I remember a movie from 1966 titled “The Endless Summer” where these surfer dudes traveled to beaches all over the world looking for the perfect wave and the perfect ride. I believe this search for perfection exists in most sports. I know I’ve been attempting to run the perfect race, given my fitness level and ability at the time, since 1967.
This past weekend I ran one of the best races of my life. It came as close to perfect that my imperfect memory can recall. It wasn’t the fastest time, the best course, the best scenery, the best weather, or the longest distance. It was the way I ran the race and the mental discipline I maintained throughout the race that was the best ever, and only I can know and judge that.
There are earlier posts about running where I’ve described some of the elements of the perfect race. Those elements are -
1. I want a normal meal and normal sleep the night before. Sleeping isn’t so simple the night before an important race.
2. I want to warm-up in a fashion that does not tire me out prior to the race. I also want easy access to a restroom so I am not distracted by basic body functions during the race.
3. I want to position myself at the starting line where I am in front of slower runners and behind the faster runners. I don’t want to impede faster runners at the start and I don’t want to be impeded by slower runners. If the race isn’t too large and the road is wide enough, it won’t be a significant issue.
4. I want to go out at a pace that is comfortably uncomfortable. The first mile might be a little faster than I can maintain for the distance, but at least it gets me away from the pack of runners and engaged with competitors who are my equal or better.
5. I want to stay mentally engaged in the race at every moment over the entire distance. This is the most difficult and important element of the perfect race. My mind shouldn’t wander into distractions. My mind should stay focused on the current moment of existence and all the moments that lead to the finish line. My mind should be focused on maintaining my pace, and monitoring my physical and mental well-being.
6. I want to continually test my race pace uphill, downhill, and on the flats. I want to be sure that I am running at every moment throughout the race at the fastest pace I dare without dying a slow death over the last miles.
7. I want to be actively engaged in racing other runners, and let them be the only distractions I permit my mind. I want to use other runners as goals and achievements to be overtaken, using each to help buoy my spirits and efforts toward the finish line. Beating other runners isn’t the ultimate goal; they are just a fringe benefit.
8. In the final mile I want to go for it all. I don’t want to ignore the pain, but instead welcome it as a familiar friend. I want to welcome the pain because it tells me I’ve run the beginning and middle sections of the race correctly, and I am now doing what I came to do. I want my mind to push my body to its absolute limit. The pain is temporary, but the knowledge that I have done my very best will last a lifetime.
On Saturday, October 03, 2009 I ran an Atlanta Track Club 10k road race in Cartersville Georgia in 43:06 at the age of 57. Only I know if I actually did each and every element right that day, but I tell you honestly that it felt closer to perfect than it has in years. I think I can take a couple minutes off of that time with the right kind of mileage and speed work. That too is as it ought to be.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
I Need a Vacation
I’ve been working continuously since 1968 when I was 16-years old; that is 41 years and counting. I’ve worked in a restaurant, a factory, a college physical plant, a computing center, and in three offices. I’ve washed dishes, mopped floors, cleaned up vomit, hauled out garbage, shoveled mountains of corn, shoveled rock sulfur into a furnace, moved 50-pound bags of starch onto pallets, rolled 50-gallon drums of corn syrup onto railroad cars, driven fork-lifts and a 2-ton truck.
On the way home from one of my manual labor jobs during my college days I stopped by an office at school to see if they had a job opening. They never did, but I stopped in anyway, week after week, sometimes multiple times in a week, just to see if they had a job. My persistence resulted in a part-time job during the school year as they eventually hired me as a nighttime computer operator. Later on I became a programming tutor, again, at night and during the school year. By my senior year I was working 20 hours a week, carrying a full academic load majoring in both Math and Physics, and was a varsity athlete in track and cross country.
I eventually got a summer job in that college office. When everyone else went home for the day, I stayed for an extra hour to vacuum, empty the trash, and dust. I was happy to get an extra hour’s work and an extra hour’s pay I could put toward tuition.
I worked summers, Christmas break, and spring break. When I wasn’t in school, I was working. When I wasn’t working, I was in school. Eventually I was working while I was in school. I graduated from college in 1974. I graduated on a Saturday and I started my first “real” job on Monday, two days later. I was thrilled to be making $7,600 per year as a computer programmer.
Anyway, here I am 41 years later, with job responsibilities and dilemmas my 16-year old self could never imagine, working my butt off day after week after month after year after decades with nary a break. And I am thinking to myself, “I need a vacation.”
A decade or two might be enough.
On the way home from one of my manual labor jobs during my college days I stopped by an office at school to see if they had a job opening. They never did, but I stopped in anyway, week after week, sometimes multiple times in a week, just to see if they had a job. My persistence resulted in a part-time job during the school year as they eventually hired me as a nighttime computer operator. Later on I became a programming tutor, again, at night and during the school year. By my senior year I was working 20 hours a week, carrying a full academic load majoring in both Math and Physics, and was a varsity athlete in track and cross country.
I eventually got a summer job in that college office. When everyone else went home for the day, I stayed for an extra hour to vacuum, empty the trash, and dust. I was happy to get an extra hour’s work and an extra hour’s pay I could put toward tuition.
I worked summers, Christmas break, and spring break. When I wasn’t in school, I was working. When I wasn’t working, I was in school. Eventually I was working while I was in school. I graduated from college in 1974. I graduated on a Saturday and I started my first “real” job on Monday, two days later. I was thrilled to be making $7,600 per year as a computer programmer.
Anyway, here I am 41 years later, with job responsibilities and dilemmas my 16-year old self could never imagine, working my butt off day after week after month after year after decades with nary a break. And I am thinking to myself, “I need a vacation.”
A decade or two might be enough.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Group Runs
A group of runners on a training run is an interesting phenomenon. It is like a moving cocktail party without the cocktails. If there are sufficient numbers the conversation can be a lot of fun. I will say a couple words about something I read in the paper, or something strange that happened that week, then someone else has a relevant comment. Maybe another person disagrees. The chatter goes on and on. Eventually there are jokes, lies, slander, and insults. I’ve heard that most running groups have the exact same form of banter.
We might start out talking about master’s track and field. By the mile mark the conversation might segue naturally to Indian cooking classes (actually happened), then to the Tour de France by the two mile mark (same run), and by the four mile mark we are somehow talking about fast pitch softball and Wiffle Ball. (Same run!) We don’t generally change the topic mid-conversation; it’s just that one comment leads to another and you end up in the strangest, but most interesting places.
Everyone surely knows by now the many physical benefits or running and exercise. What isn’t widely known are the many mental health benefits of running. Several years ago I read that running with a group has a greater impact on psychological health than any form of group therapy. Regrettably, I could not find a justification for that claim on the web, but I did find a web site for women that listed the following benefits of running for women: positive state of mind, reduced tension and anxiety, decreased depression, increased quality of life, positive personality traits, stress resistance, fewer minor medical complaints, improved mental functioning, and greater awareness of health. Another web site listed stress relief, anxiety relief, runner’s high, confidence, reaching goals, mood booster, improved memory, decreased fatigue, fighting addiction, and positive relationships.
A run with my training colleagues never fails to lift my spirits. The camaraderie of the group gives me a satisfying sense of belonging. No matter what I say, more often than not there will be someone else who says, “Me too, been there, done that, felt that” and can commiserate and empathize with me. Yes, I may be a geeky nerd who runs, but there is a group of people who have accepted me into their fold, and that is comforting in ways that defy description.
We might start out talking about master’s track and field. By the mile mark the conversation might segue naturally to Indian cooking classes (actually happened), then to the Tour de France by the two mile mark (same run), and by the four mile mark we are somehow talking about fast pitch softball and Wiffle Ball. (Same run!) We don’t generally change the topic mid-conversation; it’s just that one comment leads to another and you end up in the strangest, but most interesting places.
Everyone surely knows by now the many physical benefits or running and exercise. What isn’t widely known are the many mental health benefits of running. Several years ago I read that running with a group has a greater impact on psychological health than any form of group therapy. Regrettably, I could not find a justification for that claim on the web, but I did find a web site for women that listed the following benefits of running for women: positive state of mind, reduced tension and anxiety, decreased depression, increased quality of life, positive personality traits, stress resistance, fewer minor medical complaints, improved mental functioning, and greater awareness of health. Another web site listed stress relief, anxiety relief, runner’s high, confidence, reaching goals, mood booster, improved memory, decreased fatigue, fighting addiction, and positive relationships.
A run with my training colleagues never fails to lift my spirits. The camaraderie of the group gives me a satisfying sense of belonging. No matter what I say, more often than not there will be someone else who says, “Me too, been there, done that, felt that” and can commiserate and empathize with me. Yes, I may be a geeky nerd who runs, but there is a group of people who have accepted me into their fold, and that is comforting in ways that defy description.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Suffering the Insufferable
I’ve met a lot of people over the years. I liked most of them, but I found a handful of folks to be difficult, if not impossible, to like. Their behavior made it so. Each of them had one or more objectionable traits that were so glaringly offensive that I just could not grant them an excuse. They weren’t all guilty of every offensive behavior, but collectively they were guilty of being insensitive, improper, arrogant, pompous, egotistical, aggressive, irritating, obnoxious, annoying, aggravating, rude, and selfish. (Boy did that feel GOOD!) I don’t think that I have chosen to dislike them. Instead I like to think that they, by their behavior, have chosen to make themselves unlikeable. That’s what I would like to think.
For example, there is a man who I have had no success in finding a way to like in any fashion. He is arrogant, aggressive, aggravating, and other words beginning with the letter “a” may apply. He shows up for meetings late, and leaves early. He talks incessantly as if his voice is the only voice that should be heard. He doesn’t have conversations; he delivers monologues. He eats up all the oxygen in any meeting room. You are wrong and he is right. His phone goes off in the middle of important meetings and he steps outside for ten minutes or more. His behavior says that he is more important than anyone else, or all of us put together.
Did I choose to dislike this man, or did he by his behavior dictate that it would be so? His behavior is so objectionable that it is difficult to set it aside and see anything positive beyond it. It’s like staring directly into a massive search light; I can’t possibly see anything beyond the light itself. It’s blinding. The same can be said for the other boors I’ve had the displeasure to meet.
And yet there is the Christian ethic to love your fellow man, or even more difficult, to love the unlovable. Will Rogers said “I never met a man I didn’t like” and the Bible says,
Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also. If someone takes your cloak, do not stop him from taking your tunic. Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. Do to others as you would have them do to you. Luke 6:27-31
The platitudes are simple concepts. I know what I am supposed to do. I know what is right. And I also know how the ding-dong is going to behave; just like he always does, and I vow to do better, to be gracious to the ungracious, to suffer the insufferable, to suffer the fool gladly. I just wish that the ungracious insufferable fool wouldn’t make it so difficult for me!
And when I fail again for the umpteenth time it is especially hard to take. I knew how he would be, and I knew how I wanted to be, and to know that in advance and still fail fills me with a sense of shame and regret. I wanted to be bigger than I was in the past. I wanted to be better than before, but my blood boils in spite of all my mental preparations.
He is oblivious, and he can’t help himself. He cannot experience remorse because he is totally unaware of his bad behavior . . .
And I am painfully aware, and I still can’t help myself, and that is all the more galling.
Maybe next time I can be better than I am.
May God grant me the tolerance and patience to suffer the fools gladly . . . NOW!
For example, there is a man who I have had no success in finding a way to like in any fashion. He is arrogant, aggressive, aggravating, and other words beginning with the letter “a” may apply. He shows up for meetings late, and leaves early. He talks incessantly as if his voice is the only voice that should be heard. He doesn’t have conversations; he delivers monologues. He eats up all the oxygen in any meeting room. You are wrong and he is right. His phone goes off in the middle of important meetings and he steps outside for ten minutes or more. His behavior says that he is more important than anyone else, or all of us put together.
Did I choose to dislike this man, or did he by his behavior dictate that it would be so? His behavior is so objectionable that it is difficult to set it aside and see anything positive beyond it. It’s like staring directly into a massive search light; I can’t possibly see anything beyond the light itself. It’s blinding. The same can be said for the other boors I’ve had the displeasure to meet.
And yet there is the Christian ethic to love your fellow man, or even more difficult, to love the unlovable. Will Rogers said “I never met a man I didn’t like” and the Bible says,
Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also. If someone takes your cloak, do not stop him from taking your tunic. Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. Do to others as you would have them do to you. Luke 6:27-31
The platitudes are simple concepts. I know what I am supposed to do. I know what is right. And I also know how the ding-dong is going to behave; just like he always does, and I vow to do better, to be gracious to the ungracious, to suffer the insufferable, to suffer the fool gladly. I just wish that the ungracious insufferable fool wouldn’t make it so difficult for me!
And when I fail again for the umpteenth time it is especially hard to take. I knew how he would be, and I knew how I wanted to be, and to know that in advance and still fail fills me with a sense of shame and regret. I wanted to be bigger than I was in the past. I wanted to be better than before, but my blood boils in spite of all my mental preparations.
