Health

What Now?

Health, Parenting Tips, , , , One comment

“You have power over your mind–not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.”
-Marcus Aurelius

“In life, we can’t always control the first arrow. However, the second arrow is our reaction to the first. The second arrow is optional.”
-Buddhist parable

Greetings, friends. It’s been a couple years since my last Lemonade Chronicles post, sorry about that. (Or maybe, you’re welcome.) But I thought today might be a good day to pick the pencil back up. I’ve been writing plenty over the past few years, including finishing a 106,000 word memoir manuscript that I am actively shopping to literary agents (who have yet to nibble the bait). But I’ve also been writing in more of an email campaign format, with something of a different purpose from what I have written starting 10 years ago with this particular blog. The existential angst, butt-of-my-own-jokes prose familiar to TLC readers? Well I’ve managed to evolve that after a good hard look at my lifestyle, digging into the science about health and wellness, starting a new company called Foghorn Fitness, and even developing an entirely new approach to this stuff that I’ve coined The Slowfit Method™. Over the past five years, I’ve morphed into a human performance coach who trains about 100 people a week across group exercise classes, private coaching, and corporate wellness programs. And I send out semi-regular email missives to another 500-ish folks on topics like meditation, improving one’s sleep, physical training, mindset, breathwork, recovery, nutrition, drinking (less or not at all), building resilience, etc. More importantly, as a result of all this work, I’m waaaaay happier and healthier than I’ve ever been, living with an equanimity that I didn’t know was possible.

So now that we’re all caught up (and I hope all is well on your end, by the way), why am I posting on TLC after ghosting the platform for years?

Because things are different now. I should say at the outset that this is not a political message. I’ll leave the Monday morning quarterbacking to folks who are much more astute on that topic than I. Rather, and consistent with this new chapter of my own life and profession, I want to talk about how you can choose to respond to this new reality that we have all woken up to yesterday morning. Regardless of your political leanings, things are different now. By definition, we will be making our way in an environment with the stress dial turned up to eleven.

So what now?

First, notice that I wrote the word “choose” above. On purpose. As the Stoic philosopher and Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius said, we really can choose how to respond to stress. The Buddha, too, is credited with a similar sentiment, his regarding the pain of a second arrow that we effectively inflict on ourselves. In other words, we don’t have to scream and pull our hair out and go all googly-eyed, foaming at the mouth, emotionally hijacked by external circumstances. It doesn’t have to be that way. We have a choice. Your reaction–the next arrow–is up to you. 

Second, we have a whole grab bag of useful tools to manage stress. Any kind of stress. The hundreds of athletes I’ve coached over the past five years are probably tired of hearing me say this. But it’s true. Yesterday I wrote about a bunch of them at our disposal sort of in-the-moment: Breathing, moving, eating (real food), connecting, and sleeping. For my part, I took my own advice. I doubled down on my regular healthy habits yesterday, and I genuinely felt less overwhelmed by the political events. I’ve started the day the same way today, and I feel…calm. I’m not naive; there will be much ongoing vigilance required and plenty of work to do. From all of us. But I am not consumed by it. I am ready for whatever comes. I am choosing my response. 

Third, let me share a bit more about that response. Please know that this stuff is all science-backed, folks. Nothing woo-woo or otherwise outlandish here. And it’s more relevant now than ever. Because this new political reality is a textbook example of an “evolutionary mismatch” the likes of which is responsible in large part for what ails our species. Metabolic dysfunction, cognitive decline, mental health issues, obesity, lesser longevity, loneliness, and so on. Our brain is on high alert, being chased (over and over again) by a saber-toothed tiger as we peruse our favorite news sites, social media sites, TV news, etc. I can pretty much guarantee that you’re breathing rapidly through your mouth even now just thinking about it all. You are, right? Close your mouth and take a long exhale. 🙂 The “mismatch” is the unhealthy combo of a perceived stressor without the moving around part. Unlike our on-the-go ancestors, we run the risk of being stuck in a chronic state of arousal while sitting at our desks, curled up on our couches, iPhone stuck in our face, smashing Snickers bars, yada yada. Nothing good will come from that, if we let that happen and leave things there. 

So I’m not going to let that happen. And neither should you. I’m going to lean into my meditation, breathwork, physical training (swimming, surfing, cycling, running, lifting, karate, etc.–the photo at the top was taken during a little morning walk today), journaling, mindset, mobility, clean nutrition, proper sleep hygiene, meaningful social connections, building resilience, improving focus and minimizing distraction, etc. Details on all of this stuff can be found here. If you want to deep-dive into the science underlying this Method of mine, go for it; I’ve got links to enough primary sources to keep you occupied for years.

