Join the League of Extraordinary Shame

Email: richretyi@gmail.com

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Posted:
March 27, 2013
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Join the League of Extraordinary Shame

extraordinary shameThe most difficult goals are reached through support groups and shame. Weight Watchers. Alcoholics Anonymous. Pie Club.

It’s not all about fitness, weight and not chasing the white dragon. There are goals like saving money, volunteering more, caring about your kids, writing letters, doing art, etc. Some of these goals are tough to achieve alone. That’s why there are running groups and Weight Watchers and AA and Pie Club. I give you a 43rd option – The League of Extraordinary Shame. Think of it like personal fantasy sports for your life. Head to head showdowns with friends and strangers to see who has the best willpower and stick-to-it-ness.

Here’s how The League of Extraordinary Shame works:

1. Each person chooses three things they’d like to improve – anything previously mentioned or something unique but it needs to be something you can work incrementally towards but that won’t expire in a week or two.

For instance, “Assemble That IKEA Bookshelf That’s Been in the Closet Since Christmas” or “Finally Eat the Unlimited Pasta Bowl at Olive Garden” won’t work. I’d also counsel against goals that celebrate the finish line and don’t focus on the process. For instance:

Good = Eat better                                 Good: Work out more

Not so Good = Lose 15 pounds       Not so Good: Bench press 250 pounds

I care about the process.

2. These don’t need to be major goals. Some should be fairly attainable and some should be a little more difficult. But “wake up in the morning” shouldn’t be something you choose unless you really, really have trouble waking up. Neither should you choose “walk 45 miles each day.”

3. You don’t need to tell me what you’d like to improve on. That can be your secret. But you need to abide by the honor system, for The League of Extraordinary Shame doesn’t truck with cheats.

4. Once six or more people contact me about joining the league, a head-to-head schedule will be created to match people up against each other each week. From Monday through Sunday, each person will track how well they’ve progressed towards their goal and at the end of seven days either add a checkmark or red X next to each goal. The person with the more checkmarks wins the week. Ties count as well. Honor system rules.

5. The shame comes each Monday when the new League of Extraordinary Shame standings come out. Everyone won’t know what you’re working towards, but they will know if you had a good or bad week. And so will you. So when you’re matched up against the jerk who’s been nailing all their goals each week, it will either motivate you to do better in your quest or stay in bed all week. Or if you’re against someone who’s had a bad week, wipe the floor with their sorry ass! It’s your time to shine.

6. At the end of a predetermined number of weeks, playoffs will begin where we’ll work together to push your goals a little bit further for a three to four week period. If you want to get more exercise and you work out three times a week, maybe you stretch that to four. If you’re trying to read more, maybe you set aside a little extra time those weeks to be a real bookworm. This is the part of the league that’s tougher to workshop. It’s a league in progress. Baseball rules took 400 years to semi-perfect. We’ll get there.

7. As teams advance or are sent into consolation brackets in the playoffs, two people will emerge in the finals. The winner will receive a nice little prize from my coffers and the runner-up will get something slightly less impressive. And hopefully all of you will feel a slight sense of accomplishment.

Again, your personal goals can be secret, as can your name. Only I’ll know your identity and I won’t tell anyone you’re playing unless you’re okay with that. Here’s what my team will look like.

The Canadian Bacons

Goals:
Work out more (goal is five times a week)
Eat better (quantity and quality of food)
Write my book (10 pages per week)
Sleep more (seven hours a night) OR spend less ($XX total discretionary spending per week)

Now who wants to play? Email me at richretyi@gmail.com with your acceptance, ideas or questions. I don’t even need to know you personally for you to participate. I’ll gather names for a week or so and when I think we’re ready to go I’ll email everyone and kick things off.

Join the first season of The League of Extraordinary Shame!

Posted:
August 4, 2012
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forksknives

Forks Over Knives Plus Fish Minus Motivation

The documentary Forks Over Knives is changing lives all around me. I’ve had two sets of friends celebrate the thesis of this film, which is that a whole-food plant-based diet can prevent and reverse disease better than any surgery or medication. It’s not a terrible argument. Don’t eat garbage and your body will be better off. But subsequent articles have shown that the documentary skews data to present its own point of view, leaving out the benefits of fish, ignoring moderation, etc.

