Old guy workout

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I pushed it good and hard yesterday.

I had a workout hike planned and even though I wasn't feeling all that great I plunged ahead with the project. Experience has taught me that working through these little ailments often makes me feel better and sometimes even provides the cure.

Experience has also taught me that coddling myself tends to make me feel worse and extend the duration of the ailment.

And so off I took myself.



A workout hike, in my universe, is for giving the old carcass a ruddy good challenge. Putting the hammer down, as it were. Striding out hard and sustaining the best pace possible. Scampering up and down hills without pause. Driving right on by the pretties, not pausing to examine and wonder and photograph. Making the heart pound and keeping it up in the 180+ range as long as possible. Giving the lungs and diaphragm an opportunity to blow the cobs out. Making the sweat pop and run, the muscles burn, the joints hurt, the eyes pop.



A workout hike is a glorious thing, though at my advanced state of decrepitude the glory is neither comfortable nor seamless. There's quite a lot of pain involved, both physical and mental.



It's a funny and ironic game I play with myself on these workout hikes.



Funny in the sense that I consciously and subconsciously tease myself the way I was mercilessly teased by the wonderfully evil staff of the premier naval schools I attended. Time and again, whether running or swimming, those geniuses took me and my shipmates to the very ragged edge of physical exhaustion, announced the end of the evolution, and then invented an excuse to do it again. Only better. Now, ladies!



I fell for it every time, even though deep down I knew what was coming. At the end of a long run, for instance, as we staggered around in circles on the sandy beach, fingers locked behind our heads and blowing mightily, trying to re-oxygenate wooden muscles, one or another of the Inquisitional Priests would note, with innocent surprise, that we were now x miles from home and sans motorized transport. "Oh well, we'll just nip on back." And so would run. Again.

I fell for it because I desperately wanted to believe the fantasy. It had been a bloody great run, after all, and I was in the best shape of my life, which was the point of all the running, I assumed. And I fell for it because I was still weak and unformed. I could barely wrap my mind around an eight mile beach run, and firmly rejected the notion of a 16 mile run as physically impossible.

Of course my assumption that the point of the physical regimen was physical fitness was only half right. The other half -- the most important half by far -- was to develop mental fitness. The kind of mental fitness that only comes once you've exhausted the tank and had to dig deep for more. I was always astonished to find that the reserve tank held plenty of gas, far more than I ever needed.

As Yogi said, perhaps apocryphally, it's 90 percent mental and the other half physical.

 

That was a magical discovery, that the endurance of my body and my mind was far, far greater than I could ever have imagined. That didn't make it easy, by any means. It was still hard, the physical effort was still enormous, and the mental effort even more enormous. The confidence it gave me, however, was one of the greatest things I've ever earned. That confidence would allow me to charge into some pretty tough situations and emerge triumphant. Well, confidence mixed with supreme ignorance and simple mindedness. But that's close enough for government work.

At any rate, the theme I'm trying to illustrate is the trickery deployed against us unformed neophytes by the Priests of the Naval-American Inquisition. Those tricks were tricks designed to ferret out the steel at the heart of a man. Tricks I quickly stole and tucked away in my own tool box. I was a tough guy, but I wasn't that tough. I needed those tricks. "I'll take a blow at the end of this mile," I'd tell myself. At the end of that mile, I'd promise myself a rest after one more. And then one more...

The other great trick -- and a personal favorite -- was to go away from the starting point is a straight line, go until you could go no more, and then "discover" that you've no choice but to find a way to return to the gate. The old "dang, there's no motor-t" trick. That's the best way I know to tap my reserve. Trick myself into a place where quitting is not an option.

If I can make so bold, I lean heavily on the words of Kipling at such times.

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’...

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it...

None of which makes it easy, not by any means. But the echo of Kipling's words provide both a distraction and a spur. A distraction from the pain -- the physical pain of aching joints and burning muscle, the mental pain of enduring and persevering, and the painful fear of failing.

I am a shadow of my former self these days. The years and the miles have taken a toll. At (mumble) years old, and with badly abused achilles tendons, I can no longer afford to run. The damage and injury from running is simply too severe and too certain. Force equals mass times the square of velocity, after all, and the complex biomechanics of running mean a tenfold increase in velocity over walking, or "hiking," as I prefer. The square of a tenfold increase, mind you.