And this is really important: Please do not be intimidated or scared off by all of this. You don’t need to try to be me. This is not about me. It’s my job to do all of this stuff. All you have to do is make a positive change in the right direction. One change. Baby steps. Walk. Take the stairs. Back away from TikTok for a bit. Drink more water. Cut back on the booze a bit. Learn some downregulation breathing. See the sunrise. Or the sunset. Hide the Snickers out of sight. Lift something heavy and put it back down, right where you found it, then do it again. Everything helps! But you do not need to do everything all at once. Just start somewhere. You have so many choices. Make one.  

Lastly, let’s not forget the whole point of this thing. By “thing,” I don’t mean democracy or the United States or the world. Nope. I’m referring to life. Your life. As in, what is the purpose of your life? Nothing that happened yesterday should have had any negative impact on your purpose. In fact, it may have actually strengthened your purpose. It did mine. As I wrote over a year ago, my purpose is to learn and to teach. It can be easy to lose sight of one’s purpose, though, in the mundane day-to-day, or in the perceived crush of new stress.

This past week I received an unsolicited email from a gentlemen whom I’ve never even met. Here’s what he wrote (and yep, I have his permission to share this, but I’m still anonymizing it a bit)–

***

Keir,

Thank you. Thank you for what you do.  What you do is important and it matters! Although we’ve never met face to face you’ve had a huge influence and impact on me!  I began a similar “no IPA / no wine” journey in late November 2022.  I was on a trip to Phoenix with E. and a couple other high school buds in March 2023. During that trip E. asked why I wasn’t having any beer or wine.  I mentioned that it was driven by health concerns and I was making progress in my quest.  He then said “A friend of mine is doing the same thing.  I’ll forward you his newsletter”.

From the point I read your first newsletter you’ve been a part of my journey.  Through giving up alcohol and starting to move my body a lot more I’ve lost over 40 lbs and my body has responded.  My doctor is no longer pushing me to be on diabetes medicine or statins.  My other blood tests that were very concerning have all returned to healthy levels.  While all that is important the one thing giving up the IPA and wine has given me that was very unexpected is the feeling of accomplishment and it may sound simplistic and very basic but…happiness.  Life is good again.

I look forward to each newsletter you send.  Your message in October regarding your two years IPA free was fantastic…congrats!  I look forward continuing my journey and exploring your Slow Fit Method further in late 2024 and 2025.

I’m including a couple pics.  My family is the most important thing to me.  With my newfound health we are hiking and getting outdoors more (S. and I having fun at the top of a small mtn in upstate NY).  I’m even in the process of completing the Spartan trifecta with my two “boys” (J., M. and I after finishing the “beast” at Killington in VT).

This email may be a bit over the top but you’ve had an impact on me.  What you do is important and it matters.  Thank you!

Today is “day 700” of my IPA/wine free journey…thank you for the gift you’ve given me!

Sincerely,
Joe  

***

If I needed a reminder of my purpose (and we all do), why I put my feet on the floor every morning, Joe graciously provided that. I’m grateful for his note, and humbled by it. Sometimes it feels like I’m shouting into the wind with all this Slowfit human performance stuff. But Joe heard me. Thanks Joe.

And Tuesday’s election has inspired me in a similar way, believe it or not. I feel the same sense of purpose that I felt during the Pandemic when I first started Foghorn Fitness. In my view, now more than ever, we need to figure out how to survive and thrive in this new super-charged, stressful environment. Remember your purpose. Move forward, one little step at a time. Oh, and put that second arrow down.  Let’s do this. 

-Keir

PS Keep your eyes peeled, as I aim to do a bit more posting to this here blog. Thanks for reading.

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The Important Stuff of Surfing

california, Health, Parenting Tips, surfing One comment

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It’s easy to malign surfing. A seemingly whimsical endeavor evoking images of far-off sandy beaches, warm sunshine in tropical destinations, seas teeming with leaping dolphins, and an enviable apparent disregard for what’s going on in the “real world.” An irresponsible undertaking. Polar opposite of a structured, land-based existence — the only one that truly matters.  An exercise in frivolity. What’s the point?

I’m glad you asked. 

