Snowplow!

We went skiing last month. 3 days worth, during our 5 days in Colorado.

Robin loves to ski. I don't. I love Robin. Robin told me I would learn to love skiing. What I suspect is that Robin loves to watch me ski.

We got off to a shaky vacation start. I was sick. Over-bundled as I boarded the plane in longjohns, double wool socks, snow shoes (it was about 65 degrees that morning in Tampa) and weak from not eating, I spent the day staring at my knees, hoping not to puke (or worse). I made it through 2 flight changes, 2 shuttles, and finally to our little rental condo with no messes to report.

Out there the roadsides were uncharacteristically brackish due to an 8 day drought of snowfall. That night as we settled in it began snowing and never really stopped. More than a Florida boy could ever hope for. We farted around the remainder of that day as well as the day after, stalling the inevitable ski date until I could eat again. Then I'd run out of excuses.

On the 3rd day, we rented our crap and crept out to the slopes, wearing those 50lb hard plastic boots that force you into a Felix-the-catlike posture. Rrrighteeeooo!! It took another year or so to get locked into the skis. We stood poised side by side, watching the super highway of folks flying past us and she said something like "we'll just take the small lift to start", pointing down the slope at the station about a half mile away and I said something like "you don't understand, I'm not sure I can make it over there", pointing to a fence post about 15 feet away (I was already sliding sideways, as I recall).

An hour later, I'm skiing the only way I know how. . . . which is to travel in a straight line, downhill. Behind me during each kamikaze trip down the bunny slope, nearly lost in the freezing wind was the sound of my wife's' voice screaming "SNOWPLOW! SNOWPLOW!" In theory I suppose the snowplow/pizza slice thing would work but I couldn't shake the thought of it merely snapping both legs off neatly at the knees. So I carried on in a straight line. Setting course until I gathered enough speed to eventually lose contact with the powder and wipe out, skittering across the frozen tundra like an overdressed Raggedy Andy doll.

. . . and there would be Robin, helping me collect my stuff, stifling a full blown laugh long enough to make sure I was not broken and, of course, telling me how great I was doing. "Oh Honey, you are doing really good, really, you are getting the hang of it, just SNOWPLOW if you think you are going too fast".

Without the brainpower to fear the worst, I talked myself into going up higher into the mountains, where I invented new ways to bust my ass. "Isn't this fun? I told you that you would love it!" she said later that day. "Yeah, it's a blast", I said "anytime you can hear your own voice involuntarily blurt out OH NO is a good time".

I'm sure falling down is dangerous but mostly it just wore me out. After one particularly bad run where I'd somehow crossed from a beginners' zone into a swath of run that I estimated to be 4' wide path, trees, cliff, and abyss, I opted to hurl myself into the powdery white embankment. All around me, children whizzed by, french frying and pizzaing their way down the mountainside with no poles and no apparent problems.

Once again I gathered my stuff, locked in, and blitzed into a hairy section of tricky land, quickly losing control and ditching my way into yet another snowdrift. I lay there, looking like I'd been thrown from a plane, Just a heap of rental appliances and borrowed snow gear which sadly had given others the impression that I was a person who knew what he was doing.

This time I was buried enough to have to think about which limb to move because I couldn't see any of them. Robin came swooshing up to a gentle, controlled stop. "Oh, God, I saw you do that, are you ok? Here, let me help you" said Robin". "Just let me lay here" I said. "You know?, Eff this, I've got no Effing business out here, I'm gonna Effing kill myself or even worse, kill some innocent person because I don't know how to Effing SNOWPLOW, let alone TURN, I don't even know where the Eff my other ski is, I'm so effing worn out from falling every Effing time I get on these things, and right now I'm just laying here, wondering how the Eff I'm gonna get down the rest of this Effing mountain, plus this time I think snow has actually gotten into my Effing ass crack".

"You are doing really great" she said as I rose and cleared the remaining snow from my boots (and butt crack) .

The following day I had an epiphany of sorts, learning to actually turn and stop and snowplow with nearly the skill of an average toddler. We ventured even further up into the mountains. The scenery was breathtaking. The sensation of gliding down white solitary paths, enveloped in the sound of the freezing wind was unlike anything I've experienced in these 47 years.

Somewhere along the way that day I managed to remain upright and learned to love skiing, just as she promised.

