Parkinson’s and Exercise and Ay Morena
In 1987 Polley pressured me to start exercising. She knew my family cardiac history. She had to pressure me because I was reluctant. Teaching for me was not only a profession, but a passion, and I did not see how amongst the preparation and the grading of student work from five high school classes I was ever going to find two hours, three times a week to work my body into shape—a seemingly monumental task. And there was another responsibility—I was the father of four children, and play time was built into my schedule. Where was I going to get those six or more hours?
As it turned out, I found time, just like I found time to brush my teeth two or three times a day. Actually, we don’t “find” time in the modern age. We have to make time for things that are important—child rearing, reflection, and exercise. So three days a week after school I opened a locker at the Fitness Center, changed into some gym clothes, and mounted the stationary bike and the treadmill and the ube and the rower……all machines designed to strengthen my aerobic system. Good thing, too, because two years later, I had these unusual pains in my left eye and below my right ribs. Just allergies, everyone assured me. My cardiologist was not so sure. After the catherization I was rushed to by-pass surgery to correct four serious blockages in my heart. Had I not noticed the pains during my exercise routine, my first notification of those blockages might have been death. Scary stuff. So I credit the exercise and Polley with prolonging my life.
So it has been since 1987, visiting the Fitness Center three times a week, exceptions made for overly long faculty meetings, family emergencies, and vacations to far away places….like Connecticut. One Valentine’s Day I gave Polley a gift certificate for membership at the Fitness Center—–showing my love by my concern for her heart (heart-Valentine…yeah, it’s lame, but I also got her a nice card). So now we both go. But we approach it somewhat differently. After ten years of treading water on the treadmill and cramping calves on the stationary bike, I knew the names of, perhaps, three fellow exercisers. After one week of attendance, Polley knew the life histories of, and was on a first name basis with, at least twenty people. Some people see the time spent at the Fitness Center as a social activity as well as an investment in health.
I see it as maintenance…like brushing my teeth. Necessary but not the thrill of the day. At the Fitness Center, people exercise on machines in front of three giant televisions. Two of them are tuned to a All News All Day station and the other to some morning talk show. The sounds on both are turned off since most of us elderly exercisers like to sweat to the beat of the Beatles or Elvis or the occasional Perry Como….we are not training to climb Mt. Everest. And, as my doctor advises, endurance is more important than speed. I hope so because my treadmill speed is set to “Tortoise.” With the All News All Day television, script runs along the bottom of the screen so I have some idea of topic of discussion, but on the Talk Show television the captions are so small I resort to reading lips. In my head I make up the dialogue which, I believe, is usually more interesting than the televised discussion. When I get bored with that mental construct, I simply keep pumping my legs and soak in the vista that encompasses the Fitness Center parking lot. Amazing how many near fender-benders occur in a two hour span.
We actually drive extra miles to the Fitness Center, eschewing the workout facilities closest to our home for the simple reason that we like the staff, in particular Nurse, Manager, and All-Around Good Human Being, Karen, in whom we have supreme trust, and who is the heart (no pun intended) of the Fitness Center. Ask the fellow Fitness Centurions for the number one reason why they choose this workout facility and Karen and her staff top the list. So I have to drive the extra mile, endure the vista, and read lips on tv. The quality of the staff members and their willingness to answer my dumb questions as well as my trust in their skills and essential humanity more than compensates for the other less than pizzazy features of the facility.
On the stationary bike I can read my book, but on the treadmill no such luck. My body is moving this way and that, and it takes too much effort to keep my eyes from jiggling off the pages. Besides, during one workout back in the eighties, I was traumatized by a comment dripping with scorn from a fellow denizen of the Fitness Center. There are different cultures at different times at the Fitness Center. In the early morning many of the people like Polley and me are retirees. With nothing to prove and secure in our world views, this is a nice crowd sharing books, recipes, and histories. The after-work culture, on the other hand, often brought with it the day’s anxieties and stresses from the workplace. After a draining day of teaching, I would work the treadmill and ube and bike hard, attempting to sweat off the frustration. One afternoon after a school day, which involved the breaking up of two fights, I had the treadmill moving fast and on a steep incline. I tried to dissolve the school events by opening a novel and losing myself in its pages. Within minutes Benton appeared on the treadmill next to me. Benton was at least a half decade younger than most of us after-work Fitness Centurions. While most of us were working at decreasing the love handles, Benton possessed a chiseled physique, masked thinly by a tight t-shirt and short shorts. As we plugged along at 3 miles an hour on a level surface, breathing hard at every step, Benton tooled along at 7 miles an hour while on the Mount Kilimanjaro incline, his body and his movement the stuff ancient Greek Olympians would envy. We all hated him.
I turned my eyes back to my novel when I heard Benton’s voice. “Ya know, if you can read while you are on the treadmill, you ain’t exercising right. You might as well be sittin’ and reading.”
I twisted slightly to face him as a drop of sweat skied down my nose. I shrugged.
Benton ended his judgement with “If you’re gonna exercise right, you gotta focus on the exercising.” Then Benton turned toward the view of the Fitness Center parking lot, obviously bored with his critique of my treadmill work.
