Cinemorphosis

Tag: health

  • The Volume Knob Principle

    The Volume Knob Principle

    When I returned from my family vacation on July 30, 2026, I stepped on the scale and saw 236 pounds.

    At sixty-four, that put me twenty-six pounds above my goal of 210 and six pounds above a barrier I hadn’t managed to penetrate since 2019.

    This called for action.

    Unfortunately, my preferred response to a problem is sometimes to attack it with a flamethrower.

    Within four days, I dropped to 230. Much of that was undoubtedly vacation water weight, but I was encouraged. The campaign had begun. I would eat properly, train hard, and finally break through the 230 barrier.

    Then I made the mistake of confusing enthusiasm with wisdom.

    I exercised every day for eleven consecutive days. Some days I did sixty-eight minutes of kettlebell circuit training followed by an hour on my Schwinn Airdyne. The kettlebells weren’t particularly heavy, but I kept moving. Then came the bike, where exercise ceased to be exercise and became a hostage negotiation with the calorie counter.

    My target was 700 calories.

    Not 620.

    Not 650.

    Seven hundred.

    I would climb onto the Airdyne and begin pedaling like a man attempting to power Southern California during a blackout. The fan roared. Sweat poured off me. My legs churned. I stared at the monitor as though the glowing digits were reporting my moral worth.

    All this punishment produced a fascinating result.

    I didn’t lose another pound.

    After eleven days of dietary virtue and exercise fanaticism, I still weighed 230.

    Then something worse happened.

    On the eleventh day, I got on the Airdyne and my body resigned.

    Normally I could grind my way toward 700 calories. This time I barely reached 300. My legs were empty. My energy vanished. It felt as though someone had opened a panel in my back and removed the battery.

    Fine, I thought. I’m exhausted. I’ll rest.

    I couldn’t.

    I crawled into bed physically demolished yet strangely agitated. Instead of relaxation came anxiety. I tossed and turned, frightened by the depth of my exhaustion. For most of my life, exercise had been one of my great sources of bliss. Now it had entered the Fear Dungeon. I had pushed myself hard enough that the thing I associated with vitality suddenly seemed capable of hurting me.

    I began wondering whether I had crossed some invisible line.

    Then I thought of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

    Arnold has inspired me since I was thirteen. Now in his late seventies, he reportedly still trains seven days a week for about ninety minutes: forty-five to sixty minutes of cycling followed by roughly thirty minutes of weights.

    Seven days a week.

    At nearly eighty.

    I couldn’t survive eleven.

    Was something wrong with me?

    Then, during my next kettlebell workout in the garage, I had a revelation that should have occurred to me considerably earlier.

    Arnold isn’t trying to kill Arnold.

    The older Arnold isn’t reenacting Pumping Iron every morning. He’s not storming into the gym with Wagner blasting while attempting to punish every muscle fiber for the crime of aging. His workouts appear considerably more civilized. He rides his bike. He lifts. He talks to people. He jokes. A man of immense charisma, he holds court. For Arnold, the gym is partly exercise and partly social club.

    Meanwhile, I’m alone in my garage behaving as though the Schwinn Airdyne knows where the bodies are buried.

    The difference isn’t necessarily discipline.

    It’s volume.

    I began imagining my exercise program controlled by a giant amplifier knob.

    Mine was turned to Eleven.

    Nigel Tufnel would have approved.

    Every workout had to be harder. Every bike session had to produce the magic number. Every day off looked suspiciously like weakness. If 600 calories was good, 700 was better. If four workouts were productive, eleven consecutive workouts must transform me into a Greek god sometime before Labor Day.

    Except my body wasn’t becoming a Greek god.

    It was filing a grievance.

    That’s when I arrived at The Volume Knob Principle: sustainable fitness isn’t about turning effort as high as it will go. It’s about finding the highest setting from which your body can reliably recover.

    For me, Eleven was not heroic.

    Eleven was stupid.

    So I’m turning the knob down to Seven.

    I’ll continue my kettlebell circuits because I enjoy them. But I’ll allow myself a minute of rest when I need it. I’ll trim the workouts from sixty-eight minutes to about sixty-three and limit them to three days a week.

    The Airdyne requires a more dramatic intervention.

    Getting 700 calories in under an hour was beating me up. Doing it three or four times a week was beating me up with a folding chair after I was already on the ground.

    So the bike goes down to twice a week.

    And 700 loses its throne.

    The new target is 600.

    This sounds easy until you understand the psychology of the calorie counter. Once you’ve repeatedly produced 700, anything less starts feeling like moral decline. The machine reports 600 and some primitive voice says, Pathetic. You used to be somebody.

