The Beaver, Johnny Weissmuller, and Me

We all share this birthday.

In honor of Tarzan (aka Johnny Weissmuller, June 2, 1904 – January 20, 1984) I got up and hit the pool shortly after 7 am for 22 laps. Felt great, and my 59th birthday seemed like all the more reason to stick with my routine.

I don't want to get too far ahead of myself and try to project what I am going to do in honor of the Beaver, aka Jerry Mathers, but I'll find something. After all, I'm a big fan.

Swimming is really working out for me, I'm here to say after two weeks. I'm getting a good workout in 5 days a week, and I have not experienced a single moment of pain. Even back when I was running marathons and training 40+ miles a week in the mid-90s, I invariably finished each day's workout wondering if I was going to be able to work out the next day, or if nagging injuries would keep me from it.

And as a good exercise routine almost always does, it seems to be helping me to rest, to eat in a generally healthy and moderate way, and even to focus more in a more effective and satisfying way on the rest of my life. So I'm being a little bit of a cheerleader for "my program," here, but that's just another part of making it work.

What a terrific birthday I am having, and it's been going on since Saturday! The people who care about me have been taking very sweet care of me, and I am even enjoying this rather remarkable Facebook phenomenon of experiencing lots o' love from long-time friends as well as FB Friends of a more recent variety.

Some of you have known me since the time when that photograph on the left was snapped of me running cross-country at Mount Hermon back in the Fall of 1967. (I don't know who took the photo, but thanks to Keith McCasland for scanning it from the '68 yearbook and emailing it to me). Anyway, that's the guy I am looking for now, my inner 17-year-old, when I jump in the pool each morning these days. I don't have any illusions of being 17 again, but I am feeling more confident each day that this year I am beginning today, my 60th year, will be a year in which I feel younger each day. It's all up to me ... and, in a way, up to Tarzan and the Beaver.

Thanks for checking in, and thanks to many of you for your birthday wishes!

Romance Leads to Regimen Leads to Results

Among the thoughts I was thinking as I swam 18 laps at the pool this morning after the scale told me ever so sweetly that I was down another pound since Sunday's weekly weigh-in:

From the Fall of 1966 to the late Spring of 1968 (with the aid of a full scholarship which I am too hung up on class issues not to mention here), I attended Mount Hermon, a boys' boarding school set amidst astonishing beauty on the Connecticut River in Western Massachusetts. A few year later, happily for its inmates, it was joined with an affiliated girls' boarding school across the river and has been known ever since as Northfield Mount Hermon, or NMH. But while it was just MH, its institutional notion of inter-gender social interaction centered around Saturday night dating events between the school and an extremely active traffic in sometimes perfumed letters between zip codes 01354 and 01360.

While I may not be an expert on normal, I can tell you that this structure of deprivation and brief, intense interaction (and yes, I can assure you that it was intense) was not normal for 16- and 17-year-old boys and girls.

I bring it up now not to launch into any amateur anthropology about teen dating, but because for me it introduces an important discussion about how we motivate ourselves to achieve or maintain higher levels of physical fitness.

Toward the end of my junior year I met an interesting, edgy, pretty girl from Flushing named Meredith. Merry and I dated perhaps a dozen times before school broke for the summer, and while I doubt that either of us would have said we were "in love," I for one had certainly achieved a happy state of limmerance. (It would be ungallant for me to speculate as to what Merry has achieved, but she did write to me and speak to me on the phone, and there were kisses).

That summer I had a great job as a fledgling sports writer covering the Cape Cod Baseball League, and I rented a room in Hyannis just a few hundred yards from an old, not very well kept cinder oval track. Although I was working well over 40 hours a week, nearly every day that summer I went to the track with my stop watch for intense, solo track workouts in which I tried to repeat as many 70-second quarter-mile laps as I could each day without any real sense of how to use rest days or even jogging recovery laps. I had no coach, and I would just run until I couldn't run any more.

I was pursuing a regimen with two purposes:

• I was working to get my time for running a mile as far under 5 minutes as possible, so as to insure I would be a worthy contributor to the varsity cross-country and track teams at Mount Hermon during my senior year; and
• I was doing all of this to please Merry, to impress her, to attract her, and perhaps even to make her want to smile at me and kiss me.
  

Now, as it happened, Merry could not have cared less about cross-country, track, or my time for the mile. She may have found some appeal in the temporary "sixpack" and muscles that were natural concomitants of the athletic accomplishments for which I was training, but I wouldn't put too fine a point on that. Long story short, her parents did not approve of the age difference between us, or perhaps of me, and they succeeded in putting the kibosh on our romance, as parents sometimes do, often with good cause.

But that didn't matter. The point is that romance led to regimen led to results. My attraction to Merry, and my desire to attract her, played a powerful role in my capacity to get to the track on a daily basis and do what I thought I needed to do there.

What I was doing at 17, although I was far from figuring it out then or in several other times since when I have acted on similar motivations, was tapping into forces older than our species itself. I won't try to offer any finer explanation here, but it would be foolish not to realize the power of these forces or to let them assist us when they are available. My life in this my last week as a 58-year-old -- and specifically the fact that I am what is called "single" -- is not all a walk through an open field. But to the extent that it has put me in a position to experience limmerance again -- and to say any more here, about that, would to get ahead of myself -- is nicely beneficial and even motivating to the ongoing efforts of BMGS 2.0.

I didn't plan it this way. But I'm happy to have it working for me.

The Yardbirds said it all, of course:

Yardbirds - For Your Love
Lyrics

(Graham Gouldman)
For your love.
For your love.
For your love.
I'd give you everything and more, and that's for sure.
For your love.
I'd bring you diamond rings and things right to your door.
For your love.

To thrill you with delight,
I'll give you diamonds bright.
There'll be things that will excite,
To make you dream of me at night.

For your love.
For your love.
For your love.

For your love, for your love,
I would give the stars above.
For your love, for your love,
I would give you all I could.

For your love.
For your love.
For your love.
I'd give the moon if it were mine to give.
For your love.
I'd give the stars and the sun 'fore I live.
For your love.

To thrill you with delight,
I'll give you diamonds bright.
There'll be things that will excite,
To make you dream of me at night.

For your love.
For your love.
For your love.
For your love.