So I do not even try to read on the treadmill. I sometimes listen to the music the Fitness Center attendants play on the loud speakers. They are kind and tailor the selections (which are not the kinds of songs the young attendants would personally choose) to the crowd.
In the nineties Fitness Centurions would often bring in their own tapes and ask the attendants to play them. I think the Fitness Center eliminated that practice because of Bradley. Bradley was a very tall, thin member of the after work crew of exercisers although he had been retired for many years. He always came in a few minutes after I did, and I would sigh because I knew for the next two hours what was in store for my ears. Bradley insisted that the attendants play his tape. It didn’t matter if I or some other Fitness Centurion had a tape playing (I usually brought in some tape of classical music—want to get the heart pumping? Try Corelli’s Dance of the Furies). Whatever music was playing would be replaced by Bradley’s selections and his selected genre was always the same—Cha Cha.
Neighbors on the stationary bike, while Chilly Cha Cha was blaring through the Fitness Center speaker system, Bradley struck up a conversation with me…in medias res. “So this guy comes up to me and asks, ‘Hey, Bradley, what Cha Cha music should I listen to?’ Can you believe it? How can I answer that question? So I tells him, there are over fifty kinds of Cha Cha. How am I supposed to know what kind you want? Imagine?!”
“No, I can’t imagine.”
“And then you have to make sure you don’t confuse Cha Cha with Salsa or Bachata or Merengue. What was this guy thinking?!”
I shook my head in shared sympathy. “I have no idea.”
So most of decade of the nineties I sweated to Dimelo and Ay Morena and El Diablo Anda Sueto. Twenty years later, a remnant of one of those Cha Cha selections will pop into my consciousness.
There are times on the treadmill when I wonder, “Why am I doing this?” It seems like I stay in shape so I can perform on the machines which allow me to stay in shape. I am working out so I can stay in shape to work out. But I know there are other reasons:
From PDResources: Exercise can
1) Prevent cognitive decline. It’s unpleasant, but it’s true—as we get older, our brains get a little…hazy. As aging and degenerative diseases like Alzheimer’s kill off brain cells, the noggin actually shrinks, losing many important brain functions in the process. While exercise and a healthy diet can’t “cure” Alzheimer’s, they can help shore up the brain against cognitive decline that begins after age 45. Working out, especially between age 25 and 45, boosts the chemicals in the brain that support and prevent degeneration of the hippocampus, an important part of the brain for memory and learning.
- Alleviate anxiety.Quick Q&A: Which is better at relieving anxiety—a warm bubble bath or a 20-minute jog? You might be surprised at the answer. The warm and fuzzy chemicals that are released during and after exercise can help people with anxiety disorders calm down. Hopping on the track or treadmill for some moderate-to-high intensity aerobic exercise (intervals, anyone?) can reduce anxiety sensitivity. And we thought intervals were just a good way to burn calories!
- Boost brainpower.Those buff lab rats might be smarter than we think. Various studies on mice and men have shown that cardiovascular exercise can create new brain cells (aka neurogenesis) and improve overall brain performance. Ready to apply for a Nobel Prize? Studies suggest that a tough workout increases levels of a brain-derived protein (known as BDNF) in the body, believed to help with decision making, higher thinking, and learning. Smarty (spandex) pants, indeed.
- Sharpen memory.Get ready to win big at Go Fish. Regular physical activity boosts memory and ability to learn new things. Getting sweaty increases production of cells in hippocampus responsible for memory and learning. For this reason, research has linked children’s brain development with level of physical fitness (take that, recess haters!). But exercise-based brainpower isn’t just for kids. Even if it’s not as fun as a game of Red Rover, working out can boost memory among grown-ups, too. A study showed that running sprints improved vocabulary retention among healthy adults.
I have added to my aerobic routine exercises to help cope with the Parkinson’s. During my home stay due to the Renal Failure Fiasco, the therapists taught me exercises that I could incorporate into my Fitness Center visits. Articles seem to appear each week showcasing activities that help Parkinson’ patients, including classes in boxing and dancing. I nixed the idea of the dancing classes. Even in the sixties my moves on the dance floor resembled an upright brown bear pawing at the ceiling lights while stumbling to the Stones’ “Hey You Get Off My Cloud!” Besides, at the age of seventy, I have a difficult enough time climbing into my shorts let alone trying to slip into a tutu.
The boxing classes for Parkinson’s intrigue me. Growing up on Burnside Avenue in the Bronx provided daily opportunities for bare knuckled bouts of boxing. By the time I reached adolescence, I had had my full of fighting. But now, far removed from that distant unpleasant experience, I fantasize about entering the ring as a senior citizen, the ringmaster’s baritone voice announcing my entrance. “In this corner, wearing beige Bahama shorts with a white Velcro belt and white loafers with Velcro laces, from the Bronx, New York, Palooka Parkinson!”
The reporters gather round me. “Hey, Champ, any predictions about this fight?”
“Gonna float like a Butterball, Sting like a Manatee. We’ll both go down in the first thirty seconds of the first round.”
Fantasies aside, I face the realities of the Fitness Center three times a week. How much the exercise helps me is unknown, and, like everything else in life, there are no guarantees. But I constantly repeat to myself my neurologist’s advice which ends every visit to his office. “Just keep moving.”
Cha Cha Cha!!!