How to Live a Long, Happy Life

I intend on living a long, happy life.

It would be cool to be a great-grandparent, for instance. I’ve also got many things I want to do. Write books, learn new things, start businesses and non-profits, help my community. So many plans, so little time.

Age is not the limiting factor. Health is.

So how can I live a long and happy life? Dan Buettner, a National Geographic writer, believes he knows the answer. He founded the organization Quest Network, Inc. to conduct a study of “Blue Zones” – regions of the world where there are sizable populations that live active lives past one hundred years of age.

There are currently five known Blue Zones in the world:

• Sardina, Italy
• Okinawa, Japan
• Loma Linda, CA, USA
• Nicoya Peninsula, Costa Rica
• Icaria, Greece

Buettner and his organization studied these regions and discovered four key traits that all share, regardless of geography, culture, religion, or other factors.

1. Move Naturally
2. Right Outlook
3. Eat Wisely
4. Connect

Move Naturally

People living in Blue Zones don’t run marathons or lift heavy weights in gyms. They don’t sit in front of the TV or computers a lot either. Instead, they take a lot of walks. They climb up stairs. They hike up mountains. They even tend gardens, which require daily manual labor.

The Sardinians live on hillsides. So to get around, many walk up and down these hills all the time, even those in their eighties. Many Okinawans maintain personal gardens that they cultivate with pride. It’s not uncommon to see elders plowing and raking and pulling out weeds.

The trick is to do something active every day that you enjoy. That way, being active isn’t a chore; it is something you look forward to. And that’s why it works.

If you love doing cardio at the gym, then more power to you. Otherwise, take a walk around the block. Walk to the local grocery store instead of driving. Use the stairs instead of the elevator. Take a parking spot further away from the entrance of the mall so you have to walk a bit. Play sports with friends. Play the Nintendo Wii. Do something active everyday.

Right Outlook

Blue Zone inhabitants maintain a healthy perspective on life. They take time to slow down and relax from their hectic schedules. They use healthy outlets to vent their stress. They take problems in stride.

It’s not that they live boring, unexciting lives. Loma Linda is the home of a large medical university and medical community. Being a doctor is far from relaxing. The majority of these residents – those that regularly live long, active lives, at least – are also Seventh-day Adventists, a Christian denomination. Their religion aids in their ability to find peace with their frustrations.

Aside from mechanisms to dispel stress, Blue Zone inhabitants also deeply believe they have a purpose in life. That purpose could be as small as the Okinawan fisherman who sees his purpose is to fish so he can feed his family, or the Okinawan grandmother who knows her purpose is to care for her great-great-grandchildren. Religion also imbues a deep sense of purpose to Seventh-day Adventists.

Many don’t retire. They keep on doing what they enjoy doing, because they believe it is their purpose, their reason to get up every day.

Look for healthy outlets for your stress. Some use exercise, some take walks, and some create art to find relief. For others, it’s spirituality, religion, or their family and community.

A sense of purpose is also equally important. If you don’t have a reason to wake up every day and stay healthy, then find one. Spirituality and religion fill this hole for many. Family and community fill this for others. Still others find their purpose in their work or art. And sometimes your purpose isn’t bestowed upon you; it is something you go out and determine for yourself.

Eat Wisely

Those in Blue Zones eat healthy food in moderation. By healthy food, I mean their diets include a lot of vegetables and little processed food. Seventh-day Adventists are vegetarians. Okinawans eat lots of fresh fish. Sardinians consume homemade food. Each community has a different meal mix, though all contain a lot of vegetables and little processed food.

By moderation, I mean they don’t overeat. They don’t serve huge, American-sized portions. The Okinawans even eat from small plates as a means to minimize overeating. Others take breaks between servings. Since it takes several minutes before the feeling of satiation hits your stomach, taking a break can curb the amount you eat.

Include more vegetables in your diet. Decrease the amount of processed food and fast food from your daily intake as much as possible, or remove it altogether. You don’t need vitamin supplements as long as you eat a wide variety of vegetables, grains, and meats.

And perhaps even more importantly, reduce your portion sizes. Eat from small bowls. Take breaks between servings. You may find yourself feeling full without the usual volume you consume.