    That voice needs to shut up.

    Six hundred isn’t a failed 700.

    Seven isn’t a failed Eleven.

    A rest day isn’t evidence of decadence.

    At sixty-four, perhaps the great fitness challenge isn’t learning how hard you can push yourself. I mastered that trick decades ago. The harder lesson is learning when pushing harder becomes indistinguishable from stupidity.

    I can’t train exactly like Arnold.

    I don’t need to.

    I can steal the more useful lesson from the older Arnold: keep moving, keep lifting, keep showing up—but stop treating every workout like the beaches of Normandy.

    Turn down the Volume Knob.

    Eleven makes more noise.

    Seven lets you keep playing.

  • The Exhaustion Paradox

    The Exhaustion Paradox

    In 1974, when I was in junior high, a friend came to school looking wrecked. He had spent the weekend at his family’s cabin skiing at Bear Valley Mountain Resort, and when he returned home Sunday night, exhausted from two days on the slopes, he couldn’t sleep.

    This made no sense to me.

    Wasn’t exhaustion supposed to produce sleep? You depleted the body, crawled into bed, and disappeared for ten hours. That was the arrangement.

    His mother, a nurse, offered a different explanation. Her son had gone beyond ordinary fatigue. He was so exhausted that his body could no longer relax enough to sleep.

    I found the idea fascinating and horrible.

    Call it The Exhaustion Paradox: the state in which fatigue becomes so acute that instead of producing relaxation and sleep, it produces agitation, anxiety, and an inability to rest. The body desperately needs the very thing its exhausted condition prevents it from obtaining.

    I filed this strange idea somewhere in my adolescent brain and didn’t think about it again for more than fifty years.

    Then I decided to recreate the experiment.

    My current weight-loss campaign has made me eager to exercise. Usually, this is a good thing. I know my body well enough to understand that I need one or two days off every week. Recovery allows my muscles to heal and lets me return to my workouts with enough energy to attack them rather than merely survive them.

    But weight-loss impatience has a way of making perfectly sensible principles seem negotiable.

    If exercise burns calories, more exercise must burn more calories. And if more is good, ten consecutive days must be magnificent.

    So I trained for ten days without a break.

    On the tenth day, I climbed onto my exercise bike and discovered that my body had apparently resigned without giving notice.

    My usual power was gone. My legs felt hollow. I produced less than half my normal output. Every pedal stroke seemed to require a committee meeting. This wasn’t the satisfying fatigue of a hard workout. I felt depleted at the cellular level, as if someone had reached inside me and removed the batteries.

    Fine, I thought. Obviously I need sleep.

    I dragged myself to bed.

    And couldn’t rest.

    Instead of sinking gratefully into the mattress, I became anxious. The exhaustion itself was unnerving. I could feel how badly my body needed recovery, yet I couldn’t cross the threshold into it. I tossed and turned for ninety minutes, simultaneously desperate for sleep and incapable of surrendering to it.

    Then a memory surfaced from 1974.

    Bear Valley.

    My junior-high friend.

    His nurse mother.

    He was too exhausted to sleep.

    Fifty-two years later, I finally understood what she meant.

    I got out of bed and told my wife what was happening. She suggested I drink some water mixed with electrolyte powder.

    I did.

    Soon I felt considerably better. Whether the electrolytes were responsible, the water helped, or simply getting out of bed broke the cycle of anxious exhaustion, I don’t know. But the feeling of physical crisis subsided. I did a few chores and eventually sat down to write.

    The episode reminded me of something I already knew but had temporarily decided didn’t apply to me: recovery is not the enemy of training.

    It is part of training.

    You cannot bully the body indefinitely and call it discipline. Eventually the distinction between training and punishment disappears. The workout deteriorates, the body rebels, and even rest becomes difficult.

    At thirteen, I thought The Exhaustion Paradox was fascinating and awful.

    At sixty-four, I can confirm the awful part.

  • Waiting for the Norwegian Sweat Lodge

    Waiting for the Norwegian Sweat Lodge

    I often think about something Samuel Wilson Fussell wrote in his memoir Muscle. At the height of his bodybuilding obsession, he resented the hours between one workout and the next. Training made life bearable. Everything else was simply waiting.

    I understand that feeling better than I wish I did.

    Every workout is Christmas morning.

    The days between workouts are spent writing exercise programs the way children write Christmas lists. Should I begin with kettlebell swings? Goblet squats? Romanian deadlifts? Reverse lunges? The anticipation becomes its own form of pleasure. I don’t merely look forward to training. I ache for it.

