Finding Ultra (14 page)

Barefoot, inventory in hand, I walked the beach until I found a private spot. And for a long while, I just sat, taking it all in as I pondered not only the events of the day but all the decisions, emotions, and actions of my decimated past.

And when I was ready, I did the unthinkable.
I prayed
. Not to the Sunday school God of my youth. Or to the God of any church I'd ever visited. Instead I prayed to a God purely of my own understanding, asking that I be delivered from the character defects that had precipitated my demise.

Then I took out a match and, just like that, burned my inventory until all that remained was ashes in the sand. No, I didn't just “haul the garbage out to the curb.” I incinerated it.
Finally, I let it all go
.

To this day, the funeral pyre of ashes that was my inventory sits in a Tibetan singing bowl on my bedside nightstand as a constant reminder of that day that set in motion a new way of living.

One of my most profound realizations in this process of baggage purging was discovering I no longer harbored any anger or resentment toward Michele, or a sense of victimhood with respect to the marriage that never was. Miraculously, I could now see that it was I, rather than Michele, who'd caused our relationship to falter, that it was I who set in motion every event that culminated in that mockery of a wedding. I was the selfish one. I was the one who repeatedly lied, who strayed from being faithful when under the influence, and who abused her trust until it faltered altogether. Looking back, it's amazing she permitted the relationship to last as long as it did. Liberated from resentment, I now see her and our relationship with nothing but love.

I have come to appreciate that great beauty lies in destruction. Looking back, it is undeniable that the wedding that almost destroyed me was necessary to my ultimate salvation. And for this, I am—and will always be—eternally grateful.

It was September 1998 when I left Springbrook and somewhat uneasily began to find my way. I knew with certainty one crucial fact. Big corporate law firm life was not for me. Nonetheless, I returned to my job at Christensen—I owed Skip at least that much. But during that time, sobriety was my career. In fact, my life outside the office was completely consumed by recovery. I attended three meetings a day, followed by meals with new sober friends.

Ultimately, the new clarity I was enjoying told me that I needed to make a choice about my career. I could continue to pursue what was expected of a man of my education, a path I'd seen many follow, but which I now knew all too well would lead back to despair. Alternatively, I could choose to believe that my life was worth more than the name of my firm or the car I drove, and have faith that something more meaningful awaited if I could summon the courage to break free. I desperately wanted to believe in the alternative, and finally, with the help of others, I found the courage to take the leap.

“I'm not going across the street for more money,” I told Skip, breaking the news. “I don't have another job. I just know I need to do something else with my life.”

Surprisingly, Skip was remarkably unfazed. “Well, it's too hard if you're not having fun.”
Having fun? Who in the world finds this stuff fun?
Apparently, Skip does. More power to him. “So what are you going to do?” he asked.

“I don't have the slightest idea.” And that was the truth.

I've never felt more free—or more terrified—than I did that day.

And yet an opportunity did arise, almost immediately: part-time
legal work on behalf of an old Christensen client. Hardly ideal, but a good baby step. It was soon followed by calls from friends in the entertainment industry seeking counsel on this deal or that. Faith, it seemed, was paying off.

It was around this time that I began taking yoga classes. And one day, there she was. Julie.

Standing out among the many beauties who crowded the bright and airy Brentwood studio, she had my eyes riveted on her olive-toned skin as she flexed her lean arms to the rhythm of the poses. Her long dark hair with its groovy orange and blue extensions flowing in sync with the soundtrack. What most captivated me, though, was her warm, inviting smile and the sparkle in her eye that captured the focus of the few straight men bold enough to show up at a yoga class.

It would be weeks before I'd summon the courage to even speak to her, but nonetheless, I boldly announced to my friend Mike Minden, “I'm gonna marry that girl.” I don't know where my sense of conviction came from. But in the same way that I knew leaving Christensen was the right move, I just
knew
. It wasn't hope, or some throwaway comment. It was fact.

Sure enough, a few months later I found myself on a yoga retreat in Ojai, kissing Julie for the first time, in the kiva, an underground cave-like sanctuary reserved for spiritual ceremonies. We've been together ever since.

I had assumed that my next girlfriend would be much younger than I was—living a simple life and unencumbered. To borrow a pejorative term,
no baggage
. But love doesn't work that way. Newly divorced and more than four years my senior, Julie happened to be a mom to two young boys—Tyler, age four, and Trapper, three. Hardly a simple setup. I would never have imagined that I'd insert myself into such a complicated equation. And let's be honest, I was
hardly without my own baggage.
Tread lightly
, more than a few friends warned me. But the heart wants what the heart wants, and I wanted Julie.

I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. But what I fell in love with went far beyond her beauty. She was strong, opinionated, and wise, to be certain, but she never took herself too seriously. If someone asked how long it had taken her to paint a gorgeous canvas, her reply was always “My whole life.” And she seemed free from the fear that for too long had controlled my path. A master of many trades, she's an artist, yogi, sculptor, musician, builder, designer, and healer—in other words, a powerhouse. To this day she's the coolest woman I've ever met.

Within a year we were living together. Professionally, I'd begun—without any grand design—building my own solo entertainment law practice. And I was finally having the fun Skip talked about, representing screenwriters, directors, and producers in their various transactions in film and television.

Around this time, Julie decided to take a huge risk and outright buy a three-acre parcel of raw land in rustic and beautiful Malibu Canyon—a move many cautioned against. We took out a large construction loan and, over the next three years, put absolutely everything we had into building our dream home.

Everything seemed to be clicking into place. And soon Julie became pregnant with our first child. With construction on our home finally complete, we celebrated by getting married on our land. Upon a backyard stage adjacent to a tepee that had been our winter abode, we hosted a veritable world music concert for one hundred of our closest friends and family. The event featured gospel singers, West African drummers and dancers, and rock
musicians, including Julie's brother Stuart, a professional guitarist. Aside from the days my daughters were born, it was the happiest day of my life.