Connect

The last common aspect of all Blue Zone elders is their sense of family and community. To them, family comes first. Grandparents aren’t shut away in nursing homes. Respect increases with age, so the eldest are given the most respect.

They also feel a sense of belonging within their communities. Friendships endure throughout lifetimes. A person can count on a friend in time of need, and give selflessly when that friend is in need. You’ve got my back, I’ve got your back.

These tight bonds are formed with people of similar values as well. Everyone in a particular community shares the same core values of enjoyable activities (walks, hikes, etc), a healthy outlook (able to vent with each other, a feeling of purpose), healthy diets (natural foods in moderation), and a sense of belonging.

If you’ve been estranged from your family, consider making amends. Be the bigger person and take the first step at healing that bond. In cases where that’s totally impossible, foster the friendships you have, especially with those that share the same values. Consider being a part of a healthy tight-knit community, such as an activity group, special interest group, religious group, etc.

Is This Possible?

For some, this news is obvious to you. But for others, this may seem entirely impossible. How such a lifestyle can be followed in today’s society? I hear you. I know it’s not easy.

I don’t think it’s impossible either. It just takes some extra effort and a lot of discipline. Moving naturally and eating wisely are the easiest ones to do first, since they involve changes in behavior. The tough part is sticking to the new behavior long enough for it to become habit.

Having the right outlook and connecting to others are much tougher. The first involves changing a mental model that’s been ingrained for years. The second involves both behavioral and mental changes.

Part of having the right outlook is having healthy outlets for stress. This can include exercising, talking to trusted friends, or creating art. There are numerous self-help websites and books you can turn to for more ideas as well.

The other part of the right outlook is a sense of purpose. If you can’t find an easy answer, you are probably waiting for that purpose to come to you. Let me correct that misconception: that is not going to happen. Not everyone is lucky enough to be given their purpose. You need to go out and find your purpose. Create one. Look for something you believe in, whether it is a family member, a vocation, or a cause. As long as it allows you to follow these other traits and doesn’t harm others, embrace it as the reason you get up every morning.

Finding a community that accepts you is probably the toughest one to achieve. If you weren’t born into a tight-knit family or community, you will have to work hard to become a part of a healthy community. However, it’s worth the effort. Once you are in a good community, a sense of purpose will almost certainly come to you.

How do you find such a community? Church groups are an obvious source. Activity groups and special interest groups are another, though not all will give you an encompassing sense of community. Some people join such groups just to do the activity, then return to their own communities without further involvement in the group.

Neighborhood-based communities are also a good source. There are “gated communities” (a set of houses enclosed within gates) that try to engender such a sense of belonging, not only for goodwill, but for protection too (crime is less common in such neighborhoods).

For some, their work can also provide a viable community, though like activity and special interest groups, not all of the members may be willing to put in the same level of commitment as you. To them, it’s just a job, not a community.

I am lucky that I follow and have a lot of these traits. Hopefully I can continue to foster them throughout my long, happy life, and vice versa. For many, I had to work hard to create them. But once they’ve become engrained in my life, following them is as easy as eating and breathing.

Want to see more? You can watch Buettner’s talk at a TEDxTC conference on September 2009 about his study of Blue Zones. It’s a fascinating talk.

Now go live long and prosper. And talk a walk around the block while you’re at it.

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Are Running Shoes Bad For You?

You can blame your expensive running shoes on those foot aches, knee problems, and stress fractures. At least, that’s what a handful of articles have been reporting.

This topic naturally caught my attention. After running two half-marathons, I’ve been training for a full marathon. Unfortunately, I had to drop out because of a chronic knee injury that just won’t go away, even after some basic rehabilitation. My next step will be to see an orthopedic surgeon for further advice and perhaps an MRI. Major bummer.

It started innocently enough in an article about toes. Published in March this year, Seed Magazine’s ”The Running Man, Revisited” discusses the endurance running hypothesis: that humans evolved as long-distance runners. The size of our toes, according to a handful of scientists, has given us the ability to run long distances. Specifically: short toes. Long toes increase the amount of mechanical work required by twenty percent.

