Darwinistic kinesiology

I've always admired the plasticity of the human body.

Even now as the western diet oozes its way across the globe, populations still maintain amazing physical distinctions. It reminds me of Darwin's finches, but with people: Pacific Islanders are robust, Mayans short, and the Dutch are freakishly tall. Instead of a local food source dictating the shape of a beak, social and environmental factors have affected the physical manifestations of race.

Where entire cultures have taken thousands of years to evolve, individuals can demonstrate remarkable plasticity over the course of several months. But it's not just as simple as Jared; all that fat fuck had to do was walk to the store and eat a sandwich.

Think of yourself as a library book. Fiction or non. You were written to convey a story, recount history, or to aid in repairing Volkswagens. Call it genetic typing, will of the Creator, whatever. Based on your fundamental premise, you are going to be placed in a predetermined location. Though you may be a trashy romance novel with aspirations of a sex manual, it doesn't change the fact that you are never landing in the Dewey decimal 600's.

If you were born as the Volkswagen repair guide, you are probably stuck on a narrow shelf of car repair manuals, bookending with Audi down at the other end. Sorry, but there just isn't anywhere for you to go. However, if you were born as a text on Eastern Orthodox expressions of cuisine and culture in the inner-Moldavian belt, you have leeway in your lateral expression. You may be placed in the 200's and bear the outward resemblance of a religious text, but also be able to resemble social sciences (300) or even history and geography (900).

Let's push the numbers analogy a bit, and find out which are really the most meaningful. I weigh in at a solid 210. I have weighed just around 210 since college. I bookended 195 after a camping trip and 225 after a protein-filled powerlifting kick. But for the most part, a solid 210. The number stayed the same, the difference was the particular goal.

Fine, that would put me little better that a Volkswagen manual.

But wait. I have moonlighted for that same period as musclehead, distance runner, fat stinkin' drunk, and triathlete. My weight rarely changed, but my abilities did. I recently turned a 21 minute 5k. This was just a few months away from finally benching my body weight. After my kayak camping trip I looked wicked ripped awesome, less so after training in the pool to swim a mile straight, though I was probably healthier.

The obvious parallel. At various times of my past couple years, I could be mistaken for a couple different kinds of athlete. A couch potato too. My bookends reflected much more than simply my body mass.

Within that though, there are limits. It would require an extreme effort and some shady supplements for to put up 300 pounds on the bench. A sub 20 minute 5k is also likely unobtainable. We're running into the physical limits of my frame and inherent athleticism.

So is it a blessing, or a curse, to be only marginally talented at a variety of athletic skills? I count beer pong, surfing, running, swimming, biking, looking awesome with my shirt off, and throwing stuff at other stuff as things I am Ok at, but could be better. The problem is that I've reached the endgame at each one, and don't think there is room for improvement.

I credit motivation for what I have been able to achieve. But we are no longer exactly like Darwin's finches. Pacific Islanders traveled hundreds to thousands of miles in open canoes to establish new colonies throughout micronesia. Large girth, and the accompanying fat reserves and low metabolism allowed them to survive the ordeal. So much so, that ingrained into their culture is an acceptance of robustness as a sign of good health. Combined with a lack of significant emigration or immigration, such physical traits are still intact.

The same mostly holds true for the other examples. The Dutch tend to be so freakin' tall because of biological relationships between body mass and cold weather, augmented by good diet. Mayans, those that we have records of, are thought to have been shorter as a result of famine and persecution by the Spanish conquistadors (modern Mayans immigrating to the US have grown 4" taller on average than their 'native' ancestors, based on better nutrition).

I can't help but wonder if the reverse is true today. For example, I am a hodgepodge of German, Czech, and Slovak interbreeding that found a home in America. I would really like to think that in the great melting pot, the most plastic of the offspring had the greatest chance of success, and in Darwinistic fashion went on to produce offspring with the best chance at a brighter future. Only, instead of success tied to the ability to weather famine or spear a fish, success was based on the ability to do at least marginally well at all of what was required.