But hiking, particularly over nature's uneven prairie and up and down over her constantly changing slopes is a perfectly good way to put load on the system. Yesterday I pushed it hard.

Almost, but not quite, too hard.

At the end of three miles I realized I was in trouble. Well, not trouble, really, but I realized I was dehydrated. Been there, done that, got the tee shirt. The headache, nausea and muscle cramping are unmistakable.

One recommended course of action in such a circumstance is to quit and hydrate. That option was out, because I'd cleverly tricked myself into being at least three miles away from my pickup and its water supply.

Another not-so-recommended course of action was to suck it up and drive on. I was only a mile from my halfway point, and the purpose was to dig deep, so on I drove.



Sustained physical exertion can take you to a place runners rave about, the endorphin high. But there's a place beyond that, when the endorphins run out, where something else takes over. In my experience it's a mad juxtaposition of agony and out of body experience. The stress of effort, the ache and hurt and pounding heart and rasping breath are immediate, in your face, unavoidable. At the same time some part of me -- perhaps what Kipling called the will -- stands alongside the suffering carcass and makes it possible to endure. It's a majestic and terrifying admixture.



In the home stretch, the last mile, hypocapnia had my fingers and lips tingling and I began to see stars. Time began to do goofy things. Each step took an eternity and no time at all. The last mile took forever and an instant.

At the end I blew (?!?) right past my pickup and added a half-mile of cool down. Back at the pickup I leaned against the warm metal and felt waves of lightheadedness wash over me as my breathing slowly normalized and my heart rate came back down.



As always in the past, I realized that while I was drained and worn out, I was really nowhere near my limit. Weak and shaky and sore and badly dehydrated, yes, but a long, long way from collapse.



The piper would have to be paid, of course. Clinical dehydration takes fluids and electrolytes and time to overcome. My oral rehydration recipe: two tablespoons honey, one-half teaspoon salt, one liter of water. Agitate, drink, rinse, lather, repeat. A couple of aspirin and a couple of 500 mg tylenol are helpful, too.

Some might say that I'd pulled a foolish and dangerous stunt. In some sense they'd be right, particularly in today's risk averse world. But there can be no real reward without risk. And the risk wasn't that great to begin with. The reward was sublime. Knowing for certain that I can still get to that place is a powerful thing. 

This morning I did the same course again, albeit at a slower pace, and with a couple of stops to study and marvel and photograph some of nature's delights. My splits were only 35 seconds slower than yesterday's frenetic pace, but the experience was fundamentally different. A good, healthy hike, extremely enjoyable, with only a few aches and pains.

And what does all this have to do with anything?

Good question!

Why?

"You're a naturalist," said a friend of mine the other day, “why are there scorpions?”

Well. I may claim to be a naturalist but that's a very different thing than actually being a naturalist. I'm more an observer and commentator. And I struggle with that. However...

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The question caught me completely flat footed. No one (no grownup, rather) has ever asked me that kind of big, fundamental question before, and I’m afraid I never expected anyone to do so.

I had a hard time making my brain take the question seriously. It’s too big a question for one thing, and for another, it presupposes that the person questioned has the capacity to formulate an answer. I don’t.

Not only do I not possess the answer, it’s impossible for me to possess the answer. It’s impossible for you, too, and for every other human on the planet.

The problem is that that kind of question can only be comprehensively answered by an external observer, an observer who stands outside the system. We’re inside the system, inside nature and nature’s universe. We’re part of the system, part of nature and nature’s universe. We can no more explain why our system contains scorpions than a wheel bearing can explain why the automobile it belongs to has heated seats and a cup holder.

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Now an automotive engineer can explain the seats and cup holder. The engineer stands outside the system of the automobile. His explanation, however, will make no sense to the wheel bearing, because the wheel bearing is part of the automobile system and has no external reference from which to make sense of the answer.

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If the automotive engineer tells the wheel bearing (a little suspension of disbelief here please) that heated seats and cupholders reduce driver fatigue and increase driver alertness, thereby increasing overall automotive safety, the wheel bearing will hear a bunch of gibberish. The bearing has no ability to understand “driver” or “fatigue” or “alertness” or “safety.” Those concepts are valid only outside the system.

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An observer external to our universe may very well know exactly why there are scorpions. “Oh, that’s easy,” the observer might say. “Varnsquash piddelexin to the yamazod kleptorius, neh?” But we don’t know the words, and have no hope of gaining access to the context present outside the system. We’re inside. The observer is outside.

