Thursday, May 22, 2009

Why I've Stopped Reading Men's Health After 22 Years

Men’s Health magazine launched in 1987, the year I graduated high school and began college. For the last 22 years, a period that has taken me to the cusp of my 40th birthday, I’ve been a loyal reader and/or subscriber. I’ve written a handful of stories for MH. Its parent company, Rodale, published the first four Core Performance books I’ve had the honor of writing with Mark Verstegen, himself a MH columnist until recently.

But the June 2009 issue will be my last. Maybe I no longer fit the MH demographic, but the magazine has morphed into something I no longer find useful, compelling, or even interesting.

For years, MH provided cutting edge research on fitness trends, nutrition, and performance. There’s still a taste of that in each issue, though for the most part it’s become just another celebrity-obsessed, New York-centric, jock-sniffing rag catered to the ADHD 18-to-34 male demographic whose main goal, apparently, is to impress 24-year-old actresses.

I was hoping the June issue would change my mind and, indeed, I felt a sense of sadness when it arrived with a “LAST ISSUE” warning and a come-on to renew my subscription, one of no doubt dozens I’ll receive in the coming months.

I began to turn the pages hoping to see a glimpse of the former MH. Instead, I was reminded of the many reasons why I’ll be getting one less magazine.

Admittedly, these are brutal times for the magazine business. Fast Company tried to lure me back the other day with a renewal rate of $10 for three years. (Not $10 annually, $10 for three years.) As someone who makes a living in part by writing for glossies, I feel the pain more than most. I understand the need to constantly evolve and the “meet the demands of readers,” whatever that means.

What I don’t get is the need to focus to no end on celebrities, preferably those with a connection to New York City. Every media outlet is guilty of this. It’s why ESPN does not go 10 minutes on any of its platforms without mentioning Brett Favre, even if there’s nothing new to report. It’s why athletes with above-average skills (Jason Sehorn, Jeremy Shockey) become larger-than-life figures. It’s why a no-talent nobody like Kim Kardashian can become famous for….what, exactly?

But MH always was different. Its covers always featured some anonymous fitness model displaying his eight-pack abs and rippling physique. So what if the guy starved himself for weeks leading up to the shoot and followed a training regimen that perhaps included a at least a few things that can’t be found in your local GNC. This is what loyal readers of MH like me wanted.

Then, in 2004, the magazine jumped the shark when Editor David Zinczenko began putting celebrities and athletes on the cover exclusively – with their shirts on. Initally, this wasn’t such a bag thing. There was a terrific feature on Matthew McConaughey and all of his crazy workout routines. McConaughey is a legitimate athlete, posting a competitive time in last year’s Malibu Triathlon. A few months later, MH profiled Sean William Scott, best known for playing Stiffler in the “American Pie” movies. Not exactly an A-list celebrity, but he did have some useful workout tips. Clearly this was a guy who took care of his body.

Unfortunately, MH soon discovered what’s obvious to anyone who follows Hollywood. Most actors (and actresses) are chain-smoking, hard-drinking hedonists who get into shape only when roles require it, with the help of accomplished, highly-paid trainers, nutritionists, nannies, and handlers. Exhibit A: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, who have done more to promote smoking than anyone not named Strom Thurmond.

Even a magazine with the clout of MH had trouble landing the likes of Pitt. So it took a familiar page out of the celebrity magazine playbook, featuring up-and-coming stars of new movies. Early in 2007, MH profiled Gerard Butler, the lead actor in the Spartan-themed film 300, which inspired men everywhere to start performing crunches. For an ab-obsessed magazine like MH, edited by best-selling “Abs Diet” co-author Zinczenko, 300 was a godsend.

The movie aside, Butler wasn’t quite MH material. During the few hours he spent with a writer from MH (in New York, of course), he never stopped smoking. But, hey, at least he had washboard abs for a few months during the filming of 300.

Thus began a pattern of MH giving a pass to smokers. Never was this more evident than a recent issue that featured the nation’s First Cancer Stick Consumer, President Barack Obama. Though the media dutifully has avoided reporting on or shooting photos of Obama smoking, he’s by all accounts had trouble kicking a longtime habit. (The tight, parsed skin and baritone voice might be a giveaway.) Not so, according to MH, which reported that Obama was only an occasional smoker who had beaten the habit with nicotine gum.

Which brings us to the current cover boy, Ewan McGregor. Unlike most celebrity subjects in MH and other magazines, McGregor granted the writer more than the traditional 90-minute chat over lunch in a trendy NYC restaurant. Instead, they met for a hike in Malibu Creek State Park, which fit the theme of the profile of McGregor as a seize-the-day, man-of-adventure kinda guy.

There’s a lot to like about McGregor. I’ve always admired how he keeps his private life private. We’re about the same age, both with two kids (he adopted a third), and both married more than a decade. I haven’t seen many of his films, but thought he was terrific as Obi Wan Kenobi in the Star Wars prequel trilogy.

Unfortunately, as author David Hochman notes, “McGregor is not the complete Men’s Health guy. He hates the gym. Free weights, circuit training, treadmills – they bore him. “Oh and squats,” he says, as we head down the coast. “They make me angry and nauseous.”

McGregor notes that he smoked for years and hints at periods of heavy drinking. These days, his workout routine consists solely of five-mile runs with an occasional eight miler. In other words, the typical American long, slow distance “workout” that does nothing but produce overuse injuries.

Among McGregor’s fitness pearls of wisdom: “Stop drinking and you’ll lose weight.”

Then there’s this: “What matters most with any regimen, whether it’s to lose weight or stop drinking or smoking, is you willingness to seek help and your desire to say, ‘no more.’ The voice in your head that says ‘I choose not to’ is what ultimately makes the difference between not changing and making changes that last.”

Willpower! Who knew? Thanks for the takeaway, Obi Wan!

McGregor is hardly the only celebrity featured in the June MH. Among the other “gets” is somebody named Tyrese Gibson, star of the upcoming “Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.” There’s even an odd mini-profile on Danica Patrick’s father and how he contributed to her competitive fire.

Danica, of course, is one of the most accomplished female athletes in sports. Her husband is a physical therapist for the Oakland A’s. She trains hard and is on the cover of the June issue of Shape magazine.

Of course, nothing says “accomplished female athlete” and “competitive fire” more than a black-and-white photo of Patrick in a low-cut dress wearing an annoyed expression while standing in the desert in front of a vintage Cadillac.

That’s the image MH uses for Patrick. Perhaps the art director thought MH was shooting one of its usual features on 24-year-old starlets offering advice on how to impress women. The June Babe of the Month is someone named Jessica Szhor, who is pictured eating (or at least holding) a piece of chocolate cake and claims she “eats like a man,” scarfing down hamburgers.

Now I might not know much about impressing 24-year-old actresses (or those of any other age), but I’ve dealt with enough prominent 24-year-old pro athletes to know that they live in a world that most of us can’t comprehend. How this is applicable to the life of the average MH reader is anyone’s guess.

Thankfully, MH still offers some meaty stories from the likes of decorated magazine writers like Bob Drury. The June issue includes a terrific seven-page investigation into the dangers of men eating soy protein. Written by the aptly-named Matt Bean, the story shows that soy is an estrogen precursor that will lead to decreased testosterone production, diminished libido and Alex Rodriguez-sized man boobs.

It’s a thorough examination of the topic, with numerous experts and studies quoted, just the type of helpful piece that MH became famous for. Unfortunately, the topic is at least two years old, previously featured in other magazines.

A decade ago, MH would have been the first to report stories like this. Instead, it stopped identifying trends and started reporting on them. No doubt this story came out of some meeting of editors, at least one of whom read a story on the dangers of soy…somewhere else!

It’s a symptom of magazine myopia. Editors, most of which live in or near New York City, believe they have their fingers on the pulse of America. If it’s not happening in NYC, it’s irrelevant. It’s why most magazine stories in MH take place in NYC gathering spots and profile young people with jobs that only exist in NYC or Los Angeles such as “publicity assistant” or “assistant book editor.”

No matter that more than 96 percent of Americans live remarkably interesting lives outside of NYC in beautiful places like Emmaus, Pa., home of Rodale and MH headquarters. Zinczenko, according to his publicity materials, splits his time between Emmaus and the company’s New York offices.

There aren’t many triathlons in New York, which might explain why MH has virtually ignored the boom in the endurance sport, continuing to focus mostly on the same tired workouts based on bodybuilding. Even though triathlon represents the hard-charging, Type A, $100,000-plus demographic MH craves – this month’s issue even includes a full-page ad for the Malibu Triathlon – there’s little editorial coverage.

Even highly-regarded, cutting-edge trainers are forced to write recycled pieces like Juan Carlos Santana’s “Chisel Your Chest,” a June issue workout involving various push-up routines. Pick up any previous issue and you’ll find something similar.

As MH has become more celebrity obsessed, it has ventured more into sports, sometimes with disasterous results. Last month, the accomplished writer Joe Kita profiled a training center created by baseball agent Scott Boras for his clients. Boras probably is glad his two most prominent charges, steroid cheats Alex Rodriguez and Manny Ramirez, don’t use his facility. The issue went to press before Ramirez was busted, but after A-Rod comped to using ‘roids, at least during his Texas Rangers years.

Though Boras has by far the most prominent client list in baseball, the only notable guys who seem to train at his facity, according to the story, are Matt Holliday of the A’s and veteran Garrett Anderson of the Atlanta Braves. Left unsaid was why nobody else trains there or a mention of any of the growing number of Boras clients, including A-Rod and Mitchell Report pitcher Kevin Brown, have used performance enhancing drugs.

Kita did his best to write around a story that likely didn’t produce the access he was hoping to receive. Still, are there no baseball fans on the MH editorial staff who could have noticed some glaring flaws in the story?