I consider myself a surfer, though my skills in the water are meager.  I believe the skills part may actually be of secondary importance. And the perceived whimsy has, more or less, nothing to do with it. Rather, I reckon it’s a classroom out there. And I’d like to think that introducing my own sons to surfing has delivered up a host of genuinely important, substantive, life lessons. Vital, timeless stuff to be handed down from one generation to the next.

First, there is the commitment and suffering part.  You must shoulder (or armpit, or head-balance) your own board for the schlep from the car to the beach. Sure, it’s heavy, and your arms ache, and it’s not easy to sprint past the breakwall when a wave at high tide is about to slap you and your board against it.  But that ache with a touch of suffering marks your investment in this. Anything lastingly worthwhile requires some tolerance for suffering. Embrace it.

Second, slow down, breath, and take it all in. No matter where you actually are, this is the place to be.  How lucky are we to be striding out into this water?  Straddling a board in the flat of a channel.  Feeling the sea undulate beneath you.  Smelling the mix of saltwater, seaweed, organic decay from the receding tide, surf wax and neoprene. Absorb what your eyes see — the divebombing pelicans, curious seals, and the landscape sliding by as the tide and current have their way with you. Inhale.  Listen to the waves’ roll and delivery to the land. Hear the seagulls squabbling for the darting sardines. Inhale. Exhale. Slow down. And take it all in. 

Third, face your fears. Feel the tickle of anxiety and nervousness and uncertainty as a wave rolls up behind you, suddenly much more menacing than it appeared from shore.  Know that you are not even close to being in charge out here. Face that fear.  Welcome it, even.  It means that you are alive. Alive in a way where the deluge of Instagram updates, goofy Snapchat lenses, and group text threads fades into the background. Alive in a way where the only moment that matters is this moment. Fear is your friend here. 

Fourth, be humble. Observe the conditions, and the actions of other surfers out there, as you stand on the shore, so as to keep your own role low-profile and studied. Take pleasure in the earlier-arriving surfers’ pleasure. Understand that you are about to slide into territory that doesn’t really belong to you.  Be humble, whether you bob in endless lulls, get spun and pounded under a wave, or manage to stand up and glide for what seems like an eternity. It’s not about you out here, and that is a good thing. 

Fifth, don’t be greedy.  Leave something in the reserve tank to fuel your post-surf obligations.  If you can’t muster the strength to reach up and around your shoulders to unzip your wetsuit back on the beach, well, you probably stayed out too long.  I’ve been there.  Maybe you unwisely ignored the unfavorable current, in the throes of your gluttony for more waves, and spent your reserves fighting back across the channel. Know when it’s time to go.  There will always be more down the road and on the horizon (at least I hope so). And on this note, don’t forget you’ll need to wrap your leash tightly around the fins and cart your own gear back to the car once again. This time with tired shoulders, cramping hands, ear canals stuffed with sand, and saltwater in your belly.  The session’s not done ’til we’re back in the car, locked and loaded.  And remember it’s your job today to hose down the wetsuits at home in the backyard.  So pace yourself out there, and save a little extra for after. 

Finally, experience real fulfillment and gratitude. All of the above ingredients, mixed properly, will produce an overwhelming sense of well-being and satisfaction. A new collection of memories, just forged, swims in the head. A well-earned, deep physical fatigue sets in. The bloodstream seemingly spiked a bit from the saltwater immersion. Give in to the exhaustion.  Go ahead, son, fall asleep suddenly in the backseat. Mid-conversation. The hint of a satisfied smile playing across your face.  I’ll grip the wheel for the winding ride home along the coast, grateful for this singular experience.  Marking the occasion in my mind.  Hoping you’ll pass these same lessons along to your own children. After all, this is important stuff. 

On that note, it’s just about time to strap some boards on the roof rack, fill up some old milk jugs with warm water, and saddle up.  Class is in session. 

Thanks for reading. 

 

The Sky Is Cryin’.

black labs, el niño, Health, Parenting Tips, san francisco View all 6 comments

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It’s not exactly “Snowzilla,” “Snowpocalypse,” “Jonas,” or whatever monikered meteorological phenomenon bulldozed our East Coast brethren these past few days.  But El Niño to-date has proven a persistent pain in the ass.  It’s great for the drought, in theory.  Though I’m mindful of Paul Giamatti’s thirsty gulp from the Sideways spit bucket.