This is from an article in the Journal of Experimental Biology, ”Walking, running and the evolution of short toes in humans”. Apparently it caused a stir when it was published in February.

Then just a week ago, writer Christopher McDougall penned two articles (that I know of) about the dangers of running shoes. “The painful truth about trainers: Are running shoes a waste of money?” in Mail Online and “What Ruins Running” in the Boston Globe.

In those articles, he reports on the runners in Tarahumara, Mexico, and the fact that they run barefoot. He cited a senior researcher at Nike Sports Research Lab who examined people all around the world who run barefoot. McDougall also interviewed Dr. Daniel Lieberman, a professor of biological anthropology at Harvard University, who said, “’A lot of foot and knee injuries currently plaguing us are caused by people running with shoes that actually make our feet weak, cause us to over-pronate (ankle rotation) and give us knee problems.” McDougall’s conclusion: run barefoot.

My friends and I have naturally been reading these articles with great interest. We’ve all spent gobs on money on running shoes, after all. I have a great pair of Brooks Beasts (thanks again Eric!) that make me feel like I’m running in air. Did we all waste our money?

One runner asked her running coach about these articles. His reply:

Take some time to read [these articles] as I think the have some great points and raise valid questions, however [here] a few objective thoughts to keep in mind. Because the articles also need to be put in context before you chuck your running shoes in the garbage…

1. Our society in general, works much, much harder than in generations past, meaning that we spend more time sitting at our computers and less time sleeping/resting and doing the necessary recovery/cross-training activities that are essential for endurance athletes.
2. We’re runners so we run. The lack of strength & cross-training can leave a lot of us more susceptible to injury.
3. Our society also is very fashion/business conscious, meaning that the majority of us are wearing footwear that is very bad for the strength/health of our feet. (Dress shoes, heels, etc.)
4. At an early age, most of our parents put us into stiff shoes, which may have prohibited the muscles in our feet from developing as they should have.
5. The article discounts that the majority of people live in urban populations, and run primarily on harder surfaces (concrete/asphalt), whereas many of the runners the author focuses on were running on soft surfaces (cinder tracks, grass/dirt trails, etc). In general, runners who include a small amount of trail running into their regiment (once every few weeks is enough), tend to have fewer injuries. (However, you can’t run 100% on soft surfaces if you are training for road races.)
6. This article discounts the thousands of people who have actually benefited by improved technology in running shoes.

As with everything in life, it’s always good to have a balanced perspective, listen to both sides of an argument, and maintain a healthy dose of skepticism.

I’m sure there’s truth in those articles. I’m sure shorter toes really do help us run longer distances, just as I’m really sure shoes in general have made some kind of impact on our feet. But most of all, I’m sure glad I don’t have to chuck my expensive Brooks Beasts in the garbage.

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The San Jose Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon

My eardrums pulsated. The music was loud. Energizing. I rubbed my hands together and jogged in place. The air was spiked with a spirited chill.

“I can’t believe I’m about to put my body through this punishment again,” I thought to myself.

I shook off the doubt and looked around me. Packed elbow-to-elbow was an assortment of runners of all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. Like a box full of random toys.

“Runners, get ready!” shouted the loudspeaker. Everyone turned to face forward. “Get set!” My heart shuddered. “Gooo!”

We took off. The thunder of a thousand horses fought the booms of the bass drums. It made me forget I was doing another half marathon. For a moment, it was more like a chilly outdoor concert.

Though I already had breakfast, I popped in some power gel. Mushy and hyper-sweet, I mashed it around my mouth like peanut butter. I was aiming to beat my previous time of 2:08:45 and wanted every advantage I could get.

As the music faded, the race became more real. There was huffing and puffing all around me. Scores of runners zoomed by. I took note of some of them and wondered if I would see them on the side of the road later.

One guy soared by me. Then spat a big, juicy, wet loogie on the ground. Friggin’ guy. I had to leap to avoid it.

One girl looked like a ghost. She was as white as this background color. I almost thought she was wearing white stockings, until I realized that she was just, well, really really white.

