Chronic stress is a genuine concern in our current environment. Continuous “fight-or-flight” responses and prolonged cortisol exposure plague countless individuals, and their health and body composition suffers. I wish to acknowledge that at the start.

However, this article won’t delve into stress management or reduction. This article is not about taking phosphatidylserine or preventing overtraining. Some of what you will read is dead-serious, some hyperbole, and a little satire, but do not let that get in the way of the overall point: we need stress.

Stress Is Growth

We need to feel uncomfortable. We need suffering. We require it to grow emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and of course, physically. The stimulus for growth is pressure and discomfort.

Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twerski discussed this in his viral video about how a lobster grows; it has over two million views on YouTube. Today, people flee from discomfort. Since the mid-1960s, people only want to “feel good, man.” In their feel-good moments, they end up folding under pressure and abdicating responsibility.

The thought of being uncomfortable and suffering does not sound like heaps of fun to the average person. If you are a parent, coach, or boss, you know what I’m talking about. The end result of this unfortunate trend is extinction. Not in number, but ability, health, resilience, and every other quality that makes us human.

We have gotten soft. Disney’s “Wall-E” has an eerily accurate depiction of humans of the future—helpless and pathetic. When we were young, you couldn’t find a “safe space.” Our safe spaces were “hot lava.” We didn’t have “trigger warnings.” The trigger we knew had Roy Rogers sitting on top. There weren’t even any “spoiler alerts.”

When you walked out of “Empire Strikes Back,” you didn’t call twenty friends, yell “spoiler alert” and then go on about Darth Vader being Luke Skywalker’s father. You simply kept your mouth shut.

Today, people get hot-and-bothered the moment someone begins discussing a movie they have yet to see. Even if they spoiled it, who cares? It’s a movie. It’s make-believe. I’ve had people tell me, “I won’t be able to watch ‘Infinity War’ until Sunday, I hope no one spoils it for me. I’ll be so mad.”

Are we permanently 10 years old? We are raising a generation with Peter Pan syndrome—they never want to grow up and feel uncomfortable. It’s sad and should be alarming.

According to sociologists, there are five “milestones” that indicate you transitioned to adulthood:

1. Finishing school (high school or college)
2. Moving away from home
3. Becoming financially independent
4. Getting married
5. Having a child

If you are an entrepreneur, the business is your baby, so that counts. It is not uncommon for an entrepreneur to get out of bed at 3 am to investigate a leak at the warehouse, similar to a parent getting up at 3 am to change the baby.

In 1960, 65% of men had checked all five boxes by 30 years old. In 2000, the number dropped to a third. Almost 60 percent of parents are now giving money to their grown kids—an average of $38,340 per child.

What’s worse is that 85% of college kids plan to move back home after graduation. If you still live at home, the question should be are you motivated to leave? It can be frightening. It will be uncomfortable—that’s the point.

This article isn’t just about the young. I know many Gen-X and Baby Boomers who find their growth stunted. They tell me they worked feverishly so that they can live luxuriously for the rest of their lives. Just because you found success and wealth doesn’t mean you should stop growing.

Many of these people are the same ones who say, “I don’t want my kids to struggle the way I did.” I can understand that sentiment. But, at what cost? Do we draw the line between effort and entitlement, struggle and spoiled? Nevertheless, men and women, across all age groups, are getting unhappier, and its effects are very real.

Embrace a Strenuous Life

On April 10, 1899, Theodore Roosevelt gave his “Strenuous Life” speech in Chicago, Illinois:

“I wish to preach, not the doctrine of ignoble ease, but the doctrine of the strenuous life, the life of toil and effort, of labor and strife; to preach that highest form of success which comes, not to the man who desires mere easy peace, but to the man who does not shrink from danger, from hardship, or from bitter toil, and who out of these wins the splendid ultimate triumph.

Above all, let us shrink from no strife, moral or physical, within or without the nation, provided we are certain that the strife is justified, for it is only through strife, through hard and dangerous endeavor, that we shall ultimately win the goal of true national greatness.”

Teddy had a host of medical issues as a boy. He detested his fragility and worked tirelessly to change it. He became an adventurer, boxer, and wrestler. He led the Rough Riders during the Spanish-American war. He had his eye punched out in a boxing match during college. He did judo in the White House with ambassadors from Japan. His energy was known to be “superhuman.” He was even shot while campaigning in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He finished his speech—with the bullet still lodged in his torso—before going to the hospital, “You see, it takes more than one bullet to kill a Bull Moose.”

In his famous “Man in the Arena” speech, he said it wasn’t the critic who counted, but the one in the arena, marred with dirt, sweat, and blood that counts and who deserves the credit, win or lose. Today we are content sitting in the bleachers. He regularly warned us that we were becoming too complacent and comfortable. One look at the statistics I provided earlier, and you will know he was onto something. This was over 100 years ago.

Roosevelt pleaded with us not to shrink from strife and that only through hard work and dangerous endeavor would we accomplish the goal of greatness. In the speech, he was talking about the nation as a whole, but it unquestionably applies to the individual. That’s how you build fit bodies, families, communities, and societies.

Although he embodied the notion of “American Masculinity,” perhaps to a fault, his words after the death of his wife and mother give us a glimpse into a man’s heart during suffering.

“She was beautiful in face and form, and lovelier still in spirit; As a flower she grew, and as a fair young flower she died. Her life had been always in the sunshine; there had never come to her a single sorrow; and none ever knew her who did not love and revere her for the bright, sunny temper and her saintly unselfishness. Fair, pure, and joyous as a maiden; loving, tender, and happy. As a young wife; when she had just become a mother, when her life seemed to be just begun, and when the years seemed so bright before her—then, by a strange and terrible fate, death came to her. And when my heart’s dearest died, the light went from my life forever.”

It was Valentine’s Day. They died within hours of each other. He was 25 years old.

The Roles of Eustress and Distress

Endocrinologist Hans Selye discovered General Adaptation Syndrome (GAS) and unintentionally gave birth to exercise science. He identified two types of stress: eustress (good) and distress (bad). In today’s culture, it is not as simple as “exercise: good stress, being late: bad stress.”

Stress is about perspective. Research shows that how we observe stress alters its influence on us. While most of us consider exercising a “eustress,” there are many who are petrified by it and perceive it as a “distress.” Today, the spectrum of “good stress and bad stress” is becoming profoundly asymmetrical.

More things are finding their way into the “bad stress” category, and the “good stress” column is rapidly emptying. It is getting to the point where “stress” of any form will be avoided in lieu of comfort and convenience. Is “Wall-E” more prophecy than children’s movie?

Researchers at UC Berkeley, the center of the safe spaces of the world, found that perspective and how you look at stress changes its effects on your physiology. If you look at a stressor as a distress, it can negatively impact your circulatory system, brain, and immune system. But, if you look at the same stressor as a eustress, it can have the opposite effect. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was offended by their conclusions and college administrators fired the entire research team for it.

Stress is a teacher. Circling back to my previous point, the better the perspective, the better the lesson. In the book The Natural by Bernard Malamud, he writes, “We live two lives, Roy, the life we learn with and the life we live after that.” If you never experience pressure or discomfort, you will never live the first life—the life we learn with.

Brad Pitt’s character Tyler Durden, in the instant-classic movie “Fight Club,” said “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight? I don’t wanna die without any scars.” Here, fighting is a metaphor for all forms of stress and conflict, and scars don’t simply mean the physical kind.

We know too many people who shield themselves or are shielded by others from failure or setbacks. When they eventually experience it, they are frightfully ill-equipped and unable to cope. It’s true for exercise, sports, business, and romance. We need to experience strife in our fitness goals, we need to fail at business and school, we need to lose the game—and not get a trophy—and we need to feel heartbreak.

The Fruit of Struggle

Everything we appreciate today is the product of someone’s suffering and stress. Every time you cross the Brooklyn Bridge, use your iPhone or drive your car, you are experiencing the fruits of someone’s struggle.

If we sought calm and comfort all the time, nothing would get done, nothing would matter, and we would be empty and purposeless people. Purpose stems from struggle, not from comfort. During the Great Depression, those who were charged with finding work for the unemployed described those they encountered.

They described them as “lifeless,” almost zombie-like. They loathed the idea of charity and handouts. They did not want welfare. They wanted to work. They wanted to provide for their families with their own labor. They wanted to contribute. They would have gone into the mines or work on tall buildings, risking life and limb.

At this point, I should pause and address the word “suffering,” which I have mentioned several times. Do not think I’m being extreme with my word selection. I don’t mean suffering as in “torture.” The etymology of the word passion is “passio,” meaning “to suffer, endure.” Suffering is passion and passion is suffering.

If you choose to avoid suffering, you are also missing out on passion. Think about those who are passionate about their music, art, sport, faith, business, or family. Every single one of them knows what it means to suffer for the things they love. I don’t know about you, but I am mortified by the idea of a passionless life. Because we choose passion, we must accept suffering as an inevitable consequence.

We have briefly talked about “eustress” and “distress.” Enter the term “edustress.” You won’t find that word in any dictionary, I made it up—for better or worse. It is the type of stress, pressure, and discomfort that teaches you something about yourself, similar to the line in “Fight Club.” Using the correct perspective, any “stressor” can qualify as an “edustress,” but there are ones that stand out above others.

1. Do something that scares or intimidates you, or that appears uncomfortable.
2. Increase your training frequency. For hypertrophy, various frequencies work, but for strength and improving motion patterns, the higher frequency wins. That doesn’t mean “Bulgarian style” daily maxes. It means a daily commitment to practice. Fitness is a skill.
3. It’s ok to train when you’re sore. Everyone is so concerned about “overtraining,” that when they feel the slightest tenderness in their biceps, it prompts a “recovery week.” You can train a muscle while it is sore. You won’t succumb to rhabdo.
4. Be cold. Cold showers, ice baths, and cryotherapy boost the immune system, circulatory function, and your grit. Considering the time investment, it’s worth it. If you’re a beginner, take a normal shower, and just before you’re done, drop the water temperature down as low as it goes. Hang in there for as long as you can. You’ll want to jump out but don’t. Soon, you’ll be able to handle longer exposures and feel more badass.
5. Camp. I don’t mean glamping. That’s essentially going to the Ritz Carlton with a tree in your room. Rough it. Eat some pork and beans, try to catch a fish, and shiver a little. Just don’t try to reenact that scene from The Revenant. You know the one I mean.
6. Pick up a musical instrument or learn a new language. Remind yourself what it’s like to be awful at something again. Stick with it, and you’ll be ordering like a pro in French restaurants or playing the Moonlight Sonata in no time.
7. Begin martial art. I won’t be snobby about which one you choose. Start as a white belt with the other beginners. Get outpointed by a 10-year-old in karate or smashed by a wrestler in jiu-jitsu. It’s good for you.
8. Compete in something. If you lose—which you probably will—and they give you a participation trophy, throw it away. That’s not the point. Don’t know where to start? Try powerlifting. The rules are simple and the required skill set allows for all age groups to participate. At the last competition I coached at, I witnessed a 70-year-old lady in her 30th competition. Every lift, regardless of weight, brought a smile to my face. If your joints can take it, run a marathon or 10k. Better yet, escort a person with special needs through one. My friend in Oregon learned how to swim properly so that he could do triathlons. It’s the one in the arena that counts, not the critic.
9. Take on something that makes you live beyond yourself.

This is probably the most important form of edustress. It’s not a code for “collectivism.” I’m referring to you harnessing your strong individuality to build and create something special.

Are you dating someone for more than a year? Are you over 30? Put a ring on it—what are you waiting for?

• Start a business.
• Start a family.
• Run for public office.
• If you’re still in high school, run for associated student body. Yes, it’s a popularity contest, but who cares? Pick up a sport. At least get outside, screens are “hot lava.”
• There must also be a simultaneous removal of the influences that block these forms of edustress. We need to remove the bubble wrap off your soul.
• No safe spaces.
• Get out of the habit of using the phrase, “bio hack.” It’s an intellectual form of the word “shortcut.”
• Kids, reduce video games. The average American will have spent 10,000 hours playing video games by their 21st birthday. I don’t think that’s what Malcolm Gladwell meant by his “10,000-hour rule,” in the book Outliers. Personally, I think video games peaked at Mario Kart.
• Calm down on the social media. That goes for everyone. A study released from the University of Pennsylvania showed a direct link between social media and depression and loneliness. 143 participants were put into two groups. One group was instructed to continue their SM use as normal, whereas the second group was limited to 30m per day. The limited use group showed significant reductions in loneliness and depression over three weeks. This brings intense irony to the title “social media.”

Find Some Purpose

Too often we misconstrue purpose and happiness. People chase happiness, try to escape discomfort and stress, and assume it leads to purpose and meaning. It doesn’t. Purpose, meaning, and happiness come from duty and responsibility.

Those responsibilities come with stress, pressure, and suffering. Don’t get comfortable. Seek pressure. Pressure can burst pipes and can forge diamonds. We need more diamonds, not snowflakes. “Wall-E” doesn’t have to be a documentary or a prophecy.

Pursue the strenuous life and you’ll find an existence with abundant growth, health, meaning, and happiness.

The post Stress Is Growth appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

“I am thy creature: I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed.”

Frankenstein, The Modern Prometheus

The Universal Monsters, Dracula, Frankenstein, The Wolf Man, The Mummy, The Invisible Man, and The Creature from the Black Lagoon are Halloween Legends. They have sparked countless sequels and spin-offs. They even inspired one of the few Halloween songs, “The Monster Mash.” It was a graveyard smash.

“I am thy creature: I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed.”

Frankenstein, The Modern Prometheus

The Universal Monsters, Dracula, Frankenstein, The Wolf Man, The Mummy, The Invisible Man, and The Creature from the Black Lagoon are Halloween Legends. They have sparked countless sequels and spin-offs. They even inspired one of the few Halloween songs, “The Monster Mash.” It was a graveyard smash.

Out of all of them, Frankenstein is arguably the most beloved, complex, sympathetic, and frightening character. Although some modern incarnations of the nameless creature are mostly grunting and stomping, the original version was intellectual, poetic, and brutal. An incredible fact is that the author, Mary Shelley, was twenty years old when the novel published in 1818.

Running less than 300 pages, Shelly wove together a story of science colliding with God and its terrifying results—guilt, remorse, revenge, and violence. It’s a tale of the limits of science, man’s repercussions for his actions, and fear of the unknown. It is also a parallel story of searching. The creature searches to discover its soul, one it never had upon its creation. Victor Frankenstein searches to recover his soul, one that he lost in his obsession. The story reveals a clue about our own exploration of recovery.

