I’ve been looking for a way to tell these two stories for a long time. I haven’t told them because I am yet again the main character and both stories are exercises in self-flattery. I keep trying to think of a way I could slip these into the record without exposing myself as the egotistical self-absorbed jerk that I truly am. I know this about myself, but I don’t want you to know that about me. I suppose that now that I’ve exposed the ugly truth about myself I might just as well go ahead and “tell it all”.
“Tell it all” is a great off-color Lewis Grizzard joke. I will leave that for another day.
Junior Varsity
Longtime readers of this blog know full well that all I ever wanted while growing up was to be a decent wrestler. As they say in the crass class of athletes to which I belong, “I’d a given my left nut” to make the high school varsity wrestling team. Alas, I was the #2 guy on the depth chart for all three years of high school in three different weight classes, and only wrestled in junior varsity (JV) meets. I’d like to make the excuse that my team was stacked with great talent during my years there, but that is all it would be, an excuse. The fact is I wasn’t good enough to beat the #1 guy in two out of three matches. I did make the varsity for a couple meets when the #1 guy was in some kind of unknown trouble I can only guess at, but it was all too rare of an occurrence.
So there was a JV wrestling meet one year against our cross-town rival, Jefferson HS, and I was wrestling this guy whose name was Mikulecky, or something close to it. Mikulecky was #2 to Dan Rowray at Jefferson HS, who was the eventual state champion in our weight class. The #1 guy at my school was #2 to Dan Rowray at state, so I suppose that is yet another excuse. More excuses. Totally worthless, which means I cling to them all the more dearly.
Anyway, it was the beginning of the second period and I had chosen the down position. At the whistle I attempted to stand up and escape, but Mikulecky lifted me off my feet, upended me, and slammed me back to the matt leading with my shoulder. I lay there in a heap of hurt holding my shoulder and the referee stopped the match.
I was too young to realize that I should be thankful my neck wasn’t broken. I was too busy clutching my shoulder, which felt like it was broken, and being ticked off that the official hadn’t penalized Mikulecky a point for slamming me to the mat. In wrestling when you pick someone up, you immediately become responsible for that wrestler’s safe return to the matt. If you injure the other wrestler while returning them to the mat and the injured wrestler is unable to continue, the injured wrestler wins the match. My shoulder was killing me, but since the referee hadn’t made the call, if I quit, Mikulecky would win the match.
From an early age athletes are pumped up with a lot of rah-rah slogans like ‘winners never quit and quitters never win’. As a result I was determined to continue the match so long as the bone hadn’t punctured the skin and my blood wasn’t making the mat too slippery to continue. The assistant coach, Kohl, came out on the mat to check me over and spent way too much time doing it. As an endurance jock I wanted to minimize the rest Mikulecky was getting during my injury time-out. So I wind-milled the arm a couple times to see if it worked, and it barely did with a fair amount of pain, and shooed the coach off the mat. The crowd applauded politely as I returned to the mat, and watched the match with renewed interest. I guess an injury adds drama. (It’s kind of like NASCAR: waiting for the next crash.) Though the shoulder continued to hurt like hell and wasn’t of much use, I did finish the last four minutes of the match and beat Mikulecky by a point.
That was the last match of my disappointing wrestling career. An x-ray revealed that I had separated my shoulder – no wonder that it hurt so much those last four minutes of the match with Mikulecky. The doc put my arm in a sling so I wouldn’t use it to lift any weight. No cast, just a sling. I dutifully showed up for wrestling practice for a couple weeks because that’s what I thought loyal teammates did, but I wasn’t contributing anything by standing there and wistfully wishing I was wrestling. So I checked back with the doc to see if I could take the sling off to run and he gave me his blessing. Of course I never told him how much or how hard I intended to run. The wrestling coach (Dave Rosenberg) gave his blessing to give up the wrestling season and begin my spring track season when I explained I had doctor’s permission to run, but not to wrestle. Rosenberg had been wondering why I was hanging around anyway.
At the end of the winter sports season the high school had an all-school assembly in the gymnasium to recognize then winners of JV and Varsity letters in the various sports. It was a big thing for jocks to be recognized in front of the entire school body. It seemed strange to me that they never had a similar assembly for academic awards, but hey, I wasn’t the Principal.
