Life After Coffee: The Post-Coffee Chronicles, Days 1 - 7

Day 1 - So It Begins:

Recently I've been having heart issues, annoyances, and anxieties.  It started in the summer but just picked up within the past week or so.   For example, I'd be sleepy after a long day.  Then I'd lay in bed, only to become startled by my slow but loudly thumping heart.  It would keep me up and make me anxious.  

Within the past week though, the pronounced beat has been bothersome not just at night but also throughout the day.  My heart has begun picking up speed after eating meals, and especially after my morning cup of coffee.  Not only has its speed been bothersome, but my heart has (in my mind at least) been skipping beats.  Thud-Thud-Thud- - - THUD - Thud - Thud.  This has resulted in some chest pressure and some weird beats coming from my left rib.  So I decided to see someone about it.

This morning at 6 a.m., Tracy and I went to the ER.  Amazingly, we were the only two people in the waiting room and they took me in right away. (Actually, an old man walked in just after the hospital took me in.  He told us he was sad that we were just arriving - he had been waiting there all morning by himself, he told us.  He was adorable.)  Before I knew what was happening, the nurses had me on the bed, shirt off with all sorts of cables attached to my chest and ribs.  They did an EKG test and drew blood from my right arm.  Then, just for shits, the nurse put another needle in my left arm.  (No, it was because apparently when she drew blood and tried to put the IV in my right arm, she had trouble making the switch to the IV.  As a result, splat.  Blood went everywhere.)  They ran the tests and I spoke with a couple nurses and two Doc's.  

Turns out, everything is fine.  My heart is in good shape.  But it just likes to palpitate.   My pulse was good, but slow due to all cardio activity we do.  So when the palpitations come, they come harder and louder because of the slowness of my heart rate.  

"So how do I stop the palpitations, Doc.?  What's causing them? "

"Not sure.  But you have to avoid caffeine, alcohol, and stress."  

"Caffeine?" gasp.  "Alcohol?"

"You just have to decrease and limit your intake."

Even though I'm in law school, surprisingly, I'm not all that stressed.  But do I like my drinks?  Hellz motha yes.   Coffee in the morning and a beer or a glass of wine in the evening is my IV.  I tried giving up coffee last year.  I lasted a day.  I remember that day vividly.  All day I dreamt of coffee.  I dreamt of coffee swishing and swirling around in my brain - giving my brain the magical nutrient goodness it needed to cure its mind-crushing headache.  It was horrible.  

Alcohol, not quite so severe.  I do love a drink at the end of the day, but I go many nights without it. I'm fine limiting my alcohol intake.  Coffee, on the other hand.  Besides the day I tried to quit, I haven't gone a day without coffee since we first fell in love four years ago.  It's been my loyal companion ever since.  It's there every morning to greet me in the kitchen.  And even when I'm out, I can find him virtually anywhere - on any street corner or restaurant.  It has given me the fuel to break through the morning mental fog and greet the day.  I used to sip on it all day.  But now, our relationship is at a fork.  Is it time to go our separate ways?  

Leaving the ER this morning, I decided that coffee had to go completely.  I know I can't just limit it, or do half decaf, half-regular, to ween myself off.  I just need to go cold turkey.   Tracy encouraged me.  She gave up coffee a few months ago - she has had an on-again, off-again relationship with Joe.  Needless to say, she is thrilled that I won't be tempting her with my morning coffee anymore.  She feels like she and her decaf crew have made a huge pick-up as far as recruitment is concerned.   This is gonna be rough.  

As I write this, I'm on my last few sips of my first cup of decaf.  It's not so bad.  But I'm still worried.  What will I become now that caffeine is no longer a part of my life?  As Letterman said, "if it weren't for coffee, I'd have no identifiable personality whatsoever."  

I plan on detailing my journey into the non-caffeinated world in the coming weeks.  My thought is that by making this as public as possible, I have no excuse.  I will be held accountable.  And hopefully try to make it fun.  WIsh me luck.  But if these become less and less interesting, and the entertainment value of my writing completely tanks, at least you'll know why.

Update:

‎2:00 pm: Headache comes with fury. Brain feels distinct from body. Feels decapitated and placed in ice chest with occasional jabs from ice pick. Walking proves difficult as all limbs seem confused. Not picking up on basic neurological firing signals. 


