not a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glock_17">Glock 45</a> leaves any traceable marks on a bullet and if the concealed weapons permit had any flexibility when crossing the border. That in combination with the fact that we’ve all inadvertently sanded off our fingerprints had me concerned. The next day put me at ease when the subject turned to female menstruation and how accurately a doctor can predict conception dates which I found intriguing but then, given how many ‘unplanned’ children they all have, I had to wonder if perhaps they were looking at conception dates from the wrong side of the bar tab. This Monday morning quarterback chat didn’t appear to be lowering anybody’s child support payments but as the new guy and the only one of us who actually menstruates, I just nodded a lot and kept sanding.</p><p><br />Then, after a couple of days of verbal sparring when I proved that I could take even the sucker punches standing, Spanky treated us all to the half-time entertainment as he traipsed around in nothing but a tool belt and enough back hair to shelter him from a nor’easter. Luckily, when he sauntered into the bathroom I was working on he spared me his version of pole dancing performed in the other room on an aluminum ladder. As a woman in these situations, it’s important that you go along with the joke but not be too enthusiastic so I left my dollar bills in my pocket and went back to work. Had I considered it beforehand, I would have set my quota of naked episodes to roughly one per month accounting for scandalous mishaps and moonings but four days into the job and I’d already hit my limit which means that St. Patty’s day will have to be spent at home with a book far away from any Guinness tap.</p><p><br />Coming from India, I got a little caught up in the romantic notion of the noble working class and this little escapade was beginning to blow that concept right out of the shimmed window. But <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahatma_Gandhi">Mahatma Gandhi</a> spun cloth on a wheel and thought everyone should do it and who am I to argue with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bapu">Bapu</a>.<br /><br />Gandhi explained it this way, “I strongly believe in the sanctity of human labor. Men and women must perform their duties with devotion. Not to labor because of one's being wealthy is unholy. Work with the hands is the apprenticeship of honesty and recognition of fellow humans' toiling.” And maybe if the wealthy homeowners grabbed a putty knife and bellied-up to the baseboard beside me, I’d be feeling a whole lot more ‘devoted’ about now. Plus, painting poly on pine to spruce up the second home of stressed manhattanites seeking a scenic overlook to admire a rare view only seen by the upwardly mobile is not the sort of job Gandhi wanted us all to get our hands dirty doing. He himself spun <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khadi">Khadi</a>, an inexpensive cloth, made on a wheel called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charkha">Charkha</a> and made into clothes worn by the working class until his dying day, making little use of his University College law degree.</p><p><br />In Indian Opinion on January 15, 1910, Gandhi wrote, “it seems to us that, after all, nature has intended man to earn his bread by manual labour -'by the sweat of his brow' -and intended him to dedicate his intellect not towards multiplying his material wants and surrounding himself with enervating and soul-destroying luxuries, but towards uplifting his moral being-towards knowing the will of the Creator- towards serving humanity and thus truly serving himself. If so, the profession of hawking, or, better still, simple agriculture or such other calling, must be the highest method of earning one's livelihood. And do not the millions do so? No doubt many follow nature unconsciously. It remains for those who are endowed with more than the ordinary measure of intellect to copy the millions consciously and use their intellect for uplifting their fellow labourers. No longer will it then be possible for the intellectuals in their conceit to look down upon the 'hewers of wood and drawers of water'. For, of such is the world made." </p><p><br />It sounds beautiful until my fingertips bleed and then I find it doubtful that my whining is uplifting. I wish I could claim to be serving humanity in selfless ways but my goal is more of a labor lab in my ongoing attempt to explore functional movement. First, I keep designing workouts that ‘mimic’ real work though I haven’t dealt with the world of manual labor since my stint with the Romanian contractors. The experience of sanding for eight hours straight jacked on coffee and paint fumes is different than the experience of ‘labor’ in 20 minute timed bouts in a gym. Even if I could sand 200 feet of baseboard in 20 minutes, I’d have to do something else like it 23 more times in a day only to wake up in the morning to do it again. Second, the mental game of getting me to get up in the morning for eight hours of sanding and then focusing on each task without dallying or complaining is a rare opportunity to harden myself and my raw fingertips. Which, by the way, rugged fingertips will pay off rather nicely the first time I try and execute a Gi choke and get rejected with a burn of my fingers down the collar.</p><p><br />And if it sounded like I was getting uppity comparing myself to Gandhi here it should be noted that my status as an intellectual, had it existed previously, is being diminished daily by huffing polyurethane and sucking sawdust from treated lumber. One day soon, I fear, I’ll have nothing more interesting to say to my fellow noble laborers other than the occasional command of, “Smile!” like one of the carpenters who realized that most of his dialog was too dirty for someone who had all the equipment he was constantly referring to. He also replaced the game ‘Rate my Burp/Fart’ with a self-conscious ‘Scuze me’ completely for my benefit, he assured. I explained with a tight-lipped grin that smiling just lodges the flying sawdust between my teeth while I judged how quickly I could pack his pie-hole with wood putty.</p><p><br />I admit that’s a little not-so-Gandhi and I didn’t really mean it but I hate playing trained seal and I know that keeping the guys comfortable would entail smiling on command, pretending that dirty jokes are hilarious and Harley’s dreamy. I realized that every time I’m anything less than delighted by whatever these guys have to say, they think I’m ‘in a mood’ which might actually happen on a day when I’ve lost the mental game and feel slightly peeved after holding my arms over my head for four straight hours. And so what if sometimes I’m not radiant? </p><p><br />I did finally lose it and demanded a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cone_of_Silence">‘cone of silence’</a> for the rest of the day when a simple conversation about Easter turned into references to stroking oneself complete with, um, sign language for the hearing impaired. It wasn’t the worst thing I had heard but it was the last thing I intended to hear that day. I let my opinion rip – a little spike of Sicilian what-for - and told them that my belief in fairy tales was threatened by all of their knuckle dragging and that if I was going to save myself from a lonely future with nothing but cats thanks to the picture of their gender they had painted for me - thank you very much - I would need some time alone for a little intracranial pep rally. Talk turned to football and golf clubs.</p><p>With my work day a little more wholesome, attention could now be paid to nutrition. To celebrate my first paycheck in the more lucrative dollar rather than rupees, I conned my nephew Gunnar into a ride to town for a quick meal after a week of drinking protein powder stirred into coconut milk. This has always been my emergency <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MRE">MRE</a> for several reasons whenever I drop into hostile territory. First, it doesn’t have to be refrigerated since saturated fats are more stable and less prone to rancidity. Second, it’s antimicrobial and keeps my gut churning nicely until I can source clean food. Third, it has thermogenic properties which, especially here, will ratchet up my body temperature to ward of winter at least a little.<br />Most people still shy away from saturated fat even in coconut thanks to the propaganda regarding cholesterol and in spite of access to actual data that says otherwise. The easily searchable editorial by <a href="http://www.westonaprice.org/knowyourfats/coconut_oil.html">Harvard’s Walter Willet, M.D.</a> in the American Journal of Public Health (1990) as quoted by Weston A. Price Foundation, "the focus of dietary recommendations is usually a reduction of saturated fat intake, no relation between saturated fat intake and risk of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coronary_heart_disease">CHD</a> was observed in the most informative prospective study to date." </p><p><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&search-type=ss&index=books&field-author=Mary%20G.%20Enig&page=1">Mary G. Enid, PhD</a> of Westin A. Price is a big fan partly because of the antibacterial properties which she discusses in <a href="http://www.westonaprice.org/knowyourfats/coconut-oil-studies.html">‘Know Your Fats’</a>. Enid writes, “A few researchers have known for some time that a derivative of coconut oil, lauric acid and monolaurin, are safe antimicrobial agents that can either kill completely or stop the growth of some of the most dangerous viruses and bacteria.” Continues Enid, “Monolaurin, in particular, is being shown to be useful in the prevention and treatment of severe bacterial infections, especially those that are difficult to treat or are antibiotic resistant. Difficult bacteria such as Staphylococcus aureus as well as other bacteria have been studied here in the United States in research groups such as Dr. H.G. Preuss’s group at Georgetown University. They found that monolaurin combined with herbal essential oils inhibited pathogenic bacteria both in the petri dish (in vitro) and also in mice (in vivo).4 “ One can only imagine what cargo I snuck past customs in my intestinal track so this isn’t a bad strategy on my part.</p><p>According to an unconfirmed source, “In one study, the thermogenic (fat-burning) effect of a high-calorie diet containing 40 percent fat as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medium_chain_fatty_acids#Long_and_short">MCFA</a> [medium chain fatty acids] was compared to one containing 40 percent fat as LCFA [long chain fatty acids]. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thermogenic">thermogenic</a> effect of the MCFA was almost twice as high as the LCFA: 120 calories versus 66 calories. The researchers concluded that the excess energy provided by fats in the form of MCFA would not be efficiently stored as fat, but rather would be burned. A follow-up study demonstrated that MCFA given over a six-day period can increase diet-induced thermogenesis by 50 percent.” This appeared in a website touting the diet benefits of coconut called <a href="http://www.coconut-connections.com/weight_problems.htm">coconut-connections.com</a>. I wouldn’t refer to it unless I could directly attest to the fact that every time I drink a glug of this brew my body heat cranks up a few degrees, a completely necessary tool given I’ve already been wearing four layers of clothes and can still feel a chill. My only concern then is the protein powder because I can’t defend the bioavailability of the whey or be assured of the quality.</p><p><br />I asked Gunnar where he wanted to go given that he works at the most posh of the local restaurants and one of the few that keeps its doors open past the summer season. “It doesn’t really matter. Wherever you go the food is Sysco,” he said, referring to the Houston-based wholesale food supplier that according to the <a href="http://www.slate.com/id/2160284/">‘Every Bite You Take: How Sysco Came To Monopolize Most of what you Eat,’</a> by Ulrich Boser posted Wednesday, February 21, 2009 for Slate services over 400,000 American businesses including every single one of the restaurants in this happy little hamlet. Interestingly, even the folks in the nearby town of <a href="http://www.topix.com/city/freedom-nh">Freedom</a> are eating Sysco food which happens to supply the kitchens at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guantanamo_Bay_Naval_Base">Gitmo</a>. The locals even joked post 9/11 that wiping out the entire community would take merely a spoonful of super-powered <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Streptococcus">streptococcus</a> in a shipment. </p><p><br />Though that’s the kind of joke shared over a cup of coffee here and then forgotten, it actually was a concern in Washington. “Our highly centralized food economy is a dangerously precarious system, vulnerable to accidental--and deliberate—contamination,” wrote Michael Pollan in ‘The Vegetable Industrial Complex,’ which appeared in the New York Times Magazine on October 15, 2006 approximately a month after nearly 200 Americans in 26 states contracted E. coli from packaged spinach. Continues Pollan, “When Tommy Thompson retired from the Department of Health and Human Services in 2004, he said something chilling at his farewell news conference: "For the life of me, I cannot understand why the terrorists have not attacked our food supply, because it is so easy to do." The reason it is so easy to do was laid out in a 2003 G.A.O. report to Congress on bioterrorism. "The high concentration of our livestock industry and the centralized nature of our food-processing industry" make them "vulnerable to terrorist attack." Today 80 percent of America's beef is slaughtered by four companies, 75 percent of the precut salads are processed by two and 30 percent of the milk by just one company.” </p><p><br />Slate’s article claims that much of Sysco’s produce is locally sourced, the products name-branded and the prepared foods unassuming but there are the exceptions. Take the <a href="http://www.sysco.com/products/productpage_search.asp?productID=329">SmartServe Chicken</a> – Please, and bury it in a leak-proof container away from the aquifer. According to Slate, “While it looks natural, it consists of parts of other chicken breasts mashed together into a single, chicken-breastlike block. As the company notes on its Web site, our ‘unique 3-D technology gives you the look and texture of a solid muscle chicken breast, at a fraction of the cost.’“ I reserve all my sculpted so-called-food consumption to buttercream roses shamelessly swiped off cake like a toad snatching insects. Beyond that, I prefer consumables whose descriptions appear in seed catalogs not periodic tables – protein powder momentarily aside.<br />For the most part, or parts, Sysco’s website made very little reference to actual edibles at all. I had hoped to find some information about their suppliers and how they source their food and when I looked at their <a href="http://www.sysco.com/supplier/supplier_compliance.html">‘Supplier Compliance Guide’</a> assuming that it would give me a little insight on how they choose suppliers or how their suppliers, well, comply, I found this, “Sysco's Supply Chain Operations / Supplier Compliance (SCOPS) team is the central liaison between the Redistribution Center (RDC) network and the supplier community. SCOPS' role is to successfully transition suppliers into the RDC network and to monitor and report operational issues. Our goal is to promote positive and open relationships with RDC suppliers while sustaining operational requirements that result in shared cost reductions.” Wha? </p><p><br />This is not at all like the wholesale market in Paris, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/March%C3%A9_d">Marché d'Intérêt National de Rungis</a>, which you might argue is Europe’s self-serve Sysco, covering 573 acres and feeds one-fifth of the French population stocking primarily livestock and the veggies in which you might make, say, soup stock. Roaming the stalls allows the chef to put a face on purveyors of the foods that often sport faces of their own. Barbaric as it would seem to American shoppers, the French prefer to buy their bunnies whole, unskinned and identifiable in a line-up so that they know what hops onto the menu is exactly that and not feral cats which make a less tasty Lapin Rôti à la Moutarde. Americans buy and believe in brands which is how we’ve been brainwashed to think thanks to our commerce driven system. This allows the squeamish to shop in a more sterile environment but leaves us evaluating brilliant marketing campaigns while the French are evaluating food. Slogans to ape and jingles to sing are far less nourishing.<br /><br />In <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/28/magazine/28nutritionism.t.html">‘Unhappy Meals’</a> published in the New York Times Magazine January 28, 2007, Michael Pollan argues that the ideology of ‘Nutritionism’ – which has scientists splintering food into nutrients and then making unfounded assumptions without considering the possibility that whole foods are greater than the sum of their known nutrients – traditional wisdom is overlooked. “The sheer novelty and glamour of the Western diet, with its 17,000 new food products introduced every year, and the marketing muscle used to sell these products, has overwhelmed the force of tradition and left us where we now find ourselves: relying on science and journalism and marketing to help us decide questions about what to eat. Nutritionism, which arose to help us better deal with the problems of the Western diet, has largely been co-opted by it, used by the industry to sell more food and to undermine the authority of traditional ways of eating.”<br /><br />In contrast, Kathleen Flinn writes in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sharper-Your-Knife-Less-You/dp/0143114131/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1238257919&sr=8-1">‘The Sharper Your Knife, The Less You Cry: Love, Laughter and Tears in Paris at the World’s Most Famous Cooking School’</a> about her time perusing Rungis with Chef Alexander Colville and says, “He gives us a lesson on quizzing stall managers. Vital questions include: Where did it come from? What did it eat? What does the seller know about the people who raised it? How long has it been hung to dry or waiting to be purchased? A good chef is not shy about asking such questions.” [pg 57] These are the same questions I asked in <a href="http://www.fremontmarket.com/ballard/">Ballard’s Farmer’s Market in Seattle</a>, the same questions I would ask in India if I spoke any of the languages and the same questions I’d ask here if Sysco, an acronym for Systems and Services Company which sounds even less like it’s about the food, could answer questions on it’s website with text explaining things more clearly than:</p><p><br />“Sysco’s suppliers are an integral part of our business. We value our supplier relationships because we know that strong partnerships lead to growth and success – for our suppliers, our customers, our shareholders and our Sysco associates.” Right. Can I get organic fries with that?<br />Post World War II, America tried to foist its faceless system on the French in the name of the almighty Franc. Most of our initiatives were part of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marshall_Plan">Marshall Plan</a> designed to rebuild France and turn the country away from communism. Julia Child explained this with the help of Alex Prud’homme in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Life-France-Julia-Child/dp/0307277690/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1238258020&sr=1-1">‘My Life in France,’ </a>“When American experts began making helpful suggestions about how the French could ‘increase productivity and profits’ the average Frenchman would shrug as if to say: “These notions of yours are all very fascinating, no doubt, but we have a nice little business here just as it is. Everybody makes a decent living. Nobody has ulcers. I have time to work on my monograph about Balzac, and my foreman enjoys his espaliered pear trees. I think, as a matter of fact, we do not wish to make these changes that you suggest.” [Pg 102] Child’s husband was assigned to the American Embassy in France and was responsible for bringing exhibits to Paris that would essentially sell capitalism rather than communism to the French.</p><p><br />Again, Pollan writes in ‘Unhappy Meals,’ “If there is one word that covers nearly all the changes industrialization has made to the food chain, it would be simplification. Chemical fertilizers simplify the chemistry of the soil, which in turn appears to simplify the chemistry of the food grown in that soil. Since the widespread adoption of synthetic nitrogen fertilizers in the 1950s, the nutritional quality of produce in America has, according to U.S.D.A. figures, declined significantly. Some researchers blame the quality of the soil for the decline; others cite the tendency of modern plant breeding to select for industrial qualities like yield rather than nutritional quality. Whichever it is, the trend toward simplification of our food continues on up the chain. Processing foods depletes them of many nutrients, a few of which are then added back in through ''fortification'': folic acid in refined flour, vitamins and minerals in breakfast cereal. But food scientists can add back only the nutrients food scientists recognize as important. What are they overlooking?”</p><p><br />According to Child and most folks who enjoy a good meal, the one thing that was clearly overlooked was flavor. “The American poultry industry had made it possible to grow a fine looking fryer in record time and sell it at a reasonable price, but no one mentioned that the result usually tasted like the stuffing inside a teddy bear.” [Pg 213] Child, who was never much concerned with the nutritional density of the meals she served and preferred her chicken to taste ‘Chickeny’, knew that there was something amiss with our birds. When quality flew out the window so did the taste. But it’s cheap.</p><p><br />“The American food system has for a century devoted its energies and policies to increasing quantity and reducing price, not to improving quality. There's no escaping the fact that better food -- measured by taste or nutritional quality (which often correspond) – costs more, because it has been grown or raised less intensively and with more care. Not everyone can afford to eat well in America, which is shameful, but most of us can: Americans spend, on average, less than 10 percent of their income on food, down from 24 percent in 1947, and less than the citizens of any other nation,” wrote Pollan in ‘Unhappy Meals.’ For Americans in the end, all that money get’s paid back with interest in healthcare, vitamin supplements, gym memberships and lost wages due to our decrepitude. </p><p><br />In a small town in rural America, especially one with a limited growing season, sadly sourcing food begins at Wal-Mart which is not within walking distance for me and has no organic selection and no local suppliers which were not surprising given Wal-Mart’s singular focus on price slashing. Here, there are two supermarkets in town that are forgotten affiliates of giant chain stores though they look like renegade outposts that bootlegged the sign unless I’ve taken too many cart spins around boutique shops and <a href="http://www.wholefoodsmarket.com/">Whole Foods</a> –the Prada of Produce. </p><p><br />If I was planning to eat local and seasonal, William Bradford’s account in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Of_Plymouth_Plantation">‘History of the Plantation of Plymouth’</a> in 1620 recorded the suffering and starvation which left only 53 of 102 people alive a year later to celebrate the first <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plymouth_Colony">Thanksgiving</a>. That number included only four adult women. Essentially, eating local and seasonal in New England means not eating until July. That rivals Wal-Mart in cost savings and may be slightly healthier than eating Wal-Mart’s meat. I’ve managed to befriend a man with two English degrees that works in the meat department of IGA – let that be a lesson to you – and have hopes of turning him into my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Squanto">Squanto </a>without the part about ostracizing him from his people in the end. All the ladies at the check-out tease him already so that may be an unavoidable consequence. </p><p><br />Of course I can buy my meats online and suck it up with Mexican produce for awhile but the trick is to find real local food that I’m sure is produced by the local farms after the snow melts. I may have to shift my hangout from the Bookstore to where ever it is the local farmers hang out. With any luck its got internet access, cell phone coverage, hot coffee, a reliable heating system and, well, books.</p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-87830291523836623802009-03-28T09:54:00.000-07:002009-12-10T22:06:50.566-08:00Sysco Kid<p>“It’s a beautiful day out!” said the man walking a surprisingly swishy dog for rural New Hampshire on a road meant for Point-A-to-Point-B sort of business and not for meandering. He said it with such a genuine grin, you wouldn’t have known it was code for ‘what are you doing here’ unless you grew up in these parts and knew the language. The password is a tilt of the head and a ‘Can’t complain!’ with an equally blinding flash of cheer. My mind doesn’t translate from regular English to New Englander that fast anymore and I said something robotic and unconvincing that made me sound like a flatlander or, for those unfamiliar with the term, a vacationer visiting from any state south. I rejected “Yup, it’s a pisser” at the last possible moment knowing that it would work but only if I could say ‘pisser’ without pausing to look at the word in a squinty, suspicious sort of way like I was examining a yard sale appliance. </p><br /><p><br />I was walking the two-plus miles back to my sister’s house after spending the afternoon in the bookstore which was the only place I could find that had the five vital things that would keep me sane, internet access, cell phone coverage, hot coffee, a reliable heating system and, well, books. When I got off the plane in Logan Airport in Flip Flops it was clear how unwilling I was to grasp my situation. Winter and I bitterly parted ways long ago and I stopped returning its calls. My inability to keep the woodstove going was either because I no longer knew how to load the wood in ‘blazing inferno’ formation or because the damper needs to be turned in another direction besides ‘towards Mecca’ which was my first guess. My last effort produced the equivalent in BTUs of warming your hands over a baked potato. The meager clothing options to pilfer in my nephew’s closet tells a sad tale about how unhip warmth must be and the unwillingness of my sister’s cats to drape themselves over my cold feet even while walking had me seeking relief in the less rugged climate of retail-turned-Red-Cross-shelter.</p><br /><p><br />Given the frigid and slick conditions, I was impressed with all of the extra effort I’d expended hiking back and forth into town like some burley mountain women trudging along in an ‘ain’t nothin’ kind of way. I considered stopping to track and trap small game all Grizzly Adams like so I could roast a vole over the woodstove if I ever figure out how to get it hot enough. Having to check the internal temperature of the little carcass with a meat thermometer, however, is way to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Graham_Kerr">Galloping Gourmet</a> for rustic rodent roasting and I doubt I can find a thermometer with ‘Varmint’ listed on the dial. </p><p><br />Long ago I had shunned the idea of paying extra for a lighter laptop because I thought that sort of feature was only for slack-armed sissies but the load felt suddenly significant. Any idea I had about counting this forty-minute schlep as exercise was completely squashed by <a href="http://www.aasgaardco.com/">Mark Rippetoe</a>, coach and author extraordinaire, when someone asked him if adding a walk was beneficial to strength improvements to which he was quoted as saying, “Walking for an hour is not exercise. It’s shopping. If you count it at all, in any way, as part of your program . . . well, I’ll be disappointed.” </p><p><br />After each of my non-exercise treks that first week, I set myself up at the corner table to get my e-mail done and do some necessary cyber surfing unfortunately, by Saturday I’d established a sort of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Majlis_al_Shura">Majlis Al-Shura</a> – a Saudi-style, town-hall airing of grievances to the prince in residence - through no fault of my own. Folk here like to refer to this practice as ‘shooting the shit.’ As each person came in, they spotted me and whether or not I had any earthly clue who they were, they’d ask about my trip to India and gossip about people I’d never heard of which is, I’m guessing, how they knew who I was after various like-minded chats throughout the town. I doubt it’s the only thing they know about me. </p><p><br />In some regions of this country, Americans square dance, polka, play jazz or rap, New Englanders <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Shoot%20the%20Shit&defid=584043">shoot the shit</a>. If you aren’t familiar with the term you can’t do it and shouldn’t try. At best, you’ll get your feelings hurt and at worst you’ll end up walking straight into a nickname that you’ll never shake. Just ask my friend, Booger. Shooting the shit is essentially a call and response game of wits that’s part teasing, part stand-up sarcasm and part gossip. It involves a lot of ribbing and a stealthy sizing-up and is based on the desire to figure everyone out. Consider it a residue of the Puritans without the float test which is still practiced in this country and called ‘water boarding’. </p><p><br />In the Pacific Northwest this style of communication is unwelcome and will quickly get you shunned in a snitty-passive aggressive sort of way but it’s an essential tool here and it’s worth spending some time developing your game given that conditions force you to depend on neighbors to drag you out of snow banks from time to time. To survive in Seattle without earning a reputation as a nasty S.O.B., if north westerners would ever refer to somebody in such a pedestrian way, I learned to bury every third thing I was going to say behind a wholesome, supportive grin. </p><p><br />With the way I operate, I first threw myself into the viper pit of shit-talking, no-holds barred sarcasm peppered with the foul-mouthed expletives and colorful references to naughty bits with a fervent hope that I wouldn’t get tagged with an unsavory pseudonym. I joined a construction crew to help finish a summer home on Lake Winnipesaukee and I was trying to blend before I became the Piggy in this <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_of_the_Flies">‘Lord of the Flies’</a>. If you’re looking to acquaint yourself with the more colorful characters, this would be the place to do it. </p><p><br />I had promised my sister I’d be home from India for my nephew’s graduation and that created some scheduling issues. I now find myself with a couple of months to kill while I formulate my next diabolical plan. It reminds me a little of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hogan">Stalag 13</a> – given my necessary confinement in subzero conditions while I dig an escape tunnel out past the gate. Not that I don’t love my family but this is New England at it’s bleakest – March – and when I agreed to teach a boot camp at <a href="http://www.gordosgym.com/">Gordo’s Gym</a> in Wolfeboro along with my day job, I pictured lots and lots of push-ups performed at my command and with precision not soccer moms squatting in <a href="http://www.sorel.com/Subcategory.aspx?top=2">Sorel’s</a>. </p><p><br />I’ve been working with my brother in-law once removed – I believe we refer to that as ‘ex’ – helping finish out the miles of pine trim in a home with a fabulous view and lots of windows. ‘Finish carpentry’ for those of us who aren’t nearly clairvoyant with molding measurements or are interested in keeping most of their fingers, looks a lot like sanding. Lots and lots of sanding. Eight hours a day as a matter of fact and after my first week I’d nearly run out of games in my head to make sanding interesting.</p><p><br />The first day on the job, I was privy to a conversation amongst the crew about whether or not a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glock_17">Glock 45</a> leaves any traceable marks on a bullet and if the concealed weapons permit had any flexibility when crossing the border. That in combination with the fact that we’ve all inadvertently sanded off our fingerprints had me concerned. The next day put me at ease when the subject turned to female menstruation and how accurately a doctor can predict conception dates which I found intriguing but then, given how many ‘unplanned’ children they all have, I had to wonder if perhaps they were looking at conception dates from the wrong side of the bar tab. This Monday morning quarterback chat didn’t appear to be lowering anybody’s child support payments but as the new guy and the only one of us who actually menstruates, I just nodded a lot and kept sanding. </p><p><br />Then, after a couple of days of verbal sparring when I proved that I could take even the sucker punches standing, Spanky treated us all to the half-time entertainment as he traipsed around in nothing but a tool belt and enough back hair to shelter him from a nor’easter. Luckily, when he sauntered into the bathroom I was working on he spared me his version of pole dancing performed in the other room on an aluminum ladder. As a woman in these situations, it’s important that you go along with the joke but not be too enthusiastic so I left my dollar bills in my pocket and went back to work. Had I considered it beforehand, I would have set my quota of naked episodes to roughly one per month accounting for scandalous mishaps and moonings but four days into the job and I’d already hit my limit which means that St. Patty’s day will have to be spent at home with a book far away from any Guinness tap. </p><p><br />Coming from India, I got a little caught up in the romantic notion of the noble working class and this little escapade was beginning to blow that concept right out of the shimmed window. But <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahatma_Gandhi">Mahatma Gandhi</a> spun cloth on a wheel and thought everyone should do it and who am I to argue with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bapu">Bapu</a>.<br /><br />Gandhi explained it this way, “I strongly believe in the sanctity of human labor. Men and women must perform their duties with devotion. Not to labor because of one's being wealthy is unholy. Work with the hands is the apprenticeship of honesty and recognition of fellow humans' toiling.” And maybe if the wealthy homeowners grabbed a putty knife and bellied-up to the baseboard beside me, I’d be feeling a whole lot more ‘devoted’ about now. Plus, painting poly on pine to spruce up the second home of stressed manhattanites seeking a scenic overlook to admire a rare view only seen by the upwardly mobile is not the sort of job Gandhi wanted us all to get our hands dirty doing. He himself spun <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khadi">Khadi</a>, an inexpensive cloth, made on a wheel called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charkha">Charkha</a> and made into clothes worn by the working class until his dying day, making little use of his University College law degree. </p><p><br />In Indian Opinion on January 15, 1910, Gandhi wrote, “it seems to us that, after all, nature has intended man to earn his bread by manual labour -'by the sweat of his brow' -and intended him to dedicate his intellect not towards multiplying his material wants and surrounding himself with enervating and soul-destroying luxuries, but towards uplifting his moral being-towards knowing the will of the Creator- towards serving humanity and thus truly serving himself. If so, the profession of hawking, or, better still, simple agriculture or such other calling, must be the highest method of earning one's livelihood. And do not the millions do so? No doubt many follow nature unconsciously. It remains for those who are endowed with more than the ordinary measure of intellect to copy the millions consciously and use their intellect for uplifting their fellow labourers. No longer will it then be possible for the intellectuals in their conceit to look down upon the 'hewers of wood and drawers of water'. For, of such is the world made." </p><p><br />It sounds beautiful until my fingertips bleed and then I find it doubtful that my whining is uplifting. I wish I could claim to be serving humanity in selfless ways but my goal is more of a labor lab in my ongoing attempt to explore functional movement. First, I keep designing workouts that ‘mimic’ real work though I haven’t dealt with the world of manual labor since my stint with the Romanian contractors. The experience of sanding for eight hours straight jacked on coffee and paint fumes is different than the experience of ‘labor’ in 20 minute timed bouts in a gym. Even if I could sand 200 feet of baseboard in 20 minutes, I’d have to do something else like it 23 more times in a day only to wake up in the morning to do it again. Second, the mental game of getting me to get up in the morning for eight hours of sanding and then focusing on each task without dallying or complaining is a rare opportunity to harden myself and my raw fingertips. Which, by the way, rugged fingertips will pay off rather nicely the first time I try and execute a Gi choke and get rejected with a burn of my fingers down the collar. </p><p><br />And if it sounded like I was getting uppity comparing myself to Gandhi here it should be noted that my status as an intellectual, had it existed previously, is being diminished daily by huffing polyurethane and sucking sawdust from treated lumber. One day soon, I fear, I’ll have nothing more interesting to say to my fellow noble laborers other than the occasional command of, “Smile!” like one of the carpenters who realized that most of his dialog was too dirty for someone who had all the equipment he was constantly referring to. He also replaced the game ‘Rate my Burp/Fart’ with a self-conscious ‘Scuze me’ completely for my benefit, he assured. I explained with a tight-lipped grin that smiling just lodges the flying sawdust between my teeth while I judged how quickly I could pack his pie-hole with wood putty. </p><p><br />I admit that’s a little not-so-Gandhi and I didn’t really mean it but I hate playing trained seal and I know that keeping the guys comfortable would entail smiling on command, pretending that dirty jokes are hilarious and Harley’s dreamy. I realized that every time I’m anything less than delighted by whatever these guys have to say, they think I’m ‘in a mood’ which might actually happen on a day when I’ve lost the mental game and feel slightly peeved after holding my arms over my head for four straight hours. And so what if sometimes I’m not radiant?</p><p><br />I did finally lose it and demanded a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cone_of_Silence">‘cone of silence’</a> for the rest of the day when a simple conversation about Easter turned into references to stroking oneself complete with, um, sign language for the hearing impaired. It wasn’t the worst thing I had heard but it was the last thing I intended to hear that day. I let my opinion rip – a little spike of Sicilian what-for - and told them that my belief in fairy tales was threatened by all of their knuckle dragging and that if I was going to save myself from a lonely future with nothing but cats thanks to the picture of their gender they had painted for me - thank you very much - I would need some time alone for a little intracranial pep rally. Talk turned to football and golf clubs. </p><p><br />With my work day a little more wholesome, attention could now be paid to nutrition. To celebrate my first paycheck in the more lucrative dollar rather than rupees, I conned my nephew Gunnar into a ride to town for a quick meal after a week of drinking protein powder stirred into coconut milk. This has always been my emergency <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MRE">MRE</a> for several reasons whenever I drop into hostile territory. First, it doesn’t have to be refrigerated since saturated fats are more stable and less prone to rancidity. Second, it’s antimicrobial and keeps my gut churning nicely until I can source clean food. Third, it has thermogenic properties which, especially here, will ratchet up my body temperature to ward of winter at least a little.<br />Most people still shy away from saturated fat even in coconut thanks to the propaganda regarding cholesterol and in spite of access to actual data that says otherwise. The easily searchable editorial by Harvard’s Walter Willet, M.D. in the American Journal of Public Health (1990) as quoted by Weston A. Price Foundation, "the focus of dietary recommendations is usually a reduction of saturated fat intake, no relation between saturated fat intake and risk of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coronary_heart_disease">CHD</a> was observed in the most informative prospective <a href="http://www.westonaprice.org/knowyourfats/coconut_oil.html">study</a> to date." </p><p><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&search-type=ss&index=books&field-author=Mary%20G.%20Enig&page=1">Mary G. Enid, PhD</a> of Westin A. Price is a big fan partly because of the antibacterial properties which she discusses in <a href="http://www.westonaprice.org/knowyourfats/coconut-oil-studies.html">‘Know Your Fats’</a>. Enid writes, “A few researchers have known for some time that a derivative of coconut oil, lauric acid and monolaurin, are safe antimicrobial agents that can either kill completely or stop the growth of some of the most dangerous viruses and bacteria.” Continues Enid, “Monolaurin, in particular, is being shown to be useful in the prevention and treatment of severe bacterial infections, especially those that are difficult to treat or are antibiotic resistant. Difficult bacteria such as Staphylococcus aureus as well as other bacteria have been studied here in the United States in research groups such as Dr. H.G. Preuss’s group at Georgetown University. They found that monolaurin combined with herbal essential oils inhibited pathogenic bacteria both in the petri dish (in vitro) and also in mice (in vivo).4 “ One can only imagine what cargo I snuck past customs in my intestinal track so this isn’t a bad strategy on my part. </p><p><br />According to an unconfirmed source, “In one study, the thermogenic (fat-burning) effect of a high-calorie diet containing 40 percent fat as MCFA [medium chain fatty acids] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medium_chain_fatty_acids#Long_and_short was compared to one containing 40 percent fat as LCFA [long chain fatty acids]. The thermogenic effect http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thermogenic of the MCFA was almost twice as high as the LCFA: 120 calories versus 66 calories. The researchers concluded that the excess energy provided by fats in the form of MCFA would not be efficiently stored as fat, but rather would be burned. A follow-up study demonstrated that MCFA given over a six-day period can increase diet-induced thermogenesis by 50 percent.” This appeared in a website touting the diet benefits of coconut called <a href="http://www.coconut-connections.com/weight_problems.htm">coconut-connections.com</a>. I wouldn’t refer to it unless I could directly attest to the fact that every time I drink a glug of this brew my body heat cranks up a few degrees, a completely necessary tool given I’ve already been wearing four layers of clothes and can still feel a chill. My only concern then is the protein powder because I can’t defend the bioavailability of the whey or be assured of the quality. </p><p>I asked Gunnar where he wanted to go given that he works at the most posh of the local restaurants and one of the few that keeps its doors open past the summer season. “It doesn’t really matter. Wherever you go the food is Sysco,” he said, referring to the Houston-based wholesale food supplier that according to the ‘Every Bite You Take: How Sysco Came To Monopolize Most of what you Eat,’ by Ulrich Boser posted Wednesday, February 21, 2009 for <a href="http://www.slate.com/id/2160284/">Slate</a> services over 400,000 American businesses including every single one of the restaurants in this happy little hamlet. Interestingly, even the folks in the nearby town of <a href="http://www.topix.com/city/freedom-nh">Freedom</a> are eating Sysco food which happens to supply the kitchens at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guantanamo_Bay_Naval_Base">Gitmo</a>. The locals even joked post 9/11 that wiping out the entire community would take merely a spoonful of super-powered <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/">streptococcus</a> Streptococcus in a shipment. </p><p><br />Though that’s the kind of joke shared over a cup of coffee here and then forgotten, it actually was a concern in Washington. “Our highly centralized food economy is a dangerously precarious system, vulnerable to accidental--and deliberate—contamination,” wrote Michael Pollan in <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2006/10/15/magazine/15wwln_lede.html">‘The Vegetable Industrial Complex,’</a> which appeared in the New York Times Magazine on October 15, 2006 approximately a month after nearly 200 Americans in 26 states contracted E. coli from packaged spinach. Continues Pollan, “When Tommy Thompson retired from the Department of Health and Human Services in 2004, he said something chilling at his farewell news conference: "For the life of me, I cannot understand why the terrorists have not attacked our food supply, because it is so easy to do." The reason it is so easy to do was laid out in a 2003 G.A.O. report to Congress on bioterrorism. "The high concentration of our livestock industry and the centralized nature of our food-processing industry" make them "vulnerable to terrorist attack." Today 80 percent of America's beef is slaughtered by four companies, 75 percent of the precut salads are processed by two and 30 percent of the milk by just one company.” </p><p><br />Slate’s article claims that much of Sysco’s produce is locally sourced, the products name-branded and the prepared foods unassuming but there are the exceptions. Take the <a href="http://www.sysco.com/products/productpage_search.asp?productID=329">SmartServe Chicken</a> – Please, and bury it in a leak-proof container away from the aquifer. According to Slate, “While it looks natural, it consists of parts of other chicken breasts mashed together into a single, chicken-breastlike block. As the company notes on its Web site, our ‘unique 3-D technology gives you the look and texture of a solid muscle chicken breast, at a fraction of the cost.’“ I reserve all my sculpted so-called-food consumption to buttercream roses shamelessly swiped off cake like a toad snatching insects. Beyond that, I prefer consumables whose descriptions appear in seed catalogs not periodic tables – protein powder momentarily aside.</p><p><br />For the most part, or parts, Sysco’s website made very little reference to actual edibles at all. I had hoped to find some information about their suppliers and how they source their food and when I looked at their <a href="http://www.sysco.com/supplier/supplier_compliance.html">‘Supplier Compliance Guide’</a> assuming that it would give me a little insight on how they choose suppliers or how their suppliers, well, comply, I found this, “Sysco's Supply Chain Operations / Supplier Compliance (SCOPS) team is the central liaison between the Redistribution Center (RDC) network and the supplier community. SCOPS' role is to successfully transition suppliers into the RDC network and to monitor and report operational issues. Our goal is to promote positive and open relationships with RDC suppliers while sustaining operational requirements that result in shared cost reductions.” Wha? </p><p><br />This is not at all like the wholesale market in Paris, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/March%C3%A9_d">Marché d'Intérêt National de Rungis,</a> which you might argue is Europe’s self-serve Sysco, covering 573 acres and feeds one-fifth of the French population stocking primarily livestock and the veggies in which you might make, say, soup stock. Roaming the stalls allows the chef to put a face on purveyors of the foods that often sport faces of their own. Barbaric as it would seem to American shoppers, the French prefer to buy their bunnies whole, unskinned and identifiable in a line-up so that they know what hops onto the menu is exactly that and not feral cats which make a less tasty <a href="http://www.globalgourmet.com/food/cookbook/2007/country-cooking-france/roast-rabbit.html">Lapin Rôti à la Moutarde</a>. Americans buy and believe in brands which is how we’ve been brainwashed to think thanks to our commerce driven system. This allows the squeamish to shop in a more sterile environment but leaves us evaluating brilliant marketing campaigns while the French are evaluating food. Slogans to ape and jingles to sing are far less nourishing.<br /><br />In <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/28/magazine/28nutritionism.t.html">‘Unhappy Meals’</a> published in the New York Times Magazine January 28, 2007, Michael Pollan argues that the ideology of ‘Nutritionism’ – which has scientists splintering food into nutrients and then making unfounded assumptions without considering the possibility that whole foods are greater than the sum of their known nutrients – traditional wisdom is overlooked. “The sheer novelty and glamour of the Western diet, with its 17,000 new food products introduced every year, and the marketing muscle used to sell these products, has overwhelmed the force of tradition and left us where we now find ourselves: relying on science and journalism and marketing to help us decide questions about what to eat. Nutritionism, which arose to help us better deal with the problems of the Western diet, has largely been co-opted by it, used by the industry to sell more food and to undermine the authority of traditional ways of eating.”