I don’t want to get into any semantic debate about Forks Over Knives, and the documentary affected me a lot less than reading Fast Food Nation, The Omnivore’s Dilemma or Eating Animals. At the same time, I decided to see how long I could go without eating meat. At first I wanted to go the entire month of August with no meat, but that seemed pretty ambitious and, as you can see from the title of this post, I lack motivation to withhold pleasure, especially chicken wings and burgers.

On Saturday I ate chicken and chicken at Mr. Spot’s (that’s chicken fingers and chicken wings, a personal favorite) and started Sunday on my vegetarian odyssey. I lasted until Thursday around 12:45pm when, overloaded at work and unable to slip out to get food, I ate a frozen Trader Joe’s meal that had been chilling in the freezer for weeks. Lamb Vindaloo. Vegetarian experiment over. Later that night I had a hot dog from a street vendor. The next day I had a turkey and ham sub.

It wasn’t hard not to eat meat, but it was hard to find things that didn’t contain it. Most frozen meals I’d pack for work that are worth a shit have some form of meat in them. Maybe I’m not looking hard enough. I did start craving steak around Wednesday, but I always crave steak.

Go watch the documentary and see if it changes your life. I decided to try and eat more fish (for the 46th time in my life) and eat more beans. Because I don’t care how my breath or shit smells. That’s your problem, world.

Posted:
July 27, 2012
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10k

The Toughest 10K in Michigan

Liz Smith called it the toughest 10K in Michigan. The Indian River Summerfest 10K. Eighty-five percent uphill, through rolling country roads and dirt trails ending in (historic?) Indian River. When plotting the Liz Smith Immemorial 10K, I had no intention of running an organized 10K. It’s not the $20 (though paying money to run seems absurd) but the idea of pitting myself in a contest of fitness against anyone. This is why I don’t try to race people in my Honda Civic or have push-up contests against men with large pectoral muscles. I don’t feel like setting myself up for failure.

Me and Rachel following the Indian River 10K. (Not pictured: my shame)

The field for the Indian River 10K was 40 deep. Broken into age categories, I was among the eight male competitors in their 30s to test their legs over 6.2 miles (it was actually closer to 6.4 according to a handy app I had on my phone, but who’s quibbling). The decision to run was a rash one, my preparation non-existent. Sure, I run two to three miles per gym visit and then do the elliptical, but that’s a lot different than running outdoors. Treadmill running is bouncing. Outdoor running is actual locomotion. Big difference.

I drank a free Monster energy drink (PLUG!), signed up for the 10K and immediately had some ice cream. Which I followed with a number of Miller Chills (PLUG!), a Budweiser (PLUG!) and hotdogs for dinner. I woke at 6:45am, drank two cups of coffee, ate a peanut butter sandwich and two more hot dogs. At 8am I queued up my running playlist and bounded down the backroads of Indian River (are there any other kind in Indian River) to the indifference of the cottagers walking down their front walks to grab the morning paper.

I started strong, my friends. I disrecall the songs I listened to for the first mile and a quarter, but the tunes, coupled with my hotdog strength, kept me below a 10-minute mile, keeping pace with Ms. Liz Smith. Her boyfriend Donnie was near the head of the 10K pack battling for an actual medal. He would finish in third place overall, averaging a 6:30 mile. That’s obscene. I don’t even want to get into it.

I stuck on Liz’s hip until the 10K and the 5K split off. The 10K went left and up a giant hill and the 5K split right, down a gentle slope, through a Wendy’s and a Dairy Queen and a full-service massage parlor. Liz pulled away from me and then the shin cramps started. It serves me right. I betrayed my body (beer, hotdogs, nail biting) so it struck back by making it impossible to plantar-flex my left foot. I sagged. People passed me. The pain increased but more than anything it was the inability to bend my foot that made me stop. And walk. At mile two.

I was angry. Like throw rocks into the woods angry (I didn’t actually do that, but I wanted to). I flexed my leg and watched one, then another person pass me and felt shame and embarrassment and little bit of fear. What if I had to walk the rest of the four miles on a bum leg? My time was climbing past 20 minutes and I knew that Donnie (showoff), Liz, Rachel (running the 5K) and her parents would be waiting for me at the finish line. And waiting. And waiting. A little kid and her dad passed me. I swatted at a fly buzzing around my head and slapped myself in the face.

