I Will Try

Maybe the ‘show and tell’ format is too boring for modern audiences? That the National Geographic model is outdated? That without a compelling story filled with tension, drama and conflict resolution, a carefully stitched together collection of high energy visuals from around the world is unworthy of consideration for inclusion as indoor cycling entertainment? Hummmmm the cynic in me wonders as the objective and neutral witness listens to comments with fascination and interest. Maybe the ‘story’ needs a ‘hero’ and the Bruce Brown, Warren Miller, Ken Burns formula is the way to go. Brown had the beach, Miller the mountain and Burns, well, everything else. I have chosen cycling (or it has chosen me) as the subject matter of my creative attention. In 2001 I added the story line of a pair of local (Seattle) triathletes, each winning the Ironman lottery, the prize of which is participation in the most prestigious and internationally respected event in the world of triathlon, to a video montage of action from events shot from the Pacific Northwest to Florida. I did this without a budget and with a two hundred dollar camera. I did ante up to pay an editor for post production. The resulting documentary was shown as a holiday celebration for the Seattle Triathlon Club and warmly, enthusiastically and appreciatively received. After all who doesn’t want to see themselves on the big screen doing the athletically heroic? In 2003 I repeated the formula, this time with upgraded video equipment and an in-house editing system, to produce and present ‘Tips’ to the same audience. In it, the tri-sport protagonist is the recipient of a generous tip from a mysterious older woman wanting to assist his pregnant wife, working nights as a waitress to make ends meet. The detail of their financial struggle gives the story a flavor of the underdog competing against more gifted, or more ‘entitled’ competition. 

Did the emotional involvement created by the trajectory of the lead character's journey, from nowhere to somewhere, the proverbial rags to riches tale add a necessary component to the story? Does there need to be an arc, a rainbow of emotion that takes us on a ride across a time-line of drama, adventure or challenge? 

The more I consider this the more I believe the right answer to be yes. 

In terms of sheer entertainment, mashing together a series of images, no matter the content and regardless of quality will always seem lacking if not bound by a story. That is simply the nature of our species, where there are but two types, those that tell stories and those that listen to them. 

My job is to tell a story. The current story is about people riding bikes. For fun, adventure, challenge, sport, social interaction with their peers, as tests for themselves and as transportation. There are professionals whose livelihood depends on results and amateurs who’s only goal is for continual improvement. There are those who climb mountains, jump rocks, use a single gear, never brake, ride gravel, race a circuit, do stunts and self support. There are those who ride indoors seeking better health and fitness. There are those who’s vacations are planned around the geographic proximity to epic rides. People have traversed the entire planet on two wheels. Some on only one. Some seek speed, and others seek the joy of discovery that only a snails pace allows. Some love the freedom of a self propelled pilgrimage through the sights of time and the sounds of space. Others thrive on the thrill of the event and the commitment to its mandated, disciplined training regimen. Many go very specifically to that sacred place we call nowhere. In a rush of endorphin and adrenalin flow we intrepidly seek our higher selves, spinning as salvation and redemption, a true catharsis of the soul. Next to music I have yet to find another activity that so completely satisfies the need for unification of the mind, the body and our human spirit. 

Regardless of the reasons why, we all recognize the childlike unabashed joy that cycling brings. Any healthy participatory activity bringing a song to the heart and a smile to the face also contains high spiritual value. It is something to be celebrated and promoted as a universal antidote to fear, anger and depression. It might be the exact antithesis of hate, greed and corruption.

So yes, the story is important. Someone should tell it. 

I will try. 

Far From Work

We are rolling right along with the production of Video II. With a working title like “Planet Bike” one might quickly connect the dots suggesting the usual sights and sounds of happy, fit and beautiful people riding bikes in picturesque places. That is about it. I tried to concoct a storyline to add another layer of interest but opted for the music video format instead, and, almost a third of the way through the sixty minute targeted running time, I like it. I initially envisioned a thematic trip around the world, using the archival footage from the exotic (or otherwise) ports of call that I was fortunate to see on my sponsor’s dime, but, again, defaulted to a mash-up of video from anywhere accessible. As an example, in yesterdays session we started in France and ended up crossing the Missouri River from Iowa and into Nebraska. A stretch, I realize but with a few bells, a whistle or two, a smoke bomb and a floor-to-ceiling mirror, we made it work. Today we’ll continue to experiment. The idea that came to me in our first Super Eight session this morning at oh-dark-thirty was to try a Beatles collage of just instrumental refrains, which, considering their propensity for soaring harmonic vocals, might be a challenge. The beauty of non-linear editing is of course that if I don’t like the flow or consider it not up to the standards we rigidly enforce around here, one tap of the delta key dons a reset. It ever there was a metaphor for the mantra that nothing lasts, this might be it. 

Putting the video way-back machine into effect, sitting, reviewing, searching, remembering, judging, grading, re-purposing the media, allows a novel opportunity to consider what was taking place both inside and out as the camera rolled. By that I mean that I can look at the video as say a psychiatrist might look upon a client. Why I chose the scene, that action part of the scene, the angle, the focus, the camera movement of any particular sequence is an exercise in, I believe, the creative process itself. What fascinates me enough to spend even the slightest amount of thought about capturing it on film, is the point. It answers the question that asks why I try to put a mountain, river or blue sky behind the moving object that has attracted my attention. The entire process from the decision of what to shoot, how to shoot it, through the editing and creative manipulation of it in post and its inclusion into whatever story is being told, is something that everyone should do. At least once. There is free editing available on-line and everyone has a phone with a camera in their pocket.

But trust me when I say that one will not, or ever, be enough. Once the creative bug bites, you will find yourself seeking ways to improve, looking for new ideas to test and more exotic (or otherwise) locations from which to frame your commentary. You will start to see things differently, the reflection of a cloud, the shadow from a tree, a bird in flight. They all look great in video. As does motion. Anything that moves deserves consideration, and sometimes the faster the better. OMG and super slow motion! Then, should you decide, one can add dialogue, a story line and a soundtrack. The intrepid one man crew can wear any number of hats along this electronically charged road. From executive producer to marketing director and every job between them, the tools are all here and available. They patiently wait for you. You are the director. If it is to be it is up to thee (although I don’t recommend Shakespeare as first attempt). 

I am sure that writers have similar joyous emotional outbursts, same as musicians, dancers, teachers, guides, shamans and wizards. So it’s back to the editing suite we go. After class this morning as I left the club with flowing endorphins and a cup of coffee, someone at the front desk offered a ‘have a great day at work’ goodbye. 

I said thanks, knowing full well that this is the farthest thing from work that could ever be. 