<br /><br />In contrast, Kathleen Flinn writes in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sharper-Your-Knife-Less-You/dp/0143114131/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1238257919&sr=8-1">‘The Sharper Your Knife, The Less You Cry: Love, Laughter and Tears in Paris at the World’s Most Famous Cooking School’</a> about her time perusing Rungis with Chef Alexander Colville and says, “He gives us a lesson on quizzing stall managers. Vital questions include: Where did it come from? What did it eat? What does the seller know about the people who raised it? How long has it been hung to dry or waiting to be purchased? A good chef is not shy about asking such questions.” [pg 57] These are the same questions I asked in <a href="http://www.fremontmarket.com/ballard/">Ballard’s Farmer’s Market in Seattle</a>, the same questions I would ask in India if I spoke any of the languages and the same questions I’d ask here if Sysco, an acronym for Systems and Services Company which sounds even less like it’s about the food, could answer questions on it’s website with text explaining things more clearly than:<br />“Sysco’s suppliers are an integral part of our business. We value our supplier relationships because we know that strong partnerships lead to growth and success – for our suppliers, our customers, our shareholders and our Sysco associates.” Right. Can I get organic fries with that?<br />Post World War II, America tried to foist its faceless system on the French in the name of the almighty Franc. Most of our initiatives were part of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marshall_Plan">Marshall Plan</a> designed to rebuild France and turn the country away from communism. Julia Child explained this with the help of Alex Prud’homme in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Life-France-Julia-Child/dp/0307277690/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1238258020&sr=1-1">‘My Life in France,’</a> “When American experts began making helpful suggestions about how the French could ‘increase productivity and profits’ the average Frenchman would shrug as if to say: “These notions of yours are all very fascinating, no doubt, but we have a nice little business here just as it is. Everybody makes a decent living. Nobody has ulcers. I have time to work on my monograph about Balzac, and my foreman enjoys his espaliered pear trees. I think, as a matter of fact, we do not wish to make these changes that you suggest.” [Pg 102] Child’s husband was assigned to the American Embassy in France and was responsible for bringing exhibits to Paris that would essentially sell capitalism rather than communism to the French. </p><p><br />Again, Pollan writes in ‘Unhappy Meals,’ “If there is one word that covers nearly all the changes industrialization has made to the food chain, it would be simplification. Chemical fertilizers simplify the chemistry of the soil, which in turn appears to simplify the chemistry of the food grown in that soil. Since the widespread adoption of synthetic nitrogen fertilizers in the 1950s, the nutritional quality of produce in America has, according to U.S.D.A. figures, declined significantly. Some researchers blame the quality of the soil for the decline; others cite the tendency of modern plant breeding to select for industrial qualities like yield rather than nutritional quality. Whichever it is, the trend toward simplification of our food continues on up the chain. Processing foods depletes them of many nutrients, a few of which are then added back in through ''fortification'': folic acid in refined flour, vitamins and minerals in breakfast cereal. But food scientists can add back only the nutrients food scientists recognize as important. What are they overlooking?” </p><p><br />According to Child and most folks who enjoy a good meal, the one thing that was clearly overlooked was flavor. “The American poultry industry had made it possible to grow a fine looking fryer in record time and sell it at a reasonable price, but no one mentioned that the result usually tasted like the stuffing inside a teddy bear.” [Pg 213] Child, who was never much concerned with the nutritional density of the meals she served and preferred her chicken to taste ‘Chickeny’, knew that there was something amiss with our birds. When quality flew out the window so did the taste. But it’s cheap. </p><p><br />“The American food system has for a century devoted its energies and policies to increasing quantity and reducing price, not to improving quality. There's no escaping the fact that better food -- measured by taste or nutritional quality (which often correspond) – costs more, because it has been grown or raised less intensively and with more care. Not everyone can afford to eat well in America, which is shameful, but most of us can: Americans spend, on average, less than 10 percent of their income on food, down from 24 percent in 1947, and less than the citizens of any other nation,” wrote Pollan in ‘Unhappy Meals.’ For Americans in the end, all that money get’s paid back with interest in healthcare, vitamin supplements, gym memberships and lost wages due to our decrepitude. </p><p><br />In a small town in rural America, especially one with a limited growing season, sadly sourcing food begins at Wal-Mart which is not within walking distance for me and has no organic selection and no local suppliers which were not surprising given Wal-Mart’s singular focus on price slashing. Here, there are two supermarkets in town that are forgotten affiliates of giant chain stores though they look like renegade outposts that bootlegged the sign unless I’ve taken too many cart spins around boutique shops and <a href="http://www.wholefoodsmarket.com/">Whole Foods</a> –the Prada of Produce.<br />If I was planning to eat local and seasonal, William Bradford’s account in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Of_Plymouth_Plantation">‘History of the Plantation of Plymouth’</a> in 1620 recorded the suffering and starvation which left only 53 of 102 people alive a year later to celebrate the first <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plymouth_Colony">Thanksgiving</a>. That number included only four adult women. Essentially, eating local and seasonal in New England means not eating until July. That rivals Wal-Mart in cost savings and may be slightly healthier than eating Wal-Mart’s meat. I’ve managed to befriend a man with two English degrees that works in the meat department of IGA – let that be a lesson to you – and have hopes of turning him into my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Squanto">Squanto</a> without the part about ostracizing him from his people in the end. All the ladies at the check-out tease him already so that may be an unavoidable consequence. </p><p><br />Of course I can buy my meats online and suck it up with Mexican produce for awhile but the trick is to find real local food that I’m sure is produced by the local farms after the snow melts. I may have to shift my hangout from the Bookstore to where ever it is the local farmers hang out. With any luck its got internet access, cell phone coverage, hot coffee, a reliable heating system and, well, books.</p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-37477994301760453352009-03-06T08:30:00.000-08:002011-12-27T13:23:54.149-08:00Basa was right<p>I collected my bags at SeaTac airport knowing that I should have been doing this very thing at an airport I flew over roughly six hours ago. There was no real reason for me to be in Seattle again. Instead there was a list of reasons to which girlfriends would have nodded in agreement while politely keeping their opinions to themselves. Being in this city was like sex with an ex – comfortable, reliable, familiar – that would leave me asking ‘why couldn’t we make this work?’ in spite of myself and as if I’d actually forgotten the answer. It was a silly indulgence hidden behind my ‘non-refundable’ return flight from Bangalore, a debit card unusable online thanks to one last indulgent cup of coffee in Heathrow Airport deemed ‘Suspicious Activity’ by my bank, and some fuzzy math that explained how a one way ticket from Washington to Boston and the transfer fee to change my destination were roughly equivalent. </p><p><br />I enjoyed twenty-one hours of flying, six attempts to poison me with in-flight food worthy of assault charges, five mind-numbing movies and a foot-dragging meander through Heathrow in which I tried unsuccessfully to miss my connection so I could visits friends in London. Some Brit, aligned with my secret agenda, tried hard to accommodate by pulling an emergency brake in the train that shuttled between terminals. This felled most of the occupants and forced us to exit on the wrong platform. The orderly, queue-loving Brits cordoned us neatly and then spent the next thirty minutes plotting exit strategies only to shuttle us through one of the three exit doors directly in front of us that opened directly to the platform on the other side of the train. We were eyed keenly and with suspicion as we walked through one at a time leaving a distance appropriate for queens of England following their kings while dreams of my first legitimate cup of coffee in six months poured away with each wasted minute. I readied for my just-to-say-I-tried sprint to the gate pausing only for a pageant-wave to my hijackers and a tightening of the straps to my backpack.</p><p><br />Those of us fresh from India, and I use the word ‘fresh’ loosely, joked that this would never have worked at the Bangalore Airport as Indian Aunties would have wandered off in every direction from the onset disregarding shouts and even gun-waving thanks to Gandhi and the residue of civil disobedience combined with their plain obstinacy and hearing loss. Regardless of minor mishaps and my best efforts the Brits did what the Brits do and efficiently moved me along until I found myself breathing the brisk but clear Seattle air with a ton of luggage on my back, a fist full of rupees in my pocket and a useless mobile phone that could help me secure a ride only if I elected to throw it at a cab windshield to get the driver’s attention. Even weighted down like a Sherpa, I was unflummoxed.</p><p><br />In India, something breaks. Had I allowed myself to get stressed by anything, I would have been stressed by everything. My time there became a sort of ‘coping camp’ so my current predicament left me unmoved. Twenty hours or more pressed against the rest of humanity was the norm in India so the flight had as little impact on me as finding myself in the middle of a city with a currency worth its weight in embossed stationary and no transportation other than the fervent hope that meditation would allow me to transcend matter. My well travelled friends with restricted passports had certainly landed themselves in more unforgiving circumstances especially <a href="http://twaha.blogspot.com/">Taha</a> who recently found himself with a guarded escort and an order to get the hell out of Taiwan in less than twenty-four hours after global cris-crossing and a nap in a closed, unheated airport with any hopes of comfort heading to Bali in his luggage while he waited for a flight to Nairobi. For me, there was no imminent danger or threat of imprisonment but what was remarkable was my sense of complete contentment. I simply asked a businessman from L.A. if I could borrow his cell phone and then settled down with a book to wait for my friend Reza in the brisk winter breeze outside of Baggage Claim that, after the olfactory overload of India, refreshingly smelled like nothing but cold air.</p><p><br />All of it seemed perfectly reasonable when hours later I slid through the automatic check-out with a jar of organic almond butter at an upscale market with wide, serine isles in an equally upscale neighborhood with wide, serine streets and typed Microsoft’s main line as the ‘Preferred Customer’ card number to find that some things never change. Thanks to a group of brave freedom fighters willing to rack up a Preferred Savings tally in the name of another rather than be tracked and categorized for marketing purposes, the preferred savings which is usually nickels and dimes at a time, had already reached nearly $2,000 not six weeks into the new year thanks to all those fraudulently using the number in order to hide from ‘The Man’. How could I not come back? I was a vital part of ‘The Resistance’ and sometimes that demands some personal sacrifice. And I saved 42 cents.</p><p><br />My arrival in the United States was, for the most part pointless, other than a VISA which said In Hindi essentially, ‘You Don’t Have To Go Home, But You Can’t Stay Here,” to quote Gretchen Wilson and I’m sure once translated, I’d find that the government of India had indeed quoted the country singer in an effort to give a little western-style pizzazz to paperwork. I had already decided to make the best of my return by embarking on a composting project in Vermont with my family while I figure out how to parlay all the fame and fortune of a Karnataka State Weightlifting Gold Medal into a lucrative product endorsement. Since the ‘Wheaties’ people haven’t called, it probably means returning to India where I’d built a rather cozy life for myself – if by cozy I mean dirty, dangerous and bacteria-infested – but with a certain amount of clout and respectability.</p><p><br />From the onset, my trip to India was never intended to be one of those journeys of personal discovery about which I would scrawl a 200+ page neurotic ramble of a memoir that gets lodged inexplicably on the best-seller list like a cherry pit choked on, plucked presumably from the bowl of cherries that is life. Unless of course, this manifesto already has that kind of vibe. It was never about where I ended up so much as how I got there and how I would handle it once I landed. Though finding myself in India and then writing about it would’ve been fabulously uplifting for my so-called career, I suspect in my case that process would be like locating lost keys right where I left them. I’m not sure that’s best-seller compelling. And, alas, I had been warned: There would be no leaving baggage at the airport unattended. </p><p><br />In <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Girl-Foreign-Shipwrecked-Ancestors-Forgotten/dp/159420151X/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1234818700&sr=8-1">‘A Girl from Foreign,’</a> Sadia Shepard returned to the U.S. for a visit to find that ten months in India’s toxic air had blessed her with the lungs of a pack a day smoker according to her doctor. Taking into account the assault on the respiratory system as well as all the other exotic ways to die both quickly and slowly in India, it seems a silly place for someone like me whose preoccupation with wellness borders on persnickety. In fact, being persnickety about anything in India is a Western indulgence that I abandoned immediately along with western hair products and walking shoes. In India, one adjusts. </p><p><br />In fact, letting go of all my structures and beliefs was part of the appeal to begin with since most countries manage to have better overall health than Americans even with limited access to healthcare, no nutritional supplementation and an arguably unbalanced diet. Meanwhile I had built up a complex schedule full of work-outs, supplementation and meticulously-sourced, often-artisan foods that didn’t necessarily leave me any healthier. It did leave me with what could amount to my entire retirement account passing through my digestive system on it’s irretrievable way through the Seattle sewer system. Was there something other cultures added or something they had failed to add to their lifestyle that helped them live longer by what would appear to be accident? Is this a <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/gestalt">Gestalt</a> phenomenon where all of our examination of minutiae is leading us farther away from any real answers? </p><p><br />Paying strict attention to parts of my lifestyle while ignoring other parts doesn’t make me a little less dead on the day when lack of sleep finally kills me. It would take distancing myself to come to conclusion and even then my ‘results’ would still be nothing more than speculation and maybe only applicable to me. It would be fun, though.</p><p><br />After six months, my laundry said it all. It was misshapen and worn after being hand-washed in cold tap water from the kitchen sink, scrubbed with what I assume were harsh and corrosive ingredients in the local bar laundry soap, twisted into tight balls to squeeze out water and hung out to dry in pollution so severe that it turned everything once white into a mottled steely grey. It aged my clothes as quickly as it aged me. My ragged t-shirts became an appropriate metaphor for the wear I was feeling. I was dirty, I was short of breath, I drank the tap water. I was, however, well-rested which is the kind of supreme joke you can usually only laugh at when it’s aimed at someone else.</p><p><br />In the end, I hadn’t found nutritional enlightenment to go along with my nightly eight hours of sleep. What I found for the most part were a people hurrying unquestioningly in our American footsteps all the way to the grave. There was an eagerness to westernize even if the results were bleak. Apparently, even dying young and fat is all the rage. Beneath that surface, there were things that I found there that, for me, would have only been found in India. For starters, it was meditation that gave me access to a new idea, a book that explained things to my non-believing, research hungry brain, and the snatch that connected the two. </p><p><br />I began to meditate regularly not because I was in India and that’s what you do when you’re a tourist and you’re not on Commercial Street paying too much for bangles to look like Madonna in the 80s but because the sensory overload of smells, sights and general chaos made at least thirty minutes a day of sensory deprivation not only a necessity but a relief. It reminded me of my early experiments with alcohol when somebody told me I could get rid of room spins by keeping one foot hanging over the bed touching the floor and I believed it eagerly because I wanted there to be an answer other than the more obvious stop drinking sooner, a solution I had already overlooked several drinks earlier. </p><p><br />As I calmly sat breathing, I boiled down the distractions of Bangalore’s sights, smells and sounds leaving nothing but a spicy broth in my head peppered with the occasional fleeting thought which, as it turned out, usually centered around the snatch, a movement I couldn’t quite master in spite of the many hours of practice and the looming state championship. I couldn’t help but think that regardless of how much work I put into it, that catching a significant percentage of my bodyweight over my head in that perfect space teetering between falling in front and falling behind was any feat other than luck. As a result, progress had become that: mostly luck.<br /></p><p>I then overhauled my thinking and decided that I, like many people before and after me, could find the sweet spot but only if I would stop messing up my pretty solid understanding of the movement by thinking so damn hard about it. And I did – in time to win gold. This took me all the way back to one of my first coaches, Jim Martin, when I was 14 years old and learning to golf. After months of practicing swing mechanics, Jim lined up a bunch of balls and gave me three seconds to hit each one leaving me no time to brood about it. After countless repetitions, the body knos what to do instinctively while the brain worries, gets underfoot, creates unnecessary tension and gossips about you later. <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087538/">Wax on, wax off</a>, Heather-son. </p><p><br />Elizabeth Lloyd Mayer, Ph.D. would describe this in a little all-you-can-eat buffet of ‘In the zone’ quotes in which athletes described moments of mastery in her book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Extraordinary-Knowing-Science-Skepticism-Inexplicable/dp/0553382233/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1236357979&sr=8-1">“Extraordinary Knowing – Science, Skepticism, and the Inexplicable Powers of the Human Mind”</a> published by Bantum Dell, 2007: </p><p><br />“I read what Michael Jordan said about his mind-defying dunks: “I never practice those moves. I don’t know how to do them . . . . I’m taking off, like somebody put wings on me.” Here’s Catfish Hunter after he pitched his perfect game against the Minnesota Twins in 1968: “I wasn’t worried about a perfect game going into the ninth. It was like a dream. I was going on like I was in a daze. I never thought about it that whole time. If I’d thought about it, I wouldn’t have thrown a perfect game – I know I wouldn’t.” Pele, describing his 1958 World Cup soccer game: “[I] played that whole game in a kind of trance, as if the future was unfolding before [my] own disinterested eyes.” And British golfer Tony Jacklin: “I’m absolutely engaged, involved in what I’m doing . . . . That’s the difficult state to arrive at. It comes and it goes and the pure fact that you go out on the first tee of a tournament and say, ‘I must concentrate today,’ is no good. It won’t work.” The German philosopher Eguen Herrigel talked this way about learning Zen archery: “The shot will only go smoothly when it takes the archer himself by surprise . . . . You mustn’t open the right hand on purpose.” </p><p><br />There’s clearly a point in which thinking is a necessary part of training and, in the case of Zen archery or anything else sharp and lethal, life-preserving. My mother’s advice was also life-preserving for a time until much of it turned less-insightfully towards the many reasons to travel to New Hampshire and how best to begin a life of baby-making. It was at a point in my life when I began to disregard every third thing she said. When most of the movement in a snatch, or any other complicated skill, becomes instinct the time comes when every third thing the mind thinks should also be disregarded. Since the brain’s primary job is to keep you out of harm’s way, if given a voice during the snatch, it’s primary piece of advice would probably be, “Duck!” Not at all helpful.</p><p><br />Even if the brain could move at the speed of snatch, it doesn’t, which means that most of its useful advice comes too late and is as welcome as driving directions barked from the backseat. Think of it as touch-typing when fingers translate words into a key combination while never registering the individual letters. When I come across an unfamiliar word that I have to spell, my fingers slow to hunt-and-peck speed. I experienced this in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu as well. My defense was automatic and I only regarded it after execution as if I was color-commentating the actions of another. This literally took years of training until blocking a choke was typing ‘The’ and not ‘T-H-E’. </p><p><br />Jiichi Watanabe and Lindy Avakian, in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Judo-Text-Instructors-Students/dp/080481631X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1236358061&sr=1-1">The Secrets of Judo</a>: “You and your opponent will no longer be two bodies separated physically from each other but a single entity, physically, mentally, and spiritually inseparable.” That level of connectivity might be one belt away from my purple, but I know that when I grappled, I was reacting to what I knew was coming without knowing what had me know. It’s when I got entangled thinking about my offense that I generally missed something vital and found myself tapping out. The development of an offense usually comes only after the defense starts to happen automatically. It seems that most mastery is preparing me for a state of non-thinking, a state I achieved in high school without any of the preparatory thinking part with a reliable result that looked a lot more like stupidity.<br /></p><p>Knowing that the thinking sometimes pushes me farther away from the experience of the snatch had me approaching the bar with less internal ruckus allowing me to ‘feel’ the movement rather than talk to myself about it. Once I’d created adequate acceleration and a reasonable trajectory, my job was simple: Get under the bar and stay there without messing it up and let the bar do what the bar does. Any idea I had about how that was going would only pop in my head after the fact and would depend on whether or not the bar was still balanced overhead when everything stopped moving. As Mundane as learning to trust the nature of gravity as a universal law can be a big step for someone like me who tends to make things complicated in my head. Realizing that my endless analysis was often pointless gossip about something that happened three seconds ago was a huge breakthrough for me. “An object in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted upon by another force,” so said <a href="http://www.glenbrook.k12.il.us/GBSSCI/PHYS/CLASS/newtlaws/u2l1a.html">Sir Isaac</a>. From then on, my job in the gym and in other areas of my life would be to stop being that other force standing in the way of my goal. </p><p><br />Not only did meditation give me a place and a time in which I sometimes visualized the perfect execution of the snatch it also gave me the mental practice of not thinking which my goal was during meditation at other times. In studies examining the brain with Single Photon Emission Computed Tomography (SPECT) during states of deep meditation and prayer, radiologist Andrew Newberg and his colleague Eugene D’Aquili doing research at the University of Pennsylvania found that blood flow to the posterior superior parietal lobe of the brain decreased. They published their findings in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Why-God-Wont-Go-Away/dp/034544034X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1236358195&sr=1-1">‘Why God Won’t Go Away, Brain Science and the Biology of Belief.’</a> This has interesting implications as explained by Lloyd Mayer in ‘Knowing’.</p><p><br />“Those bundles of neurons located in the posterior superior parietal lobe, the region of the brain that’s critical to orienting us in the physical world. This part of the brain normally feeds us ongoing signals regarding the physical limits of our individual selves in relation to everything else, helping us separate “us” from “not us” with messages such as “I’m here, not there,” “I’m next to my bed, not on it,” or “I’m in my body, not hers.” During the subjects’ moments of deepest meditation and prayer, what stopped firing were all the signals that tell us where to locate the boundaries that separate us from everything that isn’t us.”[pg 65] Lloyd Mayer continues, “On a purely neurobiological basis, the SPECT scans led to a fascinating speculation. They suggested that anybody whose posterior superior parietal lobe quieted down would experience the same subjective sensation. They wouldn’t feel separate and boundaried from the rest of the world in all the ways we consider normal. Instead, they would probably experience a subjective sense of oneness or connectedness with everything around them.” [Pg 66]</p><p><br />“Newburg and D’Aquili’s experiment suggests there may be a neurobiological basis for achieving that art of union with reality, not by achieving access to new sources of sensory information but rather by learning how to tune down the flow of incoming sensory information that constitutes our daily and habitual diet. And that is absolutely consistent with what meditators and mystics have told us over centuries about how they gain access to the states they engage.” [Pg 66] </p><p><br />Leave it to me to twist mysticism not for perpetuating serenity and peace but to make me better, faster, stronger at throwing shit and kicking ass. I’m not convinced that Stacey, my yogi sister who spreads harmony and deep inner peace, will fully appreciate my interpretation. We may be in for a comic book style duel of superpowers like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wonder_Twins">Wonder Twins</a> in a cat fight. “Wonder Twin powers Activate!” “Form of 65 Kilos,” “Shape of Downward Dog!” (Yes, Stace, I specifically wrote this for the Wonder Twins reference so I could giggle to myself over my Americano. Fellow patrons of Starbucks think I’m the weird ‘laugh at herself lady’ in the corner and they’ve suddenly elected to move to ‘more comfortable’ tables farther away)<br /></p><p>And I can’t believe I’m going to say this having just returned from India using words that will sound so frickin’ Om it forces me to make fun of myself, wouldn’t becoming ‘one’ with the bar come in mighty handy? Wouldn’t sparring with that kind of mental edge be scary cool? Paul Tholey explores this as he argues for the benefits of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucid_dream">Lucid Dreaming</a>, which is a state in which a person who is dreaming can manipulate the dream, based on the Gestalt theory which, as he explains “conceives of the complex sensory-motor feedback system of the human physical organism as a servo-mechanism which serves the finely-tuned, energy-saving control of the organism.” Ok, I didn’t entirely get that the first time I read it and I’m not sure that I’ve even got it now but it gets more, um, lucid.</p><p><br />One of his arguments for lucid dreaming is the ability to incorporate the environment in the equation, “In the course of sensory-motor learning, separate parts of the phenomenal field can grow together with an increasing degree of unity. In this way, the skier "grows together" with his skis, or the tennis player with his racket. The sports equipment acts like an extension of the sensory-motor organs in the practiced athlete. The skier feels the snow and the terrain with his/her skis and willfully and deliberately moves the skis rather than his/her body,” writes Paul Tholey of Johann Wolfgang Goethe Universität, Germany in ‘<a href="http://sawka.com/spiritwatch/applications_of_lucid_dreaming_i.htm">Application of Lucid Dreaming in Sports.’</a> Part of balancing the bar overhead in a snatch requires an intuitive feel of the bar that goes beyond up/down, left/right positioning. Feeling the bar as an extension of yourself gives you that special GPS of neurology.</p><p><br />“Visualization better work otherwise my whole life has been a hell of a coincidence,” <a href="http://www.mabjj.com/affiliates.htm">Ben Blackstone</a> said over a warm cup of coffee as we pondered my TiVo’d Brazilian Jiu Jitu training. Blackstone was my Muay Thai and Jiu Jitsu coach in Seattle, and I had explained to him how in India, once I was getting enough sleep, my mind began to play stored images of chokes and sweeps that I had struggled with in class but that I suddenly understood in an instant as I walked through the crowded streets of Bangalore. I explained that though there was no place to practice in the city, I had continued to play back images in my mind and felt like I could probably execute the movements that had once had me stuck. He, of course, had talked to me about this practice before but I had never creating a discipline around it. In Jiu Jitsu, it’s seldom a formal part of the class but it’s a vital component in other martial arts and certainly of grapplers who like, say, winning.</p><p><br />In a piece for humankinetics.com called <a href="http://www.humankinetics.com/products/showexcerpt.cfm?excerpt_id=3278">‘Shingan: The Mind’s Eye'</a> the practice of Katas in which one moves through the steps with an imaginary is explained. “The mind does not distinguish between a well-visualized Kata and an actual fight. The Kempo practitioner thus gains real self-defense experience without having to fight or harm a human being. Keep in mind that the Shaolin monks and the famous ancient Okinawan fighters developed their great fighting skill through Kata. Neither of these groups of warriors believed in mock competitive fighting. They practiced only Kata.” But then of course, I’ve never been able to get the measure of a Shoalin Monk since I’ve never seen one go toe to toe with <a href="http://a.espncdn.com/photo/2008/0419/mma_stpierre_serra2_580.jpg">Georges St. Pierre</a> in a UFC title bid. I’m willing to take somebody’s word on it though and of course Google sources are never inaccurate.<br />Again Tholey explains this further in his paper on Lucid Dreaming: </p><p><br /><em>“To illustrate this point I will first present the case of a competitor in the martial arts (Tholey & Utecht, 1987, p. 208). For years this man had studied the so-called "hard systems" (karate, tae kwon do, and jujitsu). Then he decided to learn the "soft" system of aikido. Over a period of two years, however, he failed to succeed in this because the previously learned movements stubbornly refused to be superseded. He considers the following to be the key experience that put him on the right path: </em></p><em><p><br />On this particular evening, after still not succeeding in wearing down my attacker and taking him to the mat, I went to bed somewhat disheartened. While falling asleep the situation ran through my mind time and again. While defending myself, the correct balancing movement collided with my inner impulse to execute a hard defensive block, so that I repeatedly ended up unprotected and standing there like a question mark . . . a ridiculous and unworthy situation for the wearer of a black belt. During a dream that night, I fell down hard one time instead of rolling away. That day I had made up my mind to ask myself the critical question in this situation: "Am I awake or am I dreaming?" I was immediately lucid. Without thinking very long about it, I immediately went to my Dojo, where I began an unsupervised training session on defense techniques with my dream partner. Time and time again I went through the exercise in a loose and effort-less way. It went better every time. </p><p><br />The next evening I went to bed full of expectations. I again achieved a lucid state and practiced aikido further. That’s the way it went the whole week until the formal training period started again. . . . I amazed my instructor with an almost perfect defense. Even though we speeded up the tempo [of our interchanges], I didn’t make any serious mistakes. From then on I learned quickly and received my own training license in one year.”</em><br /></p><p>If this can be done with aikido, it can be done to override the tendency to bend my arms early in the snatch which developed as first a bad habit since I tended to be upper-body dominant thanks to the unpredictable back pain that I dealt with for years and second a faulty set-up. <a href="http://www.cathletics.com/pm/index.php">Performance Menu</a> handles this in Issue 50 of their publication that came out this month and I was thrilled to read it but in a ‘now you tell me’ sort of way after struggling through the complete redesign of my poorly constructed starting position during my first two months in India. Performance Menu’s take on it was genius but certainly hard to sum up here other than to say a deadlift set-up never works for a number of reasons.</p><p><br />Initially I wanted to fight the point with my Indian coaches only to be proven wrong it seems. The set-up I was using had my hips too high and my shins perpendicular to the floor. This works well in powerlifting as the starting point for the deadlift but it almost always resulted in an early bend of the arms and a lack of explosive power out of the squat since my weight seemed to shift too heavily to my toes and didn’t seem to inspire much acceleration. Even when I set up correctly following the advice of my coach Sharada who I should have listened to right from the start and without question given the number of medals she’s one, I tended to shoot my hips up into the familiar position before the bar left the ground. This was one of the things my brain gossiped about three seconds after execution and that I was beginning to think would be fixed by nothing short of a lobotomy. One thorough session with a knitting needle would’ve stirred that idea right out of my head along with a lot of actually good ideas that I might later mourn the loss of.</p><p><br />One last point to ponder in the magical word of unthinking, is from studies done by Dean Radin, Ph.D., author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Conscious-Universe-Scientific-Psychic-Phenomena/dp/0062515020/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1236357748&sr=8-1">‘The Conscious Universe: The Scientific Truth of Psychic Phenomena’</a> working with Marilyn Schlitz at California’s Institute of Noetic Sciences on ordinary folks like ourselves with an afternoon to kill looking at randomly generated photographs which actually might not make them like ourselves at all, “What I’ve observed in these experiments, conducted with a total of 131 participants so far, is that on average people sweat slightly more (that is, their autonomic nervous system becomes activated) before they see emotional photos than before they see calm photos. The observed overall difference in autonomic arousal is associated with a probability of p = 0.00003, so there is good reason to believe that this result is not due to chance. My colleagues and I have considered numerous conventional explanations for this effect, including sensory cues, inferences, nonrandom target selection, and physiological anticipatory effects, but none have been found to be adequate. It appears that our nervous systems can indeed perceive about five seconds into the future,” [Pg 228] as explained in ‘Knowing.’</p><p><br />The results were similar using ‘startle stimuli’, a blast of loud noise using a true random-number generator circuit not a computer algorithm, in a study done by Edwin May, Ph.D. in a collaborative effort with Hungarian physicist Zoltan Vassy. “In a paper published I 2003, the researchers reported that participants displayed more agitation – i.e. they sweated more – three seconds before they heard loud blasts of sound as opposed to silence during control periods, the probability statistics were impressive, with odds that the association was due to chance of less than 5.5 million to 1.” </p><p><br />This might be one of the only ways to understand the instinct that develops in Jiu Jitsu once a student passes the point of panic and starts to relax. Since I can’t necessarily go back in time and erase instinct only to see if I could get through the initial panic phase of Jiu Jitsu faster knowing that calming my mind would give me access to instinct, I’m not sure this helps. I do know that it will continue to be a reminder to me whenever I’m sparring to get out of my head more. And of course this always leads to the question I find myself asking at the end of some new piece of research, ‘is any of this even true?’ Everything I’ve read passes the ‘do no harm’ test even if the results are hard to measure and though I know it was part of my training in India, I don’t know if it was the part that made a difference. </p><p><br />At this point, I can’t help but think of my nephew Dustin’s superstition that washing hockey equipment ruins the season. It means if he can make it to the championship game, his gym bag has a radioactive miasma that could bust a Geiger gauge. Stale sweat smells bad but puberty adds a rare nose rich in hormonal funk that has me recoil even after being hardened by the routine olfactory abuses in the streets of Bangalore. As an observer, I can’t help but wonder if it has less to do with mind’s impact over matter and more to do with his personal impact on gag reflex. Perhaps it’s ability to impact the game’s outcome will one day be put to the test by the same scientists who were able to document the proof of beer goggles and it will likely be discussed by me at length at a party thrown by hosts who will never invite me back.</p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-50435148966061054782009-01-17T05:28:00.000-08:002011-12-27T13:23:54.215-08:00Medal<div>The designer of Kanteerava, inspired by <a href="http://www.lego.com/en-US/default.aspx">Legos</a> as a child, limited his expression to boxy crenellations and bland geometry. The structures current crumbling decay makes it appear as if it was a particle board spec of the Roman Coliseum constructed during the bidding process before the designer was passed over for what would later be referred to as the ‘Baby Blue Fiasco’ since the only thing extraordinary about it was the color that stimulated the cornea while dampening the testosterone levels of all who entered. It probably resulted in all the misspent public funding and all the political acrimony usually only enjoyed by light rail projects.<br /><br />The athletes that spill from the hostel onto the fields and courts encircling the grounds are not so much sinewy gladiators but instead sport the kind of gristle built of <a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/134/343298723_188229c204.jpg">roti</a>, <a href="http://www.sailusfood.com/wp-content/uploads/idli.jpg">idlis</a>, and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56UFhVUEbhM">dosas</a> in tiny, unsatisfying portions which are common meals and nothing more than flour and water in differing densities used to sop up masalas and curries made with vegetables so thoroughly boiled down that it would take a forensics team to identify the recipe. The stuff is tasty as heck once generously spiced, but still it’s all flavor and fill with no real fuel. The liberal addition of chilies is meant to shift attention from bellies burning with hunger to tongues burning with capsicum. It’s why I fear the stray dogs that hunt the grounds since I’m the most substantial prey to the roaming and the rabid and I expect that beyond my meaty frame, they can sense with the honed instincts of the under-nourished that my 400m run times are weak and easily chased down.<br /><br />I walked towards the back gate of the stadium grounds on my way home from yet another weightlifting practice swinging the key to my apartment which requires no key chain since its so large I feel as if I’ve been granted an honorary key to a small village or perhaps my lock had been salvaged from a catacomb door behind which a <a href="http://poestories.com/read/amontillado">cask of Amontillado</a> was stored. My neighborhood is a crowded disorderly row of apartment buildings bound together with laundry strung like prayer flags. Encroaching the street are buildings with the pastel palate and the slender proportions of runway models enticing socialites with the have-to-have spring collection and scooters parked haphazardly at doorsteps like show props, it reminded me a little of Venice if Venice were overcome by the kind of disinterest in upkeep and accumulation of dust that might plague the city post nuclear fall-out and after the canals inexplicably went dry.<br /><br />‘Do Not Commit Nuisance Here,’ is posted every five feet in a jaunty little cursive along a wall that is hosed down almost continually by a stream of urine from the auto drivers who eat at a Veg stall right outside the gate I was exiting. On my short walk home, I first weave through a flock of drivers who stand about like pigeons pecking <a href="http://www.malasa.com/cookbook/Rice/Vegetablepalav.htm">Palav</a> off metal plates. I sometimes want to toss rocks to see if they’ll squawk and flap or even mix <a href="http://answers.google.com/answers/threadview/id/217385.html">Alka Seltzer</a> in with their idlis to see if their tummies will explode. That’s only on mean days when practice goes badly.<br /><br />Where the sidewalk mercifully widens, I’m confronted with the foulness of the splatter-patterned wall that looks like it was the scene of an attack by <a href="http://www.hasbro.com/supersoaker/default.cfm?page=browse">Super Soakers</a>. Urine runs to the street in eight ounce streams. I tiptoe so that the puddles don’t soak my gel padded Addidas flip flops that have proven to be an unfortunate choice for India. Given that <a href="http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/2700/can-urinating-on-your-feet-in-the-shower-cure-athletes-foot">urine is rumored to be a spectacular cure for Athletes foot</a>, my sandals are constantly on the brink of becoming nothing more than a medicinal applicator pad for a fungus I don’t even have.<br /><br />I was even treated to full frontal nudity as a man squatted facing the street with his pants circling his ankles. He was defecating while waddling slowly forward to leave a broken dot/dash pattern on the sidewalk which I could only assume said something like ‘can you please spare some toilet paper?’ in Morse code. Apparently relieving oneself in public does not fall under the umbrella of ‘nuisance’ in India which I think needs to be defined more clearly.<br /><br />“’YESH!’” Ganesh repeated for the fourth time only louder and more clearly enunciated, “WRITE IT!” My pen was left circling over paper without clearance to land as I was uncertain how exactly to represent ‘yesh’ on paper. I assumed it was a symbol similar to ‘the artist formerly known as Prince.’ “BUT IT’S NOT A LETTER IN THE ALPHABET!” I repeated between giggles at about the same volume and clarity. We had only tackled the first letter of ‘Sampangi Rama Nagar’, which is the name of my neighborhood, and already there were problems. My official address actually includes the words ‘Across from Kanteerava Stadium’ which has a friendly sort of chatty element to it like it should also naturally include a greeting to my postman and the common inquiry ‘have you had your breakfast?’ It lacks the sort of precision required for a 911 dispatch which in other countries is a reasonable goal for an address.<br /><br />But then, I got to see first hand what a 911 response looks like here and I couldn’t help but wonder if service that poor is intentional. After all, in a country where agrarian ties are still strong, a practice like culling the herd makes good, practical sense though it would appear heartless if a token effort wasn’t made to respond during an emergency. A fumbled address was not a plausible excuse when one of the Athletes from Kanteerava, which is also across the street from Malya Hospital, injected himself with the medicinal equivalent of a ‘get rich quick scheme’ that in this country could have been a cocktail of veterinary meds, expired antibiotics bought over the counter and a pinch of turmeric. Whatever works especially since no one can be bothered doing the research when it comes to ‘performance enhancement’ schemes. I was horrified when, after he passed out in a room full of barbells, we were expected to hoist him up and carry him out to a jeep ourselves partly because the malnourished and barefoot ambulance crew of one could scarcely lift himself and partly because there was no such thing as a stretcher anyway.<br /><br />Curious, I did a little cruise on an online PDR to research the black market elixir only to discover that the performance enhancer, though arguably tinkered with oxygen uptake in an agreeable way, also tended to make a person dizzy which seems like nothing but folly if you’re planning to throw significantly more than your body weight over your head in one rapid movement. Though his snatch numbers were high, his IQ appeared to be on the low side and consequently he and my sometimes female coach [or rather my always-female but sometimes coach] were bounced from the stadium program after lockers opened to the light of day exposed a pharmaceutical wet bar though given the run-down and dusty confines and the scattering of smudged bottles, probably more like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sid_and_Nancy">Sid and Nancy’s</a> bathroom. Athletic careers over, there were rumors of hasty marriages arranged on the next auspicious days after the drama.<br /><br />This left me and Sharada Siddi to represent Kanteerava in the upcoming State weightlifting competition and though nothing had really changed, I felt obliged to collect the gold metal lost the moment the other female lifter was locked out of practice. And not that I didn’t stick out already considering I was the only white lifter competing, but walking into a meet in the shadow of Sharada – a lifter whose 53 Kilo frame was as solid, fast and fear-inducing as a <a href="http://www.knightsedge.com/medieval-weapons/medieval-catapult.htm">medieval catapult</a> – implied that I too would be a worthy competitor which wasn’t necessarily true. Like a major league pitcher in his rookie year who has a good arm but an unsettling habit of broadsiding batters with the occasional wild pitch, my snatch was still random and sometimes unrecognizable as one of the three required lifts.<br /><br />After meditating one day – well, because this is India – I realized that part of my problem was a dysfunctional relationship with my equipment. If it’s true that we’re sending a message out into the universe that’s influencing our results, my message was as unclear to the universe as my English is to most of India. I approached a weighted bar with a kind of trepidation that had me almost sneaking up on it with the thought “hmmm, I wonder what it’s going to do this time.”<br />Refusing to take any responsibility for how things were going to go, I was letting the bar decide.<br /><br />As diplomatic as that sounds, you can imagine the kind of results I got. I spent the next couple of weeks in what amounted to couples therapy with my 15K cohort and it started by kissing it hello. This sounds crazy but everybody in the gym, and as it would turn out, everybody at the meet, gave the bar some sort of referential peck. In my own act of American civil disobedience, I opted for a slippery, porn inspired smooch in the hopes that the other athletes would be strategically unsettled.