Yesterday the topic was “dogging it” in workouts to avoid unnecessary effort and pain.
But one of the ironies of the human languague is that a term like “dogging it” can be so close to a term such as “being dogged” and mean the entirely opposite thing.
When you’re being dogged about something, it means you won’t quit. Our local high school is called the Bulldogs because that animal symbolizes a dogged willingness to win.
I’m here to propose that there’s yet another meaning to the words “dogging it” or being “dogged.” After all, I’ve been dogging it in a dogged way for the past six years. That’s when a little mutt named Chuck first came to live with us.
At first he lived in a frat house on the University of Chicago campus after my son Evan and a friend rescued him off the streets of Chicago. Then while still a pup under a year old, he moved to our house in Batavia. This came about by request of my daughter Emily, who loved the little pup at first sight.
Chuck was a cute and yet anxious pup then. He’s still something of an anxious dog today. When left at the groomer he yips and barks. No harm done, but they do call him a “talker.”
When someone comes home he jumps and leaps in excitement. It’s an annoying habit frankly, especially for women in shorts. His nails can hurt.
Mostly he’s attached to “his people,” and is excited when they arrive back home. For the last six years as my son moved to New York and my daughter moved East in the Chicago suburbs, he’s been living with me.
My job has always been to walk him. Before she passed away from cancer in 2013, my wife did most of the feeding for Chuck and was often around the house. She was his main focus in life.
I assumed that role up upon her passing. But my wife had secretly confided to a close friend that if she were to pass away, Chuck might also die for lack of care. That might have been said in jest, or perhaps not. Some jokes are hard to discern out of context. But in any case, I have taken very good care of Chuck.
He was one of several caregiving responsibilities that came my way the last 10 years. Af first my mother needed help caring for my dad. She passed away from cancer and stroke in 2005. That meant I took over as full time caregiver for my father Stewart, who just passed away in October, 2015. During the eight years of my wife’s cancer treatment in that same timeframe, I was her direct caregiver during treatment and recovery periods. We also had lots of help. And Chuck was one of those helpers too.
It was just him and me left in the house eventually, and it was a joy for the to have him as a companion. But as any dog owner can tell you, being a dog owner also comes with a healthy dose of obligation.
Every trip out of town for cycling or running or a triathlon meant finding someone to care for Chuck. That’s not as easy as it sounds at times. His neediness made a dog kennel an unlikely proposition.
There was a parallel there with my father actually, who was so demanding at times there were very few people who could tolerate his impatience. For that reason, it was not practical to move him to a potentially nice situation in a residential group home in his hometown. He could be a stubborn and forceful man when frustrated. His loss of speech and mobility due to stroke did not make it any easier on him.
But of course, that’s the nature of caregiving. One must accommodate the character of the person, or the dog, involved.
It has been fascinating the last week to see how much of my mind has long been occupied with reminders of Chuck the Dog’s needs. It turns out I’ve been “dogging it” for years and hardly knew that I’d built up a whole system of mental Post-It Notes to plan and take care of that dog.
- When I rise in the morning the first thing that pops into my mind is how to walk him. What’s the weather? Is it raining? Does he need paw gloves? Remember a poop bag?
- Then he needs to be fed. Wet, Dry or Hard Tack?
- He needs a chewie.
- He needs a Greenie for his teeth.
- And so on…
All that stands in front of any plans I might have for the day. Usually I’d walk him before I got out for a run or a ride. Otherwise it can be anywhere from 30 minutes to three hours before he can go. He’s not left me many presents over the years, but once in a while…
That means it’s even harder to get out the door some mornings for a workout. Going to the gym and getting back in time for 8:00 a.m. phone meetings or appointments means rising early. Add in the dog walk and it gets even tighter. When the weather is bad, all that prep with Chuck takes time.
Fact is, the dog often has to come first.
It has been bittersweet however, having Chuck move out. When you’ve lived with any reasonably sentient, loving creature for so long, there is an inevitable feeling of sadness. After carrying Chuck’s gear and crate to my daughter’s car, I stood out in the yard where the dog and I have spent so many mornings together. By my count, that’s been about 2000 mornings taking him out to pee or walk in the early morning light. And again sometimes at noon. Then again at night. So I stood there and cried for a bit. He’s kind of the last connection to all that caregiving and stress and mortality and loss. He’s been a little lamb in a life of wolves. So I’ll admit I cried for myself a little bit. It’s always time to move on. But some moves come harder than others.
There were many longer walks together too. So we’ve probably dogged it together 1000 miles together in all those years. It’s kept him healthy. It’s kept me physically and mentally healthy.Through tough times and good.
There’s a definite attachment that comes with such a presence. I’ve held him in my arms when his paws get too cold on winter mornings. Felt him shiver and realized his small life depends entirely upon my care. Same with hot days. He’s plopped down in the shade more than once. You realize at that moment that summer should not pass you by. So you sit down in the cool grass and let the moment settle on you. He also almost died from a yellow jacket wasp sting four years ago. Those were anxious moments for sure.