Whether this was tied to the new world, or a modernizing Eurpope is inconsequential. I can't help but wonder if an immigrant farmer from an isolated Slovakian village (Eastern Europe, for the geographically crippled) marrying an industrialized and efficeint German could produce a 'supercrop' of offspring better suited to a myriad of tasks in a changing world?

Even though it is becoming less and less politically correct to tie a singualr country to a physical style, I believe the evidence is there. While a nature vs. nurture argument is not called for, genetic evidence exists for emotional and psychological traits. Why cannot these be mostly tied to a culture? The best example I can think of is soccer, with its long history and worldwide appeal. Until recently, where players have been bought, sold, and shifted internationally, there have been distinct styles based on regionism, if not nationalism.

The British style plays long clears and headers, as soggy English weather makes a short passing game untenable. The Germans are meticulous strategizers. The Brazilians use quick moves and individual 'samba on grass" to out-athlete opponents. Etc.

It may be hard for our egalitarian society to imagine, but there existed a time when cultures did mostly specific tasks, and were subject to definitive environmental factors. Selection led to different cultural groups (which often evolved into their own countries, principalities, or semi-autonomous tribal regions) taking on different physical expressions. If not for the artificiality of political boundaries enforced by happenstance superiority of a given European army, it might hold more obvious truth.

Regardless, our common Eurpean ancestors mixed (for Caucasions, anyway). Specific traits may have been softened, but offspring were better suited to face the challenges of a new world. Sure, I can't win first at any individual event, but I can camoflage to a number of necessary things. I would like to think that my failure and achievement at such sporting events owes itself to a different mix of Darwinsim, when being able to blend into the needs of a new culture ensured future success. Not just the ability to procreate, but to feed and house progeny after the fact. Such properly reared children wouldn't be bookended merely as day laborer, mason, or farmer. Instead they would have the ability to compete for any number of positions in the new world.

Plasticity, it would seem, might be an environmentally influenced response. It was first a result of circumstance, due to the result of modernization and a shrinking world. Cultures interbred on scales not really seen before. The best adept at specialization within their former niche roles lost ground to those who were able to adapt to a variety of opportunistic labor. The successful might need to draw on a variety of physical attributes, from more than a unique singular ability.

Darwin's finches evolved into specialization, driven by differing beak shapes in response the availability of foodstuffs at each isolated island in the archipelago.  Success in our modern human society has driven us instead towards generalization: the ability to gather, hunt or otherwise produce food is no longer central to advancement.  And it is here that plasticity can reap the greatest rewards.

The Connecticut Civil War

I live in an odd place.  It's an island, about 12 x 5 miles off the coast of Cape Cod.  It's called Nantucket by most, though "The People's Republic of Nantucket" might be more accurate.  

I am thinking of a better description.  I call it "New Connecticut".  Though I know at least 2 reasonable people from there, the name is not a complement.

I feel that I have a short time in which to be objective.  I am in a unique position here.  I wasn't born here so I will never be a local townie, and haven't developed a hatred of all outsiders.  I live here year-round and hang out with other locals, so I don't think they are all brain dead hicks.  And when I work, it is for all sorts of people.  After nearly a year, I think that I can identify the problem with Nantucket.

The problem is squarely with the people of Connecticut.

We all have a natural instinct to reproduce our surroundings wherever we go.  I have hung the same pictures in the same sorts of places in the last 5 places I lived.  My wife arranges each kitchen to resemble her mother's (which in turn resembles her grandmother's).

I was working a job the other day among a grouping of cottages on the East side of the island in a community called Sconset.  We were pruning a giant Norway/Sycamore maple for a client, a mostly reasonable young grandmother type from Connecticut.  She had just shown up for the season, and wanted more sun to fall on her patio without opening up a view to the municipal water tower.  Her name was Diane.