5:00 pm: Wake up from first weekday nap since college years. Confused. Its dark outside. Where am I?


9:30 - 10:30 pm: Roll personal record in Skeeball playoff match.  Highest average yet: 34.9.  Most full circles yet: 7 out of 10. (If this means nothing to you, you're dead to me!)   Team wins, advances to next round.  This no caffeine thing ain't so bad!

Day II  - Life In The Slow Lane

8:00 am:  Woken by new alarm: skull-splitting headache.  Brains feels like it guzzled 13 beers right before bed.  Toss back two Advil. 

8:30 am:  Big cup of decaf.  Feels like smoking cigarettes minus the nicotine.  Same ritual, smell, process, just none of the good stuff.  It'll do, I guess.  It'll have to do. 

9:00 am:  Morning reading not as enjoyable.  Brain is good for first paragraph, trails off on sentence six, only to return a few seconds later from a caffeine fantasy.  Where was I?

10:00 am: Head out for run.  Beautiful SF morning - brisk air, sun shining.  Feel, and must look, very clunky.  Limbs feel like they're being control by a puppeteer - disjointed, out of rhythm, but all in all still working...  Within first block, see man walking out of cafe with coffee in hand.  Suppress desire to forcibly grab cup out of his hand, chug, and splash remaining all over face... Thoughtless run.  Literally, unable to think.  Feels strange.  Almost dreamlike...

11:00 pm: Feel almost normal after run... Head to school.  Library.  Two more Advil.  

12:30 pm:  Burrito. (Professor's treat - can't pass.)

3:30 pm: Sinking hard and fast.  Fighting urge to nap in library.  End up getting in a fist fight with a snickers bar.  I lost. 

6:15 pm:  This day is never-ending.  Feel stuck in slow-mo.  Past three hours have felt like 12.  Realizing how much caffeine accelerates everything.  Surprisingly productive though.  

6:30 pm:  Night class. This will be rough.. 

11:00 pm: Sleep like baby.

Day III - It's Getting Better  

8:00 am:  Wake up to alarm instead of headache.  Maybe they're done? ...  Decaf creates wonderful placebo effect. 

10:00 am: Get on bike, head to pool for swim...  Headache hits hard.  Out of Advil.  Run to school cafe.  Purchase over-priced Advil gelcaps.  Take down two.  Becoming concerned that caffeine addiction has been replaced with Advil.  Just temporary, just temporary.  This shall pass...

10:30 am: So hard to get in pool.  Even harder to swim.  Feels like swimming through mud.  Slow, thoughtless, can't get lost in swim.  Spend way too much time staring at watch.  30 mins.  Out.  Feeling normal again.  

11 - 2:00:  Constant battle in head: Everyone drinks coffee v. You can't drink coffee; Productivity vs. Health; Brain vs. Heart...  Heart and health in the lead.  

2:30 pm:  Sinking at library.  Crushing headache.  Fight urge to buy candy.  Dreaming of snickers, M&M's, reese's, coffee.  Stay strong.  Buy decaf.  Helps a lot.  Two more Advil.  

5:00 pm: Energy picks up once sun starts going down.  Feeling of victory - another day past!  

6:00 pm:  Reward self with haircut.  Feeling good, looooking goooood.

7 - 11 pm: Heart is happy.  Heart rate is slow and less-pronounced; still a few palpitations/skipped beats, but nothing nearly severe...  Brain sleepy.  

Another day down.

Day 4 - I Never Want To Do This Again

Things continue to improve, while also presenting new challenges.  

- I'm sleeping like a log, but finding it hard to break the morning fog.  Things clear up mentally about an hour into the morning as opposed to the first smell/sip of joe.  

- My energy is more steady and even-keeled, yet still fighting a crushing dip in the afternoon.  

- My heartbeat continues to be less and less pronounced and the skipped beats have been minimal; which makes it virtually impossible to deny the correlation b/w my heart issues and coffee.  

- Focus has been pretty good.  Not as distractible as before.  My brain feels like it's in the early stages of training for a marathon.  Yet still thinking I couldn't have picked a worse time to cut out caffeine.  If I can cut out caffeine while preparing for three exams, then I'm pretty sure I can... I don't know... help me out here... do something pretty cool?

-The headaches aren't setting in until later in the day, and when they do, they aren't as severe.  Down to just two Advil per day.  

