I got a flier the other day from one of those places that offer leisure learning courses. You know the type. You get them all the time from the county’s parks and recreation department – knitting, chess, computers, aerobics, etc. The course that caught my eye was Introduction to Writing Creative Nonfiction. The titled sounded exactly like what I’ve been doing in the last 100-something blog posts. I read the synopsis carefully and noticed they included the name of the course text: “Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer”.
Actually enrolling for the class would have taken effort. I haven’t got much effort left in me by the end of the day. Also, a class like that would have jeopardized my long-term commitment to sloth. I would have to go there and participate, and then come back. There might even be homework involved, which is both horror and inhumanity at the same time. It would also have taken money. It was less than $100, but I reminded myself that ten bucks is ten bucks, and a hundred is ten times that. It was much too much for me.
So, given that I am both cheap and lazy, I did make my way to the county library where I might be able to check out the book for free. The library had the book “Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer”, by Roy Peter Clark and another book titled “Keep it real: everything you need to know about researching and writing creative nonfiction” by Lee Gutkind. I was overcome with enthusiasm.
I checked the books out and proudly brought them home. I thought I was going to learn a few things about writing. The delusional moment lasted exactly that long; a mere moment. When I showed the books to Jean she said, “Why would you want to read that? I thought you were writing the blog for fun”. I blinked hard several times as I realized she was right/write/rite. (Grammatical humor intended, especially given the subject of this post) I didn’t have the will to subject myself to the kind of abuse these books contained.
I tested that concept by cracking one of the books open and reading a page. By the time I reached the bottom of the page I realized I had no idea what they were talking about. If they had covered thermodynamics I might have had a clue. Instead there were rules about participles that were dangling, and if you did such a thing you would be convicted as an idiot. I stand before you guilty as charged.
It took me back to my school days in English class where I studiously avoided studying English. They forced us to learn the parts of speech and how to diagram sentences. I did the bare minimum; less if I could get away with it. Begrudgingly, I’d learn what I had to, just enough to pass their tests, and hoped that I would never have to take another English class. For me it was torture. I got passed to the next grade, and then they tortured me with the same English grammar all over again the next year.
When my own kids reached the first grade I remember the teacher explaining that our kids knew hundreds of words, but could only spell a few. She said that when the kids were writing stories the teachers didn’t focus on spelling, and neither should we, because the kids could only spell a small fraction of their vocabulary, and that would limit their writing. And therein lies/lays (oh hell) my excuse.
I am invoking the first grade right/write/rite of bad spelling and I am extending that right as a privilege of old age and ignorance to include grammar, sentence structure, punctuation, and the proper construction of a paragraph or theme. If I only wrote what I knew how to write, it would be too limiting. I refuse to be constrained or held back by my own ignorance.
And so I am not going to worry about never starting a sentence with the word “And” or “But” or whatever the rule really is. Half of the grammar rules seem to have exceptions anyway. Writers are supposed to write about their pains and shames. Well, I am not in pain, and I am not going to let the grammar give me pain, and I am not going to be a-shamed if I screw it up regularly.
So the books I was so enthused about have been sitting on the kitchen counter now for two weeks gathering dust. They are headed back to the library tomorrow. Their/there/they’re secrets will remain secrets, and I’ve been pretty successful so far at pretending not to care. Instead I am pretending that I am an undiscovered writer, pretending I have an audience sometime in the distant future, but not pretending at all when I write for my own amusement, albeit badly at times.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Friendly Competition
I wrote, posted, and then pulled this piece from the blog in July of 2010. I wasn’t as enthused about the posting as I usually am with the other postings. The blog post was an attempt to express my admiration for the sport of swimming, distance swimmers in particular, and the prevalence of sportsmanship within the sport. Having said that up front, what’s left to say? I’ve worked on it some more and hope that it is now worthy of your time.
