A watershed moment at the football locker room door

This morning’s Chicago Tribune had a long story about the dropping levels of enrollment in youth football leagues. We say “enrollment” as if kids were signing up for dance class. Football is a type of dance, you might say. Yet it is a dance that sooner or later depends on violence for its foundation. That’s where the sport is getting into some trouble.

Heading into my freshman year in high school, I told my father that I wanted to go out for football. Some facts: I weighed 128 lbs. and stood 5’10”. Skinny, but not frail. Competitive to a flaw. Determined to succeed. And naive.

So my father saw past that youthful desire for football glory. In eighth grade I’d won the town’s Punt, Pass and Kick Contest, advanced to regionals. But despite this incremental aptitude, he knew that the real football was not the sport for me, nor any of my brothers. My eldest brother with his speed, vertical leap and endurance would have been the subject of great success at any football combine, but my father saw football as a destroyer of bodies. So none of us were allowed to play the game.

 

Cross country calleth

CudworthKanelandWhich all added up to a clear conclusion my freshman year in high school. My dad drove me to the school and walked to the locker room door with me. Perhaps he’d already talked with the cross country coach, but in any case, he sternly said: “You’re going out for cross country. And if you come back out that door, I’ll break your neck.”

That’s one of the reasons I became a runner. The other reason is that I loved the way I felt that first day of cross country. How it hurt. How every second was a challenge to my determination. The hard exhaustion. The sweat and the desire to prove myself. All of it I loved. It hurt so good.

Cross country was my sport, and my dad knew it. Track was perhaps less suited to the overall pressures on my anxious character, yet I ultimately did well enough to make it to college nationals three times in the steeplechase.

Hard choices remain

When I think back to that day my father told me I could not play football, his main concern was that I would get hurt in some bad way.

These days parents are being forced to make even hard choices based on dire evidence that the game of football is a genuine risk to the brain. Today’s Chicago Tribune article quotes Dr. Bennet Omalu, the forensic pathologist whose discovery of CTE was chronicled in the 2015 movie “Concussion.” He recently told an audience at the New York Press Club that allowing kids under 18 to play football “is the definition of child abuse.”

The article goes on to explain:

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Photo from the Chicago Tribune article on youth football. 

“The Chicagoland Youth Football League, which hosts teams from nearly 50 towns, saw almost 10,000 kids playing a decade ago, according to President Geoff Meyer. Last year, he said, it was down to 7,500. Though he said the fear of head injuries is a big reason for the drop, he said other factors are also working against the sport, from a shrinking teen population to what he perceives as a lack of discipline among the young.

“America is a whole lot worse without football and it just drives me crazy,” he said. “It has done so much for so many people.”

That last quote seems like a slam dunk in favor of football as part of the fabric of America. Yet I also recall the actions of a cross country runner named Rich Flynn from Cary, Illinois, who was leading us through a course tour before a dual meet when he suddenly peeled off from the group and sprinted through an organized football practice screaming KILL KILL KILL! 

His courage impressed me. It was one of the first times I witnessed anyone criticizing a sport that everyone else lionized. It opened my mind to the idea that people often worship at strange altars, and that it’s not necessarily our duty to do the same.

Liberalities

If football is indeed America’s Game, it aligns with so many other traditions and pastimes that on one hand seem noble and on the other, quite deadly. Our liberal gun laws now allow Concealed Carry in all 50 states. Guns are relatively easy to buy (whether legally or illegally) and the United States Constitution clearly states “the right to bear arms shall not be infringed.” But only if you ignore the part about “A well-regulated militia, being necessary for the security of a free state…”

Yet here are the statistics on what our gun liberalities produce in America:

More than 100,000 people in America are shot in murders, assaults, suicides & suicide attempts, accidents, or by police intervention. 31,537 people die from gun violence: ✓ 11,583 people are murdered. ✓ 18,783 people kill themselves.

Homicide_crime_sceneGiven these statistics and the apparent will of the people to allow more than 30,000 people die each year from gun violence, the game of football hardly seems like a risk at all. But that may still be a deception. In fact, the history of America actually rests on a disturbing foundation of cultural bloodshed, genocide, racial and religious violence.

So America’s game is merely a sanitized symbol of our the absolute perfection of our imperfections. The violence and confrontation. The sidelines and sexy cheerleaders and militarily funded pre-game displays of hard-knuckle patriotism.

Ultimately, the tribal nature of the sport and its faceless violence reduces human beings to municipal totems for cultural conflict. America’s history as a violent nation plays out every weekend. It draws cheering crowds just as the gladiatorial colosseums once staged replications of major military victories while real people died in the arena.

