Work Out Illusion

By Douglas V. Gibbs
Author, Speaker, Instructor, Radio Host

The number one New Year's Resolution, according to various media outlets, is "to work out," "lose weight," or "get back into shape."

A reasonable goal.  A good chunk of Americans are out of shape and/or obese, and a little exercise definitely can't hurt.  We eat horribly, and we sit on our bottoms playing video games or watching television way too much.

My son, taking a jab at her mid-section flab, said to my wife (his mother) just the other day, "You need to work out.  If you work out a fifty year-old heart becomes a thirty year-old heart."

Once again, I am not here to demean the art of working out, or those who do it, but the broad brush of "working out solves all health problems" is not necessarily accurate.

Much of what ails us as a society, while a lack of exercise is often a part of the problem, really begins with diet.  And even then, we can't use a giant swipe of a broad brush stroke to even say that diet remedies all of our health difficulties.  But, I think for most people, the root of most of our health problems do revolve around diet.  Well, there's that, and then there's also genetics.

We are almost all guilty.  We open a box of this, and a can of that, or we hit the burger joint, or other fast food establishments, constantly.  Hey, I get it, we are on the move, we are busy, and we don't have time to sit down and make a healthy meal for ourselves, much less spend the time figuring out what we should be eating in the first place.  We have meetings, soccer practice, we get home late from work, we have dinner dates and we have social gatherings.  Usually, spending time to plan and orchestrate a healthy dietary strategy is just not in the cards.  We don't have the time, the energy, or the self-determination to do it.

"Besides," we reason with ourselves, "Grandma Whatsit or Grandpa Whoever didn't worry about how they ate, and they lived well into their eighties or nineties.  They ate lard, smoked two packs a day, and were about as rotund as anyone that age who doesn't exercise is going to get.  What am I worried about?"

We also hear those stories about the healthy people dropping dead.

When I was younger, I was a long-distance runner.  I ran between 20 and 30 miles per day.  I didn't do it because I was on some exercise or health kick, either.  I enjoyed running those distances.  It was a fantastic thing to do to just get out there in nature (well, I live in Southern California, so maybe calling my running routes a slice of nature is a bit of a stretch) and feel the brisk air running through my beefed up lungs and fueling my very strong heart.  Perhaps the runner's high (which only took a little while to get to) once one climbs over the runner's wall played a part in my enjoyment of running, as well.  Plus, I had the body for it.  Relatively thin on top, but powerful legs.  Running was my thing.

Then, one of my heroes, James F. Fixx, who had recently been on the cover of the magazine Runner's World, and who had spurred many people to get out there and hit the pavement with their running shoes with best-selling books about running (and a guy who preached the gospel that active people live longer) died of a heart attack while on a solitary jog in Vermont at the age of 52.  It was July of 1984, and at that tender young age (I was 18) I realized that while exercise, including running, is good for you and will likely improve one's odds of having a better life and a longer life, one cannot claim absolutism when it comes to such a lifestyle.

Sometimes, when it's time to die, it is simply time to die.

A close friend of mine just a few years ago died under similar circumstances.  Avi ate in a healthier manner than most folks, visited the gym nearly daily, and rode his bike more often than he drove his car.  Then, one day, while riding his bike to the gym, he collapsed on the side of the road, and died.  He was 57.

Another friend of mine visits the gym every day, and for 75 years old he looks great.  He is a testament to the argument in favor of working out; or, at least he is until you learn his body is filled with stints, and last year he had open-heart surgery.  Granted, if he didn't work out he might be dead. His hours in the gym made recovering from the surgery a little better for him.  But, working out was definitely not the cure all, be all for his heart.

Among the members of the younger culture, a cult of working out has risen up.  To them, exercise promises all kinds of glittering, shining things.  Eat well, exercise well, and you will be well.  They have become narcissistic about it, almost worshiping their own bodies.  While I am willing to recognize the benefits of working out for most people, the motive behind it is important, as well; and to be honest, one of my biggest pet-peeves in life are people who walk around thinking they are better than everyone else. . . and whether you think this is a broad brush stroke or not, people who are religious about working out tend to be exactly those kinds of obnoxious, chest stuck out, nose in the air, arrogant jerks.

Thanks, but no thanks.  I don't wish to be around those kinds of people, and if they are flocking to the gym, then you can keep the gym for yourself.

Sure, they all have a point when it comes to healthy living.  Eating well increases your odds of being healthy.  Exercise likely increases your odds of living longer.  They are both encouraged, if you can do them.  Not doing them, however, does not necessarily mean you are doomed to a short life, nor does it prove you are lazy or unwilling.  Some people can't, and some people don't have to.

I damaged my left knee when I was 19.  My long-distance running, for the most part, was over.  I eventually, despite the doubts of the medical industry that I would be able to, got back to running, but the distances I could run due to my fouled up knee were greatly shortened.  Sure, I could pursue an artificial knee, but no doctor would likely be willing to perform the operation because while my knee is no longer at 100%, it works well enough not to warrant the surgery.

