My Handstands Are Better Than Your Presidential Fitness Award!

Do you remember the Presidential Fitness Award?  It (assuming that it still exists) is a general fitness test according to one’s age and gender that the US Government encouraged all school children to strive for and reach.  For example, a 4^th grader should run the mile in so many minutes.  I think it was like 12-minutes; whatever the time, it assigned a reasonable, manageable time for a given age.  The award required you to complete certain physical feats within a given standard and check it off a list.  The series of tests included the mile, total number of sit-ups in one minute, flexibility, number of pull-ups (hands forward-facing), fat percentage pinch, and maybe another thing or two, I don’t recall.  If you reached or surpassed the standard time/number of reps for a given feat, you were all good.  If you got ‘em all, you would receive the Seal of Approval from the President.  It was pretty exciting!  The President was a pretty powerful dude.  If you got in with him, you were in.

Now I may be mixing some things up because I also recall as a 4^th grader that we didn’t have to do pull-ups, but maybe the test evolved as you aged, or the test standards and measures changed as the knowledge of sports and health science evolved.  I do recall as a middle-schooler, however, a gymnastics proficiency test that required you to pick from a list of (loosely) gymnastics-related feats to accomplish.  Anyone recall that, too?  But more on that later.

I was recently hanging out with a buddy and he told me a story about his experience with the Presidential Fitness Award.  Neither he nor I ever got it, but for completely different reasons.  He grew up a multi-sport athlete, played in Division I, and meddled with the pros.  Me, I was not that.   I was never particularly athletic or confident in my ability.  I was just “ok” enough.  (That is still the case.  I just talk a lot of BS and not back it up.)

Man, I was the most athletic kid in my grade and I couldn’t win that Presidential Fitness Award!  I could beat everyone in everything, you know?  But I couldn’t do the sit-and-reach test!  You know what I’m talkin’ about?

He proceeds to describe the flexibility test, which required you to sit on the floor with your feet together and straight in front of you, feet flush against a metal box.  I recall the one we used as being painted a drab gray color.  The box has a slight overhang above your feet and a metal tab that you pushed forward across the top of the box with your fingertips, one hand atop the other. 

Yeah!  That’s the one. 

The metal tab was on a track across the top of the box with measurements in inches along its top face.  One… two… three!  On each count you would lunge forward and push this metal tab in front of you as far as you could. 

Yeah.  Exactly.  You know what I’m talkin’ about. 

He couldn’t do it to save his life.  Funny.  I could kill that and the sit-up test, and managed the running… I think.  But I couldn’t do the pull-ups.  I could only eek out three, whereas four was the standard.  Bastard!

Anyway, this conversation spurred a topic about gym class in the fourth grade.  I remember the sit-up test and the mile, as well as the 50-yard dash.  But I also recall the aforementioned test that involved gymnastics.  I think that was a separate, unrelated standard from the Presidential Fitness Test.

Any upper-body strength was pretty limited for me, especially in 4^th grade.  As mentioned, there was this list of feats that were gymnastics related.  One of those items involved a long metal pole that hung from the rafters of the gymnasium ceiling.  It was essentially a fireman’s pole that you would scoot yourself up until you touched a black line high above the floor.  I was lame.  I didn’t even try.  I had allowed myself to accept that I couldn’t do it.  Therefore I could not. 

But I knew I could hold my ass on the pole for 30-seconds, so I did that instead.  It was, after all, an option on the piece of paper that gave you credit for doing at least that!

To my surprise, I was the only boy who did that.  There were some other boys who didn’t attempt the climb.  Instead, they just opted out.  Several girls deferred as well.  I didn’t care.  I figured just holding on was better than not trying.  As I held on for the 30-seconds, I could hear snickers from other boys who already climbed to the black tape above.  Fuck ‘em.  My ass is holding on for 30-seconds.  Aaaand, done!  Whew!  30-seconds…

Next was the handstand test.  Same thing.  Most boys, as I recall, attempted it and some fell forward into a somersault.  But they tried and tried again until they held the handstand for 3-seconds or whatnot. 

Me?  No, thank you.  Oh, no, no.  I’m not opting out.  I will do a headstand instead. 

That requirement was to hold it for 10-seconds or something.  I would fall forward from my headstand but I too tried and tried again until the exasperated gym teacher would give me credit out of pity.  Again, snickers from the peanut gallery. 

Shut up, you A-holes!  Hey, at least I tried!  You guys are jerks! 

As I recalled these moments that might cause me trauma in my less malleable mind today, I thought of my gym teacher in grade school.  He was not unkind, but rather quiet and reserved, and not particularly fit.  He wasn’t terribly out of shape, but he did not strike me as someone athletic nor particularly interested in physical health.  He always wore matching velvet-looking athletic jacket and pants.  I can still see him wearing an ugly brown one whose cloth seemed to have a soft sheen against the light.  Silly looking, but it worked.  The sport stripes down the sides of the arms and legs gave him authenticity as our gym teacher. 