No wonder there are still teams called Redskins and Seminoles. This is America rehearsing its triumphal nature and its pursuant guilt at having vanquished and abused people to achieve its status. The well-moneyed veneer of pro and college football is a thin vestiture for this, the American system of power before all. The requisite banners and logos of football teams symbolize the tribal nature of a nation bent on rehearsing violence in order to affirm its existence and self-worth. Are you tough enough?

Cooler heads

A friend of mine runs one of the most successful winning high school football programs in Illinois. He recently shared this perspective on the proportion of risk from CTE among most players. “A lot of my friends and I played football,” he observed. “None of us has any signs of brain injury. There are a lot of people who play the game that never get CTE.”

That anecdotal evidence seems true if you think about it. Personally, I’ve known dozens of people who played football and exhibit no ill effects other than the typical batch of creaky knees and other injuries that are a product of playing sports at a competitive level.

Even my college cross country coach Kent Finanger was a star football and basketball player for Luther, my alma mater. A few years ago, I was walking into an awards ceremony with Kenton when his own son was being installed in the Luther Hall of Fame. My coach was bent a bit sideways from an old source of back pain and was scheduled for surgery not long after that weekend. “Well Kent,” I said to him. “All these sports have a cost, don’t they?”

Without hesitation he turned to me with that impish grin of his and said, “Wouldn’t change a thing.”

Directions

It will be interesting too see what direction the sport of football takes in the next 5-10 years. I believe my father helped choose the right thing for me. It would be frightening at this age (60) to be experiencing acute memory loss, rash emotional swings and other symptoms of CTE brought on by having my head bashed around in football. I might well have caused that myself. I was a fearless, angry kid with a lot to work out on the field. Surely my noggin’ would have suffered the consequences of my rabid competitiveness.

The harsh truth is that some players do experience CTE issues much earlier in life. Some high school players even develop CTE. But it is the tragic stories of high successful pro football players who were so desperate for relief they took they own lives that is driving popular understanding of CTE. The actual risk may thus be exaggerated, but who gets to be the exception rather than the rule. The real question at the heart of all this is why the world can prove to be such a harsh place it can drive people to self-destruction of any sort.

Fatalism

IMG_2943So the real question behind all this concern over football is whether the game symbolizes some aspect of national fatalism in general. Is there, in other words, some aspect of self-disdain hidden behind the very design of the sport? Is football, for all its association with teamwork and discipline and motivation…in fact a fatalistic denial of those very ideals? Is football, like the habit of smoking or overdrinking, more likely an indulgence than a character-builder?

There is without doubt a sort of self-aggrandizement and power structure at work in those who literally own and administrate the sport. They leverage the skills of those who play to their own advantage. And let’s admit it: the long-apparent byproducts of its damages were long obscured by leagues such as the NFL that prized profit over the cost of human suffering.

But in that respect, America’s game quite closely parallels the history of America itself. The country requires a bit of “dumbing down” in order to abide in notions such as “American exceptionalism,” a belief system that believes, without exception, that the ends justifies the means.

Dumbing down America

At most major college institutions the highest-paid staff member is the football coach. Surely this trend displays a sort of fatalism endemic to American educational institutions. Now that the anti-intellectual movement in America has risen to prominence in many ways, the emphasis on football at colleges and by society in general has come to symbolize the short-attention span theater that plays out in social media memes and shallow brands of religion dominating public discourse. The populism of cultural memes such as Friday Night Lights supposedly celebrates the good things that come from football as a cultural foundation.

So it is no small thing that the popular sport of football is now known to literally destroy the brains of some people who play the game. But is that the price of entertainment, or is it the price of a high-stakes game being played out on a national scale? We are witnessing a period in history when the question being asked is whether popularity and power are more important than the health and lives of everyday Americans. Some people seem determined to ignore the risks of populism’s peer pressure for the benefits of enjoying favor from the powerful. But not everyone. The Chicago Tribune columnist Steve Chapman recently wrote about the choices we face in supporting sports such as football. Just as importantly, this examination asks: how much violence can the nation tolerate within itself and still claim to exist as a beacon of hope in this world?

But I say that’s all a product of brain damage of one kind or another.

 

 

 

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No better place than Decorah, Iowa

As a freshman at Luther College in Decorah, Iowa, the new environment around our college campus was a mystery. Those first few weeks looping around town in training for cross-country amounted to one unveiling after another. There were gravel roads under tall limestone bluffs in town. There were asphalt roads that headed out of town through farm country dotted by sharp hills, dark cedars, and white birches.

Sometimes we’d sink into a valley during one of our long runs and the air would grow still. Then one might hear the conversational notes of chickadees piping to themselves. Once in a great while, there would be a pileated woodpecker flashing its white wing stripes as it flew away from us.

