Life Without Beer

For so long, it was the most common gift I received for birthdays and Father’s Days: a six-pack of beer – something unusual, or perhaps a variety pack – or a bottle opener, a set of coasters or beer steins. From my freshman year in college, when my roommate Todd and I evolved (or devolved?) from our preferred drink of choice – Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers – to drinking piss-poor American lagers because, well, that’s what was provided at the jam-packed house party where two dollars would get you a red cup and the privilege to partake of the keg of Hamm’s housed in the kitchen, all the way to six months ago, beer had been a constant companion to my adult self.

Want to shoot the shit with a friend? Crack open a beer. Want to watch the Packers game? Crack open a beer. Want to find something to do in an unfamiliar city? Find a microbrewery. Want some attire that announces something to the world? Get a t-shirt from said brewery. Want a funny magnet, coaster or birthday card? Something having to do with beer would be a good call, especially one involving Homer Simpson.

I’ve been to a fantastic Chicagoland barbecue that employed a cicerone – the beer equivalent of a sommelier – to pair malt beverages with pulled pork or burnt ends. I’ve had friends who’ve introduced me to weird-ass flavored beers with marshmallow or cotton candy or pistachio overtones. I’ve learned the differences between porters and stouts, lagers and pilsners, and IPAs and American pale ales. I’ve even tried brewing my own beer with mixed results.

I’ve met new friends while drinking beer and a few girlfriends, though not for over 30 years. I’ve sang loudly to Jimmy Buffet and Buster Poindexter songs while consuming beer. I’ve written a few songs about drinking beer. I blew an opportunity to catch a home run hit by Eric Thames because I had a scorecard in one hand and a full beer in the other. I’ve had spirited debates over a beer, a few nasty arguments, and even one fistfight (I didn’t start it, and my participation wasn’t consequential, but I did take a punch and throw one of my own).

I went from spending $23 for a half barrel of Old Milwaukee to $12 for a case of Rolling Rock to $20 for a 12-pack of Dale’s Pale Ale. The amount of time, energy and money I’ve devoted to beer for close to four decades is staggering. I’ve fortunately never been a “drink-a-six-pack-a-day” kind of guy, but I still shudder to think about how much of my home could be filled with all the beer I’ve consumed in my lifetime, and I shake my head when I consider how much money I’ve spent on beer over the decades.

But no more.

Six months ago I had a gout flare-up – the kind of flare-up that puts the fear of God into you, that kills any thoughts of the future, because, well, if the future consists of this piercing pain, then it might be better to call it a day. Fortunately, I live in 2025, and four different medications helped to relieve me of the worst symptoms, and another has allowed me to slowly but surely return to modified normalcy. Modified, because I no longer drink beer, and I’ve refrained from red meat and most seafood since last April as well.

In hindsight, last April’s flareup wasn’t my first bout with gout. I’d been having a few mini flareups a year from as far back as 2019, when my toe pain was originally misdiagnosed by a surgery-happy podiatrist. And because neither of my parents had properly shared their health history with me, I didn’t know what gout was and that I should be on the lookout for its symptoms. Now I know.

So for now, beer is no longer on the menu. Last month I invited neighbors to come to my basement and consume what remained of my beer supply and take leftovers home. For a few months I didn’t really drink any alcohol at all, and I lost over ten pounds from my lanky frame that can ill-afford to lose any more mass. For the past few months, I’ve experimented with drinking gin, bourbon and an occasional wine, and this seems to be a recipe for success if I want to indulge a bit.

But now when I go to a backyard barbecue, I’m drinking a water or Diet Coke. When I meet friends at a brewery, I’m ordering a mocktail. And when my kids buy me a birthday or Father’s Day present, they’re going to have to dig a little deeper than buying a six-pack at the grocery store.

The Challenges of Staying in Shape

I see them, people not so much older than I, struggling to get in and out of their cars, or to walk from their car to the front door of a Kohl’s or Target. I see motorized wheelchairs, oxygen masks, and walkers. I see labored breathing after a flight of stairs. And I know that not only do none of us get out of here alive, but most of us are going to have significant physical limitations before our bodies finally call it a day.

Still, I’d like to take steps to at least give my body a chance to avoid the worst of it, to recover after an accident or an illness or a surgery. When my wife had an accident last winter and broke six (or was it seven?) ribs, it was a wake-up call to both of us. Neither of us was in as good of shape as we should have been, and it was painfully clear that events are inevitably going to happen to our bodies that require recovery. The better shape we’re in now, the better chance we’ll have to recover quickly and successfully. Something as simple as getting out of a chair can be a terrible burden after an accident, but even more if your muscles aren’t in good working order. Physical fitness matters. For years, I’ve watched guys in workout facilities pump iron like their lives depended on it, and I’ve finally started to realize…they’re lives might depend on it!

And so my wife and I started seeing a personal trainer twice a week. My plan was to see him for three or four months, get a good routine established, and continue the workouts at home. I worked diligently last winter and spring, expanding my repertoire, purchasing mat flooring, a workout bench, some bands and dumbbells, and after a few months, I felt stronger: my movements had become more fluid, I had increased my confidence in exercises like hinges and squats and lunges, and my left knee – for decades the source of on-again, off-again piercing pain – finally got over its persnicketiness. All it took was one additional step up onto a 20-inch plyo box – one that had me groan audibly in pain – and as if my magic, all the knee pain that had plagued me since I was in my 20s disappeared. I can now step up onto 20-inch box without a thought.

Yay for the human body!

I was going along just fine, feeling rather smug about how much by body was improving, continuing my workouts at home plus an occasional check-in with my trainer, when suddenly my neck – also a source of on-again, off-again piercing pain for the past several decades – cried uncle, immobilizing my head to the point where it could barely turn.

Back to the drawing board. I began a three-month period of virtually no working out; that is, not unless you include the dozens of physical therapy sessions I attended at a well-run local clinic. I worked as diligently on my assigned “necksercises” as I had on my normal workout routine, and after months of pain and frustration, my neck began to relax, allowing me to increase my head movement significantly. It’ll probably never be “normal,” but it is much better. It’s at a point where if I can maintain my level of mobility for the rest of my life, I’ll be a happy man.

Yay for the human body!

But then I returned to the gym. It was as if I’d never started working out to begin with. After my first session, I could barely walk for the next two days.

So the journey begins again, trying to establish a functioning human body that has a fighting chance to recover after a fall or a car accident or a surgery. I’m trying. But now I’m proceeding with more caution than last winter. I’m lifting, but not as much. I’m allowed to do overhead pulls, but no longer overhead presses. I have to recognize that as much as I want to get stronger and achieve more fluidity, I also want to be able to move my head. It’s a balancing act, a variation of which I suspect all of us will be navigating for the remainder of our lives.

“Just keep moving,” is my motto these days.  And try to avoid the types of events that will test how fit (or unfit) you really are.