I have read many reviews about the movie Fat Sick and Nearly Dead. Some positive reviews, some negative reviews. Comments in negative reviews include bias towards one kind of diet, cherry-picking doctors that support juice fasting, and a tone that is similar to a late-night commercial pitch. The movie is a documentary that follows two men, Joe Cross and Phil Staples, through a 60-day juice fast. Joe Cross is well-to-do, and is the brainchild of this film. Phil Staples is a truck driver from Iowa.
Yes, the movie is biased, being that it is a documentary about the experiences of two individual men. It is not a survey of a cross section of a population. It is the following of two men trying a specific diet to remedy a specific problem - obesity. On the matter of doctor interviews in the film, the doctors appearing are the ones tasked with following the two men on the fast. Of course they would be choosing doctors who are on the same page with the drastic diet they have chosen to attempt. I too would seek out the doctors I know will support me on my chosen course of treatment. I think while watching the film, it is important to remember that it documents (hence documentary) the experiences of two men. It is not a documentary in the spirit of a neutral news program.
I do however, have trouble with the fact that the film does slant towards commercial pitch at times. The ever present high-speed Breville juicer becomes distracting from the critical message of the film and I felt a subtle bit of mistrust in Cross. Was the man more interested in helping others, or in pitching the Breville juicer? At no time did Mr. Cross actually pitch the Breville, or even mention the make and model of the juicer. I did find it distracting however, knowing there is a better technology (slow-juicing) available. I was looking for a mailing address or website at the end of the film for the Breville company, but there was none, and I was glad for that. Unfortunately, on the Fat Sick and Nearly Dead website, prominent on that page, is a pitch to purchase Breville juicers. Well, I guess one can't fault Cross - who is a businessman, after all, from monetizing his website beyond simply marketing the film.
My general opinion of the film is this: It documents one kind of treatment (or diet) that works. It works miracles. The juice fast is nothing new. Cross did not invent it. I'm sure many of you remember the "Juiceman" infomercial - the juicer was pitched by addictively hyperactive Juiceman Jay Kordich back in the early 1990s. Regardless of the pitchmen and the innate distrust we feel regarding their sincerity, the reality is this: to aggressively tackle obesity, a juice fast works. The issue is not if subsisting on a diet consisting solely of fresh vegetable and fruit juices will result in loss of excessive weight and help to get obesity related diseases under control. It does do that. The issue is with the ability of the individual. Can you stick with the program? Are you likely to fall back into a food addiction? Are you able to do the work associated with juicing? And when it is time to go back to a diet of solid foods, can you keep from sliding back into bad eating habits? But these issues remain regardless of the methods we use to get a handle on a weight problem. These are not reasons to condemn any single treatment method.
There are other diets that work as well, if simply losing weight is the goal without regard to further damage to health. But to retrain your tastebuds, break food addictions, and build up your vitality and health rather than compromise it further in the process, the juice fast works. More than Cross, Staples is a testament to that.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The Old Mountain Bike - My Golden Beauty
I have an old mountain bike. Its a sweet little ride. By little, I mean, a 13.5 inch frame, for a little 5' 2" woman - me! I could probably use a 13 inch frame, but what does it matter, when I haven't been on my bike in over 8 or so years! I love that bike. Its a Specialized Rock Hopper, with a factory-original metallic gold finish. about 6 years ago, my bike was stolen from my garage and thrown down a 40 foot wooded embankment for a fast getaway. I noticed right away on that morning that my bike had been stolen. It was January and there was a fresh thin coating of powdery snow over everything - the pavement, the grass - I was able to follow the tracks of my bike as well as the cheap sneaker prints of the two thieves for over a mile until the track went dead over a well traveled roadway. It was a horrible feeling. I filed the appropriate forms with the police. End of story. Or not...