A Year & Six Minutes

Another month. Another running layoff. Another comeback.

We took a trip out to Steamboat Springs, Co. at the beginning of February. I skipped a few days of running before the trip, got a stomach flu the day before we left (which is a story unto itself but I won't be eating at Bonefish Grille anytime soon)), skied for a week, caught a non-stomach flu on the way home (a special shoutout to the the guy in row 26 seat D who coughed his way from Hayden to Houston) and spent another week just making it through the workday in order to sweat it out on the couch.

Sprinkle in a few more excuses and it adds up to a month.

I got turned on to Facebook a week or so ago. I figured it was time when my 61 year old brother-in-law was discussing his MyFaceBook page. I knew enough to distinguish MySpace from Facebook (after all, I still have a teenage daughter at home), but I felt old and behind, not having either.

Through the "will you be my friend?" thing you have to do on Facebook, I got reconnected to some old acquaintances as you might expect. One happy coincidence was discovering that yet another old local musician that I used to know is a new convert to running. He had just completed his 1st race and I recommended another race that he might like and I mentioned that it would be cool to run it together. Then he went registered for it. Then I got so inspired that I didn't run for another week.

We met Saturday morning about 5 minutes before race time. No warm up. No stretching. Just catching up on old times in the back of the pack, wedged in among jogging strollers and seniors with big white walking shoes.

When the air horn blasted, my legs wanted to snap into action, and my mind had to shut them off. Not today. Together me and my friend weedled thru the walkers and doggies and locked into an even pace and I babbled on, enjoying the course, saying hey to the volunteers I knew along the way. My friend netted a nice 3 minute personal best at the finish line.

It was a nice morning, getting back out among folks who like doing what I do, meeting old friends, and seeing several college "kids" that I coached in high school.

When I got home I realized that I'd run this same little race one year ago and 6 minutes faster.

Last year at this time I was a few weeks into another comeback when I raced it.

I had a great time both mornings. It's good to be running again.

The Warmth Of The Sun

For some reason our radio alarm clock got set to a local easy listening station and we never got around to changing it. It is actually a great way to wake each morning. We both invariably recognise the wakeup song, usually well enough to sing along. I'll admit to a lyric change here or there to solicit a laugh from Robin.

The host of the radio show is named Dick Ring. Why he never got around to changing it, we don't know but we are glad he didn't. Dick Ring. Insert your own joke here.

Today the sun set just as it rose. Dick Ring selected the Beach Boys' "Warmth Of The Sun" as my feet slid from the bedcovers to the cold wood floor. How could I have guessed that as I trod to the shower this morning as the song ended that I would be running along a dirt path at the park, watching the distant procession of cars turning on their headlights one by one as the sun set, that the iPod would have selected that very tune.

And how could I have not heard that brilliant ride cymbal, sleigh bells, and the tapping of tuned glasses of water through that 1" speaker on my AM transistor radio 40 years ago?

Plaid One

Getting back into the swing of running has never been this difficult. So far, it has been more like the stumble of running.

In the summer of 2001, Jill’s soccer coach ordered her and her teammates to run a mile each day as part of pre-season conditioning. Being and off and on jogger who’d been “off” for nearly a decade, I offered to go with her. I knew I’d run well under 6 minute pace in high school and expected to run at least in the 7’s without much problem.

The first time out, I wheezed to a 9. A few weeks later I shook my head in disgust after barely braking 30 minutes for the 3 miles I’d measured between the house and the soccer field. I began running during Jill’s soccer practice time. It didn’t come easy. Cumbersome in floppy basketball pants a heavy cotton shirt, clunky cross training shoes. . . having that “God, I need to pee” feeling every damn time I set out.

I’d run as far away from the field as I dared in order to make it back before her practice ended. I increased the distance of that loop as often and finally bought a cheap digital watch and started timing my runs. I stared at my reflection in the dressing room mirror at Sports Authority, embarrassed by what I looked like in running shorts.

My 185 pound frame soon dropped into the 160’s. I bought a decent pair of running shoes. I pushed the distance. I took off from the house after work to attempt a 13 miles loop through the beaches and stranded myself more than once with no other choice than to walk or run in order to get home before midnight.

I stopped eating fast food. The foods I’d enjoyed no longer appealed to me. A few months later I was down to 140 pounds and our friends began discreetly asking Robin if I was sick. I’d never felt better in my life.

