|
Marathon Max
|
|||
| When I was six I started putting on serious weight during my parent's divorce. My biological mother is a type 1 diabetic who used her illness as a weapon against her loved ones. Diabetes requires a control of food, especially sugars, and my mother successfully transmitted her food control issues onto her children. My sister and I sought love in taboo foods: sugar and fats. When I look at photos of myself and my sister as young, lithe children there's not a lot of happiness in our faces. As my parent's marriage dissolved we found refuge in forbidden foods smuggled into the house, stolen from the emergency diabetic shock stash, or outright stolen from grocery stores. I chose to live with my father, who had secured my affections in a salvo against my mother by letting me order a non-kosher meal after one of their first major fights. My father allowed me to make my own decisions about food, and I denied myself nothing. From age seven on I packed on the pounds and found joy in working with media technologies - the refuge of the sedentary. During annual state mandated physical fitness tests I would refuse to participate because I felt it was pointless to try hard just to come in dead last. There seemed to be naturally athletic kids and then the rest of us. Not helping matters was my growing attachment to the iconoclastic punk movement in Washington, D.C. My rejection of state sponsored metrics was an embrace of an antiestablishment gestalt that would seed my adult attitudes. Junior high school and high school were marked for me by my inability to get laid. In 1980's America, fat kids didn't get play. Maybe things are different now with blowjob parties at Bar Mitzvahs but I suspect that the popularity of vacuous heroin-chic thin whores like Paris Hilton are still setting the sexuality bar at a low BMI. Was my intense sexual longing a result of denied access? Or was that also part of my genetic makeup as much as my eastern European potato farmer's tendency to pack on weight for winter? When I was finally able to find a girl who was interested in me physically I was still filled with body shame about my weight and physical attributes. I left high school after tenth grade to enter college early - to an oasis of sex, drugs, and rigorous academia. My greatest efforts in academia resulted in a C average, and I remained a fat virgin even at the close of my sophomore year. Everyone, it seemed, was having sex but me. And yet, I still refused to participate in sports, rejected the physical education requirements necessary for obtaining a degree (when those requirements could have been fulfilled by bowling or ballroom dancing!), and still ate constantly to feed the depression over feeling unattractive and asexual. Somehow in the Kung Fu behavioral therapy I undertook in high school I managed to address issues with my biological mother, daily stress vomiting over academia, and gain early entrance to college but never attacked the links between food, exercise, and frustrated sexual urges. While I skipped second grade and entered college at 15, being advanced academically is not the same as being advanced developmentally. If my own children were invited to skip grades I would have to consider their physical and sexual maturity as much as their intellectual ability. I cannot be alone in thinking physical fitness and sex are intertwined - countries on the same continent, sometimes at war with one another and constantly feuding over borders. Sexual confidence must be conjoined with physical confidence. Ugly Lotharios know that it does not matter how they look, it only matters how they project they feel about how they look. While arrogance is never attractive, humble confidence touched with bravado is powerful stuff. It wasn't until I fell in love for the first time - unrequited love that lasted for several years - that I had an opportunity (and time - lots and lots of time) to understand those facets of sex and the body. I began to understand that a lifetime of comparing myself to others was damaging. I met the woman who would become my wife when I was 23. This was after several years of living in Los Angeles, a few disastrous relationships, and some reclamation of my body through acceptance, tattoos, and smoking-related weight loss. In fact, I quit my three-pack-a-day habit cold turkey the day before our first date. We dated long distance for nine months before she moved in with me. She was raised in L.A. and resisted moving back in large part because of the body politics of being a woman in this city. Going to school in Oberlin, Ohio and then settling in San Francisco had done wonders for her physical self esteem. She's a natural mesomorph and when living a healthy lifestyle is muscular and lean. After moving in with me and shifting towards my predilections we put on a tremendous amount of new relationship "happy fat". Our desire for one another never ceased, which was a critical part of our relationship's evolution. We don't have unconditional love, but the conditions aren't based on temporal physical body parts. One day we will be old, wrinkled, saggy, and smelly and will still love one another completely. In 1999, with the encouragement of my partner, I decided