Peptide Purgatory: A Day Late, SOMMA Session Two, and Doc Macallan

This Mounjaroless update is a little late because I wanted to include today’s SOMMA study in it. Also, I’m meeting with Doctor Macallan (not his real name) tomorrow for my initial, one-hour appointment after appointing him as my Esteemed Personal Physician, replacing the venerable Dr. DeLorean (not his real name, either). I’ll cover that in next week’s update.

I said Mounjaroless above, not because I’m off the jab, but because I’m stable on my 7.5 mg dose and I have nothing to add to what I previously reported.

The SOMMA2 Study — Study On Muscle, Mobility, and Aging — is examining my aging carcass under a very large microscope. I am happy to be their geriatric guinea pig in exchange for some useful information about my body and its performance. See my Big Labor Day Issue (last week) for more on the study.

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The Treadmill That Cried Uncle

SOMMA Round Two

Round two of the SOMMA study had me back under the microscope — or in this case, the MRI magnet. They scanned me from shoulders to thighs, no contrast, just a long, noisy nap while they mapped out what’s left of my muscle mass. After that, I got a nutritional assessment where they dissected my food log from the prior day. Nothing new there — I’m still eating like a gym rat with a Dexcom glued to his arm. But logging my food with MyFitnessPal enabled me to breeze through the session.

Then came the lung and treadmill tests: spirometry (blew the chart off, tester was impressed), and then the so-called VO₂ max challenge. My result: 28.3. For a guy pushing 79, with a couple of bad knees, a torn quad tendon, a busted back, and a 24-year-old left hip replacement, that ain’t half bad. In fact, the tester couldn’t stop bragging about how long I stayed on the treadmill. Although I didn’t believe the thirty-something researcher, he said the final stage would have been challenging to him.

Not Much of a Challenge

Here’s the kicker: the protocol maxed out at a wimpy 3.7 mph at 10 degrees incline. They acted like this was Everest, while I was thinking, “Hell, this is my warm-up.” At the gym, I run the hill profile treadmill program at 3.6 mph up to 15% incline, and I always hammer the last two minutes at 4.0 mph — because why not make life interesting? That’s conditioning hell, not this test’s “pussified” cap. The tester later admitted that he could have used a tougher protocol.

Physiological stats from the lab:

• Peak heart rate: 157 (above the “predicted max” for my age — so my ticker still answers the bell).
• Peak blood pressure: 200/82 (normal exercise response, no vascular explosions).

In short, SOMMA got their numbers, but I walked away feeling like the equipment gave out before I did.

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Sidebar: VO₂ Max by the Numbers

The lab handed me a VO₂ max of 28.3 mL/kg/min. That number might not mean much at first glance, so let’s put it in perspective:

• Men in their late 70s: Average VO₂ max hovers around 18–22.
• Men in their 50s–60s: Average is 25–30.
• Me, at 78 years 10 months: 28.3.

So, physiologically, I’m more in line with guys two decades younger — except those guys don’t usually come equipped with two bad knees, a torn quad tendon, a bad back, and a 24-year-old chrome-cobalt hip.

My heart rate hit 157 (above the predicted “max” for my age), and my systolic BP topped at 200 without the diastolic creeping up. In other words: textbook cardiovascular response, not a code-blue waiting to happen.

The SOMMA testers were thrilled with the treadmill numbers, but I couldn’t help thinking: “If they saw what I crank out on the gym treadmill — 3.6 mph at 15% incline, finishing with two minutes at 4.0 — they’d need smelling salts.”

Translation for the Exercise-Impaired:
VO₂ max is basically your engine size — how much oxygen your body can process during hard exercise. Higher means more horsepower. Most men my age are idling along in Corolla territory. At 28.3, I’m still running closer to a Corvette — albeit one with aftermarket knees, a rebuilt hip, and some bodywork issues.

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Coming Attractions: Session Three

Next up on September 17 is the big finale (for now):

• More nutritional analysis (because nothing says fun like revisiting yesterday’s food diary).
• Urinalysis — this time to see where that deuterium-tagged creatine pill wound up. I’ll take it three days before the visit, then let the lab techs go treasure hunting in my sample.
• Fasting blood tests — always a crowd pleaser.
• And of course, the dreaded muscle biopsy. Yes, they’ll be snipping out a bit of quad for science. I just hope they give it back when they’re done.

They promised me a snack afterward. My hope: not the tissue they just harvested. My expectation: some hospital-issued atrocity that would make RFK Jr. cringe — like a bag of Doritos and a warm can of Diet Sprite.

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Dr. Macallan and Beyond

Next week, I’ll be back here with my first impression of Doc Macallan in his new role as My Esteemed Personal Physician. I’m bringing a sheaf of lab results, diagnostic imaging, and a compiled health history with me. Chances are, an hour won’t be enough to give my chronic conditions their due, but if we run over, I’ll book another appointment.

Recall that the now banished Dr. DeLorean had once famously told me, “I can’t keep track of all your chronic conditions.” Sorry I’m so sick, but that’s his damn job. That stupid, offhand comment, along with his other classic of gaslighting classics, “You’re my only patient who is complaining!”, cost him that $3,500/yr. contract position. It is my hope that the new guy, younger by about a quarter-century, at one-third the fee, might take a stronger interest in organizing my healthcare priorities while not viewing any criticism as a personal insult. Anyhow, chart-building and mapping paths forward, plus assembling all the usual healthcare documents, will be the focus of this visit.

So, it is my hope that next Monday’s update will recount a positive experience with the new doc and will describe who’s going to do what to whom and when.

In the meantime, max out your treadmill, get that VO₂ Max up, and be healthy!