Wife dearest came a-visiting in March 2009. Those three weeks that she stayed with me - and we went to New York and Buffalo and Niagara, and gallivanted all over DC and Arlington and Maryland - were definitely the most exotic days of our life so far. By the time she returned to India, in that late winter/early spring weekend in March, I weighed 87 kilograms, ate red meat almost every other day, drank alcohol or Coca Cola almost everyday, and indulged in copious sugary snacks as if the sodas weren't enough. The only physical exercise I got was walking between Farragut West metro station and the World Bank office, and Crystal City metro to my apartment in Oakwood. On weekends I walked a little more, but not more than 4 kilometres a day. That year, after I returned to India, medical tests reported high blood pressure, hovering around 165/130, and high cholesterol at some 240+ units.
Wife had balked when she first saw me after 2 months at Dulles airport. While she also gained some weight, what with all the hearty indulgence during her stay, she reprimanded me for my unhealthy lifestyle. The Monday after she left, I took a good look at the man in the mirror and saw a quintessential, Malayali tippler. Pot-bellied, slouching, balding head, bloodshot eyes, oafish grin. I said to myself: Buddy, you've gotta shape up if you want to stay alive. Saying that, I returned early from work that evening (by which time wife touched down in Chennai) and decided to go for a run. I wore my Reebok sports shoes that I'd bought from the store in the Crystal City shopping centre run by a pretty Eritrean woman, wore basketball shorts (because shorter ones looked like ugly hot-pants), and headed in all earnestness to the Mount Vernon trail.
It was only after two months of stay in Crystal City that I learnt that a trail as beautiful as that existed right behind the apartment building! The scenic, paved hiking and cycling path extends for 27 kilometres from Mt. Vernon to Rosslyn, running along the bank of the Potomac and passing by the Reagan National Airport (again, right behind my apartment building). There's a place on the trail called Gravelly Point which faces the runway, offering fantastic views of the airport and planes taking off.
I exited the Crystal City shopping area, crossed the George Washington Memorial Pkwy, and reached the trail. The air was salubrious and the sight of cyclists, runners, and skateboarders was invigorating. Without warming up, I took off, sprinting, not jogging, as fast as I could. My knees lifted up to my jumping belly and my pectorals wiggled like jelly! In 500 metres, I hit an uphill path. No problemo, I said, and bounded up the trail where a couple of cyclists zoomed by. I continued my run for another 300 metres when my eyes began to pop out. I huffed and puffed like a steam engine. My jiggly wiggly torso began to ache and my legs cramped. A few steps later, I suffered shin splints and dropped to my knees on the trail, only a few metres before Gravelly Point.
"Just another pinprick," David Gilmore said in my head, but along with it, there was a lot of "Aaaah" too. I couldn't stand up. My eyes smarted, my lungs felt as if they'd burst. With a lot of effort, I managed to stand up, but my legs felt as if iron balls dangled from them and some psychopath was sawing away at my shins. Even limping back home was unthinkable.
A good Samaritan arrived on a bicycle. He was definitely in his high fifties if not older. He looked at me as he rode by, stopped and turned back.
"You're all right?" he asked. "You don't look too good."
"I'm fine, thanks," I said valiantly, but I wasn't.
"Nah, you aren't pal," he said and got off his bike. "Did you trip and fall or somethin'?"
I told him about the sharp pain in both shins.
"Come on, I'll help you get back home. Do you live close by?"
I realised that, from where we were standing, I could actually see and point out Oakwood apartment building to him. He gently made me put my arm around his shoulder and threw his own around my waist. Pushing his bicycle with the other hand, he walked me back to my building. The jabs in my shins made my eyes smart again, but somehow - with this gentleman's help - I found the strength to limp back to the apartment building. He told me to seek medical help as soon as possible and suggested that I apply ice on my legs, which I did later in my apartment. I thanked him, remember doing a "Namaste". He smiled and proffered a namaste in return, and rode away.
There was a voicemail on my phone in the bedroom, but I barely had the strength to plop into the couch in the living room. I didn't immediately answer the phone when it rang. By the time I rose with effort and limped to the bedroom, my wife called again to tell me that she had reached home in Chennai. I spoke to her for a little while, told her how much I missed her, and narrated the evening's botched attempt at running. After hanging up, I checked the voicemail; Samantha had left a message: "Bugger where are you men! Smitha's reached Chennai. She called you several times it seems, poor girl! Then she called us to check if you were at our place. Call as soon as you get home from wherever you are. Bugger, we're all worried!'
I called Sam and apologised. Then, after applying ice on my shins, I apologised to my own damned self for having wrecked my body so remorselessly. Only four years ago, in 2005, I had started drinking. In those four years, I'd turned into a binge eater and drinker, and also squandered away money in the process. Consider this simple calculation I'd done a few months ago:
A minimum of Rs. 2000 per month on booze, multiplied by 12 = Rs. 24,000. Multiply that into 11 years of drinking = Rs. 2,64,000! That's the minimum I've squandered on liquor! The real figure is much higher.
That was my first lesson though, the next one occurring years later in 2015 at a rooftop office party in Bangalore, which I shall write about later sometime. I could not resume running immediately, but a year later, I ran my first full kilometre in Anna Nagar, Chennai. Since then, I haven't stopped. Cut to 2017; six days from now, after having successfully run several half-marathons, I will run the first marathon, the full 42 kilometres or 26.2 miles, of my life. Now when I tire after 25 kms, I recall the debacle of that evening at Gravelly Point and smile to myself. That deliberation seems to work because I carry on running after that, refreshed. A month ago, a medical checkup revealed the following stats:
Blood pressure: Normal (Still under medication though. Docs say I can't stop taking meds.)
