Vicarious gleanings for those who run and ride

By Christopher Cudworth

As an active participant in sports all my life, I have never fully fallen into the realm of an armchair participant in sports. I’d much rather play than watch. But there are exceptions.

Anthony scacciaMost recently it was a vicarious thrill to watch our town’s high school football team from Batavia, Illinois win a state championship. Having been friends with the coach for many years, the association was real. My girlfriend’s son is also rostered on the team and has seen playing time all season. So to sit in the stands where the red jerseys were so striking on the sideline, and to watch a young man named Anthony Scaccia carry that team on his 5’7” back for most of the season, that has been a vicarious thrill in many respects.

Team vs. Individual

Being fans of a team vicariously is one thing. Being fans of individual athletes is another. Certainly in individual sports like running and cycling there is potential for all sorts of vicarious pleasure in seeing your favorite athlete succeed. Millions tune into the Tour de France to watch cyclists shoot for personal glory by winning a stage or leading a climb. The overall winner is always celebrated, but truly they get to the General Category victory through guidance of their teammates.

That guidance is anything but easy, because every member of the team is asked to sacrifice for the GC rider. That means their victory is both personal and vicarious. Those who give themselves up to draft for the lead rider and carry bottles and food must satisfy their hunger for victory through the accomplishments of another rider. You swallow your pride and gain pride through a shared sense of accomplishment. Sure, it’s vicarious in some respects, but in a really integrated way.

Giving it up for the team

FroomewigginsSometimes giving it up for the team is a tough assignment. Chris Froome, winner of the 2013 Tour de France was quite obviously stronger than his GC leader the year before, Bradley Wiggins. Yet Froome gave himself over to the Team Sky effort to win the Tour. For the moment, he lived vicariously. When given his own chance, he came through. That’s perhaps the best of both worlds.

Early heroes

Early in my running career my admiration for runners like Frank Shorter, Steve Prefontaine, Craig Virgin, Bill Rodgers and Alberto Salazar was so strong I definitely lived vicariously through their triumphs. When Salazar won his New York City Marathons I stood screaming in front of the television, happy tears streaming down my cheeks.

Salazar_01_0Then Salazar began to struggle as a runner. His performances dropped and his love for racing seemed to go away. I also lived vicariously through Salazar in that way. At the age of 27 life demanded that I turn attention to more pressing matters of family and children. My racing ceased and my local mantle of lead runner quickly passed to other regional types.

Hip to hip with a hero

I recall standing next to Salazar at the start of an event called Race For the Americas in 1984 during my racing peak. It was the summer leading up the Olympics and Alberto was still strong, but struggling. He jumped up and down in place and his lean figure was inspiring. I’d seen him run to victory in the NCAA Division I cross country nationals in 1978, the same year our team finished second in Division III. To cross paths with the man who’d since risen to the rank of America’s top distance runner was definitely a thrill. But this was not vicarious.

The gun went off and I went out with the lead runners at 4:45 mile pace. Then two miles at 9:30. By three miles I was starting to struggle and came through at 4:50, dropping behind the leaders who had actually begun to surge. I saw Alberto one more time as we rounded a wide bend in the Lincoln Park course. “Go Alberto!” I whispered.

But I don’t think he won that day, and I faded to 25:30 for 5 miles. Not a bad time but far from world class. I had my chance and I wasn’t good enough. But it’s better to have tried and fallen short than to never have tried at all.

Sports worship

We admire those who are better than us for many reasons. We wish we could do what they do. That’s the entire foundation of vicarious sports worship in America and beyond. Billions of people wish they could be the best, and live through the exploits of those who are.

Soccer-lgYears after my competitive running career was essentially over and I raced just for fun, I took up the sport of soccer, playing primarily indoors. One day while cutting through the schoolyard on an afternoon jog, I happened upon a group of people playing a pickup game of soccer on a shortened field. I asked to join them and was welcomed. We played for an hour in one of the most difficult workouts I’d had in quite a while.

Both men and women were involved in the game. They were mostly from Russia and worked at Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory in Batavia, Il.

What struck me about their game was the pure love of soccer. I asked them if they liked to watch soccer on TV and one of the best players stared at me for a moment. “There is no good soccer on TV here. We’d rather play than watch anyway.”

That was love of sport devoid of vicariousness. What a great example of a healthy attitude toward sport and exercise, especially in America where 80 percent of the population does not get a recommended level of daily exercise.

Get out there and do it

That’s the point of this essay, roundabout. Because love of sport devoid of vicariousness is precisely what those who run and ride engage in when they head out the door.

So you can worship heroes in some ways, but when it comes down to running or riding, it’s all up to you. And that’s a good thing. The less people depend upon others to feel good about themselves the better. That’s a principle liberals and conservatives can support in the political realm. So it’s nice to know that next time you head out the door to run or ride, you’re actually doing something for your own good, and the good of the country.

There are still millions of people who need to stop living so vicariously and start participating in life rather than sitting on the sidelines letting someone else be their glory.

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A runner’s long relationship with football

By Christopher Cudworth

Growing up in the 1960s when the Green Bay Packers were a green and gold apparition of toughness and admiration, it was in my nature to think of football as the pinnacle of athletic prowess. Bart Starr was quarterback of the Packers and Johnny Unitas quarterback of the Baltimore Colts. Things were predictable and sane with football then. The popularity of the NFL was just starting to rise.

Now it is out of control.

I don’t hate football. I just hate how it saturates our culture. It’s unhealthy in many respects. The NFL is one of the greediest organizations in the world, and it promotes itself in ways that block out normal thought.

