Hey There…It’s Yoga Bear!

Ever since yoga was recommended by the neurosurgeon, I’ve been getting a lot of pressure from my co-workers about getting on the bendy bandwagon.  Here’s a perfect example of the type of support I get from them.  When I returned from lunch the very next day after yoga entered into the equation, I found my bulletin board covered in pictures of Darth Vader and assorted cats in various yoga positions.  Oh, and a yoga mat for good measure. 

Since I’m about as flexible as a breadstick I’ll be honest and admit I’ve been putting yoga off as long as I could.  Well, not necessarily putting it off but using this as an excuse: ‘I’ve ordered Yoga for Dummies from Amazon and I’m going to get started once it arrives.’   That plan came to a screeching halt when my admin Susanne left a copy of Yoga 101: Poses for Beginners on my desk yesterday afternoon.  So last night while South Carolina was playing North Carolina in the first game of the college football season, I was in front of the television getting on my inner yogi (Yogi: practitioner of yoga.  Impressed?  Me, too.).

Here how it went down.  People, make way for YOGA BEAR!!!

Mountain Pose.  Stand tall with feet together, shoulders relaxed, weight evenly distributed through your soles, arms at side.  Take a deep breath and raise your hands overhead, palms facing each other with arms straight.  Reach up toward the sky with your fingertips.

    

Reality check: Stand at attention and hold your arms above your head as if you were getting ready to enter the water after jumping off the high dive at the swimming pool.  As simple as it sounds, my shoulders started burning after 30 seconds or so.  I was under the impression yoga involved sitting on the floor, stretching slightly and meditating with incense burning nearby.  Boy, did I have another thing coming.

Downward Dog.  Start on all fours with hands directly under shoulders, knees under hips.  Walk hands a few inches forward and spread fingers wide, pressing palms into mat.  Curl toes under and slowly press hips toward ceiling, bringing your body into an inverted V, pressing shoulders away from ears.  Feet should be hip-width apart, knees slightly bent.  Hold for three full breaths.

Reality check: Hold your body in ‘ready’ position as if you were about to do a pushup, then arch your body into a 90-degree angle.  Once I finished doing the Downward Dog I thought my chances of winning a bet with my friend Al were looking better and better.   A couple days ago we bet who would be able to touch their toes sooner.  Al’s starting point, according to him was eight inches from the ground.  Mine was halfway down my shin.  In other words, we’re starting dead even. 

Warrior.  Stand with legs three to four feet apart, turning right foot out 90 degrees and left foot in slightly.  Bring your hands to your hips and relax your shoulders, then extend arms out to the sides, palm down.  Bend right knee 90 degrees, keeping knee over ankle; gaze out over right hand.  Stay for one minute.  Switch sides and repeat.

Reality check: If I knew there was this much geometry in yoga I might have opted for Pilates, the neurosurgeon’s second option.  I think I might need a protractor.  I wonder if they even still make protractors.   

Tree Pose.  Stand with arms at sides.  Shift weight onto left leg and place sole of right foot inside left thigh, keeping hips facing forward.  Once balanced, bring hands in front of you in prayer position, palms together.  On an inhalation, extend arms over shoulders, palms separated and facing each other.  Stay for 30 seconds.  Lower and repeat on opposite side.

Reality check: Very similar to the Mountain Pose described earlier, except one of the legs must be tucked as if you were on the receiving end of a Figure Four Leg Lock (wrestling lexicon; Google if you must).

  

Bridge Pose.  Lie on floor with knees bent and directly over heels.  Place arms at sides, palm down.  Exhale, then press feet into floor as you lift hips.  Clasp hands under lower back and press arms down, lifting hips until thighs are parallel to floor, bringing chest toward chin.  Hold for one minute.

Reality check: Lie on your back, forming a bridge with your torso while keeping your head, shoulders and feet on the floor.  I think back to what Sheldon wrote on an Email to the work staff yesterday afternoon as he left for a four-day holiday weekend:   ‘Enjoy your holiday weekend, and remember that yoga breaks the man law! It can be found in chapter 16 of the Man Law book.’  Before he left for the day I took the time to show him Part 1 of this book; specifically the chapter titled ‘Man Card’ highlighting umbrella drinks, Meryl Streep movies and women’s basketball without any mention of yoga. 

