Running inside out

CHRIS Running Intervals 1This morning my companion Sue completed eight miles on the treadmill as part of her preparation for an upcoming half-marathon in April. No matter how you look at it, those are not easy miles on a treadmill. A long time, and lots of news to watch. Or whatever.

I’m heading out for a five-miler in raw conditions. The wind is harsh and low. Rain is spitting. Yet five minutes into the run, all will be good. Been there. Done that.

No matter the choice you make, inside or out, there are challenges to be faced. Steps to take. Paces to match. Goals to consider.

There are thousands of track athletes across the country about to go inside out. Track season starts indoors with meets from January through March. It used to be quite the thrill to race hard on the indoor track. When reasonably fit, racing indoors is like a circular basketball game. Without the ball of course. Jostling and charging for lanes. March Madness is just as real for runners as for hoopsters.

But then the indoor season would end, and outdoor track would begin. Frequently this meant a week of spring break between seasons. Then you’d venture out into the open air for a set of runs.

Invariably the first outdoor track workout was disappointing. How could you be so fit indoors and run so slow on intervals outdoors? Well, the wind often had something to do with that. But so did spatial relationships. Going from the spinning vortex of an indoor track to the vacuous expanse of a 400-meter outdoor track was an adjustment.

Perhaps you’d just run 4:30 for an indoor mile. Outdoors would produce a 4:35 if you were lucky.

It’s true for the conversion from riding the computrainer to riding outdoors. Your Ideal World FTP score doesn’t mean jack shit when you’re going up a long, long hill against the wind.

The parallel in swimming is going from the indoor pool and lap swimming to an open water environment. That’s going to be new for me this year. A challenge that may well turn me inside out at first.

Can’t say that I know what to expect. But I know what not to expect: the same results as the indoor pool. And that’s half the battle sometimes.

TRAIN HARD. COMPETE WELL.

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Presence of mind

IMG_7295A few years back, I stopped painting because the process was no longer satisfying or enjoyable. That break lasted a few years. The most that I’d do was create birthday cards in watercolor, or knock out a realistic commission or two upon request. Now I’ve returned to painting and am enjoying the processes that go into it. But it’s been a long journey.

There were many reasons for that painting break. Life dished up quite a few challenges from 2005-2013. Being in and out of work due to my late wife’s cancer and caregiving made things difficult at times. There was no time for anything that was not pointed toward making money or spending it out of necessity.

Bike Frames

But there was still that need for physical release to help me cope with life. At first, I was given a Trek 400 road bike by my brother-in-law. Then came the Specialized Rockhopper mountain bike. Finally, in 2007, I purchased the Felt 4C road bike and took up “serious” cycling. I was enjoying the value of that bike by that time. But in other ways life was not any easier. There were days when stress was like a drag chute behind me. There are some things you can’t leave behind even on the bike.

IMG_3501So it was perhaps a bit ironic that the Felt died an early death last fall when I drove the car into the garage with the bike still perched on the roof rack. I was sick and tired in a couple respects that day. Sick from a touch of the flu, and tired from a 65-mile ride in raw conditions. After a long and challenging year, the fun had frankly gone out of cycling. So my brain wasn’t operating well, and that’s how the Felt met its demise.

New carbon

Over the winter months, I saved up money and purchased a Specialized Venge Expert. It’s a combination road and aero bike that can be adapted as a time trial or triathlon bike.

That the bike’s arrival in my life happens to coincide with my return to painting is no coincidence. My art is headed new directions thanks to some experimentation and a Resident Artist space at Water Street Studios. Graphite and carbon go together perhaps?

Passages 

Starlings.jpgIt’s a related fact that it will be three years since my wife passed away on March 26, 2013. One of the last things she did was to rise one night while on steroids to write an inspirational note to me about pursuing my own way and interests in life. I’ve followed that course by taking risks in starting my own business as a content writer. Everyone knows that it takes a year or two to really hit your stride in any new business. There are fits and starts in clientele, big prospects that soar or fizzle, and also things that work out in surprising ways.

In summer 2013 I met a woman that I’ve been dating ever since. Our relationship is autonomous, yet collaborative. We support each other on many fronts. She respects the reality of my wife’s passing and my love and responsibility for my children’s lives and my wife’s legacy there. I respect her incredible dedication as a single mother these past few years after a divorce. She’s a tough woman, yet tender too. We have each other’s backs.

Specialized indeed and in deed

Specialized VengeIn an interesting way, the new bike sort of symbolizes a renewed journey. I researched the options and got help from my girlfriend and a local bike shop owner. Now our bikes actually match in terms of color and looks. That was not intentional. That’s just how it worked out. She owns a black Specialized Shiv with white lettering. Same look as mine. We’ll be quite a pair of yin and yangs out there on the road. We even have the same inseam. And I’ll leave it at that.