-My run felt less clunky and I kind of got lost in it - I chatted Tracy's ear off throughout.  However, the new challenge: coming down from that runner's high and experiencing my first day w/o coffee while in the presence of someone else in close quarters.  On days 1-3, I was practically alone in my misery while Tracy went off to her internship.  I could pout, I could nap, I could eat snickers bars when feeling low.  I didn't have to be responsible for how my feelings and actions affected anyone else.  Today, was different.  Today, Tracy had the great fortunate of experiencing the wreckage that hits her fiance' in the afternoon.  Patience?  Thoughtful dialogue?  Apparently, caffeine was responsible for that part of my personality.  But did I mention I got a super sweet looking haircut?

Day V - Just Keep Swimming

Saturday morning was rough.  And the fog hung around until late afternoon.  My eyes were crossing trying to study.  Even with coffee, my eyes used to cross enough during exam period.  All morning and afternoon I read my outline over and over, convinced nothing was registering.  It was torture.  This is one of the lows of the coffee abstinence so far.  I could practically smell the coffee beans brewing from a block away at Starbucks.  I needed strength.  I cannot lapse.  

Around 1 o'clock, I searched for strength.  I searched in the only way one knows how to in the Apple-age when confused or troubled and in need of strength.  Instead of asking God, I asked Google.  

- "Why should I quit caffeine, O Dearest Google?"  

- "What are the benefits of quitting caffeine, Goog?"  

- "Why caffeine is bad for you?"

I found answers.  I found what I was looking for, what I needed to persevere.  

Caffeine accelerates your heart rate.  It stimulates the fight-or-flight response in your body.  It manufactures this fight or flight response, only to result in an energy crash a few hours later.  Caffeine alters your natural energy and the natural hormones that fluctuate during the day that your body normally regulates.  Caffeine can interfere with your sleep, even if you had it much earlier in the day, it still stays in your system.  Caffeine accelerates your appetite/metabolism and can increase your desire for sweets.  There are people who are caffeine sensitive.  

I felt like a Democrat reading the Huffington Post, or a Republican reading Fox News.  I was seeking out what I wanted to hear, what I needed to persevere in my steadfast belief.  I didn't question the validity of the articles I was reading.   I needed to be on one side, the coffee drinkers needed to be on the other.  Us vs. Them.   I wanted to judge the coffee drinkers.  Don't you know you shouldn't be drinking that stuff?!  It helped me get through the day.  

I shoveled down a Cliff Bar around 2 o'clock.  It was pretty good.  It gave me a little energy.  

Around 4 o'clock, we went for a swim.  I was not looking forward to it at all.  But once I got in there and start flapping around, something kicked in.  I don't know if it was the Cliff Bar or something else, but a burst of energy came out of nowhere.  I flew through the swim.  The buzz felt better than anything coffee could have given me.  It was incredible.  

I thought of this Us vs. Them idea throughout the swim.  It occurred to me that this is probably a pretty normal part of the process.  You have to learn to hate the thing that once loved - that ain't easy for the brain.  So if you demonize it - and judge others who also enjoy it with frequency -  it's easier on your brain to kick it.  I imagine a lot of alcoholics go through a similar process when they first decide to give up alcohol.

It's also similar to politics too.  It's similar in the sense that it's so much easier to be liberal when you won't accept that there is any legitimacy to the conservative view, and vice versa.  But if you respect some legitimacy existing on both sides, then it's tough.  It's squishy and discomforting.  You might not know where you stand.

So it goes with coffee - and alcohol.  If you respect that there is much to be praised in a good cup of coffee in the morning, or a few drinks with friends, then you might not hold your ground.  You might slip up.  You might forget why it doesn't work for you.  

The trick is respecting the legitimacy, but knowing what works for you and what doesn't; what truly aligns with your values, and what doesn't.  

It's a balancing act.  

So if I start talking shit on coffee again, kick me back into balance. 

Day VI - The Light at the End

Despite not being able to fall asleep until very late, due to a late night gelato sugar blast, I woke up on Sunday with some unexpected perk.  The high from Saturday evenings' swim carried over to the morning.  And then it carried through the afternoon.  It was the first morning/afternoon where I wasn't fighting the fog.  Is this it?  Have I finally made it over the threshold?  

