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I think the straw that broke it was stepping on the scale yesterday and having it show me the third in a straight string of increases, this one a  1.4-pound gain to 229.6 from the previous day. It’s certainly not the intake that’s driving that number in the wrong direction; I’ve been pretty good at keeping it to an average of 2,300 calories per day. No, it’s the output that’s keeping me stuck in this purgatory. The entire lack of it. This was not a surprise to me, just a long-overdue wakeup call.

And so after pronouncing to my wife last night that I would get up and I would go for a bike ride, mindblowingly for only the second time in two months, I did get up this morning wrestling victoriously against  the usual apathy and excuses  and got on my bike at 6:30 a.m. for a 14-mile sunrise ride up to to the Riverside Drive bridge by the 134 Freeway and back. Oh yeah, and it was pretty out there (click it for the bigger picture).

And what I’ve figured from that hour-long jaunt is that the six pounds I’ve lost over this past 50 days of calorie counting has come entirely from atrophied leg muscle. Seriously, I came off the LA River Bikeway at Fletcher, and by the time I got up the slight grade on Glendale and Silver Lake boulevards to the reservoir — a gentle incline that I used to blast across without giving it a second thought — the legs t’were a-burnin’ and the wind I was a-suckin’. Wow.

The payoff however came when I got home and stepped on the scale and said “I dare you to piss me off” and it opted  not to, instead showing me at 225.4 — a new low.

Sure, I know in this see-saw scene I’m likely to step on the device tomorrow and have it show me 228.8, but I can deal with it as long as I keep my patience and my ass in the bike saddle more than once a month.

The scale upon which I have been weighing myself these last four years (and these last 43 — and counting — days) has been an off-the-shelf, 9-volt-battery-powered digital model purchased from Rite-Aid… or maybe back then it was still Sav-on.

Wherever it was acquired I’ve never really cared whether it was ultra-accurate, just that it was within a pound or two of whatever my ever-fluctuating specific weight was at the time.

Lurking in the shadows of the spare bathroom is another digital scale that I haven’t utilized this time around, in part because in 2006 during the course of my six-month 52-pound drop from 260 to 208, on the one or two occasions I stepped on it, its measurement varied from mine by as much as five pounds… in the wrong direction — and that was not only a blow to the momentum, but also a seed of doubt planted. “What if that scale’s right and mine’s wrong?”

Sturdier dieters than me would discard the more forgiving scale and start using the less forgiving one, but I clung to the scale I’d been using, of course not without always wondering what the other one might read.

Well, about a week ago I finally manned up and ventured into the spare bathroom, where I hauled out that long-bothersome sucker for a comparison. Sure enough, my scale read 228. That scale read 231.

So I said to hell with both of ‘em and their discrepancies and went research on their varying asses. Googled up “most accurate scale” in my web browser and bless them, I found Consumer Reports had done a test to find the best one out there and the result was the Taylor No. 7506.

I told Amazon to ship me one and it arrived this morning.

Stepping to it I was ready to accept whatever it calculated my weight to be. But first I took to my go-to old scale, which read read 226, and then the possessed one in the spare bathroom, which listed me at 232. The respective bipolar bastards dared deliver a six-pound spread.

Then came the new scale’s verdict: 227.6 (its 10ths of a pound are new and a nice touch).

So while it would be nice to list 226 as my weight today, I’m sucking it up and recalibrating to 227.6. Maybe that extra 1.6 pounds is the confidence I have of it being a more realistic assessor.

Made a small but crucial leap off the 230s today. Stepped on the scale this morning and after what was only nine days but was starting to seem like forever fluctuating between 232 and 230, the scale showed that I’d fallen to 228. For those playing at home [crickets chirping] that totals to 8 pounds lost in the 22 days since I began counting calories July 6, and puts me way ahead of schedule about two pounds shy of half the way toward reaching my first-phase goal of 215 by November 1.

Certainly I might climb back up to 230 a couple times over however many days it takes me to get down the next step to 226, but the important thing is I’ve touched a new low in this downward journey.

But why exactly did I choose November 1? It’s really rather trivial. I’m scheduled to attend a tradeshow in San Antonio the first week of November, and historically such events are categorized by having to wear clothing into which I don’t quit fit. And in this case, since most of my businesswear wardrobe was triumphantly re-fitted from my 42-in waistline days weighing 260 to the 36-inch waistline I proudly attained when  I was around my slimmest ever at 208 pounds in 2006, I was facing the uncomfortable options of either buying bigger clothing, having those sport coats and slacks let out, or literally just sucking it up, squeezing my now 38-inch waist in and being physically uncomfortable and thus almost constantly disappointed throughout my visit to the big state of Texas at how far I myself had biggened since that victorious visit to the tailor four years ago — my first time ever going to tighten clothing to me rather than loosen it from me.

