Head over Heels

5 fingers per foot

2010-04-01T06:45:00.000-07:00

I'll admit to being a little sucked up into the barefoot running craze (?) sweeping the running nation (?). I think it is of particular interest to older broken-downer-middle-of-the-packer runners (like me) who want an explanation as to why they are not faster, injury-free, efficient forefoot strike runners.

As a kid in the 60's and early 70's in Florida, I can tell you without hesitation that summers were spent barefoot. Bike riding, running nearly everywhere we went, riding horses, and even going to the pick-kwik for icees (before the no shoes-no shirt-no shit thing came to pass). Shoes were for school and church. I don't remember ever having cuts or foot injuries. However, we had pretty filthy feet.

When I ran high school cross country, our coach (the legendary Brent Haley), let us run in old Converse Chuck Taylors, "tennis" shoes, or Keds for a few weeks before putting us into pairs of Brooks Drakes, that had rubbery waffle treads and insanely high wedge heels. And several among us dealt with a variety of lower leg problems. Looking back now, was that a result of the high mileage and intensity, or the footwear?

A few years back I coached a kid who's Dad was a sports podiatrist. I was duly lectured about the absurdity of the human foot, which is apparently loose bag of bones that should not be run upon without expensive cast orthotics that are to be placed within the expensive shoes that are overblown with the latest forefoot cushion goo and are not to be used beyond 300 (or so) miles.

I've seen too many kids run injury free in crappy shoes or running shoes that were deemed "broken down and unusable" (that are often donated to us) to swear that you have to have new shoes, be it of the cushioned, stability, or the dreaded Herman Munster motion control flavor. Yet I'm right in there making sure their parents spring for a 50-75 dollar pair of shoes at the beginning of each season because I'd rather not be a maverick with other peoples' kids' pods.

So between seasons I've read "Born To Run" and every other barefoot and minimalist shoe study I can get my eyes on. And at Christmas I was presented with a pair of Vibram 5 Finger shoes that I've been puttering around in from time to time. I have worn them very sparingly. I also have been attending a weekly barefoot running "clinic" for the last few weeks. The barefoot clinic as it turns out is less about running mileage barefoot than it is about reconnecting with the mechanics of running like you did when you didn't know any better. The feeling of running freely on soft (and often wet) grass is nearly overwhelming. There has to be something to it when the assembled 40-50 year old dudes smile and blurt out how much they feel like a kid again. So far no one has turned up injured, which leads me to believe that no one will. Will I throw my stability shoes away and become a minimalist footwear(er) or barefoot-bible thumping freak?

Probably not.

All I know is that I look forward to "barefoot running" day more than any running day of the week. And that has to be a good thing.

Rock & Run

2010-01-22T13:58:00.000-08:00

Ok, I run with an iPod. Maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s a puss move to perform the act of running with musical accompaniment Maybe it’s dangerous to jam those earbuds deep into your earholes, crank up the volume, and blot out the din of passing cars, sneaky bicycle bums, and assholes who honk and yell “Run Forest, Run!” as they blow by. Maybe it’s a factor in the softening of American “tough running” or the amount of sub 2:30 Boston finishers compared to 1979. Maybe, but I do it.

I ran in the late 80’s with a Sony walkman cassette player (nearly as large as a Japanese bento box) and clunky headphones with foamy ear muffs and 20’ cords that were looped and bread- tied. I ran with the first micro-teeny am/fm radios that seemed to only receive sports talk radio programs (talk about a bummer to run to). I ran with crappy portable cd players, developing a food servers’ type running gait to keep the thing steady and tracking. And I've run with tinny mp3's that held too few songs and sucked the life out of triple A batteries before you could finish a decent long run.

So I’ve done my penance and I deserve the right to run with a compact, efficient product that straps on my bicep, keeps a charge, and holds a gabillion songs that can be shuffled such that you won’t hear the same song for hundreds of running miles.

Tuesday night as I ran the old 13 mile beach loop without the proper light to see the reading on the Garmin, I thought that you could really do some neat workouts just based off of the average song time of a particular artist/band, set to the correlating distances..

Example:

Distance Artist
¼ mile repeats Circle Jerks, Minutemen, Ramones
½ mile repeats Any AM radio 1960’s pop song (average time 2:45)
mile repeats Jesus and Mary Chain, Joy Division
Fartlek Any Nirvana song
tempo repeats Rush, Yes, ELP

And on that note...30 years ago, I could run a 5k faster than you could finish the album version of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (baby, 17:05). This March when I run my next race, I’ll be lucky to finish faster than it took Kraftwerk to beep the last boop on that classic hit “Autobahn” (22:43).

Tenslow

2010-01-15T13:50:00.000-08:00

It’s been an up and down week of running. With any luck I'll get a few mile miles in today and tomorrow for a total of 30 or so miles and I'd like to think I'm getting back to a point where I don't feel like a total fraud when I say "I run".

Saturday it was cold and rainy as I headed out for a run through the park. I did explore a new route through an adjoining golf course and scoped out a section for a possible ¼ mile loop for the kids to work out on next year.

Sunday we hung back from the morning run, instead going after lunch to attempt the beach loop on the coldest day we’ve had in a long time. I made it to our 3 mile watering hole and feeling out of sorts, aborted the mission. “Its like someone just pushed me in the back and I’ve been falling forward the whole time”. Robin said “Don't worry about it. It’s like Maude (her pilates guru) says.. Not all days are the same”. I have not run less than half of what I set out to do in a long, long time.

Both days I’d barely cracked 9 mm pace for the average of the run.

Tuesday I ran out to the beach immediately after work, getting into a quick rhythm in the 8:30 zone, and feeling randy at the turn around point I threw in 6 x 1 minute of surge pace (which turned out to be a dismal 7 mm) followed by 1 minute trail pace recoveries (this wound up being 1.5 miles for 12 minutes) and cooled down the additional 2 miles home (remarkably around the 8:30 pace again) for 7 miles total which is a big day for my current state of volume/quality.

Last night I had in mind to run semi long and slow. The sun was setting as I crossed the 1st bridge and the temp was in the mid 50’s (very nice). I’d popped a handful of almonds into my mouth and chased it with a few sips of water before I left. I’d also tossed a gel in my shirt pouch in case I ran out of gas. Along the way I was thinking about the Tarahumara runners (I am currently reading “Born To Run”) and before I realized it, I had crossed the south bridge and was back on the mainland in the pitch darkness, 9 miles away from where I’d started and running faster each mile. I finished with a tad over 10 uninterrupted (the cooler weather has made it possible to run without stopping to drink) miles.

At home I slipped into the pool for an ice bath. My feet turned into frozen rocks and thought twice before deciding not to venture in beyond the kneecaps.

move it

2010-01-07T16:14:00.000-08:00

Coe's dad said that in order to run fast you must train fast. I was so beat last night that I couldn't bear the thought of another slow, fat plodding run (I hate the way my feet sound as they slap the surface of the asphalt when I'm not fit) so I went to the man cave (Mia's old room), closed the door (to seal the heat loss from the rest of the house), opened the windows (at 40 degrees out, I thought it would cool the room down), and fired up the mill for a quick leg turnover workout, lumbering through a 10 minute "warm-up" and rolling into 5 x 1 minute @6:20 pace w/1 min jog recovery at 10mm pace. The total was less than 3 miles. Bleh.

This afternoon around 4, I called Robin and asked her to come home early (5 pm) and ride alongside while I ran out to the beach (I'm lucky she likes the bridge and likes to ride the beach). I got home at 4:55 and was under the blue hairy blanket (a term that our grandson uses to described this particular blanket) by 4:57). Robin rolled into the drive at 5 and bolted through the front door ready to go.

About 30 minutes and 3.6 miles later we stood at the boardwalk near the shore and watched the remains of the day as it slipped behind water. It is moments like this that remind me I'd be crazy to consider anywhere else. Heading home, talking about our upcoming ski trip, feeling the cold wind on everything that was not covered, for a few miles I dreamed of what it would be like to always be running in cool weather and in that zone, lost the sound of my feet slapping the concrete.

come and get your love

2010-01-05T16:56:00.000-08:00

Another chilly evening here. I took a zero (no running) on Monday as a planned recovery from Sunday's long run and held off today until after work to get a few miles in. All day I was thinking "I'll run 5.5 miles"..why? "Because that would add up to an even 20 miles between Sunday and today's' run" what is the significance of that? "beats the hell out of me". It was just under 40 degrees on the bank clock/therm as I pulled onto our street. I was bone assed tired and cold and waited until dark so I could slip on some full length running tights without giving my neighbors an Ichabod Crane sighting. I didn't "waste" time stretching or anything and began as soon as the gps got a signal. I immediately fell into an uncomfortably fast pace and stayed there until I got home. Why? "I have no idea". What is the purpose of running beyond the comfort zone when all you are trying to do is make a comeback and build a little base? "beats the hell outta me".

When I got home and the smell of ammonia that escaped the pores subsided, I checked my email and learned that Tony Bellamy, the guitarist of the 70's band Redbone had died of liver failure. I remembered the song "come and get your love" very well from the radio and from all those k-tel records commercials that we endured as kids and from the Don Kirshner's Rock Concert late night tv show. So much was possible back in those days that I don't believe is possible now. I couldn't begin to understand how the music industry works anymore.

old feelings

2010-01-04T17:47:00.000-08:00

It's been a chilly 2010. The last 2 Sundays have been run in layered clothes. Last Sunday we rounded up a group of kids and fashioned an 8 mile beach/bridge run, including an assault on all 3 bridges that make up our old 14 mile Clearwater loop. It was a fun run, met out at a very leisure pace and was a reintroduction to running "long" for a few of the girls who hadn't done much since cross country season ended back in early November. The boys among the group did what they do, fartleking as on auto pilot, hurdling, and bolting around the girls like colts.

The highlight of the run was being able to cross the Belleair Beach Causeway bridge, which had been closed to pedestrian traffic for some 2 or so years, during its (re)construction process. Several among the local running club had been and turned away from or escorted off of the bridge by whatever law enforcement agency was patrolling the span during this time. I had looked forward to running over the thing again for the longest time and vowed to have a little party on the first Sunday following the opening. And we did so at the end of the trek with cinnamon rolls and asiago bagels at the Panera Bread, located about a 1/2 mile from the east end of the span. All present agreed that it was such a great time that we'd do the same run and bakery deal on the following Sunday.

But as the week went on, it got colder and when I didn't hear from any of the kids by Saturday night, I switched plans and decided to tag along with my old buddies who would be running a marathon in 7 days. The temp at the bank thermometer at the end of our street read 36 degrees as we headed out at 6:30 and with a slight breeze, it felt a little cooler yet. I had dug out my old long compression socks and long compression shorts and threw on a pair of poly sweat pants over them, intending to shuck them at the meeting place. I also had a long sleeve techie type shirt with a loose NB windbreaker over that and completed the set with a woolie beany and glove liners. Once we got there, I decided to keep the sweat pants on ( a very good move).

We struck out, eyes watering and noses running and got a nice wake up call courtesy of the crosswind on the 1st bridge at mile 2. My head got hot and sweaty (for the life of me, I can't wear those things) and I pulled it and the windbreaker off at the marina at mile 5...only to put the windbreaker back on just a few minutes later. I guess the slower pace gave me more time to focus on the wind chill or something. By this time, Robin's fingers were numb (a combination of the cold and gripping the bike handles, I think) so at each stop, I'd have her pull her gloves off and I'd do the Mr. Miyagi friction warm up with my warmed gloves on her bare fingers.

I have not run over 10 miles for a year or more and at mile 9, as the cramping and lower back fatigue set in, I thought back to the times when I was running pretty well and pretty long and how bad but good it was to be at mile 20 or a 23 mile run, knowing that you had more to go and wondering how your legs would allow this to happen. "Mile 9 feels like mile 19 used to feel" is what I said to anyone interested.

We pressed on further down the beach and back onto the mainland and I wisely aborted the idea of getting back to our starting place (for 17.5 miles) in lieu of just trying to get toward home (which was closer to 15) and Robin gamely peeled off to get back home and fetch a car (to stop the suffering and to hurry up breakfast). I resolved to run a "hard" last mile, shut the GPS off at the 14.5 mile mark, and walk until I was rescued.

It felt so good to crawl into the warm car, out of the freezing and sweat soaked running gear and into dry one size fits all bumwear during the ride to the restaurant. I had forgotten the feeling of trying to get out of a car or into a booth after a long run. I had forgotten how good those first sips of iced tea were, and how drinking feels much like filling tiny and thin flattened water balloons that I imagined my veins and arteries to be.

And I kick myself in the ass for getting too far away from these experiences by taking the time off from running "long" like I have these last few years.

(I'm) On Facebook

2010-01-03T13:33:00.000-08:00

Facebook; “reconnect with friends and family”. Seek out (and stalk) old high school crushes, workplace flings, or relatives who you haven’t “talked” to for years (for good reasons).

Facebook; Put yourself out there and ask a stranger to be your friend. Take a chance that they will remember you as well as you remember them. “Man, it’s been a long time, great to hear from you! Remember that time we rolled old lady McDermott’s house after she suspended us for putting dead baby sharks in the school pool before the state meet?!? Haha, lol” …Only to get the response “Great hearing from you, too. I don’t remember any of that. All my best to you and your family. Take care”.

Facebook; If you weren’t popular in high school, don’t try to come back and try that shit now. It doesn’t work any better than it did then. It has a way of being a virtual class reunion of sorts. Unless you became a rock star or a doctor between the time your cap tassel hit the ground and today you’d better back the fudge up and know your place in the hierarchy of high school reconnection protocol. The old Prom Queen might grace you with a "friend confirmation" but that doesn't mean you can sniff around her wall.

Facebook; Send a “How is your Mom (Dad, husband, wife, aunt, or dog) doing? Tell ‘em I said Hi! and give ‘em all my best!”. And you get back a “They are dead, thanks for asking, all my best to you, take care”. On facebook you are supposed to give all your best all the time. Note: If you get an "all my best" or a "take care", that is code for "please don't try to interact with me again".

Facebook; Woah: take it easy on those profile pics. Bring it in close for a face shot if you’ve put on a few lbs., crop the top off if you are bald (or balding), or go ahead and post a picture of you with your best-looking kid to validate your genetic value (as in "I might look like shit now but look what I made). Even more bizarre, you see a number of profile "pics" that are cartoon characters or animals. I wonder what that means. If you've been in a horrible accident then God Bless You but if you've just aged badly then that is cheating. And hey, if you don’t want to be “found” then don’t participate. Otherwise let us see what the fuck you look like (currently), ok?

Facebook; How many ways can you say “happy, good, like, glad, or sorry” without having to use those very words. When you don’t know how else to respond, dispense a “thanks for sharing”, a Haha, or an lol. Use an exclamation point to end nearly every sentence because you are excited and you mean it! Interject a dude, bro, man, or buddy with the guys to keep it masculine; "Love you, bro!" will go over... but "I love you, Ray" is something different. Don't get your luv and love fucked up, there will be a problem. Oh, and send ”healing vibes” and "hugs" to the less fortunate (like you are some kind of fucking telepathic typing shaman or something). And don’t give us a spellcheck, you facebook bastards, because we need to reevaluate the intelligence of those who don’t know the difference between to and too, their and there, hear and here, then and than, we’re and were, etc..

Facebook; You let us know more about my friends than we had bargained for. I didn’t want to know so and so was a fan of any right wing, left wing, God fearing, god is dead, or smart ass "turn my house into a pirate ship" group, or that they “heart” tattoos, Harleys, and lingerie models. And don’t get me started on your Farmville, Fishville, Shitville, Mafia Wars score (kapeesh?), or whatever the fuck you just “whipped up” at the whatchacallit cafe. If I scroll-stroll through your “wall” and all I see for miles is your game scores, delicious dishes, or virtual livestock count then you are simply a masturbator.. you are just doing facebook for yourself. All we really want you people to do is post responses to our witty status updates and tag pictures of us (preferably of when we were younger and thinner, please).

Facebook; You give us a “what’s on your mind” box which becomes our “status”. Help us identify and label the needy, clinically depressed, drunkard, who has “the most amazing husband (or wife) in the world!” (which of course means they are banging someone other than their amazing wife or husband), or who is living in some variety of denial.

Facebook; Gives us the philosophers, metaphysics, mystics, provokers, and lyric quoters who post their (Googled) “thought of the day” and “guess what kind of mood I’m in” bullshit. You know, the deep thinkers and Gandhis who are in reality plumbers (like me) or receptionists who would cut you in line at Disney or flip you off in a heartbeat if you are driving like an ass.

Facebook; I love you….as much as I love my “friends” and my “family” who’s last names, spouses names, and children’s names have escaped me if I ever never knew them to begin with. Thank you for letting us spread our love around. We reach deep into the love bag and toss it out all over your pages like candy at a parade.

Facebook: When it comes down to it, what I really want from you is more “friends” than I’ve actually met and I want a deep, immediate bond with them all…without the hassle of hearing their voices. Haha, lol

killtec

2010-01-02T17:45:00.000-08:00

I bought a new ski jacket from one of those super big discount clothes stores today. Yesterday, just as we walked up to the automatic door of this very store we were greeted by a small but collected group of folks as they exited the building. We nearly bounced into the door before realizing that the folks were being escorted out. "Are you closed?" we asked the kid who was holding a flashlight as he held the far door open for the evicted. "The power is off", he said. We ambled over to an adjoining store in the outdoor mallish complex and I happened onto a pair of Adidas running shorts (for 14 beans).

Today, Robin was determined to try again. This time the parking lot was jammed. We made it to the door just as the power shut down again. We skittered inside before they could shut the door and headed for the far corner before they could give us the bum's rush. I picked through the deep discount, picked over remains of holiday bargains under the dim generator-produced lighting and selected a winner.

We beat it to the register and paid for the thing, squinting to navigate through the swiper thing.

When I got it home, I modeled it once again and noticed that the coat was made by a German company called "killtec".

..and since I'm a pretty shitty skier and a tad superstitious, I'm wondering if the power outages and ominous company name...

Seasons fleeting...

2009-12-27T14:25:00.000-08:00

With the New Year looming in the wings, I felt that I should close out 2009 with a summary of the fall cross country season.

The music died in a way for my little cross country team soon after my last post. What started out to be a very promising *team* season, turned out to be a season of great individual acheivement for the players of a non-scoring team as well as opportunity for adjustment and growth for me as their coach.

After a series of blows ranging from the declaration of a wildly talented kid that "she just didn't enjoy running" to a #2 kid who moved, to a #4 kid who wouldn't run because #2 was her best friend, to #3 who, in a collegiate high school program, had to take evening classes (we practice in the evenings), to our number 5 who nearly lost her right eye when a car she was traveling in was hit by a drunk driver, we were left as a core *team* of 3.

When the dust settled, our "new" number 1 was a talent, but was also celebrating the anniversary of three weeks of ceasing a cigaratte smoking habit late in July. Our #2 was a kid who had barely broken the 28 minute (5k)barrier last season, and our #3, a newbie running, squeaked a sub 10 minute mile for the 1st time in late August.

The disappointment of not fielding a scoring team was soon forgotten as I got to know the kids that stuck it out and this ultimately turned out to be the most personally rewarding coaching experience I've had to date. The 3 kids left at the end of the season bought in to what I sold. They were fun loving, tough little customers who had to be reeled back in on several occasions for (my) fear of running themselves into overtraining injuries or comas. They ran with me 4 nights a week, on Saturday mornings, and very often joined me and Robin at 7 am on Sunday for our "long run" (which was amended to 8 miles maximum to suit their low mileage training) As a result, each of them ran injury free and much faster than they had anticipated in the 7 some odd races they ran during that 7 week period. The season ended all too quickly (as always), leaving the kids all fitnessed up with nowhere to go.

Without the structure of scheduled practices, they soon lost the habit of running as you might imagine. The earlier sunset in fall usually signals the end of outside running for the girls. I understand this. Their folks don't run or bike to lend them a safe companion and there is no way in hell I'd ever let my daughters run in broad daylight without an adult by their side, let alone in the darkness.

