The annual physical

CONSUMER WARNING: The following blog entry contains material of explicit nature, which some readers may find unsettling, or even disturbing!

Boston, waiting for the storm

There are few things in life more revealing, or more, um, invasive, than the annual physical. Not confession, not those heart-to-heart chats with my bride, not those long, soul-searching conversations with the man in the mirror. Nope, the annual physical exam takes the cake, because your body doesn't lie.

This year, I shuffled into Dr. Taylor's office resigned to hear the worst. It hadn't been a good year, physically speaking, and my body was a veritable road map of inactivity. Between a banged up shoulder (the result of a nasty over-the-handlebars mountain bike spill) and a persistent groin injury, my cycling and hockey playing had been severely curtailed over the past 18 months. And the proof was hanging over my belt. I had packed on at least a good 20 pounds of lard, absolutely useless adipose tissue. I knew that wasn't going to go over well with Dr. Taylor, a straight-shooter who I've known for almost a quarter century now.

A nurse in pajamas takes me through the rudimentary, baseline tests. I'm still a shade over 6-foot-2, which means I haven't started to shrink, vertically speaking. Horizontally, I continue to expand. My weight now hovers around 230. I'm tempted to toss off every last stitch of clothing, but I know that's not going to make much of a difference. The fact that the nurse says my weight "isn't bad" for someone my height and age (52 now) tells me all I need to know about the collective health of this country. She says the same for my pulse and blood pressure readings, which, if you charted on a graph for the past 15 years, would look like the front side of the Matterhorn. "OK," I tell myself, "you knew this wasn't going to be pretty."

So the doc comes in and, patiently, listens to my concerns and my confessions (I always feel, somehow, that I've let him down when I've let myself go). Some things are a natural byproduct of age ... the fading eyesight and faulty hearing. Others -- primarily a waistline running amok and the loss of muscle tone and flexibility -- are self-imposed. Dr. Taylor nods and smiles, pokes and prods, and records all the salient points on his laptop. In his matter-of-fact style, he tells me what I already know: I'm woefully out of shape, and need to turn things around if I hope to keep pursing any kind of truly "active" lifestyle. Actually, he didn't say "woefully," but I know better.

No physical, of course, is complete without "the exam." And Dr. Taylor, always the gentleman, always saves this indelicate test for last. I honestly don't mind the notorious digital exam. Not that it's pleasant, mind you, but it sure beats the alternative of not knowing if I might have prostate issues. Rarely can ignorance be more dangerous.

But everything seems to check out OK this time around. I pull up my trousers, and think about pulling myself up by the bootstraps and getting back into a sensible, and serious, exercise routine. I owe it to Lauri and the girls. And I owe it to myself.

Best,
-Brion

Where's the love ... ?

Boston, a hard, hard rain

This week, I finally got back on the ice for a skate with the guys after what was essentially a five-month hiatus (unless you count that two-week period in November when I thought, incorrectly, that my injured groin had healed sufficiently). I should have been ecstatic. Instead, I was the original surly boy. Why? Well, for starters, I stunk. I felt slower than ol' Francis Michael "King" Clancy, at right, and he's been dead for more than 20 years! (Actually, in his day, King Clancy -- all 5-foot-7 of him -- was one hell of a player, but that's another story. I just like the old-time sepia print!) Of course, in the rationale part of my mind, I knew that's exactly how it would happen. At 52, you don't take a half-year off anything and expect to jump right back without missing a beat. But hockey, like most athletic endeavors, isn't always a rationale exercise.

I was really looking forward to playing again, if only to work off some of the pent-up, nervous energy that has been driving me (and my wife) batty during my recuperation. There was also some trepidation, since I knew the groin hadn't completely healed, and that it might even require surgery. My orthopedic guy wasn't sure if it was a sports hernia or not, and the specialist he recommended couldn't see me for five weeks. I figured, if surgery was in the cards, I might as well pull out all the stops beforehand. So I arrived at the rink with this odd mix of emotions, cautious excitement blended with some serious butterflies, knowing I wasn't in the best of shape. Worse, I even had a hard time remembering how to put the gear on. Getting on the ice didn't allay my concerns.

For starters, I was playing defense, which isn't my forte (any skating I do outside the goalie crease is something of an adventure). But I like to think that I can play a serviceable D if the competition isn't a bunch of former college players. But on Monday, I felt like the Goodyear blimp surrounded by stunt planes zipping around me. The only consistency to my game was that I was continuously a step or two behind the play. It wasn't just my feet that were moving at a glacial pace. It was my mind. From the bench, I could follow the game fine. But on the ice, I felt clueless. And even when I did see the play developing, I couldn't get my legs moving fast enough to be a part of it. Which led to a real predicament ... While I love the game of hockey, I didn't especially like how it felt to be so far off the pace. I got burned on several plays, leading directly to goals for the bad guys, which led to me getting cranky. Really cranky. The guys on the bench were having fun, cracking wise like they always do, while I just sat there steaming.

Which got me to thinking: If I care so much for the game, why am I having such a miserable time? It is, really, one of the great quandaries of being an older athlete. Our skills, or bodies, or both, erode ever so subtly (or not-so-subtly, in some instances), and suddenly we realize we can't do what we once could. Not even close. And that's pretty damned frustrating. The challenge, of course, is to find a way to keep the love strong, even as the game gets weak. I know (again, the rationale side) that I should just lower my expectations, but the emotional side isn't really on board with that. Shocking, huh?

For the time being, I'm telling myself to be patient, and to rededicate myself to a fitness regimen that will, with luck and hard work, get me a little closer to the rest of the pack. But I've got a bad feeling this little dilemma isn't going away anytime soon! ;-)

Best,
-Brion