Running in good company

Posted on January 7, 2019 by Christopher Cudworth
Running friends can make every journey better.

For our Sunday morning run, we traveled over to a facility called The Labs where a bunch of our friends meets each week to train. Some of them are former teammates from triathlon clubs to which we no longer belong. Others we knew from Master’s Swim and cycling rides. But those weren’t the reason why we joined the Sunday morning six-miler. We simply wanted to run with others.

The six-mile out and back loop was all on sidewalks and trails. The pack sorted itself out into pace groups of one form or another. The leader of the group, Mike Behr, ran back and forth between pods of people checking to make sure everyone was doing just fine.

Along the way, Sue and I partnered up with a runner named Penoi, a mechanical engineer whose mission is to run marathons in all fifty states. He’s only got ten to go, he informed us. As we ran, he related that he does most of his training alone. We compared and shared locations where he might like to train, especially the trails along the Fox River where we often run. “Are there water fountains?” he wanted to know. We assured him there are.

“This is my first time running with a group,” he told us. That made me snap to attention. It’s hard for me to imagine a running career without ever having run with others. How does that even happen?

I thought back to all those miles run with teammates through high school and college. I even joined and trained with teams well after college. Sure, I did plenty of training on my own as well. But the benefit of running in the company of others I always took for granted. It was part of the gig.

Penoi seemed glad for the company in any case. We talked and joked about the vagaries of running. He related that he has trouble keeping his hands from getting too cold while training in the winter. He hails from India where the weather was typically hot, yet here in the Midwest he trains with no hat and was not wearing running pants or tights on the thirty-one degree morning on which we ran together. But he was wearing gloves.

I suggested that rather than wear gloves, he should get himself a set of running mittens. “That way you can curl your hands up inside, like this,” I showed him by pulling my hand out of a glove to make a fist. “It can really help to warm your fingers.”

A few years a go after surgery on my middle finger, that digit had poor circulation and would turn ghostly white during cold runs. I had to do a ton of maintenance to keep the finger warm enough for safe travels. I also related to Penoi that back in college a teammate once had to run with his hand stuffed down the front of his pants to keep his crotch warm because he’d worn cotton shorts underneath cotton sweats on a day where the temps dropped below zero.

We chuckled =about that, and cruised along just under 10:00 pace. That’s what Sue and I typically run together, and I’m happy with that. On harder days I’ll drop down to seven or eight-minute pace for speed. And if I’m really gassing it on the indoor track, I run intervals in the six-minute range.

While out with a running gang I don’t really think about any of that these days. I’m content to run with whoever fits the pace of the day. My era of leading the pack is long gone.

After the run we all laid around stretching and rolling out the kinks back. The guy next to me was groaning and grimacing as the black foam roller did its nasty work on a tight hip. The gals leaned into the same task, often lying on top of the foam rollers face-to-face with each other. They looked like they were flying over the floor as they talked about what the world has to offer.

I walked over to lie down with Bailey, the dog of a friend who ran the six miles with us. He was at the end of his leash the whole run, a short-legged wonder with big soft ears and a sweet heart to boot. We were running in good company all around. Even the dog knew it.

Sue and I will be going back every couple weeks. There is something good about running in the company of others. The loneliness of the long-distance runner has its purpose, but the good company of others sustains us through many thoughts and journeys.

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What you can actually learn from a world-class steeplechaser

Posted on January 4, 2019 by Christopher Cudworth

Watching running videos on YouTube can be a great source of inspiration and motivation. It can also be quite instructive.

Recently I watched a video celebrating a world-class steeplechaser named Conseslus Kipruto. Like many African distance running athletes, he seems to run without fear of limits.

As I was watching this video, I noticed that his form over both the regular hurdles and steeple pit. The barriers on the track each stand 42″ high. So does the steeplechase pit, which starts at a depth of 2.5 feet below the hurdle to a zero depth one foot before the end of the inclined “pit” which is actually a big triangle filled with water.

Conseslus doesn’t really hurdle the barriers. He jumps over them with both legs lifted to one side. Absolutely no one jumped barriers like this forty years ago. We all hurdled in “traditional” fashion with a lead leg followed by a trail leg. Only once in my four years of doing steeple did I drag that leg enough to strike the 4″ X 4″ wooden barrier. Let me tell you, that is something you remember not to do again. It hurts.

I had what most considered fairly elegant form coming over the steeple pit. One of our college track coaches said that I did the water jump better than anyone he’d ever seen. Some of that came from my experience in playing other sports. I had excellent coordination and balance, and I’d even practiced fast-paced hurdling by racing the 400 meter intermediate hurdles. That’s a very tough race to do, running all out for 400 meters and jumping 13 hurdles along the way. Talk about anaerobic debt!