With Conviction

With conviction. That is the executive summary. Through the course of any given day, the 35,000 decisions we make, from scratching the itch to going the extra mile, shape the arc of our growth. As many have suggested, simply converting 10% of those  decisions from the negative (I won’t, I can’t or I shouldn’t) to their positive counterparts, can have dramatic effect on our success, defined here as happiness and that obscure abstraction known as peace of mind. A deep satisfaction that things, while not perfect, are sorta manageable and kinda OK. We no longer feel overwhelmed, out of control or hopelessly lost. 

And a funny things happens when we enter this state. Things change. They change as a direct result of that 10% acting as a tipping point. It allows is to look at the world, the part of it immediately accessible and right in from of or very noses, from a new perspective as if we have just removed our dirty spectacles, wiped them clean and replaced them with the lens of hope. It is an entirely new and vibrant spectrum that we suddenly see in colors lifted from the palate of Van Gough. A song played on the unstrung harp of an angelic choir. A feeling of power and unbridled energy flow that only comes from a fierce commitment to life. Or a tuna sandwich.

And so it goes. In our workout sessions we honor the amazing gift of our physical prowess and commit to its relentless need for maintenance and regular care. This must be the foundation. If there is a cliche that I have toted around with all my other baggage these many years, miles and hot dusty roads it is this: Whomever said that happiness is 90% good health, was a pessimist. Should you remain among the doubting Thomases of the world, see what happens when your health and fitness is suddenly picked from your pocket and you stand hungry, tired, cold, wet and broke. Facing this type of challenge it takes the presence of a saint to find a way, a reason, to be anything even close to happy. How could we? What mantra, creed, belief, promise, vow, job description or primary objective could give us the slightest glimmer of hope necessary to carry on, move forward or simply survive? 

 Self confidence? Trust? Blind faith? A code? Your dream? 

Yesterday we talked about the importance of staying true to yourself, knowing who we are, accepting our imperfections and continually moving towards the vision of our better selves. There are three distinct parts of this equation. There is the mind element (did you know that 33% of graduating high school kids in this era never read another book after graduation?) there is the body element (we have an obesity crisis on our hands) and the spiritual component (never before has this been so misunderstood). These three parts create our personal wholeness. And for the songsmiths among you, yes 1+1+1 = 1. 

The grand experiment is to prove this formula for yourself and see. Do it and gauge the results. Spend appropriate time (every day) with the three parts. Read, research, write, ask good questions and listen closely, merge your awareness with reality. Work your body. Go to the gym or the park or the track. Run, swim bike, do yoga, martial arts or briskly walk Fido in the forest (don’t forget the leash and poop bag) and spend some time alone, in silent meditation simply counting your breaths. Chant. Drum in the circle of fifths. Go to the church of whatever faith you hear a whisper. Practice some Zen. Or my favorite, clean your house as if it was a temple. 

You can do all these things on a rotating and regular schedule without having to join a monastery, quit your job or climb Everest. The one factor that is key to the success of your journey is this: You must make a sincere commitment. This is not a path for the weak, frightened or ambivalent. There is no room for doubt, remorse, anger or regret. It is all you moving towards the universal goal of finding your true self. That being said, it IS the path for the weak, frightened and lost. It is for everyone. How?

We do that with the fist step. We make the commitment. We always do it now. It is always here. This sacred adventure, along with its myriad detours, distractions and disappointments, is sustainable not so much by food and water as by faith and conviction. 

With conviction. 

Would We Fight?

When it comes to leadership styles I am in the camp that adheres to the following aphorism:

“Accept that you will not be everyone’s cup of tea. There are people who will not appreciate your good intentions, style, intensity level, personality, approach, background, humor, set lists or choice of training attire. Conversely there will be people to whom you are a rock star, a saint and a leader of men. Let the former group go about their business, they are not ready for your level of energy. Put your time and passion into the latter group for they are your people.”

True enough. And I emotionally recognize the wisdom in this HOWEVER, it still stings when one you trusted with the keys to the club, loses one. 

Please remember that we are discussing something as seemingly casual and non-threatening as a spin class. Good natured folks coming in mid-morning (on Mondays) to get in an hour’s worth of spirited group training on an indoor, stationary bicycle. What could be more benign? 

Let us say that should you be in the group expecting big benefit from a middle of the road effort, you will be disappointed, drawing the comparison cleaner, should you be in the camp that gives maximal effort at every opportunity, inside or out, stationary or moving at break-neck speed through time and space, athletic or social, day or night, there is a space for you and your attitude in my class. And hence my life. 

Moving from one demographic to the other, the distracted to the aware, the lazy to the exemplary and the insouciant to the passionate, takes time, energy and dedication. It amazes me that so many consciously choose the path of least resistance, knowing full well that they are missing a magical growth opportunity. 

I was reminded of this reality yesterday morning as we rode to the final installment of a documentary on WWII, ending with the eventual surrenders of Hitler, Mussolini and Hirohito. Two were by suicide. What I found interesting was the Japanese attempt at national gaslighting to resist the obvious intentions of the US to bomb the bejesus out of the land of the midnight sun. This tactic, after losing Saipan, Midway, Guadalcanal, Okinawa and Iwo Jima, yet before Hiroshima and Nagasaki, now looks ridiculous, but, Japanese state radio played over and over the words of Hideki Tojo saying that the Americans don’t have the stomach for a fight to the death, that they have cars, and TVs and are fat and lazy. He was wrong in 1945 but I wonder about today? We are spoiled. We do have every luxury. We give our collective powers away to corrupt politicians wanting the antithesis of ideals we hold dearly (see photo). Could the circumstance of a world war be repeated in the age of information? Under what condition would you fight for your principals? 

I firmly believe that the elements necessary for the employment of this type of bravery can be practiced. On a daily basis. We can show up, work hard, stay focused, improve. Or not. It is absolutely one hundred percent, completely and totally up to you. 

Be forewarned however that should you show up in my class, with all this at stake, and show me through your body language, or worse, as a distracting and counter-productive vocalization on any subject other than the immediate, I will call you on it. Because that is my style. And I consider it job one to show the way to the next level. I also believe it to be one of the most important things we can do to play a positive role in the stewardship of our planet and our eternal march towards global fellowship. 

You also have the right to dismiss this approach and choose someone with a more relaxed style. I encourage you to do so. I am not a rock star. I am not a saint. And I am not a mercenary leader of men. 

But I like their collective training styles and commitments to improvement. I also like their spirit and character. I like their attitude. Without these attributes the challenge of continual growth and achievement of goals is all but impossible. 

You can prove Tojo correct. 

Or prove yourself capable of being your best. Should you decide to sit on the fence please do so on your own time. We have a job to do.

Dismissed. 