Later that year, on a March night, I decided for no particular reason to go down a side street in a seedier part of my city, on the way to the grocery store. This was a total, random, last minute turn, for no reason. I noticed a group of teenagers hanging out in front of a run down tenement building. There were about 12 or so kids, aged around 16-19 years old. And there.... there in the group... was one young man of about 17 with the most beautiful bike I had ever seen. MY bike. My golden rock hopper. There were never many of these bikes made, and it was an older model to begin with. Yes, as sure as the sun sets in the west, that was MY bike. I cant even describe the absolute shock and rush of emotions as I saw this. I had no cell phone on me at the time. I casually drove down the road, and then as soon as I was out of sight, SPED like a bat out of hell to the nearest place I could find that might have a phone. I went to a local corner store and like a crazed woman who just witnessed the crime of the century, blurted out "I NEED TO USE YOUR PHONE! ITS AN EMERGENCY!!" The poor clerk who didn't speak English too well, fumbled the hand set to me as quick as could be and dialed the police. I could barely get the words out fast enough. "QUICK! WILLOW STREET! BIKE! MINE!!! STOLEN! HURRY, oh PLEASE HURRY!" The dispatcher of course, tried to get me calm. I repeated - PLEASE send a car to Willow Street now! Im going there now! And I hung up. I knew the dispatcher wasn't about to ignore THAT call! So I sped back to the scene of the crime, and lurked around the corner at the nearest intersection until a cop car came down the street. I beamed the police car, then rolled in front of him slowly, and pulled over in front of the kids, who all looked like deer in the headlights. I explained to the police that the bike was mine, and was stolen a few months back. The officer promptly went over, grabbed the bicycle and put it in his trunk, and then grabbed the kid and put HIM in his backseat. Back at the station, after witnessing a very angry father come looking for his kid that he was going to kill, I had the sweet sweet reunion with my little golden Rockhopper. A bike I figured had long since been stripped for parts, and the unwanted portions consigned to the depths of the Blackstone River. Oh my sweet little golden beauty. She was abused, ridden hard, had some dings - but she was a mountain bike, and she could handle it.
But the story turns sad again. This time, I put the bike down in my basement and covered her with a sheet to protect her from any prying thieving eyes. And there she sat, home to spiders, for 6 so years. In the dark corner of the basement. Until yesterday. I took her out. I want to go to the gym, two miles away. Planet Fitness, 10 dollars a month, and within my puny budget. But as sad as this is, 4 miles (2 there and 2 back) several times a week, adds up with gas. I want to go to the gym to exercise, why not also exercise going there and back, and save some money doing it. Now, Im not fooling myself. I know I won't be biking there every day, or even an occasional day any time soon. I need to build up that bicycling stamina so that its not just THE exercise, but a mode of transport to THE exercise. For now, I will be content to tool around the block a few times to get my bicycle muscles used to the idea.
So out came the old book on maintaining your mountain bike. Out came the old tire levers, the old pump and the manuals, the bike chain spray, the aerodynamic Giro bike helmet, and the bike lock. I have had the key to that lock with my other house keys for over a decade. Even though I didn't ride the bike, for close to a decade, even though I had lost all hope of finding her during the period of thievery, I couldn't take the key off my chain. There was something about that, that was too final. So the key, worn and rounded on the edges, worn to the base brass metal, remains. I put it in the lock, and turned it. It was a great feeling. I took my bike out into the light and looked it over good, the first time since it returned to me. I swept away the cobwebs, and I inflated the tires. I brought her out into the driveway, and climbed on. Theres that saying about remembering old things - "Its like riding a bicycle - you never forget". Well, I thought for sure I must be getting senile because I forgot! I was wobbling all over, couldn't even get my foot up onto a pedal without feeling I was going to keel right over. It took me several tries before I realized the problem wasn't my memory, but the bike. The IDIOT who made off with my bike had ratcheted the seat post all the way down to its base. Like some kind of strange low-rider. NOT at all set to an appropriate height. I have no idea how the kid even rode the bike like that, unless he handed it off to some 4 foot tall 8 year old or something. So when I finally figured that out, it was easy enough to reset the post with the quick release lever, and then I was riding fine. Almost... I need to check out that manual to make sure it is set just right.
