Back Chasm

I was sitting on the floor of my in-laws' guest room (my wife's girlhood bedroom) on Friday after a short run, legs aching a bit and I was thinking about my turkey trot performance the day before. I was generally pleased with the race, more on that in a bit, but was disappointed that I had failed to break twenty minutes (20:10 was my time, good for 17th out of 500+ runners). The 20 minutes mark was arbitrary, but is a long held line in the sand. Those lines, some of which I have crossed, and some not, include breaking 40 minutes for 10K (I have done that several times), sub-1:30 for a half marathon (done it, 1:20 is the real goal on that one now), 60 minutes or less for 10 miles (62 and a half is all I have managed) and the magical sub-3 hour marathon (I may go to the grave with a 3:01 on that one). I am sure there are others.

Back to me on the floor, in shorts on a late November day. My inclination was to feel pissed that I hadn't broken 20 minutes but then I found my self feeling circumspect. I rolled the clock back one year and thought of the wrenching pain as I stepped into two holes at the Rock -n- Sole trail race (of which I will soon be the owner - more on that much later). And then, two weeks later, with ice pelting me as I ran, I broke my foot as I rounded the baseball diamonds in the dumb ass downtown turkey trot. Everyone associated with that race pissed me off that day, including me and my flimsy osteoporotic bones.

Mayhem followed: the broken foot, the x-rays that couldn't find the break, the walking on my toes (look it up) that failed to reveal the break, the MRI that found the break, the DEXA scan that found the osteoporosis, the boot, the nutritionist, the endocrinologist, the supplements, the boot still on, the expanding waist line, the boot off, the boot back on again, etc. You get the idea, or certainly can if you review the posts that precede this one.

All those unhappy moments raced through my brain as I sat and wanted to poo poo my 20:10 5K and then I smiled a wry smile ( a rye smile came later at lunch time) and then I realized how great it was to be racing and how I had restrained myself during the run to avoid throwing out my back again and realized, the time didn't really matter. When it's a comeback, and this is most certainly that, the stats don't matter until I say they do.

The Race Report

On Thanksgiving Thursday, I toed the line (really, a spot close to the line) at the Tall Trees Turkey Trot with 500 runners none of whom I knew. It was freezing outside and I was dressed for it in hat, gloves, layers of shirts and tights. Maybe that is all the proof I need that this wasn't really a race. In real races, I wear shorts a singlet and racing flats (where are those damn shoes?).

Pre-race warm-up

Sit in car to stay warm

More jogging

Porta-potty visit

Stand by fire pits

Announcement to line up

Line up

Endless talking about the course

No dogs, no headphones, etc.

A word of thanks from the charity receiving money from the race

A shout out to folks who are in from out of town including the Seattle guy who won the race

Two command start

Race director calling out the start from his bike at the front of the pack

Take your mark

Go

Race director tosses his mike to the scorer

We're off

Lots of little kids sprinting from the start

I am 80-100 runners back and a gap has opened between me and the runners in front

Half a mile in I check the Nike+ pace band, I am running 6:00 pace

Slow down

Pace now 6:22, aaah

Mile 1, 6:20

Pace still 6:22

Strange U-turn

Quick shuffle and another U-turn on a very busy street

Starting to pick off runners, pass about 15 in one shot

Little kids starting to flame out. Happens every time, still funny to see (Of course, check the results. Somebody got to 10 year-old Daniel Schiller of Glenview, IL and explained pacing. Little Danny finished 12th with a respectable 19:58).

Mile 2, Pace 6:28

Feeling good

The crowd of runners I am passing is growing. I am moving up not because I am surging, but because others are slowing.

Mile 3

Pace 6:25, feeling strong and happy that I have run even for 3 miles

I hear someone shout Number One Woman

I spot her, surge a bit and over take her. Sorry Debbie Ackerman of Wilmette, Illinois (hey, do you live near me, we should go for a run some time).

The Finish

Walking cool down

Into the car

Happy Thanksgiving.

The photo up top? That is early on Sunday morning in Milwaukee, 20 degrees and very windy. I ran a hilly 11 miler about an hour after I took the picture.

It took me twenty minutes and ten seconds to run five kilometers. It took me about half that to realize where it fit into my comeback.

My back is better and I am running strong. For all that, I am thankful.

It Was Only A Dream

Some dreams are so vivid, the details so real, that it takes real convincing once awake to believe it was only a dream. I have been experiencing my dreams in just that way recently. Sometimes, fully awake, I can close my eyes for a second and call up a dream in such high definition that I am certain I am watching television rather than starting through a wide open window in to my subconscious.

I recently dreamt in excruciating detail the hour before the start of an un-named (in the dream) marathon. I was standing in a locker room that seemed so familiar. I was shirtless wearing running shorts and shoes. I was surrounded by other men who were similarly dressed. We all were sticking band-aids to our nipples. I was working hard on a criss-cross pattern I have used many times in races making certain there wouldn't be slippage during the race. Slippage is bad, it leads to bloody nipples. Nobody wants that.

The dream more or less ends there. I did recognize one friend in the dream who I won't name here for fear that he doesn't want the world to picture him adorning his tenderest of skin with adhesive bandages as preparation for a run, albeit a darn long run.

I would have liked to see bibs on shirts to confirm the marathon in question. No such luck. And I don't recall anything that identified the locker room. I have never been in a locker room prior to any race, after yes, but never before. That's an odd one too.

The whole thing strikes me as simultaneously odd and hopeful. Odd because dreams are like that. The implicit hope is that some part of me believes a marathon lurks in my future. When and where are apparently unknown for now. With my back spasms pushing into a full month now, I do wonder why I am being hopeful.

I guess for now the dream is the umbrella over my personal rainfall.

Back Again

While my back recovered enough to allow me to run the 10K way back in late September, I didn't show respect for the recovery by racing. The day after the run, I went out for a fast-paced 30 mile bike ride that included a modicum of hill climbing. That was the last September Sunday. After the ride, I felt invigorated in the way a good workout stirs the pot and makes you feel better. Monday was another story.

Monday started just fine. About ten minutes before I was to leave the house to drive my little guy to school, I felt a pinch in my back. It just started to tighten. A little at first and then it got worse and worse. By midday, I couldn't sit at my desk at work. Standing up intensified the spasm and the pain that came with it. In short, with my quads continuing to burn from my reckless hill attacking 10K that brought me neither hardware nor a PR time, my back was rendering an unmistakable verdict on my -- too much, too soon.

No one has ever questioned my willingness to train hard. Although, on second thought, that statement may be false as several people over the years told me that peak weeks of 60 miles were not enough to get me over the marathon finish line in under three hours. The results confirm the criticism, but that was then and this is, well, this is the comeback of my comeback's comeback, if you will.

Back (pun unavoidable) to physical therapy. The early sessions (there have been several) were about exorcising the spasm from my contorted trunk, minimizing the pain (as I again opted out of any chemical relief from the agony) and helping me rebuild my core.

I often joke about wanting to shop at the Core Store to get the things I need to give me a strong back, and front. No such store seems to exist. But, if it did, I have stumbled now onto some very odd items that would be kept in inventory there. Or, perhaps, not. They might be special order items.

My therapist gave me the most subtle, internal, movements to master as a way of strengthening my "deep" abdominal muscles. So obscure are these movements, that her description of how to know I was hitting the correct muscle was nearly pornographic. It took some work to find, but I was rewarded with praise when I did.

Finally, yesterday, we progressed to exercises with larger, less secretive movements. I wouldn't say I have mastered those just yet, but I do appreciate her approach of trying to wipe out my back pain for a lifetime. I am guessing 45 year old me has a fair shot of pushing back pain down the road a ways, but 50 or 60 year old me won't be able to avoid it.

As last night's session neared its terminus, I looked to my PT with a certitude that belied how I was really feeling and begged for the opportunity to run, and soon. She resisted, but I pushed back on the premise that I needed to run as a data collection project to know how things were progressing. I promised a short, easy run along the shortest route I run. With that, she relented.