The Brave Ones

Ran into a client at the grocery store. Produce department. At the end of a long day. He asked how my weekend was going. Good, I replied choosing the positive and truthful. I am just now getting back from a National Geographic presentation at Benaroya Hall. Answering the obvious ‘how was it question’ and knowing his political, social and intellectual views, I simply said this:

It is the story of an elite Australian soldier who spent years in Iraq and other hot spots as a mercenary finding his true calling in Africa establishing an infrastructure to protect endangered species from exploitation and extermination through a training and policing partnership with a team of local women. 

His eyes, bigger than the avocados we stood beside, betrayed his response.

Wow. 

Indeed. Here is the link. See ya tomorrow. 

Enemy Action

OK dude, game on. I sit bolt upright in bed as I hear the scratching, clawing, digging sound of a rodent - or a squirrel - in the attic space directly above me. In the dark I make a face fierce enough to properly send the message of my readiness for battle, despite the enemy being oblivious to my intentions. It is 0300 and I have a spin class in four hours. I need sleep. 

I rise and remove my cozy fleecy heated comforter with astonishing speed and agility. I stand and slam by flat palm against the skylight sidewall. It resonates with a boom that I am hoping sounds like incoming motor fire to the perp. I repeat the barrage three more times until I hear the roar of successful silence. I wait and listen, From downstairs I hear the familiar sixty cycle hum of the ancient refrigerator as it keeps the ice frozen, ice I will most likely need in the morning to control the swelling in my hand. Other than the hum it is still. I decide that I have won the battle and delicately slide back to the safety of my king-size fox hole. Pulling the comforter to just below my nose I stretch my legs out and enter the second level of relaxation. Immediately my mind demands attention reminding me of the ten thousand things that must all be accomplished by noon tomorrow. I hand down a ruling that they will just have to get in line as the first order of business is to GET SOME SLEEP. In this nightmarish state my poor subconscious rewards me with the image of an octopus stealing my bike. This is bad. SLEEP. 

Before the eep can end the command, the temporarily vanquished enemy of all things holy lets loose a volley of agitated digs that sound very much like machine gun fire. I am under attack. By a fucking squirrel. I slam my fist into the wall behind my bed. Machine gun. Fist. Machine gun. Five sharp fists. Machine gun. I would yell but my room is very close to my sleeping neighbor and I don’t want to wake him or let on to the embarrassing fact that I am being pulverized and plundered by a mammal smaller than my shoe. 

I try to Zen it out, ignoring the obnoxiousness of the assault with righteousness and tolerance. After all it could be a female simply trying to make a better nest for her offspring than the one in the crawl space last year. That lasts one breath longer than my last meditation session. I overreact with a shriek asking the intruder to please consider the fact that my next tactic might be a lethal one. I will shoot, I assert, so this is your last chance. 

Scratch. Claw. Insouciance. Defiance. 

Wondering where the cats are and why they haven’t sprang to the front lines of this monumental skirmish, I try a different approach. Again I sweep away the comforter, stand and turn on the lights. As I do so the skinny cat opens one eye from the rocking chair pillow asking why I have done such a silly thing as turn the lights on at 0400. I look at him with disdain similar to watching a politician say something stupid. I wonder where my old Remington double-barrel side by side 12 gauge is. The light gambit seems to have worked as the only sound  is now from the beach as a small chevron of geese pass. Maybe my thinking of the shotgun has spooked them. I wait and listen trying to identify the exact location of the overhead enemy bunker while refusing to be distracted by the allied forces outside. I may need aircover for reinforcement. 

Back under the covers I glance at the clock. I have to get up in an hour. This has been a three-hour battle. I am out of ammo and morale is as bad as it has ever been. I wonder if this crazed critter from another taxonomic rank would even know what a flying white flag means. Because I am ready to give up. Just let me sleep I whine. 

Scratch.

Oddly, I laugh out loud. OK, you win. Congratulations. I surrender. 

I am still laughing as I roll over, grab another pillow and attach them to my head like a pair of headphones and dive under as many covers as I can grab with one hand. I curl into the emergency fetal position and press the pillows close to my head. I wiggle into a position that will allow some rest, a compromise from the much needed deep REMs, but the best I can do at this point in the firefight. Dig a hole, hunker down and live to fight another day. 

The alarm sounds. 

Eight of Ten

We are at about an eight. Eight on the Borg Scale of perceived exertion. Meaning that if one is comatose and ten is one heart beat from myocardialifarction, the snooze to the max, we are doing significantly above average work. The sixty-minute workout is not designed to kick ones arse but more as a reminder that the arse is a primary part of the muscle groups responsible for propelling us through time, space and lethargy. So riding indoors on a Thursday evening at this rate is an outstanding achievement, considering the many less beneficial alternatives available to us. To be clear, we are also using the metrics of power in this session. The protocol is a percentage of FTP set, functional threshold power being the contemporary cutting edge of indoor ergometer training metrics. With the rider's current number as the base all hills, climbs, recoveries and durations are governed by the precise intensity of the individuals current place on the cycling specific physical fitness timeline, as measured by the FTP setting. Meaning that the integrity of the percentage is always appropriate for whomever has attached their aforementioned arse to the saddle. Last night I was one of the them.

For many years I have advised that the sole responsibility of a rider using FTP as primary controllable variable is to effectively respond to the power requirement in the most efficient manner possible. During the two twenty minute intervals, separated by a five minute break, one’s power is established at eighty-five percent of their current FTP. The CompuTrainer handles this simple chore with ease. Not so much for the rider who must instantly find some type of kinesiological stasis for the effort. Or else succumb to the dreaded physics reality of what we call negative inertia, that painful place where one is developing the power with each pedal rotation instead of powering into a groove zone where the power is maintained over time. Maintenance is much, much easier to endure than re-creation. So we search for the zone.

In another juicy example of this training paradox, the less one forces it into play, the more one is able to find a state of flow and relax into the delightful hum of a continuous power rhythm, the easier the job and the quicker time will seemingly pass. Anyone who has climbed a fifteen percent hill for ten miles or so knows exactly how this translates into real-time suffering during the climb.

The difference between our bread and butter 2x20 sets and last nights hill interval set is in the varying of intensities versus the steady state, fixed protocol. For the sake of a cheesy keyboard illustration, a steady state 2x2- set looks like this: ________X________ where last nights hill ints look something like: _______/——————\_________/——————\  Make sense? Can you feel the differentiation in your core as you see this? Does it raise your heart rate? Do you instantly feel like going for a ride or heading to the club? Well, wait a minute we’re not quite done today.

There are three takeaways one should not overlook when decoding this intricate message. Everyone agrees that the difference between simply sitting, spinning and responding to the precision of the steady state protocol is of high value BUT the percent of power hill intervals require additional focus on and attention to three items.