IMG_7211All the time there were little streams popping out of hillsides. They trickled like ideas that could not be ignored. In winter these artesian springs would freeze leaving tall ice falls or patches of slick ice across the road. You either had to go full force across them or slow down and gingerly find the few spots where stones and gravel shone through. Decisions, decisions. A symbol for much that was to come in life.

The place called Decorah takes hold of you eventually. Outside the realm of running, there were hikes into the hills with friends. That’s where the real climbing began, up and over the tall shelves of limestone that glaciation had left alone. This was the Driftless Region. Somewhere back in time these hills were formed by oceans full of shelled creatures, the remnants of which you could often find if you looked closely enough.

Much later in history, there were people who carved petroglyphs into these rocks. Those locations were not secret, but they were respected.

Decorah sits in the Oneota Valley, a twisting remnant of the impact of geology and hydrology. The Upper Iowa River is a national wild and scenic river. For many years the bridges across that river were suspension bridges made of steel and cable. But when farmers accidentally struck them with their tractors or some other aimless soul collided with their trusses another bridge would collapse into the river like a physical memory of times past.

IMG_7217.jpgWe’d run across these bridges in all seasons. Some years the river would be high and exceed its banks. Other years the river would get low, exposing pale rocks that once harbored fish. These would be tough years to kayak and canoe because hauling your boat over shallow areas until the next open patch of river is no easy journey.

But the real danger was found in high water years. Occasionally some unfortunate canoeist would get their boat caught on a downed tree. The canoe would fill with water on one end and BAMP, the canoe would bend in two. The force of the river was that strong.

I recall being a college sophomore and a member of a school fraternity that decided to do a joint canoe trip with a sorority. We partnered up for the 15-mile canoe trip. As a very skinny cross country runner, I had neither great arm strength or much weight on my body. My female partner had even less arm strength and outweighed me by forty pounds. But I sat in back of the canoe to steer the thing, and paddled for all I was worth for several hours. The spring winds were strong and our canoe veered back and forth across the river as she offered zero help in keeping us going in a straight line. At one point I seriously fantasized about striking her in the back of the head with my canoe paddle and pushing her out of the boat. We eventually made it back, but I never talked to that woman again.

IMG_7221Such were the tests, at times, in the environment around Decorah. Running was tough because of the hills. But put on cross-country skis and try them? Even tougher. So the place had a way of keeping you honest no matter what you did.

These days a major cycling community has built up around Decorah. Some magazine just branded it a mountain town without the mountains. Another magazine calls it a hippie paradise. There are hippie cafes and people who look like they just rolled down from the mountains. So the descriptions are apt.

I simply call Decorah a second or third home-away-from-home. It is the crunch of leaves on the rolling streets that I miss this time of year. And the sound of gurgling cold water coming down from Dunning Springs until it spills into the river. I have stopped to soak in the sight of a dull brown Cooper’s hawk perched in an autumn tree over the Decorah streets. And I have witnessed the quiet drift of a Bald Eagle soaring over the college campus.

There used to be a heartbeat that throbbed from the hills each spring in the drumming of ruffed grouse. The habitat around Decorah has changed in some way that the birds cannot tolerate. Yet I still feel the echo of the deep sounds they used to make in my own heart whenever I walk or run in those hills.

And if the day is right, one might stumble on a flock of wild turkeys on some back road. I once watched sixty of the birds burst from the roadside heather to sail in spirals off the side of the bluffs and down to the valley floor 150 feet below.

Time floats when a sight like that comes along, and proves there is no better place on earth than Decorah, Iowa.IMG_7218.jpg

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Chris Froome demonstrates the fine art of staying upright

 

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This is how a Vuelta a Espana GC Category is supposed to ride. Upright. 

 

Well, I feel much better about my cycling today. After all, I just got done watching Chris Froome, current leader of GC category in the Vuelta a Espana, fall flat on his ass on a clear piece of road. 

If Chris Froome can take a slow tumble like that, so can I. In fact, I still have a sore wrist from tossing over the handlebars a week ago while leading a young protege on a road bike ride. It wasn’t the first time I fell while going slowly. And it probably won’t be the last.

 

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Froome seems to be contemplating how wonderful it is to be upright again. 

In fact, Chris Froome fell twice within five minutes in the Vuelta.

 

All while going slowly.

FallSo this made me double proud of my ability to fall under the most casual circumstances. It seems I can ride my bike at 30-40 mph on a steep descent with no problem. And back when I experienced the horrors of bike wobble at 40+ I even got the bike under relative control during a horrid incident of bike wobble a few years back.

But slow me down to five miles an hour and the decisions are just too many to make. With no external stimulation to keep me focused, I apparently lose track of vertical and horizontal orientation and am subject to the whims of reverse gyroscopic transcendentalism. Emphasis on the ‘dent’ part.