to quit working a full time IT job to focus on my writing. Part of breaking up with work included not dining out five days a week with friends and coworkers. I started running on the beach three days a week. My running consisted of jogging until I got tired, then walking a bit, and then running again. I would do this from Venice to the Santa Monica Pier, and then back again to work for a shower and quick lunch at my desk. This sub-three mile run was a great break in my day, it made me appreciate working near the ocean, and it also was the first time I found something other than sex that isolated my thoughts into singularity. (Though to be fair, I called it my "monogamy run" as the stretch of ocean between Venice and Santa Monica is filled with incredibly good looking people. The singularity of thought was "don't die in front of hot chicks, fat boy".) I was never good at running, merely passable and able to do it for longer periods. When I finally quit the job I also quit running, something I did without emotional weight. It was something that had to be mine, something I did for myself and no one else, and something I could not beat myself up about for not doing. Goda Yoga opened in downtown Culver City in the fall of 2000. They offered an introductory weekend workshop that intrigued my partner enough to sign up and I joined her. The women who own the studio ran the workshop and though I went primarily to support my spouse, I was gobsmacked with how much I enjoyed the practice. We went to classes three times a week and formed a deep friendship with one of the teachers. It was through yoga that I began to understand that I could participate in a physically challenging activity that had nothing to do with the person on a mat next to me, that competing with others was futile since we have different bodies, different habits, different lives. While my time on the mat expanded the space between joints, elongated tight muscles, and connected my conscious mind to parts of my body that had been on autopilot my whole life; the biggest change I experienced was with my relationship to my body. Comparison and competition were stopping me from being a physical person. The crippling fear of coming in dead last, or looking stupid while trying something new, or not being good at something had stopped me from trying. Yoga changed everything for me. I was very lucky to find a teacher who led a secular practice with a rigorous focus on forging connections between the mind and body. She knew her anatomy, was unafraid of a challenge, and would only praise me for showing up - regardless of results. My wife and I did yoga together for several years until our work schedules and teaching needs made it almost impossible to maintain a regular practice. My wife started doing workouts at home and I started to drift. Part of my drift was that I felt like I had plateaued. My body had changed structurally - a longer neck, a rotated pelvis, more open hips, better breathing, und so weite. But I was still a big guy doing yoga and I started to put on weight again. In July of 2005 my father was hospitalized. Twenty years of being a professional glutton had caused a massive chain reaction of gastrointestinal horror. He developed pancreatitis, his gall bladder shut down and he had cirrhosis of the liver. A devout foodie, he had succeeded in turning himself into foi gras and very nearly died. I flew back to Washington, D.C. to sit with him in hospital and tend to his very personal needs. For a week I faced the very real future of my genes combined with a life committed to fine dining. My whole life people would remark how much I looked like my father. There is no greater motivator than seeing your future self lie near death in a hospital bed - from a preventable catastrophe. Thanks to my my father's refusal to give up, a great surgeon, and my stepmother's indominable will, he did pull through. It was time to change my diet. My wife and I searched for a plan that would work given our lifestyle. The Weight Watchers core plan was the clear winner. Both of us are obsessive about any number of things and the idea of counting "points" would have driven us insane. The core plan meant we could eat whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted, as long as it was considered a "core" food. These were foods on a specific list being high in dietary fiber, low in fat, with zero sugars, zero flour, and few starches. The diet worked amazingly well. I went from 220 lbs to 185 lbs - and it took almost a year to do it. Getting compliments on the weight loss was pretty fantastic - and everyone seemed to notice. For the first time people from all different parts of my life commented on how good I looked. It took almost 25 years to get that. The diet related weight loss had a profound effect. First, I had changed my relationship with food by breaking up with sugar and flour. I love baking, I love baked goods, I love dessert. But the addiction to the carbohydrates was a direct cause of my weight. Second was the acknowledgement that I seek love and comfort in food. There are times that I just want to shove food in my mouth until I am full. This may never change, but there are foods I can do that with that are safe. I