<br /><br />It was about the time that me and the bar renewed our vows – I promised to communicate more clearly, it promised not to maim or disfigure me – that’s when Sharada and Basava decided what weight class I would compete in and what my opening lifts should be. Basava or Basva which is pronounced ‘Baswa’ picked numbers that exceeded my one-rep-max by at least ten kilos. For the weight class, I’d have to lose two kilos. I tried to smile when he said, “you do,” the way he does. And that’s when all the fun began.<br /><br />My thumbs, which have ached for at least a month now because they need to wrap around the bar during the snatch and then get tucked tightly under my fingers on the other side, began to throb. They especially complained every time I mounted my hands on my hips, a genetic marker identifying me as my mother’s daughter, and it’s something I do in the slight exasperation experienced when a trainer offers completely unfounded reasons why Arnold Schwartzenegger should be president of the United States other than his political leanings of which they know nothing. And this topic comes up often, by the way.<br /><br />I’ve stopped listening and/or replying whenever Arnold’s name gets a mention and I think we all enjoy that better. In fact, I’d wager the guarantee of silence on my part is why the topic is so persistent. I just mount my battered thumbs on my hips making the experience all the more painful and try not to imagine that their collective will might materialize in a Schwartzenegger ‘Terminator in Chief’ simply because India made it so. And, not because I know much about Arnold’s political leanings either but because I never want to see that look on all the trainer’s faces that says that Arnold’s presidency alone confirms that silly things like data and facts have no place in an intelligent argument. Ganesh is even now refusing to listen to a word I have to say about body building which he’s decided I know absolutely nothing about for the sole reason that I didn’t know Arnold had four kids until he told me.<br /><br />It’s times like this that I yearn to scurry off to the dusty, warped plates of Kanteerava and away from the Bollywood Glamaerobics of Gold’s Gym. The trainers are wonderful and friendly but just when I think I’m on the brink of an actual conversation with one of them, I catch their eyes dart to the mirror as they check their own biceps. Yep, still there.<br /><br />In some outdated textbook somewhere there’s a chapter about how quickly lean mass melts away like Ghee. Since, I’m told, books are almost always stolen in-transit, any efforts to correct that misconception have been lost to the black market. As a result, I expect there’s a Crash Cart and a protocol inspired by <a href="http://www.nbc.com/ER/">‘ER’</a> that administers an emergency dose of <a href="http://www.ebicep.com/concentration-curl.html">Dumbbell Concentration Curls</a> to any trainer whose vital bicep circumferential measurements dip below normal. They can’t resist peeling back their shirts and having a little fling with themselves in the mirror periodically and I, a hopeless romantic myself, don’t wish to be an obstacle in the path to true self love. I just stand quietly in my Gold‘s gym T-Shirt and try to pretend that the insignia on the front isn’t encouraging an obscene act – that of an innocent Olympic Bar being curled for the sake of pretty arms. Should you ever attempt to do that in a CrossFit gym, you would be soundly beaten – for time.<br /><br />Days in which you’ve hit an all-time low are never planned and aren’t scrawled on calendars anywhere in the appropriate pen color that would designate such a thing. They’re more of an interesting road sign that you notice on your way to somewhere else. Take <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bucksnort,_Tennessee">Bucksnort, Tennessee</a> for which I noticed an exit off the highway in 1995 while driving across country. I didn’t go to Bucksnort, had never planned on it but now I know where it is and have a photo taken out the passenger window to remind me. On Tuesday, January 5th I had a meal of egg whites with no salt and Nescafe instant coffee with no sugar. I hit a culinary low and have noted where it is. I can now measure bad taste by asking myself the question, “Oh, this is bad but is it Egg-Whites-and-Nescafe bad or just bad?” It was previously the question, “Is it boiled-peanuts-outside-Atlanta bad or just bad?” but that was a low water mark set in the 80s and the true ‘badness’ has worn thin over time. This new badness will be defined by whether or not I have the urge to lick my own arm between bites just for flavor.<br /><br />Without the culinary magic of egg whites au natural, it would have been easy enough to lose the two kilos but any drastic cut in calories would have affected my ability to lift which would have made last minute cramming out of the question. The snatch had never been particularly heavy just poorly executed. I could bully it - knock it down and taken its lunch money - but I couldn’t keep it overhead which means I still needed to practice with a good amount of volume. I cleaned up my proteins, removed as much carbohydrate as possible without killing my recovery and shifted to full-gear intermittent fasting which means my last meal of the day was at 2:30p after which I would eat nothing else until breakfast. My caloric intake remained the same which allowed for the training but try telling that to my rumbly belly that kept suggesting tasty little snack options that would pair nicely with my cinnamon tea - suggestions that kept getting between me and my e-mail. Oh, “peanut Chikki” my tummy would coo, “not the brittly kind but the dry, cookie-like peanut-buttery stuff they sell at <a href="http://www.hotfrog.in/Companies/Thoms-Bakery-Stores">Thoms Bakery</a>, mmm.” Then, less sweetly, “Hey! Did you frickin’ hear me up there!”<br /><br />I’m not saying there was joy in my heart. I threatened to kill Ganesh daily and meant it. That was especially true on the day that the ‘long fellow’ - because Ganesh isn’t familiar with the word ‘tall’ - passed along a solid misshapen <a href="http://archives.chennaionline.com/columns/variety/2005/05tirupati1.asp">Tirupati Laddu</a>, a mass of baked good, that was heavy, lumpy, studded with raisins and cashews and meant for Ganesh. It looked like a scone that had been birthed. It was ‘Food of the Gods’ brought back from Tirupati where it was made only there but gobbled up all over India when brought back as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prasad">prasadam</a>. I made disparaging comments about how Indians had simply stolen it off the plate of British High Tea, repackaged it, improvised randomly, called it something else and then got defensive about it if you ever implied it could be made better. “You know, like they do with all their other cheap knock-offs!” I said trailing off my rant as I faced the blank stare and a mustache full of crumbs on the man who lost me three words into my rapid-fire English hissy fit. Really it was grade school hair-pulling and I yearned to swallow it whole. So, apparently, did Ganesh as he indulged in the kind of lip-smacking noisy maceration that would drive my sister nuts. Instead, I just threatened to kill him.<br /><br />On the last night before the event, finally two kilos lighter and about twenty degrees colder thanks to the distant memory that was my last meal, Sharada called from Mangalore. She had become a really exceptional coach to me in the last few weeks even though, as an athlete competing in the same event, it really wasn’t her job. The man who has that title trains telepathically, I gather. Though I grew to truly appreciate her, I usually screened her calls. We could work most things out in person but her understanding of the English language was very poor and my understanding of Kanada was completely non-existent so that phone calls were impossible and usually ended with one of us sort of randomly hanging up when noise stopped. Given the timing however, I answered and what she said in her clearest English ever was that I needed to gain the weight back before morning.<br /><br />When I got off the phone, I deliberated. The girl in me wanted to stay lighter, use the momentum to make a bid for my skinny jeans and pack on the difference with water I’d drink right before I weighed-in. The lifter worried that two kilos of water would make me throw up when my belly hit my thighs at the bottom of the squat. My freezing cold hand flipped both of them the finger and tore open a package of peanut chikki with my teeth to shove between my purple lips before I scooped up my bag and headed for the bus. Part of me worried that Sharada would change her mind again. That would have caused stress except that the Sari factory downstairs was in production later than usual because of the daily mid-day power outages and the thump, thump of the loom acts as a sort of pacemaker until my heart rate aligns with the pulse of the silk and gold threads. I only notice it during moments when I can sense stress but just end up feeling out of sorts like a tickly sneeze that wont trigger or when the power goes out and I wonder if I'm going into <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ventricular_fibrillation">ventricular-fib</a>.<br /><br />Peanut chikki, with it’s near 50/50 proportions of sugar and fat, is not a snack that can be easily undone and as it was Sharada did waver a couple of times when news came that the lifter whose weight class I was trying to bail out of had gained weight as well. We talked about it in the morning as if losing the two kilos again before the event was going to be anything other than a miracle. I had already used up my one miracle getting there alive and I was tired from all the earnest prayer through the all-night bus ride. No wonder Hindus make no effort to convert the masses, given that India's roadways are a route to God.<br /><br />I would have assumed that going from Bangalore to Mangalore is simply a backspace followed by a poke two keys to the right on a QWERTY keyboard but that’s just because I’ve always been a smart ass. By the time I arrived at Mangalore Town Hall I had spent at least eight hours in a sleeper coach and, though I didn’t notice until the way back when I was no longer playing ‘good snatch/bad snatch’ in my head, I’m pretty sure we simply aimed the bus towards Mangalore and drove over whatever stood between Point A and Point B, road or no road. I was so cold both on the way there and on the way back that I was about to gut a passenger and crawl inside the carcass for warmth but one look at the scrawny travelers and I could see there was nothing in my size. The best I could have done is fashion a shawl and some ear muffs.<br /><br />When I got to Mangalore Town Hall I was confronted with the Indian equivalent of the Pine Grove Grange with a stage and a sign courtesy of Bank of India that read, “Wishing The Function A Very Success.” Um, thanks. One of the organizers greeted me warmly when I arrived which I think was big of him since it turned out he was the secretary of the weightlifting association, had on office in Kanteerava stadium, likely knew the coach was a no-show and had just found out recently that there was a white girl letting herself into the building for the last couple of months. He was not a man with a bald spot but a bald man with a hair spot that originated at the extreme lower corner of his head to the left of the medulla obbligato. It flapped excitedly from time to time and because it looked like a creature in its own right, I watched to see if the movement was caused by one of the oscillating fans or if something was making it happy. He had taken the splotch of hair, weaved it into a lacey mesh and swirled it around his head like soft-serve ice cream. Donald Trump should pay this man to stand next to him in photos.<br /><br />As I watched the competition commence it appeared that most of the lifters in the low weight classes were skinny teenagers living on meager rations with a dancer’s flexibility and good technique. They had the balls to step under falling weight but not the brawn to support it. Most of them lacked the raw materials for anything other than their opening lifts which is apparently all the propulsion one gets from roti. There were a few lifters scattered through the weight-classes that were solidly built and technically proficient and I couldn’t come near their numbers. Sharada was obviously one of them and ended the day with the Best Lifter distinction as well as her usual Gold with combined lifts of 147 Kilos.<br /><br />She’s been lifting for fifteen years and works for Karnataka State Police where she is paid only to train and compete which is sad in a way considering that she’s the only police officer I’ve seen that appears to be fit enough for the job. I was able to determine based on the jeep parked in a quiet, shady spot outside the stadium, that the <a href="http://www.birdingpal.org/TrafficCop.JPG">hat worn by officers</a> which is flattened on the left side for what I thought was a stylish flair is actually a practical feature which allows officers to sleep in full uniform lolling their heads to the flat-side so as not to crush their brim.<br /><br />Before she completed her lifts, she sent me back-stage for the weigh in which I was able survive by downing a protein shake and thinking heavy thoughts. The mood itself was made heavy by the official in charge who was working extra hard to give all the appearances of officiating including a stern inquisition. It lacked any real bite since I didn’t have to produce any documentation or proof of any kind other than, “What, I don’t look Indian? I get that all the time.” ‘How long have you lived in Bangalore? Where do you work? What do you do? Are you married? Where’s your family? Where do you live? Who do you live with?’ Throw in a question or two about religion and salary along with the obvious what do you weigh, soften the tone slightly and you’ve got a replay of the first conversation I have with everyone in India. They appear to be fond of prying questions and passport sized photos. It wasn’t tough to navigate.<br /><br />The fact that I wasn’t wearing underwear was a much tougher conversation since she wanted me to strip naked and I wanted to leave my pants on, understandably. Not that I’m shy but I was already being stared at like something in a jar full of formaldehyde by a group of skinny teenagers in the corner. It was expected given that the black hair and pale skin is a little <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Scissorhands">Edward Scissorhands</a> under bright light. I had also accumulated angry red mosquito bites all over my arms that were accentuated by a yellow-stain of Turmeric - the cure for everything. They formed a constellation that predicted the rise of Venus over my left elbow any day now.<br /><br />Had I stripped completely I fear I would have stopped the show. Instead the official peered down the front of my pants for a few awkward moments and then snapped my waistband a little unnecessarily before scratching down a number. She moved safely back to her seat before she treated me to well-intentioned information regarding the importance of undergarments in a voice loud enough to warn the villagers.<br /><br />Before I was called to warm up, the two college students loading the bar stopped, rolled the weights off the platform and brought out five black metal chairs with red plastic seats that must have been shipped from a bankrupt House of Pizza somewhere in New England when, after a few short years, the lunch of nitrates consumed daily in the pound of deli meat stuffed in a 12 inch <a href="http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080126172901AAK3SUq">Grinder</a> finally killed all the regulars. The chairs were aligned along the platform and five bureaucrats aligned themselves placing their buts in the seats.<br /><br />There were speeches and honors bestowed which was evident by the garlands that went over the heads of each official only to be popped off as quickly as the rings of a ring toss at a rigged carnival game. The garlands were more spectacular than those offered free when ordering a Scorpion Bowl at Larry’s Chinese Food in Providence, Rhode Island in the 90s where the food was lousy but you were never carded, yet slightly less showy than anything draped on the <a href="http://www.triple-crown-horse-betting.com/images/hq/KENTUCKY_DERBY.sff_LXA132_20030503192124.jpg">Kentucky Derby’s winning horse during the post-race photo shoot</a>. Either way, they were stripped off and tossed onto a coffee table in what would turn out to be the most lively moments of the whole presentation. Nobody was willing to translate for me but given that we were all equally slumped and slackjawed by the end of it, I guess it’s just as well.<br /><br />There were pieces of plywood thrown on the ground outside in the tent where we did our warm-up. My wooden <a href="http://www.dynamic-eleiko.com/products/shoesFR.html">Adidas lifting shoes</a> made their usual mighty smack which drew a murmuring crowd like munchkins admiring Dorothy’s ruby slippers. This was in spite of the fact that we only had ten minutes to get close to our max weight overhead. Sharada shooed everyone away, secured a place for me at the bar and set up my weights. It was like having a roadie.<br /><br />The funny thing about poor technique versus weakness is that everything goes up solidly until, within a kilo, it just doesn’t. It made me look fierce in the warm-up which even had the weigh-in official commenting about me admiringly as if I was wearing underwear.<br /><br />The event itself is as blurry as the audience, obscured by the stage lighting. My name was called and I did what I knew to do with as much control as anyone has over movements that take a millisecond. For that I won gold.<br /><br />Competitions are never a measure of who we are just a measure of where we are at that moment. But we have to keep making it mean more or who would work that hard, sacrifice that much or subject themselves to all the pain? The coach in me had a pretty good idea of where I was at and what I could do going into the Karnataka State Weightlifters’ Association State Senior Weightlifting Championship / 2008 even without the medal but every now and then I create situations that force me to show up and deal with what it takes for me to show up. I almost never want to for a variety of wheeny reasons that I always have to straighten out in my head and no matter what I’ve lifted, that’s where I get the strongest. The final results may refocus my training but it does nothing really to measure the athlete who shows up every day to deal with whatever there is to deal with and that comes between me and the work if I let it.<br /><br />At the end of the event, the happy-haired secretary congratulating me and told me that he had expected to see me lift at least 20 kilos more as if he had actually monitored my progress through some regular and secret reporting. I suspect the security guard may have been spying as he had recently learned some English and while handing me the keys grilled me one afternoon with the one question on everybody’s mind. “Have you had your breakfast?”</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-74904862215237014932009-01-08T04:46:00.000-08:002011-12-27T13:23:54.215-08:00Soiled<p>On an episode of ‘<a href="http://www.thislife.org/">This American Life</a>,’ Starlee Kine documented her <a href="http://www.thislife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=339">efforts to deal with a break-up</a> by attempting to write the perfect torch song with the help of Phil Collins who she randomly called for insight. Kine and her ex had been fans of Collins’ song ‘<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-OiV_5kEt6A">Against All Odds’ </a>and at the point her boyfriend ended their relationship, Kine couldn’t help but say, “How can you just let me walk away? I’m the only one who really knew you at all,” earnestly but unintentionally blurting the song lyrics during her moment of heartbreak. At a loss for words of her own, Collins had pretty much summed it up. She didn’t say it, but I’m assuming she wished she could fly the earth backwards for a Superman-style cosmic rewind, Mother Nature in a gesture of understanding cooperating to grant an epic do-over.</p><p><br />As I listened to the show, I thought about my 7th grade crush on Harold Clough and the long march through <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Top_40">‘American Top 40’</a> on a Saturday morning listlessly lying on the floor in PJs – though I lifted my head occasionally to unwisely shush my mother who was clearly unaware of my devastation but through an act of motherly clairvoyance happened to be making pancakes which offer comfort for damn near anything. They seem to soak up sorrow as efficiently as they sop up sweet, sticky syrup. I was trying to record the song on a cassette player placed next to the stereo speaker so that I could endlessly replay it for the next several weeks rewinding the tape as often as I rewound each moment in my head leading up to my tragedy. I believe the break-up malaise lasted six times longer than the relationship itself but ended just short of the tape being chewed to pieces by the cassette player after it began to warp and wobble with wear. </p><p><br />Oddly the heartbreak I most recently suffered only sort of crossed my mind but maybe that’s because it was less of a ‘falling’ out of love like an accidental trip over untied shoelaces and more of a blind-sided flying elbow off the ropes and therefore not the stuff of poignant love songs and reflections on loss but more of a mugging followed by PTSD nightmares and a fear of crowded shopping malls. This wasn’t the time to fantasize Prince Charming coming back to me; against all odds might I add, for any other reason than to check my pulse and finish me off if by some miracle I still happened to be alive. And that’s not Phil Collins territory, that’s Courtney Love's violent 'Violet' followed by <a href="http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/alanismorissette/yououghtaknow.html">Alanis Morissette</a> after your throat goes hoarse from screaming <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU0WqTmRF1I&feature=related">‘Go on take everything! Take everything I want you to!”</a> </p><p><br />Since ‘Break-up’ aired, ‘Against All Odds’ has been tiptoeing into my consciousness and because India has me feeling just as awkward and vulnerable as a walk down the hall past Harold’s locker while trying to ‘act normal’, I find myself singing it with abandon even in public. This culminated in a stroll home from work where I sang it so loudly that I could actually hear my unruly vocals over the pretense of the polished pop icon that performs in my head and pretends to be what I sound like. I was an off-key, back-up singer to my electronically-altered ego. I’d pause occasionally to check if I was the source of the shrieking or if it was necessary to dive out of the path of calamity. I’m convinced the apocalypse starts with an unpleasant noise that could quite possibly sound a lot like me. </p><p><br />Even at that volume on a crowded sidewalk during rush hour with the gargling and throat clearing of diesel rikshaws everywhere along with care horns that sound like referee whistles as if everyone urgently wants a time out, nobody could hear me. And it made perfect sense that in a country that manages to cram six dance numbers into every film regardless of plot brevity, I could squeeze a ballad into a twenty minute walk. Though I passed the bus stop bothering nobody but lip readers, I was still a little disappointed that the women didn’t line up for a moment to synchronize a series of mimed movements that looked a little like housework on horseback. I was pleased to see the low-riding <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lungi">lungi</a> wearers doing nothing but walking carefully forward, however. Apparently American hip hop has a greater influence on the thin cotton sarong men here are so fond of wearing which is sported loosely knotted and saggy-assed with a hem hiked so high that I fear the knobby knees are not the only knobs enjoying the occasional breeze. I can’t get myself to look.</p><p><br />When I stood for fifteen minutes to cross a street with no signal, I giggled a little when I got to the line, “take a look at me now, I’ll still be standing here, but to wait for you is all I can do and that’s what I’ve got to face . . . . .” which I sang at full volume with open arms aimed at the blunt front of busses. And yes, I was being stared at. </p><p><br />What I had to face when I got home however, was the shrill vintage Bollywood movie numbers some kindhearted tenant in the next building shares with everyone that a cheaply made Indian electronic device can strain to reach. Just one octave higher and it would be a problem for stray dogs only. It chased Phil back into the place in my brain where he curls up for naps which is a place I’d gladly follow if I knew it was quiet. </p><p><br />It is believed in India that the universe began with sound rather than light and it is believed by me that Indians have been making a racket ever since. What I keep finding however, is that threads of this culture are woven from ancient wisdom which has usually faded to a point that only tradition, and even the occasional annoying habit, is left inexplicably in place. The fact that everything is damn loud is just the way things are here to the point that you’re blasted into a movie seat like you’re on a <a href="http://www.randomterrain.com/personal-tilt-a-whirl-tribute.html">Tilt ‘a Whirl</a> by the force of sound alone. In the case of my noisy neighbor, he was unwittingly breathing life back into the trees across the street which would explain why they all didn’t choke to death years ago. This dates back to an ancient practice called Agnihotra which cleanses the environment with fire and then fertilizes the soil with ash but has at its source a powerful sound.</p><p><br />“Dried dung is placed in an inverted copper pyramid, the size of a monk’s begging bowl, stepped like a ziggurat, along with a spoonful of ghee, a handful of rice, and a pinch of redolent sandalwood. The strange assortment is set ablaze – to the accompaniment of a mantra chanted in Sanskrit – as curling pearl-grey smoke rises from lapping red and blue flames to purify, or so the devotees claim, the surrounding atmosphere, miraculously increasing the quantity and quality of fruits and vegetables grown in the area. Agni in Sanskrit means ‘Fire,” and hotra “the act of purification.” This is explained in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Soil-Solutions-Restoring-Planet/dp/1890693243/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231402891&sr=8-1">‘Secrets of the Soil’ by Peter Tompkins and Christopher Bird</a> [Pg 245] What’s interesting is that when a Yogi named Vasant V. Paranjpe came from Poona, southeast of Mumbai, to New York in 1972 on a mission to spread the purifying wisdom of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vedas">Vedas</a>, he pointed not to the flame itself but to the sound as the source of Agnihotra's impact.</p><p><br />“Asked what he considered to be the formative force in Agnihotra, Vasant replied without a moment’s hesitation: “Sound. If you test Agnihotra with an oscilloscope, you will hear a special sound coming from the fire. It is a sound that heals. All the other physical things are there, nutrients, vitamins, minerals, but the key is the sound. If you are subtle enough, you can detect it. Fire produces sound, but it also reacts to sound. If you sing special vibration while the fire burns in the pyramid there is a resonance effect. Ancient science states that it invigorates the cells of plants and helps the reproductive cycle. Resonance plays a vital part in nature. We have to consider a healing molecular spectrum far beyond the infrared, indeed beyond the whole electromagnetic spectrum.”</p><p><br />Had I not been running into all kinds of places in which Indian culture continually trumps science or at least overlaps it in inexplicable ways, I may have filed this ceremony under ‘Colorful Hooey’. More convincingly though, was this notation from the same chapter, “From Europe we received reports of a group of scientists in Rovinj, Yugoslavia, experimenting to establish just what Agnihotra does, and how. Their interest had been aroused by the discovery that after they had burned the required ingredients in the copper pyramid their instruments failed to pick up radioactivity in the immediate area, an anomaly since the Chernobyl disaster, which irradiated, along with large parts of Europe, even their small Adriatic seaport on the Istrian peninsula in the province of Croatia. The Yugoslavs also learned that groups of subcontinent Indians living within the borderlands of the Soviet Union who used dried cow dung to seal their huts were unaffected by the radioactive contamination.” [Pg 251]</p><p><br />As I’ve mentioned, I have found no shortage of dung afoot. Though I’m not sure it’s reduced radioactivity, I can say with no scientific evidence whatsoever that the shit on my flip flops seems to have preserved my pink pedicure rather nicely. I can’t help but think with all the magical properties of cow dung and all its medicinal uses in Ayurvedic medicine, it begins to explain why the cow is so revered here and why Poojas persist. </p><p><br />Not only does Agnihotra stimulate plant growth in communities that owe their vitality to the crops they grow, but the crops themselves owe their vitality to the liveliness of the community growing up around them. It is proven that plants respond to sound of certain frequency and Tompkins and Bird reported the results of tests done using traditional Indian music played for plants. “The first cassette, using Hindu melodies called <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jrf2k0Klc-U&feature=related">ragas</a>, suitable to an Indian ear, and apparently delightful to both bird and plant, induced stomata to imbibe more than seven times the amount of foliar-fed nutrients, and even absorb invisible water vapor in the atmosphere that exists, unseen and unfelt, in the driest of climatic conditions.” And here’s where I laughed out loud after being exposed to many a marathon Tamil movie featuring women’s vocal stylings akin to a squeaky screen door, “But the sound proved irritating to American horticulturalists and farmers, especially women, apart from those few whose tastes for the exotic accepted ragas as in vogue.” [Pg 135] For the love of my <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IQ7jerp2S80">Aloo Gobi</a>, I’ll refrain from lubing the throats of Bollywood darlings with WD-40. </p><p><br />As much as plants are capable of reacting positively to sound, they can also be sadly stunted on farms run by raving lunatics so for the sake of sanity, the scientists switched to classical music relying heavily on Vivaldi as his composition <a href="http://www.last.fm/listen/artist/Antonio%2BVivaldi/similarartists">‘Spring’</a> mimicked birdsong and matched the necessary frequency without driving farmers berserk. In fact, it was bird song that initially stimulated growth but as birds disappeared thanks to the toxicity of chemical farming driving away both the birds and the worms that they feed on, crop growth slowed, a problem that was immediately addressed with still more chemicals. </p><p><br />“Normally healthy and long-lived, earthworms are discouraged if not killed outright by any pesticides and most chemical fertilizers. Copper sulfate, in concentrations near the surface of the soil, even in only 260 parts per million, can drastically reduce the worm population and any nitrogenous fertilizer will quickly wipe them out. Nearly all commercial brands contain high levels of nitrogen in the form of ammonia, which destroys earthworms by creating intolerably high acidic soil.” [Secrets of the Soil Pg 48] It doesn’t sound all that heartbreaking unless you’re a fan of slimy things or in need of bait. That is, unless you understand what night crawlers do.</p><p><br />“One of the principal functions of the earthworm is to consume available mineral nutrients, and, by actions of enzymes in their digestive tract, render them water soluble, easily absorbable by the root hair of plants, to be made available in turn to the cells of plants, animals and man.”[Secrets of the Soil pg 46-47] Yes, your health depends on a steady diet of what is essentially worm poop.</p><p><br />Jerry Minnich in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Earthworm-Book-Raise-Earthworms-Garden/dp/0878571930/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231420122&sr=8-1">'The Earthworm Book' </a>explained that Egypt’s advanced civilization along the Nile Delta owed its very existence to earthworms as other areas with equally ideal climates and rich soils were unable to develop complex civilizations because they were incapable of meeting the basic agricultural needs of the people. “An agricultural report on investigations carried out in the valley of the Nile in 1949, before the folly of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aswan_Dam">Aswan Dam</a>, indicated that the great fertility of the soil was due in large part to the work of earthworms. It was estimated that during the six month of active growing season each year the castings of earthworms on these soils amounted to a stunning 120 tons per acre, and in each handful of that soil are more microorganisms than there are humans on the planet.” [Secrets of the Soil Pg 41]</p><p><br />I’ve been engrossed lately in this topic as I’ve started to examine nutrient density and the content of vegetable matter digging a bit deeper than I’ve dug before – into dirt. “It’s not what kind of food you eat,” said John Hamaker an engineer-farmer and co-author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Survival-Civilization-Depends-Solving-Problems/dp/0941550001/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231420289&sr=8-1">‘The Survival of Civilization’</a>, “Man’s intestinal tract is a root turned inside out. The purpose of eating food is to recreate a population of soil organisms in the intestinal tract.” [Pg 193] as quoted in ‘Secrets of Soil.’ With all my talk about the importance of gut microbes, I never considered how much bioavailability depends on not just intestinal mucosa but the microbial richness of the food itself. But just like your gut, you can decimate a microbial population in the soil without apocalyptic results. Well, at least not immediately. So the problem of dead soil can be triaged with chemical fertilizer and, though the crop looks the same, the difference in nutrient density is staggering. When you consider that fertile soil produces vegetables with at least 20% greater protein density, you can begin to understand how in a country with vast numbers of vegetarians, in combination with many other factors, India’s population is suffering from more and more health problems. </p><p><br />Even if Indians adopt little of western tastes thanks to an influx of cheap imported processed foods, they’re traditional meals become less nutrient dense simply by adopting western farming practices. This is something they did in 1961 when India, on the brink of mass famine, looked westward. Mexico had already seen successes working with American organizations to assist in what would later be referred to as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_Revolution">the Green Revolution</a> and so India embarked on a revolution of it’s own by importing wheat seed, adopting <a href="http://www.abc.net.au/science/slab/rice/story.htm">IR8</a> – a high-yield semi-dwarf rice variety that could produce almost ten tons per hectare under ‘optimal conditions’, instituting a program of plant breeding, developing irrigation and, yes, providing the necessary financing for agrochemicals. </p><p><br />Just like healing the gut, the first steps in healing our food is to first grow an abundant crop without toxic input so that the output is not only nontoxic but yields bioavailable nutrients. This should cause us to look back at methods that predate the advent of chemicals when the vitality of plant life meant life itself to the native populations. Historically, there were many thriving agrarian populations to draw wisdom from but our history with indigenous populations, especially Native Americans, has not been one of shared respect and cooperation and we’ve been slow to recognize even now what is owed to ancient technology. Had it not been for the early agriculturalists, we may not have had even a place to start.</p><p><br />“Ironically, if the American farmer had to grow only species native to the United States, we would be living off of Jerusalem artichokes, pecans, black walnuts, sunflower seeds, blueberries, cranberries, raspberries, and gooseberries. To paraphrase the contemporary Kenyan economist <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calestous_Juma">Calestous Juma</a>, the exploitation of tropical plant resources by the United States has turned a continent of berries into a global agricultural power,” wrote Mark J. Plotkin, Ph.D. in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calestous_Juma">‘Tales of a Shaman’s Apprentice’</a>. [Pg 16]</p><p><br />“Pre-Columbian farmers, without benefit of the wheel or draft animals, discovered and domesticated more than half of the modern world’s seven major food crops – corn, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and cassava – as well as tomatoes, peanuts, chili peppers , chocolate, vanilla, pineapples, papayas, passion fruit and avocados. The annual global market value of corn alone is worth $12 billion – more than the value of the gold and silver stolen by the rapacious conquistadores. And the Indians’ agriculture systems are as impressive as their crops. When Dr. Alan Kolata, an anthropologist with the University of Chicago worked with Amerindians in Bolivia to resurrect pre-Columbian farming systems, the crops yield increased sevenfold,” Continued Plotkin. [Pg 17]</p><p><br />On the same subject, ‘Secrets of the Soil’ said, “American archeologists have discovered an advanced system of agriculture practiced by a pre-Inca civilization more than three thousand years ago in the Peruvian Andes. Using canals and three-foot-high raised beds, thirteen to thirty-three feet wide, and three hundred feet long, prehistoric farmers were able to reap bumper crops in the face of flood, drought, and killing frosts, with no chemical fertilizers, herbicides, or pesticides they were able to outproduce modern agricultural technologies.”</p><p><br />“An article in the Science section of the New York Times of November 22, 1988, describes how modern Peruvians, using nothing but ancient instruments and reconstructed pre-Inca platforms have reproduced an agriculture so hardy and so inexpensive as to form the basis for a new and healthier Green Revolution. The cost is minimal, amounting to no more than the human labor involved. Sediment in the canals from nitrogen-rich green algae and plant and animal remains provides natural fertilizer that in tests far outstripped chemically fertilized fields.”</p><p><br />“Millions more abandoned platforms have been found through Latin America. Dr. Clark Erickson of the University of Pennsylvania’s Museum of Archaeology/Anthropology, responsible for the discovery, hopes the old Inca system can be reintroduced as a replacement for the uneconomic capital-intensive systems so dependent on expensive machinery and fertilizers.” Page 123</p><p><br />Said <a href="http://www.silentkillerfilm.org/interview_adamchak.html">Raoul Adamchak</a>, an organic farmer, in a documentary produced for public television called <a href="http://www.silentkillerfilm.org/films.html">'Silent Killer - The Unfinished Campaign Against Hunger'</a> which examines starvation and malnutrition globally, “I really was pleased that recently there was an article in Science Magazine about building organic matter in the soils” said Adamchak, “we are talking about people who cannot afford the inputs of conventional agriculture. This article mentioned that fertilizer, which sold for a $100 a ton in England, was $300 a ton by the time it got to the coast in Africa, and $700 a ton by the time it got inland.” In prerevolutionary Paris, propaganda circulated in flyers attributed the words “Let them eat cake!” to Marie Antoinette - though it was something she never actually said - in response to a question of what the peasants would do if they couldn’t afford to buy simple staples like bread. It was meant to sum up her complete inability to understand the plight of the working class but it more aptly sums up the efforts of America’s chemical companies and their understanding of the needs and the means of third-world farmers.</p><p><br />What we often forget is that most technological advancement is commerce-driven which means that when the driver is revenue, things like public health and wellbeing come, at very least, second. In the world of pharmaceuticals, that should be really clear by now. There was a time what a lot of pharmaceutical research was plant-based but there is more money to be made in synthetic chemistry when patents, property issues and profit margins are clear. It mirrors the advancements in agriculture with a similar timeline and bottom-line agenda.</p><p><br />“The plant kingdom has long served as humankind’s primary source of therapeutic compounds. This began to change in the 1930’s with the advent of synthetic chemistry, and was cemented in the 1950s with the introduction of laboratory-bred “wonder drugs,” such as the antibacterial sulfonamides, or sulfa drugs. Predictably, the American pharmaceutical industry quickly lost interest in natural products as sources of potential medicines.” Said Plotkin in ‘Tales of a Shaman’s Apprentice, “Powerful laboratory drugs like the sulfonamides and the sedative diazepam (better known as Valium) have given some chemists the illusion that synthetic chemistry is the sole future of new drug discovery. Smug scientists congratulating themselves on “inventing” new drugs led the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_S_de_Ropp">anthropologist Robert De Ropp</a> to wryly observe that ‘some chemists, having synthesized a few compounds believe themselves to be better chemists than nature which, in addition to synthesizing compounds too numerous to mention, synthesized those chemists as well.’”. [Pg 14] In the same way, scientists develop fertilizers and pesticides forgetting at times that these are problems Mother Nature has had a way of tackling all by herself and that ancient farmers were often wise enough to work with in cooperation.</p><p><br /><a href="http://www.millenniuminstitute.net/about/hans.html">Hans Herren</a>, a Swiss entomologist, has been working in Africa on the biological control of pests and disease in natural and sustainable ways and has won numerous awards for his work. During <a href="http://www.silentkillerfilm.org/interview_herren.html">his interview in ‘Silent Killer’</a> he discussed his approach to the stem borer, “With the stem borers we were looking for solutions which the farmer could apply without accruing costs, like using insecticides. So we developed a system push-pull,” Said Herren, “We found that Napier grass attracts stem borers and desmodium attracts beneficial insects, and both are very widely grown as fodder for livestock. We tried to bring the pieces together, to rearrange a puzzle within the field in such a way that brought many, many benefits. One benefit was controlling the stem borer. Another one was attracting beneficial insects that are the enemies of the stem borer. We also discovered by chance, that desmodium suppresses striga, which is the witch weed, a tremendous problem for maize and sorghum crops in all of Africa. In addition, desmodium, being a legume, fertilizes the soil as it grows by enriching nitrogen. Desmodium also protects the soil from erosion and increases the moisture retention, because it covers the soil in a permanent way.”</p><p><br />Technology in farming and farming equipment has led to a system that is profitable to some powerful American businesses while detrimental to the farmer as a whole. “I’ve talked to nearly a thousand farmers in these prairie states,” said Fred Kirschenmann, a farmer in South Dakota whose interviews appear in ‘The Secret of Soil’, “and not a single one of them told me: ‘Chemicals are terrific, just the thing we need for farming in the future.’ What they told me almost to a man is that in their guts and hearts they know something is fearfully wrong about the way they’ve been advised to operate their farms. But they shrug helplessly, or stare at the ground and ask what they can do which is nothing. Then they say sadly: ‘That’s how it is. One more bad year and I’m scheduled for service by the sheriff.’” [Pg 76-77] </p><p><br />Kirschenmann converted his fields and is now farming <a href="http://www.biodynamics.com/">Biodynamically</a>, which is defined in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biodynamic_agriculture">Wikipedia</a> as “a method of <a title="Organic farming" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Organic_farming">organic farming</a> that has its basis in a spiritual world-view (<a title="Anthroposophy" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthroposophy">anthroposophy</a>, first propounded by <a title="Rudolf Steiner" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudolf_Steiner">Rudolf Steiner</a>), treats farms as unified and individual organisms,<a title="" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biodynamic_agriculture#cite_note-0">[1]</a> emphasizing balancing the <a title="Holism" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holism">holistic</a> development and interrelationship of the soil, plants, animals as a closed, self-nourishing system.<a title="" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biodynamic_agriculture#cite_note-1">[2]</a> Regarded by some proponents as the first modern ecological farming system,<a title="" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biodynamic_agriculture#cite_note-2">[3]</a> biodynamic farming includes organic agriculture's emphasis on manures and composts and exclusion of the use of artificial chemicals on soil and plants. Methods unique to the biodynamic approach include the use of fermented herbal and mineral preparations as compost additives and field sprays and the use of an <a title="Astronomical" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astronomical">astronomical</a> sowing and planting calendar.”</p><p><br />“In the Drift Prairie area, costs for fertilizers and weed-bug killers run $60 to $70 an acre, which for a section of land means $40,000 or more. When that cost is compared to Fred Kirchenmann's input of $1.50 for clover seed per acre, plus $3 an acre for the biodynamic preps – a savings of more than $36,000 on his 2,100-acre spread, it is economically puzzling why farmers constantly faced with bankruptcy do not convert to organic or BD agriculture. The main stumbling block appears to be fear of a single year’s failure, for which the bank could rapidly foreclose.” [Secrets of the Soil Pg 76]</p><p><br />That mentality of corn, corn, more corn, and corn only,” Kirschenmann said, “Accounted for why the massive use of herbicides first took hold in the Corn Belt. Weeds love and thrive in a monoculture environment, such as is being widely accepted in cereal-grain regions, even though it is wholly unnatural. Monoculture crept up here gradually when larger farmers were talked into getting rid of their cattle, plowing up their pasture land, cutting down all the windbreak trees so carefully planted after the 1930s dust bowl, and putting the whole of their acreage into cultivation, concentrating on one, or at the most two, main cash crops. The transition, fostered by Extension Service advisers, began to really take hold on the late 1960s and early 1970s. The advisers were telling producers that this was the only way they could survive.” [Secrets of the Soil Pg 75]</p><p><br />I personally worked for<a href="http://www.fedmoney.com/grants/f0000006.htm"> ASCS</a> - the Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Services which was formed in 1961 as an agency of the United States Department of Agriculture which merged with the Farm Service Agency in 1994 - as a first job when I was 16 years old in rural New Hampshire where Vocational Agriculture was a popular highschool elective in spite of the fact that being a ‘Vo-Agger’ was not by any means a route to popularity. Besides being told by my military-molded supervisor, Bruce Lake, to always put my pencil down facing north to cultivate my attention to detail, I was taught to examine black and white aerial photographs to verify corn acreage. Farmers were being paid to grow corn for the sake of ‘soil conservation’ because it discouraged erosion, and then paid again not to harvest it because of the glut of corn on the market. It made no sense to me as a teenager and it makes less sense to me now. It should also be noted that at the present time, I have no earthly clue which way my pencil is facing though given my proximity to the Muslim markets, I could point towards Mecca faster than I can figure out which way is north.</p><p><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mono-cropping">Monocropping</a>, policed with such attention to detail by the ASCS, has generally been accepted practice for American farmers and is the source of many of the problems that crop up later in the season as well as at the market. Australian Farmer Barry Ahearn grows sugar cane and switched his growing practices to produce a biodynamic crop after being influenced by <a href="http://www.theage.com.au/news/epicure/great-sense-of-humus/2008/05/26/1211653896124.html">Alex Podolinsky</a> whose central message is “if it’s true that you are what you eat, then at this moment, most of us and our livestock are a complicated chemical cocktail of insecticides, pesticides, fungicides, weedicides, and synthetic fertilizer.” The large-scale movement towards Biodynamic farming in Australia has as much to do with Podolinsky’s advice as the persistent failure of both crops and the chemicals used on them which has driven farmers on a search for alternatives.