The choice was clear: none of the above. Or at least neither of the latter two. If I buy a new pair of slacks or jacket it’ll be because I want to, not because I have to.

After that show I go into Phase 2 and work toward 195 by March 1, with that number chosen simply because of the challenge it presents ing getting back down under 200 where I haven’t been since I was still in high school. The date was chosen because shortly thereafter Susan and I will be headed to Thailand and Cambodia for the next in our occasional series of once-in-a-lifetime vacations.

Another reason is strictly statistical: 194.7 is the border weight between “healthy” and “unhealthy” according to fitday.com’s Body Mass chart.

Now to be frank, all those impersonal graphs and indexes that tell me I’m still very much overweight at 208 and barely borderline between a healthy and unhealthy weight at 195 can suck it. My individual reality is that I begin to look somewhat emaciated at anything below 210. Grounded in that awareness I don’t expect I’ll endeavor to dwell  too long in the house of 195 because the gaunt and drawn look is almost as unappealing to me as my pudgy profile. But be it 195, 20 or 210, wherever I end up, the one thing I will do is not make the mistake being finished. Getting to the goal is as important an achievement as staying there. And putting the scale away like I did in July of 2006 when it read 208 won’t happen again. Instead regular steps up onto it will foster regulation that prohibits any creeping growth and denial that ultimately brings about future loathsome belt notch surrenders.

A week into the diet and I’m down two pounds and that’s right where I want to be. There probably are nutritionists out there who’ve spent careers studying physiologies and metabolisms and can site data to back up their claims as to the complexities of losing weight, but as I’ve said before as far as I’m concerned, at its simplest — or maybe simplistic — level, shedding or gaining pounds is the result of an unequal input/output equation.

Plus time. And that’s where the trouble comes in. People want to rush the job and so they get suckered into spending money on fads and wonder pills and miracle contraptions from an industry that feeds off our need for immediate gratification. Think about it, which website would you be more compelled by:

• www.loseapoundaweekbycountingcaloriezzzzzzzzz.com
• www.dropfivepoundstomorrowbysleepingandtakingacapsulekapow.com

We want our weight lost and we want it now!

But for me what makes the methodical long haul more digestible is knowing that basic equation (for my weight/age):

• +/- 3,500 calories = +/- 1 pound.

These last 10 pounds I added on didn’t magically appear over www.twodaysofmesnoozingandtakingsomeoverhypedpill.com. It was a slow process over the 10 weeks beginning when I started working from home in May and stopped all my bike commuting. Throughout that period I kept eating as I had been, and with the severely reduced activity level to counter it managed to overdose a cumulative 3,500 calories every week on my way to finally having to surrender a belt notch at the beginning of July (one that I should have let go in mid-June but I was in denial). Better late than 10 more pounds later, that notch was my wake-up call to begin the march in the other direction.

And so far in this first week I’ve trudged downward, accumulating an approximate per-day calorie deficit of 1,000. Multiply that by seven days and you’ve got 7,000 calories. Divide that by 3,500 and  two pounds gone. See how simple that is?

Notice I didn’t say “easy.” Yesterday in fact, was tough. I was hungry pretty much from 10 a.m. until Susan got home and made dinner, and I’m looking sideways at today hoping things are easier. The good news was I didn’t nosh on a metric ton of cashews and trail mix. Instead I tried to fill the void with pan-fried greens and sugar snap peas and baby carrots. And more sugar snap peas and more baby carrots. Then I had a 60-calorie sugar-free pudding cup. Then I had some cashews — but kept it to one measly serving.

Thankfully between that and Susan getting home my iPhone4 arrived and the new toy diverted my attention from my stomach and thus prevented me from risking a return to the nut jar and going full-on Cookie Monster on it. Whew!

I’ve had some early success with my newly undertaken diet. Stepping on the scale this morning at the beginning of Day No. 3 I was surprised to find myself suddenly four pounds lighter than the 236 I was when I started this thing on Tuesday. Hang on now, don’t worry. I’m sensible enough to be aiming for an average loss of a little more than a pound a week, and I’m well-versed enough in the process to know such a drastic fluctuation could very well “correct” itself at tomorrow’s weigh-in and I could be back where I started.