The Great Descent

So it makes me feel good to see a superior descender like Chris Froome topple like a drunken stork from his bike. He was rounding a curve with a degree of bank to it when his bike wheels just seem to go east when his body was going west. He wound up landing on his buttocks. Not exactly a Great Descent.

Let’s be realistic. Chris Froome may be subject to a form of gravitational pull the rest of us do not experience. His body is so angular it is possible that when his limbs do not align with normal latitudinal dispensation, distinct polarity sets up between his elbow joints. If these reach a functional diameter of a nine feet between elbow points, he’s sunk. That’s what sends him into a personal vortex.

 

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“Yay! I didn’t fall on my ass this stage!” 

My theory for my own crashes is that a secretly Skinny Me (the one who is 140 lbs and 31:10 10K fit…) is living inside the slightly thicker Senior Me. So the Skinny Me is often trying to escape. That’s why I went head over handlebars last summer trying to Bunny Hop a curb at the movie theater parking lot. That’s also why I crashed head on into that fallen tree three years ago. My inner Skinny Me was trying to break through the layer of Middle-Aged Pudge around my middle.

 

That’s why I went head over handlebars last summer trying to Bunny Hop a curb at the movie theater parking lot. That’s also why I crashed head-on into that fallen tree three years ago. My inner Skinny Me was trying to break through the layer of Middle-Aged Pudge around my middle.

But I admire the likes of Chris Froome for his general consistency at staying upright. If he can stay upright another week, he’ll be one of a very few pro cyclists to win both the Tour de France and the Vuelta a Espana in a single year. That’s quite an accomplishment for a man who defies the laws of gyroscopic cycling every time he sits on the bike.

So I’ve made up a cheer that works for both Froome and I.

Go, Chris, Go. 

Works for me.

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Taking inspiration where you find it

MIss Keggereis.jpg

That’s me in the lower left of this photo with the buzz cut and the happy grin. That’s because I was a basically happy kid in fourth grade. My teacher was an amazing person named Miss Kegerreis. She was blonde, and she was smart. And she drove a white Mustang with a red leather interior.

And one day, Miss Kegerreis drove me to some after school function in her white Mustang convertible. It was a fine spring day south of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I loved the feel of riding in that car on the twisting, rolling roads of Lancaster County. And I darn near loved Miss Kegerreis.

It wasn’t that kind of love, you perve. I loved Miss Kegerreis because I felt like she understood me. Unlike many teachers of that era, Miss Kegerreis taught using integrated methods. She connected dots, and used the Robert’s English Series curriculum to encourage us to actively bring literature and poetry to life.

So we drew murals, and that let me shine during class. It also gave me opportunities to lead, but she made sure to help me realize that while I could draw better than anyone else in class, it was my job to get everyone to contribute and participate.

What a life lesson. It was instruction in collaboration, you see. And teamwork.

I can’t always say that I’ve abided by that great lesson. In running there is such a demand for individual performance that sometimes it is easy to forget that others need encouragement. But those lessons come with experience. I got to captain teams, coach others, and provide leadership.

Home life

au052-ford-mustang-convertible-636.jpgThere was another life lesson that Miss Kegerreis imparted that would prove important over time as well. Not every aspect of my home life was positive. My father could be rough and critical in many ways, and sometimes even physically abusive with us. So my tender young brain was beset with some challenges in self-esteem. Some of those it has taken a lifetime to overcome.

Self-worth seems like it should be inherent to all of us. But betrayal of trust and safety can undermine even the most self-assured child. And when a child is naturally shy, anxious or even prone to depression or attention-deficit disorder, environment is quite critical to healthy outcomes.

Affirmed and encouraged

With Miss Kegerreis I felt affirmed and encouraged. It was the most liberating sensation. It felt like I could do anything, and succeed. As a result, my grades were good that year. I was socially confident.

But the following year, they stuck me in a class with a real bitch of a German woman named Ms. Shultz. She was stern and cross, and wore her wire-rimmed classes close to her face while her white hair was pulled back so tight it must have creaked protest when she got ready for school.

She was mean and impatient and dismissive. We all got spankings at times because corporal punishment was still allowed in schools. Basically she was the German Mennonite Protestant parallel of the Catholic nun.

And I hated her fucking guts.

Fighting for respect

The school year went difficult. I started getting into fights, a habit that lasted through sixth grade when I finally got in over my head with a challenge from a real bully and a friend stopped me before I went to get my ass kicked.

So it was a harsh way to learn my limits. And learning that I had limits at all was such a contrast to the belief instilled by Miss Kegerreis that I questioned why the world had to be that way at all.

