The latest report of low bone density, though shockingly not the actual report as it hasn't been read by the doctor who needs to read it, has lead me all over the Internet in search of information. In my travels, I found what I concede is an old joke, but a worthy chuckle nonetheless:
A guy goes to see his doctor and says, "Doc, I don't eat fried foods, fatty foods, I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't stay up late, I don't chase after women and I don't eat red meat. How long will I live."
The doctor says, "With a life like that, why do you care?"
Friday, December 28, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Old School Social Networking or The Stomach Flu Follies
Connecting via the Internet on social networking sites is, no question, all the rage, and, strangely, big business. What is it gives in the ability to quickly connect with strangers masquerading as teenage girls living in Des Moines, it loses in its ability to spread good old fashioned germs. There is just nothing like sharing a water glass or soda, or giving a kiss to an aunt or grandfather to really move the germs around. And, oh, how quickly your network can spread. This is where our story begins.
Sunday before the Monday that was Christmas Eve dawned early at the in-laws house as my middle kid (of three) woke me to let me know that he had diarrhea. There are no words more exciting for a parent than that. The ensuing clean-up is always joyful. Where are those disinfectant wipes? Whose got the bleach spray? Amidst the clean-up, there are the inevitable "what did he eat" questions. Answer: he ate the same thing we all ate. And then, the microscopic waiting. As the symptoms race into place, chills, fever, more frequent, unenjoyable visits to the bathroom, the questions arise? Is it stomach flu? Where are those germs now?
Turns out the answer to the last two questions were a resounding YES and quickly spreading.
Christmas Eve dawned extra early as the three year-old showed up in our room (now back home) at 4:00 A.M. to announce, sadly, that he had thrown-up all over his bed, and, as it turned out, himself, his floor, and the hallway floor leading from his room to ours. Just a general path of the prior day's food with the unmistakable smell of throw-up.
But that wasn't the end of it.
We had planned a Christmas Eve and day trip to an indoor water park in the resort location of Lake Geneva, WI. Fun times to be had by all that would include five people staying in one hotel room, except, well, now the Mrs. was feeling a little hinky. She was holding down her meals of Christmas past (well, really of the day before, the day before Christmas, but that doesn't move much on the page), but she wasn't feeling like a car trip. The decision was made that I would travel with the seven year old (now feeling fine and back to his "regular" self) and the nine year old (girl) who had a little secret she wasn't sharing with us as we packed our swimsuits and flip flops for sunny Wisconsin.
I loaded up the Prius (also feeling a little under the weather after my in-laws' neighbor plowed her minivan into my driver's side door) with food, the big kids (as 7 and 9 are known) and off we drove. During the drive, the nine year old began to hint at the fun that lay ahead.
"Daddy," she said as we crossed the Illinois/Wisconsin state line after two tolls had been deducted from my I-Pass.
"My stomach hurts a little bit," she continued.
"Do you need me to stop or go back?" I asked.
"No, I will be fine," she intoned.
Fine is a relative term. Daylight faded and we approached the hotel. We arrived, unpacked (no working elevator and my confining boot make for a fun time) and then set out to tour the water slide area. We walked in and the first thing that hits you is the fact that it is 90 degrees in there. No lie, they crank the heat, either to give the illusion of summer or Florida or some other trip I didn't spring for on this long, dreary winter break, or, perhaps, they were just trying to melt the fat off the pre-teens running around in last summer's swim trunks. Please, lady, get your fat ass kid to pick a sport other than Xbox. He has love handles that he can fold into each other. But, as they say, I digress, so perhaps a bit further: I get the whole warm vacation when it's cold outside thing. Pressing your bum into a lounge chair and thumbing through a few magazine or the paperback edition of The Da Vinci Code or some such bestseller-type book with big print while sipping on a tropical drink is swell. It really is just ducky. But, and I may be in the minority here, isn't there something so wonderful about a bleak, wind swept upper Midwest winterscape? Trees that stand in silhouette to a nearly always sunless sky speak to me on a visceral level. They frame the past year and prepare me for the coming rebirth that spring and all its greenness will bring. But, I digress, again and now, back to our story.
Turns out, the 9 year old had packed the sickness along for the trip and she was ready to graphically tell me about or unpack, pick your metaphor. As we strolled through the pool area to see the fun that lay ahead, big water slide, nice, lazy river, looks good, hot tub half of which is outdoors in the 30 degree cold, brilliant, my 9 year old says, "Daddy, I have to throw-up."
"Quick," I say, "let's go back to the room."
No such luck. Seconds later, she throws-up on the pool deck. And so, the network spreads.
The 9 year-old spent the next 11 hours in bed soaking up the Sponge Bob X-mas special and more episodes of Hannah Montana than anyone needs. By 10 the next morning, Santa had brought a Christmas miracle, she was fine and she spent two days water sliding. I have the pictures to prove it.
And then the calls came rolling in. A Milwaukee caller reports that my father-in-law has chills, body aches and gave a loving kiss to the porcelain god. Another Wisconsin caller reports that my 15 year-old nephew and 12 year-old niece have both spilled their guts. The network spreads.
By yesterday (12/26), I had a raging headache and began to wonder if it was my turn. I felt a churn in my stomach and feared it was potluck time (when the pot has all the luck and you have none). But, that was not to be. I was fine and the sickness has cleared my house completely. Somehow, I went unscathed. I feel so left out.
Did I mention that I haven't thrown-up since 1987? True story.
Sunday before the Monday that was Christmas Eve dawned early at the in-laws house as my middle kid (of three) woke me to let me know that he had diarrhea. There are no words more exciting for a parent than that. The ensuing clean-up is always joyful. Where are those disinfectant wipes? Whose got the bleach spray? Amidst the clean-up, there are the inevitable "what did he eat" questions. Answer: he ate the same thing we all ate. And then, the microscopic waiting. As the symptoms race into place, chills, fever, more frequent, unenjoyable visits to the bathroom, the questions arise? Is it stomach flu? Where are those germs now?
Turns out the answer to the last two questions were a resounding YES and quickly spreading.
Christmas Eve dawned extra early as the three year-old showed up in our room (now back home) at 4:00 A.M. to announce, sadly, that he had thrown-up all over his bed, and, as it turned out, himself, his floor, and the hallway floor leading from his room to ours. Just a general path of the prior day's food with the unmistakable smell of throw-up.
But that wasn't the end of it.
We had planned a Christmas Eve and day trip to an indoor water park in the resort location of Lake Geneva, WI. Fun times to be had by all that would include five people staying in one hotel room, except, well, now the Mrs. was feeling a little hinky. She was holding down her meals of Christmas past (well, really of the day before, the day before Christmas, but that doesn't move much on the page), but she wasn't feeling like a car trip. The decision was made that I would travel with the seven year old (now feeling fine and back to his "regular" self) and the nine year old (girl) who had a little secret she wasn't sharing with us as we packed our swimsuits and flip flops for sunny Wisconsin.
I loaded up the Prius (also feeling a little under the weather after my in-laws' neighbor plowed her minivan into my driver's side door) with food, the big kids (as 7 and 9 are known) and off we drove. During the drive, the nine year old began to hint at the fun that lay ahead.
"Daddy," she said as we crossed the Illinois/Wisconsin state line after two tolls had been deducted from my I-Pass.
"My stomach hurts a little bit," she continued.
"Do you need me to stop or go back?" I asked.
"No, I will be fine," she intoned.
Fine is a relative term. Daylight faded and we approached the hotel. We arrived, unpacked (no working elevator and my confining boot make for a fun time) and then set out to tour the water slide area. We walked in and the first thing that hits you is the fact that it is 90 degrees in there. No lie, they crank the heat, either to give the illusion of summer or Florida or some other trip I didn't spring for on this long, dreary winter break, or, perhaps, they were just trying to melt the fat off the pre-teens running around in last summer's swim trunks. Please, lady, get your fat ass kid to pick a sport other than Xbox. He has love handles that he can fold into each other. But, as they say, I digress, so perhaps a bit further: I get the whole warm vacation when it's cold outside thing. Pressing your bum into a lounge chair and thumbing through a few magazine or the paperback edition of The Da Vinci Code or some such bestseller-type book with big print while sipping on a tropical drink is swell. It really is just ducky. But, and I may be in the minority here, isn't there something so wonderful about a bleak, wind swept upper Midwest winterscape? Trees that stand in silhouette to a nearly always sunless sky speak to me on a visceral level. They frame the past year and prepare me for the coming rebirth that spring and all its greenness will bring. But, I digress, again and now, back to our story.