    I’m almost sixty-five, and my one-hour kettlebell sessions in the garage have become my transcendental escape. They feel less like exercise than boarding a flight to a Norwegian sweat lodge hidden deep within a pine forest. There, steam rises through the trees like incense. The air is clean. My mind finally grows quiet. For an hour, I take a vacation from my own neuroses.

    Age, however, imposes its own theology.

    Injury is now the unforgivable sin.

    At twenty-five, I could bully my body into submission. At sixty-five, my body is the senior partner in the relationship. It insists on negotiation. I have to lift lighter, move smarter, recover longer, yet still wander close enough to my physical limits that my muscles receive the message without my tendons filing a formal complaint. Fifty years under the barbell have taught me where that narrow path lies. The art is approaching the cliff without tumbling over it.

    I cannot exaggerate how much I treasure those three weekly workouts.

    Three.

    No more.

    My body has cast its vote.

    The remaining days belong to the Schwinn Airdyne.

    Calling it “cardio” feels charitable. The Airdyne is less Norwegian sweat lodge than medieval torture device, a machine apparently designed by monks who believed salvation was achieved only through prolonged respiratory distress. If I could replace every Airdyne session with kettlebells, I would do it tomorrow. Unfortunately, my joints have become more persuasive than my enthusiasm.

    Training, however, is only half the bargain.

    Then comes eating.

    Or, more precisely, eating the right amount.

    People often say, “Just eat healthy.”

    That’s charming.

    I can eat salmon, berries, oatmeal, Greek yogurt, beans, and vegetables until I resemble a prosperous bear preparing for hibernation. My problem has never been distinguishing broccoli from doughnuts. My problem is that my default setting is abundance.

    Real nutrition isn’t merely choosing healthy foods.

    It’s choosing enough healthy foods—and then stopping.

    That is where the real battle begins.

    Like most people, I live with a steady stream of food noise humming in the background of my consciousness. Portion control doesn’t silence that noise. It merely lowers the volume enough that I can hear myself think.

    Yesterday was a perfect example.

    Breakfast was oatmeal, protein powder, soy milk, and berries. Lunch was a shrimp-and-tuna salad. After my afternoon nap came plain Greek yogurt with mango. Dinner was salmon over a salad with white rice and garbanzo beans, followed by an apple.

    Roughly 2,400 calories.

    Objectively, I ate well.

    Subjectively, I was hungry for most of the day.

    Not Hungry with a capital H.

    Not the desperate hunger of starvation.

    Just small-h hunger.

    And over the years I have learned something the fitness influencers rarely advertise between shirtless selfies and discount codes:

    Successful weight management is usually hungrier than unsuccessful weight management.

    If you’re never a little hungry, there’s a good chance you’re eating enough to maintain exactly the body you already have.

    That isn’t a tragedy.

    It’s simply arithmetic.

    If I want the leaner, stronger body my kettlebell training is trying to build, then I must accept small-h hunger as the price of admission.

    So I make peace with it.

    Because somewhere in the distance, beyond another measured meal and another day of anticipation, I can already see that Norwegian sweat lodge rising from the forest. Steam drifts through the evergreens like a veil. The kettlebells are waiting.

    And, like Christmas morning, it will be worth every hour I spent waiting.

  • Resurrection Fatigue and the Will to Begin Again

    Resurrection Fatigue and the Will to Begin Again

    My first memory of stepping onto a scale came in September of 1973. I was eleven years old, living in Nairobi, Kenya, recovering from the flu. I had barely eaten in several days and wondered whether I still weighed one hundred pounds. Curious, I wandered into my parents’ bathroom, climbed onto the scale, and watched the needle settle at ninety-seven.

    It seemed like a trivial moment.

    It wasn’t.

    Six months later my family returned to California, and I joined the Junior Olympic Weightlifting team at Earl Warren Junior High. From then on, weigh-ins became as routine as brushing my teeth. The scale was no longer a bathroom fixture. It became a judge.

    Within a year I was competing in the 148-pound class and, for a brief, glorious moment, ranked number one in the nation. Then I watched Pumping Iron.

    Like countless teenage boys before and after me, I fell under Arnold Schwarzenegger’s spell. His charisma was so overwhelming that Olympic weightlifting suddenly seemed like yesterday’s religion. I converted to bodybuilding.

    From that point forward, every weigh-in became an attempt to measure myself against Arnold. He stood six-foot-two and weighed about 230 pounds. I was five-foot-eleven, so simple arithmetic convinced me that 220 pounds would make me his earthly cousin.

    By sixteen I weighed 195 pounds, naturally lean and deeply tanned. A classmate named Kay McQuade told me I looked perfect.

    Poor Kay.

    She didn’t realize she was competing with Arnold Schwarzenegger.