Triangle Pose.  Extend arms out to sides, then bend over your right leg.  Stand with feet about three feet apart, toes on your right foot turned out to 90 degrees, left foot to 45 degrees.  Allow your right hand to touch the floor or rest on your right leg below or above the knee, and extend the fingertips of your left hand toward the ceiling.  Turn your gaze toward the ceiling, and hold for five breaths.  Stand and repeat on opposite side.

Reality check: Lean to the right, touch your right foot with your right hand and point your left arm at the ceiling.  Then do just the opposite.  I think back to the other day when I told Cindy ‘Yoga do I must’ and she told me speaking like Yoda had nothing to do with practicing yoga.  As much as I crack myself up all the time, I don’t have that same effect on Cindy.

Seated Twist.  Sit on the floor with your legs extended.  Cross right foot over outside of left thigh; bend left knee.  Keep right knee pointed toward ceiling.  Place left elbow to the outside of right knee and right hand on the floor behind you.  Twist right as far as you can, moving from your abdomen; keep both sides of your butt on the floor.  Stay for one minute.  Switch sides and repeat.

Reality check: Sit on your butt and tie yourself into a pretzel.  Do you know what happens when you take a breadstick and try to bend it into the shape of a pretzel?  Yeah, pretty much just like that except with a human body.  I’m going to be sore tomorrow; I just know it.

Cobra.  Lie face down on the floor with thumbs directly under shoulders, legs extended with the tops of your feet on the floor.  Tighten your pelvic floor, and tuck hips downward as you squeeze your glutes.  Press shoulders down and away from ears.  Push through your thumbs and index fingers as you raise your chest toward the wall in front of you.  Relax and repeat.

Reality check: Lay flat on the floor and push upwards as if you were trying to bend yourself backwards; sort of an inverse Japanese greeting bow.  Physically impossible for anyone not performing for Cirque du Soleil and certainly not recommended for any other human being, this one proved to be the most difficult for a person with the flexibility of a ladder.

Pigeon Pose.  Begin in full push-up position, palms aligned under shoulders.  Place left knee on the floor near shoulder with left heel by right hip.  Lower down to forearms and bring right leg down with the top of the foot on the floor.  Keep chest lifted to the wall in front of you, gazing down.  If you’re more flexible, bring chest down to floor and extend arms in front of you (Note: Not intended for me.)  Pull navel in toward spine and tighten your pelvic floor muscles; contract right side of glutes. Yadda yadda yadda blah blah blah.  Curl right toes under while pressing ball of foot into the floor, pushing through your heel.  Bend knee to floor and release; do five reps total, then switch sides and repeat.

Reality check: These instructions were harder to follow than the instructions I used to build a gym set for our boys when they were kids.  And those instructions were written in Japanese.  Did you notice ‘yadda yadda yadda blah blah blah’ in the previous paragraph?  What?  You didn’t?  Good Lord…I knew it--I’ve lost you!  Please come back; I only have two more to go….

Crow Pose: Get into downward dog position and walk feet forward until knees touch your arms.  Bend your elbows, lift heel off floor, and rest knees against the outside of your upper arms.  Keep toes on floor, abs engaged and legs pressed against arms.  Hold for five to ten breaths.

Reality check: If you were talented enough to be able to stand on your head, this is the last position you would be in before you were perpendicular to the floor.  (Does that make sense, because as I’m looking at the illustration I think I did a masterful job of translating yoga-speak into layman’s terms, if I do say so myself.)  Said so I did, be it so it must (another Yoda-ism).

Child’s Pose.  Sit up comfortably on your heels.  Roll your torso forward, bringing your forehead to rest on the bed in front of you.  Lower your chest as close to your knees as you comfortably can, extending your arms in front of you.   Hold the pose and breathe.

Reality check: This final position called for the use of a bed.  Turn out the lights; the party’s over. 

This morning when I woke up I was surprisingly sore.  Surprisingly sore as hell, in fact. 

Don’t bother to call me Yoga Bear; it just doesn’t fit.  I’ll stick with the yoga because I want to touch my toes before Al, as well as improve my running and general health.  But in the future you might want to call me by my new nickname:

Boo-Boo Bear.   