In fairness to Kita, there are more than a few magazine stories I’d like to have back for revisions. None of those were among the pieces I wrote for Best Life, a short-lived MH spin-off that folded earlier this year. Dedicated to living your “best life” possible, it featured stories on how to improve your life physically, financially, and emotionally. It reminded me a lot of what MH used to be.

Best Life was a victim of the economy, declining advertising, and perhaps the times. There were celebrity profiles, of course, but little advice on bedding 24-year-old actresses, no jock-sniffing sports pieces, and few tired bodybuilding routines.

Those things apparently aren’t part of living your best life.

But what do they have to do with men’s health?

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

We're Going Streaking!

My favorite race of the year is this Sunday, May 3 at 8:30 a.m. - the Lake Como Dare to Go Bare 5K. It is what it sounds like, a clothing-optional 5K held at one of the nation's oldest nudist resorts, right here in the Tampa Bay area.

There's something liberating about running in the nude. Most people, myself included, first experience nude running as drunken streaking during the college years. It's a different experience sober, though no less enjoyable.

I've run this race virtually every year since moving to the Tampa Bay area; Sunday will be my 10th time. Nude 5Ks are fairly common at nudist resorts around the country, but Como was one of the first to stage one. In 1993, my future Fitness Buff co-host Sabrina Vizzari, modeled the Como clothing-optional run after one that had taken place for years at a nudist resort near Spokane, Washington.

Sabrina gradually grew the race, to the point where local radio station WFLA 980 AM got involved in 1998 and more than 300 runners participated. Attendance has leveled off at about 125 in recent years. It's mostly regulars, but there always are a fair number of newcomers doing it as a dare or to cross it off a bucket list.

It's also the only clothing-optional race in the Tampa Bay area. When Sabrina and I broadcast the show from Paradise Lakes from 2005-07, Sabrina served as race director for the resort's fall "Sneaker Streaker" event. In April of 2007, she staged what we hoped would be a second annual event, the "Cotton Tail Run," named for the pasty white butts of first-time nudists. Though the event was a success, the resort was sold later that year and, sadly, the new owner did away with both runs.

People always ask if running nude is painful. Not for guys, though some well-endowed women wear sports bras for the race. People also wonder if it's a legitimate race. Indeed, it's an official 3.1-mile course, looping through the resort's orange groves, and it attracts serious runners. The winning men's time often is under 17 minutes and one of the race regulars is a guy who wins many non-nude events in the Tampa Bay area. Yes, more men than women run the event and most everyone goes nude. Otherwise, what's the point of driving all the way up to Lutz on a Sunday morning?

The folks at Lake Como always put on a nice awards ceremony, with plenty of raffle prizes and refreshments. Plus, runners can stay and hang out by the pool all day. It's a terrific value for the entry fee - and a race that you're guaranteed to remember.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Eight is Not Enough!

At the start of this year, I set a goal of completing eight (sprint) triathlons. The idea was to do eight races in 2008, when I would be 38 for most of the year.

On October 25, I reached the milestone, finishing race No.8, the Suncoast Triathlon in St. Petersburg, Florida. Having just taken up the sport in September of 2007, not long after the publication of Core Performance Endurance, I felt a great sense of accomplishment. I couldn’t have imagined, however, the lessons I would learn along the way.

OVERCOMING FEAR: Ten years ago, I almost drowned on my honeymoon. The “swimming” I thought I learned at the age of 5 was little more than a hybrid breaststroke/doggy paddle.

Swimming is the limiting factor for most newbie triathletes who did not grow up on swim teams. I had the added burden of getting over the fear of drowning. When you can get past such a fear and master a new skill, especially well into adulthood, it’s very empowering.

OVERCOMING FEAR II: Just as I was getting over the fear of drowning, I wrecked on my bike during a Sunday morning group ride, hitting a wet spot as I rode onto a bridge. Nothing was broken, but I was bruised and sore for weeks, with a nasty case of “road rash.”

Unfortunately, the incident made me wonder why such accidents aren’t more common given the narrow tires of the average road or triathlon bike. For the next three weeks, I came up with excuses not to ride and didn’t get back on until the triathlon itself.

Naturally, it rained heavily the night before and was still misty the morning of the race. The roads were wet as the race began and I was tentative, posting a bike time 15 percent slower than usual.

The lesson? Get back in the saddle immediately.

KEEP CHARGING: As a sportswriter, I cover Major League Baseball regularly, and was struck this year by how two guys almost exactly my age, Ken Griffey Jr. and Troy Percival, all but limped toward retirement.

Baseball players aren’t supposed to be dominant at the age of 39, at least unless you’re a crafty left-hander like Jamie Moyer who seemingly can pitch forever. Griffey and Percival plan to play next year, if their bodies will allow.

Neither player ever dedicated himself to conditioning, which might be why their bodies broke down and their performances tailed off dramatically in their 30s. Both still had distinguished careers and earned enough money to last for generations.

Triathlon is a sport that attracts people in their mid-to-late 30s looking for greater challenges once they’ve established careers and gotten kids out of diapers. At a point where most professional athletes are retiring, they’re just getting started.

Thursday, August 15, 2008

Halfway There

To think I call myself a writer. Here I am, blogging for the first time in more than two months. In fairness, I've been blogging frequently for CorePerformance.com, the terrific site owned and operated by my longtime co-author Mark Verstegen.

To find my columns, click one of the red tabs labeled "sports training," "nutrition," "fitness," and "performance living" and go to "articles."

My quest to complete eight triathlons in 2008 took a setback when an early-morning thunderstorm wiped out the Morton Plant Mease Triathlon in mid-July. Organizers canceled what would have been the second-annual Bare Hare Triathlon in North Carolina next week. I also missed the popular Top Gun Triathlon, part of the popular trilogy of triathlons here in the Tampa Bay area at beautiful Fort DeSoto Park.

I missed Top Gun because it fell on the only week my wife and I could use Marriott points and schedule a week-long trip to Maui, where I swam every day in the open water, where visibility was ideal. I swam alongside tropical fish and got a huge boost of confidence navigating rough waters.

After a tough swimming workout

Last weekend, it was back to the Tarpon Springs Triathlon, site of my triathlon debut 11 months ago. Tarpon is a popular first-timer event and its status for next year is uncertain with Fred Howard Park closing in September for a 13-month construction project.

I shaved two minutes off of last year's time, finishing in the middle of the male 35-to-39 pack. Training colleagues swept many of the age group divisions, picking up what has to be one of the most unique award giveaways: sponges from the nearby sponge docks of downtown Tarpon Springs.

Sponge winner Chris Kendall (left)

With some aggressive rescheduling, I should be able to make up the lost races and finish four more for a total of eight by Halloween.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Three Down, Five to Go

I'm almost half way to my goal of doing eight triathlons in 2008 after completing two in the last eight days.

That's one of the many great things about living here in the Tampa Bay area. It's one of, if not the only, place in the country where it's possible to do a triathlon within an hour's drive just about every weekend between mid-April and the end of October.

First up was the Madeira Beach Triathlon on June 1, a terrific race in one of many beach communities in Pinellas County. The race featured a half-mile swim and, as usual, I was close to the rear in my age group. Then I got hit with a two-minute drafting penalty by what I'm told is a notoriously hardline group of USAT officials at this race. I wasn't anywhere close to contention for awards, though several of members of my Team Espresso Love squad earned hardware.

Team Espresso Love, post-Mad Beach Triathlon

Next up was the Spring into Summer 5K on Saturday. I opted to do this even with the Dunedin Triathlon on tap for Sunday, in part because race director Summer Carter came out to the Caliente Resort & Spa a week earlier for The Fitness Buff Show and delivered one of the most memorable live guest performances ever.

Somehow I ran a 20:45, my fastest time since high school cross country, circa 1985-86, and more than two minutes faster than the same race a year ago. I've developed a great training strategy to get faster on the run. I simply don't run. Seriously. All of this swimming, biking, and spinning is making me a faster runner. Now if I could just become a faster cyclist and swimmer. Perhaps I should run more. Hmmm.

My 22:48 in the 5K run portion of the Dunedin Triathlon was ninth-best in the 35-to-39 male field. I was middle of the pack in the bike and way back in the swim. Fortunately, it was a quick quarter-mile swim, putting me just over two minutes behind the leader out of the water and an overall age group finish for the race of 15th (out of 32).

My Team Espresso Love colleagues sat out the Dunedin Triathlon, which is a shame since they probably would have swept five age categories, four male, one female. Not bad for an eight-person team.

We continue to get great response to the Fitness Buff 888 Triathlon Challenge. If you'd like to join in, please let us know. Next stop on the tour: the Sunrise Biathlon, on June 14.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Iron Man vs. Carrie Bradshaw

Last night I saw a movie in the theater for the first time in a year. Funny what happens when you have young children. My wife reluctantly agreed to see Iron Man when I refused to watch the latest chick flick: Baby Mama.

Had this been next week, I would have lost the argument and we would have seen the ultimate chick flick: Sex and the City. Ironically, Iron Man and Sex and the City feature lead actors - Robert Downey Jr. and Sarah Jessica Parker - who dated seriously years ago.

Both were born within weeks of each other in the spring of 1965. Both look older than 43, which is no surprise given that Downey spent the 1990s abusing drugs and Parker has been a heavy smoker.

A special place in hell should be reserved for Parker, not for starring in a TV series many guys find insufferable but for glamorizing smoking. Cigarette use among young women has increased over the last decade and Parker deserves some of the blame, having chain-smoked on camera for most of the series. Rarely did any of the show's four characters work out, though they did get a lot of cardio action between the sheets. They ate out most every meal and drank heavily, not a formula for staying fit. (Message: Smoking keeps you thin!)

Sex and the City was perhaps the most unrealistic look at New York life in television history, which is saying something given the success of Seinfeld and Friends, two programs that also featured quartets of thirtysomething New Yorkers who never seemed to work or have careers.