The format of the assembly called for all the JV kids in a sport to line up in alphabetic order, have their names read in machinegun fashion by an assistant coach, and receive a quick handshake from the head coach. There were a lot of guys on the wrestling team so they had to read the JV names quickly. When it came time for the varsity athletes to receive their awards the head coach stood at the microphone and spoke at length about each individual athlete and all of their accomplishments. The varsity awards were quite a contrast to the cattle-call nature of the JV awards.
So I was standing in line with all the other nameless JV guys during wrestling’s portion of the awards ceremony, listening to Assistant Coach Kohl rattle off name after name after name . . . waiting for my turn to be recognized by name, but in truth, essentially ignored due to the mind-numbing uniform treatment of all. When I finally reached the head of the line to receive my JV award Coach Kohl stopped.
I looked around to see what had gone wrong. Nobody had tripped over the microphone cable, there were no fights in the bleachers; nothing was going on. Coach Kohl was just staring at me. I hoped it was because I’d done something right. He stopped the awards ceremony to talk about me.
I cannot accurately quote Coach Kohl 41 years after the event, but I believe I can accurately recall the essence of his remarks. He apologized for holding up the awards ceremony, but felt it was his duty to acknowledge me and call everyone’s attention what I’d done during the JV match with Mikulecky. He felt that my perseverance under the duress of a separated shoulder in a meaningless JV wrestling match was a prime example of what it meant to be a competitive athlete. Excessively kind words about the nature of character may have been tossed around, but I don’t remember that for sure as I didn’t hear exactly what was being said. I was busy just trying to stay vertical while the entire school was staring at me. Fainting seemed a real possibility. Coach Kohl went on at length, almost as if I was a varsity letter winner. It was embarrassment through flattery; the best kind of embarrassment. It lasted forever, and it ended all too soon.
(I loved it!)
A fond memory
February 27, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Self-Definition
I recently came across a series of 36 pictures and captions on the web that intrigued me. The pictures were double portraits of 72 people in the Emory University community by Dawoud Bey. The portraits were commissioned by the University’s Transforming Community Project. After reading the statements that accompanied the pictures, it became clear from context that each of the 72 people had been asked “Who are you?”, and their on-the-spot verbal responses put into print.
I only intended to read a few of the statements, those of colleagues I’ve known over the years, but somehow got hooked by the very personal revelations being made. Many resembled church confessionals or something you would put in your diary. The self-definitions were diverse, as you would expect from the Transforming Community Project, and were related to work, religion, family, music, and hobbies. The more I read the more I wondered what I would say. What would I dare to put it in print? Could a human life be self-described in a single paragraph? Probably not, but it sounded like an interesting exercise. At the very least it prompts some worthwhile reflection. So with more effort than the exercise deserves I offer the following, as if the previous 100,000 words in this blog didn’t do the job.
When I married Jean in 1976 I decided to become the best husband and father on the planet, and that quest defines me best, but I am also a grandfather, son, brother and friend – cherished roles that I embrace much like that of husband and father. Strangers are friends I haven’t met yet, and friends are family that I choose for myself. I love my family. My profession is not who I am and does not define me. Work is the means by which I obtain food and shelter and maintain my chosen lifestyle. Work is what I do to permit time and activities with my family. I am a runner and wannabe athlete whose ambition has always exceeded his ability. I enjoy the athletic struggle, the sporadic modest achievement, and admire my colleagues engaged in the same struggle. I believe in living a principled life of Courage, Benevolence, Respect, Honesty, Honor, and Loyalty. I don’t claim to have lived the ideal life, but I do claim the pursuit of the dream. I’ve enjoyed my life, and I still enjoy life, but I won’t miss what the world has become. I will, however, miss you.
Tom
February 10, 2011
I only intended to read a few of the statements, those of colleagues I’ve known over the years, but somehow got hooked by the very personal revelations being made. Many resembled church confessionals or something you would put in your diary. The self-definitions were diverse, as you would expect from the Transforming Community Project, and were related to work, religion, family, music, and hobbies. The more I read the more I wondered what I would say. What would I dare to put it in print? Could a human life be self-described in a single paragraph? Probably not, but it sounded like an interesting exercise. At the very least it prompts some worthwhile reflection. So with more effort than the exercise deserves I offer the following, as if the previous 100,000 words in this blog didn’t do the job.