Turns out, the 9 year old had packed the sickness along for the trip and she was ready to graphically tell me about or unpack, pick your metaphor. As we strolled through the pool area to see the fun that lay ahead, big water slide, nice, lazy river, looks good, hot tub half of which is outdoors in the 30 degree cold, brilliant, my 9 year old says, "Daddy, I have to throw-up."
"Quick," I say, "let's go back to the room."
No such luck. Seconds later, she throws-up on the pool deck. And so, the network spreads.
The 9 year-old spent the next 11 hours in bed soaking up the Sponge Bob X-mas special and more episodes of Hannah Montana than anyone needs. By 10 the next morning, Santa had brought a Christmas miracle, she was fine and she spent two days water sliding. I have the pictures to prove it.
And then the calls came rolling in. A Milwaukee caller reports that my father-in-law has chills, body aches and gave a loving kiss to the porcelain god. Another Wisconsin caller reports that my 15 year-old nephew and 12 year-old niece have both spilled their guts. The network spreads.
By yesterday (12/26), I had a raging headache and began to wonder if it was my turn. I felt a churn in my stomach and feared it was potluck time (when the pot has all the luck and you have none). But, that was not to be. I was fine and the sickness has cleared my house completely. Somehow, I went unscathed. I feel so left out.
Did I mention that I haven't thrown-up since 1987? True story.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Free Parking
I started the morning with a full head of steam and headed on down to one of our local university hospitals to pick up the results of my recent bone density scan. You see, I called first and was told that they wouldn't fax the results to me because I hadn't signed the privacy policy/records release form. Annoying, but hey, it's for my protection right? We don't want a confusing set of medical documents that need to be interpreted by an endocrinologist floating around to unmonitored fax numbers. For God sake, someone may still have an old time fax machine that my sensitive records could spill out of. Oh the horror of all that curly paper revealing my inner most. OK, dead horse beaten, you get it. But really, why can't an identity thief steal the bad stuff too?
I showed up early, I requested my records and the helpful desk jockey did what she had been trained to do:
"Mr. Fogel, please take a seat."
So I scanned the massive waiting room -- think garage large enough for two Ford Excursions - for an empty seat, found one and shook up the room demographic a bit. Yee ha. I did get a nice opportunity to learn about the pregnancy of poor little, moneyed Jamie Lynn Spears. Seems to me that she has lost her right to choose, should she have wanted to exercise it. Once everybody knows, can you still, um, well, end your pregnancy? Maybe that is the solution.
So I sat and sat and sat and sat (guess the children's book that comes from and you will win a less than fabulous prize) and finally my name was called.
"Mr. Fogel, one problem (there were to be others), our system is down and they are just now trying to reboot it."
Can major city university hospitals reboot in the middle of the workday? Guess so.
Back to my seat and more entertainment news.
Finally, I was called up and who should I see but my nice tech who gave the panic-inducing wet read of my test three days ago.
"Hello, Mr. Fogel, nice to see you again," she intoned.
Lots of image this, and report hasn't been written that and finally she tells me no report has been written BUT even if it had, I don't get to see it. Time out. I called. I was told come down and sign the form and I would be heading back to my daily routine with my report in hand. Turns out, that wasn't really the case.
Immediately, I switched into the low, deliberate, but clearly pissed voice. "I spent an hour and a half here. I was told . . . Your system was down . . . My time was wasted . . . ."
"No problem, Mr. Fogel," a voice from behind the desk said.
I looked up to see a clearly clerical worker who wasn't a part of my conversation with Super Tech and she said "We'll give you a sticker, you are parked in the garage, right?"
"Um, yeah, I am, " says I.
"We'll give you a sticker so you don't have to pay for parking."
So, there I was, 90 or so minutes into this ordeal, my brain brimming with Jamie Spears knowledge (she puts out, but use your own protection because she doesn't use any) and no one cares about that, but they are going to give me free parking.
Oh well, it's better than nothing. At least I wouldn't be driving back to work pissed and out $6 for parking.
Free parking. Thanks.
I showed up early, I requested my records and the helpful desk jockey did what she had been trained to do:
"Mr. Fogel, please take a seat."
So I scanned the massive waiting room -- think garage large enough for two Ford Excursions - for an empty seat, found one and shook up the room demographic a bit. Yee ha. I did get a nice opportunity to learn about the pregnancy of poor little, moneyed Jamie Lynn Spears. Seems to me that she has lost her right to choose, should she have wanted to exercise it. Once everybody knows, can you still, um, well, end your pregnancy? Maybe that is the solution.
So I sat and sat and sat and sat (guess the children's book that comes from and you will win a less than fabulous prize) and finally my name was called.
"Mr. Fogel, one problem (there were to be others), our system is down and they are just now trying to reboot it."
Can major city university hospitals reboot in the middle of the workday? Guess so.
Back to my seat and more entertainment news.
Finally, I was called up and who should I see but my nice tech who gave the panic-inducing wet read of my test three days ago.
"Hello, Mr. Fogel, nice to see you again," she intoned.
Lots of image this, and report hasn't been written that and finally she tells me no report has been written BUT even if it had, I don't get to see it. Time out. I called. I was told come down and sign the form and I would be heading back to my daily routine with my report in hand. Turns out, that wasn't really the case.
Immediately, I switched into the low, deliberate, but clearly pissed voice. "I spent an hour and a half here. I was told . . . Your system was down . . . My time was wasted . . . ."
"No problem, Mr. Fogel," a voice from behind the desk said.
I looked up to see a clearly clerical worker who wasn't a part of my conversation with Super Tech and she said "We'll give you a sticker, you are parked in the garage, right?"
"Um, yeah, I am, " says I.
"We'll give you a sticker so you don't have to pay for parking."
So, there I was, 90 or so minutes into this ordeal, my brain brimming with Jamie Spears knowledge (she puts out, but use your own protection because she doesn't use any) and no one cares about that, but they are going to give me free parking.
Oh well, it's better than nothing. At least I wouldn't be driving back to work pissed and out $6 for parking.
Free parking. Thanks.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Got Sardines?
The downward spiral continued this week that started with an off the cuff remark by a resident at my doctor's office. I was in ostensibly to make sure my brace fit and to fill my basket with the no-no upon no-no of activities that could affect the healing of my foot. My unimpressive, difficult to find, hidden, little stress fracture. But, resident's have to be thorough so they can get the brownie points from the boss.
With my doctor out of the room, the resident asked if I had ever had a bone density scan. I quipped that I had never heard of one. He launched into a lecture series on bone density and osteo-this-that-and-the-other-thing. During the post-lecture Q&A, I asked if that was mostly just a problem for the Mah Jong set? Turns out, he says, that anyone can have low bone density and that may explain my fracture. Funny right, this isn't Grandma Edna slipping in the parking lot at Kohl's fracturing a hip and then suddenly six weeks later her poor, bereaved family is eating a bagel with whitefish salad at her Shiva call wondering how it all happened so fast. "She was so vibrant, I can't believe she died buying Hanukkah presents."
No! This was me, runner, cyclist and healthy eater. I was only in this damn boot because I went too damn fast in a trail race, twisted my ankle (twice) and then didn't wait long enough for it to heal before setting out to run the Turkey Trot. I am not an old lady. I am a stupid, middle aged man who likes endurance sports. That said, my doctor wrote the prescription and his helpful (tongue so far in cheek it pokes a hole all the way through) receptionist made the appointment for me so I could get a DEXA scan.
DEXA scan? What the hell is that? Well, here you go:
Dexa stands for ‘Dual Energy X-ray Absorptiometry’. It is the most commonly used test for measuring bone mineral density. It is the best way to diagnosis osteopenia or osteoporosis.
Source: http://www.osteopenia3.com/dexa-scans.html
The actual test takes minutes, but like so many things in life, a few minutes can change your life. I was told not to drink any milk the day of the test -- this would prove to be the irony of all this. I was asked to lay on a table and then the laser scanner swept across my body. It felt like I as being faxed or prepared to be attached to an email. Turns out, neither of those jokes are funny.