We will leave the deeply philosophical book behind, and focus on the 1931 masterpiece, the movie “Frankenstein.” The movie stands in contrast to its source material but presents a creature that is embedded in our memory. The flat-top head, oversized boots, and gruesome electrodes protruding from its neck are not featured in the novel but are what we now associate with the Monster.

It’s the film that made Boris Karloff famous. Younger people might not recognize the name, but they will recognize the voice. Karloff lent his voice as the narrator and the main character in the famous, “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,”

“It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes, or bags. Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas perhaps means a little bit more.” That’s Karloff. Thirty years before Whoville, Karloff was the creature.

The film introduces us to Henry Frankenstein, a notable departure from the book, where he is known as Victor Frankenstein. He is accompanied by Fritz, the loyal and deformed assistant. He has no such assistant in the novel. The hunchback helper is a recurring motif in classic horror movies, also going by Igor. Dr. Frankenstein wants to recreate a human life by piecing together various body parts from the recently deceased.

He assembles an ominous laboratory for this exact reason. Henry and Fritz scour the cemetery, stealing bodies to add to their “inventory.” All they needed was a brain. Henry commands Fritz to sneak into a medical school to steal a specimen. At the school, we meet Dr. Waldman, Henry’s old medical professor. He lectures to his class on the differences between the two brains on his desk: “normal” and “abnormal.”

After class is dismissed, Fritz breaks into the room. When he turns to exit the classroom with the “normal” brain, he drops it, shattering the jar and ruining the organ. The faithful servant doesn’t want to disappoint his master, and fearing his disapproval and wrath, grabs the “abnormal” and leaves with it, foreshadowing future events.

His beloved fiancee Elizabeth worries about the doctor’s strange behavior, but he refuses to see her—his work must not be interrupted. Dr. Waldman, Elizabeth, and another friend enter the laboratory to save their friend from doing the unthinkable. It’s too late.

The inanimate and unnatural body lays on a table, cloaked in cloth. Lightning and thunder explode overhead. The three spectators look on with grim anticipation as the doctor raises the table towards the sky. The laboratory buzzes with electricity and doom. The body is exposed to a blitzkrieg of fury from the clouds above, then slowly lowered back down. The right hand, as it dangles from the table, begins to move.

Photography by Jeffrey Perez of Oahu, Hawaii

“Look. It’s moving. It’s alive. It’s alive. It’s alive, it’s moving. It’s alive! Ho ho, it’s alive! IT’S ALIVE! IT’S ALIVE!! IT’S ALIVE!!! In the name of God, now I know what it feels like to be God!”

After the creature’s reanimation, things go array. The monster is confused, sprung into the world as an amalgam of parts, with no origin or context of its existence. It is fearful and disoriented. Dr. Frankenstein and Fritz mistake the monster’s bewilderment for aggression and have it locked up. The creature manages to escape captivity, killing Waldman in the process.

The monster wanders into the town, where his most charming and tragic interaction takes place. The monster meets Maria, a young girl from town who is not afraid and treats it with compassion. She gives him flowers and they sit by the lake. She proceeds to fling flower petals into the lake to watch them float, bringing a smile to the monster’s face.

The creature slings the flowers she gave him in as well, bringing him his first experience of happiness since entering the world. When the monster runs out of flowers, he becomes frustrated. The delight he felt from throwing beautiful things into the lake came to an end. What can only be described as disastrous ignorance, the monster reaches for Maria, a beautiful child, and throws her into the lake, drowning her. The monster’s fate was sealed.

Enraged at the murder of a small child, the townspeople quickly turn into a bloodthirsty mob. Torches light and the townspeople track the bewildered monster, carrying his creator in tow, into an old mill. The creature furiously launches Dr. Frankenstein towards the Earth, but fortune smiles upon him as he survives the fall. With the monster trapped inside the mill, the mob sets it ablaze.

The inferno engulfs the structure and everything inside. The monster, that unceremoniously entered the world and shunned by those who were to nurture it, perishes inside the fire. The sounds of his panicked and desperate moans are heartwrenching. The film ends with Frankenstein resting in bed and his father, Baron Frankenstein, toasting to the news that he will have a grandson.

The Link Between Horror and Recovery

It’s no accident Frankenstein is one of the most revered stories of all time. Despite the creative differences between the book and film, the love for the story and the creature remains. Frankenstein and his monster are profoundly complex and layered characters, making the connection to fitness and health, a challenging one.

I’d like to discuss the creature prior to its reanimation. What was it? It was a random combination of parts, cobbled together with an abnormal brain. In the film, the urgency surrounded getting the correct brain and creating life. The flesh was subservient to the mind.

When we think about exercise, we must also consider recovery. In recovery, the same principle holds true—the flesh is subservient to the mind.

You might ask, “why are you talking about recovery?” First, it doesn’t get discussed enough. Secondly, most of us, if not all, want a positive change from our training and diet. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be doing it. For training to be of any benefit, an “overload” must be experienced. I hesitate to use the word “shock,” an overused fitness term, but it does coincide well with the lightning bolts that awakened Frankenstein’s monster.

This overload or “shock” must be slightly beyond your body’s capabilities in order for it to improve. The body’s ability to recuperate to the overload determines the overall likelihood of progress. Research abounds with evidence that higher frequency training improves one’s results. If time was no issue, like work or other responsibilities, your ability to train frequently, depends on your recovery. The formula is simple: train, recover and improve.

Systems of Recovery

Most people that enlist recovery techniques, utilize a “bottom-up recovery.” Similar to Dr. Frankenstein, they cobble together various pieces to address the body. Some of these techniques include cryotherapy, IV therapy, and active release techniques. These systems of recovery are very effective but are stifled by the bottom-up approach.

Systems of Recovery: Cryotherapy

You’re undoubtedly familiar with ice baths. Nordic cultures have used cold-water immersion as a rite of passage and athletes use it to hasten recovery. Cryotherapy is a souped-up version of an ice bath. It reduces inflammation as well as accelerating tissue recovery.

There are also novel findings that it increases the metabolic rate at the onset of immersion and for several minutes afterward. Other effects are improved mood, decreased arthritic pain, and a stronger immune system. It has also been shown to be a valid therapy for osteoporosis. Cryotherapy is certainly not a fad and has a place in anyone’s recovery toolkit.

Systems of Recovery: IV Therapy

Intravenous fluid drips deliver essential vitamins, electrolytes, and antioxidants. What was solely a method to nourish people in hospitals, IVs have become vogue for athletes, students, and business people.

Why IV? Oral or topical delivery have reduced absorption, whereas the body absorbs 100% of an IV. Certain nutrients, like vitamin C or magnesium, when dosed to their optimal levels, can trigger gastric discomfort when taken orally. Since IVs bypass the digestive system, this problem is avoided. The efficacy of the IV bag comes down to what is inside the bag and why.

Therefore, I don’t recommend someone to get hooked up to a Betty Crocker, garden-variety IV bag without customization based on your physiological needs and goals. While this can be an issue for places that provide “drive-thru bags,” there are facilities that take great care and caution when delivering these valuable treatments.

Systems of Recovery: Active Release Techniques

When Michael Leahy began performing active release techniques (ART), he changed the industry. ART is a patented method used worldwide to treat a multitude of dysfunctions from carpal tunnel, nerve entrapments, reduced flexibility, strains, as well as improvements in performance.

Active release is the official soft tissue massage partner for the Ironman Triathlon. The organization, world-renown for excellence in athletic ability, considers ART “The most effective treatment protocol for soft tissue injury.” Active release works to restore the natural function and resiliency the soft tissues—muscles, tendons, ligaments, fascia, and nerves.

Considering all of your exercises, from spinning to weights, involve these tissues, ART is crucial to progress. There are “MacGyver” ways of self-administering active release, but its best, and safest, way is with a qualified professional.

Your Brain Limits Recovery

The problem these recovery tools run into is the same problem Dr. Frankenstein and Fritz had with the monster—the brain. The best illustration of this is in Mel Brooks’ 1974 side-splitter, Young Frankenstein. In a hysterical scene, Dr. Fredereick Frankenstein, played by the incomparable Gene Wilder, is dumbfounded as to why his creature is so “imperfect.” He asks his trusted assistant Igor (Eye Gore) what brain is in his creation.

DF: Now, that brain that you gave me. Was it Hans Delbruck’s?
IGOR: No.
DF: Ah. Would you mind telling me, whose brain I did put in?
IGOR: And you won’t be angry?
DF: I will not be angry!
IGOR: Abbie Someone.
DF: Abbie Someone. Abbie Who?
IGOR: Abbie Normal.
DF: Abbie. Normal.
IGOR: I’m almost sure that was the name.
DF: Are you saying that I put an abnormal brain into a seven-and-a-half foot long, 54-inch wide GORILLA?! IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE TELLING ME?!

Even a fully-recovered and animated body is of no use with an abnormal brain. In this context, abnormal means a lack of attention paid to mindfulness. The “top-down recovery” approach focuses on mindfulness first and foremost, then the bodily systems.

Since there are many ways to categorize it, I will limit them to gratitude and meditation–or prayer. Each one has a myriad of benefits that go beyond mere “recovery.” A researcher for John’s Hopkins said of mindfulness, “if we could put mindfulness into a pill, it would be the best-selling supplement in the world.”

It’s that good. The practice of meditation, worshipful prayer, and gratitude reduce aches and pains, toxic emotions and thoughts, improves sleep, self-esteem, and courage. What the “train, recover, improve” formula doesn’t take into account, are the things that prevent the first two from occurring.

Practice Gratitude

Imagine what sort of training, if any, takes place with low self-worth, self-defeating thoughts, and fear? How does your diet advance when the will is weak and discipline lacks? How can you objectively judge progress when you always feel less-than?

Recent data shows more people suffer from a lack of purpose, meaning, and an opaque sense of responsibility. It is a sentiment shared throughout time among statesmen, philosophers, and people of God: though the body may weaken, the mind and spirit remain strong.

Weekly cryo sessions, ART treatments, and IVs reconstitute the flesh, but without a daily dose of gratitude, meditation, or prayer, we are merely lost creations, wandering, in fear of our own shadow, destined to be driven from joy.

The post Top Down Recovery appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

Every year, someone or something takes pop culture by storm and inevitably becomes the must-wear Halloween costume of the season. Last year, it was Wonder Woman. In 2016, Eleven from the Netflix hit “Stranger Things” took the top spot. In 2015, it was Harley Quinn from “Suicide Squad,” complete with a baseball bat, and in 2014 it was Elsa from “Frozen.” Traumatized parents everywhere suffer from PTSD due to “Let It Go” being played on a 24-hour loop.

We will have to wait and see what costume takes the 2018 crown, but some early Pinterest buzz gives us a hint. Black Panther, The Incredibles, and Dinosaurs are all the rage. Tonya Harding is another popular choice, thanks to Margot Robbie’s tremendous portrayal in “I, Tonya.”

If ice skaters are legion this Halloween, Robbie will have inspired an outfit trend twice in four years. Trends come and go, but there are costumes that never go out of style; clowns have been common since the 1920’s. One character you are guaranteed to run into every year is Count Dracula. The Transylvanian Vampire is not solely a Gothic and Halloween Icon but symbolizes insidious influences in your everyday life.

Close your eyes. What image comes to mind when I say “Count Dracula?” You may think of The Count from “Sesame Street,” teaching you numbers as he counts telephone poles. “Von, Two, Three! Three telephone poles, ha-ha!” You probably read that line in his exact voice—I did.

If you ate too much glue as a kid, maybe you think of Edward from “Twilight.” Most of us think of the slick back hair, cape, medallion, and ominous fangs that hunt for a beautifully smooth neck to plunge into. That image comes from the 1931 Universal Studios classic, “Dracula,” starring Bela Lugosi. Lugosi spent much of his adult life in turmoil, starring in B-movies, bouncing from marriage-to-marriage, and afflicted with drug addiction.

It is rumored that Frank Sinatra, a fan of Lugosi’s, paid for his rehab expenses. After all the turbulence, it is his famous portrayal of Count Dracula that keeps the Hungarian immigrant immortal. You can find a bust of him in Budapest or stroll past his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Even eternal, un-dead vampires have weaknesses. Garlic, mirrors, wolf’s bane, sunlight and the crucifix are guaranteed to make them hiss, flee, or burn. If you’re lucky enough to catch them napping inside a coffin, a good-old stake-through-the-heart will put an end to them, forever.

Whatever you do, you’ll have to do it quickly. The vampire is cunning, deceptive, and has otherworldly powers. For example, Dracula can take the form of a bat or a wolf, or what he’d prefer to call “the creatures of the night.” Vampires also have the power of mind control over weaker-willed victims.

Think of poor Renfield who became Count Dracula’s slave, doing his bidding while he fed on flies and spiders as he descended into madness. Incidentally, Renfield’s Syndrome is the colloquial term for Clinical Vampirism—the obsession with drinking blood.

Bram Stoker’s 1897 Gothic masterpiece, “Dracula,” started it all. In the original novel, Dracula had a hideous appearance, unlike the handsome versions you may remember from “Interview with the Vampire.”

Stoker didn’t come up with the story from pure imagination—he had inspiration. A real man, living 400 years earlier, inspired both the name and the devilish actions of Stoker’s titular character. That man was Vlad Tepes—Vlad the Impaler. His father’s name was Vlad Dracul—Vlad the Dragon.

He received the name after joining the Order of the Dragon, a group dedicated to fighting the Ottomans. “Dracula” means “son of the dragon.” It was Vlad’s notorious cruelty that shocked his people, the Turks, historians, and inspired Stoker’s character.

According to historian Antonio Bonfini, “… Turkish messengers came to [Vlad] to pay respects but refused to take off their turbans, according to their ancient custom, whereupon he strengthened their custom by nailing their turbans to their heads with three spikes so that they could not take them off.”

Another record states, “… [Vlad] had a big copper cauldron built and put a lid made of wood with holes in it on top. He put the people in the cauldron and put their heads in the holes and fastened them there; then he filled it with water and set a fire under it and let the people cry their eyes out until they were boiled to death. And then he invented frightening, terrible, unheard of tortures.

He ordered that women be impaled together with their suckling babies on the same stake. The babies fought for their lives at their mother’s breasts until they died. Then he had the woman’s breasts cut off and put the babies inside headfirst; thus he had them impaled together.”

Like his father, Vlad remained determined to keep his country out of the Ottoman Empire’s hands. Historian Laonikos Chalkokondyles writes, “The sultan’s army entered into the area of the impalements, which was seventeen stades long and seven stades wide. There were large stakes thereon which, as it was said, about twenty thousand men, women, and children had been spitted, quite a sight for the Turks and the sultan himself.