    Compliments bounced harmlessly off my ego because perfection had already been assigned another number.

    By eighteen I weighed 210 pounds and could bench press four hundred pounds. I assumed 220 was inevitable.

    It wasn’t.

    At nineteen I competed in the Mr. Teenage San Francisco contest and finished runner-up. Contest dieting stripped away fat—and a good deal of muscle—until I weighed a shredded 180 pounds. I had never taken steroids. I wasn’t enormous, but I looked the way I had imagined a bodybuilder should look.

    Soon afterward I retired from competition.

    I continued lifting because it steadied my mind as much as it strengthened my body, and I settled comfortably around 205 pounds.

    That became my dating weight.

    Then, at thirty-two, something quietly went wrong.

    My weight climbed to 235 pounds with astonishing speed. The muscles remained underneath, but they now seemed trapped beneath an expanding layer of softness. I no longer looked powerful. I looked inflated.

    I became obsessed.

    Calories.

    Body fat.

    Scales.

    Mirrors.

    Thinking about my weight occupied so much mental real estate that you would have assumed all that rumination would produce results.

    It didn’t.

    When I began dating the woman who would become my wife, romance arrived carrying a dessert menu. We celebrated by eating at restaurants, lingering over dinners, and ordering sweets with cheerful abandon. Love and indulgence turned out to be enthusiastic dinner companions.

    By 2003, one year into our marriage, I weighed 257 pounds.

    There is photographic evidence.

    Somewhere on my wife’s Mac sits an image of me sprawled across our living-room couch with a bowl of popcorn studded with chocolate kisses. Melted chocolate decorates my face like war paint from a battle I had decisively lost.

    My daughters love that photograph.

    They laugh every time they find it.

    I don’t.

    When I look at that man, I don’t merely see obesity. I see someone whose appetites have staged a successful coup. He looks less like a husband than a failed republic.

    The next two decades became an exhausting cycle of resurrection and relapse.

    In 2004 I embraced a reduced-carbohydrate diet and returned to a respectable 205 pounds.

    Mission accomplished.

    Then came complacency.

    Back to 235.

    Years later I repeated the feat.

    Back to 205.

    Back to 235.

    In 2017 I met a remarkably fit celebrity chef whose daughters attended school with mine. His example inspired me to cut calories again. By August of 2018 I weighed a lean 200 pounds.

    Victory.

    Temporary victory.

    The weight quietly returned, as faithful to me as an old friend who never forgets my address.

    The last photograph of myself that I genuinely admire was taken in Yosemite in 2019.

    My daughters and I are standing beneath El Capitan. I’m wearing a black T-shirt and a Seiko Monster with its coral-blue dial mounted on a hulking Super Engineer bracelet. My arms are muscular. My face is lean. My expression carries a quiet confidence that only hindsight fully appreciates.

    Now I look at that photograph the way one studies an old passport.

    Proof that I once lived there.

    Then came COVID.

    For eighteen months I shuffled around the house in pajamas, taught college classes online, and discovered that home workouts were no match for comfort eating. My weight drifted back toward 240.

    As I write this in August 2026, I weigh 230 pounds.

    It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t seen the 220s since 2019.

    Seven years.

    Seven years hovering above 230, occasionally visiting 240 whenever vacation invited me to overstay my welcome at the buffet.

    Last week my family returned from Carlsbad.

    I came home weighing 236.

    Three disciplined days later I was back to 230.

    I now eat roughly 2,400 calories and about 140 grams of protein each day. Three times a week I spend sixty-five minutes in my garage swinging kettlebells. Twice a week I climb aboard my Schwinn Airdyne and pedal as if someone were chasing me with bad bloodwork.

    I have little doubt that I will soon break below 230.

    The problem is that I have already celebrated this victory several times before.

    I suffer from what I call Resurrection Fatigue: the exhaustion that arises from repeatedly rebuilding oneself after failure while knowing that every previous resurrection eventually gave way to another collapse. Each new beginning carries not only hope but memory.

    Memory can be a cruel training partner.

    It whispers:

    “You’ve been here before.”

    On difficult days I hear another voice.

    “What’s the point? You’ll gain it back anyway. You’re almost sixty-five. Eat the pizza. Order the carrot cake. You’ve had a good run.”

    Ironically, many of my eighteen-year-old students agree with that sentiment.

    Recently I asked them whether they would rather live to sixty-five eating whatever they pleased or live to one hundred on an austere diet.

    Every single one chose sixty-five.

    I understood their answer.

    At eighteen, death is an abstraction.

    At sixty-five, it has a calendar.

    You no longer think in terms of someday.