One: As is mandated by the workout (and shown via a colored bar graph on screen) one is required to keep her power in a rage close to the exact FTP percentage. Meaning that if I have a 200 FTP and the protocol calls for 85% of that for one minute an icon appears on the screen showing me exactly where that point is and I must pedal to keep it there. If I ride with too little power the color bar changes to yellow, should I overcook it, the bar shows red. This forces a BALANCED AND FLOWING rhythmic groove because mashing or any other inefficient response will cause the bar to jump all over the place like Mexican jumping beans at happy hour.

Two: The above efficiency requirement not only forces attention to the flowing dynamic needed to control one's balance of power output but also in the left to right relationship of the pedal stroke. Every one of them. Up, down and around. Smooth. Harmonious. Like a piano concerto on the bike. The myriad benefits of this should be obvious to anyone who as executed a fixed-gear ride on a hilly course. One must find harmonic balance and flow with the groove. Or one will crash.

Three: The combination of the above will created the need for focus. While in the midst of a 2x20 set, with variables controlled, one can allow the luxury of media distraction. This is one of the main reasons why our video series is now in its sixth year. Not only can we ride and converse, we can train and watch video. If they are somehow related or connected, even better. The focus factor is largely due to that pesky icon relentlessly reminding us where our current real time power is. Last night I found myself defaulting to a greater-than-required wattage number when the goal was recovery. Several times I was called back into the present pedal rotation moment by the color coding cops. Once I thought I heard one growl “Where’s the fire buddy?”.

Any drill that asks the participant to stay within a BALANCED AND FLOWING rage of power, coupled with the need for RELAXED FOCUS to effectively execute, will get a critical look in our facility.

Where an eight of ten is gold.

The Dem-O-Cratic Blues

On again off again, in again out. 

Thant’s what this crazy world is all about. 

Soaring high on day one, crashing by ten

The pastor says hear me? And we answer amen. 

I should probably stick to storytelling because a poet I am not. But once every death of a pope (the Italian version of once in a blue moon) the mood strikes and I set about the business of writing a song. Last night as I transcoded video while keeping updated on the republican shenanigans and their abuse of everything sacred to the Constitution, I picked up my every-ready acoustic guitar and mashed a few chords together.  Specifically, for the musicians in the room, a blues-ballad in Am. A minor being an emotionally charged key with unlimited dynamic potential. You’ll find it everywhere from Mozart to Lynyrd Skynyrd, requiems to soaring jam-fest stadium anthems, (yes I can hear the magic flute of the free bird). I am jamming along with my big right foot keeping solid, if heavy, time as Rachael Maddow decries the stolen spirit of the American ethic as a result of the wanna be dictator covering up yet another felony, this one a crime against humanity not simply those born of color. I am finding it difficult to play what I initially envisioned to be something uplifting and pleasant as the story unfolds. It is like trying to sing about unicorns and rainbows with a death metal back. I can feel myself in a vacuum sucked towards a bleak combination of deep-fried blues and folk protest. This soaring heart of the dove in flight crap isn’t happening. 

I put the guitar down, jot the progression in my note pad (Am-B#m-F-C-D-Am) and give my full attention to what I hear Rachael call the most significant moment in recent United States history. Yo. I can feel my temperature rise along with my blood pressure as she describes the latest assaults on our democracy by the thugs who seem proud of their ability to create suffering, hardship and mass incarceration along with a sprinkling of state-sponsored genocide for good fascist measure. Despite the polls, she continues, that indicate a country more inclined than ever to impeach, the data roars the sordid message that we remain almost split on the issue. I scream (ala Joe Cocker) Are you telling me that half of the American people still think this bozo is anything but a carnival clown? Good God a-mitey. 

Please excuse me for being flabbergasted by this. That despite every corrupt, evil, taunting, immoral, unethical, violent, diabolical and spectacularly stoopid action of an inept, vulgar, uneducated, failed, spiteful, soulless, bigoted and racist homophobe, half the country STILL agrees with his policies? Half? Seriously? Fifty percent? One of every two? Somebody I trust? A neighbor? A teacher? A fan in the bleachers? 

We are doomed. 

Winston Churchill once astutely noted that the best way to argue against democracy is to have a five minute conversation with an average voter. I feel the blues coming on again in a sinister shade of desperation. 

I pour another glass of red wine

And listen for the news

of a saner day tomorrow

sung by dem-o-cratic Blues. 

Repeat chorus and jam the shit outta the refrain. 

Sometimes it Works

No one is quite sure as to why sometimes the magic works, and sometimes not. With a respectful nod to Chief Dan George and the screenwriters of Little Big Man, the 1970 Oscar winning film starring a very young Dustin Hoffman as a very old Jack Crabb, this line has always struck a positive cord with me. The Chief, symbolic Grandfather to Jack, has been informed that he is still in this world after a beautiful closing soliloquy and a quick good-bye. Upon learning of magics failure to deliver the desired result, the Chief simply shrugs it off, delivers his line and heads back down the mountain for a smoke. It is a classic scene from a marvelous, sprawling epic Western. 

But it reaches further, way past, the traditional expected accolades and awards signifying the best of Hollywood, by year, trade and genre. The most recent pop culture example can easily be understood with a quick comparison of wizards to their non-believing muggle counterparts. There are those that believe in the magic and those that don’t. We know this to be true. Why anyone would choose NOT to believe in magic is beyond my power to understand and my ability to forgive. It is one classic example of one of the many things wrong with human beings. 

I was reminded of this phenomenon, again, early this morning. But it started last night. 

Last evening as we finished up a rather challenging 2x20 set in the WFPB, World Famous PowerBarn, the question of balance popped up, I was asked the reasoning behind the structure of our schedule. The ones following specific guidelines to allow optimal physical response in three different disciplines in the shortest period of time? Good one!

The reasons why we structure our work, alternating intensities, muscle groups, durations, distances and frequencies is to achieve a dynamic and flowing, safe and effective increase to our individual ability to adapt. Adaptation to the workload that will eventually take us to the mountaintop of greater health, optimal fitness and the achievement of our goals, all this without having to quit our jobs or terminate our relationships. It is time management 101 with a minor in exercise physiology. Building in the appropriate time for rest, recovery, strength work, a career and a robust social life are all as important to the triathlete as swimming faster, biking stronger and running better. Without structure you are like a rowboat adrift in an angry sea of chaos. Everyone has a balance tipping point the same way that everyone has a varying tolerance for pain. We need to find our balance and diligently work towards maximizing our strengths while always mindful of the room for improvement with our weakness. This is what we mean by balance not standing on one leg with eyes closed. All this, in sum, can be perceived as work, usually too much work by those who fail to add the element of magic to the mix. Without the pixie dust we are mindless robots moving refrigerators and color TVs. The dream must be a part of the process, seeing ourselves both on the righteous road fighting the good fight and victorious at the conquest of the demon fears and shadow monsters that keep us from it. Believe! Dream! Have Faith. Sing the song of your soul to the birds and the wind and the sun. This is the power of the cosmos we celebrate and engage with. You can accept the reality of this or pretend that it is only for fairy tales and children books. You can grab the magic or you can let it slip through your fingers and be gone. Personally I do not have the patience to deal with those that willingly choose to deny. I can lead them to the mountain but what they see there is totally up to them and their place on the transcendental time-line of their personal growth. Many people aren’t yet ready to accept this responsibility. I will admit to you here and now that it is a hell of a lot easier to binge soaps than to face your fears. But the life of leisure is not the way of the warrior. We do the hard stuff. We fight. We practice relentlessly and with a passionate sense of purpose. What purpose you ask?