But through my early associations with the sport and a healthy amount spent playing the game as a youth in countless sandlot renditions of touch, flag and tackle, it is still fun to watch the sport.

Today at 1:00 p.m. or town football team in Batavia plays for the state championship in Illinois. Last time that happened a few years back more than 8,000 people jammed the stands at the University of Illinois, where Batavia lost the title game to Normal High School, a team rife with big farm kids and a tall tight end who gained 10 yards on countless sidelines plays.

This time around Batavia looks even better-positioned to win the game even though they’re playing the only team that beat them this year. Because what are the odds of a non-conference game against your future state title opponent. Payback is delicious?

A good friend of mine, Dennis Piron, is coach of Batavia’s team. I know how many hours he has put in over the years, first as a defense coach and now head coach of a talented group of kids who have played together since middle school.

Dennis is 10 years younger than me, and our association goes back to his late 20s when I began doing marketing for his health club. The marketing worked. His health club thrived. And then he got testicular cancer. I recall walking around the block slowly with him following his surgery. His All-American track star body6 (48.6 400 meters) was wracked with pain from the surgery and fatigue as well. But he kept going through those dark afternoons.

Later we did business together with a developer who purchased his club and wanted to sell it to a hospital group but the deal fell through.

That convinced Dennis to go into teaching in his home town. He also coaches the track team where he has had numerous state champions, both men and women.

His football program is principled and balanced. He does not advocate early experience with tackle football, preferring instead for young kids to play flag football and learn fundamentals. The tough stuff is saved for middle and high school years.

So his team is poised to make the ultimate statement of success. Winning a state championship is no easy feat.

I’ll be sitting in the stands watching his familiar sideline body language and thinking back on how I so wanted to play the game. I’d won a Punt-Pass and Kick competition at the regional level and thought I should go out for quarterback. When freshman year came around my father drove me to the school and pointed me to the cross country locker room. “If you come out, I’ll break your arm. You’re not playing football. You’re a runner.”

My dad was right. I weighed all of 124 lbs at the time. And while tough and wiry, I’d have been crushed under those Kaneland farm boys.

So I became a runner, and football became a strange sidelight in life. Our cross country team went 9-1 while our football team went 0-9. Yet the football team was revered while our cross country team was ridiculed as a “pussy sport.”

Huh, I thought.

That pattern continued through the rest of high school until junior year when again the football team was 0-9 and our cross country team went 9-1, won districts and grabbed the imagination of the school. People turned out to watch us run.

But people still turned out in big numbers to watch the football team lose.

Football and town identities are intertwined, it seems. Win or lose, people support their football teams.

Yet warming up for a cross country meet at a rival high school in Cary, Illinois, we were being led around the course by a runner known for his crazed ways. And when we approached the area where the football team was practicing, he peeled off at a sprint and ran through the team practice yelling KILL KILL KILL!

I have never forgotten that demonstration of civil disobedience in the face of a football culture that reveres the game. That runner was prescient in many ways. Football is a great game. But it also symbolizes the worst of what we are as a nation. Sometimes.

That said, I hope Batavia wins. Because not all of the world’s problems can be solved on a gridiron.

 

 

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In thanks for running and riding

By Christopher Cudworth

RidingHonestly, I don’t know how I’d have made it through much of life without running, and now riding.

There have been tough days when things aren’t going well and a long run has provided salvation.

In every season there is reason to revel in the act of running and riding.

It is refreshing to run in springtime, the season of renewal.

And so rewarding to ride in summertime, the season of sweat and racing.

Come fall there is peak fitness and a chance to test yourself in full.

Then winter comes and you rebuild.

I am thankful for it all. For the experiences and friends it has brought me, and sustained all these year.

One friend has been a training partner since 1973 when we ran high school cross country and track together. Then college cross cross country and track. We lived together in the city of Chicago and trained in Lincoln Park. Raced side by side in countless road races.

He took up cycling long before me. But I have made up time these last 8 years.

The cycle of friendship continues to grow. You never cease meeting new people when you run and ride. You never grow old to soon, or forget where you came from.

All that is good in this world flows from connection to creation. Running and riding does that for you too.

And so I wish you all a thankful and fruitful Thanksgiving. Your readership is much appreciated, and I always encourage you to share your story if you please.

Happy Thanksgiving All!

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Trading places in the operating room and beyond

By Christopher Cudworth

Sue Astra competes in the Ironman Half 70.2 in Racine.

Sue Astra competes in the Ironman Half 70.2 in Racine.

Last summer while riding with my significant gal friend we took a trail through a beautiful section of forest preserve about 10 miles from home. The trail follows a ridge of glacial kame through a woods with a meandering creek.

On a road bike, that trail is safe and easy to ride.

On a tri-bike? Not so much.

Yet I failed to understand that distinction as we headed west through the scenic section of woods. Then the canopy closed over us and the vegetation on the trail was still wet. And slippery. And down she went.

Witness

For some reason I happened to be glancing back to check on her as the front wheel went left and her right shoulder came crashing to the ground. In a second I’d hit the brakes and come to a stop. She rolled over on her side and sat up. Holding her shoulder.

It was obvious she was hurt. Possibly very hurt. And I was hurt at the thought that I might have caused this accident going too fast on a trail with wet junk on the asphalt.

We got up and walked. Gingerly she held her arm. Then we sat back down and nursed the shock of the moment. I had my hand on her back and went to pat her on the butt a bit when I felt the slick wet sensation of what I took to be blood. Fright.

But leaning back to look at her there was no red blood. Just a giant wet patch in the back of her jersey. I reached into the pocket and felt a giant wad of goo in there. When I pulled my hand out it was covered with liquified banana. Seriously, you could not have turned that banana into a more gelatinous form if you had thrown it in the blender.