I won’t drag this out. The shin relaxed. I started kicking back into gear and eventually I hunted down a grizzled woman a half-mile in front of me (it turned out she was 50+ – still, VICTORY!) and then I spotted the kid and her father. The little girl would run, then stop, run, then stop, while her dad chugged along at a slow pace, looking back to make sure his daughter didn’t wander into the woods or get hit by a jet ski on a trailer.

I zeroed in on the little girl. She was 10 years old cholesterol levels of an eight-year-old. Showoff x 2. I caught her on the final hill, then turned onto Main Street for the final 75 yards. I saw Rachel and her family and Donnie (not even sweating by now, psh!) and they were all cheering. I removed my headphones. I heard their happy, encouraging cries. Their cheers rang in my ears. For the little girl. The little girl gaining on me. Sprinting hard in her little running shoes and gaining on the tubby man from Canada. She crossed the finish a few steps in front of me to finish 37th overall. I took the popsicle stick with a 38 written on it (no microchips here) and high fived my little competitor. Maybe I threw the finish – maybe not. Atlantic City will never know. But her father will. SHE DIDN’T BEAT ME MR. CROFOOT! YOUR DAUGHTER IS THE 37th FASTEST 10K RUNNER IN INDIAN RIVER IN 2012. GOOD LUCK GETTING THAT CROSS-COUNTRY SCHOLARSHIP TO CENTRAL MICHIGAN NOW!

Other than a big blister on my foot, I was no worse for wear. My shin was relaxed, my nipples unbloodied and it wasn’t until the next day that my quadriceps felt the thousands of micro-tears I’d inflicted on them. I conquered the toughest 10K in Michigan and didn’t puke. And lost to a little girl. Allegedly.

Who wants to race in my Honda Civic? I’ve got nothing to lose.

Posted:
July 26, 2012
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calfs

The Little Things

The little things have gotten me to where I am today. For good and bad. The little things rule (rue?) my life. Or contribute to larger successes – it’s not all bad. My calf muscles: product of little things. When I was a high school freshman trying to gain muscle mass to compete in sports against all the kids older, more talented and physically more gifted than me, I frequented the school weight room. Well, a small portion of the school weight room.

It was a dingy, smelly, poorly lit hole in the ground accessible by a single door from the parking lot. In the deep recesses of the weight room were the real weights. The benches and the free weights and most of the things that would help me gain core strength and gridiron glory. Near the entrance was the calf machine.

The older students – 15, 16, 17, 18 and even 19 year-olds (this was Ontario during our now-defunct five-year high school program) – crowded the best machines, sweating and grunting and punching each other in the arm while throwing around casual homophobia. I didn’t dare venture amongst them. I stuck to the periphery. To the entrance. The calf machine.

I used that calf machine every trip to the weight room, which was a few times a week. Occasionally I got brave enough to do biceps curls. The little things built my calf muscles. Day after day, season after season. Today they are large and, though  not in their prime, still near-mint.

Positive little things. Green dots. Like my writing skill. See above for that example. Boom.

But the little things also sink me. Food. Productivity. Oral hygiene. Red dots. Like my fat ass and three pages of a novel I’ve been working on for three years.

A few weeks ago I committed myself to tackling the little things. Yoking them and making them drag me to victory. For every little thing I did right/well, I got a green dot. For every little thing I let slide or did poorly, I got a red dot. Spoiler alert – this lasted about two weeks. But I am more conscious of the little things now, even if I don’t use markers to prove it.

What little things do you do well? What little things slip through your fingers and cling to your thighs?

Posted:
May 18, 2012
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retro basketball

Sports Dynasties and Sports Failures

I have a long history of athletic participation covering sports from softball, soccer and swimming to judo, basketball and lacrosse. I played on some great teams and I played on some terrible teams. Mostly the former.

I’ve raised trophies, ducked my head for medals to be placed around my neck, and earned Most Valuable and Most Improved awards while avoiding the ever-crappy Sportsmanship award. Who wants that dead weight?