But that’s how it’s been for the both of us. Our lives have sort of matched up in many ways. She doesn’t take credit for it, but she was one of the people that encouraged me to check into Water Street Studios. So did my daughter Emily. “You could use a community,” they both said. And they were both right. The fact that the move aligned with what my late wife encouraged me to do is simply cosmic to me. I’ve always trusted the opinions of women in many ways.

Collaborative universe

Let’s just say it has been like that the last three years. Strange little insights and journeys leading toward a new life.

Here’s a strange and true fact: my girlfriend Sue’s real first name is Linda, same as my late wife. I did not know that fact until the day that she had a bike accident that first summer I met her, and I accompanied her to the Urgent Care Center. When they asked her name, she stated “Linda Suzanne…,” and then turned to me and said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you that. My real first name is Linda, not Suzanne.”

What could I do but sit there a bit stunned. Here I was, just off eight years of hospitals and waiting rooms and I was right back there with this woman that I really liked and it turns out her real first name is Linda?

New realities

Sidewalks.jpgBut let’s be clearl. She’s absolutely Sue to me, and very much her own person. We’ve spent many great hours together, shared our hopes and fears, and done many great things together. That included our trip to London last year, which to me was something of a launch into the future. Neither of us had ever been overseas. This was “our thing.”

And this April we’ll be traveling to an Experience Triathlon camp in Arizona. Neither of us has done that before either. She’s helped me learn how to swim again. We run together at the same pace and can go miles without speaking if we feel like it. Because we simply like the feeling of doing things together. That’s all good, and it’s a new reality we share.

We’ve tried our best to balance the worlds of our past and present. She’s been divorced a few years and her ex is still involved with her grown children, who are great people.

My kids are grown and on their own, but the journey forward from the loss of their mother has been difficult at times. There are moments when I have felt like a failure in helping them reconcile that loss. But I can’t replace their mother, and that’s clearly not why I’m dating Sue. As a family, we’ve ventured the best way we can to accept our new realities and keep alive the love and joy of our lives together.

Presence of mind

I have had a few dreams where I’m dating Sue in present time and my late wife shows up fully alive in the dream. This is a product of my sub conscious mind, but I’ve figured out what the dream means. It is my call to make sure that my late wife remains present in the lives of my children. That is also to say, I am fully absorbed and engaged in the relationship I have with Sue. I love her, and believe she loves me. That is presence of mind on all accounts.

Fortunately, my family and friends including my sister-in-law have been encouraging about my relationship with Sue. About a year after my wife Linda died, her best friend and preschool director, whose name is also Linda (there are a lot of Lindas in my life) turned to me at a Friday dinner out with friends and said, “Did you know that Linda once told me she knew you’d date if she ever passed away?”

Actually, I had never known that. My late wife and I never talked about things that way. We did not need to. Our lives together were fully in the present. We gave ourselves entirely to our relationship. At one point during her late cancer treatment when she was struggling with issues that affected her ability to use the bathroom, I looked at her and said, “One flesh. I am you.” And that was true from beginning to end.

The fact of the matter is that I will give that same dedication and support to Sue. No matter what life brings, that is the foundation for true human relationships.

Live and die

We cannot change the fact that people live and die. Having also lost my father, my mother and my father-in-law in the past 10 years, the intimacy of death is no stranger.

Perhaps that’s why I so like the stripped down, matte-black frame of my Specialized bike. It’s not flashy, but it’s real. When I ride it that flat black paint job gives me calm. The geometry of the bike is curved yet lean. It celebrates forward movement, and the hum of chain on sprocket and the soaring feel of air across my body makes me feel like I am flying.

I get the same feeling putting paint on canvas, and writing words on a page. There is a tactile, present feeling I get from doing these things. They release both grief and love. And if you don’t know it by now, we are moving in the void between those two realities.

The trick is in learning how to enjoy the ride. How to enjoy the process. And how to enjoy life despite its many difficulties, and because of its joys.

LOVE LIFE.

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The things you say the morning after

Mouse

There are a host of regrettable things we do to distract, entertain or satisfy ourselves during our lives. But it’s the things we do the “night before” that always seem to produce the worst temptations, and the worst kind of regrets come morning.

For those who run and ride and swim, there seems to be an additional layer of regrets and questions to add to this mix. Here are a few to consider. Feel free to add a few of your own if you like.

“It was only a small chocolate cone. That can’t hurt.” 

“I remember those first three drinks, but the fourth one escapes me.”

“Who was on top at the end?”

“That was a good FTP last night. How many miles do I run this morning? Oh yeah, eight.”

“I love (insert holiday here) Oh wait, no I don’t.”

“That was a big fart after chili last night. That was a fart just now, wasn’t it?”

“I better look at the carb totals on that bag of Cheetos before I weigh myself.”

“I made it through the entire Game of Thrones in one 24-hour period. But what happened?” 

“Sure glad I texted my ex about that (insert problem). That will fix them.” 

“Probably should have showered last night.”