Showing her the hand, she lamented. “That sucks. That was a good banana too.”

Aftermath

I called me daughter to come haul us home. Bikes in the back. Me with them.

And from there she tried to make the best of it. All summer the strength built back up in her arm but something still didn’t feel right in the shoulder. She ran a few races but by October it became clear the shoulder needed surgery. She met with a triathlon friend who is also an orthopedic surgeon and then got an MRI. It showed a tear of the rotator cuff.

Endurance

Yesterday, she had the surgery. It takes about an hour and a half to do the work. We traveled to the hospital and went through the registration process. That’s when I started feeling a bit queasy. I had not eaten breakfast so the dizziness might have been dehydration or even a reaction to some meds. But no luck. I was getting the flu.

As she lay there in the prep room for surgery the nausea increased and I made several trips to the bathroom in case the Big Event, be it barfing or the other end was about to commence. But it held off and I made it back to the room as the nurses were doing more prep.

“I might have to go home,” I told her. “I’m really sick.”

Well, no one likes to be left alone during surgery. I called her brother and sat back down to hold court until he arrived. But the look in her eyes broke my heart. Again, I’ve been through a few surgeries myself, one just a month ago. And who was there to help me through? You guessed it. She was.

So in essence I owed her my presence. She’s a great person and we both have gone through a few things in life, especially of late. So we try to support each other every way we can. And here I was failing her at a critical moment. The tears came.

Keeping on

She’s a tough, tough gal. Did a 70.2 triathlon this past summer in Racine. I watched her work through those 13 miles of running when it clearly hurt. So this is no wimp woman.

Perhaps you know someone like her. Or a guy who is similarly tough. Yet we’re all human. We need support. It’s not an allegorical proposition. At some point, the going gets tough and we like to have someone there.

So it went. The minutes went by and an hour passed. Her brother arrived just as I was emerging from half and hour of close-eyed concentration bordering on sleep. You want to sleep when you’re sick. Yet the nausea warns you: this may not last long.

By the time she rolled off to surgery things were getting better. I was weak but could make it through. Two hours later her brother and I greeted her in the recovery room. “Now remember,” I told her. “Your body is going to feel like you just finished a tough race.”

She chuckled and smiled. We both knew what that meant. Take it easy. Yet that’s the hardest thing for the toughest people to do. Take it easy.

Just take it easy. And let someone help you.

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What is your Kryptonite?

By Christopher Cudworth

Ultimate-Man-of-Steel-HD-WallpaperAs a little kid who came into possession of a Superman costume at the age of 7 one Halloween, I learned the very human limitations of my very human body the hard way. Although the costume made me feel super with its bright blue pants and shirt and the Big Red S (with gold glitter) on the front and a red cape to match, it turned out that when I tried to fly, it didn’t work so well.

I liked that suit so much that I told the neighbor girls I really could fly. They challenged me to a test and I took them up on it. So we gathered at a maple tree in the front yard of my house and I climbed into the tree in my Superman costume. And there, determined to prove they were wrong, I poised for a moment and looked straight ahead across the lawn thinking, for a moment, that I would at least glide a few feet to the ground.

superman_kryptonite11_138No such luck. I fell splat on the dirt and somehow bounced to me feet. Stunned but somehow unhurt, I stood fighting back tears as the girls grabbed either arm and led me to the front porch where I tried to catch my breath. Again, I had not flown, but I had not chickened out on the dare either. I guess in some ways that impressed the girls, for they said nothing about my inability to fly. Perhaps they were glad I was not dead.

At that moment in my young life, I realized that the Kryptonite of many a man is pride. A valuable lesson even if it did not feel too super hitting the ground from seven feet in the air.

Growing up to be Superman (not)

My efforts to be a Super runner and cyclist have in some ways been similarly disillusioned. Sure, I had some success along the way. But the fact of the matter is that you have to have the genetic gifts––Super Powers, as it were––if you truly want to be a Super Athlete. 

That means exceptional VO2 max as an endurance athlete. Also great biomechanics. A brain strong and true. And a lot of tough training.

Out of those three, I had a bit of the middle and a lot of the last. So I became as Super as I could be, but was never a Super Athlete in the sense that I won state or national championships, or competed in the Olympics. The closest I came were a few Conference manofsteelchampionships and a berth in the Prairie State Games 5000 meters. When you’re not Superman, you take what you can get. Sometimes you do super, sometimes you just get injured or sick, and fall over.

Everyone who runs and ride has a some form of Kryptonite, the substance of which can be mental, physical or dietary. Whatever it is, your personal brand of Kryptonite is what brings you down, makes you weak or lays you low at the most important moment in your preparation for the Big Event. It is your Fatal Flaw. Your tarsnake. 

piCture pOlish Kryptonite swatch and reviewKnowing your Kryptonite is a matter of identifying its source. For some women, their kryptonite is men. For some men, their kryptonite is women. But attraction of any sort and its obsessive qualities to a person, an event or a hope can be your kryptonite if it absorbs your strength in all the wrong ways.

But on a practice front, here are some of the most dangerous forms of Kryptonite for those who run and ride:

Kryptonite Gut

For weeks and months you train and manage your diet for optimum performance. Your training goes well and your times drop. Your long runs and rides go well and you’re feeling smooth and good going into the race.

Then you travel to the city where you’re going to race and temptation gets the worst of you. You break with your diet routine and on race morning your gut feels like someone stuck a blender in there and beat your intestines to the pulp. Even the Man of Steel couldn’t race well a stomach in that kind of shape. It might be diarrhea or sideaches, but somethings messed up. The moral of this story? If you want to feel super, don’t mess with your diet.