Cholesterol: 141 units (whatever that is; should be below 200)
Blood sugar: Well within Normal limits
Liver, kidney etc: All good
Weight: 72.4 kgs
If I can, dear friends, you can too!
 |
| From my apartment building to the Gravelly Point on the trail |
Wife had balked when she first saw me after 2 months at Dulles airport. While she also gained some weight, what with all the hearty indulgence during her stay, she reprimanded me for my unhealthy lifestyle. The Monday after she left, I took a good look at the man in the mirror and saw a quintessential, Malayali tippler. Pot-bellied, slouching, balding head, bloodshot eyes, oafish grin. I said to myself: Buddy, you've gotta shape up if you want to stay alive. Saying that, I returned early from work that evening (by which time wife touched down in Chennai) and decided to go for a run. I wore my Reebok sports shoes that I'd bought from the store in the Crystal City shopping centre run by a pretty Eritrean woman, wore basketball shorts (because shorter ones looked like ugly hot-pants), and headed in all earnestness to the Mount Vernon trail.
It was only after two months of stay in Crystal City that I learnt that a trail as beautiful as that existed right behind the apartment building! The scenic, paved hiking and cycling path extends for 27 kilometres from Mt. Vernon to Rosslyn, running along the bank of the Potomac and passing by the Reagan National Airport (again, right behind my apartment building). There's a place on the trail called Gravelly Point which faces the runway, offering fantastic views of the airport and planes taking off.
 |
| A plane takes off from Reagan National; viewed from Gravelly Point |
I exited the Crystal City shopping area, crossed the George Washington Memorial Pkwy, and reached the trail. The air was salubrious and the sight of cyclists, runners, and skateboarders was invigorating. Without warming up, I took off, sprinting, not jogging, as fast as I could. My knees lifted up to my jumping belly and my pectorals wiggled like jelly! In 500 metres, I hit an uphill path. No problemo, I said, and bounded up the trail where a couple of cyclists zoomed by. I continued my run for another 300 metres when my eyes began to pop out. I huffed and puffed like a steam engine. My jiggly wiggly torso began to ache and my legs cramped. A few steps later, I suffered shin splints and dropped to my knees on the trail, only a few metres before Gravelly Point.
"Just another pinprick," David Gilmore said in my head, but along with it, there was a lot of "Aaaah" too. I couldn't stand up. My eyes smarted, my lungs felt as if they'd burst. With a lot of effort, I managed to stand up, but my legs felt as if iron balls dangled from them and some psychopath was sawing away at my shins. Even limping back home was unthinkable.
A good Samaritan arrived on a bicycle. He was definitely in his high fifties if not older. He looked at me as he rode by, stopped and turned back.
"You're all right?" he asked. "You don't look too good."
"I'm fine, thanks," I said valiantly, but I wasn't.
"Nah, you aren't pal," he said and got off his bike. "Did you trip and fall or somethin'?"
I told him about the sharp pain in both shins.
"Come on, I'll help you get back home. Do you live close by?"
I realised that, from where we were standing, I could actually see and point out Oakwood apartment building to him. He gently made me put my arm around his shoulder and threw his own around my waist. Pushing his bicycle with the other hand, he walked me back to my building. The jabs in my shins made my eyes smart again, but somehow - with this gentleman's help - I found the strength to limp back to the apartment building. He told me to seek medical help as soon as possible and suggested that I apply ice on my legs, which I did later in my apartment. I thanked him, remember doing a "Namaste". He smiled and proffered a namaste in return, and rode away.
 |
| View of Oakwood apartments and the USAF Memorial on the right, at dusk. Photo taken on a later visit to Gravelly Point. |
There was a voicemail on my phone in the bedroom, but I barely had the strength to plop into the couch in the living room. I didn't immediately answer the phone when it rang. By the time I rose with effort and limped to the bedroom, my wife called again to tell me that she had reached home in Chennai. I spoke to her for a little while, told her how much I missed her, and narrated the evening's botched attempt at running. After hanging up, I checked the voicemail; Samantha had left a message: "Bugger where are you men! Smitha's reached Chennai. She called you several times it seems, poor girl! Then she called us to check if you were at our place. Call as soon as you get home from wherever you are. Bugger, we're all worried!'
I called Sam and apologised. Then, after applying ice on my shins, I apologised to my own damned self for having wrecked my body so remorselessly. Only four years ago, in 2005, I had started drinking. In those four years, I'd turned into a binge eater and drinker, and also squandered away money in the process. Consider this simple calculation I'd done a few months ago:
A minimum of Rs. 2000 per month on booze, multiplied by 12 = Rs. 24,000. Multiply that into 11 years of drinking = Rs. 2,64,000! That's the minimum I've squandered on liquor! The real figure is much higher.
That was my first lesson though, the next one occurring years later in 2015 at a rooftop office party in Bangalore, which I shall write about later sometime. I could not resume running immediately, but a year later, I ran my first full kilometre in Anna Nagar, Chennai. Since then, I haven't stopped. Cut to 2017; six days from now, after having successfully run several half-marathons, I will run the first marathon, the full 42 kilometres or 26.2 miles, of my life. Now when I tire after 25 kms, I recall the debacle of that evening at Gravelly Point and smile to myself. That deliberation seems to work because I carry on running after that, refreshed. A month ago, a medical checkup revealed the following stats:
Blood pressure: Normal (Still under medication though. Docs say I can't stop taking meds.)
Cholesterol: 141 units (whatever that is; should be below 200)
Blood sugar: Well within Normal limits
Liver, kidney etc: All good
Weight: 72.4 kgs
If I can, dear friends, you can too!
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