On the happy side, we’ve met hundreds of other dogs over those years. I’ve told his story to hundreds of people and hardly a walk goes by where someone does not stop to pet him. I share his happy tale as he wags his short tail. He loves to sit and listen to people talking.
Unless there’s a squirrel.
I’m being careful not to be too sentimental. He’ll come for plenty of visits I know. So it’s not like he’s gone forever. Who knows if he’ll even adapt to living with my daughter in her condo? I rather hope so. She loves him and he’s still in his doggy prime. I want them to have this time together because she is the one who wanted to bring him home in the first place.
Chuck the Dog has been a steady companion.
I’ll also admit that a part of me selfishly wants to experience life without those caregiving obligations. Being able to travel out of town without all that prep and concern. Staying out late for dinner or an overnight without worrying if he’s okay back home. Getting up to go workout without that routine might be kind of nice for a while. Perhaps I’d even work out enough to lose the extra weight around my middle because, I must admit, I’ve been dogging it a little in the eating versus calorie-burning department.
People told me there would be a hole in my life when he’s gone. And while that’s true, I’m prepared to fill that hole in positive ways. With painting. Writing. Running. Cycling. Swimming.
It’s a tradeoff, a tarsnake of choice, selfish interest and obligation. If he comes back home because he’s too anxious to make it work in a new environment after all these years at my place, I’ll understand. But I truly hope he can be dogged in a good way and learn to love life with Emily because she loves him so. And I love her, and my son, and our whole family loves Chuck. We just want the best for him. Sometimes dogging it can also mean a little tough love. That’s another tarsnake of life. Tough. Love.
Last Thursday the speed work went well, Yet the next few days delivered a set of barely sentient slogs. That’s the yin and yang of endurance sports. One day you’re flying high and the next it feels as if you’re crawling through dirt to make any progress.
I’ve shared that a roommate of mine and college track teammate finally broke that cycle of training intensity. We built a slow running base going into our senior year of track and both set PRs at all distances. The same thing transpired with those runners in Philadelphia with whom I trained. They ran their long slow distance really slow. And the benefits were really fast times.
When we’re young, it can be amusing to consider the vexations of older people. The flourish of youth enables this attitude. It’s hard to imagine that you’ll someday face your own symptoms of aging.
But it’s not just injuries that slow us down. Eventually, our bodies cannot process oxygen with the same efficiency, and our muscle volume can deteriorate as we age. That’s why it is highly recommended that athletes keep working with weights and strength to maintain muscle tone and volume.
These things sound funny to younger people, who can’t imagine themselves facing similar problems. But don’t worry, you’ll get there.
But the hips, well that’s a different matter. They do hurt after an hour of running. That means there needs to be specific strength work done to build up the hip flexors and keep them from tiring out late in a run.
There is no escaping the fact that our bodies do change as we age. We are simply not as fast at 50 as we were at 20. But the relative benefits of pursuing fitness and endurance sports with intelligence is a great way to live. It keeps the whole package in shape so that the little health problems we all encounter do not become worse issues because our overall health is bad.
Wouldn’t it be funny if girlfriends had scorecards by which they could grade their boyfriends or husbands on their day to day performance? Can you imagine?
This morning I got up at 5:15 to meet my girlfriend for a workout of 6 X 800 meters at 4:00 pace. It was a little hard getting out of bed at that hour, but really not that bad.
This is the brand of love you express or feel toward all human beings. I truly get those feelings when seeing other runners or cyclists or swimmers racing or training. A quiet “way to go” runs through my head and sometimes I even yell out the car window or wave at a passing runner or cyclists with a few words of encouragement. There’s a fellowship to all that. It even pays to get a little goofy at times to express that agape in this world.
In that atmosphere, every accomplishment or grain of wealth becomes a checklist against which all others are measured. “I earned every dollar I have,” goes the refrain. “I don’t want people freeloading off my hard-earned money.”
The autopsy by my bike mechanic is complete. My Felt 4C is officially a wall ornament.
When I’m alone, that’s what I do. But my girlfriend’s brand new Specialized was in the back earlier that morning because we had not had time to adjust the roof rack for her ride and I wasn’t about to pile my bike on top of hers in the back.
I raced that Felt 4C in many criteriums. Climbed many hills. Struggled through the Illinois wind and enjoyed slamming through rain storms on summer days.
I’ve been to the bike shop several times to look at a new Felt B14 carbon fiber aero bike. My needs and priorities in cycling have changed a bit over the years. Last summer was the first time I did not race a single criterium. But if I choose to do that, I still have the Waterford and with some tweaking that can be my road bike forever.
We’ll see what transpires. I want to do some indoor riding this winter to build my thighs into shape before the season begins outdoors. I can always do that on the Waterford for now. But the experiment with tri-bars on that bike did not turn out that well. So off they come.
Of course, that bike delivered quite a bit of pain and suffering too. But I’ll cherish this photo of us cresting the last climb at Horribly Hill last summer.
Coming out of college an opportunity was presented to become an Admissions Counselor for Luther College. Feeling loyal and proud of the institution I interviewed for the position and was assigned the territory of Chicago and the state of Illinois.
But what those seemingly faraway suburbs meant in terms of college prospects was a much more subtle thing to discern. My vision of large suburban communities was all based on what I knew of high school cross country and track teams against whom I’d competed.