It was.  I had.  But just as quickly as it came, it was gone - to be replaced with a stuffed and runny nose, itchy eyes, and overall lethargy.  Thanks to the winds that came through and rocked the West Coast, I was finally over the caffeine hump, only to be beaten down by a sudden onset of allergies.  I tried to explain to Tracy that this was totally connected to the "no-caffeine crusade," but she wasn't buying it.  

"I mean, I've been drinking coffee for five years now! Everyday!  My body is probably confused.  It's probably rebelling!"

"Really, Doug?  Come on.  We slept with the window open last night.  The winds came through and stimulated some allergies." 

"Okay," I replied, agreeing, with slouched shoulders.  "But what about...!"

"No."

The rest of the day was characterized by a lot of my face inside tissue paper.  And skeeball championships later that night. 

Needless to say, I had plenty to keep me distracted.

Day VII - Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.  

It has been exactly seven days since I lost a dear friend.  I have grieved, I have bitched, I have moaned, and I have most certainly been intolerable (ask Tracy).  

But at day seven, I have finally reached the last stage of grieving: acceptance.

For me, there was no real linear sequence to the first four stages.  They were all pretty interchangeable depending on the day.  There was much denial throughout the first few days.  I'd wake up and, just before crawling out of bed think, there is no fucking way I can do this.  There is no way coffee is gone.  So young!  A life taken too soon!  There was so much potential!  I couldn't believe it.  I couldn't wrap my head around the idea of living without it - especially during finals, and especially throughout a career as a lawyer. 

There was plenty of anger.  With coffee shops and cafes at virtually every corner in San Francisco, it was impossible not to feel anger at the world, at coffee, at myself.  Why can everyone drink it?  Why can't it?  Why Joe?! Why?!  I'd see a man walking down the street drinking a cup with a smug, cozy little look on his face and want to give him a good pelt.  

Because I made up my mind so early that I couldn't slowly ween myself off, the bargaining stage of the grieving process was the least pronounced.  For example, I didn't try bargaining for a cup only on special occasions, or half-decaf, half-regular, or whatever.  I just knew it wouldn't work.  But I did try this: Hey, if I can't have regular coffee, can I then have 10 cups of decaf instead?  But that fantasy fizzled out quickly after considering the urine complications that would ensue. 

Depression was a mainstay.  Man, coffee keeps you up.  Not only just up-up, in the sense of awake, but it can keep you from the low points.  The stimulant works wonders.  It brings comfort to misery - whether that's in the library, or in the morning when all you want to do is continue sleeping.  It's there to say, "hey, buddy, everything's gonna be juuuusstt fiiine."  But when it's gone, it's rough.  And it's unbelievably tough on those first few days.  But once those first few days are behind you, everything stabilizes.  The energy comes back and the low points are minimized.  

Acceptance.  Initially, it seemed impossible.  But honestly, not only am I back to feeling normal, I feel better than normal.  I am sleeping better.  The heart issues I was worried about have been almost completely subdued and back to normal.  My energy is better than it has ever been.  I wake up with a perk and start chatting away immediately (previously unheard of).  My workouts have regained the same intensity.  My focus is better and more sustained.  (I only check facebook and email 212 times a day instead 542).  I feel more relaxed.  And, most significantly, my skeeball game is on fire.  

As I write, and take the few last sips of my cup of decaf, I no longer feel the pain of loss.  Instead, I feel free.  I know that coffee is in a better place, looking up from the bowels of some other lucky soul's belly smiling, knowing he is better off in there, and knowing that our time together was done.  

Maybe in another life; maybe in another life...



EPILOGUE

Here is an imaginary question-and-response between me and my (imaginary) readers:

Q: Are you back to caffeine? 

It's been almost three months now.  I'd really love to tell a story about my excruciating journey over these past three months.  I'd love to tell of my epic showdowns with the coffee pot,  or my heroics when I finally broke down and ordered a cup at Starbucks, but when the cup made its way to my mouth how I overcame and slammed the steaming cup to the curb.  I want to be the James Frey of kicking caffeine.  I want to go on Oprah and tell the world how awesome I am.  But I can't.  I'd be a fraud, just like Frey.  

The reality?  The first week was hell.  But after that?  Eh.  Forget about it.  The craving for caffeine completely kicks after seven days.  The craving for the taste of warm coffee never leaves though.  But that's why on the Eight Day God created Decaf.  (Yes, I realize there is a hint of caffeine in decaf.  That's like saying there is alcohol in a non-alcoholic beer.  So this is me giving you the finger.)  