Jean and I followed Ann and John to swim meets for 15 years. We’ve been to swim meets at all levels of competition, including the American Olympic Trials, and I have to say that I am impressed with the sport of swimming. I’ve found it to be a healthy and wholesome sport you’d be willing to take kids of any age to watch. Swim meets generally lack the aggressive mean-spirited attitudes sometimes found in football, basketball, and baseball. (There are those BALL sports again!) There are a few jerks, but long-time swimmers generally learn the proper attitude. Most swimmers are respectful to each other, genuinely wish each other well before a race, and congratulate each other afterwards. Swimmers are a wonderfully supportive community. I think this is especially true in the distance events.
Before a race the distance guys will be bouncing and stretching gently behind the blocks trying to stay loose before the race begins. They don’t engage in the pre-combat death stare that sprinters use. Instead the guys will smile at each other, or say something funny to the guy in the next lane who also laughs, or walk over to the next lane to shake the guy’s hand and wish him well. It’s the same camaraderie I see in the distance races at track meets and at road races.
When the race is over the distance swimmers laboriously climb out of the pool, and they seek each other out before doing their warm-down swims. They shake hands as they gather in twos and threes and describe their races to each other. They re-live what they did at each stage of the race, how they were feeling, and compliment the other guy’s effort. If they were dying late in the race, they say so, and they all have a good laugh about it. There are no hard feelings. There is no animosity. There is only mutual respect and admiration. They know all too well the pain and hours of practice that created a quality time.
Jean and I followed Ann and John to swim meets for 15 years. We’ve been to swim meets at all levels of competition, including the American Olympic Trials, and I have to say that I am impressed with the sport of swimming. I’ve found it to be a healthy and wholesome sport you’d be willing to take kids of any age to watch. Swim meets generally lack the aggressive mean-spirited attitudes sometimes found in football, basketball, and baseball. (There are those BALL sports again!) There are a few jerks, but long-time swimmers generally learn the proper attitude. Most swimmers are respectful to each other, genuinely wish each other well before a race, and congratulate each other afterwards. Swimmers are a wonderfully supportive community. I think this is especially true in the distance events.
Before a race the distance guys will be bouncing and stretching gently behind the blocks trying to stay loose before the race begins. They don’t engage in the pre-combat death stare that sprinters use. Instead the guys will smile at each other, or say something funny to the guy in the next lane who also laughs, or walk over to the next lane to shake the guy’s hand and wish him well. It’s the same camaraderie I see in the distance races at track meets and at road races.
When the race is over the distance swimmers laboriously climb out of the pool, and they seek each other out before doing their warm-down swims. They shake hands as they gather in twos and threes and describe their races to each other. They re-live what they did at each stage of the race, how they were feeling, and compliment the other guy’s effort. If they were dying late in the race, they say so, and they all have a good laugh about it. There are no hard feelings. There is no animosity. There is only mutual respect and admiration. They know all too well the pain and hours of practice that created a quality time.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Future Posts
I have seven posts ready to go.
1. Friendly Competition (not that great)
2. Grammar (not bad)
3. Art (a good one and a tear-jerker)
4. Jockstraps (good one - funny)
5. Conduct (good one - funny)
6. Friend (nothing to shout about)
7. Looking Back (don't remember what this one is about!)
That is seven weeks until I have to come up with something new and I am not feeling all that inspired lately. Does anyone want to make a written contribution and be the guest poster eight weeks from now and give me a vacation from my self-imposed avocation?
(Ann, John, U. Bill, Annie, Earl, Jean?)
1. Friendly Competition (not that great)
2. Grammar (not bad)
3. Art (a good one and a tear-jerker)
4. Jockstraps (good one - funny)
5. Conduct (good one - funny)
6. Friend (nothing to shout about)
7. Looking Back (don't remember what this one is about!)
That is seven weeks until I have to come up with something new and I am not feeling all that inspired lately. Does anyone want to make a written contribution and be the guest poster eight weeks from now and give me a vacation from my self-imposed avocation?
(Ann, John, U. Bill, Annie, Earl, Jean?)
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Road Less Traveled
I don’t quite know what to list first, the admissions statistics on the West Point Class of 2004, or my commentary. I suppose my commentary goes first. The numbers may bore you and you might never read my comments if they get listed last.