The sultan was seized with amazement and said that it was not possible to deprive of his country a man who had done such great deeds, who had such a diabolical understanding of how to govern his realm and its people. And he said that a man who had done such things was worth much. The rest of the Turks were dumbfounded when they saw the multitude of men on the stakes.

There were infants too affixed to their mothers on the stakes, and birds had made their nests in their entrails.” Charming fellow, that Vlad. Undoubtedly you can see that Stoker had plenty of material to work with. For the record, 1 stade is 600 feet. Seventeen stades long and seven stades wide is a massive area—28 football fields.

Beware the Vampires

Today, the barbarism of that sort is mostly relegated to fiction, though unfortunately, oppressive and brutal tyrants still exist. Kim in North Korea, Assad in Syria, and Maduro in Venezuela exemplify despots of antiquity as they imprison, starve, and gas their people. Real-life vampires that suck blood—Renfield’s Syndrome—are largely mentally-ill teenagers.

It’s not the blood-sucking vampires you must worry about, it’s the ones that drain your energy, will, and quality of life. Dr. Albert Bernstein published a book in 2000 titled, Emotional Vampires: Dealing with People Who Drain You Dry.

In his writings, he identifies five types of Emotional Vampires: antisocial, narcissistic, histrionic, obsessive-compulsive and paranoid. For a detailed description, you can pick up the book. I’m going to discuss some new species, the Fitness Vampires, and how they impair and derail your fitness goals.

The Victim Vampires

These may be the worst ones of them all. Nothing is their fault or their responsibility. They will find an internal or external cause to describe their fitness problems. “Once I turned 40 …” “If it wasn’t for my thyroid …” “My metabolism works differently …” “I’ve tried everything …”

You know the ones. How do they harm you? You’re the one who has to listen to them moan. They will show up at every party, every family get-together, and they’re in every office. As they stuff cheesecake in their mouth, they’ll wail about how Big Pharma is making them gain weight. Because you’re a good person, you listen and provide that ear of support, and you don’t snap back with a “Shut up and put your cake down!”

It’s not without a cost. This Victim Vampire drains your life energy little-by-little, and you get closer to where they want you to be: in the victim quicksand alongside them. Victims need to be around more victims, to confirm their worldview.

The Grown-Infant Vampires

This is the one who always wants to go out and burn the midnight oil, and wants you along for the ride. You can’t adhere to your fitness goals when someone is shoving a cocktail in your hand every evening or trying to convince you to eat at a such-and-such restaurant.

They can’t or won’t cook, are sowing their wild oats at 40, and think five spin classes per week will overcome it all. You have a hard time saying “no” to these restaurants and drinks because they are usually charming, charismatic, and fun.

You’ll have fun, too, but after six weeks you’ll wonder what happened to your results, your sleep, and your wallet. Their needs are more important than yours. The sad part is, they’re not actively trying to derail you, they just don’t consider you in their self-absorption.

The Diet Zealot Vampires

In my “Religion of Dieting” article, I took a different approach when discussing why people gravitate to fad diets. I gave them the benefit of the doubt, and it was a fun exercise. That doesn’t excuse Diet Zealots from hounding you about joining their dietary cult.

It would be acceptable if you said “no” and they moved to the next door, but they don’t. Instead, they lecture, guilt-trip, and send you incoherent YouTube videos. It’s not out of love for your health they do this, it’s because they’re right and everyone else is wrong, or stupid. They read a book by an MD in Sri Lanka, and they become an intellectual diet elitist, with nuclear-level arrogance.

They scrutinize everything you do and eat. You can hear them make condescending remarks about how you cook, what you decided to order, and incessantly ask, “do you know how bad that is for you?”

If they end up plateaued or regaining weight, it’s because they’re not “doing the diet right,” and they simply need to get “back to the diet.” They sound similar to the ones who claim that all the failed socialist countries “didn’t do socialism right.” Yeah, they did.

The Media Vampires

Did I say victims were the worst? These vermin make me reconsider. This category includes television, celebrities, magazines, social media, and books. To be fair, I will say “not all.” But my benevolence ends there. This coven is the most hypnotic of them all. And why not?

They have big budgets and are all beautiful. I like beauty as much as the next person, but it can’t bait you into self-destructive thoughts and irrational health decisions. For you, it’s your life, for them, it’s a racket. If Cosmo makes you feel ugly, you’ll buy whatever is advertised in their magazine and their magazines so the can save your dying marriage and your ugly wardrobe.

Am I wrong, or does every issue have tips like, “1,000 New Sex Tricks to Drive Your Man Wild?” If they put an obese woman on the cover and talk “body acceptance,” you get duped into tolerating your own harmful behavior, buying more magazines, and Big Macs. People use their celebrity platforms to tell you how you should dress, talk, eat, exercise, and live. They are completely out of touch but pretend they are “just like you” because TMZ snaps a photo of them at Pottery Barn.

To illustrate how disconnected they are, let’s talk Gwyneth Paltrow. This is how Wikipedia describes her: “Gwyneth Kate Paltrow Martin is an American actress, businesswoman, socialite, lifestyle guru, singer, and food writer.” I need to build up more earwax before I listen to her sing, so I can’t comment on that, but “lifestyle guru” and “food writer?”

Sometimes, I sit and think, “my lifestyle needs a guru. I wonder what the girl from ‘Seven’ has to teach me?” What’s in the box? Well, it’s her diet book, “It’s All Good,” which will set you back $300 per day in food. But hey, if you want to walk the red carpet, you have to sacrifice.

The fitness media don’t just drain you of your money, they empty your self-worth and self-esteem, and replace it with what they think you ought to have. You should remain an obedient consumer, bled-dry of individuality, and at the beck-and-call of celebrity culture.

Defend Yourself from the Influences

The question remains, how do you defend yourself from these various influences? First, pay attention to their track record. If they exhibit victim, zealous, or party-animal behavior before, they likely will again. Ask yourself, “what do they want and why?” Don’t rush in to help, listen, or get swept up in the adventure before thinking it through.

The vampire operates on impulses—you don’t have to. Secondly, vampires like their victims one at a time. So, if they can get you alone to listen to their sob-story, they will. They won’t often send their dumb YouTube documentaries on a group text. And often, you’re the one who has to drive Mr. Blutoski home.

Get a trusted friend involved to help guard you. Third, do what they don’t. Tired of victims? Don’t be one. Have a fitness goal? Prepare foods at home, and if you must go out, you pick the place, parameters, and don’t be a “sidekick.”

Also, If you’re getting hounded by a militant dietist, remember they want to be right and your conversion is for their gratification, not yours. Don’t debate. Wait it out, soon they’ll convert to a different diet and start all over.

Finally, be OK with losing them from your life. After a while of not getting their way and throwing tantrums, they may move on to their next victim. That might mean losing a friend or a family member. Out of guilt or fear, you may try to keep them around. You’ll get more of the same unless you call them out on their parasitic behavior. Chances are, they won’t like that and flee, anyway. Good riddance.

Count Dracula is a wonderful character who has stood the test of time, and I hope to see future generations enjoy his movies and costumes. Real-life vampires are cooky goth kids in Utah, and I’m not worried about them. I worry about you, the one who wants to be healthy and fit.

You have those around you who will pull you away from those goals, not because they hate you, but because of flaws in their own character. You can’t let it happen. I need you to become successful, vibrant, and a Van Helsing—the original Vampire Hunter.

The post The Vampires in Your Gym appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

Trick or treat, smell my feet
give me something good to eat
if you don’t, I don’t care
I’ll pull down your underwear!

Trick or treat, smell my feet
give me something good to eat
if you don’t, I don’t care
I’ll pull down your underwear!

For a kid, is there a better holiday than Halloween? It has the coolest premise of any of the annual celebrations: dress up, be mischievous, and get candy. Genius! Is that even legal? It was the “purge” before The Purge. Even as unsophisticated kids, we knew that we couldn’t prepare for Halloween carelessly. We decorated our houses and classrooms with cobwebs, spiders, witches and all things creepy and crawly.

On television, it was endless entertainment. “It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown” to “Poltergeist” to the Universal Monster classics kept us glued to the couch for an entire month. Our costumes had to be perfect, down to the last detail. You needed to get to the store early, otherwise, the good costumes would be taken. If you wanted to be Michelangelo from the Ninja Turtles, you’d better be at the costume shop on September 30th. If you hesitated at all, you would be lucky if you could get Leonardo.

I remember my mother trying to save money and buying costumes that were knockoffs of the mainstream originals. Arachna-Man, instead of Spider-Man, Owl-Man instead of Batman, or shape-shifting-truck-bot instead of Optimus Prime. No, way. I would have been the laughing stock of the fifth grade, setting up my middle school years for non-stop bullying. “Hey, there’s that kid who dressed up as ‘GI Steve.’ Get him!”

Today, everybody goes to the mall or some such nonsense for candy. Where’s the fun in that? I can’t imagine going to Macy’s for some Twix, or Victoria’s Secret for candy corn. Why wouldn’t you just go to See’s Candy? It is, literally, a candy store. I sense a pattern with many parents. They have fun, grow up, and take all the enjoyment out of things for their children; Halloween being no exception.

I’m not sure why. Do they not want to walk? Are the streets too “hilly?” Sometimes, you need to break a sweat for that chocolatey goodness. Is it for safety? It was much more dangerous for us in the 70’s and 80’s than it is now. Every kid has a cell phone with trackers and a whistle, making it virtually impossible to get lost or kidnapped. We had to worry about maniacs putting razor blades in candy apples. Today’s parents worry about gluten and “offensive” costumes. I sound like a curmudgeonly old man barking about the “good old days.” But, they were good—very good.

When we were young, we went door-to-door like we were running for public office. Before we could say “smell my feet,” we’d get a handful of mini-snickers in our bags. This was also our first exposure to a vetting process. We’d tell other kids to visit or avoid certain houses, based on their payloads. “Don’t go to Mrs. Wingo’s house, she only gives out pennies.” “Dude, you have got to get to Mr. Taylor’s house! He’s giving out King Size Snickers! I don’t know how much he has left. Better book it!”

A perilous night like All Hallow’s Eve is not all fun and games. We had to stay on the lookout for the dreaded “bag snatchers.” These were the jerks who ran past you and yanked your candy bag from your hands. Since they were usually older and faster, there was no hope of getting your stash back. You either had to start over or you’d go home empty handed, crying to mom. You’d end up with “pity candy,” usually in the form of stale butterscotch that’s been in your grandmother’s purse for seventy years. It was the best holiday, but not without risks.

At the end of a triumphant evening was the ceremonial “candy trade,” where we’d sit together and swap candy. It was a hustle from start to finish. Your goal was to get their best candy, without giving up yours. “I’ll give you a Mr. Goodbar for a Nestle Crunch.” If you had some King Size candy, you had real negotiating power. After a few hits of “Pixie Stix,” it became an intense reenactment of Glengarry Glen Ross.

The parents would try to intervene with a candy-distribution-socialist idea, but we would have none of that. I worked hard for that loot. Matthew hit fewer houses than I did and I had a better costume. He wasn’t getting a finger on my Butterfinger. If Halloween fell on a Friday or Saturday, it would be the best night of the year, times two. After the candy stock exchange was completed, it was time for the scary movies. Freddy Krueger, Jason Voorhees, Chucky, and Michael Myers each supplied a night’s worth of boogeymen, guaranteed to give us nightmares.

The Real-Life Boogeyman, Obesity

Today, there is a super-boogeyman out there that makes all the rest look like Care Bears. It is singularly blamed for all of life’s misery, most specifically, obesity. It’s not a grotesque ghoul, hiding underneath your bed. We brought it into our homes by the pillowcase-full every year on Halloween, like the Trojan horse. Did we let the barbarians inside the gates? What have we done? Sugar, thou art a villain, but is sugar truly the bane of our existence?

In 2018, more and more people are having difficulty discerning between satire and literal narrative. With that in mind, I will say this next part literally: sugar is not exclusively responsible for obesity, type-2 diabetes, heart disease, and cancer. Repeat the “not exclusively responsible” part again. Before you hunt me with torches and pitchforks, I will be clear.

Again, there’s a difference between controlling your sugar intake and scapegoating it for all the aforementioned problems. I advocate the former. The latter is a lazy tool of the media and creates a generation of orthorexics—orthorexia is defined as an obsession with eating foods that one considers healthy, a medical condition in which the sufferer systematically avoids specific foods in the belief that they are harmful.

Attributing a single-cause to any multi-factorial issue is a fallacy. If you’re asked why there is a lot of crime in a certain area, and your response is “nudity in movies,” you’re wrong. Likewise, obesity, heart disease, and type-2 diabetes are multi-factorial. They tried the single-cause fallacy in the 80’s with fat, later with all carbs, and now sugar. It’s an overly simplistic view and doesn’t solve the problem at-large.

For the “lone gunman” theory to work, you’d have to prove that sugar is solely responsible for obesity and the other health issues and that no shots came from the grassy knoll. With any theory, it can be tested. Meaning, for it to hold true, it cannot be falsified. Spoiler alert: it was proven wrong in a landmark study, published in 2015. Surely, people are eating more sugar today than ever, right? They aren’t, and don’t call me Shirley.

Photography by Jeffrey Perez, Oahu, Hawaii

How Scary Is Sugar?

Sugar intake has remained stable since the 1970’s. Since then, grain products have increased by 187 calories, fats and oils have increased by 185 calories, and sugars have increased by 38 calories. Together, they contribute to an additional 400 calories per day.

Physical activity has decreased by 140 calories in men and 124 calories in women. That’s 400 more calories coming in and approximately 130 less going out, which equals a surplus of 500 calories per day. That’s 3500 calories per week—a pound of body fat. That’s not considering neurochemistry, genetics, physiology, and economics. But, who cares about nuance and details?

Sugar intake should be reduced and controlled within a calorically-balanced diet with optimal protein. Context is important. A person who drinks three cans of soda a day is likely not eating blueberries and salmon. They’re presumably not exercising regularly. A good guess would be that they smoke and drink, also. It would be foolish to deny these additional influences on obesity, but it doesn’t fit the narrative.

Is it a good idea to limit added sugar to 10% or below of total caloric intake? Yes. Are two licks of a Milky Way going to turn you into Jabba the Hut? No. The media doesn’t deal in subtlety. They work on emotion, divorcing you from rational thinking. One must be irrational to buy what they’re selling. Rational thinking is important.

Still, I can guess what will happen after reading this. “I don’t care what he says, sugar makes you fat.” If that’s you, stay tuned for my next article: “How the Illuminati Took Over NASA.” I won’t pretend that I have the answers to obesity, food addiction, and heart disease. I do know where the problem isn’t. It’s not at the center of a Tootsie Roll.

