I Think You're a Little Heavy in the Trunk

What sagging Chevy Impalas, stiff joints, and lost movement all have in common!

This article is really about reclamation more than anything else.

It’s the recognition that it’s never too late to start, but always too early to quit. That applies to just about everything in life. Even when you think you’re quitting, the real work is usually an invitation to go deeper. To go up, sometimes you first have to go down. You have to die to self—the old thoughts, the old body, the old consciousness.

And as it is with our thoughts, so it is with our bodies.

Too often, I meet people who believe they can’t reclaim their health. And while there might be some truth to that if you’re comparing yourself to your high school athlete days, I always come back to cycling as my go-to metaphor.

One of the most competitive classes out there today? The Master’s group.

I live in a place with no real shoulder season. No "too wet," "too grey," "not enough this," or "too much of that." The excuses have been stripped away. What’s left is the daily opportunity to choose how you show up.

A few weeks ago, I was on a mountain bike ride—a 3.75-mile climb just to reach the trail cabin. That was the rest point, mind you, before things really turned vertical. At the top, I bumped into a couple taking a break. The woman had to be in her mid-60s. We exchanged a few words, and she kindly asked if I wanted to lead out on the next climb.

But I could tell—this wasn’t her first ride.

She had that calm presence, that steadiness that only comes from decades of choosing to stay in the game. My gut said: let her go. And sure enough, within 90 seconds, she was out of sight. Floating over the rocky terrain like it was pavement.

I also had her beat by a good 120 pounds.

And this is a great time to throw out the reminder that size has no bearing on how you move, even though it might come into play on what you choose to do to move. Certain activities place more demand on tissue strength than others. But I can also tell you, there have been plenty of times when size was absolutely on my side.

Like the snowboarding incident two seasons ago.

I was riding through the trees with my youngest daughter when we got split up over a small ridge. I shifted into “Dad mode” and started tracking fast. The snow went from soft powder to full-on PNW cement in seconds. I was on a new board—much larger than anything I’d ridden in the past seven years (funny enough, it’s now my board of choice 98% of the time). I lost an edge slicing through two tight trees and—boom—my lower leg snapped hard against one of them.

Instant pain.

I thought for sure I’d snapped my tibia in half. I pulled up my pant leg fully expecting a compound fracture… but no. Just abrasions, swelling, and a world of pain that kept me off the mountain for the next four weeks.

Size mattered.

Had I been significantly smaller, that would have absolutely been a trip to the ER.

Why do I tell you these stories?

Because movement isn’t just about age or size or training background, it’s about what you do with what you’ve got. And most of us? We’ve forgotten.

Let’s go back further—to the beginning.

When was the last time you saw a baby kneel down to grab a toy?

Right. Never.

They drop into the most perfect deep squat you’ve ever seen. Balanced. Fluid. Effortless.

We’re born with that kind of access. And yet, somewhere along the way, we lose it. That squat becomes a kneel. The kneel becomes a waist bend. The waist bend becomes "Chuck throwing out his back picking up the Sunday paper."

We didn’t lose the ability.

We just stopped using it.

If you want your musculoskeletal system to work in your later decades, there’s one non-negotiable:

You. Must. Keep. Moving.

When we stop, things like creep and hysteresis begin to take over. Fascia stiffens. Neuromuscular control begins to decay. Proprioception dulls. The body doesn’t snap—it fades. Slowly. Subtly. Until one day, you reach for something… and it’s too late.

But did it really happen overnight?

No. And that’s where the metaphor lands.

You remember the 1970 Chevrolet Impala 2-door coupe? Those doors were heavy, solid steel. But over time, the hinges would wear down. Not all at once. Just enough. Until suddenly, you had to lift the door slightly to close it.

That’s your body.

The hinge doesn’t scream. It just drifts.

You stop squatting to pick things up. You compensate.

Until one day, the alignment’s so off that the whole thing won’t close properly.

So what do you do when you’ve lost ownership of your movement?

You rebuild it. One joint at a time.

And this is where I introduce a tool that’s been at the core of my practice for years. One of my mentors said it best:

“Do your damn CARs daily.”

It wasn’t a cute reminder. It was a call to reclaim ownership.

CARs—Controlled Articular Rotations—aren’t just mobility drills. They’re nervous system retraining. They’re how you earn your range back, cleanly and consistently. They’re how you give your brain the input it’s been missing—and your body the signal to move like it was designed to.

Let’s talk about why they work—and why you can’t afford to ignore them.

CARs aren’t just about “mobility.” They’re about health at the joint level. When you take a joint through its full, intentional range of motion—under control—you’re doing a few powerful things all at once.

You’re sending fresh afferent signals—telling your nervous system, "Hey, this joint still works. Pay attention here."

You’re moving synovial fluid, which acts like WD-40 inside the joint capsule.

You’re stimulating lymphatic drainage and blood flow, which reduces inflammation and restores range.

And—here’s a big one—you’re helping to break down aberrant crossbridging in connective tissue.

When joints stop moving, the fascia around them starts to bind. Little molecular Velcro forms where glide should exist. The result? Stiffness. Adhesion. Diminished access.

CARs interrupt that.

They bring the body back online.

But it’s not just the tissue. It’s the software, too.

When a joint isn’t used through its full available range, the central nervous system begins to downregulate access to that range. It’s a protective mechanism. The body says, "We’re not using this, so let’s shut it down."

That neural “off switch” doesn’t come with a warning. It just happens.

And then one day, your body doesn’t just feel tight—it’s been reprogrammed to believe that space is off limits.

This shows up everywhere.

• The CrossFit athlete who can’t get into true overhead flexion.

• The yoga student compensating through their lumbar spine because they’ve lost deep hip rotation.

• The skier or snowboarder with reduced spinal rotation and hip mobility.

• The climber or MMA athlete missing wrist control.

• The runner who’s lost ankle dorsiflexion.

• The swimmer muscling through every stroke because their scapulae no longer rotate freely.

• The cyclist with locked-up T-spine and hip flexors.

• The golfer who’s lost trunk rotation.

• The average person who hasn’t squatted in a decade—now compensating with every box they lift.

Loss of range = loss of options.

And when you lose options, you start to leak energy—or worse, force.

Eventually, you pay for it.

CARs are how you remind your nervous system what your body is capable of.

And here’s the kick in the groin:

Sporting equipment is being designed more and more to promise us performance we no longer own — because we lost the right to it.

• We buy wider skis because we can’t drive through the hips.

• We buy carbon fiber bikes to shave seconds because our core can’t stabilize under power.

• We get custom orthotics because our ankles no longer know how to actively pronate or supinate.

• We pick a softer yoga mat because our joints can’t tolerate contact with the floor.

• We invest in high-performance gear to cover for low-performance movement.

• And I’m not against it. I’m just calling it what it is.

• I’ve got a mentor in my life right now who says this often:

"Structure must be earned."

But most of us are out here trying to purchase performance we haven’t earned.

Trying to take ownership of structure that the nervous system hasn’t validated.

This doesn’t make you weak.

It makes you human.

But it also makes you responsible, because now you know.

Start with five minutes.

Move one joint. Slowly. Intentionally. Daily.

Not for the calories.

Not for the flex.

Not to perform—but to reclaim ownership of something you quietly gave away.

Because the life you say you want? It still needs your body to show up for it.

You already know.

The question is—are you willing to move like it?