In Tanzania, 1000 people of the Hadza tribe still live as hunter-gatherers. They’ve been largely unchanged in their way of life for the last (at least) 10 000 years. This fascinating people was used as the basis of a study published in 2012, which essentially proved, and highlighted, the theory I’m constantly presented with as fact whenever browsing health sections online: You wanna stay fit? Lose weight? Be healthy? It’s 80% diet, and 20% exercise. That is, no matter how many hours you spend pumping, running, and lifting, it won’t burn off those burgers from McDonald’s or delicious chocolate cake. Since the Hadza people live like we Westerners did as hunter-gatherers thousands of years ago, the team of scientists from the UK, Tanzania, and the States, weighted their exercise level against their metabolic rate. The latter was then compared to the metabolic rate of Westerners. And guess what they found? The metabolic rate of the Hadza tribe is exactly the same as yours or mine. It’s a human characteristic, which does not change.
Man, was I glad to read that. It would suck quite a bit if I’d put all the effort of this month into eating healthier (at a somewhat drastic level, I might add), and then found out all I needed to do was run a couple kilometres further on the treadmill. The change in diet I’m referring to is one Ariz and I made a few weeks back. Ramadan was over, my lovely mother had gone back to Norway (taking some of my heart with her), and it was time to get back on track. Ariz has been pestering me about the Zone diet for as long as I can remember us getting into fitness. All “Miniblocks” this, and “equal parts” that. But then I started thinking about this Hadza tribe (well, I didn’t at the time, but for the sake of storytelling, let’s pretend I did), and I thought to myself, it wouldn’t really hurt giving a proper change in diet a go. I know we’ve tried it before. But this was different. You’ll see.
I started reading from the two leaflets Ariz has carried religiously with him wherever we’ve moved, and realised this Zone diet makes a lot of sense. Don’t ask me about the science, though - I can’t really be bothered with that. The essence of this way of eating is that your body only needs a certain amount of fats, proteins, and carbohydrates per day (depending on gender, and activity level, of course), and these have set values in the form of miniblocks. These values go like so:
1 miniblock of fat = 1.5 g
1 miniblock of carbs = 9 g
1 miniblock of protein = 7 g
So, if I need 14 blocks of each of these per day, that means I need to consume 21 grams of fat, 136 grams of carbs, and 98 grams of proteins in 24 hours. Yes, yes, I know it’s a lot of math. It’s also an f-ton of vegetables to consume. I honestly cannot get over the amount of healthy food you have to eat in order to compensate for a teensie tiny bit of unhealthy food. Go figure. Anyway, getting back to my storytelling.
Ariz and I started this diet a few weeks back, and the change in everything related to physical and psychological wellbeing is just astounding. I know, I know, I’ve talked about this a billion times. But this Zone diet is something different. I just feel healthier. Like, long-term prospect, thinking about the future healthier - somewhere rooted deep inside my body, probably where that Hadza tribe hunter-gatherer is buried from thousands of years ago in my instincts. I don’t feel like chocolate and fast food and chips anymore. And I’m not just saying that. Honestly, I don’t. My favourite snack right now is a handful of dates and some nuts. It’s like my mind’s erased all those things I used to love putting into my body before, and replaced them with something equivalently tasty - but healthy. The mind’s a mysterious place - it’s almost like it wants my body to be happy.
I know I’ve written a lot of blogs about what it feels like to start training again after a long break. But I don’t think anything quite measures up to level of pitiful state my body had reached when I got back on the treadmill and hit the weights once again this week. Two months of holidaying in Norway, with the country's delicious food, drinks, and not to mention (lots of!) wedding cake, followed by an even more sinful two-week stay in Florence takes its toll on muscles and heart. The uplifting thing, though, is how incredibly thankful your body becomes when you do decide to treat it to some cardio and muscular exercise again. All is forgotten; the pimples disappear, the joint aches vanish, and the concentration of your mind is suddenly top notch once more.
Today, I managed to do TEFL, university work, the kitchen tidy-up sorely needed, bake cinnamon buns, Skype with my oldest friend, go to the shops, and still write this blog. This fascinates me. Particularly because last week, when I hadn’t started working out yet, I struggled with an hour and a half of study in the morning. After this ordeal, I felt tired, exhausted, and uninterested in any other form of physical or mental exercise. That knot of stress and unease in my chest was still very much alive, and the first thing I did in the morning was worry about how I was going to finish everything I needed to do during the day. Keep in mind, this was just seven days ago.
Now, fast forward to the amount of stuff I got done today. And the fact that my brain is still capable of writing this blog with some coherence. I know there have been studies done on all this, and I probably seem like a bit of a dimwit for saying it, but exercise seriously enhances your physical and psychological state of well-being! I cannot reiterate enough how wrong people who say exercise will make you more tired really are. It’s a flat-out lie. These people, they’re lying to you. Their argument is like doctors' recommending heroin to prevent a nasty cough in the early 20th century. Heroin is bad for you, and exercise makes you more energetic, joyful, and capable of doing whatever it is you need to do the day after your exercise. Can I get an “endorphins”, anyone? I’m off to make dinner now.