Early this morning, with my headlamp on (geek with a new toy, stand back), I ventured out into the morning darkness and ran a little over 4 miles at a little faster than a 7:30 pace. Nice and easy as promised. I was pleased. I will try again tomorrow.

Refresher Course

I keep thinking things are improving and then I am not sure. Two weeks ago, my back went out. It was bad, but the pain was contained to roughly three days.

Things got better to the point where I showed up at a local 10K last weekend. I discovered that some lessons are worth learning more than once. I had to relearn the idiocy of going out too fast.

It was a small race, only 75 or so did the 10K vs. a total of 600 with 5K and walkers. I lined up near the front, planned to run smart and easy at the beginning and then try to pour it on once I hit the hills, the first four miles were hilly, the last 2 or so were on a flat trail. I started with a small group that would all finish ahead of me except one guy. I felt like I was working too hard, and was, as I ran the first 2 miles at 6:20 pace. Not so bad on the first mile, but once I started to climb, I knew I was over my head.

Miles 3-5 were ugly. I was slowing down and was certain at one point I had already passed the Mile 5 marker. I know I hoped I had, but no such luck. I felt a bit energized when that elusive Mile 5 marker was in view, but the march to the finish from there was slow and painful. The only consolation was that no runner passed me as I expected one would. Nothing makes an old school meltdown worse than having a runner who went out slow and did it right effortlessly gliding by you in the last half mile. I crossed the line in 41:24. I was OK with the time given that I wanted to run 6:45's.

My question was didn't I just run the 6:45's and save myself the aggravation and stress? I will have to remember that for next time.

The stats are fun, I was 7th overall and 1st in my age group. No hardware at this race and it's just as well. I don't want to be reminded of this one.

I guess the reminder was the burning sensation in my quads that then turned into a nasty back spasm on Monday morning. Today is Thursday and my back is still bad. I would love to say lesson learned, but I think I still have more studying to do.

Race Preparation

Without noticing, I haven't been here since July. I suspect that both of you stopped checking for updates long ago. On the off chance that you are reading, read on.

From July 4 until now, a big span of time, I have done what most people do and few people write about, I have tried to rebuild my fitness so that I could run or cycle with some level of skill. As summer grew shorter and the days along with it, I made a discovery if it's fair to call it that: I found that I am a much better runner than cyclist. Leaving aside my embarrassing bike handling skills, and trust me, you are better off next to me than sucking my wheel or me grabbing yours, my cycling fitness has hit a plateau. I don't climb the bumps we call hills all that well anymore and I can't pedal all that fast anymore. It was pretty good in July and the early part of August then changes occurred.

The first week in August, I fell into the ranks of the China one child policy and had the faucet turned off permanently. My progeny, that is to say ALL of my progeny, are now alive, and well, I might add. The lovely parting gift that came with that, "procedure" was a week off from all physical activity and running and cycling.

I returned from that break with enthusiasm but not much vigor. I returned to running action on August 8 with a plodding 5 mile run http://nikeplus.nike.com/nikeplus/?l=runners,runs,618988526 and then tried to rebuild what a week had taken away. I didn't get on the bike much and then a week later, I travelled to San Diego for a family vacation. While there, I continued running and did not have access to a bike. The runs were great during that time, mostly on the beach early in the morning. The best of which was a 6 mile run the day we flew home. http://nikeplus.nike.com/nikeplus/?l=runners,runs,618988526

I felt so energized by all the running I did in California, 5 runs in 8 days, that I hit the roads when I got home and ran a stunning 10 miler on the Green Bay Trail. Running fitness was coming back and I wasn't engaging in any of the black magic of fartlek, speedwork or so much as looking in the direction of a track. My fitness improved the old fashioned way - I ran miles and then I got faster and fitter.

Long story long, I mailed a check for $30 to the organizers of a 10K to be held this Saturday, September 27 that begins at the Ravinia grounds. I am under no illusion that I will be particularly fleet footed come race day. My hopes are to: 1) complete the distance without injury (no small feat given my history, 2) feel strong on the hilly sections, 3) run up tempo without being out of control and 4)if no one faster than me shows up, win the whole damn thing. I don't expect to win, or even win my age group, but the great thing, also sometimes annoying thing, about racing, is that you don't know who else will toe the start line. You could run your best race ever (I, for the record, won't this time, but maybe in the future) and place way down the line or you could have a crappy race and go home with a trophy to remind you of your lousy performance. I have experienced both. The hardware is nice, but it doesn't really beat a brilliant time on the clock.

That said, (are you still reading?), I have won one race in my life, in law school against a field of non-runners, and if a win is available, I'll take it. Wouldn't you?

4 Miles Closer

Last October, I stood at the door of the CARA tent from about 6:30 A.M. until just minutes before the Chicago Marathon started. As each runner walked out of the tent with the temperature nearly 80 (look back to see what time I mentioned) and the dew point (whatever that is) at some crazy point, I handed each runner a bottle of water and the following simple advice "run smart." Those two words say more about running, be it training or racing, than nearly any others. And the four of you reading this (there must be 4 by now, I hope) know that is a challenge for me once I pin a bib on my kit.

I thought of those words as I got dressed on July 4 for the Wilmette 4 mile race. As I dressed, I did something I have never done before -- I strapped on two kinds of watches on my right wrist (lefty). I put on my Nike+ band for pace feedback and my heart rate monitor (HRM) for exertion/heart rate feedback. I viewed the race not as a race, but rather as a data collection experiment. Full on sprinting was forbidden as was any effort that resembled sprinting. I didn't fear this. But I did prepare. I didn't wear a singlet (too racy) and I took the advice of my good friend (here comes credentials and name dropping) and two time marathon Olympic Trials participant Chris Wehrman, and wore trainers. As Chris put it, "how can you be racing if you aren't wearing your flats?" He's a good man and that is a damn strong point.

Establishing shot: July 4 was unusual for its weather. It was 60 degrees along Lake Michigan as I did my warm-up jog sans striders. I lined up about a third of the way back from the starting line. I find this helps moderate the pace of the first mile. I ran with cycling pal Eric. He hadn't run in 6 months, but figured his strong return to cycling form would carry the day. It nearly did, but his results would indicate his current status as cyclist on a lark rather than hearken back to his days as a high school cross country runner.

The start was chaotic as I struggled to start both the Nike watch and the HRM. Lots of button pushing, but a fast start wasn't needed, so it didn't much matter. As we rolled out, I watched my HRM climb to 140 bpm and then 147 pretty quickly. I looked quickly to the Nike and saw pace was 6:35. I signaled Eric that we need to slow the pace and we managed the pace to a reasonable 6:58 at the mile. Somewhere between miles one and two Eric drifted first off my left shoulder and then I no longer heard his heavy breathing behind me. We had planned to run together, but every runner knows that you have to let the faster guy go if an obvious disparity arises. His eventual finish time was slower than my current training pace so I am not so sure that staying with him would have been good for me in any event.

The truly remarkable thing was how evenly I was able to run the race. At Mile 2, my split was 6:55. The next two miles presented the greatest challenge because they covered cobbled streets. I watched the ground like a hawk to make sure I didn't damage a foot or ankle. I spied my pace on the Nike a few times and was again rewarded at Mile 3 with a 6:56 mile. Steady as she goes.

Between Miles 3 and 4, I spotted a woman I had seen at the start. She looked very fit, and I had made a mental note of her during the button pushing fumbling start. I thought she would be someone I could beat. Well, there she was and she provided the final "run smart" test of the day. As I transitioned off the pave (cobbles) onto smooth pavement, I began to close the gap between myself and woman runner all while maintaining pace. I wanted to pass her, but I had no intention of hitting the gas after running such a beautiful race through nearly 3 and a half miles. The chasm shrunk to about 50 feet and I saw the male runner she was running with literally step aside to let her power away from him. Temptation, a nagging HRM and the competing twin desires to finish smart ( a close cousin or subset of run smart) and beat her. Well, reason prevailed, I reminded myself that this race was a step, a means to an end and, at last, a data collection project. Off she went, and I let her go. She beat me, but I didn't mind. I kept things even, crossed the line, handed in my chip and found the water table.