Washed Out Superhero

superkryptTheories about how to properly hydrate during training and racing seem to be changing fast. It turns out you can drink too many fluids. It’s call dilutional hyponatremi, or water intoxication. Those of us who have experienced it can attest to the strange sensation of being “washed out” and how poorly you run or ride as a result. It’s possible to drink too much on a daily basis, and also to drink too much water in advance of an athletic performance. It happens when there is too little sodium in blood, which is why many triathlon coaches and dietitians manage the sodium levels of their athletes. It turns out that drinking too many “rehydration” drinks with sugar and additives actually dissolves the needed components of blood. The Kryptonite you encounter may be in your favorite sports drink.

Kneed by Kryptonite

photoBoth cyclists and runners need to protect their knees, and knee health depends on balance and strength. For those who ride, proper position on the bike is crucial, which means a bike fit is vital to be sure your position keeps your knees in position to execute an weight-bearing pedal stroke. For runners, stride and biomechanics are important components of knee protection, along with strength and balance. In both running and riding, it’s all about keeping the knee in proper position and not allowing your lower leg position (pronation and supination) and balance (quadriceps and hamstring strength) to push or pull your knee (and kneecap) out of a neutral position. Your knees are a locus point of force motion. If you don’t manage your knee position along the critical centerpoints either in running or cycling, the rotational torque placed on the joint can cause kneecap pain, grind down cartilage, cause tightness and constriction and literally slow you down through limited range of motion. Knees can be Krytonite.

Kryptonite Kramps (both gut and muscle)

Nothing hurts worse than a sidestitch when you’re training or racing. A bad cramp in your side can bend you full over as if someone jammed a sliver of Kryptonite into your diaphragm. Been there? Done that? Then you know that kramps can kill your effort.

the-land-of-kryptonite-joyce-dickensYou can get side cramps and stomach kramps from a variety of sources. Hot weather can make stomach cramps, but so can extreme racing effort. If you are susceptible to stomach kramps as a rule you need to get to know your dietary foundation really well. For many people milk products cause the stomach to cramp. For others, it is citrus products. Gluten gets the goat of millions.

The needs of runners and cyclists can differ widely when it comes to kramps of the gut. Runners are much more susceptible because of the jarring effect of pounding.

Cyclists far more often experience leg or muscle cramps resulting from poor replacement of nutrients and fluids. When cyclists cramp, it tends to start from the calves up. Many runners will cramp from the hips down, especially the hamstrings and quads. But if you have tight calves as a rule the repetition of running can cause vicious kramps, and that is the kryptonite of many runners past the age of 40 when tendons, fascia and calf muscles grow shorter and less flexible.

The cure for kramps in the gut is knowing your dietary kryptonite and learning how to breathe right, build core strength and avoid sudden jarring motions.

The cure for kramps of the muscular type is balanced hydration and nutrition, focused flexibility and strength for specific muscle groups and avoiding repetitive training or racing, especially at speed, without varied pace and recovery. Cramps are a protective response against overuse.

Kryptonite in back

Nothing stops a runner in his or her tracks faster than back pain. The same goes for cyclists. The cure for most lower back pain is strengthening the core. Back pain is the kryptonite of inflexibility, muscular imbalance and poor biomechanics and posture. That’s true for runners, who need to learn efficient form and strengthen to that goal, and for cyclists, whose kryptonite is bending over the bike for 4-6 hours.

Knowing your Kryponite is the only way to keep moving toward a Super effort. Anything less will lead you green with envy toward those who seem to move through this world without any weakness.

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What draws you to run and ride?

By Christopher Cudworth

For those who run…

My career in running started before the whole running boom even got going. When asked to run 12 minutes in a 7th grade fitness test, I ran two miles. Something real and earnest took hold inside me that day.

RUNNERS

What draws you to the sport of running?

By the time I was a freshman in high school in 1971, running drew me in new ways. That first long workout in the August sun flushed out feelings that ran deeper than anything I’d ever felt. All that hyper energy had a home. It flowed out of me with every step. When the running was completed, a calm flowed back into me that assuaged worry and gave me perspective on all my harried thoughts.

It’s gonna be okay, my body told me. It’s gonna be good, my mind responded.

So I ran some more.

Competition

Competition drew even more emotions from my soul. I loved running against other runners. Loved trying to win. When I did win, the memories of the hard work it took to get there were affirmation that putting effort into something you care about can pay off.

When I didn’t win, it was a reminder that there are always people out there who are better on you. On any given day, you can be beaten even if you are the best. That’s an important life lesson, and running drew it more clearly than any other activity.

As I drew close to the finish line in some races, pain was another reminder that humility is a good companion for all those who strive to do their best. College teammates formulated a saying to help us all through the pain. “The pain is temporary,” we whispered to each other in huddles before the race. “Run through it.”

Perhaps there are people who cannot conceive the benefits of learning these lessons. Of knowing that much of the pain in life is, indeed, temporary. They look at runners on the streets and in races wondering why they put themselves through agony. And then claim that it is a joy.

And those who ride…

Whether alone or in groups, cyclists all ride on a thin rim of rubber and an eye on the road ahead.

Whether alone or in groups, cyclists all ride on a thin rim of rubber and an eye on the road ahead.

It goes the same for those of us who ride. People see our “getups” and grimace at that cyclist hunched over the handlebars. Many cannot conceive of the comforts we feel in pedaling our hearts out. Cycling is, of course, a world to itself on wheels. We live in a bubble of air and tool along on a rim of rubber. When we’re standing still in our lycra and helmet and shades, we don’t look or feel natural. Our cleats point our toes in the air. We are ungainly as loons on the ground. But when we fly, it is heaven on wheels.