When I was 17 years old, I moved to Swaziland in Southern Africa. My experience with gyms at this point was, to put it subtly, limited. I don’t know what makes a person who’s never gone to the gym tick, and suddenly decide to start going, but for me it was a close to two metres tall, severely bulked up kid from Africa, who said there were plenty of girls who would go to the gym, if the option was there for them.
So I started going. I felt, literally, like a baby lemur in a male gorilla cage. These guys were growling and howling with their 20’s and 50’s and 100’s, and I stood there, in a corner, feeling like the most awkward person in world, struggling with three sets of 10, 2 kg’s in hand. But it got to me. Going to the gym is like getting the travel bug; it’s a lifelong obsession and once it’s got you, it never lets go. After a while, I was organising gym times for girls, and doing 150 sit-ups five times a week.
It feels like an eternity since I got up at 6 AM twice a week to open the dusty, worn-down gym; the excitement I felt when the coach had bought a treadmill over one of our term breaks, and the happiness at the number of girls in attendance rising. I think back to the time before I started pushing weights and hitting the treadmill, and I cannot fathom how I ever didn’t. It seems like such an integral part of me now, like breathing or eating or watching films or writing.
A few months ago, Ariz said to me: “I think you’re just going to have to accept you’re going to be one of these fit people who runs around in the forest and leaves the gym last at night.” This was a strange concept for me to take in. I never thought I would ever be able to even do a push-up, and now I can do five angled ones - ten if I really want to. Squats were an impossibility up until this winter:
“My knees are too weak,” I’d say to Ariz at Aqualife, “I can’t keep my balance and there’s too much pressure on them when I sit down.”
“If you do them more, and carefully, your knees will get stronger,” was his solemn reply.
And he was right. Tell me to do 50 squats with 10 kg of extra weight? No problem.
I look at the journey the gym’s taken me and my body on, and I have to admit it fascinates me that the simple feeling of being tiny, and uncomfortable, and weak in a busted, African gym, is enough to get you hooked on a lifetime of strength, discipline, and fun. 2kg’s, I salute you.
Early yesterday morning, I arrived back in Kurdistan and thus, real life. I’ve had an absolutely amazing summer vacation, in which food has been one of the main foci, and particularly so on my honeymoon. This blog, then, will quite simply be a tribute to good food, Florence, and enjoying one of the simplest of pleasures in life. Let’s face it, I ain’t getting back on that treadmill just yet.
Florentines have a marvellous way of relaxing with food. They eat all the time, everywhere, everything, and they enjoy it to the fullest. At the B&B Ariz and I slept in Florence, fresh croissants, biscuits, as well as port wine was at hand 24/7. Around the corner, at the gorgeous Caffe Sant’Ambrogio, you could buy a glass of wine for 4 Euro, and enjoy complimentary prosciutto, pasta, nuts, and mini pizzas free of charge. A few shops down from that; the best chocolate ice cream I’ve ever tasted in my life. And then the beautiful Cibreo, where I enjoyed both cod mousse and stuffed rabbit, both cooked to perfection. All this, in the area of just four blocks. It is amazing to put this much delicious food into your mouth. And even though it’s not conventionally “healthy” food, I do believe there is something thoroughly good for your soul in sitting down, enjoying a glass of wine, and eating a dish someone has clearly prepared with skill and not to mention, love.
Florence is a beautiful city in all its aspects; the sights, the people, the history. What you can’t read in a book, though, is how good the minestrone at Oleandolo just off the Duomo tastes with a glass of ice cold, fresh prosecco. You can’t describe the subtle hint of bacon in a porcini mushroom risotto at Olio and Convium, a few blocks down from Ponte Vecchio. And you certainly have to go there, be there - smell it, taste it, feel it - in order to fully experience the genuine hospitality and kindness Florentines treat their guests with. And this, this amazing feeling the city provides you with at all times, is best enjoyed over a glass of wine and some cold cut salami and pancetta from the wonderful Italian pantry.
It is almost as if eating is a kind of breathing to Florentines. And a different one to anywhere else in the world. In Norway, we breathe quickly, while catching the bus or chasing through the woods on skis, thermos in backpack. In New York, they breathe hot air, and run across blinking pedestrian lights to reach work on time, sandwich in hand. And in Bangkok, there’s a different kind of breathing altogether, preferably over some street food in the steaming humidity. But in Florence, ah, in Florence, lunch may take half an hour, or three, and either way, your breath will become calm and steady, over the immensity of pure pleasure that can come from a simple espresso and tiramisu at noon.
About two weeks ago, I told my mum I’ve started developing the nasty habit of looking down at people who don’t work out. When I see shopping trolleys filled with coke and pizza, I shake my head and frown. Looking out of the window while walking on the treadmill and catching the eye of a poor passer-by who probably has a very good reason for being overweight, a sense of pity and judgement overcomes me. Having spent the past two weeks in bed for reasons including sinusitis, influenza, urticaria, and a general feeling of being unwell, I’ve started to become ashamed of my swift and condescending evaluation of people I don’t know and know nothing about. Just like I gained more kilos than I’d like to share here while I had bronchitis last year, I have absolutely no right to judge the people who do not frequent the gym for reasons unknown to me now.
