Tag Archives: inspiration

Growing up in Honolulu I knew a girl.  Her name was Sasha.  She was a few years older than I was.  I was two.

I knew Sasha through my Uncle Ray.  One day, we were in a room of a hotel that my Uncle was employed at.  I don’t have a clear recollection of why we were there.  Perhaps he was babysitting us, or maybe we went to visit him, anyone’s guess will be as good as mine.

Sasha and I were comfortably sitting on the soft feathery carpet, avoiding eye contact for most of the duration of our stay.  Meanwhile, Uncle Ray drenched himself into the single seat couch, looking out the window and staring into the dark eyes of Diamonhead Crater.  I sat there criss cross applesauce style and still as a photograph, not uttering a single word to Sasha or my Uncle.  She, on the other hand, was seven notches more active than I was.  Sasha drowned herself into the television set presenting some program I had no interest in. Every commercial break or so, she’d turn around and indulge herself into the one detail of this memory I remember the most – mini sugar powdered donuts.  She didn’t share with me.  What a bitch.

So I continued to just sit there, ogling at her crumby plump rings of sweet pastries. Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with the carpet like it was my mom’s hair.  My attention began to move frantically from Sasha, the television set, my Uncle Ray, my fingers, and to the coveted donuts.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry fat, isolated little island boy would do.

With my quick-like-a-cat greedy little hands, I pounced on one of her delicious donuts while she wasn’t looking and shoved it into my mouth.  Sasha didn’t catch me in the act.  She did, unfortunately, realize that her once family of four donuts were down to three.  She also couldn’t help but notice my peculiar white, powdery lips and my cheeks bulging at maximum capacity.

Fast forward nineteen years.  I’m living the Bay Area in California. At the time I had a girlfriend.  I was twenty-one.

We’re drying two baskets of clothes at a laundromat we frequented.  Being the big, bulky guy that I am, I get pretty hungry while staring at the colors and the whites go round and round.  Lucky there’s some neighboring food places – a Mexican restaurant, a liquor store, a 7-Eleven, and a donut shop.

I chose the donut shop.  I treated myself to an apple fritter and decided to get an old fashioned chocolate doughnut for her.  I devoured my pastry in two seconds while she gracefully and neatly picked at hers, breaking off small portions seemingly every five minutes.

So I continued to just sit there, on top of the counter ogling at her crumby rugged ring of chocolate covered pastry.  Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with my Dr. Pepper cap.  My attention began to move frantically from my girlfriend, the clockwise spinning dryers, my cap, and to the coveted donut.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry, fat grown up living in the Mainland would do.
I asked her if I could have a bite.  And without hesitation she said, “Go ahead!”  I gently broke me off a piece, popped it in my mouth, and life was good.  I finally earned redemption for stealing a donut nearly two decades prior.

Fast forward thirteen years.  Dare to D.R.E.A.M.; donuts rule everything around me.  And this shirt is available for purchase here:

https://www.IRUNSF.com/onlinestore

Oh, and I’m sorry Sasha.  Wherever you are.

— – —-

Originally written in 2005.  D.R.E.A.M. segment was added for the ’19.

Dream

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Stupid

“You know, you have to be a little stupid.”

It may not sound like much, but let me tell you the who-what-when-where-why of one of the most compelling, impactful, and important things anyone has ever said to me.

INT. GYM/WEIGHT ROOM – AFTERNOON

We’re somewhere in 2008 of the timeline.  I’m at the gym working out with my two good friends Joe and Chris. They’re a lot bigger than me, and to give you a visual of that, picture the standard icon of the strength of your signal on your cell phone.  There’s five bars, and if I’m the middle bar, Joe and Chris are labeled to the right respectively, aptly giving you the best possible signal on your phone for crystal clear conversation.

Many times I wondered why they let me train with them.  Maybe because I made them laugh – not because I told jokes so good that they could be exchanged for pure gold, or wit so sharp it made you say cheddar, no.  They laughed because I couldn’t lift weights for beans, and understandably so, that holds a lot of entertainment value.  Fair enough; I laughed at myself, too.