Not sure quite yet. I do know that this is a part of being ready. And when we are ready the purpose will appear. Maybe even sooner than we think. What if that purpose, the very meaning of our lives, was to be revealed to us tomorrow? What would your response be to THAT? Would you ask for something like a second chance? The rule is be ready. When the magic knocks at your door. LET. IT. IN.

Magic is always in the present tense. It is either with us or not. One either accepts the gift or walks away from the golden sacred moment, confused by the strange electricity in the air and feeling lost and lonely. It is our choice. 

Choose magic. Sometimes it works. 

Grandma's House

There is so much out there. Or in here, as the case may be. If one was to make a critical analysis of all the possible story lines, movie plots, workout protocols, or musical themes, slice and dice them into a creative blender, one could create a more than delicious concoction. Just add your glass or stainless steel straw and enjoy. That is the ‘out there’ the extrinsic, all the shit happening all the time, swirling around our poor heads like coconuts in a tropical hurricane. The flip side, the yang to the extrinsic yin is everything that we have internalized, all that data in storage inside our cellular central processing units. A quick look at the size of that storage would rival that of IMB, FB and the CIA combined. There is a lot of material there and perhaps, I am offering a suggestion here, just waiting patiently for some outline or structured index with which to jump into action and serve the singular purpose of their being. 

Why else would I keep the smell of my Grandmother’s house in storage for sixty years? To use it in a sentence to help set the stage for a subsequent larger picture? As a slug line in a script to assist with a character’s development (or lack thereof)? To illustrate the sublime olfactory powers we all possess but discard as secondary to sight and sound? Or as an example of the tools of awareness? 

With this delicious and complex reality in mind, it was with a bit of sassiness that I admitted to myself this morning as I sat to write, that my ultimate freedom is in scanning through those files with appreciation and respect in order to screen-grab one or two, mash them together and see what happens. Look at where they lead. Let the guide assume the leadership role and show us what to look at, so they we may see what is appropriate for our understanding and vision in this place and time. There are trends that could have dramatic effect on our growth and understanding. I could (easily) compile a list of my knee-jerk responses to losing. I could go all the way back to my first game in Little League when I began my baseball career by whiffing on three pitches. And my DAD was the pitcher! I remember the failures with a little more intensity than the success’. Please do not ask me why. It was not until I had been selected as MVP on our first State Championship team some forty years after that initial whiff, that it all started to make some sense. At the time of that illumination my first thought was, man did I waste a lot of time feeling unnecessarily sad. 

Call in the path, call it a prerequisite, experience or call it the arc of personal growth, but my responses to those actions are the files I keep in a special file that only I can access. 

And I believe that the time is at hand to access them. 

Certainly the effort would contain a degree of therapeutic transition, the moving from a shadow to brilliant sunlight, but the possibility also equally exists that something of value to others could be an even greater result. Many years ago I was involved with a talented gal who was a hypnotherapist. She asked if I would like to do some past life regression. Always fascinated by this I agreed and off we went, she dangling a gold watch and me getting very, very sleepy. The format was a simple one. She wanted me to go back into the locker room of my college baseball team and have a little chat with the player who was assuming the teams loss as his sole responsibility. The kid was devastated, alone, sad, depressed and angry. That kid was me. She coached me back, opened the gym door and asked if I wanted to go in. Sure. 

I sat there as the grown man of now talking the teen me of then. 

‘I can tell you this, my young friend, that over the course of the next fifty years you will do many incredible things, you will travel the world, achieve great success, love deeply. You will write songs, buy houses and even run Ironman triathlons. You will see things that most people will never see and hear the message of the stars. You will honor your soul and follow the spirit of the cosmos. I know the hurt you feel at this moment in time, but it will pass and the lessons taken from it will ensure your future wisdom, compassion and ability to lead others. These things that you already know are the ones that allow peace in every moment as they pile up one upon the other. Until you become me. Here is the message, this is it: It will be OK. It will all be OK. Relax. You will have to trust me, trust yourself on this of course, but if you see who is talking to you at this very moment of eternity, it will make sense. And it will all be OK.’

I return from forever with the safe and secure smell of Grandma’s house in my heart. 

The Magic of the Movies

An enchanted village. A wonderful friendship. Star-crossed lovers. And the magic of the movies.  

So proclaims one of my favorite films of all-time, the sensational Cinema Paradiso. I mention this today not so much to promote a viewing (which I do) or another viewing (which I also do), but to illustrate the mostly overlooked art of the movie poster. And in particular, the craftsmanship of what is called, appropriately, the tagline. Sometimes also called a slogan, I like tagline better as the latter seems a touch trashy to me, like chugging slo-gin in an alley. 

The tagline is the combined art of the condensed headline mixed with a full dose of marketing. Buzz is as essential to the successful tag as alcohol is to the stiff one. It meets at the intersection of intrigue and invitation, begging attention with an almost Pavlovian rush of anticipation. Go ahead and salivate. I have always appreciated this hyper Hollywood haiku (even if more than seven syllables) but have never been quite able to nail one. The closest I have come was, perhaps, with the campaign for the 2003 triathlon documentary semi-blockbuster NW Tri '03: Tips whose tagline foretold with magical sagacity that “The more you give - the faster you get.” Not exactly a ‘An offer he can’t refuse’ or ‘We scare because we care”, but decent enough for a no-budget local multi-sport biopic. 

As I lay in the darkness of the cozy home I currently protect, along with a pair of standard poodles sleeping soundly on the plush Oriental rug beside, my end of the week recap is underway. It is Sunday night. I am backing up the files that memos, this blog, video production, script writing, the creation of three workout protocols and two letters to my brother have failed to properly store. With precious little processing power remaining and virtually out of random access memory, I scramble to get the ideas down, trusting that the details can be recalled or recreated if necessary. Tomorrow. 