This is about more than sugar. It is symbolic of a greater problem: the abdication of responsibility—the endless pursuit of a scapegoat for one’s problems is a dangerous problem in today’s culture. I should write a book called The Victim Diet, sell a billion copies, and retire.

Every page is filled with foods, people, and companies you can blame for your high body fat. We are living in a paradox. At the same time, people are more educated than ever before in history and yet succumb to the dumbest ideas. Did you know there are more “Flat-Earthers” today than at any point in time?

I run into people every day who bust their ass in the gym and work at a sustainable and healthy diet. When asked about the origins of their health problems, they don’t single out “sugar” or “nudity in movies.” They describe various disconnections they’ve made to a healthy lifestyle. They admit they eat too much. They eat the wrong things. They don’t exercise enough or correctly. They self-sabotage and don’t feel good about themselves. And you know what? These are the warriors that see real change. The victims disappear after a week.

Holidays are holidays for a reason. They are a deviation from everyday life. That’s why you shouldn’t light fireworks on random Tuesdays, like an ass. It’s a special part of New Year’s and Independence Day. If you dressed like a cowboy at work today, people would think you’re insane, unless you’re a male stripper. Costumes are for Halloween. Santa Claus is for Christmas.

Halloween is about dressing up, being prankish, getting frightened, and yes, eating sugar. We shouldn’t eat and behave like it’s a holiday all year long. If we did that, they wouldn’t be holidays anymore. The majority of the year should be filled with healthy food, normal clothes, and not egging someone’s house—unless they really deserved it.

The post Next Halloween It’s Trick or Diabetes appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

“Squats don’t hurt your knees; what you are doing hurts your knees.”

Dan John

By the writing of this article, there have been 1,789 homicides in Tijuana this year. That’s exceeded the previous year’s record-high of 1,781, with another three more months remaining in 2018. If you are planning a honeymoon or a quick getaway, perhaps cross Tijuana off your list. Back in 2004, it sounded like a fabulous place to attend an underground MMA event.

“Squats don’t hurt your knees; what you are doing hurts your knees.”

Dan John

By the writing of this article, there have been 1,789 homicides in Tijuana this year. That’s exceeded the previous year’s record-high of 1,781, with another three more months remaining in 2018. If you are planning a honeymoon or a quick getaway, perhaps cross Tijuana off your list. Back in 2004, it sounded like a fabulous place to attend an underground MMA event.

In case you’ve missed ESPN for the last twenty years, MMA stands for Mixed Martial Arts. You’re likely more familiar with the dominant brand: the UFC. In the early 2000’s, very few states legalized MMA. Events were confined to Indian casinos, bull rings, and back alleys. It didn’t help that most of the contests were held inside a cage. In 1996, the late Senator John McCain famously called it, “Human Cockfighting.” He later warmed-up to the sport.

I began mixed martial arts shortly after high school in Aliso Viejo, California. The instructor was a former UFC Champion, which meant he was a lethal, badass killer. In my eyes, he was the toughest guy in the world, and I was in his school.

I remember observing my first class to see if I was interested in joining. I watched two guys “spar” with an intensity I’d never seen before. One kid got knocked out, and a different kid dragged him away by the feet. I almost wet myself. What had I gotten myself into?

It wasn’t too late, I hadn’t signed anything, yet. All I needed to do was sneak out, and no one would be the wiser. But, I was sick and tired of getting pushed around. I figured it was a rite-of-passage in school and thought it would end during college. I was wrong. So, I stayed glued to my chair watching the carnage, and after class, and signed up. Since I was too scared to do group classes, I’d do private lessons. I knew I’d get my ass kicked, the last thing I wanted was to have an audience.

The Mentality of Fighting

After getting pummeled once or twice, you get used to it, then you sort of like it. It keeps you humble, exposes flaws in your technique and you feel like you can handle anything. But, it hurts like hell. The punches don’t hurt right away, things just go dim for a millisecond, like a flickering lightbulb.

The pain sets in a few hours later when your face blows up as if you got stung by a thousand wasps. Getting punched or kicked to the torso hurts immediately. It feels like you can’t breathe and your entire body radiates with an indescribable throbbing. Eventually, my coach started making frequent trips to Japan and was less available for instruction, so I was off to look for a new school.

Through my work as a personal Trainer, I met my new coach. He was a good fighter, instructor, and he took a liking to me. He invited me over to his gym to train with his guys, to which I replied, “I only do privates.” I told him why and he laughed it off, but not in the, “you’re a chicken” sort of way, but in the “my guys will take care of you—don’t worry” sort of way.

He rented out space in a racquetball gym called “CardioFit.” It had four or five racquetball courts downstairs and wrestling mats and heavy bags upstairs. The whole gym smelled like sweat and pee. I began doing group classes, built some friendships, and my skills as a fighter continued to improve.

One of the boys, Wesley, really wanted to fight. Like I said earlier, MMA wasn’t technically legal, so if we wanted to compete, we’d have to go to the ends of the Earth, and that meant Mexico. Word got around, and before I knew it, a group of us were ready for Total Combat IV.

The event was held July 24, 2004, at the Baby Rock Night Club in Tijuana, Mexico. The main event was an alleged Neo-Nazi against a guy with Native American blood. I’m not kidding. The former had the “SS” bolts tattooed on his arm, and the latter had “NATIVE” tattooed on his stomach.

I can’t confirm whether the one was an actual Nazi or if the other was a legitimate Apache, but it sold tickets. Another man on the card went on to become a renowned fighter for the UFC. There was also a guy who is currently serving a life sentence for twenty-nine felony counts. And then there’s me.

We parked our car in this tiny parking lot and walked through a large turnstile with the sign “THIS WAY TO MEXICO” or something, above. I wasn’t in Kansas, anymore. I had never been offered gum so many times in my life.

Did my breath smell that bad? One of my Mexican teammates told me to never purchase any because if I did, they’d never leave me alone. I did feel like a jerk for saying “no, gracias” to the kids.

I was amazed at the stuff you could purchase there, although the fun items you could never take back across the border. I don’t mean pinatas and maracas, I’m talking brass knuckles and butterfly knives. If you’re unfamiliar with butterfly knives, they are essentially folding pocket knives, and super illegal. You also run the risk of cutting yourself wide open if you don’t know how to unfold it correctly. I cut myself chopping peppers, I think I’ll pass.

As we walked down Avenida Revolucion, I noticed a few things. First, all the local men hated us. Second, the local women loved us. Third, there were a lot of stray dogs. We passed several bars, each one promising cheaper and cheaper drinks. I think one bar advertised lobsters, which I thought was strange.

We made mental notes as to which ones we’d attend after the fights, assuming we weren’t killed in the nightclub. Finally, we made it to the Baby Rock. Smoke, lasers, and go-go dancers surrounded a ring planted in the center of the building. Not a cage, but a ring. I think the cage was too expensive.

We had a large group, but only a few of us were “cornermen.” That meant we could go backstage, help our guys warm up and be with them at ringside. Coach would provide the bulk of the instructions and I was mostly there for moral support and hold the spit bucket. My mom wanted me to be a doctor, an engineer, or a lawyer. But, here I was, in Mexico, holding a spit bucket for my friend, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone who could be associated with the Cartel.

The fights were a blur. We were backstage most of the time and didn’t get to watch any of them. We’d only see them upon entry and exit. The call goes out, “Wes and Michael—you’re up!” That’s us. We enter the ring to the Steppenwolf song, “Magic Carpet Ride.” Maybe Wes would have picked Pantera, Motley Crue, or NWA.

Still, it was a good song. During the fight, Coach shouted instructions and the drunk crowd called for blood. I felt like I was watching chess. I stood there, in awe of what I was seeing. Looking back, it was mostly unrefined, but at the time, it was incredible. It was all the moves and techniques we learned in training, being employed in an actual fight—and our guy was winning.

Two minutes into the second round, the referee saw that the other guy was not intelligently defending himself, and called an end to the fight. Fight one was over. Fight two: can we get out of Mexico alive? We exited the building with no problems, and it felt like smooth sailing from there. Wrong. Enter: Charles “Mask” Lewis. Mask was the founder of the original apparel line for MMA, Tapout. He and his partners sold shirts, shorts, and stickers outside MMA events from the back of their van.

Today, the WWE holds a 50% stake in the brand. Incredible. Unfortunately, Mask was struck and killed by a drunk driver in 2009. He was posthumously inducted into the UFC Hall of Fame, and his name has a permanent place on the UFC Octagon. On the evening of July 24, 2004, he was alive, larger than life, and about to make my life more interesting.

“Stay sharp, I think those guys want to go.” Go didn’t mean “leave,” it meant they wanted to fight, like the Jets and the Sharks, without the tap dancing. And what guys? Why? It’s best not to ask any questions. Not only was I not in medical school, like my mom wanted, but I was also about to get killed in a gang fight.

You may be thinking, “just run away” or “try and talk sense into everyone.” The History books would forever say: “Impromptu gang fight breaks out in Mexico, Amir Mofidi runs away.” Or, “in an attempt at diplomacy, Amir Mofidi stands between the two angry mobs, gets his head smashed with a bottle and spends the remainder of the fight on the ground, bleeding from the skull.”

I can imagine, sitting on a rocking chair, talking to my grandkids, telling them to stand up for themselves, and one of the little smartasses asking, “But, Pop-Pop, didn’t you run like a chicken from a fight in Mexico?” No, thank you.

In America, when the police arrive, things tend to settle down. I think Mexico plays by different rules. When the Federales show up, they shake you down for how much money you have on you, then they still throw you in jail. There’s a joke in the movie Airplane, “have you ever been in a Turkish prison?” I haven’t, but there was a real possibility I’d end up in a Mexican jail. Do you even get a phone call?

A funny thing happens when two groups of men stare each other down in the middle of the street, about to wage war. They either beat the crap out of each other or they become friends. We became friends. I still had no idea what the original beef was, but now I’m embracing total strangers and making amends, everyone taking turns and saying “my bad, bro.”

They insisted that we join them in celebrating our new alliance at the closest bar, over some watered-down alcohol. Now, if you’re street-smart, you’ll smell something suspicious. It’s a trap. It happened to me once outside a Peppino’s in Anaheim, so I was hip to the scam. They lure you in under the premise of friendship, and the next thing you know, you’re surrounded by more of them, with no escape—fish in a barrel.

I whispered to Coach and Mask that this could be a trick, and they nodded in approval. With a movement of the head, I had earned my street-cred, and unofficially became promoted within the group. Instead of following them in like lemmings, we approached cautiously, like ninjas. We walked upstairs to the bar-slash-dancefloor; it was too late to turn back. A last-minute change of heart may spark a fight right then and there.

What was waiting for us at the top of the stairs? A lonely DJ, a couple of locals and a small group of Americans who headed over the border to party. We drank some crappy beer and shared some laughs. Nothing’s funnier than “oh man, we were about to kill each other. Isn’t that hilarious?” I really wanted to go home. Fight two: staying alive in Mexico was complete. That brings us to fight three: will they let me back into America?

Remember, it was 2004, three years removed from 2001. Believe me when I say: I never experienced any bigotry or prejudice following the tragedy of September, 11. But, that doesn’t mean getting back across the border would be a cinch. Airport security is obnoxious, but I don’t feel the same about border security. I wasn’t smuggling anything but a burning desire to get back to our car and kiss the concrete floor. I can’t say the same for everyone else. All it takes, is for one uninspected backpack gets over the border and San Diego goes bye-bye.

“ID please.” Great. This is going to be awkward. I would have killed to have been named Scott Johnson. At least my family didn’t have an affinity for syllables. Otherwise, my name could have read: Amir Mohammadpourkarkaragh. I’d be “randomly checked” for the rest of my life. Did I mention I had a shaved head and a mean-looking goatee?

“What brought you into Mexico?”

“Fighting.” Not a good start. “I mean MMA.”

“What’s MMA?”

“Boxing.”

“Boxing. You a boxer?”

“No, sir.”

“Have anything to drink tonight?”

“Yes, sir, two beers.” Two is usually my upper-limit.

“Any drugs?”

“No, sir.”

“Ok, step aside, we’re going to search you.”

I don’t do drugs, but when you’re about to be searched, you start getting paranoid that you’re actually carrying some. The officer conducting the search nods to the other officer holding my ID that I’m clean, but he won’t give my card back. He looks at the card, back to me, then back down, then reluctantly hands it back. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, sir. Have a good evening.” I don’t get the “give the police a hard time” mentality. I wanted to go home. I don’t think I ever returned to Tijuana, but I can’t guarantee it’s the last time I did something dangerous.

Defining Safe Versus Unsafe

What was dangerous about that night? Well, a lot. Ironically, MMA was the least dangerous. Compared to boxing, or football, the injury rate per hour of competition is remarkably low. That doesn’t mean invulnerable to injury, but far less than you’d think.

Even in its inchoate days, fighters weren’t encouraged to beat each other to death. Organizations wanted MMA to become sanctioned in states like New York and California. They knew that having a list of dead bodies would derail their cause in an instant.

Therefore, referees weren’t negligent and they frequently stopped fights early, to the dismay of the competitors and the bloodthirsty crowd. Sure, the techniques and strategies were less refined, sometimes thoughtless, but that’s evolved since then. Although the evening was “unsafe,” the Mixed Martial Arts were not.

No two exercises have the stigma of “unsafe” more than squats and deadlifts. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to dispel the myths that squatting or deadlifting is bad for this-or-that. They are not without risk, but they aren’t the perilous time-bombs that people think they are.

MMA isn’t dangerous, the way we went about it that night, was dangerous. The same holds true for most people who squat and deadlift. Truthfully, it’s hard to call what they do “squatting” and “deadlifting.” They look more like seizures with weights. It’s no surprise that knee ligaments tear and discs get blown out. The way many people go about doing them—is dangerous.

Squats and deadlifts are two of the most important and beneficial exercises you can do. For medical reasons, some need to avoid them, but that’s a minority of people. I’m still young, but there are a lot of miles on my body. I can’t exercise with the same intensity and volume I could when I was younger, nor do I want to.

The same goes for MMA. I don’t want to get punched in the face, anymore. But, I still grapple often and go against stronger, younger, and faster guys. In the end, it’s the technique that either saves my butt or kicks theirs. Squatting and deadlifting properly requires technique and finesse. Leave the extreme one-rep-maxes to the young and the competitive powerlifters. Don’t get me wrong, you can go heavy—heavier than you think—but stay technical.

It’s the technique that will save your back, your knees, and make you love those exercises as much as I do. Now, go do a proper set of squats before they get banned for being “unsafe,” and we have to go to Tijuana to do them.