So I studied how other hurdlers did their work, and sometime during college a guy named Randy Johnson (I think) from Wisconsin started hurdling the water barrier rather than stepping on it and jumping off like the rest of us.

It didn’t catch on back then. We all figured you had to be world-class to pull off a stunt like that. Plus what were the benefits of getting even wetter by landing deeper in the pit? With my triple-jumping ability (I went 40’4″ in high school) I could often jump completely over the water and keep both feet dry. Over 7 3/4 laps, that could really help not being soaked on one or both feet.

And yet, among the African distance runners I’ve watched now, many of them side-swing their legs over the hurdles and flat-out hurdle the water barrier. They’re the fastest athletes in the world with the exception of individuals such as Evan Jagr, the American steeplechaser. So who’s to argue with their technique?

What this tells us, and what it can inform you in all your pursuits, is that conventional methods are not always right. I well recall the revolution that occurred when high jumper Dick Fosbury invented the method called the Flop, and everyone in the world now uses that technique for high jumping, whose record now stands over eight feet.

Which means that some of the things you might be doing “right” these days in swimming, cycling or running might not be as efficient or smart as you think. Certainly swimming strokes have evolved over the last forty years. Cycling techniques have as well, with high cadence cyclists such as Lance Armstrong and Chris Froome winning major tours against “power” cyclists who might be faster in some respects, but whose endurance ultimately wears out.

As for running form, the basic biomechanics of the mid-foot or forefoot strike are preached as vital to greater speed for many in the distance world. And yet watch a major marathon and there are African runners clearly heel-striking while tearing along at sub 4:40 pace for 26 miles.

That’s what you can learn from people who don’t let convention confine them to a certain way of doing things. It pays to experiment and to challenge your perceptions by watching a wide spectrum of athletes in all the disciplines. Many personalize their approach in order to maximize their performance. That’s the lesson we can all afford to learn.

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What book would you use to be sworn in as a Triathlete?

Posted on January 3, 2019 by Christopher Cudworth

My wife turned to me this morning and said, “The new Muslim Congresswoman is being sworn in with a Quran.”

Makes total sense of course. We all want to abide in our respective faith traditions.

Yet we also know that the presence of the Quran in an official swearing-in ceremony probably makes some politicians crazy with religious fervor knowing someone isn’t vowing loyalty using the book of their god. But you know, three of the most common faiths in this world actually share quite a bit of history, at least in terms of the archetypal characters they admire, such as Abraham and Moses.

This means we all need to consider the commonalities between our respective belief systems rather than using selected passages from one scripture over another to declare absolute providence.

But what if, in order to compete in triathlon, you had to actually be sworn in to get your USAT license? You could certainly choose a Bible or a Quran to do the deed.

But you could also be a lot more creative. So here’s a few suggestions and reasons why these books might work quite well as texts on which to swear your fidelity to the sport and the cause:

  1. No Exit, by Jean Paul Sartre. This novel addresses themes of existentialism. The plot centers around a room with three people inside, and for all of eternity, in alternative fashion, two of the people in the room do not get along with the third. This often holds true for the three disciplines included in our sport as well. Why can’t they all just get along? No Exit maintains: Hell is other people. Triathlon maintains: Hell is at least one of the three sports.
  2. On the Road, by Jack Kerouac. This classic Beat Generation book chronicles the travels and travails of a road wanderer searching for meaning in life, but also some fun. That sounds enough like triathlon, does it not?
  3. The Teachings of Don Juan, by Carlos Castaneda. For those who like a little transcendental mysticism in their pursuits, the entire series of books by Castaneda challenges every perception of reality you’ve ever had. Reading the books in order dissolves what you consider “normal” about life and makes you wonder if you can actually fly…If you put your mind to it. Perfect for those who want to live outside the pain and reach another level of performance.
  4. The Peregrine, by J.A. Baker. This book is written in a first-person narrative in which a solo naturalist follows and studies the lives of peregrine falcons on the far reaches of England’s loneliest coastlines. The descriptions of raptors taking their prey in thrilling stoops will make your heart pound. Yet there are quiet moments of consideration as the peregrine dines on its feathered meals. Perfect reading while lying on the couch in recovery.
  5. The Curse of Lono, by Hunter S. Thompson. This book came out during the height of the big running boom in the early 1980s. Thompson was sent by Rolling Stone magazine to cover the Honolulu Marathon. He discovered a culture more obsessive and manic than the worlds of drug users, Hell’s Angels and politics he covered in his Gonzo Journalism personas. No matter how crazed you think you are about your sport, this book will make you feel positively normal. We all need that from time to time.
Hunter S. Thompson’s manic classic starts with the Honolulu Marathon

And there you have it. A Starter’s Guide for books on which to place your hand and make your oath to succeed in the sport of triathlon.