When I married Jean in 1976 I decided to become the best husband and father on the planet, and that quest defines me best, but I am also a grandfather, son, brother and friend – cherished roles that I embrace much like that of husband and father. Strangers are friends I haven’t met yet, and friends are family that I choose for myself. I love my family. My profession is not who I am and does not define me. Work is the means by which I obtain food and shelter and maintain my chosen lifestyle. Work is what I do to permit time and activities with my family. I am a runner and wannabe athlete whose ambition has always exceeded his ability. I enjoy the athletic struggle, the sporadic modest achievement, and admire my colleagues engaged in the same struggle. I believe in living a principled life of Courage, Benevolence, Respect, Honesty, Honor, and Loyalty. I don’t claim to have lived the ideal life, but I do claim the pursuit of the dream. I’ve enjoyed my life, and I still enjoy life, but I won’t miss what the world has become. I will, however, miss you.
Tom
February 10, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Concert Choir Tour – The 400 Meters
The Concert Choir bounced around Germany and Austria for two weeks in the summer of 1970 giving concerts and touring the traditional tourist sites. At one point our buses took us to Berlin and the stadium where Jesse Owens won 4 gold medals in the 1936 Olympics, pretty much destroying Adolf Hitler’s claim of the “Aryan master race”.
The choir of roughly 110 members was milling around outside the stadium when I noticed one of the service entrance gates was open for deliveries. Even though I was a miler by trade, I was still a track fanatic and knew all about the sprinter Jesse Owens, the 1936 Olympics, and this famous stadium.
I wanted desperately to see the track where Jesse Owens won four gold medals. My track buddies would be envious that I was there and saw the inside of the stadium first-hand. Nobody challenged me at the gate so I continued to wander right into the stadium like I belonged there, and a small group followed me.
The entrance led to the top rows of seating and the whole stadium lay below me. If you’ve ever entered a stadium you know the first view of the interior is stirring. The size of the space, the architecture, the contrast of the lush green grass of the field with the track and seating space around it; it all compounds in a visual spectacle that causes me to hold my breath.
As I was standing there telling my friends about Jesse Owens and the 1936 Olympics someone suggested, “Hey Millen, why don’t you run around the track?” Uh-Oh, it was a dare, a challenge, almost a taunt like “What’s-the-matter? You chicken?” It’s something we are all susceptible to, and me especially so.
The problem was we were at the top of the stadium and there were roughly 50 steps down the aisle to the floor of the stadium. At the bottom of the stairs was a concrete wall and what looked like a 6-foot drop into a dry moat. I’d heard about crazed soccer fans in Europe and it appeared that the moat was there to keep the crazy fans off the field. In fact, there were soccer goals set up on the field and it appeared as if they were prepared for a game that night.
“Prepared” was the operative word. They were ready for the game. When I glanced around the stadium I didn’t see a single person working. And when I looked down at my feet I realized I was wearing running flats, a manner of dress I’d only recently begun to practice instead of wearing moccasins. (No lie) Finally, I realized my choral colleagues had never gone to one of my races, and if I was ever going to impress them with my running ability, even though it was only a lousy 400 meters, once around the track, this was going to be my one and only chance. Off I went down the stairs.
I was immediately pumped with adrenaline as I accepted the dare. As an eighteen-year-old I had energy to spare. In no time I had bounded down the stairs, vaulted down what was actually a 7 or 8-foot deep moat, and onto the track. After clearing the moat I had a more realistic idea of how high that wall was, and wondered if I would be able to jump and pull myself up the concrete wall upon my return. (Each decade that moat wall grows a foot taller) No matter, it was too late, I was committed, and I ran my butt off around the track that Jesse Owens had made famous 34 years ago.
