Speeding to recovery

I was snagged yesterday by Vermont's only state trooper, on a two-lane highway that maybe four other motorists have ever driven.

This morning, about 24 hours later, I was grinding molars, still stressing about my first speeding ticket in years.

That's $130 I could have spent on shoes or gas or physiotherapy on my left hand, which has become a muscled claw after a winter of relentless shoveling.

But then I got an email from Smokers' Helpline.

Help, just when I needed it.

The email was evidently one of the benefits I get from having signed up for the Driven to Quit challenge I mentioned in my first blog post.

The email started off talking about how to manage the triggers that urge people like me to smoke.

Remember the three "A"s, the email said.

Avoid.

As in, avoid stress.

But I could not ignore the gaudy ticket burning a hole in my glove box.

Alter.

"Don't reach for a cigarette as you usually would," the email said. "Instead, get up and brush your teeth. Alter your response."

If I brush my teeth every time I have a craving, and do so with the gusto with which I smoke a cigarette, I would very quickly scrape away my gums and resemble Skeletor.

But point taken.

So I ate an English muffin covered in peanut butter and gulped down a Coke.

Don't judge. It's a tasty stopgap.

The comforting ritual is also the chief reason I will be fat in two to three months.

Accept.

"For example," the email suggested, "You are at a BBQ and some of the guests are smoking. You may not be able to avoid or alter the situation, but you can use one of your coping strategies, like positive self-talk, to help you through the challenge. You could say to yourself: 'This is a challenge. It won't last forever. I will get through it.' Or, 'I will be a stronger person for handling it without a cigarette.' "

Talking to myself in public seems drastic, I thought, but when the urge to smoke becomes unbearable I should be prepared to do almost anything to stay quit.

But then, after licking some peanut butter off my gnarled left hand, I wondered how this "Accept" tactic would actually work ...

"Sir, I am Deputy Charles Smithson of the Vermont Highway Patrol. Could I please see your license and registration?"

"Ah, sure."

"Do you know why I stopped you today?"

"Nope."

"You were going 70 in a 55 zone."

"Oh, er, ... This is a challenge ..."

"What?"

"It won't last forever ..."

"Hands on the dash, sir. Right now."

"I can do this. I am a stronger person."

"What did you say?"

"No, I mean ... smokey smoke ... This is a challenge ..."

"Dispatch ... This is Car Zero One. What? No, I know I don't have back-up. Just clear out a cell, okay Darlene? I'm bringing in a possible DUI for resisting arrest. Ten-four."

Shame

If you ever want to quit smoking, it helps to spend some time in Vermont.

I am here visiting my wife. She is working as a college professor in a quaint town called Middlebury.

About the riskiest thing for sale within a block of her apartment is a cup of Americano at the local cafe. There's also a bookstore, and a place to rent snowshoes.

Looking out the window, I don't see any tobacconists or neon signs advertising Budweiser and Winstons.

I see many, many Subarus, men with grey beards and women without make-up.

I see a lot of green and white and water and sky. Just a whole bunch of Vermonty goodness. Not a smoker or a cigarette in sight.

A few hours ago I had a strong craving. With restless legs I headed outside to walk it off.

I stumbled into a cross-eyed local, who had granola chunks in his scraggly beard, and he told me - though it was hard to hear him over the waterfall raging nearby - that the law in town is clear: If you smoke within three feet of a live tree you will be trussed and shot by a cheese-fed park ranger named Leslie.

Though he added that a risk-taker might find cigarettes at the Exxon station up Route 7.

But I imagine they're made with dried berries, bark essence and the parched skin of the last smoker to cross Leslie.

Hey, don't scoff. They recycle people here.

I would just as soon smoke a cigarette in public in Vermont as I would bungee jump off the CN Tower.

The jog

I threatened to start jogging last week but have been putting it off.

So, here we go ...

Into the closet.

I don't go for the typical, effete jogging attire. No shiny vinyl short shorts with piping.

No headbands.

I would never wear a headband, even if it was all I had to stanch the bleeding from a massive head wound.

I like to keep it simple. Nothing fancy.

Not like those running club nuts. Since when did jogging become so complicated?