He is oblivious, and he can’t help himself. He cannot experience remorse because he is totally unaware of his bad behavior . . .
And I am painfully aware, and I still can’t help myself, and that is all the more galling.
Maybe next time I can be better than I am.
May God grant me the tolerance and patience to suffer the fools gladly . . . NOW!
Friday, November 27, 2009
Mom & Dad Travel Squad
Not too long ago I posted a piece about how my folks followed me around the Midwest to my high school and college track and cross country meets.
In the same piece I mentioned that we followed Ann around north Georgia for her high school track and cross country meets.
In a similar fashion we also followed John around Georgia and the southeast to his swim meets. The summer recreation league swimming was easy because all of those meets were within Gwinnett County. His high school swimming did not tax us too badly as all the meets were in the metropolitan Atlanta area. It was the Dynamo Swim Club meets and the University of Virginia meets that were taxing.
The swim club meets often started on a Thursday evening and did not end until Sunday night. The logistics of travel, food, and lodging took a significant amount of time and energy. As stroke and turn officials we were required to show up an hour early for the morning session, and again for the evening session, and when all the other parents left after their child’s last swim, Jean and I were standing on deck until the last heat of the last event. I don’t mean to whine, but, yeah, that got to be pretty annoying.
The College meets were one-day meets except for the ACC Championship and the NCAA Championship, but the distances we traveled were so much greater. All too often we’d only get to talk to John for a couple minutes after the meet. We didn’t get much quality time with our son for our travel dollars.
I thought it would be interesting to compile a list of the towns that Jean and I traveled to in support of John’s swimming. These are the ones that come to mind with just a little effort. I may have missed a couple. Yes, I know Long Island isn’t a city, but I can’t remember the name of the dadgum place. He wasn’t happy with his swim there anyway, so why remember it?
Gainesville, GA
Gainesville, FL
Auburn, AL
Savannah, GA
Augusta, GA
Athens, GA
College Park, MD
Minneapolis, MN
Long Island, NY
Knoxville, TN
Clemson, SC
Louisville, KY
Columbia, SC
Durham, NC
Chapel Hill, NC
Long Beach, CA
Omaha, NE
Charlotte, NC
Charlottesville, VA
Atlanta, GA
In the same piece I mentioned that we followed Ann around north Georgia for her high school track and cross country meets.
In a similar fashion we also followed John around Georgia and the southeast to his swim meets. The summer recreation league swimming was easy because all of those meets were within Gwinnett County. His high school swimming did not tax us too badly as all the meets were in the metropolitan Atlanta area. It was the Dynamo Swim Club meets and the University of Virginia meets that were taxing.
The swim club meets often started on a Thursday evening and did not end until Sunday night. The logistics of travel, food, and lodging took a significant amount of time and energy. As stroke and turn officials we were required to show up an hour early for the morning session, and again for the evening session, and when all the other parents left after their child’s last swim, Jean and I were standing on deck until the last heat of the last event. I don’t mean to whine, but, yeah, that got to be pretty annoying.
The College meets were one-day meets except for the ACC Championship and the NCAA Championship, but the distances we traveled were so much greater. All too often we’d only get to talk to John for a couple minutes after the meet. We didn’t get much quality time with our son for our travel dollars.
I thought it would be interesting to compile a list of the towns that Jean and I traveled to in support of John’s swimming. These are the ones that come to mind with just a little effort. I may have missed a couple. Yes, I know Long Island isn’t a city, but I can’t remember the name of the dadgum place. He wasn’t happy with his swim there anyway, so why remember it?
Gainesville, GA
Gainesville, FL
Auburn, AL
Savannah, GA
Augusta, GA
Athens, GA
College Park, MD
Minneapolis, MN
Long Island, NY
Knoxville, TN
Clemson, SC
Louisville, KY
Columbia, SC
Durham, NC
Chapel Hill, NC
Long Beach, CA
Omaha, NE
Charlotte, NC
Charlottesville, VA
Atlanta, GA
Friday, November 20, 2009
Conundrum
Read this one slowly. It is a bit tricky.
I’ve come to the realization that I have no idea whether this blog is anything more than an excellent example of bad writing and boring stories. In the absence of any feedback or information to the contrary I thought I might be able to work out logically whether or not to continue this exercise.
1. If the stories are good and my writing is good, then I should definitely continue.
2. If the stories are good and my writing is bad, then maybe I should stop embarrassing myself.
3. If the stories are bad and my writing is good, then maybe I should stop wasting my time.
4. If the stories are bad and my writing is bad, then I should definitely stop!
5. If nobody is reading this, then it’s all irrelevant anyway.
The problem is that I cannot know, or do not want to know, whether the “IF” portion of the logic statements are true.
If family and friends say something nice about the blog, which is exactly what I want to hear, I cannot entirely believe them because they may simply be sparing my feelings.
On the other hand, if they say the stories stink and/or the writing stinks, I will believe them because no one would say such a thing if it were not true, but that is exactly what I don’t want to hear.
If I hear nothing at all, then I am left in a position of self-doubt where I suspect the worst is true, which is exactly where I am.
So there is no way out of this conundrum. If the truth is good news, I can’t believe it. If the truth is bad news, I don’t want to hear it. If I hear nothing, I suspect the worst. There is no upside to this logic. It is my own personal Kobayashi Maru scenario. (A famous Star Trek no-win scenario designed to test character)
The only solution for me is to remain blissfully ignorant. It’s a sad piece of logic that takes the fun out of this project. ‘Tis a pity. I guess I will keep on writing and posting stuff into the void of the internet, but, as blues singer B. B. King said, “The thrill is gone”. I think the writing is better, and certainly easier, if I continue to suffer delusions of adequacy. I will try to find my way back to that happy place of delusion. I liked dwelling there.
I’ve come to the realization that I have no idea whether this blog is anything more than an excellent example of bad writing and boring stories. In the absence of any feedback or information to the contrary I thought I might be able to work out logically whether or not to continue this exercise.
1. If the stories are good and my writing is good, then I should definitely continue.
2. If the stories are good and my writing is bad, then maybe I should stop embarrassing myself.
3. If the stories are bad and my writing is good, then maybe I should stop wasting my time.
4. If the stories are bad and my writing is bad, then I should definitely stop!
5. If nobody is reading this, then it’s all irrelevant anyway.
The problem is that I cannot know, or do not want to know, whether the “IF” portion of the logic statements are true.
If family and friends say something nice about the blog, which is exactly what I want to hear, I cannot entirely believe them because they may simply be sparing my feelings.
On the other hand, if they say the stories stink and/or the writing stinks, I will believe them because no one would say such a thing if it were not true, but that is exactly what I don’t want to hear.
If I hear nothing at all, then I am left in a position of self-doubt where I suspect the worst is true, which is exactly where I am.
So there is no way out of this conundrum. If the truth is good news, I can’t believe it. If the truth is bad news, I don’t want to hear it. If I hear nothing, I suspect the worst. There is no upside to this logic. It is my own personal Kobayashi Maru scenario. (A famous Star Trek no-win scenario designed to test character)
The only solution for me is to remain blissfully ignorant. It’s a sad piece of logic that takes the fun out of this project. ‘Tis a pity. I guess I will keep on writing and posting stuff into the void of the internet, but, as blues singer B. B. King said, “The thrill is gone”. I think the writing is better, and certainly easier, if I continue to suffer delusions of adequacy. I will try to find my way back to that happy place of delusion. I liked dwelling there.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Feel-Good Folder
Sometimes I get to feeling pretty low. I suppose everyone does, though I don’t notice it in others as much as I see it in myself. Note to self: You need to be a little more sensitive to the folks around you. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, sometimes I get to feeling pretty low. The self-pity party scene can be pretty dreadful.
I know that these low moments are inevitable, so I keep a folder in my office desk that I refer to when I get in a funk. The folder is labeled “Tom – Personal”. Remember Julie Andrews in Sound of Music singing “I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so sad”? I’ve collected a quarter inch of favorite things in my folder. Thank-you notes, emails, cartoons, quotes, witticisms; anything that might cheer me, help me to persevere, tolerate the intolerable, choose the harder right rather than the easier wrong, to be better than I am, or better than I feel at that moment.
I’d like to say my feel-good folder works wonders, but it simply gets me through the occasional hard day. Sometimes I worry that the folder actually causes me to focus on my misery, on how things ought to be rather than how they are, and end up worse than I already was. I hope not. The only sure cure for me is a good run and a full night’s sleep.
The solitude of the run may cause me to wallow in the issues of the day, but it also permits a quiet thoughtful analysis. My anger can be pounded out during a couple of hard miles. I can mentally rant and rave about the injustice, ignorance, absurdity, and foolishness of the day. But eventually, when the emotion is removed, I can finally find my way to the essence of the Serenity Prayer, accepting the things I cannot change and changing what I can. Well, that’s the lie I tell myself.
In addition to my feel-good folder I’ve also got a document on my computer where I’ve collected a variety of words that inspire or amuse me. Most of these are well known, but it may have been a while since you last read them. Here are the contents of that document for your amusement. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
Yes, I am cheating by not writing something original of my own. I needed a day off.
The Original Serenity Prayer as written by Reinhold Niebuhr 1892-1971:
God, grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can and
wisdom to know the difference:
living one day at a time,
enjoying one moment at a time:
accepting hardship as a pathway to peace:
taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it:
trusting that You will make all things right if I surrender to Your will:
so that I may be reasonably happy in this life and
supremely happy with You forever in the next. Amen.
What is success?
To laugh often and much;
To win the respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To leave the world a bit better, whether by
a healthy child, a garden patch
or a redeemed social condition;
To know even one life has breathed
easier because you have lived;
This is to have succeeded.
Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882
The Impossible Dream
To dream the impossible dream,
to fight the unbeatable foe,
to bear with unbearable sorrow,
to run where the brave dare not go,
to right the unrightable wrong,
to love, pure and chaste, from afar;
to try when your arms are too weary;
to reach the unreachable star.
This is my Quest---to follow that star,
no matter how hopeless, no matter how far,
to fight for the right without question or pause,
to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause!
And I know, if I'll only be true to this glorious Quest,
that my heart will lie peaceful and calm when I'm laid to my rest.
And the world will be better for this---
that one man, scorned and covered with scars,
still strove with his last ounce of courage
to reach the unreachable star.
Lyrics by Joe Darion 1917-2001, music by Mitch Leigh 1928-
Boy Scout Oath
On my honor I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times;
To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.
Boy Scout Law
A scout is
Trustworthy,
Loyal,
Helpful,
Friendly,
Courteous,
Kind,
Obedient,
Cheerful,
Thrifty,
Brave,
Clean, and
Reverent.
C’est Moi
Camelot! Camelot!
In far-off France I heard your call.
Camelot! Camelot!
And here am I to give my all.
I know in my soul what you expect of me,
And all that, and more, I shall be
A knight of the Table Round should be invincible,
Succeed where a less fantastic man would fail.
Climb a wall no one else can climb,
Cleave a dragon in record time,
Swim a moat in a coat of heavy iron mail.
No matter the pain, he ought to be unwinceable,
Impossible deeds should be his daily fare.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A man so extraordinaire?
C'est moi! C'est moi!
I'm forced to admit.
'Tis I, I humbly reply.
That mortal who
These marvels can do,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I
I've never lost in battle or game;
I'm simply the best by far.
When swords are crossed,
'Tis always the same:
One blow and au revoir!
C'est moi! C'est moi!
So admirably fit!
A French Prometheus unbound.
And here I stand, with valor untold,
Exceptionally brave, amazingly bold,
To serve at the Table Round!
The soul of a knight should be a thing remarkable,
His heart and his mind as pure as morning dew.
With a will and a self-restraint
That's the envy of every saint
He could easily work a miracle or two.
To love and desire he ought to be unsparkable,
The ways of the flesh should offer no allure.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A man so untouched and pure?
C'est moi!
C'est moi! C'est moi!
I blush to disclose.
I'm far too noble to lie.
That man in whom
These qualities bloom,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never strayed from all I believe;
I'm blessed with an iron will.
Had I been made the partner of Eve,
we'd be in Eden still.
C'est moi! C'est moi!
The angels have chose
To fight their battles below.
And here I stand, as pure as a prayer,
Incredibly clean, with virtue to spare,
The godliest man I know!
C'est moi!
Lyrics by Alan Jay Lerner 1918-1986, music by Frederic Loewe 1901-1988
Success
He has achieved success
who has lived well,
laughed often, and loved much;
who has enjoyed the trust of
pure women,
the respect of intelligent men and
the love of little children;
who has filled his niche and accomplished his task;
who has left the world better than he found it
whether by an improved poppy,
a perfect poem or a rescued soul;
who has never lacked appreciation of Earth's beauty
or failed to express it;
who has always looked for the best in others and
given them the best he had;
whose life was an inspiration;
whose memory a benediction.
--1904 Bessie Anderson Stanley
Chinese Proverb
He who knows not,
and knows not that he knows not,
is a fool. Shun him.
He who knows not,
and knows that he knows not,
is a child. Teach him.