“I’m sure I set the phone alarm. How did it not go off? Oh. 5:45 pm.”

“Bet I have 100 Likes on my workout from yesterday. Wait. Zero?”

“Glad I hit the gym. Where’s my wallet and phone? Oh God, in that open locker still.”

And there you have some morning-after observations. The kind that are all too often true.

BE ORIGINAL. LOVE LIFE.

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Aging gracefully, or something like that

Aging GRecently I’ve heard several people in their late 20s commenting on the effects of aging on their bodies. That may seem silly to people that are older, but these are legitimate observations. Our bodies do change with age.

For some of this, we should be thankful. I listen to some funny radio stations including Opie Radio on Sirius XM. Pretty much those guys sit around talking about bodily functions and sex. Recently they discussed their first bouts with masturbation.

Some began at the typical age of 12 years old, while one guy waited until he was 18. “Then I went crazy,” he admitted. “I had to go to the doctor for bursitis in my arm. The Doc asked what could have caused an overuse injury. There was no way I was telling him.” He blamed his delay on his deep Catholic upbringing, proving repression is never much of a solution to anything.

Thankfully that level of hormonal disturbance abates (pun intended) at some age. Not necessarily with rapid speed, but sooner or later the hormones give way to other things, like making a living.

Mixed in with the physical strata is our drive to exercise. Those of us who run, ride and swim carefully observe the form our bodies take from all that exercise. We like to keep our weight down, for example. A six pack of abs would be nice. Same with sleek, strong thighs and strong shoulders.

All these things are generally possible as we age. A healthy body functions better as well. We don’t slouch or shuffle as we walk. Our activities aren’t reduced due to poor muscle tone.

Yoga girlThat process truly begins in the 30s, that stage when we transition from youthful bodies to bodies that must be exercised to be maintained. Youth is wonderful, but aging is reality.

Women that go through childbirth experience double the challenge of “getting their body back.” It’s not always possible to come through pregnancy without some source of consternation. Many women gain “baby weight” that is hard to shed. And men, they are known to gain sympathetic poundage in sync with their wives. Or so goes the excuse. The weekend softball tournament no longer is enough to work off the six beers consumed after the game.

So we all have our challenges in terms of body image.

But it isn’t just image. Not by a long stretch. Some of us long for better performance. And through our 30s, we’re generally able to train our way to PRs or something like that. But then something begins to happen deep within our cells. We don’t process oxygen as fast as we once did. Our hearts also can no longer reach the peak of output we once were able to attain. As a result, we slow down a little. Year by year we try to kick age to the curb, but it comes crawling back in those winter months unless we hit the gym, keep the weight down and torture ourselves with indoor FTP sessions on a stationary bike.

It’s all part of aging gracefully, or something like that.

There comes a point where even a fit body refuses to look young in some spots. Our faces change, and there are no pushups for our chins and necks. Except surgery, perhaps, and that’s an option some people choose. If it works, more power to them. Because looking young is more than a hobby in so many stations in life. Ageism is a harsh reality. People who look the age of fifty or older sometimes can’t get hired in positions for which they are qualified. They’re judged to be “too old” for the job, or they don’t “fit the culture” of the company, which is essentially the same as saying “you’re too old.”

How strange it is that the CEOs of most companies are in their late fifties or sixties, and have plenty of capability and innovation left in their brains to make things work. Or that the new Supreme Court nominee Merrick Garland is in his late 50s, almost considered young for such a position. So society is not consistent about these things, just as it is inconsistent about matters of race, gender or sexual orientation. That makes it almost more difficult to figure out the target or the goal of our pursuits.

Idol WorshippingThe idea that showing your age (or gender, or race, or orientation) is a negative is the direct the product of a narcissistic society. Narcissism stems from generally poor self-esteem, which stems from poor management of self-worth and conflicted values.

Those fearful of being exposed for these contradictions in purpose grow to harbor secrets. These lurk beneath their public persona. To hide them, they grow to admire their own courage in defying other people opportunities out of jealousy or some sense of manufactured superiority. They grow cliquish in finding others holding the same fears. In groups they grow to admire those who seem to have no such fears. That’s how we get racist and hate groups, and why the disenfranchised have been known to pick up guns and blow away those able to function normally. It’s all about narcissism.

The same sickness lurks in the souls of those who worship apparently ageless, wealthy individuals. It is our task as human beings not to fall into these traps, where the soul can get sucked out of you, and your real hopes become fodder for the socially and politically powerful.

Aging gracefully is about having the will to be strong, and peaceful, in the face of such soul-sucking narcissism. And God Bless you for that.

SEEK JUSTICE.

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Past imperfect

The imperfect is a verb form, found in various languages, which combines past tense (reference to a past time) and imperfective aspect (reference to a continuing or repeated event or state). It can therefore have meanings similar to the English “was walking” or “used to walk.” It contrasts with preterite forms, which refer to a single completed event in the past.