Anger issues

maxresdefault.jpgThe anger somehow stuck with me through some aspects of life. And heading into my sophomore year in high school, I was determined to prove myself to anyone that would listen. At the same time, I was also desperate for approval. That’s not a good psychological mix. Every rejection or failure seemed double in dimension. Success sometimes seemed fleeting, and the cycle could repeated itself. I had anger issues.

Fortunately, I encountered another positive influence in a coach named Rich Born. His approach was both objective and fatherly at the same time. He made me believe in myself, and even my grades improved that year.

The Core

The point here is not just that life has its ups and downs. It is also true that there are themes, like a core of goodness, that still run through these periods of strife. They might be ideas or hopes or people or beliefs that can sustain us despite events that come along and seem ready to crush our spirits.

I encourage you to go back through your life and think about your personal Miss Kegerreis. There is almost undoubtedly someone in your life who made you feel important, interested and real. Think about why you felt that way around them. And think about how your mind responded, and how everything seemed to fit together.

Write down the feelings you had. Try to recall what other periods in life you felt that way. Perhaps when you really did fall in love with a person. Or when you had a good coach, a good teacher, or a good boss.

Think about what that felt like. Think about how your mind worked then.

And think about yourself now. And let it be real again. First consider where you found inspiration in the past. And then take inspiration where you find it. It’s there waiting for you. Let it be real again.

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Youth isn’t always wasted on the young

Solstice SunWith August nearly over and the sun starting to slide south toward twilight, it is hard not to draw some associations with seasons past. With fall approaching, there is not a runner alive whose senses do not perk up while recalling the feel of feet racing through the grass. Those instincts might be some ancient bedouin blood in our veins, or perhaps we share a shred of our genetics with wildebeests, coyotes or cranes.

More likely it is simply memories of competitions on cool afternoons and Saturday mornings in our youth.

The drive of youth

Whatever the drive that pushes us to run and compete, there is no sensation quite like the pull of hormones and desperation of youth. In truth the innocence and urgency of youth floods across our early experiences. Sometimes it gets us into trouble. At other times the trouble comes to us.

There is no more bittersweet scene in all of moviedom than the movie moment when George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life is standing there in a saggy football uniform holding the bathrobe of his future love hiding in the hydrangea bushes when the roar of a vehicle pulls up and someone calls to him, “Come quick George, your father’s had a stroke!”

That is the innocence of youth being ripped away from George Bailey. Because from there, his life becomes a series of unwanted obligations, pressures and near collapse from the stress of it all.

Redemption

There is a scene of redemption later in that movie. For the runner in me, it is the scene that feels so much like reality. It follows the period when George Bailey travels Clarence the Angel to see what the world would be like without him. Then George returns to Bedford Falls during a driving snowstorm. We witness him running through town calling out to the places he loves, including the apocryphal moment, “Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan!” This is George Bailey realizing he has been redeemed.

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It means a lot to me that his redemptive moment occurs while he is running. That feels so much like real life to me. I have run through it all.

For me, there are some strange circumstances surrounding that movie. I was literally born in Seneca Falls, New York, the town upon which the fictitious Bedford Falls is based. And while I’ve never run through the streets in a snowstorm after an encounter with an angel, that is hardly the point about why I love that scene in the movie so much.

It also happens that I had a moment in life which a phone call arrived telling me that my father had just suffered a stroke. I turned to my wife at the time and said, “Well, my life just changed.”

Because just like George Bailey, that moment led to a long series of life changes that were difficult at best. In fact, few of us get through life without unexpected interruptions. We might like to think our life is headed in a certain direction and then BAM!, something comes along to change it. We lose a parent, or a child. We divorce or lose a spouse. Our children face painful struggles of their own. Life can turn out to be a maelstrom of change and travail. Perhaps we long to be ‘young again,’ when things seemed so much more innocent.

Youth is eternal

But perhaps you also recall that moment in the movie when George Bailey is standing outside with Mary before tragedy takes over. He’s talking his head off even though it is clear that Mary loves him so much it doesn’t matter what he is saying.

Then an old grump overhears his babbling calls out from the porch to George (and I paraphrase…)

 “Why don’t you kiss her instead of talking her to death!”

“You, you… want me to kiss her?” he queries.

“Oh, youth is wasted on the young…” the old guy gruffly laments.

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I can never claim to have gotten every moment like that right. Women can be mysterious beings, but they are also quite capable of sending out clear signals that men too often miss. Still there were enough times in life that I read the cues that turned into wonderful, romantic moments that can be cherished and remembered.