He who knows,
and knows not that he knows,
is asleep. Wake him.
He who knows,
and knows that he knows,
is a wise man. Follow him.
Stopping by Woods On a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it's queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost 1874-1963
I know that these low moments are inevitable, so I keep a folder in my office desk that I refer to when I get in a funk. The folder is labeled “Tom – Personal”. Remember Julie Andrews in Sound of Music singing “I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so sad”? I’ve collected a quarter inch of favorite things in my folder. Thank-you notes, emails, cartoons, quotes, witticisms; anything that might cheer me, help me to persevere, tolerate the intolerable, choose the harder right rather than the easier wrong, to be better than I am, or better than I feel at that moment.
I’d like to say my feel-good folder works wonders, but it simply gets me through the occasional hard day. Sometimes I worry that the folder actually causes me to focus on my misery, on how things ought to be rather than how they are, and end up worse than I already was. I hope not. The only sure cure for me is a good run and a full night’s sleep.
The solitude of the run may cause me to wallow in the issues of the day, but it also permits a quiet thoughtful analysis. My anger can be pounded out during a couple of hard miles. I can mentally rant and rave about the injustice, ignorance, absurdity, and foolishness of the day. But eventually, when the emotion is removed, I can finally find my way to the essence of the Serenity Prayer, accepting the things I cannot change and changing what I can. Well, that’s the lie I tell myself.
In addition to my feel-good folder I’ve also got a document on my computer where I’ve collected a variety of words that inspire or amuse me. Most of these are well known, but it may have been a while since you last read them. Here are the contents of that document for your amusement. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
Yes, I am cheating by not writing something original of my own. I needed a day off.
The Original Serenity Prayer as written by Reinhold Niebuhr 1892-1971:
God, grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can and
wisdom to know the difference:
living one day at a time,
enjoying one moment at a time:
accepting hardship as a pathway to peace:
taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it:
trusting that You will make all things right if I surrender to Your will:
so that I may be reasonably happy in this life and
supremely happy with You forever in the next. Amen.
What is success?
To laugh often and much;
To win the respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To leave the world a bit better, whether by
a healthy child, a garden patch
or a redeemed social condition;
To know even one life has breathed
easier because you have lived;
This is to have succeeded.
Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882
The Impossible Dream
To dream the impossible dream,
to fight the unbeatable foe,
to bear with unbearable sorrow,
to run where the brave dare not go,
to right the unrightable wrong,
to love, pure and chaste, from afar;
to try when your arms are too weary;
to reach the unreachable star.
This is my Quest---to follow that star,
no matter how hopeless, no matter how far,
to fight for the right without question or pause,
to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause!
And I know, if I'll only be true to this glorious Quest,
that my heart will lie peaceful and calm when I'm laid to my rest.
And the world will be better for this---
that one man, scorned and covered with scars,
still strove with his last ounce of courage
to reach the unreachable star.
Lyrics by Joe Darion 1917-2001, music by Mitch Leigh 1928-
Boy Scout Oath
On my honor I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times;
To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.
Boy Scout Law
A scout is
Trustworthy,
Loyal,
Helpful,
Friendly,
Courteous,
Kind,
Obedient,
Cheerful,
Thrifty,
Brave,
Clean, and
Reverent.
C’est Moi
Camelot! Camelot!
In far-off France I heard your call.
Camelot! Camelot!
And here am I to give my all.
I know in my soul what you expect of me,
And all that, and more, I shall be
A knight of the Table Round should be invincible,
Succeed where a less fantastic man would fail.
Climb a wall no one else can climb,
Cleave a dragon in record time,
Swim a moat in a coat of heavy iron mail.
No matter the pain, he ought to be unwinceable,
Impossible deeds should be his daily fare.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A man so extraordinaire?
C'est moi! C'est moi!
I'm forced to admit.
'Tis I, I humbly reply.
That mortal who
These marvels can do,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I
I've never lost in battle or game;
I'm simply the best by far.
When swords are crossed,
'Tis always the same:
One blow and au revoir!
C'est moi! C'est moi!
So admirably fit!
A French Prometheus unbound.
And here I stand, with valor untold,
Exceptionally brave, amazingly bold,
To serve at the Table Round!
The soul of a knight should be a thing remarkable,
His heart and his mind as pure as morning dew.
With a will and a self-restraint
That's the envy of every saint
He could easily work a miracle or two.
To love and desire he ought to be unsparkable,
The ways of the flesh should offer no allure.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A man so untouched and pure?
C'est moi!
C'est moi! C'est moi!
I blush to disclose.
I'm far too noble to lie.
That man in whom
These qualities bloom,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never strayed from all I believe;
I'm blessed with an iron will.
Had I been made the partner of Eve,
we'd be in Eden still.
C'est moi! C'est moi!
The angels have chose
To fight their battles below.
And here I stand, as pure as a prayer,
Incredibly clean, with virtue to spare,
The godliest man I know!
C'est moi!
Lyrics by Alan Jay Lerner 1918-1986, music by Frederic Loewe 1901-1988
Success
He has achieved success
who has lived well,
laughed often, and loved much;
who has enjoyed the trust of
pure women,
the respect of intelligent men and
the love of little children;
who has filled his niche and accomplished his task;
who has left the world better than he found it
whether by an improved poppy,
a perfect poem or a rescued soul;
who has never lacked appreciation of Earth's beauty
or failed to express it;
who has always looked for the best in others and
given them the best he had;
whose life was an inspiration;
whose memory a benediction.
--1904 Bessie Anderson Stanley
Chinese Proverb
He who knows not,
and knows not that he knows not,
is a fool. Shun him.
He who knows not,
and knows that he knows not,
is a child. Teach him.
He who knows,
and knows not that he knows,
is asleep. Wake him.
He who knows,
and knows that he knows,
is a wise man. Follow him.
Stopping by Woods On a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it's queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost 1874-1963
Friday, November 6, 2009
Mystery Diagnosis
I got a rash on my neck in the late summer of 2000. (This information must surely fascinate you and have you tingling with anticipation.) I could not figure out what was causing it. We tried changing a variety of things at home to no effect. I went to a doctor who confirmed that I did indeed have a rash and sent me on my way. The rash went on unabated for months. This has nothing, and everything, to do with the following events.
The West Point Parents Club of Georgia had a send-off picnic at Fort McPherson in Atlanta when Ann was about to head off to West Point in the summer of 2000. We didn’t know such a thing existed or for what purpose.
We went to the picnic and heard some presentations from current and former West Pointers about what to expect. It was one of many eye-opening experiences. We knew West Point was incredibly difficult, but you can never know too much about the future. What we did not know in particular was how difficult West Point is on the PARENTS.
Yes, the Parents Club was ostensibly there to support the cadets at West Point, but it was also there to support the parents. Parents have limited contact with their children when they enter West Point. The first summer at West Point is essentially spent conducting army basic training. The cadets get maybe one phone call and an occasional letter out. In the absence of information, parents are left to imagine and assume the worst about their children who are suddenly and continuously absent for the first time in 18 years.
The separation anxiety of sending Ann off to college was tough enough, but knowing that she was going through basic training before the academic year made the experience doubly tough. I know it was extremely hard on her, but it wasn’t any picnic for us as parents either. Ann could at least DO something about her circumstances. The only thing we could do as parents was send letters of encouragement. We weren’t even allowed to send a stick of chewing gum inside a letter. We very much needed the support of the Parents Club to tell us our anxiety was natural and to be expected.
When we did get a phone call or a letter from Ann it usually contained news of some new form of misery she was undergoing. This did not help our anxiety levels at all, but we were told by the veteran parents that this allowed the cadet to dump their burdens on us, and were as right as rain as soon as they were done venting. I didn’t believe any of it.
We became faithful attendees of the West Point Parents Club meetings. We wanted to know everything we could about what Ann was undergoing so we could be helpful, supportive, and sympathetic.
We went up to West Point for Reception Day in late June when Ann and all the other candidates reported for the first time. We went up again at the end of the summer for Acceptance Day, when the candidates who survived summer training were accepted into the Corps of Cadets as “Plebes”. We went up again for Plebe-Parent Weekend that fall to see her again. Each visit revealed at least one new aspect of West Point that was worrisome for us as parents. One of my least favorite memories was being told that I could not hug my daughter in public while she was in uniform. Bullfeathers!
Anyway, to make an already too long pseudo-story shorter, Ann survived the summer and the first full semester at West Point and came home (for the first time since June) for Christmas. In a quiet private moment I had a chance to ask Ann if she was doing okay up there and whether she thought she could survive the place. Ann said to me in a grave voice, “Dad, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s not more than I can handle.”
My rash went away soon thereafter.
The West Point Parents Club of Georgia had a send-off picnic at Fort McPherson in Atlanta when Ann was about to head off to West Point in the summer of 2000. We didn’t know such a thing existed or for what purpose.
We went to the picnic and heard some presentations from current and former West Pointers about what to expect. It was one of many eye-opening experiences. We knew West Point was incredibly difficult, but you can never know too much about the future. What we did not know in particular was how difficult West Point is on the PARENTS.
Yes, the Parents Club was ostensibly there to support the cadets at West Point, but it was also there to support the parents. Parents have limited contact with their children when they enter West Point. The first summer at West Point is essentially spent conducting army basic training. The cadets get maybe one phone call and an occasional letter out. In the absence of information, parents are left to imagine and assume the worst about their children who are suddenly and continuously absent for the first time in 18 years.
The separation anxiety of sending Ann off to college was tough enough, but knowing that she was going through basic training before the academic year made the experience doubly tough. I know it was extremely hard on her, but it wasn’t any picnic for us as parents either. Ann could at least DO something about her circumstances. The only thing we could do as parents was send letters of encouragement. We weren’t even allowed to send a stick of chewing gum inside a letter. We very much needed the support of the Parents Club to tell us our anxiety was natural and to be expected.
When we did get a phone call or a letter from Ann it usually contained news of some new form of misery she was undergoing. This did not help our anxiety levels at all, but we were told by the veteran parents that this allowed the cadet to dump their burdens on us, and were as right as rain as soon as they were done venting. I didn’t believe any of it.
We became faithful attendees of the West Point Parents Club meetings. We wanted to know everything we could about what Ann was undergoing so we could be helpful, supportive, and sympathetic.
We went up to West Point for Reception Day in late June when Ann and all the other candidates reported for the first time. We went up again at the end of the summer for Acceptance Day, when the candidates who survived summer training were accepted into the Corps of Cadets as “Plebes”. We went up again for Plebe-Parent Weekend that fall to see her again. Each visit revealed at least one new aspect of West Point that was worrisome for us as parents. One of my least favorite memories was being told that I could not hug my daughter in public while she was in uniform. Bullfeathers!
Anyway, to make an already too long pseudo-story shorter, Ann survived the summer and the first full semester at West Point and came home (for the first time since June) for Christmas. In a quiet private moment I had a chance to ask Ann if she was doing okay up there and whether she thought she could survive the place. Ann said to me in a grave voice, “Dad, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s not more than I can handle.”
My rash went away soon thereafter.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Persistence
In the beginning; what a great start to a good book. In the beginning all I knew about swimming I learned from the local neighborhood recreation swim league team. The same goes for Jean. Our family had no history in competitive swimming whatsoever. There were some equivalencies between distance running and distance swimming, but the particulars of swimming and swim meets were completely foreign to what we knew.
It turned out that swim meets have time standards, and if you haven’t done the qualifying time standard in an officially sanctioned meet, you cannot swim in the meet. There were time standards for B, BB, A, AA, AAA, AAAA, and top-16 for each two year age group and gender from 10 & under up to 17-18! There were State Age Group meet times, Regional Meet times, Junior National Meet times, Senior National Meet times, NCAA Meet times, and Olympic trial times. John started out in some dismal swim meets with B and double B times, or no time at all.
Swimmers are “seeded” in meets according to their previous qualifying times. In a large swim meet there might be 8 heats of the 11-12 year old boy’s 100 yard butterfly beginning with the slowest kids and working up to the fastest. There is a thing called “circle seeding” that defies description. As I said in an earlier post, imagine this for each two year age group, each gender, each stroke, and each distance. It’s an unbygodbelievable number of heats.
In the early “age group” years John would start out the season swimming in the slower heats and by the end of the season would be moving into the faster heats. About the time he would reach the fastest heats, he would have a birthday moving him into the next age group and then he would be back down the pecking order swimming in the slower heats against older kids. There was always someone better to swim against. Every time he got good enough to be one of the best at a swim meet, he’d get bumped up to bigger and tougher swim meets, or to an older age group.
There were a host of swimmers much better than John over the years. That host included pretty much everybody in the early years. Early on I thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be cool if someday John could swim as fast as Bubba?” And then that next year when he was able to swim with Bubba I said to myself, “That’s cool, but he’ll never be as good as Brandon!” The year after that, when he was swimming in the heats with Brandon, I thought, “Everyone has limits. He may be able to swim with Brandon, but Dan is surely out of John’s league.” And so it went, year after year. John steadily improved.