I felt great and was eager to see how I would feel later and the next day. That was more data I needed to call the experiment a success. The next day, Saturday, I rode a fast-paced group ride for 55 miles with long stretches above 25 mph. And then Sunday, I awoke to legs that felt good if incompletely rested. I call that success.

Look below this post and read the end of the prior one, I am right on top of the milestones now. I ran for 56 minutes on June 28 and now ran a smart race. This running thing is working right now.

Accumulating Miles

If you click on the title of this post, it will take you to my Nike+ page where my runs are being stored. My wife bought me a Nike+ wrist band for Father's Day. It comes with a sensor that goes inside a special (call it secret, if you must) compartment (how often does anyone get to use the word compartment?) under the footbed of my left running shoe. It isn't fancy, no GPS unit this, but rather it is a pedometer of sorts. It is quite accurate. I have run known courses (though they all can be known now with GMAP, Map My Run and other sites) and it is very close. It has a thin display that gives running time or mile pace, or calories or total distance run. After the run, you pull part of the wrist band out (think USB memory stick)and stick it into the USB port in the computer. That uploads each run to the site you get to when you click the link above. The site has all sorts of features I haven't yet explored. For now, it is simply a log of the running I have been doing.

What you really need to know is this: each run I presently do lasts between 30 and 37minutes (so far) and includes a 3 minute fast-paced walk at the beginning. I walk, my legs warm-up and then I begin running. About 25 minutes into each run, I feel like I have been running for 25 minutes, confirm this and then run for another 5 or so minutes and then walk home from wherever I am. That's it. I am trying to be smart this time. No attempts at an hour long run, though that sounds nice. No repeats on the track, no group runs. Just running. Interestingly, I have noticed my pace is quickening.

My run from Wednesday of this week shows a pace of 7:43 on the Nike site. This includes the 3 minutes of walking. Most of the run happened at a 7:10-7:15 pace and was not a race. It was where my stride settled. I like it. I am doing what I said I would do -- I am running myself back into shape. Somewhere along the line, I will need to try running 4 days in a week instead of three, but not now. At some point, I will need to try 40 minutes, but not now.

And, one day, in the future, I really want to run for an hour, slower than I am running now, but to me progress in running has some very specific progress markers:

1) 3-4 days a week of running
2) Running for an hour
3) Running a race and being in control throughout

I am getting pretty close to number 1. I think 2 is a ways away, but so be it. As for number 3, well, I am going to give it a go on July 4th at the Wilmette Park District 4 miler http://www.wilmettepark.org/4thinfo.cfm .

Please, come join me. The race is always fun, it has pave (cobbled sections) and on a warm day a post-race dip in the Lake is de rigueur.

Father's Day 2008

I approached Father's Day with mixed emotions. On the days before, my mind was filled with thoughts of conversations with my father and of father's days gone by. That said, each time I thought about my father or looked at a picture of him, I tried to balance it with thoughts of being a father and of my own children and how that fit into the bigger picture. Day to day existence is so often filled with the fine grains of sand, what's for breakfast, did the Cubs win, wow, the traffic sucks today, how much time is left in that ebay auction, that it is remarkably easy to lose sight of something that approaches the bigger picture. A life can be lived without one moment's thought to more than one moment's thought. The moments add up and periodically we ask "where did the time go?" We wonder how it is May 1 already, how it is 2008 already when it seems like The Police were just releasing an album yesterday not touring as a gray-haired retro disappointment. And in that context, I walked into my bedroom closet and retrieved the 8mm video cassette I had given the simple label "Dad 80th."

The background for the video is this. On my father's 80th birthday, I travelled to Fort Wayne in September 13, 2006 to share my father's birthday with him. The plan, one executed to perfection, was to drive from Fort Wayne to Huntington, Indiana
View Larger Map to try to find the many houses my father lived in during his childhood and to drive to nearby Wabash, Indiana to see the gravsite of his grandfather (my great-grandfather) Jacob Fogel.
View Larger Map.

I brought along camera and video camera. I figured out a way to place the video camera on the dashboard of my car so that I could keep it running throughout most of the drive and record our conversations. The tape rolled throughout the day and my belief was that I had recorded lots of nice moments. What I didn't do, was ever watch the tape from my father's 80th birthday until last weekend on Saturday night. In my sobbing, fever-laden eulogy, I referred to never having watched the tape. I didn't feel regret for not watching it, I frankly never wanted to watch while my father was alive. He asked me about it a couple times because he wanted to see it. I should have done that, but never did. We did share the photos of that day and that was nice.

Morbidly, I guess, I like the picture below of my father walking out of the cemetery where his grandfather is buried. My dad looked great that day. He wasn't especially sick that day, the start of dialysis was still 6 months away, and he was in fine spirits as we shared the day.

Back to last Saturday, hard to keep time straight here. Saturday was a great day, the sun shone, I knocked out 50 miles on my bike and then spent the day with the kids in various leisure time activities. Once the kids were in bed, my thoughts turned to father's day. I had decided I would look at the tape even though on no day recently had I even considered it. Part of the hesitation, I am certain, was due to my almost perfect memories of that day. Why spoil a memory with hard proof that things happened otherwise?

I put the tape in, sat on the floor of my darkened bedroom and suddenly was greeted by my alive father, seated in the passenger seat of my Prius telling me a story about his childhood. He was pointing out obscure sites along the way, not important sites, but genuinely obscure sites about a farmer who built a house on a hill above the Wabash River or about a relative or a news event from long ago. It didn't matter what he was saying the day it happened or as I watched. I sat in rapt attention as he spoke on screen. I kept thinking of questions I wanted to ask him as he spoke and felt what is an almost daily desire, the simple want to pick up the phone and call to say hello and ask how his day was going. All of it gone and yet there he was telling me about his memories (at age 12) of his grandfather's death, about his own father, Morris, crying at that time. There he was walking to a sign that talked about his high school, the sign planted in a park where the school once stood.

Though the feeling wasn't new, I was again filled with a profound sense of loss as I watched him on the screen. This was the first father's day since he died, well the next day would be, and as the screen went abruptly blue I felt the emptiness that goes with the loss. Not the immediate, aching mourning his death first brought and not the grieving these nearly 6 months have offered. Rather, this was a pain that really felt like emptiness. A realization, that I am left with lots of still photos, all sorts of memories that I can hope won't fade with time and this one short video where I didn't get him to say enough and, if I had watched it while he was still alive, I would have had the good sense to tape more, ask more and give myself a something meatier to hang onto. Not that it would have mattered, the emptiness is palpable and it won't go away.

Father's Day proper was joyful and joyous. I had a thought clearing run early in the morning, made chocolate chip pancakes for the kids, took them to the pool and generally laughed and basked in the glow of my own fatherhood. At my daughter's fourth grade music show, they sang a song with the line, "that's life, the heartache and the glory," and I can't put it better than that.

Over The Hump

Today's run (Wow, I love starting sentences with that phrase), was the second (including last Friday) that had me thinking I have gotten past the hard part. I am back to running like I know how to do. My stride is getting comfortable, my pacing is real even (varying today between 7:10/mile and 7:32/mile), and my footfall is quiet. No clomping as I try to find a place for each foot. This feels like honest-to-goodness running. I don't feel fast, but I do hear myself say slow down when my watch shows a pace below 7:10, so which is it?

A few weeks ago, I wrote about getting through the early runs, like starting a new habit, getting past the point where it hurts to a point where it just feels good. As I was running today, I was reminded of an entertainer (do people use that word?) who used to say you should always leave the audience wanting more, not less. A mile from home, I was gliding along and thinking I could run a few more miles and feel just fine. But I didn't. I let my watch get to 32 minutes, hit stop and walked the a half mile to a nearby park. There I tried to do pull-ups. I struggled to get my chin above the bar more than 3 times in a set. So there's something else to work on.