</p><p><br />Said Ahearn, “Alex explained to me how vegetables can be intersown with young cane plants as an extra-income crop, so long as enough space is allowed them, and that they’d generate money while I waited for the cane to mature. Add to this the fact that the vegetables are being raised biodynamically, which give me a higher market price. It’s all part of getting away from the insane monoculture of sugar cane, a system which only contributes to the degradation of the soil. Since getting into BD about two years ago, I’ve been taking an honest look at things, for the first time in my life. Now I know that all the weeds and ‘rubbish’ coming up in the fields all over the place – stuff you never would have seen years ago – is due to bad farming practices, for over a generation now, such as the continued uninterrupted growing of the same crop, forced by the greed factor. It’s a system that actually suits the weeds.” [Secrets of Soil Pg 68]</p><p><br />These are the sorts of practices we’ve kindly shared with other countries and it’s this type of thinking that has led to disastrous results as we continually fail to understand the cultivar or the local culture. Ethiopia is a prime example according to Pat Roy Mooney author of the 1979 book ‘Seeds of the Earth’ and leader in the effort to promote a wide diversity of seed for the world of farmers. His work is discussed in ‘Secrets of the Soil’, “Teff, a low-yielding but high-protein extraordinarily drought-resistant Ethiopian grain that western scientists, knowing little about, have recommended be replaced with corn or wheat. Pat Mooney has seen fields of it flourishing next to African corn so drought-stricken as to resemble fields of withered onions”. </p><p>“A main reason,” chides Mooney, “why people are dying of famine on that continent is because of rotten western agricultural advice. We do it with the best of intentions – not a mean bone in our bodies – but not much humility either.” [Secrets of Soil Pg 155]</p><p><br />Obviously drought resistance is important in Africa as well as other characteristics that are a priority to local producers but not necessarily compatible with high-yield harvesting. “The characteristics that the farmers look for in their crop are very different from a commercial person. And one of the things that they like about my maize is that it’s not bred to be a commercial crop. The farmers do not necessarily think of maize in terms of yield,” said plant breeder and geneticist, Dr. Moses Onim, in <a href="http://www.silentkillerfilm.org/interview_onim.html">an interview for ‘Silent Killer’</a>. Onim completed his doctorate at the University of Nairobi in Kenya and was the first Kenyan to be hired to teach genetics and plant breeding at the Faculty of Agriculture there. He also developed a higher yielding double cobber maize crop for western Kenya after extensively interviewing the women who cultivate and cook it in order to assess their needs. “The moment the maize is green, they harvest it; it is ready for roasting and grain cooking and they need the food. The maize should be tasty and sweet when you roast it or you cook it,” said Onim, taking into account the local preferences.</p><p><br />“The hybrids are very plain, very flat, because they were developed only for grain yield. The commercial person is probably looking for milling the corn into flour and selling it then to supermarket or to other bargain systems, where taste may not necessarily be important. The small growers look at maize very different. When they eat it green, they mix it with beans, boil it, and that is a complete meal. The beans provide protein, the maize provides energy. My maize is different from the hybrids in the quality sense, but is also very different from hybrids in that the seed can be planted again. With the hybrid you have to buy seed every planting season. The farmers tell us they are poor and they cannot buy seed every season.” </p><p><br />“The real heart of the problem,” says Mooney, “is the so-called ‘Green Revolution,’ for which Norman Borlaug won a Nobel Prize in 1970. Its basic impetus derived from the idea that ‘High-Response’ non-self-perpetuating hybrids be exclusively relied upon. While the Green Revolution has been a plague on genetic resources – because it has led to a galloping erosion of native plant varieties in favor of highly inbred imports – it has also been a boon to the world’s seed industry. Cost-free, these industries have raked over the genetic riches of poor countries to breed new varieties whose high yields are assured only by massive additions of artificial fertilizers and pesticides, sold obviously, by the same companies, with their built-in bias for industrialized agriculture.” This is the same Green Revolution that kept India from seeing another famine which had a regular and predictable death toll prior to the modernization of agricultural practices. </p><p><br />What all this makes clear, is that, yet again, nothing is clear. So I’m embarking on a composting project with my sister and my father which will begin next month in my father’s garden in Vermont. It will involve Agnihotra which will align nicely with my sister’s yoga practice and shamanic healing studies as well as aligning rather nicely with both of our senses of humor as we beg the services of our much more down-to-earth father who will undoubtedly struggle with the Sanskrit chant given that he’s mangled the pronunciation of ‘Mumbai’ after the recent attacks and ‘Bangalore’ calling it ‘Balls-galore’ after I attempting to sear it into his memory by making a lewd reference. It will also involve sourcing biodynamic farming supplies which I already know involves a stag’s bladder. It’s an object I’m sure I can buy for less than 10 rupees served fried on a piece of newspaper in Russell Market but I’m less sure about where to find it in Vermont other than to hunt it myself with the help of my nephew Dustin. I also think it would be unwise to ship it from India to my father with a handwritten 'Refrigerate immediately!' warning on the package.</p><p><br />In the end, Stacey and I will discover if we can grow better food, we’ll spend some time reminding my father why an ‘empty nest’ is a really, really good thing and we’ll involve the local community in our project. As long as Agnihotra is updated with a preliminary gin-swilling ceremony, I think we can get them to sign on. As it is, I’ve seen many of my father's neighbors participate in such ceremonies following by chanting in a language which shares some similarities to Sanskrit.</p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-46896086031238719912008-11-24T03:13:00.000-08:002011-12-27T13:23:54.216-08:00Don't Worry<p>Mahaboob - that was the name on his license - hauled auto to get me home from Kanteerava Stadium. My first couple of weeks in Bangalore I found careening through traffic exhilarating the way people do when they forget that they’re not watching TV and that what they’re doing is actually dangerous. Now the moment driver’s start weaving and wedging their autos between vehicles at intersections as if they’re playing a game of rickshaw <a href="http://www.tetris.com/">Tetris</a>, I post wide in the backseat like Spiderman climbing an air duct. I’m always prepared in case I have to roll inverted like a carnival ride or run like a gerbil in a ball. I’ll choose my strategy at random depending on physics and my relative ankle dexterity which has deteriorated thanks to the Nandani milk truck incident. Today I appreciated efficiency and speed though I’m not sure everyone the driver sideswiped did. I gave him an extra few rupees even though he already flicked a tip with a rigged meter that started spinning like a slot machine shortly after the rate started to register. </p><p><br />I had just shuffled out of lifting practice with a wave to the other lifters. I felt like saying, “See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya – hey, smell you later!” since everything I say sounds like ‘beepity, beep beep beep’ anyway. My accent and often my speed of delivery far exceeds their understanding of the English language and makes most of what I say pure gibberish but they’ll almost never ask me to repeat anything. After weeks of communicating with exaggerated facial expressions, monosyllabic noises and elaborate hand gestures I think they’ve elected to enter me in the ‘Three Stooges Division’ at the so-called lifting competition that will occur on ‘Don’t worry’ of next month. You see, every time I ask when the competition is that I’m supposed to be training for, I get the answer, “Don’t worry” which, as far as I’m concerned should only be used to answer the question, “Should I worry?” but not to answer questions of date, time or location since - and I’m being a stickler here – it’s not an actual answer. </p><p><br />I lamented as I bid Boob adieu, that I couldn’t find sweet relief in the hands of a good masseuse since I’m still recovering from my first shocking attempts at relaxation. I first went for a facial at the Spa on the rooftop terrace next door. A shy, gentle creature wafted over to me and, as I lay their nearly sedated by the jasmine in her hair, she attempted to recarve the nose on my face with a clay tool. As New Englanders say, it was a lot like having your liver removed with a warm spoon. Not content with the results of her rhinoplasty, she ran vigorous circles on my cheeks with her fingertips as if getting a running start so that she could jump her hands off my nose and clap them together directly over my face. It was so unsettling I recommend the technique only be used on shock victims to keep them from passing out. I now have a Pavlovian response to the smell of jasmine and I cower whenever some fragile little auntie shuffles by me on the street. </p><p><br />Since I’ve been known to race passed a red flag in any relationship as if it marked pole position, I went back for a full body massage after a particularly harrowing workout where I missed so many snatch attempts that dodging the crashing bar in front and behind me began to make me feel like I was caught in an air raid. I could drop the bar but I have a harder time dropping the pursuit and I left feeling frustrated and in need of some pampering. But the hopes of relaxation vanished immediately when she whipped the sheet off my naked body with all the subtlety of a table cloth swiped from beneath a full table setting to leave the china undisturbed. I wish I knew the Kanadda equivalent of ‘Ta Da!” </p><p><br />Understanding how well I generally handle myself in these situations, I engrossed myself in the mantra ‘must not laugh’ so that the only discernable acknowledgement that my full-frontal nudity was an unexpected plot twist was that my ‘zoinks!’ reflex loosed the cottonballs from my eyelids when my eyes snapped open sending them tumbling down my cheeks. And having your chest rubbed by a sweet-faced Indian woman may increase the number of hits on the YouTube video undoubtedly recorded on a cell phone from the next building; it did nothing to relax me and only reminded me of the Breast Self Exam illustrations in doctor’s offices. Maybe that’s why it’s a ‘self’ exam and not a ‘buddy system’ sort of thing.</p><p><br />Obviously then, recovery was going to depend on good old fashioned food and sleep - both of which I needed desperately. The work is only part of the equation and it’s like buying a plot of land on which to build a house. Securing the site is a logical first step but without raw materials or the time to complete the work, you’ve gotten nowhere. Raw materials for muscle mass of course consist of protein which can be rough to find in this outpost. </p><p><br />“If nutrients needed for protein synthesis (to maintain or repair damaged tissue) are not sufficiently available from dietary sources, the body will take them from its own stores. In essence, the body will rob Peter to pay Paul in order to maintain function. By ensuring adequate dietary protein intake, a trainee will be certain to provide the body with the building blocks necessary for protein synthesis, “said <a href="http://www.aasgaardco.com/store/store.php?action=show_detail&crn=199&rn=304">Mark Rippetoe and Lon Kilgore in ‘Practical Programming for Strength Training.’</a> [Pg 49] As it was, I’d been cashing in on my own lean mass since the day I touched down.</p><p><br />I started relying more heavily on protein powders. Not that I hadn’t been enjoying my role of American auntie to young Babu at ‘State of Punjab,’ putting the dear boy through college one tikka order at a time, it’s just that I was beginning to wonder whether gastronomic monotony would permanently damage my palate if not my sanity. I knew I was going to need to change things up after submerging my chicken into the same mysterious “chutney” in the accompanying condiment cup and wondering whether or not anybody would say anything if, for the sake of variety, I instead darted across the food court to dredge my kabob through the faux butterscotch gelato displayed in a freezer case with an enticing ripple pattern. At least it was distracting contemplating whether the malnourished and slack-jawed gelato vendors could actually catch me. Anything but the same meal again, please.</p><p><br />The ‘cleanest’ protein powder I could get was a local brand that didn’t appear to genetically modify, hydrolyze, hydrogenate, ‘supplement’ or cut with soy. I couldn’t however determine how much sugar was in the mix since nutritional labels never indicate an actual serving size choosing instead to break down information based on an irrelevant measure of 100 grams and, even then, most of the data is incomplete. As far as I could tell, I could be drinking Black Market <a href="http://www.ovaltine.co.uk/">Ovaltine</a>. The other common problem, even in the states, is that serving sizes don’t always match the scoop provided though wouldn’t the world be simpler if only that were so.</p><p><br />Most people blanched when I told them I bought locally because, even when the quality of the ingredients is good, the quality of the manufacturing and the cleanliness of the facility are always questionable. I had no illusions. I handed Ganesh a chunk of <a href="http://cuisineindia.wordpress.com/2007/11/29/peanut-chikki-burfi/">Peanut Chikki</a> one day that I dug from the emergency supplies in the endless front pocket of my duffle bag. I couldn’t afford to let the big man swoon as he’d be an impossible mass to drag. </p><p><br />He paused mid-chew and said, “There’s dirt or something in this.”</p><p><br />“Yeah, it’s dirt,” I said dismissively. I find dirt, pet rocks, and petrified pests in most foods here so I wasn’t concerned. I like to call it the ‘toy surprise’ happily reminiscent of <a href="http://www.crackerjack.com/home.htm">Cracker Jacks</a>. Frankly I was pleased to know that this country might awaken the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vermiform_appendix">appendix</a>. I’m personally taking part in evolution simply by coaxing an organ out of retirement.</p><p><br />“Why didn’t you tell me there was dirt?” he said and stopped examining the Chikki to glare at me as if he’d find it unsettling given the things I’ve seen him eat. It’s true however that insect larva won’t break a tooth and usually goes down without much of a fight. Dirt is harder on dental work. </p><p><br />“Oh, I thought you knew. Peanut Chikki is like that sometimes.” In true Indian style, my response should have been a head wobble followed by, ‘It’s like that only.” The ‘only’ at the end of the sentence is a pointless modifier and could probably be replaced with the word “shazam!’ without straying too far from the meaning.</p><p><br />But I had to do something about the protein problem just like I had to do something about my programming. After weeks of training at the stadium where I believe reps and sets were configured with the help of a numerologist choosing auspicious loads, I elected to go rogue. I’m not saying the coaches didn’t know what they were doing, I’m saying they never said and though I had tried to be quiet and not be a ‘backseat driver,’ I was wondering if that meant quietly watching as we swerved into a ditch.</p><p><br />“We’re doing another heavy day today?! But we lifted heavy yesterday” I’d say in surprise.</p><p><br />“Don’t worry. You do. Light.” The coach would say with a reassuring smile.</p><p><br />“But you said heavy,” I’d say, puzzled and then ask, “Front Squat?”<br /></p><p>"Back Squat,” another quick and confident reply.</p><p><br />“We did back squat yesterday,” I’d say.</p><p><br />“Front Squat,” again another quickly delivered response.</p><p><br />I liked to call it goldfish programming – when the parameters change every few minutes and we all pretend we have no memory of it. I’d glance over my shoulder at Ganesh and he’d give me an “I heard. Keep quiet” look with wide eyes and a thrust of his chin for punctuation.</p><p><br />‘Light days’ always turned into heavy days when one of the coaches would stand across the room and flick his hands at me in the universal symbol for ‘add 10 kilos’ at least as far as I knew. It could also mean ‘pick up the tempo in the horn section’ but that seems less likely.</p><p><br />Practical programming addresses this in regards to the intermediate lifter. It reads, “What were once easy 10-pound jumps for sets of 5 reps become difficult 5-pound jumps for 5 reps. With standard 2 1/2 pound plates, sets of four is the inevitable result. The object is to use sets of five, for the metabolic effect produced by five reps, and training is designed around a certain number of reps for this specific reason. So it is necessary to be able to make incremental increases while holding the reps constant, and this requires that the increments to be small enough that an adaptation can occur during the time allotted. A trainee who has correctly followed the program will eventually not be able to adapt to 5-pound jumps between workouts.” [Pg 158] </p><p><br />It’s fair, yet also frightening, to say that some of the coaching decisions were based on what equipment we actually have and apparently someone had long ago stuffed the smaller plates in their shorts and walked out perhaps pocketing any remnants of a game plan while they were at it. At least somebody did a Pooja on the squat rack, I’d think as I’d eye the last residual smudges of vermillion. </p><p><br />At some point I’d say, “But this is my one rep max.” Perhaps when he said ‘light day’ he was referring to our moods which is a word that described his mood much more than mine.<br />“You do,” The coach would reply and I don’t know whether it was a command or the standard ‘think positive’ approach that sometimes spackles over the holes where actual skill or knowledge is missing.</p><p><br />“The goal of any model of weekly periodized training is to produce a disruption in homeostasis through the cumulative effects of heavy training days, and then allow supercompensation to occur with the inclusion of light days and the rest it provides,” said Rippetoe and Kilgore again in ‘Practical Programming for Strength Training’ (page 193-198) which I began reading obsessively at night and pumping my fists in the air with a ‘booYAH!’ every time I found evidence that I could but never would present to the coaches at the stadium simply because they’d already made it clear that they aren’t interested, “The light day is an absolutely essential component of the program; it is a recovery day. A light training load should not be enough to induce an overload and disrupt homeostasis, and it is not really a part of the overload event. It should be light enough to allow for recovery while at the same time providing enough work through the movement pattern to prevent any loss of fitness. Failure to include the important and frequently overlooked light training day will lead to overtraining and reduce the program’s success.“</p><p><br />Since all my light days had turned into a game called ‘Let’s see who can make the white girl cry,’ it was time for an intervention. I had been making decent progress on the clean but it couldn’t be matched by the jerk since practice was slowed by the ankle sprain and the swelling on the bottom of my heel as a result of the auto accident. The snatch looked more like a strong man throwing event. Instead of a ‘catch’ it was more of a duck and cover because of a faulty shoulder position and a slight niggling feeling that squatting under a falling barbell might be kind of stupid. </p><p><br />Still the impatience and optimism by the coaches at Kanteerava was easy to understand. There were meets to train for and they were all gifted lifters who would never have come in contact with a middle-aged woman with limited skills who was willing to invest the time in training and who would actually show up on game day. Especially – and this needs further emphasis - one whose skills were limited. This would be rare in India as most Indians have better things to do and more sense. In what was beginning to look like my life’s theme, I was an oddball and folks weren’t quite sure what to do with me.</p><p><br />One of the female lifters had beautiful form and precision and an enviable 50K physique. She told me one day that she wasn’t a powerlifter because her 160K squat wasn’t very good – a weight I can only imagine having on my back long enough for it to drill me into the floor. When she was there, I could always count on some insightful information about what I needed to fix, but in cases of inflexibility or just plain stupidity on my part, she had few ideas of how to fix it other than the standard, “you do.” </p><p><br />Though Dipti*, another female lifter, never developed a squat that could even break parallel, at 19 she could essentially power snatch 80K. She’d put her gold necklace in her mouth and bite down to keep it from flying up and chipping a tooth and then make a ‘cha,cha,cha,cha’ noise reminiscent of a snake rattle that was fierce and unnerving. Clearly whenever a coach says ‘you do’, she did which somehow bought her a pardon when it came to the squat.</p><p><br />At one point they were all clearly coached but now what I see is a dirty facility with decaying equipment and programming with no changes in rep scheme or planned load variations and no training logs to chart progress. Again, I can’t say for sure that they don’t have more extensive feedback from say ‘<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie">Charlie</a>’ over intercom or ‘the Great and Powerful Oz,’ because they ‘<a href="http://lyriczz.com/lyrics/wizard-of-oz/3499-we">find he is a Wiz of a Wiz if ever a Wiz there was</a>,’ it’s just not evident. But a lack of solid training would be more consistent with the experience of athletes in India whose secondary pastime outside their sport, it seems, is ‘making do.’ The 50K lifter gets coaching from her husband who has been kind enough to work with me before and I’ve found his guidance very helpful but according to Dipti, the actual coach hasn’t stepped foot in the gym for a couple of years though she thinks she might have seen him at one of the meets.</p><p><br />Poonam Kaushish wrote about this not long ago in an article for sarkaritel.com called ‘<a href="http://www.sarkaritel.com/news_and_features/infa/august08/26gold_bronze.htm">One Gold, Two Bronzes doesn’t total Sporting Nation</a>,’ referring to India’s 2008 Olympic showing in which a nation of over a billion people could secure only three metals. “Much of the problem with developing Olympic champions here seems to be rooted in the very same things that make India a perpetual also-ran to China in economic development: poor infrastructure, entrenched political corruption and infighting, and chaos and disorganization. Money earmarked for Olympic training is often mysteriously sidelined, facilities for training are in poor shape and equipment goes missing. Any wonder that India has only won 25 medals in Olympic Games since 1928,” Kaushish said.</p><p><br />Take the case of swimmer <a href="http://www.nishamillet.com/">Nisha Millet</a> as reported by P.S. Phadnis in ‘<a href="http://www.tribuneindia.com/1999/99mar23/spr-trib.htm#1">Swimming star cries out for competition’ </a>who went on to swim for India in the Sydney Olympics in 2000 and came in 37th out of 39 in the 200m freestyle, “The Karnataka government had promised Rs. 50,000 for every record broken and Rs. 30,000 for every gold won by its sportspersons. Nisha broke nine national records and won nine golds, but the government decided that it needed to pay her only Rs. 150,000 on the ground that each medal and record could not be taken into consideration separately. However, even the scaled-down payment is yet to be made.”</p><p><br />After Arriving in Sydney, Nisha was asked about her foreign competition in <a href="http://www.india-today.com/ttoday/012000/topspot.html">an article for India-Today.com</a> written by Mathang and Apurvo Parthasarthy. She said “There is a marginal difference in talent, but a vast gap in other aspects. Indian swimmers are physically weaker than the foreign contenders. The foreign swimmers are literally bodybuilders, who train themselves on heavy weights from the very beginning, which we don't. I'll have to be more cautious with heavy weights as I have a bit of a shoulder problem. Abroad training is gradual, whereas in India it is forced. That apart, they are gifted with excellent infrastructure and facilities like scholarships and grants more or less equally for all sports, unlike in India, where corporates as well as the government concentrate mainly on cricket... and just cricket. We swimmers have to literally hunt for sponsors to finance our training!”<br /></p><p>Interestingly enough, cricket which is much beloved in India, is not the national sport, Field Hockey is but India’s national Field Hockey team couldn’t even qualify for the recent Olympics in Beijing. Cricket however lends itself quite nicely to advertisers with ODI, One Day International, games that score hundreds of runs to keep the population riveted in spite of frequent commercials. Even the shirts of referees urge ‘Fly Emirates’ and apparently it’s their call.</p><p><br />Finally, by the end of her career, Millet said in an <a href="http://ibnlive.in.com/news/swimmer-nisha-millet-retires/5891-5.html?from=search">article for IBNlive</a> written by <a href="http://ibnlive.in.com/news/author/Shwetal+Kamalapurkar/">Shwetal Kamalapurkar</a> to mark her retirement, "I'm really tired. In 15 years all I got was one scholarship in 2004, which came through eight months after I applied. I did apply for a scholarship last year too, but didn't get a response from SAI [Sports Authority of India]. Over a period of time I've realised that I cannot achieve anything at international meets by training in India," she said.<br /></p><p>The money never seems to trickle down from the Sports Authority of India which was created specifically to cultivate athletes but the attitude towards and the disregard of athletes does trickle all the way down to the regional level which I get to see at Kanteerava. The gifted few whose genes defy malnutrition and a lack of training structure are herded off to Sports Hostels where they live on sparse room and board and a stipend of 4,000 to 6,000 rupees monthly. That translates into the cost of one pair of imported name-brand track pants and one pound of protein powder per month. It’s not enough to inspire a great deal of effort on the part of the athlete or for that matter the coaches that train them. And even if the athletes I train with have stalled, though I’m not sure that’s true, it’s fairly safe to say they’d medal just by showing up at a meet deplete of expertise. I too, am a medal hopeful under these conditions.<br /><br />“It is very true that many novices start out on terrible programs, training with no reason or logic, or adopting programs that are designed for more advanced trainees which prevent them from progressing as quickly as they could. But the magical adaptability of the novice is often strong enough to overcome even the poorest of decisions. Beginners can seemingly make progress even under the worst circumstances. But for the intermediate trainee, progress is harder to come by, and the body is much more particular about what it responds to when it comes to improving an already-honed performance, “ wrote Rippetoe and Kilgore. [Pg 176]</p><p><br />“An already-honed performance” might not describe where I started when I walked into Kanteerava but the fact that I walked in with lifting shoes that weren’t personally designed with the help of the local cobbler and a pair of rugged leather retro sneakers hinted at an expertise I didn’t actually have. I also walked in the door able to push press as much weight as I’d need to split jerk and front squat as much as I’d need to clean to win at a meet. Connecting the dots seemed pretty simple when you’re overly optimistic about what you don’t know you don’t know.<br />Since I had a foundation of powerlifting way more weight than I would need to lift to compete here, it would seem that working with an insignificant load in a snatch would be a snap. Rippetoe and Kilgore address this as well only this time in <a href="http://aasgaardco.com/">‘Starting Strength, Basic Barbell Training'</a> [pg 171-2], “What this means is that if heavy weights are lifted at a slow speed, the lifter gets good at lifting them at a slow speed. He does not get good at lifting them at a faster speed. So slow deadlift training will not make the clean move faster. And if a lifter gets good at pulling a weight fast, as in a power clean, he gets good at generating force at that faster rate of speed. The rate of speed that is trained is the rate of speed to which we adapt. But this rule only works well in one direction: strength developed at a high rate of speed can be used at that high speed and at speeds slower than that.”</p><p><br />Of course, there were parts of my lifts that looked promising but there appeared to be a timing problem. When the coaches loaded me with heavier weights and my speed suffered, they’d simply give me the instruction ‘faster’ which I understood in theory, but I couldn’t execute. “There are slow and isometric components in explosive movements that benefit from the strength developed at slow speeds. A clean has a slow phase off the floor that benefits from the strength it takes to maintain the position until the explosive phase, so deadlifts are useful for training the clean. The actual explosion at the top does not benefit from the slow strength developed in the deadlift and squat, but the whole of the lift does, from the pull from the floor, to the ability to hold the back locked, to the catch position and finally the support position at the top,” Rippetoe and Kilgore explain.</p><p><br />I remember training clients in Seattle who worked at Microsoft and one particular manager lamented that the Indian computer programmers were proficient at memorizing code but had limited understanding of it and even less creativity. What I saw here was lifting code and a disinterest in learning what any of it meant. Of course, we could have had the conversation all day about why I was slow and it wouldn’t have helped or we could have kept working with heavy loads and it might at some point help if I didn’t get injured first or finally, we could have backed off and worked on speed.</p><p><br />“Coaches and athletes must understand why successful programs are put together the way they are so they can develop their own program specific to their circumstances. Copying and cannibalizing successful programs without understanding why they were successful is never a good idea. An understanding of the realities and practicalities of progressive training and periodization is.” Again, the words of Rippetoe and Kilgore. [Pg 15]</p><p><br />I couldn’t help but feel that I’d been on a death march program and was about to stagger out of line to be left for dead. Now that could simply be my own attempts to overanalyze my situation because sometimes finding reasons for failure is easier than finding solutions to problems but I don’t think so. Take Dipti for instance.</p><p><br />Dipti is already feeling the pressure to marry by her family and she’s reluctant to tell them that she’s chosen somebody who, by their definition, would not be suitable. She’s concerned about money and knowing that she and her suitor will essentially be on their own if they decide to defy the caste system, she’s looking for ways to support herself. She’s approached me because she wants me to teach her kickboxing since she sees this as a scheme for gainful employment though any attempts to advise her otherwise have made me look like a buzz kill even though I have the actual math to back me up. Eventually I agreed anyway since she’s my lifting partner most days and selfishly, it had become clear that until I taught her something, she was going to grind my training to a halt. </p><p><br />Over the course of a couple of weeks I taught her the components – punches, kicks, some conditioning – but she wanted a ‘routine’ to memorize. I told her that a routine depends on the floor space and the talent in the room and I explained that my class is different every day and that maybe she could take a couple of classes so that she could understand how to fit the pieces together. I was even willing to teach those classes at the stadium after practice. She however wasn’t willing to put in the time, she wasn’t fit enough to complete most of the work and she wasn’t willing to understand the logic. As a result, she sulked. </p><p><br />After that, she went through a bout of mysterious injuries that had her sidelined and on a cell phone through entire sessions. Shortly after, a week went by in which she simply disappeared from the stadium all together. There were personal dramas that explained away absences and more sulking. Meanwhile, I had already written my own programming and moved on. Within two weeks she’ll compete and whether she practices at all between now and then, she’ll win.</p><p><br />One of the most glaring issues for me as I started putting together my training plan is that the organization of the work made no sense. Squatting usually happened first, each incremental increase was performed for two sets of between 1-4 reps, and the progression was by ten kilos. By the time we got to practice the lifts I would be competing in, I was tired and my timing was off. </p><p><br />“Fatigue decreases the precision with which motor unit recruitment patterns can be managed and has a direct bearing on the skill with which a movement can be executed and practiced. Movements that depend highly on skill of execution – those for which technical components are more limiting than strength level for determining the 1RM – should be done first in the workout, before fatigue has blunted the unimpeded contribution of efficient force production of the movement.,” Rippetoe and Kilgore wrote [pg 130] and it produced a rousing booYAH! from my bed one night, “A snatch is limited by the ability of the lifter to execute the movement in a technically correct manner more than by the absolute strength of the athlete. But if the athlete’s strength is compromised by fatigue, the ability to apply that strength in the correct way will interfere with the technical execution of the lift, since correct technique depends on the ability to deliver maximum power to the bar at the right time in the right position, all of which are affected by the ability to produce maximum force, the very thing that fatigue affects.” </p><p><br />As I mentioned, speed was already an issue. One of the suggestions in Practical Programming was to replace heavy squats on Friday with Speed Squats. This acted like a heavy day in the sense that it created a need for greater muscle fiber recruitment but was easier to recover from than another heavy day. And it made all the sense in the world to train speed in order to increase speed.</p><p><br />I was off to a grim start however when I tweaked my back during a warm up set. The work continued and lest we blame the speed squats, the back issue that flared up was actually inflammation as a result of the changes in my diet. I suspect the mystery protein triggered it but at the moment I was too tired and too poor to replace it. I can always tell when back pain is triggered by a food allergy because the onset seems fairly random and I’m stiff when I get up in the morning. To slow the nerve response and keep it from spasming, I began icing my back post workout while I watched the first three of seven ODI cricket matches against England. By the time the fourth game was played in Bangalore, I was hooked and I may have developed both frostbite and a crush on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harbhajan_Singh">‘The Turbanator’ Harbhajan Singh</a>.</p><p><br />In spite of the back issues, I seemed to be making some progress. In two weeks following new programming and increasing protein intake, my jerk was up to par, my clean was more reliable and my snatch hadn’t killed me yet. I had changed the order of the exercises and began to strictly monitor my rest times. I successfully lifted light on my light days and I incorporated some pulling work at Gold’s which helped to shorten my workouts by limiting my time at the stadium to less than an hour and a half. My stopwatch kept me from attempting PR’s before I had recovered enough while also holding me to task when my mind drifted towards deciphering words in Tamil pop songs Shiva played for me on the way to the Stadium. He’d snap his fingers and say, “You like, Madame?!” and I’d always have to shake a limb or he’d be disappointed.</p><p><br />“Rest time between sets should be adequate for recovery but not enough to allow “cooling off,” or a decrease in preparedness for the next set. Too much time between sets represents wasted training time and, in institutional contexts, an inefficient use of the training facilities. Too little time between sets costs reps and completed work sets and defeats the purpose of training. Make sure that enough time is allotted that the whole workout can actually be done in one session. Any workout that takes longer than two hours probably involves too many exercises, too many sets or too much talking,” from, need I say, Practical Programming. [Pg 173]</p><p><br />The trainers at Gold’s were even mentioning that my back was getting broader, my waist narrower and my arms bigger. These are the comments folks in India will make to you at around the same time they ask about your salary, why you’re not married and how much you actually weigh which generally follow the question, “have you had your breakfast?” which nobody in the states ever thinks to ask.</p><p><br />One secondary bit of preparation almost like men lubing their nipples in preparation for a long run, I finally caved to Ganesh’s urgings that I dye my hair black because I really felt like I’d be more comfortable if I blended with the other competitors a bit since, hard to believe, I’ve always been shy in public. And where else would I go but the spa on the rooftop terrace next door. As you’d expect, there was some slight miscommunication so that the ‘darker’ hair color became a shade I’ve come to describe as Blackety Black, a shade so inky you’d swear it stains the furniture. I look like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desi">Desi</a> undead and I’d describe it as Goth if anyone here had any idea what that meant. </p><p><br />And just as I started feeling optimistic about the whole thing thanks in part to the black hair and it's unintended but much appreciated reduction in Auto fare quotes, I found out that the ‘don’t worry’ date is actually less than two weeks away. </p><p>I’m worried.<br /><br /><em>*her names has been changed to protect her privacy</em></p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-13281319892531951512008-11-09T08:25:00.000-08:002011-12-27T13:23:54.216-08:00What to do?<p>Though forty five minutes on the back of a motorcycle sitting sidesaddle in my sequined skirt and sparkly sandals would seem like a long ride to some, it was not nearly long enough for me to complete a list in my head of all the ways I could have been startled, nudged or bounced off the back of the vehicle into oncoming traffic without Ganesh noticing. I primly clutched a book on my lap and planted my slippered feet on one foot peg in such a way as to keep from absentmindedly slipping a shoe into the spokes as we sped along a road that was sometimes suitable for highway speeds and sometimes fit for only donkey carts and barefoot pedestrians. This is how it’s done in India after all and I gazed at the women perched lightly behind their husbands in their perfectly pleated saris as they sped passed Ganesh and me. I slithered one arm like a meat hook around his waist at least secure in the knowledge that he is one solid hunk of human being and that even if I were flapping behind him like a windsock, he would barely budge.</p><p><br />In consideration of my lack of expertise here, he refrained from his normal speeds if only to keep me from yelling “Jesus Christ!” in his ear again since it just makes keeping us upright that much harder for him. A Hindu, I’m not sure he recognized my outbursts as blasphemous as much as he feared I was one of those missionary types trying to convert him to Christianity at vulnerable moments when death looked certain. The first time I did it, he made it clear that he found it startling though I’m not sure how the Land Rover pressing its front grill against my person didn’t startle him more. This was a time in which I felt a gentle tap on the shoulder followed by a whispered, “um, pardon me . . .“ didn’t capture the urgency. But this is India where the motto ‘adapt’ is sometimes a gentle reminder to be peaceful and sometimes a virtual court order so I resigned myself to tolerate the Land Rover until actual blood was spilled.</p><p><br />If Ganesh had thought this was going to be an ordinary trip to Tamil Nadu he learned otherwise the moment I landed on the seat behind him. Not always the daintiest of creatures, I pole vaulted off his shoulder onto the motorcycle and deflating both Ganesh and his back tire simultaneously as I landed. “What?” I asked when I saw his look of astonishment, “Where’d you jump from?!?” he asked, “Beside me stood a cat and then on my seat lands an elly-fant!” No long journey with a woman is likely to go well when you’ve started it by calling her an elephant. “What do you weigh?!?” I refused to answer and just stared silently at the spot on his back that when punched hard enough, would bruise his spleen. </p><p><br />Of course I had forgotten about his more vulnerable organs by the time we arrived simply because I was happy to be alive. I sauntered into the restaurant and slid into a booth like I was a regular though it was obvious when everybody stopped what they were doing and stared that I was not. Not many white people arrive at this particular village at this particular restaurant for any particular reason.</p><p><br />As Ganesh got up to wash his hands, the waiter handed me a glass of tap water. I could feel the grit of the road in my teeth and as I pondered whether or not my stomach could handle the local bacterial brew, I noticed that Ganesh was standing inside a small stall with two sinks and I thought, ‘please, please tell me that’s not the bathroom.’</p><p><br />Now I realize in a country that smells this bad and is populated with this many people, privacy is a luxury. And in Ayurvedic medicine, practitioners warn against the dangers of holding back any natural bodily function which then leads to certain brashness that American’s aren’t accustomed to. I constantly see signs all over Bangalore that kindly ask its residents not to pass urine on the street and I constantly step over the signs that they’re doing it anyway. I couldn’t help but ask Ganesh one day why it is that whenever an Indian man is standing still it’s because he’s peeing. I don’t think he had an answer or even understood the question since, in his mind, it sounded rhetorical. A recent acquaintance recently pointed out that all of the signs are in English only which sparks a whole new set of questions.</p><p><br />So as I sat poised to drink my water, I had to wonder if I was setting myself up for the worst sort of karaoke experience of which I personally would never recover. My internal debate was put on hold when Ganesh returned and gestured towards the sink, “go wash your hands,” he instructed and I scampered up to rush towards the sink before the American in me could instinctually respond to his demand with a defiant “hey . . . !” regardless of the fact that not washing my hands when ordered was only going to put me in greater bacterial peril. As I stepped in front of the sink, I noted that there were no signs of an actual toilet much to my relief but it still left me wondering, public debut aside, if I would be able to tolerate the tap water. On the one hand, simple precautions are important but on the other hand have I wussified my immune system? What good are biceps if it’s my immune system that buckles?</p><p><br />In a recent <a href="http://healthlink.mcw.edu/article/1031002421.html">Healthlink</a> post <a href="http://doctor.mcw.edu/provider.php?1713">Subra Kugathasan, MD</a>, Medical College of Wisconsin Associate Professor of Pediatrics (Gastroenterology) said, "The immune system is there for a reason. It's there to recognize 'the bad guys.' The immune system allows your body to kill those bad guys and allows you to survive. In order to harden the immune system, the immune system requests some kind of stimuli all the time." That doesn’t mean bottoms up on tap water all over India, however. And watching Ganesh wipe his plate with a napkin before serving lunch didn’t convince me I wasn’t dining on microbial appetizers as it was. A paper napkin is probably as effective as ordering pathogens away with an ‘allakazam!’ which I considered doing simply to entertain the patrons who were still staring in spite of the fact that it sounded a little too much like a Muslim blessing in an area where I couldn’t gauge religious fervor. </p><p>Ultimately the problem with contaminated water is that nobody knows the recipe. In the book ‘<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Plague-Time-Germ-Theory-Disease/dp/0385721846/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226248102&sr=8-1">Plague Time</a>,’ Paul W. Ewald, professor of biology at Amherst College, argues that long-term infections may be at the root of chronic diseases including cancer so that any immediate digestive distress may be the least of my concerns putting aside for the moment the benefit of a hardened immune system. As an example, T-cell Leukemia which results from a cancerous growth of white blood cells develops from an early infection, “This cancer has been especially well studied in Japan, where people who die from it are infected as babies from their mothers’ milk. Though infected during the first year of life, they first develop leukemia many decades later – about half the people who eventually develop the cancer do so after their sixtieth birthday. Only about one out of every twenty-five infected people develops the cancer,” Ewald reports.</p><p><br />The deciding factor in the leukemia lottery is anybody’s guess since lifestyle factors are so broad it would be impossible to say. Some scientists though will just say anyway. In research that appeared in ‘the China Study’ where Aflotoxin was used as a starter fuel for liver cancer, T. Colin Campbell blamed the end results on protein intake. The protein in question that seemed to accelerate tumor growth was casein, a dairy protein, but Campbell made the assumption that all proteins would do the same even though he had no specific evidence. Since Aflotoxin is a mold that grows on peanuts and more often than not contaminates peanut butter as a result, it can be assumed that every American child including me who grew up on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a glass of cold milk is at risk. At that age, I may still have opted for a potentially damaged liver because frankly peanut butter is yummy and nothing can unstick it from the roof of your mouth quite like milk.</p><p><br />And much like the case of leukemia, the sweet mother who lovingly served the peanut butter sandwiches and milk, may have already gifted other germs that can sneak up later. As reported by Ewald a schizophrenia expert named Fuller Torrey found that nearly half of the schizophrenics tested by his group were infected with toxoplasma gondii. This further supported a study published many years earlier that tested schizophrenics for both the existence of LSD and T. gondii infection, “Over half of their patients were infected with T. gondii, and these infected patients were almost always the same patients who tested positive in the LSD test. The production of LSD or an LSD-like compound in T. gondii-infected schizophrenics strengthens the case for T. gondii as a cause of the hallucinations experienced by schizophrenics, and, more generally, as a cause of schizophrenia.” Since the mothers of schizophrenics were almost five times more likely to be infected, scientists suspect transmission during pregnancy. The only other means of transmission discussed was through the licking of cat droppings which I suspect is far less likely barring unfortunate unsupervised sandbox incidences since cats see a child’s sandbox as luxury accommodations.</p><p><br />Given those risks, it’s almost understandable that the western approach is to Clorox the crap out of everything which interestingly seems to mirror our foreign policy. Theoretically however this leads to an immune system imbalance as well as an exaggerated reaction to simple allergens which can develop into life-threatening asthmatic attacks as well as autoimmune disorders. “Exposure to microbes, through active infection or in the absence of infection, may initiate protective responses.