Results are immediate and are divided into T scores and Z scores. I don't really remember what a Z score is, but I am going to update this when I get more info. And, scores are divided into hip and spine scores. My hip was good, so Edna and I won't meet the same fate and her share of the candy dish at next week's Canasta mixer is all mine if I can make it past the piles of snow that Chicago can't seem to remove from the sidewalks. (Aside/just wondering: does the same department write the parking tickets and clear the snow? Seems like you could just write the tickets, collect your double OT and say there were too many cars to plow and then go back later, get some more OT after your overtime loving brother-in-law who drives the tow truck pulls the cars out of your way so you can plow, but I digress).
My spine score was not good and now I am faced with the prospect of osteopenia, which sounds dirty, but is so far from being dirty as to be just plain sad.
How exciting is this news? So wonderful that my Google searching has headed in a new direction. No bike porn today, no political rants and no checking to see how the bond market is doing, instead, I stared at the blinking cursor in the search box and typed: calcium rich foods. And, guess what I discovered? Sardines in the can (which does sound dirty), top the list.
Odd fish the sardine. Used more liberally as a metaphor than a food.
Sardines? Who knew?
With my doctor out of the room, the resident asked if I had ever had a bone density scan. I quipped that I had never heard of one. He launched into a lecture series on bone density and osteo-this-that-and-the-other-thing. During the post-lecture Q&A, I asked if that was mostly just a problem for the Mah Jong set? Turns out, he says, that anyone can have low bone density and that may explain my fracture. Funny right, this isn't Grandma Edna slipping in the parking lot at Kohl's fracturing a hip and then suddenly six weeks later her poor, bereaved family is eating a bagel with whitefish salad at her Shiva call wondering how it all happened so fast. "She was so vibrant, I can't believe she died buying Hanukkah presents."
No! This was me, runner, cyclist and healthy eater. I was only in this damn boot because I went too damn fast in a trail race, twisted my ankle (twice) and then didn't wait long enough for it to heal before setting out to run the Turkey Trot. I am not an old lady. I am a stupid, middle aged man who likes endurance sports. That said, my doctor wrote the prescription and his helpful (tongue so far in cheek it pokes a hole all the way through) receptionist made the appointment for me so I could get a DEXA scan.
DEXA scan? What the hell is that? Well, here you go:
Dexa stands for ‘Dual Energy X-ray Absorptiometry’. It is the most commonly used test for measuring bone mineral density. It is the best way to diagnosis osteopenia or osteoporosis.
Source: http://www.osteopenia3.com/dexa-scans.html
The actual test takes minutes, but like so many things in life, a few minutes can change your life. I was told not to drink any milk the day of the test -- this would prove to be the irony of all this. I was asked to lay on a table and then the laser scanner swept across my body. It felt like I as being faxed or prepared to be attached to an email. Turns out, neither of those jokes are funny.
Results are immediate and are divided into T scores and Z scores. I don't really remember what a Z score is, but I am going to update this when I get more info. And, scores are divided into hip and spine scores. My hip was good, so Edna and I won't meet the same fate and her share of the candy dish at next week's Canasta mixer is all mine if I can make it past the piles of snow that Chicago can't seem to remove from the sidewalks. (Aside/just wondering: does the same department write the parking tickets and clear the snow? Seems like you could just write the tickets, collect your double OT and say there were too many cars to plow and then go back later, get some more OT after your overtime loving brother-in-law who drives the tow truck pulls the cars out of your way so you can plow, but I digress).
My spine score was not good and now I am faced with the prospect of osteopenia, which sounds dirty, but is so far from being dirty as to be just plain sad.
How exciting is this news? So wonderful that my Google searching has headed in a new direction. No bike porn today, no political rants and no checking to see how the bond market is doing, instead, I stared at the blinking cursor in the search box and typed: calcium rich foods. And, guess what I discovered? Sardines in the can (which does sound dirty), top the list.
Odd fish the sardine. Used more liberally as a metaphor than a food.
Sardines? Who knew?
Monday, December 10, 2007
Not Embracing the Brace
Last Friday now serves as my personal running Groundhog Day. My foot saw it's shadow (or, rather, my doctor saw the shadow on my MRI that told him I had a stress fracture) and now it's six more weeks until I can run (or cycle). The prescription is for a a full length boot to stabilize my foot. On Friday, I went to Prosthetic Limbs-r-Us and tried on the boot. Mercifully, it didn't fit, but it let me know what I was facing. Of course it won't be the dandy, bright yellow boot (the Denver Boot, Chicago Style) pictured above, but that would sure be a conversation starter.
The pretty item shown just above will be my new friend for my six weeks of personal winter. My toes aren't quite that attractive. I think I will wear a sock with it.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Fractured and Stressed
For a few weeks, I have been toying with a post here titled "Scared Crit-less" that reflected back on August 26 of this year in my debut crit. That's me in the Quick Step jersey (in blue) on the left side of the photo. And I will write about it because it is a sort of funny athletic tale about how to measure success and failure. The big fear of that day was crashing. I had watched crits and seen harrowing crashes. I didn't want any part of that. On August 26, I didn't crash.Ironic then, that I now find myself with a stress fracture in my right foot after six weeks of running. Read the excitement in prior posts as I returned to running and all that is on hold now. This is a long story. More coming.
On Fathers and Sons
Some days require perspective, some give it. Today was the latter somehow. I started the day crawling into bed with my three year old for a quick tickle fest to kick off a long day. As we lay there and laughed, I just felt so much joy. Not advertised, but I just felt it. It was like a warm blanket minutes after you pull it up to the neck and your body heat teams with the blanket and you feel your temperature begin to rise. It is at once insulating and comforting. This was that with the added benefit of a hysterically laughing, kicking and squirming three year old.Joy part two came when I went into to wake the seven year old. Morning light splashed his face but didn't rouse him. I woke him and he wanted to know the outcome of the Bears/Redskins game. He was excited to learn that the Bears had lost. We had a laugh, a hug and then I moved on.
Hours later, I was at UIC hospital between MRI and X-ray that would reveal a stress fracture in my foot when my mother called me. She ostensibly called to talk about a legal document that concerned her, that needed immediate attention, but that wasn't the entire call. The backdrop was that my father, 81 and on dialysis was taking a turn for the worse so says his doctor and that he might die in a month or a year or tomorrow, but probably not. I couldn't speak for a moment (rare for me) as I absorbed that. I still struggle with it and it is hours later.
Funny to be so caught up in moments of fatherhood and in being a son in the same day. I doubt I am the only one in town who had a day like that.
The pictures above are on my desk at work. They don't really sit side by side, but do for the shot I post here. On the left, I stand with my boys earlier this year. We are standing before Buckingham Fountain in downtown Chicago. My daughter, age 9 (and not pictured here) did a wonderful job of capturing the simple happiness of the moment. That she was taking the picture served no small part of my smiling in the picture. My own father introduced me to photography and I want to give that to my daughter. More on that soon.
The picture on the right was taken in Fort Wayne in front of the Allen County Courthouse, most likely in 1966 or thereabouts. I am closest to my father there. Telling, perhaps, but I was young then. I mentioned the picture to him on the phone tonight and he remembered the picture with certainty, but the exact moment not as much.
A father. A son. A brother. A husband. A friend. So many parts we play. Some bring joy. But I am not feeling much joy just now.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Back on the DL
Was it inevitable? I spent an entire summer logging miles on my bike, 2,500 miles to be exact. I got faster, I lost weight, I entered a race, I rode in a century and it was all good. Then October came, temps were cooler (except on the day of the LBCM) and I decided to return to running. I started slow and slowly. I limited myself to 30 minutes per run and only 3 runs per week. I was building up slowly. Even with that limited amount of running, I was getting stronger. Things that used to hurt, were no longer hurting. That's good, right?
Then comes the two for the price of one ankle sprains at the trail race. Undeterred, I load up on ice and ibuprofen. Leg felt good. Ankle turned in all the directions it was supposed to -- not like an owl's head, but similar to the way the left one worked. I couldn't cut like an NFL running back, but that never comes up for me. And then, I hit the turkey trot and it hit back.
The diagnosis is six weeks off (more on this).