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Yeah, it’s a bit like that.  Only instead of a shawl of spitty Cabernet, we end up with puddles in the garage from an unfortunately sloped driveway.  Actually, we don’t.  My wife had the forethought to pick up a half-dozen super attractive sandbags awhile back. These we’ve configured to capture and hold Lake Beadling from the rain runoff, restraining the beast from washing our flat into the Bay.  They are also a fine addition to our homestead, surely sending up the value of our home on Zillow considerably. 

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The sandbags have been in place for so long now, I forget they are there.  So each time I back the Prius out of the driveway,  hyper focused imagining getting t-boned by a speeding SUV, the sandbag speed bump spikes my adrenaline, as I assume for a split-second that I have run over our dog.  I have fallen for this trick at least a dozen times.  Probably will happen again today, too.  

I’m saying I’m weary of the incessant rain.  It keeps me out of the Bay, since swimming amidst the King Tides, storm “runoff,” and random tree-sized pier pilings holds little appeal.  It keeps me off the bike, since one ride across an unexpectedly deep puddle up to one’s ankles is one ride too many. And the dog is unhappy, too.  Her normal weekly walks are cut short. When they do happen, she’s force-marched through pelting rain. The result is that Wailea seeks thrills by eating things in the house that are not meant to be eaten. This results in X-Rays, ultrasounds, and meaty vet bills.  

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Thank you, El Niño.   The kids are fairly stir crazy as well.  All of the screens in our house are hot to the touch, streaming non-stop mind-numbing content into the boys’ (now slowly) developing dorsal anterior cingulate cortices. At least whatever area of the brain is responsible for feelings of guilt and contrition still functions in our 10 year-old —

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We’ll apply this $6.75 towards–you guessed it–our “Rainy Day Fund.”  In other words, we already spent it. Gone.  Depleted.  

Alright, time to run. On a squeaky treadmill. In the garage. Huffing on dangling and exposed puffs of fiberglass insulation.  Waiting for the dog to inadvertently clip my ankles, sending me to the human hospital as payback for the aforementioned unscheduled vet visit and belly shaving. 

No rain, no rainbows?  Thanks for reading.

Back in the Saddle Again.

cycling, Health, san francisco View all 2 comments

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One of the best things about living in the San Francisco Bay Area is access to some truly fantastic road cycling. Even better if you can finagle a way to live close enough to the good stuff that you can leave the car and Thule at home. Pop up the garage door and shoot out into the street.

Fortunately, we have figured out how to so finagle. Example: While I haven’t done it in years, the ride to Mount Tam’s East Peak from my front door and back is almost exactly 50 miles. Something interesting about that nice round number. I have some very fond memories of that long ride, a reasonably regular excursion maybe 10 years ago.

I memorized the sketchiest corners that warranted whipping around in a short sprint so as to avoid surprising a following motor vehicle that might otherwise see me too late. In certain spots — sharp and blind corners — a surprised driver might swerve into the opposing lane to avoid a suddenly appearing rider just in front of him. Or the driver could quickly calculate his odds of injury and collision repair expense, then decide instead to bounce the rider off his car’s windshield. As the sign on Camino Alto says, “Lycra Is Not Body Armor.” So if the driver follows this particular branch of the decision tree, that is gonna leave a mark.

I have yet to experience this kind of unpleasant contact. I prefer to ride in the early morning when the roads are generally clear of those kinds of hazards. I’ll gladly trade a pungent dousing from a startled skunk than a run-in with a Land Rover’s bumper. Plus, like I say, I haven’t suffered my way up to Mount Tam in quite some time. So my odds of meeting up with that Land Rover are looking pretty good. “Good” as in, not going to happen.

I love a Tam ride facsimile much closer to my house — the Marin Headlands. A 14-ish mile round trip. Plenty of up for about 15-18 minutes. Ridiculous views of the Golden Gate Bridge, SF Bay, and the Pacific Ocean. Occasionally an intriguing run-in with a thick layer of fog. Obscuring everything beyond, say, a 20 or 30-foot circumference. Climbing up Conzelman in a blanket of fog turns a familiar route into a guessing game.

Was that tree always there? Is this the halfway point? What’s that noise on the rocky bluff above me?

I love it.

And I’ve missed it.

Until this past week, it had been more than two months since I last rode any kind of meaningful route. And probably a year or more since I last pedaled up into the Headlands’ fog. It’s generally not a good idea to go from zero riding to several Headlands rides in a week. The lower back will remind me of my age, aching for a day or so afterwards, regardless of how many Advils I chew.