As I do so, listening to a strange cacophony of new and interesting mechanical household sounds, I grab a screen shot and hold it frozen in the time-line of my wavering consciousness. It is the last paragraph I read, standing at the kitchen counter because I knew that if I tried to read laying down I would instantly fall asleep, and this was an important passage, one I scrabble to note in my road journal. I had almost forgot. The omen, the potential, the ramification. This singular incident could have completely changed the world - by destroying a large percentage of its population - just days before the US dropped fat man and little boy from the Enola Gay. Oh delicious irony!

My eyes pop open with the recollection. Bloody hell. This needs some consideration. Should I extend the current story to include such a defining moment in history, or keep nose to grindstone and resist the seductive invitation down that rabbit hole baited by such a juicy dangling carrot? WTF Doc?

Dam you Kubrick, now i can’t sleep with the image of Slim Pickens riding a mechanical bomb. Ye-haw. Stop worrying. There will be no fighting in the war room gentlemen. Roll the credits then turn the projector off. 

After a time-out to acknowledge both the obvious and subliminal brilliance of the greats, I consider the implications to the current project and try to craft a tag of my own. I see the poster. It is of an Oregon forest, a stand of majestic cedars and one mountain top and the blue Pacific in background. A lone rotary engine plane soars just above the treeline. Four samurai swords ‘grow’ amid the trees, their tips stuck in the same lush soil. One has a drop of blood on the blade. Overhead and overlaid in front of gray fog burning a reveal of blue sky, is the tagline:

THE MOST AUDACIOUS AND DARING RAID OF WORLD WAR II.  A JAPANESE FIGHTER PILOT. A TROUBLED OREGON TEEN. AND THE CODE THAT CONNECTED THEM WITH HISTORY. BUSHIDO IN BROOKINGS. 

The magic of the movies. 

All Ears

All ears. Mostly. 

For me, one of the most difficult social situations is accepting compliments - this for reasons somewhat obscure, but probably stemming from the fact that I am never TOTALLY satisfied with finished products. Also for results, major or minor works of art or a thousand other examples. I am of the belief that there is always something that I could have, and many times should have, done differently, better, or with a finer degree of detail. That is the way that i am. It could also demonstrate why I believe so stubbornly in practice, my belief that this is a journey and not a trip with the destination being the doing and not the done. The getting there and not the destination. The struggle is important to me. It represents meaning, focus, choice and freedom. As we say, if it was easy everybody would be dong it. This trite cliche is reinforced every day as we watch people celebrate their Phyrric victories, seemingly successful in their wins over intellectual, moral or ethical challenge. In an appalling state of mathematical ignorance, doubling-down on the dummy-down seems to be pathetically in vogue. 

I simply feel almost always that I can do better. Way better and way more. More authentic maybe, creating something completely unique, filled with meaning, purpose and joy. Further, all this for the smallest of audiences, myself. If I can hear the message and it excites neurons and tickles imagination, if I can judge it as truthful, appropriate and to the standards established by the true craftsmen of the trade, I will rest, pleased and satisfied. You might respond to this rather strict assessment by saying that perhaps I might trade this high standard for more appreciation of whatever accomplishment this is a part of, the bigger, broader work in progress, and you would be right. It is, after all, something. Or, digging deeper, is the solution in balance? While I never want to close the door on the possibility of one day producing something of value, dare I say a masterwork, this path of practice on the journey towards it should be appreciated as an important means to that end. Therefore I should be tickled pink that someone would care enough to comment on a part of that larger, future masterpiece, even if their quip was oblivious to it. 

I wonder if this is a common response, or if I have all the while been oblivious to some sinister neurosis? Basically doesn’t it come down to the artist, whether musician, sculptor, author, athlete or poet wondering aloud if they are good enough? Don’t we all want to make the grade, prove ourselves on a higher stage of meaning or reach the apex of our potential? It really shouldn’t be so hard to say thank you when a compliment is tossed in our direction. And as a matter of writing through the issue as therapy I believe as a result of this Sunday morning exercise that I have come to a conclusion. 

I know from years of experience that athletes especially need constant feedback. Encouragement and constructive commenting on the quality of their practice. We say, way to go, atta boy, nice work, great job to establish a positive emotional trending in their effort and awareness. Every artist knows the value in finding that magical place we call the flow state, a place that provides fertile ground for growth. But this is preface. My melodramatic conclusion, the daily catharsis, is this, in two parts: 

Part One: Accept with all the humility and humanity you are capable of any all comments. Especially those offering suggestions and alternative possibilities. And even more importantly those of a non-constructive nature. 

Part Two: For me this is the biggie: Stay with your practice. This is, after all, how we improve at anything. We practice. We do. We persist. We notice, and we grow. We walk down the path and take notes. 

Take good notes and keep your ears open. 

Your Local Gym

In my morning perusal of the interweb this morning I came across a headline that immediately caught  my attention. Not the clickbait type of headline, but one more suited to offer a legitimate, or feasible, possibility. The headline was this: Can your local gym save the world?

The author was published by the editors of Outside magazine, a group that I respect from a publisher that can claim Jan Werner of Rolling Stone fame as founder. I have linked the article here for your consideration and will condense the salient points should you be tossing shoes and your kit into a bag in preparation for a workout, and thus time crunched.

The author’s noble cause is furthered by the admission that while saving the world is admirable, the odds that you at your gym saving it are astronomical. And therefore important. Because we all need to feel a degree of connectivity with all sentient beings. We need to feel as if we are doing something constructive towards the stewardship and improvement of our planet and species. I agree with this enough to call it the singular superlative. It is the best thing we can all agree on doing. What, I paraphrase, could be more important that saving the planet?

In establishing a ripe medium for the exchange of ideas, the author examines the vast difference between the local spa, the country club and the up-scale boutique where everybody is the same (young, white and upwardly mobile) and the antithesis, your local Y.

YMCA.

Where black lifts alongside white, gay treadmills with straight and red runs with the blues. In a no-frills atmosphere where the important thing is not so much looking good but doing good. Doing better. Co-existing with those who differ in color, creed or orientation. At its most basic, cellular level, that place where muscle means magic and sweat shows stamina, we are all one. I desire to increase my health and fitness and invite you to join in the adventure. There might be something I can learn from you along the way as a result of our teamwork, camaraderie and commitment. And vice versa, as the reciprocal is also true.

Can you imagine the myriad positive effects possible if we took it to the gym instead of the web? Humanity facing itself with open hearts? One cannot look the other way when a teammate is in need of help. It runs concurrent to our nature, no matter the circumstance or situation. Once I commit to our effort and you return the vow, it is in ‘no matter what’ territory. There we cannot fail.

The answer, the one I trust you will agree to as well, is yes. Overwhelmingly yes. A thousand times yes.

Your local gym can save the world.

But only with you in it.