We had a reunion of sorts, running the local Turkey Trot in our matching team tees and had a blast, finishing in the 25+ minute range (about 3 minutes slower than their peak performances just a few weeks prior). And they are dears about keeping in touch, asking if there will be any winter "practice" (the answer is no), wishing Merry Christmas, and when I'm lucky joining my loose consortium of broken down old guys for a Sunday morning run.

Each May I preach to them how quickly the racing season will be upon us and how quickly it will end and each year I'm met with tears and disbelief when they realize how true that is. But that is the order of things I guess. And as time has passed I find that I can't recall who ran for me when and who graduated when and I find myself sitting at a church watching "kids" that I've coached exchanging wedding vows.

I wonder if I might still be running when its time to coach their kids through high school cross country in 15-20 years. Probably not. And I guess that is the order of things, too.

Not Hip / Not Happenin'

2009-10-13T12:27:00.000-07:00

Each season I find the gap widening in my understanding of teenage milquetoast slang, and with Jill being off the college this year, I am without an live-in tutor/translator. This is what I have been able to piece together on my own over the last 4 months of being with the kids that make up our little team. Most terms are pretty self-explanatory. These are the most popular among the lot and the girls use at least one (if not more) in nearly every conversation (if not sentence) we share. I have arranged them in order of frequency of use.

Awkward: Any exchange in which the listener wishes to make the speaker feel self conscious about attempting said exchange or their very presence on the planet. Example:

Speaker: "Hi"

Listener: pause "That was awkward".

Random: Any comment or exchange that could deviate in the slightest from the conversation (or lack of) at hand. In other words, the inability to accept a change of topic. Example:

Speaker: "Do you have Mrs. Jones for biology?"

Listener: "Wow, that was random". or sometimes "RAAANNNDOOMM!!"

Beast and "Beasting It": A complimentary term suggesting animal strength or power but could be applied to academic achievement somehow, too (I haven't asked for clarification, that would be awkward and random and I don't want to appear to be a creeper). Example:

Coach: "Let's give it up for LeeAnn, she ran 8 miles last Sunday".
Team: "Oh my God, what a beast".

Or... "I really beasted that workout (or test or paper) today".

Creeper: Anyone outside the field of accepted friends. This could include anyone who is trying to get to know you and on rare occasions, an actual creep. Example:

"Oh my God, why is she looking at me, what a creeper".

Stink eye: Anytime anyone outside the accepted field glances even remotely in the subjects direction. This could happen in the classroom, hallway, mall, or anyplace where another human makes eye contact. Example:

"I'm not sure what her problem is..did you see her give me the stink eye?"

Stalker: Not unlike a creeper but this is someone you actually know, probably a facebook friend who also has your phone number but has the nerve to comment on your fb status, call you, or text you without your permission or before you can comment, call, text them. Example:

Stalker: "I like that picture you posted of you and your family on vacation".

You: "Way to look at my pictures..what are you, a stalker?".

Good story: Any comment, etc.. that does not elicit some type of crap your pants laughter or uncontrollable tears. Everything has to be funny or sad, I guess. Example:

"Oh, look at that kitty. It reminds me of a kitty I got for my birthday when I was 5 and we named her Beffy and she used to sleep on my face and purr.."

Listener: pause ,,"Good story".

A Spit Off The Bridge

2009-10-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

Sometime during our 3rd week together we run a bonafide workout. It is a spit off the bridge. The "Bridge" is in reality, just an extension of a pedestrian and bike trail system that spans across a local roadway and located less than a mile away from the park. It's a big deal, though. It will be the first time we leave the safe haven of the park (and the immediacy of a bathroom). It's also the first chance a kid might to decide that they can't run (or worse, walk) any longer at some point during the proceedings. You spend the season fearing this: being stranded as a team en masse or (or worse, separated) somewhere away from the park, all on foot. In fact, a delightful personal byproduct is that you gain fitness from the constant fartlek of running back and forth between frontrunners and stragglers.

They like staying in their comfort zones. When you change the routine, they worry. So when you announce that "we are running to spit off the top of the McDonald bridge", they immediately shoot back with harried "how far away is that" type responses . . . and no matter how many times you'll explain the menu for the evening there will always be one that will say "wait, what are we doing?" as we strike out on foot.

You stash water and gatorade out at the workout site or you've shanghaied the missus to be waiting there with drinks. The kids think the worst is over when we get to the bridge. Of course they won't really spit from the top of the span on the cars passing beneath. What they will be doing tonight is a series of repeat stride speed assaults on the hill, followed by ginger shuffling descents to the foot of the incline. You run every single one of the repeats beside them. The cool kids, the gamers, love it. For the first time they clap and cheer for the ascending group as they come back. You let the gamers do as many as they want. You might ask the less enthused among the bunch to do 1 or 2. Even so, the "quitters" really quit tonight. They were ok with stretching, jogging for a half mile. and jaking (screwing around/screwing off) during form drills but they don't want any part of this.

One kid referred to this workout as "the murder trials" when describing it to their Dad afterward.

You don't want to lose anyone, you can't afford to, but no matter how hard you try to make things fun and painless for the kids it is often neither. At some point you have to pull back the curtain and reveal what is in store for them if they stay, and that is that we are here to run.

You have to smile when, a few weeks after this leap of faith, we assemble as a team at the beginning of practice and a few ask "can we go spit off the bridge tonight?"

Sweat Hogs

2009-10-04T09:16:00.000-07:00

If they come back the following practice, you have at best a 50/50 chance of having them in a team jersey 12 weeks later. Every practice that you see them might also be the last. They'll tell you how much they like it and vanish without a word of explanation.

They also fall into line with startling quickness. After 2 visits they arrive to practice with nary a nod to you, stash their phones, keys, iPods in the "phone basket" you keep in your truck. They go straight to the cup basket and dig their personally named cups (I've found that they like to draw hearts on their cups for some reason), They get a drink and tell you they are going to the bathroom.

They form a semi circle and ready for static stretches. They wait for the"join me in a jog, this way" and they slow at the 220 mark to see if you'll tell them to stop. After a few nights, you don't stop at the 220 or the 440 mark. You keep the agility stuff in there for another week. You stretch on picnic tables under a covered pavilion shelter..."throw your right hairy leg up on the table and join me in a 30 second hurdle stretch". They laugh at the "hairy leg" comment every time. You'd never say "chubby leg", or "fat leg", even though that would be funny, too. In fact you ban the words short, tall, skinny, fat, or any form of profanity (including "fricken" and "sucks") from the team vocabulary. It is one of the few rules that you have implemented but you enforce it immediately and directly when it's broken. You won't hear a "fat" or "shit" from any of them the entire time you'll know one another.

In the early days you limit the running so much that the stronger ones feel jipped. You warm up , stretch, do some drills, and cool down. You drink like fish. Staying cool is not possible. It is absurd to be training teen aged girls for an endurance sport in Florida from May to October.

You raise the bar ever so slightly each night. Walking drills (on heels and tip toes and pigeon toes and Charlie Chaplins). Marching drills. Form drills. High knees, butt kicks (you don't say "butt" around them for a month or so), and a myriad of skipping drills that lead to the perfect "striders". Now we can't run far but we run fast and mechanically sound.

Now we shoot for aerobic fitness . . . the challenge is to:

a) keep them safe and together under your watchful eye

b) keep them hydrated

c) keep them near a bathroom

and

d) keep them from quitting

We Begin

2009-10-03T17:58:00.000-07:00

If you are lucky, you have a few returning athletes and they know the drill. You've recruited a few young adult volunteers to mentor the newbies. They are close enough in age to pass for school kids and with them along, it looks like you have more kids than you really do. The mentors are nostalgic. They want to relive this experience and they want to regain that fitness that they had when they were here with you a year or two ago. They talk to you like adults now.

You take inventory of what you have to build on. Few exude a confident posture. Mostly they are suited in what they think a runner might wear: cheer or soccer shorts, baggy tee shirts (for the studious and plus sized), wife beaters (for the tougher types who never really pan out) high, frilly, or no socks, any variety of cute rubber shoe. Their hair is done, as if they are going somewhere. Almost to a "man" they pull up and fold over the waistbands of their shorts followed by the pulling down at the hem of their tops. They fiddle with their shoelaces. They ask you if they can go to the bathroom. They hang onto their phones, They text while you are talking to them. They tuck their earbuds in deeper because you said they could bring their iPods. Every few years one might stick their hand out to shake yours or ask you how your day was. When this happens, you know their folks have military backgrounds or are conservative Christians.

You ask them to form a circle, in which you are a part of the arc and not in the center. "Raise your arms up high and throw them gently back down by your sides" You lead them through a series of static stretches, swinging arms and neck rolls, and toe touches and you are cracking funnies all the while, taking note of who has a sense of humor and who thinks you are an ass.

You pick your best shot to stand up erect and, as if the thought just occurred to you, point up the little path and say "join me in a little shuffle" (pointing again) "this way".

They are ready. They came here to run, after all, and they never let you down as they strike out like the stars of a textbook 1955 high school documentary film titled "How To Run" . They always run way too fast for the 1st hundred yards, too.

I stop them at the 220 mark and show them the blue mark I have painted on the curb. "STOP", I say. "This is the 220 mark, which is an 1/8th of a mile, sometimes I'll ask you to run to this point and I'll time you".... "Ok, let's trot (notice I didn't say shuffle this time) a little further. I act the fool, running in an exaggerated primal form, making comment on the form of those I think could take a joke and before you know it "STOP!" and I point out the 1/4 mile mark on the curb and go through the same speech. We begin again, the lactate threshold is nearly met on the less gifted. Some fall back. The stronger ones want to "race" already. I take note of everything. "STOP!". I go into a spiel about agility drills which have minimal value in the big picture of what we are trying to achieve this year. . .but it gives them a rest and they feel like they are doing something once we begin skipping sideways, left toe over right toe, then right tow over left toe, then backwards, (which always makes them laugh). I call a halt to it and tell them to "run easy to the truck and get a drink".

At this point every year, a few will walk to the truck instead. They have quit cross country after covering less than 3/8's of a mile.

But some will race to the truck. They are your team.

Back at the truck you address the group. "You just ran 1/2 a mile!", you say, beaming and feigning surprise.. "great job. it doesn't get any harder than what you just did! Every one of you can do this!"

You know right away who believes this. You lead them to a shelter where you instruct them on proper stretching that some might do as runners for the balance of their lives and some may never do again.

You follow this with another round of drinks and a few form drills and a "cool down" before parting ways. You want to rap it up quickly without overdoing it on the first night. And God forgive you, you're trying to allow the duds of the bunch get away from you as fast as they want to.

You go around and ask each kid if you will see them tomorrow night. They are taken aback by your directness. None of them say that you won't.

Hook 2

2009-10-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

You wait at the park. It's 6 pm and still over 90 degrees out. The truck is parked in a patch of shade. Coolers of water and gatorade (one blue, one gold) are balanced upon the precipice of the tailgate. A column of blue plastic cups rest in a little blue plastic basket. A stack of blue terry cloth (sweat) towels rest beside the basket. A small thin sheet of blue painted plywood with a gold poster board is tucked in the bed of the truck. It is titled "Summer Miles". Right now there is no roster and no miles have been run, all the spaces are blank. Everything you have set out for them is blue or gold. It's the school colors.

One by one they arrive. They are dumped off and often walk up, appearing from thin air. Sometimes in pairs. They are friends, trying this together. They don't want to be alone. When alone, they mosey over, uneasily. they know this is where they are supposed to be but don't know what to say to you or do with themselves. They are lead singers with no instrument to hide behind. In pairs, they come up and hover near but don't speak to you, and instead carry on in conversation that is forced yet humorous in nature.

After years of doing this, you still can't believe how may parents do the "drop and go" thing. These are high school girls. You could be anyone. You'd never dream of allowing your daughter to spend this kind of time with a complete stranger. You hustle over to their cars and introduce yourself when given the opportunity, yet few parents are interested in meeting you. They are busy doing their own thing, or they resent having to shuttle their kids to you, or they are just worn out by 14 plus years of parenting.

You greet each kid by name immediately when they arrive. You hand them each a cup and a black magic marker. "This cooler is water and this cooler is gatorade, write your name on this cup and get a drink, it's hot out and we drink a lot around here"...

You have a loose idea of who should be there and even though have no "team" you wait the as long as possible before you begin.

Hook

2009-10-01T21:00:00.000-07:00

At the end of May you stand in a classroom and make your pitch. It's your last chance before you lose them to the land of summer break where not much beyond trips to the mall or days at the beach will be considered. If there are 10 kids assembled you are lucky. You preach that everyone is welcome and everyone belongs.

"Run with us this summer", you say. "Us" really does not exist. It's just you. You hand out booklets laden with "be all you can be" sentiment, pictures of smiling, sweaty kids in singlets who embrace one another, and legitimate distance running information buried within the 5 or so pages. Propaganda. You pass around a clipboard and ask for their numbers and parents numbers and email addresses. This is a mistake on their part if they really aren't interested because you intend to hassle them until they either come to practice or tell you to stop contacting them.

You press a calendar into each one of their hands. You give 'em one last "you could be good at this". You've mapped out a full summer's worth of practice. It's no coincidence that the 1st "team" practice is within 2 days. They have a short attention span and they'll quit something alot faster than they'll join it.

In less than 10 minutes you are addressing them as if they are a team. You give them the impression that they have made a commitment to you and to each other. It took a lot to get them into this room to begin with. Most cross country kids are by nature, smart, quiet, shy, and you hope, a little gullible.

"Any questions?", you say (not really wanting to feild any). You want to rap this up quickly, before they understand what you've done.

"How long do we have to run in a race?" is the dreaded response.

"5k, five kilometers", you shoot back quickly and move on.

You scan the room and single out a few that you'll certainly never see again.

timeflies

2009-10-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

A blurry few hundred days. Easter, birthdays, a high school graduation, mothers and fathers day, we shop for a dorm frig and microwave and bulk foodstuffs for Jill and we deliver her to college and Robin cries on the way home and she learns to cook for 2 and I avoid turning left when I walk to the end of our hallway so's to avoid going into that empty room. I'd said that I'd be ok with this adjustment and it concerns me when I mostly really am once it happens.

Somewhere in between March and today we had a nice vacation in the mountains and Robin got so excited when she visited Jill's orientation that she came home and signed up for 2 college courses and someone asked me if I'd provide a summer running program for a talented incoming freshman and I said I would and that turned into another season of coaching and we celebrated 25 years of marriage more in love than I could imagine and nobody got sick or lost their job.

I like waking up on Mondays and Saturdays. It's a pretty good place to be in.

Snowplow!

2009-03-09T13:50:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2009-03-08T08:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-01-30T15:45:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-29T13:58:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-20T17:11:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-19T08:39:00.000-08:00

*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-

2008-12-09T06:58:00.000-08:00

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.

widdle poptarts

2008-10-24T05:44:00.000-07:00

I have not purchased clothes or food for myself for at least 20 years. Robin takes care of me. She points it out to me also with the habit of buying me something, then referring to the item as "widdle" when I use it.

"Oh, you got your new widdle shorts on that I bought you?"

"I see you are wearing your new widdle shirt"

"Look at you, all set up for breakfast with your widdle poptarts"

God bless the man or lady that invented the pop tart. It has been a staple of my diet for longer than I can remember. In the late 60's when money was tight, Mom would buy one box each for my sister and me that was to last the week. Kind of a cruel joke, 6 tarts, 7 days in a week. Invariably, I'd burn through my allotment by Wednesday and begin begging for a pop tart loan from my sister.

I eat them cold and at room temperature and I've cooked my tongue biting into those sugary tops too quickly. I've suffered the disappointment of burning them to a crisp when I didn't realize the toaster was set for bagel.

They are my pre long run fuel and every marathon morning ritual. I've never puked a pop tart.

Yesterday, bleary eyed on the couch at 6:45 am I'm working on my 2nd tart when Robin notices and, of course, says "you got your widdle pop tarts?".

In a flash of self discovery I say "do you know that I eat at least 500 of these a year?"

Sparkypants

2008-10-21T14:10:00.000-07:00

I’m 75% through with the electrical work. I've been so careful and precise that I suspect it has taken me twice the amount of time that it would have taken a professional to do. Still, the budget is tightening and my time is free. I’ve wired in circuits and panels over the years but my daughter is distrustful of my “skills” and the current of her paranoia has seeped into my psyche.

She: are you sure you know what you are doing, daddy?

Me: your house is going to have a new main panel, all new circuitry, arc fault protection,
ground fault outlets everywhere, and 5 permanently wired smoke alarms. The house
that you grew up in, that your mom and I still call home, is a veritable death trap of
cloth covered wiring and kindling wood by comparison.

She: are you sure you know what you are doing, daddy?

Exhausted and addle brained I begin to allow doubt to creep in...what if I don’t tighten a screw quite tight enough and the house burns down? I couldn’t live with that.

I hire an electrical contractor who is a longtime business colleague to send some guys, inspect the work I’ve done and pull the meter to make the final tie in points at the main panel. The guys arrive. 90 bucks an hour. I try to tell them exactly what I want done. It seems simple.

But I can't seem to corral them both up long enough to listen. . . The older of the two calls me "buddy". He keeps wandering out of the frame of our conversation. The younger one (38, he tells me at some point, I don't know why though, because I never asked) won’t stop talking.

Younger guy: “I like this house, man. You are doing this for your daughter, dude? That’s awesome, I feel you, man because I’m my little girls’ bitch, ya’ know, anything she wants and I’m like, here you go princess, you know like she watches cartoons and sees a commercial for some toy or something and she says daddy I want one of those and I’m like (blahblahblah)”

I nod my head in agreement, still-posed with my index finger pointing at the circuit box. “Hey, do you mind if I smoke, man? I know some people are funny about people smoking in their homes but I’m thinking like, the house is all open and everything so the smoke won’t get into anything, right?”. He already has a smoke pursed between his lips and his lighter is aflame and in-route.

“I’d rather you wouldn’t, only because my Dad will be hanging around here (Pop had graciously agreed to house sit while the guys are working) and he has asthma”. “Oh” is all he says to this and he stuffs his lighter into his cargo pants..

My Dad is like an owl, he observes with a quiet detachment. He generally never says shit about shit. He looks amused and perplexed.

I calculate that little exchange to have cost about $7.50 and start in again about job I’d like to get done. “Not to interrupt you, but where does this wire go?” says the talker, tugging on a loose noodle of 14-2 hanging from the rafter.

I try again. “Really, don’t worry about that for today, I’ll spend the weekend tracing all this stuff down and I’ll have everything sorted out and tagged for you the next time you come back. From out of our sight range I hear the other one say “we're going to get going here pretty soon, Buddy”.

The talker drowns him out. . .“Don’t get mad if I ask but do you have a pump anywhere?, some of this stuff is like 240 volts and I don’t know where it goes so I’m wondering if you have a pump or something, plus where is the water heater?”

“It’s in the garage, by the side door and I’ve already got that covered and like I said for today if you don’t mind I’d just like to have you guys do the things I asked about.” I say. I'm hanging on, thinking about leaving, or asking them to leave, or burning the house down.

The talker senses the thinning of my patience and good will. “I'm sorry to ask all these questions, I’m just trying to make sure everything is, like, safe, Dude”.

“I understand, I have you here because I want everything to be safe” is all I can get out before
the other one wanders back into the room. “He just wants us to do what he asked us to do for today, right Buddy?”

“Right”, I say.

My Dad is grinning at me.

“Ok, thanks guys, I really appreciate you coming over and helping me out”(for 90 bucks an hour) I say as I walk down the driveway.

“Don’t worry, Buddy, we are going to get rolling here in a minute” the one calls after me.

I stuff my keys in the truck ignition. My daughter won’t perish in an housefire after all. Instead she will be strangled by her loving Daddy.