You’ll notice there aren’t actually any books about triathletes, or triathlons, in this mix. That’s because I don’t believe in literalism for inspiration. Those gripping life stories about triathletes who went from being low-paid dishwashers to winning Kona may seem inspirational, but they’re actually depressing. Who wants to compare themselves with that?

Thus it’s far better to disassociate through crazed books of fiction than associate and grow weary reading non-fiction accounts of people so much better than you are. Because if you’re going to swear you existence to anything, don’t let it be someone else’s life. They’re way more weird and obsessive than you could ever imagine.

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#1 resolution: forgive yourself and grow

Posted on January 2, 2019 by Christopher Cudworth
My father (foreground, in wheelchair) and our family members.

As a young athlete I was typically motivated by two strong emotions: anger and the need for approval. If those seem contrary, you’re correct about that. I was angry at the world for its injustices and at the same time craving attention and satisfaction from the compliments of others.

In a classic case of nature vs. nurture, this internal conflict was due in part to my anxious character. Some of it was also due to contrary aspects of my upbringing. But in any case, it was a long and often furious engagement trying to prove myself to others, and to myself.

In some ways, that inner conflict worked to my advantage. As a competitive person, I used that inner turmoil to drive my athletic pursuits. That produced success to the level of my natural ability. I can honestly say that during the peak years of my youth from age 13 through the age of 28, I trained as hard as I could and raced as fast as I could. I have no regrets. Looking back at training journals from those years, there weren’t many places where I slacked off. If anything, I overtrained and raced too much at times.

Painting titled Transformation by Christopher Cudworth

By the time I got married and we had our first child, it dawned on me that perhaps my formula for success was a bit out of balance. That combination of using anger as a motivator and having the need for approval was not especially constructive in the work world. For one thing, anger has no place in professional life. Yet neither does the need for constant approval. People just don’t have time for that. “Do your job,” is more often what managers and executives will tell you. “That should be satisfaction enough. “

But it took some real life crises and a number of years to breed that anger and need for constant approval out of me for good.

During years of caregiving for my father, a stroke victim, and taking care of my late wife, who died from ovarian cancer after eight years of survivorship, I was invited by a local cancer resource center to take part in some counseling. I’d shared the challenges of taking care of my father and all the family relationship management that had to go into that. There were old seeds of anger still rooting about our family that would crop up in moments of frustration from him. It took every ounce of patience I had to manage some of that.

Meanwhile I perhaps desperately wanted approval in how I was taking care of my wife. Some of that I poured into journals and blogs, and ultimately published a book comprised of those explorations titled The Right Kind of Pride: A Chronicle of Character, Caregiving and Community. But mostly that work turned out to be a record of all the vulnerability we experienced and the blessings we received. The algorithm of vulnerability–being open and honest to the point of being powerless–– is what I mean by the right kind of pride. Authenticity is critical to relationships, that includes one’s faith in God, and in others.

The smallest tendril of vulnerability and forgiveness can sometimes work wonders.

During one of the counseling sessions I was talking about the cycles of difficulty and reconciliation with my father when the therapist leaned forward and asked, “You seem good at forgiving others. How are you at forgiving yourself?”

I was floored by that question. It made me think back on all the ways that I’d beat myself up in the past for what seemed like failures, but were in fact just experiences that contributed to my life just as much as the successes. And once I looked at each of those situations through the lens of forgiveness, life itself began to take on a new appearance.

It’s no cliche to say that giving and accepting forgiveness is liberating. Until you’ve tried it sometime, it can be hard to imagine what it means to forgive or be forgiven. But when you do that for yourself, it frees you from the ruminative chains that bind you… and how you think about the past.

When that happens, it opens up new thinking processes for the present and future. Living with the ability to forgive yourself enables you to make small or even large mistakes and forgive yourself in the moment. Then you truly learn from them. It is thus far easier to correct the situation and move forward. And when you aren’t beating yourself up for the supposed failures of the past, present or even future (expecting failure…) it is much easier to believe in your ability to achieve what you set your mind to.

Getting to the source of core issues can be an empowering force in life.

Thus it is vital to understand the power of forgiveness when setting goals for yourself or making resolutions. I recently happened upon a journal from 2008. In its pages I noticed that I’d made a notation in goals for the year: “Cut carbs and replace with fruits and vegetables.”

That was depressing to read in some respects. I’d forgotten how long I’ve been trying to accomplish that goal. So why hasn’t it happened? The most honest answer is that I’m somehow not reconciled to certain aspects of my behavior. Some are still emotionally-driven, and it’s easy to collapse into those patterns. So perhaps, like so many people in this world, I’m still eating my feelings rather than eating for reasons of health and fuel.