So now the seat was at a reasonable height, the tires had air, and I got the gears straightened out (The chain is still full of grit and needs a good cleaning and lubricating before I do any serious riding). I rode up and down my street - about a total of 500 feet - once. I had other things to do for the day - laundry, and preparing for an interview later that evening (thats another post). So I had to put my lovely golden girl back under her sheet for the day. I put her in the garage. Under the sheet. I hope she is safe...
This was Monday. Yesterday (Tuesday), I had muscles in my legs doing their own little exotic dances - spasming and writhing, cramping and twitching - my thighs, my calves, the tendon that attaches the front of the foot to the leg. I had to laugh. It was painful, but not the kind of pain that kills. At one point, a long muscle in my inner thigh tightened up like a taught bow - I couldn't stand up straight - I was shuffling about the house, bent over like a little old lady, ouching and laughing at the same time.
It is now Wednesday morning. Those muscles are STILL sore and tight! I want to get back on that bike. I might go another 500 feet down my street.
You might be wondering - why didn't I take the bike out sooner? Well, heres why. I thought I was too fat to ride it. I thought the tires might burst, or the frame might bend! Heres a bike meant to go bombing through rocky, log strewn forest, and I was seriously worried about damaging it with my prodigious frame. I actually had to do a web search about "too fat to ride a bike"- and had a bunch of results spit back at me that the only way you can be too fat to ride a bike, is if your size makes it impossible for you to waddle over and climb onto it. I can do that, so I have no excuse. I CAN ride my golden beauty, and if anyone wants to have a laugh at the fact that I look like one of the McGuire twins tooling down the road, well, Im glad to bring some laughter into someone's life. But as long as my leg muscles aren't doing an exotic dance I have no control over, I WILL be crawling back up on that bike! And thats all I have to say about that....
Later that year, on a March night, I decided for no particular reason to go down a side street in a seedier part of my city, on the way to the grocery store. This was a total, random, last minute turn, for no reason. I noticed a group of teenagers hanging out in front of a run down tenement building. There were about 12 or so kids, aged around 16-19 years old. And there.... there in the group... was one young man of about 17 with the most beautiful bike I had ever seen. MY bike. My golden rock hopper. There were never many of these bikes made, and it was an older model to begin with. Yes, as sure as the sun sets in the west, that was MY bike. I cant even describe the absolute shock and rush of emotions as I saw this. I had no cell phone on me at the time. I casually drove down the road, and then as soon as I was out of sight, SPED like a bat out of hell to the nearest place I could find that might have a phone. I went to a local corner store and like a crazed woman who just witnessed the crime of the century, blurted out "I NEED TO USE YOUR PHONE! ITS AN EMERGENCY!!" The poor clerk who didn't speak English too well, fumbled the hand set to me as quick as could be and dialed the police. I could barely get the words out fast enough. "QUICK! WILLOW STREET! BIKE! MINE!!! STOLEN! HURRY, oh PLEASE HURRY!" The dispatcher of course, tried to get me calm. I repeated - PLEASE send a car to Willow Street now! Im going there now! And I hung up. I knew the dispatcher wasn't about to ignore THAT call! So I sped back to the scene of the crime, and lurked around the corner at the nearest intersection until a cop car came down the street. I beamed the police car, then rolled in front of him slowly, and pulled over in front of the kids, who all looked like deer in the headlights. I explained to the police that the bike was mine, and was stolen a few months back. The officer promptly went over, grabbed the bicycle and put it in his trunk, and then grabbed the kid and put HIM in his backseat. Back at the station, after witnessing a very angry father come looking for his kid that he was going to kill, I had the sweet sweet reunion with my little golden Rockhopper. A bike I figured had long since been stripped for parts, and the unwanted portions consigned to the depths of the Blackstone River. Oh my sweet little golden beauty. She was abused, ridden hard, had some dings - but she was a mountain bike, and she could handle it.