[5] In the absence of infection, both viable and nonviable components or fragments of a broad range of micro-organisms found at different concentrations in different environments may be involved. These microbial derivatives, which are primarily recognized by the innate immune system (as opposed to T-cell-specific adaptive immunity), may drive protective responses, especially at the cytokine level. This exposure to microbial derivatives may play a critical role in the shaping of the immune response when encountered at important stages during the maturation of immune responses. This could result in the development of immune tolerance to potential allergens” reported a recent post on Medscape entitled <a href="http://www.medscape.com/viewarticle/452170">‘The Hygiene Hypothesis Revisited: Pros and Cons’</a> by Erwin W. Gelfand, MD National Jewish Medical and Research Center. </p><p><br />"Think about countries in Africa like Gambia, a country that has been studied very well . Ninety to ninety-nine percent of people in Gambia have intestinal worms at some point in their lives. But the chronic immune diseases like asthma, Crohn's disease, or multiple sclerosis are not heard of, never even mentioned in their life. They don't know anything about such diseases in those countries. While one may argue that maybe their population is genetically not predisposed to these diseases, other factors appear to be in play,” said Dr. Kugathasan. </p><p><br />The Medscape piece explains this concept in greater detail by saying, “A major basis for the hypothesis is that improved hygienic conditions in Western or developed countries results in less infection-driven or microbial pressure during early but critical time periods in early childhood. This change in pressure, in turn, results in an important failure to maintain an optimal balance between the 2 opposing T-helper cell responses when cytokine profiles are examined -- the Th1 and Th2 responses. Th1 responses are dominated by interferon (IFN)-gamma and interleukin (IL)-12 production, whereas Th2 responses are primarily associated with IL-4, IL-5, IL-13 (and IL-10) production. In association with reductions or altered exposures to infectious agents or their components, it is proposed that Th2 immunity, predominating from birth, dominates through critical childhood periods, resulting in the higher incidence of atopy and asthma.” </p><p><br />According to The National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute as reported in <a href="http://www.sciencenews.org/sn_arc99/8_14_99/bob2.htm">‘Modern Hygiene’s Dirty Tricks, the Clean Life May Throw Off a Delicate balance in the immune system’ by Siri Carpenter</a> for sciencenews.org that incidences of asthma are now 1.75 times what it was in 1980 in the United States, and for children less than 4 years old, 2.60 times the earlier incidences. </p><p><br />As I’ve often mentioned, I have suffered from bouts of asthma, mostly sports induced, as well as dermatitis. Both of these conditions can be controlled by keeping my carbohydrate consumption down and omitting grains from my diet completely. My experience so far in India is that my asthma has disappeared completely in spite of heavy air pollution and my dermatitis is controlled regardless of my diet which has suffered as I’ve navigated a city addicted to sugar in all its forms. Is this proof? Certainly not. As in all other ‘studies’, there have been too many lifestyle changes confounding the results. In Bangalore I sleep more, work less, train reasonably and have far less stress. And though I’ve certainly had occasion to challenge my immune system, had I not been inoculated by order of my Dad before I arrived, I’d be at risk for polio, malaria, typhoid and Hepatitis. Interestingly, inoculations themselves decreased the severity of allergic reactions in some children cited sciencenews.org while again other scientists argue that low-level infection or exposure to the actual virus provides greater benefit in the long run. </p><p><br />“Several studies have advanced the theory that fecal contamination of the environment (and possibly infections such as hepatitis A), and unhygienic food handling may similarly protect against development of atopy. Intestinal microflora could also exert a continuous stimulation of the immune system, resulting in immune polarization -- the cleaner the intestine or the nature of colonization of the intestine, the more Th2-driven is the immune response,” wrote Gelfand. Fecal contamination? Unhygienic food handling? Check! and check! This is India. If food regulations exist here they’d be followed as strictly and enforced as reliably as the traffic laws. </p><p>I followed Ganesh recently on a little adventure south of the city to find an apartment to rent. A client had told him about a newly constructed building where there where flats available and I went with him to check out a neighborhood I hadn’t yet explored. As the highway turned to a dirt track and we started maneuvering the motorcycle around not only the usual pack of stray dogs but families of squealing piglets and a more forthright collection of cattle that were less willing to yield than their downtown brethren, I began to wonder if I was about to be the victim of a ransom scheme. Bandicoots! “Ganesh, did you tell anyone you’d be traveling with a white woman?! I don’t have money, you know!” I yelled at the back of his helmet. When we stopped at a stall to wait for his client, he ordered the most suspect baked item I have ever seen. It had a creamy topping that sat sweating and melting beneath a sun that blazed through the bakery case. It was specked with an equal number of Technicolor candied fruit shavings and common house flies and tossed to him on a corner of newspaper by the same ungloved hand that gave him his change. </p><p><br />Even after he all but ordered me to taste it and/or select a snack of my own, I refused as I pondered what it would take to wrestle an item away from the fly infestation. I pictured walking a plank with Ganesh nudging me unkindly from behind. Hold on there little grumbly belly, mummy isn’t going to hurt you, I whispered soothingly to my empty stomach after again refusing in a tone that made Ganesh look around at the other patrons. Though I’ve had occasion to imagine a number of creative ways to fell Ganesh, he was as usual unfazed by his medicinal dosing of microbes or my foot-stomping feistiness.</p><p><br />"What has happened now, with globalization and human migration, people move to areas that are very, very clean. Within one generation we have moved into a different environment. What we have been finding out is that in the second generation of Asian, Latin American and African children, where the first generation had been exposed to those kinds of parasites and early childhood infections, the second generation that has moved to 'cleaner' countries has not been exposed. The incidence of Crohn's disease, multiple sclerosis, and chronic asthma is as common in the second generation from the third world as in those with European or North American backgrounds, and in some cases even higher," said Dr. Kugathasan and I couldn’t help but wonder what happens when you’re unwise enough to migrate in the other direction. </p><p><br />My mother was a first generation American born of a Sicilian mother and a Swedish father. Before dying at the age of 61, she suffered from rheumatoid arthritis and Type 2 Diabetes in spite of her often below-average bodyweight. My sister, my nephews and I have all had digestive issues throughout our lives. My father is essentially bulletproof and, of the few maladies he complains of, none of them occur from anything other than bad habits completely of his making and often questionable lifestyle choices which make him marginally unhealthy but very entertaining at parties. </p><p><br />While my mother spent most of her childhood in Catholic School, my father spent his youth on farms during extended summer vacations and as a result chose to raise us part of the time on a farm of his own where he grew much of our food. As it turns out, it’s exposure to livestock that helps cultivate the immune system. In fact, Jared Diamond argued that point even within the very title of his book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Guns-Germs-Steel-Jared-Diamond/dp/0739467352/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226248394&sr=1-1">‘Guns, Germs and Steel’</a> in explaining what factors lead to the dominance of one society over another. </p><p><br />“The protective effects of a farming environment in childhood provide important evidence in favor of the hypothesis that environmental factors encountered in childhood could have a lifelong protective effect against the development of allergy. Since there are numerous reports of an increase in asthma in a number of settings -- for example, urban African towns and inner cities in the United States, it is not simply a clean vs. dirty environment that may dictate outcome. The farming environments may be creating an immunologic setting, beyond endotoxin exposure, that directs the immune response along a particular pathway,” wrote Gelfand. In the case of my sister and me, our health problems developed later and our time on the farm was limited to weekends and perhaps cancelled out entirely by my mother’s efforts to love us to death with sugar.</p><p><br />Though I now live in a city, I have regular contact with livestock whether I know it or not. The cows and donkey carts that regularly merge with downtown traffic are the more obvious signs of an inner-city animal population but the other morning I saw the spindly legs of goats being carted to market in the same Rikshaws I take to work. Though the two goats sat quietly with their owner as if this was their regular mode of transportation, I’m guessing they make the trip to Russell Market only once. I make the trip to Russell Market more frequently where I mingle with the chickens, cows and goats as I weave between the vegetable stalls in my flip flops. Even the eggs I bring back are never washed and are often smudged with broken egg yolks and what I’ll call ‘dirt’. My belly has never felt better.</p><p><br />It’s the hearty constitution of farmers that had researchers at the University of Iowa in Iowa City pondering parasites. Joel V. Weinstock, David E. Elliott, and Robert W. Summers are examining the possibility that immune imbalances may contribute to the rising incidence of inflammatory bowel disease reported Carpenter for <a href="http://www.sciencenews.org/sn_arc99/8_14_99/bob2.htm">sciencenews.org</a>. </p><p><br />“Weinstock's group proposes that the Th1 dominance stems from a lack of parasitic worms called helminths. Despite parasites' bad reputation, the researchers contend that helminths are important members of the intestinal community. Throughout evolution, they say, the human immune system has grown to depend on helminths to suppress overly aggressive Th1 responses to bacteria, viruses, and dietary proteins. Because modern sanitation has largely eliminated intestinal parasites, the immune system sometimes begins to attack the lining of the gut.”<br />The article goes on to say, “The team has also begun treating a few patients suffering from inflammatory bowel disease by giving them a drink spiked with eggs from a harmless whipworm. Of six patients studied so far, all showed substantial improvement in their symptoms, the researchers reported at the May meeting.” I think I’ve had that drink. Here we like to call it ‘tap water’. </p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-41178554922960798202008-10-20T06:50:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.216-08:00Rolling RikshawsI had an uneasy feeling as a started for the door on Saturday morning and I delayed my departure at least a couple of times with silly last-minute trips up the stairs to collect a map first and then an extra clean t-shirt. Finally I walked past Joseph at his laptop on my way out the door and told him, “Ok, I’m scared. I don’t want to go.”<br /><br />It was the usual complaints of auto drivers taking me for a ride and of not finding my destination because of my accent. Really most of it had to do with the fact that I was heading to my first <a href="http://images.google.co.in/images?hl=en&q=kalaripayattu&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&resnum=4&ct=title">Kalaripayattu class</a> and I was unsure of what I’d find especially because clips on YouTube showed this ancient fighting style that originated in nearby Kerala looked fierce. Videos showed sleek, dark warriors with loin clothes flapping and sharp blades slicing at lithe opponents all set to sounds of ominous tribal music. I looked down at my synthetic yoga pants and warn Addidas sneakers and realized that this is yet another place in which I will surely stick out.<br /><br />“Traditional Kalari masters attribute mythological stories and legends to the origin of the art. Legend traces the 3000-year-old art form to Sage Parasurama- the master of all martial art forms and credited to be the re-claimer of Kerala from the Arabian Sea,” said the website <a href="http://www.kalaripayattu.org/">kalaripayattu.org</a>. “The inherent beauty of this art form lies in the harmonious synergy of art, science and medicine.” I was drawn as much to Kalari because of the medical treatment and massage techniques that developed alongside this art partly out of necessity given the intensity of the training, “The various movements in Kalari are based on animal movements. Several poses are named after animals. Hence it is generally believed to have developed in the jungles when hunters observed the fighting techniques of various animals.” Judging from the website, the fighting style of the possum was not incorporated.<br /><br />After walking half way down the street only to return to the apartment again to unload my laptop and the extra rupees I was carrying, Joseph gave me a pep talk explaining that it was statistically more likely that I’d get in an auto accident before I’d get stripped of all my material goods in Wilson Gardens. I didn’t tell him I was nervous taking any new class in case it exposes once and for all that I’m a dork. With his parting words and my laptop safely at home, however, I headed out into the street again.<br /><br />Things started going wrong as the auto zig-zaged the city and I knew the driver was either fattening his fare or expecting the deity on the dashboard to pipe in at any moment with the proper directions like a third world GPS. Auto drivers always nod when you tell them where you want to go whether or not they have any clue and then expect divine intervention as if that’s ever been a successful strategy.<br /><br />If asked, I couldn’t even begin to explain where Bus Depot Road was in Wilson Gardens and I wasn’t about to get dropped off any old place to navigate the rest of the way myself. Not that I have anything against the Muslim sections here but they don’t especially greet me warmly and I wasn’t wearing a headscarf. Joseph had suggested it again before I left but frankly while wearing a head scarf, I look less like Audrey Hepburn in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ and more like a criminal doing the perp walk shrouded under somebody’s windbreaker. It would probably get me into more trouble.<br /><br />Just the previous week I had jumped from a moving auto to escape a driver who refused to take me home until I walked around a trinket shop after which the proprietor would reward him with a gas coupon. This has happened to me several times and each time I’ve escaped to ensure the driver isn’t rewarded in the hopes of discouraging this practice. Unfortunately at the point in which the driver had slowed sufficiently to allow me to accomplish my stunt in flip-flops, I found myself jumping into the middle of Shivanji Nagar during the call to prayer. I was of course wearing gym clothes and I was uncovered except for my larger than average diesel sunglasses.<br /><br />At that point I was approached by a dog which I thought odd because most strays here are like <a href="http://paranormal.about.com/od/demonsandexorcism/a/aa060506.htm">Djinns</a>. They barely exist in this world and operate as if they belong to a separate reality. I looked down to see the sad brown eyes before noticing the foam bubbling from it’s rabid mouth. Facing the infected beast however seemed far friendlier than exchanging pleasantries with the Muslim men whose disapproving scowls warned me in a most unwelcome way to put my flip flops on turbo. This was still on my mind as we navigated Wilson Gardens.<br /><br />After clamoring down dirt roads and stopping for directions we finally found the landmark Mondavi Motors and the driver parked and waited for his inflated fare. As I dug in my dufflebag for the handful of rupees, I suddenly saw the driver lurch forward just as I heard the thunderous crack coming from right behind me. The Rickshaw, essentially a motorized rabbit hutch, was flying forward only to pirouette on it’s single front wheel before rolling onto it’s side. I was a caged bunny being tossed and I braced against the bars, put my left foot to the ground to try and stabilize myself and crumpled onto my side. Once the auto came to rest, I gathered the things that fell from my bag and then popped out of the side of the rikshaw suddenly startling the dozen or so men already collecting around the accident scene.<br /><br />“Move!” I said, and made motions for everyone to step back. I could see the collection of gentleman beginning to assess the scene and form extraction strategies. It’s not that they couldn’t figure out how to get me out of the wreck but things like this are done in no big hurry and sometimes only after a hearty debate over tea and occasionally biscuits. I wasn’t about to wait around for the congress to form and for officers to be chosen especially since my left ankle was clearly injured and beginning to throb. Instead, I grabbed both sides of the auto, jumped into a locked-out position, tucked my knees to my chest and kicked out forward to clear the vehicle and land on the other side of the wreck on my right foot saving my left ankle from further damage. It was a dismount worthy of <a href="http://www.strug.org/">Kerri Strug</a> and reminiscent of her <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lIImbyIBm-s">1996 Olympic moment.</a><br /><br />This further alarmed the crowd. And it’s not that they don’t see this sort of movement all the time. In Russell Market, vegetable vendors who are boxed in behind piles of produce hang a short rope from the rafters and when they need to get out into the isle they grab the rope and swing Tarzan style over the vegetation. The first time I saw a vendor do it I wanted to squeal and clap while chanting “Do it again! Do it again!” especially since it was done with such grace I thought it was a trick of the eye. I completely lost track of Shiva’s haggling - which I don’t understand but I like to watch his face get serious - to stare down the rows waiting for another vendor to pop into the walkway.<br /><br />Apparently, this sort of thing was not expected of me. I was a wild, caged thing escaping from captivity and they weren’t sure whether I was going to dart away into the jungle or stop to maul a villager first. I simply grabbed my backpack and hopped to the curb to take my shoe off. From this vantage point, I could assess the scene and I could see that it was a milk truck that hit us. As I said later on Facebook, it put a whole new spin on lactose intolerance.<br /><br />When I called Chandana and started to cry – because I’m a girl and I do that – the crowd realized I was harmless and began collecting around me to help. This included every employee of Mondavi Motors much to the consternation of the manager who kept assuring everybody that it was nothing and that I was merely scratched. I think he was hoping that this bulletin would send everybody back to work. On the insistence of the crowd, I hopped into the lobby where groups of men formed into special interest groups that included “shoe on”, “shoe off”, “Ice”, “No Ice”, “sock on” and “sock off”. They discussed the merits of their arguments as seriously as if their medical credentials were being questioned.<br /><br />In everybody’s defense they really were trying to help but there isn’t a lot a crowd of Indian men can really do about a sprained ankle though the bottled water, iodine and helpful sock theories were all very thoughtful. At that point, I called my friend Ganesh because I had a lot of people staring at me and short of magic tricks I didn’t know how else to make the whole thing more interesting for the group of men focusing on my ankle who had already resolved the most pressing issues of sock and shoe usage. When Ganesh answered I cried because I’m a girl and I do that.<br /><br />In spite of the fact that Shiva was on his way, Ganesh insisted on coming to stare at my ankle with the rest of them. I had somehow just made the situation worse by adding another set of eyeballs and with nothing else to discuss, the crowd was getting antsy. I told the manager of Mondavi motors that he’d been very helpful but I was going to go to the Kalari class behind his building to let them know that I wasn’t going to be in class today. At which point the manager insisted that I sit while he arranged for a car to drive me 50 feet down the alley and provided me with four of the Indian men to carry my backpack.<br /><br />My entourage arranged themselves in the compact car while the driver insisted I smile because everything was fine. I think under normal circumstances things would be super if you can get four men to carry your backpack. My posse escorted me into the building and started ordering ice packs, cushions, first aid supplies and I’m assuming peanut M&M’s but just the green ones from the women who worked there. I whispered to the one student taking the class we just interrupted, “Please, I’m sorry for the disruption. I don’t need anything, really. I was just trying to get away from all the men at Mondavi Motors.” She smiled as if she immediately understood my situation.<br /><br />After observing the class for a few minutes and effectively giving the men of Mondavi Motors the slip, I excused myself to meet Ganesh. He arrived in a motorcade apparently having dragged the client he was training out of the gym to hop on his own motorbike and join Ganesh on his rescue mission. After a few minutes of pointless debate about how Shiva was on his way and that there was no point taking me anywhere, I finally hopped on the back of the bike with the words, “come, we go.”<br /><br />I clutched at Ganesh on the short trip to Gold’s Gym, cowering from the usual traffic hazards and offering rapid fire directions on what obstacles to avoid as if he hadn’t done this before. Ganesh wore a cracked helmet which means that if he were to have an accident it would only serve as a bucket to scoop up his remains. This fact suddenly bothered me when before I hadn’t given it much thought. He just laughed and said, “Chellum, you sounded so upset on the phone, I thought there was something wrong.” He calls me ‘chellum’ which in Tamil means ‘dear’, or maybe when I get around to looking it up ‘white she-devil with loose morals’.<br /><br />“Um, yeah. You caught the part about the rolling rickshaw right?! That most definitely is something wrong!” At this point I was vacillating between the, “it was nothing” argument which was ok when I said it, to “you try rolling in a rickshaw!” argument whenever anyone else suggested that it was nothing.<br /><br />It was a harrowing ride and even the potholes were out to get me. I was looking forward to the safety and security of Shiva and the Maruti. I’d sit in the little air conditioned car with the seat belt pulled extra tight and Shiva and I would laugh about my escapades the way we do when we’re pretending that we know what the other one is talking about. Somehow it wouldn’t seem all that painful, I thought as I could feel the swelling and watch the bruises forming like angry dark storm clouds.<br /><br />When the car arrived Shiva looked grim. India had mistreated one of her guests and he was distraught. At that point I was willing to dance a jig just to erase the sad look on poor Shiva’s face. “See, Lookee here Shiva, It’s all good!” I’d say with a little Can Can and some jazz hands for effect.<br /><br />“I’m ok, Shiva,” I kept insisted and he would just shake his head, “go to the hospital, madame?” “No hospital. I’m ok,” I’d say again. “Oh, it’s a very bad day, Madame,” he’d say shaking his head and looking even more sad as if that were possible.<br /><br />Just the day before <a href="http://www.fitnotes.net/">Fran Mason</a> of <a href="http://www.crossfitseattle.com/">Level 4 CrossFit Seattle</a> had sent me a link to a website regarding ankle sprains because my friend Nisar had been suffering from a nasty sprain that hadn’t healed. I remembered Fran and Scott Tanaka talking about it while I was there one day but I wasn’t working with clients at the time and my own ankles, up to that point, had proven to be sturdy as hell. Now, it was the perfect time for a miraculous recovery or Shiva would need to be medicated.<br /><br />The <a href="http://donticethatanklesprain.com/">Website</a> suggested a style of treatment completely different from the standard R.I.C.E. or Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation. This was from the ‘Rub some dirt on it,’ school of treatment which I immediately embraced. The website explains, “Ice should never be applied to an injured ankle, because it stops the healing process. What the injured ankle needs is movement, as quickly as possible after the injury, in order to restore proper range of motion by realigning the ligaments.” Or, in other words quite literally, ‘Walk it off.’<br /><br />I looked at the video clips describing traction techniques created by Dick Hartzell, AKA the ‘rubberband man’ who invented Flex Bands and founded the company <a href="http://www.flexbandonline.com/jumpstretch.htm">Jump Stretch, Inc</a>. Since I didn’t have rubberbands and wouldn’t have time to purchase them even if they are sold in this country, I embarked on my own interpretation using a bath towel and going through the motions of plantarflexion, dorsiflexion, eversion and inversion during the first few hours and subsequently through a long and painful night. Admittedly, I considered the man a quack at times and wanted to throw in the towel, grab an ice pack and rock back and forth wailing, “Owweee!” instead. Maybe I’d even cry because I’m a girl and girls do that.<br /><br />Even though I had my doubts, what the website said made sense. It stated, “A large percentage of “minor” (Grade I and Grade II) ankle sprains are treated in a manner that incapacitates the person for several weeks. When an ankle is sprained, some ligaments have been over-stretched and are possibly misaligned. When you ice an ankle at this stage, blood flow is stopped and ligaments are essentially frozen out of place. Combine that with rest and now you’ve got muscle atrophy and a host of other problems.”<br /><br />After doing the exercises again at 2 a.m. and distracting myself with a few pages of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Shamans-Apprentice-Ethnobotanist-Medicines/dp/014012991X">‘Tales of a Shaman’s Apprentice,”</a> a book I’m reading by Mark J. Plotkin, Ph.D., I was able to sleep soundly and woke up with the bruises looking just as angry but with full ankle flexion. The inflammation does not allow me to commit my full weight on that foot but my ligaments and tendons are unharmed and the pain is a result of the bruising alone. I can’t say that Hartzell’s therapy works simply because I didn’t technically use the therapy as he described nor could I say that the treatment healed my ankle faster because I would’ve had to know the duration and severity of the injury with and without ice.<br /><br />The trainer’s at Gold’s all got to know of my adventure and, after seeing the purple bruises and the inflammation, asked whether I had been icing. What they know is that the A.C.E. manual recommends R.I.C.E. and that I at one time had been A.C.E. certified. They’re not at a point where their willing to question any expertise printed in manuals from the United States even if the results they’re getting are subpar. I’ve long since questioned ‘treatment plans’ and theories that get argued vehemently in spite of poor outcomes but then I understand how much ‘science’ gets accepted thanks to politics and special interest groups.<br /><br />This could be a tipping point for India as I’ve been seeing since I’ve been here. They have the curiosity to question but not the willingness at this point to consider that the path taken by our ‘experts’ may have been poorly plotted. In the U.S. I’ve had arguments with trainers who are so indoctrinated they won’t question results and will inevitably blame the client for outcomes. Please tell me India won’t blindly take this route. It leads to obesity and malfunction – just look at our results.<br /><br />Meanwhile, it’s two days after my accident and I was back to squatting and snatching today. I have a competition to train for or something.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-70770019669361844312008-10-16T08:33:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.216-08:00Ladies who lunch<p>India was smiling at me today. And I was smiling back especially as one gentleman sang Justin Timberlake at me as I passed by his car window. It was 9:30a on a Sunday and I just finished working out with my friend Raghu. He has one of the few names I could pronounce right away and he had no idea that there’s a spaghetti sauce by that name. I explained it was sort of a Pasta masala, let’s say and since then he’s sent me text messages signed ‘Mr. Sauce’. </p><p><br />Most of Bangalore had long been awake I think in part because bars close at 11:00 p.m. and dancing is prohibited anywhere that alcohol is served. If you’ve seen Bollywood’s gyration generation on VH1 recently, you’d understand that this law probably has more to do with rampant hip dislocations than a wobble towards conservatism. It makes for early nights around here though. Not to mention that it was day four of a five day <a href="http://content-www.cricinfo.com/ci/engine/match/345669.html?CMP=OTC-GCN">cricket match against Australia</a> and the fervor hadn’t dampened in spite of dampening rains and India’s poor showing. I remember thinking after day one when the hoards poured from Chinniswamy hooting like soccer hooligans, “pace yourselves people! There are four more blasted days of this!” </p><p><br />I was particularly impressed with their rigorous cheering after a day in the stands where even Indians will admit it’s hot. Generally Bangalore is considered mild or even ‘cold’ by Indian standards and that’s why the coffee is heated to 190 degrees. The bubbling heat in combination with all the added sugar should be just short of <a href="http://www.exploratorium.edu/cooking/candy/sugar-stages.html">hard-ball stage</a> which would turn their latte into a lozenge all to escape a chill. I was incredulous as this was explained to me by the Barista as I peeled the shirt away from my sticky back. I have grown to accept the fact that my conditions are now permanently swampy and that, however unpleasant, I can support a new kind of ecosystem that I care not to ponder. At night I’ve considered kissing the ceiling fan in thanks but I’ve been reluctant to get that close to the blades in the dark when I’m groggy. I do, however fall back asleep smiling as I’m lulled by its sweet, sweet hum.</p><p><br />I skipped a couple of hours of blissful fanning the other night in favor of a couple of extra hours of crowded swamp-dwelling. I went to my <a href="http://www.asklaila.com/search/Bangalore/-/scottish%20pub%20pub/?searchNearby=false&ac=true">first pub in Bangalore</a> making what feeble contribution I could make emptying a pitcher of <a href="http://www.kingfisherworld.com/">Kingfisher beer</a> with friends while I pretended not to notice the sweat dripping down my clammy belly having, as usual, come straight from the gym. I was trying to remember the directions I read in a guide book that explained how to avoid the epic headache that the local brew can apparently give you and wondering why so many things in this country have a nasty backlash. </p><p><br />Even the <a href="http://www.expressgiftservice.com/images/products/middlegifts-mithai-chum-chum.jpg">favorite milk treats</a> here squirt sweet syrup venomously and squeak against your teeth as if in defense and protest. I’m unwilling to eat anything that puts up that kind of tussle, sounds like a baby rat and is an unnatural shade of pink. As for the beer, I recall the first step had something to do with tipping a bottle upside down. At the time it sounded less like science and more like a Puja so I quickly forgot how it went.</p><p><br />As I pondered, Vinayak said, “do you have a curfew?”</p><p><br />“Wha . . .?” In Seattle before I left I overheard two different conversations on Broadway between young hoodlums casually talking about their ‘PO’ or parole officer. If the subject of a curfew had come up then, it would have had context. I also remember noting at the time that moving out of my neighborhood started to look like genius. Here, I couldn’t figure out where a curfew might be coming from and figured it might be yet another thing caused by the viscous mosquitoes.</p><p><br />With a puzzled expression, I finally said “I’m like . . . 40!?,” using a vocabulary implying that I’m like . . . 20. “Mine’s nine. In fact it’s 9:30 now, I’m surprised my father hasn’t called.” He’s 26 and just spent the last couple of years in the U.K. getting masters in finance which, in the present economy, may qualify him for a job teaching Karate Kickboxing classes at Gold’s gym. That happens to be what he’s doing while on vacation this week besides being punched in the arm and browbeaten by the ladies at the table who were drinking the local wine. It was bright fuchsia and tasted like fermented Snapple.</p><p><br />I’ve been taking his class as a ramp up to the kickboxing class that I teach in the mornings and also because he’s one of the first people I can talk to here that understands most of what I’m saying. With a background in Karate, he finds the preoccupation with caloric expenditure to the exclusion of skill-development about as perplexing as I do. We can’t figure out if the disconnect is between our mouths and their ears or their ears and their limbs but whatever inspires their locomotion in class has little at all to do with the directions they’ve been given. At least they aren’t terribly concerned about it but Vinayak and I talked over beer as if we had blown something up in a science lab and were trying to piece together what went horribly wrong.</p><p><br />The problem probably begins when they sign up based on an advertisement written on a white board as they walk in that says I’m NSCM certified – a qualification that doesn’t exist – and that the class will be spurred on by rousing heart-rate elevating music. Unless I’ve forgotten to close the door to the studio where bumpin‘ techno remixes blast in from the fitness floor, there is no music for me to shout over especially the latest hits by superstar Bryan Adams, a singer I abandoned at about the same moment tears over my junior high heartbreak dried up. Slight Indian ladies walk in and learn how to twist off a man’s balls set to the tune of my barking voice. India has no idea what I’ve just done given that most of the women I’ve met here have 1/10 of my muscle but ten times my attitude evidenced by the ladies at the bar who had Vinayak, with his advanced training, ducking their flying fists. I was scared of them in spite of my purple belt and before any of them could aim.</p><p><br />Frankly, I find the inevitable physical assault of some of the males here both justified and long overdue. I’ve had several conversations with strange Indian men here that have made me consider giving up peace, love and harmony in favor of militant feminism. On two occasions, I was tricked into what I can only describe as a job interview which is particularly accurate given that dating either of these gentlemen would have felt a lot like work. Apparently some men here believe all it takes is a thirty-minute rapid-fire Q&A to get that whole girlfriend thing handled over a cup of coffee. </p><p><br />One gentleman chatted me up while I was at a café writing and as he ticked each question off his list he sidled his chair ever closer to me until our knees would brush and I’d move my chair. Had he actually listened to my answers rather than wait for my mouth to stop making noises, he would have heard that I was annoyed and had he noticed the way I turned my chair to halt his advance he would have had the good sense to run away. What happened instead was a good ole Sicilian what-for complete with hand gestures and a very detailed list of reasons why he should leave white women alone. </p><p><br />I think he just waited for my mouth to stop making noise so he could apologize for something he didn’t quite understand. And this is where a good ball twisting becomes absolutely necessary.<br /></p><p>The finale occurred after the following exchange:</p><p><br />“Are you married?” he said, with a nervous twitch in the form of rapid-fire blinking while he grinned in a fake ‘group photo’ sort of way.</p><p><br />“No” I said, shuffling my chair away from him further.</p><p><br />“You don’t want to marry?” with all the shock of an Indian auntie.</p><p><br />“I haven’t found anyone I’d like to marry, no.” I said in a tone that should have registered ‘please notice that I’m being dismissive.’</p><p><br />“You can’t find anyone to marry? After all this time?!” he said after having resolved the ‘how old are you’ question. Even the numerologist at brunch on Sunday felt compelled to point out that time was running out. He assured me I’d be wed by the time I was forty which caused me to put down my fork because that’s less than twelve months to fit in a wedding dress and I had allowed myself to indulge in a little <a href="http://members.rediff.com/recipies/hyderabadibiryani.htm">Biryani</a> after beating the 20-year-old Raghu’s time in the workout that morning. The fortune-teller gave me his number so I could call in the next two months with ‘happy news’ though I’m told that ‘happy news’ in India generally means you’re pregnant which is the news my sister would have preferred from me rather than marriage.</p><p><br />“No. I have found men I COULD marry, I just haven’t found one I WANTED to marry,” I said. </p><p>Dear India: Please note the distinction so I’m saved from saying it again. Sincerely, Heather.</p><p><br />And as he chased me from the café puzzled that I hadn’t set up a time to meet again especially since it was clear that we were now dating, I wondered why violence isn’t a more legitimate form of communication. Instead I got in the car with Shiva and exclaimed, present company excluded, “You, no problem! But Indian men are blech!” hoping in spite of his inability to understand English that ‘Blech!’ might be universal. I had already explained to him when he asked me a few days earlier, “Drive other country? No English? Three years, maybe?” that he could be a driver in another country because women don’t expect men to understand them even after a couple of years. Heck, I myself recently proved it. And then he grinned like he knew what I was saying and that was close enough. </p><p><br />I was however hoping for a deeper level of understanding when I got in the car a couple of days ago on my way to Kanteerava Stadium. It was finally my day to work out with the Olympic Lifters and Power Lifters who had just returned from a competition in Mysore over Dessera and Shiva was driving me to the stadium. I told him that I was scared and I threw in a pouty, “I feel fat!” since he couldn’t understand what I was saying anyway and wouldn’t think to tell me I was being ridiculous. Shiva is my best friend.</p><p><br />“Shiva, you don’t understand! I saw a skinny, little Indian mom who can deadlift 151 Kilos!” I told him.</p><p><br />“How much you lift Madame?” he asked in a way that made it sound like the chorus of a pop song.</p><p><br />“Well, I can squat about 102 kilos,” I said a little shyly.</p><p><br />“Ooh, good job, Madame!” he said and then exclaimed “40 Kilos” and made motions demonstrating how he’d buckle under a 40K bicep curl all while he maneuvered through traffic. Then I grinned while he grinned. I marched into the stadium with that and nothing to lose.</p><p><br />Kavia set up the squat rack, alternated lifts with me and interpreted the directions from the head coach whose name has more than three syllables. It means I won’t have any idea how to pronounce it for at least a couple more weeks. I just smiled at her a lot and lowered my gaze to communicate her alpha status and then I nodded and thanked her when she said I’ll be competing in a month.</p><p><br />Chandana, who’s life tends to proceed as if it were planned or something, asked me all the questions that any reasonable person would ask as we sat poolside watching Diya’s swimming class at the Catholic Club.</p><p><br />Reasonable question one: “competing in what, exactly?”</p><p><br />“I don’t know”</p><p><br />Reasonable question two: “Who are you representing?”</p><p><br />“I don’t know”</p><p><br />Reasonable question three: “Where?”</p><p><br />“I don’t know”</p><p><br />Reasonable question four: “Can you do that?”</p><p><br />“I don’t know”</p><p><br />I sometimes find logic irritating. And it went on like that but I’ll spare the details.<br />The trainers asked none of those questions since they just appreciate competition and assume I’ll win because: 1. They believe there are strong Indian women as strongly as they believe in unicorns and fairies and 2. I’m ‘big’. </p><p><br />Ganesh offered his usual advice, “dye your hair black,” which is what he generally says because he thinks I’ll blend better and because I think he doesn’t like the looks he gets when I’m on the back of his motorcycle any more than I do. I offered my usual reply, “Shave your moustache.”</p><p><br />The friends back home who had the romantic notion that I would come here to marry underestimated the obstacle that is the south Indian moustache. It’s everywhere and for me it’s nothing more than a libido crusher designed to keep Indian men lonely and turn them back to the tradition of arranged marriage. Instead of ‘I’m in the mood for love,’ I find myself humming <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRRWGL_GAuY">‘Sabotage’ by the Beastie Boys</a> and giggling to myself. </p><p><br />I’ve explained this to Ganesh who has the softest, smiling brown eyes. This is a feature I noticed only after staring at his moustache for a solid week. I told him, “THAT,” as I pointed accusingly, “Was invented by Indian mothers to keep white women away.” He laughed and nodded slightly with confidence, “It’s MANLY.” </p><p><br />Poor, sweet, Ganesh. I hope his mother has good taste.</p><p><br />Ganesh was the one who got me set up with the coaches at Kanteerava like he was returning a stray kitten. It’s partly because of his kindness and partly because I strongly believe that you never swagger into somebody else’s dojo that I’m committed to keeping my mouth closed and my ears open. And I was also drawn in by the promise of a 150 Kilos squat by a male coach there with the movement and the mannerisms of a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DdZXp0Tq6Jk">capoeirista</a>. </p><p><br />Didn’t I just complain that Indian men are not smooth talkers? He had me at 150 Kilos.</p><p><br />As I started day two of my training with snatch practice I could only laugh to myself. How many different languages must I be told I have an early arm bend? It’s a bad habit that somehow made it through customs with all the rest of my baggage. I saw the correction coming long before the Kannada started to flow.</p><p><br />As the female coach with the impossible name I can’t pronounce focused her energy on training for an upcoming competition, I was given directions by her husband Sanjay, a name I can pronounce, who coached me using that impossible-to-interpret head bobble, a movement I simply can’t understand. I would make a correction look at Sanjay who would wobble about and then look at Kavia, “Yes? No? Maybe? Not-so-much? You’ll never work in this town again?” I deciphered.</p><p><br />“He said it’s fixed.”</p><p><br />Meanwhile across the room, the other coach examined me with his third chakra. Something was disturbing the energy in the room and I had my grip on it. Every time my hands inched in ever so slightly to accommodate my aching and swollen thumbs he paused before picking up his bar, turned slowly towards me and scolded me with his eyes. </p><p><br />Heather keeps her mouth completely shut: Day two. My tasks over the next month are simple: Say goodbye to the birthday Burfi to make weigh-in, go to the stadium everyday at 2 p.m. to train, and try really hard not to get crushed under heavy weight. Oh, and keep my mouth completely shut.</p><p><br />I’ve already fallen into a routine with my nutrition in spite of the couple of lapses and the increase in carbohydrates that can’t be avoided here. Thank Allah for ‘State of Punjab,’ a fast-food kebab joint in Sigma mall where I can eat a decent serving of chicken Tikka for Rs 140 and practice eating with my right hand in case I’m ever invited back to a real Muslim restaurant with better food. </p><p><br />For the most part, it’s not a place where I’ll be judged no matter how awkward my table manners which is made obvious by all the teenage Muslim girls who hide in the food court booths letting their <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hijab">hijab</a> down and holding their boyfriend’s hands. Every now and then one of them gives me a look and I feel like saying, “Oh, don’t look at me like that, sister! I’ll tell you what – I’m calling your dad. Feel free to call mine.”</p><p><br />In fact, I called mine the other evening to leave an accusatory voicemail after my birthday. I was out with my friend Tammy, who’s a spinning instructor from South Africa and happens to know more about the nightlife in these parts than I do. With her urgings to order a birthday cocktail, I scanned the happy hour buy-one-get-one-free menu and my eyes landed on ‘Gin’ in the form of Gin and Lime Juice. Given that Gin is my father’s drink of choice I felt as if I was tipping a glass to the old man at a moment when I was feeling especially homesick and especially lost since I don’t know anything about cocktails. I also thought the reference to gin ‘n juice was funny and smart given that sweeter drinks give me the room spins almost instantly.</p><p><br />By the end of the evening, there were several things I was unclear about. First, I’m not sure how that particular buy-one-get-one-free deal worked since drinks kept arriving in my hand and I’m not sure how long that went on in a country where happy hour begins at five pm. I’m also unclear about how and when I’ve agreed to go to Mozambique and why my background in martial arts will be particularly useful when I go though I recall that being an important detail.</p><p><br />Any unanswered questions regarding my arrival back on Cunningham Road that evening or any speculation regarding how drunk I might have been will continue to be available at any security guard station from here to the end of the street until something more interesting happens. I do know that all of the drivers now greet me warmly whenever I come home and at any moment I’m likely to be invited to sit on the curb with them and play cards. I have now been officially defrocked of ‘Madame’ and have lost any privileges associated with the title. I feel like Vanessa Williams.</p><p><br />Of course, this is my father’s fault and I made that clear on the voicemail that I left. I was only influenced by the fact that I’m teetering on forty which I’m continually told is a little late to get married though I don’t recall asking, and I miss my dad. The next two days taught me never to buckle to that sort of silliness again since my hangover was epic. Later, Tammy and I were convinced that the exaggerated aftermath suffered by the both of us was either because the gin was made in a local bathtub with the sort of sanitation I’ve come to expect here or because the drinks were chilled with unfiltered ice cubes. Of course my dad was sympathetic and assured me that he’d be shipping a birthday present to his homesick daughter in a few days and he was wondering how long it would take for me to get the bottle of Gin he’d be sending.</p><p><br />Should I elect to blow the Muslim girls' cover and call their dads I suspect it will have far greater impact than anything whispered from the guard posts in Bangalore. I have sworn off Gin for several reasons now: 1. I’m training more seriously, 2. I have to know what my weight is doing, 3. I love my liver and it loves me and 4. I don’t even want to know what was in that drink.</p><p><br />I’ve decided instead to focus on more innocent pursuits while I train. I’m embracing cricket simply because everybody here is mad for it including Shiva and Chandana’s mother. I explained to Chandana that I intended to sit with 'agee' during the next test match with funny hats and foam fingers. I enlisted Shiva and I explained that it would be a party.</p><p><br />“Beer?” he asked.</p><p><br />“No beer,” I said clearly finished with alcohol and not wanting to turn Agee’s party into a Kegger.</p><p><br />“No Beer? Where’s party?” Some things really are universal.</p><p><br />I told Chandana about this and she told me, “Oh, you don’t know my mother!”</p><p><br />“She drinks beer?!” I asked.</p><p><br />“No. Gin and lime juice.”</p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-47281770853581649642008-10-08T02:38:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.216-08:00Rock On, Shiva!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqcnw7B1ebg13lmh1cfsbu4fy38pquOFXL2Nt9GjWVdR3RjQHaz543vlVNVK-Xt9ujWJzC4KbHCQ_eCcONwcXGjbjoBvTTl5MtTWCUb2P5mgxKTtwFL5OuVHsDDac2EMgf-i6fOZLkCzsm/s1600-h/Pooja+004.JPG"><img style="CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254812918827227570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqcnw7B1ebg13lmh1cfsbu4fy38pquOFXL2Nt9GjWVdR3RjQHaz543vlVNVK-Xt9ujWJzC4KbHCQ_eCcONwcXGjbjoBvTTl5MtTWCUb2P5mgxKTtwFL5OuVHsDDac2EMgf-i6fOZLkCzsm/s400/Pooja+004.JPG" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmu0WdsZjuqzVkJjrkybpqJiPXdY5G06gI-ry58utstP-kOvxYpENhA86Yo1tu3MYdJ8RriPRXRhSZowNC_6mppUWQfXtgXcVlHIYVgcTQHOgHMB280tzB2KsptWxtMyTMHZl0qNi1BUG/s1600-h/Pooja+005.JPG"><img style="CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254812924973705762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmu0WdsZjuqzVkJjrkybpqJiPXdY5G06gI-ry58utstP-kOvxYpENhA86Yo1tu3MYdJ8RriPRXRhSZowNC_6mppUWQfXtgXcVlHIYVgcTQHOgHMB280tzB2KsptWxtMyTMHZl0qNi1BUG/s400/Pooja+005.