I am nearly worthy of the title runner again. I have a vague notion of setting goals, but I haven't set any yet. I need to build, but build I will.

Thursday Group Ride - Bring the Attack

A year or two ago, two of us (friend Neal and I) started to ride together. The day we rode was never set in stone and the distances varied. Other riders Neal brought showed up sometimes and other times not. We were both new to cycling and just learning how it all worked.

Skip ahead to last year: Neal started to bring a neighbor regularly, emailing to see who would show up entered the equation and a day stuck, Thursday morning, and a time 5:45 A.M. and then a name for what was now a "group" - The Local 545. It was like a union thing, if you are into that sort of thing. We talked about getting kit with a cool design, but that has yet to happen and the talk has more or less died down.

Neal found another guy from the outsized Plaza (Del Lago) ride -- think 50 guys in Lycra on fancy bikes with deep section carbon wheels and you are heading in the right direction, and I asked one of my clients who I discovered had an Orbea sitting in his basement. The group was growing. Late last summer, I met the father of one of my son's soccer teammates and discovered that he was a former Cat 3 racer with something of a running pedigree. I convinced him to join us, he was somewhat humiliated in a sprint in the late fall and vowed to improve. While I was limping around in a boot all winter, he was racking up miles in his basement on the trainer. Trust me, he did the work.

The group took a long winter hiatus and we resumed riding about a month ago as winter waned. Well, winter didn't actually wane as the temperature most of the mornings we have ridden has been in the low 40's and we are in tights and full finger gloves, jackets, arm warmers, some guys put hats under their helmets, but I digress (more so than necessary). What did happen was it got light out early enough to ride without lights. That's good stuff. And most weeks we have been 5 or 6 strong.

Lots of background. It is now the end of May and we are all starting to get stronger. Me to the point where I don't regularly think about the fact that I was off the bike from November until April.

Yesterday I awoke at about 5:00 and was excited to find that a week long bout of leg fatigue had cleared after a spirted interval session on the trainer early Wednesday morning. As I pedaled to our meeting place, I was thrilled with the elasticity I was feeling in my legs. I was certain this feeling would never return and yet here it was.

The group rolled out at a spirited pace with soccer dad Eric (the Cat 3 guy) jumping out early to make sure we warmed up quickly. I pulled along side him and we chatted easily as we rolled north on Sheridan rode. I decided to get things started and slipped back on Eric's wheel as we approached the Lloyd Place hill. As we hit the base of the hill, I downshifted, swung around Eric and hit the hill at a furious pace. I hit 23 mph as I cleared the top of the hill (the fastest I have ever covered that hill) and looked back to see that everyone was way behind me. I hung out and soft pedalled as the group re-grouped.

A couple miles later we were heading into the up and down of the Highland Park ravines. These are hills by Northern Illinois standards (well, maybe), but false flats really. The strategy comes in being in the right gear on the way down so you can scamper up the incline that follows. Yeah, I blew that pretty badly. Again, I hung on Eric's wheel, saw an opening as we descended and began to pedal furiously on the way up. I had screwed myself by being in my big ring to minimize the work going downhill and it was too late to shift as we went up. Long story short, I was going about 29 mph and then 15 mph and watched the group pass me by. Lesson learned.

The fast-paced fun on this ride always happens heading south on Green Bay Road. We have nicknamed it Virgil Way for the our mate Virgil who likes to push the pace on GBR and see who can hang on. Always it's Dean who settles him down with a late ride attack. This day, Virgil was complaining of being tired and wasn't on form. I took the lead and quickly accelerated to something in the 23-24 range. Fast enough to pull the group, but with a modicum of restraint with the thought being that I could hold the pace for a while.

Less than a mile later, Eric tapped me on the shoulder and said "let's all take shorter pulls." Sounded OK, so I let him take the lead and take it he did.

The speed quickly rose to 26-27 and I had the quick thought that I was glad I had taken my HRM off the bike. The HRM's constant nagging was holding me back more than anything. It made me think about what wasn't possible rather than what was.

With Eric pushing the pace, I looked up to see that we would be getting the green at Park Avenue. That meant no chance to catch a breath. Dean swung around and hammered past. I jumped on Eric's wheel and gave chase. A quick glance down -- we were going 31. We realized we had riders off the back, so we slowed to regroup. I filled my lungs with air, drained the last of one water bottle and prepared for the what was next.

During the breather, Eric and Dean had cooked up a race scheme and they took off. I was on Virgil's wheel and realized too late that he wasn't going to go. Blocked in the bunch sprint, or something like that. I swung wide left to get around him and gave chase. I had the right gear, was pedalling like mad, was up to 28 mph BUT could only watch as they pulled away -- way away.

As we took it easy the last three or so miles home, I was hit with an important realization - my cycling fitness is beginning to return.

Running in Place

I was running on the treadmill today and thinking about how I felt like my running progress was not coming. True, I was running for two days in a row for the first time since October of last year, but something about being on the treadmill panting at a pace that felt easy last fall gave me pause. I won't ask why I keep doing this because that is hardly the point. Not now, maybe not ever. I waited too long to get my left leg working and endured the broken foot, so asking why is not on the menu. Not now.

The pause was just an acknowledgement that when I got off the bike in October of last year and hit the dark streets in running shoes it was easy. The running flowed as if I hadn't just taken 2 years off. I wasn't fast, but I didn't struggle. Of course, the argument can be made that I was never fast, but this is really tough. I feel aches and pains in places I never felt them before and I wonder if I can get over the hump to where the running makes sense again.

The funny thing is that the cycling is coming back real fast. I have been out five or six times always with plans to take it easy and then I find myself hot on someone's wheel pushing 22-25 mph and I am doing it and it's OK. It is a far cry from the 30 mph pacelines of last summer, but it's still May. It isn't time to try that humbling experience yet anyway. A little here, a little there and it builds.

While I was writing this, I got an email from a running friend I have never run with. He lives in Fort Wayne, has clocked upwards of 50 marathons and is about my age. He was telling me about some older guys by him who are doing track workouts together. Track workouts? I can't even imagine. Not now, maybe not ever. I have no history of that. But then, he offered advice that I have given others, but that's always nice to hear. His words:


"I know what you're going through as I've started from scratch many times over the past 15 years. It's a really slow process and gets slower w[ith] every year we get older. Take it slow, Dan! "

You'll get no argument from me on that. I guess I am supposed to enjoy the process. I try to remind myself that complaining about running pain is much better than complaining that I can't run.

So this is a marker I will revisit in a month. With luck, I will be raving about how well the running is going. With lots of luck, I will still be talking about running.

Running in place has running in its name. Just need to keep it there.

15 -- 5 --15

Few things provoke ennui if not outright boredom like watching grass grow, paint dry or the light change going North on Locust Road at Lake Avenue (that's a really long light even if there is no east-west traffic on Lake). Ah, but there is one and that is watching an injured, now ostensibly healed, runner restart a running program. The Internets are chocked full of begin-to-run and return-to-run plans. Most boil down to some mixture of walking and running. No sane doctor or physical therapist would offer any alternate plan. No one varies from the tried and true cliche that insists that one must walk before one runs.

I wish I were here to report radical progress on this oft-repeated trope, but, alas, I cannot. I suppose my contribution to the process is a constitution that doesn't allow for the rapid start/stop of walk one minute, run one minute, repeat. Instead, last week I was run 5 minutes while reaffirming faith in higher being, or minimally the running gods, then walk 5 minutes, repeat. On Saturday, I ramped it up to run 10minutes, walk 5 minutes, repeat, once.

Today, dressed for November, in wind brief, long sleeves, shorts, hat and gloves, I ran for fifteen minutes, walked 5 minutes and ran 15 more. Legs are still attached. By my calculation, I ran for a half hour today. No parties yet, this is the building of a foundation. It isn't exciting, but if it keeps up, it will be.