The Little Engine that Can

This morning offered the first hint of fall: a dry 60 degrees.  There’s only one thing to do on an August morning as surprisingly wonderful as this: a 10-mile run before heading off to work.  And what better day to do it on than the day I’m going to see a neurosurgeon about my back problem, one who just might give me the same advice given to Paula several months ago: Stop running.  So if I’m going to go out, I’m going to go out in a blaze of glory: 10 miles faster than I’ve run the distance in a couple of years.  The run felt comfortable, but more importantly the run felt familiar.  In fact, it almost felt fun again.  Maybe there was hope for me after all.  Let’s see what the neurosurgeon has to say this afternoon.

Once I signed in at Atlanta Brain and Spine Care a nurse practitioner took my vitals and asked me a few questions about my back problem.  I told her how I had experienced numerous and various pains below the waist for the past couple of years, but that the pains were now gone but the numbness in my right leg had gotten worse.  I made sure to answer every yes or no question with ‘ma’am’ at the end; I’ve made it a practice to do so whenever I’m in the room with someone who has the authority, power and/or ability to stick me with a needle.  I figure if that person is on the fence about whether or not I needed an injection, some blood drawn or a friendly poke in the arm simply to prove I shouldn’t be messing with them, my polite demeanor might steer them away from doing so. 

Before long the neurosurgeon entered the room and immediately called me into the room across the hall to view my MRI with him.  Two thoughts immediately came to mind: (1) He may as well be inviting me to interpret a page or two of hieroglyphics, because I have no proficiency whatsoever at interpreting MRI’s, X-rays or any other photographs of me taken on the inside and (2) this can’t be good. 

His very first sentence was (and I quote) ‘I see an MRI of a spine like this about once every six months’ and then added he couldn’t wait to tell others about it.  In fact, he was a bit giddy when he said it.  My very first thought was ‘This must be the first time he’s seen a problem like mine and now he will be able to write another article for a medical journal and add it to his collection of framed articles I noticed hanging on the wall in the first room I was in.’

But then he went on to add several phrases that fueled the fire my grandson Krischan helped light several days ago when we went for a simple yet wonderful two-mile run together:

·      The spine of a 35-year old (Interestingly enough I heard the EXACT same description of my spine from my orthopedic surgeon three years ago.  I had my doubts back then, but now I have to believe there must be some truth in it).       

·      Pristine condition for a 58-year old man.

·      Body has held up amazingly well for someone with 35 years of running under his belt.

·      Genetically-gifted.

Pretty flattering stuff for a first date.

He admitted that as much as he liked to fix people, he was absolutely not going to recommend surgery for me.   As I had spent some time torturing myself on WebMD prior to my appointment—imagining what horrible fate might be in store for me--I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t incredibly relieved to hear him say that.

He said he was a runner himself at one time and had run more marathons than he could remember, so he completely understood my frustration at not being able to run at 100%.  I told him I stopped running marathons last year when I ran my 200^th in Honolulu.  We talked about running ultras, runners that both of us knew, races that both of us have run, ‘the good old days’ when we were fairly fast, how once upon a time our common goal in races was to beat the fastest woman (not because we're chauvinists, but because there were some really fast women runners when we were both in our primes) and that we had the University of Florida as a common denominator (me as a student and him as a medical instructor at UF’s Shands Teaching Hospital).     

  

His recommended course of action came next.  Yoga.  Stretching*.  Pilates.  Physical therapy wouldn’t hurt.  I asked about massage and chiropractic treatments.  He said he would try anything and everything, emphasizing yet again he would not recommend surgery.  (Cue the dream sequence: I gave him the hugest man-hug of all time, lifted him up in the air, twirled him around in circles and promised to name my next grandson after him.) 

*He asked me to touch my toes at one point during our conversation.

My feeble attempt—I barely could reach halfway down my shins—resulted in him

making mention of my limited flexibility, a commonality in the runners he has treated.

I told him the last time I touched my toes was after a hill workout in March of 1994. 

I wasn’t kidding: I remember the day like it was yesterday, since it was also the ONLY time I’ve ever touched my toes in my entire life. 

So now it’s up to me.  I CAN get well again.  I CAN run another marathon.  I am the little engine that CAN. 