After looking through the stats I am amazed that these talented young people would choose the West Point experience of extreme hardship over the relatively pleasant traditional college experience. I am pleased that they do, but surprised at the same time.
During Ann’s time at West Point I heard administrators say repeatedly that the value of the free education the cadets were receiving exceeded $250,000. The cadets agreed by saying, “Yeah, it’s a $250,000 education shoved up your ass a nickel at a time.” That sounds like a hardship to me. Ann didn’t say that, but I heard it from others. I also heard cadets say that “They take away all your rights, and then give them back to you one at a time and call them ‘privileges’.” Again, Ann didn’t say that. I don’t know what she thought, but she didn’t say that.
Digression: Someday I’d like to see Ann write a few words about why she chose to go to West Point. It would serve as a nice counterpoint to my ignorant observations. A more entertaining, and lengthy, piece would be about how she survived and thrived there.
When Jean and I were visiting Ann and Scott in California in July of 2010, Ann caught a glimpse of these West Point admissions stats and asked what the topic of this blog post was going to be. I told her that I wanted to discuss why so many gifted high school graduates would willingly choose a life of extraordinary hardship when they could go to traditional schools, have the time of their lives, and extend adolescence for another 4 years. I told her that I could only pose the question, but had no idea how to answer the question.
Ann told me that when she was at Navy (yes, Navy) dive school at Panama City the class was asked to write a statement about why they were there. One classmate wrote something like, “The challenge presented itself and I took it.” The instructor said, “Good answer.” (I think the classmate was Ann.)
I captured these admissions statistics from West Point’s web site and wanted to list them here as text in case they disappear some day. Please take a gander and be as impressed as I was.
http://www.usma.edu/class/2004/profile.asp
Class of 2004 “For Country and Corps"
Class Profile at time of admission
Volume of Applicants
Men Women
Applicant Files Started 8,989 1,901
Nominated 3,353 641
Qualified 1,969 352
(academically, physical aptitude)
Admitted 993 195
Rank in High School Class
First Fifth 72%
Second Fifth 19%
Third Fifth 7%
Fourth Fifth 2%
Bottom Fifth 0%
American College Testing (ACT) Assessment Program Scores*
Range Eng Math Sci Reas Read
31-36 14% 26% 19% 41%
26-30 55% 57% 48% 42%
21-25 27% 17% 32% 16%
16-20 3% 0% 1% 1%
11-15 0% 0% 0% 0%
Mean 27 28 27 29
College Board Scholastic Assessment Test (SAT) Scores*
Range Verbal Math
700-800 15% 22%
600-699 49% 53%
500-599 33% 24%
400-499 3% 1%
300-399 0% 0%
Mean 621 641
*Includes only scores used as a basis for admission.
Academic Honors
Class Valedictorians 63
Class Salutatorians 39
National Merit Scholarship Recognition 182
National Honor Society 686
Activities
Boys/Girls State Delegate 217
Class President or Student Body President 222
School Publication Staff
School Paper Editor, Co-Editor of Staff 157
Yearbook Editor or Co-Editor 134
Debating 147
Dramatics 201
Scouting Participants 513
Eagle Scout (men) or Gold Award (women) 155
Varsity Athletics 1,045
Letter Winner 1,045
Team Captain 508
Geographical Distribution
The Class of 2004 "new cadets" included 1,179 U.S. citizens from every state in the nation plus 8 foreign cadets for a total of 1,187 new cadets. There were 195 females, 103 African-Americans, 92 Hispanics, and 9 Native Americans. The foreign cadets were from Cameroon, the Philippines (2), Jordan, Dominican Republic, Honduras, Kazakhstan and Taiwan
After looking through the stats I am amazed that these talented young people would choose the West Point experience of extreme hardship over the relatively pleasant traditional college experience. I am pleased that they do, but surprised at the same time.