Throughout his career John qualified for County, State, Regionals, Junior Nationals, Senior Nationals, NCAA Division I Nationals, and the Olympic Trials twice. He set 2 individual records for his high school and was part of 2 relay records for his high school, set 2 high school county records, set state age group records 4 times, was a 9-time high school all-American, was the #1 high school scholastic all-American in 2003, set a national age group record, set the high school state record for the 500 freestyle in 2003, was Atlantic Coast Conference Champion in the 1650 freestyle for the University of Virginia in 2006, was an 8-time NCAA All-American, one of which was sixth in the nation in the 1650. Not too shabby for a kid who nearly drowned in the public pool as a munchkin.
The funny thing was I never really noticed what John had accomplished overall until I compiled the list in the previous paragraph. Every time we dropped him off at the pool for a swim meet the only thing we ever said was “Have fun!” And when we were driving home from a swim meet our primary question would be “Did you have fun?” It was up to John to decide whether he did well or not, and whether he was happy with his times and places in the races.
He wasn’t a natural, but he did love swimming. He wasn’t some sort of all-star swimming phenom, but he did eventually get really good at it. The success he had was the result of gradual consistent improvement. He worked hard every day, day after day, from 1995 to 2008.
Persistence
It turned out that swim meets have time standards, and if you haven’t done the qualifying time standard in an officially sanctioned meet, you cannot swim in the meet. There were time standards for B, BB, A, AA, AAA, AAAA, and top-16 for each two year age group and gender from 10 & under up to 17-18! There were State Age Group meet times, Regional Meet times, Junior National Meet times, Senior National Meet times, NCAA Meet times, and Olympic trial times. John started out in some dismal swim meets with B and double B times, or no time at all.
Swimmers are “seeded” in meets according to their previous qualifying times. In a large swim meet there might be 8 heats of the 11-12 year old boy’s 100 yard butterfly beginning with the slowest kids and working up to the fastest. There is a thing called “circle seeding” that defies description. As I said in an earlier post, imagine this for each two year age group, each gender, each stroke, and each distance. It’s an unbygodbelievable number of heats.
In the early “age group” years John would start out the season swimming in the slower heats and by the end of the season would be moving into the faster heats. About the time he would reach the fastest heats, he would have a birthday moving him into the next age group and then he would be back down the pecking order swimming in the slower heats against older kids. There was always someone better to swim against. Every time he got good enough to be one of the best at a swim meet, he’d get bumped up to bigger and tougher swim meets, or to an older age group.
There were a host of swimmers much better than John over the years. That host included pretty much everybody in the early years. Early on I thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be cool if someday John could swim as fast as Bubba?” And then that next year when he was able to swim with Bubba I said to myself, “That’s cool, but he’ll never be as good as Brandon!” The year after that, when he was swimming in the heats with Brandon, I thought, “Everyone has limits. He may be able to swim with Brandon, but Dan is surely out of John’s league.” And so it went, year after year. John steadily improved.
Throughout his career John qualified for County, State, Regionals, Junior Nationals, Senior Nationals, NCAA Division I Nationals, and the Olympic Trials twice. He set 2 individual records for his high school and was part of 2 relay records for his high school, set 2 high school county records, set state age group records 4 times, was a 9-time high school all-American, was the #1 high school scholastic all-American in 2003, set a national age group record, set the high school state record for the 500 freestyle in 2003, was Atlantic Coast Conference Champion in the 1650 freestyle for the University of Virginia in 2006, was an 8-time NCAA All-American, one of which was sixth in the nation in the 1650. Not too shabby for a kid who nearly drowned in the public pool as a munchkin.
The funny thing was I never really noticed what John had accomplished overall until I compiled the list in the previous paragraph. Every time we dropped him off at the pool for a swim meet the only thing we ever said was “Have fun!” And when we were driving home from a swim meet our primary question would be “Did you have fun?” It was up to John to decide whether he did well or not, and whether he was happy with his times and places in the races.
He wasn’t a natural, but he did love swimming. He wasn’t some sort of all-star swimming phenom, but he did eventually get really good at it. The success he had was the result of gradual consistent improvement. He worked hard every day, day after day, from 1995 to 2008.
Persistence
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Future Posts
Here are the titles of the next 14 posts that are written and ready to go. I hope the Ethernet enjoys them.
Persistence
Mystery Diagnosis
Feel-Good Folder
Conundrum
Mom & Dad Travel Squad
Suffering the Insufferable
Group Runs
I Need a Vacation
Perfect Race
Elks Club
West Point R Day: Part 1
West Point R Day: Part 2
Penick and Ford
Hot Dog
Persistence
Mystery Diagnosis
Feel-Good Folder
Conundrum
Mom & Dad Travel Squad
Suffering the Insufferable
Group Runs
I Need a Vacation
Perfect Race
Elks Club
West Point R Day: Part 1
West Point R Day: Part 2
Penick and Ford
Hot Dog
Hal
It’s probably been 20 years since Hal last ran with our group at Stone Mountain. I think it was his knees that eventually betrayed him and kept him away from us. Anyway, there was this one run during the winter way back when. We’d only run a couple of miles and had a long way to go. It was a cold, rainy, miserable morning and we were quickly soaked to the skin. If the sun was up you couldn’t tell it. Nobody was happy that day and our normally robust conversation was lagging. As we were trudging along, during a lull in the conversation, out of the blue Hall says, “I wonder what the fanatics are doing today?” It cracked us all up.
We’ve repeated that phrase many times over the last 20 years. Whenever we are miserable due to hard running or horrible weather, someone will pipe up with, “I wonder what the fanatics are doing today?”, and we all laugh. It makes the misery easier to take knowing full well that we ARE the fanatics and our competition is enduring similar miseries.
Hal had another memorable phrase. One of the guys noticed Hal looked particularly pained in the middle of a run one day. He asked Hal how he was doing. Hal replied, "It’s hard to look cool when you’re throwing up!” This became another classic Hal phrase that we’ve repeated often. It’s applicable in a wide variety of situations.
We’ve repeated that phrase many times over the last 20 years. Whenever we are miserable due to hard running or horrible weather, someone will pipe up with, “I wonder what the fanatics are doing today?”, and we all laugh. It makes the misery easier to take knowing full well that we ARE the fanatics and our competition is enduring similar miseries.
Hal had another memorable phrase. One of the guys noticed Hal looked particularly pained in the middle of a run one day. He asked Hal how he was doing. Hal replied, "It’s hard to look cool when you’re throwing up!” This became another classic Hal phrase that we’ve repeated often. It’s applicable in a wide variety of situations.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sailing with Dad
We had a great time with my folks on Marco Island in 1983. We spent a lot of time on the beach. There was a little kiosk just up the beach from us that had sailboats to rent. All they had were some little sunfish and catamaran sailboats sitting on the sand. This was perfect because the sunfish was equal to my sailing ability and the catamarans were well beyond my ability. The sunfish would carry two people comfortably.
In the several years prior to this vacation Jean and I had been sailing with our good friends, Annie and Earl, who kept a 22 foot sailboat at Lake Hartwell. They’d taught us the basics and allowed us to sail it, well, many times would be an overstatement, and several times would be an understatement; the truth lies, well, for the truth you should be reading some other blog.
Each day I noticed Dad looking at the sailboats. I could tell that Dad really wanted to go, but he didn’t know anything about sailing. I thought I knew something about sailing, at least more than Dad, but was still a bit tentative since I’d never “soloed”. Sailing with an expert on board is one thing; sailing on your own is a whole different experience. I eventually asked Dad if he’d like to rent a Sunfish and take it out into the Gulf of Mexico.
The wind was blowing parallel to the beach so I was proposing a simple sail straight out from the shore into the Gulf, and straight back. I wasn’t going to be tacking into the wind repeatedly. There would be only one turn. I could either turn into the wind or fall off of the wind to make the turn. It would be the only moment of our journey requiring a small amount of sailing ability. I was fairly confident I could handle it. I’d analyzed all of this prior to proposing the sail.
There was a strong wind blowing that day and there was a real possibility of capsizing. I figured the two of us as ballast would help keep the boat upright, and if we did capsize, there were two of us to get it back upright.
Up to this point neither one of us had said anything about having any knowledge about sailing. There was a strong wind, the waves were about three feet high, we were about to sail out into the ocean, this wasn’t Lake Como Wisconsin, we were doing it in the smallest sailboat you’ve ever seen, and my dad was willing to get into the sailboat without knowing anything about sailing. This was typical Dad, and family, bravado. “What we don’t know we will figure out as we go along” ought to be the family motto. Dad was born with more bravery than good sense. We were going to be okay because I knew how to sail, but Dad didn’t know that when he enthusiastically agreed to go!
As we were climbing into the boat Dad said to me, “You know I don’t know how to sail, right?” I told him, “I got it covered, Dad.” His reply was “Good”, and I think I heard an undertone of relief in the reply. I told him where to sit and what to do (nothing) and went over our course of sail and a few contingency plans before getting underway.
As we headed out into the Gulf our progress was slow. We were bucking waves the entire way out. The wind was strong but the little boat just lumbered against the waves. There weren’t any trees or houses passing by like there is on land, or on a lake, so there was no way to judge our speed, or if we were making any progress at all. The trip out was rather dull.
Still, it was one of those postcard picture perfect days for a sail. We had a clear blue sky, and a clear green-blue ocean, and we were on an adventure. It was a special moment for me, as a son, to take my father sailing. Where Dad had always been the leader and expert of our adventures in the past, it was my turn to lead this time around. I think all kids seek their parent’s approval and admiration. As kids we do things to make our parents happy. Dad was happy that day and I was secretly pleased with myself.
We sailed into the Gulf to the limits of my confidence. When the people on shore were getting tiny and I could barely see the sails at the rental kiosk I decided it was time to head for home. That was the limit of my confidence. We made the 180 degree turn for shore without incident.
Now that the waves were with us we were really moving fast. We were sailing faster than the waves. We sailed up the back of one wave and then surfed even faster down the front side. It was fun and exciting, but it also scared the hell out of me! It was impossible not to hoot, holler, and give out an occasional “yee-haw” like we were riding a horse. And then, before we knew it, our trip back to shore was over.
Fond memories.
In the several years prior to this vacation Jean and I had been sailing with our good friends, Annie and Earl, who kept a 22 foot sailboat at Lake Hartwell. They’d taught us the basics and allowed us to sail it, well, many times would be an overstatement, and several times would be an understatement; the truth lies, well, for the truth you should be reading some other blog.
Each day I noticed Dad looking at the sailboats. I could tell that Dad really wanted to go, but he didn’t know anything about sailing. I thought I knew something about sailing, at least more than Dad, but was still a bit tentative since I’d never “soloed”. Sailing with an expert on board is one thing; sailing on your own is a whole different experience. I eventually asked Dad if he’d like to rent a Sunfish and take it out into the Gulf of Mexico.
The wind was blowing parallel to the beach so I was proposing a simple sail straight out from the shore into the Gulf, and straight back. I wasn’t going to be tacking into the wind repeatedly. There would be only one turn. I could either turn into the wind or fall off of the wind to make the turn. It would be the only moment of our journey requiring a small amount of sailing ability. I was fairly confident I could handle it. I’d analyzed all of this prior to proposing the sail.
There was a strong wind blowing that day and there was a real possibility of capsizing. I figured the two of us as ballast would help keep the boat upright, and if we did capsize, there were two of us to get it back upright.
Up to this point neither one of us had said anything about having any knowledge about sailing. There was a strong wind, the waves were about three feet high, we were about to sail out into the ocean, this wasn’t Lake Como Wisconsin, we were doing it in the smallest sailboat you’ve ever seen, and my dad was willing to get into the sailboat without knowing anything about sailing. This was typical Dad, and family, bravado. “What we don’t know we will figure out as we go along” ought to be the family motto. Dad was born with more bravery than good sense. We were going to be okay because I knew how to sail, but Dad didn’t know that when he enthusiastically agreed to go!
As we were climbing into the boat Dad said to me, “You know I don’t know how to sail, right?” I told him, “I got it covered, Dad.” His reply was “Good”, and I think I heard an undertone of relief in the reply. I told him where to sit and what to do (nothing) and went over our course of sail and a few contingency plans before getting underway.
As we headed out into the Gulf our progress was slow. We were bucking waves the entire way out. The wind was strong but the little boat just lumbered against the waves. There weren’t any trees or houses passing by like there is on land, or on a lake, so there was no way to judge our speed, or if we were making any progress at all. The trip out was rather dull.
Still, it was one of those postcard picture perfect days for a sail. We had a clear blue sky, and a clear green-blue ocean, and we were on an adventure. It was a special moment for me, as a son, to take my father sailing. Where Dad had always been the leader and expert of our adventures in the past, it was my turn to lead this time around. I think all kids seek their parent’s approval and admiration. As kids we do things to make our parents happy. Dad was happy that day and I was secretly pleased with myself.
We sailed into the Gulf to the limits of my confidence. When the people on shore were getting tiny and I could barely see the sails at the rental kiosk I decided it was time to head for home. That was the limit of my confidence. We made the 180 degree turn for shore without incident.