IMG_9994.JPGMy dad passed away in October last year. It took a couple months for his caregivers to move out to a new apartment. A Realtor friend (of my brother) came by to look at the house and make recommendations on how to prep it for sale.

Yesterday was spent delving through my father’s house and moving things out to a dumpster. It is the job of his four sons to empty the home in which he lived for 35 years.

We moved there in 1978, the summer before my senior year in college. That summer I trained a solid but not crazy schedule, averaging perhaps 35-40 miles per week. The house rests on the long incline of a hill where my brothers and I used to birdwatch on fallow farm fields where gray partridge and pheasants were abundant. I’d finish my runs with hillwork that would prove critical in the season ahead.

Since those years, the entire area around our house has filled in subdivisions. But back then our house was perched out in the open. The long and winding road back to the house could be a long trek on a hot day.

Life seemed like it was changing fast with the move to that house and the pending spectre of my senior year in college. I’d had a great track season the year before, setting PRs at all distances from the mile to the 5000 meters.

But I’d done so with a physical look that was part Lasse Viren and part Napolean Dynamite. I recall looking in the mirror that summer of 1978 and thinking it was time to cut off the long hair and shave the thin beard occupying my chin.

Luther CC 1976So I took shears to my head and cut off large locks of thick hair. It looked like hell. That meant a trip to the barber shop was in order. They fixed what I had wrought. Pretty sure they had a good, long laugh that day when I left.

Then I pulled out a Bic razor and lathered up my face. Left the mustache (because it was 1978) and got clean-shaven.

When I went back to school that fall, tanned and fit and wearing contact lenses and normal hair, no one at the first frat party even knew me. But I fell in love with a girl and that was the formula for happy running. I leapt from 7th to second man for most of the season that fall. Our team placed Second in the Division III National Cross Country Championship.

So the associations with that house where my father lived are not all bad. But they were largely replaced by the last 15 years of so when my father lived with the effects of a debilitating stroke. He needed a wheelchair to get around, and his loss of speech robbed us of family history that could never be recovered.

Mouse.jpgHis junk habits were not horrible, but he was incapable of throwing away anything mechanical. Which meant his house was cluttered (but not jammed) with stuff that needed to be thrown out. I turned my Sentiment Meter down to about 2 on the scale of 10. We tossed heaps of useless stuff into a three-yard dumpster.

I kept a few things. Some t-squares and rulers for my art. A cool old cigar box from the 1950s. Obviously all the family photos and archives. We’ve carefully stored all those.

At one point I looked into a jar and found a mouse long dead in a jar of some chemical. My dad was always fixing golf clubs and puttering in his garage. The mouse and a bunch of flies had met their demise at the bottom of the jar. It looked like an archeology exhibit, like those amazingly excavated fossil skeletons in the London Museum of Natural History that we visited last April. Or, it looked like the remnants of some creature pulled from the La Brea tar pits. All ribs and spine. Not a nice way to go, yet a story told in bold releif.

All of life is lived like this, in the past imperfect. Until we no longer live. Then our past is left to someone else to interpret.

We discussed our own collective habits, my brother and I. He’s always been an organized person. But this house cleanout motivated him even more.

I’ve been perpetually tossing stuff ever since my wife passed away three years ago this March 26. She turned to me in the last month before she died and said, “Chris, I’m sorry about all the junk.” At that time, I did not know what she meant. We simply had a lot of, stuff.

But it’s okay. If we’re smart, we whittle down our existence to the point where we are comfortable with what we own. And let that be that. Then the things we do choose to bring into our lives, we know are either valuable or temporary.

It’s best to re-use, recycle or re-purpose. Yet there are times when things just need to be cleared out, and the story closed. Life is lived in chapters, but you don’t need to keep every book around just because it was printed.

LOVE LIFE.

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The pain of a DNF

suzy-favor-hamilton

With all the training and preparation one does for a race, the most painful part of any racing experience is a DNF. Did Not Finish, is one translation.

Did Not Finish means something went wrong. There is perhaps no greater frustration in endurance sports.

I recall seeing swimmers at the Racine Half Ironman emerge from the sixty-degree water shivering and stiff, lucky to have completed even that stage. They wandered off in their wetsuits to get warmed up in the medical tent. One woman’s lips were blue.

These DNFers had to fetch their bikes later. Gingerly they walked out of the transition area alone and with heads down. All their preciously laid-out triathlon stuff was stuffed back into their bag. There would be no riding or running that day. No Half Ironman Kudos For You!

My own experience with a DNF in the marathon came on a cold day in Minneapolis-St.Paul. The weather for the Twin Cities Marathon was thirty degrees with a brisk wind. I wore only a tee shirt in those conditions and at sixteen miles, my tongue swelled with hypothermia and my lips were indeed blue. A college roommate watching the race pulled me off the course. “You’re done,” he told me.