Even though I didn’t have a warm-up, I wanted to run the lap as quickly as I could to impress my friends. I wasn’t a 400-meter runner, and had never been accused of having any speed, but I wanted to do the best I could. Not that any of my colleagues would recognize good running form if it bit them, but I did my best to do that right as well. One lap was all I had to show them what I had accomplished in three years of running year-round.
As I made my way around the track I heard my classmates yelling for me as if it were a real track meet, and it helped me to hold the hard pace I’d set from the beginning. But when I got to the far side of the track I realized that their yelling was not the encouragement that I thought it was. I heard concern and alarm in their voices, though I could not make out what they were yelling from 200+ meters away. As I was running I looked up into the stands and found four security guards making their way down the stairs from all four points of the compass. “Oh crap!” I thought, or words to that effect involving partially digested food exiting the digestive system. “I am going to get arrested in Berlin, Germany. I will never go to college. I am going to miss the rest of the tour. My dad is going to kill me. I am going to be embarrassed in front of all of my friends!” If possible, I ran faster. At the very least I know I tried harder.
When I got back to where I’d started my lap I ran as fast as I could for the wall of the moat. Knowing I only had one shot at it, and fueled by adrenaline, I made a monster leap for the top of the moat wall. During those last few yards I’d told myself that this leap would determine jail or freedom. I just barely got my palms on the top of the wall and pressed my way up to where I could get a foot on top and make my way over. I only just made it over, and would not have been close except for the motivation that comes from the threat of arrest. By the time I finished my sprint up the stadium steps my arms and legs were burning with lactic acid and I was soaked in sweat.
Fortunately, the security guards were not coming down any of isles close to where I exited the stadium floor. If they’d thought it through they would have made their way over to where my colleagues were standing. Instead they went all the way down to the bottom of the stadium and then had to pursue me up the steps. I reached my friends before the out-of-shape security guards reached me, and I was enveloped into the safety of the pack of teenagers. My group milled about and we wandered nonchalantly outside to join the rest of the choir.
The story of my lap and the pursuit by the security guards was quickly passed around the choir and by the time the security guards arrived outside the stadium I was buried in the middle of 110 American teenagers. The guards tried to peer into the group and pick me out, but even if they had, I don’t know that they really wanted to push through that many people to accost me. I hadn’t hurt anybody, and I hadn’t hurt anything, so really, what was the point? Maybe the point was to scare the hell out of me, and if so, they were wildly successful.
I was sticky and smelly for the rest of the day, but it was worth it.
The choir of roughly 110 members was milling around outside the stadium when I noticed one of the service entrance gates was open for deliveries. Even though I was a miler by trade, I was still a track fanatic and knew all about the sprinter Jesse Owens, the 1936 Olympics, and this famous stadium.
I wanted desperately to see the track where Jesse Owens won four gold medals. My track buddies would be envious that I was there and saw the inside of the stadium first-hand. Nobody challenged me at the gate so I continued to wander right into the stadium like I belonged there, and a small group followed me.
The entrance led to the top rows of seating and the whole stadium lay below me. If you’ve ever entered a stadium you know the first view of the interior is stirring. The size of the space, the architecture, the contrast of the lush green grass of the field with the track and seating space around it; it all compounds in a visual spectacle that causes me to hold my breath.
As I was standing there telling my friends about Jesse Owens and the 1936 Olympics someone suggested, “Hey Millen, why don’t you run around the track?” Uh-Oh, it was a dare, a challenge, almost a taunt like “What’s-the-matter? You chicken?” It’s something we are all susceptible to, and me especially so.
The problem was we were at the top of the stadium and there were roughly 50 steps down the aisle to the floor of the stadium. At the bottom of the stairs was a concrete wall and what looked like a 6-foot drop into a dry moat. I’d heard about crazed soccer fans in Europe and it appeared that the moat was there to keep the crazy fans off the field. In fact, there were soccer goals set up on the field and it appeared as if they were prepared for a game that night.
“Prepared” was the operative word. They were ready for the game. When I glanced around the stadium I didn’t see a single person working. And when I looked down at my feet I realized I was wearing running flats, a manner of dress I’d only recently begun to practice instead of wearing moccasins. (No lie) Finally, I realized my choral colleagues had never gone to one of my races, and if I was ever going to impress them with my running ability, even though it was only a lousy 400 meters, once around the track, this was going to be my one and only chance. Off I went down the stairs.