Now that the waves were with us we were really moving fast. We were sailing faster than the waves. We sailed up the back of one wave and then surfed even faster down the front side. It was fun and exciting, but it also scared the hell out of me! It was impossible not to hoot, holler, and give out an occasional “yee-haw” like we were riding a horse. And then, before we knew it, our trip back to shore was over.
Fond memories.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Marco Island
In February of 1983 my mom and dad rented a condominium on Marco Island, FL to spend a few weeks away from the harsh Iowa winter. They were both retired at the time. Ann was 16 months old, and Jean and I were living on a single income. John didn’t exist yet, but we were thinking about him. When my folks invited us to spend a week with them at the condo we jumped at the chance.
We were young and stupid, or I should say that we were young and I was stupid, so we left Stone Mountain, GA for Florida on a Friday after work. It was a 10 hour drive and we wanted to maximize the amount of time that Ann was asleep. We drove through the night figuring that the folks could take care of Ann the next day while Jean and I slept.
I vaguely remember arriving at Marco Island in miserable shape from lack of sleep after the long drive. We slept fitfully throughout the next day. I suppose the important thing is that Ann arrived with little muss or fuss during the nighttime drive. If baby ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. That’s a corollary to the “momma” statement.
One day, after spending several hours on the beach, it was time to head into the condo to grab some chow. As we made our way through the doorway into the condo Ann squeezed between our legs and ran to her highchair in the kitchen. She climbed up the highchair, plunked her butt down, slapped her hands together in a prayerful position, and called out “Amen, Amen, Amen!”
Apparently Ann was hungry and knew from past experience that food magically appeared at the highchair only after the word “Amen” was spoken out loud. She might have missed the part about food preparation, bowing heads, and giving thanks, but she had the endgame down pat. The rest would come with time.
When it came time to drive back home to Georgia we again drove through the night so that Ann would be sleeping. It’s too bad that I didn’t learn anything from the nighttime drive the week before. We took caffeine pills to stay awake through the night and arrived in Georgia jumping out of our skins. Doubly stupid one week after the first time stupid. I guess that’s how young people learn. We vowed never to do an all-night drive again.
P.S. When it started to rain on our drive back home the car kept fishtailing on the interstate. We had to slow down repeatedly to avoid having a single car accident. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with the car. When we got home and had some daylight I inspected the car and found we had bald tires. Money was tight, but driving on bald tires was triple stupid.
We were young and stupid, or I should say that we were young and I was stupid, so we left Stone Mountain, GA for Florida on a Friday after work. It was a 10 hour drive and we wanted to maximize the amount of time that Ann was asleep. We drove through the night figuring that the folks could take care of Ann the next day while Jean and I slept.
I vaguely remember arriving at Marco Island in miserable shape from lack of sleep after the long drive. We slept fitfully throughout the next day. I suppose the important thing is that Ann arrived with little muss or fuss during the nighttime drive. If baby ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. That’s a corollary to the “momma” statement.
One day, after spending several hours on the beach, it was time to head into the condo to grab some chow. As we made our way through the doorway into the condo Ann squeezed between our legs and ran to her highchair in the kitchen. She climbed up the highchair, plunked her butt down, slapped her hands together in a prayerful position, and called out “Amen, Amen, Amen!”
Apparently Ann was hungry and knew from past experience that food magically appeared at the highchair only after the word “Amen” was spoken out loud. She might have missed the part about food preparation, bowing heads, and giving thanks, but she had the endgame down pat. The rest would come with time.
When it came time to drive back home to Georgia we again drove through the night so that Ann would be sleeping. It’s too bad that I didn’t learn anything from the nighttime drive the week before. We took caffeine pills to stay awake through the night and arrived in Georgia jumping out of our skins. Doubly stupid one week after the first time stupid. I guess that’s how young people learn. We vowed never to do an all-night drive again.
P.S. When it started to rain on our drive back home the car kept fishtailing on the interstate. We had to slow down repeatedly to avoid having a single car accident. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with the car. When we got home and had some daylight I inspected the car and found we had bald tires. Money was tight, but driving on bald tires was triple stupid.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Comments
I remain uncomfortable that some anonymous person could leave a very ugly "Comment" on the blog without my knowing it. I realize now that I want to review and censor anonymous comments before they get posted. It is unfortunate, but I think necessary, to change the settings yet again. It may be that there is no combination of settings that results in a safe situation. Again, my apologies.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Littering
When Ann and John were preteens we’d bolt for a movie from time to time to give Jean a few hours of peace and quiet at home. Jean wasn’t a movie fan. This one time we decided to drink a Coke in the car on the way to the theater. I’d finished mine and was curious whether the kids had paid any attention to the lessons on littering and recycling. The conversation might have been something like the following. Time may have altered the conversation ever so slightly.
Guys, I’m a little worried about leaving our Coke cans in the car. The ants might get the scent and come get the last little bit of carbonated sugar water. I don’t want ants in the car. I’m going to throw my Coke out.
Dad, you can’t do that.
Sure I can. All I have to do is roll down the window.
No Dad. You can’t.
What? Is the window broken?
No. You can’t throw it out the window.
Yes I can. I’ll show you. I roll down the window with my left hand like this, I switch hands on the steering wheel, pick up the can with my right hand, and thrr . . .
Noooooooo!!!!! (They shouted)
Guys, what’s the problem? You all right? (I roll up the window)
You can’t throw the can out the window!
What do you mean? I was just showing you how. It’s easy. Let’s go over it again. I roll down the window and . . .
Noooooooo! (They shouted again)
Am I doing it wrong? I thought it was a simple procedure. Did I forget something? Do you want to throw the can out for me?
No, Dad. You can’t throw the can out. It’s littering!
Littering? What’s the problem with that? Everyone does it. Look, there are some cigarette butts at the stop light and a plastic bottle over there. There’s a plastic bag over in the weeds. If everyone else can do it, I can do it too. I’ll just roll down the window and . . .
Nooooooo! Stop it, Dad. You can’t litter! (More shouting)
Everybody else can litter, but I can’t?
Right.
Well that doesn’t seem fair.
Littering is wrong, Dad. You have to recycle the can or put it in the trash.
It’s wrong? You know I am never wrong. Recycle or in the trash you say?
Yes.
But we don’t have any trash cans in the car.
There will be one at the movie theater.
Really, at the movie theater? The trash cans might be full.
We’ll find one, Dad.
I suppose that could happen. Would you guys hold my empty can? I’m not sure I can handle that much responsibility.
Sure, Dad.
Guys, I’m a little worried about leaving our Coke cans in the car. The ants might get the scent and come get the last little bit of carbonated sugar water. I don’t want ants in the car. I’m going to throw my Coke out.
Dad, you can’t do that.
Sure I can. All I have to do is roll down the window.
No Dad. You can’t.
What? Is the window broken?
No. You can’t throw it out the window.
Yes I can. I’ll show you. I roll down the window with my left hand like this, I switch hands on the steering wheel, pick up the can with my right hand, and thrr . . .
Noooooooo!!!!! (They shouted)
Guys, what’s the problem? You all right? (I roll up the window)
You can’t throw the can out the window!
What do you mean? I was just showing you how. It’s easy. Let’s go over it again. I roll down the window and . . .
Noooooooo! (They shouted again)
Am I doing it wrong? I thought it was a simple procedure. Did I forget something? Do you want to throw the can out for me?
No, Dad. You can’t throw the can out. It’s littering!
Littering? What’s the problem with that? Everyone does it. Look, there are some cigarette butts at the stop light and a plastic bottle over there. There’s a plastic bag over in the weeds. If everyone else can do it, I can do it too. I’ll just roll down the window and . . .
Nooooooo! Stop it, Dad. You can’t litter! (More shouting)
Everybody else can litter, but I can’t?
Right.
Well that doesn’t seem fair.
Littering is wrong, Dad. You have to recycle the can or put it in the trash.
It’s wrong? You know I am never wrong. Recycle or in the trash you say?
Yes.
But we don’t have any trash cans in the car.
There will be one at the movie theater.
Really, at the movie theater? The trash cans might be full.
We’ll find one, Dad.
I suppose that could happen. Would you guys hold my empty can? I’m not sure I can handle that much responsibility.
Sure, Dad.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Blog Now Permits Comments
I found a setting where I can allow comments without requiring the reader to login. The login requirement was designed to cut down on spam, but actually eliminated everyone from making a comment.
I think I will be allowed to review the comment before it gets posted. This should cut down on profanity.
So comment as you wish. I would welcome some discussion.
Darth Dad
I think I will be allowed to review the comment before it gets posted. This should cut down on profanity.
So comment as you wish. I would welcome some discussion.
Darth Dad
Friday, October 2, 2009
Recovering Parent
I’ve often said that kids are born as savages and that we have 18 years in which to civilize them before they are unleashed on an unsuspecting world. Sadly, it wasn’t until each of the kids had already left home that I realized there were so many things I should have taught them or told them. I suppose I should apologize for doing an incomplete job. Should I apologize to the kids, or should I apologize to the world?
They say that it takes a village to raise a child. I wish we had found that village. It would have made my job a whole lot easier. Given that I did an incomplete job, maybe my kids will get lucky and wander into that village. It’s more likely that the village idiot will finish my job; thus my remorse.
At the point the kids left home it was totally too late to slip in those last words of wisdom. Whatever was not done is never going to get done. The kids are suddenly independent, and relishing the experience. They are making their own choices. They don’t want me intruding in their lives.
The restraint shown by my parents and Jean’s parents was miraculous. I can’t recall a single instance where I found them to be an unwelcome interfering factor in our lives. Now that I am the parent with absent children, I don’t see how it was possible. The inclination to second guess my kids decisions is so very strong. When they tell me about their lives I want to analyze their problems and tell them what to do.
I am simply admitting that these inclinations are there, and they are strong. Hi, my name is Tom and I am a parent. I am a recovering parent. I may be a parent, but I am not going to parent my children today. One day at a time I will resist the urge.
It is fortunate that I had 18 years to wean myself from being a parent. Each year the kids could do more and more for themselves and needed me less. The transition was so gradual that I barely noticed it happening. By the high school years they only needed me for money and a ride, and then they got their licenses.
My dad, Dick, used to tell a story about his early working years in Chicago. He had a particularly difficult problem at work that he was describing to his dad, Ray, and was asking what he should do about it. My grandfather Ray said to Dad, “Dick, you are there at work every day. You know the details of the problem and the job environment better than you will ever be able to explain to me. You are already better equipped to handle this problem than I will ever be.” or words to that effect.
I’ve thought of that story often over the years. It tells me that Ann and John are best equipped to solve their own problems. I might think I have a solution, but they will know best what solutions work for them. If the solution doesn’t suit them, then it isn’t a suitable solution. I am now too distant to be effective or useful.
So this is the task that I have set for myself; to follow the good example of my parents, Jean's parents, and grandfather Ray. I want Ann and John to share their lives with me along with their daily successes and failures, and I don't want them inhibited in doing so. I don’t want my being a parent to get in the way of that sharing. I don’t yet know how they can share their lives without me falling into my “parent mode”, but I trust that I will find the discipline to restrain myself, at least for today.
Hi. My name is Tom, and I am a recovering parent.
They say that it takes a village to raise a child. I wish we had found that village. It would have made my job a whole lot easier. Given that I did an incomplete job, maybe my kids will get lucky and wander into that village. It’s more likely that the village idiot will finish my job; thus my remorse.
At the point the kids left home it was totally too late to slip in those last words of wisdom. Whatever was not done is never going to get done. The kids are suddenly independent, and relishing the experience. They are making their own choices. They don’t want me intruding in their lives.
The restraint shown by my parents and Jean’s parents was miraculous. I can’t recall a single instance where I found them to be an unwelcome interfering factor in our lives. Now that I am the parent with absent children, I don’t see how it was possible. The inclination to second guess my kids decisions is so very strong. When they tell me about their lives I want to analyze their problems and tell them what to do.
I am simply admitting that these inclinations are there, and they are strong. Hi, my name is Tom and I am a parent. I am a recovering parent. I may be a parent, but I am not going to parent my children today. One day at a time I will resist the urge.
It is fortunate that I had 18 years to wean myself from being a parent. Each year the kids could do more and more for themselves and needed me less. The transition was so gradual that I barely noticed it happening. By the high school years they only needed me for money and a ride, and then they got their licenses.
My dad, Dick, used to tell a story about his early working years in Chicago. He had a particularly difficult problem at work that he was describing to his dad, Ray, and was asking what he should do about it. My grandfather Ray said to Dad, “Dick, you are there at work every day. You know the details of the problem and the job environment better than you will ever be able to explain to me. You are already better equipped to handle this problem than I will ever be.” or words to that effect.
I’ve thought of that story often over the years. It tells me that Ann and John are best equipped to solve their own problems. I might think I have a solution, but they will know best what solutions work for them. If the solution doesn’t suit them, then it isn’t a suitable solution. I am now too distant to be effective or useful.