So here I am, back on the disabled list. I would love to play, but I am the guy on the sidelines in street clothes. Out of place, wearing a tie when other guys are in pads and helmets sitting on the warming bench. Not really, but that's how I feel.
Wait 'til next year.
Then comes the two for the price of one ankle sprains at the trail race. Undeterred, I load up on ice and ibuprofen. Leg felt good. Ankle turned in all the directions it was supposed to -- not like an owl's head, but similar to the way the left one worked. I couldn't cut like an NFL running back, but that never comes up for me. And then, I hit the turkey trot and it hit back.
The diagnosis is six weeks off (more on this).
So here I am, back on the disabled list. I would love to play, but I am the guy on the sidelines in street clothes. Out of place, wearing a tie when other guys are in pads and helmets sitting on the warming bench. Not really, but that's how I feel.
Wait 'til next year.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Floyd looking ahead to 2008
Back in June as the cicadas were in full hum, it seemed as if the clock was tragically running out for Floyd. And yet, here she stands, strong as ever. She still chases the ball with vigor and looks so beautiful.Friday, November 30, 2007
Oh, Deer
Fences, they say, make the best neighbors. Now that I have one surrounding my backyard, I am not so sure. Here's an old friend who used to hang around the backyard of our old, fenceless, house. Come back and see us, we'll leave the gate open.The Banana Truck
There was a time, when my oldest was little, maybe 2, and we found joy in seeing the truck pictured above as we drove to preschool. Times change, kids get older, but still, seeing "The Banana Truck" (as we used to call it) in traffic today brought a smile to my face.Given to Fretful Fussiness
Cranky. Just really, really cranky today and I am not sure why. I wanted to suspect lack of sleep or over training, but I don't think the little bit of limping around I have been able to mange this week really accounts for how I am feeling.
But enough about the causes, let's relish in my foul mood.
Crankiness is the psychic equivalent of being good and stinking drunk. A few tasty cocktails (really beer or red wine if it's me doing the drinking) and suddenly anything resembling a thought/speech filter vanishes. I have found that I see the ironic, think the sarcastic and say the caustic when I imbibe. The famous examples were a drunken toast I gave at my brother's wedding when every effort short of the giant talent show hook was used to get me away from the microphone; and the fateful Webster Fitness x-mas dinner when pretty much no one escaped my acerbic tongue. I feel so constrained sometimes. I see it, I think it and I just plain want to say it. If someone says something stupid, I want to bomb in there with an (in)appropriate comment.
Well, today I rose at 5:15 A.M. to go to a spinning class. I knew from the moment I got out of bed and my sparkly, sand filled right arm was too dead to turn off my alarm that today would be a winner. My left ankle clicked as I stole out of the room and my right ankle throbbed. It also felt as if my right IT band had shrunken to half its normal length during the night. Aging is joyful.
I arrived at the pitch black spinning room to the cheery voiced instructor's promise that she had brought new music I was sure to like, including a song by the Dave Matthews Band.
"You like DMB, right?" she innocently posited. "I like them just a little less than I like Coldplay," was my reply. She knows I am a Coldplay hater. If you love them, good for you. We are all entitled to our opinion. So she and I had a mini-debate about the relative merits of DMB. I interjected my thought that the expulsion of the contents of the DMB tour bus's toilet on a bridge in Chicago was about the least offensive thing to come out of that group AND THEN it hit me. I just had this thought that I should shut my f-ing mouth today.
I got on a bike and just didn't say a word the rest of the class. Ordinarily, I bombard her with comments about how bad her music is, how it apes the nasty playlist on The Mix, but I just felt like anything I would say would be mean spirited and hurtful. Wow, is that personal growth or just a defensive posture and recognition that I could do enough damage that I would be unable to undo later? I had thoughts of having to plead temporary insanity later to explain my comments. Regrettably, my body of work makes that plea rarely stick. Aaargh.
Oh well, the day is still young.
Pick your poision, booze or crankiness that even coffee can't cure.
But enough about the causes, let's relish in my foul mood.
Crankiness is the psychic equivalent of being good and stinking drunk. A few tasty cocktails (really beer or red wine if it's me doing the drinking) and suddenly anything resembling a thought/speech filter vanishes. I have found that I see the ironic, think the sarcastic and say the caustic when I imbibe. The famous examples were a drunken toast I gave at my brother's wedding when every effort short of the giant talent show hook was used to get me away from the microphone; and the fateful Webster Fitness x-mas dinner when pretty much no one escaped my acerbic tongue. I feel so constrained sometimes. I see it, I think it and I just plain want to say it. If someone says something stupid, I want to bomb in there with an (in)appropriate comment.
Well, today I rose at 5:15 A.M. to go to a spinning class. I knew from the moment I got out of bed and my sparkly, sand filled right arm was too dead to turn off my alarm that today would be a winner. My left ankle clicked as I stole out of the room and my right ankle throbbed. It also felt as if my right IT band had shrunken to half its normal length during the night. Aging is joyful.
I arrived at the pitch black spinning room to the cheery voiced instructor's promise that she had brought new music I was sure to like, including a song by the Dave Matthews Band.
"You like DMB, right?" she innocently posited. "I like them just a little less than I like Coldplay," was my reply. She knows I am a Coldplay hater. If you love them, good for you. We are all entitled to our opinion. So she and I had a mini-debate about the relative merits of DMB. I interjected my thought that the expulsion of the contents of the DMB tour bus's toilet on a bridge in Chicago was about the least offensive thing to come out of that group AND THEN it hit me. I just had this thought that I should shut my f-ing mouth today.
I got on a bike and just didn't say a word the rest of the class. Ordinarily, I bombard her with comments about how bad her music is, how it apes the nasty playlist on The Mix, but I just felt like anything I would say would be mean spirited and hurtful. Wow, is that personal growth or just a defensive posture and recognition that I could do enough damage that I would be unable to undo later? I had thoughts of having to plead temporary insanity later to explain my comments. Regrettably, my body of work makes that plea rarely stick. Aaargh.
Oh well, the day is still young.
Pick your poision, booze or crankiness that even coffee can't cure.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Cold Turkey Trot
To put it mildly, I am not a fan of one of our local so-called specialty running retailers. They carry the name of a national franchise, but that's not my objection. The store has no soul and worse, has gone out of its way to be anti-grassroots running. They eschew the local in favor of the national and have tried hard to put the little guy out of business. Not naming names, but just understand that these folks don't give a damn about my running experience. When I run a race in Fort Wayne or Milwaukee or Madison, I can feel the soul, see the weathered skin on the runners that tells me that they have accumulated the miles. They know how I feel because they feel the same way. But why mention that here?
I would like to say I won the 30th Chicago Turkey Trot. But I didn't. I did, however, win a free entry to the race. Pretty cool.
Well, race packet pick-up was held at the Death Star mentioned above. I got my shirt, my bib and a few other goodies (thus the name goody bag, right?). What I didn't get at packet pick-up, what no runner got at packet pick-up was a timing chip. They weren't being given out there, BUT they were being given out on race day. Thing is, I didn't know that. It wasn't mentioned in the race's printed materials and not one person who was handing out the bibs and shiny safety pins could be bothered to mention that to me. Gee thanks(giving). So, you ask, how did I find out it was a chip race?
Fast forward to race day. There were long lines at the packet pick-up line -- the thing I purposely had avoided by going the day before. NO signs saying "Get your chips here."
I warmed up, I handed my fleece and pants to my number one fan, the wonderful Mrs. F and lined up to run. As I walked to the Start line, I saw the stools that are always used in chip removal after a race. I wondered why. I lined up, looked down and on every shoe (well, really, every other shoe, because each person only gets the one chip) I saw a chip with it's funky zip tie holder attached and just waiting for the opportunity to record a runner's Thanksgiving Day exploits. Well, I didn't have one. Damn you, Death Star.
Oh, the race, yeah, I did run it. It was windy, cold (think 20 degrees and I was in shorts), snow pelted me in the face and my right ankle felt hinky throughout. Time was fair, 33:17 for 8 kilometers. I am not fast, but I am getting fitter.
Where's my damn chip?