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>In a world where traffic laws go unheeded, it only makes sense that you'd rely on whatever other resource could offer protection. This morning Shiva did the annual <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error"><a href="http://hinduism.about.com/od/prayersmantras/ss/carpuja.htm">Puja</a></span> for the car, performing an elaborate ritual to bless it and keep us all safe. After seeing the garlands draped, the windows painted and splattered and the banana leaves affixed to the front grill, I couldn't help but wonder as Shiva drove off with the family like he was headed for the parade route if the ritual is meant to remind us what a blessing it is to see out of an unobstructed windshield on the other 364 days of the year. Keep in mind that all vehicles on the road including <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">buses</span>, bikes and autos will be likewise adorned with drivers navigating the usual hazards while trying to peek through greenery. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://hinduism.about.com/od/prayersmantras/ss/carpuja.htm"></a></div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-7573207220179200722008-10-07T21:54:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.217-08:00Bumping into bureaucrats<p>Psychologically, a 235-pound <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">deadlift</span> only feels heavy when burdened by gym-etiquette and the potential hazards of poor workmanship in a gym where the barbells reside on the third floor of a building built with cheap labor in a developing country. Lifting is not the issue. Putting it down politely is. Sending a barbell FedEx/'In-Care-Of-Gravity' through three floors to rest on a bed of scooters in the parking garage would warrant a disinterested shrug from most residents and page-8 placement in <a href="http://www.bangaloremirror.com/">‘The Bangalore Mirror’</a> buried beneath the current <a href="http://www.bangaloremirror.com/index.aspx?Page=article&sectname=Bangalore%20Talking%20-%20Letters%20to%20the%20Editor&sectid=19&contentid=2008092620080926162130887d18ff61b">debate</a> about whether or not women should be allowed to tend bar. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Afterall</span>, this is a place where every missile designed to <a href="http://www.cnn.com/WORLD/9708/India97/shared/sibling.rivalry/index.html">collapse the infrastructure of Pakistan</a> looks as if it was tested first on the city’s sidewalks. It’s assumed then, after clamoring over the kind of debris that only a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scud_missile">SCUD</a> could leave that everyday safety issues are of little concern. </p><p><br />No that <a href="http://www.exrx.net/WeightExercises/ErectorSpinae/BBDeadlift.html"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">deadlift</span></a> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">wasn</span>’t a max lift, I explained to the trainers when asked and no I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">wasn</span>’t planning a max attempt today for the sake of my safety and that of the Gym-Gerbils on treadmills two floors down. The reply was “<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Whaat</span>?!” which <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">wasn</span>’t about the weight as much as it was a rhetorical question of, ‘why not go for it?’ Though I’m completely lost when it comes to the official local language, certain words have become familiar. In regards to the word ‘What’, Indians I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> noticed can neatly and efficiently pack an entire sentence into that one word alone or they can use it at the beginning of a sentence guaranteed to be stuffed with indignation. Either way, it’s always more than just ‘what’ and never an actual question.</p><p><br />I arrived in Bangalore on a Wednesday morning at one of the few hours in a 24-hour cycle during which both ‘night people’ and ‘morning people’ can agree to sleep. Three days later I worked out for the first time at <a href="http://www.goldsgymbangalore.com/">Gold’s Gym Bangalore</a> and it was not an impressive effort. I was still breathing like a guppy from the heat and pollution and I was suffering from toxic levels of carbohydrate intake. Now that my lungs have adapted to the point that I can siphon oxygen through swamp water or, for that matter, Saran Wrap, breathing itself is no longer a preoccupation and as for the carbohydrates, I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> been able to fend off much of the fruit with handfuls of nuts. It leaves me instead to ponder my fitness goals though in my head at times it sounds a lot like a shrill “what am I going to do now”. </p><p><br />Clearly I could take my place in the rank and file of beefy Hindu’s and bulk up since that’s what the gym is designed for: No <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">plyo</span> boxes, no bumper plates, and no room to navigate. As expected, you can find most of the trainers clustered at the cable apparatus trying to get their anterior <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">delts</span> and their posterior <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">delts</span> to stop speaking to one another and fend for themselves. In truth it matters little what limb is flapping since every illegal anabolic is available for the asking with the exception, I’m assuming, of Bovine Growth Hormone. Cows are sacred here, people are not. Consider that you’d be beaten to death by an angry mob if you broadside a cow on your scooter but passengers on said scooter are not required or even encouraged to wear a helmet. This gets listed under a category of reasons my mother would have wrapped herself around my ankles the minute I said I was moving to India had she been alive to see me even go near a scooter here.</p><p><br />Among my remaining options, I could become queen of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">cardio</span> - a goal I’m least suited for - except that the brown-outs shut the treadmills off at least twice each morning which leads to even more complicated Kilometer math when piecing it all together in the end. I’d also like to refrain from personally processing more of Bangalore’s air than I have to given that all my walks have become one long game of ‘Name That Feces’ which I’d be skilled at if I knew more about the various breeds of monkeys populating the area and understood the motivation of India’s poor to defecate mid-sidewalk on streets usually teeming with traffic. It still amazes me to watch women wrapped in ethereal fabrics with mesmerizing colors and patterns in a landscape otherwise dulled by everyday grays dragging their pristine hems through the filth without once appearing <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">inelegant</span>.</p><p><br />As I inventoried options and equipment and began designing programs around obstacles –mostly the aforementioned beefy Hindu’s - I started hearing rumors that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">powerlifters</span> and Olympic lifters lurked in dank, bleak stadiums that smelled of sweat, fear and pain (and maybe feces). Gold’s trainers knew about these places but had decided long ago to stop trying to understand the people in them once they failed to get adequate answers to the question, “What muscle does that work?” These are places where people lift heavy, make noise and spit in drinking fountains. I felt instantly warm and fuzzy - I must find this place. </p><p><br />The problem with talking to fellow trainers about stadiums here is that there are a lot of fellow trainers and there are even more stadiums. The fact that I can’t make out what most of them are saying a majority of the time <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">doesn</span>’t help. Finally I latched onto <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span> who told me, “<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">KarnatakaKarnatakaKarnataka</span> <strong>stadium</strong> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Karnataka</span>,” or something like that. I said, “Great. I’ll meet you at 2:30.” I smiled. Again, I’m not sure what he said but he has the sweet face of a well-raised Indian boy. Shiva, our driver, has the same gentle face and he <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">hasn</span>’t killed me yet in spite of the mutually agreed upon initiative launched by all of Bangalore to run down <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chandana</span>’s <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">Maruti</span>. </p><p><br />Already you’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> got to wonder why all the bother. For me, finding a gym with bumper plates and lifting platforms simply means that I can bail out from under weight when necessary. That little safety feature allows me to attempt heavier loads. It also means I can resume a strength protocol and possibly find like-minded souls at the drop of a bar. Of course, I’m far happier when I complete a lift and not drop it but then, these things happen. Unfortunately based on the deafening clatter alone not to mention the damage to equipment in conventional gyms that is not designed for actual use, the first sign posted in a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">Globo</span>-Gym will be ‘don’t drop weights’ though in the states it’s usually posted next to the sign ‘No spitting in the drinking fountains.’ </p><p><br />At 2:30 I met <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span>, a very large, muscular man on a benign scooter that could have used a testosterone transfusion from it’s amply supplied owner. I felt like I should pat it’s seat and talk to it in soothing tones so as not to startle it. I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">wouldn</span>’t have been surprised if the horn said ‘Pardon me’ in a voice not unlike a voicemail directory operator. For a man that imposing, you’d expect blades to pop out of the hubcaps to hamstring fellow travelers when necessary and even when not. </p><p><br />But this is Bangalore and even as a passenger I’d need to be prepared to fend for myself or be jousted off the back by scooters hauling 12 feet of bamboo, families of four carrying metal plumbing supplies or a passenger with five 10 Gallon water bottles stacked sideways on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">footboard</span>*. I yearned for my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">nailclippers</span> since clearly they’re a lethal weapon given the way they’re handled by airport security. It turns out, however, that the schizophrenic beeping that once set me on edge makes sense when you’re in traffic and becomes a rather reassuring form of communication. I relaxed and settled into the work of not falling off.</p><p><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span> checked his mirrors now and then more out of concern for me then for traffic. He’s very sweet and eager to make sure that India is a good host to the white woman with biceps and a funny accent who clearly has no idea what she’s doing. When I met him he described himself and his two best friends as the Three Stooges of Gold’s to which I replied, after noting his bald head, “You must be curly.” He had no idea what I was saying. It might have sounded like “seattle.seattle.Curly.seattle”</p><p><br />At 2:30 we headed for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M._Chinnaswamy_Stadium"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chinnaswamy</span></a> Stadium to talk to somebody who knows somebody who met somebody once. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span> signed ‘Visitor’ logs and stated his business while I smiled humbly. Apparently I don’t visit and can’t possibly have business since my information was unnecessary. We shook lots of hands and shuffled from one office to another to sit in waiting rooms that felt more like a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">Petri</span> dish given the way I was scrutinized. </p><p><br />Finally after shaking the hands of many a dapper bureaucrat and being sent along to the next visitor log, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span> and I sat across a large desk from the chief of dapper bureaucrat. He stared, waiting for us to begin and then <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span>, who had handled every checkpoint so far, looked at me.<br /></p><p>I launched into my request with an explosion of wordy English spilling from my pie hole (note: My insistence on using the term ‘Pie Hole’ is completely for the amusement of my sister). <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span>, who by the way <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">didn</span>’t speak much of the local language either, politely saved me the way Indian men seem to do. I say this because even in Seattle, they’d turn up in my life like superheroes rescuing me from dire circumstances while passersby looked on. Which is why if I was going to displace myself entirely, moving to India made the most sense.</p><p><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span> interrupted me smoothly with succinct statements directed across the desk at the bureaucrat who had yet to make a sound.</p><p><br />“Not Possible!” was the first noise from the other side of the furniture and it was also succinct.</p><p><br />The answer <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_37" class="blsp-spelling-error">didn</span>’t seem to leave any room for the kind of bargaining I expected. Clearly this was not haggling for guavas. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span> looked at me again. Once more the proliferation of babble about how I was visiting from the States and I really needed a lifting platform and that I know that he has a couple in this facility and I could certainly stay out of the way of the cricket players if I could just use his equipment every now and again which would mean several times a week. A pause for breath.</p><p><br />Our bureaucrat looked tired. After a pause he began an explanation that I only sort of understood but that finished with the sentence, “women don’t lift weights here in this county,”<br />My initial thoughts about that line of reasoning may have been briefly communicated in the reflexive smart-ass look that I reconfigured as quickly as possible. “Well, where do your women athletes go to train?” I asked in a tone that conveyed sincere inquiry.</p><p><br />“They go to other countries,” was his clipped reply just short of an exclamation point and stated as if the answer should have been obvious.</p><p><br />“Well, I’m here. In this country. And I lift weight.” I explained slowly in the same humble and succinct manner I just learned from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_39" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span>, “So I’m asking if I could please use your equipment.”<br />“Not Possible!”</p><p><br />Crap. He’s looped. This is going to require a bribe I can’t afford, a shameless exchange of ‘services’ with a cricket player or a programmer to debug our dapper bureaucrat.<br /></p><p>Finally I asked to at least see the gym, assuming that I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_40" class="blsp-spelling-error">wouldn</span>’t feel as bad if I discovered that the equipment <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_41" class="blsp-spelling-error">wasn</span>’t worth squabbling over. I recall going to a “gym” many years ago in one of the better hotels in Prague to find a room that housed only a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyperbaric_medicine"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_42" class="blsp-spelling-error">hyperbaric</span> chamber</a> and an ancient stationary bike of which neither worked. Since India is a country where holes for ceiling fans are cut twice the size allowing wiring to hang out haphazardly and fixtures to wobble simply because ‘eyeballing’ is an excepted form of measure, I assumed lifting platforms would be of a similar design. </p><p><br />There were competition plates stacked everywhere around neatly built platforms. Sadly, the gym was beautiful. And really, really empty.</p><p><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_43" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nisar</span> felt bad and he took me for the best meal I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_44" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> had in India so far. It was a Muslim restaurant that served amazing kabobs and tolerated western woman only a little. Though left handed, I was on my best behavior and used my right as would be expected. This worked well considering the food was blistering hot and I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_45" class="blsp-spelling-error">wouldn</span>’t be able to feel my fingertips for some time.</p><p><br />At Gold’s the next day, the trainers were hopeful asking if I found the stadium and if I got what I needed. After explaining far and wide that no, they would not let me lift at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_46" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chinnaswamy</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_47" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ganesh</span> shook his head. “Not <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_48" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chinniswami</span>! <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sree_Kanteerava_Stadium"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_49" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kanteevara</span></a>! Come, we go.”</p><p><br />I’ll spare all the details but a different Indian man, a different scooter in the rain, a different nest of bureaucrats, the same heroic efforts and a text that read: “Hey Heather, I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_50" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> spoke about u they said to meet on Monday noon at 3:30pm”</p><p><br />In <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_51" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kanteerava</span>, the platforms are built into the floor and look like they’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_52" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> seen centuries of missed lifts. I’m pretty sure <a href="http://www.tajmahal.org.uk/shah-jahan.html">Shah <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_53" class="blsp-spelling-error">Jahan</span></a> set a snatch PR here and it’s scrawled on the wall of a bathroom stall with the date. The room itself was suffering battle fatigue, with broken windows and sagging floors and had surrendered meekly to a rodent and bird infestation. Meager equipment sat in dusty corners and bars with arthritic bushings lay abandoned in a bathroom that was out of order. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_54" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ganesh</span> assured me that Olympic champions were trained here and though everyone was at a competition in Mysore, this is where 25 of India’s best come to train.</p><p><br />I tried not to be mad or frustrated or disappointed while I thought of my lifting shoes that never touched pavement because it was important to take care of them. I kept asking, “if this is what these athletes are passionate about, if this is where top-level athletes train, why does it look like this? How can they use this equipment?” I could get <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_55" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">tendinitis</span> just looking at the equipment in what looked like a ransacked lifter's museum. There <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_56" class="blsp-spelling-error">weren</span>’t even enough plates scattered around for me to do a max squat. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_57" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ganesh</span> kept shrugging. He had trained here eight years ago and abandoned the place to become a body builder.</p><p><br />On the way out, we swerved around four large padlocked and polished crates. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_58" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ganesh</span> asked about them in <a href="http://thatskannada.oneindia.in/">Kannada</a> since they were new to the gym since he had been there.</p><p><br />“Equipment,” The attendant said.</p><p><br />I felt like Indiana Jones in ‘Raiders of the Lost Arc’ and had just found the Arc, or rather Arcs, of the Covenant. My eyes went wide, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_59" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ganesh</span> smiled. “We come back Friday,” he said.</p><p><br />If I had been looking for reasons to quit, I could find one every hour, every minute, every round every rep. What would I say to my clients, “I want to be healthy and do the things I’m passionate about but talking to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_60" class="blsp-spelling-error">bureaucrats </span>is annoying and time consuming.” But quitting is just another way of saying the goal stopped being worth the cost. Is India really the challenge that’s really bigger than me? Hardly. I'll go back on Friday, or Monday, or however many times it takes to find what I need to make this work. As much as I want to consider myself a unique snowflake, I'm not the only person in India who wants to lift heavy. Maybe the trainers at Gold's will help me and maybe they'll just join me. </p><p><em>*Though I’m prone to hyperbole, this is factual. I have seen all of these things on a scooter including the water bottles though two of them were on laps while the rest were on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_61" class="blsp-spelling-error">footboard</span>.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-69624852968425740422008-09-28T06:37:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.251-08:00When in Bangalore . . .Except when it smells like dung or rot or rotting dung, all of Bangalore smells like a campfire, something I’m usually willing to tolerate only when armed with marshmallows and the appropriate stick. Here, given the mayhem, I assume I’m always downwind of some riotous tribal gathering meant to affect fertility. Not farfetched when the heat and the humidity inspire a sticky sort of sweat like I’m feverish, slightly over-caffeinated or sensing potential calamity that has my amygdale at attention. I’m frequently all three. It’s a simmering discomfort accentuated by the fear of being run over at any minute even when walking on crumbled sidewalks which are barely off limits to harried drivers whose considerations have more to do with the potential damage curb jumping inflicts on compact cars and less to do with the damage to lives that are clinging to the street’s margins.
<br /><div>
<br />The traffic looks more like a salmon migration, weaving at high speeds with limited hesitation. There is no noticeable recognition of lanes even when painted lines are meant to separate traffic heading in opposite directions. Vehicles spill out in any direction providing the pavement allows. The bulging cars suck themselves back into the flow in time to miss oncoming traffic, buildings and debris but grudgingly and only at the last second. Turn signals and rearview mirrors have been replaced by beeping horns as if the road exists only in front out the windshield and every thing else is navigated by ear. In the mornings as I wake I can hear the commuter’s startled chirping and squawking horns like a predator is running amok in a colony of exotic birds.</div>
<br /><div>If nature allowed, the auto-rikshaw, or auto drivers would join the migration not <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIuMJ5wHkaHml74bt1g_12ghWXTYGMxhJcmfXV6d7G7VXh1nhndBOrZuQTP5zsoO3RgSjyJ9OP3RIjRmh6iHku8JTqZIIPBbnK6pnL_1anjP2v839uHVoELSa0EJrKndeGjuyD-gkWyyCX/s1600-h/rikshaw.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; FLOAT: right; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251068615822583378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIuMJ5wHkaHml74bt1g_12ghWXTYGMxhJcmfXV6d7G7VXh1nhndBOrZuQTP5zsoO3RgSjyJ9OP3RIjRmh6iHku8JTqZIIPBbnK6pnL_1anjP2v839uHVoELSa0EJrKndeGjuyD-gkWyyCX/s400/rikshaw.jpg" /></a>as salmon but as angry swarming hornets with the insistent dangerous hum and darting movements that leaves the pedestrian feeling hunted. It’s an understandable yippy-dog attitude from people steering popsicle-stick projects with lawn-mower engines built by grade school children in science class. After my first ‘auto’ ride through narrow lanes directly into oncoming headlights that were dim and erratic, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I was whispered a code word right before an inconspicuous package was thrust under my arm. It’s all very Jackie Chan with the same sort of energy except for the pedestrians who look drained and asphyxiated.</div>
<br /><div></div><div>I crossed the street at the Queen’s Road rotary at what could have been a walk signal if such a thing exists and found myself faced by approximately 40 motorcycles ready to cross the intersection like I wandered into a motocross race at an unfortunate moment. Of the few pedestrians who crossed with me, I was the only one that seemed to notice the impromptu brotherhood bearing down. All two wheeled vehicles seem to travel like deep vein thrombosis mid-city. Of course it’s the only time I’ve seen 50cc mopeds revving next to vintage street bikes where nobody gets laughed at or pushed over and where ladies all brightly saree’d and sidesaddled sit primly decorating motor bikes in the midst of all the nonsense. They look fragile and bad-ass all at once.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>My host Chandana’s driver, Shiva, navigates the roads looking alert but not concerned and only sometimes mildly annoyed. For the most part he’s at home with the weaving, noisy navigation. He only looks truly concerned when I get out of the car. It seems keeping an American from doing something stupid proves the greater challenge but then most locals have gathered that simply by watching the news. He stands in range and assesses the situation as I continually charge through security posts by accident. He shoves money back in my hand at the market and tries not to look baffled by my pointless changes in direction which take us through the dirtiest and sometimes bloodiest parts of the market. </div>
<br /><div>A wrong turn had us both trudging through the Muslim meat stalls as if it was perfectly reasonable for a tourist to pause and watch livestock hacked to pieces like it was a puppet show. Perpetually in pink flip flops, which I’ve noted are not an all-terrain shoe, I return home each night with dirty, leathery feet. Chandana tries not to be appalled even as she slips an industrial grade pumice stone into my bathroom but my Yoga-guru <a href="http://www.earthandskyyoganh.com/htm/instructors.htm">sister</a> who wears each prehensile toe like jewelry and could make them each dance like Bollywood extras would be truly ashamed.</div><div>
<br />The moment I finish drinking the water from a tender coconut and eating the jelly-like meat, Shiva whose standing nearby attentively inquires “another?” as If I could knock back half a dozen without raising an eyebrow. I considered for a moment wiping me mouth on my arm, making some impatient gesture and saying, “Hit me!” but I was already full and he wouldn’t have gotten the joke. Literally he probably would have hit me just because I asked and because ‘madam’ is very strange like that. He has the habit of calling me ‘madam’ which took some adjusting to until I remembered the reputation American women have and then I realized he probably thinks I run a brothel back in the States. That put me at ease.</div>
<br /><div>Though he’s clearly interested in keeping me alive, he did fail to mention that straws at the market are usually reused and therefore I shared mine with dozens of natives. It sounds oh-so friendly unless you’re a ferenge with fragile digestion. Chandana told me about the straws later when a hollow gesture of “pit-tooey” was pointless. I distinctly remember my mother walking around when I was young explaining that this or that was “Teh!” which was meant to mimic a spitting noise and was used to indicate that something was dirty or shouldn’t be put in my mouth. India, it turns out, is “Teh!”</div>
<br /><div>I like tagging along with Shiva when he goes to the market though it automatically ensures that Chandana will pay double for guavas at the fruit stand. Even she has a hard time when she wears capris and looks too ‘western’. Shiva will explain that she paid the ‘three-quarter pant price’ even though she speaks the language and sports all the right shades of brown. I think a few extra rupees are worth it when I scoop up the bags and try to carry them to the car for Shiva before he can make a move. It’s clear by the looks of horror on the faces of people who were staring at me anyway that ‘madam’ doesn’t carry bags. Secretly I’m sure he’s amused and he plays a game of ‘stunt driver’ on the way home aiming at a few more busses than usual just to entertain me. Perhaps mimicking the Masai system of tongue-clicks, Shiva beeps six times in rapid order as a way of demanding to be let back in to the proper lane before we’re run down. It’s worked so far.</div>
<br /><div>I discovered on these outings that, at least in Shiva’s case, a head wobble means that he has no idea what I’m talking about and it occurs almost like a system error or an overloaded circuit. Luckily he reboots himself because frankly with all the processes and Gerry-rigging procedures I’ve learned for things as simple as making a cup of tea, it would be beyond me at this point to remember how it’s done. And I’d wobble back but years of fending off chokes in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and protecting my face in Muay Thai do not allow for neck muscles with that kind of suppleness. I can shrug and duck quickly enough but sideways wobbling in my world would only be used for baiting and taunting. My body operates like I’m in a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pink-Panther-Movie-Collection-Box/dp/0792835573">Pink Panther</a> movie and Kato is going to jump me from behind at any moment. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>My neck as well as the rest of me will just have to adjust and that’s kind of the point. I’ve lived in my carnivorous world going ninety miles an hour for so long that I either have to learn a different way or manhandle all of India until it keeps pace. I have no idea which one of us will compromise and I’ve been so busy being right about fitness all of these years that I’ve lost touch with what the rest of the world is doing. So call this a recon mission and like any well planned special ops assignment, I’m minimally provisioned and adaptable. </div>
<br /><div>One wonders if it was completely necessary to up and move but as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_carlin">George Carlin</a> pointed out, where you live is just the place where you keep your stuff. I got rid of my stuff and now technically I live nowhere and everywhere. This makes the Post Office, or maybe ‘Homeland Security’, really uncomfortable and when I tried to tell them I live nowhere and everywhere they insisted I attach a street address to that. If you’d like to know why the cost of postage stamps is continually on the rise, it’s because the post office insisted on forwarding my junk mail to India. That Value Pack coupon is going to come in real handy.</div>
<br /><div>Now, only a few days into my mission however and I’ve blinked. I’ve abandoned two local traditions in favor of my own: Screw tea with breakfast and sleeves on my shirts.</div><div>
<br />Damn the British and they’re tea. If I had a three-cornered hat and a few inebriated <a href="http://www.earlyamerica.com/review/fall96/sons.html">‘Sons of Liberty</a>’ I’d find a harbor to dump their Tetley in on a double-dog dare and then I’d go out for coffee. Days after landing and with the excuse of exploring the city, I jumped up from the table in the middle of reading “<a href="http://www.hinduonnet.com/">The Hindu”</a> daily and threw on a well worn black sleeveless t-shirt – my first bare arms in Bangalore - to join Shiva who was leaving to buy eggs for breakfast. On the way back from the market I confided, “Shiva, Chandana makes terrible coffee. Can you take me someplace where I can get espresso?” I’d endured three days of syrupy, thick brews simmered <a href="http://in.youtube.com/watch?v=5UbEFuWOsYk">South Indian style</a> with a heavy percentage of <a href="http://coffeetea.about.com/cs/coffeesubstitutes/a/chicory.htm">chicory</a> and limp milk that turned the mixture a disappointing grey. He looked at me gravely, wobbled his head and took me straight home. </div>
<br /><div>I’ve since trudged around a bit looking for alternative brews. I have, after all, gone from the coffee capital of the United States to the coffee capital of India and though I’ve made some significant headway regarding south India’s unique taste in coffee, it’s been at the expense of my head. The pollution has turned my hair lank in some places and frizzy in others while my cheeks burn for hours after I’m safely indoors. The adapter for my hair straightener isn’t working and so I’m au natural with the most hideously unnatural result. I’ve begun to rely less on my footwork and more on my fingertips, searching the web for coffee feedback and maps of the city while my hair is slicked together with the local remedy of coconut oil. Now I have a clearer understanding of Bangalore’s coffee tradition, hair painted to my head like a <a href="http://www.suburbanamerican.com/WeebleBoy.jpg">Weeble</a> and a hankering for <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/coconut-macaroons-recipe4/index.html">macaroons</a>.</div>
<br /><div>In my first sampling of street vendors, I paid 10 rupees for a cup of coffee and I assumed the price was in dollars given that I frequented Starbucks in a past life but even for coffee that turns out to be damn-near free – A little more than 20 cents in the U.S. - it took some getting used to. Most street vendors sell tea and coffee in what looks like a <a href="http://www.vicks.com/dayquil-cold-flu.php">DayQuil</a> dosage cup which measures a dose of ‘swig’ but it’s scalding hot and I was quickly faced with the choice of burning off my fingers or my uvula. 3-2-1-burn digits burn. No longer can I be fingered by my fingerprints and it explains why every officiating body in India requires identifying photos instead. EVERY officiating body and in duplicate, by the way. </div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="http://indiacoffee.org/coffeeregions/default.htm">The Coffee Board</a> which functions under the Ministry of Commerce and Industry is located around the corner from where I live and was set up in 1942 under an Act of the Parliament to control research, quality and promotion of Indian coffee in India and around the world. According to their website, “The Coffee Board conducts basic and applied research on coffee and can boast of 75 glorious years in coffee research. The Central Coffee Research Institute in the Chickmagalur district, Karnataka State has been in the forefront of coffee research over the years and continues to remain one of the premier institutes of the world as far as coffee research is concerned.” Cheers. </div>
<br /><div>But just because they can study the brew and isolate its chemical compounds doesn’t mean they don’t simmer swill. I needed to investigate so Chandana and I walked into their shop after some impressive street-crossing reminiscent of a <a href="http://www.freefrogger.org/welcome.html">‘Frogger’</a> high score attempt and I was greeted by official looking representatives sporting Raj mustaches and modified turbans with folded napkin swans swimming serenely atop their heads. Some turbans had seen better days and their swans flopped sloppily as if whoever folded them in 1942 promptly forgot how it was done and they’ve had to make do ever since.</div>
<br /><div>The coffee was milky, sweet and bitter from the added chicory which is said to add body to the flavor but also has medicinal qualities. To me, it was better than what the vendors offered but it still didn’t taste like the coffee I have known. Again, according the coffee board, “The Board runs two quality control laboratories in Bangalore and Hassan, which control and advise the industry on quality issues. The labs are equipped with the best roasting and brewing machines. The best cup- tasters and quality evaluators keep a strict vigil on the pre and post harvest processes with a view to ensure that the quality of Indian coffee is maintained.” </div>
<br /><div>I spent most of my Saturday morning waiting for the leisurely opening of Blossom Used Books and reading at a <a href="http://www.cafecoffeeday.com/stores-inside.htm">Coffee Day</a> off of <a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/170/411197915_ce14fe629b.jpg">MG Road</a> – Here Mahatma Gandhi is casually referred to as ‘MG’ like he’s MC Enlightened or something – because Coffee World’s day starts way later than my coffee day. The manager explained that they grow and roast their own beans nearby and he served me a free espresso for the sake of analysis since I was from Seattle and therefore an expert by way of zip code. After downing it to the nod and grin of the manager I realized that the confounding issue may not be the espresso here which was actually quite good but the scalded, questionably sourced buffalo milk heated to the temperature of a neutron star.</div>
<br /><div>Though the coffee itself may be premium coffee, the chicory in traditional coffee is the variable that changes the flavor. <a href="http://www.lakshmicentrum.nl/text/en/ayur_recipe_spices.htm">Most Indian spices</a> and additives inevitably turn out to be a digestive aid, an anti-inflammatory or both. The reasons are startlingly clear. In the case of Chicory, it’s both. The interesting thing is that chicory is also a sedative meant to blunt the effects of caffeine. After two days of impossible jet lag and several days of erratic sleep patterns, I wasn’t necessarily trying to defuse the dose of caffeine I was getting. Again, however, I marvel at how Indians seem to instinctively find organic remedies to various afflictions. It’s then I remember that this is an inhospitable place with a long history and an endless supply of both lethal threats and people impacted by them. Tradition is shaped by the trial and error of generations that leaves a staggering and yet virtually unnoticed body count in a country of over a billion people.</div>
<br /><div>It brings into focus my most pressing question of whether or not the population can thrive on so little protein which of course is the question that is most pressing for me since I’m living in a household full of vegetarians. The Recommended Dietary Allowance for protein is 63 grams a day for men and 50 grams for women and for me it was clear that I wasn’t going to be able to eat enough yogurt and lentils to make that happen even if we hired another cook and a staff of locals to rub my belly afterwards. </div>
<br /><div>In fact, on the first day I tried eating lots of yogurt on the suggestion of a friend who said that eating a ton of the local culture would help my digestion adjust, I went to the fridge and dished up a big bowl of the fizzy, chunky ferment and almost passed in favor of a crippling stomach virus. Realizing that it’s rude to be so finicky and knowing that I couldn’t possibly fend off another meal with a handful of cashews which had thus far been my strategy, I slurped it down while reading the paper for distraction. Later I was told that the fridge, a more obscure brand with a manic thermostat that nobody can find parts for, had lost power and that the yogurt hadn’t ‘set right’. Again, too late for a ‘pit-tooey!’ and please pass the cashews. I’ve been buying yogurt at the store ever since but as you can imagine it’s always more carbohydrate than protein.</div>
<br /><div>The loudest voice in the pro-plant protein camp these days is T. Colin Campbell, PhD, who authored <a href="http://www.thechinastudy.com/">‘The China Study’</a> as a result of a 20-year project studying nutrition and health for the China-Oxford-Cornell Diet and Health Project of which he is the project director. His argument as a result of his research is "...Only 5-6 percent of dietary protein is required to replace the protein regularly excreted by the body (as amino acids). About 9-10 percent protein, however, is the amount that has been recommended for the past fifty years...The relatively few people consuming more than 21 percent protein mostly are those who "pump iron," recently joined by those on high protein diets." Given his credentials, I’d be inclined to listen more intently to his argument if only he would start supplying scientific data when answering his detractors instead of attacking their education and intellect. Like Dr. Atkins before him, he may have legitimate findings that get lost when he insists on being an ass.</div>
<br /><div>Arguing the other direction, <a href="http://www.thepaleodiet.com/published_research/">Dr. Loren Cordain</a> – a researcher and a gentleman – makes the case that pre-agricultural diets suit our physiology proven again and again through his research. In ‘Implications of Studies of Early Hominin Diets,’ he states, “Although all available data point to increasing animal food consumption following the arrival of lithic technology, the precise contribution of either animal or plant food energy to Plio-Pleistocene hominin diets is not known. Obviously, then as now, no single (animal/plant) subsistence ratio would have been necessarily representative of all populations or species of hominins. However, there are a number of lines of evidence which suggest more than half (50%) of the average daily energy intake for most Paleolithic hominin species and populations of species was obtained from animal foods.” In further study of indigenous diets leaving out the most extreme climates where no plant matter is available he notes, “For all 229 hunter-gatherer societies, the median subsistence dependence on animal foods was 56 percent to 65 percent. In contrast, the median subsistence dependence on gathered plant foods was 26 percent to 35 percent (Cordain et al., 2000).</div>
<br /><div>In the end and after exhaustive research on the health implications of high-carbohydrate intake, he makes the recommendation that endurance athletes, a segment of the population that demands the highest carbohydrate intake should consume 0.8 - 0.9 grams of protein/lb/day. That yeilds a percentage of the total daily caloric intake that still works out to be substantially higher than Campbell’s percentages even though it’s the low-end recommendation for Cordain.</div>
<br /><div>Surrounded by vegetarians, it’s no question that they survive on a low-protein/High-carbohydrate diet like the one described by Campbell but there’s no real evidence that they consume enough of the essential Amino Acid Lysine from pulses rather than rich animal sources. This is the key deficiency that experts discuss when considering the vegetarian diet. According to Wikipedia, “The human <a title="Nutrition" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nutrition">nutritional requirement</a> is 1–1.5 g daily. It is the <a title="Essential amino acid" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Essential_amino_acid#Use_of_essential_amino_acids">limiting amino acid</a> (the essential amino acid found in the smallest quantity in the particular foodstuff) in all <a title="Cereal grain" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cereal_grain">cereal grains</a>, but is plentiful in all <a title="Pulse (legume)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pulse_(legume)">pulses</a> (legumes).” Listed among the foods rich in lysine are soy bean, Kidney bean, Lentil in sprout, Lentil in seed, black cumin and roman coriander. All of these are eaten here regularly but whether or not consumption yields the necessary one gram daily is a good question. One for which I have found no answer.</div>
<br /><div>In the May 2004 issue of Public Health Nutrition D. Millward of the Centre for Nutrition and Food Safety, School of Biological Sciences, University of Surrey, published his opinion, “The lysine limitation of the cereal-based Indian diets is dependent on the choice of lysine requirement values from the published range. We consider that the value selected is too high, because of uncertainties and inconsistencies in the approaches used. A more appropriate choice from the lower end of the range would remove the lysine limitation of cereal-based diets, and reduce some of the perceived risk of deficiency.” And here I thought lowering the bar was a distinctly American approach. He continues, “We conclude that the choice of values for adult lysine requirement should be re-evaluated and that serious consideration should be given to the extent to which adaptive mechanisms might enable the metabolic requirement for protein to be met from current intakes. This will entail a better understanding of the relationships between dietary protein and health.”</div>
<br /><div>In every case of indigenous consumption patterns there is talk of adaptation and an evolutionary process that takes place allowing the local population to tolerate local fare. Though I’ve seen discussions in which experts argue an adaptation to plant matter that accommodates, I’ve seen no actual science about how this is so. Also, if the residents of Bangalore stuck to local foods the argument for evolutionary adaptations might be plausible but like every emerging country influenced by western practices, the foods found readily available are predominantly made from white flour and do not reflect the diet consumed even ten years ago. Think Pizza Hut in the form of Tikka Deep Dish.</div>
<br /><div>I went to the Kebab stand the other day for lunch after trudging through the heat and dust to find that it was closed for reasons anyone who speaks Kanada would understand. Thwarted, I went to the nearest coffee shop hoping to find something with enough meat to tide me over. I tried to explain ‘most chicken’ to the waitress while pointing at the chicken section. “Ah, most chicken, Madame!” Crap, she’s spoken to Shiva and she’s heard I own a brothel. She brought me a ‘Chicken Puff,’ a sandwich that I can only describe as a thin layer of a Chicken Masala marmalade in a genetically modified monster croissant. I shuffled back out into the heat only to pass a McDonalds where I read the take-out menu and realized that for the first time in my life I could have gotten a healthier lunch in a happy meal. Later, when I started looking at coffee shop menus to get a better idea of what people were eating, I saw that for the most part, local breads have been abandoned for American bulky rolls and bulky waistlines.</div>
<br /><div>“With regard to diet and health, food staples and food-processing procedures introduced during the Neolithic and Industrial era have fundamentally altered seven crucial nutritional characteristics of ancestral hominin diets: (1) glycemic load, (2) fatty acid composition, (3) macronutrient composition, (4) micronutrient density, (5) acid/base loads, (6) sodium/potassium ratio, and (7) fiber content,” said Cordain in the aforementioned study, “Each of these nutritional factors either alone or combined with some, or all, of the remaining factors underlie the pathogenesis of a wide variety of chronic diseases and maladies that almost universally afflict people living in western, industrialized societies. “ The fact that wherever American food chains pop up, waistlines pop out doesn’t seem to catch the eye of the affluent who can buy this kind of food. Then they are left looking to the very people who are losing the battle to obesity for help. </div>
<br /><div>I went back to the apartment, laid on the bed and watched the ceiling fan for twenty minutes while I waited for the lethargy to subside. I spent most of my twenties in a coma caused by wheat flour and even now I can’t escape the impact. Even Chandana, after a controlled weight-loss program in which she limited refined carbohydrates can now feel the difference that refined carbohydrates make when her energy is drained after consumption. Like me, she wasn’t able to tell the difference until she controlled her intake for a period of time. Until then the lethargy was just business as usual. When it comes to adaptation, we are two people who clearly missed that bus.</div>
<br /><div>But even the carnivores argue for adaptations to explain the positive impact of higher protein diets even as they claim the only adaptation to cereal grains is metabolic derangement. In Cordain’s research he states, “Carnivorous diets reduce evolutionary selective pressures that act to maintain certain anatomical and physiological characteristics needed to process and metabolize high amounts of plant foods. In this regard, hominins, like felines, have experienced a reduction in gut size and metabolic activity along with a concurrent expansion of brain size and metabolic activity as they included more energetically dense animal food into their diets (Leonard and Robertson, 1994; Aiello and Wheeler, 1995; Cordain, Watkins, and Mann, 2001).”