By contrast, I also DNFed in hot conditions at the Prairie State Games, an Olympic-style competition in Illinois. Temps were in the 80s and humidity, 80%. The air inside the University of Illinois stadium was thick. I ran two miles in 9:30 during the 5000 meters and started to weave on the track. I was fit enough for that pace but not in those conditions. Or perhaps I just ingested too much caffeine in the free Cokes in the cafeteria leading up to the race. In any case, a side stitch and dizziness whacked me good. I wound up in a wheelbarrow filled with ice.

Usually, there’s some aspect of preparation or the lack thereof that leads to a DNF. The wrong diet or a gap in training can throw off your competitive efforts.

Athletes long into a competitive season are most at risk for DNFs. When your racing peak begins to thin, the body rebels. One fall I’d raced seven out of eight weekends in a row and had won several of those races. Week after week I hit the streets to compete in 10ks, 5Ks, half marathons and finally a 25K. I was so fit the racing felt great. All the way through October it lasted.

But then came November. And even though I knew my racing should have been through for the fall, I accepted an invite to a top-flight new 10k race in Rosemont, Illinois. There would be world class runners there, including a guy named Mark Nenow, who would go on to set the 10K road race record in the low 27s.

I did not imagine that I could keep up with those types of runners, but the pace was promising to be fast. So I signed up and went through the first mile in sub-5:00 fashion. And then the bottom fell out. Spectacularly, you might say. The next four miles were a frightful slog. It felt like there was jelly in my quads. I kept going and made it to the entrance to the tunnel where the race finished inside a convention center. Then I pulled off the course and walked, sore and exhausted, to my car. I did not want to end the season with a 39:00 10k. There had been too many triumphs to mar the mind with that kind of effort.

I took that lesson to the bank, for sure. You need to know when your racing season is over. In that respect, there is no shame in a DNF. There are simply days and times when it is not your day or  your time to keep on going. Live to train and race another day. That’s the motto.

Do you have a DNF to share? Write about it in the comments below. We’ve all been there. Get it off your chest. It’s a catharsis!

TRAIN HARD. COMPETE WELL.

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What right to a satellite?

satelliteYesterday, at the end of a four-mile run, I clicked the Strava app to shift the measurement from RIDE to RUN, and waited while my phone processed the information. At that moment it struck me: What right do I have to use a satellite? 

My father once stood over his pile of sons lounging in the living room and asked, “Have you ever seen a miracle?” We were watching a Muhammed Ali fight on TV. The images came around the world by satellite. But all we wanted to do is watch The Greatest float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. We didn’t want lectures from our dad about how satellites worked, or why it was a miracle that we could see this fight from halfway around the world.

Witnessing life in (relative) real time is a miracle to which we’ve all grown long accustomed. Yet the phenomenon of satellite communications is not all that old. The 1960s were just 50 years ago.

The Space Race was what drove it all, and competition for communications advantage and the ability to rule over the earth put the world’s powers into hyperdrive. The United States and Soviet Union put some of their best minds to work, and Sputnik at first kicked our ass.

sputnik-the-first-satellite-placed-mark-thiessenThe account of Sputnik (Russian for “satellite”) is a fascinating read from History.com: “Sputnik had a diameter of 22 inches and weighed 184 pounds and circled Earth once every hour and 36 minutes. Traveling at 18,000 miles an hour, its elliptical orbit had an apogee (farthest point from Earth) of 584 miles and a perigee (nearest point) of 143 miles. Visible with binoculars before sunrise or after sunset, Sputnik transmitted radio signals back to Earth strong enough to be picked up by amateur radio operators. Those in the United States with access to such equipment tuned in and listened in awe as the beeping Soviet spacecraft passed over America several times a day. In January 1958, Sputnik’s orbit deteriorated, as expected, and the spacecraft burned up in the atmosphere.”

In case you’ve forgotten or never knew, the Soviets kept on kicking America’s ass for some time after that. “The Soviet space program went on to achieve a series of other space firsts in the late 1950s and early 1960s: first man in space, first woman, first three men, first space walk, first spacecraft to impact the moon, first to orbit the moon, first to impact Venus, and first craft to soft-land on the moon. However, the United States took a giant leap ahead in the space race in the late ’60s with the Apollo lunar-landing program, which successfully landed two Apollo 11 astronauts on the surface of the moon in July 1969.”

Of course, some delusional American nutniks (as many as 20% according to some sources) still believe that man never walked on the moon. They think it was an event staged by NASA to deceive people.

man_on_the_moon_1920x1200

People tweeted upon astronaut Neil Armstrong’s life and death: “So yesterday was the 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong landed onto the moon on a fake set in a movie studio #letsbehonest #conspiracy #hoax— TheRealThomasfy”

RIP Neil Armstrong! You didn’t really land on the moon, but it’s all good. Your story is still apart of our history.— Mr. Ayy Shorrr

It’s fascinating that such people can use the amazing technology driving their ability to tweet and still not believe that human space flight is possible. Human beings have been orbiting the earth for decades now, circling the 22,000 miles around the earth in what, an hour or so? At that speed, it would take just five hours to reach the moon. Nothing to it really.