Sex and the City featured four women who were employed, at best, part-time, and yet they shopped like the Olsen sisters, ate every meal out at the finest restaurants, and lived in massive New York apartments.

Two of the characters "worked" as a (part-time) lawyer and PR executive, but Parker's Carrie Bradshaw was basically a freelance lifestyle columnist who wrote one column a week for a New York newspaper. Such a gig would pay about $25,000 a year, which wouldn't have covered her montly clothing allowance.

Then there was Samantha Jones, played by Kim Cattrall, who before Sex and the City was best known for playing "Lassie," the orgasmic P.E. teacher in "Porky's," a film released in 1982. Yep, Kimmy has been around, but she's aged well. Samantha took long power lunches, shopped relentlessly, bedded a different guy each episode, and hardly ever seemed to work, inspiring thousands of young women to pursue careers in public relations.

In 2001-02, at the height of Sex and the City, I taught a "Beginning Reporting" class at the University of South Florida in Tampa. The class was full of female PR majors (that's redundant, I suppose) who resented the fact that they had to take a writing-related class as part of their degree requirements. They saw no correlation between writing and PR work. After all, Samantha Jones never had to write anything!

At least Cattrall, who will be 52 in August, took good care of herself in real life, as illustrated by her many nude scenes on Sex and the City. Parker looked 45 when she was 35 because of the cigarettes. Her face was taut yet droopy and wrinkled around the eyes. (Good thing the show aired pre-HDTV.) She had the skinny smoker look: all skin and bones, no lean mass whatsoever.  Even her whiny voice managed to sound three octaves lower than it should have.

When young women watched the show, all they saw was skinny. And if a woman could lead this fast-paced, low-pressure lifestyle, well, smoking must be a part of it. It would not be surprising to learn that Parker and the executive producers of the show were taking big money from Big Tobacco.

Sex and the City, the movie, is getting mixed reviews. Karma perhaps.

Downey, on the other hand, is rivaling baseball's Josh Hamilton for best 2008 comeback by a guy long viewed as hopelessly addicted to drugs. Downey packed on 20 pounds of muscle for the role. Makeup people did their best to soften his drug-ravaged face, but it's Downey's acting and physical presence that steal the show.

Downey and director Jon Favreu are talking about making Iron Man a trilogy, which must concern the folks at World Triathlon Corp., the owners of the Ironman Triathlon, who over the last two decades have annexed a great deal of trademark and copyright territory - even though Iron Man the comic book character came out years before the race was created.

Go figure. Sarah Jessica Parker, like many middle-aged actresses, likely will disappear as she's eligible for fewer roles. Robert Downey Jr., who squandered his 30s, now appears lean and ready for a huge second act to his career.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Muddy and Happy

I can't recall ever having as much fun at a race as I did on Saturday competing in the Muddy Buddy relay race at Disney's Wide World of Sports near Orlando.

The Muddy Buddy is the brainchild of Bob Babbitt, a longtime endurance sports competitor, publisher, and entrepreneur, who in 1999 created the two-person relay event, which includes running, mountain-biking, and navigating Survivor-like obstacles over a 7-mile course. At the end of the race, teammates must crawl through a 60-by-60 mud pit.

(Bob joined us two weeks ago to talk about the Muddy Buddy on The Fitness Buff Show and you can listen to that interview by clicking here.)

As multisport competitions go, the Muddy Buddy is on the lighter side. Some compete in costume; there's even a pre-race contest. Babbitt dresses as a frog, the event's mascot. The demographic tends to skew on the younger side, with male/female teams most popular. I competed in the men's 76-to-85 (combined) age group with my fellow 38-year-old buddy Tim Mossman, forming Team PeteMoss.

Team PeteMoss, post-race

The race begins with one member of the team on bike out in the front of the pack, with runners following. The biker reaches the first obstacle first, dropping the bike and setting off on foot. The runner then completes the obstacle and picks up the bike. So it goes for three more transitions, culminating in the mud pit.

With 4,000-plus participants, the race goes off in waves. With Tim a stronger runner, I took the bike first, ensuring that I'd bike three legs and he'd run three. We were in the third wave and finished in 54:17, 17th in an 45-team division. It seemed as the mud got thicker and soupier over the course of the race, with those in later waves getting a muddier pit. (Hmmm. The ladies waves came later.)

The Disney Sports course is perfect for the event. We went around the baseball diamonds used by the Atlanta Braves for spring training, the football fields employed by the Tampa Bay Buccaneers for training camp, and along dirt trails through thick palmetto. The event is an orderly, well-oiled machine; they even provide hoses and soap at the end. There's also a Mini Muddy-Buddy following the main event, with kids allowed to go through the mud pit with an adult.

Clean Pete and Event Creator Bob Babbitt

This week, the Muddy Buddy Tour moves to Austin for a sold-out race. There's still space in the other seven events: San Jose (June 8), Atlanta (June 21), Richmond (July 13), Chicago (August 3), Boulder (August 17), Dallas (Oct. 26), Los Angeles (Nov. 2).

I'm now in full swing for The Fitness Buff 888 Triathlon Challenge and hope to add another Muddy Buddy race to my schedule, perhaps Atlanta. If you want to join us on the challenge, let us know!

(Here's a great story on The Muddy Buddy from The New York Times two years ago.)

Friday, December 14, 2007

Hey Fatso - Here's a Free Shirt!

I was renewing my subscription to Sports Illustrated this evening and discovered that I would receive a free T-shirt and fleece jacket of the NFL team of my choice. As a part-time sportswriter - and former full-timer in the field - I don't wear team logo clothing. But since a freebie is a freebie, I checked the box for the hometown Tampa Bay Buccaneers figuring I'd give the stuff to my wife.

Unfortunately, in an all-too-familiar story, SI was only offering extra large sized garments. And why not? They figure that the vast majority of their readers, much like sports fans and Americans everywhere, need extra large clothing.

This happens all the time at sports events featuring giveaways. Unless it's a promotion specifically designated for kids, all garments handed our are XL. What a sad commentary on our society. But it's hard to argue with Sports Illustrated or the local sports team. The next time you find yourself in a mall, airport, or sports venue, size up the crowd. You'll find the majority of them need XL clothing.

My wife wears a small, sometimes an extra small. I usually wear a medium, sometimes a large - never an XL. So I let SI keep its swag.

I hope when I re-up for Men's Health, I get the option of a smaller size.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

The 777 Challenge - Completed*

Time for the 888 Challenge for 2008!

This time last year, I pledged to do 7 triathlons in 2007, when I would be 37 for most of the year and promoting my seventh book, Core Performance Endurance.

It was an ambitious goal. At the start of the year, I had never attempted a triathlon. And as I learned when I began swimming in June, what I thought constituted swimming was little more than glorified dog paddling.

I managed to complete three triathlons, bringing in the rear in the swim, finishing middle-of-the-pack in the bike and slightly better in the run. By competing in three duathlons and completing the running portions of two biathlon relays, I was part of eight mutlisport events. So at least on one level I fulfilled my goal.

The most rewarding part of the process was not crossing the finish lines or enjoying increased energy and vitality, but rather the camaraderie of the multisport community, whether it's the gang I ride and run with on Sunday mornings, the 6 a.m. spin class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, or the group I swim with several mornings a week (and I will be back soon, I promise!) I was talking with a friend recently who has been bitten by the triathlon bug, even completing an Ironman, and he says he now prefers the company of triathletes over others.

It's not a snobby remark. It's just a reality of the commitment the sport takes. Not only does it trim the fat off your body, it cuts the excess out of your life, whether it be television, obsessing over sports, or your social calendar. The folks you train with become your social circle, and that's a wonderful thing.

Pete Williams (right) is the only one in this photo not to win an age group award

at last weekend's Safety Harbor Multisport Event, finishing fourth in the duathlon among men 35 to 39.

I've heard people draw an analogy between the transitions in triathlon to transitions in life. As someone who works with words for a living, I thought that was a reach. But having undergone some professional challenges in 2007, including the transformation of this show from a radio program broadcast mostly from a nudist resort to a relaunch in 2008 as an online broadcast, it makes sense.

The great thing about this sport, unlike say pick-up basketball or golf, is how inclusive it is. I'm now able to offer advice to people on how to get into triathlon, addressing the same issues I found so confusing a year ago.

As we embark on a presidential year - perhaps you've heard - this show and blog will continue to address issues such as the obesity crisis and healthcare. More importantly, we'll be the diary of performance living, creating a leaner, stronger, faster you.

After all, if a now 38-year-old sportswriter can become a triathlete, anyone can enjoy a successful transformation. That's why we're launching the Fitness Buff 888 Challenge for 2008. Join us for eight triathlons/multisport events in '08 - or create your own schedule. Either way, let us know so we can support each other in this goal!

PETE's 2008 SCHEDULE

Saturday, January 19 - St. Pete Beach Classic 10K

Sunday, February 17 - Chilly Willy Duathlon

Saturday, April 12 - Escape from Ft. DeSoto Triathlon

Sunday, May 4 - Lake Como Dare to Go Bare 5K

Sunday, June 1 - Madeira Beach Triathlon

Saturday, June 14 - Sunrise Beach Biathlon

Saturday, August 2 - Top Gun Triathlon

Saturday, August 23 - Bare Hare Triathlon, Reidsville, NC

Saturday, September 6 - Tarpon Springs Triathlon

Sunday, September 21 - Sand Key Triathlon

Saturday, October 25 - Suncoast Triathlon

Thursday, November 27 - Times Turkey Trot 10K

Saturday, December 13 - Safety Harbor Duathlon

Friday, November 30, 2007

Who's That Wearing Boston Bill Sunglasses?