But the story turns sad again. This time, I put the bike down in my basement and covered her with a sheet to protect her from any prying thieving eyes. And there she sat, home to spiders, for 6 so years. In the dark corner of the basement. Until yesterday. I took her out. I want to go to the gym, two miles away. Planet Fitness, 10 dollars a month, and within my puny budget. But as sad as this is, 4 miles (2 there and 2 back) several times a week, adds up with gas. I want to go to the gym to exercise, why not also exercise going there and back, and save some money doing it. Now, Im not fooling myself. I know I won't be biking there every day, or even an occasional day any time soon. I need to build up that bicycling stamina so that its not just THE exercise, but a mode of transport to THE exercise. For now, I will be content to tool around the block a few times to get my bicycle muscles used to the idea.
So out came the old book on maintaining your mountain bike. Out came the old tire levers, the old pump and the manuals, the bike chain spray, the aerodynamic Giro bike helmet, and the bike lock. I have had the key to that lock with my other house keys for over a decade. Even though I didn't ride the bike, for close to a decade, even though I had lost all hope of finding her during the period of thievery, I couldn't take the key off my chain. There was something about that, that was too final. So the key, worn and rounded on the edges, worn to the base brass metal, remains. I put it in the lock, and turned it. It was a great feeling. I took my bike out into the light and looked it over good, the first time since it returned to me. I swept away the cobwebs, and I inflated the tires. I brought her out into the driveway, and climbed on. Theres that saying about remembering old things - "Its like riding a bicycle - you never forget". Well, I thought for sure I must be getting senile because I forgot! I was wobbling all over, couldn't even get my foot up onto a pedal without feeling I was going to keel right over. It took me several tries before I realized the problem wasn't my memory, but the bike. The IDIOT who made off with my bike had ratcheted the seat post all the way down to its base. Like some kind of strange low-rider. NOT at all set to an appropriate height. I have no idea how the kid even rode the bike like that, unless he handed it off to some 4 foot tall 8 year old or something. So when I finally figured that out, it was easy enough to reset the post with the quick release lever, and then I was riding fine. Almost... I need to check out that manual to make sure it is set just right.
So now the seat was at a reasonable height, the tires had air, and I got the gears straightened out (The chain is still full of grit and needs a good cleaning and lubricating before I do any serious riding). I rode up and down my street - about a total of 500 feet - once. I had other things to do for the day - laundry, and preparing for an interview later that evening (thats another post). So I had to put my lovely golden girl back under her sheet for the day. I put her in the garage. Under the sheet. I hope she is safe...
This was Monday. Yesterday (Tuesday), I had muscles in my legs doing their own little exotic dances - spasming and writhing, cramping and twitching - my thighs, my calves, the tendon that attaches the front of the foot to the leg. I had to laugh. It was painful, but not the kind of pain that kills. At one point, a long muscle in my inner thigh tightened up like a taught bow - I couldn't stand up straight - I was shuffling about the house, bent over like a little old lady, ouching and laughing at the same time.
It is now Wednesday morning. Those muscles are STILL sore and tight! I want to get back on that bike. I might go another 500 feet down my street.
You might be wondering - why didn't I take the bike out sooner? Well, heres why. I thought I was too fat to ride it. I thought the tires might burst, or the frame might bend! Heres a bike meant to go bombing through rocky, log strewn forest, and I was seriously worried about damaging it with my prodigious frame. I actually had to do a web search about "too fat to ride a bike"- and had a bunch of results spit back at me that the only way you can be too fat to ride a bike, is if your size makes it impossible for you to waddle over and climb onto it. I can do that, so I have no excuse. I CAN ride my golden beauty, and if anyone wants to have a laugh at the fact that I look like one of the McGuire twins tooling down the road, well, Im glad to bring some laughter into someone's life. But as long as my leg muscles aren't doing an exotic dance I have no control over, I WILL be crawling back up on that bike! And thats all I have to say about that....
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| McGuire Twins |
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