During Ann’s time at West Point I heard administrators say repeatedly that the value of the free education the cadets were receiving exceeded $250,000. The cadets agreed by saying, “Yeah, it’s a $250,000 education shoved up your ass a nickel at a time.” That sounds like a hardship to me. Ann didn’t say that, but I heard it from others. I also heard cadets say that “They take away all your rights, and then give them back to you one at a time and call them ‘privileges’.” Again, Ann didn’t say that. I don’t know what she thought, but she didn’t say that.
Digression: Someday I’d like to see Ann write a few words about why she chose to go to West Point. It would serve as a nice counterpoint to my ignorant observations. A more entertaining, and lengthy, piece would be about how she survived and thrived there.
When Jean and I were visiting Ann and Scott in California in July of 2010, Ann caught a glimpse of these West Point admissions stats and asked what the topic of this blog post was going to be. I told her that I wanted to discuss why so many gifted high school graduates would willingly choose a life of extraordinary hardship when they could go to traditional schools, have the time of their lives, and extend adolescence for another 4 years. I told her that I could only pose the question, but had no idea how to answer the question.
Ann told me that when she was at Navy (yes, Navy) dive school at Panama City the class was asked to write a statement about why they were there. One classmate wrote something like, “The challenge presented itself and I took it.” The instructor said, “Good answer.” (I think the classmate was Ann.)
I captured these admissions statistics from West Point’s web site and wanted to list them here as text in case they disappear some day. Please take a gander and be as impressed as I was.
http://www.usma.edu/class/2004/profile.asp
Class of 2004 “For Country and Corps"
Class Profile at time of admission
Volume of Applicants
Men Women
Applicant Files Started 8,989 1,901
Nominated 3,353 641
Qualified 1,969 352
(academically, physical aptitude)
Admitted 993 195
Rank in High School Class
First Fifth 72%
Second Fifth 19%
Third Fifth 7%
Fourth Fifth 2%
Bottom Fifth 0%
American College Testing (ACT) Assessment Program Scores*
Range Eng Math Sci Reas Read
31-36 14% 26% 19% 41%
26-30 55% 57% 48% 42%
21-25 27% 17% 32% 16%
16-20 3% 0% 1% 1%
11-15 0% 0% 0% 0%
Mean 27 28 27 29
College Board Scholastic Assessment Test (SAT) Scores*
Range Verbal Math
700-800 15% 22%
600-699 49% 53%
500-599 33% 24%
400-499 3% 1%
300-399 0% 0%
Mean 621 641
*Includes only scores used as a basis for admission.
Academic Honors
Class Valedictorians 63
Class Salutatorians 39
National Merit Scholarship Recognition 182
National Honor Society 686
Activities
Boys/Girls State Delegate 217
Class President or Student Body President 222
School Publication Staff
School Paper Editor, Co-Editor of Staff 157
Yearbook Editor or Co-Editor 134
Debating 147
Dramatics 201
Scouting Participants 513
Eagle Scout (men) or Gold Award (women) 155
Varsity Athletics 1,045
Letter Winner 1,045
Team Captain 508
Geographical Distribution
The Class of 2004 "new cadets" included 1,179 U.S. citizens from every state in the nation plus 8 foreign cadets for a total of 1,187 new cadets. There were 195 females, 103 African-Americans, 92 Hispanics, and 9 Native Americans. The foreign cadets were from Cameroon, the Philippines (2), Jordan, Dominican Republic, Honduras, Kazakhstan and Taiwan
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Individual Responsibility
In the workplace and in polite company it is best to avoid the topics of religion and politics. While I’ve tried to keep this blog polite and proper, I’ve occasionally wandered into those forbidden topics. I thought I might wander into forbidden territory once again on the off-chance that my descendants might be interested in a few of my opinions. That is all they are, opinions. Hopefully I don’t tick off my friends and relatives so much that they quit reading the blog. With this brief explanation and apology in mind I offer the following . . . opinions.