    You think in terms of seasons remaining.

    You become strangely willing to fight for another episode.

    No one wants his television series cancelled.

    So I’m still fighting.

    I know every trap.

    I know every rationalization.

    I know exactly how easily discipline dissolves into complacency.

    But I also know what waits on the other side of twenty lost pounds.

    Less sleep apnea.

    Healthier cholesterol.

    Less pain in my ankles.

    More years with my wife.

    More years watching my daughters become the women they are meant to be.

    Getting down to 210 is no longer about vanity.

    It is about longevity.

    It is about mental health.

    It is about refusing to surrender while the fight is still mine to wage.

    The older I become, the less interested I am in looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

    I would settle for looking like a man who refused to quit.

  • When Father Time Becomes Your Authorized Watch Dealer

    When Father Time Becomes Your Authorized Watch Dealer

    At sixty-five, with retirement approaching, I have aged out of five-thousand-dollar watches.

    Not because I can’t appreciate them.

    Not because they aren’t beautiful.

    Because I no longer have the wrist time.

    Twenty more years—if fortune is generous—is not enough to justify rotating my current collection alongside two additional grail pieces that would spend most of their lives quietly aging in a watch box. I call this Chronological Misalignment: the condition in which a person’s remaining lifetime no longer justifies acquiring possessions intended to be enjoyed over a much longer horizon.

    Time eventually becomes the harshest accountant.

    But time is only half the problem.

    The other half is geography.

    Or, more accurately, lifestyle.

    I still admire the Grand Seiko GMT. I still admire the Tudor Pelagos. They remain magnificent objects.

    I simply struggle to imagine wearing one while binge-watching Hulu, pushing a shopping cart through Target, or taking my daughters to YogurtLand for frozen yogurt.

    The watch would be dressed for an expedition to Antarctica.

    I would be buying gummy bears by the ounce.

    The mismatch is almost comic.

    I call this Environmental Misalignment: the condition in which one owns or desires objects whose elegance exceeds the ordinary circumstances of one’s daily life.

    Recognizing these two forms of misalignment is not depressing.

    It is liberating.

    Reality has performed the difficult task of setting my priorities for me.

    The question is no longer whether I can justify another grail watch.

    The question is what deserves that energy instead.

    For decades, watches occupied an astonishing amount of mental real estate. They required research, comparison, speculation, buying, selling, photographing, discussing, and occasionally irrational justification.

    Now that enthusiasm has become available for reassignment.

    It belongs elsewhere.

    It belongs in writing.

    It belongs at the piano.

    It belongs in my kettlebell-filled garage.

    Most of all, it belongs to my health.

    I am still about twenty pounds overweight.

    My physician periodically reminds me that it is time for fasting bloodwork—cholesterol, blood sugar, and the rest of the annual report card. I already know roughly what the results will say. At 230 pounds, everything will probably look respectable except my LDL cholesterol, which has an annoying habit of hovering around the borderline.

    So the mission is obvious.

    Reach 210 pounds.

    Then endure the ritual: skip breakfast, forgo the morning coffee, wait patiently while someone extracts several vials of blood, drive home slightly lightheaded, and receive laboratory numbers worthy of the inconvenience.

    At thirty-five, my grail was a Tudor Pelagos.

    At sixty-five, my grail is different. It’s a total cholesterol below 200 and a blood pressure reading of 120 over 80.

    That is not surrender.

    That is maturity.

    There comes a point in life when we stop negotiating with Father Time.

    He begins issuing instructions.

    He says:

    “You’re not wearing a Grand Seiko to Trader Joe’s.

    You’re not timing your afternoon nap with a luxury GMT.

    Your assignment now is different.

    Become as healthy as possible.

    Remain mentally sharp.

    Write your books.

    Play your piano.

    Stay strong enough that your family never has to carry you through the final chapters of your life.”

    For once, I find myself with no desire to argue.

    His orders make perfect sense.

    The remarkable thing is that they do not diminish my life.

    They simplify it.

    The pursuit of watches has quietly given way to the pursuit of longevity, creativity, and strength. Those ambitions promise far greater returns than another polished titanium case ever could.

    I wrote this little manifesto wearing a G-Shock Frogman.

    It told time just as faithfully as any luxury watch.

    More importantly, it reminded me that I have finally found a grail worthy of the time I have left.

  • The Prophet of the Squat Rack

    The Prophet of the Squat Rack

    My middle school P.E. coach and Olympic weightlifting instructor, Lou Kruk, was not merely a teacher. He was a force of nature. Standing well over six feet, barrel-chested beneath tight T-shirts or black turtlenecks, sporting a Tom Selleck mustache, wavy brown hair, perpetually tanned legs protruding from gym shorts, and a voice that rumbled like Wolfman Jack after three cups of espresso, Kruk looked less like a school employee than the star of an action movie who had wandered onto campus by mistake.