Instead, people fix their brains on the impossibility of such a simple reality. And by proxy, they distrust the government to tell the truth about these abilities. It’s a disease of the mind, very sad for humankind, and the source of many modern problems, especially political. Because if you can’t make sense of basic activities like that, and can’t comprehend the miracles of human invention happening around us every day, then you live in a fantasy world of mixed up beliefs and values.

And hence my consternation at my own right to a satellite. At least, I have the humility to trust that billions of dollars have gone into my ability to run four miles and have it be tracked and delivered to me via cell phone. I do not think, “Of course, I deserve it.” I think, “Am I really worth it?”

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I’m going to vote for the candidate of my choice today. Millions of other people will do the same here in Illinois. And approximately 6-20% of them don’t believe that human beings have ever walked on the moon.

Which raises the question: Are they capable of making good choices given their worldview? Upon what judgments are they making a choice for President of the United States?

The results of these political activities will be sent around the world by satellite and consumed with concern by billions of people around the planet. Because the United States is a world power, and our choice of leaders has great effect on the lives of all those who live on this earth. From military strength to protecting the planet from the devastating effects of climate change (which also has its share of delusional deniers) it is critical we choose people who at least accept the complexity of these problems rather than acting like schoolyard bullies who care about nothing but the right to own guns and use them.

Because we all know that people with stunted ideology hate those who promote liberalities. That how men like John F. Kennedy wound up dead. And Martin Luther King, Jr. And Bobby Kennedy. And John Lennon. Even conservative icon Ronald Reagan got plugged by a bullet. Bullets are nothing more than murderous little satellites. Some people seem to believe in them far more than they believe in floating through space with an eye toward the future. Rather than shoot for the moon, they’d rather protect the right to shoot at their neighbor anytime they wish.

Thinking back to the 1960s when John F. Kennedy was President of the United States, he made a pitch to Congress to fund an accelerated space program. As documented on History.com:

“In a speech before Congress on May 25, JFK linked the need for a space program with the political and economic battle between democracy and communism. He urged Congress to mobilize financial resources to speed up the pace of the space program’s progress, insisting that America should go into space because whatever mankind must undertake, free men must fully share.

Kennedy’s vision did not become a reality until six years after his assassination. On July 20, 1969, then-President Richard Nixon watched with the world while Apollo 11 commander Neil Armstrong became the first human to walk on the moon. Just after Armstrong planted the American flag on the moon, President Nixon contacted Armstrong via phone to congratulate him on behalf of all Americans saying I just can’t tell you how proud we are.”

fake-moon-landing-set

But some people sat in their homes during all that history being made and just could not bring themselves to believe in it. Some of those same people are still walking around today, attending rallies for men wanting to build walls around our borders rather than exploring space and voting for who-knows-what other small-minded priorities they hold dear to their hearts.

We’ve landed probes on Mars. We’ve sent space missions out past Saturn and Jupiter. We can track the very source and age of light in the universe. Yet people think human beings have never walked on the moon. These are stupid people. Yet they still have the right to vote just like any other.Democracy isn’t just a messy process. It lets the shit mix in with the cake batter. But that’s the deal. Take it or leave it. It’s just a painful reality knowing their judgments could determine the fate of the human race.

It’s a stunning fact that the lesson some people derive from satellites, moon landings and space missions… is that the most they can draw from these events is that the government can’t be trusted.

Sometimes it’s their religion that drives them to these beliefs. Christians and Muslims and all sorts of versions of anachronistic faith should be held responsible for preaching stupidity to people from the pulpit and on the streets. Unlike many who insist that it’s not right to question religious beliefs, I believe it is the most important responsibility in the world. And if those beliefs add up to stupidity, then call them out. Especially those rife with hypocrisy.

Crawfish

Because scriptural literalism is what’s holding the human race back from progress. It is a cognitive dissonance that poisons human relations in all faiths.

So I’ll share a reality that these backward dolts will love to hear. Because recently, when the United States and Russia began sharing technology including satellites, American scientists were stunned to learn that the Russian instruments and ability to see the earth from space was far advanced over our own capabilities. That’s right, the Russians were still kicking our ass 50 years later.

So go on ahead believing that man never walked on the moon. That’s a great way to fall even further behind our global competitors on every front that matters. It’s a shame sometimes that the one thing satellites can’t track is sheer stupidity, because America seems to be leading the world in that category these days.

SEEK JUSTICE. COMPETE WELL.

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And then the wind kicked up

New BalanceWhitewater, Wisconsin is in the southeast corner of the state. It’s about an hour and a half drive from the Chicago area, and a friend once attended college there.