And for those drawn to pain…

For all the glory of movement, we are also drawn to the pain.

That is because all joy requires some form of agony. It may be quiet suffering or determined persistence. But if you have ever been to a funeral and seen the sorrow transform into joy over the memory and life of the deceased, you know that all of human life is defined by transcendence.

Running is a tool of that process. So is riding. Some days it is literally like being born again. Those first moments out the door may “suck,” to use colloquial parlance. But the return on investment as the body adapts to the struggle and feels good in motion is what draws so many who run and ride to the task.

Sure, there is narcissism involved.  We draw on our narcissistic instincts every time we pass a long window and check our form in the reflection. We draw remarks with our narcissistic posts on social media and mark it in journals. We draw criticism. Scorn, Curiosity. But sometimes envy. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Our effort. Our accomplishments. They are all we are. That’s how we do it.

A long time ago we used to discuss the “Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.”And cyclists spent their days on claptrap machines with sprouting wires and skinny frames.

Nether of those things is true anymore. That reality has been replaced by a community of people that understands it is okay to be alone, and to ride on the roads with eyes straight ahead.

You draw upon that inspiration of the road ahead every time you head out the door.

Even when the weather is a little sketchy.

 

 

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Don’t mess with health care, or it will mess with you

DON’T MESS WITH HEALTH CARE OR IT WILL MESS WITH YOU

By Christopher Cudworth

Watch what you say. Your complaints about health care could come back to haunt you.

Watch what you say. Your complaints about health care could come back to haunt you.

The local hospital system in our area just brought another health care system into the fold with a merger. Big medicine just keeps getting bigger. They tell us they have to merge to survive. Big fish eat little fish. But can you tell who’s eating who anymore?

The little guy can feel lost in the process. You check in, let them work on you and hope you can pay for it somehow. And don’t complain.

You should never complain about hospital mergers and health care insurance coverage. Not if you want to keep all your limbs and organs when you go to the Emergency Room.

Triage

Because imagine, if you sprain your ankle running or bust a collarbone on the weekend group ride, you’re at the mercy of the very system you dared to criticize. Then anything can happen.

You show up at the hospital and the EMTs are all sitting there with digital reading tablets listening as you check in. To hell with HIPPA laws. There’s no such thing as privacy anymore. That’s all a joke.

As the Emergency department checks you in, the EMTs all run a Google check on your name and up pops that Letter to the Editor written a year ago complaining that the cost of health care has gone up and the local hospital is partly to blame.

“Hmmm,” look at this, the EMTs quietly note, pointing to the story as their faces are illuminated by the glow of the tablets. “This guy thinks he knows more about health care than we do.”

They take you to a lonely back room, drug you with ether and extract your organs for sale to the black market.

They take you to a lonely back room, drug you with ether and extract your organs for sale to the black market.

Surgery and thensome

And before you know it, you’re getting rushed into surgery. Only things are different somehow. Instead of heading into the main hospital, they take you to a back room where the lamps are hung from the steel beams. The room looks suspiciously more like a converted parking deck than an operating room. Then they slosh a little orange medicine on your body and slap a soggy mask coated with ether over your face. The last words you hear are, “Nighty night, buddy.” You dream of chocolate chip ice cream.

Losing a little weight

When you awaken in a recovery room there are smiling nurses waiting for you to rouse. “Oh, you’re back, are you? Let’s get you on the scale.”

Woozy and a little disoriented, you are led by the arm from the cold hospital bed to a scale that looks like it should be on a cattle farm. You wonder if this is medical protocol. They prop you up on the scale and the long needle skinny needle flutters and wobbles over numbers that are so small you can barely read them. Somehow your eyes focus and you notice that you’ve lost 12 lbs from what you weighed the day before.

“Hey, that’s great!” you think. “Now I’ll be an even better climber in cycling than before. And I’ll probably set a PR in the half marathon!”

See, our the priorities of most of us who run and ride are pretty screwed up. But if you let them know you’re fine with the kind of treatment you’re getting, things get really weird.

Checking in. Again. 

“How are you feeling?” the nurse asks.

Hmmm. What would it help to remove to make you a lighter cyclist or runner?

Hmmm. What would it help to remove to make you a lighter cyclist or runner?

“Fine,” you tell her. And suddenly another guy clamps an ether mask over your face and you drop like a piece of hot wax from a candle.

Sew ‘er up

2 hours later you wake up again with a pulsing feeling in your midsection. You look down to see a big white bandage across your bare belly and notice it has a big red cross on it. The bandage looks like something from World War II medicine, and the nurse is holding it down with some pressure.

“Sorry. You woke up a little soon. We’ll have you right in a minute.”

Someone pulls out duct tape and you hear that familiar ripping sound as they stretch and strap it around your middle, winding it round and round your midsection until the big white bandage is held firmly in place. You vaguely resemble the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. You feel about that weird, too.

Even the smallest injury could see you mined for organs.

Even the smallest injury could see you mined for organs.

“There you go buddy. You’re ready for discharge,” the nurse chirps. “But let’s weigh you one more time.”

They stand you on the scale and your eyes nearly roll back in your head. But somehow you feel kind of euphoric. Light in the head, you might say. You feel the top of your noggin’ and notice there’s a bandage there too.

“Perfect!” the nurse intones. “You’re down another 8 lbs.!”

“8 lbs.!” you think. “Now I could do Alpe du Huez in half the time it took me on that trip to France last year! At this rate of weight loss I could be a Tour rider with a little more training.”

