The tarsnake of roadside pornography lives on in the Information Highway

Posted on October 4, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

by Christopher Cudworth, We Run and Ride

25 years ago, before the Internet was even invented, pornography was produced in print form and video. Digital porn was just starting to makes its inroads in the living rooms and computers of America.

That meant there was still a lot of what many people call smut being produced in relatively archaic forms. If you wanted porn, you had to buy it at a newsstand or rent or buy it at a video store or by mail order.

Some of that material inevitably got tossed out the car window by the side of the road. It was a regular thing to do for some porn users. Whatever sequence of thoughts and actions led them to look through a magazine, shall we say, and then toss it out the window on some rural highway, was quite common.

The county highway trucks must have picked up quite a collection of porn in those days.

Once in a while you’d be out running or riding and you’d venture upon a magazine or a video or a CD and be faced with the choice of whether to stop and pick it up or not. Perhaps the most virtuous among us would not be so tempted. But it was an interesting experiment in many ways, a cross section of human tastes, to see what you might find. In all that running and riding along the roads over the years I found all sorts of litmus tests of human tastes. Raunchy mags. Gay literature. Straight sex books. You can learn a lot about people by the porn they throw away.

Once in a while, you’d find quite a repository of porn by the road. Our college cross country team was once in the middle of a 10-miler on a rural road when someone glanced over the edge of the metal suspension bridge we were crossing and noticed a huge pile of magazines lying on the edge of the riverbed. Laughing and snorting, the entire team piled down the embankment on the other side of the river and snatched up several magazines apiece. Then we ran the last 4 miles holding up photos and chortling over our seeming good fortune at landing free porn.

It was not the supposedly high-class porn of Playboy or Penthouse, the two standard-bearers for pornography in the 70s and 80s. Instead it was magazines like Hustler and others that played by almost no rules presenting naked photos of women. There was a hierarchy even then among pornographers. Playboy was the most popular, also the most airbrushed and demure. Truly those photos were not even of naked women, but airbrushed images more closely resembling statues than honest-to-goodness women. Their supposed perfection was their so-called trademark, as it were.

Next came Penthouse, slightly less demure with its candid photos of women’s genitals, and a bit less airbrushed, or so it seemed.

Then came the entire litany of pornography magazines like Oui and others that imitated Playboy and Penthouse or threw those standards completely out the window. Opening those pages, you knew there were no rules.

These are exactly the types of moral questions opponents of pornography bring to the table when discussing its effects on the human mind and soul. Some argue that porn is a sign of the breakdown of society. Except that porn in some form has existed since the first horny guy formed a large-breasted female form out of stone as a fertility symbol. Things have never changed. It’s the degree of emphasis and intention that define whether something is holy or pornographic, in many instances.

One could similarly argue that pornography, being pre-dominanently used by men, is actually a salve against a strong sex drive. Otherwise why would men use magazines and throw them out the car windows or dump them over a bridge after the effects, as it were, have worn off?

Porn addiction is a genuine problem, just as addiction to alcohol, drugs or guns are problems for society. People hooked on a habit or a thing cannot easily release themselves. There is the argument that porn diminishes respect for women among men, that it distorts the healthy image of a desirable woman and distracts from genuine relationships. There’s plenty enough proof out there to justify all those opinions.

But there are also millions, possibly billions of people who use pornography without needing to throw it out the window in shame. But some countries outright ban pornography.

Those people keep their desires in perspective and let pornography works its naughty little magic and go back to their lives in fullness if not eternal grace. Sometimes it is the most conservative or repressive factions of society that have the greatest problem managing their own heads.

The Bible quotes Jesus saying that a man commits adultery just looking at a woman with lust. It also quotes Jesus saying that murderous thoughts are as bad as murder itself. But a healthy person holds back on those murderous thoughts rather than acting on them, just as a person releases lustful desires rather than screwing the neighbor. Human nature is complex that way.

It is rather interesting to consider the case of the guy who finally felt so moved to rid himself of pornography that he dumped an entire stash over the side of a bridge in rural Iowa. That is either a sign of genuine repentance or fear that his wife would finally find the collection and kill him. There go those murderous thoughts again. Would she be castigated by Jesus for killing her husband in a jealous fit of rage over his porn collection? There’s a topic worth debating in all its theological wonderment.

What remains true however is that porn has migrated these days from the printed and videotaped form (and to some measure, on DVDs) to the Internet. As a result, one almost never finds porn tossed alongside the highway anymore. In my 50,000 miles of running I saw, and admittedly picked up a few choice bits of porn over the years. It was strangely titillating to see what someone else thought was sexy. Sometimes it would just turn out to be stupid, or ignorantly profane. Then you’d pitch it again.

In my late 40s it was time to ditch the few porn magazines I’d collected (like many men…) and kept for almost sentimental reasons over the years. A few classic Playboys survived to that point, and some torn out photos of women that were particularly pleasurable to look at. But one day while cleaning out my art study it all just struck me as silly and boring, and the decision was made to get rid of it all.

Hilariously I first tried burning the magazine collection in a backyard pyre, only to find bits of unburnt pornography floating up in the air and carried away by a late afternoon breeze. With horror I damped down the fire and ceased the effort for fear of raining down tits and ass on the lawns of the entire neighborhood. Talk about an apocryphal lesson in the sins of lust! But my experience as not so apocalyptic as the fellow who had 20 years of porn magazines stored in his attic when a house fire burned through the stacks, throwing scads of half naked women across the entire neighborhood. Busted. So to speak.

My tastes and interests evolved anyway, over the years. The only photos of women that appealed turned out to be mostly natural-looking gals whose breasts were not pumped up, and whose bodies were not airbrushed into fuzzy oblivion. And it wasn’t loss of desire that obliterated even these from concentrated interest, just the sad realization that porn is not really that creative or interesting in the long run. Pun intended.

Of course, it’s possible now to find anything you want on the Internet. Porn in all its forms drives billions of dollars in commerce each year, and free pornography is everywhere, piled up so high in the ditches of the information highway you almost can’t avoid it.

Some people hate the thought. But the Venus of Middendorf and countless other figurines of fertility and lust will never be denied some sort of status in society. The Bible acknowledges even the lusts of women as exceedingly powerful, with the whores of Babylon and princesses lusting over men with penises the size of donkey-dicks. The fact of the matter is that lust is not always a pretty picture, but sometimes it is.

You can try to erase and suppress lust and it will pop up somewhere else. Knock porn off the Internet and you’ll likely start finding it in various forms along the roadway again.

 

 

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Running again! And cycling too!

Posted on October 3, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

I don’t usually post twice a day to We Run and Ride because I don’t want to wear out any welcomes. But short bits of good news are always worth writing about, in case it inspires good thoughts in others.

My good news was riding my mountain bike for the first time after the accident down to Prairie Path Cycles in Batavia. Needed to get a shifting cable fixed. It felt so good to step on those pedals––no SPD shoes yet, I’m going cautious as yet––and just ride the bike.

It was 30 days to the hour almost, that I rode again after the accident.