Another guy, probably in his late forties with graying hair, zipped through the crowd pushing a baby in a stroller. Bystanders waved and cooed at the baby, who I presume waved back.

Another lady, maybe in her fifties, also surged by me. What the hell. I began to increase my pace. It’s one thing to be passed by a guy with a stroller. It’s another to be passed by grandma.

Honestly though, I totally give her props. She was extremely fit. I hope I can stay that fit throughout my life. Seeing her run by was both frustrating and inspirational.

After a few blocks of nothing but the thunderous pitter-patter of countless feet, we hit another live band. Their guitar chords vibrated my adrenal glands, filling my veins with liquid energy goodness.

I increased my stride. Fewer leg rotations, longer steps. The savings were immediate. I didn’t expend as much effort, yet was going faster. I felt more like I was gliding than running. People who previously passed me were falling behind now.

Then I saw Loogie Guy. He violently veered off the course and onto the side. His body arched forward and he started to dry heave. Yuck. I moved toward the center of the street, anticipating a wet sloppy sound to slap the street. Fortunately, it never came. Loogie Guy sure looked tired though. Maybe he was dehydrated from spitting so much.

Stroller Guy was also back in my sights. And just beyond him was the 2:00 pacer. My brain did a somersault. If I could maintain this speed, I could beat my record and even break two hours. I glided on.

While the longer stride did conserve energy, I still got exhausted. Fortunately, a drink station appeared every time I was on my few last breaths. Thank the gods of water! I sloshed liquid relief onto my face in the hopes that some of it would splash into my mouth. Luckily, enough of it did.

Each mile was clearly marked. I did the first half fairly well. Another power gel, lots of water and Cytomax, a long stride, and vigorous live music kept me on pace. My mind didn’t think I was in a chilly outdoor concert anymore though. By this time, it knew I was in a race.

The pavement punished my feet. Fortunately, I stuck an extra cushion pad in my shoes last night. Otherwise, I would have blisters the size of Texas on the balls of my feet right now. Yeeha.

My knees mentally thanked me for training on a partly dirt path. They were screaming at me right now, but were still thankful that training wasn’t always like this. And like my feet, they thanked me for that added cushion as well.

By the ninth mile, they weren’t thanking me anymore though. My feet felt like bloody stumps of flesh. I imagined my toes bursting like grapes in my socks. Nice image, huh? Just thought I’d share that with you.

But I didn’t stop. I didn’t take a break. I kept my mind focused on the 2:00 pacer in front of me. He was gaining distance, but I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I started to doubt I’d finish before two hours, but as long as I beat my previous time, I’d be happy.

Another drinking station. Another gulp of Cytomax. Another splash of water. Another live band. Another toe burst, just like glapes (insert Mr. Miyagi’s voice here).

Then a station with power gel appeared. They were under a ray of light and glowing halo. No, not really, but I did feel like they were angels from Heaven as they handed me that delicious, scrumptious, life-saving goo.

My speed was dropping. The 2:00 pacer was fading away. I tried to get back into my stride but couldn’t. Then the power gel snapped into place. I didn’t race past anyone, but regained that stride, despite protests from my feet and knees.

“Sorry,” I told my feet, “but I’m going to finish this race, even if I pass the finish line with bloody stumps.” Really, I told my feet that.

The eleventh mile was tough. I passed a high school cheerleading squad that shouted and cheered and did high kicks, but even that didn’t help. There was no way I was going to beat two miles. So I aimed to just beat 2:08:45.

A police officer on a bike was riding parallel with us. “Can I get a ride?” shouted a woman in front of me. I wondered the same thing. The cop just smiled.

Familiar heads began to surround me. I say “heads” because I couldn’t see any faces, just the backs of people’s heads. These were the people at the beginning of the race. They were the ones that sped ahead. I had caught up to them.

Perhaps it was that realization, coupled with my competitiveness—or perhaps it was the power gel and water, I don’t really know which. But something flipped a switch around mile twelve. I still knew I was going to finish with bloody stumps, but I stopped caring. I stopped thinking about my toe jam (literally) and just wanted to continue gliding.