Over the last 7 years I’ve enjoyed the highs of good fitness, meeting new running partners, coaching kids, pre-race warm ups and post race pancakes. I’ve bitched and whined through the lows of injury and rediscovered the discipline of starting over.

Once again, I find my running body back at square one. Two weeks back into the stumble, counting the minutes I’m able to move forward is giving way to counting the miles I can cover.

Last Sunday night my Grandson sat at our dinner table, chilly from just getting out of the bathtub, he asked for his “square shirt”. We couldn’t figure out what he meant.”You mean a tee shirt, Man?” “No, Poppo, the square one”. I produced an old band shirt from 1989 (when his mother was 2) that sported a cartoon of a dog with some floating musical notes. I pointed out that the dog as saying bow WOW! Because he liked the music. This seemed adequate and he stopped asking for the square shirt.

A few minutes later, it dawned on me that what he meant to say was “plaid”.

Cretin Hop

Stepping back into our gym after 8 months of slugtime was like being in a time warp of sorts. I see the same folks, doing the same exercises, wearing the same clothes. . . like I never missed a beat. I know the proper names of some of the folks and some we've named:

There is Thaxton, a professor at one of our local colleges who was a serious highhigh mileage runner back during the boom years. He seems nearly 7 feet tall and I think it is for that reason as much as any that his body won't allow him to run much anymore. Yet he works at every aspect of personal fitness in hopes that an elevation in his overall strength will help him return to running again someday.

There is a guy that Robin and I call the "C'mon" guy. He walks about with an arrogant demeanor, mounts any given stairmaster or elliptical machine and, wearing headphones, supposedly unaware of the sounds emitting from his piehole, will blurt out COME OHN, like (god forgive me) a very masculine Marlee Matlin. He is ALWAYS there. We are like cmonguy magnets, Robin and me. He is a sweat swisher, too."How was it?" Robin will ask sometimes when I return. "Not so good, the CMON guy parked his ass next to my machine and sweated all over the damn place, I had to listen to his underwater sounding bullshit for a half hour".

There is oldcouple couple. The woman always gets right down to business on a recumbent bike or seomthing and the old guy farts around for a few minutes, then stands next to the old woman's machine, alternately pointing out how she us not performing the exercise correctly and asking when they are leaving.

There is Keith who works there. A great guy, a great runner who is happy to come over and talk about coaching and running and this makes the time on the mill or lip pass more quickly.

Not everything is the same as I left it however, a few new machines have arrived during my absence. I tried a new version of the elliptical machine last night. I've watched other people use over the last few days and it looked more like the motion of running to me than the standard hamster wheel machines so I hopped on the thing and fired it up. It is different than the ones that I'm used to. The resistance was much harder than the other ones and no amount of pushing changed the feeling of those nightmares you have when you are trying to run but you can't and it feels like quicksand and slow motion and I imagined the "Cmon" guys' voice would fit quite nicely to compete the package.

No matter what I did, I couldn't go faster. It felt like I was hopping or bounding. After 45 minutes of the experiment, I called it a night.

Speaking of hopping, I've been in a Ramones phase as of late. There were a shitload of bands in our area, let alone the world that would not have existed if not for The Ramones. And Thank God for YouTube. If you can't smile about a song like this. . . .

YouTube - Ramones Cretin Hop It´s Alive 1977

Gabba Gabba Hey!

Boy, you're gonna carry that weight a long time

*My* marathon happened 8 days ago. I didn't make ot to the starting line. My race bib is tucked away in a goody bag somewhere within the confines of the Magic Kingdom. No sweat off Disney's collective cans. They have my entry fee. To them I'm just one less bony lizard standing in line at the expo, taking up a shuttle bus and porta-john seat, or making a ridiculous finish line pose for the cameras.

Along with the forfeiture of dollars, I broke a 5 year streak of completing a marathon and somewhere along the way, I broke the habit of running.

As of last Monday, I'm just another New Years' Resolution mouthbreathing fat ass clogging up the cardio machines at the gym. In this Korrnerrr! Weighing in at 174 pounds, eating "fun size" candy bars all day long, chocolate covered pretzels, big lunches, and panting at the top of every stairwell, is the former svelterweight . . . Chubbylands Own . . . .Ray.