Nearly five years ago my unprotected body was struck by a pick-up truck on a job-site and the damage to my back and right shoulder was severe enough that it knocked me out of driving big rigs with a commercial driver's license, and I definitely could not go back to construction, of which I had spent fourteen years doing before driving a sand and gravel truck for a living.  The back pain, while not so crippling that it keeps me from doing anything and everything, is definitely bad enough that it poses limitations upon my activities.  I can't work a full-time job anymore, that's for sure.

Since the injuries, for about a year I had a membership at a local gym and used the heated swimming pool (and hot tub to relax the muscles) in the hopes of helping mitigate my back pain.  I would swim a length of the pool, and then walk a length or two, then swim a length, and then walk a length or two, for about an hour four days per week.  After spending time in the pool, I would also get in some light weight training for about a half hour, as well.  Also, while I did not drastically change my diet, I altered it enough that I figured it would have a positive impact.  I completely knocked sodas out of my diet, began to eat more green vegetables, nearly eliminated my consumption of processed foods, and drastically reduced my "eating out" habit.  As a result, the mitigation of the back pain was negligible, and I gained four pounds.

The strain on my schedule, and the monthly tug on my wallet pushed me into the realization that the benefits of the gym, for me, was not worth the time and money I was putting into it, and I sadly ended my gym membership.

When seeking to understand why working out and diet has never had a major impact on me, I decided to take a closer look at my genetic makeup  The member of my family that sticks out the most glaringly is my mother's father.  My grandfather did everything wrong.  He began smoking at the age of fourteen, and smoked two packs of non-filter cigarettes pretty much until the day he died.  He ate eggs (yolks, and all), bacon, and drank coffee every morning for breakfast.  His diet the rest of the day consisted mostly of deep fried foods, and what most of us would categorize as "junk".  His most strenuous exercise occurred when he went fishing, and his social relationships included catching catfish, and befriending a local squirrel.

He literally did everything wrong, and he lived to the ripe old age of 83.

Again, I am not disparaging working out, or eating right.  I am just saying that the statement I hear that "all you need to do is work out and everything will be good" is not always accurate, or doable.  Everyone is different.  We are individuals.  Our bodies react differently.  Some people don't enjoy working out.  Some do.  In my case, I have long slender muscles.  When I was younger three years of heavy weight training did nothing but make me stronger.  I gained absolutely zero bulk.  I began the heavy weight training with the football team (in the hopes of helping build more upper-body strength for uphill running so as to improve my chances of making varsity in Cross-Country) my sophomore year in high school, and it ended when I graduated (I did achieve a varsity letter both my junior and senior years).  During that time, with all of the heavy lifting, while my football friends all bulked up and became larger obstacles on the offensive and defensive line, and more difficult to tackle if they were ball carriers, I went from 113 pounds to 115 pounds and didn't gain a single millimeter around my waist, or my biceps.  While I did not get bigger, I did get stronger.  I could pop out 200 push-ups like it was nobody's business (and returned to the 200 push-ups a day habit until about my mid-thirties), and could squat (on a machine) over four hundred pounds.  But, despite all of the hard work to build size and might, I remained slender, and lean.

After four years of Navy life with starch-rich military cooking and my running mostly being confined to jogging around the ship's circumference, it took me four years to work my way up to 135 pounds, while remaining at zero percent body fat.

It wasn't until my forties that I began to put on weight, and then it was the wrong kind.  I went from a lean, mean running machine to a relaxed middle aged man with belly fat and a new desire to be able to see his feet without having to lean forward pretty quickly.

I began playing basketball with my friends, again, at that time, and walking the dogs, but the weight kept piling on.  Looking back, I am realizing that it wasn't about activity as much as it was about what I was eating.

Now, at 52, I have finally gotten my diet partially under control (we do have those moments of weakness, every once in a while) but the exercise thing is almost a pipe dream at this point.  The chronic back pain, the return of my knee difficulties, and a whole slew of other factors have me dreading going to the doctor, and grunting to tie my shoes.  I can't "work-out" in the sense that I did when I was younger, but I am beginning to go on walks.

I will do what I can, when I can, with what my capabilities are.  I don't believe that the longevity of my life depends upon whether or not I work out.  It may be a factor, but I am not positive it for sure is a factor.  And if I live a year less, but have a larger smile on my face because I ate a few extra double-doubles, so be it.  If I drop dead from a heart attack next year, I am figuring that the likely reality is that hitting the weights was probably not doing to do anything about the looming threat of heart disease, anyway.  Eat better? Yeah, I can do that, or at least some of it.  But, I refuse to get caught up in the absolutism Jim Fixx preached, or today's weight pounding millennial has to say to me.  Knock yourself out.  Work out.  Chances are, while it's better to be in motion than not to be, the difference in years of life for those who work out and for those who do not is probably not as drastic of a gap as some folks may think.

Now, excuse me, I've got some peanut butter cups to eat and a bacon sandwich to eat.

-- Political Pistachio Conservative News and Commentary