Discharge

They EMTs arrive and shove you into a wheelchair. Then they wheel you back out to the car in which you arrived and hand you the keys.

You ask if your collarbone or ankle or whatever it was that you came to get fixed is repaired.

“Sure,” the EMT says. “Whatever you want. Quit complaining. You’re lighter now and that’s all that matters, right?”

The back room where they store the extra stuff they take out of you. But at least you lost weight, right?

The back room where they store the extra stuff they take out of you. But at least you lost weight, right?

“True,” you mutter, thinking about all the potential PRs you can set now that you’re about 20 lbs lighter. “I guess it was all worth it.”

The meat wagon of health care

“Of course it was worth it,” the EMT says. “You don’t really need what we took out of you anyway. An organ or two, and a little brain matter. Science will really appreciate it. So will the organ donor community. You’ll be a little sore tomorrow, but don’t forget, you’re back to your college weight. Or something like that!”

You really can’t blame the health care world for looking at us like we’re all a pile of meat. If you saw people traipsing through your pretty hospital every day, tracking in dirt and sloughing their fat selves into your shining elevators, how would you feel? It’s hard for physicians too, especially the gyne and prostate docs. How many years of meat inspection can one person take before you get a little cynical and start to look at the entire populace like it was one long Meat Parade?

It’s all about the green

But now that’ you’re checking out of the Meat Processing Plant known as the local hospital, it’s time to pay the bill. Again, this is no criticism of the hospital or the health care system as a whole. We human beings really are little more than walking mounds of meat when you get right down to it.

And meat is expensive these days. The only thing more expensive per pound than meat is nuts. But we won’t go there. We’re all nuts, you see.

“Hey, thanks!” you mutter as they hand you a long piece of paper with all your medical reports on it.

“How much will all this cost me?” you ask.

“Not too much,” the administrator says with a smile. “The aftermarket on what we took out of your body should just about cover most of your costs,” the EMT says. “But we’ll have to see what your Scottish organs are worth on the world exchange. We’ll price you in the Distance Running and Cycling markets, but the Kenyans are kind of skewing the prices right now on Endurance Athlete Organs. We leave that to our marketing department, for the most part. And speaking of which, did you have a good experience with us today? Lose all the weight you’d like? Here’s a survey to fill out. Just drop it in the box over there when you’re through. We really don’t like this stuff going through the US Mail.”

So you see, the health care system is really about the free market and perceptions, in a way.

And you can complain about Obamacare and the cost of insurance, or the rising price of health care in America, but the System really is looking out for our welfare overall. Where else could you lose 20 lbs. in an afternoon and hardly get billed for the effort?

Those of us who run and ride appreciate service like that. You just need to learn to go with the flow and not mess with health care, or it will mess with you. Trust us on that. Will you?

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Okay, Chad Stafko, you write for the Wall Street Journal, Get over it.

By Christopher Cudworth

Hey Chad Stafko. I read that article you wrote for the Wall Street Journal about how runners are supposedly self-glorifying stupes. It is subtitled “Running a marathon is hard enough without also patting yourself on the back every step of the way.”

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Chad, in case you did not notice, you wrote your opinion piece for the Wall Street Journal, one of the most self-aggrandizing publications ever conceived and published. It is maintained for one sole purpose: to coddle the financial world in all its glorious inequities and vain pursuits of wealth.

Is the worldview of Wall Street starting to crumble?

Is the worldview of Wall Street starting to crumble?

See, the Wall Street Journal is a media company that seems to pride itself on speaking for business and by proxy, most of America’s interests in economics and finance. In case you’re not lucky enough to actually read the publication you write for (a not uncommon situation among journalists) please allow me to explain to you why some people see right through the Wall Street ruse.

For starters, people who read it think they’re smarter than everyone else. But they’re not. They may be richer than some, and more conservative than others. But they are not smarter. Not by a long shot.

I recently had the opportunity to stand on Wall Street and the first thing you notice about the physical place known as Wall Street is that there the barriers to prevent anyone from driving a car bomb into the buildings where big banks and other financial companies keep their offices. There is only one reason why Wall Street would respond in this way. That’s because there is a general threat of being attacked by people who disagree with what you’re doing. And they’re right about protesting the Wall Street worldview, because it has come close and may still bring on the bankruptcy of America.

But let’s put that on hold for a second.

The media company known as the Wall Street Journal has long defended, often uncritically, the actions of banks who literally steal money from their clients and the public coffers through quasi-legal means that abide by the philosophy “If you can get away with it, then it must not be illegal.”

Erecting towers to celebrate your name and wealth is not narcissistic?

Erecting towers to celebrate your name and wealth is not narcissistic?

If you want to make a Wall Street wizard come in his pants, whisper the word “loophole” into his or her ear. Everything in the financial world is about exploitation of the rules. That’s how the Great Recession came about, you see. The Wall Street crowd exploited the system, but financial karma came back to bite them in the ass

But it won’t stop them from running away with the economy again. Filthy rich people and those who play fast with their money like to see themselves as heroes, you see. They reward themselves with all sorts of material trappings that far exceed the normal narcissisms of people with less money. That’s why you hear about people paying for million dollar toilets in their Wall Street offices. They think their shit doesn’t stink.

Yet they also think they are the ones who make America great. Wait, it’s worse than that. They think they are America. In their eyes, and in the columns of the Wall Street Journal, the rest of us are serfs, dupes and slaves.

But in 2007, the ruse of their greatness came to the brink of collapse. Giant financial firms went into default and bankruptcy. Yet even when threatened with default and criminal prosecution, the Wall Street crowd has refused to change their practices in any significant manner. The four big banks that were bailed out by American money have grown by 30% since 2007. This is the Big Hustle no one talks about. If you were to put a bumper sticker on the vehicles of their success it would say Too Big To Fail, And Nothing You Can Do About It.