The post Once Upon a Time in Mexico appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

When did one’s diet become a religion? Watching a low carb versus high carb debate is like watching the Crusades; no horses or swords, just powerpoint slides, and straw man arguments. After two, mind-numbing hours you end up with a bunch of nothing—no opinions are changed and everyone’s time is wasted. Everybody goes back to their cult-like tribes, ferociously posting their gripes on the internet.

Each diet presents its own rules, canon, methods of cooking, and the timing of meals. If you were to read a diet book published today without looking at its title, you’d think you were reading from a religious text. With each new study that appears, the blogosphere explodes with “proof” headlines, celebrating their vindication.

That is until another one comes out refuting that diet. Then, the bloggers—or druids—return to their keyboards, attempting to debunk the study; confirmation bias and cherry-picking at its finest. It isn’t difficult to sit here and continue to expose the various diets and their “clans,” or annihilate the authors of their sacred books, so I’ve decided to approach it from a different angle. Can all this be a good thing?

I am fascinated by the “Road to Damascus” moment that some people experience. I refer to Saul of Tarsus, who later became the Apostle Paul after seeing the risen Christ on his way to Damascus. It can only be described as a miraculous moment that turned a hard-boiled, Christian-hunting Pharisee into the man who penned nearly half of the New Testament.

It’s amazing that the person who witnessed—perhaps ordered—the execution of Saint Stephen, wrote some of history’s most powerful statements on love. Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians rivals Shakespeare for the “most quoted” words during wedding ceremonies. See 1 Corinthians 13:4-8 and Sonnet 18 for a refresher.

The Faith Based Health Conversion

There are countless stories of faith-based conversions. Cassius Clay converted to Islam and became Muhammad Ali. Malcolm X, following his pilgrimage to Mecca, left the Nation of Islam after he awakened to their corrupt and divisive ideology. To show their benevolence, they assassinated Malcolm in 1965. Incidentally, Ali sided with the NOI leader Elijah Muhammad during the fallout, which Ali deeply regretted later in life.

Marilyn Monroe and Sammy Davis, Jr. converted to Judaism. St. Augustine, John Wayne, and even Oscar Wilde—a hedonist—converted to Catholicism. Wilde’s first grave had an inscription from the Book of Job, a book famous for its titular character experiencing great suffering but staying loyal and faithful to God.

What compels someone to convert from one faith to another, from no religious views to faith, or vice-versa? A common reason is known as “rock-bottom.” It is a well-known phrase in the addiction-recovery world. It is not easily definable since it is different and unique to each person.

It usually points to the lowest point in a person’s life, when it seems like things couldn’t get any worse. Many people, when drowning inside misery’s waters, find salvation in the form of faith. Their new faith not only rescues them but gives them a life of purpose.

A famous example is rock legend, Alice Cooper. He bit the heads off chickens—a myth—and sang about blowing up his school. He came close to death on multiple occasions due to alcoholism, until he found Christianity. Cooper would likely argue that it found him. He’s still shock-rocking but has added evangelism to his list of duties.

In health, rock-bottom can be reached without substance abuse. It can take the form of morbid obesity or a cardiac event. It’s the catalyst that says, “I need to do something. I don’t want to die.” Their life preserver may come in the form of Atkins, protein power, or vegetarianism.

Do you know what happens next? The diet saves their life. As a result, the person develops a faithful relationship to the diet. Can you blame them? Bernard Malamud, in his book, The Natural, wrote “We have two lives, Roy, the life we learn with and the life we live with after that. Suffering is what brings us toward happiness.”

It’s the diet, regardless of its scientific backing, that serves as the tipping point between a life of suffering and a life of happiness. Therefore, it’s not unusual to see a formerly obese person, or someone recovering from a heart attack, dedicate their days in a pseudo-worship of their new dietary choices.

It’s not uncommon to see these transformed people attempt to evangelize their friends and family into the diet that saved their lives. Wouldn’t any of us?

Lifestyle A Versus Lifestyle B

Guilt and compassion are powerful human emotions. They are strong enough to spur-on certain behaviors and put a halt to others. This was the case for Karl Schneider, a member of the Hitler Youth.

Karl joined the Nazi Air Force at 18 years-old, with the intention of helping to fulfill the goal of a thousand-year Reich, until he saw the stormtroopers massacre a group of Jewish people. The images and sounds he saw shook him to his soul.

Even possessing a soul was unacceptable amongst the Hitler youth. From the maniacal chancellor, himself: “I want to raise a generation of young people devoid of a conscience, imperious, relentless, and cruel.”

Karl began to disobey orders and sabotage bombs. Over the next twenty years, he gave away two-thirds of his salary to Jewish orphans. He eventually moved to Israel and asked to be converted. It would be an understatement to say that the Rabbis were jolted by this man’s story, but they allowed him to study, convert to Judaism and become an Israeli Citizen, under the name Reuel Abraham.

Have you ever seen videos of animals in horrid conditions, unceremoniously slaughtered for consumption? If you have, you either blocked it from your memory completely, switched to humanely farmed food, or became a vegan.

There are those that intentionally use that footage to stir specific emotions on the viewer. If we are being honest, we would call it what it is: an atrocity. Our intestines squirm to find a hiding place when presented with the noise and visions of what we saw. Is it any surprise when someone swears off meat because of the trauma? Clarisse Starling tried to rescue the lambs from slaughter in Silence of the Lambs, to no avail.

Millions of people across the country attempt to deafen the sound of the screams by turning to a vegan or vegetarian diet. There are those that do it solely for the “health benefits,” but I’ve yet to see a compelling argument for that. If an alien race came to earth and visited a KFC chicken farm, they would ask, “What sort of barbarism is this?” Insert your favorite martian-voice, here.

A more practical reason for conversion is the idea of contrast. “If I started living in a such-and-such manner, what about be the result?” If a person’s current lifestyle, labeled A, has delivered a specific outcome, what would lifestyle B yield?

I don’t wish to give the impression that all “good” conversions take place in one direction. There are many people who grow up within the framework of the church or synagogue, who are unmoved and dissatisfied with their course of life. They may find that Buddhism or Naturalism provides a lifestyle that brings them more of what they seek. I left my childhood faith of Islam and found liberation in atheism as a teen.

The opposite also takes place, for example, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and CS Lewis abandoned atheism for Christianity. Lewis went on to become the 20th Century’s greatest Christian author. I left atheism in 2015.

When the person experiences a tremendous improvement between lifestyle A and lifestyle B, why go back?

The Urge for Dietary Conversions

I believe the idea of contrast provides the strongest urge for dietary conversions. It’s the contrast, not the diet. Every month, new diet books get published by the truckload, and every month, new “diet sects” are formed, complete with their private FaceBook groups.

The Contrast Phenonemon explains this. The diet of the average person is sloppy and unstructured. Meal timing, order, quality, and quantity lack coherence from day-to-day. Breakfasts, lunches, and dinners are either on-the-go or lacking nutritional value.

Snacks are limited to whatever sweets are shared around the office or what looks good at the Starbucks counter. It’s possible that they do not feel any major adverse effects. Well, until it’s too late—see the rock-bottom paragraph.

Usually, they come to terms that fatigue, poor sleep, higher body weight, and body fat are “normal.” Then, for one reason or another, they stumble upon a diet book—perhaps a stocking stuffer put there as a hint.

The typical diet book is predictable in its construction. They create rigidity through allowable and “forbidden” foods. They control portions and use the word “unlimited” for non-impact foods like vegetables and tea. Usually, the back end is filled with recipes and a few pages on “how to get started.”

Essentially, they provide a structure where there was no previous structure. Normally, when someone begins one of these diets, the feedback is raving—five stars. “I feel great!” “I haven’t felt this good in years!” “I’m never hungry!”

How can all these different diets illicit the same responses? It’s the contrast between diet A—no structure—and diet B— structure. If you live in the dark, the first ray of light is blinding.

What should we make of all this? It’s hard to look at a person who “finds God,” begins going to church or temple, volunteering for charities, praying or meditating nightly, and is happier overall, with a cynical eye. It can be done, but to what end? Why should we bother pointing out any flaws?

If they are not a danger to themselves or others, what’s the point? Some people are indifferent to faith and don’t care, but there are others who live to ridicule it. It’s silly and unnecessary. Is it the same with diet? In the fitness industry, everyone is jostling for position inside the market.

What Does Your Diet Book Teach?

Sometimes the loudest and most ludicrous person peddling the most laughable gets noticed. There are others—myself included—who relish poking fun at it all. But, if the diet helps someone, somewhere, is it worth ridiculing? Some diets are a danger to others, and the authors know it.

Those vermin deserve a royal smackdown. For an innocent laugh, they are all fair game for a good trolling. But, I can’t help but think of the people who are loyal to their paleo cookbooks, their vegan ethics, or even the can-you-top-this attitude of flexible dieters. They’re trying, and bless them for doing so.

For the most part, faiths attempt to teach us about ethics, values, and virtues. Diet books, for the most part, strive to teach better food choices, cooking habits, and portion control. Yes, they don’t always get it right, and unfortunately, some followers go off the deep-end.

Being a good person of principle is not drastically different from being a good dieter: let go of the ego and the air of superiority, be consistent, practice daily, understand you’ll make mistakes, and be good.

The post The Religion of Dieting appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

Photography by Los Angeles, California artist Lauren Hillary

On the list of my ten all-time favorite movies the top two are comic book movies and half are mob movies. Growing up, if it had an inkling of the mafia, I watched them all. Sometimes, I had to suffer through a few for my sins, like Mobsters. Richard Grieco, Christian Slater, and Patrick Dempsey? Are they serious? It was Grey’s Anatomy with Tommy Guns, Tiger Beat Magazine in pinstripes—a complete embarrassment.

Thankfully, these films are in the minority. The Untouchables, The Godfather I and II, Goodfellas, and Casino; now those were movies. The only problem I have when re-watching these films is the sadness I feel when I think of how insane Robert DeNiro has become. Perhaps his fight scenes in Raging Bull weren’t simulations.

The Punch that Endures

Nevertheless, movies like these and others—like The Departed—packed a punch that will forever be remembered. I knew I made it when my uncle let me sit on the couch to watch Scarface. I had to pretend to be appalled by the violence to keep up the appearances of innocence. My mother would yell at my uncle for letting me watch “that filth.” For some reason, she wouldn’t turn off the television.

Better to watch it at home with family than with the neighborhood kids, I suppose. Otherwise, I may get the wrong idea and think it was acceptable to cut a man in half with a chainsaw and snort piles of cocaine. If you’re a lady reading this and wondered if the men in your life have ever used the phrase, “Say hello to my little friend” in a horrible Cuban accent, the answer is yes.

Who could forget Michael Corleone grabbing his brother Fredo by his face, kissing him on the mouth and saying, “I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart. You broke my heart.” Or, Joe Pesci trolling Ray Liotta with the “funny how?” scene from Goodfellas. Although I know how it ends, it’s a tense exchange that makes you question the outcome—masterfully done by Joe Pesci.

If you are in the mood to view one of these classics again, or for the first time, I don’t recommend watching any of them on FX or any other cable network. Testosterone-fueled movies involving organized crime have a penchant for colorful language and violence that always get edited for mainstream audiences.

I remember one day I made the mistake of watching King of New York on television from a hotel room. I was horrified. It felt as though I was watching King of the Hill, not the Christopher Walken classic. Every other word was replaced with “sucker.” Do yourself a favor and watch the uncut versions.

The real-life people that inspire unforgettable characters and movies are fascinating. Think Al Capone, Frank Costello, and Arnold Rothstein. One man, in particular, was Benjamin Siegel. Siegel was born February 28, 1906, to a Jewish immigrant family, and wasted no time getting his hands dirty.

He was a tough, rough-and-tumble kid who would extort pushcart merchants on the Lower East Side. Before young Jewish men went into medicine, law, and business, they used their fists. Most escaped oppressive regimes in Europe and wanted a fresh start in America. But, it wasn’t going to be handed to them.

Siegel would befriend another young Jewish hoodlum, Meyer Lansky, known for his gifted mathematical mind, and formed Bugs-Meyer Gang. Meyer Lansky doesn’t have the number of on-screen reproductions as Al Capone, but his name appears in every other rap song made in the 1990’s.

Benjamin became known as “Bugsy” to his fellow gang members due to his hot temper and violent disposition; crazy as a bedbug. Using violence to get their way was the modus operandi of the gang, affectionately known as Murder, Inc.

Organized Crime

In the roaring 20’s, Charles “Lucky” Luciano gave us what we now refer to as organized crime. He created a national syndicate, comprising of a network of crime families and organizations across the country, with himself as the head. He wasn’t formally referred to as “The Boss of Bosses,” but that’s who he was.

Bugsy played a significant part in establishing the new regime, including executing the old guard. With the three of them at the helm, organized crime reached a new level of power and profit. No one is above the law, and federal agents eventually nabbed Luciano.

Lansky could see the writing on the wall and surmised he and Siegel were next. He suggested that Ben move west to Hollywood, and institute operations there. Lansky went down to Florida and eventually Cuba.

Bugsy went to the City of Angels and quickly got to work. Between running prostitution rings and narcotics, he found time to hobnob with Tinseltown’s finest. It seemed as though he found his niche. No one in Hollywood was going to match his muscle, so his authority would remain unchallenged, and his affinity for the high life made him feel at home.

In 1945, he and his girlfriend Virginia Hill moved to the desert—Las Vegas. Siegel had a vision of a desert oasis, filled with lights where the wealthiest from around the country would flock with bags of cash. In the mid-1940’s, there were scatterings of saloons and casinos, like the El Rancho, where Clark Gable was known to have stayed. But, there was nothing like what Ben had in mind. It all started with the Flamingo Las Vegas.

William Wilkerson, the founder of the Hollywood Reporter, started the project in 1945. Since no hotel of the Flamingo’s scale had ever been attempted, Wilkerson quickly ran out of money—Bugsy Siegel and the New York syndicate to the rescue. Siegel was given a budget of 1.5 million dollars to complete construction. Just as a reference point, The Bellagio was built for 1.6 billion—with a “B”—dollars.

Unfortunately, Bugsy did not rise to prominence in the mob for his business acumen. That was Lansky’s strength. Bugsy was muscle, sharp-dressed muscle, with a short fuse. Expenses on the Flamingo ballooned to 6 million by the time of its opening on December 26, 1947.

If the unforeseen expenditures were attributable to development, licensing and so forth, perhaps New York would understand. It was not, and they would not. Bugsy stole many of the funds and mismanaged a lot more, even announcing that he would return the loans in “his own good time.” In the mob, loyalty is a life-saving attribute.