I was finally sober, and while I was hardly a poster child for recovery, I was a far cry from that shattered soul who'd arrived thoroughly soused at Springbrook just a few years prior. Too, I'd learned what it meant not only to love, but to receive love.

It's 1984, a Tuesday, 7:15
A.M.
, and two high school students stand in line at Montgomery Donuts, out Old Georgetown Road in Bethesda, Maryland. Marking time, my swimming buddy Brian Nicosia and I consider the merits of ordering chocolate-covered custard versus jelly-filled with powdered sugar on top. In the end, we split the difference: “Six custard-filled, six jellies,” I say, and Brian forks over some crumpled bills. We tread lightly across the icy parking lot, eating mouthfuls of doughnut as we make it to Brian's car. Brian starts the engine, and as the car warms up we devour our super-high-calorie meal like lions lunging at prey, interrupting ourselves only to share a laugh over whatever just came out of Howard Stern's mouth on the radio.

We've come directly from morning swim practice, where we knocked out four miles in the pool before most people had even woken up. Our chlorine-damaged hair is still wet, the tips frosty icicles courtesy of a typical subfreezing February weekday, but in our sugar haze we don't even notice. In less than fifteen minutes, all twelve doughnuts disappear. After that, we drive to McDonald's, where we order two bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits plus two Sausage McMuffins for me and two orders of pancakes, eggs, and bacon for Brian.

It's just one morning like any other in a string of similar mornings: an insanely early swim practice followed by various iterations of sugar, flour, meat, and fat, taken in as quickly and in as large a
quantity as we can manage. We're teenagers, we're logging four hours a day in the pool, and we can handle it—the more calories the better. We don't think about what the stuff is, what it contains, how it makes us feel, or what it can do to us.
We just eat
.

Unfortunately, in my case, the ingrained habits of a high schooler became the default dietary approach of a collegian, and after college, during my stints in New York and San Francisco, my appetite turned to even cheaper, faster food. Cook my own meals? Forget that. Instead, it was Gray's Papaya hot dogs (by the dozen) or Ray's Pizza (five slices for five bucks). Burgeoning alcoholism finally curbed my appetite—to a point. I'd go out drinking on an empty stomach, wanting the buzz to hit harder and faster—as it invariably did—with no food to cushion it. But the night would always end the same—in drunken gorging at whatever fast-food institution happened to be nearby and open at three o'clock in the morning.

And it wasn't a problem—until it was.

I barely lifted a finger—let alone a pair of swim trunks—throughout the nineties. Alcoholism left me too hungover to get off the couch, and then everything became about recovery, leaving me zero time to exercise. Or so I believed. Combine a new family to care for with ever-present financial pressures and, well, the state of my physique seemed very low priority.

For years, as I sought to excel as a husband, father, and entertainment lawyer, the idea of “eating healthy,” hitting the gym, or even getting some fresh air for that matter, rarely occurred to me.
Who has time? There are just not enough hours in the day
. I was no different from so many men I know and respect. And just like them, I had a bulging waistline to show for it.

Admittedly, even at my maximum weight of 208 pounds, I
wasn't, for my height, obese by today's standards—but I was almost 50 pounds heavier than the 160-pound fighting weight I maintained during my collegiate swimming years. And what was worse, I didn't feel great. In fact, I felt horrible. As described in Chapter One, my casual disregard for my own health caught up with me on the night before my fortieth birthday. I found myself gasping for air while climbing a few stairs on my way to bed, my mind and body collapsing in a sudden and awful understanding of what I'd become—and, more important, where I was headed. The signposts up ahead spelled out words in big red letters that were truly frightening: “heart disease” and “death.”

So what followed was what
had
to follow: a massive overhaul of diet, mind-set, and lifestyle. Those months were tough—days and nights of intense cravings, a body detox that left me dry-mouthed and shivering on the couch, and banishment of foods that I'd counted on for emotional comfort. But the clarity and wellness that eventually came made the process all worth it.

After that aha moment on the stairs in October of 2006, my do-it-yourself overhaul began with a seven-day herbal, fruit, and vegetable juice-based “cleanse” (for information on my recommended cleansing program, see
Appendix III
, Resources, Jai Renew Detox and Cleansing Program). Then came the uninformed six-month stab at vegetarianism, during which I reverted to my pre-cleanse lethargy. Discouraged, I was ready to throw in the towel and revert to my old eating ways. But in June 2007, I decided instead to launch an experiment, undertaking on a trial basis what is generically known as a vegan, or plant-based, whole-food diet. My program wasn't devoid of just
all
animal products, but most processed foods as well. In the five years since, I've tweaked and revised the regimen to maximize my athletic performance, stave off the onset of illness and disease, and ensure optimum long-term wellness for myself and my family.

I've dubbed the regimen the
PlantPower Diet
.

From the beginning, the PlantPower Diet—even in its untweaked form—brought me tremendous energy. I felt lighter. My energy levels escalated to that which I experienced during my cleanse and remained high throughout the day. My thinking became clear. Absent were those lulls I'd felt after meals, those food comas I thought I just had to live with. And any depression I felt began to subside. In short, I felt
amazing
. My strength and endurance levels increased quickly and my cravings for dairy—even my beloved cheese—slowly dissipated. I began working out more, and as the weight slowly came off, I felt better and better. Buoyed by the results, I deepened my study and understanding of plant-based nutrition, disease prevention, and exercise physiology. I devoured every authoritative text I could find on these subjects and felt more and more convinced that I was on the right path.