But it was still a heartening and empowering victory to see the numbers go in the right direction so quickly. And I do consider it a victory — however false or small, because I do consider a diet a war. As such, I couldn’t help but think about those retreating four pounds as an occupying enemy to whom I felt like calling out “Yeah, you’d better run. I’ve only begun to fight and you’re gonna lose!”

Ultimately and simply, it’s a numbers game for me. I don’t care about nutritionists and their books on how to lose weight. Jenny Craig and Nutrisystem might work for a lot of people, but I don’t need them. I follow the basic rule of outputting more than I input. And right now even at its most sedentary my body burns about 3,000 calories a day. So by doing nothing more than consuming an average 2,000-2,500 calories a day I am guaranteeing that I will lose.

Sure that’s the easy part. The hard part is the doing it.

Fighting — getting mad — is the trick for me. It’s like a switch that I can only flip after an interminable amount of time doing nothing but thinking about doing something. I spent the last two months feeling myself growing and even when I finally had to admit defeat and surrender a notch on my belt a couple weeks ago, I still hadn’t found the resolve to take action. But when I finally did, it was very liberating. Tremendously invigorating — this time even more than when I last went to battle in 2006, because now I remember how good it felt to break 210. How proud it made me feel.

And how I can’t wait to get back there again. Slowly and steadily.

Four years ago at this time I was in the sixth month of a simple calorie counting/cataloging program through a wonderful website at www.fitday.com, and I stood at 208 pounds — 52 lighter than what I’d weighed when I began in January 2006 (and the lightest I’d been since my late teens). For a year or so after that though I wasn’t as dedicated to counting calories, I mostly kept a firm grip on the good  eating habits I’d developed and even if that grasp might have slipped a bit now and then, I still managed to maintain myself at around 220, which is comfortable for me.

But in the past couple years, I haven’t stepped on a scale, and haven’t counted a calorie while shoveling more of them into me — relying mostly on balancing my over-eating with the 30 miles a day I’d bike commute roundtrip between work and back. And for the most part that regular exercise element did it’s job in keeping me from any rampant expansions.

Well, these last couple months I’ve been blessed to work full time from home. And cursed. Because while it’s amazing to some how easy it was for me to get on a bike when I needed to and roll up 6,000-plus miles a year, it’s even more amazing to me how easy it is not to get on a bike when you don’t need to. Many have there come mornings these last few weeks where I’ve vowed to go for an early ride. But  many are the excuses I come up with — like take this morning for example: it was drizzling and that was enough to rationalize me out of the saddle. This from a guy who used to relish biking home from work under torrential downpours. Whereas I could pretty much count on pedaling 600 or 700 miles a month, this past May and June combined have produced less than 400… all the while enjoying far too many beers and Ben & Jerry’s.

And the end result is I stepped on the scale today and it said getthehelloffme — or 236. Same thing.

Two. Thirty. Six. Damn.

Time to start climbing the right way on that ladder: down.

So while yeah… I didn’t get on the bike like I wanted today because of this morning’s monsoon my laziness, I did log on to my old Fitday.com account and tabulate every freakin’ calorie consumed so far, down to the spoonfuls of Coffee-Mate (10 calories) I put in my morning cups of joe. It’s a system that worked before and it’ll work again.

As of writing this late in the afternoon I’m at 1,954 calories for the day, with dinner still to come. My per-day goal is to keep my daily intake somewhere around the 2,000 calorie mark — a few hundred more on those coming days when I will not be able to find any excuses (no matter how hard I try) and instead go burn some cycling or walking the neighborhoods. At that rate I’ll be able to hit my first-stage target weight of 215 by my November 1 deadline — and be down to 195 in time for March of next year just in time for when Susan and I will be vacationing in Thailand and Cambodia.

Above is what’s in the first aid kit I carry in my backpack and never bike without. Overkill? Perhaps, but despite having never been a boy scout, I have this thing about wanting to be prepared — be it for me, a friend I’m riding with, or a stranger in need. Because being prepared on a bike is far better than the other way around — even if it is a far more involved process.

I don’t write much about how much work it is to ride a bike — and I’m talking about the mental aspect, not the physical.