It’s the same thing with athletic pursuits. If you’re taking too much time in transitions during triathlon, it’s a simple process to figure out how it’s happening. But it’s a much more powerful examination to consider the question of why it is happening. What is holding you back from wanting to get through transitions quicker? Is it fear? Laziness? Pressure? Questions worth asking.

But to get there in terms of better eating––and this is my main goal for this year––I’m going to take a hard look at my eating habits and assess the emotions that must be driving some of them. Consuming comfort food and anxious calories is a real thing. We also eat to cope with feelings of depression, uncertainty, boredom and perhaps worst of all, self-pity. Worst because that indicates a lack of gratitude.

But first, I’ll have to forgive myself for the lack of commitment in order to open up those patterns to examination. After that, a more honest emotional framework can be applied and the motivation to eat better attached to objectives rather than buried under layers of non-constructive carbohydrates.

I hope this helps you take a better look at yourself both in the mirror and in the context of your life. Forgiveness is a powerful thing. Let it work for you, and grow.

Posted in Christopher Cudworth, foregiveness, running, triathlete, triathlon, triathlons | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Catching up on cool and not-so-cool cats in this world

Posted on December 31, 2018 by Christopher Cudworth
Bennie (background) and Wanda are our two cats.

This morning while Sue was off at swim practice, I kept hearing an odd thumping sound downstairs. It was intermittent, so I reasoned that one of our 20-somethings was up making breakfast or fulfilling some other mission on their often unpredictable agenda.

Instead, I learned, once Sue got home, that our cat Bennie had caught and captured a mouse in the basement. He apparently played with it a while and then deposited it on the landing where it could not be missed. A gift, it seems, for the woman that he loves.

I’ve seen before what happens when Bennie plays with his prey. He bats it up and down the central hallway in a fit of feline joy. This was perhaps the fourth mouse he’s discovered and dispatched in our two years of living in this home. He patrols the basement, which is where mice tend to show up. But they don’t stand a chance of survival in our house.

Up close and personal with Bennie the Cat

I know how astute this cat can be at mouse-catching. I play a game with Bennie when he’s up on our bed. I reach below the covers and make the smallest scratching noise possible. Bennie tracks it down and pounces. Sometimes I’ll give him a tussle by wrestling with him through the covers with my fingers. He’ll use all four paws at that point to fight back.

Sue doesn’t mind the ‘mouse in the house’ thing all that much. She once lived in an Oak Park apartment where mice were a consistent presence. Neither were dead things uncommon in the Batavia house in which I lived for 20 years. I’d often come back from runs carrying a dead bird or some other interesting creature to be placed in the freezer for future study as part of my wildlife art.

I know: that’s illegal as hell. Wildlife protection laws, especially those governing migratory birds, are designed to prevent people from possessing dead creatures without a license. My claim was to an artistic license. I used those bird skins to create my paintings, thus celebrating the life of that bird in ways that educated others. So there.

People have suggested to me over the years that picking up dead animals holds a risk of contracting a disease, infection or infestation. But I’ve not had a single problem with handling dead creatures. That dates all the way back to 1976 when I studied field biology at Luther College and stuffed several dozen animals, birds and fish.

Many birds die during migration.

Yet a few years back I did get a disturbing infection from the bite of one of our cats. It turned into cellulitis. That required treatment with antibiotics, which killed my good gut bacteria. That led to a dangerous condition call C-diff, which required even more medication. So don’t lecture me about handing dead mice. A live house cat can be much more dangerous.

The strangest aspect of doing taxidermy back in the day was the close resemblance between the smell of cooking the flesh of the skulls of wild creatures and the similar odors coming from the cafeteria food I’d make at the college union. We’re not so civilized a race of creatures as we’d like to believer.

And talk about wild experiences. One day while working dish I was at the front of the line taking glass items off cafeteria trays when my friends from biology class placed the head of a dead squirrel head on a plate with salad garnish and sent it into the dishroom. When that squirrel with its orange teeth pried wide open to be clamped around a bright orange carrot came rolling into the dish room, the girl standing next to me swooned and fell away from her position.

All I could do is laugh and brush the ghastly squirrel head into the trash bin before the grumpy old lady dishroom manager named Gladys could see the prank.

The point of these stories is simple: Most of us are so separated from the realm of dead things in our daily lives we take for granted that our food is killed for us by someone else. Thus I get that people who like to hunt for game are a bit disgusted by the fact that people are critical of their pursuits. I’m admittedly no fan of trophy hunters who shoot rare animals, but for people who hunt deer or shoot geese I find no complaint. There are plenty of those to go around.