Even if Boston Bill Sunglasses wasn't our most loyal sponsor, coming on board before the program even launched, I'd still be one of the company's avid fans. I own more expensive shades, but ever since I tried on a pair of Boston Bill's in the fall of 2005, they're the only sunglasses I wear.

I'm proud to have given Boston Bill's, a St. Petersburg-based company, some exposure over the last two years, especially on Wednesday when I wore them to a press conference by the Tampa Bay Rays announcing plans for their new waterfront ballpark in St. Pete.

Politicians are always shamelessly courting exposure, so it's probably no surprise that Florida governor Charlie Crist, and St. Pete mayor Rick Baker, along with Rays owner Stuart Sternberg, tried to tap into the power of The Fitness Buff Show by sitting to my right, across the aisle and one row in front. This picture appeared in Thursday's edition of The St. Petersburg Times on page 8A.

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

My Spencer Tunick Moment

MIAMI - This being October, it seems like every night I watch a bunch of Major League Baseball players spraying champagne all over each other.

On Monday afternoon, I got to do just that with 500 people in South Beach.

Outdoors. Co-ed. Naked.

I’m guessing Derek Jeter has never done this. Or Curt Schilling. Or Alex Rodriguez.

Then again, A-Rod hasn’t sprayed much champagne anywhere.

Too bad A-Rod wasn’t with us in his native Miami on Monday for a photo shoot “installation” by Spencer Tunick, who has made a career – and three HBO documentaries – out of assembling huge groups of people for nude photographs.

Not that long ago, Spencer had to approach people on the street and beg them to pose. Now he just puts the word out and thousands apply online, submitting photos. Judging by the folks who showed up at the Sagamore Hotel on Collins Avenue, Spencer prefers people who fit one of two categories:

1. Thin attractive women 35 and younger.

2. Lean men under 40.

There were a few older folks, but they were well-preserved. There also was a beautiful young woman at least 20 pounds overweight - from pregnancy.

I made the cut, the day after my 38th birthday. Not bad for a guy who not that long ago was working full-time as a baseball writer, dodging champagne blasts in clubhouses.

Must be all of the triathlon training I’ve done this year.

At 11 a.m., model release forms in hand, we packed into the narrow poolside courtyard at the five-story Sagamore. Eight-foot white curtains sheltered us from beachgoers and surrounding hotels, though the folks next door at the Ritz-Carlton did their best to steal a glance.

Spencer directed 150 people onto balconies for the first shot. He then pointed to a pile of about 140 inflated hot pink rafts and tactfully invited “slender women” to grab a raft and head to the pool.

Pretty much every gal on hand qualified. Spencer and many of his three dozen assistants spent a half hour wedging these women in the pool so that no water was showing.

One hundred and forty young women nude on pink rafts. Face up.

I’m guessing Spencer might sell a few of these prints.

Spencer then instructed the women to flip over on their stomachs, an ambitious maneuver they managed to pull off in just a few minutes. Only the pregnant woman bailed – couldn’t lie on her tummy – and was quickly replaced.

One of Tunick’s assistants pointed out that the pink rafts would offer a striking contrast to the surrounding palm trees and foliage.

Most of the men probably were thinking what I was, “What palm trees and foliage?”

Actually, the day was stripped of clothing and sexual energy. When everyone is nude, it doesn’t seem like a big deal. Besides, this being South Beach, the male demographic was slightly different from that of, say, the Daytona 500. Not everyone was staring at the ladies.

The women hopped out of the pool with their rafts. Next it was time for the guys and their green rafts. I got roped into this bunch. We weren’t nearly as agile on the floats as the ladies, flopping into the water.

Spencer, speaking through an electronic bullhorn from the second story, shouted directions to his assistants, who managed to corral us into place. They pulled certain guys out of the water for being too tall or too inked.

Finally, the assistants got about 140 lean guys positioned - face up on green rafts in a pool in South Beach. The Full Monty multiplied by 30.

Spencer must have looked through his lens at those green rafts and heard a cash register jingle. Yes, these prints will be for sale in South Beach. My wife wants one. Hopefully she’ll be the only one able to pick me out of the shot.

After more balcony photos, it was getting late. Spencer sent two hundred people to poolside balconies with champagne bottles. He took another 160 of us and positioned us with our own bubbly around the bar below, four deep.

We looked like a giant team photo. The front row was seated Indian style. The second row of nudes was told to get on their knees. (Tunick produced more double-entendre groans than a Three’s Company episode.) The third row was standing on the ground, the fourth on the bar.

Most everyone followed instructions and popped their corks (groan) without spilling. I was on my knees, surrounded by women, having surrendered my third-row spot to a tall blonde. I maintained the detached professionalism of a veteran nude model.

Then again, I might have stolen a glance or two. Just as I was starting to enjoy the view, Tunick gave the order to shake. Champagne came from every direction.

With eyes stinging, I fired back. We drank. We hugged. We posed. We staggered into the pool, bottles in hand.

A-Rod would never believe it. Some of these women were as beautiful as his wife. A couple resembled his friend from Toronto.

I got home to Clearwater in time to see the Indians polish off the Yankees. TBS panned to a shot of a dejected A-Rod leaving the dugout. Inside the Cleveland clubhouse, cellophane was draped around lockers while grown men in full baseball uniform sprayed champagne on each other.

I clicked off TV and shook my head.

That didn’t look like much fun at all.       

Monday, September 24, 2007

It's all about finishing

Back when I used to play golf regularly - or at least sporadically - I always marveled at how I'd play surprisingly well after a long layoff. And then, if I played shortly thereafter, I'd be terrible.

Perhaps that phenomenon applies to my performance at the Sand Key Triathlon on Sunday, two weeks after a promising triathlon debut at Tarpon Springs. I finished the Sand Key race, which is always a good thing, but my swimming performance made me wonder if I wasn't back on the Greek island of Antiparos, circa 1998 (see previous blog entry).

I didn't panic while navigating the one-third mile swim course, but I didn't feel nearly as confident as I did at Tarpon Springs two weeks earlier. It could be that the course was longer; one-third vs. one-quarter of a mile doesn't sound like much, but it is considering the Tarpon course was probably shorter than billed. Plus, there was no visibility in the water, which caused me to drift back toward shore periodically.

On the road in Sand Key

So I took a couple of breaks - okay, maybe five - grabbing ahold of buoys or even a couple of lifeguard kayakers to get my breath and bearings. One thing I learned: Time sure flies when you're struggling to get through a swim. My time of 22 minutes-plus was more than double the average time and only eight people in the field of 500 or so took longer.

I knew I was in trouble when I reached the transition area and there were few bikes left; I was in the second wave of swimmers. Somehow I managed to pass five guys in my age group on the bike and run to finish 28th in a 35-to-39 male field of 33.

My times in the bike and run were respectable. If I can ever get this swimming thing down, I might be dangerous. At least I have nearly a month until my next race. And next year, if I finish in the middle of the swim pack at Sand Key, I'll have cut more than 50 percent off of my time.

Monday, September 10, 2007

The Tarpon Springs Redemption

After many false starts and postponements, I finally - finally - completed my first triathlon on Saturday, navigating the Tarpon Springs Tri in just under an hour and seven minutes.

Tarpon Springs is the largest settlement of Greeks outside of Greece, and anyone fortunate enough to have visited both is struck by how much downtown Tarpon Springs resembles the Greek Islands, with its immaculate, blue-and-white buildings, waterfront fishing village setting, and the smell of souvlaki and gyros wafting through the air. The bicycle course went through the downtown area which, as with the Greek Islands, was a ghost town early on a Saturday morning.

There could not have been a more appropriate setting for my triathlon debut since it was nine years - almost to the day, September 9, 1998- that I almost drowned while on my honeymoon in the Greek Islands. I know this date is correct since I just checked my journal, which thankfully is updated more frequently than this blog.

Rookie Mistake: Not swimming all the way in

I didn't mention this story during my triathlon training, not wanting to freak anyone out, though my hesitation with the water no doubt has been evident. Back in 1998, four days after our wedding, Suzy and I were spending the day on the beach on the tiny island of Antiparos when we decided to wade across to an undeveloped part of the island.

I had been to Antiparos previously and knew that in low tide it was possible to walk across the 200-yard channel. This time, we made it about two-thirds of the way when the water got too deep, so we swam. Suzy navigated the last 60 or 70 yards with no problem, but I panicked, flailing away in the water, not more than 30 or 40 yards from shore.

Suzy called out for me to put my feet down, which I did, realizing I was in about four feet of water. I walked to the beach, feeling embarrassed and relieved.

The episode reminded me that I really didn't know how to swim. Like most people, I took lessons as a kid, at least until the age of 5 or so. What I've often assumed was swimming really was a hybrid doggy-paddle/breast stroke. When I was doing something that looked like freestyle, I wasn't breathing properly. Instead of exhaling in the water, I simply took a breath every second stroke.

Pete (right) with veteran triathlete Eric Keaton

When I began swimming under the guidance of noted local coach Joe Biondi in June, I marveled at how little I knew about swimming. Coach Joe has trained thousands of swimmers over the years and he even got me looking respectable within a matter of weeks.

Still, I wondered how swimming 25-yard lengths, even a lot of 25-yard lengths, would translate into open water swimming. Unlike in the pool, where there's the security of the upcoming wall, there's no such fallback position in open water.

I planned to make my triathlon debut at the Suncoast Triathlon on October 27, but a scheduling conflict made that impossible. Once I saw the Tarpon Springs date and realized the significance, I knew it had to be the one. It helped that veteran triathletes touted the race as one of the easiest swims. The water was shallow enough at times to walk.

Before the race, I heard numerous athletes gaze out at the buoys and suggest that the course wasn't laid out long enough. It looked lengthy enough to me.