Parallel pride

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And that’s wonderful. But the parallel pride of youth is in responding to the challenges put forth beyond the realm of romance. I think specifically of those moments at eighteen years old arriving on a college campus for an entirely new journey in cross country. That same year there were no less than five other freshman entering the program that had run under 15:00 for three miles in high school. There were all those upperclassmen wanting to make the Top Seven as well. It was raw and open competition from Day One. No fussing around. Run hard. Find your place. Make the team. Compete with honor.

By the end of the season I’d earned the 7th spot on the team and placed ninth in a conference meet in which our Top Seven all finished in the Top Ten. We went on to compete in a muddy national meet in Boston, Massachusetts. Before the trip, a senior named Kirk Neubauer stepped aside to allow me to run at Nationals even though he and I were essentially tied for points on the year. “You go ahead, Cud,” he told me. “It will be important for the future of the program.”

I’ve never forgotten that clear gesture of perspective, friendship and maturity. Recently Kirk retired from Admissions at Luther College after many years of service in recruitment of students. He has literally infused the lifeblood of the institution, its students. Now he is going to dedicate his time to helping the college cross country program, which maintains its wonderful traditions under the guidance of its coach Steve Pasche. 

I am so grateful to have known so many people who bring full and intense purpose to life. Some of them have been coaches and mentors. Some of them have been peers, teammate and competitors. We gain strength and insight from all of them.

Youth is not always wasted on the young. The more we appreciate that, the less we are likely to grow prematurely old.

Steve Pasche

Steve Pasche, Luther College Cross Country 

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Glenn’s labor of love

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Glenn Lyle running on the Leroy Oakes Forest Preserve cross country trail in St. Charles

Glenn Lyle was what he characterizes as “an okay runner” in the years just before Frank Shorter’s won the 1972 Olympic marathon and set off the first running boom. Lyle graduated from the Elgin High School cross country and track program and went on to run for Eastern Illinois University. There he ran the equivalent of a sub-31:25 10 kilometer race on the track. By any empiric measure, that is certainly an “okay runner.” I would still argue that it is better than okay.

Lyle still runs these days, but his running career went on hiatus for a while after those hard years racing and training on the roads of Illinois. “I went to well over 600 races,” he recalls. “And I always took this cheap little camera with me.”

The Glenn’s library

He built a considerable library of photos from those journeys all across the Midwest. With friends in tow, he often made trips to famous races such as the Paavo Nurmi Marathon in Hurley, Wisconsin. That’s where fellow Eastern Illinois alums such as Joe Sheeran made names for themselves finishing in the top tier of the classically competitive road race circuit of the 1970s and 80s.

Glenn Lyle also collected and kept a deep catalog of news clippings and race results from high school and college running, and beyond. “All this stuff was stored for years at my mom’s house,” he recalls. “So I gathered it all and started posting on Facebook. At first, I invited my running friends from that time and some others I knew of, and they invited others. But there were less than 100 people in the group after 4 years. Then I encouraged Jeff Wagner, a guy that I knew from EIU, to get back on Facebook. I didn’t realize how connected he was in the running community. Jeff started inviting his friends and they invited their friends. That’s when things started to take off. The group tripled in size in just 3 or 4 months. Now we have a lot of people sharing their stuff.”

The Glenn’s Page description reads like this:

“For those who ran in the Chicago area and beyond in the 60’s, 70s, and later you might feel that in some ways they were the “Golden Years” of U.S. distance running (thanks Mark Kimmet). We went from a time when only competitive runners entered track meets, XC meets, and road races and into the running boom where races were also filled with fun runners. I’d like to share a few photos, clippings, etc. that I have from that era. I’d also like to invite everyone else to share whatever you wish!”

Since it took off, the “membership” on Glenn’s Page has become a Who’s Who of Illinois and Midwest running. Most come from the highly competitive era ranging from 1970 through the mid-1980s. Almost all were exceptional runners in their era who ran for cross country and track powerhouses such as Bloom, Willowbrook, York, Proviso West, and schools in the Northwest suburbs.

Some were state champions.  These include Steve Schellenberger, a half-miler in the 1:49 range who went on to compete for the University of Illinois. Others such as Jim Macnider made their names post-collegiately racing in the Olympic Trials marathon before going on to coach high school teams. Now women runners are signing up as well. Many ran in the era long before women dominated numbers of running participants.

Wealth of knowledge

So the wealth of knowledge about running among Glenn’s fans is deep, but the memories may run even deeper. Every day, “new/old” photographs and news stories about ‘runners of a certain age’ show up on Glenn’s page. Images range from obscure road races to competition photos of college dual meets produce quick identifications by members of the group. Sometimes the IDs occur simply by the merest glimpse of a particular set of socks worn by a runner, or a favorite singlet. It shows that competition often makes strong impressions on participants.