One of my Resident Assistant dorm managers at Luther was a hunter who annually cooked up a delicious wild game dinner each fall. We’d eat pheasant, grouse, squirrel, rabbit and a few other wild critters. It was fun.

Thus I’ve hesitated to take mice away that our hunter Bennie catches in our basement. Typically I let him play with them for a while. There’s certainly no harm in that. Cats are hunters by nature. The thing I do protest is people letting their cats roam around outside where they kill billions of wild birds each year. That is wasteful and frankly, a human travesty.

A wild mink struck on the road. Did the driver ever see it? Or was it at night?

So is the waste of wildlife caused by road kill. Recently I stopped during a run to photograph a wild mink that had been struck by a vehicle while trying to cross a road between two wetland areas. The mink may well have been hit while crossing the road on a dark night. No chance of a driver ever seeing it in those conditions.

Yet distracted drivers have also almost hit me while riding my bike. Cyclists seem to be viewed by some motorists as a form of wildlife that is beneath their province. If a cyclist gets hit on the road, so what? It’s inevitable, right?

“Just stay out of my way” is the uncivilized death chant of the terminally selfish in this world.

Most people likely never know how close they truly live to many species of wildlife. The animals that live near humans are typically adaptable creatures by nature, know how to hide and prefer to avoid us by any means possible. Yet almost every American suburb has its share of skunk and rabbits, opossums, raccoons and armadillos. Over in Australia there are kangaroos and koalas living near people. In other countries it might just be rats. That’s certainly the case right here in Chicago, Illinois. I’ve seen rats as big as cats in the city.

In all these cases, the benefits of living near humans ultimately outweighs the risks. Until cats intervene, that is, and there are far too many feral cats in this world. That’s one of the tarsnakes of keeping cats as pets. Some of them escape or are born into the wild. That upsets the natural balance of an ecosystem of many places in the world.

Yet is why it is fascinating to watch one of our cats sitting by the back door watching chipmunks chip and flick their tails at them two feet away. There’s a boundary between the domestic and wild worlds that is best kept intact.

It is however poignant that crossing that boundary as human beings is perhaps vital toward taking care of our mental health and well-being. Getting our ‘nature fix’ is one way to relieve the stress of modern living with all its fake and fractured modalities, information overloads and perversions of reality and unreality.

Yet for some folks, the act of petting a cat or a dog on the sofa is enough wildness to satisfy that need. For others, and that includes me, it is important to get out where the rules are not so well-defined and contained by civilization. I crave the wild call of a sandhill crane over a marsh. I love the tracks of a deer in the spring mud, and the haunting hooting of a great horned owl in the dark. These things fulfill me.

So a touch of wildness in the downstairs hallway is not some offensive notion to me. The fact that a mouse knows how to get into our house is not a surprise either. They can compress themselves to a mere centimeter at times, and find every crevasse in the construction of our home.

But then Bennie finds those mice and puts an end to their adventures in domestic invasion. That’s a fair tradeoff if you ask me, and it’s been that way for thousands of years it seems.

Posted in blood on the highway, Christopher Cudworth, cycling, cycling threats, hating cyclists, I hate cyclists, mental illness, running, Share the Road | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

10 Years with Chuck the Dog

Posted on December 28, 2018 by Christopher Cudworth
Our dog Chuck has been a solid companion for more than a decade

During his senior year in college, my son Evan was coming home from the bars with a buddy late one night when they noticed a small dog peeking out from underneath a car. He was covered in white paint and huddling in a brown paper bag. The poor thing was all wet, lost and alone on a cold spring night.

So they scooped him up and brought the dog back to the Psi U fraternity house on the University of Chicago campus. They cleaned him up the best they could and he slept the night in my son’s room.

A couple weeks later they held a Beer Bash and charged a cover fee to pay for the dog’s veterinary bills. Evan named him Chuck after the man that owned the building because there was a No Dogs Rule. Yet my son, ever the politician, knew that some heartstrings needed to be pulled.

And it worked: “Well, I can’t kick him out if he’s named after me,” the landlord admitted.

This little story may not be historically accurate in every fine detail. Yet it’s the story I’ve shared with dozens of people over the years. My son provided the core elements of its truth. He rescued a stray dog that most surely would have died somewhere in a dirty alley had the events I just described not take place. From that point forward, that little dog crept into the hearts of many people.

My daughter Emily with the Chuckster

Upon meeting Chuck the first time, my daughter Emily fell for him and when Evan landed a job that would require some travel, she begged my wife to take Chuck into our home out in the suburbs. So Chuck came to live with us. That pup quickly won over the heart of my late wife who’d long sworn we’d never have a dog because she was concerned that she’d get stuck with all the care, walking and training a dog requires.