I remember a slogan we had at JCPenney many, many years ago: If it can be, it’s up to me. 

I want to run well again.  I want to run another marathon. 

There is a marathon in Fort Worth.  Fort Worth, where Krischan lives.  Could there be a better marathon to launch my comeback? 

As fate would have it, this year’s Fort Worth Marathon is on November 10, the same day as the Peachtree City 50/25K that I direct.  Being an optimist, I interpret that as Karma’s way of saying it might be better to make my comeback at Fort Worth in 2014. 

That way Krischan could be there to see me cross the finish line.  There is nothing I would enjoy more than seeing his smiling face as his G-Pa drapes the finisher’s medal around his neck.  That way I could promise to be there when he finishes his first marathon and earns a medal of his own.    

And if Karma opts to hang around for another 15 years or so, maybe I won’t simply be waiting for Krischan at the finish line; I’ll be running his first marathon with him.

But first things first: I have to find a yoga class. 

The Gauntlet

In 2006 the Florida Gator football team played—in succession Alabama, LSU, Auburn and Georgia.  All four teams were formidable opponents and the games fell in the heart of the schedule.  I referred to the four-game stretch as ‘the gauntlet.’  The Gators managed to win three of the four games and finish the season with their second National Championship by demolishing Ohio State in the BCS Championship. 

This past week I faced a gauntlet of my own.  There was something on my schedule calling for me to stay up much later than 9:30 p.m.—the time I target each night to get to sleep so I can maintain some semblance of coherence during the week.  If I had known in advance how much later I would be staying up I would have dreaded it that much more. 

Looking back on it now I’ve got to believe there may have been a moment or two when coherence couldn’t possibly have factored into the equation.    

Sunday

·      A 13-mile run in Roanoke, Texas at 6 a.m. to start the day.

·      A visit with Krischan before heading to the airport for our return flight to Atlanta.

·      A brief skirmish with the friendly folks at National Car Rental about the (according to them; they were out of their minds) damage or the lack thereof (according to Cindy and I, the sane participants in said skirmish) above the left front fender. 

·      A two-hour flight in cramped quarters on Spirit Airlines (the pilot announced on the intercom ‘bigger and faster airplanes’ in the near future—but not ‘new’ airplanes so I imagine they’re getting them at an airplane auction or from Craig’s List).

·      A couple hours of my usual routine after a trip: Wash clothes, pay bills, reassure the cats we’ll never leave them again (they’re funny that way), watch Breaking Bad and read the latest issue of Sports Illustrated that arrived in Saturday’s mail while we were in Texas.

·      Lights out at 11:30 p.m. (two hours past my 9:30 bedtime).

Monday

·      Wake up at 3:30 a.m. for a nine-mile run.

·      At work by 7:15 a.m. 

·      Four-hour meeting in the afternoon with my General Manager and four representatives from our new software management system company.

·      Four-hours of dinner and drinks (not necessarily in that order) with my General Manager and the four representatives.

·      Home by 9:30.  Cindy and my General Manager (he was staying with us for two nights) talk for two hours while I lapse in and out of consciousness on my lounge chair.

·      In bed by midnight.  Two down, three to go.

Tuesday

·      Wake up at 3:30 a.m. for a nine-mile run.

·      At work by 7:15 a.m.  My General Manager shows up at 8:15 and asked me why I went to work so early.  (Apparently he must have missed me doing it for the past 10 years).

·      Leave work at 4:15 p.m. 

·      Go to dinner with Cindy and my General Manager in Senoia at 7:15 p.m.

·      Make a trip to Cindy’s store at 9:00 p.m.

·      Home by 10 p.m.  Repeat what happened the previous night at 9:30 p.m.  Watch a recording of my summer guilty pleasure America’s Got Talent.   Spend 30 minutes after the show on my iPad voting for my favorites.  Make sure I don’t vote for the comedian whose entire routine was a series of three-word sentences he uses on his daughter: ‘Don’t do that!  Stop it now!  I’m your father!  Go to bed!’  This is funny?  Judges Howie Mandel and Howard Stern think so.  I think they’ve been paid off.

·      In bed by 11:30 p.m. (Total net deficit of sleep after three days: 6 ½ hours). 