Glenn's Journal.jpgGlenn laughs a bit at his own longtime penchant for detail. “I kept a journal of every race I did. So when people want to know what happened, I often have it written down. I was a little obsessive. I didn’t think it would take off quite like this. I wasn’t sure anyone cared about this stuff but me.” 

But people do. Some of the memories seem quite specific, yet each carries a bit of symbolism. A runner named Pat Savage wrote about a quick conversation he’d stumbled upon with Carey Pinkowski, the standout runner and longtime director of the Chicago Marathon. “Out walking this early evening (when) I ran into Carey Pinkowski who verified the earlier story about Dan Candiano arguing with the Bloom coach after Rudy Chapa was disqualified in the mile relay for wearing a different color pair of shorts than the rest of the team. It almost came to blows. Carey also said that at that same meet, two of his team mates broke 9 minutes in the 2 mile. He won the MVP for winning the 880 and the mile. Should have been the two that broke 9 minutes was Carey’s response.”

Anecdotes and parables

That’s the kind of anecdote that serves as something of a parable among distance runners who know what quality running is all about. So it is no surprise that a runner like Pinkowski has gone on to direct one of the world’s premier marathons and a race that attracts some of the world’s finest distance running athletes.

Most of the conversation is more down to earth, including memories of what it was like to race back in the day when events and housing were much more simple. Glenn Lyle shared this experience of traveling to the Paavo Nurmi Marathon in Hurley:

“We noticed a sign about housing info for runners so we went to see if we could get some. To our great fortune we were matched up with the Lanttas, a Finnish family that lived a little out of town on a very rustic little farm. They had 2 goats, chickens, turkeys, ducks, a goose, 3 horses, cows, cats, & dogs. I have a great memory. No, my running diary does, though. 🙂 When we arrived the goats ran over to see us & the turkeys followed. The Lantta family was very friendly & hospitable! We went for a run and later they family served us spaghetti and milk from their cow.”

The Paavo Nurmi Marathon is now in its 49th year of existence. But marathons were relatively rare races back in the 1970s and 80s. Distance runners were far more likely to race shorter distances, and much more frequently. Some raced twice a weekend, running a 5K on a Saturday and a 10K on a Sunday.

Good time with good times

All that Glenn Lyle hopes to achieve with his closed group called Glenn’s is to have a good time sharing his deep stock of memorabilia and see samples of what others have kept and are willing to share in the digital age.

It is truly a labor of love, and when Lyle goes out to run these days, his memory bank is filled with even more examples of why the sport of running was so unique in its early growth years. Some of the runners in Glenn’s lament the lack of relative quality found in contemporary road races. More than one runner has noted that the fields back then were much faster and much deeper than the typical distance race results from today.

One four-mile result from a Glen Ellyn 4-Mile cross country race in July of 1973 showed 11 runners finishing under 21:00, with several including world class miler Ken Popejoy finishing under 20:00, faster than 5:00 per mile.

Yet there is no real bitterness, only appreciation for how serious the distance world took their results back then. But that doesn’t mean the distance world is any worse now. “It’s just different,” Glenn Lyle observes. “And I’m kind of grateful cause now I can go to a race and have someone to run against even in my old age.”

Labor of love

Tony Hurd.jpgSo the labor of love continues, and the little site known as Glenn’s continues to grow. Recently a former world record holder named Henry Rono requested to join the group. “I don’t know why,” Glenn admitted. “We’re kind of limited to the Illinois region and I want to keep it that way. But it’s interesting that a guy that set records from 3000 to 10,000 meters might be interested in other runners like us.”

The yellowed clippings. The faded photographs. The short shorts and sometimes tall socks. The classic footwear and all the trappings of 70s and 80s hair and glasses. All combine to bring back moments in time. For now, we’ll call it Glenn’s, the guy who cared enough to bring it all back into focus.

Posted in cross country, marathon, marathon training, racing peak, running, track and field, trail running | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

A 20-miler in 80-degree heat and no water. Insane? Or just another day’s work…

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Times change but some things still stay the same. Long runs in early September, for example.

In the early days of a warm September, our college cross country team was scheduled to run a 20-mile run. The route called for ten miles up to a school called North Winnishiek and back. We ran on the gravel shoulder much of the way, trotting along in our Nike waffle shoes or some classic Brooks footwear long lost to running antiquity.

We ran fast, averaging 6:00 per mile up the long climb from the Oneota Valley to the limestone hills above Decorah, Iowa. The conversation would be peppered with tales of debauchery from the night before. One guy was running with a big bruise on his left ass cheek because he’d gotten a little lit at a kegger Saturday afternoon and fell off the back of a Triumph TR6 while trying to hitch a ride back into town. Plop, he fell right off the back onto the road. Right on his ass. He limped a little, but kept up at the pace of the day.