Saturday afternoon workout

Dress Rehearsal

I awoke early today to the sound of a suburban bird choir. Spring now enters its first week of 70 degree temps and I was planning a walk today. I stretched for a few minutes, gave attention to my core and dressed in "running" clothes -- to go for a walk. I went downstairs, looked at the outdoor thermometer and saw something above 5 degrees, a good sign. I sat down and put on "running" shoes -- to go for a walk.

At just after 6:00 I left the house and began a spirited walk. As I walked, dressed as a runner, I thought about knee and foot pain and a doctor's appointment I have later today to look over my healing. As I neared the one mile mark in my walk, I began to wonder if I should try to run, just for the sake of collecting data for my doctor. I wondered, too, whether I would remember how to run. Everyone knows that you don't forget how to ride a bicycle, and I certainly didn't and have the grime on my chain to prove it, but what about running? I began to run, uneasily at first and then continued. It was pretty cool. Nothing immediately hurt. My expectation that my foot, would be still unhealed despite the passage of five months since I broke it, would crack was never met. My thought that my knee would seize up, lock in place and not allow me to go forward also never happened. I was running. Wow!

And, after 5 minutes, I stopped and resumed walking.

I walked for 5 minutes and then ran for 5 more minutes. No disaster. I walked 5 more minutes and then ran, again, for 5 minutes. All corners (ankle, hip, knee, and really foot) still attached and working.

And that was that. Three runs of 5 minutes each, had I even run a full mile in total, were now concluded. The data was collected and the experiment had been a success. As I walked home, I held out my hand and counted months to the dates of known marathons and had the thought that maybe I could be ready in time for October, or November or, how about maybe next February for the big birthday? What a fool. Those thoughts will have to wait, but what a nice way to spend a spring morning.

To be continued . . . .

Patriot Act - Part 2 - The Race

I found my spot in the corral for my bib and awaited the start. I was in pain, sweating and doubting my sanity. This was the Boston Marathon, a dreamed of event, and I was waiting for the gun with my back in spasm. My plan, long before the spasm echoed the plan many runners who line up for Boston have -- to requalify. To do that, I needed to run a 3:15, give or take 7:30 pace. With thoughts of limping my way through the day, I tossed that thought from my mind and decided to try to run eight minutes per mile for as long as I could. The gun went off and the pack surged forward. I gingerly put one foot in front of the other as I worked my way down the first Boston hill. Few runners who haven't run Boston or read about it in some detail know it for the big downhill at the start, but there it was. I reached Mile 1 in just under 8 minutes. I was shocked. I kept thinking any wrong move could put my back over the edge and yet, I had just run a mile faster than my plan. Oh, boy. I kept going and played tricks on my mind to pass the miles. One good one was to count the number of businesses that included one of the following: Patriot, Puritan or Yankee. There was no shortgage of any of those. I wonder how many of the Puritan named businesses realized what they were really doing. Without letting this get too long, I reached the halfway point with my pace still below eight minutes. Each step sent tremors through my aching back, but I was running. I began to think I was living a miracle. I had experienced terrible back problems for years (still do), but never in my wildest dreams did I think I could keep running as my back tried to persuade me not to. My pace stayed below 8:00 until Mile 23 when, finally, exhausted and undertrained, I began to slow. I climbed hill after hill. I maneuvered past a guantlet of fans and finally made the last turn that lifted me up the one block long hill that brought me to the finish line. I crossed the line, received my medal and then began to sob. Tears streamed down my face as I realized that with my back in spasm I had run a marathon in 3:24 minutes, give or take. It was a world record, it wasn't even a personal record at the time, but it was a testement to, well, to both my stupidity and my strength. A spring classic, by the measure of the day. Ten minutes after I finished, I made my way to the runner reunite area and found the "F" heading. Debbie and the baby were not yet there and so I stood, baking in a 70 degree Boston April day, listening to a cover band play a song by the band Cake and cried. I was happy, I was sad and I was in pain (as evidenced by the giant bags of ice that would be my companion all through the night), but I had done. And then, there was the flight home . . . .

Patriot Act -- Part 1

I awoke early on Monday morning April 19, 1999 in a hotel room in Cambridge, MA. I ate quietly in the living room of our one bedroom suite as my wife and then 10 month old daughter slept in the bedroom. I was tingling with excitement as I dressed and looked down at my shirt and saw a bib with the Citgo logo on it and knew that in a few short hours I would be running my first (and to date only) Boston Marathon.

I became a marathoner in Chicago in October 1997. On that day, my goal and focus had been to run three hours ten minutes and qualify for Boston. It didn't happen. My debut fell short by four minutes. A small amount of time when you are late to meet a friend for lunch, but an absolute eternity stretched over a 26.2 mile marathon course. A year later, October 1998, I ran 3:09 and I set my date with Boston.

The training over the winter didn't go as planned.

I decided to let that sentence have its own paragraph because I can imagine any number of stories I could write that could include that sentence. So there it is. In this case it meant a lot of cycling for a (then) non-cyclist and a long run, that is solely one long run of 17 miles. I don't recommend this, but that was what I had.

Boston, the Marathon, in those days required all runners to show up in downtown Boston and board a bus to Hopkinton. There was an athletes village where runners hung out from around 9:00 AM or so until the noon start of the race. Thoughts are on the event as the bus rolls toward Hopkinton. The excitement of being there coupled with the nervousness of running Boston. So much has been written about running Boston, the only marathon with a qualifying time, that there is little need to write a thing about it here beyond this mention. But those thoughts filled my head.

If you follow the link above, you will read about the warmth of the day. It was a classic day for the spectators. Warm and sunny. Maybe it hit 65 or 70. I need to double check this. The heat wasn't my issue that day.

With just over two hours to go before the start, I sought out a port-a-potty to take a natural break. As I rose to my feet (oh, you say, that natural break, my back seized up on me into an eye watering spasm. I clung to the cable that doubled as a door hinge and cried out in pain. I could barely finish pulling up my shorts and warm-up clothes because of the pain. I tried to breathe slowly as thoughts raced through my head of what my day would be. As I left the port-a-potty my entire body was listing to the right. My head was filled with rain clouds, dark awful thoughts about "now what?" I flashed to the agony of defeat footage in the old ABC Wide World of Sports intro.

The next fifteen minutes were excruciating. I painfully walked, limped actually, around the infield of the school. I think I was looking for a friendly face, but I didn't find one. I tried lying on the ground with my feet in the air thinking that might relieve the pressure in my back, but it failed miserably. I rose, slowly, and felt pain course through my body. I wanted to scream, it was fight or flight, I really couldn't imagine what I would do. And all around me, runners sat in the grass, enjoying the sun, imbibing in Gatorade and readying themselves. No one spoke to me and I couldn't imagine how the day would unfold.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that my wife had no idea that I wouldn't be where I said I would be when I said I would be there. In 1999, few people carried a phone, I sure didn't. How to contact my wife? I walked around a bit and saw a line of people queuing for a pay phone. I knew I needed to join that line. I did and the wait for the phone was 45 minutes. For forty-five minutes I stood in a line, clutching my lower back and inching forward, just waiting to deliver bad news to my wife. I was aching and nearly crying as I wondered what I would say. Finally, it was my turn to use the phone. I called the hotel -- she wasn't there. I called 411 and got the number for Debbie's friend who lived in Boston. She was there. When she first came to the phone, I was greeted by "what's wrong? What happened?" I told her what happened and how much pain I was in. I said I didn't know if I could run, or walk or where I would be. I said I might just get on the bus -- the broom wagon -- and ride into Boston. I told her to meet me in the runner reunite area, but I didn't really know when I would be there, or how I would get there.

I hung up the phone and resolved to at least start the race.

In Part 2, the Race.

Quad Pain - A Primer

I awoke yesterday to a strange, yet familiar feeling in my thighs. As I walked the dog around the neighborhood I felt a faint tightness in my thighs that bordered on burning.

