Commuter Fitness

While enjoying my daily commute, I often ponder the messages that bombard us along the highways but tend to ignore:  “How’s my driving;” “If you can read this, you’re too close;” “Speed Limit 25.”

But there was one message in particular that had me pondering from gaper delay to disabled vehicle.  On the back of a large tractor trailer, a sign read, “If you can’t see my mirrors, I can’t see you.”

What at first seemed to be a smug, passive/aggressive warning abdicating any and all responsibility on part of the truck driver for the dreaded “blind spot,” I realized was actually quite an empowering statement for the 21^st century.  What the truck is trying to tell us is that the solution to most problems is always within view; we’re just not looking at it the right way.

Take for instance the recent study by researchers at Washington University in St. Louis showing how long commutes, more than 15 miles a day, are associated with higher weight and lower fitness levels.

Researchers, who  looked at several variables including BMI, waist circumference, cholesterol , and blood pressure among others, speculated that a longer commute leads to less time to do other things like prepare a balanced meal or take a trip to the gym.

Since 86% of us commute an average of 25.1 minutes according to 2009 Census data, it may appear that we are a portable population heading for a portly population. 

The solution, however, seems to have been sitting in our blind spot all along and is closer than it appears.  You see, we have been overlooking the wellness potential of a long commute.

When we’re already running late and have drizzled coffee down our white shirt, it is inevitable we’ll hit a sea of brake lights just as we enter the stream of traffic causing us to sigh, snort, or scream.  In wellness terms this is known as deep breathing.

Not only does deep breathing release toxins in the body as well as tension, it increases oxygenation to help increase muscle mass.  In addition, deep breathing helps burn excessive fat because the fat burns more efficiently with the extra oxygen.

As you muddle through the morning muck and people pass you on the shoulder then force their way in that tiny space between you and the car in front of you, while other drivers honk their horns, yell obscenities, and blast their poor taste in music, you furl your brow, tense your shoulders, and maintain a death grip on the steering wheel.  We’ll call this isometric exercise.

Isometrics is when a muscle contracts, tightens, without extending or shortening like it would if you were lifting, say,  a dumbbell (and not the one in the car in front of you).  Experts say that just by contracting a muscle for 30 seconds at a time can contribute to fat burning and muscle strengthening.  Just imagine how flat those abs could be and how tight that tush could get with just one rainy morning drive.

To keep your mind off of the day ahead and the tailgater behind, you turn on the radio and, in the solitude and safety of the car, you belt out that Duran Duran song you never admitted to liking.  This we can refer to as cardio-strength training.

Studies have shown that signing not only has cardiovascular benefits because of the deep breathing necessary, but certain muscles are worked out as well.  Your abs, back, groin, and posterior are all muscles that support vocal sound and projection.

Long commutes can promote fitness.  It just depends on the effort you put into it, and your point of view.  The potential for commuter calisthenics has always been right in front of us, maybe we just couldn’t see the mirrors.

The Coffee Level

­Living in an area where commuting is not only essential to earn a living but also necessary to buy a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk, most frequent drivers have become especially sensitive to road rage. 

To safely survive jaunts about our highways, it is wise to keep more than just a level head.  The poet Seamus Heaney, in his book, “The Spirit Level,” tells his son to run “And tell your mother to try/ To find me a bubble for the spirit level...”  Literally, a spirit level is what the Irish call a carpenter’s level, but what Heaney is referring to is more of a state of mind.  However, if drivers cannot find a “bubble” for their spirit level, then I have another solution:  simply maintain a coffee level.

I like most of my commuter counterparts, drink coffee in the car.  (Please note acceptable substitutions:  tea (green or otherwise), hot cocoa, soda, or any other staining liquid.)  Keeping the coffee at an even keel will act as a good barometer for friendly driving, although it’s imperative for me to have a cup or three prior to departure. Before my first cup, I can barely speak, let alone think straight enough to find my car in the driveway.  Herein lies a paradox:  I need coffee to think straight and I need to think straight to make coffee. 