Wednesday

·      Woke up at 3:30 a.m. for a nine-mile run.

·      At work by 7:15 a.m.  Obviously I didn’t capitalize on my General Manager’s comment from 23 hours ago.

·      Leave work at 4:15 p.m.

·      Music trivia at 7:10 p.m.  Our team is el fuego and we win convincingly, much to the chagrin and consternation of the mere mortals who can’t hold a candle to our wealth of musical knowledge.  We scoff at their feebleness.  (Note: If a member of the Mufftones or the Justice League of America is reading this—JUST KIDDING!*)

*Not.

·      Home by 9:30.  Watch the results show of American’s Got Talent.  (I got Cindy hooked on the show a couple weeks ago, my payback for her getting me hooked on Survivor many years ago). 

·      In bed by 11:30 p.m.

Thursday

·      Woke up at 3:30 a.m. for a nine-and-a-half mile run.

·      At work by 7:15 a.m.

·      Leave work at 4:15 p.m.

·      Meet three of my running pals for dinner at 6:30 p.m.  We share three pitchers of watered-down Dos Equis (nasty shit, which makes me question how and why we had three pitchers).  Somehow we manage to tick off our waitress; I assume it was Paula for telling her the guacamole she created for us at our table was ‘bland.’  I try to make amends by leaving a large tip.  I’m being very generous for someone not happy with the nasty shit they were passing off as beer.

·      Arrive home at 8:45 p.m.  Cindy wasn’t home yet.  My neighbors across the street whose daughter took care of our cats while we were in Texas last weekend are in their front yard, so I take them money for their daughter.  They invite me inside and we end up talking (and drinking non-watered down Sam Adams beer—God Bless America) for two hours.  I figured Cindy would call me when she got home once she saw my car in the driveway and couldn’t find me inside the house.  I figured wrong; she assumed I was already in bed.  I wish.   

·      Home by 11:00 p.m.  Talk to Cindy until midnight (well, not all talk). 

·      In bed by midnight (actually, in bed by 11:30 but asleep by midnight*).

*Yes, I can imagine pretty much every single thought from every single one of you

as you read that last sentence.

Friday

·      Woke up at 3:30 a.m. for a nine-and-a-half mile run.

·      At work by 7:15 a.m.  (See a pattern here?  Or perhaps I should say ‘rut?’)

·      Comatose for most of the day.  Pray none of my employees notice. 

·      Some do (notice).  Damn.

·      Realize I should have the spent day in my office with the door shut.

·      Leave work at 4:30 p.m.

·      Put load of clothes in the washing machine, turn on the television and fall in and out of consciousness until Cindy gets home at 9:45. 

·      In bed at 11.  I’m running with Al at 5:30 and I need to catch up on my sleep.  Total hours slept the past five nights = 19.  Total sleep deficit for the week = 11 hours.

Saturday (today)

·      10-mile run with Al at 5:30 a.m.

·      Quick trip to the grocery store.

·      Mow the lawn.

·      Write today’s story while trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, seeing as I’ve been whining about not getting any sleep and there’s a perfectly good bed in the room next to me that I’m pretty sure is calling my name at this very moment.   

‘I’ll rest when I’m dead.’

Those are the words of Duane, the handyman Cindy and I have been using for the past three years for various projects around the house.  Duane has a regular nine-to-five job Monday through Friday, but will take every (and I do mean every) opportunity he can find to pressure wash your house, install a fence or put a new surface on your garage floor.  All you have to do is ask and Duane will take care of it for you.  (My favorite Duane story: I asked him if he knew how to put down a new surface on a garage floor, and he said he did.  When Duane showed up one Saturday morning to do the job, the first thing he did was unfold a sheet of step-by-step instructions to find out how he was supposed to do something he already knew how to do, which if nothing else is the reason Cindy and I love Duane.  That and the fact he is incredibly affordable and does terrific work and no I’m not giving you his telephone number.)

I imagine Duane has a similar schedule this past week, but while I was watching Breaking Bad and America’s Got Talent, eating, drinking and playing music trivia Duane was reading over the instructions on installing a septic tank or building a robot.

After all, Duane isn’t dead yet.

Me?  Well, that’s another story.