Since Day Seven I have started most days with a cup of decaf.  For a moment there I was worried I had substituted one habit for another.  But then there was a day without decaf... and... amazingly, everything was fine.  My world didn't fall apart.  Since then there have been many days without decaf.  It's less of an addictive ritual as regular coffee is, but instead is an, "oh yea, that sounds good" sort of thing. 

Q: Have you slipped?  

No.  Not once.  But I don't view this as an act of courage.  It's just preference.  Absence has not made my heart grow fonder. Truly, I no longer want the buzz from caffeine (or even sugar).  Just thinking about it makes me anxious, irritable, and jerky.  For me, caffeine was great for the first hour.  I felt smart, alert, and chatty.  But after that initial buzz, things would go downhill.  Anxious, stressed, distractible for starters.  Not to mention the heart rate issue and occasional bouts of sleeplessness. 

Q: You must be sleepy all the time, right?

Just the opposite.  I'm still waking up perky.  No more afternoon dips.  My focus is more sustained.  I'm still training just as hard for an upcoming triathlon.  When it's time for bed, I sleep. Most important though, the heart rate issue is eradicated.  

Q: So what's the downside?  

The only noticeable downside is my blogging.  (Unless, that is, there's something Tracy has yet been willing to share with me).  I haven't written here since, well, almost three months ago.  I'd like to attribute this to the fact that now without caffeine I have been able to focus better on "important things" such as school and work compared to previous semesters.  But really, I don't know.  I just need to pick my shit up and find more time to write.  

Q: So what's next, Doug?!

I've considered writing about the joys of wedding planning.  I'm still working on a title for the piece, but my favorite so far is, "Zen and the Art of Attending Floral Meetings with Your Fiance."  But I've decided to scratch that idea.  At least for the time being.  I was reminded that she still hasn't married me yet.  I'll push it off to November.  

Other than that, I am doing the Folsom Triathlon in April again.  This time with a few inspiring co-pilots.  Jonathan "Photographer Extraordinaire" Herre and Tracy Cook.  Tracy still hasn't signed up yet though.  My goal is that when she sees this expose', she will register immediately.   

Also, lastly and relatedly, I have began a new challenge that I plan on writing about.  It's a 30-day challenge that Tracy and I started on Sunday.  I'm not going to give it away, but it's the complete opposite of drinking caffeine.   We're on Day 5. 

Thanks for reading.  You guys have been great.   I look forward to doing this again.  

Through the Looking Glass

My class got out late last night.  The professor went until 9:38 pm.  We were all dying.  

When class finally got out, I packed up my things and walked out of the moot court room.  I headed down the stairs, out the building and across to the library.  I had to go to the library to meet Tracy.  She had been there since 11:00 am.  I figured she was exhausted and ready to get the hell out of there by 9:30 on the dot - the time my class was supposed to get out. 

I open the doors of the library and step in a few feet, without crossing into the censors.  She's waiting there patiently by the front desk.  She's ready to roll, as expected.  It's late.  There are a few people still hanging around the library, most of them ready to leave and most of them women.  Tracy steps through the censors and towards me.  We greet, turn around and head for the door.  We're tired.  It's 9:45.  

As I reach for the door, something catches my eye on the other side of the glass door.  It's a hand that is also reaching for the door.  It's a face I've seen before, but not in real life.  It's a face I've seen only in movies, or more accurately, in Michael Jackson's Thriller music video.  It's a zombie.  

I quickly pull my hand back.  I look over at Tracy.  She sees him too.  We both stop dead in our tracks. We mumble something unintelligible to ourselves, turn around and instinctively head back, away from the doors.  

With the new distance, we look back over toward the doors.  It's not a zombie, but a homeless man who is white, rail thin, unkept, and psychologically in another orbit.  His mouth is wide-open and gnawing at the air.  He's wearing a blue windbreaker and jeans.  It's not sure what he wants, but he clearly wants to access to the limited-access library.  We don't know what to do.  Tracy and I don't say anything to each other, but just stand there in the limbo between the door of the library and the censors.  