On June 20, 1947, Siegel visited Los Angeles and stayed at Virginia Hill’s Beverly Hills home. While he sat, reading the newspaper, nine shots erupted through a window. The display was gruesome. Newspaper headlines read:

“Bugsy Siegel Murdered – Rubbed Out In Beverly Hills In Hail Of Bullets”

Photographs from the murder scene appear as though he was shot through the eye socket. He was not, but that didn’t stop Hollywood from memorializing it in the Godfather. Moe Green, a character based on Siegel is shot in the eye while getting a massage, dubbed the “Moe Green Special.” It is worth noting that Warren Beatty, who played Bugsy in the lackluster film by the same name, has been riddled with bullets twice.

Once in Bugsy, and the other as Clyde Barrow in Bonnie and Clyde. The day after Siegel’s death, representatives of the Las Vegas mob, backed by Lansky, took over operations of the Flamingo. Decades of mob rule had begun in Las Vegas. To this day, the Siegel murder has not been solved.

The Risk of Gambling Your Fitness

When you think of Las Vegas, what comes to mind? Buffets and Cirque Du Soleil? What about gambling, a Nevada staple since 1931? When we think of gambling, we think of James Bond playing poker to save the world, or maybe Robert Redford and Paul Newman swindling Robert Shaw in The Sting. Even if you’ve never seen The Sting, I’m willing to bet you’d recognize the theme song after six seconds. Don’t believe me? Look it up. Gambling has a larger role in our lives than we think, particularly in fitness.

Gambling: taking risky action in the hope of a desired result.

When we gamble, the longshot, the biggest risk of them all, has the most appeal. It’s dangerous, reckless, and you tell yourself you shouldn’t. You repeat it in your head, even as you place your chips on the table. The more you put down, the more electric the feeling. The unsafe bets give us a primal adrenaline rush, hanging on to the thread of hope that we’ll strike it rich.

Every day, we take gambles on our health and fitness, but without the tuxedo and martini, shaken-not-stirred. We subconsciously know we are gambling but do not call it by that name. Look at where people spend their money and their energy. The Weight-Loss Industry rakes in 66 Billion dollars per year. Akin to Feds chasing bootleggers and hooch, the NIH spent 913 million to “study” why weight loss is hard. Let’s all collectively facepalm.

Each new diet book, fat burning tea, “bio-hack,” all resemble luxurious casino tables. Each one, promising a massive payoff, like the brand-new Jaguar rotating on display. But, the payoff never comes. No huge jackpot. The house always wins. We must know that these get-fit-quick schemes are bullshit. Don’t we? We must certainly be aware that there’s no shell under the cups.

But, it’s the rush. It’s the faint sense of “you never know” and “maybe.” We talk ourselves into it. The oiled-up fitness guy pops up on your Facebook feed, encouraging you to “burn fat” and “get photoshoot ready” in six weeks, and you can’t help but think, “this is garbage, but what if it works?” You step up to the high-stakes casino table thinking, “what if,” and give up the cash. The what-if ends the way it always ends, with you going home empty-handed and the only thing that leaned out is your wallet.

Is safe boring? Is the dependable bet the one we don’t want to make? If you knew you’d win, does that make you less likely to play? Does it make us pass by those tables, favoring the sparkly ones, with bikini-clad ladies standing on either side and a gentleman sporting a six-pack standing behind?

“Take a seat, play a while, and all this can be yours.” The dealer flips a card—a hundred burpees. He flips another—an hour on the treadmill, first thing in the morning on an empty stomach. A cocktail waitress walks by, to refresh your drink. It’s not whiskey, but a multi-filtered, ultra-premium, muscle-building, fat-destroying protein powder, infused with vibranium-coated BCAA’s from Wakanda.

It’s getting late, you’re falling asleep. You’ve only eaten 800 calories. The waitress comes by again. This time, with coffee. But, not just any coffee. There’s a stick of butter in it, formulated to transform your gut into the leanest and sexiest stomach this side of an Instagram filter. It’ll make you a mental genius, and launch you to the top of the Forbes list, and the cover of Sports Illustrated. Eventually, it gives you the runs, and you’re still losing money. The house always wins.

After eighteen years in the industry, I was not immune to the big wagers. If there was a new gizmo guaranteeing results, I owned it. If there was a seminar promising the latest, cutting-edge methodology, I was on the next plane.

I remember staying at a roach motel in Queens for a week, where I’m pretty sure there was a dead body under my mattress. Why? To attend a seminar that claimed they could identify altered hormonal patterns by pinching someone’s fat. I’m not a victim, I was a big boy and made my own decision to go. It was an exciting gamble. It was also bullshit. The next time I grab your stomach fat, I’m analyzing your thyroid hormone—or something.

Bet on the Reliable

Don’t go all-in and sink your money, effort, and emotions on the big tables that offer much and never deliver. Bet on the reliable, again-and-again. Win small, but win. Accumulate the small winnings into a large pot. By the end of six months or a year, you’ll need to exit the casino with a briefcase and security detail.

Notice I said, six months—not six days, and a year—not a week. That’s the thing with the safe, dependable fitness gambles. They take effort. They take time. They also bring out the best in us and don’t cater to our gluttonous and greedy natures. There’s nothing wrong with a little gambling. However, it’s never a substitute for good, old-fashioned work. So, step right up and place your bets. Win a little and win often.

I do wonder, sometimes, would Bugsy Siegel have survived the shooting if he was drinking Bulletproof Coffee?

The post Gambling on Fitness appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

Photography by Bev Childress of Fort Worth, Texas

Grappling is my first and forever love. That will be an awkward conversation with my future wife. My love of grappling eventually led to an appreciation and fondness for other forms of unarmed combat. It didn’t hurt that I had Bruce Lee movies and Rocky to watch as a kid. I grew up in the days after Muhammad Ali. The heavyweight division, despite having Larry Holmes at the apex, was a far cry from wars of yesteryear.

Then came the collision of pop culture and boxing in the rise of Mike Tyson. There were also the four kings: Duran, Hearns, Leonard, and—my personal favorite—Hagler, who mesmerized crowds throughout the 1980’s.

Boxing is affectionately known as The Sweet Science. To the untrained eye, it doesn’t look terribly complicated. Hit the guy in the face, collect the check. Only when you start wrapping your hands—an art in itself—that you begin to grasp the depth of the sport.

You enter a dingy boxing gym, a real one, not the mass-marketed cardio boxing studios. The people in these gyms are not chasing calories; they are trying to escape poverty and fight for a living. You wrap your hands, put your gloves on, and begin your lesson.

Stance, footwork, rhythm, timing, bobbing, weaving, parrying—keep your hands up—all before throwing a punch. If you’re lucky, a trainer will hold the focus mitts for you. If you’re unlucky, you’ll get the trainer who takes his or her job seriously and will smack you in the face with a mitt if they see your hands drop, leaving your chin defenseless. Then, you realize it. There’s more to fighting than you ever realized.

Living the Martial Life

Some begin the combat arts like jiu jitsu later in life, and others are born into it. Roy Jones, Jr. was the latter. He started training with his father at age six. The training was not for the faint of heart, and since it was father/son, senior did not take it lightly on junior.

He pushed young Roy to the brink of collapse, and beyond. His father found sparring partners that were older, heavier, and more experienced. Apparently, that wasn’t good enough, tying one of his son’s arms behind his back. The brutal training, although creating a fractured relationship between father and son, worked.

Roy Jones, Jr. won gold at the Junior Olympics in 1984 and the Golden Gloves. The dream of any amateur athlete is the Olympic Games. In 1988, Roy went to Seoul, South Korea for the opportunity of a lifetime. It seemed academic.

The brilliant young boxer was a shoe-in for another gold medal. He was destined to have gold draped around his neck and stand with his hand over his heart as the American National Anthem serenaded the crowd. The journey to the finals went according to plan. He torched his opponents, never surrendering a single round.

It resembled Dan Gable from the 1972 Olympics, who won all six of his wrestling matches without giving up a point. In the finals, Roy faced Park-Si Hun, a national hero. The hero didn’t fare so well. Marv Albert, that sports announcer who bit a woman in 1997, provided the commentary for the fight.

“Park Si-Hun is taking a thrashing!”

It was a glimpse of the Roy Jones the world would later see as a professional. At the fight’s conclusion, the combatants were pulled into the center of the ring as they waited for the judges’ decision. They remained there, no word from the judges. It shouldn’t take this long. Scorecards get passed around from judge-to-judge.

The results finally reach the announcer, and by a score of 3-2, Park-Si Hun is awarded the gold medal. A few Korean loyalists in the crowd cheer, but shock and anger grips the majority; another sad controversy in an Olympic contest—a robbery.

Later, fifty Korean monks visited the Jones camp to offer their apologies and express their shame for what occurred earlier in Chamshil Students’ Gymnasium. After the match, Roy Junior was doubtful that he’d ever fight again. I’m glad he changed his mind.

Know Where You’re Starting From

As a professional, Roy displayed the dazzling footwork, hand speed, and ring generalship that made him an amateur stand-out. It’s unavoidable for the supremely talented to receive criticism, usually from empty suits.

• He doesn’t engage.
• He doesn’t have tough competition.
• He rides out the fight to a decision.
• He’s a dancer, not a fighter.
• Can he take a punch?

The criticism is familiar since it was shared earlier about Sugar Ray Leonard and later about Floyd Mayweather, Jr. It didn’t take long before Roy decided to entertain his critics and show them why he was who he was. The first “I’ll show you” moment came in his fight against Vinny Pazienza—The Pazmanian Devil.

Jones was merciless. He floored Vinny three times in a single round and became the first fighter to officially complete a round without getting hit. Jones’ second middle-finger to his critics came in his rematch with Montell Griffin. Jones was disqualified in their first fight, and combined with the criticism he was receiving, Roy had a chip on his shoulder.

How long does it take to shut up a hater? With the internet troll, the answer might be “never.” But, in 1997, Jones did it in less than three minutes. He clobbered Griffin, knocking him out inside the first round.

From my novice viewpoint, there are four levels of boxers:

1. Masters
2. Professionals
3. Amateurs
4. People who think they can fight

Masters are exactly that, masters of their craft. Elite is another term, but I am developing a distaste for the word. Sugar Ray Robinson, Muhammad Ali, and Pernell Whitaker are examples of the masters. Of course, we can’t leave out Jones or Mayweather. Vasyl Lomachenko is a master-in-the-making. Some would argue, and it’s a good argument, that he’s already there.

Professionals are those with a true grasp of the science of pugilism, and perhaps with more ring time and sharpening of certain skills, can become masters. Amateurs need more experience and skill development. They are also younger and less physically mature. No matter how many films they study, or drills they perform, there are some things you can’t rush.

The last category makes up a large cast of characters. These range from drunk barroom brawlers, or those who watch the UFC on television, shouting instructions with nachos on their laps. It can also describe the cardio kickbox crowd, but not the ones who use it exclusively as a workout.

In that context, I’m fine with it. I think it’s a great workout. It’s those poor souls who believe, mostly deluded by their instructors, that’s it is comparable to boxing training and they’ll be able to “handle” a tense situation. It’s not, and it won’t. The categories have upward mobility.

A drunk fraternity brother who gets knocked out by a smaller person with greater skill might wake up and decide to learn the craft. He then graduates to amateur, regardless of his desire to compete. If he wants to compete, he may proceed into amateur contests and perhaps fight professionally. He may never become a master, but it’s possible. Even if he does not compete, he now has skills, and most likely, humility.

What Category Are You In?

Exercise appears to follow the same categories. Masters, professionals, amateurs, and people who “exercise.” The masters are not who you think they are. They are not the ones who are on magazine covers and on television. They also aren’t categorized by “who they train,” even if their clients are on the magazine covers.

I’ve met trainers of celebrities and professional athletes that couldn’t train a Border Collie. Don’t get me wrong, some of the more stylish celebrity trainers are indeed talented, but the percentage is low. Sometimes, it’s “who you know.” In a year of Saving Private Ryan, the Oscar goes to Shakespeare in Love. Yuck.

Masters are those who put in years of study into every possible dimension of health and fitness. Nutrition, physics, physiology, business management, human behavior, and psychology. They can get the most out of whomever they work with.

They do not rely on an NBA star to make them look skilled. They can get results out of a 90-year old who can hardly walk, and increase a ballplayer’s throwing strength. They usually aren’t overly visible on social media or at Barnes and Noble. They are hard to find because they are busy. They are busy studying, thinking, experimenting, failing, and improving.

The professionals understand the hard sciences and the soft skills. They have flaws, but actively work to reduce them, for the betterment of their clients. Their pocketbook is secondary. Being a professional trainer is not glamorous. Watching a mother of three do her first pull-up isn’t televised like your client scoring a winning touchdown, but there’s no feeling like it.

Scoring a touchdown is an incredible athletic accomplishment, but it’s not every day that a middle-aged woman who is told to “stick to the treadmill” jumps up, grips the bar, and pulls her chin over it. I’ve seen women cry afterward, and I can’t help but get a lump in my throat. Amateurs are new to the game.

They may be in college or recently graduated. They could be studying for a certification, or newly certified. This category is also comprised of the person who doesn’t wish to work in the industry, but takes exercise more thoughtfully.

They want to know how things work. They don’t want a path of shortcuts or Instagram diet teas. They want to understand and take a more sophisticated approach to exercise. It is this state of mind I’d like the casual exerciser to have. No matter your vocation, a CPA or a computer programmer, take a genuine interest in the truth about exercise. Stop chasing hype.

I don’t always get what I want. That brings us to category 4. Similar to the barroom brawlers, this section is full of those who go to the gym, and just do “stuff.” It kind of looks like exercise, I’m sure it feels like exercise, and you could technically describe it as such.

You see it all the time: people wandering from machine-to-machine, with a muscle magazine or the latest celebrity-worshipping rag under their arm. Nowadays, they have their phones out, following the moves and advice of their favorite Instagram trainer. It’s not difficult to predict.

• Don’t eat until noon.
• Stop eating at 4.
• Avoid all carbs and fat, except the 300 calories of butter in your superpowered coffee.
• Perform 30 minutes of crunches, followed by an hour of cardio, but don’t forget to swallow the most legal form of methamphetamine they can sell you.
• Take a selfie every six minutes.
• Tilapia and broccoli for dinner, and voila: you’re ripped.

Since the trainer looks in shape and the program can—accidentally—deliver results, no questions are asked. Eventually, the honeymoon ends. You’re left with a hole in your pocket, a closet full of exercise equipment, a pantry stocked with fat-burn pills, a plateau, possibly an injury, weight-rebound or a severely damaged psyche. Don’t think I’m being harsh. Well, maybe a little. However, all good amateurs, professionals, and even masters spent time in this category.