Then today on my “walk” I tricked the universe and wore my good running shoes. 5 minutes into the 3 mile loop it felt like it was time to run. So there I went. One foot in front of the other. At least it was faster than walking.

A week ago when I tried to run the shoulder felt heavy and my hamstring, so brutally bruised from the crash, was not too cooperative. I am now realizing how forceful some of that impact really was. The hamstring really hurt the day of the crash, and it has taken weeks to lose that greenish purple color. Deep inside the muscle there is scar tissue still evident. Might need to have that worked out by a therapist.

This afternoon a friend is borrowing my road bike to measure a local running course. So I dug it out of the corner of the garage and stood it up. The chain was locked down deep next to the frame. The right hand grip was bent 30 degrees inward. And finally, the entire position of the handlebars is off about 10 degrees. But nothing’s truly broken, just bent. Like a cowboy.

But dang it feels good to get moving again. I threw my hands out like I was winning a race during part of the run. There were hundreds of yellow-rumped warblers flying ahead of me from the migration fallout the night before. The trail was wet and the red and yellow leaves were shiny. A great day to get back in action. Almost made me want to race.

Consider yourself lucky, and good luck if YOU are. Racing, that is.

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The bike alone. A cyclist’s prayer.

Posted on October 3, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

The Red Rocket sits idle.

It sits there in the garage, front wheel off.

It wonders why I let it lean there like that.

My bike has to wait. And wait some more.

Don’t worry, friend. I will put you back together again.

Sooner than later.

There will be salvation.

We must regain trust in one another.

There is love. All those miles together guarantee that.

Yes, I’ve learned much about you over the last four weeks. 

What you need, at high speed, to be both safe and stable.

A couple knees pinched on the top bar. That’s all it takes. And a loose grip.

At least you weren’t broken in the fall. Your frame and components are all intact.

I can mostly say the same thing about myself. Just one broken collarbone. 

It’s funny how the accidents in life seem to teach us the most.

Sometimes, you must be almost broken to be saved, for the long term.

But in a way, that happened all at once, on that downhill.

The forcible choice between hitting the deck on road or grass.

As you wobbled out of control I hauled you over. There.

We slid into a ditch, grassy and deep.

We missed the cable and a post. Like it was supposed to be. 

Didn’t see those going down. Just learned it later. Flat on the back.

Staring at the sky.

Lived to see another day.

For that we can be thankful.

And though you be lonely in our dark garage, the vow is there.

To ride. And ride again.

Amen.

 

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I’ve never done steroids or doped. And it’s pretty hard living clean.

Posted on October 2, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

As a competitive runner from high school to post-collegiate days, I stood 6’1″ and weighed 140 lbs.

That’s pretty skinny. A nurse who tested me at a health fair scored my BMI (Body Mass Index) at 3% body fat.

“Don’t get caught in the rain,” she told me. “You’ll die.”

I lifted weights. To no effect. When you’re skinny by birth and then add 80 mile weeks to your training schedule, putting on muscle is a pipe dream.

Today I am still 6’1″ and weigh 170 lbs. It’s a weight I like. I actually have muscle on my arms and legs. Cycling has added strength to my upper thighs, and I actually have a real butt. I’ll spare you the pictures.

The one thing I’d change are the “cookie rings” of fat resting above my hip bones. They aren’t pronounced. But they’re there. That comes from eating too many carbohydrates.

When training during the summer months, riding from 100-200 miles and running 15-20, my weight will drop to 163 at times, but seldom lower. That seems to be the new set point for my body.

In previous winters I’ve let my weight inch up toward 180, but not last year, and despite current injury setbacks, I’m working hard to avoid a spike in weight by walking every day until I can run and ride again. 180 lbs. is a weight that I do not like, and it is so easy to get there. Just a week of indulgence and cutbacks on workouts and zing! The pants don’t fit so well.

So my history with body image and performance is one of exercise and diet.

By contrast, there have been many times in my athletic career when I’ve met people who go to different lengths to control the mass and performance of their bodies.

Eric the Steroid Monster

While working in Philadelphia, Pa., I commuted by train in from the Mainline suburb of Paoli. A few of my co-workers caught the same line at different points. One was a thickly built guy named Eric. He’d attended a Division I football school, and he looked it.

His neck was somewhere between 19-21″ around. At least that’s what I remember him telling me. He could not reach behind his head to put his own collar down. He’d sit down next to me on the train and punch me in the arm, saying: “Fix my f’n collar.”  His shoulders and arms were so bound with muscle he could not perform a number of simple functions. One day he told me it was getting harder and harder to brush his teeth. “I can’t reach my f’n mouth,” he said. I didn’t dare ask him if he somehow managed to jerk off. He might have killed me with a blow from one of his ‘roid rage paws.

Eric freely told me he was using steroids to build bulk. I asked why, since he no longer played competitive football. “Oh, I do on weekends, with a semi-pro team. We all use ‘roids. Plus I need ‘roids to keep up at the gym.”

He was a member of a gym one block from my house in Paoli. Curious about membership, I stuck my head in the door one day and realized it was not the gym for me. Every musclebound guy from a 3-county area must have belonged there. That was Eric’s gym. “I love that place,” he said. “Everyone’s so ripped.”

It was hard to argue with that contention. But as mentioned, I dared not tease or argue with Eric about anything. He tended to be more than a little touchy about anything with which he disagreed or thought suspicious. He would have made a good Tea Party member.

At first, before I got to know him better and understood his addiction to steroids injections, I wrote his grouchiness off to morning blues. But then Eric started relating tales of how he and his buddies shot each other up with steroids every week. They jabbed long needles into each other’s butt cheeks to get their dose of steroids. “We all did it in college,” he admitted. “That’s how you stay at that level.”

Granted, this was a few years back. Yet stories like these still seem to hold true to this day. Every week in sports you read about this baseball player or that cyclist or some track star getting busted for steroids and performance-enhancement drugs. We shake our heads, lament the corruption of a former hero and rather meekly wonder why we were never good enough at sports to justify doping ourselves.

You almost feel like a fool for living clean. Is it possible you simply have to cheat to get ahead in this world? To take the fool’s plunge? To choose aggression and phony strength in order to dominate those around us?

Ignoring the warnings

Despite the warnings of what steroids can do your body, including cancer and shrunken testicles, my “friend” Eric was committed to maintain his overgrown size. Never mind that he worked in a financial services field where physiques hardly matter. He wanted to be the Big Boy. He said it made him feel more confident.

Or perhaps it just made him feel less afraid, of whatever. Of what he could and could not do without a boost in confidence. Living up to social expectations. Dealing with the fact that football was really over in his life. Our psyches, both individual and collectively, can be a complex thing.

Dope versus fear

Fear drives many things in this world. One can argue that the United States has been running on repeated injections of fear since the 9/11/2001 terrorist attacks. Every time America starts to think its way around its problem, fear gets thrown back in our face and we’re back to the same political and economic cycles that made us look like dopes leading up to the 2008 economic crash.