Without closing my eyes, I was immediately transported to the day before, to the Sheridan Road double ravine between Dean and St. Johns. The first quick descent that requires quick effective pedalling to generate the velocity to climb the first hill that ends at Roger Williams. That was the easy one. Then as the next climb, the one that never seems to end, came, Virgil came storming by like a runaway locomotive. (I don't understand how a train could run away given that it is on a track, but hey I am not here to dissect idioms). I picked an easier gear and gave chase. Silly me. He rode me, and Neal, off his newly spring cleaned (tweaked, lubricated, newly cabled, you name it) wheel and left me panting and coughing and singing "the hills are alive with the sound of mucus." That mildly amusing pun allowed me to catch some part of my breath as I spun furiously in what seemed like my 11 when in fact it was something in the 22 or 23 neighborhood. As I tried to catch up and Neal pulled even (before passing me too), I said I was "willing, but not able." Finally, I caught Virgil and admonished (as if I had the right), that it might take until July or August, but I would make him pay for that. Dream within a dream, I thought back to that perfect September day at the Harmon Hundred when, for the final 30 miles I danced on the pedals as we climbed and had to be constantly reined in for my late ride strength. Wake up, Dan.

Back to the walk with my dog. I felt the pain in my quads, fatigue is perhaps a better word. Later yesterday I saw the sports medicine guru and told him about it. He congratulated me.

If the runners' high exists, and I submit that it does, then quad fatigue is the gateway drug that gets you to the hard stuff.

A Day for Arm Warmers

Spring in Chicago. If you know it, you know it. It comes late, doesn't stay long and regularly juxtaposes cold against extreme heat.

Today was instead moderate. Warm in the sun, I have rosy cheeks to show for it, and cool near the Lake. It was in most ways a copy of yesterday with the addition of a strong south to north wind. I know this why? Because, this weekend, I twice rode my bike outside in the burgeoning spring that so reluctantly has taken up residence here in northern Illinois.

My adventures in the saddle are momentous and my absence from this page has left me without a marker for the day, now just over two weeks ago when I removed my incarcerating boot -- for good. The early days after removal were tense as I felt pain in the foot and questioned my recovery. Rather than dive into activity, I chose to just walk through my daily, even weekly routines, to allow the foot to get stronger. And it has. Sometime last week, I began lightly spinning on my trainer and felt sweat bead on my brow for the first time in four months. When the weekend weather forecast called for sun, few clouds and temperatures near 60, I knew I would ride outside. Thanks to the wise counsel of a close cycling friend, well, really friend who also cycles. He warned me to not overdo it. I followed this advice to a T.

On Saturday, I rode the legendary Gumby for just over 40 minutes. I stayed in the small ring and pedalled easily. It was glorious. No bike I have ridden absorbs road shock in the manner Gumby does. The bike is a tank and yet, at speed the bike glides effortlessly up hills and down.

Sunday, I joined two mates for a 21 mile ride where I was rarely called upon to lead. The air's chill was immediately apparent as we rode east to Sheridan Road. I was outfitted in my favorite cycling togs: shorts (bibs in this instance), jersey and arm warmers. It was perfect and I can think of no better way to ride. The ride itself revealed my lack of fitness but it featured, well, it featured riding, sometimes it was hard, often it wasn't and that was a pleasant surprise. I am ready for more.

Earlier in the day I bought a new pair of running shoes that I walked around the house in all evening to begin the break in. Preparation for trying to return to running. A familiar trope, I concede. But today was not about running shoes, it was a day for arm warmers.

One of Those People

My neighbor across the street died last August. I didn't know him well. I had been inside his house maybe once or twice. Nearly every conversation we ever had took place on his driveway while he was either working on, cleaning or preparing to ride one of his Harley Davidson motorcycles. He let me borrow or tool or two every now and then and he made the grand gesture of letting me borrow his snowblower seven or so years ago when I first moved to our suburban neighborhood. We were fresh from the City and our lone shovel was no match for a blizzard that hit shortly after we moved in. He was someone you had to talk to to know who he was. He rode the bikes, had a some scruffy facial hair and was a Viet Nam vetern. I remember my surprise when I spotted a GOP elephant on his Harley hat once. I asked what that was all about and he told me that it was the only way. He said the Democrats had abandoned him years ago. His politics were always fun to hear, because he really felt them. As I said, I didn't know him well. Our conversations weren't frequent and rarely exceeded five minutes in length. But, when he died, I offered my sympathies, heartfelt, to his son, on the same driveway and said to him that his father was one of those people you were glad you knew. And you were. He was just one of those people.

So that's the background and the rest of this isn't about my late neighbor. It's about those people, people who, you are better for knowing. Maybe they cast a light so bright that you warm in its glow. Perhaps, they set such a strong example that you find yourself wanting to be like them, not entirely, but in some way that makes you a better person.

When I first thought about this, and, frankly, memories of my father make me think about all sorts of things like this, I thought this was about friends, or relatives who I hold dear, but really it isn't. Surely, I have friends upon whom I rely, everyone does, and friends who I feel damn lucky to know, but that isn't the point I want to make. These are people who you think about and just know they are good, or strong, or smart, or cool, or attractive, or athletic. Maybe.

But, and here's the tricky and lucky part -- I have a number of friends who are those very people. I know them, I sit and talk to them or we email or we sit and don't say a word and their presence illuminates my life. I need to offer examples, I feel.

And I will, in Part 2.

Things I Miss - Part 1

Without regard to season, this list showed up in my head.

1) Wearing arm warmers and shorts on my bike on a 55-60 degree day. The coolness is so ideal.

2) Running through the North Branch Forest Preserve over crunchy snow.

3) Running 20 miles along the lakefront in any weather, except maybe 85 or greater.

4) Riding on my trainer in my basement while listening to music on the iPod. How could I miss this? Go without and you'll know.

5) Looking ahead late in a race and seeing people who are slowing just as I am getting my second wind and then hammering past them.

6) Walking barefoot along the beach with my kids with my feet in the freezing cold July, Lake Michigan water.

7) Walking the dog in an actual pair of shoes on even ground that isn't ice covered.

8) Driving with the windows open and feel a comfortable breeze.

9) Breaking into a run when I am a little late going somewhere.

10) Stopping halfway through a 45-50 mile ride for a double espresso.

11) The smell of new rubber, either new running shoes or new tires for my bike.

There's more. To be continued.

Time to Reboot

I hate that there are times when your computer doesn't work, a program acts hinky -- you name it -- and the solution, invariably, is to reboot the PC. Well, my foot hasn't healed. It should have. Using the most conservative date for when I fractured it, say, November 25 (after the Turkey Trot, the day I think I cracked the damn bone), it has been nearly 90 days. I was told to get the boot (read earlier posts) and wear it for 6 weeks. I resisted at first but have been very compliant ever since. Very compliant.

So the 6 weeks goes by and my doctor says I can take the boot off. I may have written about that, but maybe not because my father died (one month ago today) and I just lost track of time. I took it off and was absolutely overjoyed. My plan was to walk around for a couple weeks to let my foot get used to walking and then try some light, easy cycling and treadmill walking. My shoes, so long apart, clicked heals and greeted each other like two lovers long apart. (Perhaps, too dramatic, but it was close). I wanted to run, walk, anything. But . . .

A couple of nearly glorious, boot-free weeks go by and then the foot starts to feel, well, I am going to say "ouchy." Not awful, no sharp pain, just not right. If a foot is not right you know and I knew. So I contacted my doctor and he sent me for another MRI. I have lost count of the number of times I have had an MRI. Despite my worst fears, the giant MRI magnet doesn't pull the fillings out of your teeth. Boy, that would suck.

The result? Here's the email from my doctor:

"[A] little swelling remains in the third foot bone called the
3rd metatarsal, everything else is almost resolved. You really bruised
the tarsal and metatarsal bones in the first go-around. We need to keep
you in a boot for 4 more weeks, NOT NEGOTIABLE.
It is almost healed but no messing around."

Reboot.

Follow the bubbles up

I haven't posted since my father died, haven't really been sure what to write. I am going to try today.