Team Espresso Love: Sunday morning ride and run group

I went off with the first wave - the massive 30-to-39 year old male group - and waded out for about 30 or 40 yards. Once swimming, I wondered when I might feel the 25-yard mark, as if I needed to stop. It never came. I felt like young Forrest Gump, running through his leg braces. I looked down at the bottom and saw the flickering sea grass, a tapestry of Medusa hair that got further away the further I swam. It reminded me of the scene from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire where Harry and his competitors in the Tri-Wizard Tournament - the triathlon for the magic set - needed to transform into sea creatures to complete the task.

I bumped a few swimmers out to the first buoy - or perhaps they ran into me. I turned right around the first buoy, then the second, and headed for shore. It was all open now, the rest of the field well in front and a few stragglers well behind me. I looked up and the light was intense. Either I had drowned or the sun was coming up.

The further I swam, the closer the Medusa hair became, until finally I put my feet down. I was still at least 50 yards from shore. Just like in Antiparos. This time, I swam a little further, then ran to shore.

I came out of the water 28th out of 31 competitors in the 35-to-39 male bracket, but made up enough time on the bike and run to finish 16th.

Really all I needed was to get out of the water. Next year, we hope to make it back to Antiparos for our 10th anniversary. If not, there's always the Tarpon Springs Triathlon to revisit.

Oompa!

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Cycling Danger

I always seem to be meeting triathletes who have been sidelined by cycling accidents or in the midst of rehabilitation. Here in Pinellas County, the most densely-populated county in Florida, cycling accidents are commonplace.

Now I know why. I was participating in my second-ever group ride on Sunday, a small six-person, 30-mile trek through Oldsmar, Safety Harbor, and the Westchase section of Tampa, when I had a brush with danger.

I was riding fourth in the pack at about 7 a.m., 10 or 15 miles into our ride. We were alongside a four-lane stretch of road that was relatively quiet. An occasional car would approach from the rear, usually in the lefthand lane.

All of the sudden a white sedan sped alongside us in the right lane. I felt something clip my left tricep ever so gently. The consensus among the guys behind me was that someone tossed some trash out the window. There was no harm done, but it reminded me of the dangers of biking so early on a Sunday morning, even in daylight, when some people are just returning home after all-night benders.

After the ride and our 3-mile run, the leader of my group told an appropriate story. A police officer used to be part of their ride and he'd carry his pistol and badge. One morning, a car drove by and passengers pelted the group with beer cans and trash.

At the next light, the officer got off of his bike, approached the vehicle, and tapped his pistol and badge to the passenger's side window. He called for backup and the rest of the riders got to enjoy the scene from the shoulder.

Unfortunately, we didn't have a cop on our ride and there wasn't a light for miles. We passed a parked deputy shortly thereafter, but he just shrugged at our story.

It's probably just a coincidence, but during our post-workout breakfast, we talked about riding on a bike trail along the Suncoast Parkway next week.

Monday, August 13, 2007

Aging Beyond Belief

When I was about 12, my mom bought me a bunch of books by the likes of Dale Carnegie and Norman Vincent Peale. Perhaps she was concerned about my growing cynicism and dark humor.

I don't know if such books affected my sales ability or disposition, but I wish I had a book back then like the soon-to-be-released Aging Beyond Belief by wellness guru, speaker, and triathlete Don Ardell.

Ardell was publishing books long before I was 12 - his first, the landmark High Level Wellness: An Alternative to Doctors, Drugs, and Disease, went to press in 1977 - but had he written his current book circa 1981, he would have needed a different subtitle than 69 Tips for Real Wellness.

The 69 tips represent each year of Ardell's life, though I suspect the impish wellness guru might have chosen the number for marketing purposes. Either way, the book is the type of common sense approach to mindset-nutrition-exercise that's sorely lacking in the fitness book aisle, overpopulated as it is by celebrity fitness "gurus," flavor-of-the-month diets, and hardcore bodybuilding nonsense.

Readers familiar with Ardell's Web site - www.seekwellness.com - his quarterly newsletter or his weekly e-blast will recognize some of his familar rants: Take responsibility for your health. Question everything you read and hear. Practice kindness. Rely on exercise and nutrition, not medications and doctors. Minimize stress, laugh more, and don't take yourself so freakin' seriously. Above all, live with style and panache - one of Ardell's favorite words.

Ardell virtually invented the wellness phenomenon and it's interesting that few of his diet-and-exercise descendants have followed his lead in providing exercise prescriptions for the mind. Along with daily exercise and sensible eating, Ardell lists lifelong learning, nourishing passions, and exercising critical faculties as crucial skills to aging well.

Ardell even touches upon several of our favorite Fitness Buff topics. He encourages readers to go naked more, whether it's by visiting a nudist resort or dancing nude at home with a friend. And the triathlon age-group champion spends a lengthy chapter on the sport. (Aging Beyond Belief Tip #54: Prepare for, Participate in, and Finish a Triathlon.) Besides the obvious health benefits, he uses triathlon's two transition periods as a methaphor for handling life changes.

Though the book is targeted toward seniors, it's really for everyone facing aging, which is to say all of us still breathing. Ardell offers several sound policy ideas, including a tax credit for seniors who take care of themselves and don't go the familar route of relying on medications.

Unfortunately for Ardell, he does not provide the sort of short-term, ineffective diet plan that captures the attention of television producers and magazine editors. He has no celebrity clients and does not live in New York or Los Angeles. (He resides in downtown St. Petersburg, Florida, which the all-knowing media elite know is one giant, fixed-income retirement community, not one of the most white-hot real estate markets in the country, with an upscale, thriving arts community.)  So Ardell and Aging Beyond Belief are unlikely to draw much attention.

That's a shame, since he offers simple solutions to the obesity crisis, and the looming collapse of Social Security and Medicare, along with a realistic blueprint for anyone to age gracefully.

And he does so with great panache.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Wasting Food

I've always had trouble wasting food. As a kid, I was taught to clean my plate and even now I have a tough time throwing something away that I just purchased.

When it comes to junkfood, however, it's best to toss it aside. Over the last week, we've hosted a baby shower for my sister and two birthday gatherings for my youngest son. We purchased way too much food and ended up with a refrigerator full of leftover dips, pizza, cake, and other junk.

Not wanting to waste food, I've eaten a lot of dips, pizza, cake, and other junk this week, totally getting away from the healthy pattern of eating I've enjoyed for the last few years. (By the way, who decided that the word "healthful" is grammatically correct? Whenever I write a book or magazine article these days, some copyeditor changes "healthy" to "healthful." Who is the arbiter of style rules in these instances? I've yet to hear someone use the word "healthful" in conversation. Until then, I'm sticking with "healthy.")

Anyway, it seemed like all the food we had in the house was junk. And when that happens, you're only going to eat junk. Last night, I couldn't take it anymore and started clearing out the dips, cake, and other leftovers. Down the garbage disposal everything went. Much to my horror, I found buried in the back of the 'fridge leftover fish from last week - a delicious, healthy fish dish from Dinner 4U.

The fish had gone bad, and smelled accordingly. All because it was obscured for a week behind a mountain of party food. Unlike the garbage that went down the disposal, this truly was a waste of food - gourmet, healthy food. At least it was only one small piece of fish, but it would have been enough for a lunch.

Lesson learned. The other lesson is that, contrary to popular belief, most people would rather eat healthy at parties - or at least more people than we think. That explains all of the leftover food. Perhaps we should have served healthier options, which would have been consistent with how we eat all the time.

From now on, I'll serve healthier stuff - and not feel bad about throwing the leftover junk away. This is especially true with cake. Why do we feel guilty about tossing cake? We buy our cakes at Costco, and like many things at Costco, you get an incredible buy.  For $16, you get a personalized sheet cake with delicious filling that can feed 30 people. A grocery store would charge $50. People have joined Costco after having cake at one of our birthday parties.

Since we've already saved a lot of money, it makes no sense to save the leftover cake. The only true waste is if we put too much of this stuff into our mouths, and thus into our bodies.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Doctors, not Kids, Should Specialize

Today's Wall Street Journal revisited a popular theme - the dangers and futility of having kids specialize in one sport at a young age. ("All Soccer all the Time? How Not to Kill Kids' Love of Sports.")

Over the last decade, kids have been forced to choose one sport over others, often before the age of 10. The thinking is that they need a year-round, higher level of competition to be challenged, or at least to fulfill their parents' often unrealistic dreams of college scholarships and pro careers.

Not surprisingly, many kids burn out, either from the monotony of playing one sport or from the pressures placed upon them by their helicopter parents, who are either trying to make up for their own childhood sports disappointments or see a big payday down the road.

The irony is that this specialization doesn't produce better athletes. As my Core Performance co-author Mark Verstegen points out, specializing in one sport often stunts overall athetic development. If a kid is focused on say, golf, from a young age, he will not develop the movement patterns, flexibility, mobility, and cardio endurance, necessary to thrive in other sports - or even to play golf at his fullest potential. Golf isn't a total sport - nor is any other sport - when it comes to developing these important movement patterns. (That's one reason our next book is Core Performance Golf, due out in January.)

I suppose it's too early to tell, but with the exception of golf and tennis, we've yet to see a parade of pro athletes who specialized in one sport from a young age. Tennis, not surprisingly, has a huge burnout rate. Tiger Woods is the most promient argument for specialization, but it's worth noting that he has become one of the best conditioned players in the game, no doubt realizing that the physical demands of golf require some integrated conditioning.

Martina Navratilova, arguably the best women's tennis player ever, was a cross-training addict throughout her career, skiing and playing full-court basketball. Dave Winfield was drafted by the NBA, NFL, and Major League Baseball. More recently, Carl Crawford turned down football and basketball scholarships in favor of a pro baseball career. Numerous past athletes have pursued two-sport careers, including Dick Groat, Bo Jackson, Deion Sanders, Brian Jordan, Danny Ainge, and John Elway. Tony Gwynn, who recently entered the Baseball Hall of Fame, went to San Diego State on a basketball scholarship. Kenny Lofton was better known as a hoopster while at the University of Arizona.