It’s clear that some people don’t want us to grow up and recognize that while 9/11 was a tragedy, it caused far less death in its violence than do quiet killers like heart disease and hunger vexing America each year. Hundreds of thousands of people who die from these diseases could essentially prevent their fate, yet America and its citizens not only look the other way, we keep on smoking and ignoring opportunities to fix our society because our culture is so fractionalized we can’t agree there’s a real problem.

Yet a bunch of us rallied around 9/11, didn’t we? The crushing imagery of 9/11 really got our attention, for it has much more forceful emotional appeal than fighting silent killers like disease and neglect of the poor. People can always get up for a fight, but they can’t always get together on a cure.

Our over-stimulated, football-driven society apparently requires emotional steroids to give two shits about anything, plus we can only seem to pay attention for the 3.2 seconds it takes to run a halfback option. This is the real poison of society: inattention and social literacy. Instead we’re feeding on the big adrenaline rush of violence and political opposition.

Then there are the fights we create that aren’t really there. We speak of “fighting” against cancer when it isn’t a fight all that cancer patients are engaged in. Instead cancer treatments are a medically managed and well-reasoned application of specially designed drugs and other treatments that slowly kill you, but not quite. The deal works like this: If you can survive the treatment, you might survive the disease. But there are no guarantees.

Meanwhile a seemingly growing number of people consider chemotherapy nothing more than unnecessary poison. Yet no proven organic or genetic remedies have emerged. Is this because there are none, or because there is no money in actually curing cancer? If that is the case, then we really are a bunch of dopes for going along with what amounts to a massive money-making scheme.

But right now we have to trust, because what we are doing to treat cancer is essentially asking people to dope themselves up with chemo in order to survive, and then calling them heroes for surviving the dope that could easily kill them if given in greater doses. Are there contradictions there we’re not willing to face?

Or is that exactly the model we see our athletes performing for us? Our dope helps us transcend human limitations, but too much can kill us.

The fights we prefer 

Still, we love our fights, and the dopamine of media outlets like Fox News (Fair and Dopey?) and fired up politicians got the nation ramped up for two essentially illegal wars that have bankrupted our nation. That’s the price of feeding on emotional steroids. They fuel our rage, but they also tax our systems toward an inevitable collapse.

Now we must accept that the steroids of war made so many Americans feel bigger, bolder and less afraid knowing our soldiers were out kicking ass in the world. Heck, we even tortured people and politicians scrambled to justify it. They were too afraid to appear wimpy and small next to the war mongerers. All, supposedly, to fight terror.

Standing back for a clearer look

Yet there are those among us who have been a silent minority for too long that would prefer to take a more measured approach to life and it problems, including terrorism.  There are indeed many people who might did not believe that fighting terror was best done by fighting wars. Their dissent was frowned upon as unpatriotic at the time, and weak-willed to boot.

Yet God really does love the considerate among us, and some people actually prefer to go for a run or a ride and think things out before we turn to violence toward others. That’s a healthy response.

So let’s look at an example of one runner who did just that, a considered response to terrorism. None other than Frank Shorter.

Frank Shorter, circa 1972

Frank Shorter, circa 1972

The best case study of measured response to terror was the calm and diligent approach of marathoner Frank Shorter in the 1972 Olympics. Though he had witnessed the very acts of terror going on in the Olympic village, and considered greatly the idea not to complete, he decided that the best way to combat terror was to do what he did best. And that was to run. In so doing, he set off a running boom in America, and some might argue the world, that lasts to this day.

Shorter did not dope or take performance-enhancing drugs. But in 1976 when he tried to repeat as Olympic

Waldemar Cierpinski

champion an East German marathoner named Waldemar Cierpinski ran flat away from Shorter as if he were standing still. Suspicion about this competitor haunted Shorter for years as he wondered how the man could beat him so handily. Finally, when East German athletic records were published it came out that Cierpinski had indeed doped for the 1976 Olympic race. So Shorter was vindicated in some sense. He’d actually won twice.

Remember Shorter was a spindly-thin athlete, a ‘vertical hyphen’ some called him. He was my hero back then and he remains a hero to many to this day.

Sure, he was no studly looking athlete. When he competed (as I ran against him) he breathed like a bellows, and his feet slapped the cement louder than some elite athletes. But he was the best runner in the world on the days that counted.

Shorter is also a thoughtful man, and his considered response to terrorism was not some steroid-induced lashback at those who committed the crimes against humanity. His rage toward the terrorists was real, but his race instead served as a celebration of the natural beauty of plain, unassisted human effort. And he did it clean, to boot. And that matters. Because if you cheat to win, you have really lost in making a statement of principle whether it is against your fellow competitors or against terrorists who are essentially “cheating” the laws of civility by committing un-predicated acts of violence.

The worst thing Shorter did during his race was drink bottles of flat Coca-Cola, carefully set out the night before so that the fizz would run out. Remember Gatorade and other sports drinks were barely on the radar in 1972. Shorter used what he knew best, a sugary drink with some sticking power. But it certainly wasn’t drugs, or steroids, or EPO or any other concoction deemed illegal in the sports world.

For those of us who have long looked more like a skinny Frank Shorter than a muscled up, steroid-assisted thug of some sort, there is affirmation in never having done steroids or dope. You’re living clean.

Winning at all costs

But if you don’t mind people who fake their strength and cheat in sports (or politics) because winning at all costs is what matters to you, then you might also be inclined to favor those who grease palms and cheat because that’s just the way of the world, you see.

We see it all around us. Every day. Yet we punish the weak and too often refuse to prosecute the wealthy and strong when it is clear they have cheated, right in front of our eyes. Yes, it’s pretty hard living clean. But it’s been a problem through the ages, as evidenced by this verse from Proverbs:

Proverbs 4:16: For they cannot rest until they do evil; they are robbed of sleep till they make someone stumble.

Steroids and dope do have metaphorical symbolism in this world, and it can be awfully hard to live clean and seek justice when others think it’s just fine to cheat. As they often do.

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Racing through time at a walker’s pace

Posted on October 1, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

By Christopher Cudworth

Dr. Joe is the ER physician who referred me to the amazing collarbone surgeon at OAD Orthopedics, and Joe sent a text this past Sunday afternoon just before my wife and I were going out for a walk.

His message said: “Going out for 2 hr easy ride. Care to join me?”

Wondering if this was a test of some sort, it was tough to tell whether to text back or make a call. I decided to call.

“Hi,” said Dr. Joe in his inimitably positive voice. “How’s the recovery coming?”

“I’m being cautious,” I told him, as my wife listened. “They have not had me in for physical therapy yet, but that starts next week. In the meantime I’m moving the arm plenty and trying not to lift anything too heavy. I don’t want to be stupid.”

“That’s good,” said Dr. Joe. “Let pain be your guide. You’ll find your limits. By next year you’ll be perfect. You won’t even know you had it done.”