So this is the task that I have set for myself; to follow the good example of my parents, Jean's parents, and grandfather Ray. I want Ann and John to share their lives with me along with their daily successes and failures, and I don't want them inhibited in doing so. I don’t want my being a parent to get in the way of that sharing. I don’t yet know how they can share their lives without me falling into my “parent mode”, but I trust that I will find the discipline to restrain myself, at least for today.
Hi. My name is Tom, and I am a recovering parent.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Flannery O'Connor
I read in the Chronicle of Higher Education today that famous author Flannery O'Connor suggested that creative-writing classes should dissuade even more writers than they already do. I suppose I should be thankful I never took a creative writing class.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Lectures
My dad used to lecture me from time to time. The experience annoyed me greatly. He may have been telling me something important and worthwhile, but I could see these lectures coming at me from a mile away and always found them unpleasant. I hate to admit it, but I regularly turned off my mind and ears to him.
I still don’t know why I resisted these lectures so much. Was it the mode of delivery, the tone of speech, the content, or the fact that I was a teenager? Whatever it was, I didn’t like these lectures, so I didn’t listen. My dad was a stubborn man, and I didn’t fall far from the tree, so the harder he lectured, the harder I closed my mind. I am so curious now what he might have been saying back then.
When Ann was entering her teenage years I still vividly remembered mine. My teenage years were wonderful and dreadfully awful at the same time. I remembered how difficult those years were. I imagined that Ann would surely face some of the same experiences and issues I faced years before.
And so I had some “lectures” that I wanted to share from time to time that I thought might be helpful. Remembering the pain in the butt I must have been to my father, I hoped that there might be something I could say or do which would create a short window of attention from Ann.
I had a great many words of preamble. My hope was that these preliminary words would make my speeches palatable. I explained how I found my father’s lectures to be tedious and how I did not listen. I apologized for the lecture but that I felt it was my job to share my thoughts as her father. I asked that Ann listen ever so briefly, or pretend to listen, as that was her job as daughter. If she did a good job pretending to listen, it would make me feel better about having done my job. I told her my words were probably useless to her, but I might accidentally say one or two useful thoughts. At the very worst I would waste only a few moments of her time.
After the lengthy apology I would deliver my few words of “wisdom”. The lecture was quite short in comparison to the preamble. Each lecture was preceded by roughly the same lengthy apology. After Ann had survived several of these lectures in good form, the preamble seemed tedious, so the next time around I simply said to Ann, “I have lecture number 2,384 ready to share. Do you remember all that garbage I typically say leading into one of these?” She’d say, “Sure Dad, what’s the topic this time?”
I often talked about my high school experiences and asked if this or that was still the same way. We talked about good teachers and bad teachers, and that you could learn from both even if the only thing was the difference between the two. We talked about how high school resembles a prison or a police state, and that life begins when you are free from high school and enter college. We talked about dating, cliques, exclusion, and much more.
I tried to stay away from anything that was actually going on in Ann’s life; that really would be an annoying lecture. It was more like “these things happened to me” and “this could happen to you if it hasn’t already”. I hoped that she wouldn’t have to learn everything first hand; you can learn from others’ experiences, from history, my history in this case.
A few days before Ann left home for West Point we were headed somewhere in the car with John. Ann turned to John and said, “Dad has these ‘lectures’ he likes to give. Some of them are pretty good. You might want to pay attention when he gives one.”
That was one of my favorite compliments.
I still don’t know why I resisted these lectures so much. Was it the mode of delivery, the tone of speech, the content, or the fact that I was a teenager? Whatever it was, I didn’t like these lectures, so I didn’t listen. My dad was a stubborn man, and I didn’t fall far from the tree, so the harder he lectured, the harder I closed my mind. I am so curious now what he might have been saying back then.
When Ann was entering her teenage years I still vividly remembered mine. My teenage years were wonderful and dreadfully awful at the same time. I remembered how difficult those years were. I imagined that Ann would surely face some of the same experiences and issues I faced years before.
And so I had some “lectures” that I wanted to share from time to time that I thought might be helpful. Remembering the pain in the butt I must have been to my father, I hoped that there might be something I could say or do which would create a short window of attention from Ann.
I had a great many words of preamble. My hope was that these preliminary words would make my speeches palatable. I explained how I found my father’s lectures to be tedious and how I did not listen. I apologized for the lecture but that I felt it was my job to share my thoughts as her father. I asked that Ann listen ever so briefly, or pretend to listen, as that was her job as daughter. If she did a good job pretending to listen, it would make me feel better about having done my job. I told her my words were probably useless to her, but I might accidentally say one or two useful thoughts. At the very worst I would waste only a few moments of her time.
After the lengthy apology I would deliver my few words of “wisdom”. The lecture was quite short in comparison to the preamble. Each lecture was preceded by roughly the same lengthy apology. After Ann had survived several of these lectures in good form, the preamble seemed tedious, so the next time around I simply said to Ann, “I have lecture number 2,384 ready to share. Do you remember all that garbage I typically say leading into one of these?” She’d say, “Sure Dad, what’s the topic this time?”
I often talked about my high school experiences and asked if this or that was still the same way. We talked about good teachers and bad teachers, and that you could learn from both even if the only thing was the difference between the two. We talked about how high school resembles a prison or a police state, and that life begins when you are free from high school and enter college. We talked about dating, cliques, exclusion, and much more.
I tried to stay away from anything that was actually going on in Ann’s life; that really would be an annoying lecture. It was more like “these things happened to me” and “this could happen to you if it hasn’t already”. I hoped that she wouldn’t have to learn everything first hand; you can learn from others’ experiences, from history, my history in this case.
A few days before Ann left home for West Point we were headed somewhere in the car with John. Ann turned to John and said, “Dad has these ‘lectures’ he likes to give. Some of them are pretty good. You might want to pay attention when he gives one.”
That was one of my favorite compliments.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Scout Camp Swim
This post is a piece of fluff, but I thought I’d throw it out here anyway.
One summer when John was in his early teens he went to scout camp up near Clayton, GA. It was a one week camp. It was a great opportunity to make some progress on several merit badges. I don’t know how it was possible to schedule it in; recreation league swimming and club team swimming generally sucked up every second of the summer.
Jean and I drove up to Clayton to pick John up at the end of the week. We barely recognized him. He was covered with bug bites and stunk like a Billy goat. He looked so awful I thought he might be sick, but he was so happy that I knew there couldn’t be a thing wrong with him. He proudly told us he hadn’t had a bath all week. We already knew that from a distance of ten yards.
On the drive home, with the windows down, John told us about his week. In addition to working on merit badges they had a one mile swim for those who wanted to attempt the feat. There was a badge that was awarded to those who could swim the mile. I remember when my brothers were in scouts that anyone who could obtain this badge was greatly admired.
John told us that there was a large pond at the scout camp. The mile swim was accomplished by swimming X laps across the pond. They had a couple of canoes that the adults paddled to keep up with the kids and make sure nobody drowned.
John was swimming six days a week with the swim club by this time, and was swimming several miles each day in practice. The scout leaders wouldn’t count his miles of swimming at practice as his mile swim; he had to do it in the pond at scout camp.
So when the mile swim began, John took off. He quickly swam away from the cluster of other swimmers and repeatedly lapped them across the pond. I have this amusing image in mind of the one canoe paddling idly along with the pack of kids making their way slowly across the pond. Then there is the other canoe paddling frantically trying to keep up with John to one edge of the pond, whereupon John turns on a dime and dashes for the other end of the pond while the adults frantically try to turn around their long canoe. John greatly enjoyed their misery.
Frustrating the adults? What’s not fun about that?
One summer when John was in his early teens he went to scout camp up near Clayton, GA. It was a one week camp. It was a great opportunity to make some progress on several merit badges. I don’t know how it was possible to schedule it in; recreation league swimming and club team swimming generally sucked up every second of the summer.
Jean and I drove up to Clayton to pick John up at the end of the week. We barely recognized him. He was covered with bug bites and stunk like a Billy goat. He looked so awful I thought he might be sick, but he was so happy that I knew there couldn’t be a thing wrong with him. He proudly told us he hadn’t had a bath all week. We already knew that from a distance of ten yards.
On the drive home, with the windows down, John told us about his week. In addition to working on merit badges they had a one mile swim for those who wanted to attempt the feat. There was a badge that was awarded to those who could swim the mile. I remember when my brothers were in scouts that anyone who could obtain this badge was greatly admired.
John told us that there was a large pond at the scout camp. The mile swim was accomplished by swimming X laps across the pond. They had a couple of canoes that the adults paddled to keep up with the kids and make sure nobody drowned.
John was swimming six days a week with the swim club by this time, and was swimming several miles each day in practice. The scout leaders wouldn’t count his miles of swimming at practice as his mile swim; he had to do it in the pond at scout camp.
So when the mile swim began, John took off. He quickly swam away from the cluster of other swimmers and repeatedly lapped them across the pond. I have this amusing image in mind of the one canoe paddling idly along with the pack of kids making their way slowly across the pond. Then there is the other canoe paddling frantically trying to keep up with John to one edge of the pond, whereupon John turns on a dime and dashes for the other end of the pond while the adults frantically try to turn around their long canoe. John greatly enjoyed their misery.
Frustrating the adults? What’s not fun about that?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Back Seat
When Ann and John were in their pre-teen years we got in the habit of going to movie matinees. Matinees were good because they were cheaper than full price. Jean wasn’t a movie fan and preferred to have a couple of hours of peace and quiet in the house alone, so Ann John and I would pile into the car after lunch and bolt for one of the “new” theaters with stadium seating.
We tried to pick movies that had been out for a while so they wouldn’t be too crowded. We always got there early so we could sit in the last row and not have anyone sitting behind us making annoying noises during the movie. We also smuggled in a can of coke for each of us. It made the movie affordable, but it really was wrong. The theater makes a great deal of their profit on concessions and you are not supposed to bring anything in. It may have been wrong, but I still have a hard time generating much guilt for my crime.
On car trips, even brief ones, it was our habit to make both of the kids sit in the back seat of the car. We did this even when only one parent was in the car, like on the way to the theater. It cut down on arguments. On one of our trips to the movies pre-teen Ann and I had a discussion about the seating arrangements in the car.
Dad, why do we have to sit in the back seat?
Because, I can’t fit both of you in the front seat
But why couldn’t one of us sit in the front seat?
Because you would argue about who gets to sit in front and who has to sit in back. I don’t want to listen to the arguments.
But what if we didn’t argue?
Didn’t argue? Of course you would argue. You are a girl, John is a boy, boys and girls your age naturally don’t like each other and argue all the time. I hear it in the house all the time; brothers and sisters argue; it’s perfectly natural and unavoidable.
Dad, it looks ridiculous.
What do you mean? I don’t look ridiculous; I am simply driving the car. Driving is quite normal.
No, I mean we look ridiculous, both riding in the back seat with an empty seat up front.
Oh, well, I will grant you that. The two of you do look, well, mildly ridiculous, but at least I don’t look ridiculous and you aren’t arguing!
What if we didn’t argue?
Hah! That is a scientific impossibility. Do you know that researchers studied kids on playgrounds to discover what they liked to do most? They used stopwatches to measure how much time was spent playing football, baseball, basketball, tag, jumping rope and so on. Do you know what activity kids enjoy most? Arguing! The kids spent way more time arguing than playing any other game. So the conclusion was, since the kids spent the majority of their time arguing, that arguing must be their favorite activity. So there it is. Kids love to argue.
That’s great Dad, but what if John and I agreed who would sit up front?
You and John agree on who sits up front?
Yes.
You think you guys could agree in advance of getting in the car who sits where and not argue?
Yes.
You would never argue? You know it annoys me when you argue?
Right, we would never argue.
You know it’s never happened before. It’s never been accomplished before in human history. Wouldn’t that be something? The first kids on the planet not to argue?
We could do it, Dad. Please?
You know it’s pretty big stuff to be the first to do something? You wouldn’t get credit for it in a record book or anything. We couldn’t PROVE that you didn’t argue.
That’s okay.
Hmm. If, and I mean IF we tried this experiment, I’ll throw both your butts in the TRUNK if I see so much as a raised eyebrow, rolled eyeball, or question mark about who sits where.
Sure Dad, whatever.
Well, okay, let’s try it just this ONE time. Both of you get out of the car, have a conversation and get back in where you will, but I don’t want to hear a single disagreeable word. Both of you out of the car and let’s start this exercise over. And don’t forget to thank me!
Thanks, Dad.
(I think she rolled her eyes at that point.)
We tried to pick movies that had been out for a while so they wouldn’t be too crowded. We always got there early so we could sit in the last row and not have anyone sitting behind us making annoying noises during the movie. We also smuggled in a can of coke for each of us. It made the movie affordable, but it really was wrong. The theater makes a great deal of their profit on concessions and you are not supposed to bring anything in. It may have been wrong, but I still have a hard time generating much guilt for my crime.