I told you not to touch that

2008-10-07T05:38:00.000-07:00

Wiring. I'm running all the electrical spaghetti at our project home. I've got old wires hanging from the rafters. Their former purpose and destinations are now forgotten. When we tore out the walls and ceilings I felt pretty sure I'd remember where everything went as I snipped cables and conduit away with reckless abandon. Now I'm wondering where it all went, what I can reuse, what I'm going to do next.

Last night I dropped by the house after work to piddle a bit. It was raining. I started messing around with some wiring and discovered that I'd have to make several new holes in one of the few interior walls that I'd left partially intact.

Like picking at a scab. An hour later, I'd removed another 80 square feet of plaster and wallboard and the chewed up insulation and insect poop that lied within. As I drove to the dumpster and unloaded the wall in the downpour, I thought about how I should feel better about having this dirty stuff removed from the house. As I drove back home I thought about how what I just did had set me back another few days and dollars.

I've gotta start leaving well enough alone.

Don't Go Back To Rockville

2008-10-01T13:26:00.000-07:00

Fall is here. . . . The summer of Malmo never happened. It came and went and although I sweated plenty none of it was caused by miles. The truth is, I wasn't running much this time last year, either. I narrowly got my act in gear for a few weeks last fall, caught a few good long runs around the holidays, ran the Mouse marathon in January, and fell off the horse immediately afterward. Aside from another feeble attempt in the spring to right the ship and a few laps through the woods in Carolina in June, I have not run a lick to speak of.

For once I'm not injured. . . and I know too many people who work full time (like me) and are busy with after hours and weekend commitments (like me) that still manage to fit in a daily run to use that as an excuse.

I feel the twinge every time someone asks "how's the running going" and I felt like a real turd yesterday, trapped in the dental chair when my longtime hygienist remarked as she checked my pulse and pressure "you can tell you are a runner by that low resting heart rate". Yep, I've been giving the whole running thing a rest.

It's October and I'm thinking about the marathon I said I'll do on January 11th. It would (will) be my 6th in a row. I've always been a low mileage person, even when I attempted to be a high mileage person. It must be a mechanical glitch. 40 mpw is about the peak and 23 of those get done on a Sunday morning.

I'm still doing some coaching and usually I'd be running with the kids as we are in the midst of their abbreviated cross country season. Not so this year.

Why? Not inspired? Not worried that I'm back into a 32 waste size and an "L" shirt? Lost touch with my former running partners? Not out for revenge against last years' mediocre race times?

I'll wait for a divine spark that will call me to a cache of dusty shoe boxes. Until then I'll remain grateful in knowing that my body could allow the act of running if my mind wanted it to happen.

This is what I am doing now

2008-08-15T07:09:00.000-07:00

I am dragging ass (whatever ass I have left). The last 35 days have been a blur of destruction and (finally) reconstruction. Of swinging hammers, zinging sawzalls, prying crowbars, never ending waves of dumpster dumps, and an American Express card that rarely cools off between trips to Homer Depot.

We sat holding hands (Robin and I) in a tiny office, dwarfed by the morbidly obese title broker guy, amidst the landscape of certain national economic ruin and pledged to care (and pay) for a condemned piece of land and house that I have been jockeying to buy for over a year. It was our dream to make it possible for our oldest daughter (Amelia) to raise her children in a home that she owned. And this could happen if I could find a condemned house, pay way under appraised value, and make up the rest with sweat equity.

So that is where I’ve been most weeknights and every weekend. I’m blessed 10 times over with a family that besieged on the house the day after we closed and painted the exterior in 1 day. Me and Jesse (my son-in-law) donned our HazMat gear for the first few weeks, ripping out ceilings and walls and more ceilings and more walls, taking out anything that could have housed mold or an errant rat turd. Mom and Dad come and “pull nails”. Robin scrubs down the remaining walls with bleach. Ace runs circles through the open floorplan. Curious neighbors and friends visit and give dazed stares when the Thanksgiving Day completion date is mentioned. I whittle away each night and pray that by the end of the week, it will look like there is a little less to do.

When Jill was in 2nd grade, her little class had a year-round assignment titled “ This is what we are doing now”. Every entry began with the task at hand and ended with “this is what we are doing now”. . . . "We are learning to write our phone numbers. This is what we are doing now." Robin and I saved these little treasures of booklets, drawings, paintings, science projects, report cards, soccer trophies, and prom pictures. Proof that my 20 years of being a Dad has slipped through my hands in a way that I could have never imagined.

When I lose focus and wander around this empty house, taking inventory of all that is not done, overwhelmed by the limits of a 24 hour day, I remind myself, sometimes aloud “this is what I’m doing now”.

We Should Really Do This More Often. . .

2008-06-15T15:39:00.001-07:00

I'm sitting at a 3rd hand dining table in western North Carolina and my legs are throbbing. We drove up yesterday with Jill and her beau (affectionately known as "bunny") and we'll spend a week at a family cabin in a valley which was developed by Robin's aunts and uncles in the 1950's. Robin's Mom is one of 11 kids and at one time over half of 'em had some type of home here. One by one they have all passed and sold out here and the family cabin was purchased by one of Robin's brothers. We began coming here as a couple long before we were married, sleeping in separate cots in the loft, slipping away for romantic walks away from the cacophony of a full house. We vacationed in the fall as a young, married couple, free of children, and I'd pack up a guitar and a multi-track cassette recorder, spending hours at this same dining table writing and recording songs that no one would ever hear. Once when Amelia was a baby, the three of us spent the night in our spankin' new "mini van", parked in the gravel driveway when the restless nature of a cabin full of family drove us out. We built dams in the creek and caught fireflies in the meadow at dusk. I experienced snow for the first time as a 32 year old man on the day after Xmas, 1993. We built snow squirrels.

Over the years we've used this place as the default vacation location. We had only to pay for the gas to get here (no mean feat these days) and knew every free or cheap activity within miles that would fill the days and make the kids happy. My family visited with us and loved it too, so much that my sister and husband bought a home (also built by Robin's uncle) just down the road, ensuring that our grandchildren will know this place, too.

Added to all the above is that I consider the trail system here to be my favorite place in the world to run. When my personal running (because most of running to me is about my interests in how my running friends or my running kids are doing) is going or has gone south, I need only to get up here, run slow (today's 7.5 miler averaged 9mm), at altitude, uphill and more uphill, along single paths, shrouded in dense green cover, through creek beds and switchbacks, deftly, nimble over tree roots and slippery rocks, along the logging roads and the "trail of tears" to reconnect with the reasons that I continue to run: because I like the sound of my lungs in my ears and I love not knowing what lies around the next corner.

Its yer berthday notta holiday, so shake in anyway

2008-05-29T10:23:00.000-07:00

47 years old today. I walked out of the bathroom with toothbrush planted in mouth to a bed full of family and the strains of "Happy Birthday" (its a house tradition) and some early morning cell phone serenades from my folks (with my grandson helping out) and my sister (who does a really neat piercing-quasi-operatic hemorrhage inducing version) of my "favorite" tune.

About 6 months' worth of stuff has happened within the last 3 1/2 since I last sat down and typed an entry. Some running, mostly not.

The car I promised to Jill for perfect grade was purchased last Saturday.

The house deal for Amelia and family went through (I think) yesterday.

More on all this and more when the dust settles.

I'm healthy. I'm in love with my wife. I'm proud of my kids. I'm happy.

Happy Birthday to me, dammit.

I've Got Your Back

2008-03-09T07:21:00.000-07:00

I met with Aaron at 7:30 for a windy tempo run. The rec center where we met is another training area we use with the cross country and track team kids for some of our after school and Saturday morning practices. It's close to the school and features a shell path of about a 1/4 mile around a small pond and an extended loop circling the complex that measures exactly 1 mile.

It was cool (by our standards) and extremely windy. Stiff from the treadmill debacle and groggy from the late (and massive) dinner a few hours earlier, I was grateful to have company sharing the wind load as well as another soul to keep me honest and on pace for the workout.

We did 2 sets of 2 mile repeats at 7:00-7:05. I ran beside but mostly on the shoulder of my wind rabbit and finished feeling sturdy and not noodle-legged like a few weeks ago.

We cooled down and I gathered my sweats and walked over the footbridge just in time to watch my grandson start his soccer practice on the outdoor tennis courts. He ran around kicking the ball for 10 minutes or so along with the other kids. Just a week into being 3 years old, he is the "baby" of the team. Soon after I arrived, he flopped down on the court with his legs splayed out and sat there with the hood of his "Bubba Gump" sweatshirt cinched tightly and framing his little dutch mug.

I was elected to go out and coerce him into getting back at it but of course as soon as he saw me he jumped up and into my arms and asked if we could go home and play in the sandbox. He was done.

We left the court but he got a second wind and I chased him all around the park and spent another hour on the playground before finally calling it a day.

Where The Heart Is

2008-03-07T22:00:00.000-08:00

Another Friday. Another track meet cancelled due to the weird windy/rainy weather we've been experiencing. I couldn't get out of work soon enough to beat the downpour so it was down to the garage for another treadmill run.

Although I'd skipped running for 40 minutes on the ARC trainer at the gym on Thursday, I was still fatigued and sore from the Wednesday workout. I decided to test my fitness level by strapping on the heart rate monitor and running for 40 minutes with a maximum BPM of 130. In this program, the treadmill sets the speed according to your heart rate. I'm sad to report that my average speed for the run was 10 MM. All I could do was shake my head every time the mill cut the speed to accommodate my rising heart rate. Wasn't it just a years ago that I could run forever at 8 MM and not get above 125? I've got a lot of work (and recovery) to do.

Later, Robin and I went out and had a nice dinner of BangBang shrimp, muscles, and Chilean sea bass . . . which made everything better.

A Big Night Out On The Town-

2008-03-06T05:38:00.000-08:00

I willed myself out the door around 6:30 pm for a big "R" paced workout that needed to get done before the next race. 9 miles total. 6.5 of it garbage. I wanted to ladder up and down ranging between 220's and 880's, with equal jog recoveries, all under my current 5k pace. It went like this:

4 x 220 + 2 x 440 + 1 x 880 + 2 x 440 + 4 x 220

I did the workout at the park again (it's the softest surface around) and for extra fun performed the task pace stuff into the stiff headwind (why not?) and with a mind to eschew the naughty form habits I've developed over the last year. The task paces seemed faster than anticipated. I did not look at the watch (gps) until the deed was did. Instead, I tried to run from "feel" and with composure. Harhar.

Sporting my wiring harness and bare melon belly, I alternated the passive/aggressive charge and scuff of the workout along the narrow footpath shared by older couples and pooch walkers all bundled up against the cool wind tunnel of the reservoir (they call it a "lake" but it really isn't).

Sadly, I allowed some doubt to creep in about the surety of a 20 minute finish in 9 days as I trundled on home in the dark.

The Skinny:

220's were all at 42-43 (the last one was at 40), the 1/4's at 88-90, the half at 3:05 (disappointing).

This is a start. Don't look back.

Heads Up!

2008-03-05T06:08:00.000-08:00

I saw the Kid yesterday morning running along the road where Robin's office is located. I pulled into the parking lot just as he was approaching and he shuffled across the street, carrying a pair of spikes and looking very post-workoutish. Just back from a round of 10 x 1/4. It is over 75 degrees by 9 am these days and the higher temps have taken us all down a notch.

We talked about last Saturday's race and I thanked him again (and will continue to do so for quite some time, I'm sure) for helping me out and he very graciously pointed out how bad my running posture was during the last mile.

Kid: "You were looking looking straight down at the ground, practically folded over".

Me: "I know, I couldn't look up. I developed that very bad habit at the last part of these marathons when I'm afraid to look for mile markers".

Kid: "Yeah but after all the times you drilled that into the girls heads about head up and run tall and here you are choking off all your air by doing that. . . "

Me: "What air, I was completely anaerobic within the 1st 2 minutes"?

We had a good laugh about it and he made an excellent point. I will try harder to practice what I preach next time out.

In other running news our boys team was again all dressed up with no place to go as their track meet got cancelled (rain again) at the 11th hour. They were fit to be tied and this group is soooo ready to race. They have developed into a group of competitors, in contrast to some of the teams past, which seemed relieved to have a race called off.

Misery Loves Company

2008-03-04T08:16:00.000-08:00

I waited for Robin to get home from work in order to accompany me on a Monday night "long run". We finally headed out around at dusk, running through the park and on to the trail system for an out-and-back course. The flickering of her handlebar light offered no appreciable visual aid but kept us from colliding with other twilight trail goers, both of the sporty and narcotic business variety.

I was reminded of the first few brutal 10+ milers I attempted last year after my usual post marathon lay off, when I actually carried a cell phone along for the run and even worse, suffered the indignity of having to call Robin and utter the words "please come get me".

Well We Ain't Got Nothing Yet

2008-03-03T13:07:00.000-08:00

I got out to the "old man" spot at 7 am and met Coach K. and Mr. Hunter for 45 minutes of shuffle and walk on Sunday morning. I had visions Saturday afternoon of increasing my Sunday run from 10 to 12 miles. By Saturday night I had visions of not being able to walk in the morning.

My family met at a local park for a cookout and celebration of my grandsons' 3rd birthday. Someday I'll try to begin to explain how much that little man means to me.

I poured through some of my older training books/bibles that do not contain the words "for young athletes" . . "marathon" . . "cross country" in their titles with a sense of interest and optimism that has been missing for years. I'll give 35-40 MPW a go, get back to some plyos and form drills, (try to) keep my long run less than 25% of my weekly miles, and see what happens.

I'm happy with Saturday's effort. I had a good time, ran even and even hard at the end. I just signed up and raced. I didn't wait for the perfect time. Looking at my training log, with pages of empty boxes since January 8th, the weekly mileage during the last 3 weeks looks something like this: 10.5 miles, 14 miles, 21 miles. . . I know it's foolish to race yourself into shape but I think it would be more foolish to wait until I am totally fit and totally healthy. It won't happen and spring will slip away and I'll be worrying about some kids' running again to the exclusion of my own until late fall when I start worrying about the marathon again.

So for the new 20 minute 5k goal I've set to meet in the next 13 days I tell myself-

"All I have to do is run 4.4 seconds faster each day, 18.4 seconds per mile, 4.6 seconds faster per quarter. . . . "

Cake Walk

2008-03-01T11:33:00.000-08:00

Some days you have to step back and reflect on all the good things that you are afforded. Today is as good as any, I guess.

I got to enjoy a beautiful, cool and breezy morning with friends. So what if I thought I might puke for a minute or two?

I achieved my time goal (21:00) in the race this morning by a few seconds (20:57 chip) with the help of my friend Aaron (the Kid). We agreed to lock in at 6:45 pace through 2 miles and see what the last mile might bring. At the 2 mile mark I was right on pace but already feeling like I was beginning to "hang on". In the back of my mind I had hoped for a surge of inspiration or adrenaline and run a faster last 1/2 mile to the finish. I/we passed several folks after the 2 mile split but I ran out of real estate before I could catch some anonymous "blue t-shirt" guy who was the focal point of my last mile.

I even put on a kick during the last .1, but pulled back with a few meters to go as it was certain that I would be at or slightly under 21 minutes, 2 more seconds would not have meant anything more, and I thought it would be really lame to kick down and lean on the gal that crossed the line just before me.

Robin was there at the finish as were my folks who surprised me by coming out. Two of the old Soggy Bottom Boys' Marathon Team (Mr. Hunter and Bobby Mac) were there, too. We had a nice cool down and my friend Bert presented me with more donation shoes for our boys team newbies and a groovy Disney warm up suit he had received from being a Florida's Finest competitor a few weeks ago.

Back home after pancakes and sporting my 3rd place AG hardware. We set up my grandsons' turtle shaped sandbox on the pool deck out back.

It's his 3rd birthday today!

Dry Run

2008-02-29T13:35:00.000-08:00

Wednesday night off. It was a crisp afternoon with a cold front moving in and the temperature dropped into the low 50's by sunset. The wind made it seem much cooler and we took the opportunity to build a fire (this would be perhaps the 5th one and the last of the season).

I was ravenous for some reason (can't be the miles I'm running) and ate 2 big bowls of chili. Yum at the time, yuck later.

Thursday I ran from the house to the town center where Saturdays' race will be held. I ran through the course as I remembered it and ducked into the gym (named after the patriarch of a local car dealership) and got an actual course map before going home. I felt like I had my own feet under me going home.

I'm looking forward to these 2 upcoming races with a sense of renewed optimism. 6 years ago I would not race until I was certain that I could get a 17:30. Convinced that anything else would be a failure and convinced that I could achieve that goal, I trained as if that was my fitness level, and, of course, began a cycle of running a few fantastic workouts, balanced with a series of setbacks and injuries that always seemed to stall any comebacks. It was during one of these rebuilding and base periods that someone talked me into running 20 miles with them on a Sunday (my previous long runs were in the neighborhood of 11 miles) and overnight I gave up any measure of interest in running 5ks and became a recreational marathoner.

Tomorrow I will truly be happy with anything near 21 minutes. In two weeks I'll be crazy happy with anything nearer 20 minutes.

My how times change.

Garage Bands

2008-02-27T07:52:00.000-08:00

I was charged up when we arrived home. Enough to consider running the hill workout in the pouring rain. I settled for a workout on the treadmill of 6 x 1/2 mile at 6:26 pace with 1 minute jog recoveries at 10mm.

My leg speed was nowhere to be found. I completed the workout (more fatigued than traumatized) with the mill pulled to the edge of the open garage door while I watched the bands of rain squalls blow sideways before me.

With the overall workout pace just under 6:55 for the 3.5 or so miles, I'm wondering if I can put it together and run closer to 20 minutes at Saturday's race.

Fired Up!

2008-02-27T05:58:00.000-08:00

We opened the track season yesterday in a dual meet against our local nemesis on their home turf (asphalt). Every cross country season (for years now) we have endured the humbling experience of trotting 5 or 7 of our boys to the starting line against their squad of 30 or more.

While we coach are butts off all year, hosting Sunday long runs, a summer conditioning program, a winter miles program, and a full schedule of road races, their coach does no off season or weekend work, leaving it up to their team captains. They compete with one another every time they run. They hold eachother accountable and to their standard as peers. Kids respond much better to their own as opposed to 2 old men whose PR days have long since past. The end result is that we have 1 or 2 serious runners stacked against 9 of theirs and we are lucky to break up their top 5.

Our guys need new shoes or haircuts or uniforms or parents. They are deeply and probably dangerously tanned. Weathered. Their guys all appear to be Nordic or Irish and Adonis-like, brush cuts, strong white teeth, starched and crisp in uniform and they simply run in a pack of 10 like YABBA-DABBA-DOO and crush us.

Two of our kids have caught fire this winter and are finally realizing their potential as high school athletes. Thomas (my tenant/adopted son) and Gabe (Gabito). They have not had the chance to run against this other team since our conference meet almost 6 months ago and they are anxious to test their fitness and will against them.

Gabito stands about 5’3” high and weighs about a buck fifteen. He was as slight in demeanor as in stature when he came to us. Intensely shy and unsure of himself. He spent the first 6 months talking with his chin pressed to his sternum and his eyes in the opposite direction of his audience. He continues to curl his shoulders inward and scratch absently at his left bicep when he has to talk to anyone outside of our running family.

On the course or the track, he has become an animal. He barks words of encouragement to teammates. He paces and jogs about with an air of confidence that is at the same time fiery and humble.

Last night Gabito unleashed an opening 56 second ¼ split in the 4 x 800 before he settled down and finished with a 2:05. He would be "tripling" tonight and there was no point in killing himself in the opening race. Our boys won the event.

Thomas ran a fantastic, tactical race in the open mile event. A lone blue and gold jersey, swallowed by a sea of orange uniforms. He was patient and survived a pedestrian paced 70 second 1st split a slower 2nd lap, and the continual surges from his opponents who tried to break him. He allowed then to run on his shoulder and the lead to be taken away in the final 200. It happened that both our young assistant coach and I were placed within 10 meters from him when this happened. We both yelled at him and his body literally jolted to and he hung fast to the leader until gapping him by 5 seconds by the finish. A slow 4:46 but he was racing the field, not the clock. He beat last seasons’ conference, district and regional champions all in one shot. Even our number 3 man won the open 800.