“That’s the goal,” I told him. Then I glanced over at my wife. “When I told Linda I still wanted to get out on the bike this fall, she said, ‘2013 buddy…”

“Ha ha ha!” Dr. Joe agreed. “Yeah, you don’t want to pressure things. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

It’s always good to hear from a doctor that you’re not goofing things up. But there are some twinges and spikes when you get a collarbone fixed.

So it was walking time again this morning. 4 miles at a modest pace on a riverside loop that follows an old railroad line. I remember when trains used to trundle up and down the tracks, now replaced by mostly smooth pavement, except where willow trees push up bumps and lumps and throw the occasional runner or rider for a loop.

Walking along it was fun to stop to pet a few dogs that looked like mine.

But then I was alone on a long, straight stretch of trail that rose slightly to the north. It struck me that this was the exact spot in a 10K race where I’d finally broken open a few strides of space between myself and the guy in second trying to chase me down on the long incline toward the finish.

The course was 6.2 miles and the last 3 were all slightly uphill. We’d gone through 3 miles in under 15:00 and the stress of that pace was accentuated by the slight rise we were not climbing. It was much in terms of a hill, but you felt it then.

It is strange how different experiences can be in space and time. How one can recall those racing sensations like they were just yesterday. Yet here I was walking along in Columbia hiking shoes with yellow-rumped warblers flitting and chipping everywhere around my head. The height of fall migration for songbirds is upon us.

There were so many autumns where I could not afford to slow down even for a second to look at the migrating birds. Training sessions where competition was so fierce you could not see straight. Races where pausing a second to cast and eye on a bird could cost you the race. Yet I did manage to rubberneck fast enough one time to see a phalarope swimming along the edge of a golf course pond in central Iowa. I still won the race but wanted to go back and get that bird identified more closely to add to my life list. I warmed down in that direction but the bird was gone. You win some, you lose some.

These days the sumacs are in fall color like team pennants waving as you walk by. They don’t care how fast you go, or how slow. They’ll all be laying on the ground in a week or two.

It is best to cheer yourself along at this time of the year anyway, for it is easy to let the seasons pass too quickly. Sure, there are thousands of runners gearing up for their October marathons. Chicago is in one week. I know at least 20 people signed up and ready to go. But even they should take it easy this week. Nothing to add to the mix at this late a date. Taper and compete. That’s the marathon way.

It just proves we’re all actually in a race to slow down and take notice of everything around us. The sumac pennants wave. The birds move through the trees on their way south. I walk north and then head west toward home. My time to run will come again. Just now it is time to mend. And race through time at a walker’s pace.

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When life deals you s***, you still have to smile.

Posted on October 1, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

Linda, Chuck and I at Big Rock Forest Preserve.

It can be said that athletes are at greatest risk when they’re not doing much of anything. We’ve all heard stories of pro athletes chopping their thumb tendons while cutting carrots before a game. Or sneezing and causing a back spasm. That happened to former Cub Sammy Sosa, and he was out for a week.

Well, I bent over to pick up my shoes today and bingo! Back twinge so profound I can now hardly stand up or sit to type this blog.

So be it. Just another setback in the recovery from the bike accident. Still can’t run anyway, although I trotted 30 yards the other day to test out my legs. Discovered that the hamstring I bruised so terribly is also not quite right. So that will be fun to rehabilitate too.

Meanwhile I received a text from the emergency room doc from Cadence Health, who is a triathlete and cycling buddy. The text read: Heading out for 2 hrs. Want to come along?

I called him back. “Just kidding,” he told me. Probably testing my commitment to a sound and reasonable rehab. Wants to know I’m not out cycling already, and risking another crash. His surgeon friend did too good a job to go blast it apart on a bright autumn afternoon.

So it was ginger walking for me today, with the wife and dog. We all had fun and got home safely. Except for Chuck. He pooped a little greasy and wound up back in the tub for a cleanup after I gave him a big bath yesterday. He looked betrayed when we hauled him back there with the soap. But that’s life. Sometimes you get your ass kicked, like I did bending over to pick up my shoes. Other times you get your ass washed, like Chuck did for an inefficient dump.

We also encountered something that appeared to be making a shitty face at the lot of us. Funny how the universe can conspire to greet you with an ironic sneer, even on a bright, sunny, September day.

When live deals you shit, you still have to smile.

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Excuse me, Sir or Madam. Are you going to wear those running shoes forever?

Posted on September 29, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

Forever shoes. That’s how people who buy and wear running shoes for daily wear but are not really runners seem to view their rubbery footwear.

Example: Standing in line one morning behind a woman wearing a pair of near-legacy New Balance running shoes, it struck me that the rubber heel and midfoot area had aged to a decomposed-looking gray-green patina. That is a sign that the rubber in those shoes is far beyond its expiration date.

The sad truth is this: That woman is far from alone. Millions of people seem to think that running shoes simply never wear out. They will wear their running shoes until they literally fall off their feet or turn inside out from the stress of trying to hold up under their bio-mechanical deficiencies. I have seen running shoes so broken down from pronation (collapsed arches) that the inside of the shoe is literally touching the ground. Likewise, there are people who supinate (lean their foot to the outside) so profoundly the fifth metatarsal is scuffing the ground like windsurfer in a full gale.

Not a good strategy for foot or leg health. That holds true whether you run or not. If you are an actual runner and your shoes look like that, you do not deserve to set foot on the pavement or any other running surface. You are too delusional to run.

Sorry, it’s the truth.

The problem of “overwearing” running shoes is common, and found near and far. I once asked my own mother-in-law how long she’d had a pair of running shoes and she told me, “Six years.” And then my own  brother-in-law showed up to a family gathering in a similarly ancient pair of Nikes. His were 8 years old. I quickly reminded them that running shoes are not designed to Last Forever.

Neither of these beloved people in my life are stupid. But many people do like to stretch their luck in life. Otherwise casinos would be out of business.

Here’s the truth about running shoes. After a year or so the rubber begins to degrade. The support slowly (and sometimes quickly) gives out. Pretty soon a person with any sort of bio-mechanical deficiency is essentially walking around in a pair of shoes that actually make their foot and leg problems worse, not better. And people wonder why their bodies hurt?

The trend in purchasing running shoes for casual wear is reportedly on the increase. That trend was documented in the business news in 2012. Yet a current Google search turns up more information about fashion advice on the merits (for better or worse) of wearing running shoes as casual wear. In fact most men’s advice columns warn against wearing running shoes, especially so-called “retired” running shoes for any fashion situation.

For one thing, old running shoes often stink. Guys: women really do not like stinky shoes in any situation, especially in their carefully coiffed apartments. Plus running shoes really do not look as good with jeans as you think they do. Get a decent pair of boots for your jeans. If you must wear running shoes with your shorts, have the common sense to buy some low-cut socks. Otherwise you will look like the character Kip from the movie Napolean Dynamite.

But the women I’ve known who have stinky feet go to great lengths to hide the fact, until it becomes so evident they just cave and admit, “My feet stink.” Which is something most guys never have the class to do. Because usually they don’t notice. And that is far worse than copping to the fact.