The year is 2010. The world economy has been in a state of crisis for two years. U.S. unemployment exceeds 10%, tax revenues are down, and state governments are looking to make massive cuts to state budgets to avoid massive deficits. Some states have constitutions that require a balanced budget, so the states cannot legally run a deficit. Something has to be cut from the budget. Nobody wants to cut roads, parks, health, or education, but something has to be cut, and by necessity it is going to be something desirable.
I was amused these past several weeks to see students in California and Georgia protesting proposed cuts to state colleges. The students were outraged and demanded that the state continue to fund their educations. I was outraged that the students felt entitled to an education that I am forced to subsidize.
The students are essentially demanding the government forcibly take my money in the form of taxes and pass it on to state colleges so the students don’t have to pay for their own education. How is it that the students feel entitled to my money? Where and when did it become my responsibility to pay for the college education of these students? Why don’t these students feel a responsibility to pay for their own educations?
Americans don’t recognize their own responsibility for their own welfare. An increasing proportion of the population feels that their welfare is the responsibility of the government. The government is me. I am the government. I am the wage earner and the tax payer. At tax time this year the IRS revealed that 47% of Americans do not pay income taxes. Beware the welfare state? (Herbert Hoover, but I cannot prove it.) We are already there. . .
Forty-seven percent of our citizens are content to sit on their asses and have their votes purchased in the form of “social programs”. Neal Boortz says that the producers (those of us who actually work and pay taxes) are having the fruits of our labors taken by the looters (our elected officials) and paid to the moochers (recipients of the government dole) in payment for votes. I don’t think we should take money from people who have earned it, and then give it to people who have not earned it, and call it “taxes”.
It is not my responsibility to provide you with a job, a minimum wage, or a basic standard of living. It is not my responsibility to feed you. It is not my responsibility to pay for your healthcare. It is not my responsibility to pay for your birth control or for your abortion. It is not my responsibility to provide your housing. It is not my responsibility to pay for your education. It is not my responsibility to provide for your transportation. It is not my responsibility to take care of your children. It is not my responsibility to do anything for you. It is your responsibility to take care of yourself.
If I, as a conscientious citizen of this republic, voluntarily choose to contribute to charity, then that is my business.
Darth Dad
April of 2010
I am not a friend to a very energetic government. It is always oppressive.
--Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, 1787
If we can prevent the government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense of taking care of them, they must become happy.
--Thomas Jefferson to Thomas Cooper, 1802
Government big enough to supply everything you need is big enough to take everything you have ... The course of history shows that as a government grows, liberty decreases.
-- Thomas Jefferson 1743-1826
That government is best which governs least.
-- Civil Disobedience by Henry David Thoreau, 1849
The year is 2010. The world economy has been in a state of crisis for two years. U.S. unemployment exceeds 10%, tax revenues are down, and state governments are looking to make massive cuts to state budgets to avoid massive deficits. Some states have constitutions that require a balanced budget, so the states cannot legally run a deficit. Something has to be cut from the budget. Nobody wants to cut roads, parks, health, or education, but something has to be cut, and by necessity it is going to be something desirable.
I was amused these past several weeks to see students in California and Georgia protesting proposed cuts to state colleges. The students were outraged and demanded that the state continue to fund their educations. I was outraged that the students felt entitled to an education that I am forced to subsidize.
The students are essentially demanding the government forcibly take my money in the form of taxes and pass it on to state colleges so the students don’t have to pay for their own education. How is it that the students feel entitled to my money? Where and when did it become my responsibility to pay for the college education of these students? Why don’t these students feel a responsibility to pay for their own educations?
Americans don’t recognize their own responsibility for their own welfare. An increasing proportion of the population feels that their welfare is the responsibility of the government. The government is me. I am the government. I am the wage earner and the tax payer. At tax time this year the IRS revealed that 47% of Americans do not pay income taxes. Beware the welfare state? (Herbert Hoover, but I cannot prove it.) We are already there. . .
Forty-seven percent of our citizens are content to sit on their asses and have their votes purchased in the form of “social programs”. Neal Boortz says that the producers (those of us who actually work and pay taxes) are having the fruits of our labors taken by the looters (our elected officials) and paid to the moochers (recipients of the government dole) in payment for votes. I don’t think we should take money from people who have earned it, and then give it to people who have not earned it, and call it “taxes”.