    The mythology surrounding him only enlarged the legend.

    He drove a bronze Porsche. Rumor had it he spent weekends sailing with impossibly beautiful blonde women who, in our adolescent imaginations, might as well have been Scandinavian supermodels. Whether any of it was true hardly mattered. At thirteen, facts were powerless against charisma.

    To us, Lou Kruk embodied manhood itself.

    Naturally, we craved his approval with the desperation of medieval squires hoping to earn a knight’s blessing.

    So we lifted.

    Not casually. Fanatically.

    Kruk demanded perfect technique. He regarded sloppy form as a moral failure disguised as athletic incompetence. A wandering knee or rounded back earned immediate correction, usually delivered with enough volume for the entire class to hear. Public embarrassment was simply another teaching aid. If you couldn’t discipline your body, he reasoned, you probably couldn’t discipline your life.

    He preached through barbells rather than sermons.

    Discipline.

    Precision.

    Toughness.

    Master yourself before the world masters you.

    Oddly enough, Kruk possessed another passion that seemed entirely at odds with Olympic lifting.

    Henry Mancini.

    Instead of blaring hard rock through battered speakers, our weight room echoed with Mancini’s lush orchestrations. As we practiced snatches, clean-and-jerks, and deep squats, elegant movie themes drifted through the air. Kruk had assembled a respectable stereo system, transforming what should have resembled a dungeon into something closer to a strangely sophisticated temple of iron.

    We trained with style.

    Some of us trained with obsession.

    I belonged to the second category.

    Soon I wasn’t content to squat only during workouts. I squatted beside my locker. I squatted while inching forward in the cafeteria lunch line. I squatted during P.E. while playing goalkeeper as soccer balls sailed harmlessly overhead. If there was an idle moment lasting more than five seconds, I considered it wasted unless my knees were bent and my thighs were burning.

    Eventually my classmates stopped calling me Jeff McMahon.

    I became “Squats.”

    At the time, I regarded the nickname as a badge of honor. I was no longer merely a skinny kid trying to become stronger. I had become an exercise, a living advertisement for relentless self-improvement.

    Only years later would I understand what was really happening.

    I wasn’t simply building legs.

    I was constructing an identity.

    The barbell had given me my first Great Mutation—not because it transformed my body overnight, but because it convinced me that reinvention was possible.

    And once a boy discovers the intoxicating possibility of becoming someone else, he spends the rest of his life wondering whether one more transformation might finally make him whole.

  • The Theology of Big Biceps

    The Theology of Big Biceps

    In my imagined novel Lifter, I borrow a page from Emmanuel Carrère and turn the investigation inward. The subject is not merely my lifelong devotion to weight training but the psychic hunger that made it feel less like a hobby than a form of emergency intervention. Why did I begin lifting weights at twelve? What wound was I trying to cauterize? What fear was I trying to overpower? Looking back, I suspect I wasn’t chasing health so much as prescribing therapy for a spirit burdened by cowardice, insecurity, and an almost inexhaustible sense of inadequacy.

    The story begins before I ever touched a barbell.

    As a boy, I was consumed by baseball. I imagined myself as a fearsome slugger, not because I dreamed of leading the league in home runs, but because I wanted opponents to recoil at the sight of me before I ever stepped into the batter’s box. My heroes were not graceful athletes. They were broad-shouldered giants: Willie McCovey, Harmon Killebrew, Dick Allen, Greg Luzinski, and Reggie Jackson. But towering above them all stood the legendary Ted Kluszewski, whose biceps were so enormous that, in my child’s imagination, they simply burst through the sleeves of his uniform like the Incredible Hulk erupting from Bruce Banner’s skin.

    Only now do I recognize what fascinated me.

    It wasn’t baseball.

    It was metamorphosis.

    I wasn’t captivated by batting averages or slugging percentages. I was captivated by spectacle. I wanted the crowd to gasp before I ever swung the bat. I wanted my body to announce my arrival before my performance had the chance to disappoint. I longed to become less an athlete than a mythical creature who wandered accidentally onto a baseball diamond.

    In that fantasy, my muscles eclipsed the game itself.

    The home run was secondary. The physique was the event.

    Even as a child, I wasn’t pursuing athletic excellence so much as theatrical transformation. I wanted to become someone so physically overwhelming that ordinary rules no longer applied. If my body could become extraordinary enough, perhaps it could silence the ordinary boy trapped inside it.

    That dream would outlive baseball.