People who live in a bubble of arrogance like that need daily affirmation that their approach to life is justified and moral. And that’s right where the Wall Street Journal comes in. It sees life through an exclusively conservative lens that tells it constituents (yes, that is the proper term) that their actions are okay.

The WSJ derides market controls that keep the risky behavior of its constituents in check. It regards protection of our resources and environment as comparatively petty problems in comparison to stroking the backs of those who read the WSJ to confirm their own selfish worldviews.

The worldview of the Wall Street Journal is far more narcissistic than any other worldview on the planet. The values it has come to espouse and support are hollow and devastating to the nation (and the planet) and its best interests. When people question

Tarsnakes

Tarsnakes

those values, they are branded socialist or un-American. But the socialism of Wall Street is corporate welfare. There is no difference. No sustainable separation in philosophy between money returned to people in retirement through savings insurance programs like Social Security and money given upfront to corporations to incentivize their growth. That is the tarsnake of modern economics. You have to invest money back into society somehow. You cannot irrevocably extract it and expect an economy to thrive. Yet that is what Wall Street seems to support. That those who “earn it” should get to keep it even when their ability to do so it both directly and indirectly supported by the society and nation as a whole.

When President Barack Obama said, “You did not build that,” he was referring to the dynamic in full context that says success is always  dependent on the hard work of others, along with the resources you leverage to make yourself successful.

But conservatives used that comment out of context to brand Obama as anti-business. That tactic outlines the morally bankrupt manner in which conservatism has evolved to become a major detraction to the success of America as a nation.

Are Wall Street zombies sucking the brains out of America?

Are Wall Street zombies sucking the brains out of America?

Conservatism as a social movement embraces contradictory aims, espousing personal autonomy while preaching about government control of moral issues. It also runs off at the mouth about individual fiscal responsibility while supporting what amounts to a giant gambling racket on Wall Street. The actions of its constituents cost Americans trillions of dollars. The Presidents the WSJ supports continually invest in war and fail to invest in education. It’s a worldview spiraling downward in a maelstrom of self-absorption.

That is who you write for, Chad Stafko. So you’d best think again before criticizing the running community for being narcissistic. Conservatism is stumbling along like a marathon consisting entirely of brain-dead zombies spouting platitudes like “Let the Market Decide” and “The Job Creators are Holy.”

They’re running after the rest of us to empty our wallets and eat our brains. Maybe that’s why there are so many more runners on the streets. We’re trying to get in shape to stay away from Wall Street Zombies like you, Chad.

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Running and Riding back to the Key of C

By Christopher Cudworth

The Ibanez guitar is not my favorite (the Martin my daughter owns is better) but it has served me well as an instrument of mostly personal expression. As one associate put it, “I’m not a guitarist. I play songs.”

Even that humble aspiration of playing songs on the guitar is now weeks or months away thanks to an apparently necessary surgery on the middle finger of my left hand.

Introductions

It all started with a sliver that guided some sort of infectious microbe into the heart of my middle finger and turned the joint septic. First the convenient care center took a look and then a hand surgeon followed by a doctor of infectious diseases. Initial treatment with oral antibiotics failed, and that meant surgery where they knocked me out and laid open the finger like a beached whale.

Infections

The war going on inside my finger was something unimaginable. To further stoke the imagination, I stumbled on this bit of information from a scientific article titled “Can organisms evolve the ability to evolve?” The article proposes that infectious disease organisms are always seeking a leg up, as it were, on our body’s defenses. It’s a subtle game of cat and mouse:

Like all infectious microbes, B. burgdorferi make proteins that appear on their surfaces. To fight off infection, the immune system learns to recognize these proteins, latch onto them, and kill off B. burgdorferi cells. In a counter-move, B. burgdorferi sometimes changes its surface proteins, a feat that requires it to change its very DNA. Luckily, B. burgdorferi bacteria often carry a bunch of unused DNA, called cassettes, that are able to quickly become working DNA, offering instructions for making different surface proteins that are unrecognizable to the infectee’s immune system. Sneaky!

As my finger swelled it became so painful it would not bend. Then the surgeon’s office put splints on it. Now the finger was a numb, sore digit worth little more than a few keystrokes on the QWERTY board. I forced them to set the splint back far enough so I could type.

Infusions

Then came three solid weeks of self-administered antibiotic infusion. 3 hours a night at one point. Lying there on the couch with a drip bag hanging from the metal stand.

The finger became the focus of all my being. The 3-hour infusions required all my time in the evening. The PICC line in my arm prevented me from running or riding my bike. Doctor’s orders were to prevent sweat from building up beneath the clear bandage. “PICC line infections are really serious,” the nurses warned me. “Because they go right near the heart.”

Great, I thought.

Inflections

No longer was I in control of Chris in the Key of C. I could not run or ride, and could barely even type for my work, much less play the guitar for fun.

Yet I knew enough not to get miserable about it. A depressed person is not as likely to heal as well. That is my belief, anyway.

So I sank into the sofa with the remote and the dog by my side whilst watching both the TV and the IV.

Inward reflections

Finally the regimen let up when the infectious disease doctor actually ramped up the medicine to something stronger. That inch-long injection of yellowish fluid went straight into the PICC line. It messed with my innards though, and the doctor told me to be sure to eat probiotics like yogurt to keep a balance of good bacteria with bad.

I lay awake one night listening to my intestines and stomach gurgling as the food got liquefied. Something was definitely out of whack. But you keep on with the regimen because that is what is supposed to heal you.