Perhaps he once was athletic but he most certainly did not impart much teaching or coaching to his students, sans one or two specific kids whom he deemed “talented”.  I now see that he was simply coasting as a middle-school gym teacher.  He would essentially babysit us for the bell period and have us do our own thing as long as it was somehow related to a given sport or physical activity, which required minimal intervention from him.  Basketball: everyone grab a basketball and shoot it.  Gymnastics: everyone take turns on the rings.  Track: run as fast as you can for 50-yards; I’ll time ya.  Then, if someone got out of line in one way or another during our respective activities he’d tweet his whistle loudly and play temporary referee.  Then it was back to standing back and supervising for the next 40-minutes or so, until we broke to change back to our school clothes in the locker rooms.  

In retrospect, I do wish my gym teacher took more interest in teaching the basics of something to each student, for he was the keeper of the gymnasium after all.  He, however, did not.  His passion had burned off long ago.  Maybe that’s not an entirely fair assessment, but I don’t recall any encouragement or instructions from him worthy of being taught something.  He certainly didn’t inspire me to want to work on my physical abilities.

I did a handstand today for the first time in years.  I don’t know how many I did, but it is definitely the first time I did several handstands against a wall since I was in 4^th grade, no doubt.  It was exciting because it was something new to work on, and it forces me to use my lower back in ways that I generally don’t.  I’m still scared to do it without the support of the wall, but hopefully I can learn to balance myself over time.  I’ve always been amazed at how some athletes and yoga practitioners can slowly bring themselves up into a handstand in controlled movements.  I must say, my goal is not that, but rather, to kick those fourth graders’ asses in the handstand within a few months.  Maybe not.  But it is fun.

I am curious about the Presidential Fitness Award.  Does it still exist?  I wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t, based on the low levels of fitness for the general population as well as children who are in poor health and shape.  Furthermore, the backlash against various health initiatives such as the Lets Move Campaign or movements to limit the amount of junk food at schools inevitably produces complaints that the government is overreaching its power, taking away the right of personal choice.  But truly, what is the government to do?  Medicine is advanced enough to sustain life well beyond what an unassisted human body could endure.  Thus those individuals in poor health who have preventable conditions can be kept alive despite their near-fatal circumstances.  Unfortunately, it is often at the cost of one’s quality of living, not to mention the financial costs to the patient, his or her family, and to the taxpayers.  (C’mon health insurance.  A little help here?)

I must say, I do think it would behoove this nation to embrace the Presidential Fitness Award and make people of all ages eligible, not just school-aged children.  This could be done via the internet.  It would be on the honor system and you would enter your results online.  If you succeed in all of the feats based on your age and gender, you can print out your certificate with an “auto-signed” John Hancock of the President.  Why not?  Now that, my friends, is an award worth working toward.  So I raise my glass (it’s red wine and they say it’s healthy):  To us!  To our health!  Hear hear!  And you saw it here first, folks.  If the government doesn’t already have a site like that, I would like to copyright the idea and sell it for a cool, reasonable $2 million.  I am willing to negotiate on that price...

The Amusement Park

                I went to an amusement park this weekend.  Let me tell you, it was badass.  This was some plain-old, kick your ass Thrills Central.  The roller coasters were sweet: surprisingly smooth, ridiculously tall, and thrillingly death-defying.  That’s some dangerous shit.  You just gotta succumb to trusting that you’ve got no control in this shit.  If the engineers fucked up or the maintenance was shoddy, and worst of all, if management sucked, that’s it.  Too bad.  Shit could get real-ugly-real-quick.  These things go so superfast and through ridiculous shit, it’s putting pure trust into the predictability of the world as we know it: reliable for the most part, guaranteed to fail. 

                A big-ass magnet pulled our train of two-by-four seaters up a steep hill as we fell back into the seat astronaut-like, staring straight up into the blue sky.  That thing pulled us up that hill no problem!  Ridiculous.  The fall in front, pretty much straight fucking down.  Cool.  Bring that shit.

                This hill really is almost straight down.  These new generation “coasters” push technology to the limits of acceptable safety, giving thrills of death in a controlled manner.  That’s what makes them fun.  We love thrills ‘cause it reminds us of death.  That’s life…

                If I could, it would be fun to describe how scared I was.  I wasn’t.  This was pure fun.  I knew I wasn’t gonna die, but really, that’s some guaranteed death if something goes wrong.  Shit.

Wanna hear scary?  Driving a car is scary.  Roller coaster?  Damn.  That’s fun.  Fun because it’s so much more controlled and regulated.  Driving on a highway with cars has so many more variables, it’s much more scary.  Dying out there is considerably more likely than on a roller coaster, unless you’re stupid and get thrown out of your seat, like I once pushed the limits of as a teen by keeping the restraints loose and shit.  A buddy hauled me back into our cart… absurd, but true.