All night the event had been hurried while we watched a storm developing to the north. With 2 events remaining, the meet was called off. Gabito was frothing at the mouth. His 3200 event was only 5 minutes from happening. I’ve never seen him so emotional. He wanted his cake. It was a good call though, by the time we reached the parking lot, the sky opened and the thunder, lightning, and rain continued through the night.

One & Done

2008-02-27T05:57:00.000-08:00

We spent a terrific weekend at Anna Maria Island. Everything we wanted was within walking distance. We had dinner at a restaurant at the end of a fishing pier that had no handrails. There was way too much alcohol and kids around to have overlooked this detail.

I took Saturday off and got all gussied up for a long run on Sunday only to find that I had left my shoes right by the garage door back at home. No Island running for me. I talked Robin into coming with me on the bike once we got home and I got 10 slow miles in during the heat of the late afternoon. For fun and guts I tried a faster final mile (7:30, for what it’s worth). I took Monday off.

Do you see the pattern here?

Run one day, off one day. . .

Twisting In The Wind

2008-02-23T12:32:00.000-08:00

I took Thursday off. Had to. I set sights for a Friday tempo. Robin surprised me by booking a weekend away at an Island about an hour away from our home and I took a very rare weekday off to enjoy a long weekend.

I decided to run from our house to the park where my kids practice and catch either 2 x 10 minutes, 2 miles, or 20 minutes of Tpace.

I farted around in the morning and didn’t get out until 9:00 am. The sign at the bank read 75 degrees as I passed by. I jogged, slogged, and waited for that fluid, warmed-up feeling that never came. I walked around at the park entrance, stretched and did some strides. Stalling, in other words.

The park is a pretty good place for this type of run. It’s slower than the roads, naturally, but the shelled footpath is far more forgiving on the bones. There is a measured mile course marked out and one full trip around the lake is roughly 1.4 miles total. We have a multitude of measured distances within this loop from and 1/8th mile up and also up to 5 miles with marked splits for the time trials we do over the summer.

There is a stiff and direct headwind and I put it in my mind that half of my time will be spent this way. My target time would have been 7:10 mm. I’m adding 5 seconds for the wind, the heat, and the slower course. I head out and try to settle in on pace by feel. I try to relax but can’t resist the urge to punch at the wind. The first mile split is 7:03. Now I feel screwed. The purpose of this exercise is to run relaxed and in a steady state. I don’t want to slow down and run a second slow split to even things out. I don’t think I can sustain the pace for 3 miles and still be in the LT zone.

Welcome to an impromptu time trial. I complete another mile in 7:02 and walk for a few minutes. Now that I’m tired I’ll take a shot at a race pace mile to finish the morning off. I am at the far side of the lake with a tailwind as I start, leaving the uphill and headwind for the last half mile. I come through in 6:42.

I’m betting that I’ll be closer to a 22:00 than a 21:00 on March 1st.

Tender Mercies

2008-02-22T13:17:00.000-08:00

The ankle never swells but I ice it as soon as I get home. I check the workout. The 220’s were dead on 90 seconds, the 440’s right at 6:45. I’m happy that I got out to the hill. I’m really happy that I’ve apparently dodged a bullet.

The following day I take off the watch and run a very slow 7 mile trail along my bread and butter brainless loop. I can run this in total darkness ( I often have). The route winds through exclusive neighborhoods and golf courses but also features a good .75 mile stretch through our local “trail” system where I’ve encountered weed dealers, wino’s, and prostitutes. Tonight I’m too kacked to even run faster through this section as I normally would.

On the way in the ankle starts hurting when I push off. I’m looking for a tempo run tomorrow but I’ll likely take a zero.

Back To The Scene Of The Crime. . (more fun with hills)

2008-02-21T11:44:00.000-08:00

. . . Two and one quarter miles and four “striders” later, I’m standing at the foot of the hill looking up as the sun sets behind me. It’s chilly and windy and I’ve realized that just getting my ass out the door was not the problem or the solution. I’m dead-legged. I’m more hell bent on doing the full workout which is a baby-step but a challenge to me nonetheless.

I strike out for the 1st set. 2 x 220 @ rep pace + 1 x 440 @ 5k race pace up the hill w/jog recoveries back down to the start. I want 4 sets of this. I vow not to look at the watch but to run by feel and not fall off. Two spoiled rotten kids are playing basketball in the driveway of their estate home overlooking the bluff as I pass by. My headphones are blasting but I swear I can hear them “hooting” at me as I lumber by. My mood becomes fouler. I know what I must look like, I don’t need it to be pointed out to me.

As you would guess, the 220’s are not a problem. Just over the halfway point of the 440 though I’m sucking air deeply and in vain. I’m the one hooting for air now and I’m probably scaring the kids even from a quarter mile away. I churn up, legs high, shoulders dropped, arms a’ swinging and lungs a’ burning. Yee-Haw!

Before starting I'd parked a Gatorade bottle on a post at the bottom of the hill. At the end of the 2nd set before launching into another 220 I swing by the post to grab at the bottle and in doing so roll my right ankle completely inward, feeling the bone brush against the asphalt. Smooth move, bowels. I jog around in circles on the little bridge, waiting for the thing to start swelling. I’m baffled when it doesn’t. I mean, I heard it crunch. I lean into another 440 and stop at the top of the hill and feel around for my ankle in the darkness. No lumps or bumps but I've had enough.

Even 2 years ago I would have gritted my teeth, jogged back down the hill, and started another set. Tonight I cross my fingers and head for home, leaving my Gatorade on the post and the rich kids’ searching for another source of amusement.

Whine-O-Meter!

2008-02-20T07:20:00.000-08:00

I pull out of my office parking lot at 5 PM. I can feel it slipping away already. The slow leak of energy. The enthusiasm I have about dedicating the last bit of sunlight left in the day to anything having to do with a run. By the time I make my way through the 6 traffic lights along the 1 mile route from the office to my driveway, I've easily lost 25% of my steam.

I make it upstairs and head straight to shoebox central. I grab a pair of hill worthy trainers and quickly change into some nutters so at least that is done. It's chilly in our room. I lean over the bed to shut the window and the next thing I know, I'm laying at the foot of our bed with my legs dangling off the end and I'm catching the last 15 minutes of a Seinfeld rerun.

I'm half-listening, half-watching, and half-devising a plan to bag tonight’s workout in lieu of an easy run, no run, and/or a reprieve for an early morning make-up.

I muster up every ounce of resolve and greet Robin as she comes in the door. “Please come on the bike while I workout”. . I start in. “Noooo, I’m gonna wash my car”. She is smiling so I push further, this time hugging her from behind as she tries to put away groceries. “Ahhh, C’mon, you can wash your car in the morning”. “Noooooo, I really want to wash the car”. My eyes wander over to Jill who is minding her own business at the computer desk nearby. She is avoiding eye contact. . . “How, ‘bout it, Gilbo. Will you come with me on the bike?”. “I would but I have a lot of homework. . . but I love you, Daddy! Be careful, Have fun!”. She never turns away from the screen and I mutter something about the difference between “homework” and “MySpace” as I trod past her.

I drag ass down the flight of stairs into the garage and grab a Gatorade on my way out the door. In the driveway, while I wait for Garmin to tell me where I am, I think about how nice it would be to have a coach of my own right now. To kick me into gear, run alongside and talk me through the workout, to stand at the top of the hill and shout words of encouragement.

No such luck. Some deeds are to be done alone. Running is often one of them.

BooHoo

Less Is Less

2008-02-19T09:48:00.000-08:00

The balance of last weeks' training was not very impressive. The night following my stellar "hill" workout, I spent some time at the gym on some type of "arc" trainer that I've only used once or twice before. It was a good change from my usual elliptical x-training habit and I was pleased to have my heart rate elevated without the scurrying, mouse wheel feeling I sometimes get on the "lip" machine.

I followed through Thursday with my plans for a tempo run, which I had hoped to do on the soft surface at the park. It rained and I drove to the gym at the last minute and did 4 x 5 minutes at tempo pace w/1 minute jog recoveries. This is a good beginning effort. Other than spending time at the foreign pace, it felt comfortably hard (as it should, I guess).

From there, both work, "date night", and a home project thwarted my best intentions to get something done on Friday and Saturday.
Herein lies my challenge to stay motivated and focused when it comes to personal goals in the running world. I'm happy. I'm busy. I enjoy Coaching and being around kids that want to excel as athletes. I have no illusions of running personal bests for any distances shorter than a half marathon. I'm left with halfs, fulls, or the dread ultras. These all require higher mileage than I'm interested in.

I'm still trying to get the most I can out of the least amount of mileage.

This is completely contrary to what I know needs to be done.

Dang.

Kids These Days

2008-02-18T08:30:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning at 5:30 I woke up with a nose full of plaster dust and a head full of headache that I had earned the day before from removing a wall in the garage and drinking too many beers (5 ultras, whoopee!) during the process.

We had allowed Thomas to let Gabito stay over for the evening. Coach K. had a big track workout planned. I woke them up, handed them each a bottle of gatorade, and packed them into the truck before sunrise. What troupers. We met at our old Sunday spot and I stuck out for 7 slow headachy and plugged up nostriled miles with Mr. Hunter.

I was lucky to get back in time to beat it over to watch the last interval of their workout which was a monster one for a Sunday morning:

4 mile warm-up

1 x 1 mile (each kid under 4:45)

2 x 1/2 (2:23 and 2:20)

4 x 1/4 (68, 67, 65, 63)

Both worked together, trading the lead on the windy backstretch, and pushing each other as good teammates should.

Afterward, Coach K. bolstered their confidence by telling them that he was not able as a young man to perform a workout of this quality until he was in his early 20's, and this was after 2 + years of 100+ MPW averages.

How many kids do you know that would be willing to get up at the ass-crack of dawn on a Sunday morning and run their guts out.

I gathered their remains up and delivered them back home to Robin, who graciously as ever, had pancakes waiting.

Runnin' Up That Hill

2008-02-11T18:05:00.000-08:00

Sunset found me at the base of the same little hill where I ran our girls x-country team through their first summer strength workouts.

I killed two birds tonight, performing both strides and uphill 200's for the first time in months. I felt pertee snappy (for the first time in months).

I thought of how we coaxed the poor, limp and wilting kids through repeats on those sweltering July afternoons. "Head high!, Keep your form!, Keep turning your legs over! C'mon! Just one more and we'll call it a day!". . . what troupers they were. We were dying right there alongside them but couldn't let it show. We laughed at the absurdity of the heat and the fact that these same girls who could barely run a half mile a few weeks prior were now able to run over 2 miles from our meeting place to get to this hill, nail this workout, and run back afterward.

Only a few blocks from this spot I ran suicidal hill repeats for my high school coach on Saturday mornings in the fall of 1976.

I like this hill. It's been a good host to hundreds of Largo runners.

I've already been asked to coach the girls again next fall but I believe I will opt to return to my assistant flunky coach position with the boys team instead.

I've circled a few little 5k races on the calendar and I'm looking forward to focusing on something other than surviving Sunday long runs for a change. I've always encouraged my kids to make their goals known and to hold themselves accountable to them.

My very modest goals for these 2 races is to finish under 21 in a few weeks and closer to 20 a few weeks later.

Caring Heart Race

2008-02-06T16:31:00.000-08:00

Saturday was a good day for our little squad of high school runners. 5 of our boys and our young assistant coach ran in a very small 5k race. The weather was beautiful. The course was a somewhat uninspired 2 laps around an assisted living facility complex (the event host). Nice for us though, as we were able (Coach K, Robin, me) to see the start, 2 laps, and the finish. Our young assistant coach is a first year teacher, only 2 seasons removed from being an athlete at a D3 program (Hope College). This season has been his 1st taste of "coaching" (babysitting) these scrappy kids that come from backgrounds and a struggling public high school that is quite different from his own high school experience.

He is a super young man and has been a great training guide for our kids. He is able to talk quite comfortably while pacing even our top boys through interval workouts, etc..

He ran a very nice and even paced race in a finish time of 15:40. Our top boys ran 16:21 (Gabe, whom I call "Gabito") and 16:30 (my new son, Thomas). They had a monster hard week leading up to the race and we are cautiously hopeful that these 2 may have a shot at a regional or state title in the upcoming cross country season.

We saw a few of our former kids from several seasons back. I have learned that the most talented athletes rarely run beyond high school.

I struggle with this as a coach. I want kids to run hard and run fast. I also want kids to run as young adults and parents, teaching their kids the benefits of healthy running. I'm here to get as much as I can from them but I don't want to bury them under high mileage and hard intervals at the ripe old age of 17.

There is not much that pleases me more than to see a former athlete at a road race.

From Above

2008-01-31T14:46:00.000-08:00

If God did not want me to continue to keep trying to run, why would I have run across a stockpile of Puma running shoes, sale priced at 39.99 at Marshall's yesterday afternoon?

I took it as a sign and bought 2 pairs (Complete Tenos 4's and Complete Phasis 4;s). With my current MPW avg. and my cache of new shoes, still wrapped and boxed (dating back to Xmas of 2005) I'll be set until I'm pushing a walker.

After

2008-01-28T14:11:00.000-08:00

I walked of my own accord into the family reunion area and was greeted immediately by Robin and Jill. I started pumping my fists in the air like a maniac when I saw them. This was perhaps the finest few minutes I've spent wearing running shoes. We were joined by my parents and sister.

I do this every year for a variety of reasons, most of them selfish. I feel self-conscious about my loved ones making a weekend of this event. I'm out a 3:30 am to get to the line and they are out at 6:00 am to get the shuttle for a good place along the fence near the finish line. They stand there for hours waiting to see (or possibly not see) me cross the line.

They tell me how great I did after my 3:28 and my 4:18. I've come to understand that this weekend in January every year is as much about our family as it is about 26.2 miles of running as fast as I can.

They gathered all my free post race bootyjunk and we rode the bus together back home. I did not see any of my buds at the post race area but heard later that all were finished and accounted for. We raided the ice machine in teams until the shallow little bathtub was sufficiently filled to the gills and I slipped in for a few very painful and necessary minutes.

We all went out for lunch as did my adrenaline high. I'm fading in the parking lot as we said our goodbyes and my family heads home. I'm nauseated for the rest of the day. Back at the hotel I lay in bed like a slug, unable to sleep deeply but unwilling to get up.

In the evening we get a bright idea to take the shuttle to Downtown Disney and spend the remainder of the evening walking about aimlessly for miles, up and down umpteen flights of stairs and finally choke down quite possibly the worst food ever purchased at a major theme park (Planet HollowWood).

No matter, Robin and I laugh our way through the cacophony and bone dry chicken and have a great time together as usual.

I'm spry in the morning for a change. We make it home in record time and make up for the lousy dinner with a fantastic lunch of she-crab soup and cracked conch at one of our favorite beach places.

I did one last running related thing when I got home that afternoon.

I registered for the Disney marathon 2009.

Three Thurtee Too Twenty Five

2008-01-25T10:50:00.000-08:00

The closer you move toward the starting line, the more pensive the vibe seems to be. We have about 5 minutes left. Everyone from behind has pushed forward. Too little time to hop out for one last pee. You might lose your place. I think I'm about 30 seconds back from the starting line. 30 rows behind me, people appear a bit more carefree. I see friends and/or family together in couples or packs they are singing and gabbing and generally farting around. 30 rows ahead they seem more isolated. Even fearful.

I'm somewhere in between. I have no one around that I know. I'm calm and I have such a feeling of goodwill toward my fellow running knuckleheads. I start making a list of the things I can and can't control. The "control" list is short. Relax. Drink. Take Gels. Focus. I can't do anything about how little I've trained this time compared with the previous years. I can't do anything about the weather. I imagine the inner dialog around me. Did I do enough? Are my goals too lofty? Do I adjust for the weather? I have 4 previous marathons under my belt. No 2 were the same. My mileage has never been lower. My quality has never been so sparse. I have not run for nearly a week. I bag all those thoughts up and put them aside.

I try to think instead about the decent long runs I've gotten in with Robin and Bert at my side. I visualize myself feeling strong and focused at the 17 mile mark where the doldrums seem to get to everyone on this course. I commit myself to 8:05-8:10's steady. It is dark, overcast. I expect it to rain (I don't mind the rain). I expect that it will clear and get above 70 during the 2nd half. I'm damn well going to run no faster than 8mm through the 1st half. I want to: a) finish b) run negative splits c) run under 3:40 and z) run under 3:31 if the Gods decide to stick a rocket in my arse somewhere along the line.

The Star Spangled Banana is performed. I place my hand over my heart and realize that I'm still wearing a throw away singlet that Bert given me the night before. "Wear it if you want or throw it away, I have 3 more just like it". I decide to peel it off as the fireworks explode. I know old shirtless guys look creepy. Too bad. I look down at my swollen and sloshy midsection. I must have peed 5 times in the last hour but I drank far more. We walk, shuffle trot, and jog in masse to the chip mat. I was indeed 25 seconds from the front. I start my GPS and spend 5 minutes allowing myself to get into some type of rhythm before looking into the face of the Garmin.

There is an immediate wardrobe malfunction. The weight of all my gels, crammed into every pocket of my "race-reddy" nutters is causing them to slide down my shimmery compression (my sofa) tights. I know I'm a plumber but I can't feature presenting my ass crack to the folks behind me for the next 3 hours. I pull the draw string up tighter and tighter, over and over again and sinching multiple knots for the next 5 minutes. I pull out 2 gells and carry them in my hands to let off some ballast. This does not eliminate the problem but I don't feel like they will be around my ankles any time soon.

It's the usual scene. People are flying all around me. They are late for their plane, jockeying for early position, not even a half mile into the thing. 4 years ago I would have gotten rankled by all this urgency. I think nothing of it now. I count a few Mickey and Minnie Mouses and a Tinkerbell. Earlier Bobby had quipped to me "I'm gonna get my ass kicked by at least 10 Tinkerbells today, I can feel it".

1st mile split 8:06. People are beginning to settle down now that we have passed the spectator area. I spend some time behind a dude who is wearing a pink speedo and white gloves. He is talking in earnest about his race experiences in New York and Chicago as he runs beside a regular looking guy. I hear him say "eh" to end a few of his sentences. I can't tell if he is in a joke costume or if this is sort of standard hot weather gear from the Great White North.

I feel good at 2 miles and force a gel at 3. I start taking gels every other mile. In 2005 I was in the best shape ever. It was hot. I skipped early water stops. By the time I realized what I'd done it was too late to correct. I will not make that mistake today. I will slow down and grab a water, a gatorade, and a 2nd water to rinse and/or throw on my head at every stop. Disney is damn well organized. They put the stops where they say they'll be and they have plenty of them. I run through 4 miles and we merge with the staggered corral runners. Things get tight. there is standing water from last nights' rain. I don't want wet socks. Up ahead people are shouting, "water!" or "cones!" to alert us but we run through or over them before it sinks in.

I'm through 6 and we are heading into adrenaline alley. Two shirtless, teenage boys up ahead of me are having a blast. Each has written "CHEER FOR HIM ===>" on their backs with arrows pointing to one another. They keep switching sides however and are aiding complete strangers by doing so. They stop and ham it up with a marching band and hi-five anyone that has a hand out. It's fun to watch! There are spectators and bands from miles 7 to 9 and then you are in the Magic Kingdom and everyone is feeling their yaya's. I get caught up and run a 7:45 ish split before I realize what has happened. Event photos always show folks beaming like children on Xmas morning in Cinderella's Castle photo at mile 11 and looking like they are giving birth near the Dinosaur photo a little ways down the road at mile 15. A young lady has been running on my shoulder for a few miles. Her respiration tells me she's about done already. "Have you run this course before?" I ask. "No, this is my 1st marathon", she lets out in single syllables. She sounds more like someone just whispered "you have 17 miles more to go" in her ear. "Everyone wants to fly through the park, just relax". Too late.