This all-around athletic prowess seems unlikely to continue with the specialization generation.

In baseball, we're starting to see what happens when kids specialize too early. Guys like Mike Piazza, Jason Giambi, and Jack Cust all had fathers who built batting cages in their homes or nearby. Their sons spent long hours in the cages and became prolific hitters. But they didn't even master the movement patterns necessary to become all-around baseball players; each has long been considered a defensive liability.

Of course, Piazza, Giambi, and Cust were not blessed with natural athleticism. By devoting long hours to their craft, they were able to reach the pinnacle of baseball. Proponents of specialization point to people like Drew Henson, once regarded as a future star in either baseball or football. But by refusing to pick one sport over the other - or, more likely, the one he was best suited for professionally - he's now languishing as a back-up NFL quarterback after an aborted MLB career with the Yankees.

The benefits of not specializing are numerous. Not only does a kid not grow tired of a sport, movement patterns often are complementary. There are similarities to basketball and lacrosse, baseball and tennis - even swimming and golf. One of the attractions of triathlon is that it forces you to train in three disciplines.

Here in Florida, childhood specialization is out of control, with our Lord-of-the-Flies tennis academies and roving baseball clinics that have popped up everywhere. If you're an ex-big league pitcher, parents will line up to pay you $80 an hour to teach their budding Roger Clemenses what it will take to reach The Show.

The sad thing is that we're not setting children up to be lifelong fitness enthusiasts, but sports burnouts instead. Growing up in Virginia in the 1970s and '80s, I had no idea what specialization was. There were some club and traveling soccer teams, but that was it. I played baseball and basketball in high school, but those aren't "lifetime sports." I've barely touched a mitt as an adult and while I could play basketball, I'd have to seek out a game and endure pounding on my knees.

Would it not have been better to have spent more time as a kid on sports such as swimming, tennis, golf, and perhaps volleyball - sports I can enjoy for a lifetime? After all, most of us realize by age 10 that we have little hope of landing a college scholarship to play sports. (If nothing else, the parents should be able to make a realistic appraisal.)

As much as I like to think I've increased the chances of my sons playing college or pro baseball by moving to Florida, marrying a left-hander, and by interviewing hundreds of Major Leaguers about what it took to reach The Show, I know that at least 70 percent of it is genetic. When it comes to playing sports at the elite level, there's little hope for my guys. Their parents are 5'10 and 5'4, with little athleticism between them.

Instead of trying to make up for this through year-round specialization, private lessons, and clinics, my wife and I plan to let them play what they want, whenever they want - and if they want. Hopefully they'll develop not only a commitment to training, but a basic proficiency in sports they can enjoy for life.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Video Killed the Future Sports Stars

Overtime Fitness, a California-based gym chain, caters to teenagers. Even though its gyms recently began offering hours for adults, its core audience is the 13-to-20 year-old set. And, not surprisingly, Overtime has found it difficult to draw customers.

There are any number of reasons why kids don't exercise here in 2007. Physical education classes are rare. Kids don't engage in "disorganized sports," only structured sports leagues. And there's all the time spent on technology that gives teenagers the illusion that they're terribly busy and not just wasting time surfing the Web, sending e-mail, text messaging, instant messaging, designing MySpace pages, and programming IPods.

So the folks at Overtime Fitness decided if they can't change teenagers, they'll cater to them. They're offering rock-climbing walls and cheerleading conditioning sessions, which sounds like a good start, though the mass plague that is cheerleading needs to be addressed.

OverTime, according to The Associated Press, also is offering an arcade featuring "video games requiring kids to box, dance, and jump. Riders race against each other on stationary bikes."

OverTime officials quoted in the story recognize that these games don't encourage a lifelong commitment to fitness, but it's better than leaving kids at malls and fast-food restaurants.

"What are teenagers doing when they're idle? They eat, they go to Starbucks, they sit around at the mall," the story quotes company CEO Laura Tauscher, a mother of two teens.

At the risk of sounding like a 37-year-old codger, where the heck does all this idle time come from? Actually, it's obvious. A generation ago, kids spent their afternoons in the yard, either mowing the lawn or playing in it.  In the 10 years I've lived in Florida - a state where cutting grass is an all-year endeavor - I've yet to see a teenager mowing a lawn. And though there's no shortage of basketball hoops posted in driveways, perhaps by nostalgic parents, it's rare to see kids playing.

A generation ago, my friends and I would play street football (in Hearthglow Lane, see July 5 blog). It was two-hand touch, of course, and we'd clear our suburban street when we saw a vehicle approaching. Occasionally a driver would look annoyed, but for the most part they smiled and waved.

If I were driving along today and spotted a street football game, I'd pull over and take photos. I might even alert a television news station. (Live at 11: A group of local teenagers was spotted engaged in unstructured physical activity. You won't want to miss this rare footage!)

I don't get the obsession with technology - additonal old fogey alert - and the argument that kids today have more technological distractions. My early teenage years coincided with the introduction of the wildly-popular Atari 2600 video game system. Every mall, many convenience stores, and even my high school had a video arcade. The nation was swept up in "Pac Man Fever." This also was the period when the VCR became available for home use, with people paying big money for a Betamax that took up more space than a microwave oven. In the mid-1980s, many people went to a video rental store on a near-daily basis. Most homes were just getting cable TV or satellite service.  Just like today, people were getting their first tastes of some time-draining, potentially addictive entertainment options.

And yet, kids still found the time to play, both organized sports and backyard activities such as hoops, football, kickball, and "Smear the Queer." Fat kids in grammar school were unusual and often they suffered from rare ailments, not common overeating and lack of activity.

Perhaps this best sums up the difference: In 1980, a video arcade opened about four miles from my home. I rode my bicycle to get there. Today, parents drive their kids to the mall or let them camp out in their bedrooms playing video games.

Is it any wonder the percentage of Americans in the NBA and Major League Baseball has been on a steady decline for the last decade? Kids aren't training and engaging in the type of unstructured play that's far more important to building motor skills than year-round, structured sports leagues.

As for "video fitness," I have no doubt it will help OverTime's bottom line. But it likely will do little to create lifelong fitness enthusiasts.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Top Gun: Swimming in the Danger Zone

This was going to be the one. After several false starts and postponements, I finally was going to make my triathlon debut this Saturday at Ft. DeSoto Park in St. Petersburg, one of 215 first timers for the Top Gun Triathlon.

As recently as July 13th, things looked promising. That morning, I swam 500 yards in a pool without stopping. My swim coach, the ever-encouraging Joe Biondi, said I'd be able to complete the quarter-mile swim with no problem.

Then life intervened. A weeklong vacation in which I didn't swim as much as I should, followed by a business trip in which I came down with a bad cold. After swimming four or five mornings for five weeks, I barely hit the pool for two weeks. And when I showed up on Sunday for an open-water swim at Ft. DeSoto - the actual course - I looked out in the water and those buoys suddenly looked very far away.

They were only 240 yards apart, each 100 yards from shore. I already had decided I would swim along the shore even before Coach Joe gave his pre-swim speech, which went something like this:

"We have no lifeguards here, people. If you have even one iota of doubt that you cannot complete this swim, don't do it. This isn't like falling off your bike. You will die out there."

Gulp. There you have it, in a nutshell, what keeps people from entering the sport of triathlon. While most of the swimmers completed the course, I was among a handful of folks who swam along the shoreline. We weren't going to drown, though we faced a greater challenge. Unlike those who swam out beyond the buoys, and thus the waves, we were knocked around.

It was the first open-water swimming I had done in my life, not counting body surfing. It dawned on me that I've never been in open water where I could not put my feet down and I didn't feel confident enough to attempt it now. Trying to swim along the shore was tough enough. Unlike the pool, with the clear water and black lines, I saw nothing through my goggles.

I didn't make it back to the pool on Monday or today, still recovering from this nagging cold. I hope to make it tomorrow and I'll be at Ft. DeSoto on Saturday, working as a volunteer and promoting The Fitness Buff Show.

It won't be the first time I've attended a triathlon, of course. But now, when I watch those 215 first timers, I'll have an even greater respect for what they're going to accomplish.

Thursday, July 5, 2007

Ghosts of Hearthglow

Ever watch something on television that completely floors you? It rarely happens these days, what with all of the garbage that passes for entertainment. But Dateline NBC knocked me over last night.

The segment was called "Murder on Hearthglow Lane" and centered on a divorced couple in Richmond, Virginia. The husband was a professor at the University of Richmond who had undergone a nasty divorce from his wife, who had lost custody of the children and relocated to her native Texas. In the early morning hours of October 30, 2004, the husband was gunned down in his driveway as he went out to get his newspaper. The wife had no hope of getting away with the murder, having bought a plane ticket from Houston to Richmond, parked her car at the Houston Airport, gone to a firing range four days earlier, packed a 38-caliber handgun in her checked baggage, rented a car and hotel room in Richmond, and used her cell phone in Richmond just hours before the murder. She was found guilty and is now in prison, appealing her case. The only issue in the trial was that she used her look-a-like sister's drivers license as ID throughout the process. But the jury found that she - and not her sister - committed the act.

This has nothing to do with fitness, but it is an incredible small world story. The home where the couple lived - on quiet, tree-lined Hearthglow Lane - is across the street from the house where my family lived for a chunk of my childhood, from 1974 to 1980. (The embattled couple and their three kids moved in after we departed.)

The Dateline NBC reporter interviewed our former next-door neighbor, positioning him so that the murder-scene house was in the background. That put my former front lawn - the first grass I ever cut - in the foreground of the frame. The moment I got the hang of riding a bike, getting a push from Mom in 1975 or so, I pedaled past the future murder scene. (Hey, this blog does have a triathlon connection! Too bad I wasn't putting such effort into my swimming at the time.)