We’re doing burnout sets, which means we’re flirting with death until we decide it’s okay to come back to life.  More technically, we’re doing one exercise – repeatedly – toward the brink of utter exhaustion at the end of a series of exercises that were performed in a more standard x reps for y sets.  You can imagine it’s only fun if you’re crazy.

Or in this case – stupid.  But, in a good way.  Let me explain.

For the burnout set we’re doing push ups – a classic exercise with the right amount sadism.  Naturally, I burn out first.  I can’t even tell you how many I did (couldn’t have been much), but I can tell you how hard my body flopped to the floor at the end of it.  Have you ever seen someone try to run through a glass door they didn’t see was there?

Harder than that.

Chris, the tallest bar of the cell phone signal icon, actually burns out second.  That leaves Joe as the iron man of the burnout set, and my jaw drops watching him keep at it.  One after another, he pushes himself up, and descends down, then back up, and repeat.  I didn’t lose count, because I wasn’t trying to keep one.  At this point, I was awed and inspired.  Chris, drenched and dripping with his own sweat, turns to me and says these words I’ll never forget, and words I have and will continue to live by:

“You know, you have to be a little stupid, you know?  You have to be stupid to just keep going.  That’s all pain right there, why wouldn’t you just stop, you know what I’m sayin’?  Like, stupid to the point that you can’t even register what pain is.”

Joe is still going – one push up after another.  Grunting, muttering expletives under his heaving breaths.  Just when I think he’s going to burn out, he pushes right back up.  His determination was so heavy it felt like you could gather chunks of it from the air, pack it up in tupperware and save it as a post-workout snack for later.  Joe finally burned out his set, but even after a gutsy display of tenacity I still thought he could have easily kept on going.  I was convinced he felt more tiresome of Chris and I staring at him with jealous eyes.

While it seemed like an insult (albeit a playful one) at first, there is something powerful to be grasped from Chris’s genuinely honest observation about Joe – what we all understand as an innate human reaction of instantly pulling your hand away once you touch a hot stove was something Joe seemingly didn’t have.  In this case I took this not as a lack of intelligence, but rather a strong indication of mental toughness.  Only in the specific manner in which Chris diagramed his view of Joe did I conceive strength in a completely different light:

“Stupid” people won’t know how to quit, even when they’re burnt halfway to hell.
“Stupid” people take on challenges that are already labeled as impossible.
“Stupid” people go toe to toe with adversaries that will beat them to a pulp, and “stupid” people will find a way to get back up.
“Stupid” people avoid using excuses, especially the most valid ones.
“Stupid” people find ways to be vulnerable, in order to stay humble.

Joe is pretty stupid, in fact one of the most stupid guys I’ve ever met.  Chris is no different, and I’m lucky to have met and befriended several other people that can be just as stupid.  I want to be the same, if not even stupider.  In fact, I try to be the most absolutely stupidest person in any given room I walk into.  I want people to say about me, “That guy?  Michael Arce?  That’s one stupid motherf—-r, man.  So stupid he *willingly solves math problems when he’s completely inebriated with alcohol.”

So, Joe and Chris used to call me Mikelovin’.  There’s absolutely no point to me mentioning this at all, I just wanted to say it because I’m still the shorter end of this cell phone signal metaphor, I have zero appeal going for me so far, and we’re already at the end of this story.  I needed appreciate the ego boost.  I’m the one writing it, and I can do so.  Do somethin’.

I’m with stupid.

*true story

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Unsweetened

I’ve recently taken some time to take a step back to view my year to date and I’ve convinced myself that the biggest change in my life is that, I have diabetes.

If you’re close to me, and had no idea about this news, let me alleviate some of that shock in the aforementioned statement – more accurately, I have willingly inherited type 2 diabetes.  Here’s what I mean by that –

In mid February of this year, a good friend of mine, RQ, admitted to me that he has been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.  I’m versed enough to understand that it’s more than eliminating soda pop from your diet.  Here’s what I got –

When we eat our bodies break down foods and turn them into glucose and other nutrients used to fuel bodily functions.  After a meal, our levels of glucose rise, which then triggers the pancreas to produce insulin (a hormone) which unlocks the doors for glucose to be released from the blood.