While Diane sat on the porch and called out instructions on which limbs to remove, her neighbor, Emma, pulled up in a loaded down SUV.  The tree in question straddled the property line between Emma and Diane, in the middle of a giant privet hedge.

Diane: "Welcome back, Emma."

Emma: "Good to see you, Diane."

(The women, of course, could not see each other through the giant privet hedge.  Only from our vantage point in the giant maple could Sam and I see both.  They stood, not facing each other through the hedge, but looking west along the property line at the tree, and presumably the skyline behind.  In fact, they never saw each other throughout the whole of the conversation.)  

Diane: "How was the Steamship?"

Emma: "Calm.  It was a very nice ride over.  So, are you having work done on this tree?"

(The pleasantries were quickly dispensed of, and the tone changed.  Sam sighed audibly, roped off his saw, and leaned back in his saddle with a resigned look.  I followed suit.  We obviously weren't dropping branches on anyone today, not yet anyway.)

Diane: "I'm having some of the branches on MY SIDE pruned off.  I want more light on my patio."

Emma: "You could just cut the whole thing to the ground instead..."

(Sam covered his face with his gloved hands.  I couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying.  As a veteran of the Nantucket service sector, he was obviously preparing for what came next.)

  

Diane: "I am not letting you cut the tree down!"

Emma: "It would be better for your neighbors.  You're being selfish!"

(Ah!  The plot thickens.  Or, er, clarifies.)

Diane: "No one wants to look at the water tower!"

Emma: "I think the water tower is pretty..."

(Let's be fair.  I have heard that the coatings on the steel tower change colors with the angle of the sun, and they are really cool at sunset.  It isn't as stupid as it sounds.)

Diane: "You also thought you spoke for everyone in Fairfield."

Emma: "That was different."   "How much to cut off everything on my side?"

(As usual, when faced with responsibility and decision making, I fake a Russian accent and say "Talk to boss.  Boss him." and point toward Sam.  Sam, realizing that he has a client already under contract sees an opportunity to pad his estimate.  He takes sides, saying that he can't prune any more off the tree this summer, seeing as how it would be bad for the tree and unfair to the current customer, etc.)

Diane: "You know I won't allow you to cut the tree down.  It's common property.  We've been through this, here and back home.  It always ends with..."

(As you recall, they can't see each other.  While Diane speaks this last sentence, Emma storms toward her house.  Diane stays, looking West, speaking until she hears the slam of her neighbor's door.  Diane harrumphs, disappears inside, and returns with a glass of white wine.  It is 1030.)

Diane: "OK, where were we?"

Diane and Emma live in the same community in Connecticut, possibly even abutting property owners like they are here in Nantucket.  And like the loaded down SUV, they have brought too much with them.  Psychological baggage, so to speak.

People usually vacation for a new experience, a chance to hang out somewhere cool with amenities dissimilar from those at home.  But if you are from Connecticut, you apparently are unhappy unless you can bicker with your neighbors over the visual aesthetics of your yard. 

  

Big Momma Roca (Part II)

I didn't really want to paddle back out right away.  I was inside the break and had about 15 seconds to decide: fight the surf and paddle out, or paddle around the break and back to shore.  I was tired from being panicked and underwater.  A beer would have been nice, but it was still 730 in the am and the ice probably hadn't been delivered yet.

It was surprisingly difficult to paddle out through the surf.  I took 7 waves on the chin before I got back outside the break.  Sam and Keith could turtle their boards and use momentum to pop up, still paddling.  They made it in 3 or 4.  Assholes.  I labored with odd never-used muscles in my shoulders burning.  There aren't very many gym quality exercises that mimic laying on your back and paddling.

Once back outside, I slid off my board, and used a swim kick to keep in place for the next couple sets.  Then I started missing waves.  Lots of waves.  Overcautious, I would stay out of position until I was sure not to get swallowed too deep in the maw of another NoahKiller.  When I was in the right place, I would drop back.  Eventually though, I found my balls, and started going for it again.