Some nights more than 10 of these people will run up and down my hilly street.

They wear what look like neoprene suits with reflectors everywhere, bouncing lights off the dazed eyes of drivers trying to to get home from work and park their cars.

I used to walk out on my front porch to enjoy a cigarette and quietly chuckle at these uncoordinated folks shuffling along in frighteningly skin-tight clothes, going up and down the street (for some reason they religiously avoid the sidewalk), trying to eke out words of encouragement to each other but choking on their own phlegm. You'd think they were climbing Everest or running the Boston Marathon.

What happened to solitary and simple? What happened to grey sweats?

Okay, so I've found some old jogging pants from my university days.

They seem to have shrunk a little after hundreds of washes, but they should do. Though I am a little worried the legs will ride up above my ankles.

I've also found a simple grey sweatshirt. Though the elasticity in the cuffs has gone. I hate it when I push up my sleeves and they just roll back down.

And, finally, I found some running shoes in basement storage. A pair of New Balance trainers. Thing is, I never wore them that much. So I can tell they're going to rub my big toes raw.

I can do this.

I get changed, make sure my iPod is fully charged.

But I notice that all I have is the standard-issue iPod earphones, the white ones attached by a loose wire. I find those don't stay in place like the earphones with the rigid over-the-head structure.

Nevertheless, onward.

I take a deep breath and open the front door.

But there's a fine dusting of snow on the sidewalk.

Probably safest if I wait until tomorrow.

Both hands on the wheel

Driving while smoking was both diversionary and meditative. A time to enjoy CDs I never had time to listen to otherwise. Or a time to tackle problems at work, to break down writing blocks.

I've done some good thinking while driving and smoking.

I have done some good driving, too.

Because I am good at it. A bit holier-than-thou, I acknowledge. Not afraid to punish a traffic transgressor with some tailgating and a flick of the highbeams. Meanwhile, puffing away on a smoke, maybe a coffee in the other hand, steering with my left knee - quite an unnerving sight for the hunted driver ahead of me when they catch a glimpse in the rear-view mirror.

Now, without cigarettes, driving is just another chore.

With hands at 10 and 2 o'clock, I drive around like everyone else, just trying to get to Point B as fast as I can.

There's no reason to linger on the road if I can't smoke while doing it.

In other news ...

I was starting to feel insecure when I saw blog reader Jake's recent comment:

"It only takes a week to quit smoking, and then, if you're committed, it's over. ... No need to write any more. Thanks."

Ouch.

I would be morose about my apparent irrelevancy if not for the fact that I am ahead of a growing trend. Quitting the blog now would be irresponsible.

At another newspaper in Ontario, a writer has started a quit smoking blog. Only a couple days after I wrote about a vivid post-quit dream, this blogger wrote about dreams, too.

So Jake, you see, I can't stop now. I must continue to come up with new ways to write about quitting smoking. Not only do my readers in Toronto depend on it but other bloggers' readers may depend on it, too.

Rough night's sleep

I smoked.

In a dream.

Or maybe it was a nightmare.

I can't tell which.

In it, me and a friend - for years we have enabled each other's bad habits - were at a bar, on a rooftop patio.

We were having fun. And looking good, too.

There was no tension-building crescendo of music warning of the inhale. There was no deliberation.

I was leaning over the patio railing, all of a sudden smoking and smiling, my pal beside me, waiting his turn to take his haul.

It seemed to have happened so easily. As if I had not just been through two weeks of hell trying to quit. As if it was that easy and harmless to embrace the dark mistress again.

But then, a few minutes later, as we're leaving the bar, the implications hit me. I started fretting about whether the cigarette wiped out all my hard work and suffering, whether the next morning would bring anew the cravings and anxiety that seemed so insurmountable on Day One.

Then, I woke up.

And I smiled.

"Nicotine slaves are all the same ..."

Two weeks, and still no cigarettes.

Many of you said that by now I would be over "the hump."

But I am still feeling physical withdrawal as acutely as I was a week ago.

Still agitated and too quick to anger.

I am bored, waiting for something to happen, something to click and restore the calm cigarettes provided.

It's not happening.

I have to start doing something to take the edge off, and I grudgingly realize it's time to start excercising.