Every year, smiles disappear and people either go to work or punch out after we leave the Kingdom. There are a lot of service roads that connect the parks. There are overpasses. Couples and packs are separated. I'm through the half under 3:35 pace I think but I keep getting confused about when I started my watch. . . at the gun? at the mat? I run for several miles with a couple about my age who, as it turns out, coach middle and high cross country in south Florida. They are wearing matching duds (not cool) but work as a team at the water stops (very cool). It is daylight, yet overcast and warming up. We are heading to 16 miles and I feel them starting to fade. "Do you want to try and run under 3:35 this morning?" I finally broach the subject. "That would be a miracle", one of them says. We carry on together for awhile longer but I am afraid not to act on the feeling that I can run a little quicker and we separate. I don't want to jinx myself this early and wish them a good race, as if I'm going to finish ahead of them. There is still 10 miles on our plates.

I can't believe that I still feel this good. I am not holding back by any means but I'm not gassed. I keep waiting through miles 18-20 to blow up but I don't. Someone handed me a sponge a few miles back and I've been playing with it through the water stops. Split a gel open and cram it in my mouth before the 1st table, water it down, drink a power ade, grab a water to rinse and throw the rest on the nape of my neck. It feels so cold and good that I nearly buckle every time I do this. I use the sponge to keep the salt from my eyes. My only mistake is that I've carried a hat through the race and never wore it. I tucked it in my waste band until I thought I'd rub another hole in my butt and carried it the rest of the way.

This is a bad section of the race to feel bad at. You hit a rather steep overpass, giving you a birds-eye and very demoralizing view of everyone ahead of you. If that is not enough, there is a a hairpin turn where we seem to run for hours (it is really only minutes) facing folks who have already covered the terrain that we have yet to see. Then another overpass. And another. I'm running on task and still in disbelief. People are croaking. I am passing one after another. On the foot of the last overpass a guy ahead pulls the plug and says simply "shit". "C'mon man, this is the last hill. Last Hill! He smiles and says "thanks" and begins shuffling again. I pass a clydesdale guy who says to no one in particular "why did I go out in 6:20?".

Early mistakes are paid for in full here. Case in point. . The "Cheer For Him" boys. I see them around mile 20. They are on the side of the road. One is throwing up. The other does not look any better. Fun time is over. They will laugh about this in a few hours. I felt bad for them but stronger after seeing them. I know that is wrong.

I know the course well enough to know where I am now. The "studio" is the most boring of the parks we will see. We enter by a town of dumpsters, smelling every bit as they should and no one is caring about what they look like in their race photos. We have our 1st names on our bibs. Nothing is worse than a "GO MARY, you're almost there, only 5 miles to go" at this point when Mary is walking. I've walked in circles and staggered through this section 3 of the 5 times I've been here. I'm laboring now but I keep telling myself that I'm OK. I'm doing a checklist from the toes up and I'm not hurt. Just under trained. I'm not going to crash and burn. I have perhaps a 5k left and even in my math addled brain I think I'm going to be under 3:35. I start thinking about the queen mother of goals. Sub 3:31. I begin my desperate trick of counting my foot strikes to the number 8 and starting again. 8 foot strikes is a 10th of a 10th mile. I know this means nothing but it's a good diversion and a good way to run in cadence to squeeze the pace down.

I have a bit of a setback and lose my place. I'm trying spread every last ounce of what I have into the last 2 miles. I skip the last water stop. I'm passing and passing and passing people. Bystanders are saying "only 1/2 mile to go!" during the last 2 miles. I won't look up and I won't look at my watch but I'm giving it everything, short of kicking.

I round the corner and hear the crowd at the finish line, now REALLY a half mile away. Suddenly, I'm in love with everything and everyone. I'm smiling, knowing that I'm gonna finish. I'm thanking God for this day and my health and my family. There is a large praise choir staged at mile 26 each year. I'm usually reeling sideways and drooling on myself here as are most folks around me now. I run toward the choir and throw my hands up like a new convert and they erupt with their hands and voices. It is perhaps the corniest thing I can remember doing but I'll do it again if I get a chance. I'm flying the last 1/4 and looking for my family along the fence line. I've got a shit eating grin plastered to my face as the bleep of my chip crosses the mat. I didn't look at the time but I must have stopped my watch.

I practically skipped to the volunteer who cut my chip off and on to all the free goodies I could carry. I can walk and smile. I'm not looking for someone to wrap me in ice or for random spot to collapse like I've been know to do.

I joked with the post race photo lady "How is my hair?". . .

"Perfect", she said. I nearly believed her.

D-Day

2008-01-24T13:45:00.000-08:00

I awoke around 2:30 AM, a full 30 minutes earlier than I had hoped to and immediately knew that it would be of no use to tray and drift back off. I slipped outside and checked the weather. No rain. No chill. Not much wind. 2 outta 3 ain't bad. I jumped in the shower and woke myself up pretty good, resisting the temptation to crank up the heat for fear that it would take too much starch out of my system. I ate a few bites of something and ate a few Advil. I started drinking right away. I dressed quickly and systematically, donning my new compression shorts (that I used to snicker at) and race-ready full-on skimpy split shorts (nutters, we called them) with about 20 pockets for crap (I used to snicker about these, too). I arranged my sacrifice clothes and plastic bags and breakfast and check bag just like an old veteran. I kissed my adoring fans (Robin and Jill) and headed to the lobby. In the elevator I met a young intern wearing Penn State sweats. He was sweating. I met Coach K in the lobby at 3:30 just like the previous 4 years and we made the 1st shuttle out. These 10 minutes are the most animated I see him all year. We are 12 again, riding the bus for a field trip but the bus driver let's us talk as loud as we want.

We meet up with Hunter and Bobby behind the jumbo tron like always. The pre-race awards ceremony begins. Coach K wins for best sweat pants and jacket. His 3.79 womens extra large sweat pants with the large daisy embroidered on the cuff of the right leg trumps my 4.95 childs large gray sweat pants bought on clearance at Target the year before (I had thrown these in my check bag at the last minute before the race last year and used them as my standard attire when I painted the house all winter). It was not quite raining but anything we'd set down has instantly covered with beads of moisture. It was warm already. It was 4 o'clock by now and we sat on our hefty bags in the parking lot listening to a bad band play a los lobos tune and watching several folks who must have been all nerved up as they jogged and performed striders a good 2 hours before they would be able to do anything about it. I wonder how that worked out?

We all had our bags of junk but Hunter took the cake by bringing cash along with him. We rolled around a bit about this. "What the hell are you gonna do with cash, Hunter?". " I don't know, MGM opens at 9", maybe I can get some cotton candy or something". "Shit, man did you bring your phone, too? Are you going to accost some hapless volunteer on his golf cart at mile 17 and fan your bills at him asking how much to take me to the 25 mile mark my good man?". Bobby came back from his 3rd porta-let trip and asked what we were laughing about. "Hunter brought cash!" we said. "So. . . I have some cash, I brought my phone, too!" he said. Now I don't want to give you the impression that these guys eat their way through a 6 hour marathon. They are all over the age of 50. They all train less than 30 miles a week on average and they all finish around the 4 hour mark. Not to bad for a bunch of old guys out having fun with this thing.

We finish up our trail mix, energy bar, banana, and cinnamon pop tart (mine) breakfasts and work our way through the check tent to began the 1/2 mile hike toward the starting area. I made my only porta-can visit and found the old guys sitting on a berm by a giant drain grate. For the first time we would be starting in a different corral. With 45 minutes left to start, I toddled off to my corral. I walked past a sea of corrals that stretched into the darkness and set up shop outside the snow fence about 100 meters from the start. Here is the last chance to set up for the weather. Off with the Old Navy long sleeve tee that I shouldn't have had on in the 1st place. Off with the nipple band-aids and instead a heavy coat of body glide that I'd bought at the expo. I even parted ways with my old faithful sweat pants. Somewhere today (I hope) a needy person is walking around with these beauties . . . battleship gray with tiny flecks of all the colors of my house. I've been drinking like a madman since I woke up and join hundreds of others in the pee fest taking place along the tree line outside the fence. I can't imagine this taking place at Boston or NYC but no one here ever seems to mind. The A corral racers are hardcore. Even the ladies pee standing up alongside the dudes. This would not fly anywhere else on the planet but 1/2 mile away from "Epcot" it does not raise an eyebrow.

I hope over into the corral and fidget and hop back to pee again. I stretch. I trot. This is the first time I've tried a trot in 5 days. No stabbing pains. No hot flash into the left hip. Thanks, Advil. I hop back into the corral, still feeling like I need to pee but the announcer's voice is getting more urgent about having everyone move up. I estimate a top 500 finish if all goes well and try to place myself within this realm. I don't want to get up too close to the start and get passed by everyone. I don't want to get near the pace pack balloon guys. Last year I ran the first few miles with the 3:30 pace guy. He ripped off a 7:20 1st mile and everyone said "That's OK, Scott!"(or whatever his name was) and I'm in oxygen debt already. Today I have to run my race.

I figure I'll know if I will have to drop out within the first 5 miles and I make a silent pledge to get out of this early if I'm in pain at the 5 mile point.

Disney Weekend Part 1

2008-01-14T12:17:00.000-08:00

I'm free from the protective cocoon of the Magic Kingdom and back in reality land today. I'm so happy with the way this weekend went that I could by a year-round pass and just stay there.

We arrived on Friday and whisked through the expo for the bib and chip shuffle with no hassles. We spent the day together, Robin and I.. .lunching, hanging out at the pool, dinnering, just like a young couple. Beautiful.

A small damper on the day was that I apparently aggravated my hip after taking a few flights of stairs at the expo and I limped for the remainder of the day. As if I was there to run or something. . .

We were joined by the entourage on Saturday. My folks, sister, youngest daughter and her best friend, and my oldest daughter brought the grand kids to be with us during the day while they attended an Xtreme sports expo of some type near the area (my son-in-law designs and sells a line of apparel aimed at this market).

I took an Epsom bath during the day and decided to take another running ZERO for the day. I didn't want it in my mind that I might attempt and have to abort a run a mere day before the event. I got a few very nice last minute phone calls from my friends Karen and the Kid and all the old boys

We survived the usual fiasco of dinner for a party of 13 on a night where every living being is searching the town for noodles. Our 6:30 reservation got us a seated at around 7:30 and we were full of pasta and out the door around 10. My friend (Al)Bert and his wife met us which was very cool. I'm always calmed by Bert's very no-nonsense and methodical approach to preparing for a race. We discussed our goals. I wanted anything under 3:45 but had no idea what to expect, given my limited mileage and quality and even more so the way the previous week had unfolded. Bert was vague about a specific time but wanted to better his performance last year (which was around 2:58, I think).

We made it back to the hotel and settled in. I stacked all my race stuff in a shoe box by my bed. Jill and her friend were already in bed asleep. I thought back to the time a few years back when Jill and Amelia kept me up late the night before the race, giggling and cracking their knuckles.

I drifted off watching sports center and by the grace of God slept hard for a few hours. I found it very calming to have no expectations for what might happen in a few hours.

Looks Like We Made It

2008-01-10T17:58:00.000-08:00

At last Thursday night has arrived. I'm reminded each time I take a day off work or a vacation as to why I don't do either very much. It's always such a hassle to set things up at work. This time was no different. I'll probably make an appearance at work in the morning and I'm not sure about taking Monday off after the race.

This will be my 5th Disney marathon (3:37, 3:43, 3:28, 4:18. . .ok I ran half of that one and walked the other). A good number of people that run in my area that have a pretty healthy degree of disdain for Disney and the Disney marathon. "It is expensive", some say. At a little over 100 bucks, maybe so but for me it is a 2 hour drive and a single night stay if I want the condensed experience. As bad as I feel about not being in good running form right now, I'd feel 10 times worse knowing that I'm flying somewhere to race poorly. I'll suck close to home, thank you very much.

"It's too early". The 3 o'clock bus shuttle and 6 am start time is a bit early but how many times have we all gotten up at 4 am on a Sunday morning for our long run? Yeah, the cattle staging areas and 1/2 mile walk to the corrals are not optimal. But the support on the course far outweighs any of the lows points.

It is a big field but not too big. . . just right, I think, You will always be passing someone (or being passed, I suppose) and unless you are in the top 50 folks, you won't be left to work the run alone.

My family likes coming over and we have established a nice tradition of a marathon eve dinner. My old running buddies usually meet in the lobby and ride the bus and survive the wait in the field. The more foul the weather, the more fun we seem to have. We shop the thrift stores for disposable warm clothing and crack each other up with the "tear-away" features of our get ups, usually held together with duct tape. Dudes like duct tape.

We generally line up a respectable distance from the line and get separated pretty quickly once the cannon fires. It's one of my favorite aspects of the race. . . the fact that we seem to get swept up in the current of legs and bibs and lose contact as if we have no control.

At this point, my old guys are happy to run around the 4 hour mark. Two of them have the distinction of running every Disney marathon to date. One has the distinction of being a 2:23 marathoner in his day. He has nothing left to prove. He has run under 3 hours on this course long after his prime and has also run over 5 hours with a cane during a particularly bad case of P. F. that threatened to end his streak. The high mileage of his early years and his recent knee scopes left him bowlegged and his running is propelled more by swinging his arms than his legs.

I still like to finish near the 3:30 area if possible.

We meet afterward for a beer and some war talk. It's over in a flash and before I know it, I'm back at home, registering online for Disney next January, and vowing that this year I will stay healthy, up my mileage, and break 3 hours.

I spend the summer wondering why I committed to another marathon with this body.

It's probably a good way to go about it. Without Disney every January to show up for, I might be tempted to admit my decline and say "screw it", I'll take up biking or canoeing.

Monday I felt compelled to cross train on the elliptical (the LIP) for some reason. 45 minutes steady. I felt good that my heart rate did not creep up above 92 and I ran an easy 6 miles Tuesday but I felt very slow.

Yesterday my hip was bad again and I blame it on the LIP. Today it is screaming bloody murder and I've popped my 1st anti inflammatory in over a year. Bummer.

I'll keep good thoughts and distract myself by buying some crap I don't need at the expo tomorrow and enjoying the company of my friends until the time comes to pony up and see how it plays out.

I know enough now to not bemoan the sluggishness or trust the springiness before race day.

I'm happy to have had another year of running and I'm already looking forward to breaking 3 hours at Disney 09 . . .

Send Off

2008-01-06T08:38:00.001-08:00

This should be the 2nd week of tapering. How do you taper exactly as a 35mpw person? Last Sunday I did indeed "cut back" to 18 miles and made myself run at a prescribed long run/easy pace, based on my Mp goal pace and I wish that it had felt easier than it did.

I had a few easy runs during the week and one closer to MP with my new son (harhar). The only real quality was 3 x 1 mile at 6:25 with 2 min jog recoveries. Still the same old story. Someone else's legs are under me. I can't wait until next Sunday ends so I can take time off and refocus on general overall strength and form.

I met with 3 of my favorite folks this morning to run the last 13 mile of the cycle. We separated in pairs. My fast friend Karen with my other fast friend Bert and me with the Kid who was banged up from a combination of his marathon 3 weeks ago and his insistence of running an interval workout Wednesday despite my wishes that he not.

I did the 13 with the last 2 under MP and afterward Robin met us for a nice breakfast.

It's 70 degrees and sunny as I sit here 2 hours after our run. Great weather to sit out on the front porch and read the paper. Not so great for a marathon. It looks like our cold front has exited to the rear and I'm looking at another 70+ degree day at Disney to race in.

I'm never one to fret about weather on race day but Dear God I need all the tumblers to click this time around to get anywhere near my goal (which is very modest Dear God).

I'm hoping for a massage in the middle of the week and perhaps a humiliating trip for a pedicure, and a trip to the barber (and it is a barber that I see at this point).

I want to look my best in all of those groovy race photos, right?

We Are Family. . .

2008-01-03T18:22:00.000-08:00

We got a kid for Christmas this year. A big kid, in fact. A 17 year old kid.

I think my identity in running is probably more as a support person than a participant. 5 or so years ago I enjoyed running intervals and tempos with the kids I coach. Invariably this kept me in a near constant state of injury. My mind wouldn't accept the fact that my body wasn't built for the abuse anymore. You can run the pee out of a kid and the next day he'll be back farting around and ready for more. They recover like nobody's business. It's fun to be around. They seem to respect the fact that I still run a bit and commit to a marathon every year. It has been a good arrangement for me and for the kids.

I had an ideal of what coaching a cross county team should be when I started helping out my Alma Mata's program. The no-nonsense, redassed coach with the whistle and the squad of 30 or so calloused, self motivated competitors that would always be in contention of a state championship. This was the way I remembered it. The reality at present is heavyheavy recruiting to get 7 kids participating, usually 4 of which have been raised to believe that competing is bad.

The one or two kids that actually by into what you're selling and stay with it throughout their 4 years of high school is enough to keep me coming back. If you can stomach the fact that every time you see a kid at practice could be that last time you see them and that very few of them will run at college or beyond then you'll be ok.

It often has little to do with the science of running and more to do with guidance in other areas of their lives. The majority are being raised in single parent homes. An appallingly high percentage have no contact with their Dads. What a lot of them are looking for is discipline, boundaries, and above all else your attention and encouragement.

I've realized that they don't care about what workouts they are doing, periodization, lactate thresholds, Vo2 max's, or wearing the right shoes or shorts. That is for me to worry about. They just want your attention and acceptance and as your reward for a few weeks every year, running and their team becomes the most important part of their lives.

What I hope to show them is that I am a regular, hard working man who loves his family, can still run a bit, and that I think that what they are doing is important and good. This is the overall message to them. Work hard, love your family, stay fit, give some of your time back.

I am honored and humbled to have them check in with me as college students or graduates and better yet to have some of them coming back to help with the team.

Like most "teachers", you have a pet or two in each group. Sometimes you have to stand back and shake your head, wondering how they function and thrive despite their home environment. Thank God I have a strong marriage and we present a united front to our girls. I don't know how single parents do it. It seems like the kids would run all over you.

This brings me to our new kid. He is a kid I've coached for 3 seasons. Very bright (4th in his class), very funny, very respectful, and very incapable of living with his Mom anymore. I have watched him leave home (with her instruction and blessing) to stay with friends and family for days or weeks or months at a time since I've known him. Something as simple as him teasing his younger sister escalates and explodes into a major problem that finds him on someone else's doorstep. They have come to an impasse.

His Mom loves him very much but she feels that raising him alone since birth has made her more of a friend than a parent. He is perfect with anyone else. They just push each others buttons. He called to ask if he could stay with us which broke my heart. Later that day his Mom called and asked if he could stay with my family for an unspecified amount of time. She is a professional person from a wealthy family. Their problem has nothing to do with financial hardship.

Since my family has been fond of him for some time (he is one of my youngest daughter's best friends) and I have known him to be such a great kid, and we have 2 extra bedrooms....

He has been with us for a week now. All is good. He is a dedicated and talented runner who does not have to be prodded into getting his mileage in (unlike his coach, at times).

Wish us luck.

In Garmin We Trust AND Flip Flop Anonymous

2007-12-27T12:32:00.000-08:00

Like other pampered runners of my era, I dabble in technology that quantifies my effort. When I began running I'm not sure if I ever gave thought to how far or fast we ran. You couldn't really drive a car along the routes we took to verify distance. Digital watches were very expensive. Nobody I knew had one. Looking back, I think we just ran as fast as we could for as far as we could every time we ran. The only time that "time" was considered was during an interval workout or at a race. This system seemed to work fine. During the 1975 cross country season our top 5 finishers could run under 15 minutes (3 miles). Compare this with our top finisher this year at 16:49 (5k). Same school, great kids, better training techniques . . . what happened?

Maybe we think too much.