Stole it.

None of this means that we’re as dumb as a wheel bearing, or that an external observer is a zillion times smarter than we are. It just means that we’re part of nature and nature’s universe, and we simply have no way to answer why questions about the system. The closest we can come to an answer is simply, “that’s the way it is.”

This one too...

Now as it turns out, my friend wasn’t really asking the why question, even though those were the words he used. He was after something else entirely.

As it turns out, my friend and his wife have a retirement property in the Southwest. It’s not in a snowbird subdivision, either, but in a modestly remote area, a number of miles away from snowbirdia. As he described it, the house is quite nice and has plumbing and water and electricity and cell reception. There are a couple of outbuildings and the property includes a small desert canyon complete with desert plants and wildlife.

The wildlife includes scorpions, of course. Unfortunately, my friends wife does not find scorpions aesthetically pleasing or intellectually interesting. She finds them frightening.

So one part of my friend’s why question turns out to be a how question. “How do I convince my wife to be okay with the scorpions?”

And I thought the “why” question was hard. SMH, as the kids say.

Flailing about for a helpful answer, I could only think of a couple of things. Scorpions eat bugs. And they have a place in nature’s universe, which, if you think about it, is quite a beautiful thing.

Sure, they’re scary looking, with that honking great hypodermic stinger on a bulbous, segmented tail, and with those big pincers. The sting can be deadly, too, though not to most adults, at least in North America.

The truth is, that just as we can’t know why scorpions exist, neither can we do much about them. There are many of them, they’re small and nocturnal, and while they’re predators, they’re also prey, so they have all the prey instincts of fleeing and hiding which help them survive as a species. We’re big and mostly diurnal and as modern humans in the first world we’re neither predator nor prey. If we set out to eliminate scorpions, we’re overmatched out of the gate.

We humans do have some level of reasoning ability, so in theory my friend and his wife should be able to come up with a scheme to to make their home less attractive to scorpions. They’ll never be able to completely keep them out, no more than we can completely banish insects from our homes.

The other thing they can do is take the time to study and learn about their new arachnid neighbors. Facts have a way of easing fear in these situations, and you never know, they may come to find that they admire and even like scorpions.

Or not.

Did someone say "canyon?"

Worst hiking videos of all time.

O Canada!

I can smell you burning!

The pictures don't really do it justice. The smoke haze has been awful for the last three days, and my world smells like someone left the poutine on the barbie too long.

Didn't keep me from my appointed rounds though.

One of the nice things about my life is that I can take the time, if i like, to pull out a camp chair, kick back, and read. Reading is enjoyable anywhere, anytime, but outside on the prairie is kinda special. The temperature was nearly 100 and I'd been toiling in the sweltering heat, rebuilding washed out five-wire fence. I got tired and faint, and realized I needed a sit-down with a book and a nice jug of lukewarm formerly iced tea. It was a divine hour I spent in the slender shade of juniper, surrounded by grazing cows and calves, reading from Atkinson's Liberation Trilogy. Heaven.

In the morning I took a little hike to check mushrooms.

This is a Giant Puffball, Calvatia gigantea. They're quite common on the shortgrass prairie in mid- to late-summer, particularly following a rain. That said, I've never seen them so large. Of course I've never seen such a wet, rainy year. The puffballs are edible and somewhat prized in certain mushrooming circles. They sure smell like edible mushrooms, midway between the white button and baby bella shrooms we can get at our local (ahem) supermarket. If I were younger and still convinced of my immortality I'd have slaughtered and cooked a batch of these puffballs. But I am not younger and I am no longer convinced, therefore I'll leave these for those who are.

I was reading the other day that the FBI recently warned of isisisil "barry's own" terrorist cells operating in Cheyenne and in Greeley, Colo. Sixty miles away. The local constabulary is "somewhat" aware of this. So that's about five of us. And another reason that I choose to exercise one of my Constitutional rights.

I don't make a big deal about it, and as a CCW holder most of my friends and neighbors have not the faintest idea that I'm one of those crazy insane psychologically emasculated nut jobs. I'm not as spry as I once was and I believe I'll leave the unarmed terrorist hunting to callow utes like those on the Amsterdam-Paris train the other day. Me, I'll rely on Ol' Betsy.