My son or daughter, should they have a knack for sport and games, will no doubt test my feelings about athletics and my history of such. I was one of those kids who liked to have fun, liked to play hard and more than anything, preferred not to lose. Winning was almost secondary. It felt far worse to lose than it felt good to win. I’m sure this has manifest itself somehow in my everyday life. Take all the guesses you want in the comments below.

The first athletic setback I recall was not getting chosen for the Welland Realty travel soccer team despite my belief that I was one of the three best players on the team. I might have been, but they only picked two kids and rather than go with the chubby kid with the Beatles haircut they went with Dean Smith and the fat but donkey-legged Damian LaPlante. This may have helped shove me off the soccer pitch and onto the basketball court where I started playing for Volcanos Pizza with my best friend Mark. Mark was the Larry Bird of Welland house league basketball and since we were pals and his dad sort of ran the league, I got to be on his team and thus our team was pretty dominant year in and year out. Lots of trophies there, kids.

Thanks also to this little bit of nepotism (and my aggressive defense, probably) I was also selected to  be a part of the Welland Warrior all-star traveling basketball team, where I rode far down the bench for two years until I finally learned how to shoot the basketball with one hand. The coach, a great hairy-armed guy named Tony Rao, was my coaching idol. He always referred to me as his emotional support, which somehow made it okay for me when he never put me in games. Mostly because I sucked.

But I practiced hard. I practiced all year, in the winter in gloves and in the summer in short shorts, and by my third or fourth year (who keeps track?) I was actually pretty good. I was playing regularly. I was a valuable member of a team that was one of the best in Ontario and we kicked some ass. Kicked so much ass that one time when we didn’t win a big tournament and finished second to a squad of genetic freaks from Blessed Sacrament in Hamilton, Mark threw his second place medal across the locker room where it shattered into a million second-rate pieces and then burst out crying. A few teammates followed suit. I clutched my medal tight to my meaty fist, eyes dry, hoping to add it to a growing trophy collection at home. Daddy, will you love me more if I add another cheap piece of plastic to the wall in the den?

Eventually I hit high school, stopped growing vertically and started getting bulkier for football. I went out for ninth grade football and mostly got beaten up, then did fairly well my sophomore year, prompting a choice: basketball or football. Football won out and I proceeded to be a captain on some of the most mediocre football teams in my high school’s history. No championships for us. Lots of middling 5-5 records or 6-4 campaigns with mid-round exits in the playoffs. I capped things off with a wonderful one-win season my senior year (the worst season in something like 80 years of Notre Dame High School football), getting kicked off the team in the final game of my career because I used the word “fuck” in a sentence with my coach. Hard times.

Our lacrosse teams were a little better, and I served them well, though we never won any big championships only a minor tournament here or there. In college my athletic career ground down, sputtering to a stop with some flag football seasons where my team would make it to the semifinals and lose to either the med school team, the alumni team or the team made up of former college football players.

The closest I’ve come to a championship since those old days of hoop with Mark was an Ann Arbor Rec League kickball season a few years back where we made it to the championship game but lost handily to the evil opponents and their cursed legs. I still got a shirt (ugly) but by then losing didn’t feel so bad. I think I got used to it.

When my kid decides to start playing soccer or softball or take karate or play quidditch, I’m going to take them aside, tie up their shoes tight and tell them first and foremost to have a good time. And don’t forget. Second place is first loser. No Fear.

Posted:
April 14, 2012
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zombies

The Gamification of Exercise or How Video Games Will Make Me Thinner

I’m using as much technology as possible to get in shape. I have two apps on my iPhone and an iPad loaded with goodies to help distract me from the fact that I’m working out. I don’t find working out fun. I enjoy how it feels when I’m done and I like the results, but the actual process sucks. Technology helps distract me as much as possible when my muscles beg me to stop and my lungs breathe hot ass.

The tool that’s been most effective so far is a baseball simulator called Out of the Park Baseball. It’s nerdy as hell. You don’t actually swing a bat or throw a ball, but you manage a baseball team with an accurate roster through situations, trades, and all that Billy Beane stuff. Since the game takes low to moderate concentration and very little dexterity, it’s perfect for when I’m on the elliptical where I can play three full games in the 40 minutes I’m plugging away. It’s a lot more effective than reading, which I’ve been doing for the last five years or so, albeit, less productive.