I read somewhere yesterday that it's not your fault that you are down or depressed, but it is your fault if you don't get back up. So that's what I get to face now because I am down and I am pretty sure that wasn't the button I pushed on life's elevator and yet here I am -- in the basement. And it isn't the bargain basement and it doesn't appear to be the root cellar. What is that? First things first, I want to dump the load of crap I am carrying around first and then I will get to how to clean it up. Wind the clock back to the best things I can remember before the move down began.



October 2007 comes, I put on running shoes and say this time things will be different. Two and a half years had gone by since my knee injury. My odometer on my bike showed 2,500 miles between April and October 2007. I was fit, I was strong and after attacking Wisconsin hills in a September century, I felt ready to run. Slowly, you know, but run. And run I did, first for 15 minutes, then 20, then 30. And it didn't hurt, so I kept running and I started to dream again, of races shorts and long of marathons and everything in between. I pulled out the calendar and found a race, in Fort Wayne the same weekend as my high school reunion. I wrote about it here. It was a reaffirmation, a rebirth, a reawakening in me of my ability to run and run fast (sort of).



November came and October's high point was under siege. I ran a trail race, mentioned here somewhere and captured in the photo at the top of the page. At the time of the photo, I had already stepped in one of the two holes that would sprain by ankle and lead, in my humble opinion, to the fracture of my third metatarsel. Another hole near the finish and my ankle did its characteristic roll of 90 degrees, foot in, leg out. Ouch, that %$#@ing hurts. And kept hurting.

The funny thing, looking back with the boot once again on my right foot as the healing hasn't, is that I thougt it a good idea to run another race two weeks later. Iwanted to run it because the entry had been free. The signs were there telling me not to run. My foot wasn't perfect, it was a 20 degree November day on race day with icy snow blowing and pelting north to south, but like all competitive runners -- I was an idiot with a bib on my shirt. So I ran and my foot fractured. Beginning of story.

I wore the boot, also pictured and documented here, somewhere, from early December until the third week of January. My doctor reluctantly allowed me to remove it but that story didn't end there.

And then the pneumonia came. I went to work Monday through Wednesday alternating between extreme chills and volcanic sweat. On one day, I wore my hat indoors at work -- that just isn't normal. It took until Friday of that week with my fever nearly melting me at 103 degrees to get a diagnosis and to get medecine to bring me back to normal temperature.

And then January 25, 2008 came. I left my house at noon to go to the doctor. I fought snow and ice as I drove on a day when few were on the roads. I waited for the doctor, he took blood and urine (they don't give it back) and then sent me to the mall for a chest x-ray (funny but not worth detailing), and then called me back to his office to get a prescription. From there it was on to Walgreens where I sat for an hour to get my meds. And then, finally, over three hours later, I got home, took the medecine, put on all my warm clothes, sweat pants, fleece shirt, hat, wool socks, gloves and climbed into bed. I took my temperature and saw 103 again and then, my wife was at my side, on the phone with my mother, screaming:

"Your dad is on the floor, I think he is gone."

And he was gone.

And he is still gone.

All this is a very long way of saying that since November I have felt lousy about most of what life has thrown my way.

Now I just have to figure it out. I am greiving for my father. The pain has lessened, it feels less immediate, but no less real. I still want to call him, I just want to hear his voice.

My osteoporosis is being managed. I have cut my coffee intake. Some days that doesn't cause problems, but not always. I take supplements all day long, it seems, but others do to.

Now, it's on to my foot. The boot is back on, an MRI is scheduled for later this week. More information should make a solution more possible even if it isn't immediately within reach.

Like so many stories long and short, to be continued.

Honest Sam

My parents' previous rabbi, Jonathan Katz delivered a stirring eulogy of my father drawing parallels between my dad and his hero -- Abraham Lincoln. The eulogy is below.

A couple of months I attended a bat mitzvah in Chicago at Anshe Emet, one of the most prominent conservative congregations in the country. When I faced the sanctuary from the pulpit, after being called up for an aliya, I beheld a pleasing yet somewhat surprising sight. There, etched on a large stained glass window above, was a stunning image not of one of the patriarchs, nor of Moses, but of Abraham Lincoln. It seemed a bit odd, but also wonderfully refreshing to have President Lincoln present at every service of the congregation. I began to think how much he did indeed belong because in so many respects, he embodied Jewish values.

Maybe that’s why, when you visit the Fogel home, you see so many figurines of Abraham Lincoln on mantles and tables and in book cases. Sam Fogel so admired our 16th president. I am told he read everything he could about him. I can imagine him poring over Carl Sandburg’s classic six volume biography, one of the many works about Lincoln Sam was no doubt familiar with.

I can imagine Sam being drawn by Lincoln's honesty, integrity, humility, and wonderful dry sense of humor. What a model Lincoln was for public service, protecting the rights of all people, for decency, compassion and righteous action in the face of daunting circumstance. Maybe Sam had Lincoln in mind when he ran for the Indiana State House, when he took the lead in an unprecedented product liability case that changed Indiana law, when he always made sure his children were safe on their bikes, in the neighborhood, in the car, in the world.

Maybe Sam had Lincoln in mind making the trip from Huntington to the Temple on snowy Sunday mornings for religious school when kids who actually lived in Fort Wayne stayed home because of the weather. Okay, it wasn't in the category of Lincoln walking all those miles to school, but it still represented Sam's determination to get there, to make good on a commitment to learn.

Lincoln was always well-dressed, as was Sam. Though Lincoln knew so much, he didn’t make a show of his learning. That also sounds like Sam, who was extremely well-read, on any number of topics. As you’ve heard, books were his true companions, they went with him everywhere. I was always impressed how informed Sam was on things. But he didn’t try to impress me with his knowledge or lord it over you. There was no sense of “Gotcha, see how much know more I know about this than you.” No, his self-esteem and self-security didn't require him to make sure you knew how much he knew.

Perhaps, that was because for Sam true, authentic knowledge wasn't reduced to how many books you’d read, how many advanced degrees you'd acquired, or by how many people were impressed by how much another individual ostensibly knew. Rather, knowledge for Sam was only important if it led to wisdom, knowing when to speak and when to hold your tongue, when to express criticism without being mean or vindictive, how to distill knowledge into real insight, sincere action.

I’m sure Sam knew a heck of a lot more about certain things than I did, even Jewish things. But he was always respectful of others no matter their learning level. He was never so learned, so sure of something, so caught up in his own opinion of things, that he wasn't interested in the ideas of others.

I recall talking to him about Martin Buber. It wasn’t on the level of being able to recall a particular a book Buber had penned. It wasn't a competition. It was the overall concept of Buber. He respected that we both had come to know Buber, not in merely an academic sense, but a human one. Again, that sounds like Lincoln too.

Like Lincoln , Sam had no stomach for pomposity. He wasn’t looking for admirers. He was so much inclined to talk about religion but personally manifest its values. Sam didn’t wear his religion on his sleeve. He didn’t have to. He didn’t need to parade his Judaism, but he took great pride in it, its cherished principles were etched in his very being.

Yes, Sam was a great lawyer but not the best businessman. Fine, but maybe that accrues to his character. He always put his clients first, did all he could on their behalf. Okay, maybe Sam wasn’t Mr. Social. But he had a quiet, steady certainty that made you recognize he was someone of substance.

In the last few years, there has been speculation that Abraham Lincoln may have actually been Jewish. The community from which his family originated in Lincoln , England has an interesting Jewish history because it was given special protection during the Crusader riots at the end of the 12th century. The Bishop of Lincoln taught that Jews should be loved and respected. When he died, Jews mourned him. It has been suggested that when Lincoln's Jews were later expelled from England some of them remained behind in secret and that Abraham Lincoln’s family was one of them.

Lincoln ’s great-grandfather was named Mordechai, and he was the only President not to have a formal religious affiliation. He was apparently not raised in a church nor belonged to a church.