A young woman comes up from behind us, walks through the censors and towards the glass doors.  Before we can say anything (what would we even say?) she blasts through the doors.  At this point, a few more women have walked through the censors and are standing next to Tracy and I.  We all watch as the man takes advantage of the open door.  

He wobbles in.  We all watch, unsure of what will happen next.  What does he want?  What is he going to do?  Is he dangerous?  

He stands just inside of the doors, looking at us.  He wobbles.  And then... 

They're off!  

They're around his ankles in a heartbeat.  His jeans are dropped before we can realize that we're all getting an eye-full of this man's package. The women audibly gasp. 

Then, a second later, he trips over his ankle-wrapped jeans.  Both he and his junk come flopping wildly to the ground.  Boom! The women shriek.  He flops and falls on his back like a fish just reeled in from sea.   Bang!  His head crashes into the ground.  He lay there on his back, flayed out across the floor the whole width of the doors, jeans still around his ankles.  

There's about six of us law students standing in the lobby.  We don't know what to do.  We look over to the people who work the front desk, assuming they will know what to do.  There's a man and an older woman working.  The woman gets on the phone and calls campus security.  The man seems to be about my age and close to my size.  I look around and realize that we are the only two men around.  I kind of notice that the women are looking to us.  We both look at each other.  I can sense that we're both thinking the same thing. No, I'm not picking him up. No. No, I'm not either.  No, we're not!  I ignore that feeling, ignore that the women are still looking to us.  Everyone just wants to go home, but the man is blocking access. 

One woman doesn't seem to mind.  She's steps over him, balls and all, and walks out the door.  The rest of us can't do that.  I overhear someone say that campus security will be there soon.  Tracy asks out if there's another exit.  There is.  We sneak out the back.  

As we exit through the emergency exit, I stop once we're outside.  I'm on Fulton street and can still see through the glass doors.  I see the man.  He's on his hands and knees and trying to stand up.  His jeans are back on.  We keep walking.  The campus security pulls up as we cross the street.  

I'm still not sure we did the right thing.  But at the same time, I don't even know what the right thing to do would have been.  At least we didn't step over him.  And better yet, at least his pants were back on.  

**Note: I was conflicted over whether to share this story.  But I decided to share because of the complexity and conflicting emotions I felt as a result of those few minutes.  The tension between the sadness and comedy of the episode was excruciating.  Most things are usually distinctly one or the other; and most often when the homeless are involved, it tends to waiver toward the sad.  But throughout the whole episode, the look on everyone's face conveyed this sort of conflict and tension.  It was so sad, but dear God, oh so funny.  I hope you were able to experience that while reading it.

Spinning My Wheels

I have a confession to make: I go to spin class.  

Once a week, I voluntarily wake up before 6:00 am in order to torture myself for an hour.  Tracy and I sleepily sneak out the door by 6:10, hop in the car and get to the gym before the 6:30 class begins - and before the sun rises.  We descend into what is essentially the gym's basement to get assaulted by techno and house music, 90s jock jams and spandex.  The British instructor shouts at us over the thumping music through her mike while we pedal, and sweat, madly on our stationery bikes.  "Push! Push Push!!  Down, down, DOWN!!"  We wear our biking gear - spandex, clip-in shoes, the whole bit; except for a helmet, obviously.                                                                                                                                                                  

But we've tricked ourselves.  Everyone there has tricked themselves.  We've somehow managed to embrace this whole scene - not only embrace, but become addicted to.  Why?  How?  Because it hurts so good.  

It started out innocently and rationally enough.  It was January of 2011 and I had my first triathlon looming.  I was looking to bump up my training.  I needed to get more riding in because the Folsom Triathlon was a 16 mi mountain bike ride.  I was nowhere near meeting that mark by riding once a week, so Tracy suggested spin class.

"Spin?"  I asked, almost offended by the suggestion.  At the time, my mind couldn't distinguish a spin class from Zumba.  It was all the same to me.  To me, 'spin class' evoked the worst sorts of generic aerobics class imagery: sweaty people jumping around on top of each other, top 20 chart pop songs blaring, dancing, mirrors - pretty much death on wheels, the 9th Circle of Dante's inferno.  

"You mean, an aerobics class?  At the gym?  With loud, incredibly lame music?  You're kidding."  

"Yea, spin." Tracy responded, confidently.  "I started doing to spin in college - twice a week at 6:00 am.  It's an hour of stationery bike.  The first few weeks are pretty rough.  But after that you'll be hooked.  I want to get back into it.  We should do it! Come on!" 