The other morning, while making coffee, another paradox hit me right in the forehead.  I was reaching up in the cabinet for the stack of filters for the electric drip coffee machine.  Half the stack tumbled and I was plummeted with coffee filters parachuting down looking like an invasion of a tiny army.  After picking up the mess, I tried to separate two filters so I could make the coffee.  The paradox:  It takes the dexterity of a neurosurgeon to pull these things apart and it takes at least a cup and a half of coffee for me to have the dexterity to pick my nose.

No matter whether it’s in a $20 travel mug or a convenience store paper cup, by observing the coffee level, commuters will have no choice but to maintain proper vehicular etiquette.  Sudden moves like merging into a space that couldn’t fit a tricycle or changing lanes without signaling can upset the coffee level. 

Flying past as many cars as possible until the merging lane ends forcing traffic to halt just to let in a car that is now riding on the shoulder of the road instead of merging when there is a space available tips the coffee level of several. 

A gaper, one who stares with mouth wide open, is never good for the coffee level of commuters on the road and those who haven’t even left home yet.  Innocently cutting someone off without the apologetic wave is a serious disruption to the coffee level as is not offering the “thank you” wave after someone has slowed to let a car in.

 Other pointers for maintaining the coffee level:  listen to music, leave talk radio to the unemployed; put in a tape or CD before departure, not doing 68 mph while changing lanes in time to merge; leave the other half of the doughnut on the floor, it’s not the dirt that’s unhealthy; and, for goodness sake, shut off the cell phone, the possible price of the call is just not worth it!

People of the highways, let’s preserve our coffee levels.  Let’s keep our papers free from dirty brown spots.  Let’s have our pants and ties stainless.  Let’s keep our cars free from the smell of old spilled coffee.  Just think, if the smallest spot of coffee on a freshly pressed white shirt is enough to spoil a person’s entire day, imagine what blood can do.

When Alternate Route Becomes Routine

Living in a state where your alternate route needs an alternate route, one must not let a little highway congestion develop into a serious road condition which is easier said than done when studies show that we New Jerseyans sit in traffic for over thirty hours a year. 

Nevertheless, we commuters cherish our alternate routes even when they, too, back up longer than the line at the convenience store when winning lottery amounts are up while all you want is a gallon of milk.  Our alternate routes are so valued in fact that we are scarce to let anyone in on them.  I was once at an early morning meeting that was supposed to start at eight.  As people drifted in around eight-twenty, many looked at me and asked if I had hit the back-up on the highway.  I shrugged my shoulders.  “How did you get around it?”  They asked.  I plastered the dumbest expression I could muster on my face, shrugged again and shook my head because everyone knows that the less people know about an alternate route, the more effective the route.

And then, one morning, for no reason at all, I took my alternate route to work.  There was no accident, no wet roadways, no gaper delays, no on-going construction, no police or fire activity.  In fact, it was moderate to light traffic.  But I exited nonetheless.  When I arrived at work, it was really no sooner or later than when I usually arrived.  And then, the next day, I did it again.  Before I knew it, I was taking my alternate route to work more often than my main route.

Suddenly my commute was a calmer, gentler ride and I started noticing things.

A man in slippers walking his dog and I remembered Tammy, the beagle of my childhood.  I remembered running with her in the back yard when she was only a puppy.  I remembered when I was a senior in high school, gently placing her paralyzed body in a box, wrapped warm with the yellow blanket that she’d had for as long as I could remember, and carrying her into the vet’s office and saying good-bye.

Children waiting for a school bus – the younger ones with enthusiasm in their eyes, the older with sleep in theirs and I remembered picking little purple wildflowers for Miss Lalama, my second grade teacher with whom I was madly in love.  I remembered waiting for the bus for the last time in high school.

A deer nibbling tender sprouts of grass at the edge of the woods and I remembered the woods that we kids once ruled.  The trails, the forts, the make-believe hunting with pop guns.  I remembered going back there later, after my parents had passed away, walking along that path I had known so well, disoriented by its overgrowth, etching it in my mind, knowing that, in all probability, I would never find my way back there again.

A woman in a robe holding a baby, both waving bye-bye to Daddy and all I wanted to do was turn the car around and give my wife and kids one more good-bye hug and kiss.

I also noticed how people behind you react when you actually go twenty-five in a twenty-five miles per hour zone.  Try it sometime.  See just how slow twenty-five can feel.  People swerve across the white lines to see if they can pass, they veer into the shoulder to see if something in front of you is slowing you down.  You can actually read their lips as they yell for you to speed up because no one really goes twenty-five miles an hour anymore.