My pace started to increase. I started to pass more familiar heads. Some were walking now. Others were jogging slowly. I straightened up my form, kept my steps long, and tried to ride a current of air forward.

Mile twelve. The finish line was getting close. I knew it. I pushed forward, pain be damned.

But dammit, every corner I turned wasn’t the finish line. Where the hell was it? I was running out of power gel and Cytomax. Just pure adrenalin powering me now. That, and two stubborn bloody stumps.

Ah! Mile thirteen! I turned one more corner and finally saw the finish line. A wall of people outlined the final stretch. It was time to use my fast-twitch muscles. I sprinted the last 0.1 miles and crossed the finish line as fast as I could.

Woo, I finished! I looked at the clock. Did I beat my previous time?

Yup. And I beat two hours too! 1:56:36 baby! I ain’t about to do the Olympics anytime soon, but at least I gave myself a new personal record. I chugged some water and rubbed my knees. Each breath of air was like fire in my seared lungs. I walked on and grabbed some much-needed food to refuel my spent body.

My second half marathon. Nice. Next up, a full 26.2 mile marathon sometime next year. Bring it on!

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The San Francisco Marathon

My nipples were hard. The early San Francisco air was icy. We had a few more hours before the sun would tickle the air and vibrate its electrons. Thus, my nipples were hard.

I ran around Mission and Steuart to warm up. Although everyone agrees that you should only stretch with warm muscles, no one knows if stretching before a run really helps or not. Lots of knowledgeable people argue it does, lots of knowledgeable people argue it doesn’t. So it probably comes down to personal preference. Me, I like to warm up and stretch first.

The loudspeaker crackled. “Wave 5 runners, get ready!” Scores of people crowded onto the Embarcedero like a seething mass of arms, legs, and bib numbers. Some bounced up and down to keep warm. Others stretched out on the fences. All looked bright and eager, even under the yellow street lights.

“Ready! Set! Gooo!” We took off. A trample of feet shook the pavement. The pitter patter of specialized running shoes, all measured for each individual’s feet, sounded like frantic rain. I took in a deep breath and felt the cold air circulate. It felt good.

A girl in hot pink was right in front of me. I centered in on her pony tail as it bobbed behind her head. She kept a good and steady pace, passing dozens of slower runners. I followed her pony tail to set my tempo. She wasn’t too fast or too slow. I knew I could keep up. So far, so good.

Then she tore through the crowd. What the? Show off. I got caught behind a pair of runners and took the opportunity to recuperate a bit. Then I darted around them and zoomed forward. I scanned my field of vision, but Ms. Pony Tail was nowhere to be seen.

A gaggle of runners came up behind me. They were carrying on a conversation like they were lounging around in a bar somewhere. “Did you hear what Mark did to Debbie?” “Why does she hang around with that loser?” “Oh my gosh, I know, right?” As fun and intellectually stimulating as that conversation was, I decided to let them pass.

Around mile three we rounded the Marina. Just beyond the morning fog stood the Golden Gate Bridge. “Wow, people are on the bridge already!” someone shouted. I looked up. Indeed, the marathon’s forerunners were already at the six mile mark. At this distance, they looked like ants crawling on a twig. But I knew they were blazing at a six-minute-mile pace. Damn.

To the sides there were spectators cheering us on. “Great job!” “Looking good!” “You can do it!” They were as inspiring as they were cheerful. A runner next to me shouted a word of thanks. The spectator waved back. The energy of the runners and spectators was exhilarating. Even the cowbells, which spectators used very liberally, were intoxicating.

Then my eye caught a flash of pink. Ms. Pony Tail had pulled over to the side and was walking. Ha! That’s what you get for sprinting so early in the race. She huffed and puffed her way to a water station and chugged a cup of Cytomax. I raced right by her with a grin.

The first hill hit us in the Presidio around the five mile mark. Dozens of people were walking. I slowed down to a brisk jog. The breezes were getting colder. Brrr. As I shivered, Ms. Pony Tail blazed by me. What the?? Did she get that energy from the Cytomax? Holy Jeebers.