I was unconvinced, but I was desperate.  "Okay, but I'm not going at 6:00 am.  There's gotta be a later class."

"Yea!  9:15 am.  Sunday mornings!" 

Madonna bangs over the mega-speakers, the instructor shouts over the music, and sweat exits from places previously unimaginable at rate in which, for the first time, the word "profusely" doesn't quite suffice.  I couldn't look at the person in the mirror reflecting back at me.  Not only out of self-loathing, but because I knew that if I did, that would be it.  It would be the straw that broke the camel's back.  If I looked in the mirror, not only would I finally see a full panoramic view of this curious scene, but I would surely lose it and puke everywhere.  If I looked up from the floor, I'd get dizzy and nauseous.  I'd see everyone's legs cycling furiously.  I'd see how depleted I was, how haggard I looked, how close to the edge I was.  Its the same instinct that makes you look away when you get a shot - if you don't see it then maybe it won't exist, maybe the pain won't be so severe.  Just focus on the same spot and breathe.  

It worked.  I survived my first spin class.  I "survived;" I did not thrive.  It was harder than two-a-day sprints during hell week.  My heart rate thumped faster than the techno beats, and never recovered throughout.  It was kind of humiliating.  I had been doing some pretty rigorous mountain biking every weekend, each ride being at least a few hours.  But an aerobics class with make-believe bikes and "simulated climbs" for an hour?  Out of your league, dickbrain.  If it weren't for Tracy, who continually reassured me that this was totally normal, I would have been one and done.  

So I stuck with it.  And it got better.  I mean, I still hated it.  But my heart rate started adapting and I no longer had to worry about falling of the ledge and landing in the City of Pukeville.  And because the class so thoroughly kicked my ass and got my heart rate to peaks it had never been, the rest of my Sunday was bliss (and not just because my skeeball league matches are on Sunday nights).  I started realizing how damned good this stupid class made me feel afterwards.  

I crossed a huge threshold when I realized I could wear my mountain biking shoes to class.  Being able to clip in to the pedals made the spinning itself feel more like actual riding.  It made it easier.  I could push and pull on the pedals, instead of just pushing.  From this point on, it was a downward spiral - or upwards, depending on the perspective.   

After I brought in the mountain biking shoes, everything else just followed.  I like mountain biking in my spandex because of the comfort and lack of restriction.  Why not wear them to spin class?  Why draw distinctions?  (In other words, why differentiate between wearing spandex in the isolation of far-away trails and wearing them to your university gym, one of the biggest in gyms in San Francisco?)  There are obvious reasons to make the clear-cut distinction, but I didn't.  And so it began.  

We got hooked.  We started going to the 6:30 am weekday class.  That way we'd feel that goodness during a week day, as opposed to just a Sunday.  It also opened up the weekends for mountain bike rides.  And man, did spin make us better mountain bikers.  Holy shit.  

Honestly, it's fitting that this is the last area for me to write about.  I've written about everything other part of my triathlon training, transitions and transformations.  My transition into swimming, barefoot running, into triathlon culture in general, that's gotten all the attention.  But spin has been like the offensive lineman who makes all the plays happen but gets no credit.  But the truth is though, it's because it's probably the transition of which I've been most embarrassed about.  The extent of which didn't hit me until two Thursdays ago.  

It was 7:25 and the class was winding down.  We were getting off our bikes and stretching a little.  Our British instructor's choice Jock Jam was still piercing the eardrums of those within a mile radius.  Tracy and I were unfazed.  We were in our post-spin blissful state after sending our lower bodies through a meat grinder.  We toweled off the last remaining drip of sweat.  But just as we were about to shuffle our stationery bikes over to their respective wall of the room in order to make some space for the 7:30 yoga class, we were intercepted.  

"Well, this is an interesting way to start the day."

"Hi, David!"  Tracy and I said laughing, but both thinking: Oh no!  Our old yoga teacher whose class we never go to anymore!  He thinks we've ditched him for Jock Jams!  He thinks we're no longer centered or mindful! We've been exposed!  We were both genuinely excited to see him, but not under these circumstances. 