I’m also running more. A few weeks back I downloaded an app for my iPhone called Zombies, Run!, which is a running game and “audio adventure” that puts you at the center of a post-apocalyptic zombie story. You’re Runner 5, a courier of sorts who runs all over the zombie wasteland collecting items and helping people. You sync an iTunes playlist to the app, which tracks your speed and distance through GPS or, for indoor running, your phone’s accelerometer.

It’s story, song, story, song, story – not nearly as immersive as I thought it would be, but more entertaining than just running to music. The neatest, and most challenging feature is the zombie chase. It only works outside, but once every two songs or so, a voice comes over the music and warns you that zombies are nearby. Then you hear the distant moaning of the walking dead, accompanied by a steady, slow beeping. If you don’t pick up your pace, the beeping gets faster and the sound of the zombies gets louder. After about a minute or so of near-sprinting, the beeping recedes and the voice informs you that you’ve evaded the zombies. Or you get caught.

I’m also using a calorie counter app called MyFitnessPal to track food and exercise, to keep an eye on nutrition. There’s more out there. There’s a product called the Nike Fuel Band that you wear on your wrist. It monitors your daily activity and converts everything you do into a “Fuel” metric. You set goals, it tracks how far you’ve walked, how many steps you’ve taken, calories burned, etc. and you can access the data on your mobile devices and tablets. I thought about getting it, but I don’t want to wear a dorky device on my wrist all day.

Technology is making it easier to pretend you’re not working out. It’s a whole lot more fun to play games and get exercise, but the opportunities for recreational sports are few and far between. Now I have my fake baseball players and faux zombies to motivate me. Hail technology.

Posted:
April 12, 2012
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04192011_GL19welllls

The Liz Smith Immemorial 10K

Elizabeth Smith, beloved sister of Rachel, likes to run. Well, she runs – I’m not sure if she actually enjoys it or not. Before she got a fancy new Garmin running mate watch thingy, she used to have an approximate 10K route that she’d follow when she wanted to get a nice run on.

I will run the Liz Smith Immemorial 10K soon. One more step in 52 Weeks to a Better Retyi.

I didn’t start running for proper exercise until I graduated from high school. Back then we called it “training” because I played the fooseball. I ran infrequently through college, since I attended school in Montreal, which was either ice-bound or disgustingly humid. The real running began in Chicago, where I belonged to the fanciest gym of my life, the Evanston Athletic Club. I ran like crazy on those treadmills, watching sports highlights, MTV videos and Commando.

I didn’t start properly running outdoors until I moved to Washington, D.C. where I got good at running. I bussed to work at Georgetown University and ran/jogged/walked the five miles or so home on the Chesapeake Towpath that ran along the Potomac. I’ve never been in better shape, nor had so many micro-fractures in the bones of my lower legs.

Since then, my running has tailed off. I’ve hoofed some in Ann Arbor, even running the Big House Big Heart 5K and a 5K Turkey Trot but mainly stick to the elliptical. Both runs were unimpressive. The Liz Smith Immemorial 10K is my lead-up to a much grander goal – running the distance of a full marathon. That’s 42.195km or 26.2 miles. Or, roughly 20 miles more than I’ve ever run at one time in my life.

10K first. Baby steps.

Posted:
March 29, 2012
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Cleanse

Cleanse Your Colon the $17.99 Way

Leave it to a visit from someone who lives in Los Angeles for someone to talk me into doing a cleanse. Thanks to Nick Iverson, I got it in my head that it would be a good idea to clear out nine year-old pieces of red meat from my lower intestines with fistfuls of anonymous pills. He suggested a particular brand, but I got lazy and stopped by the big Vitamin Store while running errands and bought whatever the semi-beefy guy in the blue polo recommended. $17.99 for intestinal purity. A small price to pay for another notch in the ever-crumbling 52 Weeks to a Better Retyi.

The 10-day cleanse had me taking 11 capsules every night for eight nights, then 14 per day for the final two days of the cleanse. There were the usual warnings about consulting physicians and stopping if you experience abdominal pain or can’t poop, but I don’t have a primary care provider right now and I have trouble self-diagnosing gut pains.