EDIT: This just in: I sent an email to the owner of the referenced specialty retailer airing my concern in language far milder than what is above. I asked the question "Who was in charge of handing out the numbers, etc." Surprise, well not really, he replied to my email with a phone call to my cell phone. In calm tones, sharing my concern, he said he had forwarded my note onto the appropriate folks who are not in his employ. So the finger has been pointed and, perhaps, he is not to blame. That said, the malfeasance occurred in his building. If it walks like a duck . . .
I would like to say I won the 30th Chicago Turkey Trot. But I didn't. I did, however, win a free entry to the race. Pretty cool.
Well, race packet pick-up was held at the Death Star mentioned above. I got my shirt, my bib and a few other goodies (thus the name goody bag, right?). What I didn't get at packet pick-up, what no runner got at packet pick-up was a timing chip. They weren't being given out there, BUT they were being given out on race day. Thing is, I didn't know that. It wasn't mentioned in the race's printed materials and not one person who was handing out the bibs and shiny safety pins could be bothered to mention that to me. Gee thanks(giving). So, you ask, how did I find out it was a chip race?
Fast forward to race day. There were long lines at the packet pick-up line -- the thing I purposely had avoided by going the day before. NO signs saying "Get your chips here."
I warmed up, I handed my fleece and pants to my number one fan, the wonderful Mrs. F and lined up to run. As I walked to the Start line, I saw the stools that are always used in chip removal after a race. I wondered why. I lined up, looked down and on every shoe (well, really, every other shoe, because each person only gets the one chip) I saw a chip with it's funky zip tie holder attached and just waiting for the opportunity to record a runner's Thanksgiving Day exploits. Well, I didn't have one. Damn you, Death Star.
Oh, the race, yeah, I did run it. It was windy, cold (think 20 degrees and I was in shorts), snow pelted me in the face and my right ankle felt hinky throughout. Time was fair, 33:17 for 8 kilometers. I am not fast, but I am getting fitter.
Where's my damn chip?
EDIT: This just in: I sent an email to the owner of the referenced specialty retailer airing my concern in language far milder than what is above. I asked the question "Who was in charge of handing out the numbers, etc." Surprise, well not really, he replied to my email with a phone call to my cell phone. In calm tones, sharing my concern, he said he had forwarded my note onto the appropriate folks who are not in his employ. So the finger has been pointed and, perhaps, he is not to blame. That said, the malfeasance occurred in his building. If it walks like a duck . . .
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
3 weeks until 2 years
This picture has been sitting in the upper right hand corner of this blog since the middle of 2005. I never really gave it much thought. The race was the Mad City half marathon, or whatever they were calling it then, in Madison, WI. I had spent an entire winter rehabbing an Achilles tear in my right leg and finally I felt strong enough to enter a real distance race. I was relatively fit the day of this race and planned to run it smart.Smart. I love that word as it applies to running. It can mean so many things, so I guess I will devote a later entry to that.
I ran this race at a conservative pace until Mile 9 (of 13.1) and then picked it up and managed a final four miles at just under 7 minute pace.
The picture above was near the finish line and the grimace on my face honors the winter off and what I thought was a long climb back to get to the starting line. Perhaps, what it really was, it now seems, was anger -- in advance -- for the long, two and a half year, layoff that lurked 3 weeks off in the distance.
Anyone would be pissed if they knew that's what lay ahead.
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Factory Ride
There I am, on the exterme left, standing with a group of people I didn't know in front of the Waterford factory in Waterford, WI. This was in early August 2007. I rode with some of these folks for an easy, rolling 45 miles from Waterford to Lake Geneva and back. The highlight of the ride was seeing a group of sandhill cranes. I wish I had the presence of mind to photograph them. A bird with an ideal body: long, lean and nice thin spindly legs. For contrast, notice the paunch tucked into my Quick Step jersey. Tom Boonen? Not by a long way.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
River City Wrap Up -- The conclusion
Where was I? Between Miles 2 and 3. The course wound it's way along the river (St. Mary's, I think) and I kept control of my pace. The number of people I was passing had slowed to a trickle and I started to recognize everyone around me. Slight incline, I stomped right up. Mile 3 in 6:56.
It sinks in, I am nearly at halfway and I am holding the pace and it feels ok. I start to think about whether I will pick it up again near the end of if this is the pace. I look ahead as we head south on Harrison Street and I don't see many runners. I have propelled myself into some sort of "no man's land." We turn up Barry, pass my dad's old office building. I feel a bit of nostalgia as I truck on past the Fort Wayne National Bank building with its ugly white trim and dark windows. Who dreamed that up to be the defining structure in Fort Wayne's skyline?
I feel myself surging as we turn onto the historic Landing. Somewhere in there Mile 5 has clicked in at 6:44.
The last mile or so was cool, up bridges, around twisty streets and through a park that didn't exist during my boyhood. Constant changes make the mile go faster. As I round a turn and could see the Mile 6 marker ahead, one thought entered my head "if I can just keep going and cross the line this will be an unqualified success." Two years, really more, it took to get me to this moment. I looked down and saw my bib and smiled. Mile 6, 6:50.
The finish was just ahead, the line was just steps short of the historic Fort. I didn't sprint to the finish, no runner was near enough to make that an issue and this race wasn't about that. I crossed the line, punched my watch and grabbed a bottle of water from the cluster of young Army soldiers in fatigues. All of them so young that my first thought was that they were in costume. But they weren't. These young kids are just who does the fighting and dying. But that was not really my thought then, just now as I reflect.
I walked around, went to the warming/food tent and had an apple and some nice warm coffee. I waited a while, not wanting to leave and because I wanted to see if by some chance I had placed. I really hadn't -- sixth or something in my age group and 47th overall (as I would be several weeks later at Rock -n- Sole, strange coincidence). The laugh came as they announced the women's masters winner, "from Wilmette, Illinois," I looked around to see who this woman from Wilmette could be, "Danielle Fogel." Oops, that's me. I am not a woman, but I am a runner -- again.
It sinks in, I am nearly at halfway and I am holding the pace and it feels ok. I start to think about whether I will pick it up again near the end of if this is the pace. I look ahead as we head south on Harrison Street and I don't see many runners. I have propelled myself into some sort of "no man's land." We turn up Barry, pass my dad's old office building. I feel a bit of nostalgia as I truck on past the Fort Wayne National Bank building with its ugly white trim and dark windows. Who dreamed that up to be the defining structure in Fort Wayne's skyline?
I feel myself surging as we turn onto the historic Landing. Somewhere in there Mile 5 has clicked in at 6:44.
The last mile or so was cool, up bridges, around twisty streets and through a park that didn't exist during my boyhood. Constant changes make the mile go faster. As I round a turn and could see the Mile 6 marker ahead, one thought entered my head "if I can just keep going and cross the line this will be an unqualified success." Two years, really more, it took to get me to this moment. I looked down and saw my bib and smiled. Mile 6, 6:50.
The finish was just ahead, the line was just steps short of the historic Fort. I didn't sprint to the finish, no runner was near enough to make that an issue and this race wasn't about that. I crossed the line, punched my watch and grabbed a bottle of water from the cluster of young Army soldiers in fatigues. All of them so young that my first thought was that they were in costume. But they weren't. These young kids are just who does the fighting and dying. But that was not really my thought then, just now as I reflect.
I walked around, went to the warming/food tent and had an apple and some nice warm coffee. I waited a while, not wanting to leave and because I wanted to see if by some chance I had placed. I really hadn't -- sixth or something in my age group and 47th overall (as I would be several weeks later at Rock -n- Sole, strange coincidence). The laugh came as they announced the women's masters winner, "from Wilmette, Illinois," I looked around to see who this woman from Wilmette could be, "Danielle Fogel." Oops, that's me. I am not a woman, but I am a runner -- again.
We're just misunderstood
So Mr. Mortgage Recruiter Guy couldn't accept my response and offered a fine, comforting retort of his own:
"Look for an upcoming campaign to help with PR battle that we are facing. We have brought in the same group that helped Johnson and Johnson after the Tylenol scare. "
I didn't reply to this missive. How could I?
Let me see if I have this straight? You are going to use the PR firm that made everybody feel good about J&J after they killed people? OK, call me and let me know how that turns out. I have pre-approvals to write.
"Look for an upcoming campaign to help with PR battle that we are facing. We have brought in the same group that helped Johnson and Johnson after the Tylenol scare. "
I didn't reply to this missive. How could I?