For me, that means jogging.

I don't do gyms because they're filled with mirrors and posturing and creepy people hungry for eye contact.

I don't want to use what they call an "elliptical," nor do I ever want to utter or write the word again.

But I can't simply start jogging.

There is some preparation.

I need the perfect mix of songs for my iPod. Songs that urge me on and give me wind. Any suggestions?

I found the lyrics to a Willie Nelson song I've never heard: Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette. I think maybe it should be included in the jogging mix.

Now I'm a fellow with a heart of gold with the ways of a gentleman I've been told
A kind of a fellow that wouldn't even harm a flea
But if me and a certain character met that guy that invented the cigarette
I'd murder that son of a gun in the first degree
That ain't that I don't smoke myself and I don't reckon they'll injure your health
I've smoked 'em all my life and I ain't dead yet
But nicotine slaves are all the same at a pheasant party or a poker game
Everythin's gotta stop when they have that cigarette

Smoke smoke smoke that cigarette
Puff puff puff and if you smoke yourself to death
Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate that you hate to make him wait
But you just gotta have another cigarette

The quitting math

Some of you have tried to tally the benefits of quitting:

Clothes smell better.

Food tastes better.

Apparently even water goes down smooth and tasty.

Is that it?

Forgive me if I do not run out to buy a six-pack of Evian.

I'll admit, my steady addiction to old white cheddar has only intensified as I am discovering new tinges of sharpness.

But, as the initial angry impetus to quit fades, I am searching for other kinds of motivation.

I found this quit calculator on the Canadian Cancer Society website.

The program allows you to enter how many cigarettes you smoke a day, the cost of each pack of cigarettes, then it calculates how much money you save over a period of time. You can project what you can afford to but after a day, week, month, year and 10 years.

A good idea, but it's doing little for me. Maybe it's a generational thing.

After a day, the calculator says, I can buy a magazine.

I didn't know magazines still existed.

After two days, the calculator says I can buy a CD.

I'd prefer to think I could go on an iTunes shopping spree. Why not get 15 songs, all by different musicians I actually like, instead of a couple songs mixed in with a bunch of crap songs, wrapped in a glossy booklet I'll never read?

Four days without smokes, the calculator says, equals movie tickets.

I went to the movies recently, and after buying a parking spot, two tickets, popcorn and drinks, I think it cost me something like $1,000.

After one week, the calculator says I can buy cologne or perfume.

Cessation. By Philip Morris.

I smell fine, thanks, but $53 could bring me within striking distance of the MP3 player I want.

True, the savings earned after one month would buy me a nice digital camera.

On and on the calculator goes, up to one year, when $2,738 can reportedly buy me a home theatre. That's kind of exciting.

At five years, I am supposed to be able to afford a home renovation.

I just bought a small house. I keep up with news on our housing market. I see how the price of homes is going up and up. It seems the cost of most things home-related is going up.

I predict that by 2013, when the calculator says I will have saved $13,700, I will be able to renovate one, maybe two kitchen cabinets.

After 10 years, with $27,400 saved, at the going rates in 2018, I will probably be able to spring for an eaves trough cleaning.

A new side effect

Perhaps most troubling of all the side effects of quitting smoking - first it was rage, then persistent agitation - is the one expressing itself very clearly on my left cheek.

A pimple.

A freaking pimple.

At 30 years old.

This is something I've not had to contend with for many years.

And during this past weekend it left me in all kinds of unfortunate social situations.

(If you're one of these malcontents that has been complaining my blog is whiny and overly dramatic, then stop reading already. It takes all kinds of triggers, silly and serious, whether a work crisis or social anxiety fueled by a skin nuisance, to scupper a legitimate quit attempt. Only in retrospect - that is, if I stay quit - will most of them seem silly.)

At my favourite coffee shop:

"Could I please get a large, light-roast coffee to go? And could you leave some room for cream, please, and not look at my face?"

At the grocery store:
"Um, I know I'm a grown man with a pimple, but could I get this bread sliced?"

At the car wash:
"How much for a regular car wash?" I asked the cashier. "And will your guys vacuum out my face, er, I mean, my trunk?"