Back by popular Badger demand, the rusty bike.

Which is actually a trike.

It's been there as long as I can remember, and I'd guess since at least WWII. Maybe WWI. I have no idea what the story behind it might be, and there's no one around with more information.

The other day it was cool and foggy. One might even say cold and miserable -- for August. I had a workout hike scheduled and couldn't let the conditions defeat me, so off I went.

I went 5.3 miles or so and was soaked and chilled to the bone when I finished. I got to thinking about one of Sarge's post-horsepistol posts, the one featuring Michael Caine and an image of Shepherd's cottage pie. My mouth watered.

So I went to work.

I'm afraid I was too hungry to take any mouth-watering images of the completed project. Such images would have been disappointing, anyway, because what I made was more properly cottage upside-down pie. In other words, I was to lazy (and hungry) to put the mashed potatoes on top and bake. So I put the mashed potatoes on a plate and covered them with the filling. My stomach seems not to have known the difference.

Finally, here's a confused milkweed bug and a snap of a friendly bullsnake. Note the round pupil.

And last but not least, we return to where we began, more or less, with a tiny annual sunflower blossom set against the backdrop of an evening sky filled with burning poutine.

Hope you're all having a wonderful day.

Fast Eagle

I got a call last Thursday from the long-time editor of the Scottsbluff Star-Herald newspaper, Steve Frederick. Steve nearly retired recently but decided to stay on to visit with, write about and photograph the things he enjoys, including people of the Panhandle and much of the natural history of the region.

For some reason Steve wanted to do a story on the ranch, and I was happy to answer some questions and show him around.

Here's a link to the story:

It was time well spent and I enjoyed the outing. I got some nice local comments too, and those are always appreciated.

One big bonus was a blog comment and an email from a fellow who I served with back in the glory days. I was surprised to find that a CVW-8 alumnus lives just down (well, up) the road a piece. Shouldn't have been surprised, I guess. Everyone knows that the best sailors were all raised at least 1,000 miles from the sea!

So here's to you, Devin, a little wikimedia commons Fast Eagle action from Desert Storm. Those were the days!

And some Victory and Fast Eagle love from "slightly before" DS.

Fitness

The thing I hate most about getting older is the ebb of effortless physicality. I hate, hate, HATE, HATE, HATE it! BIG FRICKIN' FROWNY FACE!!!



This morning is a good example. It was all I could do to keep my legs going long enough to get up on step and get the main circulating pump up into operating range. It took a good mile of trudging along on aching, quivering pins before I started to feel human. And it's not just the legs; it's the back and the shoulders and even the damn fingers. It's all old and creaky! Meine verdammten Körper aufgibt auf mich!



Only a decade ago, when I was pushing 50, I could still roll out of the rack and dive in to hard physical exertion. Today it takes a lot of priming.

I shouldn't complain so bitterly, for I'm really blessed. I'm in excellent health, particularly in light of the hard use I've made of my body over the years. And I can still get out and get after it, can still push really hard, can still put in a reasonable days work. It just takes longer to get going, and more effort and willpower to keep going. And then everything hurts at night.

Dammit!

Sometimes I dream about my salad days. I used to be able to drink until 4 a.m., sleep for an hour, get up, throw up, go run five miles, suck down 4,000 calories of grease at the chow hall, shower, work all day, then start the whole cycle again, fresh as a daisy. SMH. If I'd had good guidance and direction (well, if I'd followed that which was abundantly available) and left the hooch alone I could have ruled the world!

I had a nice compliment the other day from one of my (two!) local blog readers. Joe is a former navy AME (aviation structural mechanic) about 20 years my junior. Today he's in law enforcement and I work pretty closely with him from time to time.

Anyway, he went hiking with me the other day and was somewhat surprised to find it a bit more taxing than a simple stroll in the country. There's a lot of up and down out there, and the ground is quite uneven, and this year the tall grass makes it rather like walking in sand. It's a lot of work.

"I hope I'm in as good a shape as you when I'm your age," he said.

I hate to admit it, mostly because I like whining about my infirmities, but he's right. I have a number of peers -- and quite a few I played football with (mumble) years ago -- who can't take the stairs or walk across a parking lot without EMS standing by.

So what do I have to complain about? Not a damn thing. Not really.

But I still complain. I'm a right wanker, I am.