But that kind of ache I’ll happily tolerate. I’m back in the saddle again.

Thanks for reading.

I am not an animal.

baseball, Health, little league View all 4 comments

Image

I think I know how the “Elephant Man” felt.

The Englishman Joseph Carey Merrick suffered from a rare, never-quite-determined illness or two that caused a number of grotesque deformities, formed the basis of a traveling show featuring Joseph as a human curiosity, and later inspired at least one theatrical plan and feature film.  Joseph was evidently miserable, and evidently also of enormous interest to showmen, doctors, royalty, and ticket-holding penny gaff patrons.

For nearly two weeks, I’ve been staggering through my days trying to remember when, exactly, I was struck by a car while riding my bike.  Or tackled unexpectedly by an overzealous, old friend.  Or inadvertently struck in the side of the head with an aluminum baseball bat.  Or maybe bitten by a blood-thirsty tick carrying one or another malevolent species of bacteria. Those are the only logical explanations I can can conjure up to explain how I’ve been feeling. But as far as I can remember, none of those potential explanations are based in reality.  None of them happened.

I have been knocked sideways by what feels like a dislocated shoulder, a sore sternocleidomastoid neck muscle consistent with the aftermath of swimming the English Channel, and an intermittent throbbing below my ear.  There are far worse health problems than mine, absolutely.  But I am not accustomed to this.

I haven’t taken a stroke in the Bay, a jogging step in my zero drop shoes, or a spin on my bike for nearly two weeks.  I have a race less than two weeks from today.  It’s not that I’m worried about finishing the race, or being adequately trained.  It’s that whatever ails me is preventing me from moving my body the way it has to move for a couple hours to even do the race.  I couldn’t zip up my wetsuit right now if my life depended upon it, for example, let alone go out and crawl around the Bay with 1,000 others.

More importantly, we’re in the heart of Little League playoffs season right now.  Both of my sons’ teams are playing.  They and all of their teammates are all kinds of fired up.  I live for this time of year.  In my current condition, if I foolishly burn through a bucket of ground balls with my fungo, the next morning will give me a hint of what it must feel like to be shot in the shoulder.  So I don’t hit infield.  Normally, my throwing shoulder is bone-weary by now, just from the sheer number of balls thrown during batting practice and father-son games of “catch” over the past few months.  In the past, I’ve complained about that seasonal ache.  I now ache for that trivial, seasonal ache.  At the moment, I am unable to raise my hand above my shoulder without wincing in pain.  So that means no throwing BP, no “coach-pitch” relief during my Little League games when our pitcher has been overly wild on the mound, and no easy game of catch with my boys.  Sure, I can catch just fine.  It’s the throwing part.  I’m reduced to underhand tosses.  And even those don’t feel particularly good.

In short, I’m miserable.

And apparently, like Joe Merrick, quite a curiosity to doctors.

My own doctor has been a champ through this.  Chatting with me after-hours on the phone. Speeding blood work results through the lab’s otherwise arthritic process.  Assuring me that eating ibuprofen like M&Ms is OK for the time being.  And showing genuine empathy for my situation, even though I know she has patients with far more serious maladies.

All of that is true.

But I am now beginning to suspect that I’m not far from the penny gaff myself.   This mysterious, pain-inducing thing knocking around inside of me is a Rubic’s Cube for my doctor.   I just want it to go away.   But my doctor has begun saying things like “infectious disease specialists,” “more blood work,” and “my colleagues.” Saying those words with a barely-detectible hint of excitement in her voice that I would rather not be detecting.

I think she is already working on the creative brief for the P. T. Barnum-style poster announcing my imminent arrival in your town.  I think she has begun drafting the speech for the barker posturing out in front of the tent.

“Step right up, folks.  You won’t want to miss this.  We have the death-defying Human Cannonball.  See him shot right out of a cannon before your very eyes.  We have Fire-Boy. The man who eats and drinks fire same as you and I eat a hearty meal.  We have Billy, the famous two-headed goat. And get this folks, for the first time ever, we bring you our newest, feature attraction:  The Whimpering Little League Coach. Reduced to throwing underhand!  That’s right, you’ll have to see it to believe it!  Has the devil taken hold of him?  Could be, folks, could be. Step right up!”

So like I said.  Miserable.  But evidently, too, of enormous interest.  Step right up.

Thanks for reading.