I was immediately pumped with adrenaline as I accepted the dare. As an eighteen-year-old I had energy to spare. In no time I had bounded down the stairs, vaulted down what was actually a 7 or 8-foot deep moat, and onto the track. After clearing the moat I had a more realistic idea of how high that wall was, and wondered if I would be able to jump and pull myself up the concrete wall upon my return. (Each decade that moat wall grows a foot taller) No matter, it was too late, I was committed, and I ran my butt off around the track that Jesse Owens had made famous 34 years ago.
Even though I didn’t have a warm-up, I wanted to run the lap as quickly as I could to impress my friends. I wasn’t a 400-meter runner, and had never been accused of having any speed, but I wanted to do the best I could. Not that any of my colleagues would recognize good running form if it bit them, but I did my best to do that right as well. One lap was all I had to show them what I had accomplished in three years of running year-round.
As I made my way around the track I heard my classmates yelling for me as if it were a real track meet, and it helped me to hold the hard pace I’d set from the beginning. But when I got to the far side of the track I realized that their yelling was not the encouragement that I thought it was. I heard concern and alarm in their voices, though I could not make out what they were yelling from 200+ meters away. As I was running I looked up into the stands and found four security guards making their way down the stairs from all four points of the compass. “Oh crap!” I thought, or words to that effect involving partially digested food exiting the digestive system. “I am going to get arrested in Berlin, Germany. I will never go to college. I am going to miss the rest of the tour. My dad is going to kill me. I am going to be embarrassed in front of all of my friends!” If possible, I ran faster. At the very least I know I tried harder.
When I got back to where I’d started my lap I ran as fast as I could for the wall of the moat. Knowing I only had one shot at it, and fueled by adrenaline, I made a monster leap for the top of the moat wall. During those last few yards I’d told myself that this leap would determine jail or freedom. I just barely got my palms on the top of the wall and pressed my way up to where I could get a foot on top and make my way over. I only just made it over, and would not have been close except for the motivation that comes from the threat of arrest. By the time I finished my sprint up the stadium steps my arms and legs were burning with lactic acid and I was soaked in sweat.
Fortunately, the security guards were not coming down any of isles close to where I exited the stadium floor. If they’d thought it through they would have made their way over to where my colleagues were standing. Instead they went all the way down to the bottom of the stadium and then had to pursue me up the steps. I reached my friends before the out-of-shape security guards reached me, and I was enveloped into the safety of the pack of teenagers. My group milled about and we wandered nonchalantly outside to join the rest of the choir.
The story of my lap and the pursuit by the security guards was quickly passed around the choir and by the time the security guards arrived outside the stadium I was buried in the middle of 110 American teenagers. The guards tried to peer into the group and pick me out, but even if they had, I don’t know that they really wanted to push through that many people to accost me. I hadn’t hurt anybody, and I hadn’t hurt anything, so really, what was the point? Maybe the point was to scare the hell out of me, and if so, they were wildly successful.
I was sticky and smelly for the rest of the day, but it was worth it.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Concert Choir Tour - The Announcement
I was in this high school choir which required auditions; an elite group. Within the high school’s arts community this was a big deal. I don’t mean for that to sound flippant because I don’t mean to diminish this in the least. I am very proud of being an early admission to the group, and even prouder of the music we produced. What I really mean to communicate is the existence of several communities within the school. There were jocks, egg-heads, hoodlums, artists, and performing artists. Bragging ever so slightly, I was a fringe member of the jocks, a fringe member of the eggheads, and a fringe member of the music community, but never felt full membership in any of the groups. Fitting in; it is the elusive goal of every high school kid. All of which has nothing to do with the story I intend to tell, but that is what happens in stream-of-consciousness blogs.
Each year the Concert Choir went on a concert tour during spring break. During my sophomore year the choir performed a series of concerts in the Denver area. The tour culminated with a concert at the Air Force Academy Chapel in Colorado Springs. The junior year tour was in the Kansas City area during the 1969 race riots; an interesting experience for a group of high school kids from Iowa.