On car trips, even brief ones, it was our habit to make both of the kids sit in the back seat of the car. We did this even when only one parent was in the car, like on the way to the theater. It cut down on arguments. On one of our trips to the movies pre-teen Ann and I had a discussion about the seating arrangements in the car.
Dad, why do we have to sit in the back seat?
Because, I can’t fit both of you in the front seat
But why couldn’t one of us sit in the front seat?
Because you would argue about who gets to sit in front and who has to sit in back. I don’t want to listen to the arguments.
But what if we didn’t argue?
Didn’t argue? Of course you would argue. You are a girl, John is a boy, boys and girls your age naturally don’t like each other and argue all the time. I hear it in the house all the time; brothers and sisters argue; it’s perfectly natural and unavoidable.
Dad, it looks ridiculous.
What do you mean? I don’t look ridiculous; I am simply driving the car. Driving is quite normal.
No, I mean we look ridiculous, both riding in the back seat with an empty seat up front.
Oh, well, I will grant you that. The two of you do look, well, mildly ridiculous, but at least I don’t look ridiculous and you aren’t arguing!
What if we didn’t argue?
Hah! That is a scientific impossibility. Do you know that researchers studied kids on playgrounds to discover what they liked to do most? They used stopwatches to measure how much time was spent playing football, baseball, basketball, tag, jumping rope and so on. Do you know what activity kids enjoy most? Arguing! The kids spent way more time arguing than playing any other game. So the conclusion was, since the kids spent the majority of their time arguing, that arguing must be their favorite activity. So there it is. Kids love to argue.
That’s great Dad, but what if John and I agreed who would sit up front?
You and John agree on who sits up front?
Yes.
You think you guys could agree in advance of getting in the car who sits where and not argue?
Yes.
You would never argue? You know it annoys me when you argue?
Right, we would never argue.
You know it’s never happened before. It’s never been accomplished before in human history. Wouldn’t that be something? The first kids on the planet not to argue?
We could do it, Dad. Please?
You know it’s pretty big stuff to be the first to do something? You wouldn’t get credit for it in a record book or anything. We couldn’t PROVE that you didn’t argue.
That’s okay.
Hmm. If, and I mean IF we tried this experiment, I’ll throw both your butts in the TRUNK if I see so much as a raised eyebrow, rolled eyeball, or question mark about who sits where.
Sure Dad, whatever.
Well, okay, let’s try it just this ONE time. Both of you get out of the car, have a conversation and get back in where you will, but I don’t want to hear a single disagreeable word. Both of you out of the car and let’s start this exercise over. And don’t forget to thank me!
Thanks, Dad.
(I think she rolled her eyes at that point.)
Friday, September 4, 2009
Blog Focus
When I started out to write this blog my intent was to write a bunch of stories about Ann and John during their formative years. Of course that just turns into an endless brag session, but that’s what parents are good at.
The stories about John’s athletic accomplishments are the easiest to tell because they were observed directly and have numbers associated with them, like place finishes and times. Ann has some athletic accomplishments too, but her best stories are either academic in nature or are about overcoming the many hardships of West Point. Ann has a host of obscenely high grades, test scores, and awards, plus the most atypical college experience that can be imagined.
Ann and John probably know the stories about their childhood pretty well by now. Jean and I enjoy telling the stories over and over again. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t put them in print and save them for their children. Ann and John will tell the stories their way someday. Putting them in writing here makes sure the stories get told at least one time in my way; “in my way” means that I don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.
When I started the blog Ann was wondering why I was doing this and asked if I was healthy. Yes, I am fine; I am not dying, as far as I know. I also know that all too many friends and acquaintances are falling ill and passing away. Just as a run around the mountain begins with a single step, this blog had to start with a single word. It isn’t going to write itself. If I don’t start today, when will it ever get done?
I’ve noticed that a lot of my stories end up being about me. I’ve been feeling guilty about that, but I think I am going to go ahead and give in to the inclination as it suits me from now on. The kids know their own stories perfectly well. They might not know mine.
The stories about John’s athletic accomplishments are the easiest to tell because they were observed directly and have numbers associated with them, like place finishes and times. Ann has some athletic accomplishments too, but her best stories are either academic in nature or are about overcoming the many hardships of West Point. Ann has a host of obscenely high grades, test scores, and awards, plus the most atypical college experience that can be imagined.
Ann and John probably know the stories about their childhood pretty well by now. Jean and I enjoy telling the stories over and over again. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t put them in print and save them for their children. Ann and John will tell the stories their way someday. Putting them in writing here makes sure the stories get told at least one time in my way; “in my way” means that I don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.
When I started the blog Ann was wondering why I was doing this and asked if I was healthy. Yes, I am fine; I am not dying, as far as I know. I also know that all too many friends and acquaintances are falling ill and passing away. Just as a run around the mountain begins with a single step, this blog had to start with a single word. It isn’t going to write itself. If I don’t start today, when will it ever get done?
I’ve noticed that a lot of my stories end up being about me. I’ve been feeling guilty about that, but I think I am going to go ahead and give in to the inclination as it suits me from now on. The kids know their own stories perfectly well. They might not know mine.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Darth Dad
Back in the late 1980’s the Atlanta Track Club had a 50 mile race they put on in January. I ran it 4 times between 1986 (34 years old) and 1991 (39 years old). My worst time was 6:55:48; a pace of 8:19/mile. My best time was 6:43, which placed me third in 1990. That was an average pace of 8:04/mile. Surely they gave me hours, minutes, and seconds, but after running that far I really didn’t care if it was one second, or 59 seconds. My running log doesn’t show the seconds.
The race was held at Stone Mountain Park. There is a fairly hilly road around the mountain that is 5 miles long. Ten laps around the mountain yielded a 50 mile road race course. I’ve run that road every Saturday and Sunday since 1975, so of course I was compelled to run the race.
One of the years I ran the 50-miler I had an interesting encounter during the race. It was an unusual moment that I will never forget. I rarely tell this story because it is barely believable and some may consider it, well, overdramatic and self aggrandizing. I hope that I can do it justice in the retelling. My presence may have meant nothing, or everything; it’s hard to know.
I was running okay that year. I was at the 36 mile mark and had 14 miles left to go. This guy passed me moving pretty quickly and with excellent running form. He was clearly the leader of the race and I had just been lapped. So this guy was at the 41 mile mark and had only 9 miles left to go.
I never considered trying to keep up with this guy and draft for a while. He was so much faster it wasn’t an option for me. If I wanted to finish the race I needed to maintain my pace. I watched him run away from me, admiring his running form and his pace, and he was about 100 yards ahead of me when he suddenly started walking; on a downhill no less! Un-by-god-believable!
Leaders of races never walk and never quit. The reason they are able to lead a race is because they never walk and never quit. These guys are the best. I figured he had to be injured. This was really too bad because the nearest help was 4 miles in the direction we were headed , or one mile back in the direction we had just traveled.
Since he was walking it didn’t take me too long to catch up to him. When I caught him I stopped to walk with him and check his status. In a normal race I would have blown on by without saying a word. This was a 50 mile race. What’s the hurry? A little walking wouldn’t do me any harm and it seemed like the neighborly thing to do.
So when I caught him I said “Are you okay”?
He said “I’m done”.
“You’re done?” I said with surprise.
“Yeah, I’m done. I quit. It’s over.”
This was an awkward moment. He’d clearly run too hard, too soon, and had broken his own will. As a runner you hope to drive your competitors to mentally quit, but this guy was leading the entire race, second place was nowhere in sight, and he had driven himself so hard that he was quitting right there. This is rare. Most runners have the good sense to monitor their own physical and mental wellbeing and back away from the breaking point; bump up against it, yes, but not break.
This guy had done the mental equivalent of driving his car into a telephone pole and I was the first one on the scene of the accident. This was a psychological car wreck. I wasn’t a trained psychologist, but there was nobody else around to handle this, so I figured it was up to me to fix it.
I was walking with him while all these thoughts were running through my head. It took a moment or two for me to decide to take a chance by saying and doing something that really could seem odd to most folks. Could? Hell, what I had in mind was totally odd by anyone’s definition. This could really be embarrassing for me if it didn’t work, but if it did work, and this guy could finish the race, wouldn’t that be worth the risk of my own embarrassment? Maybe I could keep this secret and nobody would ever know.
So I said something like the following. I took my time saying it so each part would sink in deep and could be processed by a brain that wasn’t fully functioning at the time –
“I know you’ve run a lot of races. Remember how you finish the race and are totally wasted? Remember that moments later as you are walking through the finish chute you can feel the glycogen refueling the muscles in your legs and they don’t feel quite so bad? And by the end of the chute you are rethinking the entire race and wondering if you couldn’t have run a little harder here or there, because, after all, suddenly you don’t feel so bad? After a little more walking your legs feel much better and you are sure you could have run faster; in fact, you are ready to run a warm down.”
“Can you feel that happening now? Do you feel the fuel flowing back into your muscles? Every moment you are getting stronger and feeling better. Your blood stream is doing its job; bringing energy to your body. Give it some time. And while your body recovers feel the sun on your face and the energy that brings, and the beauty of the day, and these woods, and let all of that nourish your soul.”
He continued to walk in silence, so I went on to say and do what might seem ridiculous, but seemed perfectly logical after 36 miles of running.
“I’m not feeling too bad. I am pretty sure I can finish this race. I think I have some extra energy I can spare. So don’t freak out, but I am going to take your hand and hold it. (And I did) Open your mind to the possibility that some form of life, energy, psychological wellbeing, or whatever you want to call it can flow from one person to another. Feel it, or imagine it, it makes no difference. Let your mind recharge like a battery. At the very least feel the spirit of good intentions and let them help you recover.”
After a little time passed I thought he might be ready to run again, so I let go of his hand and we continued to walk, and I said my final words.
“Pretty soon now you are going to feel ready to run again. You will know when you are ready to take that first step. I am going to continue walking. I am not going to run off and leave you behind. You are going to run off and leave me behind. Start out slow and easy at a pace you know you can hold all the way to the finish. Take it easy on the up-hills. Walk if you need to, but just remember that walking isn’t quitting in a 50-mile race. Keep moving toward the finish. Finishing is the same thing as winning in a race this long. Finish the race.”
And so he did resume running. He ran off and left me. I started running again soon thereafter, but I couldn’t run anywhere close to the pace he was running.
When I finished the race my boss was there at the finish. I asked who had won. The winner had already gone home, but my boss said that the winner had told the volunteers at the finish that some guy out on course deserved credit for his finishing, and winning, the race. I like to think that guy was me.
The race was held at Stone Mountain Park. There is a fairly hilly road around the mountain that is 5 miles long. Ten laps around the mountain yielded a 50 mile road race course. I’ve run that road every Saturday and Sunday since 1975, so of course I was compelled to run the race.
One of the years I ran the 50-miler I had an interesting encounter during the race. It was an unusual moment that I will never forget. I rarely tell this story because it is barely believable and some may consider it, well, overdramatic and self aggrandizing. I hope that I can do it justice in the retelling. My presence may have meant nothing, or everything; it’s hard to know.
I was running okay that year. I was at the 36 mile mark and had 14 miles left to go. This guy passed me moving pretty quickly and with excellent running form. He was clearly the leader of the race and I had just been lapped. So this guy was at the 41 mile mark and had only 9 miles left to go.
I never considered trying to keep up with this guy and draft for a while. He was so much faster it wasn’t an option for me. If I wanted to finish the race I needed to maintain my pace. I watched him run away from me, admiring his running form and his pace, and he was about 100 yards ahead of me when he suddenly started walking; on a downhill no less! Un-by-god-believable!
Leaders of races never walk and never quit. The reason they are able to lead a race is because they never walk and never quit. These guys are the best. I figured he had to be injured. This was really too bad because the nearest help was 4 miles in the direction we were headed , or one mile back in the direction we had just traveled.
Since he was walking it didn’t take me too long to catch up to him. When I caught him I stopped to walk with him and check his status. In a normal race I would have blown on by without saying a word. This was a 50 mile race. What’s the hurry? A little walking wouldn’t do me any harm and it seemed like the neighborly thing to do.
So when I caught him I said “Are you okay”?
He said “I’m done”.
“You’re done?” I said with surprise.
“Yeah, I’m done. I quit. It’s over.”
This was an awkward moment. He’d clearly run too hard, too soon, and had broken his own will. As a runner you hope to drive your competitors to mentally quit, but this guy was leading the entire race, second place was nowhere in sight, and he had driven himself so hard that he was quitting right there. This is rare. Most runners have the good sense to monitor their own physical and mental wellbeing and back away from the breaking point; bump up against it, yes, but not break.
This guy had done the mental equivalent of driving his car into a telephone pole and I was the first one on the scene of the accident. This was a psychological car wreck. I wasn’t a trained psychologist, but there was nobody else around to handle this, so I figured it was up to me to fix it.
I was walking with him while all these thoughts were running through my head. It took a moment or two for me to decide to take a chance by saying and doing something that really could seem odd to most folks. Could? Hell, what I had in mind was totally odd by anyone’s definition. This could really be embarrassing for me if it didn’t work, but if it did work, and this guy could finish the race, wouldn’t that be worth the risk of my own embarrassment? Maybe I could keep this secret and nobody would ever know.