It is not my responsibility to provide you with a job, a minimum wage, or a basic standard of living. It is not my responsibility to feed you. It is not my responsibility to pay for your healthcare. It is not my responsibility to pay for your birth control or for your abortion. It is not my responsibility to provide your housing. It is not my responsibility to pay for your education. It is not my responsibility to provide for your transportation. It is not my responsibility to take care of your children. It is not my responsibility to do anything for you. It is your responsibility to take care of yourself.
If I, as a conscientious citizen of this republic, voluntarily choose to contribute to charity, then that is my business.
Darth Dad
April of 2010
I am not a friend to a very energetic government. It is always oppressive.
--Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, 1787
If we can prevent the government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense of taking care of them, they must become happy.
--Thomas Jefferson to Thomas Cooper, 1802
Government big enough to supply everything you need is big enough to take everything you have ... The course of history shows that as a government grows, liberty decreases.
-- Thomas Jefferson 1743-1826
That government is best which governs least.
-- Civil Disobedience by Henry David Thoreau, 1849
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Then and Now
Then: I ran 50 miles at 8:04/mile
Now: It’s an effort to run 5 miles at 8:04/mile
Then: I ran a 10K in 33:50 (Charles Harris 10K April 30, 1983)
Now: I know I can’t run ONE mile at that pace. (05:27/mile)
Then: I ran a mile in 4:20
Now: I have a hard time running ¾ mile in 4:30. (I’d get lapped by my former self)
Then: I ran a 10-miler in 60:50
Now: I run a 10-miler in 74:00 (only on a good day)
Then: I ran a 2:49:16 marathon in 1987. (6:27/mile)
Now: I doubt I can run one mile at that pace.
(Just bragging and getting those times in the record.)
Now: It’s an effort to run 5 miles at 8:04/mile
Then: I ran a 10K in 33:50 (Charles Harris 10K April 30, 1983)
Now: I know I can’t run ONE mile at that pace. (05:27/mile)
Then: I ran a mile in 4:20
Now: I have a hard time running ¾ mile in 4:30. (I’d get lapped by my former self)
Then: I ran a 10-miler in 60:50
Now: I run a 10-miler in 74:00 (only on a good day)
Then: I ran a 2:49:16 marathon in 1987. (6:27/mile)
Now: I doubt I can run one mile at that pace.
(Just bragging and getting those times in the record.)
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Running Miseries
July 24, 2010
I ran 10 miles at Stone Mountain Park this morning. During my 43 years of running I’ve probably done a thousand of these long runs; literally, a thousand of them. (Altogether, around 13,000 runs) There was nothing exceptional or different about this run. During these runs something always (strikeout) usually (strikeout) often (strikeout) occasionally (yes!) goes awry. Not everything goes awry in the same run, but all too often several things do go awry. This is an account of the unwelcome nuisances I typically encounter.
It was 79 degrees with a heat index of 82 degrees when I started running at 7:10 am. The temperature rose quickly as the sun rose. It was so hot and humid today that I had a difficult time managing my body temperature. While running I used my hands to squeegee sweat off my arms and rubbed it on my head for cooling; disgusting, but effective.
The sweat got in my eyes repeatedly and made it difficult to see; it stings when it gets in my eyes. The sweat also got on my glasses and dried there leaving a white crusty substance. Some of it dripped off the bottom of my glasses before it had a chance to evaporate.
My lightweight sleeveless running shirt got soaked with sweat. The shirt was matted to my chest, but through thousands of small repetitive motions it rubbed my nipples raw. I typically don’t know I’ve been rubbed raw until someone points out the two streams of blood running down my shirt at the end of the run. Sometimes the nipples get rubbed raw, but don’t bleed. In that case the discovery is made upon the first contact with soap in the shower. Double ouch.