                So the roller coasters were sweet.  I was nervous at first.  Really.  I wasn’t sure how I might react to coasters because it had been so long.  We got to the park to raid the best rides as soon as they opened.  In line on the first ride, I turn behind me to chat with a couple behind me wearing glasses. It was the part of the line where you split off from the constraints of the queue and enter the relative openness of getting to choose what part of the ride you want to get on: front, middle, or back.  They were at least in their 50s.  I asked them about their glasses and whether they feared losing them.  They were like, “Oh no.  They’re (the coasters) so smooth.  It’s no problem!”  That’s all I needed to hear.  I never saw anyone else come close in age to them the rest of the day standing in line to ride roller coasters but I was glad to see them.  That was cool as hell.  They were badass.  And did I tell you?  The coasters were sweet. 

                Amusement parks aren’t strictly rides, though.  Let us not forget the games of chance.  Three balls for $5.  Get the ball into the basket and get a stuffed animal.  Get a second one in and get a bigger one.  Get the third in and get both. 

                My favorite one though was a rope ladder.  It was like a pirate ship ladder, rope on either side, connected with wooden pegs for climbing.  This thing was on a free-turning swivel on both ends, which allowed the entire ladder to twist and pitch and yaw freely.  It was hung in a mostly flat, horizontal level, the object being to climb to the third rung from the top, painted red, and to put both feet upon it.  Then, you had to reach up and hit a red button in front of you.  Ding ding!  If you lost your balance, you fell over the side onto a huge air mattress.  If you succeeded to hit the button, you won an outrageous, big-ass six-foot tall frog.  It’ll only cost you $2 a try, motherfucker.  Step right up.

                It was easy enough for the first three rungs, but as you progressed toward the red rung, the angle steepens considerably.  Never mind that there’s only like eight to ten total rungs.  Getting to the Holy Grail red peg with your feet, let alone your hands was tough!  This is deceivingly difficult, but worth taking a chance at $2 a try.

                How’d everybody do?  Not a chance!  One by one, each of us got bucked by this thing.  Nope!  You?  Nope!  Try again?  Fuck!  That kid got in the way.  Sweeeet.  Yeah, I’ll go again.  Fuck!  Impossible, but doable, damn it!

                Everyone was dumbfounded trying to figure out how to beat that shit while standing in line for the next ride, a wooden teeth rattler.  This shit was not smooth.  This shit was scary.  Lots more could go wrong with a wooden coaster: an old wooden coaster at that.  It bounced you up and down for real.  You got off this motherfucker with your teeth ground down and a headache to boot.

                But wait, there’s more!  There’s the hammer where you hit the target and it hits a bell.  Ding!  You got it to the very top.  You win something.  Even better was the booth next door.  This carnival would be incomplete without the “guess my age or weight” booth.  The guesser employee stands in front with a microphone incessantly greeting the park visitors until some sap goes up to be like, “yeah, I’ll give you $5 to guess my age/weight.” 

                This was thrilling!  I don’t want to be sounding mean just to be rude, but this heavy broad wearing a light-blue strapless tube top looking all grim as she paid up to have this poor 20-year old chick guess her weight was, shall we say, large.  If anything, she looked rather angry, giving the guesser an intimidating stare, as though she were Ray Lewis letting his opponent know his ass was gonna be tackled... hard!

                Drum roll please…  What was chica gonna guess? I was thinking like, “Oh, damn, bitch.  No you didn’t put her into this predicament."  If she guesses too heavy, she might offend.  If she guesses too low, she’s giving you free shit.  Poor girl.  It was a lose-lose situation for the employee.

                “Uhmmm.  Let’s see here.  Hmmm,” says she.  Then she says it.  “Uhh, 142?”  Immediately, I was like, “No fucking way!”  Perhaps double that, and maybe we'd have a game here.  I already knew she was more than no stinkin’ 142.  I didn’t even wait to see how much she really weighed.  I couldn't believe it.  That must be the worst fucking job in the park.  Or the best.  If you didn’t give a fuck, you could be honest and call them out for steppin' right up.

I think guessing someone’s age can be  just as tough.  You put someone on there that looks old, you might guess too high and they get pissed off.  Maybe there’s an unspoken rule that you guess “nicely” to keep the guests happy.  I couldn’t do it.  I’d feel like a fraud.  I’d get fired.  I mean, can you imagine if you needed to feel better about your age or weight and you go to the amusement park for some validation, only to have some jerk be like, “You look like hell.  I’m gonna guess you’re 59-years old.  Oh?  36?  Let me see some ID!  I’ll be damned!  We have a winner!  Here’s this little Snoopy doll!  Next!” 

                The amusement park lived up to its promise, though.  It was amusing as hell.  It also helped me figure out what I’ll do in retirement: I’m gonna build me one of those rope ladders in the backyard and practice so I can master it by the time I retire.  Then, I’m gonna get a season pass and win those six-foot tall frogs for $2 at least three times per day and give them away to random strangers.  I’ll look like some badass ninja running up that ladder.  Then, I’ll pop a squat in front of the “Guess my age/weight” booth and heckle those guests who put the guesser in a bad spot, and heckle the guesser if he/she guesses too nicely.  I’m gonna be the number one fan at this sporting event with laypeople in lieu of athletes.  It’s entertainment.  It’s the American Way.  It’s badass… literally.