Wearing running shoes for casual wear is a favorite thing for seniors. Usually they buy the absolutely hugest pair of running shoes they can find, like those New Balance shoes with nine different layers of rubber between your foot and the ground. Of course seniors who fall off a shoe that high have been known to kill themselves or at least break a hip or leg bone. So it seems the greatest risk to seniors who are purchasing running shoes for casual wear is the sum height of the footwear. Anything over 3″, which is about how thick those NB running shoes actually seem to be, should be avoided for those with crappy balance.

New Balance seems to be one of the favorite brands of running shoe footwear for non-runners to buy and wear around. Something about the design or the name or the look and feel of New Balance shoes appeals to non-runners. Perhaps it is the big N on the side that makes it look a little simpler, and therefore remedial in nature. Maybe New Balance buyers think it will actually teach them to walk again. That’s what New Balance means, right? No more stumbling over curbs or stubbing your toe on furniture.

Some models of New Balance shoes are so huge your foot and toes cannot possibly enact with the chemical or molecular composition of the universe.

And that brings up another point: It may be that New Balance shoes are actually anti-gravity shoes in disguise. No one has actually tested this theory, but absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Take a close look at those moon boots on Neil Armstrong on the moon. Those shoes he’s wearing look a lot like an early model New Balance. There may actually be a large N on the side, but none of the pictures seems to show that clearly.

Of course there are some people who think the whole lunar landing scene was fake. That does not change the fact that Armstrong might have been the first person to wear true running shoes for casual footwear. It was the 1960s after all. True running shoes were just being invented. No one knew not to mix their sport with their general appearance. It took all the 1970s to figure that out.

Then came the 1980s and absolutely no one knew where to draw the line. I mean, for God’s sake, we elected an actor as President, who turned around and appointed an End Timer in James Watt as Secretary of the Interior. By extrapolation that means at least half the country who favored such policies apparently thought the world was officially coming to an end and it didn’t matter what you wore out in public. That explains the years 1983-1989 pretty well. And the music too. The Big Hair. And shoulder pads in women’s clothing.

I will myself admit that in the 1980s I wore a pair of New Balance training shoes until the soles wore clear through. But my explanation was that I could not help myself. I was obsessed with running like no one you’ve ever seen. 80-mile weeks. 24 races a year. I just kept running and running in those shoes because they fit so well I could not tell they were wearing clean through. Then one day I felt water in my sock and came to a cold stop on the road. I took off my right shoe and looked at the sole and discovered an actual hole in the bottom. “Well, sonofabitch,” I said out loud.

But this is what amounted to sole searching in the 1980s. We all operated at a rather shallow level. After all, we had an actor we called the Great Communicator for a President. And he was followed by a Dana Carvey imitator.

But at least I did not retire those shoes to casual wear or try to make them last another 6 years because the rest of the sole was not worn out. Even I had more sense than that.

But now it’s time to skip ahead 20 years or so, and get real about our current situation. There are still people walking around in the world today who don’t know when to retire a pair of old running shoes. For God’s sake, people! Do you actually think we should return to the 1980s, the most superficial decade in history?

There are still people that superficial, who buy their running shoes at Kohl’s or K-Mart when those products are not even the real thing. The manufacturers all know they can pump out inferior crap and innocent people will buy it at those stores simply because it says NIKE or adidas on the side. That is the power of marketing at work.

I have personally tried those discount store running shoes and they are definitely not the same as buying running shoes at a real running store like Dick Pond or some other local merchant who actually cares what you put on your feet.

Even Dick’s Sporting Goods has the real thing, but you can’t trust ever other major retailer.

Here’s a simple rule if you’re a real runner: Buy your running shoes at a real running store. If you’re a basic consumer who will never run in your shoes, then at least trade them in every couple years. Otherwise you are breaking the Sane People’s Code (SPC) which is to not push your luck. But again, lots of people buy lottery tickets too. Shove them aside at the counter of your local quik mart. They are also delusional.

It’s actually okay to buy running shoes for casual wear. Just give a little consideration why you’re buying them, rather than the fact that they just make your feet look cool. They actually can help you walk and enjoy life if you get them fit to your feet and are actually purchased in mind with the type of walking or standing around you do in life. Let your running shoes help you, even if you never plan to run a step in them.

But always remember; running shoes are not Forever Shoes. Retire them after one year, two at the max. Don’t be cheap, because that’s stupid.

And always remember your casual and especially your “retired” running shoes really do stink. Everyone’s just too polite to tell you.

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If you’re looking for sympathy, you better get crackin’

Posted on September 28, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

The clavicle looking like a bank of cirrus clouds

The minute I crashed my bike into a ditch it occurred to me that I’d finally, at last get all the attention I deserved. After all, I’m the most interesting and handsome person in the world. Why shouldn’t everyone pay attention to me?

It’s too bad I wasn’t bleeding out the eyeballs. That usually gets the real sympathy. But lacking that it was sufficient to sit on the side of the road clutching my shoulder with one hand, and rocking back and forth in my dirt-stained cycling kit.

Ah, the wonders of being wounded. I recalled playing Army as a kid, when Amy the neighbor girl would play Nurse and chase my buddy and I around our golf course playground on dreary fall days playing World War II. The sandtraps made great bunkers. You could get shot, fall off the edge and tumble down like a Doughboy into the glorious sand, where Amy would patch you up with neckerchiefs and Band-Aids. It was the life of a soldier we wanted to live, that’s for sure. Amy with her deep green eyes and shiny hair would bend over to hold your wrist and check your pulse while you played dead. She made us really want to go to war.

Of course we knew nothing of the pain and devastation that war really wrought. It just looked romantic from watching jingoistic televisions shows like Combat on the black and white TV. After the day’s battles were done, we’d march home singing that theme song; “Da da da da dahhhh, dahht dah dahhhh, da dahhhhh….” Then mom would make us supper.

Something deep within us wants to be heroes. Amy was smart enough to recognize that need in two boys her age, and she got to hang out with us all day as a result. Once in a while we actually let her get up with our mock M-16s and shoot something. The enemy or whatever. Our guns looked pretty real, right down to the faux textures of the wood and metal on the stock and barrels. They even made loud noises when we shot.

By the time you’re a grownup, it gets a little harder to find excuses for grownup women to fawn over you. So you go do something stupid like crash your bike and then take your trip to the emergency room with EMTs checking your pulse and making sure you’re not going into shock. One of the EMTs in the Wisconsin ambulance hauling my broken body back to the Upland Hills Hospital in Dodgeville, Wisconsin was not so sure they had done their jobs right. She looked over to her EMT mate and said, “I think he should be in a collar brace. We’re going to get in trouble if he’s not in a collar brace.”

Collar bone. Collar brace. What’s the difference? I was strapped in a cart of some sort with ice cooling down my shoulder. The EMT in front of me was busy asking questions about my general health, allergies and whatnot. But the collar brace worrier was concerned about her scores on the scale of care it seemed.

Fortunately we pulled into the Emergency Room before too long and they hauled me off to a quiet room where the Serious Nurses went to work making sure I wasn’t going to kick from shock or anything like that. Then they laid me back on the bed all tied up in straps and IVs or something to wait for the Real Doctor to show up.