    It would follow me into bodybuilding, weightlifting, teaching, writing, and nearly every other pursuit I embraced. The details changed, but the longing remained stubbornly intact. Again and again, I sought transformation through achievement, hoping that each new accomplishment would finally extinguish the old feeling of insufficiency.

    It never did.

    The weights built stronger shoulders and thicker arms, but they proved remarkably ineffective at strengthening self-worth. Every reinvention promised belonging. Every reinvention postponed it.

    Perhaps that has been the real story all along.

    The barbell was never merely a piece of exercise equipment. It was my first attempt to lift something far heavier than iron. I wasn’t trying to transform my body so much as reinvent my soul. In the end, however, the Theology of Biceps proved incapable of saving me.

  • The First Rule of Diet Club

    The First Rule of Diet Club

    The first rule of dieting is beautifully simple: don’t talk about dieting. The moment you begin enthusiastically recounting your Fourth of July bacchanal—how you mainlined salami, slabs of Muenster cheese, triple-fudge brownies, and vanilla bean ice cream until you were convinced you had one foot in the grave and the other in a podiatrist’s office diagnosing gout—you have already begun sabotaging yourself. Soon your audience will be treated to your target weight, your macros, your supplement stack, your Mediterranean meal plan, and your newly acquired expertise in insulin sensitivity, fibermaxxing, and protein optimization. You will sound like someone who completed an online doctorate in nutrition sometime between dessert and midnight. Unfortunately, the odds that you will still be following the plan by next weekend hover somewhere around the lifespan of a mayfly.

    The irony is that talking about dieting feels suspiciously like dieting. You receive the emotional reward before earning the physical result. Friends nod approvingly while you bask in the warm glow of your imminent transformation. The fantasy becomes so satisfying that the actual work begins to feel almost optional. Meanwhile, everyone else quietly wonders why they have become unwilling participants in your nutritional TED Talk. Like nearly every worthwhile endeavor, dieting rewards execution rather than narration. Calories are indifferent to speeches. Fat cells are unimpressed by declarations of intent. Biology has never once accepted enthusiasm as a substitute for consistency.

    Then comes the humbling realization that your revolutionary plan is neither revolutionary nor particularly new. You have saddled this horse before—roughly a hundred and twenty times. Your success rate for reaching your target weight, less than 5%, is discouraging enough; your success rate for keeping it there is indistinguishable from zero. 

    With this in mind, you briefly entertain the modern miracle of GLP-1 medications, only to discover that the price, potential side effects, and your physician’s reluctance to prescribe them leave you unconvinced. So, in the colorful language of the internet, you decide to raw-dog the process. 

    Beneath all these failed diets lies a more subtle addiction. You are not merely addicted to food. You are addicted to self-reinvention. Every new eating plan promises not simply a smaller waistline but a new identity—a wiser, leaner, more disciplined version of yourself who will finally silence the persistent suspicion that you have somehow fallen short of your own expectations. The tragedy is that this future self often functions less as a destination than as a mirage shimmering just beyond the horizon.

    And yet, abandoning the effort altogether is hardly an attractive alternative. Better to struggle toward health than surrender to gluttony with theatrical resignation. So make your plan. Count your calories. Work out with the kettlebells. Ride the bike. Eat the vegetables. Decline the brownies. But keep your mouth shut. Announce nothing. Promise nothing. Let your bathroom scale and your belt become your only press secretaries. The instant you begin proclaiming your impending metamorphosis, your words become dietary Kryptonite, knocking Superman out of the sky and sending him headfirst into a vat of vanilla bean ice cream. Silence, it turns out, may be the most underrated weight-loss supplement of all.

  • The Torn Rotator Cuff That Taught Me Gratitude

    The Torn Rotator Cuff That Taught Me Gratitude

    In late August of 2025, I tore my left rotator cuff.

    It wasn’t my first encounter with the injury. I had damaged the same shoulder in the 1990s and again in the early 2000s while chasing bigger bench presses. Those injuries announced themselves with unmistakable violence. I felt the shoulder give way beneath the weight, and in that instant I knew exactly what I had done.

    This time was different.

    During my kettlebell workout, nothing seemed wrong. No sharp pain. No alarming pop. No dramatic warning that I had crossed a line.

    The verdict arrived the following morning.

    I woke to a shoulder that had quietly mutinied overnight.

    The culprit wasn’t one reckless repetition but accumulated stupidity. At sixty-three, I had somehow convinced myself that five heavy kettlebell workouts every week was a sensible training program. My rotator cuff politely disagreed.

    I saw an orthopedic specialist, received the diagnosis, and was offered surgery.