Let me see if I have this straight? You are going to use the PR firm that made everybody feel good about J&J after they killed people? OK, call me and let me know how that turns out. I have pre-approvals to write.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The Kiss Off
I sell mortgages for a living. Things have gotten tough. That said, the recruiters are out trying to find guys who can produce loans. Somebody thinks that's me. One of those is a real big, brand name, lender with mountains of trouble in the subprime meltdown (much different from a tuna melt). Today he tried to sway me with threats of the demise of the mortgage broker. I finally had to tell him to move on. My email to him:
Dear Mr. Earnest Branch Manager Guy -
Thanks for your note and your continued zeal in contacting me about opportunities at Giant Lender Co. I enjoyed the first conversation we had some time back and think you seem like a good guy. I am concerned that you would offer legislation as a wedge to try to push me one way or another. In additiona to the legislative and regulatory pressures, the news is daily filled with negative articles about your employer, Giant Lender Co. While I am not a doomsayer, I did visit with a sales center today where I am on the preferred list and they talked to me about the pushback from potential buyers that they get when they offer Giant Lender Co. as a lender. Say what you will about the strength of Giant Lender Co., but preception becomes reality. If my borrowers don't want to use Giant Lender Co., then I cannot make a living working there. In the competitve market we are in, it is hard enough to win a deal, I don't want to introduce additional challenges to the equation.
While I appreciate your contacting me, I would prefer we discontinue our conversation.
Dear Mr. Earnest Branch Manager Guy -
Thanks for your note and your continued zeal in contacting me about opportunities at Giant Lender Co. I enjoyed the first conversation we had some time back and think you seem like a good guy. I am concerned that you would offer legislation as a wedge to try to push me one way or another. In additiona to the legislative and regulatory pressures, the news is daily filled with negative articles about your employer, Giant Lender Co. While I am not a doomsayer, I did visit with a sales center today where I am on the preferred list and they talked to me about the pushback from potential buyers that they get when they offer Giant Lender Co. as a lender. Say what you will about the strength of Giant Lender Co., but preception becomes reality. If my borrowers don't want to use Giant Lender Co., then I cannot make a living working there. In the competitve market we are in, it is hard enough to win a deal, I don't want to introduce additional challenges to the equation.
While I appreciate your contacting me, I would prefer we discontinue our conversation.
Monday, November 12, 2007
A Trick of the Trail
November 11, 2007, Rock -n- Sole Trail Challenge. The course was bone dry, but for this creek crossing. I look extra graceful here as I plunge my foot deep into the mud and nearly lose a shoe. The worst of it was a near ankle sprain, call it a severe twist, between Miles 4 and 5. Still hurts a day later, but everything should turn out fine.Friday, November 09, 2007
A nearly perfect day
Turn back the clock two weeks to the weekend of October 26-28. I made the solo trip to Fort Wayne for my 25th H.S. reunion (Go Archers) and to see if there was any fight left in this dog. That is to say, to run the 8th Annual River City Rat Race.
I had never run that race before, but the course looked like a nice mix of near-downtown neighborhood running, a quick pass of the rose garden and a nice finish at the back door of historic Fort Wayne. http://www.oldfortwayne.org/main.htm
I came at this with the attitude that it be "just a run" and that I wouldn't race it. It would be great to have a dollar for everytime I've said that over the years. Something happens when you pin a number on your jersey that just makes it hard to make a race a training run. But, as in the past, that was the plan.
This would be my first road race in over two years. I mention that because I did run the Rock -n- Sole trail race last November. That was a race and I pushed a bit, but it included dirt running, waist deep water and a muddy stream. Hardly the same as pounding on concrete.
I restarted my running a few days after this year's disaster-thon, the Chicago Marathon. I had spent the summer cycling and then waited for darkness and cool weather to begin running.
Seeing the bib itself was really exciting. First off, it was black with silver numbers. Kind of an Oakland Raiders bib, or really any of the hundreds of sports teams that went to a black and silver format. I felt a little giddy as I pinned it my jersey on Friday night. Of course, the giddiness might have been the Belgian beer consumed at Buckets with some of the high school mates.
Saturday morning I got up early so I could get some oatmeal in me a couple hourse before the gun. As I sipped my Folgers coffee (nothing but the best at 5405 Indiana), I felt pre-race nervousness for the first time in years. Why was I feeling this? I wasn't planning to race the thing, I wasn't in shape to race, what was going on?
I showed up at the race about 45 minutes early. Parking was easy behind Don Hall's Gashouse. http://www.donhalls.com/locations/theoldgashouse/default.aspxI haven't set foot inside that restaurant in years. I don't really know anybody who goes there, but as the website says it's a "Fort Wayne landmark." Whatever that means.
Weather was race ready, it was 50 degrees (maybe less) and a light, misting rain was falling. I was in no hurry to do a running warm-up as my plan was to use the first mile or so as my warm-up. I joined the growing crowd of runners inside Fort Wayne's Unite Arts Center - a combination art gallery (I think) and auditorium of some sort (I think).
This was a red state race with all the trimmings. A quick Star Spangled Banner -- I put hand on heart, but couldn't find a flag to watch during the singing. Why doesn't anyone put hand on heart or sing? So simple, yet so meaningful. Also, quite calming before a race. And then, "let's all bow our heads and pray." Oy, does running a race absolutely require me to be told that Jesus has given me the strength to run?
Time to line up and I am ready to go. A last minute wardrobe change (from short sleeves to long AND I would regret this decision) and then to the start line. I tried to line up pretty far back to resist the urge to hit the gas at the gun. To ensure a slow start, I stood behind several young Girls on the Run runners. I resisted the twin urges of saying "sparkle fingers" (or "glitter digits" as I recently learned) and making fun of the little girl wearing a sweater (yes, a sweater) under her singlet. Come on mom of this girl, dress the girl in something a little more race ready.
BOOOOOOOM!!! The start was not a gun, oh no, not in Fort Wayne, my friend, it was a damn cannon. I saw them setting it up and more or less knew what to expect after the HUFF a couple years ago where they fired a revolutionary war cannon while I was sitting in the porta-potty.
Talk about scaring the shit out of you.
I started out smart. I ran real easy, didn't pass anyone and let other runners fly by me. I figured I would pass them later if I was supposed to. What an absolute thrill to be on the course of a 10K again. I was running, looking down at my gloved hands, listening to my breathing and watching runners all around me as we all tried to get into a pace that would work for a few miles. Predictably, I passed runners at the 3/4 of mile mark as they were suddenly confronted by the reality of a fast start. And then, I heard it. Faint at first, and down the road a ways: 6:35, 6:36, 6:40, but then it got louder, as I drew closer and closer, 6:50, 6:51, and, at last, as I passed the Mile 1 marker, a well bundled older gentlemen read my split to me: 6:59.
Six-freaking-fifty-nine for the first mile. What had I done? I looked down at my heart rate monitor and there, staring back up at me was the number 142. So, to recap, I thought, I just ran a 6:59 mile, passed something like 50 runners and my heart rate was 142. Woo hoo. With my head up, I held a comfortable pace and ran toward the Mile 2 marker.
I made an easy pass through the first water stop, grabbed a cup without breaking stride (ah, the old form coming back, just like riding a . . . well not really, but you get the idea), thanked the volunteers (if you don't do that SHAME ON YOU, you should) and then drank and dropped the cup into the wide open trash bag held by a wide-eyed 10 year old volunteer. Heart rate jumped a bit with all the water stop fun, but then I settled down. We were running down a boulevard street, u-turned around the median at an intersection and we were greeted by a headwind.
I thought about my wars with the wind over the years, the 13 miles into a 15 mph wind in Clearwater, FL, and the 12 miles of pounding I took in 2001 in Detroit's 9/11 re-routed marathon. Not today, sir. Grabbing a page from my recent cycling experiences, I tucked in behind an older man (older than me, anyway) and kept my pace as I let him block the wind. Just like on the bike, my heart rate dropped about 10 bpm thanks to my new shield. Suddenly, he looked over his shoulder, saw me there and tried to shake me. He didn't say anything, but then why should he? I wasn't breaking any rules. No worries, I found somebody else and kept the wind at bay. Mile 2: 6:57. Wow, this is a little too easy.