He congratulates us on our engagement.  We thank him and stand there in the gym's basement under florescent lights, showing our sweat-soaked tees and spandees.   Tracy self-deprecatingly tells David that he now "knows our guilty secret."  David laughs it off and then proceeds to run around to get ready for his class.  I can tell that Tracy has the same sense of being embarrassed, of being caught cheating, of wanting to explain ourselves.  We both want to tell him that we miss him and his class, but that it just doesn't work with our schedules.  We want to tell him that we still go to yoga, but on Monday nights, and at a different studio.  We want to justify the spin class, the loud music, the spandex, everything.  But we don't.  We probably would have just been spinning our wheels anyway.  

We say goodbye and leave.   But my thoughts of this encounter didn't end there. 

When I left the gym that morning, I started thinking.  Why do I subject myself to this class?  Why don't I go to yoga instead?  I'm not currently training for any race in particular.  So I'm doing this by choice.  But why?  Why this choice?  Wouldn't I be more centered if I started my day with yoga instead?  

I really pushed myself on these questions and mulled over them for the next few days.  I went to our regular Monday night yoga class.  Thought about it more.  Then it hit me, on a morning while reading the Sports page.  

Yoga and meditation are centering.  They are calming, peaceful and bring serenity to a lot of people - and luckily, for me as well.  

But you know what else is centering?  Beating a guy off the line of scrimmage and running full speed at the quarterback and absolutely crushing him.  There's nothing more serene than throwing a high and tight strike-three fastball past the batter in a close game.  Nothing will make you sleep better at night than outplaying your opponent in the paint; out-rebounding him, blocking his shots, going up to the basket stronger than him.  Want to be at peace with the world for a minute?  Crush a golf ball 300 yards down the middle of the fairway.   Hit a baseball 300 feet.  Hit something.  

There's more to being centered and peaceful than introspection, meditation and yoga.  To me, that's just one form of serenity.  An important way, but just one.   I think a more honest approach understands how the other side of human nature functions and respects it's needs too.  

In Freud's political tome, "Civilization and Its Discontents," he argues that much of human behavior and motivation stems from our aggression impulse. (The other impulse being, unsurprisingly, the sexual drive.)  Freud argues that modern civilization will always be in tension with this aggression impulse.  As a result, the impulse gets suppressed, buried and then manifests itself in strange, untoward ways.  Therefore, people need to find ways to release that impulse in socially constructive (or at least, not destructive) ways.  

Even though much of Freud's ideas regarding the field of psychology have been debunked, his philosophical argument is particularly persuasive.  Finding ways to release our aggressive tensions in socially constructive ways has, in my mind, led to many forms of exercise sports - from running and biking to football, boxing and UFC cage fights.  (Why are we so drawn to the big hit in a football game? Freud must be right, right?) 

For many years of my life, sports kept me centered.  They provided the outlet.  And in doing so, I felt peaceful.  But now, since I don't have organized sports, I've found other ways to channel the aggression impulse.  And now it is clear to me that spin is the primary victim.  

The thing about spin is that it doesn't seem like the obvious choice for a place to release aggression and get centered.  And I think that's part of the main reason why I've been so embarrassed about it - that, and the house music.  But try it.  Put yourself on a bike in a room full of people with techno bumping while a drill sargeant instructor shouts at you, telling you that you're not going fast or hard enough.  Trust me, you'll start seeing red.  You'll be a bull chasing the red cape.

But it feels amazing.  The troubles and anxieties of the rest of the day drip off my shoulders.  I feel like I treat people better.  I treat myself better.  I feel the serenity of coming out of yoga, but just through a different means.  

The main difference between yoga and spin is the difference between mindfulness v. mindlessness.  In yoga, the focus is on mindfulness.  Your focus is on breath and posture.  The point is not to let your mind wander, but to be completely present in the moment.   But in spin, the point is to let your mind wander, to pretend you are somewhere else.  The idea is to day dream, to pretend that you are actually climbing up a steep hill overlooking a lake.  The point is to dream and fantasize that that stationery bike you are on is actually on a race course, in the final stretch, passing up the leader to win the race.  

Dreaming is just as important as being present and mindful in the moment.  Being able to step away from that dream and back to the present is just as important as creating the fantasy. 

Each time, I win the race.   

But then I step off the bike, head out of the basement studio, and up the stairs to start my day.  Then I'll hear a faint thump of a 90's house jock jam from below, and I am acutely brought back to reality.