Body Mass Index aside, this morning represented a milestone of sorts. After my second spin class of the day I stood atop the scale wondering what a thousand calorie burn might represent on the balance bar. True, I had a small bowl of yogurt and granola between sessions, and I have managed the discipline to eliminate one beer from the nightly cool-down routine, leaving a low-alcohol, 98 calorie per, total consumption to less than 300 (minus dinner), I felt like there might be the possibility of a negative split on the day. And for the record a day that is far from over, as we are lifting at noon, I have a lawn to mow (non-motorized) and a final 2x20 session in the PB at 1830.
BMI is an average. The calc is as simple as it gets, height (in) x weight. From that total a chart indicates your index. You can be skinny, unhealthy, average, fat, obese or overweight. For the record I know a lot of very lean triathletes that have unhealthy BMIs, as I know several football players that are stronger than bull elephants yet considered unhealthy and overweight. I guess insurance companies and overloaded general practitioners can glean some data from this measurement, but for most of the folks I deal with, it is nowhere near an accurate snapshot of their true health and fitness. Very much like the old 220 minus your age to determine maximum heart rate. A gross generalization and inadequate for anyone wanting accuracy in their training regimen.
We were talking the other night about the difference between our former ‘playing weight’ and its current count. No one in the group that evening was anywhere near what weight class they participated in at their last competitive level. In some cases, like mine, we are talking about an athlete’s stats from over a half-century ago. Back in the days when accuracy was nowhere near the level of today, when it was, and remains, an art form to hedge both height and weight - on paper - for whatever benefit might be gained as a result of said hedgery. So it was with great trepidation that I reported my playing weight, in 1970, as a slick fielding shortstop at 5’10’ and 175, although the reality was 5’9’ and 165. One inch and ten pounds possibly being the difference between a tryout with the Giants or working as a sporting goods salesman. I much preferred the former and was willing to say five Hail Mary’s and five Our Father’s as penance for my overzealous little white lie. With the assumption of course that as a means to and end I would one fine day be a starting shortstop, somewhere in preferably the American League.
I bring all this up today because as I settled the bar between the metal arrows on the scale, I had to keep pushing the counterweight left, or lower. Finally when this dramatic process was finished the indicator weight was pointing to 165.
I had reached my playing weight.
I know for fact that my ‘cubic inch displacement’ has self adjusted since my last college RBI, a sac fly against a LACC team that featured three players destined for supporting roles in The Show, meaning that muscle has been replaced by fat, but the metric used by health professionals still insists that I am, at 24.35% BMI, a healthy former shortstop.
I should be happy.
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