Each year the spring break concert tour was announced sometime during the fall semester. The entire school year was spent raising funds and preparing the choral repertoire for that tour. There were rumors that my senior year’s tour was going to be something really big. I’d been washing dishes and shoveling gook at the factory for several years in an attempt to earn money for college. The rumors worried me that the trip might be expensive and encroach on my savings for college. I hoped, at the very worst, that the trip might be to Denver or Chicago, a simple bus ride and a few motel stays for a week.
The day finally came for the announcement of our spring concert trip. John Ashford, our choir director, was very cagy about the trip, and built up the announcement much like a TV game show host would do. It was hyped to the max and the entire choir was sitting on the edge of their seats as he explained the purpose of the audition recording we’d made, how it had been sent far and wide, and was well received. I knew we were good, but I wondered to what degree?
I was sinking lower and lower in my seat, seeing a price-tag rising in my head. I was thinking, “Oh crap, it is going to be Los Angeles or New York, and there goes my hard earned college fund to an extravagant high school trip.” I really was dreading the announcement. It needed to be something cheap. It also needed to be to a location that permitted me to get in a daily training run, which had been impossible during previous tours. I’d been training for the state track meet all year. I wanted to do well in the Mile at state, AND I wanted to make amazing music with the choir, AND I wanted to preserve the money I’d earned for college. It didn’t sound like all three goals were going to be mutually compatible.
It seemed to take forever for Ashford to finally get around to the announcement. The climactic announcement was this – we were invited by the Archbishop of Salzburg Austria for a command performance at the Salzburg Music Festival that coming summer.
My high school colleagues went nuts. It was pure pandemonium in the choir room. This was way beyond anyone’s expectations. The girls screamed and the boys yelled. High school couples raced across the room to hug each other. Friends hugged; buddies high-fived. Everyone was thrilled. Everyone was thrilled except for me.
I slumped in my chair with my head in my hands. My friends assumed I was overcome with shock and joy. Shock, yes; joy, no. “Tom, isn’t this great?” “Yeah . . . great”, I said without enthusiasm, hoping that my dismay would not be discovered. I’d been washing dishes and cleaning up the vomit of drunken rich people for $1.00/hour so I could go to college. I didn’t want my colleagues to know that I had no desire to go to Europe and deplete my hard-earned college savings fund. Yes, maybe Mom and Dad would help, but I didn’t want to ask, and I didn’t feel like I should be put in the position where I had to ask.
Each year the Concert Choir went on a concert tour during spring break. During my sophomore year the choir performed a series of concerts in the Denver area. The tour culminated with a concert at the Air Force Academy Chapel in Colorado Springs. The junior year tour was in the Kansas City area during the 1969 race riots; an interesting experience for a group of high school kids from Iowa.
Each year the spring break concert tour was announced sometime during the fall semester. The entire school year was spent raising funds and preparing the choral repertoire for that tour. There were rumors that my senior year’s tour was going to be something really big. I’d been washing dishes and shoveling gook at the factory for several years in an attempt to earn money for college. The rumors worried me that the trip might be expensive and encroach on my savings for college. I hoped, at the very worst, that the trip might be to Denver or Chicago, a simple bus ride and a few motel stays for a week.
The day finally came for the announcement of our spring concert trip. John Ashford, our choir director, was very cagy about the trip, and built up the announcement much like a TV game show host would do. It was hyped to the max and the entire choir was sitting on the edge of their seats as he explained the purpose of the audition recording we’d made, how it had been sent far and wide, and was well received. I knew we were good, but I wondered to what degree?
I was sinking lower and lower in my seat, seeing a price-tag rising in my head. I was thinking, “Oh crap, it is going to be Los Angeles or New York, and there goes my hard earned college fund to an extravagant high school trip.” I really was dreading the announcement. It needed to be something cheap. It also needed to be to a location that permitted me to get in a daily training run, which had been impossible during previous tours. I’d been training for the state track meet all year. I wanted to do well in the Mile at state, AND I wanted to make amazing music with the choir, AND I wanted to preserve the money I’d earned for college. It didn’t sound like all three goals were going to be mutually compatible.