The Golden Gate Bridge was in full view now. It was majestic, even shrouded in fog. It was also as cold as a penguin’s butt. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and blew into my fists. A gust of wind nearly toppled a runner in front of me. I grabbed onto my cap to keep it from sailing into the Bay.

My nose was leaking like an old faucet. So, of course, there were professional photographers all along the bridge who took professional photos of the snail trail dripping down my nose. Great.

A few runners jumped onto the side and whipped out their cameras. They sighed as they snapped the glorious mist around us. Runners from the earlier waves were passing us on the opposite side. Automobile traffic was relegated to the leftmost two lanes. Enthusiastic drivers honked their horns in support. Noise and bustle surrounded by serene gray. What an awesome course.

I slurped down some goo at the other side of the bridge. Mmm, good goo. As I rounded the corner and reentered the bridge, I heard someone call my name. I looked up. It was Eric, closing in on me. Damn, didn’t he start eight minutes behind me?

I sped up. The narrow lanes made for some congestion. Faster runners darted in and out like aggressive drivers. Slower runners held up traffic like granny drivers. I weaved a bit, but let the faster runners pass me. It was only fair.

It was cold on the bridge. Ice-biting cold. The kind of cold that shoves sharp icicles under your fingernails and slides into your skin. It was a little like getting a massage from a polar bear with frozen claws. I half expected my breath to materialize into snowflakes.

Half a mile after the bride, someone tapped my shoulder. “Hey Mike!” shouted Eric as he zoomed by me. Bastard. I picked up my pace, but was no match for him on the Lincoln Blvd hill. He was right in front of me as I crested the peak. With a hopeful grin, I blasted down the hill. But it was all for naught. He sped down the hill like he was rolling down it.

The last three miles were marred with more hills. My calves were on fire. The sides of the course were littered with people who had passed me earlier. Now they were walking up those hills. Eric wasn’t one of them, however.

Once outside of the Presidio, I spotted him a block ahead. Biting back the fire in my legs, I surged forward. The gap closed a little. Then we rounded a corner. “Wooo! Go Mike!” someone shouted. Startled, I twisted my head around. Colleen was walking with her bike. “Wooo!” she cheered. I waved and pushed forward.

Car traffic was stopped on either side of the course. Long lines of patient drivers sat there while the marathon cut through their neighborhood. One driver honked violently. “Hey buddy, what’s up?” asked a traffic cop.

“How am I supposed to get home?” shouted the driver. He inched his car forward.

“Hey, hey! What do you want to do, run over these people?” answered the cop. “You gotta wait.” Runners around me laughed, then sped past the intersection, just in case the driver decided he did want to run over us people.

I checked the mob in front of me. There was Eric! He seemed to be slowing down. I engaged in overdrive again and soared down the hill, trying desperately to block out the pain. Mind over matter, mind over matter. Then I reached him. And then I realized… it wasn’t Eric. Damn!

I gave up trying to find him and aimed my mind at finishing strong. When we entered Golden Gate Park, I knew the finish line for the half marathon was coming up. Runners who had already finished were lined up at the sides, cheering us on. “You’re almost there!” someone shouted. Thank goodness. My feet and hips were sore from pounding the pavement. What punishment for my joints. I wondered if I should ice them, or if the air was icy enough.

Then, finally, I spotted the finish line. The glorious finish line. Like Heaven, Nirvana, and Utopia all rolled into one. I tapped into my reserves and sprinted. It felt great. I burned down the last few meters at top speed.

Then I almost slammed into two slower runners. You could hear my heels skid as I applied the brakes. I almost smelled smoldering rubber. A third runner blocked me from a hasty pass. Rats, my momentum was gone.

As soon as the third runner broke free, I continued my sprint. I sped past the finish line to a chorus of cheers. Wooo! I did it! I finished the San Francisco half marathon!

I slowed to a walk and sauntered onto the grass. Right in front of me was Eric. Finally, I caught up to his ass. Whew. We picked up our medals, a windbreaker shield thingy, and congratulated each other.

I looked at my watch. 2:08:45. Not bad for my very first half marathon. Ever. And in just a couple of months, I’ll have my next one: the San Jose Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon. Yea! Bring it on!

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