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.

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 . . .

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?