What you are left with is a choice. What sort of exerciser do you want to be? Let me put it in the simplest way I can:

You own the most incredible machine ever seen in the history of the world, and you live in it, twenty-four hours a day. You should take the time and learn how to use it.

Your Body Doesn’t Have an Instruction Manual

Your gorgeous new car, your lawnmower and even your hairdryer come with an instruction manual. It’s natural to visit the bookstore and pick up what “looks” like an instruction manual for your body.

Some books will go as far as using that as its title. Those books belong under your lawnmower, not on your bookshelf. You can do better. I don’t recommend reading the more technical material. It’s difficult to comprehend and boring unless you work in the field.

Get yourself a promising amateur or an established professional to help you understand your body and how it best responds to exercise. They won’t tie your arm behind your back like Roy’s father, but they will develop you into the finest version of yourself.

It’s appealing to want a master, but don’t bother. It’s not that they are too busy. The good amateurs and professionals are learning from them, anyway. Much like the amateur and professional boxers who look to the masters of their field, we do the same.

It’s not my concern who you learn from or where you do it. But, do it. Exercise is an art, a science, and can help your body accomplish things you only thought existed inside your imagination. On a selfish note, a better-educated exerciser won’t perform biceps curls inside the squat rack. Help me put an end to the insanity.

The post Make Your Excerise Routine a Total Knockout appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

Photography by Bev Childress of Fort Worth, Texas

Franklin Delano Roosevelt was an enigmatic man. Stricken with polio, he never allowed himself to be photographed in his wheelchair, not wanting anyone to see him in a “weakened” state. His New Deal is celebrated for rescuing the country from its worst economic crisis in history, the Great Depression. However, emerging evidence shows that his programs limped the depression along, unnecessarily, for years.

In World War II, he led the United States and Allies to victory against Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy, and Imperial Japan. Before the war, FDR and Mussolini admired each other and kept in close contact. Roosevelt even referred to Mussolini as “that admirable Italian gentleman.” Even the National Socialists—Nazi party—admired Roosevelt’s programs for its massive expansion of centralized Government power.

Nevertheless, when we needed him he was there. On December 7, 1941, hundreds of Japanese planes launched a sneak attack on US Naval base in Hawaii, Pearl Harbor. It was the largest and deadliest attack on the United States, surpassed by the tragedy of September 11th, 2001. Both attacks launched without a formal declaration of war, making them war crimes. The day after Pearl Harbor, the President addressed Congress:

“Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”

America, who had remained out of the European conflict, declared war on Japan. The vote in the Senate was 82-0, and 388-1 in the House. This near-unanimous vote further expanded FDR’s reach as Chief Executive. One of the darkest moments in the nation’s history occurred as a result: Executive Order 9066, the unconstitutional internment of 120,000 Japanese Americans.

Three days later, Germany and Italy declared war on the United States. It was on—the most pivotal war in the history of the world. The American public, unlike the Vietnam or Iraq wars, were united in solidarity to achieve total victory. Over a million men enlisted for military duty following the attacks. One of those boys was Calvin Graham.

Seeking the Fight

Kids lie—they lie to get their way, to get out of trouble, or to create mischief. Calvin Graham was no exception. Born April 3, 1930, he was 12 when he enlisted for the Navy following Pearl Harbor. One of seven children, he grew up in an abusive home.

Calvin wanted to enlist and fight Hitler, likely a common fantasy for young boys at the time. Calvin wanted his imaginary slugfest to become a reality. Recruiters wanted boys to be 17, and he’d be damned if he had to wait that long; the war could be over by then. He began shaving and practiced speaking in a deeper, more mature voice. He stood in line in his older brother’s clothes, anticipating his inspection.

One of those inspections was a dental exam. Kids fear the dentist, not to mention a Navy dentist. If the dentist was able to discern the boy’s age from his teeth, the jig would be up. Go home, kid, leave the fighting to the adults. Whether it was the frenzy of wartime or a lack of prudence on the dentist’s part, the boy got through. After six weeks of Bootcamp, it was off to the USS South Dakota, the Pacific Theater, and war.

If it was a fight Calvin was looking for—he’d get one. No more cap guns and “pew-pew” sounds; instead, cannons and hell. The South Dakota engaged in a destructive sea campaign, The Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands. A week after his 13th birthday, eight Japanese destroyers came, bearing gifts of fire, lead, and lethal intent. Shrapnel took out his front teeth, and an explosion dropped him thirteen stories. The new teenager rose to his feet and began pulling injured crew members to safety, while still under massive enemy assault.

“It was a long night. It aged me. I didn’t do any complaining because half the ship was dead. It was a while before they worked on my mouth.”

The ship hobbled back to New York for major repairs. Young Calvin received a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart for his courage and injuries in the Pacific, the youngest soldier in history to receive the honors. At some point, the fantasy must end. His mother saw her son on a newsreel and must have received quite a shock. She wrote the Navy, revealing his true age—moms have a way of ruining a good ruse.

While other 13-year-olds got “time out” from going outside, young Calvin spent three months in the brig. The Navy stripped him of his medals and disability benefits. In 1978, President Jimmy Carter restored his medals, with the exception of the Purple Heart. In 1988, President Ronald Reagan restored his disability, providing back-pay for prior bills and lost benefits. In 1994, two years following his death, the Military justly returned his Purple Heart to his widow. Calvin Graham is buried in Laurel Land Memorial Park in Fort Worth, Texas.

The Disturbing Deficiencies of Youth Fitness

After the war, the celebrated General, Dwight Eisenhower was the logical choice for President, after Harry Truman. Ike was so popular he would have won on either side of the ticket, Democrat or Republican. In 1956, the White House took notice of a disturbing domestic trend: a drop in youth fitness. On July 16th, he issued Executive Order 10673—Fitness of American Youth. Note the first line of the Executive Order:

“WHEREAS recent studies, both private and public, have revealed disturbing deficiencies in the fitness of American youth.”

Let’s look closer at the words “disturbing deficiencies.” The President’s Council on Youth Fitness didn’t take off until Kennedy took office in 1960. In 1963, 1-in-20 children under 19 years old were considered overweight—1-in-20. That was enough to worry President Eisenhower. Today, it’s 1-in-5. Read that again. Like most Government programs, they cost too much and don’t work—think the “War on Poverty.”

The growing weight problem of America’s youth is a multi-factorial issue. Two of those factors are the precipitous reduction in youth activity levels and the steady rise in caloric consumption since 1956. No, we don’t need 12-year-old kids trying to join the military.

However, it is a stark contrast between Calvin Graham aboard a battleship, pulling crew to safety under a maelstrom of Japanese bombardment, and the 12-year-olds of today. Kids of today kill zombies and win football games behind virtual reality goggles. A growing trend is to watch other people play video games on YouTube. I wish I made this up.

We don’t need our kids enlisting in the military at 12. We also don’t need football players doing public service announcements, pleading with kids to play for an hour a day. An hour was a warm up when we were young. Our bicycles would lay messily on the front lawn, and we’d be outside. We would play traditional games, like tag, and games we’d make up on the spot, complete with rules and bylaws.

It wasn’t time to go inside until dusk when the street lights came on. It was the era of The Goonies, The Outsiders, The Lost Boys, and The Losers Club. We were made to run, jump, and climb—and we did it all. After we said our goodbyes—usually in the form of insults—we’d go home for dinner, at the dinner table.

Use the Dinner Table

In 1989, Ronald Reagan said, “all great change in America begins at the dinner table.” I firmly believe that. A few months ago, I stood in the birth home of Richard Nixon—another enigmatic and controversial President. They were poor, simple folk. Unlike his opponent in 1960, John F Kennedy, the Nixons came from nothing. The guide told the story of how Frank Nixon and the Nixon boys would sit at the dinner table, debating literature, politics, sports, and the like—for hours.

The dinner table is where proper food habits are developed, ideas are discussed, families unify, and where children feel secure. I understand it’s difficult for families in 2018 to gather regularly at a set time for dinner. Kids have studies—or video games and parents have meetings—or television, and everyone is tired.

It doesn’t have to be seven-out-of-seven days. You’re more likely to strangle each other after that, so it’s best to start with a lesser frequency. It’s not terribly complicated, either: no technology at the dinner table, healthy food, and talk—about everything. Yes, your kids will hate it, you may even loathe it as well, at first. Perhaps the first few dinners are filled with awkward silences and blank stares. So be it.

If you want to improve the health of your children, raise better thinkers and citizens, and create change in society, start at the dinner table.

The post Rescuing Youth Fitness appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

Sports photography by Bev Childress

America’s Independence Day is July 4th, and Mexico’s is September 16th. I know what you’re thinking. “Isn’t it Cinco de Mayo?” The fifth of May celebrates the Mexican Army’s victory over the French during the Battle of the Puebla; it’s not their Independence Day. Don’t worry, you can still party in May, but now you know the reason for the season.

Between America’s Independence Day and Mexico’s, nuzzles India’s—August 15th. Once under the British Empire, India’s sovereignty was made official in 1947, largely due to the efforts of a humble and noble man: Mahatma Mohandas Gandhi. Gandhi inspired the immortal Martin Luther King, Jr. with his insistence on non-violence as a means of civil disobedience. Both are memorialized in Washington DC, barely two miles apart. After seeing the protests of today, you’d think that neither of these men ever existed.

Dr. King guided a group of protesters from Selma to Montgomery, under the protection of the National Guard, to do what citizens have the right to do—vote. They chanted “How long? Not long!” Dr. King sang the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”—a masterful, beautiful, and patriotic song.

On the other side of the world and decades earlier, Gandhi was fighting a battle of his own. His weapon of choice: the hunger strike. Gandhi held seventeen hunger strikes between 1913 and 1948, one of which lasted 21 days. The British press sought to suppress his efforts, refusing to show his emaciated body. Eventually, the censorship ceased, he conquered the hearts of the British people, and India won its freedom.

The Role of Intermittent Fasting

I don’t love social media. I remember when the internet was inchoate, limited to chat rooms and extremely slow downloads. I use social media mostly as an outlet to watch entertaining videos involving cats.

The other day I was scrolling through Instagram and came across a post about intermittent fasting. It showed two photographs, side-by-side. One, a lean, muscular, and rugged looking fellow. The other, a man with a more relaxed physique, to put it politely. According to the post, the difference between the two men was intermittent fasting. The lauded benefits of intermittent fasting are numerous—some legitimate and others, absurd.

There are 60,000 diet books available on Amazon, 1,000 of them on intermittent fasting.

I see nothing wrong with intermittent fasting, intermittent caloric restriction, or any other terminology used to describe it. In primitive times, we used to call it “skipping breakfast.” We were lambasted for that, due to the indoctrination that “breakfast was the most important meal of the day.”

If anything, intermittent fasting has punctured that myth. Fat loss is the most sought-after result of intermittent fasting. When researchers compared intermittent fasting to continuous energy restriction—normal dieting—they didn’t find anything superior with either.

The following was their conclusion after reviewing forty studies on the subject:

“Intermittent fasting thus represents a valid—albeit apparently not superior—option to continuous energy restriction for weight loss.”

Remember, 1,000 books on Amazon. That’s 999 too many, but I’m a free market guy. Intermittent fasting isn’t the new frontier in fat-loss dieting. For many, it’s an attempt at a shortcut. Some will be audacious enough to use the term “hack” to describe what happens with intermittent fasting.

Whether talking about computers or biology, hacking is not something to be celebrated. It’s not a hack or a shortcut, and won’t take you to an enchanting fantasyland of six-packs and bikini bodies. However, that doesn’t negate the merits of fasting, altogether.

Fasting has a rich history, spanning the entire globe. Prince Siddhartha—the Buddha—practiced it. Pythagoras—the triangle guy—fasted 40 days, allegedly. A thousand years earlier, in the Book of Leviticus, fasting is commanded on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. On that day, Jewish people use fasting to reconcile with God in a deeply spiritual way.

The word they use is Teshuva—repentance. I have a firm respect for Jewish tradition and don’t wish to dilute it in this conversation. And since I don’t want to divide my audience with serious theology, I will focus on Teshuva’s literal translation: “return.” But, a return to what?

If you transported someone from 500 BCE or even 1945 and brought them here; they would think they are in heaven. Look around your office or home. You’re likely living better than any ancient King or Queen. Henry VIII had extravagant feasts, but you can have a greater one at any of the hotels in Las Vegas, for the price of a movie ticket.

You can touch a button on your phone, and a total stranger will deliver food directly to you. This is especially strange because we were once told: “never take candy from strangers.” Today, I can essentially order candy from a stranger, giving them directions to my home. You could have Mexican food in the morning, Chinese for lunch, and Italian for dinner.

In twelve hours, you would have eaten a cuisine that would have taken someone years of travel by sea to accomplish. I can ask a talking box, from my recliner, to play the symphonies from a man who lived 300 years ago. We’re lucky, so lucky in fact, that we’ve forgotten how lucky we are.

The Benefits of Fasting

Fasting offers an opportunity to reflect and return to a healthy state of gratitude and reverence for the gifts in our lives. Yom Kippur commands a 24-hour fast. Muslims observing Ramadan fast from dawn until sunset.

The newer, fitness-driven fasts last 16 hours. The length of your fast is irrelevant. Fasting is an act of discipline, a respite from physical fuel. It’s abstinence from our immediate gratifications.

Fasting should compel us to examine our thoughts, our language, and our behavior, directed towards ourselves and others. What are our hang-ups? What are the things that seem to have control over us, like alcohol, sugar, or anger? Once the fast is broken—regardless of length—how will we conduct ourselves? Do we repeat the same toxic patterns or break our fasts, reborn?

You might be thinking, “I could never fast. I’d be pricklier than a cactus.” I would argue that we can achieve similar outcomes without complete fasting. It’s called slowing down while you eat. I’ve sat next to people—fitness people—who stuff food in their mouth like Joey Chestnut, the Yokozuna of Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest; a legitimate race-against-time, as if they’ve never eaten food before.

I’ve witnessed people gunning down the freeway, with a McDonald’s Egg McMuffin in their mouth, trying to apply makeup or shave. This isn’t just a gastroenterologist’s nightmare, but a sure-fire way of eating more calories and gaining weight. Studies routinely demonstrate reduced satiety—fullness—and increased consumption proportional to the rate of ingestion. I rarely mention studies in my work—so you know this is important.

The Age of Convenience

When talking about consumption, we are not limited to food. In the 21st Century, we gorge on technology, social media, real-and-fake news. The modern age has not come with increased virtue but only advanced the means to destroy ourselves.