Anyway, our 60ish former next door neighbor, who looked terrific considering I haven't seen him in 27 years, remarked that there had never been anything remotely violent to occur on the street, with the exception of some minor vandalism. He wisely didn't mention the sad self-induced death of one of our teenage neighbors under mysterious circumstances on the same block in 1980.

I've often thought "Hearthglow" sounded literary and would make a great title for a movie or novel. Not surprisingly, the Dateline producers created a dark "Murder on Hearthglow Lane" montage, along with the predictable music. Sadly, real life often trumps fiction - even before you can create it.

Monday, July 2, 2007

The Group Ride

When I started triathlon training, there were two things that I feared most. The first was anything to do with swimming: learning to swim, possibly drowing, making an ass of myself, wearing tight swimming gear, swimming in open water, and dealing with the mass of humanity at the start of a race. I've overcome those fears, at least for now.

The second thing was the notion of the "group ride" in cycling. I've watched people whiz by my house on weekend mornings. They come in waves, and it's always sad to see a few stragglers at the end. The thing that strikes me most about cyclists is that very few have physiques that look good in bright spandex.

I always wondered about the etiquette of such rides. How do you know when to change lead riders? Who dictates the speed? Who decides the course? And what the heck are all of the commands people are calling out in this high-speed game of telephone? I figured if I joined one of these groups, I'd end up causing a pile-up.

On Saturday, I was doing yardwork. And as I've told many trainers, there's no workout they can concoct that's more grueling than yardwork. There I was, pruning hibiscus, when Fred Rzymek - triathlete, race director, neighbor and mentor - pulls over and invites me to join his group ride Sunday morning. He had suggested it before and I always managed to come up with an excuse. But now, on the verge of heatstroke, I could come up with nothing.

So I reported to the ride at 6 a.m. on Sunday morning. I took off with Fred and three others on a 25-mile loop through Safety Harbor, Oldsmar, and the Westchase section of Tampa. It wasn't easy, but I managed to keep up, even "pulling" the group for a 3-4 mile stretch toward the end. I'm still not riding efficiently and tend to "muscle" the bike with my upper body rather than letting my legs do the work, but I showed promise. And as with every other aspect of my triathlon training, I've found the people welcoming and encouraging. Perhaps it would have been different had I caused an accident.

Just 32 days to Top Gun, my inaugural triathlon.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Stacking the Deck

The Wall Street Journal recently ran a story - and since the rag doesn't provide online access, even to subscribers of the print edition, you'll have to take my word for it - of a trend of runners and triathletes scheduling their races based on events they think they can place in.

The concept sounds logical enough. Find smaller, off-the-beaten path events that draw few people but nevertheless go three-deep with the awards in each five-year age bracket. I suppose there's some merit to this theory and I have no doubt it happens, but I can't imagine it's that effective of a strategy.

Here in the Tampa Bay area, for instance, we have several runners that dominate the competition. If Lee Stevens, a 20-something running store manager shows up at the starting line, you know it's game over. Nobody is going to catch that guy.

I can't imagine you're going to have much luck with this plan with triathlons. Even the modest sprint events are highly competitive and often draw the biggest crowds. What The Journal didn't mention is the age factor. If you're in the 20-24, or 25-29 bracket of any endurance event, you're more likely to get an award, if for no other reason than not many people in this age category show up, at least for morning events. (If it's a race like the Sunset Biathlon several weeks ago, it's likely to be dominated by twentysomethings.) When I was in my 20s, it seemed like I picked up some hardware pretty much by default every time I showed up for a 5K or 10K.

Now I'm in the 35-to-39 age bracket, which for triathletes is the largest, most competitive group. The theory is that a lot of these people have reached the point where their kids are old enough that they can start training again and they're horrified at how their bodies have morphed since college. Instead of embarking on a regular fitness routine, they go all out and end up as triathletes. Others find they're finally making some decent money and can afford the sport. Then there are people like me, the minority, who have younger kids but decide, what the hell, life isn't challenging enough. Let's take on a triathlon!

I continue to train with an emphasis on swimming, which I never thought would give me so much pain. I thought swimming was the sport people turned to because their bodies no longer could withstand the pounding of running, basketball, or tennis. My shoulders, back - even a knee - have never hurt like this before.

Just 35 days until I must make my triathlon debut. Yikes!

Monday, June 25, 2007

Hi...I'm Michael Phelps

I can't imagine I'd ever be mistaken for Michael Phelps. He's much taller, younger, and we're light years apart when it comes to swimming ability.

Yet I never cease to be amazed at how often people believe someone who pretends to be an actual professional athlete or to have had a career in pro sports.

On Sunday, The St. Pete Times ran an incredible story on Shirley Gordon,a woman with a 35-year career as a con woman here in Pinellas County. Perhaps the most remarkable part of her run was that she managed to convince her wealthy chiropractor, an attractive 32-year-old with, presumably, a decent head on her shoulders, that she - Gordon - was the sister of Pedro Martinez, the pitcher for the New York Mets.

Gordon arranged a date between her chiropractor and some guy who played the role of Martinez. Over the next year, "Martinez" called the chiropractor countless times, pretending to be her boyfriend. He sent flowers and urged the chiropractor to give his "sister" money; he'd pay it back, of course. The chiropractor even bought Gordon a $450,000 home; Martinez would be reimbursing her, after all.

Incredibly, aside from this first date, the chiropractor never met Martinez again. Yet she never stopped believing she was in a relationship with the Mets' pitcher, even when the real Pedro Martinez got married.

The St. Pete Times has yet to be able to identify the faux Martinez, but the mugshot looks nothing like the pro ballplayer aside from the fact that they're both somewhat dark complexioned. The photo shows a pudgy, African-American male in his 40s. The real Pedro Martinez is a skinny, 35-year-old Dominican. Did the chiropractor ever wonder how Gordon, a 57-year-old black woman who didn't speak Spanish, could be related to Martinez? And if the chiropractor bothered to call up an interview of Martinez - perhaps on YouTube - she would have heard his distictive Dominican accent.

Of course, there's also the small matter that "Martinez" was not available to meet in person for more than a year!

This might seem unusual were it not for the fact that these things happen all the time. ESPN the Magazine recently ran a story on a Pittsburgh guy who managed to pass himself off as Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger, perhaps the most recognizable person in SteelTown these days, despite little physical resemblance. Then there are the people who exaggerate their sports careers.

A while back my uncle, who lives in a golf retirement community near Orlando, called me to check up on a guy in his neighborhood who claimed to have played football for Notre Dame and the Steelers.

My uncle has had Steelers season tickets since the inception of the franchise; his son, my cousin, now uses them. My uncle said he didn't remember the guy but, heck, there have been a lot of Steelers over the years.

I called up the Steelers' all-time roster online and then checked out the Notre Dame directory. No match.

My wife used to work with a guy who claimed to have been a placekicker at the University of Miami. When I met the joker and mentioned that I have a sportswriting background, he backpedaled, saying he played some junior college ball before transfering to Miami, where he finished his degree.

My wife also worked with a woman who said her husband had played for the Detroit Tigers -- for the actual Major League team. The couple had pictures in their home to that effect. The story had a kernal of truth to it. The husband had been drafted by the Tigers, in the first round, no less. But he was a bust, never making it to the Majors. The guy even lied to his wife -- perhaps before she was his wife. My wife didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

It's incredible what people attempt to get away with, whether they're trying just to impress someone or to execute a million-dollar con. The chiropractor was taken for $1 million and even offered a false alibi to try and help "Pedro Martinez' sister-in-law."

I can see how these cons might have worked before the advent of the Internet. But you've got to be beyond clueless to buy in to these charades these days.

Then again, maybe I should give it a try. So long as I don't have to demonstrate my swimming abilities, my name is Michael Phelps.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Leave Giambi Alone

I've been re-reading the landmark book Game of Shadows by Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams that reveals in exhaustive, fully-sourced detail the steroid scandal that came out of the BALCO investigation in the San Francisco bay area. It shows, in explicit detail, how self-taught steroid guru Victor Conte provided all manner of illegal performance-enhancing drugs to Marion Jones, Barry Bonds, Bill Romanowski, Jason Giambi, and many other prominent pro athletes.

It's a travesty that Fainaru-Wada and Williams have not been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for their work investigating this scandal, especially since it appeared until recently they would have to go to jail for protecting their sources and standing up for the First Amendment rights that all of us should cherish. Thankfully, that's no longer a possibility.

Though the book focuses on Bonds, it goes into detail about how Giambi transformed from a relatively skinny, doubles hitter when he first reached the Major Leagues with the Oakland's A's into a big-time, steroid-using slugger. It's not the first time such allegations have been leveled toward Giambi. Jose Canseco, in his book Juiced, accused Giambi of using steroids. Giambi himself admitted it during his grand jury testimony during the BALCO investigation and, more recently, in an interview with USA Today.

Now baseball commissioner Bud Selig and his hand-appointed steroid investigator, former U.S. Senator George Mitchell, want to interview Giambi because of his recent comments to the nation's newspaper. Why now? Was Game of Shadows not enough? Does an off-hand, nothing-new remark to USA Today mean more than years of exhaustive journalism?

Naturally Giambi and the Major League Baseball Players Association have resisted a meeting between Giambi and Mitchell to discuss the matter further. It's difficult to take the side of the MLBPA, which like any good union takes the position that its members never do anything wrong and should never be accountable for anything. But, in this instance, the union is right. What if Giambi rounded up the New York Yankees beat writers this afternoon and said something like the following?