He looked like an insurance agent, not a doctor. Just a normal guy in a maroon polo shirt who seemed like he just stepped off the 9th hole to get a hot dog. In the meantime, he’d check out some post-middle-aged nut that crashed his bike and ship him to x-ray for confirmation that the crunching sound coming from the shoulder was indeed a shattered clavicle. It didn’t take a Mechanical Genius or even a Real Doctor to see that. The picture looked like a map of cirrus clouds. Only it was bones. Busted.

And boy, was it. Shattered, I mean.

Once we knew that, there was nothing more to do but crack out the Vicodin and get back to the campsite. My camping crew fanned out and found my bike where it was stored at the American Player’s Theater. They even got the helmet too, which for some inexplicable reason the EMTs left sitting in the ditch.

Back at the campsite a batch of helpful Mother Hens attended to my needs, fixing sandwiches I could eat with one hand and shoving me a Vicodin and stool softener every four hours.

Ahhh, this was the life, I thought to myself. No worries. Sympathy is great.

I mean, sympathy is great in the absence of all other normal human emotions. It’s not normal to crave sympathy, I will admit. But that kid in me who loved to die over and over again in battle, only to be nursed back to life by the neighbor girl Amy still lives within me.

Sleeping in the tent overnight was no picnic, but we weren’t scheduled to head home till the next day and I was pretty sure, given the power of the Vicodin and the fact that the shoulder did not hurt that much, that I could sleep. And it was true. But I still got plenty of sympathy for sleeping with a broken collarbone on an air mattress overnight. People might have even thought I was pretty tough. Fooled them though.

The worst part, as I’ve previously explained, was getting up to pee and shivering so bad I thought I’d crack the other collarbone.

Then we got up, packed camp and drove home. My friend’s wife is a Real Nurse, not just a play nurse like Amy the neighbor girl, so she took me straight the ER at Cadence Health (Central DuPage Hospital), a highly reputable hospital in Winfield, Illinois. Real Nurse Francie even held my hand when the Mean Old ER Dr. Joe, a cycling friend of mine, told me I was screwed. “That will need surgery,” he said. And Dr. Joe knows. He’s a near miracle worker I am told. An ER doctor who can read people’s minds, it is said, and fix things even specialists seem to miss. Perhaps Dr. Joe was a Gypsy or a Medicine Man in another life. Or perhaps he’s both of those in this life. He is, after all, a triathlete who recently finishing a full Ironman. So he fits in some sort of miracle-worker category.

He showed me sympathy too, which was really nice because ER doctors are not required to do that. They see all the stupid things people do to themselves in life and even the best ER doctors are prone to become jaded. But not Dr. Joe. He put a hand on my good shoulder and said, “We’ll get you fixed up.”

That’s all I wanted to hear. Just like faux nurse Amy.

All the sympathy since the surgery has been really great, like basking in a great big attention-getting wet dream, where everyone feels sorry for you walking around in a sling and wants to know what on earth happened to you. Hitting the earth is exactly what happened to me. I even made a divot.

So you get to tell the story over and over again, and young women make that “sorry for you” face they reserve for uninteresting older men who got hurt, while older women make that “you’re a lucky damn fool” face reserved for men who should know better. And guys just go, “Yeah, dude, You’re lucky you didn’t break your freakin’ neck.” Which passes for sympathy among Guys.

So if you’re looking for sympathy, I highly recommend you go out and crash your bike or trip over a root while running. Break something on your body in two and then bask in the pleasure of all the attention you’ll get. It’s a great way not to feel invisible in the world.

But I cannot, unfortunately, guarantee that it will not hurt some, because you just might possibly permanently damage something. Just to earn your status as a pitiful case in the eyes of your peers and strangers. And that’s rather pathetic. But I couldn’t help myself.

But let’s face it. When it comes to getting a little sympathy, some risks are just worth taking.

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Do hairy legs make me a better man?

Posted on September 27, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

Mid-summer form. Saved legs in July. Let’s ride.

Standing on the 8th tee of a golf course on a boiling hot afternoon, I stepped up to address my golf ball with a driver on a long par 5. Everyone else in the foursome had already taken their turn, and no one had hit the fairway. In fact no one seemed to care at that point. It was so hot the sweat was streaming down the backs of everyone in the group. A service cart had come round to our foursome offering cold drinks and towels soaked in ice. The temperature was 94 degrees and the humidity, 80%.

Golf is a weird game, especially when played using carts. In a typical round you cover 18 holes averaging 400 yards (perhaps 7000 yards, or 5+ miles) and you walk perhaps 1/4 of that distance when you’re playing with a cart. No one’s really gong to get fit that way. Yet a round typically takes 4-5 hours to play. A good cyclist can do 80 miles in that time. I always remind my wife of that fact when I’m gone 3 hours on a Saturday morning. “Hey, at least I’m not a golfer. I wouldn’t be home for another hour and a half, and I’d be drunk to boot.”

I grew up with the game of golf, usually carrying my own bag, but have never gotten obsessed with the game to the point where I felt compelled to play it all the time. I’m a casual golfer, who shoots in the high 80s to low 90s. My best score for 18 holes is an even 80 strokes. My handicap is… that I don’t care enough about golf to work to get better.

I’m not embarrassing myself out there but neither am I capable of tearing up the course with my golf scores machismo. There are times when I wish I could. But then I crush another one into the woods and tell myself, “Get real.”

I think other golfers sense that attitude. Which is perhaps why one of the guys in the foursome whom I did not know all that well felt compelled to dig a little deeper about something in my appearance on the golf course.

As I stood over the ball to prepare for my drive, he looked down at my legs and asked: “So, you a cyclist or something?”

I stepped back, knowing the source of his curiosity. It was my shaved legs. In this heat, they were glistening in the sun. That’s what may have set off his Macho-Meter.

“Yes,” I replied.

He gave his chin the requisite Hard Guy nod. Sensing a little competitive dig about my masculinity in his question, I stepped back up to the ball and crushed it down the middle of the fairway. Do not challenge me, I intended the drive to say.

Then I declined to ride on the cart and told them I’d walk to my own ball. “When you guys get back on the short grass, let me know.”

Sure, it was a jerky thing to say. But the implication in asking about my shaved legs with that judgmental tone was just one of those things that ‘real guys’ (and especially real golfers…) can’t seem to resist. Of course, its bullshit.

After all, I didn’t inquire about his fat belly protruding out the middle of his golf shirt, and say something like: “So, you drink a lot of beer?”

After all, that’s a choice he makes, drinking all that beer. And it shows too.

Of course lots of men have fat beer guts and play golf. Some of them play excellent golf. John Daly is the king of good golfers with massive beer guts. In fact there are days out on the golf course when you start to wonder if having a beer gut and looking saggy and out of shape are requirements of the game or a code of some sort? And if having fat beer guts and playing golf are acceptable social behaviors, why should being fit and having shaved legs be considered odd?