Simply because I have chosen to prioritise exercise as part of my life, and keep it high on my value list, it doesn’t make me any better or stronger or more enlightened than the people who don’t. They may be followers of the belief that when life gives you a spare moment to breathe, it should be enjoyed with relaxation, wine and chocolate. Or eat tons of pasta, like the Italians. Or watch their favourite re-run on TV. Good on them. They may have four children at home, perhaps one sick with something, the other needing help with their homework, or all four waiting to attend a soccer tournament for which cinnamon buns must be baked. They may, like my mother, work 60-hour weeks, have a corpus librum floating around their knee, and be awaiting surgery in order to get to the gym. In the end, no extension of authority for passing judgement is given to me simply because I choose go to the gym six times a week.
After all, I have an almost completely stress- and carefree life. I may choose to pile projects and exercise onto my plate, but it’s an easy choice. The only person I have to consider when making my choice is just as keen to re-visit his weights and reps as me. Piece of cake, some might even say. So here it is, my public and broadcast promise: I will never pass judgement upon a non-gym-goer again.
Two days ago I got the flu, bad, with a fever, runny nose, chesty cough and aching bones. It reminded me (once again) of how incredibly lucky I am to live a healthy life, with enough money to buy medicine and food whenever I need it. Furthermore, it reminded me of how much I enjoy working out on a regular basis. It’s funny how my energy levels plummet (and no, it’s not just the flu), my concentration seems to perish, and anything other than lying in bed for a “24” marathon feels inexplicably demanding after just two days of staying home from the gym. Saying goodbye to Ariz as my mum dropped him off earlier today adds just a little bit of a bitter touch to the whole thing.
This bitterness is incredibly fascinating to me, because, just one year ago, going to the gym was a chore. It was an effort that had to be factored into my stressful and rushed day on par with making dinner and doing my homework. Admittedly, going to the gym has become a lot easier in the last few months, what with a home gym and all, but even now when I’m in Norway, and have to drive the same distance as I did to Aqualife in Vic Park, it has ceased to feel like an effort. Now, I crave the treadmill, and the weights, and the simple act of putting on my workout gear. My muscles ache not just from the flu, but also from their lack of resistance training, subsequent soreness, and relieving recovery. It feels like my entire being is begging me to put on my trainers, get into the car, and drive off to what should be its daily workout.
And even though I want to finish my university work for the day, my eyes droop, as my mind promises it’ll let me concentrate on academics if it can just bargain with the body for even a ten-minute walk on the treadmill. Then I cough, and swallow with some difficulty, reminding my body that I am, in fact, sick with the flu. It sighs. Fine then, keep your droopy eyes and wandering thoughts. We can wait. I smile, because the (bitter)sweetness to it is, I really can’t.
On Wikipedia alone, there are eight different formulae for calculating your maximum heart rate. I hadn’t really looked much into the topic until I came into a discussion with my uncle last night about why it’s relevant, and what it’s relevant for. I’ve just been doodling along with my heart rate monitor, proud to reach anything above 185 beats per minute (lunges are particularly good for this), cause that’s when I really feel like my muscles cease their interest in any kind of movement, after just a few seconds. Then, at the end of my workout, my watch tells me my average heart rate, my maximum heart rate, and how long I’ve been in the “Fat Burn” zone, in addition to how long I’ve been in the “Fitness” zone. The latter hasn’t really peaked my interest much, until I got into this discussion with my uncle last night.
The most widely cited formula for HRmax, would have my mum in cardiac arrest pretty much every time she gets on a bicycle. It was developed in 1970, and simply calculates your maximum heart rate by subtracting your age from 220. Then you’ve got the reaaaaally complicated ones, like the Lund Study, which has different formulae for women and men (plus, plus), and incidentally gives one of the most accurate calculations to what I’ve experienced when running as fast as I can for a little while. It goes:
190.2 / (1 + exp (0.0453 x (age - 107.5))) (put it into Google - it does the math for you)
But everyone agrees: if you really want to find out how hard you can go - you need a set-up ala Captain America’s muscle transformation machine, with at least two specialists overseeing you and monitoring an ECG machine, while simultaneously screaming at you to run faster and faster, until you collapse. I’m not that keen on falling off a treadmill (and particularly not the consequent burn marks from the mill band), but an approximate is handy to have up your sleeve.
Now, the reason I’ve been going on about this, is because the most useful thing about knowing your maximum heart rate, is that you can tailor your workout accordingly. If I want to burn fat, I need to be at between 60-70% of my maximum heart rate. If I want to do anaerobic training, I need to be at 80-90%. In other words: when you have an estimate of your 100% heart rate, you can choose your exercise, choose the results you want, and train thereafter. And that’s pretty darn useful. Plus, it might be good knowing just how fast your ticker can go if you’re out in the woods being chased by dogs, bears, or wolves, just in case you’re running so fast you might be in danger of a heart attack. But then you’re maybe not wearing a heart rate monitor in the woods, or worrying about cardiac arrest when you’re being chased through them, anyway.
