Douglas Schorr

Though the carnivore lifestyle gives Ferrari-level energy, it’s still your old chassis.

“Uncle, you’ve done your bum,” he shrieked when I grabbed tight at the back of my leg.

8 seconds it took me to become a cautionary tale of energy abuse. Carnivore living supercharged my trillions of mitochondria to once again run at full capacity. But in swapping the software of a runabout for the Ferrari of my youth, I ignored the small print: hardware upgrades not included.

A stock routine is my modified fartlek training—walking casually and then erupting into short, glorious sprints that whistle my hair and leave me breathless but exhilarated. I was barely a kilometer in when Master Pint-Sized, “I’m 11,” appeared at my side. “Looks like fun. Can I run along?”

“Sure,” and with a giggle I took off like a greyhound, leaving him standing. Victory was… wasn’t. Ten meters short of my arbitrary finish line, he thundered past, the books in his backpack bouncing wildly.

“Well done, uncle!” he graciously cheered. Slightly bent at the waist but committed to my “never stop” discipline (well, not entirely), I shuffled on, chest heaving but pride intact. Then came his innocent blow: “You’d match my dad!”

Fatal reaction: I tried again, at the brute’s pace.

The moment I accelerated, I felt I heard it—have you developed the ominous ‘knowing’ of hardware failure? I couldn’t sit, so standing at the breakfast counter my 1997 Body Book in colour confirmed my semitendinosus muscle had filed for leave.

Six weeks of cruel mandatory rest followed. With skyscraper-high energy I turned to other pursuits: Speakers’ Club, chess and other games with anonymous many, podcast-accompanied jigsaw puzzling, much more reading, and writing. Recovery meant relearning humility. It all involved a lot of sitting, not good for the semitendinosus or any of 76 years of back damage. 

More discipline: three weeks of maddeningly gentle walking. Choose routes with things to see but please, not shopping malls or the council’s concrete ‘walking paths.’ Rolls-Royce copied the suspension system our bodies come equipped with. It requires natural variations to function properly. Subjecting this sophisticated system to ‘no-change walking’ is incredibly damaging. Oddly, though I was doing so little physically, my weight stayed the same and size-wise, I shrank a bit.

I rediscovered stretching routines I’d abandoned decades ago, figuring that after 70+ years of movement, my body should know the drill by now. Wrong. Fifteen minutes of deliberate limbering each morning transformed my recovery. It was also the opportunity to dispel the myth that oldies battle getting up from the floor unassisted.

After three months, I conquered all 21 stories of my building, taking two steps at a time with one daring three-step bound per flight—no railing needed! Still no sprinting, but I did go gyming.

My triumph lasted until the squat machine. Something felt off. I knew because I have an unusual early warning system. 30 years ago, a spine injury damaged the nerves that feed my lower left leg. Any back strain immediately telegraphs distress-my body’s check engine light. It flashed. I wisely packed up.

Halfway home, thinking, “It was the deadlift,” I absentmindedly stepped off the curb without checking. Dang! In middle age it’s not enough to assess just speed and distance, you must also evaluate your ‘today’s condition.’ When the car horn shocked me into a panicked sprint, the added drag of a foot under a warning light had my leg-butt screaming in protest. I made it, only to face the stormwater drain on the other side. I’ve jumped it numerous times, but not this way! I launched awkwardly, clipped my head on a branch, and landed heavily. My legs held, but my lower back wasn’t happy.

Two months later, I’ve found a new equilibrium. I’m back to limited step work plus corridor sprints and isometrics in between, and repeat. At the first siren from my leg, I take the elevator without argument. Hey, I’m still ahead and happy. Just 10 years ago, in my sugar days—before Professor Lustig, the leg was so bad sometimes it’d refuse to obey ‘step along’ commands, and the pain through the night was “more painkillers please.” So, in case I’ve painted a raw picture, it is far from that.

But I’m catching myself in moments of hesitation now. That concrete bench I once used for box jumps? I find myself scanning for lower alternatives. Those long three-step leaps? I “accidentally” let one foot drag across the middle step. My solo jungle walks have ceased—you know, at 76 it is silly, eh?

Everything else is going well. My BP is great without pills, my skin is better than ever, there’s not a hint of stomach bleeds, and where I was taking my lung pump with me ‘in case,’ now I don’t know where I’ve left it. And wow, my hairdresser reports my once snow-white hair has mysteriously darkened to what she diplomatically calls “dirty white!” My “irreversible” macular degeneration continues improving. I can now accurately reach for my desk globe, spin it, and identify Africa, Eurasia and South America with my good eye closed. On Monday I went on a butter-buy walk (3.3km) to a shop I’ve never been to before. It involved a weave through a semi-industrial area, crossing a highway, and, oh man, I am so proud, until I arrived at the shop-lot block, I only used Google Maps once to confirm my position. How’s that for mental clarity regained!

But I have hardware issues. The lesson is this: there’s a dangerous period where your regained Ferrari outruns your driving skills. Make sure you look both ways before schoolchildren make friends with you.

Postscript: For all my bravado, I sadly record this morning I only managed 12 flights of steps up, 4 sets of isometrics, and 6 sprints before my left foot said, “Let’s see if the Dr. Bright-Dr. Chaffee discussion is on TV.”