Old Dog - New Tricks

One of our primary goals is to endure. One of our secondary goals is to endure with a high degree of quality. One of our tertiary goals is to do what it takes to create a structured, successful and enjoyable program with which to keep what we have worked so hard to obtain. Science and experience has suggested that the three main ingredients of this elixir are diet, exercise and stress management. It has been demonstrated many times that a balanced and consistent routine focused on the ‘big three’ will put you in a space appropriate for your tenure. Eventually, my friends, we will all face the day when we can no longer accomplish the goals, however mundane, that we once took for granted. Walking will become too painful, Running will be out of the question and even low intensity activities like getting the mail, driving the car or walking the dog will be challenging events.

Let’s pick one from that last seemingly fatalistic sentence, the part about walking the dog, and inspect it a little closer. It is widely accepted that the ratio of 7:1, dog years to human years, must take into consideration the size and weight of said pooch. Smaller dogs live longer. So do smaller people. This in itself might be inspiration enough to drop a kilo or two, but most people need more, sometimes much more. The one thing that separates man from his best friend is the amount of exercise our four-legged friends put in on a regular basis. When I house/dog sit, several of my canine clients ask three things from me: Exercise (stick, tennis ball or off-leash at the beach), food, and love. Or, backing up, diet, exercise and stress management.

The first two are self explanatory. How love fits into the glove of stress management I will leave for you to decide. I would like, however, to provide an example from this morning.

My latest clients are professionals tending to business, business travel and the care of elderly parents. This necessitates a regular travel schedule calling for my humble services of home and pet care. They have two standard poodles, siblings, three years old, a male and his sister. For whatever reason the sister and I got off on the wrong foot. She, for reasons uniquely her own, seemed to feel as if I was a serial killer come to inflict torture and agony upon them before I stole all the food. Worse, as much as I tried to calm her by offering treats and friendship, they more agitated she would become.

The first round of supervision was last week and today began another six days of care. The dog’s former care-giver is a bona-fide dog whisperer. Her Mom and Dad are clients. This morning she offered a hands-on lesson in dog training. We met at nine.

And by a quarter to ten, the world had been reset back to its normal rotation. For forty-five minutes, she demonstrated and I listened and mimicked her movements and methods. Ten minutes into the session I was already amazed at how badly I had misunderstood the psychology of the master to dog relationship. At the end of the session the girl who once barked and growled at my every move was sitting, staying, walking, and obeying like a champion show dog. As I drove off to deliver them to the day center, they, as I, felt like all was well both inside the van as well as outside it.

I learned several valuable lessons this morning. Many of the ideas I held as etched into stone had been shattered, ground into dust and swept from the floor. I no longer feel anxious about how they will react when the time comes for food, play, rest or travel. I get it now. They expect commands from me and respond as instructed. It is very binary and without unnecessary emotion.

This, I hear my inner trainer say, is a big part of stress reduction. Part of the reward that comes with a gentle, harmonious and sincere good dog treat.

Whoever said that one cannot teach an old dog new tricks, never tried.

Be Like Abe

Planet Bike: Guadalajara, Spain

When asked his methodology, Abraham Lincoln was once quoted as saying “Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I will spend the first four sharpening the ax.”

Making a slight editing adjustment, swapping the metaphorical axe as a symbol of strength, one could easily slide the idea of preparedness into the quote and come away with just as good an aphorism. Something I am sure would please Abe. All this swapping, sliding and sharpening comes as a result of my head-first dive into the production of Video II. Whose working title is officially Planet Bike.

Anyone who has dealt with the filing of media, be it photography, music catalogues, sound files, baseball cards, books, bills, recipe cards, more bills, tax receipts or anything needing a name, place and a number, knows of the potential nightmare lurking in the shadows. That devil lies in the detail. In my particular case (nightmare) it is in video files. At the end of yesterday’s effort I counted my exterior hard drive count to be 31, or around 25TB, roughly the same amount of video uploaded to YouTube every day. That is a lot of video to scan looking for a single clip.

Trying to play the 80/20 rule on (non-linear) video production, get 80% of the work done first and then return to sweeten the 20%, the theme, or story, I chose for the important second video in what I hope to be a regular monthly event, revolves around the international events I have filmed outside the US. I guess I could call it Over the Wall (and far away).

Accordingly, I need to find the footage, re-digitize, store and assemble on the time line. This is the bulk of the 80%. It also means that I must jump back and forth from the latest versions of a rapidly changing technology all the way back - yesterday’s time travel took us back 12 years, to the days when digital video was in its adolescence. I will summarize all this by saying that things have changed. I spent a ridiculous amount of time finding the cables, connectors, external hard drives, cassettes, devices and tapes necessary to convert to modern file formats. This creates tension. I am easily frustrated if I have to spend an hour finding a clip from an event shot during the Bush administration, simply for the reason that I failed to properly label it at download. True, you might respond, this is due to the fact that at that time I was more interested in doing whatever I could to tell the public that Rumsfeld, Cheney and even Powell were lying through their respective dentures about WMD, than about the detailed and proper labeling of video footage from an Ironman in the Canary Islands. So yes, I plead guilty with an explanation that has since been validated by history.

The moral to this story, not the one about the war crimes committed by the cabal of sycophants, the effects of whose treasonous felonies continue to this day, but the video storage and filing is this:

Take the necessary time to properly identify and label, with as much detail as possible, your media as it is stored. Spend that 80% in this area and I guarantee that when you need quick access to a specific shot, event, location, interview or person, you won’t have to invade a foreign country under false pretense, to do so. Keep your hands blood-free and your conscience clean. This will help you sleep as much as six hours of chopping a tree with (even a razor sharp) axe.

Which may be capsulized by paraphrasing that lying bastard Rumsfeld, “We know what we know (there is big oil money to be made) and we know what we don’t know (how to buffalo the country to thinking it is for democracy),” into something like “If we only know what we are seeking, by the time we find it, we might have forgotten why we sought it in the first place.”

Label your media. And don’t lie. Be like Abe.

I am Humbled

As ridiculous as it sounded right off the bat, the concept is a solid one. We are in the middle of our early lifting session, after the morning’s high-intensity spin class for me and before school for Junior, when I blurt the preposterous. I ask, with that I felt was an appropriate mixture of honesty and theoretical possibility, if the total of civilizations knowledge, the sum of all learning, could be represented as 100%, at what percent do we currently stand? We are in the second of our three phase set, the first being a floor-core routine consisting of three way planks and stretching, and the second a 30lb dumbbell routine that includes curls, overhead lefts, calf raises, one leg balance and press, one arm cutaway flys, bent over row and weighted crunches. It is during this set that I presented the days flash quiz. 

We finish the set and prep for the last of the three, the bench. He is first up and perhaps to buy some additional recovery time or maybe because he has been considering his response all the while, he says,

‘I guess it is similar to the question regarding ratios.’