I’m sure Sam knew this and was also aware of Lincoln ’s positive relationship with the Jewish community. He would not, under any circumstances, brook anti-Semitism. He appointed Jews to important posts. He personally revoked an anti-Semitic order given by General Ulysses S. Grant that Jews had to evacuate certain areas because of military profiteering it was claimed they were engaging in. Lincoln wrote, “To condemn a class (of people) is to condemn the good with the bad. I do not like to hear an entire class or nationality condemned on account of a few sinners.”

When Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, whole Jewish communities sat shivah. The founder of our movement, Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise, commenced his eulogy: "Brethren, the lamented Abraham Lincoln believed himself to be born from our bone and flesh. He supposed himself to be a descendant of Hebrew parentage. He said so in my presence."

In talking to Sam’s family you realize just how central the law was to Sam’s life. Everything, he felt, depended on it. There was just so much at stake. No wonder then that he entered the legal profession. He obviously seeking to both fulfill and safeguard it.

When Lincoln was asked about his religious beliefs he always mentioned the 20th chapter of the Book of Exodus, the Ten Commandments, The Law. How ironic and fitting that this was very same Torah portion we were reading when Sam passed.

Let us recall Sam with appreciation and respect. He deserves it. Amen.

Sam Fogel 1926-2008

My father died on Friday, January 25, 2008. He was 81. Today was his funeral. It was the mostly profoundly sad day of my life. Two rabbis eulogized him and then I presented a eulogy that I wrote this morning. Reading it was hard. By the end, I was crying so hard I could barely see the words on the page. My eulogy is below.


We are always surrounded by images of what a father is supposed to be. Movies show us the father throwing a baseball or football in the yard. Commercials show dads plunging down roller coasters next to a screaming kid. And TV, well TV has every dad imaginable. My father was not any of those people. He was the son of immigrant parents who worked hard and he worked hard – really hard. So many of my childhood memories are filled with my dad, the self-made lawyer, working. Despite this, we always felt his influence, and knew exactly how he wanted things done. His goals for us were simple. He was a product of the Depression-era generation he grew up in: he wanted things to be better for us than they were for him. And he wanted us to all do better than he did. That was all a tall order.

Sam Fogel graduated from Huntington High School as a junior and finished 7th in his class. He was 16. He finished his undergraduate and law studies at Indiana University in Bloomington in 5 years. He moved back to Fort Wayne and began practicing law. A tall order for the future Fogel children to measure up to.

Throughout our childhood the stress was on getting A’s and doing well. He wanted the best for us.

So many memories are in my head. My dad introduced me to photography at a very young age. I have such funny memories of him setting up weird lighting in my sister’s room to take pictures of us and I have the pictures to prove it. And of hundreds of boxes of slides. He was so proud of me when I was taking pictures for my high school paper and yearbook. But the camera I used, I bought. He made me earn the money myself to pay for the cameras so I would know the value of a dollar. He stressed that too.

He also introduced me to the law. I started working in my dad’s office at a young age doing odd jobs. But that wasn’t his point. He would take me to the courthouse with him, even in high school. Everyone knew him and he introduced me to everyone. In college, I started out majoring in business convinced I would never work a day in my life without it. I remember a really scary phone call I made home sophomore year after one more accounting class had taken me down. I called to say I wanted to switch majors to English and then I wanted to go to law school. Why was I scared? He was thrilled. He had double majored in political science and speech when he was at IU. And I wanted to go to law school. That summer, I worked with him again and he taught me how to read cases and he showed me how to do research. Once I got to law school he was always there when I needed help. It turns out, law school wasn’t easy.

My law school graduation was a day we shared. He never had a graduation so we photographed him in my cap and gown. And then we stood on the law school steps as I prepared to move to California and I told him I loved him. He so rarely said those words, but on that day he told me he loved me too.

Things turned out the way he wanted, all three of us went to college and graduate school. We had jobs that he was so proud to tell other people about and we surrounded him with eight grandchildren.

Two recent memories. On his 80th birthday, I came to Ft. Wayne and we spent the day driving first to Wabash to see his grandfather, Jacob Fogel’s grave. We put stones there together. Then we drove around Huntington looking for all the houses he remembered living in as a kid. There were a lot of them. And we took pictures. The other thing I did was keep a video camera running the entire time we drove. I haven’t watched the tape. I never wanted to. But now, I will.

The last time I saw my dad was about a month ago. My 7 year old son Sammy and I came in and spent a very busy day with my dad. We went out to lunch; we tried a new coffee place and later went out for dinner, a movie and ice cream. He was so upbeat that day and was having so much fun. The whole time I kept looking back and forth between my dad and my son and I just felt that it would turn out to be what it was – the last time I saw him.

Dad, I miss you, I love you and I thank for all the things you gave me that made me who I am today. I am so proud of you.

Log Jam

Next week, after the endocrinologist has her say, it will be the nutritionist's turn. To prepare, I am now carrying around a little notebook where I am writing down everything I eat or drink.

I wonder if the bone thinning mystery can be solved from today's PB&J and yogurt lunch.

Battle of the Glands

Saturday morning around 10 I sitting in front of the computer reading email and looking at bikes I'll never bid on and bike parts I'll never buy to upgrade my bike, when those scary words "Unknown Caller" showed up on my phone again. It was my doctor calling to tell me about the remaining blood test results. Everything looks pretty good he said. He used his "no obvious cause of bone thinning" language again and said he looks forward to hearing what the endocrinologist has to say. So do I.

That's the next stop on this train.

6 more days until the boot comes off. To quote the title from a favorite Replacements song "Can't Hardly Wait."

Early Returns

I'll take good news, even cryptic good news in really small doses. I called to see where my blood test results were today and reached, well, I reached the call center. Tremendous comfort in that. Just one of the obstacles on the course.

An hour or so later, my phone rang and the readily identifiable "Unknown Caller" came up on my phone's display. That always means it's my doctor or, perhaps, my friend John Kirpanos. His mortgage company uses a blocker. I guess that way the person being called will be tricked into answering the phone? Great way to start a sales call -- "surprise, I'm calling to ask you to refinance." I knew it wasn't John calling today. I answered and it was a woman calling "from" my doctor's office. Not the doctor, not the nurse. Is that good or bad?

She said she was calling with partial test results. She said the doctor told me to tell you that are "no obvious causes of bone thinning."

I guess that's good, but I am not really sure. She wouldn't tell me more. She said she would lose her job if she told me anything else. So I get a weekend of no obvious causes. Nothing is ever obvious for me. I guess I will sweat the weekend waiting for "inobvious causes" of bone thinning. Because one thing is obvious -- I have thin bones.

So Iowa and New Hampshire are in and the winner is . . . . Well, we don't have one yet -- these are early returns.

Oh, Oh, my blood don't lie

Today, I took the next step in my osteoporotic life. I met with my primary care physician (known as a PCP in the labyrinthine health care industry) to discuss my DEXA scan and all the horrible things that could be causing my low bone density. As he quickly rattled off potential culprits, I had a mental image of typing in disease names into WebMD and Google. Funny what you can cook up in your head. I used to believe the calculators on the running sites that said my 10 mile time and half marathon time would get me a sub-3 hour marathon. Thing was, you still had to run the damn thing in under 3 hours. With the medical sites, you read the symptoms and you are convinced you have the disease. No conclusions today, just lab tests.

First the always joyful visit to the bathroom with the box on the wall that has a door on your side and a door on the lab tech's side. Do you suppose that anyone ever puts something other than the jar of urine in there, you know just to "piss" them off or maybe evoke a laugh or two? I didn't think of it then because I was too wrapped up in trying to use the furnished Sharpie to write my name on the cup all the while hoping that past users of the pen wrote their name before they peed on their hand, or was that just me?

Then I got to sit in the chair with the big winged arms and watch a nurse express 8 vials of blood out of my arm. They will be testing for damn near everything. The hope is that they find everything normal and then we get to attack the symptoms. I feel lucky for reasons as varied as energy level and my recent attempts at athletic glory that landed me in the boot and this silly discussion.

The numbers are coming and they won't lie. Blood tests are more centerfold than lingerie catalog. Very revealing.

Stay tuned.