It seemed to take forever for Ashford to finally get around to the announcement. The climactic announcement was this – we were invited by the Archbishop of Salzburg Austria for a command performance at the Salzburg Music Festival that coming summer.
My high school colleagues went nuts. It was pure pandemonium in the choir room. This was way beyond anyone’s expectations. The girls screamed and the boys yelled. High school couples raced across the room to hug each other. Friends hugged; buddies high-fived. Everyone was thrilled. Everyone was thrilled except for me.
I slumped in my chair with my head in my hands. My friends assumed I was overcome with shock and joy. Shock, yes; joy, no. “Tom, isn’t this great?” “Yeah . . . great”, I said without enthusiasm, hoping that my dismay would not be discovered. I’d been washing dishes and cleaning up the vomit of drunken rich people for $1.00/hour so I could go to college. I didn’t want my colleagues to know that I had no desire to go to Europe and deplete my hard-earned college savings fund. Yes, maybe Mom and Dad would help, but I didn’t want to ask, and I didn’t feel like I should be put in the position where I had to ask.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
My Car is Evil
It was 49 degrees this morning when I ran 9 miles in the rain. Nobody else showed up, just me. When I ran past my car at the 7-mile point of the run it called out to me. “You can stop Tom. There is no need to continue. You’ve done enough. It is dry and warm in here. There are dry clothes you can put on. You will feel so much better in here. You need not suffer any longer. It can end - right now. Nobody else is out here running today anyway. Call it a day before you hurt yourself or get sick from the cold and rain. Nobody will ever know. Seven is just as good as nine, right?”
All true if I don’t mind allowing my adversaries to kick my butt at the next race. My car is evil. It tempts me. I ignored its call and shuffled through the last two miles in the rain – emphasis on shuffle at this age.
All true if I don’t mind allowing my adversaries to kick my butt at the next race. My car is evil. It tempts me. I ignored its call and shuffled through the last two miles in the rain – emphasis on shuffle at this age.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Climbing Stone Mountain
As I approach this story I am inclined to be defensive about what went wrong and make myself out as the hero. If not the hero, then at least minimize the fault, if any, because it could happen to anyone, even the best of us, which is who I am, the best of us, c’est moi. After all, no one was harmed, except for my ego, and we were only delayed slightly. Ultimately I did get us out of the predicament, so in truth, it isn’t much of a story at all and barely worth telling, except if Ann and John tell it, they would exaggerate my guilt, so it is best if I get my version printed first.
It was a dark and stormy night. Well, not exactly. It was dark, as it was nighttime, but not exactly, as there was a full moon. And the main point is that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so the full moon was causing the trees to throw well defined shadows. I don’t remember it being terribly hot or cold, so it must have been late summer or early fall. In short, the night, the full moon, and the cloudless weather made for the perfect circumstances for an outdoor escapade.
Whereas I’d climbed Stone Mountain many times before, and
Whereas I knew my way up, down, and around Stone Mountain, and
Whereas I generally enjoyed the crazy adventures my dad came up with that didn’t kill me, and
Whereas Ann and John were old enough to go on an adventure with me, and
Whereas Mom (Jean) generally had the good sense to avoid my adventures, and
Whereas I read too many books where the hero finds his way by the light of a full moon,
I therefore decided one fine fall night that Ann, John, and I should climb Stone Mountain by the light of a full moon.
They didn’t exactly jump at the chance to climb Stone Mountain at night, it did take some convincing. It is ever-so-much more pleasant to sit in a house which is devoid of mosquitoes and watch TV than to go out into the night and climb a 1.2-mile rock trail up a steep incline. Even so, their young minds easily succumbed to my superior powers of persuasion. “Guys, I’ve got this great idea! Everybody climbs Stone Mountain, but how many of your friends have climbed it at NIGHT!?” I raised my eyebrows suggestively as if I was proposing something totally devious, and grinned. It gets them every time. Doing something nobody else does is a must-do for every kid on the planet.
Ann, of course, wondered if it was legal to be in the park after dark, and especially up on the mountain after dark. She sounded just like me when my Dad suggested we shoot the 45 caliber automatic at the state park. Ann might have been heading into the 8th grade which would put John in the 5th grade. John would go along if Ann went, knowing that Ann wouldn’t lead him astray. Ann would go along just to witness my latest adventure. Jean would stay safely at home doubting my wisdom and claiming, “You’ve become your father!” to which I would reply, “There is no reason to be mean like that.”