‘In what way?’ I ask, pleased with the engagement. 

‘Well, as an easy example, what would you rather know, a little about everything, or a lot about one thing?’

“Or be able to play a lot of songs partially or a handful of them perfectly?’ I counter.

“Or have many friends, or one true friend?’

“Or a garage full of junk cars or one tricked out hot-rod?

‘Or win nine of ten games against mediocre opponents, or the one big game?

‘Or be able to speak several languages conversationally, or two fluently?’

We chuckle at the exchange and agree that it could go on forever, but glancing at the wall clock it is time to finish out the set so he can shower, eat and run to catch the bus. 

We high-five and I wish him a good day at school. 

‘Four good days or one great day?’

‘Let’s start with today, make it a great day. And then tomorrow…’

He interrupts my response with his closing statement, ‘The interesting thing about the question, in my opinion, is that the real lesson is in humility. Whether I am at 2% or 22% of that 100%, the analysis indicates that I, we, the collective us, has a long, a very long way to go and should therefore consider even the slightest bit of additional, accumulated knowledge a major achievement.’ 

‘Are you saying that you would rather be humble than smart?’

‘No I am saying that the road there is more obtainable with humility than with narcissistic hubris.’ 

I am humbled. 

We Make the Rules

Tiny, unexpected things can change your life. They, for the lucky and those open to magic, come knocking when one least expects. Because in between the fireworks and festivities is the rote, the routine and the relentless passage of time. You know, our lives. In my experience this can be graphed as 99% work and 1% play. Or, as I blurted out with an astonishing lack of sensitivity the other day, 'ya work and suffer in silent desperation and then have an orgasm every once in a blue moon. Peaks and valleys like blips on the monitor. Flying high in April and shot down in May. Quoting both Pink Floyd and Frankie Blue Eyes in the same paragraph. If it’s all the same, even if that if is at a high level of success, eventually it will fail. Hollywood is chuck full of rags to riches stories, as well as the rags to riches to rags and the riches to rags to riches variations on the same theme. Everybody appreciates a calm sea but it is the tempest that pushes the ship at its highest speed. Or as they say, ships are safe at anchor, in harbor, but that is not what ships are for. 

I open with this today because something took place yesterday that I find absolutely magical. And miraculous and wonderful. This is because I feel that to live life to its fullest one must occasionally break the rules. Rules are created as an artificial means of control. By their very nature they attempt to limit the things that provide happiness, joy and love. An easy example is our current legislation on abortion, gay rights, gender equality, and a thousand other laws basically limiting the amount of love we can demonstrate to our fellow man or share with our fellow woman. This my friends is the work of a sick society. A society trading racism and hypocrisy for control of women’s bodies and an assured white supremacist agenda is a society destined for doom. 

This is where civil disobedience represents the breaking of rules. I do not expect, nor do I desire, my elected officials to spend even one minute of time with my tax contribution listening to lobbyists trying to push a controlling agenda that attempts to limit the amount of compassion, temperance and kindness I can create or participate with. Fix the infrastructure, save the whales, stop the corruption, declare a unilateral cease-fire, tear down the walls, teach the kids, and STFU about anything having to do with how or who I choose to love. 

In a lengthy conversation Sunday with my sister, and educator working the inner city of DC, she mentioned that the general atmosphere in the national capitol has taken a turn for the positive lately. 

Due to the gains and positive strides made by the impeachment hearings?

No because the Nationals are two games from the World Series. 

We are a fickle people. We have real differences. Hate is a more common emotion that joy. The cult of ignorance is rampant and increasingly violent. Lying, cheating, scheming, hypocritical republicans are crawling out from under their slimy swamp rocks to blame everyone and everything for the situation that they themselves have created. They blame everyone but their insanely corrupted ring leader and every complicit traitor in the house and senate for this all-time low in national trust. And they have the nuclear codes? They carry the football? They get to say who we can and who we cannot love? 

No. They do not. We do. We the people. 

In a small and muted way a reminder of this reality came to me yesterday. It was like a lover unexpectedly dropping by for lunch. 

We make the rules. 

And then there is DOING

Everybody knows this. Or should. 

There is doing. Doing something, active participation with a verb. Let’s use one of my favorites, indoor cycling, as the exemplar. Conversely there is active participation with said verb to the absolute highest level of your ability. There is doing and there is DOING. Full caps, italicized and bold. Living the large font at a hundred miles per hour - should you be up for a speedy non-sequitur. Anybody, I repeat, ANYBODY can sit atop a cushy bicycle seat and turn the pedals with little resistance, minimal cadence and wandering awareness. Heck, people go through their entire lives doing that. Which illustrates the point, that it isn’t simply enough to sit and spin, one must (assuming one is seeking full benefit, value and return on the time investment) be active with the energy flow. One must participate in the process and contribute to the effort. This is applicable regardless of goals, singular or plural, you in solo pursuit of your vision or you as part of something larger than yourself such as a team. 

Because the only legitimate assessment of you in either category is your output - the level of intensity, passion and positive energy that you bring to the equation. Given a high ACQ, Athletic Character Quotient, at an appropriate level of challenge (I won’t ask you to win an Olympic medal) the athlete who’s singular goal it to play to the highest level of intensity, in the flow of relaxed focus and with a hyper sense of purpose and meaning, is always welcome on my team, in my dojo, or by my side. 

In other words, much like life itself or any number of appropriate metaphorical comparisons, the winning is in the trying. Give me your best. In return, not only will I reciprocate and give it back, but I will guarantee that the answer will be a sum greater than its parts. We are algorithmically stronger, faster, safer (and more dangerous) as a team. United in common cause. 

The truth and beauty of this scenario is that we can practice it. We can commit to the discipline of volunteering to accept the challenge of doing the hard things as practice. It is our recherché of routine and rhythm. Seeking out the dedication and structure that provides us with an up-to-date assessment of our current state of enlightenment. Or the path we call the process. Moving gracefully from the then to the now. And please trust me when I confess to this being challenging. 

We have often used the mind, body, spirit trio as the three pillars stabilizing the complex idea of the superior man. United they form a single structure, strong and impenetrable. That structure is you, the optimal you, the you seen in dreams of your greatest self doing the heroic. 

Why would we choose to move through this dream at any level but our best? Because it is difficult and demanding? Because it is hard and humbling? Because it asks for your best instead of your mediocre? Because the grade you need and desire is an A and not a D? Or because your soul demands it? 

We can practice this. Structure your routine. Include the scholastic (carve out time to read), the athletic (appropriate to your current level of physical fitness) and the soulful (meditate, chant, visit the church of your choice). After a while on this noble quest you’ll see that not all verbs are created equal. 

There is doing - and then there is DOING.