OK, this is getting long and I have 4.2 more miles to ramble on about. Stay tuned for Part 2.
I had never run that race before, but the course looked like a nice mix of near-downtown neighborhood running, a quick pass of the rose garden and a nice finish at the back door of historic Fort Wayne. http://www.oldfortwayne.org/main.htm
I came at this with the attitude that it be "just a run" and that I wouldn't race it. It would be great to have a dollar for everytime I've said that over the years. Something happens when you pin a number on your jersey that just makes it hard to make a race a training run. But, as in the past, that was the plan.
This would be my first road race in over two years. I mention that because I did run the Rock -n- Sole trail race last November. That was a race and I pushed a bit, but it included dirt running, waist deep water and a muddy stream. Hardly the same as pounding on concrete.
I restarted my running a few days after this year's disaster-thon, the Chicago Marathon. I had spent the summer cycling and then waited for darkness and cool weather to begin running.
Seeing the bib itself was really exciting. First off, it was black with silver numbers. Kind of an Oakland Raiders bib, or really any of the hundreds of sports teams that went to a black and silver format. I felt a little giddy as I pinned it my jersey on Friday night. Of course, the giddiness might have been the Belgian beer consumed at Buckets with some of the high school mates.
Saturday morning I got up early so I could get some oatmeal in me a couple hourse before the gun. As I sipped my Folgers coffee (nothing but the best at 5405 Indiana), I felt pre-race nervousness for the first time in years. Why was I feeling this? I wasn't planning to race the thing, I wasn't in shape to race, what was going on?
I showed up at the race about 45 minutes early. Parking was easy behind Don Hall's Gashouse. http://www.donhalls.com/locations/theoldgashouse/default.aspxI haven't set foot inside that restaurant in years. I don't really know anybody who goes there, but as the website says it's a "Fort Wayne landmark." Whatever that means.
Weather was race ready, it was 50 degrees (maybe less) and a light, misting rain was falling. I was in no hurry to do a running warm-up as my plan was to use the first mile or so as my warm-up. I joined the growing crowd of runners inside Fort Wayne's Unite Arts Center - a combination art gallery (I think) and auditorium of some sort (I think).
This was a red state race with all the trimmings. A quick Star Spangled Banner -- I put hand on heart, but couldn't find a flag to watch during the singing. Why doesn't anyone put hand on heart or sing? So simple, yet so meaningful. Also, quite calming before a race. And then, "let's all bow our heads and pray." Oy, does running a race absolutely require me to be told that Jesus has given me the strength to run?
Time to line up and I am ready to go. A last minute wardrobe change (from short sleeves to long AND I would regret this decision) and then to the start line. I tried to line up pretty far back to resist the urge to hit the gas at the gun. To ensure a slow start, I stood behind several young Girls on the Run runners. I resisted the twin urges of saying "sparkle fingers" (or "glitter digits" as I recently learned) and making fun of the little girl wearing a sweater (yes, a sweater) under her singlet. Come on mom of this girl, dress the girl in something a little more race ready.
BOOOOOOOM!!! The start was not a gun, oh no, not in Fort Wayne, my friend, it was a damn cannon. I saw them setting it up and more or less knew what to expect after the HUFF a couple years ago where they fired a revolutionary war cannon while I was sitting in the porta-potty.
Talk about scaring the shit out of you.
I started out smart. I ran real easy, didn't pass anyone and let other runners fly by me. I figured I would pass them later if I was supposed to. What an absolute thrill to be on the course of a 10K again. I was running, looking down at my gloved hands, listening to my breathing and watching runners all around me as we all tried to get into a pace that would work for a few miles. Predictably, I passed runners at the 3/4 of mile mark as they were suddenly confronted by the reality of a fast start. And then, I heard it. Faint at first, and down the road a ways: 6:35, 6:36, 6:40, but then it got louder, as I drew closer and closer, 6:50, 6:51, and, at last, as I passed the Mile 1 marker, a well bundled older gentlemen read my split to me: 6:59.
Six-freaking-fifty-nine for the first mile. What had I done? I looked down at my heart rate monitor and there, staring back up at me was the number 142. So, to recap, I thought, I just ran a 6:59 mile, passed something like 50 runners and my heart rate was 142. Woo hoo. With my head up, I held a comfortable pace and ran toward the Mile 2 marker.
I made an easy pass through the first water stop, grabbed a cup without breaking stride (ah, the old form coming back, just like riding a . . . well not really, but you get the idea), thanked the volunteers (if you don't do that SHAME ON YOU, you should) and then drank and dropped the cup into the wide open trash bag held by a wide-eyed 10 year old volunteer. Heart rate jumped a bit with all the water stop fun, but then I settled down. We were running down a boulevard street, u-turned around the median at an intersection and we were greeted by a headwind.
I thought about my wars with the wind over the years, the 13 miles into a 15 mph wind in Clearwater, FL, and the 12 miles of pounding I took in 2001 in Detroit's 9/11 re-routed marathon. Not today, sir. Grabbing a page from my recent cycling experiences, I tucked in behind an older man (older than me, anyway) and kept my pace as I let him block the wind. Just like on the bike, my heart rate dropped about 10 bpm thanks to my new shield. Suddenly, he looked over his shoulder, saw me there and tried to shake me. He didn't say anything, but then why should he? I wasn't breaking any rules. No worries, I found somebody else and kept the wind at bay. Mile 2: 6:57. Wow, this is a little too easy.
OK, this is getting long and I have 4.2 more miles to ramble on about. Stay tuned for Part 2.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Waxing nostalgic
Funny to be talking about 2003 again. It was almost 5 years ago. But I was today with a new running friend and I trotted out the old story, you know the one, the marathon story. Here it is again:
2003 was by far my best year as a runner. I had come off a 9 month injury layoff the year before and was able to build the miles up. Every race was like magic that year, PR at every distance, a 62 minute 10 miler a month before the marathon including a 5:50 last mile while I was severely bonking and the capper, a 37 and change 10K two weeks out. I was fit and ready to go.
A friend of a friend who worked for the Chicago Tribune sent a photographer to take pictures of me running along Lake Michigan near where we live in Wilmette. I was on the record in the paper saying I was going to run 2:55. That article appeared on race day.
Marathon day arrives and I plan to run with a guy on my team and a friend of his. It was 50 degrees at the start and felt really warm. I was in shorts and a singlet. In the early going (first 2 miles) we were still shielded from the sun by the buildings in the Loop and yet I was soaked with sweat and feeling very warm.
As we neared Mile 6, our splits were between 6:40-6:45 and I told the guys I was running with that we needed to slow down or we would be done before we hit the half. They insisted that we were fine and so we kept going. I worried what the effect would be later, but drank my water and gartorade (and dumped it on my head) and thought I would just stay with them.
When we got to Taylor Street (Mile 16 or so), I lost the first of the guys I was running with. He had previously broken 3 hours and would later become an Ironman. His finish that day was 3:30. The other guy hung with me for a bit more, but then fell off to a 3:15 or so that day.
At 17, I was extra bonky and had to wrestle myself back into focus. I saw some people I knew who cheered for me and I thought I could hang in. At 20, I finally succumed to my first over 7 minute mile. I feared that, but thought I might be OK because a teammate of mine was waiting for me a mile later in China Town to run me in the last 5 or so miles.
We connected, he cajoled me and got me to pick it up a bit, but not enough. By Mile 24 on Michigan Avenue, it didn't look like the math could work unless I could knock out a 6:30 mile 25 or 26 -- not so likely. Other friends cheered me, I passed a guy on our team who should have been about 2:50 or so that day. Lots of "you can still do it, you can break 3 hours type stuff." I passed the 25 marker and the bonk was so solid at that point, my legs and toes felt numb, my fingers were numb and I just wanted to finish. Last mile was maybe 7:20 (better than the previous couple miles), but it was too late.
Chip time was exactly 3:01:00. Close, but . . . here I am still writing about it 4+ years later. I always think of myself as being like those 2003 Cubs who were 5 outs from the World Series. I was so close, and when you are, you have to finish it because you never no when or even if you will get there again. The end.
Not really the end, though. The running has restarted. Bit of pain in my left calf, but otherwise the training is going well. Who knows?