I sweat so much during summer runs that it runs down my arms and comes slinging off my hands and elbows during each stride. Ann, Chris, and Ben have asked me not to run next to them so they don’t get hit with my sweat. I thought you might like to be aware of that small piece of running etiquette.
During the last two miles of the run I started to feel a blister that was forming on the arch of my right foot. There were also three other blisters that formed on the tops of two toes and between two other toes that I discovered when I took my socks off. I didn’t feel those blisters until I stopped running, and again when I showered. God bless soap; a necessary evil, but ouch, it hurts.
By the end of the run the sweat from my shirt and shorts had also made its way down my legs and collected in my socks and shoes. These too were soaked. Sometimes they get so wet that each foot strike splashes enough sweat out of the shoe to leave a wet outline of the shoe on the pavement. When I got home I was able to wring out the socks just like the other gear. The skin on my feet was pale and white, and was wrinkled as if I’d been swimming for hours.
By the time I finished the run my shorts were dripping with sweat. After the run I changed my shorts in the parking lot while using a beach towel for cover. When I rung them out there was a large puddle of sweat next to my car. The sweat had had more than an hour to ferment during the run, so the shorts smelled awful. I had to put the shorts in a plastic bag so they wouldn’t continue to drip on the car’s carpet and so the upholstery wouldn’t soak up the stench. I didn’t discover that the wet shorts had rubbed my left and right crotch raw until I got in the shower and applied soap and water. Ouch yet again.
I knew I would be dehydrated after the run, so I brought a 20 ounce Gatorade to drink in the car on the way home. I don’t care for the stuff under normal circumstances, but after a run it tastes un-by-god-believably good. My urine is a dark yellow immediately after the run due to the dehydration. I end up drinking fluids all day long before I am hydrated again and my urine turns a lighter color.
I have thick calluses on the edge of my big toes and also on the balls of my feet. The prolonged contact with sweat made the calluses soft, so in the shower I took the opportunity to scrape some of the dead tissue off with my fingernails. If I don’t do some scraping regularly the calluses become too thick and the entire callus will peel off from the foot, which leaves my flesh unprotected from the sock and shoe.
I was lucky today. I didn’t get chafed in the all-time worst location. Sometimes the bottom side of the scrotum gets rubbed raw by the wet running shorts. This is another discovery that is made via contact with soap in the shower. Only in one severe case has this resulted in a bloody scab. Nothing is more frightful to a man than injury to the private parts; absolutely nothing.
When I tried to take a nap after the run my toes kept curling down and a cramp formed in the arch of my foot. Several times I had to get out of bed and stretch the foot straight to eliminate the cramp. The muscles in my calves were also twitching involuntarily during the nap. The twitching felt like I had spiders or flies crawling on the hairs of my legs. It was hard to sleep when my body kept demanding attention.
For the remainder of the day I was tired. My entire body was achy and sore. I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything. I dropped a sock on the floor and it was a minor catastrophe. It’s a major effort to bend over and pick anything up. Sometimes I will take an entire minute debating whether to pick something up or let it lay there. If I do pick it up, I do so in slow motion as if practicing a tai chi movement. I might hurt myself if I do anything quickly.
And then there is the physical discomfort of running itself. The mind, muscles, tendons, heart, and lungs all being pushed to operate in an uncomfortable realm.
Given the collective miseries of running, it is a wonder that anyone runs.
I ran 10 miles at Stone Mountain Park this morning. During my 43 years of running I’ve probably done a thousand of these long runs; literally, a thousand of them. (Altogether, around 13,000 runs) There was nothing exceptional or different about this run. During these runs something always (strikeout) usually (strikeout) often (strikeout) occasionally (yes!) goes awry. Not everything goes awry in the same run, but all too often several things do go awry. This is an account of the unwelcome nuisances I typically encounter.
It was 79 degrees with a heat index of 82 degrees when I started running at 7:10 am. The temperature rose quickly as the sun rose. It was so hot and humid today that I had a difficult time managing my body temperature. While running I used my hands to squeegee sweat off my arms and rubbed it on my head for cooling; disgusting, but effective.