Okay, so these things were never said. But I heard them in my nervous little head. And they were probably being communicated to the barista and bakery guy and cashier by the throbbing semaphore on my face.

A week later ...

I am not chewing nicotine gum, using the patch or swallowing those new pills many of you rave about.

I may yet fill that prescription if the side effects of quitting become more difficult to manage. Just to have the drug handy in a moment of weakness is not a bad idea, my doctor says.

I am eating crappy food fairly consistently. It has never occurred to me, not once, to run out and buy a bag of carrots or a chunky, bottled fruit-shake. I want burgers and fries and pizza.

I am spending more time in front of the mirror, checking to see whether this junk food is adding any flabbiness to my jowl area. Can't quite tell yet.

I have trouble sleeping. I cannot read in bed because suddenly reading is boring and annoying. My skin starts to crawl when I do the same thing for more than five minutes. So I toss and turn for hours. The dog looks at me like I need to be walked. I am getting three hours of sleep each night.

I am buying packs and packs of sugary gum, which I chew into a rubbery tastelessness before my jaw starts to swell and I have to spit it out.

A big help has been the incredible response to the blog.

I am humbled by the number of readers who are sharing their thoughts. Even the haters.

(One wrote: "Sounds like you ... ran out of story ideas for your editor, so you thought you'd pretend to quit. True?"

Oh yeah, totally true. The best part would be when someone discovers I actually still smoke and then I would be utterly discredited and fired. Yippee. All part of the thrill of journalism.)

I am encouraged by those who share their quitting stories.

I appreciate their advice. I have been invited to a session with a hypnotherapist. Should I do it?

I am determined to quit. I have an angst pushing me. I am furious that I have let cigarettes hook me for half my life.

But the quitting will only get more difficult.

Because the angst will fade.

The real test isn't the first week or next week. It will come in a few months, after the physical side effects have passed. It will be a warm night, sitting in my back yard with my ne'er-do-well friends, drinking beer and bourbon, and I know how it could happen because it's happened before.

A Jack Daniel's-soaked internal dialogue will start, and it will go a little something like this ...

"I been quit for months. I proved I don't need to smoke. So why not, on this bootiful summer night - is that Labatt 50 dribbling down my chin or a mosquito? - while my a*****e friend is opening a pack of Benson & Hedges, why not have just one smoke as a reward?"

Don't lecture me

Yesterday I wrote about my search for famous people who have quit smoking and remained relevant.

I was curious. I needed inspiration.

What a freaking mistake.

"What the hell do you need a 'hero' for?" a reader demanded to know. "Stop being a drama queen."

Umm, okay.

"If living isn't enough motivation for you," he continued, "then you're screwed."

If living was enough motivation, I wouldn't have started smoking in the first place. My decision to smoke was short-sighted. My effort to quit -- only a week old but still successful, by the way -- is similarly short-sighted. I cannot see the finish line. I can only get through each hour, one hour at a time. That's just how I am going to quit. Telling me simply that I will live longer isn't going to magically cure me of cravings and self-doubt and all the other crap that comes with an addiction.

Call me weak-willed. Tell me I am grasping at silly gimmicks. I don't care. Anything that works, as long as it doesn't involve murder or crystal meth, is good enough for me.

As I said when I started this blog, I don't care if I quit gracefully. I just want to quit.

There's a reason I quit last week. That's when my wife was scheduled to leave the city to teach at a university in Vermont for three months. I knew I would be alone and free to indulge in what was sure to be a self-centred and generally unsavory span of several weeks.

I am drinking cheap beer. My last two dinners were from the drive-thru window at McDonald's.

I frequently get up and pace when the addiction worm starts crawling under my skin.

I scowl and mutter at people on television, especially the American news anchor who calls himself "Mr. Independent."

I play free Orbitz video games online, like eight-ball and mini putt, sometimes for hours, my jaw slack and eyes rheumy.

I am not angry that readers disagree with something I write. I welcome comments and criticism. I want your stories and tips on how to quit successfully, and in future blog posts I will write about some of these.

But please don't tell me I am a drama queen. I just can't take it. I think I might stop writing this blog, then quit the Star and then start smoking again.

Omigod.