So we drove up the night before and avoided drinking for once. That was hard to do at that age, because Friday and Saturday nights were generally reserved for drinking when we weren’t racing. That’s life in your 20s.

It was April. Race morning broke clear and sunny. The gun went off and we raced along at sub-5:30 pace expecting (hoping, dreaming) to complete at sub-1:12 half marathon. At the halfway point we were right on time. We turned around, and then the wind kicked up.

Or so it seemed. We’d failed to recognize the wind that had built up behind us as the sun rose in the sky. We were sailing along on pace because it was helping us along. And like all athletes, we were all too willing to deceive ourselves with the wind at our backs.

It turned out this was not just a little wind. This was a wind as big as the sky. The hair I had on my head at the time stood straight back. The big race numbers pinned to our shirts were both flapping and flattened on our stomachs. Gusts hit us from the front and side like giant invisible brooms. It was hard to keep balance on the road. We careened, and then our group broke up like a flock of wayward birds.

That left us each to fend four ourselves against the wind.That gets comic at times. There is a strong little voice in your head that starts to bark bad thoughts. “This does not matter,” it says. But then you think of all that training and find a way to keep going.

We didn’t stop. At one point a friend recalls laughing out loud at the absurdity of running in that kind of wind. Yet the persistent wind swept that laughter away as well. It was like running in a sound chamber. The wind stole the voice and even your footfalls on the road. One moves through a strange void of light and buffeting air.

The finish line took forever to reach. I lurched home the last quarter mile through town grateful just to be completing such a trial. My time was 1:16 and change. It felt like three hours.

In good Wisconsin style, there was beer served after the finish line. Normally I did not drink so soon after a race. But that day, I did not care. Nor did it matter what brand of brew it was. The goal was to drink away that feeling of fighting the wind. Because the wind had won. So I raised a can of Miller Lite or somesuch and watched for my buddies to come trundling home. Perhaps one of that had beaten me that day. I don’t recall. God love ’em for their effort.

It wasn’t the windiest day on which I’d ever run, but it was close. The trophy for Windiest Day goes to a training run in college when sustained winds reached 60 mph. We had to line up like ducklings just to get back home on a 12-miler. That was a living hell. But we laughed about that too.

The wind always wins, you see. There is no defeating it. Even on a calm day on your bike, or running intervals on the track, wind resistance is always there. Without it, you’d die of course. Oxygen is the element that gives us life. So it’s a tradeoff. When nature dishes it up the air we breathe in a fashion that is a little too hard for our liking as cyclists or runners, it is a solid reminder that nature can kick our ass anytime or anyway it likes.

It’s a fact of life.  We all think we matter in the long run. But we really don’t. Nature cares not about the difference between the quick and the dead. The wind goes searching for both. How will it find you today?

LOVE LIFE. TRAIN HARD. COMPETE WELL.

Do you have a story of a windiest day? Share in the Comments section below…

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That day you stop counting laps

A longtime friend and fellow runner named Jeff Wheaton posted a photo of himself from the pool yesterday. He’s been rehabilitating from a foot injury and finally has permission to get back to Jeff Wheatonexercise. He went out and swam 40 laps. First time.

He wrote: “3 months to the date of my surgery, I shed the boot and swam 40 laps! Thankful for progress and all the people who have helped me from my surgery until now, starting with my surgeon, Dr. Tanawat. Thank you! ; )”

Jeff’s always been a good athlete. He ran a 10k around 30:30. So, no slouch. He also went to Wheaton College. So he’s a Wheaton Wheaton. He works in ministry in Burma.

But it was his example in the pool this week that inspired me to get in there and stop making up reasons why I can’t swim longer than 400 meters.

And it worked. I put in an 800 with no problem. And next week I plan to swim even longer. So it’s official. I can swim.

I’ll mark this down as the day I stopped counting laps. Swam by minutes and I know what pace I’m swimming, so it all added up to a great experience in the pool. Let the body do the work and didn’t grind down my brain trying to keep track of laps. I can imagine myself doing a mile or even two-mile open water swim someday. It’s take time, but like anything, it also takes a while for the imagination to keep up with the work. Or perhaps it’s the other way around.

LegsOf course, the flip side is that I’ll keep counting laps as I work on my speed and pace now. But it gives you the confidence to swim faster when you know you can actually swim longer.

And by contrast, it gives you the confidence to swim longer when you know you can go faster. Two sides of a swimming coin. To go farther, you just go a little slower and spread out the effort. Feel the flow. It sounds so basic but you have to build the foundations through persistence to make even the basics possible. For some it’s tough to do the swim. For others, the bike is a vexation. And for many, it’s the run that is the killer.

I’ve come into the sport of triathlon in reverse. As a competitive runner I ran on teams in middle school, high school, college and post-collegiately for running shops. Then I took up cycling in the early 2000s, and was taking my first swim lesson in 2003 when I tore my ACL playing soccer. That squelched the triathlon plans. Rehab.