The average person might see a cyclist on the road and lean toward a view of bike riding as some sort of laid-back, carefree activity. Don’t I wish. Certainly it’s far more laid back on a beach path, or the Ballona Creek Bikeway. But on the streets of a city such as Los Angeles it’s the distinct opposite. Urban cycling is quite the care-full enterprise, one that might look casual at a glance but if you’re going to do it right and safely bicycle in the city it really involves levels of preparation before you saddle up and a hyper-awareness that functions on a variety of layers keeping you focused and attuned to what’s going on all around you.

At any given time I’m on my bike, I’m keeping myself informed of who and what I’m sharing the road with in front, beside and behind me. While doing that I’m monitoring surface conditions in front of me for obstacles or damage or changes in the roadway. If I’m riding in the door zone, I’m literally clearing the parked vehicles I’m approaching of driver-side occupants. If there’s a wind I know which way its blowing. I can hear birds singing, people talking, horns honking, tires rolling, music playing, engines revving, brakes squeaking, helicopters helicoptering, doors slamming, dogs barking. Taking that all in I strive to make eye contact with anyone who has the potential to cross my path. I smell the burning clutch, the honeysuckle, the sewer, the exhaust, the perfume, the cooking food, the body odor, the cigarette smoke. I register the slight rises or drops in the grade of the street I’m traveling and adjust my pedaling cadence and/or strength. I govern my speed at all times to ensure not only my safety but so that I can take evasive action if required.

All the while doing my best to maintain that always delicate balance on two thin strips of tire tread.

So here’s how my hairy upper lip looked just prior to its execution on the morning of December 1:

The above moodily lighted moustache was cultivated throughout the previous month as I participated in the annual Movember movement to raise awareness of men’s health issues and funds for cancer research.

I had an easier time growing the thing than I did growing donations, and want to thank my beloved wife Susan and my fantastic friend Michael Baffico for answering my calls to contribute. All told my relatively weak collection efforts consisting of this previous post here and a couple tweets on Twitter yielded a total of $195 — $20 of which was mine. Overall efforts of my Movember team, dubbed The Hair Force and led by my coworker Chris, topped out at $1,775. Way to go, team!

It was fun watching the thing take shape, but I won’t lie: I was happy to see it go and get my upper lip back to normal. I’d done the moustache/goatee thing in the past, but never just the ‘stache, and I learned I’m just not much for it. That said, I would probably have kept the ‘stache until December 4 if it and I had been available to attend the Movember celebration party scheduled that evening at The Avalon in Hollywood, but since I’ll be enjoying Susan’s office holiday dinner instead, out came the razor Tuesday morning and down the drain all them hairsesses went.

Perhaps until next year.

At face value, the visual I am unabashedly about to force upon your eyes might seem like one thing, but it is another thing entirely.

(close to actual size)

Sure, it’s easy to look at at that incongruous mix of light and dark hairs stubbily extending out all over my upper lip and say “Ewwwww!” or “Kill It!” Or “John! Where’s Ponch?” But what on the surface is simply nine days of moustache growth, is really much more than that. It’s a call to action.

In previous years when this month has rolled around I’ve been known to participate with varying degrees of success and failure in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), but for November 2009 I’m all about NaMoGroMo: National Moustache Growing Month.

See, I was convinced prior to the end of October to join my coworker Chris Piehler and become a member of his team of moustachio’d mercenaries collectively known as The Hair Force, who together throughout this month are growing us some hirsute lips as part of Movember, a moustache growing charity event held during November each year that raises funds and awareness for men’s health and benefits the Prostate Cancer Foundation as well as the Lance Armstrong Foundation, Livestrong.

While growing my ‘mo is the fun part of the challenge, the more serious part is the raising of some cash, which is where you come in. Please find it in your heart and wallet to support my efforts and participation with a monetary donation of your choosing. Doing so will be greatly and humbly appreciated by me and will be of benefit to all in increasing awareness for men’s cancers — specifically prostate and testicular cancer.

Visit my page on the Movember website, and click the “Donate To Me” button. And whether you like them or not, stay tuned for additional in-progress ‘stach stills… or as I like to call them: mo’mentos.

After the better part of the last six days spent holed up and hawking up a whole buncha nevermind, I’m finally diving back into the saddle (yeah I can mix metaphors with the best of ‘em)  to see how much backlog I’ve gotta wade throughjust  to get caught back up to even.

Sure, what I’d really like to do is plaster my ass to the couch and play some more of the awesome “Uncharted 2″ on the PS3 in between meaningless twittering and motivated bits of finally storytelling a terrifically tall tale I’ve long let simmer, but instead I’ve gotta see if I haven’t forgotten how to ride a bike  and if anyone remembers me at the office.

Onward.