And right before I was about to give in to the urge to go faster, I noticed a man in a suit sitting on the steps in front of his house, his briefcase on one side and a little boy on the other and I remembered mornings with my dad.  I remembered him putting down his briefcase and picking me up, telling me to be a good boy and he was there with me, next to me and he told me that I was doing the best I could, and that being a father was like commuting to work:  While traffic jams were inevitable, there were always ways around them.

By taking my alternate route more often than not, now I am slowing down, yet not losing any time.  I am somehow gaining time, and more than that, I am getting some lost time back.  Not a bad way to start a day.

Timing is Everything

Timing is everything.

Take my morning commute.  There is a small window of opportunity to make it through traffic in a reasonable amount of time.  Five minutes one way or the other can make all the difference between a twenty-five minute commute and an hour and a half commute. 

I am my own worst enemy when it comes to being on time even though I take all the precautions of which I know.  I make sure to set the clock on my nightstand ahead by twelve minutes so that when I hit the snooze button, I’m still three minutes ahead of schedule.

If I just hadn’t checked my email before going to work, I probably wouldn’t have had any problems.

The Net was running slow that morning because I was in a hurry.  I had forgotten that the fabric of time is cotton when the weather calls for wool.  I remember back when I had first subscribed to America Online in the early 1990s, whenever I went online, I’d always have a book with me so I’d have something to do while I waited for the pages to load.  If a page loaded in less than five minutes, or one good chapter, whichever came first, I was in good shape.  These days if a search takes longer than zero point two five seconds, I’m having a conniption.  This morning cyber space was sluggish and I was beginning to feel the agitation, the seeds of conniption, fester in my gut.  

After finding nothing but spam, two chain letters from friends who ought to know better, and a couple of daily updates from newspapers, I shut down the computer feeling a little flustered that I had wasted so much time.  However, I was only a few minutes behind schedule – nothing that a gentle five miles-per-hour over the speed limit and a few rolling stops couldn’t resolve.

I hadn’t even made it out the backdoor to embark on my morning commute when the top of my travel mug jostled off and coffee trickled down the front of my light tan khakis.  I took a deep breath and stormed back into the house.

Back up in the bedroom I found I had a choice, I could either change my outfit completely, which would mean standing in front of the closet for eight to ten minutes trying to figure out what shirt matches what pants goes with what necktie while struggling to remember what color socks I had put on, or I could dig into the hamper and pull out my only other pair of light tan khakis that I had worn two days before.

I sat on the edge of the bed weighing my options when I looked down and realized I actually had two different color socks on.  I kid you not, and believe me, this is no Freyism.  Those of us who often get dressed in the dark are accustomed to such things.  Now I had only to decide whether to go with the brown sock or the black one.

Fifteen minutes later I am finally in my car thinking about the maximum amount of speeding with the minimum amount of risk.  If I go just eight or nine miles-per-hour over the speed limit, maybe blow through a couple of yellow lights, I could easily shave off enough time not to be late enough for anyone to really notice.

As I approached my first traffic light, I looked at my watch to check my time only to discover that, in my rush, I had neglected to put it on.  At this point turning around was not an option, so I sought out signs for time.

According to the clock on my dashboard radio, I was about forty-five minutes late for work, only I couldn’t remember how far ahead I had set the time in the first place.  Was it ten minutes?  If so, I was okay.  If it was twenty minutes, then I was in trouble. 

I slowed by a bank and stared at the marquee sign.  Free checking.  APR financing. The car behind me flashed his lights.  Home equity, come on, come on.  Fifty-seven degrees.  I passed the bank and saw the time on the sign through my rearview mirror, but I hadn’t had quite enough coffee make out the reversed numbers.  If only I hadn’t spilled it.

Once at work I realized I really wasn’t all that late, a couple of minutes at best.  I realized that it didn’t matter either, that time wasn’t something to taunt and trick, but something to embrace and enjoy like riches.  I vowed to change my ways, to set my clocks to the one true time, and relax because when you get there, you get there.

I looked at my watchless wrist, hyperventilated, and made a note to set my alarm clock ahead five more minutes.