"Guys, I don't know what more I can say. I used steroids. I told the grand jury that. I told USA Today that. Everything in Game of Shadows that pertains to me is true. What Jose (Canseco) said in his book about me also is true. I'm not proud of it, but when I started using in the late 1990s, everyone was doing it and I felt I needed to as well in order to keep up. I'm not using anymore and have been tested regularly under baseball's new drug policy. And in the immortal words of Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that."

Now maybe it's not that easy. Giambi, like any other MLB player, could still be using human growth hormone (HGH), which is not detectable by anything short of a blood test, which is not part of baseball's testing. Still, he shouldn't have to answer questions about that, since it's not part of the testing program.

Admittedly, it's tough to defend Giambi. His body has broken down in recent years, much like the body of his mentor Mark McGwire did later in his career. Steroid use is suspected in both instances. (And in the absence of a denial by McGwire, it's assumed.) But the New York Yankees, with their unlimited payroll, no doubt knew about Giambi's steroid use when they signed him following the 2001 season.

Journalism students are taught that they need a minimum of two solid sources upon which to base any story. When it comes to Giambi, there now are three - two books and the man himself.

Selig and Mitchell don't need a sit-down interview. They just need to visit a bookstore.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Swimming = Blogging

Today was a tough day to get out of bed. Not because I didn't have enough sleep; I slept plenty, plus I'm now accustomed to getting up at 5:45 a.m. to make it to 6:30 swim practice. But mentally, I didn't know if I was there.

But I got out of bed, downed my pre-workout shooter of whey protein and a scoop of creatine, and headed out the door. By 6:20, I was in the pool. And is so often the case when you're dragging at the start of the day, you end up having one of your better performances.

Of course, at my current swimming stage, "better performance" is a relative term. My tenth consecutive weekday swim workout felt better than my ninth. I still struggled at times, but I covered more ground (water?) than the day before, which means I must be swimming at least a little more efficiently.

That's not a guess. As I've quickly learned from Coach Joe Biondi, the clock is your friend, ally, and perhaps the most important tool during swim practice. If my times are improving, as they are, if only by a couple of seconds per day, then I'm getting better. And if I can make that commitment each day, over time the cumulative effect will be huge.

This shouldn't be a new concept to me. I'm often asked how I manage to write books. The process is similar. You can't think of knocking out a book in a few days or weeks, no matter how experienced a writer you are. So I shouldn't think of mastering swimming as a quick process either. I've allotted myself two months of training - every week day - to prepare for the quarter-mile swim - the shortest sprint triathlon distance - at the Top Gun Triathlon on Aug. 4.

Which brings me to this blog. My performance on this blog this year has been lousy. If I can make it to 10 consecutive 6:30 a.m. swim workouts, pursuing a sport I've never seriously attempted, I must be capable - as an allegedly professional writer - of blogging at least that many times.

Coach Joe asked me to keep a journal of my swimming training, and I've got a little notebook to log times, workouts, etc. But this blog also will serve as the daily diary of my "777 Triathlon Challenge."

If I can swim every morning, blogging should be easy.

June 19, 2007

Getting in the Swim of Things

After kicking around the notion of taking on a triathlon for more than four years - and actively touting the possibility through this show since its inception 20 months ago, I'm finally on track. I think.

Two weeks ago, I showed up at the Dunedin (Fla.) Highlander pool to start swim training under Joe Biondi, who is a longtime, legendary swim coach here in the Tampa Bay area. It seems everyone has trained under Joe, or at least is familar with his work.

This morning was my ninth consecutive weekday (6:30 to 8 a.m.) workout. I pretty much started from scratch on June 7, an appropriate day since at one point I pledged to do 7 Triathlons in 2007, when I'll be 37 (at least until Oct. 7). I probably won't make it to seven triathlons - unless we count duathlons, biathlons, and relay events - but I hope to come close.

The first thing I learned from Coach Joe was that what I thought constituted "swimming" from the time I took lessons at the age of 4 or 5 really was nothing more than glorified doggy-paddling with improper breathing. No breathing, really. Had I fallen out of a boat at any point in the last 30-odd years, I might have made it to shore - if the shore was 50 yards or less away.

So Coach Joe started me with basic mechanics and over the last nine workout days I've made great progress. Not to the point where I think I can cover any serious distance at the moment, but at least the prospect of completing the quarter-mile swim portion of the Top Gun Triathlon on Aug. 4 doesn't seem so daunting.

As with every other element of triathlon training, I've been amazed at how welcoming everyone is. I've gotten to meet most of the regulars in Coach Joe's Sun Masters program and while there's rarely time to talk during the workouts - nor do I usually have the breath to do so - they're an encouraging bunch.

With the possible exception of golf, I've never found anything as humbling as swimming and that's probably no coincidence since both sports require coordinated movements throughout the core region. If you don't have flexibility in your hips and the ability to turn them, you're going to struggle with both sports. This is less of a problem in golf, where tight hips are only going to lead to bad shots. In swimming, you could drown.

Thankfully, I'm swimming in only 4 feet of water. And the beautiful young lady in the lifeguard stand keeps a watchful eye on me. I don't blame her; I sometimes feel like I'm standing on the practice tee alongside seasoned professionals.

But I'm improving - slowly. I remember interviewing NBA player Tom Gugliotta once about his rehabilitation from knee surgery. He talked about how it was a long, painful, lonely, frustrating process. But the thing that kept him going at the end of each day was this question: "Did I improve by 1 percent today?"

Googs found he could answer that question affirmatively every day. Some days it was only 1 percent, others more. Thus far, I feel like I've improved 1-to-3 percent each day. With a possible 30 or so weekday swimming workouts ahead of me before Top Gun, I know I can make it.

June 18, 2007

Why (Most) Golfers are Not Athletes

Golf is a game of tremendous skill. As someone who has struggled to play passable golf my entire life, I'm in awe of people who can play it well.

That said, most golfers are not athletes. They should be. In December, Mark Verstegen and I will be publishing the fourth book in our Core Performance series - Core Performance Golf. Mark's program, which emphasizes rotational power in the core areas of the shoulders, hips, and midsection, is tailor made (or perhaps Taylor Made!) for golf.

As I took in the final round of the U.S. Open on Sunday - watching some rare TV; it was Father's Day, after all - I was struck by how jacked Tiger Woods looked in his tight-fitting, red shirt. It's no secret that Woods has been a conditioning devotee, transforming that aspect of golf the way he has the rest of the sport.

Woods was in the hunt to win yet another major, but couldn't catch Angel Cabrera, a pudgy, chain-smoking, relative unknown. Cabrera, when asked afterward how he deals with pressure and stress, remarked that unlike those players that turn to sports psychologists, "I smoke."     

We'll probably never hear again from Cabrera, the world's oldest-looking 37-year-old. Woods will continue to win Majors. But here's the point: In no other sport can a smoker excel. There used to be a time when smoking was commonplace in Major League Baseball. Even as recently as a decade ago, you could find a couple guys in every clubhouse in baseball - even a few in the NFL - who still smoked. Not anymore.

I suppose if you've mastered the mechanics of the golf swing, you can be as out of shape as you like, as Cabrera, John Daly, Phil Mickelson and others have demonstrated. For the rest of us, we can benefit a lot by working our core regions.

If nothing else, we'll look great in those new form-fitting golf shirts Tiger is selling.

June 11, 2007

Tony Soprano Lives...for Now

Lost amid the discussion of the controversial series finale of "The Sopranos" is how bad Tony looked by the end.

Soprano, portrayed by actor James Gandolfini, was never a slim guy, even when the show debuted in 1999. But if you wach those earlier episodes - or at least the opening montage that has remained consistent throughout the run - you'll notice a guy who probably was 30 or 40 pounds lighter.

In one of the final episodes, Tony got on the scale and was pushing 300, which is especially high for a guy probably no taller than 6-2. With all the stress in his life, you'd think he might have seen the benefits of working out a little more. Occasionally, he poked fun at his weight and hinted that he'd take up training again. But it never happened. By the end of the show, the guy was worn down in every sense of the word.

Most people assume Gandolfini is 50 or older. Actually, he won't be 46 until September, which means he was 37 when the series debuted. It could be we think of him as older since he's less than 20 years older than the actress who played his daughter Meadow, but really it's a reflection of his lifestyle, which obviously was a major point of the show.

That's the one problem I had with The Sopranos. I can't picture some fat ass like Tony Soprano, Silvio Duarte, Big Pussy, or Bobby kicking anyone's butt unless they had a gun. The most unbelievable episode was when Tony, still recovering from a gunshot wound, beat up his bodybuilding driver to prove to his crew that he was his old self. Perhaps the driver knew better than to fight back.

Paulie is another story. He was portrayed as a weight-lifter throughout the show, someone who wanted to maintain his youthful physique. He beat prostate cancer and in the series finale turned down a lucrative job offer from Tony because he didn't want to deal with the stress and re-trigger his cancer. He's one guy nobody wanted to mess with.

Paulie, of all people, survived, despite the abrasive personality and wicked temper. Fat Bobby, who spent his leisure time with model trains - not that there's anything wrong with that - got gun down in a train store. Christopher Moltisanti, he of the drug and alcohol addiction, died young. Silvio couldn't move his fat physique out of the Bada Bing quickly enough to avoid a spray of gunfire. (Good acting, though. Little Stevie moves around quite well on stage with Springsteen.) Big Pussy didn't work hard enough and had to turn to selling drugs, a fatal flaw in his line of work. And you got the feeling Tony wouldn't have put forth much resistance if someone came after him -- which perhaps they did, depending on your intepretation of the ending.

So there you have it - the underlying message of The Sopranos. Work out like Paulie, stay alive and thrive as a high earner. Even Vito, popped after his homesexuality was revealed, had just lost a lot of weight and was eulogized by Tony as a hard-working, high earner.

Anyone up for the Paulie Walnuts workout?

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