I expected my poop to be different – it wasn’t. Spoiler alert to anyone who’s going to live with me in the future – I poop pretty regularly. I also expected it to smell like nine year-old meat. It didn’t. Spoiler alert to anyone who’s going to live with me in the future – my farts smell a lot like zombie graveyards already. No change with the cleanse.

It was unimpressive. I drank more water. Pooped about the same amount. Meh.

Posted:
March 13, 2012
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yosemite7

Scaling El Capitan

I work on the seventh floor of a nine-story building – the highest altitude workspace of my life. There’s an elevator, so I take the elevator. Up in the morning, maybe down at lunchtime, back up, back down. But this week I’m taking a different route in an effort to contribute to 52 Weeks to a Better Retyi. I’m taking the stairs.

Seven floors is pretty decent. By floor five, my heart rate is a little elevated and by seven I’m about to get to my desk and unbutton my pants. It’s a nice little blood rusher.

The stairwell itself is a glimpse into a weird hidden world I didn’t know existed. On each of the floors from three through seven is a laminated picture of a famous mountain with its elevation in floors listed below. The first peak is El Capitan – 51 floors. After that it gets ridiculous. Peaks in the 80s, the low 100s, the 200s and by that point I’m trying not to trip over my shows so I’m not looking up. One of these days I’ll climb the final two floors to see what the highest peak in the building is. I’m guessing Space Mountain.

These mountain pictures are delightful. Someone in the building tacked these images in the stairwell and I’m sure there are little groups of people who go walking at lunchtime or during little breaks in the day to clear their heads and create some lactic acid. I picture them wearing bright sneakers and eating apples.

I’d like to run into them someday, sherpas passing in the night. I’ll ask them where they got their shoes and they’ll try not to make eye contact with me. Can’t wait.

Posted:
March 5, 2012
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2
tim_ferriss

The 4-Hour Body Full-Time

On February 17 I laid out my half-measured attempt at the slow carb diet. I say half-measure because there was no meal plan and other than frowning on carbs, I didn’t have much guidance. I don’t do well in greys. I need absolutes. The slow carb week wasn’t successful and near the end I decided to make it extreme.

I bought a 15lb book called The 4-Hour Body by Tim Ferriss. It’s kind of crazy. Week 8 of 52 Weeks to a Better Retyi.

Let it be stated here – this is the last time I want to explain this with anyone, so if we run into each other in person, I’ll refer you to this post for information. I hate talking about it. It’s shameful, unsustainable but I want to try it. Keep your rosaries off my lipids.

Tim Ferriss, Bro

I couldn’t be led down the path of weight loss and general triumph by a bro-ier bro than Tim Ferriss. I watched a video of him making breakfast on YouTube and had to take a shower. A lot of his stuff sounds feasible, in the same way that anyone explaining anything to me with passion and a mix of data can sell me the t-shirt. I’m incredibly gullible to passion.

The book is broken down into various ways that you can make yourself superhuman. Weight, health, strength, well-being and the most uncomfortable section, sex life. Ferriss instructs the reader not to devour the whole book, just pick a goal and read those sections. I picked weight, but skimmed the rest.

Weight loss is simple. Don’t eat white foods. Drink water. Limit anything artificially sweetened. My meals consist of meat, legumes and vegetables. Except Saturdays. Here’s where this diet is different and, to me, more sustainable. Every Saturday you’re encouraged to eat whatever you want. ANYTHING. It sounds like a joke, but he explains why this isn’t crazy and it makes sense. To me, at least.

Spoiler alert – I started this diet on February 20 and it’s March 5 – so I’m in week three. That’s two full weeks of the diet and two cheat Saturdays so far. The first cheat Saturday I ate Five Guys and an entire pizza. Last cheat Saturday I had a Blizzard and ribs. I’m down three pounds from Feb. 20.

I’m pretty disappointed with the weight loss. I thought I’d lose it quicker, though I didn’t cut diet soda out of my diet as much as I probably should have, and I tiptoed the line with things like hot dogs and bratwurst. I’m also not sure if I’m losing fat and retaining water or just not changing at all – I need to do a few more things to measure.

The plan is to stick to this through March and reevaluate. I have a friend who’s been following the diet for nearly six months and he’s had awesome results. He’s been more than patient fielding my emails and questions.

If this works out, I’m going to read more chapters and totally give in to the bro side. Nice knowing you, doods.

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