When I started back running for fun and fitness a few years ago I found myself feeling like I needed data. As an adult, I had to make things more complex. It couldn't be as easy as it was when I was a kid, right? So I measured distances and used a watch. I learned to love a treadmill so I could control every inch of my workouts. I purchased a fitsense footpod system that counted foot strikes and calculated distance based on your calibrated stride length (which was way off more times than not) .

Then God gave us the Garmin. I got a 201 when they came out and nearly puked when I discovered that my old 23 mile loop, measure on the fitsense was really 21.2 miles. . . but then I ran a few races where the 10k's were 6.35 or so too so go figure. Anyway, it was light years ahead of the other methods I'd been chained to. Within the last year or so, most of my running buds have upgraded to the 205, while I've marched around with my old black toaster 201. Tuesday, I opened a new 205 as a gift from Robin. Finally, I possessed the most accurate running gadget on the market. No more waiting for a lost satellite signal, the freedom to run under trees and through buildings, or something like that.

Yesterday after work I pulled into the park I've been running from during the last few weeks (change of scenery, you know) and strapped the trusty 205 to my knobby left wrist. I powered up and instantly got a signal! I took off, hobbling on my left side and hoping for at least 8 miles.

Flip Flop: On a windy and wintry (for Florida) Sunday morning about 5 years ago, me and my old buddies were finishing up our long run. Out on that last stretch of trail system, the flip-flop man came into our lives. He looked to be 60 years old or so with a thick mane of wiry grey hair that seemed electrified in the static morning air. He wore long boy scout type pants with multiple pockets and zippers. He was shirtless. He was toothless. . . and on his weathered feet he wore dime store issue rubber flip flops. He claimed to have run 30 miles already that morning. We thought he was a lunatic. It was hard to speak to him as you would to a normal person you might meet during the course of business. His name was Larry. He made it clear that he did not wish to discuss anything beyond the mileage he had done that morning or would do that day. He sure as hell didn't seem to be interested in any questions about his footwear. We ran casually alongside him at around 8:00 pace and he peeled off and left us behind when he was through granting us audience.

We went home and told our wives and kids about Larry. No one seemed as impressed as we were. Because of his reluctance to any details about his personal life, we concocted stories about his past. "He's a retired NASA guy who got fed up with technology". . . "He's a war veteran who escaped a POW camp in DaNang". . . "He is Howard Hughes" . . . that kind of thing. It became the topic of many miles and in the following weeks, a strange phenomena began to develop. . . every time we mentioned him during a run, he would appear. No shit. After the initial shock of meeting him wore off we didn't talk about him much but when we did, there he'd be.

For example, we were sitting on a picnic bench in the park where we coach after a Sunday run, waiting to see runners pass through during the course of a marathon. We had timed the finish of our run in expectation of seeing the first runners come through the park. Through the December mist we saw the first 2 runners approach from the back side of the lake. "Wouldn't that be some shit if one of them was Larry, I cracked". . .

Of course one of them was. Larry was running along stride for stride in his flip flops at 6mm pace with the leader, jawing at his running mate like a madman. I can't imagine what this poor guy thought to be running in a marathon and suddenly joined by toothless Moses in his sandals. The pair ran together until they were out of our sight range.

We told all the kids we coached about the flip flop man. Some could care less. The ones that did would not believe us. Eventually, every kid I coached met Larry at some time or another. I would spot him hundreds of times after our first meeting. In the winter, he would not wear a shirt. In the summer time he wore a long sleeve shirt, a big straw hat and/or carried a large beach umbrella to block the sun. About 2 years ago he started running with a cane most of the time. I saw him and ran with him during the half marathon I bandited a few weeks back.

Someone finally got hip to Larry and wrote a feature story about him in the St. Pete Times a few months back.

http://www.sptimes.com/2007/10/04/Life/Catching_up_with_the_.shtml

He is not a NASA guy or POW escapee as it turns out. He is instead a tortured soul. An insomniac, a dry alcoholic who lives off a diet of chocolate and spoonfuls of refined white sugar straight from a bag he places under his bed, he doesn't bathe much and he and runs to ward off his personal demons. He didn't appreciate the press. He is pleasant when you come across him on the trail. He will size you up by a few very direct questions about the nature of your running but has no interest in your personal business and he likes you to return that favor.

Yesterday afternoon finds me running in my eva-blown stability shoes in my microfibre lined running shorts, listening to my iPod, and watching the data on my spankin' new 205 through my ultra lite sunglasses and things still don't feel right. I'm leaning into this run and the watch won't budge under 8:30 and it seems like a lifetime between miles. I'm pity striding like my hip is broken and my left butt cheek is doing it's thing and I feel worthless and slow. "I bet I'll see Larry", I mutter.

About a half mile later, I do. By now the sweat has puddled beneath my sunglass lenses making everything blurry, so I smell him before I see him. He is funky even by runner's standards. Years of funk. But it is not offensive, it's like the scent of a wonderous, powerful animal you admire so you let the smell slide. It's late and he is almost home. "Hey Larry", I say. "I'll run 40 miles today" is what he says. . . "I'm on track to run over 300 miles this week". "I like to bragbragbrag, I know, but I hear all these people I see on the trail and they talk about how they are in pain and their knees and hips hurt and I know I have all kinds of injuries and micro tears of connective tissue (his words, not mine) and I still run over 40 miles a day". "I know", I say.

He shifts gears and sprints ahead. "See, this isn't too bad to be able to speed up like this after running all day, is it? I've been out since 3 this morning." "That's great", I say.

"Would you happen to know what the 24 hour distance record is for a man who is 62 years old?", he asks. "No, but I'll look it up and tell you what it is the next time I see you". "Ok", he says, "I'm turning off here, I've got to grocery shop on my way home and it's a pain to carry 10 lb.s of stuff that last 5 miles. . you'll have to tell me who you are again when I see you next time, I have Alzheimer's now and I can't remember names".

I struggle along like a one man band clown with virtually every current running gimmick known to man as I watch him shift gears and scamper off in his cargo pants and black flip flops. Alone again, I run to a point where the 205 said the 5 mile mark would be and limp an about face to run the same route back, pushing all the more because I can't accept something over 8:30 avg for the run. I finish in 84:45 for the 10 miles (8:30ish average) and am wiped out and in disbelief once I get home.

I continue to doubt the 205 all night and in the morning allow myself to jump on the USATF site and track the run. The Garmin was wrong. Nearly a mile wrong. My 10 miles was actually 10.8, dammit. Instead of the blazing 8:30 average, I ran a blazing 7:50 average. It's a shame that this is a big deal to me.

This is where I am as a runner, 30 years later. Wearing GPS's and double checking the data on the internet and splitting hairs about how many seconds per mile one gadget says vs. the other.

I wonder if I threw the Garmin and all my other crap away and found a pair of Brooks Drakes and tube socks, I could break 15 minutes for 3 miles.

I wonder what I could do in flip flops.

Assoverteakettle

2007-12-23T17:54:00.000-08:00

Friday night Robin and I had a wonderful evening with friends. We strolled through the botanical gardens, taking in the Christmas lights amidst the distant strains of classic songs, performed by a small combo. My oldest daughter (Mia) and family came and we watched our grandson run and play with other kids.

Saturday morning at 6, Robin and I met (Al)Bert and ran my old "mega-loop" course for 22.3 miles at 8:05 avg. It felt like work and I had hoped that the final miles would not have felt so much like the wall was nigh. We went our for breakfast afterward and enjoyed a history lesson from Bert about the Christmas traditions of his native Holland.

I got up early this morning and on an impulse, threw Robin's bike in the back of my truck and drove to my old groups' meeting spot to surprise the old boys and chaperone their 13 miler.

It was good to shoot the shit with them again. Very relaxing and pain free to be on the bike at the 10mm shuffling pace. Good thing we were traveling slowly. Around mile 12 the front tire schlunked right into a storm drain grate, as perfectly as you could drop a coin into a slot machine and I went right over the handle bars. I couldn't get my left damned foot out of the stirrup to catch myself before it was too late. A few scrapes but no real bloodletting. I thought I had broken my left pinky toe (the private) and his roommate (the Sergeant) but the pain subsided pretty quickly. We all had a good laugh and we started reminiscing about all the times we have busted our asses during our runs over the last several years.

The tire rim was bent but usuable and I was serenadeed for the last 8 miles back to my truck by the "skrick-skrick" of the rim hitting the right side brake pad.

On the way back I thought about something my Dad used to say to my Mom when she would accuse him of not being enthusiastic about a situation or idea that she felt was important.

"What do you want? . . . for me to do a flip and fart my socks off?" He'd ask.

I pictured myself flying over the handle bars of my wife's baby blue bike and farting my socks off.

In the afternoon, before the Bucs rolled over in San Fransisco (for the 10th time in 11 trips there), I drove to the bike shop and bought a new rim.

All is well.

Week

2007-12-21T10:52:00.000-08:00

Had our office Xmas party last Saturday night. I'm usually an early pasta dinner/early to bed Saturday night person. I like that routine. It has served me well, nearly to the point that I feel this routine is necessary in order to run long in the morning.

Saturday we stayed out late and ate crappy buffet (low carb) food. I met my friend Albert at 6 on Sunday morning as the wind howled and the rain blew sideways. The rain stopped as if on cue and we had a nice 20 mile run. We had a "goo" toast at 7 am to honor our friends Karen and Aaron who were staring their marathon in Jacksonville at that moment.

I made good on my vow to run on an impromptu whim. Tuesday I pulled into a local park around lunchtime, grabbed my gym bag that I have been carrying along with me for such an occasion, changed and ran a nice 8:25, 8:10, 8:00, 7:45, 7:14 5 miler w/another 1.5 mile cool down and was dressed and on the road within an hour.

I got a massage this week and found that my left side flexor range is improving.

I got a last minute call to run the boys team through an interval workout yesterday which I really enjoyed. Nothing like being around a bunch of knuckle headed kids who run 65 second 1/4 mile repeats to get you inspired.

Last night I attempted another tempo (3 miles at the lowly 7:08 pace again) and as it was last week it seemed very labored.

I'm juggling around my training ideas for the remaining 21 days left to the marathon. At this point I'm focusing on the long run, running 1 tempo per week, and trying to run 5 days a week. Albert has asked me to run long in the morning. He is running a half marathon next Saturday and wants to move his long run up one day this week. I'm on the fence about this. I'd really like to avoid an injury in the next 3 weeks.

Runners Are Smart (and stuff)

2007-12-13T13:26:00.000-08:00

Just received a congratulatory letter from the Athletic Director of the school where I coached last season. Apparently our girls cross country team carried the highest grade point average of any athletic program on campus.

I had nothing to do with it.

So maybe they didn't qualify for Region (we were close) or State (we weren't close), but they can split atoms and stuff.

Tem-poor

2007-12-13T09:16:00.000-08:00

I ran the worst tempo of the season last night. Even taking the floor of Dr. Jacks' suggested T pace (7:08) for the shape I think I'm in seemed like running in quicksand (or slowsand, in my case). I usually do a bread and butter 2 x 20 minute tempo but I skipped the 2nd round last night. Last year I'd do these at 6:30 pace and it felt comfortably hard at best. My breathing is moderate now so I'd like to think I'm getting there aerobically. I just feel complete absence of any power from the rib cage down when running under 7:30...and every whack of the left foot sends the needle up the IT to the hip! It's like playing the carnival game where you hit the plate with the hammer, sending the metal disc up to ring the bell.

Every time my left foot hits the deck there should be a DING and someone should be shouting-

"We have a winner!"

The Purple Colonels

2007-12-10T14:31:00.000-08:00

Somewhere I recall a comedian talking about his toes, referring to them as having military rank..The big toe being the General and so forth. I thought it was amusing and since then I have always called my funky 2nd toes "The Colonels". I am one of "those" people who have Colonels tall enough to play power forward on any good D1 college program.

In the running world they call it a "Morton" toe as in "Morton's Neuroma". Very flattering indeed.

The Colonels bear the brunt of most of my footwork and are the very last to leave the surface at each stride.

Around this time each year, when the few races I fart around with come into season and the long run gets the longest, the Colonels nailbeds get agitated and eventually rebel, first becoming eggplant purple, then ebony, and ultimately unattached and free to tumble about in my socks.

After the "race" yesterday, I peeled off my Fila's to find that the right Colonel was angry with me. This morning both of them were barking orders to allow a bit more headroom in the sock toes and loosen the shoe laces.

I've found that no apologies or doting change the outcome.

At Christmastime I'm delivered to the nail salon where Robin frequents. Halfheartedly under duress. The ladies who work there giggle at me to one another and I feel spoiled and piggy in the pedicure chair. The Colonels don't help here either. I plead for the life of their withering black nails. The ladies, of course would prefer to pull them off. I try to explain that I have a lot of running to do in the next few weeks and I'd rather not do it on nail beds that resemble newborn hamsters.

More giggles from them. I sink deeper into the chair and attempt to disappear which is hard to do when you are sitting in a 6 ft. tall lazyboy recliner throne, attached to a bathtub.

Anyway, this is the closest I come to "manscaping" and I must add that I don't allow the ladies to apply any clear polish when they are done.

I'm right on track for the upcoming marathon: Running too few miles, on the verge of injury, and well on my way to losing the covers of my Colonels.

A Banner Day for Mrs. Old Man Ray (and daughter)

2007-12-10T11:46:00.000-08:00

It is a day of celebration!

It is Robin's birthday. If I could stop time, I'd gladly do it at this very moment. We have never been happier or healthier. She loves the business that she built from nothing 10 years ago and her enthusiasm to explore new ideas is contagious. She is a good friend to so many people and volunteers her time at our daughters' school and for other civic organizations. She is the best person I know and the best thing that ever happened to me. I don't know what I ever did to deserve her. It must have been something I did in another life because nothing I've done in this one comes to mind.

Also noteworthy today is Jill's induction into the National Honor Society. She is 17 and pretty well self sufficient at this point.

I promised her a new car if she aced a years' worth of grades. I should have thought that one through...

That would be another good reason to have time stand still.

Bandito! Jerkito!

2007-12-09T09:40:00.000-08:00

Dear God-

I did 2 things today that I'm not proud of.

Bad thing #1: I bandited a local 1/2 marathon race.

I will say that I have paid my 50 bucks for this race before. That year it rained from the get-go and was a windy 40 something degree death chug. The volunteers left their posts, leaving us to twist about in the wind with only the rain to hydrate us for miles at a time. The post race bagels were soggy and the t-shirts sucked, too. So I felt justified the following year when I bandited it.

Today I feel a twinge of guilt. Me and the kid (see previous posts) didn't use their port-o-lets and we started behind all those gathered and we ran along the sidewalks, out of the way BUT we did STEAL WATER at 4 stops.

I wanted to run an MP thing and the kid has a marathon next Sunday. I guess the long and short of it is that I wanted a chance to attempt an extended MP run and practice some dixie cup drills and run along with other folks but I wanted the option of bailing without feeling that I DNF'ed if I couldn't get my left ass to move as a willing accomplice.

Me and the kid had a nice run and talked all the while, We agreed to keep the pace around 7:45 which we did until mile 8.

Bad thing #2: I put the screws to a fellow coach.

Around mile 8 I recognized a fellow cross country coach from a rival school. He seemed to be suffering and I sort of wanted to add to his discomfort as payback for the swagger he displayed earlier this year when we met at our opening meet.

He: "Oh, I guess I have about 40 girls on our team, It's kind of hard to keep up with all of them". . (here I am standing with my squad of 12 or so that I busted my ass to recruit, over half of them are wearing donated shoes or shirts or shorts or they would be wearing God knows what.)

Me: "That's nice..(turning to my team),Hey! Rhonda!, put that cigarette down!"

His kids have names like "Celeste or Meeeeegan" and mine have worker names like "Vicky" or something.

Well, Coach Cushy, the coach of ghetto high with the numb left ass cheek(me) is not going to waste this opportunity. I called on all my right ass cheek power and squeezed down to the 7:15 range with him in tow. I talked the whole while about mundane stuff and posed a series of questions that would require thoughtful and extended answers from Coach Cush. He developed a side stitch and I talked him through it like a jerk. He would fade and drop off and I'd double back and put him back on my shoulder like a jerk. I'd tell him where the mile markers and water stops were and encouraged him like a jerk. Basically all the things that anyone has ever done or said to me in a race when I felt like crap and they were just trying to help, I did to this poor guy. . . and to cap it off, I said "it's good for us to race every now and then so we can appreciate the things we are asking our kids to do during their races". That got me no response.

I pulled him to the 12.5 mark and took off for the last 1/2 mile on my own. He is actually a very nice young man. At 24, I'm nearly twice his age. My guess is that he won't have a clue that I harbored any resentment toward his whimsical comments about his talented/filled to capacity team in front of my sweathogs earlier this year. Maybe he's too young to appreciate the the program he inherited at that school and too young to ever consider that his Dad (me) could ever talk him through 5 miles of a foot race.

Every bony old dog has his day, Coach Cush. You would probably kill me at any other distance.

So forgive me mister race director, I will pay my entry fee next year even if I have to start with the walkers.

And forgive me Coach Cush. Just show my scrappy, small, under- funded, girls team a little more respect next season.

Old Home Week

2007-12-07T12:50:00.000-08:00

How many times have you said "I wonder how so-and-so is? I should give them a call" and never do it?

After a few weeks of coincidences that have reminded me of an old friend, I finally dug up his number and called. He owns a recording studio where a band I was in spent years of evenings and weeknights farting around. He was a bit older than us, a confirmed bachelor, and a person who vowed never to have kids. The last time I saw him was maybe 10 years ago...at his wedding. Married for the 1st time at the ripe old age of 50 (or so). He battled a serious illness a few years back and as he is an intensely private person, went through this trial with little word to his casual friends like me. It's too easy to lose touch and too easy to be satisfied with words about how someone is doing, simply from 3rd or 4th hand news. I let it happen far too often. I'm really glad I made the effort to call.

We spoke for a long time. In the background I could hear the antics of his 11 month old daughter. Yes, he is a Dad for the 1st time too. He used the word "blessing" of course, to describe the impact on his life. I could only smile on my end of the phone . . yes, yes, I nod silently.

I have a deep respect for those in my family and friends who decided against having children for whatever reason. They would have been great parents to be sure. I don't feel like I have much of an identity outside of being a husband, father, and grandfather (jeez).

All that said, I couldn't be happier for my friend who has been given as much time as anyone is guaranteed to have on this earth who now gets a chance to experience the indescribable love you can feel for a child.

Don't tear up on me. They also grow up to be quite the pain in the ass at times. Just kidding (mostly).

Windows

2007-12-06T13:44:00.000-08:00

I get these narrow windows of time when I'm driving around or sitting at my desk where it occurs to me that it would be perfect to pull over or stand up and go for a run. It's a nearly overwhelming urge. If I could just drop what I'm doing, when all my bones feel lined up and nothing is humming or aching it would be a great run. I've never acted on it, but I'm going to throw a bag in my truck and test this feeling out soon.

The Ultimate Weight Loss Program: Fat Television

2007-12-06T06:25:00.000-08:00

We have developed an insatiable appetite to bear witness to heavy folks battling their food addictions during prime time. It must make us feel better about ourselves. Whatever the reason, we are clearly entertained enough to lend our eyes to at least 4 programs that I know of regarding the subject.

Fat Camp, Celebrity Fit Club, The Biggest Loser, and my personal favorite Fat March.

I will now make some very sweeping and unfair generalizations about these these shows and the people that have the misfortune to appear on them.

1) Not all heavy people have pretty faces

2) They seem to cry a lot, more than their thinner counterparts

3) They seem to cry a lot harder when they talk about their weight

4) They seem to be tempted by food in a way that I don't understand

5) They seem to lose a shitload of weight when they control their food intake and exercise

I have never watched Fat Camp so I don't know what goes on there.

I had no idea that so many fallen rock stars and TV celebs went on to pack the pounds after their careers where over. Celebrity Fit Club has little to do with weight loss and more to do with drama and the hopes of sparking dead careers.