can eat popcorn made with small amounts of olive oil. I can chow down on a massive bowl of spinach and corn with nonfat dressing. One could say this is like saying indulging a rape fantasy with a Real Doll; by not addressing the core psychological issues I'm a fat time bomb waiting to explode. But in this obese-demonizing age something happened to me when I changed from being a fat man to being just a man. It was how I felt when people looked at me - it was subtle confidence touched with bravado. This was new, wonderful ground. The nature of being a screenwriter is that once I finish a script and send it out I have zero control over anything that follows. This interminable waiting is the death of many writers and after thirteen years I recognized that it was wearing me down. By following the core diet plan I had lost a tremendous amount of weight, but there was still some midsection padding that was just not going away. I was doing yoga on and off, mostly off, and I needed to be able to push away from the desk and phone and do something mentally rewarding. I live near the Ballona River, a waterway that extends from mid-city to the ocean. From my house it is 5 miles to the water. I decided that I would try running again, just to get out of the house and out of my head. I strapped on a neglected pair of cross-trainers and hit the road. Having shed a lot of weight and changed my body's structure through yoga I found that running was not only easier, but incredibly satisfying. A friend told me that I should try intervaling - run for 3 minutes and walk for 1. This immediately improved my stamina and distance. Just running three days a week doing intervals climbed my mileage from 1 up to 4 miles in just a few weeks. This same friend, a mother of two who is more involved in her kid's lives than any other mom I know, also took up running around the same time. She asked if I was interested in running a 10K race. I agreed, thinking it was time I set a goal for myself. Signing up for a race meant I had to put in the miles - regardless of how I felt. That first 10K was terrifying and exhilarating. I ran with my friend and a friend of hers, a dad who has run several marathons. Most of my training was done alone, but every few weeks we'd get together and put in some miles. The fat man was getting further and further away. I signed up for a few more 10Ks with the same friends, after which they said, "why don't we try a half marathon?" By this point I was running 5/1 intervals and averaging a 12 minute mile, getting out about two to three times a week. A 10K was no longer scary - it was a weekend run. I signed up for the half marathon with the same terror I felt for the first 10K. But the terror got me out and putting in the miles. Without the encouragement and support of my wife and my running friends, I sincerely doubt that I would have continued past running a few miles. The Long Beach half marathon was, much like my first 10K, physically the hardest thing I'd ever done. Perhaps it's a cruel biological trick, but I do not get a "runner's high". Running is never easy for me, but sometimes, after about 9 or 10 miles, it gets really, really cool. Not an endorphin release, not a blissed-out glow, but a feeling of a machine operating at maximum efficiency. Mind focused, body willing, breath natural and strong. After the first half marathon the three of us started upping our long run mileage until we were at sixteen miles. The third half marathon was the clear indicator that it was time for the Big Show. I signed up for the L.A. Marathon in utter disbelief. I knew I had been running for months and getting stronger and faster the entire time. But somehow 26.2 miles still seemed insane. It was insane. It is still insane. On my 32nd birthday in January, 2007 the three of us ran 20 miles with the Pasadena Pacers some two months out from the marathon. It was a great, exhausting run. After four hours of running I was covered in salty sweat, wrung out, and delighted. But there was something else - something new I couldn't yet identify. A tipping point of release I had touched but not quite hit. Not a chemical release of endorphins, but a darker creature. I drowned my fatigue in a monster BBQ dinner with friends and forgot about it. A month before the marathon my super-mom friend and I were supposed to run a 23 miler. She couldn't make it due to illness and I decided to run it alone. Around mile 19 I "hit the wall" for the first time. I was so close to home on a path I knew well, but I was spent. I walked much of the last few miles, jogging when I had the energy, but knew I was toast. Perhaps I didn't prepare enough the night before. In the past I had rewarded my long runs by taking the dough bus to pizza town or the ziti bus to pastaville the night before knowing I needed every last carb to make the distance. For whatever reason I just had a regular, mostly "core" dinner. I went to bed late. Whatever it was, I felt what it was like to run out of gas. When I finally hobbled in through the front door, I fell onto the floor and wept. I remembered that people had told me not to stop moving after a long run, and I picked myself up off the floor and went about getting cleaned up. But by doing so I