Last century, the means were obvious: the atomic bomb. Today, it’s obesity and the latest disorder, “selfitis:” selfie addiction. I wish I made this up. You should consider a fast from social media and entertainment technology to coincide with your dietary fast. According to Gandhi, “If physical fasting is not accompanied by mental fasting, it is bound to end in hypocrisy and disaster.”

Fasting is not a get-lean-quick scheme. It is rooted in spirituality and obedience. Our abundant life demands gratitude, thoughtfulness, and peace. Whether you fast for 12, 16, or 24 hours, or chew your food slowly, we are invited to return to a state of mind that allows for each.

Don’t waste that opportunity. A proper mental and physical fast should end the way the Prophet Isaiah describes it, “You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” Now that’s a diet I can get behind.

The post A Return to Fasting appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

On January 26, 1982, Lenny Skutnik sat in the Presidential Gallery, next to the First Lady during the Inaugural Address, receiving a standing ovation.

Who was Lenny Skutnik?

Washington National Airport: Two weeks earlier.

Be a Lenny Skutnik.

On January 26, 1982, Lenny Skutnik sat in the Presidential Gallery, next to the First Lady during the Inaugural Address, receiving a standing ovation.

Who was Lenny Skutnik?

Washington National Airport: Two weeks earlier.

The weather was uncooperative, heavy snowfall grounded airplanes for much of the day. Thousands of passengers sat in the terminals, unsure if their flights would be further delayed, or canceled completely. In the pre-9/11 era, entire families would wait alongside the traveler to see their plane soar into the air. Dads, who wanted to sound funny to their children would mimic Tattoo from “Fantasy Island” as they shouted, “De plane! De plane!”

Air Florida Flight 90 was among those planes. It was scheduled to depart Washington National and headed for Ft. Lauderdale. It would never reach the Sunshine State. Once conditions improved, planes were deiced and readied for takeoff. Air Florida’s 74 passengers, relieved that their itinerary was underway—boarded.

Inside, they placed their belongings overhead, sat, belts fastened, thrilled for the short trip south. Flight attendants worked their way up-and-down the aisles, checking and double checking every seat and overhead bin. The pilots made their final preparations, communicating with air traffic control; it was supposed to be a flight like any other. Instead, it would join the tragic list of flights that were not.

At 4:01 PM EST, only having been airborne for thirty seconds, Flight 90 collided with the 14th Street Bridge and crashed into the icy Potomac River. Nothing can prepare you for an airplane crash, nothing.

No matter how closely you pay attention to the flight attendants before takeoff, no matter how diligently you study the readiness card behind the seat in front of you, no matter how many times you play the what-if scenario in your head, you’re not ready. The casualties were high that day. Both pilots, 70 of the 74 passengers and four motorists below lost their lives. Some, upon impact and others, swallowed by the unforgiving cold of the river. Then, there’s Lenny Skutnik.

Lenny was an employee of the Congressional Budget Office, as well a bystander; one of the hundreds. A helicopter hovered over the river to rescue passengers from the wreckage. One woman, weakened and disoriented from the crash, lost her grip on the line that was to pull her to safety.

She plunged into the hypothermia-inducing void of the Potomac. Lenny Skutnik—a bureaucrat—dove in, pulling her to the river shore, jeopardizing his own life in the process. What possesses a person to perform such acts of self-sacrifice? Does it intensify the question when we learn that the woman was a stranger to Lenny? She wasn’t his wife, his daughter, or his sister; she was a face among a thousand other faces.

When you consider that he could have had a wife or a daughter of his own, that he may never have seen again, does it make him courageous or irresponsible? When thinking about acts of heroism, when we think of Flight 90, and about Lenny, the latter doesn’t dare enter our minds. When we see acts of this nature, we don’t think “Oh, that guy is so irresponsible.” We think, “Thank God for people like Lenny Skutnik.”

The Virtue of Justice

In my line of work, I have the privilege of attending charity events where the philanthropically-minded gather. Yes, there are hors-d’oeuvres and plenty of champagne toasts, but a lot of good takes place inside those walls. One night, the emcee says, “for X amount of money, you can put an orphaned child through a semester of college.” A hand goes up. In another event, “for X amount of money, you can provide care for an elderly person, afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease for a full year.” A hand goes up.

The generosity is astonishing and worthy of our praise. Eventually, the high rollers put their hands down, and the emcees work the dollar amounts down to the levels that folks like me can reach. Once they get to the hundred-dollar tier, the sky lights up with hands, as if the emcee asked: “who knows the sum of one-plus-one?” Is it all self-idolatry and narcissism disguised as charity or heroism? That’s what the cynic would say.

I propose a different motive: it’s our conscience manifested in the virtue of justice, real justice; no adjectives required. When we were children, our parents, attempting to make us eat our vegetables, would say “Eat your Brussels sprouts. There are starving people in such-and-such place.” I wager that, although the places may have changed, the sentiment is still shared across American households; assuming families still dine together.

Even children, who normally operate in a framework of selfishness, find something inherently wrong with similar-aged children going hungry. If, for whatever reason, the lesson failed; we threaten to withhold dessert, which usually does the trick. What about when we watched National Geographic as kids? We’d see the cheetah chasing the gazelle. We didn’t want the gazelle to get eaten, but we didn’t want the cheetah and her family to starve. It was a conflict of justice that we didn’t know which side to take.

Whether self-constructed or divinely-given, we draw lines between good and bad, right and wrong, justice and injustice, healthy and unhealthy. For this discussion, the reference point for the lines—the ontic referent—is of little value. Sometimes, the lines shift over time. The migration of the lines should be due to increased virtue and knowledge, not emotional impulsiveness. Whether changed or unchanged, the lines matter.

Reading about a robbery in the newspaper is one thing, seeing one take place outside your window is another. Hearing about a plane crash on television is one thing, seeing one in front of you, and someone clinging to life inside a cold, watery grave, is another. What we do when the lines are crossed matters.

As children, knowing that there are hungry children out there—somewhere—makes us clean our plates. As adults, we can feed them, clothe them and educate them. As children, we held our breath waiting to hear our parents respond to the question, “are all the tigers disappearing?” As adults, we prosecute poachers. As children, we fantasize about saving the damsel in distress or running into a burning building to save the puppy. As adults, we dive into waters, from which there may be no return, to save the stranger.

The Line Between Healthy and Unhealthy

A few days ago, my mother suffered a stroke. In the morning, she was speaking with coworkers, in a slightly slurred speech, soaked in sweat. Her coworker said, “You’re not the same, Cheri.

What’s the matter?”

“I’m tired. I’ll be ok,” my mother stoically replies—always the soldier.

“You’re not ok. Sit down, let me take your blood pressure.”

Hypertensive crisis, that’s what they call it when your blood pressure exceeds 180/120; she exceeded both, by a mile.

9-1-1.

A text message jumps on my screen: “Your mother has been taken to the emergency room.”

Doctors and nurses swarm her, running every analysis possible. By all mathematical judgment, she shouldn’t be alive. Unlike the lines between right and wrong, the line between healthy and unhealthy can remain hidden and undetectable until it’s too late. They call hypertension the “silent killer.”

The invisible assassin had my mother dead-to-rights. If not for her steadfast co-worker responding as she did; the assassin would have succeeded. I don’t know where the lines separating healthy and unhealthy came from or who drew them, but they matter; all the lines matter. What mattered most, is that something was done once the lines were crossed. That’s what her coworker did. That’s what the medical team did. That’s what the little kids do at dinner. That’s what the philanthropists do. That’s what Lenny Skutnik did.

We all want to look good. Why not? It feels great to receive a compliment. It is a nice feeling to face the mirror and be pleased with the reflection. However, we must not allow our hunt for a non-existent aesthetic perfection to drive us away from the healthy, and across the line to the desolate wastelands of the unhealthy.

Your weight nor your body fat percentage will tell you what’s happening underneath the surface; your blood will. People will stand in line once a week to check their body fat, hoping for the number to budge—but will resist an annual check-up. Get it done and listen to what your doctor says. If they are anything like my doctor, be prepared for a big-hearted, yet scathing lecture. You don’t need to sacrifice your true health for the appearance of it.

So, who saved my mom? It was the line. It was Lenny Skutnik.

The post Draw Your Line in the Sand appeared first on Breaking Muscle.

It is said that “Necessity is the mother of invention.” I’m unclear about the conditions that necessitated the invention of baseball, but I’m grateful for it, nonetheless. Not everyone enjoys the game; it’s more conducive for a snooze than a foaming fan frenzy; there’s even an inning dedicated to stretching.

Nevertheless, here I am, in section 10FD, anxiously awaiting the first pitch. Before the steroid scandal, before the strike of ’94, it was a marvelous time to be a fan. Fernando Valenzuela struck out the side—looking up—Bo Jackson scaled the outfield wall like Spider-Man and Nolan Ryan snatched up Robin Ventura—twenty years his junior—in a headlock.

The nostalgia is enough to bring a tear to my eye, but I must heed Tom Hank’s half-sober proclamation in A League of Their Own: “There’s no crying in baseball.”

The sun is slowly setting, and the boys of summer are about to take the field. No, this isn’t a love letter about baseball, but it does make me think. The baseball season is 162 games, increased from 154 in 1961.

How does someone get motivated for that many games? What if they lose motivation, what brings them back? The word slump sends ballplayers running for cover, what can we do when we find ourselves in one? We all have ups-and-downs in motivation at various times. How can we recapture that motivation to rebound without too much delay?

How Do We Keep Motivation Going?

Some will describe inspiration as a driving force and motivation as a pulling force. I have no arguments with the distinctions, and I agree that it’s important to know the difference. However, I’ll use them interchangeably, to the dismay, I’m sure, of the New Age Achievement Philosophers. Providing bumper-sticker clichés about motivation is a quick getaway. While this works, short term, it doesn’t address the inevitability of running out of steam.

You can only go full-speed for so long without burning out. Not all of us are the 90-year old Juice Man with bushy eyebrows and frenetic energy. Some of us get tired, despite having strong sources of inspiration.

For the ballplayers, it’s a long season of going town-to-town, putting on the cleats, day-in-and-day-out. For us, it’s a long year of dieting, exercising, and displaying discipline; but for what? The first appearance of success on the horizon is a shot in the arm; then it gets tough.

Some say the last ten pounds are difficult physiologically, which it is, but it’s much harder psychologically. What puzzles me is returning to the groove once motivation fatigue sets in, not preventing its unavoidable occurrence.

Babe Ruth Is Sold to the Yankees.

The Curse of the Bambino was one of those American legends that sprang into popular culture in 1990. It described the World Series drought that plagued the Boston Red Sox since 1918, the year the Sox sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees.

The city of Boston popped like Pompeii when the curse was broken in 2004. The World Series took place on the heels of one of the most dramatic comebacks in history when the Red Sox overcame a 0-3 series deficit against—you guessed it—the Yankees. However, in 1967, the curse was in full-swing; pun intended.

Tony Conigliaro With the Red Sox

The ’67 season was called the Impossible Dream. For one player, it would turn out to be a nightmare. Five years earlier, at the age of 17, Tony Conigliaro (Tony C) was signed by the Red Sox, where he played in the minor leagues.

The kid showed incredible potential and looked as though he could propel the team to that elusive World Championship. In his rookie year, he did not disappoint; hitting 24 home runs, even going hard in his first appearance at Fenway Park. By 22, he amassed 100 career home runs, the youngest player in American League history to do so.

During the Impossible Dream season, the young Massachusetts-born slugger was selected to the All-Star Game in Anaheim, California. On August 18th, 1967, Anaheim’s team, the California Angels—before the Los Angeles Angels-of-Anaheim nonsense—visited the Sox in Boston.

It was then that tragedy struck. In the fourth inning, a fastball left the hand of the Angel’s Jack Hamilton. The six-foot, 200 lb pitcher was known for tremendous velocity and the control of a baby driving a Ferrari. The fastball boomed from the mound and raced towards Tony C’s face, knocking him unconscious, instantly.

Tony left the game on a stretcher, suffering from a shattered cheekbone, dislocated jaw and a severely damaged retina. In the hospital room, white coats and clipboards hovered over the young man.

The prognosis: Hang it up, kid. You’ll never play again.

If Courage Made a Sound, It Was Heard That Day.

Silence. No roaring crowds. Tony could only watch his teammates from a distance with his right eye, unsure if he’d ever see again out of his left, let alone swing the Louisville Slugger. In 1969, a sound penetrated the abyss of muteness.

It was the cry of the Fenway loyal, and the city of Boston as Tony C returned to the plate. It was the sound of his cleats digging into the hallowed dirt of the batter’s box. It was the whizzing sound of the ball, as it accelerated towards him. If courage made a sound, it was heard that day. He cracked 20 home runs that season, 36 the following year.

The reality of his injury would catch up to him in 1975, retiring due to declining eyesight. It’s not his ending that we remember; everyone loves a comeback story.

Everybody Loves a Comeback.

Athletes have a knack for comebacks.

• Monica Seles came back and won the Australian Open after being—literally—stabbed in the back in Hamburg.
• Michael Jordan came back to win three straight NBA titles, not after injury, but an equally calamitous attempt at baseball. How do we make our comeback from lost or stolen motivation?
• What inspires Anthony Robles; a boy born with one leg refusing a prosthetic, who gets a wrestling scholarship, racking up a 36-0 record and winning the NCAA title?
• What inspires people like Billy Miske, the boxer who, despite having a terminal kidney disease, returns to win a boxing match by knockout? Billy would die two months later.

What propels us to do extraordinary things, despite our limitations?

Craving Challenges

Although they all had different inspirations and motivations, there’s a common denominator between all these stories: the unrestrainable craving for a challenge. The human spirit’s longing for the ordeal is what separates jogging across the street and running 26 miles.

It’s the question, “Can humans achieve flight?” to “Can I fly this thing around the world?” to “Can we stand on the moon?”

Trial-by-fire has driven us from the beginning of civilization and is no less meaningful today in our technological age. Silicon Valley has not eliminated the need for a higher purpose by putting the information superhighway at our fingertips. People now more than ever are craving deeper meaning, not memes, and greater significance, not status updates.

It’s not about baseball or any other sport; it’s the tribulation. Challenges ask us questions in unique forms, unduplicatable by the SATs. You learn something about yourself that would otherwise remain a dormant lesson for years, possibly forever.

Take the typical linear goal of losing twenty pounds. Why do you want to lose it? Would it make you happy? Why haven’t you done it yet? What will this goal—this challenge—teach you about who you are, and more importantly, why you are? When motivation decreases—which it will—your comeback is woven into your answers.

You’ve no doubt heard this inspirational question: “What are you made of?” You’re made out of the same bits and pieces that Tony C and Monica Seles are made from.

My question is, what are you made for?

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