Luke with my wife Sue (foreground) and Chuck with Evan.

It didn’t work out that way, as that little mutt took over my heart as well. I became the Chuck Walker and after my wife passed away, he lived with me until my daughter got out of school and found an apartment of her own.

In truth, Chuck has proven to be an able companion to everyone. On occasion he’s stayed with my sister-in-law, and now she’s fostering other dogs until they find a good home. So Chuck has had a grand effect on all of us.

To be truthful, he’s always been a bit possessed by separation anxiety. He prefers, above all things, to huddle next to one of his human “tribe” whenever that circumstance presents itself. He’s a Grade A snuggler.

The two “rescues” that my son Evan has brought into our lives, Luke and Chuck.

Until this year, he was the only dog in our extended family. But this Christmas he got to meet the dog my son adopted this year from a shelter out in Venice, California. That dog is named Luke Skybarker. He’s a Chihuahua-Corgy mix with cute ears and a pleasant little soul. Following the initial humpfest that occurs between small dogs trying to establish dominance in a new dog relationship, things settled down and the companionship between them was a pleasant surprise.

I’m relating all this not because Chuck somehow slots into my running, riding and swimming. He’s never trained with me and frankly hates cold weather and rain. The only running he’s done with me has been short sprints in which we take off for fifty or sixty yards. His ears fly back and his hair flows over his body during these sprint sessions. We both wind up panting at the front door from the anaerobic effort.

Once in a while as a pup, he’d take off on running in crazy circles to work off pent up energy. I’d given him a bath one day and decided to walk him before leaving for work. We went to a local park and he proceeded to take off running in circles on a wet, sandy baseball field. He was orange-brown on the lower half of his body.

If we don’t watch him closely, he likes to wander off on journeys of his own,, following his nose right wherever it leads. Fortunately, he’s never truly gotten lost because we watch him closely. But he is a subtle little bugger and at a yard party with other dogs present he snuck off and wound up nosing around the garage of a neighbor, who brought him back with a grin while saying, “I assume this guy is yours?”

His only real flaw over time has been a bit of leash aggression toward certain dogs, especially big, dark dogs that are also on a leash. Something about that sets him off. And he’s quite protective of my daughter as well. I worked with Chuck and a trainer early on, and she knew how to get him to behave better. But my own wrestle with authority and the methods required to truly train a dog made me anxious. I can’t help it. I’m too sympathetic.

What I’m really trying to relate in all this recollection is the realization that this Schnoodle or whatever his genetics dictate has been in my life for ten whole years now. That’s one-sixth of my entire life. Anything that lasts that long in your existence truly deserves a ton of respect.

He’s still healthy and not showing many signs of age, just yet. But I realize that things can change fast with pets of any kind. For now, I’ve been paying attention to him in the ways I always have. There’s the daily big greeting at the door, a kindness he extends to all. He’s slept on the bed some nights when my daughter and her boyfriend who live with us are not home yet. My wife Sue has learned to love Chuck’s quirks and the rest of the household too.

He’s a good, good dog. That’s all I’m trying to say. And thank goodness that little bugger came into our lives. If you’d like to share a few words about your doggo or kitty I’d love to hear them.

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Realistic and unrealistic goals

Posted on December 26, 2018 by Christopher Cudworth
This is perhaps how I saw myself in the early 1970s.

On the day after Christmas, I think back to a request for a gift that my father granted me far back in time. It was 1971 or so, and my best friend in the little town of Elburn, Illinois was a kid named Eric Berry. His family was large and by no coincidence Catholic. His father would later become the Mayor of Elburn.

Every year the Berry family would take off to Colorado to go skiing in the mountains. The Berry boys were all pole vaulters on the talented Kaneland High School track team. Thus their love of thrill sports was in keeping with downhill skiing.

Come along

Eric eagerly pushed me to ask my father for a set of skis. I knew so little about skiing and was so eager to please my friend that I went along. And sure enough, my father bought me those skis.

I’m pretty sure my father was thinking about his youth in Upstate New York and the farm on which he lived. It backed up to a Catskill Mountain and I recall him telling me about skiing down that hill, which must have been 100% powder some winters. So my dad plunked down the money for those skis.

Unrealistic goal

We didn’t really have that kind of money, and I’m not sure what moved him to engage in such indulgence on my behalf. I must have made an earnest pitch or something like it. There was another problem that would not be solved. The bindings on those skis were designed to fit actual ski boots. I didn’t own any of those either.

Yet I was determined to give the skis a try somehow. So I toted my skis to the Deaconry Hill, as we called it, a 300-meter incline just north of our house on Gates Street. I tried my best to shove some of those standard black buckle boots into the bindings and stood there looking down at the plain white snow below me.