2003 was by far my best year as a runner. I had come off a 9 month injury layoff the year before and was able to build the miles up. Every race was like magic that year, PR at every distance, a 62 minute 10 miler a month before the marathon including a 5:50 last mile while I was severely bonking and the capper, a 37 and change 10K two weeks out. I was fit and ready to go.
A friend of a friend who worked for the Chicago Tribune sent a photographer to take pictures of me running along Lake Michigan near where we live in Wilmette. I was on the record in the paper saying I was going to run 2:55. That article appeared on race day.
Marathon day arrives and I plan to run with a guy on my team and a friend of his. It was 50 degrees at the start and felt really warm. I was in shorts and a singlet. In the early going (first 2 miles) we were still shielded from the sun by the buildings in the Loop and yet I was soaked with sweat and feeling very warm.
As we neared Mile 6, our splits were between 6:40-6:45 and I told the guys I was running with that we needed to slow down or we would be done before we hit the half. They insisted that we were fine and so we kept going. I worried what the effect would be later, but drank my water and gartorade (and dumped it on my head) and thought I would just stay with them.
When we got to Taylor Street (Mile 16 or so), I lost the first of the guys I was running with. He had previously broken 3 hours and would later become an Ironman. His finish that day was 3:30. The other guy hung with me for a bit more, but then fell off to a 3:15 or so that day.
At 17, I was extra bonky and had to wrestle myself back into focus. I saw some people I knew who cheered for me and I thought I could hang in. At 20, I finally succumed to my first over 7 minute mile. I feared that, but thought I might be OK because a teammate of mine was waiting for me a mile later in China Town to run me in the last 5 or so miles.
We connected, he cajoled me and got me to pick it up a bit, but not enough. By Mile 24 on Michigan Avenue, it didn't look like the math could work unless I could knock out a 6:30 mile 25 or 26 -- not so likely. Other friends cheered me, I passed a guy on our team who should have been about 2:50 or so that day. Lots of "you can still do it, you can break 3 hours type stuff." I passed the 25 marker and the bonk was so solid at that point, my legs and toes felt numb, my fingers were numb and I just wanted to finish. Last mile was maybe 7:20 (better than the previous couple miles), but it was too late.
Chip time was exactly 3:01:00. Close, but . . . here I am still writing about it 4+ years later. I always think of myself as being like those 2003 Cubs who were 5 outs from the World Series. I was so close, and when you are, you have to finish it because you never no when or even if you will get there again. The end.
Not really the end, though. The running has restarted. Bit of pain in my left calf, but otherwise the training is going well. Who knows?
Monday, July 16, 2007
The Floydie-coaster
I think you have met Floyd a couple times over the years. What a week she had last week.
For about a month, she was acting strange. We first thought it was because of the crawling presence of 17 year cicadas in our yard. There were so many of them and during that time (late May through late June), she wouldn't go in the backyard much at all. This was a departure from her usual behavior.
Debbie took her to the vet a month or so ago and they said she had arthritis and put her on glucosomine. We started giving it to her, but the strange behavior continued. She was only intermittently interested in food -- this for a dog who loves nearly everything including lettuce, tomatoes, you name it. Then she wouldn't really play. We kept saying that her age, she is 11 was the reason. But in April and early May she chased the ball around the yard.
Finally, she stopped eating on July 5. On July 7, I took her to the vet. They x-rayed her middle and found what looked to be a growth on her spleen. The doctor who is not our usual vet said I had to take her to the surgical vet immediately for a splenectomy and we faced the real possibility that while she was on the table, they would find a growth on her lungs or liver in which case the surgeon would suggest we euthanize her immediately. I lost it immediately upon hearing that. Floyd has been around longer than our kids. It was one of the worst days of my life.
I rushed home, got Debbie and we took her to the surgical vet. She was in surgery for an hour or so. We later got a call saying the surgery went great and that they had removed the spleen and a mass the size of a cantaloupe (around 3lbs worth). From there, we started the waiting game for a pathology report to let us know whether the tumor was cancerous. If it was, we could expect for Floyd to live another 3-6 months. If it wasn't, the surgery would be curative.
Long, long week, of Floyd not recovering well from the anesthetic. She wouldn't eat. No matter what we put in her bowl, she turned up her nose and walked away. She couldn't get comfortable to sleep either. On Wednesday, they said bring her back. She spent the night at the surgical center. They gave her IV nourishment and Valium to stimulate her appetite. When we picked her up on Thursday, she was in great spirits and was eating small meals again.
Friday, I stayed home from work to watch her a bit. I fed her several meals and hung out with her. She was really loving, constantly looking to be pet. As I tried to type emails, she shoved her hand under my hand.
Later Friday, I left the house for an hour to get coffee and some fresh air. While walking in downtown Wilmette at a sidewalk sale, my phone rang. The surgeon called to tell me that the pathologists had double tested the mass (they cuts slices from the entire mass rather than the surgeon sending just a bit) and found that it was not cancerous. Freedom. After all that, she is going to be fine. I cannot tell you how relieved we were. She is so much a family member and now we know she will be around for a while longer.
For about a month, she was acting strange. We first thought it was because of the crawling presence of 17 year cicadas in our yard. There were so many of them and during that time (late May through late June), she wouldn't go in the backyard much at all. This was a departure from her usual behavior.
Debbie took her to the vet a month or so ago and they said she had arthritis and put her on glucosomine. We started giving it to her, but the strange behavior continued. She was only intermittently interested in food -- this for a dog who loves nearly everything including lettuce, tomatoes, you name it. Then she wouldn't really play. We kept saying that her age, she is 11 was the reason. But in April and early May she chased the ball around the yard.
Finally, she stopped eating on July 5. On July 7, I took her to the vet. They x-rayed her middle and found what looked to be a growth on her spleen. The doctor who is not our usual vet said I had to take her to the surgical vet immediately for a splenectomy and we faced the real possibility that while she was on the table, they would find a growth on her lungs or liver in which case the surgeon would suggest we euthanize her immediately. I lost it immediately upon hearing that. Floyd has been around longer than our kids. It was one of the worst days of my life.
I rushed home, got Debbie and we took her to the surgical vet. She was in surgery for an hour or so. We later got a call saying the surgery went great and that they had removed the spleen and a mass the size of a cantaloupe (around 3lbs worth). From there, we started the waiting game for a pathology report to let us know whether the tumor was cancerous. If it was, we could expect for Floyd to live another 3-6 months. If it wasn't, the surgery would be curative.
Long, long week, of Floyd not recovering well from the anesthetic. She wouldn't eat. No matter what we put in her bowl, she turned up her nose and walked away. She couldn't get comfortable to sleep either. On Wednesday, they said bring her back. She spent the night at the surgical center. They gave her IV nourishment and Valium to stimulate her appetite. When we picked her up on Thursday, she was in great spirits and was eating small meals again.
Friday, I stayed home from work to watch her a bit. I fed her several meals and hung out with her. She was really loving, constantly looking to be pet. As I tried to type emails, she shoved her hand under my hand.
Later Friday, I left the house for an hour to get coffee and some fresh air. While walking in downtown Wilmette at a sidewalk sale, my phone rang. The surgeon called to tell me that the pathologists had double tested the mass (they cuts slices from the entire mass rather than the surgeon sending just a bit) and found that it was not cancerous. Freedom. After all that, she is going to be fine. I cannot tell you how relieved we were. She is so much a family member and now we know she will be around for a while longer.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Jason walks through the door
A bad, slow day at work led me to Universal Sole for some hang time with Paul & co. No Paul today, but on my way out the door Nike Jason was walking in -- also in quest to say hey to Paul. Paul's absense led us down the street for coffee and conversation. He filled me with a belief that I could some day run again and even, perhaps, climb that mighty three hour mountain. Seems unlikely, but stranger things have happened to less capable folk than me.
On balance, a bright spot in a dreary day.
On balance, a bright spot in a dreary day.
Gunnar Old and New
So here they are: the old offending Gunnar I found so loathsome and the new bike I love dearly. The changes I was told weren't dramatic in terms of fit, but to me they were pretty great. Of course, the old sloper really offended me. The new bike's top tube slopes just a bit, but I love the way it looks.
I have 1,000 miles on the new bike. I want to say more about how it rides, but I will do that later.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
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