So I said something like the following. I took my time saying it so each part would sink in deep and could be processed by a brain that wasn’t fully functioning at the time –
“I know you’ve run a lot of races. Remember how you finish the race and are totally wasted? Remember that moments later as you are walking through the finish chute you can feel the glycogen refueling the muscles in your legs and they don’t feel quite so bad? And by the end of the chute you are rethinking the entire race and wondering if you couldn’t have run a little harder here or there, because, after all, suddenly you don’t feel so bad? After a little more walking your legs feel much better and you are sure you could have run faster; in fact, you are ready to run a warm down.”
“Can you feel that happening now? Do you feel the fuel flowing back into your muscles? Every moment you are getting stronger and feeling better. Your blood stream is doing its job; bringing energy to your body. Give it some time. And while your body recovers feel the sun on your face and the energy that brings, and the beauty of the day, and these woods, and let all of that nourish your soul.”
He continued to walk in silence, so I went on to say and do what might seem ridiculous, but seemed perfectly logical after 36 miles of running.
“I’m not feeling too bad. I am pretty sure I can finish this race. I think I have some extra energy I can spare. So don’t freak out, but I am going to take your hand and hold it. (And I did) Open your mind to the possibility that some form of life, energy, psychological wellbeing, or whatever you want to call it can flow from one person to another. Feel it, or imagine it, it makes no difference. Let your mind recharge like a battery. At the very least feel the spirit of good intentions and let them help you recover.”
After a little time passed I thought he might be ready to run again, so I let go of his hand and we continued to walk, and I said my final words.
“Pretty soon now you are going to feel ready to run again. You will know when you are ready to take that first step. I am going to continue walking. I am not going to run off and leave you behind. You are going to run off and leave me behind. Start out slow and easy at a pace you know you can hold all the way to the finish. Take it easy on the up-hills. Walk if you need to, but just remember that walking isn’t quitting in a 50-mile race. Keep moving toward the finish. Finishing is the same thing as winning in a race this long. Finish the race.”
And so he did resume running. He ran off and left me. I started running again soon thereafter, but I couldn’t run anywhere close to the pace he was running.
When I finished the race my boss was there at the finish. I asked who had won. The winner had already gone home, but my boss said that the winner had told the volunteers at the finish that some guy out on course deserved credit for his finishing, and winning, the race. I like to think that guy was me.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Posting Schedule
I have a job, and miles to run, and a dump truck of wood chips on the driveway that need to be distributed. I’ve therefore decided to give up on my original intention to post something every other day. That is a pace I simply cannot maintain. This blog is supposed to be fun for me, not a chore, so I’ve decided to back off to posting one piece a week. I’ve got nine pieces ready to post at the moment. That gives me a nine week break before I need to come up with something new. That’s the deadline I’ve set for myself.
I have 18 pages of one-line subjects and stories that are under construction. Perhaps I can actually finish a couple of them before my nine weeks are up. Perhaps I will find the motivation I am lacking between now and then.
Here are the titles for the next nine posts. I intend to post them sometime each weekend.
29 Aug Darth Dad
05 Sep Blog Focus
12 Sep Back Seat
19 Sep Scout Camp Swim
26 Sep Lectures
03 Oct Recovering Parent
10 Oct Littering
17 Oct Marco Island
24 Oct Sailing with Dad
I have 18 pages of one-line subjects and stories that are under construction. Perhaps I can actually finish a couple of them before my nine weeks are up. Perhaps I will find the motivation I am lacking between now and then.
Here are the titles for the next nine posts. I intend to post them sometime each weekend.
29 Aug Darth Dad
05 Sep Blog Focus
12 Sep Back Seat
19 Sep Scout Camp Swim
26 Sep Lectures
03 Oct Recovering Parent
10 Oct Littering
17 Oct Marco Island
24 Oct Sailing with Dad
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Redemption Center
Ann started running with me and the rest of the running group out at Stone Mountain beginning with the summer of 1994, just prior to starting the seventh grade. We had a pretty good running enclave that included runners of all ages, and most were quite capable and competitive.
As a rising seventh grader with a modest mileage base, Ann could keep up with the group for a couple miles, but couldn’t immediately manage the full 5-mile loop; no one that young could. She went the distance, but not the pace we were running for the whole distance. As the weeks went by, and Ann ran with me on the weekdays as well as the weekends, each weekend she was able to keep up with the group for greater distances, and eventually kept up for the entire 5-mile loop. It was a rite of passage into adulthood.
Our group didn’t “run for fun”. Our group ran because we enjoyed competition. We would often run sociably for a couple miles to warm up, but then it was time to jack up the pace to find out who was at the top of the totem pole that day. Many workouts turned into races. This is the running environment Ann grew up in. It wasn’t long before Ann was joining me at 5K and 10K races around the Atlanta area and all over Georgia.
As I said, the training often resembled a race, so the training gave us a close approximation of what we were capable of over a range of distances. We had a pretty good idea of what time to shoot for at a 5K or 10K race. Because of our competitive environment, we didn’t shoot for conservative times. We targeted times that were ambitious, and it was all too easy to miss the targeted time due to the least imperfection in race conditions or fitness.
Most road races were on Saturday mornings, so we would find ourselves at Stone Mountain on Sunday mornings having failed to attain the unreasonable times we had set for ourselves. We called these Sunday morning runs “The Redemption Center” or “Redemption Runs”.
Ann and I, and the rest of the group, would bitch and moan about how we had failed to run the impossible times we had set for ourselves the day before. We never concluded that the target time was too fast, or the race conditions were sub-optimal, or our fitness was lacking. We always concluded that we had wimped out, or our bodies had betrayed us, and so we had to punish ourselves and our bodies for the failure of the day before.
So it was that after only a mile of warm-up on Sunday, the day after a race, at least one of us would jack up the pace to a self-punishing level to prove that we weren’t as bad as we felt. Usually all of the racers would join the punishment posse, and the folks who had not raced would join in because they were “fresh meat” and could keep up with little difficulty.
We knew logically that it was scientifically wrong to run hard two days in a row, but we did it anyway because our emotional sides needed it. We were angry with ourselves, we were angry with the results, we were angry with our failure, and it felt like we were doing something about it. Unfortunately, what we were doing was stupid.
I remember Ann had a high school race that she felt was particularly poor. She was in a real foul mood in the car on the way home and I could tell she was going to be a real pain in the butt for days until she had a really good workout, or a really good race, and thereby redeem (there is that word again) that day’s race and the resulting poor self image.
When we got home it was late on a Saturday night. I suggested that Ann go to Mountain Park Park (not a typo) and do a Redemption Run on the soft trail in the woods. The sun had been down for hours, but off we went anyway. I accompanied Ann for several hard miles on the trail, narrowly avoiding trees that suddenly loomed up in the darkness as the trail wove its way through the woods. Eventually fatigue set in, and better sense prevailed, and one of us finally came to the realization that “this is nuts!”
We had a good laugh. The Redemption Run had done its job and we headed home for showers and comfortable beds.
As a rising seventh grader with a modest mileage base, Ann could keep up with the group for a couple miles, but couldn’t immediately manage the full 5-mile loop; no one that young could. She went the distance, but not the pace we were running for the whole distance. As the weeks went by, and Ann ran with me on the weekdays as well as the weekends, each weekend she was able to keep up with the group for greater distances, and eventually kept up for the entire 5-mile loop. It was a rite of passage into adulthood.
Our group didn’t “run for fun”. Our group ran because we enjoyed competition. We would often run sociably for a couple miles to warm up, but then it was time to jack up the pace to find out who was at the top of the totem pole that day. Many workouts turned into races. This is the running environment Ann grew up in. It wasn’t long before Ann was joining me at 5K and 10K races around the Atlanta area and all over Georgia.
As I said, the training often resembled a race, so the training gave us a close approximation of what we were capable of over a range of distances. We had a pretty good idea of what time to shoot for at a 5K or 10K race. Because of our competitive environment, we didn’t shoot for conservative times. We targeted times that were ambitious, and it was all too easy to miss the targeted time due to the least imperfection in race conditions or fitness.
Most road races were on Saturday mornings, so we would find ourselves at Stone Mountain on Sunday mornings having failed to attain the unreasonable times we had set for ourselves. We called these Sunday morning runs “The Redemption Center” or “Redemption Runs”.
Ann and I, and the rest of the group, would bitch and moan about how we had failed to run the impossible times we had set for ourselves the day before. We never concluded that the target time was too fast, or the race conditions were sub-optimal, or our fitness was lacking. We always concluded that we had wimped out, or our bodies had betrayed us, and so we had to punish ourselves and our bodies for the failure of the day before.
So it was that after only a mile of warm-up on Sunday, the day after a race, at least one of us would jack up the pace to a self-punishing level to prove that we weren’t as bad as we felt. Usually all of the racers would join the punishment posse, and the folks who had not raced would join in because they were “fresh meat” and could keep up with little difficulty.
We knew logically that it was scientifically wrong to run hard two days in a row, but we did it anyway because our emotional sides needed it. We were angry with ourselves, we were angry with the results, we were angry with our failure, and it felt like we were doing something about it. Unfortunately, what we were doing was stupid.
I remember Ann had a high school race that she felt was particularly poor. She was in a real foul mood in the car on the way home and I could tell she was going to be a real pain in the butt for days until she had a really good workout, or a really good race, and thereby redeem (there is that word again) that day’s race and the resulting poor self image.
When we got home it was late on a Saturday night. I suggested that Ann go to Mountain Park Park (not a typo) and do a Redemption Run on the soft trail in the woods. The sun had been down for hours, but off we went anyway. I accompanied Ann for several hard miles on the trail, narrowly avoiding trees that suddenly loomed up in the darkness as the trail wove its way through the woods. Eventually fatigue set in, and better sense prevailed, and one of us finally came to the realization that “this is nuts!”
We had a good laugh. The Redemption Run had done its job and we headed home for showers and comfortable beds.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Driving to the Beach
Many of my blog pieces seem to revolve around going to the beach. This is yet another one. It is a short story about a fond memory.
When Ann and John were small we often went to Topsail Island, NC for our summer vacation. We would leave as soon as the Gwinnett County Swim League Championship meet was over.
One year John was on a relay that was scheduled for late Saturday afternoon. It was an 8-hour drive to the beach and check-in for the beach cottage was 3-6pm. Ann, Jean, and Grandma headed for the beach after Ann’s morning swim so they could get the key for the beach house. John and I headed for the beach in a separate car after his afternoon swim.
John and I left from the pool in Snellville, GA around 4pm. John wasn’t old enough to drive yet, but fulfilled the roll of navigator with gusto. Whenever we traveled we always made sure that Ann and John had maps so they could follow along. They kept us informed of our progress and made sure we didn’t miss important turns in the route. We always gave them jobs they could handle, and navigator was just that sort of job.
Since John and I left so late, and I was the only driver and needed breaks along the way, our ETA was well after midnight. The fond memory is simple and silly. I remember it was way after 10pm and we were driving along on some deserted two-lane road in the middle of nowhere North Carolina. The moon was full, it was a beautiful summer night, we were making good time, and there was no traffic. We rolled down all the windows, stuck our heads out, and howled at the moon with everything we had. We gave our best imitation of hound dogs at the top of our lungs with the wind in our faces. It was great fun!
I hope John remembers that simple moment as fondly as I do. I think it was one of my, no, OUR better immature moments. Perhaps we are moments away from yet another one. You have to grow old, but you don’t have to grow up. I resemble that.
When Ann and John were small we often went to Topsail Island, NC for our summer vacation. We would leave as soon as the Gwinnett County Swim League Championship meet was over.
One year John was on a relay that was scheduled for late Saturday afternoon. It was an 8-hour drive to the beach and check-in for the beach cottage was 3-6pm. Ann, Jean, and Grandma headed for the beach after Ann’s morning swim so they could get the key for the beach house. John and I headed for the beach in a separate car after his afternoon swim.
John and I left from the pool in Snellville, GA around 4pm. John wasn’t old enough to drive yet, but fulfilled the roll of navigator with gusto. Whenever we traveled we always made sure that Ann and John had maps so they could follow along. They kept us informed of our progress and made sure we didn’t miss important turns in the route. We always gave them jobs they could handle, and navigator was just that sort of job.
Since John and I left so late, and I was the only driver and needed breaks along the way, our ETA was well after midnight. The fond memory is simple and silly. I remember it was way after 10pm and we were driving along on some deserted two-lane road in the middle of nowhere North Carolina. The moon was full, it was a beautiful summer night, we were making good time, and there was no traffic. We rolled down all the windows, stuck our heads out, and howled at the moon with everything we had. We gave our best imitation of hound dogs at the top of our lungs with the wind in our faces. It was great fun!
I hope John remembers that simple moment as fondly as I do. I think it was one of my, no, OUR better immature moments. Perhaps we are moments away from yet another one. You have to grow old, but you don’t have to grow up. I resemble that.
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