I absolutely despise "The Biggest Loser" show as much as my wife loves it. I can't stand the whole "gaming" angle of the show. Lose weight/gain money. One dude drinks 2 gallons of water before the big Weigh In in order to show a GAIN of 17 pounds in some sort of strategic move that escapes me. I'm sickened when they appear to crave or are tempted by food and even more so when they cry about their appearance, and more than anything when they appear to complain about having to exercise.

This is unfair of me. I wouldn't think twice about thin people behaving in the same manner.

My favorite of the bunch is Fat March. I saw only one episode and although I think they had a "weigh in" and game aspect, I was damn near giddy about watching people merely walk and lose a ton of weight. It worked big time but I guess it was not as sexy as having masculine trainers barking at the contestants in the gym like the other shows. These folks just seemed to walk their asses off. I don't know how highly rated the show was or if we'll ever see a new group of people walk themselves into a life of fitness on TV.

Weight has been a tricky subject in our home and in my coaching endeavors. Raising 2 daughters made us acutely aware of how fragile that bubble of self image and self confidence is for young girls. We encouraged proper diet but let them eat some junk too. We encouraged exercise but didn't make a big deal of it. We did not allow them to say "fat" or "skinny" and somehow got them through their teens without weird ideas about food or weight.

I tightened up the rules even more around the girls I coach. I wouldn't allow any talk whatsoever about weight or appearance. . . and this took some doing. It took several awkward encounters until we all got on the same page about it. You would not believe how forward this is in the mind of teen aged girls. "I'm fat". "Your skinny". "She's fat". "Do I look fat?". My response to any of that type of talk was to say. "I don't allow any cussing (sounds kind of backwoodsy, don't it?) and we don't talk about weight or appearance here".

I can't begin to tell you how easily the comments fly out of some of their parents mouths though. It makes me cringe and as I am not there to preach or advise them on the raising of their daughters (God knows I've made my mistakes as a parent), I simply change the subject or walk away. I wonder what is said in their home and how much of an impact it will have in their kids life down the road.

I have a close friend who's average looking 15 year old daughter has battled an eating disorder for over 3 years. She has been pulled out of school and sent all over the country for help. She came back last summer and, as she is attending the school where I coach, I suggested that she might give our team a try as a healthy means of bringing a positive environment of fitness into her life. The very night she was supposed to begin practice with us, one of the newer girls hopped out of her car, ran over to us, and blurted out "see how fat I look in these shorts?". Thank God my friends' daughter was not there and, in fact never joined us.

I've watched kids transform themselves season after season by the mere addition of running in their daily diet. The best part of it all is that neither coach or athlete ever mentions it to one another.

I hope some good comes to someone who watches any of these shows. I hope they fall out of favor soon. I hope they are not replaced with something even worse.

The Patience Of An Ain't

2007-12-05T05:42:00.000-08:00

It doesn't do any good to hearken back to those carefree days long ago when one (me) could hit the track and run the pee out of a workout without bothering to warm up much or stretch or stride or change into lighter shoes or heavier shoes or whatever it is today that makes any workout seem like such a big damn deal. I wouldn't want to give anyone the impression that I was ever really fast but I've never been this slow.

I'm an ain't. Ain't young. Ain't fast. Ain't able to run high mileage. Ain't able to ice where it hurts. Ain't able to walk without a limp for a few days after running anything faster than a jog.

I'm learning to be patient. About increasing mileage. About adding quality. About nixing a workout even though it is on the schedule.

I decided to cram another square peg into the round hole of my running week last night. An interval workout, now performed on the treadmill. I do them on the mill because I will stick to the prescribed speeds, recoveries, and number of repeats without allowing any leeway or excuse to bail. Just hit PLAY and get it over with.

My goal times are 30 seconds slower per 1/2 mile than they were a year ago. Yeah!

The task: 7 x 1/2 mile @ my current dream 5k pace (6:25) with 2:30 jog recovery at 9mm.

Runners World readers have been taught to call these Yasso 800's. . . as if the simple 1/2 mile interval workout did not exist before it was glossed as such.

Here is my ain't warm up ritual these days. 10 minutes on a bike in order to stretch. Another year or two to stretch. 20 minutes of walking to shuffling to jogging on the mill. Another year or two to stretch again.

Then the workout. Then a cool down on the bike to save the impact on the legs that would be caused by a few garbage miles afterward.

What I could have done in 45 minutes a year ago takes about 2 hours.

When I finally walked through the front door at home Robin asked "what took you so long?". . .
"It just takes a lot longer to orchestrate anymore, I'm just trying to be patient".

I'm an ain't. But I'm a happy and grateful one.

And I ain't giving up.

you kick the bucket, i'll swing my legs

2007-12-02T13:46:00.000-08:00

6 Sundays to the Marathon.

This week I opted out of the tempo and speed workouts. It just couldn't happen. Instead of taking another zero Friday I ran a dismally slow (9:10 avg) 9 miles. It was really no problem this time to run slowly, the problem was walking afterward. I limped to a late dinner (Friday is date night in our home) a bit bummed because this was the week where I had hoped to add a Saturday easy run.

My friend Albert called me in the afternoon to ask if I'd be up for a Sunday long run. He is good running company. A running talker. His Dutch accent makes everything he says worth listening to. If only to make sure I get it right the first time. He is 62 and an elite grandmaster. A late bloomer with only 5 years or so of running under his feet (like my friend Karen). A former smoker (like my friend Karen). And he smokes all my PR's by light years (like my friend Karen).

I'm limping around at the parade when he called. "Sure", I say. "I'll meet you at 6 but I'm not sure how fast I'll be able to run, maybe 8:30 pace at best".

So I wanted to do 22 dirge pace miles and committed to try 17 of them with him. I woke up earlier than usual to ice, heat pack, stretch, hydrate, advil, and pray. We headed out at and ran the standard death march pace opening mile. I vowed not to check my pace but to relax and use conversation as the effort barometer. Luckily we had a lot to catch up on and between the 3 of us (Robin was on the bike again. . . yeah!!) talked non-stop.

I allowed myself a glimpse at the garmin at 5 miles and estimated that we were under 8mm pace average. We carried on this way for the remainder of the morning. I nixed the notion of the additional 5 miles. I was happier to finish the run faster than we started and not push the mileage. We wound up with 17 miles flat at 8:02 average pace and that is ok with me.

Of course the advil wore off during breakfast and I've spent the rest of the day symmetrically out of whack (tilted on my right arse cheek) but nothing is perfect.

Everyone Loves A Hurray!

2007-12-02T10:18:00.000-08:00

Robin and I took our Grandson to the "Holiday Parade" yesterday afternoon. What was once a huge event in our town is now downsized and downtrodden. I couldn't help but think of the ghost of Christmas parades past..

It is now a holiday parade. God forbid we call it a Christmas parade. Someone might be offended. It takes place in the afternoon. It's too much of a bother to have it at night. The expense of police support would be too costly and who wants to see parade floats with lights anyway.

The main street has been widened and divided so we'll stop traffic on one side only and have a single lane parade, leaving the westbound travelers free to get to Publix or Walmart in case of emergency during the 25 minutes that it now takes to complete this festive event.

Lemme tell ya about what this parade was. It was called a CHRISTMAS PARADE. It was always at night, Friday night, in fact. The street was shut down for the evening. People lined up along both sides of the street along the the entire parade route. They had floats. A shitload of them. Lit up and noisy. They had celebrities (at least we thought Dr. Paul Bearer, the host of Saturday afternoons' "creature feature" was a big damn deal...he came in a big 'ol hearse and everything). They had 20 squads of shriners, fez's flyin' from the miniature model-t cars and motor cycles they drove. Every marching band in the area was there. Bag pipers. Leagues of boy scout/girl scout/cub scout/brownie troupes. Candy throwing clowns. Horses.

Here was the line-up from yesterday. . . 1/2 of one school marching band. 1 cub scout troupe. 1 baton/gymnast troupe. 1 fake rocket ship that the city council members rode in, all lined up in order of their importance, like sheep. They all had a weird upper lip thing going as if the rocket fumes were getting to them or the Mayor (her honor) who was placed at the nose of the ship, had farted.

2 garbage trucks. Yes, city garbage trucks..all washed and waxed. Nothing says Christ.. er, holiday like a big orange garbage truck with a standard sounding horn. 1 animal control truck. A few old clowns. Instead of random and liberal acts of candy giving, we instead had city workers (dressed like city maintenance workers, no Santa hats or anything) giving out... pencils and pens embossed with the city logo. What little candy was given out came at a price. For instance, tiny candy canes attached to a flyer for the cleaning service that threw a wreath on their van and paid to be there.

All participants were either:

A: geriatric (a square dance troupe whose ankles as a group were clearly swollen a mere block from the start)

B: 10 years old ("gymnasts" in floppy gardening gloves performing cartwheels every now and then)

In any case, neither age group were equipped to walk any distance. There was a garbage truck and about 7 minutes later there would be 6 ten year olds and a mom all wearing generic white cotton t's that said "SAVWOS...students against violence with other students". Merry Christmas, kids! Stop beating the crap out of each other.

Enough. Thanks to the city of having a holiday parade. You didn't have to have one, really. For a stretch of years you didn't. It wasn't in the budget.

It just doesn't measure up to the parades I remember.

My favorite memory of the downtown Christmas parade was getting to ride my horse with my family and friends, we mounted up early in the evening and rode 4 miles south along the railroad tracks (which is now the pinellas trail) through the parade along with the hundreds of other others and making it back to our pasture well past midnight.

We call our grandson 'Man (he's just a few months shy of being 3). We had hyped up the parade to 'Man all morning and he was stoked. He called it the "herrade" though.

"It's a parade honey, say PAW".
"pah".
"Now say RAID"
"rade"
"Now say PAW-RAID"
"herr-ade"

"That's right! Good job!"

I put him on my shoulders and we clapped for the kids and honored the flags (which I guess is another outdated notion of mine) and afterward as we walked to the car we asked "did you like the parade?".

He pulled the vendor-sponsored candy cane aside with his sticky little fingers and said:

"it was too much fun".

Parades are for kids. I hope he doesn't think the town holiday parade of 2043 is crappy compared to the one he saw yesterday.

Go Ahead...Get In There

2007-11-29T15:16:00.000-08:00

I got to see one of my favorite people in the world today... the gal that works on my legs. She is really good at her job. Painfully good. She said "you're gonna be sore for a few days".

I'll take her word on it.

After her voyage to the bottom of the sea probing that left me on the brink of laughing tears and farting, she determined that my left ass cheek muscle isn't firing and that is what has made me such a one dimensional runner.

She is a professional so she really didn't say "ass muscle"... but she pointed to an ass muscle on the chart that hangs on the wall.

Massage therapy is a real treat. It is the most self indulgent thing I've ever done, second only to having a blog.

Wheel Hoss

2007-11-28T13:19:00.000-08:00

We enter the weird stage of training where it hurts less to run than it does to walk, where it hurts less to run a little faster than it does to run a little slower, and it hurts too much to start back up to consider stopping during a run for any reason (a quick drink, to pee, to tie your shoes).

Last night (it is dark at 6:30) I struck out for an easy 4 miles. My dog-eared, second edition Jack Daniels book says run your easy pace based on your recent race performance. Sadly, that would be around 9mm.

Self coached runners are the worst..this one is, at least. I can take a simple, loose idea of what should be done for training on any given day and twist it around during the course of the run to find myself running in a completely gray area which doesn't stimulate any particular system worth a crap. Faster than an easy pace. Slower than tempo. Shorter than a long run. Longer than a recovery run.

So the 30-40 minute easy run last night turned into over 8 miles at 8:10 average, with mile splits ranging from 8:40 to 7:20.

What good is this?

Physician, heal thyself.

Happy Birthday Gilbo-

2007-11-28T13:06:00.000-08:00

Today is our "baby's" birthday. If ever a man was blessed, it is me to have a daughter like the one we call "Gilbo". We adjusted to the change of only having one child left at home quite well.

These little milestone days (birthdays and graduations) interrupt the daily stream of the family life that we've shared for so long, reminding us that we are no longer parents of a young family and we'll soon be empty nesters.

Shtep In Time, Fellas! Shtep In Time!

2007-11-25T12:05:00.000-08:00

I treated myself and the missus to one of the ugliest long runs on record this morning. The idea was to cover 20 miles or 3 hours whichever came first. I had taken the previous day off, icing and watching college football. I revised my pace goal to accommodate the extra distance. We decided to sleep in an extra hour for a 7 am start. I thought that would be ok because it had been cooler out in the mornings and..never mind. Should be good and ready and rested, do you concur? As soon as I planted the left foot I knew it would be a long morning.

I tip toed on the left side for the first mile and was breathing like a werewolf by the second. Inefficient. We made a single pit stop at the marina at the 3 mile mark and carried on afterward non-stop for the entire loop.

I remembered an article Kevin Beck wrote in running times citing John Kelloggs' views on efficiency in fuel burning. I guess we get about 2000 calories to burn before the tank is empty. I estimated that I was burning way more than 100 a mile.

I tried every tactic, choppy little steps, longer strides, lowered shoulders, all the relaxation techniques I could muster. It only netted a very labored and consistent 8:30 pace. By the 16 mile mark I was sweated out and cramping behind the knees. The pace slipped to 9mm, then 9:30 and as much as I wanted to call it a day, I didn't feel there would be any walking happening once I stopped...just that neat rigor mortise-like stiffening of the sticks. We made the loop. It was about 1/2 mile shy of the 20 miles I set to do (I forgot about all the offshoots for water that we normally take that I don't do now).

We made it to the truck where I splayed out in the bed, cramping like no ones' biznezz. I got what Bobby Bouchet' called "the dehydration". The few times this has happened to me before I've had the good fortune to be alone so no one got to see the crampshow. Today Robin was with me. I'm panting and the core is getting hotter and I'm seizing up and thinking of puking (which I have never done) and generally behaving like a little girl.

Robin was great but she also wanted to know why I (we/us runners) do this to our bodies. How do you explain it? That I want to see what this 46 year old body that I've abused by digging ditches and lifting things wrong, and kneeling for hours a day for years and years when I was a youngster is capable of? That I feel alive when I'm doing it? That I'm concerned that if I stop doing it that I won't be able to come back?

We got home and I crawled into the pool (it was a very cool 60 degrees or so) and drank everything in sight and wonder of wonders, emerged and got a shower and we went out for breakfast.

I know my training is teetering on the red line.. .and at that I'm only running 5 days a week. I'm being ultra conservative with my quality workouts, and I'm not remodeling a room or painting a house in the midst off all this like I usually do. And it's still not enough. I keep waiting for this wave of fitness and form to catch up with all the groundwork I've laid and it ain't.

I'm left wondering if today's fun run was due to not enough recovery from the race Thursday (how much is needed?), not enough water drinkin' yesterday, not the thing to do to attempt 20 miles on my struggling and weak left side?

I guess I'll find out next Sunday.

I can't wait!!

Deep Aerobic Stimulus

2007-11-23T11:07:00.000-08:00

As the day wears on I realize how sore my gut muscles are.
I guess I was breathing even harder than I thought in the race yesterday.
Chuff Chuff Chuff Wheeze Chuff Chuff Chuff Wheeze.
It feels like I did 43 minutes of crunches.

Man, I've gotta get fit(ter).

Great Moments In Rock History

2007-11-23T05:07:00.000-08:00

I saw a great clip this morning posted under the title of "Iggy confronts a fan" or something like that. My longtime (possibly all time) favorite performer is crouched at the apron of the stage about 2 feet away from the face of some frizzy-haired fat guy (looks to be around 1981) who had apparently screamed a derogatory remark about one of Mr. Pop's friends during the quiet lull between songs.

The clip starts with Iggy saying "Thank you, listen, you know most of you here are very lovely but there are a lot of overweight people in this region (or arena? I can't make it out) aren't there?

The exchange went something like this:

Man: "Eff Bowie!"
Iggy: "I bet you'd like to eff David Bowie, wouldn't you?"

It gets worse (or better, depending on your preference of language) but this was my favorite part of their visit with one another....

Iggy: "Do you perminate your hair? Look at you.. you are a fat, stinky...you have t*ts! you have little tiny t*ts with little pink nipples. You have little tiny bowtie mouth like a little girl. You are an imitation of a man".

The band kicks in and Iggy springs up... and, of course, spits on the guy.

I met Iggy Pop one night about 25 years ago.

Reader: Really Grandpa? Tell us more....

He came to a really seedy punk/new wave (it was 1983) club where we were playing. An amateur promoter (who happened to be our manager at the time) brought him to town to perform at the Tampa Theatre. As favor to her, he had graciously agreed to come and hear us. He sat and listened to a few of our very bad tunes and offered encouragement and advice afterward. A perfect gentleman (see Bryan Ferry post). He lamented about the lack of support shown by his new label (the Chris Stein Animal label, I think). He talked business. It was pretty cool at the time.

The following night we watched him whirl around, bind himself painfully tight with the mic chord, writhe his way out of an invisible straitjacket, accost a hapless guy "you know you only hate me because your girlfriend loves me", and as we expected, expose himself... all the things that we loved him for. My God was it loud...a gabillion bees swarming at around 15k frequency. His band was tough too. Like he hired a prison band.

At the end of this assault, after all the spitting and cussing (and presentation of exhibit "a") was concluded, he threw his mic down, came to the edge of the stage, bent down and shook a few hands. He locked eyes with those few and said "thank you for coming to see me, really".

It was one of the most honest and sincere performances I've ever seen (and I've seen my share).

I'm not sure who looks more like who but a lady I work with could be his current twin. I've never pointed it out to my co-workers. I don't think any of them would get it anyway.

Gobble 'Til You're Hobbled

2007-11-22T08:09:00.000-08:00

I "ran" in our local turkey trot 10k race this morning. It was overcast and a bit warmer (73) than I would have liked but then again it's not like I'm an elite or anything, what does a slow guy care about the weather.

If anything I'm realistic about my abilities when it comes to racing. I have yet to be surprised by having a breakout performance. On the other hand, I'm usually not disappointed when I cross the finish line. I pretty much know how it's going to play out before a toe the line. Maybe all I've really done by this practical approach is limit myself but I don't believe in race day miracles.

X training gets you Y results. If you can't live with that, run more miles and more quality. Right?

It was a huge race with the usual best-of-the-best local runners and also the submarines who surface once a year to clog up the starting line with their spandex, water bottles and fanny packs. I applaud anyone who trots or even walks but I'd clap even harder if these folks would back up a few rows. Gee whiz, I found myself standing behind folks in their cotton docker boy scout pants...

I saw several of the kids that we coach and some that are back from college to visit for the holidays. One of the newer kids from our cross country team had asked me to pace him at 7mm pace. Perfect...I thought that would be about the best I could hope for.

I like acting as a pacemate...it's nice to focus on someone else's race while at the same time keeping yourself honest by being counted on as an even and encouraging guide.

Of course, it did not work out this way. Instead the kid and me were separated just before the start of the race. I staked out a claim behind about 30 rows back from the starting line and had to do the tightrope, balance beam, zigzag 2 minute drill after the gun went off to get around the chubs (sorry). I came through the mile somehow at 6:58.

I haven't spent much time training at this pace and I struggled to get in a rhythm. About 12 minutes into the thing I'm still moving up in the field and I hear someone croak "cooaachh" by my right shoulder. It was my pace kid and I'm not sure what he did to himself in the first mile but the bear was squarely on his back already. "We're right on pace", I offered up, "You're fine, good job (blahblah whatever meaningless crap you say to someone when you know they've had it but you try to help anyway).

That was the last I saw of him.

I passed 2 more of my kids at miles 3 and 5 (don't be impressed, they had probably already run the 5k a half hour earlier).

An old mentor/coach once told me "respiration tells you everything you need to know"...what my breathing told me today is that I am not fit.

Also of note: We saw a dirty man with the Good Book in hand standing beside the course at the 5 mile mark, assuring us all at the top of his lungs that "with God all things are possible".

