Call me Herb, Herb I. Vore
My foot was the size and colour of a Canadian Coast Guard icebreaker.
That’s the type of injury to be expected after running a 42-kilometre ultra-marathon during which you flee starving alligators, hopscotch across hot lava and save a family from a guy phoning to see if their Windows was running.
Unfortunately, the swelling and pain in my left hoof involved no such athleticism, adventure or action-heroism.
I actually had no clue what caused said injury, but concede I may have hurt it coaching, not playing, baseball.
Standing by first and fist-bumping seven- and eight-year-olds as they reach base really is more physically challenging than you realize.
Guaranteed it was part of Conor McGregor’s training regime for the Mayweather fight, although I fear the language he might have used in front of the kids.
Whatever the cause of my injury, the pain in my foot escalated to the point where I would rather watch “The View” than stand up.
That, Dear Reader, is some kind of agony.
I went to see my doctor, instead of sawing it off with a Jamie Oliver knife.
He wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, and decided to treat me for a sprain.
If it didn’t clear up in a few days, he was sending me for X-rays.
Then the topic switched to my weight.
“Doc,” I asked, “this might be less painful if I dropped a few pounds. And I don’t want to be coming to your office regularly. I need to lose weight. I’ve tried everything. Do you have any suggestions?”
He offered up the idea of adopting a plant-based diet, so I ate him in a single gulp, a procedure for which he likely billed the provincial government.
OK, I was a carnivore, but not a cannibal and, although “Silence of the Lambs” is my favourite movie, I didn’t really eat my doctor.
Instead, I ate his words — that he’s got some patients on plant-based diets who are losing weight and seeing improved health.
“They are still eating some chicken and fish a couple of times a week,” he explained, “but most of their meals are plant-based, and they only eat red meat once a month or so.”
I was interested, but I LOVE steak to the point where I just all-capped and italicized the world “love,” and I’ve carved “SB + PR = True Love Always” in the deck railing next to my barbecue.
“PR” is Prime Rib’s initials.
But sitting in doc’s office with my foot swelling and stomach bulging, I began giving plant-based eating some serious thought.
“I should give this serious thought,” I told myself.
I did, and then decided to give it a try.
Seventeen days later — outside of two meals that included chicken, one that involved cod and a single slice of pepperoni pizza at the kids’ baseball banquet — all of my meals have been plant based.
That’s a significant reduction in animal proteins, and to be honest, it hasn’t been that hard.
The biggest challenge was a walking past a sale on prime rib this weekend. “True Love Always,” I whispered to the steaks. “We’ll get together for a one-off some day soon.”
Seriously though, the plant-based meals have been tasty and there’s a little less of my waisty (apologies for the unexpected rhyme).
I’ve lost a few pounds, and my foot is better (although the swelling likely wasn’t diet related).
Best of all, I feel more alert and energetic.
Please don’t tell my wife about the latter though. I’m thinking about saving the extra energy for that ultramarathon.
Steve Bartlett is an editor with SaltWire Network. He dives into the Deep End Mondays to escape reality, and these days, jerky. Reach him at steve.bartlett@thetelegram.com.