<br />
<br />Whatever the percentage, there’s no question of proteins importance. The immune system functions properly when sufficient protein ensures an adequate supply of white blood cells and antibodies. Robert Heaney, M.D., a bone researcher at Creighton University in Nebraska studies the way that protein helps maintain and improves bone density especially after fracture when adequate supplies slow bone loss and assist recovery. His research supports 70 to 100 grams of protein for older adults to maintain lean muscle mass. And even here trainer’s supplement with whey protein to help gain muscle mass. Of course, when they talk about taking ‘medicine’ to increase size they are only sometimes talking about whey protein.</div>
<br /><div>“In reality, the difference between a diet that is one hundred percent animal products and one that is two percent animal products is merely one of quantity, while the difference between a diet that is two percent animal products and one that is zero percent animal products is one of quality,” sites Chris Masterjohn in his review of ‘The China Study’ for the <a href="http://www.westonaprice.org/bookreviews/chinastudy.html">Weston A. Price Foundation</a>, “A diet low in animal products and a diet devoid of animal products are simply two fundamentally different things.” </div>
<br /><div>One quick cruise of most <a href="http://www.t-nation.com/">bodybuilding websites</a> will contain endless discussions about the bioavailability of various proteins. Quality and nutrient density are topics that can’t be avoided. Nor can they avoid the topic of boobs and body hair removal but that’s a completely different post.</div>
<br /><div>“Not all animal products are equal. Putting aside all differences in quality such as soil composition, pasture feeding and so on, there are certain animal products that are by their nature vastly richer than most others in important animal-based nutrients,” Masterjohn discusses in <a href="http://www.cholesterol-and-health.com/">cholesterol-and-health.com</a> where he posts a rebuttal of Campbell’s remarks on <a href="http://www.vegsource.com/">VegSource.com</a> in which Campbell insisted on being an ass, much like he did in the protein debate with Cordain hosted by <a href="http://www.performancemenu.com/">performancemenu.com</a> some time ago. He goes on to say, “This is particularly true of shellfish. It would take just over a quarter pound of beef per day to fulfill the minimum requirement for zinc, yet a single serving of oysters per week fulfills the same requirement. One would have to eat two servings of salmon per week to meet the minimum requirement for vitamin B12, but would only have to eat clams once per month to meet the same requirement. “ </div>
<br /><div>So when we’re talking about low protein/high carbohydrate diets, is the meager percentage recommended by Campbell misleading because of the nutrient density of the protein consumed? “The China Study's questionnaire had no questions specific to the consumption of shellfish. How, then, could anyone possibly draw a conclusion from it about what the optimal amount of animal products are, if the amount needed is so different when the nutrition is supplied by shellfish than when it is supplied by meat?” asks Masterjohn. Either way, it poses more questions than it answers in a time when I’m embarking on a study of my own with a single test-subject – me. Please pass the cashews.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-27003878580510022572008-08-16T15:38:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.252-08:00Next ChapterThirteen years ago I moved from New Hampshire to Seattle with a back-pack full of flannel shirts in a pick-up truck stocked with household goods. I was <a href="http://www.imdb.com/character/ch0021980/">Elly May Clampett</a> without the boobs or the investment capital which in retrospect makes it all kind of sad. The loot included an old-even-then television set and a <a href="http://www.jansport.com/js_product_detail.php?cid=&pid=TDN7">Jan Sport</a> backpack that my father bought me for the trip because all the students at the <a href="http://www.uvm.edu/">University of Vermont</a> were carrying them and they seemed pretty durable.<br /><br />It was almost poetic that on my last day in Seattle, I was carrying the backpack after 4,745 consecutive days of use – unwashed, some will insist I mention – and sneaking down the block with my older-still television that I was depositing on the lawn of a neighbor who creates sculpture from an assortment of household junk. The Salvation Army won’t take TVs made before 2000 which I found rather snooty and the garbage man would have had to don a HazMat suit and file an incident report if I even considered placing it near the dumpster. I had few options. Leaving alms to the artist seemed a suitable solution.<br /><br />Thirty minutes later, I was sitting curbside in my neighborhood on a 1960s turquoise <a href="http://www.naugahyde.com/history.html">Naugahyde</a> chair with wooden arms and stainless steel legs – the last of my impressive collection – as I waited for my friend who would drive me to the airport. He had agreed only the day before to stash the chair in his basement all because of a last minute attack of nostalgia that had me wailing over the phone, “I should be able to keep ONE chair, MY FAVORITE ONE, Why not ONE!” as if this had been somebody else’s decision and they were prying my furniture from my desperate grasp. He’s a bachelor and has absolutely no equipment to deal with irrational girly episodes. I counted on that.<br /><br />A man on his bike with the guitar on his back took a moment to stare at me as he sped past. It was, after all, 3:30 a.m... Shortly after I had settled comfortably in my chair outside, it had crossed my mind that some undead thing might creep down from the adjoining park right out of the Thriller video to eat my brains. That would be suitably tragic for sensational local news coverage given that I was moments away from an amazing journey when the aforementioned spooky thing chose me as its victim. I was just creating the proper ambiance by crooning, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtyJbIOZjS8">“It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in the dark . . .”</a> when the bike rider whizzed by.<br /><br />Since we can only guess that the grim reaper wears black and carries a sickle rather than rides a bike and wields a guitar, I held my breath for a second, which technically, would not discourage said reaper in any way since his job would be easier if I ceased respiration first. “You try to scream . . . .”<br /><br />The man on the bike looked a little frightened which instead had me wonder if this was really just some dude in a band who thinks there’s nothing scarier than a woman perched on a throne of Naugahyde, singing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtyJbIOZjS8">‘Thriller’</a> in strained tones with no range (for those of you who have seen <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EoV-Y34aBkk">my YouTube contribution</a>, you know what I mean). In fact, that’s grim reaper kind of frightening.<br /><br />I was still singing in spite of the audience simply because I wanted to get to the part where I punctuated the line, “. . . but ‘terra’ takes the sound before you make it” because I find that particular pronunciation of ‘terror’ so darn amusing that it needs to be belted out regardless of who’s within earshot.<br /><br />Moments later my friend arrived in the Subaru that would take me out of my neighborhood for the last time. I would have cried one last sentimental cry but I’d exhausted my tears over the last couple of weeks and, again, reminded myself that I was sitting next to an ill-equipped bachelor. The sappy behavior had already culminated anyway in a mid-afternoon sobbing call to an ex-boyfriend after I had sifted through every sweet card he’d ever sent me. It ended up sounding like a 2am drunk-dial with a lot of drippy I–love-you-man’s. Mortifying in retrospect. Sorry, <a href="http://twaha.blogspot.com/">Taha</a> – I love you, man.<br /><br />Three weeks earlier I had decided to move to India. After the initial surprise wore off, my Dad made one of his 6 a.m. phone calls – I stopped mentioning the three-hour time difference to him awhile ago – to voice concern about inoculations because someone had a cousin whose friend’s sister’s boyfriend got really sick there. I assured him that I’d get shots and wear saran wrap over my head and hands whenever I went outside. As well as guarding me from contact, it should keep the locals farther than sneezing distance from the weirdo wrapped in plastic.<br /><br />What’s particularly funny about this call is that my father lives all summer at a <a href="http://www.virtualvermont.com/towns/shoreham.html">camp</a> in Vermont near <a href="http://www.historiclakes.org/contents.htm">Lake Champlain</a> with no running water, no electricity, questionable refrigeration and an out-house. Whatever power he needs runs off his truck battery so that his entire life requires less juice than my smart phone. With meager culinary prep, my father and his like-minded friends sustain themselves with meat-loaf sized hamburgers and vegetables plucked from the garden. Sometimes the only obvious attempt at sanitation appears to be a quick glance upward and a plea to God. One of my Dad’s famous ‘camp burgers’ could take out his entire little commune if it wasn’t for the liberal use of an antiseptic called Gin in it’s most economical form. Apparently, Jesus and Gin trumps e-coli.<br /><br />Most of my friends smiled and nodded when I told them I was moving to India but I don’t think they believed I’d do it even after I set about breaking camp like a nomad packing up the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yurt">yurt</a>. Probably because they knew any nomad would have known better than to accumulate that much stuff. With my 1950s and 60s collectors kitsch – it could either be considered a $300 find on <a href="http://seattle.craigslist.org/fua/">Craig’s list</a> or a $5 this’ll-work-cut-it’s-cheap compromise at the Salvation Army. It was love-it or hate-it stuff and we’d been growing old together, my Naugahyde and me so it was tough to be objective.<br /><br />This would also be one of the few occasions in which I could honestly blame my mother. Most of the baggage I’d like to assign to her is actually my own but the boxes of yard-sale finds can actually be blamed on her since she did indeed ship them across country. Her motto, “if it’s ugly, it must be worth money” combined with “heck, it’s only a quarter” culminated in a collection of artifacts that I could only now sift through because she passed away. I wouldn’t have dreamed of getting rid of a single item while she lived and I still had to call my sister for her blessings at least a couple of times in the process.<br /><br />As I would explain later, my mother was a shyster. This isn’t the time to explain how she passed off Duncan Hines brownies as her own at all the bake sales or how she convinced me that the Pillsbury Pie Crust was homemade after she rolled out the fold and floured the counter liberally, but I discovered it wasn’t the last of her capers. I agonized over the ‘Depression-era, hand-blown glass’ vase she sent me trying to decide if I should keep it simply because to her it was a valuable find even though to me it was cranberry, a color I would never decorate with. After electing to save it with the few meager items I was keeping, I turned it over to slide the candle out and I noticed the ‘HD’ sticker on the bottom which I would recognize as a <a href="http://www.target.com/b/ref=sc_iw_r_1_1/601-2072280-0393722?node=13812701">Target brand household good</a> but she would not since she seldom went to department stores. I’ll never know why she attempted to pull that one over on me since this is a woman who knew her depression-era glass but it’s yet another of the complicated reasons why I loved her so dearly.<br /><br />I also elected to paint a house before I left. As I settled all my clients elsewhere, I needed something to do other than keep myself company and cry over old birthday cards. I walked into the project blind, had no concept how much work it would be and longed to be done with it because it was stressing me out. File “house painting” next to “marriage” in a pile called, ‘Things to try only once.’<br /><br />I’ve been known to do experiments in manual labor and this was what I thought would be another lab to determine if my functional conditioning is actually functional. Most importantly what I learned is that men who shop in upscale supermarkets only flirt with me when I’m dirty and covered in paint which is weird and worthy of further study. Had I known this, I could have changed the face of my dating history simply by rolling around in the parking lot on the way in.<br />I also learned that paint is really hard to get out of your hair, that people who climb to the top wrung of ladders positioned on uneven ground have brass balls or no understanding of physics, gravity or medical coverage, and that what little sanity I maintain can be preserved in trying situation only as long as I have access to <a href="http://www.thislife.org/Radio_Favorites.aspx">podcasts of ‘This American Life’</a>. Physically painting was no problem but if it hadn’t been for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ira_Glass">Ira Glass</a> the mental game would have beaten me. If this had been the Navy Seals of monotonous labor, I might have wrung the bell.<br /><br />I had hoped this project would be reminiscent of my drywall experiment of 2002. Then however, I got to work with a <a href="http://seattle.citysearch.com/profile/34967521/bellevue_wa/cornell_s_quality_construction.html">crew of Romanians</a> who where all a lot of fun with the exception of the plumber. Since apparently the Romanian wives would not be happy to discover that their husbands worked on a coed crew, I was scooted out the back door whenever the plumber arrived. Of all the men in this little congregation, the plumber talked when he drank. Oh, and he drank a lot. As Sam, the dapper young family man I worked with frequently would say sternly as he shook his head, “this no good.”<br /><br />Their wives had no reason for concern. They were not attracted to me as they would continue to attest that <a href="http://www.romanianmates.com/">Romanian women</a> were the most beautiful women on the planet but rather, as devout Christians, they were fascinated to be in such close proximity to any human being that in their minds would be fed-exed straight to hell upon expiration. Sam found the blasphemous lifestyles of Americans almost as offensive as their ungodly preference for <a href="http://www.askthebuilder.com/038_Plaster_vs_Drywall_-_And_The_Winner_Is_.shtml">drywall over stucco</a>. He also couldn’t understand why we weren’t smart enough or considerate enough to learn any other language fluently and he thought my divorce was a tragic mistake because it would leave me with few prospects. So far I’ve done little to disprove his theories.<br /><br />His mudslinging always began during the literal slinging of mud. Sam would fling trowels of mud at all the wall’s seams while complaining nonstop about how this was a stupid American invention and far inferior to the genius that is stucco. I still preferred taking a browbeating for my fellow citizens to standing on saw horses propping sheets of drywall in place while he screwed them in. The vibration of the screw gun made it hard to see how much my muscles were quivering at the effort.<br /><br />What I learned from that job was that any task performed at full range of motion for greater than twenty reps was outside of my training and challenging for me to do. All the training I did in the gym up to that point did not prepare me at all for the demands of real labor. That particular epiphany about the dysfunction of conventional training turned me towards CrossFit and I never looked back. I had hoped for a breakthrough of equal magnitude with my little paint project but other than it’s Zen-like moments which could have been attributed to the wax-on/wax-off sort of focus or the combination of dehydration, sun stroke and paint fumes, I can only be sure I met my RDA of Vitamin-D out in the rare Seattle sun.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.weirsonline.com/wolfeborophotos.htm">Wolfeboro, NH,</a> where I’m now staying with my sister, docks on <a href="http://www.lakewinnipesaukee.net/">Lake Winnipesaukee</a>. Visitors rent boats, splash about in the lake and probably fish for trout. It’s a lake. So when the tourists swagger up to Dockside - what would look like your typical Oceanside seafood and burger joint if you were hours south at Hampton Beach - and ask if the clams are fresh, the teenagers working the window try not to be too sarcastic. Did I mention it’s a lake? You’d better hope the clams are previously frozen ‘cause anything caught in the gulp of water that’s Winnipesaukee, ain’t a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hard_clam">quahog</a>.<br /><br />My nephew Dustin works at Dockside washing dishes while my nephew Gunnar works at Garwood’s doing ‘cold-side’ prep and I am spending the month flipping crepes at a crepery a few doors down. I haven’t asked what they’re making per hour and not because I haven’t considered comparing wages. Though you can imagine that after ten full years of fighting obesity with no downward trend, I’ve thrown up my hands and joined ‘Team Diabetes’ just to play on the winning side for once, there is no nutritional angle to this. In fact, I only grimaced internally when a father ordered Strawberry, Nutella, Candy, Syrup, Honey-smothered Crepes for his two scrawny offspring for dinner and then explained proudly that his children are vegetarian. He then looked at his robust niece when she asked if she could please have chicken in hers and said, “Fine. You’re mother’s paying – she can kill animals.” “Coming right up, sir,” I said grinning.<br /><br />Yes, I have the pleasure of working at ‘Crepes Ooh La La!’ where I walk past the phone quickly before it rings so I can avoid saying it. It could force me to acknowledge the midlife crisis I’m pretending not to notice. I stand on display and prepare crepes to order and in spite of my wheat sensitivity, spend most of my day smelling like pancakes. Instead of paint in my hair I now have to contend with Nutella which, unlike paint, can be removed by licking though I wouldn’t advise it. If I hadn’t been spending my evening making runs to 7-11 for tacos in a car full of teenaged boys going 70 m.p.h, I’d walk through a bar just to see if men buy drinks for girls that smell like breakfast. (Disclaimer: It was not Gunnar driving and they may not have noticed an adult in the car because I was the shortest one there. Oh, and I didn’t eat tacos and it wasn’t my idea).<br /><br />As for the rest of the teenagers in town, I think I work with all of them. My favorite is a budding Einstein dressed all Abecrombie. I'm sure he'd display his natural brilliance if it wasn't for an unfortunate roominess between synapse. When we're all operating on DSL, he's dial-up. It's odd to be moving at the pace of crepe only to have you're rhythym disrupted by the slow ardious shuffle of untied sneakers moving at the pace of a dimwitted knuckledragger. He was country when country wasn't cool.<br /><br />I’m willing to consider the job at the crepery an inventive way to mingle with the locals while I spend time with my family and learn yoga before heading off to India. So far I took three or four of my sister’s classes and so far my mind is more open than my joints. I promised myself I’d chase away whatever thoughts I had like, “this isn’t functional,” “this movement is dangerous”, “I can’t do this,” or, “holy Krishna it’s only been five minutes!” and give this thing a chance for the sake of sisterhood. Stacey told us in soothing tones at the beginning of class to pick a spot to ‘work-on’ and after spending the first couple of classes trying to ‘breath through my shoulder,’ I decided to shift my spot from my shoulder to my attitude. I think I hit the spot. In spite of my inability to wear my own limbs as a straightjacket, I remained composed and open to the possibility of one day swaddling myself and at the same moment realizing why you'd want to.<br /><br />Stacey’s been to Gordo’s gym with me, too, which I joined moments after stepping foot inside the city limits. After we spent 30 minutes rearranging a jungle of benches and elaborate machines designed to test whether pullies work, we were set up to do a ten minute workout. I started showing Stacey how to do dumbbell cleans and I believe within the first five minutes she said, “This movement is dangerous,” “I can’t do this,” and “Holy Krishna, It’s only been five minutes!” She hasn’t been back yet but I think she should hurry. My show at Gordo’s might be a limited engagement after I horrified the locals with a little Push-Jerk Squat medley that turned me three shades of red. Historically, they’ve burned witches nearby with less tangible evidence of demonic possession. Or maybe they were just peeved because I smelled like pancakes.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-27265458946921052562008-06-24T15:40:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.252-08:00Ten Times More ExcitedI started a seven-month leadership program that I expected would hone my skills as a trainer. When I signed up, I was promised that my life would be unrecognizable by the time the program was complete. I think I might have said, “cool” without even considering the old ‘be careful what you wish for’ adage that my mother would have quoted without missing a beat and that would have annoyed me at almost the very same second she said it. Unrecognizable sounded inspiring not horrifying like the kind of unrecognizable I’d be if a semi hit me in the Sentra. Maybe I should’ve been tipped off by the monkey paw that came with the introductory binder.<br /><br />By month four, my business was dissolved I was unemployed and certain people were responding to me as if I had all the charm of poison sumac. This included my on-again/off-again boyfriend who informed me I was annoying, a sentiment apparently shared by the other girl he was secretly sleeping with. Clearly that makes us ‘off’.<br /><br />It took a couple of weeks of practice but I can now successfully answer the ‘what happened’ question with the ‘he wanted to see other people’ spin and not be tempted to end the sentence with ‘. . . naked and drunk and then lie about it.’ Can’t people just break up with a handshake instead of going all ‘country song’ with it? Not that I’m bitter, but if Karma hasn’t caught up to them yet it’s simply stuck in traffic with the wrong Google map.<br /><br />I had a brief but meaningful fling with <a href="http://www.haagendazs.com/reserve/fds.aspx">Haagen Dazs Fleur De Sel Caramel Ice Cream</a> but then remembered it won’t erase an ass from my life only add one. Ultimately it had little impact – I cried out all the bloat over <a href="http://psiloveyoumovie.warnerbros.com/">‘P.S. I Love You’</a> which I think gave me swimmer’s ear from crying sideways into a puddle I continued to lay in. I rented an embarrassing stack of cheesy romantic comedies until I feared Hollywood Video would sell their database and I’d get a mailbox full of flyers for suicide hotlines and <a href="http://www.match.com/">Match.com</a> as well as a suspicious number of coupons for psychotherapy in my MoneySaver pack.<br /><br />Eventually I was able to reboot myself with enough romance to spike my blood sugar and convince me to at least put on deodorant and chapstick before I left the apartment just in case <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0124930/">Gerard Butler</a> or <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0005188/">James Marsden</a> was in line behind me buying Fleur De Sel Carmel Ice Cream to match the dried stain on the wrinkled t-shirt that I was clearly intending to be buried in. But it’s amazing what a few clever movie lines can do considering that finding a suitable breeder in my neighborhood is as likely statistically as a semi hitting me in the Sentra.<br /><br />I played over 3100 games of bubble breaker on my phone which it turns out serves as a sort of screen saver for my overworked melon. Whenever my mind started whirring along I clicked it into energy conservation mode by bursting little colored bubbles until I drooled or my thumb hurt and I couldn’t hold up my arm anymore. Finally, I started meditating which I think happens naturally when you’ve maxed out rheuminating. I started with guided meditation on CDs which I napped through rather successfully so I’m not sure if giving myself a pedicure with the ex’s toothbrush after I woke up was a sacred Tibetan practice on the path to enlightenment as suggested by <a href="http://kadampa.org/en/buddhism/venerable-geshe-kelsang-gyatso/">Geshe Kelsang Gyatso</a> or whether my mind was making a funny. The toothbrush, by the way, was not bad Karma unless I allowed him to brush his teeth with it should the opportunity present itself and I wouldn’t do that. Well, I’m pretty sure but I think that’s mostly because he’s never getting within fifty yards of it.<br /><br />Between the search for an enlightened path and detours in my career path, I’ve weathered my fair share of stress for the first time in forever. My life was not complicated before and that was by design so my only experience with adrenal overload was thanks to my unholy love of coffee. But as I’ve been recently educated on both impermanence and attachment, so goes it. Sigh.<br /><br />So if my mind joined the maniacal march of the unconscious thanks to the ceaseless jumping from past suffering to future uncertainty at least until I finishing crying my last ugly, snuffling heartfelt cry you’ve got to wonder what toll that takes. I’ll tell you it didn’t feel all that healthy. Anthony Colpo in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Great-Cholesterol-Con-Anthony-Colpo/dp/1430309334">‘the Great Cholesterol Con, Why everything you’ve been told about cholesterol, diet and heart disease is wrong!’</a> summed it up rather nicely:<br /><br /><em>“When we become acutely stressed, our internal environments undergo a striking transformation: our bodies, in effect, go into red alert. Blood is diverted away from organs and tissues participating in ‘non-essential’ activities – such as digestion, immune function, growth and repair – and re-routed towards those involved in dealing with imminent danger, such as the muscles and heart. Our reflexes sharpen, our muscles tighten and our hearts start beating faster in anticipation of intense physical effort. This is the famous ‘fight-or-flight’ response, which is triggered when the body releases substances known as catecholamines. The two most abundant catecholamines released during stressful times are norepinephrine and epinephrine (adrenaline). Stressful situations also cause the body to secrete abundant amount of the catabolic hormone cortisol.”</em><br /><em><br />“Norepinephrine and epinephrine exert pronounced effects on the cardiovascular system: they increase heart rate and dilate blood vessels in muscles, allowing for increased blood flow to support muscular effort. High levels of catcholamines also increase blood viscosity and encourage blood clotting, a development that serves to minimize blood loss from any injury that may occur while frantically fighting or fleeing danger. Meanwhile, cortisol raises our blood sugar levels, ensuring a ready supply of fuel for the brain. In order to achieve these elevated blood sugar levels, cortisol overrides the action of insulin. In other words, during brief periods of stress we become temporarily insulin resistant.”</em><br /><br />Prior to my present series of plot twists, I was only able to achieve that level of stress through sleep deprivation. This, as I’ve mentioned before, has the same impact. Larry McCleary, M.D. makes it clear In The <a href="http://www.drmccleary.com/">Brain Trust Program</a>. The noted neurosurgeon said, “Studies done in young healthy male volunteers have shown that even a few days of sleep loss (on average sleeping about four hours a night) can disturb the metabolic systems that regulate blood sugar. This produces transient glucose intolerance to the degree seen in diabetes. When these young subject resumed sleeping for nine hours each night, the metabolic changes resolved.”<br /><br />But a sleep debt doesn’t get resolved the way most people attempt it in one lazy weekend lolling in bed. In fact, in a study by the Institute of Aerospace Medicine in Köln, Germany studied thirteen helicopter-based emergency medical service pilots (mean age 38 yr) who operate from sunrise to sunset, requiring up to 15.5 hours of continuous duty in the summer months for 2 days before, 7 days during, and 2 days after their duty cycle. Over the 7-day duty period, mean sleep duration decreased from 7.8 hours to 6 hours or less. Results showed that, “Mean levels of excreted adrenalin, noradrenalin, and cortisol increased significantly by 50 to 80% and remained elevated for the two post-duty days. Although the actual flights did not cause critical physiological responses, the acute and accumulated sleep deficit led to incomplete recuperation between duty hours and induced elevated stress indicators.” Again, the recovery period tested was two days.<br /><br />McCleary also pointed out that the increase in cortisol “makes brain cells more vulnerable to the physical toxic insults of the environment.” How vulnerable? John Hopkins University researchers injected mice with ‘known chemical carcinogens’ after altering their natural sleep patterns as reported in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lights-Out-Sleep-Sugar-Survival/dp/0671038680">‘Lights Out – Sleep, Sugar and Survival’</a> by T.S. Wiley and Bent Formby, Ph.D. As a result, the short-night mice developed tumors so quickly that researcher couldn’t tell which substance caused the cancer. And, by the way, said substances were as simple as household cleaners, plastic from water bottles and components of antiperspirant. The long night mice didn’t get as much as a hangover from their carcinogen cocktails.<br /><br />What I find interesting is that spikes in cortisol levels associated with sleep deprivation coincide with the most common sugar cravings. After ten years of training, I can easily say that most people suffer from the munchies mid-afternoon and evening. If you look at the cortisol profile in the study, ‘Impact of Sleep Debt on Physiological Rhythms’ by Centre d'Etude des Rythmes Biologiques, Laboratoire de Physiologie, Université Libre de Bruxelles, Brussels, Belgium, the results show, ‘If the overall 24-hour cortisol profile was preserved, sleep restriction was associated with increased cortisol levels in late afternoon and evening hours and the duration of the quiescent period was reduced.”<br /><br />Just because I traded my sleep debt for garden-variety stress, doesn’t mean I escape the ravages of cortisol. Colpo makes that clear in ‘Cholesterol Con’ when he says, “In controlled experiments, infusion of stress hormones produces an immediate but temporary insulin resistant state in healthy human subjects. If excessive catecholamine and cortisol levels occur during the post-meal period as a result of psychosocial stresses, then even greater rises in blood glucose and insulin release can be expected.”<br /><br />He goes even further though because he makes the connection to the arterial clogging I could’ve looked forward to if I had insisted on being a victim of circumstances. “Dr. Malcolm Kendrick is by no means the first cardiovascular researcher to focus on the postprandial period, but he is the first to hypothesize the potentially atherogenic connection between the post-meal period and psychological stress. According the Kendrick, the presence of psychological stress in the postprandial period – a phenomenon that can significantly amplify the usual post-meal rise insulin and blood glucose – may dramatically accelerate the progression of heart disease.”<br /><br />I obviously had no real interest in suffering from heart disease even if it was almost poetic that it would have been caused by heartache. And that would also be great raw material for a country song if you can find a word that rhymes with infarction. I instead elected to meditate and I’d be inclined to share my experience about that if I didn’t fear it would sound like <a href="http://www.elizabethgilbert.com/eatpraylove.htm">‘Eat, Pray, Love’</a>- a book that made me want to ear-flick an Air Marshal so they’d turn the plane around and I could get my money back at the Bookstore near N-Gates.<br /><br />I also dug out an old CD of tribal drumming designed to align my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chakra">Chakras</a>. <a href="http://twaha.blogspot.com/">Taha</a> and I bought it years ago to listen to while making pancakes smeared with Peanut Butter long before I knew how far out of whack either ingestible was going to throw me. I only listen to it occasionally because each track corresponds to a Chakra and I never listen to the whole thing which makes me fear further imbalance. I'm not sure if it actually works but I do know you can time a nervous tick to it quite nicely.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.earthandskyyoganh.com/htm/instructors.htm">My sister</a>, who’s way more grounded than I, responded to the loss of her entire <a href="http://www.forrestyoga.com/">Anna Forest Yoga</a> training homework by dropping to her knees in a flurry of expletives – a way of expression refined by my people and passed to us at an early age - and vigorously flipping the bird to whatever celestial being paused to take notice. As reported, this lasted for a minute or two and then she collected herself and moved on. This may have been another sacred practice on my CD that I slept through. I might try it next making sure to notice my breathing.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-737637378183893832008-06-08T20:21:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.252-08:00I'm FlossedIt never crossed my mind that twenty minutes of 45K Overhead squats followed by 100 pull-ups for time arranged as some sort of scenic-overlook/rest-stop on the way to the airport was in any way a bad, bad plan. But when the adrenaline wore off and I gathered my pink flip flops as well as a collection of uncomfortably heavy bags spit out of the conveyor belt in security, I realized how closely ‘carry on’ sounded like carrion. I was now going to be separated from the herd on the way to N Gates. Had it been the Serengeti, I’d have been lunch.<br /><br />As the tragically unfit scurried past me rolling over my toes with oxygen tanks and wheely luggage on the way from sedentary jobs to inert vacations, I was left vulnerable to whatever lurks in the dark corners behind the regional art displays nobody ever looks at. And though clever considering security procedures, flip flops are not a load-bearing shoe and in fact enforce speeds not to exceed a stroll. I had visions of walking up to the nearest security guard, throwing my arms up over my head, and pleading, “Up!” which I’ve seen work rather successfully with small children in supermarkets.<br /><br />When I say it never crossed my mind however, I’m assuming that’s a lie. Lots of reasons, excuses and justifications run ticker-style behind my eyeballs but it’s about as significant to me as the S&P 500. In fact, as far as my mind is concerned this whole ‘get-off-your-ass and step away from the cupcakes’ lifestyle has always been a bad idea and an experiment destined to fail. That’s why I stopped paying any attention to it because as much as I adore my brain, it doesn’t seem to have my best interests at heart. It turns out there’s really just a fat girlfriend living in my head who’s trying to sabotage me so she doesn’t have to eat alone.<br /><br />So I’d guess that at some point the words, ‘but you’ll be sitting on the plane all sweaty’, ‘but won’t that kick the snot out of you’ and ‘that could make this a very, very long day’ passed unheeded along with ‘pack appropriate underwear – you’ll be wearing skirts’ which, as it turns out, I didn’t take note of either. I realized that many people think the incessant internal debate will at some point go away ‘when they’re fit.’ Hmmm, let me know when you get there – I haven’t seen it yet.<br /><br />The only difference with me is how unwilling I am to engage in any conversation with my brain about exercise because it’s clear that it’s a two-year old in the candy isle who skipped her nap. One measly twenty minute workout could consume four hours of foot-stomping internal misery while I whine ‘why!’ along with a bunch of silly reasons I’m not even buying. But that’s if I’m willing to pay any attention greater than the slightest note I make of elevator musak.<br /><br />“No, I’m good. I’m flossed,” Aaron Hendon said at the ILP Weekend I was attending simply to point out how silly it is that we operate like something is ‘handled’ when it’s clearly a maintenance issue. In the world of wellness, there’s a meal to eat and a workout to do and right now that’s what your fitness looks like. Keep it up, and you can see a trajectory but no guarantees. So it comes down to a series of decisions that you make that are either consistent or inconsistent with you’re goals.<br /><br />What’s funny to me is when clients argue that they should see results anyway because they’re ‘trying.’ That’s like going to a college graduation and handing out the diplomas followed by a bunch of ‘honorable mentions’ of equal merit because these are people who had unique circumstances that the rest of as couldn’t possibly understand. Good to know, but you either do the work or you don’t.<br /><br />What’s even funnier is that I understand this so clearly in the gym and yet I’ve been unwilling to see the rest of my life the same way. Doesn’t everything start at a ‘Point A’ where you set out to get to ‘Point B’ and there’s a bunch of stuff that has to get done to get there. If you don’t do the stuff, you don’t see results no matter how much you whine that it’s not fair and that so-and-so didn’t have to do as much stuff and that this shouldn’t be so.<br /><br />I see clients struggle through similar conversations in the middle of workouts and I say – thanks to the advice of Michael Street – shut up and work. It’s all very fascinating and yet nothing other than a muscle contraction will make the weight move. And since I was hired to help get weight to move and not to facilitate a support group of one, you can see where the conflict begins.<br /><br />So I was in San Francisco in a leadership training program engaging myself in a non-stop whine-along about how I couldn’t do the homework while the coach side of me rolled her eyeballs and said, shut up and work. “But . . .” my mind would whine. Honestly, I was ready to break up with me. “Please, I’d like to see other cerebrums,” I’d say and then excuse myself to the restroom so I could ditch me. Can you lobotomize yourself with a coffee stirrer and expect a reasonable amount of accuracy, I wonder? Somebody please Google that. In the meantime, I got my own coaching right back at me yet again.<br /><br />So what have I learned? I’ll never stop whining. So what. It’s never a good reason to stop what I'm doing. And when people whine to me, I’ll nod sympathetically but it’s all still a bunch of noise that isn’t going to make me budge because I'm familiar with all the unpleasant consequences either way.<br /><br />For me, that’s evident with nutrition more than exercise. I spent the whole time in San Francisco eating at Whole Foods yet walking into every bakery, caressing display cases, smelling the sultry smells, reading the names and ingredients of all the baked goods and then walking out. It was neither heartbreaking nor brave that I chose not to eat anything – it was just the overwhelming desire to not feel like ass even as my mind whined about being ‘on vacation’. 98% of the time, the choices I made were consistent with my goals simply because one urge outweighed another.<br /><br />What’s insane is when a client tells me how yucky they feel and still tries to debate with me why they should be able to eat crap anyway. Um, ok. I promise not to interfere with your efforts to lesson the quality of your life even though, inevitably, you paid me to do so. Please make all payments in advance.<br /><br />Yes, you will always want to eat crap and believe me, I know what that feels like. Stop worrying about the wanting, choose the results you’d like to see and then do the stuff that gets you there. Feel free to be as neurotic as you’d like along the way, however. For instance, I once knew a bodybuilder who looked as spectacular as one could look while training that way and she always answered the question, ‘how are you?’ with a list of what she ate that day. That might be the answer to ‘what are you?’ and for those of you who are curious she was a lot of canned tuna. Though reflexive, I stopped asking after awhile and would just smile and nod hello whenever I saw her leaving the meal plan for someone else to sign off on.<br /><br />As for me, I can see myself placing an ad in the ‘Seeking other’ section of ‘The Stranger’ that reads, “Please eat powdered sugar donuts for me while I watch . . .” and I’d only get a little weird about how they’d have to smear powdered sugar all over their face but not really creepy like they couldn’t have milk or something. It would be next to the ad asking for someone to throw luncheon meat at them. No, really. I actually saw that ad and I wondered if they meant Boar’s Head or Oscar Mayer. Thin sliced Boar’s Head in some classy Italian meat that’s cured or smoked and ends in ‘della is one thing but steamy Glad-bagged Wonder Bread sandwiches adhered with warm processed cheese foods and perspiring bologna is clearly twisted. On the other hand, it earns props if it’s unsliced and serves as a new dodge ball inspired game with Honey Hams. That would require skill, an ability to tolerate blunt force trauma and the courage to face down high glycemic glazes.<br /><br />I probably had that entire conversation in my head while refueling from a brown Whole Foods box filled with a chunk of uninspiring hormone free meat from the hot bar. Well, at least it was keeping the fat girl in my head occupied while I was busy not listening.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-53669723888513672372008-05-19T16:01:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.252-08:00More input on outputIt’s a beautiful sunny day in Seattle and in my neighborhood, that’s a lot like flicking on the fluorescents in a bar after last call. You know the moment when you realize that what might have looked like the romantic dancing of shadows are clearly a smattering of stains that are nothing short of miraculous so high on a wall and in patterns reminiscent of a crime scene. It’s also the first time you wonder too that a stray cigarette didn’t torch the place once you’ve calculating how much alcohol has soaked into the floor. You could cook a steak over the flames of the welcome mat alone but only after pausing first to thank God for shoes. Nobody needs to mention the startling way that bright-eyed charmers with porcelain complexions who converse lucidly turn into pasty-faced drunks with a crazy inability to focus once floodlit. Bartenders really should just flick on the lights throughout the night whenever someone tries to stumble out the door with anyone whose name they didn’t already know when they arrived. Consider it an intervention. Yes, it’s interesting that here on the Hill crazy people look crazier in bright sunlight but maybe that’s because those of us suddenly absorbed in the awkward and labored effort of a rusty Vitamin-D production are a starker contrast.<br /><br />In the glare of summer sun, the infestation of bugs on a curbside rat* carcass outside one of Craig’s favorite Mexican restaurants looked more like a little beach party which made me wonder if I should rain down a cloud of spray-on sunscreen to keep the little buggers from sunburn. In light of that and every other now-evident dingy detail, I couldn’t help but wonder if this whole neighborhood could use a pressure washing in spite of it’s nearly constant dousing of rain. Can you imagine a whole street of people shivering and clinging to their fluffy hotel towels handed to them like Red Cross supplies after getting a hearty pressure-wash and a scrub from concerned soccer moms who carpooled over from their orderly cul de sacs on an emergency mission? I think Eastside moms would be happy to don pink lapel pins and do it as a fundraiser for breast cancer awareness. They’d get sponsored by other soccer moms with slightly busier schedules or allergic reactions to the mandatory latex gloves. Though it would be fun to watch, I’m reminded of my 1940’s bathroom fixtures with their shiny, slick coats long scoured away and realize that pressure washing wouldn’t bring back the luster. Personally, for the sake of the visual environment and knowing that I couldn’t blame the rain today, I wouldn’t have minded if one crisply dressed mom sorted out my bed head while I waited in line for coffee. I suspect they’d lob off the last four scraggly inches at the direction of my friend Josh who’d seize the opportunity to right a wrong. (I think it bothers him more than he’d say though what he said was, “you should cut this off” as he wagged a chunk of it at me distastefully. Maybe that actually does capture his level of 'bother'.)<br /><br />I was instead distracted by a text message that read, “HA HA I JUST DID THE ON THE TOILET SQUAT POOP.” All-caps courtesy of the author. My reply was “Cleanly? Props either way but extra points for accuracy. Your descending colon is in love with you right now.” As I’ve mentioned, most people wander away from me at parties almost immediately in hopes of finding less horrifying conversation and a little nosh, what’s left is an assortment of characters that send text messages like the one above. This one in particular might require a little background:<br />I once dated a man who routinely stood on the toilet seat while making deposits because, as he said, modern toilets are designed for a deconditioned population who can’t squat fully. As a result, our colons are straining at awkward angles that don’t accommodate our mechanics. Fascinating. You can see why I was smitten. I may have shared this fact with a number of people and at some point many of them lost my number and stopped returning calls. The few that are left obviously have the kind of social schedules that allow time for excremental experimentation and the sharing of results.<br /><br />Since I read <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=jhAI05rPQOIC&dq=fiber+menace&pg=PP1&ots=km_VxcZiR4&sig=tTrl18Boh_O9ZLKOIvhvvgNahNk&hl=en&prev=http://www.google.com/search%3Fhl%3Den%26q%3DFiber%2BMenace&sa=X&oi=print&ct=title&cad=one-book-with-thumbnail">Fiber Menace</a>, I’ve been particularly distracted by the end results of my nutrition. My concern for input has been entirely eclipsed by my focus on output. This, as you can see, is something I’ve been sharing with friends of like interest which you’d assume would be nobody. But unlike this particular gentleman with scientific leanings, I’m unwilling to dedicate any of my efforts in the direction of bathroom circus acts given the incident in a Bed and Breakfast outside London when I was six. After a long drive, my sister beat me to the bathroom and neglected to mention that the toilet seat was unanchored. She must have calculated my results with glee knowing that, at my height, my feet would barely touch the floor and she waiting until I started my urgent business to fling the door open and watch my panic as the seat began to slide starboard while I tried to cling to the toilet paper holder. Amid the whir of a rapidly unfurling roll of paper, the result was a mid-stream Sit ‘n Spin experience that left me forever uncertain of toilet seat stability. Is it odd that uncertain footing is the only reason I find the concept of squatting on the toilet seat out of the question?<br /><br />My efforts have been in other directions. I have been drinking a daily bottle of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kombucha">Kombucha</a> which was a recommendation of <a href="http://www.realizehealth.com/">Jennifer Adler</a>, my favorite dietician, brewer of bone broths and apparent purveyor of concoctions. Kombucha as defined by Wikipedia is, "the Western name for sweetened tea or <a class="mw-redirect" title="Tisane" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tisane">tisane</a> that has been <a title="Fermentation (food)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fermentation_%28food%29">fermented</a> using a macroscopic solid mass of microorganisms called a "kombucha colony," usually consisting principally of <a title="Acetobacter" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acetobacter">Acetobacter</a>-species and <a title="Yeast" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yeast">yeast</a> cultures." When I sent one of my clients, a long-time sufferer of psoriasis, to her she recommended that he drink a bottle a day. I decided that perhaps I could benefit from the good advice.