When someone has diabetes, either their body can’t produce insulin, or the body doesn’t properly respond to insulin.  This is a problem, because insulin is what allows glucose into the cells.  If glucose can’t get into the cells, that means glucose stays in the bloodstream, causing abnormally high sugar levels.  High sugar levels can lead to even more health problems; the snowball effect is not a desirable one here.

Let’s look at that differently with slight shift of the eye, layman’s terms on another level, if you will.  We’ll remix the following:

Glucose is now Joy.

Pancreas is the Landlord.

Insulin is named Keys.

Blood will be called Prison.

And cells will be me, you, your mama, and your cousin, too.

When we eat our bodies break down foods and turn them into Joy.  After a meal, our levels of Joy rise, which then triggers the Landlord to produce keys which unlocks the doors for Joy to be released from Prison.

When someone has diabetes, either their body can’t produce keys, or the body doesn’t properly respond to keys (like a wrong key unable to unlock a door).  This is a problem, because keys allow Joy into me, you, your mama, and your cousin, too.  If Joy can’t get into me, you, your mama, and your cousin too, this means Joy stays in Prison, causing a lot of unhappiness all around.  And a lot of unhappiness leads to me, you, your mama, and your cousin to have a laundry list of other health problems.

Are we good on understanding diabetes?  This is where you nod.

At the time I accepted this news with empathy and carefulness.  I’m not a doctor, and while I may have some idea on how to help, I hadn’t a clue where to start.  This is all I knew – that RQ was told to take insulin shots, eat less of the bad stuff and more of the right stuff, and to increase his physical activity.  Emphasis on increase physical activity.

For the first two thirds of my life, I lived a very unhealthy life.  I ate all the bad stuff too often in a day.  I was beyond obese, and if I continued this path I would have died a very young man.  From my own experience I understand firsthand how intimidating it is to make that first step into fitness – not just a gym – fitness.  Whether it’s on a treadmill next to people faster than you or even at home in the privacy of your living room, fitness is absolutely terrifying and judgmental, and it will tear you in pieces until you reach some level of comfort under your own skin.

In the same conversation RQ broke his diagnosis to me, he also shared that he’s already been doing something about it – taking a group class at a nearby studio where he works.  At the time he’s three-four weeks into this class.  I fully grasped how much courage that took, needless to say I couldn’t have been more proud of the guy.  But I knew he needed, he wanted more.  While one workout a week is a start, the solution to this needs more horsepower.

For work, this is what I do, again layman’s terms – I look at a lot of data and oversee software configurations for my company.  My company manages health and fitness centers for other companies and community centers that have their own gym within their work campus.  In other words – in regards to RQ – I can get him any gym membership he wants.  Contrary to popular belief, I’m not one to initially push people in gyms.  What I’ve learned throughout the years is that, if anyone is going to stick around in a gym for longer than the first three weeks of January, they’re going to need to push themselves in first (as a business, the trick is to keep them from leaving, but that’s another story).

And that’s exactly what RQ did – he pushed himself in an awesome studio (The Corner Studio) in San Francisco’s Potrero Hill neighborhood.  He’s gotten his feet wet, now it’s time for the deep end, and this is where I was able to give it another nudge – I told him exactly what I said earlier, “you pick whatever gym you want, and I’ll get you in there.”

“But I don’t know how to use the machines, I wouldn’t know what to do,” he replied.

“Then I’ll work out with you.  I’ll take that studio class with you, too.”

“That class is too easy for you.  Don’t you work out hard?  I can’t do your workouts.”

“We’ll modify.  Every work out is hard, don’t ever believe otherwise.  If you’re willing to put in an hour into something that a large majority won’t do, then it’s never going to be easy.  We’ll get this done.”