Then I realized something else. I didn’t own any ski poles either.

I pushed myself off from a nearby tree and slid slowly down the hill, all the while flailing my arms for balance. At the bottom where the ground flattened out, I tumbled to the side and wound up lying on my side with my face half-covered with snow. It was cold outside, and quiet. Some birds were chirping above me in a tree.

Reality strikes

That was the last time I used those skis. My friend Eric begged me to ask my father to let me join them on a ski trip to Colorado, but that was so far out of the realm of reality for our family I did not even go there with my dad. So the skis sat in the downstairs mud room. They were long and white and shiny, an extravagance that reminded me brutally of my naivete. From then on I considered them covered in guilt. What the heck was I thinking?

Cross country salvation

Ten years later my two long-time running buddies invited me to go cross-country skiing in southeast Wisconsin. With that sport, I developed some history as we often skied together in the early to mid-1980s. Our cross-country ski trips took us to Governor Dodge State Park in Dodgeville, Wisconsin, Kettle Moraine State Park near Lake Geneva and up to Decorah, Iowa where two of us attended college. Those were both realistic and fun trips in the company of gals that we loved.

Yet the most epic ski journey of all took place right out the back door in Illinois. We left from one my buddy’s houses and skied north for miles through deep February snow on a day that warmed to thirty degrees. The landscape was not yet covered with homes as it would be a decade later when farmers sold their property to developers. Which left us free to ski unhindered over hill and dale.

That trip lasted hours, and toward the end we even stripped off our upper layers and skied along without our shirts or jackets. And yes, I fell over in the snow that day as well. But this time it was glorious, not humiliating.

Trying new things

Trying new things in life is always good. Not knowing exactly what you’re getting into can also be exciting. That’s how it felt when I took up cycling more seriously in the mid-2000s. The same goes for the swim journey I’m now on as well.

It’s been a step-by-step process going from duathlons to triathlons as well. Along the way I’ve developed some realistic goals that are both age and situation appropriate even as they stretch me to try even newer things. Such will be the case with doing Olympic triathlons this summer.

If that sounds modest compared to those who’ve dived into doing an Ironman the first time out, and succeeded, well so be it. I’ve learned lessons many times about realistic and unrealistic goals. I prefer something in the middle. A bit of challenge is great, but begging for a set of downhill skis when I have neither the boots or poles or means to pursue the sport.

And that’s called maturity.

Posted in aging, Christopher Cudworth, cross country, cycling, cycling the midwest, track and field, triathlete, triathlon, triathlons | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

The legs have it

Posted on December 20, 2018 by Christopher Cudworth

I have a lot of mileage on my legs. They’ve carried me through countless miles of training and racing, first as a runner, then as a cyclist, now as a triathlete.

Performance

My running career officially started in 1970, the year I went out for middle school track and ran the half-mile in meets. My times were decent, but not great. That describes most of my athletic career.

Still, there were moments of relative greatness over years of competition. My talents would not turn out to be world-class, but I can’t complain when I look back and realize how unique it is to win a race, much less many races. My legs deserve credit for much of that.

Appearance

I was never all that happy with the appearance of my legs. In high school, they just looked skinny. By college, they took on a utilitarian flair. After college, I learned that some women actually like lean characters with muscular, thin legs. For that, I am thankful too.

Cycling came into my life sometime in the early 2000s. Summers of long, hard rides actually built new muscle where none had been before. Then I shaved my legs as cycling tradition demands and in many ways that felt transcendent. Freed of hairy constraints and perceptions of what constituted manhood and what did not, I learned to love not only what my legs could do, but how they actually looked. Ironically, as fashions in men’s shorts have gone, we now show less of our legs than forty years ago.

Changes

As age advances I see changes occurring in the structure and surface of my legs. The skin on my thighs has aged in comparison to five years ago. I apply sunscreen more often, but the damage from years of sun exposure is already done.

Even the muscles that typically popped out after two months of riding longer no longer bulge so quickly. Short of pumping testosterone pills I don’t know that anything would alter these changes in my body. I’ll have to learn to love what I’ve got, and keep working to maintain everything. That’s a lifelong adventure no matter how young or old you may be. But in every case, the legs have it.

Posted in aging, aging is not for the weak of heart, Christopher Cudworth, cycling, cycling the midwest, healthy aging, mental health, racing peak, running | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Get into the flow of things, share a lane and seal the deal

Posted on December 20, 2018 by Christopher Cudworth

It’s been busy at the pool this week. Actually, it’s been busy at both pools this week. On Monday the Vaughn Center pool at 6:15 in the morning was all lanes full. This morning Master’s Swim at Marmion Academy was jammed with people as well.