I get the fact that having a shaved legs is considered effeminate by some men. Perhaps they would  prefer not to be seen on a golf course with a man who shaves his legs? That seemed to be the point of the comment.

A few holes later the conversation came back around to my shaved legs and the group wanted to know why cyclists do that.

“Tradition,” I told them. “It’s a tradition in cycling. It has some roots in treating injuries and getting massage, but really I think most cyclists shave their legs because the top athletes in the sport do it, and it looks better in some ways to have shaved legs with those aero kits. It also feels better to have shaved legs under the lycra. Overall it’s just more comfortable and efficient.”

A couple of them turned away to make some sort of expression to the trees across the fairway. It was obvious none of these guys would ever dream of shaving their legs.

Yet there I was, shooting decently on the golf course, driving the ball as far as any of them, and putting with the best of them. I shot 85 that day. The best guy in the foursome had an 81, while the other two shot 94 and 101. It was a tough course.

The peanut gallery at home

When I first started shaving my legs 8 years ago my wife jokingly called me “Lady Legs.” She teases me about everything I do, so I didn’t expect any less.

Her brother, by contrast, was a CAT 3 cyclist who shaved his legs for cycling for many years. When he noticed my tan, shaved legs at a family gathering, he smacked me on the side of the thigh with the back of his hand and said: “There’s nothing like riding with shaved legs when you’re fit and its hot outside and a sheen of sweat beads up on your skin. It feels like you’re flying.”

Damn right. He understood. In fact each year he goads me a bit when I’m lazy by April or May and have not shaven my legs by then. “Are you gonna get going this year or what?” he wants to know.

Riding hairy

In 2012 the weather first turned really hot in May and all of my Saturday group was still riding hairy through that month and into April and early May, when in fact the weather cooled for a while.

But then June hit and the temps soared and one day I was out riding solo and looked down and something just didn’t look right. After 40 miles I got home, took out the electric shaver and knocked the hair down to the nubs and then shaved with my Schick until the skin turned smooth and fast-looking. Cycling season was on.

My wife said, “I knew you’d give in sooner or later.”

“Feels good,” I told her. She hates the nubs when I miss a day. Can’t blame her.

Once you’ve ridden with shaved legs it is hard to go back to riding hairy. This summer and in recent years there have been more and more male riders skipping the whole routine. These are good riders too, of all ages, that can ride you off their wheel at 24-26 mph at will. So you feel a bit stupid riding along with your shaved legs when those guys drop you and disappear over the next hill.

When you show up at a criterium and every rider has shaved legs and that carnival feeling of primed athletes fills the atmosphere, you’re almost always glad you’ve got shaved legs. It raises some questions. Is shaving your legs some sort of invisible tattoo? Is it peer pressure? Sure it is. What segment of society doesn’t have peer pressure?

Tattoos

Look around you. So many young men and women seem to be getting permanent tattoos.

They can say all they want that they’re doing it for themselves. That it’s a personal decision. But if it is so personal, and not a product of personal narcissism, why get so many very public tattoos that run down arms and legs, over breasts and genitals?

All tattoos are calculated for some type of impact. Tattoos are the innermost being pasted to the outermost self. They also seem to be some sort of release to help deep inner anxieties and fears. Why else would NBA players plaster themselves with tattoos like ancient warriors? Men have been going into battle for centuries all cut and colored tas a sign of threat against the enemy, to hold themselves together battle. It is superstitious. Supercilious. Superintended. Superfluous. But most of all a tattoo is the signature for a desire for attention.

And so is shaving our legs for cycling.

We cyclists who shave our legs cannot claim to be free from the same sort of narcissism and desire for attention that afflicts the rest of society. Cyclists preen and flex and bulge their way to the starting line. It is part of a ritual. Skintight outfits. Bright colors. Expensive bikes. Sunglasses that cost $250. Road cycling is an elitist sport. It’s expensive. It is frankly a world to itself, which is why so many serious cyclists won’t even look up to say hello as they ride by. They are self-absorbed. “I’m in my own world,” they seem to say. Some of that is concentration. But a chunk of it is accumulated arrogance. Let’s not lie to ourselves. Cycling is a self-absorbed activity in many respects.

Of course some of this is the product of necessity, heightened to a caricature. Those skintight suits are required to avoid wind drag. The shaved legs don’t help much there, but it would seem to make sense that it helps a little. Together the skintight suits and shaved legs do give the overall impression of speed and smoothness. So it is a calculated attempt to create a mindset that suits the sport. Shaved legs. Fast times.

Riding in bas releif

The better cyclists, both men and women, are souls hardened by hours of efforts on the bike. While I’ve been a runner all my life and have suffered plenty of pain and discomfort in competition and training, it feels like I suffer more on the bike. There’s something about being locked to that machine, dragging it up the hill pedal by pedal stroke, that humbles you right to the core, and carves those memories into your mind like a bas relief.

Given that tradition of suffering, it is somewhat ironic that male cyclists should engage in something so tender and intimate as shaving their legs before going out to kill themselves. Well, we’re contradictory people. The sport itself is full of contradictions. We ride in groups but want to beat each other in a sprint. We charge uphills until our legs fail, then charge down the other side pedaling twice as hard just to see the cyclometer read 50. Nuts, it is. Cycling is nuts.

Cyclists are like Seinfeld’s Kramer, who went Commando with the happy cry…. “I’m out there Jerreeeee….And I’m Lovin’ It!”

Other shavers

If we’re talking machismo and body shaving, why are swimmers and more importantly, those fake pro wrestlers castigated for shaving their bodies? Those big, muscular, shaved and oiled wrestlers go bonkers on each other with the crowd cheering bloodlust. No one questions the fact that they shave their legs. And arms. And chest. And who knows what else? Are people just scared to ask the question, or is the homoeroticism of their appearance and outfits too confusing for the average Pro Wrestling fan? Now that’s a question worth asking, to find out some honest reasons for interest in the “sport,” which really isn’t a sport at all. You catch the drift?

By contrast, everything’s real about cycling. Well, except the doping, and the cheating and even paying other racers to let you win. That’s the soap opera side of the sport. A topic for another day.

For now all we can say is that it’s clear from the prevalence of the practice that shaved legs do not make anyone a lesser man. As for whether shaving your legs make you a better man (or woman) depends on how fast you can ride your bike.

It seems there’s only one person who can determine all these questions for you. And that’s you.

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The miraculous power of healing

Posted on September 26, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

Healing is a miraculous and beautiful process

Think of the worst accident or injury you’ve had in life, and you may be inclined to dwell on the incident itself. Perhaps you crashed your bike. Tripped or slid on ice and broke a wrist while running. Or maybe you’ve been in a car accident that hurt you physically and emotionally.

All accidents are difficult to bear. They make us regret our actions, our circumstances and our bad luck.

But once the shock is over, the healing begins. Or so it should be. We must recognize that for many people, the healing process can never be fully accomplished, at least in the practical sense. When people lose limbs or practical functions such as one of the senses like sight or hearing, healing must take place in a different way. People work back to a point where they can deal with life.