Since then, RQ has gradually increased his workout count anywhere between 2-6 days a week, and anyone is putting in that amount of work, results are expected.  This is the fun part.  Here’s what happened since –

When one is diabetic, their blood sugar level is 7.5+.

In February 2017, RQ’s blood sugar level was 10.3.

Three months after training, RQ’s blood sugar level dropped down to 8.0.

Five months after training, his blood sugar level dropped again to 7.8.

Seven months after training, his blood sugar level dropped again to 7.1.

Blood sugar levels between 4.0 – 6.5 are considered normal.

To reiterate – I’m not a doctor.  But I think I can confidently tell you that those trends are pretty fucking good.  Most mornings I would receive a text from RQ, a photo of his daily glucose readings measured in mg/DL, and when using this method of measurement 70-130 is considered good.  RQ began to hit between those marks pretty much every day.  I accepted this as my own levels without question nor hesitation – his levels were my levels, his training is my training, his diet is my diet, and all the good and the bad and everything in between was mine too.  This what I allowed myself to train for.  No longer chasing PRs on lifts.  No longer the focus on the amount of miles logged in or the minutes per each mile.  No longer chasing 200+ revolutions on a jump rope in a minute.  No longer driving down that needle on the weight scale.

I’m hell bent on getting to that 6.5 blood sugar level.

His texts then follow up with words of appreciation for the training, things like and not limited to “your methods/strategies are working, you deserve great moments, any ex-girlfriend of yours should have never left you,” and this one being the most used, “may good karma reward you back.”

Karma.  Hmm.

First of all, no ex-girlfriend of mine can have me back.  Secondly, yes I do believe in karma, don’t let that hmm throw you off.  It’s like the hippie cousin of Newton’s 3rd Law that says for every action there is a reaction, yeah?  Newton was pretty good at science.  Newton was a good guy.

And that’s the key to good karma isn’t it?  It’s returned to good people.  And I’ll be the first to tell you I am far from a good man.  But for some strange reason I’ve been lucked with knowing some real great people.  RQ is one of them, one of the greatest guys I’ve ever met.  And another great guy I knew was our friend AJ.

RQ, AJ, and I hung out in our college days.  We were good friends, enjoyed a lot of good times and laughs.  From the early 2010’s and on, AJ was a severely dedicated marathoner and triathlete, fighting for his own young daughter who was battling cancer.  He co-founded the organization Team Cancer Sucks that helps raise funds for cancer patients.   In the worst of ironies, he was diagnosed with his own cancer, the very damn thing he was fighting against for his daughter.  She won that battle, she is alive, healthy and well.  But AJ is no longer with us after losing his life to cancer in 2015.  AJ was a damn great man.

AJ had cancer.  RQ has diabetes.  I have… nothing.  I shouldn’t be without health conditions.  Karma, life, whatever is responsible here is 0/3 – AJ didn’t deserve cancer.  RQ doesn’t deserve diabetes.  And I don’t deserve nothing.

I can admit, maybe the reason I help RQ is in part of trying to avenge our friend AJ.  Maybe this is my anger at karma for not allowing me to carry the worst of situations.  Maybe I drive myself through the concrete with work, training, and everything else in my world to the complete and utter brink of exhaustion because deep down I know I shouldn’t be so lucky.

Maybe, just maybe, I’m trying to be like AJ, where he seemingly took the cancer that plagued his daughter and took it as his own to deal with.

I don’t know, maybe it’s a little bit of everything.  Maybe I’m overthinking it all, and I loathe it when I overthink.  Regardless, my focus is unwavering – I’m all in for breaking through 6.5.

This is for RQ, and this is for AJ.  Straight up, no sugar added.

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Traffic

In the beginning of this year of 2014, I ushered in not only a new job, but a new city of work – Palo Alto, California.  Prior to this move I worked in San Francisco for over eight years, and currently living in San Francisco (over two years now) and other neighboring cities prior to, my commute to work was never a concern for me.  San Francisco’s public transportation – compared to other US cities, at least – is good.  I Caltrained, I BARTed, I MUNIed.  Palo Alto’s public transportation, unfortunately, is a complete joke.  In fact it’s damn near non-existent.  And I understood that, prior to accepting the gig, I am required to increase my driving time and shoot my miles through the roof to get to work.