I don’t mind sharing lanes in these instances. The only problem I have is getting too close to the heavy lane markers with my elbow. I struck one the other day and earned a harsh little pool rash for the error. It stung.

Yet I’d much rather risk a little bad form on my own than selfishly swim in my own pool lane while some other swimmer sits on a deck bench waiting for a lane to open up. That’s really bad form. Because if that’s me, I want someone to offer a half lane so I can swim too. I share lanes all the time. Why not extend that favor to another swimmer?

Not all people do. Some seem to view their good luck as a form of personal providence. Whatever. Their loss, in my opinion.

This mornings lane share proved interesting. She was a big gal by any measure. Yet she swam smoothly, and when it came time to do a set of 12 X 25M on the 30s, she surged ahead of me on the third repeat and from then on I never caught her.

Swimming is unique that way. Your success is not necessarily defined by body type. In fact, watching the folks up at the Madison Open Water Swim, it was apparent that while many of the most elite swimmers have that lean shape, there are many body types that do quite well in the swimming category. Big people aren’t necessarily slower in the water.

It’s easy to think it’s all buoyancy. But actually, it’s not. You still have to swim, and displacing water requires energy. But the truly great thing about swimming as a sport is the lack of impact. Surely the big gal in my lane would struggle with a three-mile run while the 1500 meters she swam today in the pool fit her like silk on a summer’s morn.

I must admit the water shifted a bit whenever we passed each other in the lane. It’s something one needs to get used to with any swimmer. The practice of bobbing through the occasional wave is good for guys like me. I’m still thrown off balance by the washing machine effect created by other swimmers during the early stages of a triathlon swim. Thus the more one gets used to swimming through with bodies close to you, the better.

I haven’t swum much in the ocean or cavorted with otters in the kelp beds, but at one point the gal in my lane did a flip turn and surfaced much like a seal creature in the water. Her movement in her black suit was elegant. I half expected to see a flipper break the surface. Well, actually it did. She was wearing those little half-flippers for some of her intervals.

Get into the flow of things in the water. Seal the deal.

Then I looked over two lanes to see my wife coursing through the pool. I adore seeing her swim. Her strong shoulders are lovely. I’m so proud she’s my wife. She’s my slick seal and I’m grateful for that.

All told, there truly is a flow to it all. Finally, I feel like I belong in the pool, curling through the water like the rest of the human seals. And that’s the deal. We’re all sharing one big lane and it’s called water.

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The eyes have it

Posted on December 18, 2018 by Christopher Cudworth

Where do you look when you’re out riding and running? Do you gaze all around you, or keep your eyes fixed on the road or trail ahead?

It’s a blessing to be able to see, you see. People who lose their sight, or that were born blind still find methods of enjoying life. I’ve always been amazed at the lyrics written by Stevie Wonder, the blind musician that has given so perspective to this world despite his lack of visual sight. The contrasts he is able to capture in his singing of these words, such as these lyrics celebrating the joy of a newborn child:

Isn’t she lovely 
Isn’t she wonderful 
Isn’t she precious 
Less than one minute old 
I never thought through love we’d be 
Making one as lovely as she 
But isn’t she lovely made from love 

But also this, relating the grit it takes to survive in this world…

His sister’s black but she is sho ’nuff pretty
Her skirt is short but Lord her legs are sturdy
To walk to school she’s got to get up early
Her clothes are old but never are they dirty
Living just enough, just enough for the city (um-hum)

That’s why I never take my eyes for granted. Way back in 1980 I was told that one of my eyes had a retinal tear. The optometrist sent me to the Gunderson Clinic in LaCrosse, Wisconsin to have it burnt shut with a laser machine. It has held ever since, and I am grateful for that.

A few years back however, my eyes started to shed some viscous matter, resulting in an array of “floaters” in my vision. This frightened me because it came with some flickering light that might indicate a compromised retina Fortunately, things stabilized. But it reminds me that I need to go have an eye checkup.

As a visual artist, I spend a lot of time looking at things in unusual ways. My Instagram (@genesisfix) is filled with quirky observations of things I think are unusual or symbolic in some way. I only have 580 Followers, so it’s not like the world embraces my vision, but I take those pics for my own enjoyment, and because I crave something new in my life every day. I do it because I’m having fun.

That’s what the act of “seeing” is all about anyway. When we run and ride we get to see new things. Even on our everyday, run-of-the-mill routes, we can watch the sun come up another day, or study the long shadows at dawn or dusk.

When it comes to motivations to get out there and work out, the eyes certainly have it. For those who can’t “see” with their eyes, the ears play that role just as well. Stevie Wonder is proof of the fact that there is more than one way to “see” the world.

See what I mean?

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