There were certain towns that had pumped out prospects for years. These were “hotspots” according to the outgoing Admissions Counselor, who was moving to take over the Luther Book Shop after ten years or more in the business of recruiting students. I sensed a bit of bitterness in the transition, something that surprised me as a young man. It was the first hint that something might be wrong in Wonderland.
So it was impossible to step in and expect to take over the territory with the snap of a finger. I met with those contacts but like anyone, they were feeling me out as to how much they could trust me to take care of the kids they were recommending to attend Luther.
That option was removed when I took the job. That meant I left Decorah on a Sunday night, drove the 258 miles to some hotel strategically chosen in the Chicago landscape, and traveled throughout the week to reach schools scheduled for visits.
That schedule left precious little time for running. I began to lament the difference between the previous fall, when our team had trained together all those gorgeous months in the sunshine, placing second in the national meet in Rock Island. I was in love then, and in college, and finally enjoying some personal success after a 
on Friday afternoon to drive back to Decorah. Up through Madison and across the state of Wisconsin I’d go in that little blue Dodge Omni. It was a great little car in an era when American cars generally sucked.
I got back to the hotel late already for the college night. Exhausted and sweaty, I showered quickly and tore out the door for the college night at a local community college. Mercifully, I was busy talking with kids the entire night. It was like God delivered a batch of prospects on a spoon. I was elated and tired and disgusted by the strain of that day all at once.
Meanwhile my girlfriend had completed her degree and would graduate in December. We did not know what came next, but I had admittedly taken the Admissions job to remain close to her in some way.
Sometimes we exist in a time and a void that has no real explanation. Institutions go through changes just like the individuals who serve them.
Last evening I attended the 
All that work always comes down to performance im the end. In that regard, there is a keen similarity between running, riding and swimming. The work that goes into them resembles the practice of the performance arts, dance and music. There is a physical component to both, for sure. Dancers obviously put great stress on their bodies. Yet great musicians use their entire bodies in their playing as well. Why else would oboe players be susceptible to hemorrhoids, or drummers or guitarists blister and bleed from their fingers? It’s tough work.
As I sat watching the Nutcracker last night, considering the role of Drosselmeyer and his magic ways, it struck me that the entire ballet is about the non-conformity of Nutcracker Dreams. One description puts it this way: “It is never explained in the ballet where he comes from or why Drosselmeyer has magical powers, but one of them, apparently, is the ability to bring toys to life.”
Sport plays an important role in this dance of the world. It shows us that our differences are what make us so much alike. Those of us who run, ride and swim know this at heart. The varied abilities and goals of each competitor make every event unique. We derive inspiration from the plodder coming in at the last minute of an Ironman just as we do from the triumphant stride of the winner hours earlier.
Tests of my own objectivity and respect are not difficult to find. Yesterday in the pool I popped up from an interval to find a woman perched on the pool edge working up the will to get into the water. I said hello, and offered a bit of commiseration. “For me, the worst part is getting into the water,” I laughed.
I recently did some simple calculations, adding up the number of hours spent outside running and riding. It totals more than 7,000 hours, approximately 40,000 miles of running over a lifetime and just as many on the bike. 80,000 or so miles.
and small. That includes a fun piece I did for Runner’s World years ago that led to a contract with a running race in Texas for whom I produced a poster won the RW Cream of the Crop Award for Best Designs.
So the Anthropocene Era is certainly real. That includes the massive influence of carbon emissions on the atmosphere. We’ve already taken steps to reduce use of accelerants and other substances that destory the ozone layer. The 
As a person that spends considerable time outdoors, and who knows a few things about animals, plants and living things and the ecosystems on which they depend, I share concerns that human activity is responsible for this problem. I’ve seen firsthand the effects of chemical and environmental pollution on all sorts of creatures. I watched a great blue heron teeter and fall over from the effects of pesticides in its system. I’ve seen the gangrene-infested gizzards of ducks that ingested lead shot. I’ve watched fish float up on a river rife with suds, and seen cancerous boils on bass fished out of a polluted creek. I’ve seen monarch butterfly populations plummet due to destruction of habitat, loss of milkweed host plants and possible impacts from chemicals in their systems.
Beijing Olympics? There were absolute concerns for the health of endurance athletes. All that was the product of anthropocentric pollution. It did not happen naturally. It did not happen supernaturally. God was not involved. And God is not going to fix this thing. More likely God has shown a propensity in history to tell the human race; “You screwed this up. It’s your problem now, not mine.”
Meanwhile, companies such as 
But there are tons of people who interpret these signs instead as the inevitability of human sin rather than the opportunity to prevent it. In other words, they’ve given up. Quit the race just when it is beginning. They are failing the human race as a result. Throwing in the towel. They are admitting they are losers and that their worldview is defeatist and dependent on a bailout from God to solve human problems. Their only concern is that they remain flush with cash. Leave the rest of that shit for others to deal with.
Learning to swim again has taken more than a year. That’s because there’s a balance between developing form good enough to swim efficiently, and then building muscles and endurance to support the effort.