    I declined.

    Instead, I committed myself to physical therapy. Resistance bands replaced heavy iron. Tiny, almost laughably simple exercises became my daily ritual. Progress came not in dramatic breakthroughs but in stubborn millimeters. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I climbed out of rotator cuff purgatory.

    Ten months later, the pain is gone.

    My range of motion has returned.

    I wake without the familiar ache that once greeted me every morning.

    Most importantly, I never needed surgery.

    At sixty-four, I consider that outcome a gift.

    Even so, I no longer pretend the injury never happened.

    It changed me.

    First, I accept that my shoulder probably isn’t what it once was. I no longer possess the same explosive confidence during overhead presses and kettlebell thrusters. Rather than arguing with reality, I simply reach for lighter weights.

    Second, I train less often and recover more. Three kettlebell workouts each week are enough. I insist on at least twenty-four hours between resistance sessions, particularly those involving my upper body. On the days in between, I happily climb aboard my exercise bike for an hour of steady cardio.

    Third, I have abandoned my fascination with heavier numbers. Rows, swings, goblet squats—everything has become lighter. Instead of chasing personal records, I chase rhythm, consistency, and smooth movement. My joints have become more valuable to me than my ego.

    Finally, I’ve learned to exercise with gratitude.

    For decades I treated workouts as obligations or competitions. Now they feel more like privileges. Every pain-free session reminds me that movement is something to appreciate rather than assume. Respect has replaced bravado. Caution has replaced impatience.

    Looking back, I feel as though I dodged a bullet.

    The outcome wasn’t perfect. My shoulder carries its history with it, and so do I.

    But I also can’t ignore the alternative futures that never arrived. Surgery never came. Chronic pain never settled in. Permanent disability never took hold.

    Instead, I recovered about as well as a man could reasonably hope after fifty-two years of asking his body to lift heavy things and three months before his sixty-fifth birthday.

    That realization has changed my definition of strength.

    Strength is no longer measured by the amount of weight hanging from a kettlebell.

    It is measured by the wisdom to keep showing up tomorrow.

  • My Diet Revolution Will Not be Livestreamed

    My Diet Revolution Will Not be Livestreamed

    Today marks my first day of abandoning snacks and eating only three meals.

    I’m already making minor adjustments. I think I’ll add a couple of eggs to lunch to help carry me through the long stretch between 11:30 and 5:00. After dinner, I’ll finish with a small crystal bowl of Greek yogurt, berries, and a drizzle of honey—not as a fourth meal, but as a civilized period at the end of the sentence. It softens the psychological blow of eliminating my beloved post-nap yogurt-and-protein-powder ritual without turning dessert into another calorie ambush.

    As I write this, about four and a half hours after lunch, I won’t pretend it’s effortless.

    I notice the absence of the snack.

    My stomach notices it.

    My brain notices it even more.

    It keeps floating little suggestions.

    “You know, one handful of almonds wouldn’t count.”

    “A spoonful of peanut butter is practically medicine.”

    “Surely Greek yogurt exists outside the jurisdiction of snacks.”

    My appetite has hired an exceptionally creative attorney.

    But the discomfort is remarkably ordinary.

    I’m not suffering.

    I’m not wandering the Sahara with cracked lips and hallucinations.

    I’m simply a little hungry.

    If tolerating that mild inconvenience helps me lose twenty pounds, it strikes me as an excellent bargain.

    The larger lesson has nothing to do with nutrition.

    It’s about refusing to become a baby.

    Modern life encourages us to interpret every minor discomfort as an emergency requiring immediate relief. Hungry? Eat. Bored? Snack. Tired? Caffeinate. Restless? Scroll. We have become connoisseurs of eliminating even the slightest irritation before it has a chance to teach us anything.

    Perhaps that’s why ordinary self-discipline now gets marketed as though it were a heroic expedition.

    Someone skips dessert for three days and suddenly there’s a podcast, a YouTube channel, and a line of merchandise celebrating their “journey.”

    I have no interest in becoming that guy.

    You will not see me posting a dramatic video titled How I Defeated Hunger and Reclaimed My Life.

    There will be no livestream documenting my courageous decision to survive the dangerous interval between lunch and dinner.

    No inspirational soundtrack.

    No slow-motion footage.

    No sermon about embracing pain.

    Because there is no pain.

    There is only structure.

    There is only routine.

    There is only a modest reduction in calories.

    Sometimes common sense is refreshingly unglamorous. It doesn’t require a manifesto, a support group, or a motivational speech. It merely asks us to tolerate a small amount of discomfort in exchange for a much larger reward.

    That hardly qualifies as heroism.

    It’s just growing up.