I caught a few.  At first I was just body-boarding them in, getting a feel for accelerating, turning, and ditching.  Then I did a couple pushups, extending my arms and lifting my shoulders and chest off the board.  I even got one one knee for a little bit.  I wiped out a few more times too, and after one short lived ride where I managed to plant both feet for a brief instant, I even got a little cocky.  I paddled downcurrent to brag to my buddies about how I was a natural.  I was outside the break paddling parallel to shore and staring straight ahead, watching the distance shorten between me and Keith.

The first time I realized I should have been looking to my right was after some emphatic pointing and a 2-word shout I couldn't make out.  I turned my head and saw what Sam had been warning me of: outside wave.

The wave wasn't a killer.  It had a nice shape, and was set up for a beautiful peel.  But it was going to fuck me up if I didn't move quickly.  The wave was stacking up and getting vertical real quick.  I paddled hard to my left and into it, trying to get around the lip.  I was double hauling now, watching the face jack up in front of me.  It was going to crest, and I wouldn't be able to get around it.  

In hindsight, I should have gone right at full paddle, and duck dived or turtled.  The first wave of an outside set is usually a little smaller than the next.  The 2nd, 3rd and 4th seem to be biggest, before dropping off again.  I would have been set up get outside and maybe even catch one.  

I duck dove.  In plenty of time.  My angle was bad though.  I had tried to get around the wave, and didn't take it straight on.  I gave the wave too much surface area of my board and body, and it spun me, ripped the board from my hands, and I was sent tumbling.  Instead of the singular Hoganesque body slam, this wave gave me the prizefighter's three-punch combo.  The initial jab stunned me briefly and rolled me off the board.  Sure, I was tumbling, but it was familiar and I had gotten into a protective ball.  Then he hit again, a left hook backed by several tons of rolling water that sent me down to the mat.  Thinking I had weathered the storm, I was caught by surprise with the final body shot, that felt like it came from below.  Panic rose again: I forced it down, wait, wait, wait, swim to the surface, breathe.

The next two waves were 6 feet of whitewash by the time they met me.  I paddled right into the teeth of wave number 2 and tried to duck dive.  Physics of buoyancy just don't add up for that much whitewater, and it sent my on another ride.  I tried turtling into wave number 3, and fared no better.  

By now I had been pushed nearly 200 yards inshore.  I was caught on the inside of the break. Waves were no longer crashing over me, but I still faced down a pile of whitewash.  I paddled hard, and turtled into wave number 4.  

My introduction and farewell to Big Momma Roca lasted all of 1.5 seconds.  It was clear that we just weren't right for each other.  As I paddled into #4, I rolled off to the left of my board.  Her first embrace was warm, and even a little tingly.  The tingle turned to burning, and I knew that this was no jellyfish.  Then, as the wave caught my board and dragged my leg over her the other direction, that bitch Momma Roca really dug in.  

In the lull before the next set, I paddled downcurrent and found an exit among the boulders.  Sam and Keith soon followed.  

I was never worried about sutures, since the cuts really weren't that deep.  Salt water and UV is a great infection fighter, and OTC antibiotics were easy to get.  I was however amazed at the shear number of cuts and that they all ran in the same direction.

This was the only picture I thought to take.  Note that I am still bleeding 5 hours after the event.

We walked over to the beer shack under a tin roof.  I took a lot of stares, but felt really tough.  I had paid some dues, and traded skin with Big Momma Roca (I would later pull some barnacle fragments out of one of the deeper cuts).

My favorite comment came later that night, from a landscaper at our hotel, "Senor, por que lucho usted el leon?" (Mister, why did you fight that lion?"

Coming up next: "Ustedes come como El Salvadoreno!"  (You eat like El Salvadorans!)

Alternate title: 

But how much ceviche can you really eat?