Its ok. I know the cure: oatmeal breakfasts, tuna and cottage cheese lunches, reasonable dinners, and a daily dose of gym or road.

Historically, I've been able to drop the weight after I've finished my post marathon running layoff (which invariably happens, whether I pull the plug to heal or I am being just plain weak and backsliding). I have experienced weird post marathon eating habits during these layoffs.

One year I got hooked on McDonaldland hot fudge sundaes. That is a lot of fudge stuff for a buck, no?

Another year I became obsessed with Cracker Jacks. Another great value at 99 cents for the "big grab" bag. You'd be surprised to know that Jacks are not available at every CVS and Walgreens. But the stores that didn't carry Jacks had Fiddle-Faddles, which is a far more addictive, lethally sugary version of Jacks.

Last year I moved up in price and volume the Taco Bell #6, The numero seis, discovered to me after a well-meaning employee mentioned "did I know I was paying more for a casadilla and a drink than I would be for a #6 which included a soft taco?" WhyNo, I didn't, senorita, serve me up! I was running for the border way too much but I still managed to get that in check, too.

This layoff seems to be another deal altogether. Time passes, I'm older, I'm tired, and I'm feeling all 30 or so extra pounds of it. Maybe I'm burned out from all the nights and weekends of remodeling Amelia's house. Maybe I'm just older and tired. Robin says I'll be back to form in 2 more weeks. . . .

The thing is that I understand the mountain of work that it took in order to be able to run with the people that I most enjoy running with. The work I do on my own is just to be able to hang with the kids we coach during a simple trail run or catch a Sunday morning long run with friends whose dedication to the mileage of this hobby far exceeds my own.

In other news, Robin and I leave for Steamboat Colorado for some skiing and snowplaying in a few weeks. While checking out some stuff online, I found that a marathon takes place there in June and this has my interest. It's sure to be cooler there than here, the altitude running would be a challenge, and the scenery will be beautiful.

Christmas Tree Massacre-

My little family was responsible for the senseless deaths of over 300 Christmas trees in the winter of 2000.

We had visited Robin's brother in Maine that summer. He had a long standing yen to sell Christmas trees. During our visit there, we drove up the coast to a Christmas tree farm. "I'll fly down and help you guys, It will be great", he said. We got caught up in the smell of the balsams and spirit of Christmas in July, walking together through acres of symmetrically sown green triangles. We hatched a plan to have a few thousand of the beauties shipped to Florida and try to sell them for fun and profit at a commercial building we had bought, that was empty (save for a tiny office I'd made for Robin) and that I was remodeling in my spare time.

October rolled around before we knew it and we had to place the tree order. I calculated the area of storage in the little 1000 sq. ft. building to keep the trees climate controlled. We fenced in an area for sales and got hundreds of feet of lights and 50 or so tree stands. We planned to have music and hot apple cider and "kanny kanes" for the kids and have a good old time selling trees. We considered ordering 2 truckloads (1400 trees!..Oh foolish mortals) and finally settled on a single 700 tree shipment with an option to reorder by December 1st if we "sold out".

The supplier called a few days before the due date and regretfully informed us that he could "only" fit 670 trees on the truck. We were disappointed. 30 less trees to sell.

The morning of the eve of Thanksgiving the polar express backed up to our building and all our family and well wishers were on hand to help offload the shipment. The driver pulled the latch, the door whirled up like a "winder shade" and I got a quick education about what a truckload of trees really means.

It's a shitload, folks.

The trees were nearly frozen and still covered with snow. It smelled like a gigantic air-freshener, sickly so.. and that should have been a sign.

We began by unloading them very systematically and orderly, stacking them cordwood style from the back of the building to the front. We arranged them by size and stacked them as high as we could throw them. We ran out of building space about halfway into the truckload. We started stacking them upright (as if that would make a difference), the driver needed to get going. We pulled the rest of them out rather unceremoniously into the parking lot and began selecting the "weak ones" (as you would the runts of a litter) to keep outside. We spent the rest of the day drilling holes in the trunks and staging the area for the big day.

They were beautiful. Balsam Firs. The most fragrant of the X-mas tree fleet. Long, soft needles.We cut the ropes and watched one after another spring to life. I swear we made made the Ooh and Aah noises as one does at a fireworks each time we cut another one loose of its rigging. We set poles and cattle wire to "secure" the area and soaked up thousands of watts of energy burning 100 yards of the clear bulbous bulbs we strung throughout the property. We bought bales of hay and slung it all about to cover the asphalt parking lot. We were ready to unleash our goodwill and green needles on the general public.