With all of that as prelude there really isn’t much story to tell, which means it will take me pages to tell it. Stone Mountain was sitting right where I left it earlier that day when I ran around it. It sits like a giant overturned cereal bowl, round in every aspect. A road runs 5 miles around the circumference, which is more of an ellipse than it is a circle. The top of the mountain is 825 feet higher than the base and the walking trail runs 1.2 miles to the top. I call it a trail, but it is more like a recommended route to the top marked by infrequent splotches of white paint on the granite surface. There are trees roughly three-fourths of the way up, while the last bit is bald granite.
“Climbing” Stone Mountain is actually a misnomer. It is really a simple walk that requires no special equipment whatsoever. The only difficulties are the small boulders that regularly present themselves, and are no more difficult than taking the stairs two at a time. We headed up the mountain and made it to the top in little time. Navigating in the dark was simple. Stone Mountain was a giant overturned cereal bowl. Up was up. Wherever you are standing, go up rather than down. It’s not rocket science. There were 360 degrees to choose from for each step, but one was more obviously up than the others, or led to up. Go up. Duh!
The view from the top was spectacular. Without the humidity and smog of summer the city of Atlanta twinkled in the distance with 15 miles of suburbia twinkling at our feet. I am not going to spend a whole paragraph being artsy-fartsy poetic about how beautiful it was with a bunch of metaphors and similes, as if I knew what a metaphor was. It was worth the trip. I enjoyed it. I recommend it to you, but I am not going to torture myself, or you, by describing it.
Having accomplished the first half of our mission, it was now time for the second half. It was time to find our way down the mountain. I could see Stone Mountain freeway to our north. I could see Atlanta to our east. The trail went down the east side of the mountain, and we started off that way.
It wasn’t long before we were amongst the pine trees, which blocked the view of the freeway, and blocked the view of Atlanta, and blocked the light of the moon. Did I mention it was nighttime? Did I mention it was dark? Standing on one white paint mark we couldn’t see the next one, so had to guess its location and head in a direction that seemed reasonable. While heading up the mountain there was only one direction that was definitely up. At any given point coming down the mountain there were 180 degrees laying before us, all of which to some degree were down, or at worst, sideways. Sideways would prove to be my undoing.
I repeatedly got into closely packed trees and bushes that could not possibly be a part of the trail. I’d work myself left and right across the face of the mountain hoping to intersect the trail again, but recognized nothing. I was either too far off the trail, or couldn’t recognize it when I came across it, which was the original problem that got us off the trail in the first place.
Several times Ann would ask, “Are we lost?” Not wishing to scare the kids, and not wishing to acknowledge reality, I said, “We’re not lost. We are on the side of Stone Mountain in the middle of suburban Atlanta.”
Repeatedly I had to admit that I didn’t know if the trail lay to the right or left of our position. Our travel downwards became so tangled with bushes and boulders that it became easier to make our way back UP the mountain, knowing that we would run into the trail again somewhere near the top, and reattempt our trip down. It was becoming an effort of trial and error.
I have to admit I was getting concerned that it might take me hours before I got lucky and remained on the right route down. At the very worst we might have to spend the night up there waiting for the sun to rise so we could find our way down, but by then Jean would have called the police and the embarrassment would have killed me. I much preferred to spend the night up there than have some rescue party come find me in the middle of suburbia.
There isn’t an exciting end to this story. On one of our several attempts downward we were halfway down, but yet again off the trail, and stumbled into some experienced (presumably) backpackers who were making their way up the mountain off-trail. Through their tone of voice and context they made it clear that they were disgusted with this ignorant father taking his two kids out at night and getting lost. Still, they had mercy on me and pointed out that the trail was roughly 50 yards to my right. We headed that way, found the trail, and made our way down the remainder of the mountain without further incident.
Yeah, boring.
No doubt Ann and John have a much different version of the event, one that places all blame on me and puts me in the worst light possible, but that is their job, not mine.
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