We think of soldiers coming home from wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and our compassion for the wounds and trauma they suffer through battles and terrorism and our hearts and minds should be filled with compassion and gratitude for what they have suffered in our name. There should be no politics over issues such as these. Their healing and aid, whatever form it must take, should be our nation’s top priority.

Where healing begins

Where healing begins for many of us is in the head. We start to think about what we need to feel better. With luck and blessings there may be people there to guide us. But lacking that, the body and mind retain the miraculous power to heal. The physical changes alone that seal cuts and ease bruises are beyond comprehension in many ways. Evolution has provided the body with all the chemicals and processes the body needs to heal many wounds. Some would say God does the work of healing, not evolution. But whatever combination of beliefs you choose to apply, the fact remains that our bodies can do marvelous things to repair broken parts and heal everything from skin to bone to muscle.

Your body’s responses

When you’re really broken, as after a crash on your bike, there is soreness and stiffness that comes from swelling in response to the trauma. What a miraculous gift right there! The body stiffens and prevents you from doing things that might stretch or further traumatize your broken parts. Muscles naturally tense and even spasm through swelling so that you can’t stretch or degrade your situation even further. It can take days, weeks and months for the effects of swelling to wear off. We ice and heat the injured areas sometimes to help regain motion, but truly the body is going to proceed at its own pace.

The drugs and manipulations we apply to help healing are simply aids to the natural processes already at work. If surgery is deemed necessary, it is usually designed to enhance the healing process and repair the basic problem. Beyond that, the body must take over the mending and recuperative process.

That can seem to take forever. Our lack of mobility can drive us crazy, test our patience, lament or misfortune. We do need strategies for that.

Dealing with inactivity

It is difficult for people used to running and riding for hours a day to suddenly be rendered immobile by injury or pain. The mind comes to a jolting stop when that happens. The anxious among us can go stir crazy without the daily release of endorphins to lift our spirits and sort out our twisted thoughts. Instead you’re confined to the couch with an ice pack, watching out the window while injury-free runners and cyclists roll past without a care in the world. It can make you feel pretty bitter.

Best to find an activity to occupy your mind. Reading is probably best. It allows you to take in information at your own pace, and without inundation of heavy sounds or visuals that can set off stimulative responses related to the ‘fight or flight’ instincts our minds use to respond to stress. That’s why watching TV or other programming that contains negative or violent imagery may not be best for the healing process.

But then again, if you like watching Mel Gibson chop off heads in the movie Braveheart, (this link is to quotes from the movie, that might satisfy you…) and it serves your competitive instincts while you’re recuperating, that’s your choice. Just be aware of the balance you should try to achieve in your mind as you set about healing your body.

Sometimes even miracles take time

The truth about healing is simple: It takes time, because it requires time. The body’s natural processes work much like the overall pattern of human evolution. The growth or repair of cells is incremental, using the existing fiber of our natural construction to rebuild torn tissues and reconstruct broken bone. The busted clavicle which is now healing in my body has been positioned through surgery for alignment so that it can knit the bone back together. That is why we are required by physicians to wear a sling for a while, to immobilize and protect the healing bone so that the bone cells and fiber can grow back together. We’re like lizards that can re-grow our tails. We get a second chance. All that healing power is built into our miraculous bodies.

On God and our animal heritage

You can say that God designed it that way, but never forget that our animal history is replicated all the way down through the taxonomy of creatures even to the bacterial level. And think about that: our bodies are highly dependent on productive bacteria in our gut to help us break down and process food. Take away those little partners and we all die.

The wife of a friend who was battling cancer died not from the disease, but from the fact that a treatment regimen proved too strong for the bacteria in her gut, and she could no longer process food for nutrition. It cost a life. Basically her system was overstressed in a bad way, but it was the symbiotic relationship between the bacteria needed to turn food into nutrition that was broken.

That illustrates how complex the healing process can be. It also shows the complexities of evolutionary history among living things in this world. We share these types of symbiotic relationships with billions of other forms of life on earth. But rather than making you feel like you are on par with a worm, that knowledge should enervate you with the knowledge that you are truly “connected” to the universe right down to the cellular and elemental level, with all its highly evolved systems of life and healing. And if you see God as creator of all things, then you’re right at home with this knowledge.

Running and riding are forms of active healing

We should consider the context that our training and exercise regimens are essentially a form of “active healing” based on positive stresses to make us healthier by testing our systems and calling them into daily action. This is a basically a form of rehearsal against disease and illnesses caused by inactivity, germs and viruses. We all know that one of the greatest risks a runner or cyclist in heavy training faces is to become overtired and susceptible to viral infection that can lead to cold or flu. In those circumstances we say that ‘our resistance is down’ and that is true. A body wracked by fatigue cannot implement its defenses against germs or viruses. Our blood systems are too busy trying to heal our exhausted muscles and lymphatic systems can’t contain the disease. We’ve basically exhausted our own healing powers. That cycle has flattened many an athlete in training.

Some medical journals have theorized that many forms of cancer are actually based (and even begun) through bacterial or viral infections that set the stage for radical changes in our cellular systems and genetic processes. Some scientists are now focused on that process and how controlling our genetic responses may be key to preventing our curing cancers.

Creating positive stresses

You can begin to see how the positive stresses we apply to our bodies through exercise can indeed make us healthier and guard against disease if managed with complimentary diet and rest cycles that provide the restorative power needed to heal the body after stress. The miraculous power of healing is inherent to most of our bodies. We test these powers daily through workouts, then turn around and encourage the healing to take over and get us ready for another day.

Many people combine recuperative practices such as massage therapy to encourage the body to heal itself. A good massage has miraculous healing powers, but anyone who uses massage frequently knows that it is as important to rehydrate and protect the body after a massage because the muscles release all kinds of the bad stuff we’re trying to cure, such as lactic acids and other waste products that need to be flushed from the body for maximal health.

Massaging the mind

The same process works in the mind. There is now considerable evidence that exercise can be helpful for people with anxiety, depression and other mental health issues. How encouraging to know that there is a natural starting point for dealing with some degrees of mental health. Similar results have been ascertained from practice of yoga, meditation, deep breathing and prayer. All these meditative practices encourage calm, consideration and mindful awareness of our selves, in the present and beyond. The mind also has miraculous natural healing powers. It is simply ours to pursue and discover them.

Viewing your exercise program as a form of healing can put all sorts of challenges into perspective. We are less likely to stress over a down day on the road or bike if we consider that our effort still functioned as a form of daily healing. And if not, we might need to step back and examine our priorities. Even our worst race results, and sometimes our best, must be put in perspective of the lifelong goal of better health and the miraculous power of the body to heal.

With these perspectives in mind, we can encourage others and even evangelize the benefits of our athletic pursuits without projecting our personal goals or desires upon the people we meet. It is simply ours to share the miraculous power of healing with those who might benefit from it. Encouraging others to get out and walk, or ride, or run…and even swim! is one of the best gifts we can give to others. Go and give freely.

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