<br /><br />First it’s important to know that I chew yogurt and could never tolerate pulp in juice. I get confused by viscosity and texture so the floating nonsense in kombucha throws me off. Frankly, I don’t consume anything with that consistency unless I’ve offended a waiter and, in those cases, I’m unaware of the unsolicited contribution. Now, there's not a lot of floaty nonsense but what exists is the kind of thing you're accustomed to spitting out not swallowing. When I notice the content, I suffer a moment of confusion and a desire to choke.<br /><br />"Each time the kombucha culture goes through the <a title="Fermentation (food)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fermentation_%28food%29">fermentation</a> process, it creates one new "mushroom" layer, or <a class="new" title="Zoogleal mat (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Zoogleal_mat&action=edit&redlink=1">zoogleal mat</a>, which will form atop of the original. After three or four layers have built up, the tea will become sour and taste somewhat like sour cider." Zoogleal mat - I'm not sure I could have made up a word that sounded that gross and it brings me right back to visions of the welcome mat in the aforementioned bar scene. My only contribution would be to change gleal to <a href="http://www.thefreedictionary.com/gleet">gleet</a>. Um, sorry - moving on.<br /><br />When I sipped a bottle disdainfully during an at-home training session with a client, I felt compelled to share about it mainly because she was beginning to take the look on my face personally. She later tried a bottle and described the smell as ‘vile.’ And her pronunciation was so uniquely British. Her inflexion captured a true repugnance that doesn’t translate with an American accent. In fact, I suggest that you go back and read ‘vile’ again with a British accent in order to capture the mood here. In New England, we can generate the same intensity with the expression, “it smells like ass.” We’re a classy bunch. (By the way, using that phrase in the Northwest will make you even less popular. Most Seattleites will at very least claim they lack a frame of reference.)<br /><br />Wikipedia blames it on the acetic acid. "<a title="Acetic acid" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acetic_acid">Acetic acid</a>, which gives Kombucha that 'kick' to its smell and taste" says the post and I say 'kick' is entirely subjective and depends on who's doing the kicking and whether or not you saw it coming.<br /><br />*Regarding the rat, I’m sure it just paused to peek in the windows and curse the heartburn that keeps it away from enjoying a good burrito before it died from arteries clogged by the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_Tso">General Tsos’s Chicken</a> served next door. But keep in mind, Craig, that Tabasco kills the taste of all things e. coli but sadly not the symptoms. Drink the cheap tequila – the aftermath can be blamed on a hangoverHeatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-9394425150258457882008-05-01T07:07:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.252-08:00Gut BombThere are people who can pour a beer straight down their gullet. They’re popular at Frat parties. My friend Shmi can do that with a Grande, nonfat, 190 degree, two-Splenda latte. Oddly, she’s not that popular at Frat parties. Maybe it’s because she can’t roll a quarter down her nose and bounce it into a cup with any predictability or maybe because Frat parties simply don’t serve up the kind of persnickety coffee order that would allow her to shine. Either way, I always get a kick out of watching her do it on Sunday afternoons while my coffee disappears in slow sips between the play-by-play analyses of both of our lives. What that actually sounds like at the next table is that I describe the blind, hapless stumble I took through my week and she manages to rephrase it as graceful, practiced choreography performed for an approving audience. That takes abundant creativity and most of the afternoon.<br /><br />By the time we run out of coffee and conversation, our bellies are equally empty. But since I’m the kind of carnivore often caught standing over the sink eating red meat out of the palm of my hand and she’s the kind of vegan whose food is always certifiably soulless, we have a hard time finding a common nosh. After the pretense of internal struggle, I sometimes buckle to her wheaty whims only to find myself with a mouthful of Mighty-O Donut - Local and Vegan - thinking, “Hmmm, these really aren’t very good.” It’s a real shame considering the cost.<br /><br />From what I can see, my little Indian friend has a iron-clad gut fitted to her fire-proof esophagus but my dainty little system can be leveled by a sugary confection like a blow dart from five paces. The roiling belly usually starts at around midnight and gets incorporated into a bad dream featuring rabid monkeys that spend most of the early hours jumping on my middle while munching donuts and grinding crumbs into my quilt. I awaken as rested as anyone who teases wild monkeys might, with low energy and a sterile gut. Given all the ways to commit crimes against gut flora, you may all be waking to your own sea of stagnation or perhaps just smelling like a monkey’s plaything which, by the way, is a different diagnosis but equally unfortunate.<br />Most people don’t pause to consider that the antibiotics taken on purpose and the no-so purposeful second-hand dose they get in animal products thanks to the liberal lacing in animal feed to ensure meat and diary makes it to market, continue to kill bacteria including your all-important belly buddies even after you’ve macerated them. And if you think keeping a pet gold fish alive is a challenge, try keeping a gut terrarium flourishing with a food allergy like mine. That midnight rumble in my belly is the sound of an entire population being massacred. The least I could do is erect a memorial monument in my duodenum.<br /><br />It’s this bacterial infantry that not only forms normal, moist stools (sometimes the word ‘moist’ is just icky) but it also enables the destruction of pathogenic material, manufactures essential vitamins, protects the intestinal walls, and develops and regenerates tissue. Without this teeming environment, you can’t absorb the nutrients in your food and you begin to suffer from the maladies of malnutrition. But no matter how many billions of one-celled soldiers you have in your army, they’re no match for a Mighty-O if you can’t gut it out against an allergen.<br />In fact, there’s a lot of things that can cause that kind of genocide including protein deficiency, excess dietary fiber, intestinal acidity, diarrhea, heavy metals , silverware, mercury from amalgam fillings, food coloring, environmental pollutants, colonics and, as mentioned before, antibiotics and allergic reactions. Some of the items on the list are easy enough to explain. Intestinal acidity occurs when pancreatic ducts get blocked usually by too much indigestible fiber in the duodenum; diarrhea flushes flora; heavy metals and amalgam fillings are toxic; silverware and food coloring has antibiotic properties; and colonics are silly for obvious reasons. It’s the protein and fiber that require a little explanation courtesy of our good friend Konstantin Monastryrsky, in Fiber Menace:<br /><br /><em><strong>Protein deficiency</strong> – intestinal flora derives its energy and plastic nutrients not from food, but from mucin, which is secreted by healthy mucous membranes. Mucin is a glycoprotein – a molecule that bonds glucose with amino acids. Gastric and intestinal mucus is formed by combining mucin and water. Mucus protects the lining of the stomach and intestines from mechanical damage, enzymes, gastric acid, astringent bile, and food born pathogens. The deficiency of the essential amino acid threonine, for example, curbs the body’s ability to produce mucin, and correspondingly, bacteria’s ability to function and procreate. </em><br /><br /><em><strong>Excess dietary fiber</strong> – The byproducts of fiber’s bacterial fermentation (short chain fatty acids, ethanol, and lactic acid) destroy bacteria for the same reason ethanol, and lactic acid) destroy bacteria for the same reason acids and alcohols are routinely used to sterilize surgical instruments – they burst bacterial membranes on contact. And that’s how fiber addiction develops; as the fermentation destroys bacteria, you need more and more fiber to form stools. If you suddenly drop all fiber, and no longer have many bacteria left, constipation sets in as soon as the large intestine clears itself of the remaining bulk.</em><br /><br />Under other circumstances, the absence of intestinal gasses might be cause for a sense of superiority around your uncouth and noisy friends but, in this case, it’s just a symptom of a sterile gut along with the more obvious constipation. What isn’t so obvious is that frequent respiratory infections, asthma, bronchitis, chronic rhinitis, post nasal drip, nasal voice, sinus congestion and allergies might be a tip off too. Deficiencies in Vitamin K, which is a byproduct of bacterial metabolism, can show up as hard to stop ordinary bleeding and bruising while deficiencies in Vitamin B12 produced by intestinal flora causes numbness and tingling of hands and feet, shortness of breath, chronic fatigue a sore mouth and tongue and mental confusion.<br /><br />Finding a new community to populate your suddenly sterile stomach is a little more complex than my usual advice to lick doorknobs for a routine immune boost. Posting a listing for free room and board to wayward organisms on Craig’s list won’t get the job done either. But you’ve already done your gut an injustice if you don’t habitually smooch livestock on the nose, fling dung for distance, and caress every surface at the Greyhound bus station all without washing your hands. It’s called the hygiene theory and we’re living in a world where our sterile guts match or sterile environments. In fact, aside from our unfortunate lack of incidental contact with bacterial sources, the fact that formula fed children miss their first infestation from breast milk and adults with appendectomies lack a place to store their starter culture to boost their count when their tank is low, doesn’t make things any better.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-42786151650009130322008-04-20T19:16:00.000-07:002011-12-27T13:23:54.253-08:00Water TortureThe <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Albertson</span>’s in Green Lake finally succumbed to whatever terminal illness was eating it alive. Before it did, I ducked in once or twice on urgent errands only. Its funk felt contagious, and the folks I saw shopping generally looked as if they’d already been infected. I think the entire place was built with asbestos, painted with lead paint and further enhanced by exotic molds growing under the bread isle next to wayward shopping lists on post-its. Yes, it was downright cursed and you always had the ‘I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">shouldn</span>’t have ducked down this alley’ kind of feeling. Now that it’s closed, I’m not sure where you’d go to buy refreshments that wash away the taste of methadone or that feed the kind of munchies one tends to get after posting bail.<br /><br />This grocery store was so desperate that you could buy cases of Top <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ramen</span> and have nearly enough money left over to treat the inevitable fatty liver at a walk in clinic. On my final errand, I stood in line worrying whether the crazy muttering man ready to check out in front of me would open fire armed with some concealed weapon and a clearly hostile relationship with the rest of humanity. If he did and I ended up being first to ‘check out’, would my friends always wonder if I had some sick bag-a-day <a href="http://www.fritolay.com/fl/flstore/cgi-bin/Nutrition_ProdID_3049.htm"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Funyun</span></a> habit that I hid from the world by getting my fix where nobody would ever recognize me. And even if they pried from my hands the emergency box of tampons that cleared my name, that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Albertson</span>’s would still be a stain on my obit.<br /><br />The problem is, the overpopulated promenade that is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Greenlake</span>, will inevitably mourn the loss of a last-resort restroom in which to duck. That was likely the only other reason you might find yourself there. Back in the days when I was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">overhydrated</span>, I loved stores like that where you could rush in and not have to ask for a code or walk around with a key attached to a garden gnome. Mind you, unlocked restrooms require precision hovering especially when you're peeing like a racehorse, but the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">hyperhydrated</span> have given up the right to be particular.<br /><br />Thank God I gave up the gallon a day habit many, many years ago. First, most of my water bottles were about as sanitary as sucking up street puddles with a bendy straw; second, my bladder was wussy and cried like a girl and third, leaving water bottles to stew in the car or under my arm so that the heated bottle would brew a carcinogenic tea seemed counterproductive to my whole ‘live long and prosper’ life plan with an ‘Into The Wild’ style retirement. Though I’m not overly religious, I also had a hard time buying the statement that when you’re thirsty it’s already too late. ‘The spiritual being of your choice’ did a fine job of orchestrated endocrine systems as well as all that other complex mush of guts, how the heck would thirst - something key to our survival - be the glaring bug in our operating systems? It was all an evil conspiracy by Evian was all I could figure.<br /><br />In truth, we can link this right back to the Department of Agriculture who, if you haven’t noticed by now, is clearly trying to kill us. Big strapping corn-fed folks produce big piles of corn-fed poop (pause here until my sister stops laughing and we can move on) and we needed to do something to keep all that fiber moving. That monster bran muffin? Yeah, I’m going to need that with a large coffee – black, a liter of water and perhaps the lifestyle section of the paper.<br /><br />If you read <a href="http://www.michaelpollan.com/omnivore.php">Omnivore’s Dilemma</a> you know all the grain wreaks havoc on a cow’s digestive system and we’re not fairing much better with our <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Supersize</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">McTurds</span>. Though I live in a neighborhood where the next comment will start a hearty debate, our colons are not meant to accommodate such girth. Without all that fiber, nobody would be drinking all that water but now we’re being ravaged by both. And the reason there’s no book called ‘Pooping for Dummies’ is that after the urge hits, it all seems pretty straightforward with no powerpoint presentation necessary. Once you’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> flushed away the evidence, there's nobody around to tell you that you’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> been doing it wrong. We’re all pretty much operating under the assumption that all’s well that ends well, so to speak. Let’s all drink to that.<br /><br />The water issue comes down to the chirping of the sound-byte ‘eight glasses’ without anyone really examining what that looks like. Konstantin <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Monastyrsky</span>, who explains the issues with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">hyperhydration</span> in the book <a href="http://www.fibermenace.com/">Fiber Menace</a>, breaks it down like this:<br /><br /><em>“A person weighing 70kg [155 lbs] requires at least ca. 1,750 ml [59 oz] per day. Of this amount ca. 650 ml is obtained by drinking, ca. 750 ml is the water contained in solid food, and ca. 350 ml is oxidation water. If more than this amount is consumed by a healthy person it is excreted by the kidneys, but in people with heart and kidney disease it may be retained.</em><br /><br /><em>As you can see, only 1,400 ml (47 oz), or about six glasses of water, are required every day from food and drink in almost equal proportion. The rest – the hidden oxidation water – is derived from the body’s internal chemistry.</em><br /><br /><em>Also, please note one crucial point: 1,750 ml is equal to about seven and a half glasses of water. This is where the initial round figures of “eight glasses” (1,890 ml) originally came from. What Human Physiology makes plain is that only 650 ml, or about two and a half glasses of water ‘is obtained by drinking’. Not eight, as we have been told to drink. Here’s another excerpt, this time from the Merck Manual of Diagnostic and Therapy, which is considered the gold-standard medical reference source and “must have” manual for any physician and researcher worth his or her salt. The Merck is even more miserly and specific:</em><br /><br /><em>. . . a daily intake of 700 to 800 ml is needed to match total water losses and remain in water balance . . .”</em><br /><br />So if you’re walking around like Sponge Bob Damp Pants, what’s the impact other than your blunted IQ caused by the habitual reading of public bathroom graffiti and the potential <a href="http://www.cdc.gov/ncidod/diseases/hanta/hps/"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hantavirus</span></a> you picked up off the doorknob? Here’s the laundry list provided by <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Monastyrsky</span>:<br /><br /><em><strong>Constipation:</strong> Potassium is a principal electrolyte, responsible for water retention inside human, bacterial, and plant cells. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Overhydration</span> causes the gradual loss of potassium through urine. Potassium deficiency, not shortage of water, is the principal reason behind stool dryness. The dry stool causes constipation because it is hard, abrasive and difficult to eliminate.</em><br /><em><br /><strong>Kidney disease:</strong> It <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">doesn</span>’t take a medical degree to understand that kidneys pumping two, three, four or five times more water than normal will wear out faster. (The resources of our internal organs was determined by evolution long before Coke, Pepsi, and bud came on the scene.) Kidney stones in particular are associated with calcium deficiencies that may result from either a deficiency in one’s diet or from loss related to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">overhydration</span>.</em><br /><br /><em><strong>Urinary Disorders:</strong> Urinary infections are a common side effect of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">overhydration</span>. With too many <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">carbs</span> and too much water in the system, urine alkalinity drops, acidity goes up, and the bladder and urethra become hospitable to pathogenic bacteria, which have an affinity for an acidic environment. Elevated glucose in the urine from too many dietary carbohydrates greatly stimulates these infections by providing plentiful feed for pathogens – a warm, dark bladder becomes just as hospitable to bacteria as a sweet-and-sour <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">Petri</span> dish.</em><br /><br /><em><strong>Digestive disorders:</strong> the more you drink right before, during, or within the first few hours after a meal, the more difficult and time-consuming digestion becomes, because it requires correspondingly more hydrochloric acid and digestive enzymes to bring their concentration up to the optimal level. The high volume of liquid in the stomach is prone to causing heartburn, which results from the spillage of acidified content into the unprotected esophagus. Indigestion, or delayed digestion (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">gastroparesis</span>) causes gastritis – an inflammation of the stomach’s mucosa, which may eventually lead to ulcers. Chronic indigestion may also result from a chloride deficiency, especially when excess water consumption is accompanied by reduced or salt-free diet.</em><br /><br /><em><strong><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">Digenerative</span> Bone Disease:</strong> a loss of minerals in general, calcium in particular. Leads to bone softening – <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">osteomalacia</span> in adults, scoliosis in young adults, and rickets in children. (Osteoporosis is a bone tissue disease, and not a mineral deficiency condition, as mistakenly thought by most people, including most medical professionals. A loss of bone tissue – collagen that makes up the bone matrix – leads to bone brittleness, not softness, as from the loss of minerals.)</em><br /><br /><em><strong>Premature aging:</strong> Facial bones determine our overall appearance and create a perception of age that no makeup or plastic surgery can hide. Because of a comparatively low physical load, facial bones experience the fastest loss of bone tissue and minerals.<br />Muscular disorders: Calcium and magnesium are key regulators of muscle contractions . A deficiency of these two minerals is broadly associated with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">fibromyalgia</span>, fatigue, cramps, tremors, involuntary flinching, and many other conditions that affect not just body muscles, but also the eyes, blood vessels, intestines, heart, womb, and all other organs that are controlled by the muscles.</em><br /><br /><em><strong>Unstable blood Pressure:</strong> Hypertension and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">hypotension</span> naturally follow water binges. First, as the volume of blood plasma increases from absorbed water, blood pressure rises. As long as the kidneys remain healthy, the excess is quickly removed, along with the minerals. As the minerals become depleted, the volume of plasma goes down in order to maintain its chemical stability, and low blood pressure sets in. </em><br /><em></em><br />Back in the 90's I had an 'incurable' disorder called <a href="http://digestive.niddk.nih.gov/ddiseases/pubs/ibs/"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">IBS</span></a> which this book covers in detail but that had nothing to do with why I read it. I wasn't searching for information about <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-error">IBS</span> because I completely recovered from the 'incurable' disorder over ten years ago by eliminating grains from my diet and reducing my water consumption. The doctors, on the other hand, had recommended that I eat refined carbohydrates for their '<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">digestability</span>', drink plenty of water and take prescription drugs for the rest of my life. I wonder now if the drugs where made from corn and manufactured by the Department of Agriculture.<br /><br />No it's not why I read the book. Frankly, aren't we all just looking just for a compelling page-turner that leaves us peering into toilet bowls for the rest of our days and dumping factoids about feces at dinner parties? Oh, that explains it.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-24596805392632927682008-02-13T12:43:00.000-08:002011-12-27T13:23:54.253-08:00We'll SeeCraig and I discussed the workout I was about to do as if we were deciphering a home-brew recipe for explosives we found in a last-page hit of a Google search. Details may have been lost in translation and there were skipped steps that only those who didn’t need a recipe would recognize. If you were eavesdropping, you’d peer over to count fingers and check for burn scars before you’d decide if we knew what we were doing. Pointless speculation on your part but then most speculation is pointless.<br /><br />Our afternoons are all about ‘Exercise Lab’ and not ‘Exercise Theory’ and there’s a whole lot to be learned by just tossing ourselves into a workout to see what will happen. This isn’t navigating a summit bid for Everest where a corpsicle becomes a frozen monument to a miscalculation. In this case, my remains will not be a human speed bump in the path of smarter, fitter or luckier climbers on their way to the top. At worst there will be war stories that conclude with grimaces and haunting memories. “Yeah, that? Don’t do that,” I’d say emphatically, flagging folks away from the scrawled formula on the white board.<br /><br />Experience is handy here, especially since Craig and I actually have some, but there’s a whole lot of unexplored territory between my quest for world domination and this nagging shoulder injury. Even at this level of training, it’s tempting to do more of the same with comfortable adjustments that accommodate my limitations, but that ends up feeling a lot like I retired from competition to skate in the Icecapades. Nothing wrong with that but I’m a little too competitive for a comfy schedule filled with the kind of barbell jazzercise that makes me feel like I’ve been fed-exed to hell only to find it’s one big circuit of ‘Fight Gone Bad’.<br /><br />It’s funny how an injury was the best thing to shake me loose from a routine I didn’t know that I had established. Now that I’ve gotten passed the ‘wishing on a star’ phase of ignoring things and waiting for fairy godmothers with magic elixirs, I’ve gotten down to the business of ‘screw this.’ There’s a lot that I can do other than more of the same. After all, didn’t ‘more of the same’ sort of get me into this mess? While I continue to heal, I’m off to explore all the areas marked ‘there be dragons’ on the fringes of my limited map of movement.<br /><br />It’s no big surprise that injuries that worsen over time and repetition fall into the category of ‘overuse’ which, under different circumstances with better execution, would simply be called ‘practice.’ By the time I realized I was injured, it was my areas of ‘expertise’ that were my biggest joy and yet the source of searing, startle-me-awake pain. That presented me with an overwhelming opportunity to focus on all the stuff I never do and therefore have no real clue about in regards to my proficiency. Focused, that is, after a few sessions of hearty, dug-in ‘why-me’ style belly-aching.<br /><br />As a trainer, this presents some interesting challenges in terms of writing workouts and sometimes I have to mix cocky self-assuredness with random guesswork like some day trader dealing in speculation. My new mantra has become “we’ll see” followed by a shrug. Weight either leaves the floor or it doesn’t, missed lifts either crash around me or they don’t and I either tear through something or get mired in the muck of a skill that needs work. Tasting every flavor of failure has become hugely amusing and so what? When did we become so significant about the success of every exercise and every movement that each workout gets graded by a complex point system like we’re competing for some figure skating title?<br /><br />And here’s where the speculation comes in. I’ve been around CrossFit long enough now that folks who reveled in cavalier chaos are now trying to sneak in formulas and failsafes. We were once a bunch of try-anything mavericks and now, in a quest to one-up one another with results, we’re building in a lot of idle speculation. Don’t get me wrong, speculation is a natural part of the process. But just ask the stock broker how much it matters when he competes against a chimp every year to choose a portfolio and with the help of his vast expertise comes in second to the random pointing and squealing of his simian counterpart. Sometimes the most reasoned speculation offers nothing more than idle wheel-spinning.<br /><br />You’d think we’d learn a lesson. When it comes to nutrition, we counted speculation as actual data and stuffed it down everybody’s throat until we all got fat. Looking back - if anybody ever bothers anymore - we speculated and discounted every bit of contrary data as an anomaly. One cart lap around the extra-wide isles of Costco on a Sunday afternoon should provide pounds of data that we’ve been doing things horribly wrong and yet greater than 60% of our population gets lumped together as some kind of statistical anomaly that can’t be counted because they supposedly don’t care enough about their health to eat less. Idle speculation on my part, but something doesn’t sound right with that theory.<br /><br />Some of you missed the revolution in fitness when we unplugged ourselves from all the machines designed around our speculation. The nautilus equipment, the heart rate monitors, the VO2 max machines and everything Joe Weider tried to sell us between the pages of Muscle and Fitness had us so focused on the micromanagement of minutiae that we failed to notice that folks weren’t getting any fitter. It’s understandable. We were all wearing thongs at the time and I think we can all agree that they were distracting.<br /><br />Before Weider, you seemed savvy if you knew the chest pad on the seated row wasn’t a back rest. After awhile, you couldn’t survive a conversation at the smoothie bar unless you could differentiate branched chain amino acids and said ‘Pecs and Tris’-day like it was another word for Tuesday. I remember being frequently tanned while not a muscle on me flexed unless I could name it. My body looked just like my big 80s hair – all puffy and shaped up front with obvious flat spots in places I couldn’t see in the mirror. I also remember that things ached and if you saw me when I wasn’t moving, I only sort of looked like I could play a sport.<br /><br />CrossFit plucked us out of the monotony of periodization and the boring death march up the dumbbell rack in 2.5 pound increments. Now that CrossFit has been around for awhile though, I get the feeling sometimes that some folks are trying to Weider the hell out of it. Didn’t we already micromanage human health thanks to Weider’s empire of flexing goons and supplement swallowing lab rats? Now I’m beginning to hear a lot of ‘always/never’ arguments in my community about what works and it just makes me suspicious of still more speculation. Luckily I got hurt and it made me question where I was going with my training.<br /><br />Glassman liberated us when he chalked up crude geometry and explained the black box – chaos goes in one end, sciency stuff happens and exceptional athletes spit out the other side. He made fun of the scientists in white lab coats waxing theoretical about exercise while sucking up resources trying to explain things. In the meantime, his monsters of metal manufactured sweat and proved ideas with outcomes. But instead of being content with their new found freedom, it seems that some coaches just had to tinker. They took apart their black boxes, they tried to understand the mechanisms, they pimped the gears, and they bragged about how much better there box was than anybody else’s. I was afraid I’d have to supplement mine with branched chain amino acids just to keep up. But isn’t this a new round of micromanagement where exercises get marked with a definitive ‘good’ or ‘bad’ stamp or placed in an arbitrary hierarchy? Isn’t that how we got swept away and strapped into apparatus in the first place?<br /><br />If Grapefruit diets and Pec Decks could teach us anything other than how to weather heartburn and deal with shoulder instability, they would teach us that limiting our options often limits our results. Sometimes we’re so sure we have everything figured out that we fail to consider any conflicting data or look at our results objectively. In the end, getting injured was an opportunity to look at where I was lacking and what my weaknesses were. Now, I’m living, breathing and training in that space.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-71985359677480010982008-01-27T16:23:00.000-08:002011-12-27T13:23:54.253-08:00Goal!<em>There. I posted.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>As you will quickly see, this article started when I returned from San Francisco before Christmas and before "life got <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">lifey</span>" as Aaron <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hendon</span> would say. Yes there were <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">numerous</span> valid reasons for the delay in posting but none mattered more than the writer's block that I feared would metastasize. I was convinced it formed a life-threatening tumor on the day that I searched desperately for a word in conversation and then just let my sentence awkwardly dribble away. It turned out to be nothing more than day three of a low, low carbohydrate experiment that temporarily turned me into a knuckle-dragging mouth breather. I did manage to finish 'Good Calories, Bad Calories,' which I plan to share with you soon. I celebrated with a text to Craig that said, "I finished the book. In truth, I'm just better than you." We aren't competitive at all.</em><br /><br />A message to all mall waifs who possess a mighty stare-down in spite of their precarious plant on spike heels: Pause to ponder. I happen to wear full-contact footwear and I’m sturdy as heck. In my Brazilian <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Jiu</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Jitsu</span> class, I spent my first couple of years face up on the floor thanks to the very efficient single leg sweep of Seattle SWAT officers which means I’m slightly better skilled at staying upright when challenged these days. Though, under most conditions I’m a more enlightening soul, I’m willing to cash in Karma on occasion, long enough to drop a shoulder. I’ll sincerely atone for your bruised ass later by way of a donation thoughtfully dropped in a bell ringer’s bucket on the way out. In the meantime you might want to consider that, attitude aside; you’re far too flimsy to hold the whole walkway. When faced with somebody built from the ground up of raw meat, you might want to stand down. It’s a thought.<br /><br />Yes, I did spend four days in a mall remembering why I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> spent 360 days avoiding it. Exhausted, I went home and mixed up endless batches of homemade chocolate balls which are healthy by the loosest definition to give as gifts instead. So nothing useful happened in my mall excursions other than finding the personal space issue I thought I’d misplaced. I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> neatly <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">spackled</span> joint compound over my neurosis so that Michael is the only person who knows about and exploits my desire for a little breathing room. While he hovers as if planning to touch down on the top of my head when the wind shifts, I’ll screech “Yes, Organic Milk is good for you!!” agreeing to anything he says if it means he’ll back the truck up. So you can understand that grappling for me is just one big epic struggle to recapture personal space.<br /><br />In a mall and bound for sales racks, the galloping of clothes horses willing to jump me like a water obstacle, makes me edgy. I cycle through video game scenarios where I plow forward stiff-arming and clothes-lining faceless zombies. The carcasses pile and then neatly disintegrate while a punk rock version of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman’ trickles from sound systems over and over again. I concentrate on finding the right button sequence that allows me to sweep one of them up, swing them in a circle by their <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ugs</span> and surround myself with at least an average 5’4” (plus the length of full arm extension) of sought-after serenity. It’s not an image meant for the front of Christmas cards but then I’m not Christian and I’m getting swept into the Christmas conga line of commerce for lack of a substitute holiday and any creativity on my part. I do, however, appreciate this time of year as an occasion to acknowledge the people around me, ponder the path I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> taken and plot a course for next year that includes enough personal development to refrain from senseless mall outbursts.<br /><br />Like a forgotten walk-on part in the Nutcracker, I hit all my marks in the role of ‘the puppet of commerce’ only to be dragged next into January’s annual accounting of revenue, progress, and personal growth that some of us call ‘resolutions’. Even if we <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">hadn</span>’t decided that a new year meant new resolve, a season of extravagant feasting and spending would naturally necessitate a certain recalibration. Generally our resolutions simply reflect how far we got yanked off course by shiny decorations and blinking lights. Following are some reflections of the year and goals for the months to come.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Balls to the Wall</span></strong><br /><br />Nowadays a workout would have to end with a disqualifying run to the nearest ER for me to fail to finish a workout but it <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">wasn</span>’t that long ago that I was still fishing around my brain for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">weasely</span> ways out when things started to go very, very badly. Though the conversation to quit popped up a lot, my one and only ‘<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">DNF</span>’ came when I walked out after 17 of 25 wall ball shots in the final element of a chipper. I caved to the conversation in my head which kept daring me to quit and end my suffering. That and I just hated wall ball a lot. In spite of all the coaching cues, I kept throwing the damn ball instead of “jumping it up” which made the effort inaccurate and exhausting. After years of back pain, my upper body and lower body rode the same tour bus but kept their own solo acts. My upper body was the obvious headliner for no other reason than my body <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">didn</span>’t trust anything below S1 – the source of all my inflammation and pain.<br /><br />Oh, JUMP the ball up. Got it. When I finally convinced my two halves to share a marquee the long ignored coaching cue finally made sense. Today, when I give the same cue to a client, I stare them in the eye like they’re autistic simply to avoid the legacy. I look for some amount of acknowledgement if not in their movements at least in their face.<br /><br />With that, Wall Ball became far less miserable but I still had the stigma of #17. Don’t get me wrong, walking out taught me to never again listen to my brain which, by the way is spineless. Now whatever <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">whiney</span> noises it makes I just hum along to it like a workout soundtrack. I don’t think I really retired number 17 until July 6<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> when I finished Karen – 150 wall ball shots for time – in 6:13. ‘<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Caswallawn</span>’ and ‘Mars’ got a chance to go balls to the wall on their first dance with Karen and it was memorable for them too. When asked about personal victories, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Caswallawn</span> said, “KAREN – Cause I never ever thought I could do it.” He also happens to have set goals for bettering his time next year.<br /><br />Mars has memories of Karen, too. “It was a major workout with a great deal of intensity. I am not sure if it is the one that I am most proud of but it sticks out in my mind.” For me, it was Mars epic battle with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">Murph</span>. It made him late for dinner but he finished it with assisted pull-ups and the will to see it through.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">War Veterans</span></strong><br /><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">Andraste</span> finished <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">Murph</span> this year too but then she’s always been one determined mother. No, I mean the mom kind of mother. When asked what she was most proud of this year she said, “<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">FGB</span> (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">CrossFit</span>’s Fight Gone Bad Benefit for Prostate Cancer) and Lt <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">Murph</span> - it just felt good to finish them both! It also felt like such an accomplishment to make it through them - even if they were modified.”<br /><br />On Veteran’s Day, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">Andraste</span>’s husband attended the morning class and intentionally omitted any information about his workout. When she came in later, it was an ambush but she marched through it like a good soldier.<br /><br />“Participating in the Fight Gone Bad prostrate fundraiser. earning my bronze medal for the Presidential Fitness Program. (I just got it and my certificate!),” <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">Andraste</span> said, not only meeting her goals but <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">medaling</span>.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Pulling Power</span></strong><br /><br />This is Seattle. We live in fowl weather on top of fault lines, we’re surrounded by water and there are clots of traffic at the threat of every unnecessary holiday Seattle Center is willing to hoot about. You can imagine my surprise the first time I failed to account for the ‘Opening of Boat Season’ back-ups or whatever ‘Hug a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wiccan</span>’ holiday our overwhelming correctness compels us to observe. For those of you too busy whooping in anticipation of ‘Tree Pruning Day’ to notice that a 45 minute crawl over a bridge does not bode well for actual catastrophic forecasts. Consider that you will likely be sitting inches from where you started when the impending doom commences. Besides the bottled water and the batteries, being able to lift your own body weight might actually come in handy in cases of emergency. While in truth, being strong enough to wrestle away other people’s water and batteries then fleeing the scene faster is handiest of all, that’s a whole other conversation. Either way, let’s say that Pull-ups are a handy tool of Darwinian fitness and though they seem to be a common goal, they don’t inspire everyone in quite the same way.<br /><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">Morrigan</span> sounded least moved by the prospect. In listing her goals she responded, “Pull-ups probably sigh,” while <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">Turris</span>, whose main goal centers around earning a black belt in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">Akido</span>, threw it in for my sake when he answered, “Pull ups? (this one is for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">youJ</span> )” <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-error">Andraste</span> put it on her list, “(at least) one pull up, and real push ups and a jump to support on the rings. a lot of the upper body stuff - upper back and arms, etc. My baby (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-error">ok</span> toddler) weighs over 40 pounds now and that's a lot to haul up a flight of stairs!”<br /><br />I originally set a target of forty pull-ups but scaled it back to “some relatively impressive number that falls just one pull-up short of necessitating shoulder surgery.” Since, as far as I know, my case is still non-surgical – check! On September 5<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span>, I secured 27 but more importantly the pull-ups helped me salvage a 19:14 Angie that my bum shoulder was threatening to destroy via the push-ups.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Jumping for Joy</span></strong><br /><br />Considering we <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" class="blsp-spelling-error">couldn</span>’t outrun a single natural predator even in our Nike <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_37" class="blsp-spelling-error">Shox</span> with a gullet of Gatorade and a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" class="blsp-spelling-error">sizeable</span> head start, there were a lot of things that would have kept us up at night had we not managed to eliminate, tame or marginalize most of the things we had sound reasons to fear. You’d think then that we’d be well-rested. Now things that actually threaten our lives like white flour and sugar get joyfully added to our breakfast after a fitful night’s sleep pondering budgetary math problems and performance appraisals. When it comes to the question of fear then, I never know what boogie men are popping out of people’s closets.<br /><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_39" class="blsp-spelling-error">Andraste</span> pointed out her little monsters right off the bat. “Seriously, it's the pull up that scares me the most. And then of course, doing box jumps with the new boxes - the height scares me!” she said. I attest that it’s not the height that scares her but the fact that the platform is narrow. If I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_40" class="blsp-spelling-error">wasn</span>’t the proud owner of the sturdiest ankles known to man, I’d be worried too.<br /><br />You hear stories of people getting talked out of jumping but Mars, Like <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_41" class="blsp-spelling-error">Andraste</span>, needed a little coaxing up not down. We were both worried the day he tackled the box and conquered that fear. It was no surprise to me that that he answered, “Box jumps. That was an amazing morning. You helped me push through. Wow.” He’s been training for some time now but the only jumping he was doing was for cover. It’s something I understood, as well. Years ago I secreted myself in the gym with a Rebook step and had to build up to the height one riser at a time. People who have had back issues or have spent too much time running will tend to have sluggish hip <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_42" class="blsp-spelling-error">flexors</span>. Once I saw a little pep in Mars hip drive I pounced on the chance to get him jumping but I was just as nervous as he was because, frankly, you’ll either make it or you won’t and there’s nothing I can do as a trainer other than bandage bleeding shins.<br /><br />As for me, if I had the cash I’d gladly pay a surrogate to shave two seconds off my 4:01 Fran time. Though I wrote ‘sub four Fran’ as a goal, it scares me whenever I think about it. The shoulder rehab is a handy excuse but I doubt it would be a factor given all the work I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_43" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> done to get it moving again. But really, besides pristine shoulder health I’d be willing to list a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_44" class="blsp-spelling-error">sizeable</span> retirement account, a really good hair day and a solar eclipse as requirements if it will keep me from doing that workout anytime soon. Yes, it’s wussy, and yes, I will get over it but probably not until a solar eclipse on a really good hair day.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3525441357492430059.post-6967830640828845232007-12-21T12:14:00.000-08:002011-12-27T13:24:47.019-08:00'Bullshit' artist<div>The following was excerpted from an essay called 'Silly Bullshit' in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Strong-Enough-Thoughts-Barbell-Training/dp/0976805448/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1198268287&sr=1-4">'Strong Enough?</a> Thoughts from Thirty Years of Barbell Training,' by Mark Rippetoe:</div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>What is it that drives the dissemination of silly bullshit? The drive comes from the commercial interest (obviously) and ego (amazing!). <a href="http://www.womensportsnutrition.com/">Donna Smith</a> could use the money; so can I, so I appreciate the motivation. The magazine people want you to keep buying them, and to buy from their advertisers, and if they make sure to hire writers that have ‘CSCS’ beside their names, they have covered their asses. The fine folks who bring you HipHop Abs, the Ab Roller, and Cortislim are counting on the fact that you will probably fail to do your homework. On the other hand, Dr. Mirkin probably isn’t in a jam for cash, so he just likes the idea of being a Fitness Expert in addition to a doctor (and, for all I know, maybe a very good one in his actual specialty). The orthopod who tells you that full squats are bad for the knees and they’ll stunt your growth, and that you need to just do lighter weights and use higher reps because “they do the same thing,” doesn’t expect you to pay him for this advice; he’s throwing it in for free. He knows he’s qualified because after all he <em>is</em> a doctor. The exercise science people have qualified themselves. And the media don’t care who’s qualified; they just need to fill 45 seconds.</div><br /><div><br />The problem is simple. It is incumbent on you, yes You, to educate yourself to a sufficient extent that you are in a position to evaluate information issued from a position of authority. You are supposed to be able to recognize silly bullshit when you hear it. And I’m sorry if it’s hard to have to think all the time but the consequences of placing your responsibility to do so in the hands of others can result in a closet full of Thigh Masters, which will make it necessary to find somewhere else to hang your shirts – like on your Bowflex.<br /> </div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02114503425671886300noreply@blogger.com