Intentions

Finally the weeks wore down and the stitches in the finger came out. Then the PICC line. Now the scabs are peeled from my finger but the digit is still stiff, numb and thick. It’s going to take a while to get back to the Key of C. I’m just an ordinary player, but sometimes the extraordinary circumstances of life remind you how good it can be to be ordinary.

 

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No matter how fast you run or ride, the weather always wins

By Christopher Cudworth On the way to work last Friday morning the voice on the other end of the cell phone call said “Oh my God, what’s going on outside?” I envisioned a traffic accident. Maybe a cat fight. Then she spoke up again. “Oh, it’s hailing.”

Weather keeps you honest. It's like wrestling with God.
Weather keeps you honest. It’s like wrestling with God.

Hail. Not what you want to hear when you’re driving a car. Hail damage can ruin a new car or even total an old one if you really admit the truth. Hail is the hardass version of snow. It usually pours down out of the sky ahead of a rainstorm backed by a cold front. Sometimes hail piles up but other times it bounces off the ground and melts in a minute or two. golfballhailYou hear the term “golf ball sized hail” and find it hard to imagine. Perhaps this video will help, which shows the giant hail that hit Nocona, Texas in 2009. No kidding? That stuff could knock you out. Dent your car deeply. If you were on your bike, there’d be no way to ride the streets with that sized hail littering the road. Even running would be difficult. Hell, walking might be tough.

Oh hell it’s hail

As a course marshal for a cycling race two years ago, I was standing in an intersection during a CAT 3 criterium in a residential neighborhood when a storm blew in. The riders were about 10 minutes into the race and breaks were starting to form when the skies opened up with rain. Water immediately began pouring downhill toward the intersection where I stood.  It washed over my shoes and forced the cyclists to whale their wheels through deep streams. Rooster tails of water flew up behind the rear tires but the racers kept on going. Suddenly a shift of cold wind came along and streaks of hail started to mix with the rain. The hail grew larger and more intense. It bounced loudly off the lid of my baseball cap and even more loudly off the helmets of the riders. Now the streets were rivers and the  hail floated along like debris swept away in a tsunami. The requisite EMT gal in her blue jacket and red shoulder patch came along to chase me off the road. “The race is being stopped,” she told me. “Go somewhere safer.” So I went and stood under a tree. I know. That’s not what you do if there is a storm. But I was so wet I was convinced the lightning could not tell me from an animate clump of dirt. So there I stood under a maple tree listening to the hail rip through the fat leaves. The EMT woman shot me a disgusted look. “You’ll get killed there,” she said. But I didn’t. I was invisible, you see. So wet I did not exist apart from nature.

Hail damagecycling_rain_tdf09

After 5 minutes the storm stopped. Bike riders were pulled over to the side of the course with their expensive rigs held between their legs. They looked like victims of a chain accident on the expressway, perched under trees with their bright kits shining with moisture. Most were picking away grit and leaves from the spokes and sprockets, cables and brakes.

Birds of a feather

As a longtime birder I also could not help notice the resemblance between these cyclists and a flock of birds preening themselves after a spring shower. 20 minutes later the race began again. There was some contention about who should be allowed to start where. A group of four riders had definitely built a lead by that point in the race, 23 minutes into a 40-minute +2 lap event. A race halted is an object of broken beauty. The original momentum and all the cumulative fatigue of the first 23 minutes were now gone. The race organizers attempted to spot the lead riders the same distance they had earned in the first go-round. The rest of the riders stood in a sodden clump at the starting line. In the distance, the dark cloud receding to the south looked smug. It had done its work. My course marshal shift was over however, and I left the race not knowing how it would proceed. The winner that day was the weather.

Velominati Rule #9 Despite the knowledge that the weather will always win, some of us are stubborn and go out to run and ride even on the worst of days. While not a strict believer in everything you find in The Rules on Velominati, Rule #9 holds true. “If you are out riding in bad weather, it means you are a badass. Period.”

It goes on to describe why: “Fair-weather riding is a luxury reserved for Sunday afternoons and wide boulevards. Those who ride in foul weather – be it cold, wet, or inordinately hot – are members of a special club of riders who, on the morning of a big ride, pull back the curtain to check the weather and, upon seeing rain falling from the skies, allow a wry smile to spread across their face. This is a rider who loves the work.”
Running and riding through hail and hell, high water and heat.
The same holds true for runners who “love their work.” Having run during the hurricane rain of 5 or 6 years ago when the drop(lets) were so big they hurt your skin, I can attest to the joys of having enough stupid to run in really bad weather. And having also run in cold as deep at -27 degrees and heat as high as 104 degrees fahrenheit, I love the thought of facing extremes. They build character. They make you feel alive even though they can kill you. They really can. I have run and cycled through hailstorms and taken the mountain bike out on snowy days to beat around and get soaked from the inside out. Then you’re aching for a hot chocolate and a fire. You walk in the door and the Family looks at you like you’re nuts. Even the dog runs and hides.
But you do these things because…04-jacob-wrestling
They make you feel. That’s the important thing. Life without feeling is not worth living. Even if you know the weather will always win, you must engage the invisible and visible beast of weather because it is like wrestling an angel, or God if you must. If you don’t do it, God might not respect you. God might think you’re a weakass not worth his (or her, as it were) time. So dig this: All of creation awaits your response. Your insanity. Your call to challenge the Lord on his own terms. Go fight the weather. Wrestle with the angel of the storm. Get wet. Get cold. Get out there and try to beat the weather. It’s a Holy endeavor.WeRunandRideLogo
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