Then in 2007 I bought a real road bike and got into criterium racing. So the pieces were coming together. There were many days that bike was a rolling salvation from the caregiving necessary for my wife, who passed away from ovarian cancer in March 2013.

When I met my companion Sue, we went cycling on our second date. From there we’ve done many runs together, and have ridden thousand of miles here in Illinois and in the hills of Wisconsin. Now I’m finally able to swim well enough that I will consider joining the Masters program that swims at 5:30 am. Or maybe not. Ha ha. Early mornings. Cold water. Um, maybe.

Honestly, it is getting to the point where swimming is actually enjoyable for me. I plan to check in with my coaches (Sue mostly) to make sure I’m doing things right. But that first leg of an Olympic or even a Half Ironman looks extremely “do-able” now. That was the goal all along. Can’t beat that. //////// 🙂

And Jeff Wheaton, if you read this…God Bless you and your work in this world.

TRAIN HARD.

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The question of orthotics

OrthoticsA few years back when I first signed on to get orthotics, a friend wondered teasingly if I’d replied to one of those ads for penis enlargement.

“You’re getting orthodicks?” he chuckled.

Actually, I made that up. But it illustrates the point that orthotics are still a bone of contention in many quarters.

The jury is still out. Some people swear by them. “Can’t run or ride without them,” they say.

Yet some physicians seem to think they’re some sort of snake oil. They give them no more credibility than fancy-sounding drugs for penis enlargement.

All I know is that I’ve experienced success wearing orthotics. They have helped me manage biomechanical deficiencies that even strength training have not entirely corrected. Yet I also cured my chondromalacia (eroding cartilage under the kneecap) through quad-strengthening exercises learned in PT during rehab from an ACL repair surgery.

So I believe in both.

And a friend recently went through physical therapy for a foot problem that for nearly a year had stopped her from running.  She was frustrated, sad and a bit angry about it all.

But she did the work. Followed her PT treatment orders. Now she’s back running 12-milers again. The problem was a tendon or ligament in her foot that was restricting her ankle movement. The PT people loosened that up and strengthened her “flabby” foot so that she’s back running on a strong foundation.

And that intrigues me. And makes me feel a little guilty. That’s one of the tarsnakes of endurance sports. Where do you go for the best treatment for your particular injury?

Because I got orthotics way back in the 90s and have worn them ever since in my shoes. My first pair was prescribed by Dr. John Durkin, whose patients included Sebastian Coe, who set world records and won Olympic medals wearing orthotics. Coe wore them because his feet were essentially flat. It wasn’t because Coe wasn’t strong. He could leg press 700 lbs with his 5’8″ frame. But his feet were whacked.

Durkin also treated many other world class athletes. So I don’t think orthotics are snake oil or the product of medical quackery at all. I wear them daily as prescribed by my pedorthist.  Same goes for a podiatrist or a chiropractor who prescribes sport orthotics, and knows what they’re doing. It can work for you. But be sure to check around to see if one of these specialists actually knows how to work with athletes. That is crucial.

Da vinci ideal manOrthotics essentially correct foot and leg problems by building support into the insole that our feet do not naturally provide. This can occur through congenital (get the penis joke from earlier?) deficiencies or through degraded foot structure due to wear and tear, or weakness. While the beauty of the human body is considerable, as evidenced in proportion by Leonardo da Vinci’s drawing the ideal man, we all have flaws in our structure. When these flaws are aggravated by running thousands of miles on hard roads, problems tend to crop up in injuries. I don’t buy for a minute that minimalism is the better treatment for wear and tear on the roads. Perhaps if we ran all our miles on dirt or grass, maybe. But 10 miles on asphalt in bare feet or something slightly more? You can have it.

So there needs to be a balance, you might say, in how we fix our body mechanics. Physical therapy attempts to correct these problems through stretching, strength restoration and biomechanical rehearsal.

Orthotics, by contrast, attempt to create a neutral foot position that puts you back into an ideal position for running. I’m a believer in a combination of these two treatments.

As for the penis enlargement industry, which is related to but slightly different than the “male enhancement” business, we can be relatively sure none of that stuff works or else the entire male population would be walking around with what looks like a third leg hanging down between the other two. Because when it comes to the modern interpretation of what makes a man the Ideal Man, times have apparently changed. Modern society has grossly exaggerated the notion of what makes the ideal woman or the ideal man, and there is no orthotic for that. It’s almost like the world is saying, “Da Vinci was wrong.”

Davinci was wrongBecause once you begin comparing dick sizes, there is no stopping the insanity. The recent “small hands” debate between Marco Rubio and Donald Trump featured two candidates for the Republican nomination for President of the United States arguing about their dick sizes in public. Which goes to show that selling snake oil sometimes works better than dealing with reality. But the facts are simple in their case. Both have proven themselves to be real dicks in full view of the public. And there is no orthotic for that.

TRAIN HARD. See what I did there? 

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