The sweat got in my eyes repeatedly and made it difficult to see; it stings when it gets in my eyes. The sweat also got on my glasses and dried there leaving a white crusty substance. Some of it dripped off the bottom of my glasses before it had a chance to evaporate.
My lightweight sleeveless running shirt got soaked with sweat. The shirt was matted to my chest, but through thousands of small repetitive motions it rubbed my nipples raw. I typically don’t know I’ve been rubbed raw until someone points out the two streams of blood running down my shirt at the end of the run. Sometimes the nipples get rubbed raw, but don’t bleed. In that case the discovery is made upon the first contact with soap in the shower. Double ouch.
I sweat so much during summer runs that it runs down my arms and comes slinging off my hands and elbows during each stride. Ann, Chris, and Ben have asked me not to run next to them so they don’t get hit with my sweat. I thought you might like to be aware of that small piece of running etiquette.
During the last two miles of the run I started to feel a blister that was forming on the arch of my right foot. There were also three other blisters that formed on the tops of two toes and between two other toes that I discovered when I took my socks off. I didn’t feel those blisters until I stopped running, and again when I showered. God bless soap; a necessary evil, but ouch, it hurts.
By the end of the run the sweat from my shirt and shorts had also made its way down my legs and collected in my socks and shoes. These too were soaked. Sometimes they get so wet that each foot strike splashes enough sweat out of the shoe to leave a wet outline of the shoe on the pavement. When I got home I was able to wring out the socks just like the other gear. The skin on my feet was pale and white, and was wrinkled as if I’d been swimming for hours.
By the time I finished the run my shorts were dripping with sweat. After the run I changed my shorts in the parking lot while using a beach towel for cover. When I rung them out there was a large puddle of sweat next to my car. The sweat had had more than an hour to ferment during the run, so the shorts smelled awful. I had to put the shorts in a plastic bag so they wouldn’t continue to drip on the car’s carpet and so the upholstery wouldn’t soak up the stench. I didn’t discover that the wet shorts had rubbed my left and right crotch raw until I got in the shower and applied soap and water. Ouch yet again.
I knew I would be dehydrated after the run, so I brought a 20 ounce Gatorade to drink in the car on the way home. I don’t care for the stuff under normal circumstances, but after a run it tastes un-by-god-believably good. My urine is a dark yellow immediately after the run due to the dehydration. I end up drinking fluids all day long before I am hydrated again and my urine turns a lighter color.
I have thick calluses on the edge of my big toes and also on the balls of my feet. The prolonged contact with sweat made the calluses soft, so in the shower I took the opportunity to scrape some of the dead tissue off with my fingernails. If I don’t do some scraping regularly the calluses become too thick and the entire callus will peel off from the foot, which leaves my flesh unprotected from the sock and shoe.
I was lucky today. I didn’t get chafed in the all-time worst location. Sometimes the bottom side of the scrotum gets rubbed raw by the wet running shorts. This is another discovery that is made via contact with soap in the shower. Only in one severe case has this resulted in a bloody scab. Nothing is more frightful to a man than injury to the private parts; absolutely nothing.
When I tried to take a nap after the run my toes kept curling down and a cramp formed in the arch of my foot. Several times I had to get out of bed and stretch the foot straight to eliminate the cramp. The muscles in my calves were also twitching involuntarily during the nap. The twitching felt like I had spiders or flies crawling on the hairs of my legs. It was hard to sleep when my body kept demanding attention.
For the remainder of the day I was tired. My entire body was achy and sore. I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything. I dropped a sock on the floor and it was a minor catastrophe. It’s a major effort to bend over and pick anything up. Sometimes I will take an entire minute debating whether to pick something up or let it lay there. If I do pick it up, I do so in slow motion as if practicing a tai chi movement. I might hurt myself if I do anything quickly.
And then there is the physical discomfort of running itself. The mind, muscles, tendons, heart, and lungs all being pushed to operate in an uncomfortable realm.
Given the collective miseries of running, it is a wonder that anyone runs.
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