We began selling in earnest on the day after Thanksgiving. By my count we needed to sell about 30 a day to sell out by Christmas. I kept a ledger. We didn't expect many sales that Friday and that's about what we got.

The first weekend sales were good. Everyone got into the act. We ran around and sang and loaded up and stuffed trees into trunks and onto SUV luggage racks and into the beds of El Camino's and F150's. We delivered trees to folks who couldn't or wouldn't get them home.

I worked my usual 10 hour day at the office and sold trees at night afterward. Robin and the girls helped on the weekend. My sister and brother-in-law and Mom and Dad came and gave us a night off a few times.

The early sales rush cooled off and the weather heated up and the needles began to hit the terra and people began asking "where are your Douglas and Frazier Firs?" and I became less enthusiastic about picking "the perfect" tree for every soul that came by. I'd tell them about the difference between them all, pointing out the superiority of my dying trees. "The needles fall off those Balsams", a man would say to his wife. "SCREW YOU" I'd bellow silently, "can't you see I'm losing my ass here?" The closer it came to the big day, the more I realized that people aren't happy about getting trees so late in the game. They are either sent on missions by their spouses or picking one up out of habit and the very worst of them wait in order to haggle with you as you go down the tubes. It turns the process into an ugly exchange of currency. To those types I dug in my heels and wouldn't budge on price.

I could tell you about all the efforts we made to attempt to save our trees from a quick Florida death but the truth is that around 10 days into the experience, I knew we were headed for a big red bath. Too many trees, choking the office, sliding down in a fragrant avalanche most nights and blocking the bathroom door. I gave a few away to parents in beat up cars who had kids. We burned the deadest of the dead ones in our fireplace at home and in chimminea outside the tree stand as I waited for anyone to pull in.

By December 20th, I'd had enough. I opened up the gates and posted a giant sign:

ALL TREES 20.00. HONOR SYSTEM. SLIDE THE MONEY UNDER THE DOOR. REMEMBER, IF YOU TAKE ONE WITHOUT PAYING, YOU ARE A THIEF AT CHRISTMAS.

I'd come in at the end of my workday and pick up anywhere from 10 (from borderline thieves) to 200 dollars splayed on the floor.

When at last the needles had settled, we sold somewhere in the area of 400 trees. A respectable number for a tiny parking lot in a small town, peppered with Home Depots, Targets, and WalMarts, all vying for a share of the Santa Claus buck. I was sick about the waste of the balance of our stockpile. For weeks I cut ties, pruned, and burned them to sweet smelling ashes, but it never seemed to make a dent in the surplus.

40 days after the truck from Maine dumped the shipment at our doorstep, I was lugging nearly half the load back out into the parking lot and into a 40 cubic yard dumpster I'd rented from the city solid waste department upon their assurance that they would mulch rather than incinerate the remains.

I begged Robin to let me have another crack at it the following year. This time I'd order Douglas Firs from North Carolina for half the shipping cost. We would only order 400. We'd sell them all and recoup the 3 grand we lost last year!

Not a chance, said she.

Last night we purchased a 6' Douglas Fir tree from Lowe's for 33:95. My daughter Jill came along with us (only partially interested in our ritual, I think) "what about those over there?" she asked pointing absently toward a corral of Balsams.

"We will never have a Balsam tree again", was all I could muster up as a response.

This was probably Jill's last tree trip with us. She'll be off to college in a few months. I suspect she will be coming home only briefly next year to find the tree decorated and ready for inspection. She stood in the tent in short sleeves, sending and receiving text messages and waiting to get back home to do her nails.

My grandson came along and I scooped him up on my shoulders to watch the tree man trim an inch off the trunk and we put him in charge of watching the tree so it wouldn't fly out during the short ride home. He "helped" me carry the netted trophy up the flight of brick stairs and clip the netting off after it was placed in the stand.

As bittersweet as it is for me to not have my daughters' young again, running through the tents and picking their favorite trees each year, I'm hopeful for the chance to pick out a few more with my grandchildren before I meet my maker and atone for the extra 300 I wasted I wasted during Christmas of the year 2000.