Sarcopenia

The 67-year-old man walked casually into the gym carefully checking out the competition.  That day there were several high school age boys and girls, senior women who had just finished their aerobics class, and middle-aged warriors working different pieces of equipment.

I looked into the full-length wall of mirrors sizing myself up.

I decided to never look into the mirrors again.

Walking to the rack of dumbbells, I picked up two 20-pound weights. Quickly glancing around the room to see if anyone was looking, I set one back down, taking the other over to a bench and setting it on the floor. I went back for the second. There was no reason to strain my back.

Sitting down on the bench and facing the mirror, I adjusted my Bluetooth headset which was pumping 60’s/70’s easy listening music into my brain. John Denver was singing Annie’s Song, a melody which I often whistled. Seeing several of the high school kids staring in my direction reminded me that I should not whistle 50-year-old songs that only I can hear. I did get a thumbs up from one of the aerobics grannies.

Ok, remembering the last time I did arm curls in college weight training class, I pumped out 20 with 35-pound dumbbells. These are only 20 pounders.

And, one with the right, one with the left. I felt a sharp pain in my right elbow. Suck it up Mitchell! Number 2 with my right, and the second with my left although it was shaky. “We can do three. Come on brain, tell the arm to do a third.” The right arm came up slowly. It was quivering badly. “Come on you worthless noodle. All the way up!”

“You fill up my senses, like a night in a forest!”

“Cripes man, stop singing!”

The right arm made it to the apex and dove for the floor again. “Okay lefty, don’t let the right arm show you up.”

At approximately 90 degrees, parallel with the floor, no amount of encouragement or threats could get the left bicep to pull the trembling arm up any further. At the same time, my blood pressure medication gave my brain a head rush which almost caused me to blackout.

Both barbells dropped from my hands and clanked on the floor. I lay back on the bench with my eyes closed after the exhausting workout waiting for the blood to return to my brain.

“Excuse me. Sir?” I could hear a female voice trying to cut through the volume of my headphones. I opened one eye. There was one of the high school girls.

“Yes?”

“Are you done with those 20s?” she asked.

“Sure! I’m just resting after cranking out 50. I’ll take them back to the rack for you.”

“Oh, no problem, sir. I’ll take them.”

She picked them up off the floor and walked over to her gym partner who was also holding two 20-pound weights. Together they stood in front of the mirror and curled two sets of 20 reps.

“Sigh”

And this is what they call Sarcopenia. Muscle loss due to aging.

There is no way to avoid it. At age 30 you begin to lose the muscle mass you accumulated up to that point. As a matter of fact, I started losing 3-5% of my muscle mass per year and they estimate that by the time I die, I will have lost 30% of what I had at age 30. Now I know how a snowman feels on a hot day.

When a muscle has atrophied, like when you are bed ridden, the muscle strands get thinner but can be built back up later. When you age with Sarcopenia, the muscle strands disappear. This is due to a reduction in endocrine function (testosterone), physical activity, and inadequate nutrition and diet.

So, I bought a copy of Miss Penelope’s Calorie Counter and made it a point to go to the gym twice a week. Now, I weigh 220 pounds and have a bad attitude. My wife Cheryl, who has been a fitness trainer since high school, terms this as me being fat and ornery. Tomayto/ tomahto. The thing is, I’m trying.

Every Tuesday and Friday I get into my car and drive 11 miles out to a town called Lynden to work out in the gym. I hop onto a stationary bike, program it to do hill runs and I ride it for 40 minutes. This gets my average heart rate up to 124 beats per minute and burns 340 calories. I high five myself for this and get 100 points.

After the workout, I drive to the Dutch Treat Cafe where I have a mushroom burger, salad, a Pepsi, and a Raspberry White Chocolate scone. This little treat has 1044 calories. I lose my 100 points and put myself 200 points in the hole. I’ve decided not to count calories anymore.

From all the articles I have read on Sarcopenia, there is no way to stop it, but you can slow it down. . . just keep working all your muscle groups. Work them to the point of fatigue. I will never look like I did in my 20s, but at least I won’t be tripping over my skin either.

As I lay on my back enjoying the padded bench while waiting for the blood to flow back to my brain, I am alerted to the rattling of metal and the exhaled puffs of breath coming from someone working out next to me. Looking over to my right, I see one of the aerobics grannies polishing off 20 reps with 25-pound dumbbells.

“Sigh”

“Cripes!”

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