While I do have genuine concerns about the oil crisis and gas prices and our overall environmental well-being, I was okay with the commute ahead of me then.  And I still am now.  I did well for over two months, close to three, from January to mid-March.  I was out my door by 6:30 AM – 6:48 AM to avoid the morning freeway congestion, which allowed me to leave work just before everyone else in Silicon Valley did.  It is unfortunate that I eventually fell off the wagon; my nights became longer, and getting out the door by 6:48 AM became a rarity.  7:00 AM became more common, then came 7:15, then 8:00, to as late as 9:30 AM out the door.  And from this tardiness I was introduced to the very popular traffic on the US 101 that many, if not all Bay Area commuters cringed about.

Traffic – you learn to get used to it, but only if you allow yourself to.  Some days are worse than others.  In April, I suffered a car accident on the freeway that left my beloved truck of thirteen years totaled (and I thankfully walked away without a scratch).  And being fully immersed in traffic with thousands of commuters for the better part of these last four months have brought about one simple, yet powerful question:

What moves you?

And “work” is the surface answer.  You make ends meet to survive.  You get from A to B, earn a paycheck, then go from B to A and do it all over again.  It’s America.  It’s what you have to do to make America continue to happen and exist in it.  If you earn enough paychecks you get to pay your rent, buy a shirt, maybe some pants, and have a beer and a cookie on the weekend, too.

For the record, I don’t exactly promote the visuals of being butt naked from the waist down on your front lawn while munching on a cookie and washing it down with a Coors Light on a Sunday afternoon.  It’s just, you know, an example.  But hey, if that floats your boat, by all means please quote me.

But it’s the other kind of move that I mean.  I can only hope that most people do understand and recognize the differences between surviving, and living.  We work in order to survive.  Simple, right?  So what do you do to live?  With that in mind, what moves you then?

It horrified me that I couldn’t answer with any conviction.  And I think my problem by going about thinking of an answer was that, I was looking for specific answers, and when I did that I always came to a conclusion that it was “too easy.”  Passion projects, travelling, learning, and the overall pursuit of happiness – we all know this shit already.  Even further than that, how many times have you – for example – travelled and seen a new place and left unfulfilled?  Unmoved?  I know I have, and I can at least conclude for myself that those “answers” that are “too easy” can completely miss the mark, too.

Am I a man doomed to walk this earth not knowing what moves me?  Fortunately, no.  Because it did dawn on me the other day what moves me on a day-to-day basis.  It’s so simple that, when it hit me I felt it in my bones, and I had to go all the way back to how I spent my summer seasons during elementary school to feel that same level of simplicity and relief.

I want to be moved.  That’s what moves me.

And I don’t always have to chase and capture photographs for that.  I don’t have to design chair after chair and build full scale prototypes.  I don’t have to seek a new adventure in another city to be moved.  I don’t have to solve for x and find the area of the triangle using the Pythagorean theorem (although that really, really turns me on).

I’m easily moved by a song from the past, something from my favorite record from my favorite band perhaps.  I’m easily moved by having a conversation worth remembering for all time, or a brilliant idea that creates action, or a good film that inspires change.

And I can be moved, every day – even more – simply by just the way you look at me.  And the simple touch of your hand over mine, or if I’m lucky the brush of your cheek against the delicate tip of my nose.  I can be moved by simply hearing your voice, especially when your happy, even when you’re angry, but not when your upset.  I can be moved by the scents that only you will have, and when those scents tickle my senses a jolt of electricity will surrender my body.  I can be moved by the slightest upward bend of your lips.  And if you give me a full smile and that laugh of yours then you’ll move me swiftly off my feet and into outer space.  I can be moved every day.

But I don’t have every day with you. And the possibility of that still keeps me going.

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