I didn't mind. I'm not sure how well that was received by the other folks..I could have sworn that someone behind me yelled either "GET A JOB or TAKE A BATH to the poor guy.

The rest of the race was pretty uneventful. I ran even and hard but uninspired. I ran a strong last half mile and didn't get passed by anyone after mile 2. I ran an honest race. I met my time goal.

P.S. I iced all night in order to run today and I'm limping as I have since the last Turkey Trot. It's like ...my standard now.. Run for fun, baby!

The crummy (not really) part of the race part of my total race day experience was that I was handed a finish card at the chute. 123 (One Hundred And Twenty Three). I told you I was a middle of the pack guy. Usually they give "special awards" (a bobble head turkey or something of equal value) to the top 100 finishers. I have a corner of one of our bookcases devoted to these "turkey day prizes".

I walked away from the field with my booty: bananas, cinnamon toast crunch cereal snackies, and famous amos cookies but I didn't turn my race card in because I thought I was 23 places away from "the money".

Later this afternoon I get a call from a buddy congratulating me for getting an award. "I finished 123rd, I didn't get anything man" says dumbarse (me).

"They had a record number of entrants today and expanded the awards to the top 125" says my buddy.

crap...screwed out of a major award (a coffee cup).

Good thing I don't drink coffee or I'd really be pissed.

I got a very thoughtful and much appreciated phone message from a parent of one of my x c girls' wishing me and my family a nice holiday and thanking me for what(ever she thinks) I did to help her daughter out this season. Very touching. It's been a few weeks now since the season has ended and I miss it.

The rest of the day (family, friends, food, football, etc..) was great.

Actually the entire day was great!

Happy Thanksgiving-

Bryan Ferry, Gentleman

2007-11-21T05:22:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamt that I was outside a restaurant, loading bicycles into the back of my pickup truck. There was a long, canopied walkway leading to the entrance. I saw a young woman sitting on a cement bench by the entrance and noticed she was crying. Bryan Ferry walks up while I'm standing beside the crying girl. "What is the matter? He asks...Would you join me for dinner?"

"You should join him", I say.."This is Bryan Ferry, he is a gentleman".

I think B. Ferry is sauntering around in my dreams as a payback for the comments I made about horns in rock and roll songs.

I hope this makes us even.

Now Be Thankful

2007-11-20T11:51:00.000-08:00

I found a great video version of one of my favorite Richard Thompson/Fairport Convention songs on YouTube today.
YouTube - Fairport Convention - Now Be Thankful

Tonight is "pie night", where the ladies bake the pies that we will shamelessly consume Thursday afternoon. Although I'm not a part of the baking crew, it makes me feel good about our family to know that my mom, sister, wife, and daughters continue to observe this tradition that my mom started years ago.

Sounds pretty Father Knows Bestish.

I went to the gym and ran a light workout. The thudthudthud sound of my feet on the platform tells me I'm weak and tired.... but I had a nice visit with a friend who works there. I'm looking forward to doing whatever I can at the race Thursday morning. Robin is bringing my grandson (we call 'Man) out to the 5 mile mark and that will be something to look forward to...

Tomorrow morning we have our weekly family breakfast at the restaurant around the corner.

I have been negotiating with a gal about buying a house that I ran across about 6 months ago. The lady who lived there suffered from depression and had no family or friends to keep tabs on the conditions she was living in. Long story short...someone figured it out, some social services department stepped in and took her away and emptied the house and condemned it.

My intention is to buy it and fix it with the help of my son-in-law and have my oldest daughter and her family live there until they can afford to buy it. It is a huge task but I guess we have tackled bigger jobs before.

I'm thankful for having a Dad that taught me how to work with my hands.

There'll Be One Child More In This World To Carry On....

2007-11-19T07:35:00.000-08:00

I never liked rock bands that featured horns. They don't have any business being crammed into that format. I don't mind hearing them in R & B songs or in some of the Beatles songs. . . I guess what I'm really saying is that I always hated anything by Blood, Sweat, and Tears or Chicago or any band of that ilk.

Yesterday morning I'm padding my way through a long run. Robin is beside me on the bike. Things are getting pretty fluid after I've pulled my gloves at mile 3 and peeled off my shirt and nipple band-aids (another middle aged related atrocity that I have finally come to grips with) at mile 9 and I'm feeling better than expected. I even downed a gel pack on the fly without too much trouble. I have no doubt that I'll make the 18 miles that we had committed to.

Around mile 12 we had a technical setback. Flat tire. Saturday Robin had pointed out that we travel without a spare tube or a pump and I sluffed off the suggestion that we do anything about it.

For several weeks now I've been on this kick of making my Sunday long run a continuous (nonstop) run. Whether or not this is going to help me in a few weeks when I run a marathon is irrelevant. I think it will help and I'm sticking to it. It's a new running neuroses. There is no science to it that I know of.

Robin starts walking the bike and I run ahead and double back. I suggest (as I strafe to and fro) that she call our daughter to come pick her up. She walks the bike another mile or so to the entrance of a local cemetery and tells me that our daughter is on the way. I keep my nonstop running neuroses intact by running a half mile loop through the paved area of the cemetery. On the 3rd pass I realise that she is visiting the grave site of her father. I'm so self absorbed that I didn't really give much thought to where we are.

I begin to think about all the people that I know that are here. I'm running circles around the plots where they have been put to rest. There is my best childhood friend who was killed at age 19 in a car accident back in 1981... the daughter of our very dear friends who died of cancer at 13 a few years ago...Robin's Dad...

As annoying as it is for runners who get tired and drum up songs in cadence with their gait I find that I'm silently singing a song that I always loathed as a kid "And When I Die" by Blood, Sweat, & Tears. I bastardized the lyrics, I'm sure (and without remorse).

I run loops around and around the cemetery as the sun rises. Our daughter arrives. The bike is loaded up. I exit the cemetery stage south and carry on toward home for the last 2 miles which gives me another 16 minutes and 20 seconds to think about how grateful I am...to be alive, for the love of my family, for my friends, and for the health I am afforded to walk, let alone run every Sunday morning at 6 a.m.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

2007-11-11T11:35:00.000-08:00

Every Sunday for several years now I have headed out the door at daybreak to join other bony self abusers for a "long run". I have the luxury of choosing the company I keep on most of these outings and switch between 3 or 4 little subsets of running troupes. Since all of these folks are the nicest and most driven and focused people you would ever meet, I enjoy the time I spend with each group.

I have an "old" group comprised of old dudes who are a little older than this old dude. A few of them were really good runners in their day. Just a few years ago we tore it up pretty good as a Sunday group. Now this group jogs and walks and jogs some more. They are regular working guys with families and worn out knees and we talk about sports and family life while we shuffle around...and shuffle is about the best we can do.

There is a college kid that I helped coach a few years back as a high school athlete who continues to train at a very high level. He calls me "coach" and I call him "kid" and when I was healthy enough to run with him we would talk about running as we ran.

There is the long lost friend that I knew through our local music scene when we both played in bands throughout the late 80's/early 90's that I got reacquainted with a few years back after I saw her name listed in the results of a half-marathon we had both participated in. I couldn't help but look her up in the phone book and call out of the blue and neither of us could believe that either of us had turned out to be runners. We share a common knowledge of a network of running and musical characters and we could talk about everything during our miles together.

Like good mailmen, we work in whatever weather that is presented to us without much complaint.

Within the last year I have found my body to be an unwilling accomplice in this Sunday ritual and I find myself too pained and slow to enjoy the company I used to keep. I miss being able to hold my own but not there is no point in denying that the jets (or sparklers, in my case) ain't what they used to be.

Enter...my new training partner...my wife. For years I would kiss my new training partner goodbye every Sunday at 5 or 6 am and return a few hours later to her care, swollen at the knees, numb in the ass, bleeding from the nipples, missing a toenail or 2, and dehydrated and still sweating long after the run was supposed to be in the books. She would ask me about my morning and I would make very general comments about the conversations and scenery, usually summing it up with "it was hot".

Last week she was talked into riding alongside me on her bike. And lo, she liked it. This morning we went together again! We met with a group but I found that I was happiest when it was just the two of us. I didn't feel like i was letting her down with my dirge pace and I didn't have to worry about her surge pace. She handed me flasks of sugary drinks along the way and we saw the same dead squirrels (2) and possum (1 very viscerated one within the first 1/4 mile) and heard the same explosion (either a tire or propane tank, we couldn't tell, but we were only 30 yards away and both nearly pooped our jodfers when it happened). We went for a leisurely breakfast afterward. A perfect morning.

I have been moping around in my mind for myself for weeks ( not very flattering) about what I think might be a closure in the chapter of my Sunday morning running. Now I'm looking forward more than ever to running next Sunday morning without feeling the need to worry about how fast or how far I can go.

This is the best I have felt about Sunday running in a long time.

Get Outta Town

2007-11-08T06:33:00.000-08:00

Everything I know is about a mile away. About a mile away from my childhood home sits the hospital where my Mom and Sister and I were all born, the schools that we all went to (all 3 of them), and the libraries that got replaced by newer,bigger libraries (all 3 of them). We live about a mile away from my old home and my Mother-in law's place. It's about a mile to my office and a mile to the city park where the high school girls cross country team I coach practices and races.

I like it. I can walk to (I usually run, though) to virtually every site that bears any real significance in the history of me.

The people I went to school with must like it here too. I see them everywhere. Tuesday mornings at breakfast I am waited on by Teri, who went to all my schools, including Sunday schools. Another guy (Bobby) walks everywhere. He was a successful engineer until the day he woke up with no idea of who he was, how to speak, how to walk. . . (encephalitis). He eventually earned most of himself back but continues to suffer sporadic neurological problems and now travels by foot to his new occupation as a grocery bagger (I know they call the high school kids that work there "bag boys" but I've never heard anyone call an adult bagger a "bag man").

I could go on but you'd have to know these people to appreciate the way I feel when I see them. We've been passed through some type of time acceleration device.

There are frequent and random encounters with the members of the class of 1979...the haggard homecoming queen, the nerd (now known as Dr. Nerd) .

Seeing them makes me wonder what it must be like to be seen by them. You can't underestimate what 30 years of good or bad habits can do for or to you.

My wife looks virtually the same as she did that Friday night in November 31 years ago when I met her at a football game. I, on the other hand, do not. Years of working and running for fun in the sun have given be the rough appearance of being bagged up and beaten about with small sticks. I'm bony and wiry and weathered.

What a catch..

I weigh the same as I always have (about 145-150) and I could run 20 or so miles Slowly, I'll admit) if you asked me to right now. That is my plus side.

Last night at the gym, perched from my observation deck on the treadmill, I watched an older couple come in. The man was tall and athletic looking and sported a feathered, parted-in-the-middle hair style that was popular about a quarter of a century ago. The lady was frumpish with rounded shoulders and lumbered about with a shuffled gait. She had a longer version of her husband's haircut. A few miles later, it dawned on me that I knew them. I had played in a really bad bar band with the man when I was 18. He was a few years older and married to this same lady at the time and she was not at all frumpy but they did have the same hairdo..

I'm cursed with a memory for names and faces. If I wasn't, I think life would be a bit easier. I could wander about town, never recognizing all these middle aged people and never having to be reminded of my middle aged-ness. You could say I'm vain but it wouldn't be true. I do nothing to help myself out. My wife and daughters have selected and purchased my clothes for years, I wear uniform shirts with frayed collars and torn pockets every weekday from 7:30 am to 5:00 pm, and I don't pay attention to my toenails, nose, and/or ear hair like I should. Gross.

I don't care how old I look or how old anyone else looks for that matter. I just love life and I want more of it. I don't need to be reminded of how much or little I have left of it when I'm minding my own business, standing in line at Target or eating breakfast..

The man I saw at the gym last night is named Ed, and his wife's name is "Bernie". It must have been a drag to be named Bernice as a 20 year old newlywed in 1981. Unfortunately for the three of us, she looked more of a Bernice than a Bernie on the evening of November 6th, 2007.

On the rare occasion (prior to last night) that I would hear "Too Rolling Stoned" by Robin Trower or "I Heard It On The X" by ZZTop, I would think of Ed and Bernie I wonder what ever happened to them. Did he quit playing? Did they move away? Did they stay together and make a family?

I think back to the last time I saw them 27 years ago. It is "last call" and I'm standing on the tiny stage beside Ed (as all good 2nd guitarists do) while he hacks away a really dreadful and endless solo on his 1973 Cherry Sunburst Gibson Les Paul Standard. The barmaid is kicking out the stragglers and begins turning on the fluorescent lights. Our amps begin buzzing from the 60 cycle hum.

We are at the Cork-N-Bottle lounge, in the Sunshine Mall which, if it had not been torn down to make way for some much needed new condominiums, would be located

. . . about a mile from the gym.

True Grits

2007-11-07T05:26:00.000-08:00

I'm no Hillbilly but I watched plenty of Hee Haw in my day.

We live in a decent sized city near the Gulf Beaches not far from Tampa. My Mom was raised here. My kids will raise their kids here. My maternal Grandmother was a bonafide storyteller. She had at best 4 years of formal education but she was smart. She could read, of course. She was in fact a voracious reader of any newsprint. Her favorite news story was anything related to human tragedy or the mistreatment of animals . . . "Authorities search home, find 30 starving dogs and a goat".

If there was a photo accompaniment, all the better. She would clip the story and the picture and present it to us when we visited... "will you look at this poor ol' womern"... or.."did you read about what they did to this poor ol' dog".

She mispronounced a whole slew of words and no one corrected her. "Vomit" was vomick... "I got sick and started a' vomickin". She had some pretty funny expressions, too. My favorites were "You make my ass want a soda cracker" and "Tell 'em they can go kiss Ol' Rusty".

She grew up dirt poor on a farm in central Florida and never learned to drive. She dipped snuff all of her life and thought it was a secret only known to my step-grandad and her daughters. She lived for over 50 years in the same house. The groves and dairy's and nursery's that made her homestead seem vast, gave way to retail business and housing and in time it was clear that all she really owned was a small lot with a small home planted on it. It might as well have been dropped from a plane and landed there. It didn't look like anything else around it. When I was bored on summer afternoons, I would hop on my bike and pedal over to her house and get her to spin a yarn or two.

She told about an old local midwife named Hattie that was considered to be a witch (for lack of a better term). She was a squatty gal who dressed in layers of croaker sack and cotton and wrapped thin strips of rags around her legs from the knee down. Often an old work horse would turn up with it's mane tied or braided in knots. That was Hattie's work, it was said, she was making "stirrups" to ride the poor animal through the night.

She told of a married couple who lived nearby and kept to themselves. Not much was known about the woman but she loved to sew on an old kick plate type machine, making clothes for a child they did not have. The woman died under curious circumstances, it was suggested that she had been murdered by her husband. He pretty quick-like upped and moved away, shutting the door and leaving everything as such. There was talk of noises coming from the empty house. My Grandmother and her brother ventured over one night shortly after the widower left town. My Grandmother told me that they did indeed hear a very rhythmic noise as they crept hand in hand up the old dirt path as they neared the house. Those old frame houses sat high of the ground, making to windows too high to look into if you were standing flat footed so she got my uncle Curtis to boost her up above the "winder sill" to get a better look. As she clawed for a better purchase and raised her nose above the bottom of the sill, she realized that the sound they heard was coming from the lonesome old sewing machine that was placed in the middle of the room. She could see the pedal plate a' bobbing up and down. She kicked her brothers hands away from her and hit the dirt running. They never told a soul about what they had done or what she saw.

She told me about an older sister (Thelma) who had come down sick and a drunken old Doctor who came by the house and spooned the ailing child out a dose of a tonic from pot ash and God knows what else. By the next day, her sister was twisted and paralyzed, unable to talk or cry and she lived out the remaining 20 or so years of her life in a small box that they had fashioned for her that could be pulled through the fields or propped against a wall. I saw pictures of her. "What caused it to happen to her?", I asked. "They tole us that whatever he give her ate at her insides and burned 'em out . . . poor 'ol Thelmer".

Me and my sister pulled these stories from her over and over again. If we heard them once we heard them a hundred times and she never once deviated from the original accounting of a single one of them.

She did not possess a gift of gab, was very reserved around strangers, and could not tell a joke worth a dang. The drawl and odd way she pronounced words, the way she always held her right hand up to her collar with a napkin wadded tightly in it's palm for blotting the corners of her mouth. She loved Lawrence Welk reruns and the Dallas Cowboys and drank tap water from metal cups.

She was taller than average and bony. She could have been the child of Granny Clampett and the Tetley TeaMan. She became reclusive and unwilling to leave her home. She stopped eating in front of anyone, citing her unsteady hands. She started forgetting things. She called 911 and then denied it when the paramedics showed up. She began calling my Mom in the dead of night to chat, unware of the time of day.

She forgot the stories we loved to hear her tell.

Go Ask Yer Grandad-

2007-11-06T15:28:00.000-08:00

...so my oldest daughter had the baby yesterday. All went great. I'm thrilled (of course) but subdued when it took place. I'll chalk it up to being an old hand in the ol' 'livery room. . . an experienced spectator.

The Missus had a whale of an old time giving life to our oldest daughter. After a few dozen hours of being bashed around with no appreciable progress, she earned a really quick trip to the ER.

We read everything we could about birthing babies for months. We dutifully attended all the classes. I had the confidence to scratch in "urethra franklin" as an answer for one of the "name the parts" tests they had given us and although she cracked me in the ribs real good, we still giggled about it like we had heard someone fart in church.

She was really healthy and of course, the birth would be textbook..

But somewhere along the line she got really big ankles and really big blood pressure and then got induced and stabilized and sent home and summoned back and induced again and someone talked her into a little Demerol and she lost her mind and started clutching my collar and begging me to blow in her face (?) and not leave and I didn't. We stayed that way for almost a day...squinting her eyes and breathing through pursed lips with her IV'ed hand pulling me all hunched over to her cheek and her free hand fanning her face.

The washing machine sudsy sounding monitor thing that had been our soundtrack for the day started stalling every few minutes. Everyone but the two of us hustled around and about 3 minutes later we were in another room.

I had gotten used to being useless all day leading up to this, and even more so perched on the little stool in my full surgery scrub get up on the non-business side of the the screen by my wife's head. One of the muzzled asked "are you alright, Dad?". I nodded like there was no reason to have been asked.

A few minutes, a few unwraps of the cord that was killing her, and 22 1/2 inches later, a beautiful baby girl.

My wife insisted on another natural birth three years later when our second child was due, despite my silent fears that she would wind up with another emergency cesarean delivery. She almost made it too.When baby's head popped out to check on us and nothing else followed. The salad spoon made an appearance. My wife screamed at the catcher..not the forceps! The catcher very patiently laid the medieval tool aside and quietly let her know that the rest of the thing we were staring at needed to come on out of the host. Babies are durable. I know that now. A few cranks later..another beautiful baby girl (with a black eye).

When my grandson was born, my former puke-if-she-got-a-paper-cut daughter went the distance with no pain meds and (unfortunately for everyone else present on the entire wing that afternoon) no gag. I stood on the sideline in the room, away from the field of play (this time it was my daughter who clutched the daddy's collar while my wife fanned her face) and watched my 5'11 1/2" 120 lb. first baby give birth to a son of nearly matching height and weight.

Ever held your hand on a rabbit? Every fibre of every muscle is humming beneath the calm exterior. This is how my guts feel in when I'm in the hospital on birth days.

So yesterday by some divine act, we found that the waiting room had been moved from the birth business (3rd) floor, to the ground floor and we stayed (all twenty or so of us) far away from the mechanic's area...we could have been spending a really busy afternoon at the tire store.
We heard progress from upstairs via the cell phone from time to time and, as if it had been pre-ordained, I hit the button of the elevator and waltzed out and into the work bay at the precise moment that my grandaughter popped into the room.

At 46 I'm a Grandad twice-over and no one has missed an opportunity to let me know it...all day.