had ignored the dark creature who was gradually getting more insistent. March 4th was a beautiful, very hot day in Los Angeles. The marathon started in Universal City and took a long, slow, 12 mile downhill into the basin. Those first miles were slow going, the crush of 26,000 people sorting themselves into pace groups and finding friends in the shuffle. By mile 5 the three of us were doing great, sailing through Hollywood and snaking through the seedy parts of town. Because of the heat the fire department and kind homeowners turned on their hoses and let runners get drenched. Miles 5-18 were spectacular - keeping a solid 10 minute/mile pace surrounded by men and women of every race, color, and creed cheering each other on. Running through a city that's so easy to denigrate and yet in truth is one of the best cities in this country - if not the world. 26,000 runners and thousands of spectators telling each other they're doing great, people at every step cheering, clapping, waving, and smiling. At mile 17 my wife met me waving a sign of encouragement and kissed my salty face. Somewhere at mile 18 I lost my friends. I had picked up a stranger who was matching our pace and at some point I lost my real friends. A few miles later I lost my stranger. I was just another runner. Miles 21-23 were absolute hell. The tendons in my left knee were on fire at mile 21 as I crossed the Olympic Blvd bridge into east L.A. My body was in such agony and was so completely drained of energy I didn't know how I was going to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I hit the wall, for real. I stopped for a moment to try and stretch out my leg, but discovered that was a huge mistake. The lactic acid began to crystallize immediately and my legs howled in pain. So I kept moving. My face was pulled down in pain, my legs were screaming, my breath was hot, and every part of me wanted to stop - but I didn't. Somehow I found it; somewhere a simple, primitive part of my brain woke up and demanded that I finish. Hobbling became walking. Walking became light jogging. Light jogging became tenuous running. I accelerated at mile 24 and caught up with one of my friends at mile 25. He started to say encouraging words and I asked him not to. Suddenly I knew what my wife meant when, enervated, she would say, "please don't be nice to me" - any emotional reaction was enough to go sailing over a precarious edge when all I wanted to do is collapse. Instead, I encouraged him and we made it across the line together after 5 hours 33 minutes and 58 seconds. That's when the dark monster roared. The monster was Control itself. For 26.2 miles, for 26.2 years I had been using every brain cell to try and control my body. Food, sex, exercise, it was always about control. Controlling myself, controlling how others perceived me, controlling what my body did and when. I even started running again because I wanted to control more parts of my life! But the marathon had done what no previous physical activity had accomplished - it whittled away every ounce of mental resistance. I broke down in great, hitching sobs of joy, pain, and utter, complete release. Crossing that finish line - a line that few people ever cross - meant I could, at last, let it all go. In yoga, my teachers would do whatever they could to keep us in the moment - don't think about coming out of the pose, just embrace the pose as it is and find the perfection in it. At that crowded, noisy, smelly finish line I finally understood what it meant to release control and live in the moment - accepting and then letting go of the monster led to ecstacy. The fat man isn't gone, he is a part of who I am. I am an athlete, I am a fat man, I am a fit man. I am a constantly changing human being. Some days I can only see the love handles and a belly that won't go away (sit ups, Max, sit ups!). Some days I see a muscular man with legs carved out of stone. The man in the mirror exists on a continuum of time; and it is only through choices I make every day that I can decide what kind of miles to put on my body. As I set my sights on new levels of athleticism (I am beginning my triathlon training this summer) I will continue to look in the mirror with a holistic sense of myself. The man that I was, am, and want to be. - March, 2007 |
|||
| 10/15/2006 Long Beach 1/2 Marathon: 2h:19m:48s (#2,794) 12/3/2006 City of Angeles Los Angeles 1/2 Marathon: 2h:19m:19s (#2,110 of 3,652) 2/4/2007 Pacific Shoreline 1/2 Marathon: 2h:09m:35s 3/4/2007 Los Angeles Marathon: 5h:33m:58s (#9818 of 20,120 finishers) 9/9/2007 Los Angeles Triathlon: 2h:17m:30s (#35 of 52, 19m:52s swim/9m:44s T1/1h:12m:06s bike/7m:20s T2/28m:29s 5K) 10/28/2007 Marine Corp Marathon: 4h:33m:22s (#9846 of 20,667) 12/3/2007 City of Angeles Los Angeles 1/2 Marathon: 1hr:57m:59s (#978 of 3,313) 2/3/2008 Surf City 1/2 Marathon (was Pacific Shoreline 1/2): 1hr:54m:26s (#1,521 of 8,402) 3/2/2008 Los Angeles Marathon: 4h:30m:39s (#3590 of 17,011 finishers) GOAL RACES: JUNE 2008: Boise Iron Man 70.3 SEPTEMBER 2008: Los Angeles Triathlon - Olympic distance Summer 2009: Escape from Alcatraz + 2-3 Iron Man 70.3 2009: Run a qualifying time for Boston Marathon (3h:12m:00s goal time) April 2010: Boston Marathon 2010: IRON MAN |