Bright highways

There were 25-30 of us trucking along. Ultimately the top 15 guys separated into a lead group and the talk quieted a little. We ran along with eyes fixed on the curving road ahead. Just a white strip of Iowa concrete with even brighter gravel strips on either side. We’d go up one side and come back the other, running with traffic the whole way.

The walls of corn on either side of the road were changing from green to brown. In a couple weeks the loud, dusty combines would whip through the cornfields and strip out the crop to be sent to the big feed silos for market. Much of that would wind up in processors down in Cedar Rapids where the Archers-Daniel-Midland company would turn it all into starch and syrup. Whatever the world demanded.

Water stop

Our own bodies were fueled on the merest of calories. Perhaps a slice of toast with butter snagged at the college union before heading out for the ‘Sunday long run’ as we called it. There were no Power Bars or gels. No water belts or aid stations set up. Our main hope was that coach might put some water in a big jug and cart it with him to the ten-mile mark. There we’d stop for a few minutes in the warm morning sun, milling around with our hearts pumping and sweat pouring down our necks. We’d take a sip or two if the water or lemonade wasn’t too warm, then turn around and run back to Decorah at the same pace we came.

Bird calls

As a birder even back in college I amused myself with the calls of meadowlarks in the field, or red-tailed hawks soaring on thermals above the cliffs shrouding the Upper Iowa river. Some days the clarinet-like sound of a pileated woodpecker might clatter down from the woods, or the jabbering of blue jays tearing around after acorns.

As we passed farms, the smell of manure might waft our way as we ran past a pig farm or dairy operation. Inevitably the smells of those farms would bring fart jokes, and anyone could turn into a target for that low-level humor. It never really stopped actually. Actual farts were the best remedy of all for boredom on the run. One learned to treasure those opportunities.

Sex jokes

That and sexual jokes carried us along for miles. Anyone that had a girlfriend risked attention about the previous night’s ‘action.’ Most men of honor would mutter some acknowledgement that sex had indeed taken place. That was a far better approach than outright denying the fact, which only wrought more teasing and descriptive examples of imagined escapades.

But in fact, some of us had had sex that very morning. One might arrive for the long run on a Sunday morning with cheeks flushed from the warmth of intercourse just minutes before. Some freshman would notice the color in the cheeks and blurt, “You just got laid!” But that would generally earn a guy a pat on the back, not teasing. “You’ll run well today,” someone would whisper.

Hard tempo

For there’s nothing better than lovemaking to breed confidence in a skinny runner borne by the pace of the day up hill and down. Thoughts of those moments and the look in the eyes of a lover were sure to carry you farther. The feel of running might disappear altogether, miles at a time. The mind would be carried along by the body in those moments. Even a hard tempo felt easy.

Yet somewhere around fifteen miles the pace would ultimately get harder, for 6:00 per mile has its own unique rhythm…not quite the turnover of race pace at 5:00 per mile, nor the relative jog of 7:00 per mile when the body is trained to do 80-90 miles per week.

No, 6:00 per mile is its own little world, as if the ground is rolling under your feet. All you have to do is paw along, run from the hips, let the body do the work, and things will be okay. Don’t overthink it.

Concentration

The fatigue finally does catch up around fifteen miles That’s when concentration comes into the picture, and conversation turns to races past, present or future. Motivation seeps into the system as adrenaline wrought by thoughts of racing peaks the system. Sentences get shorter, and there is no talking on the hills, just hard breathing.

Eventually, the thirst borne of distance and heat and long miles truly begins to set in. The water fountain back at the campus beckons. Runners did not think in terms of dehydration in the early days. There was either ‘thirsty’ or ‘not thirsty.’ There was no in between.

Take it easy

At eighteen miles the talking might cease for almost a mile. Then someone would sing a snippet of a familiar tune. “Well I’m running down the road trying to loosen my load, I got seven women on my mind…”

Someone else takes over. “Four that wanta own me, two that wanna stone me, one says she’s a friend of mine…”

And everyone sings: “Take it eas-eeeah, take it ea-eah-eah zee…don’t let the sound of your own wheels, drive you crazy.”

Finishing kick

Then there’s just a mile to go. Someone lets out a whoop. The college is in sight through a slot in the trees. It’s all downhill coming back into town. And despite legs that are sore from the race the day before along with nineteen miles covered on a Sunday morning, the pace picks up. Then a runner toward the back of the group surges past with half a mile to go. The entire group drops onto the bright green grass of the intramural field and there are no rules about how to finish. Some take off in a sprint and everyone follows because they don’t want to be left behind. Just ahead, a flock of crows rises from the field, calling as they go.

“Wow fun wow boys,” someone calls out, repeating ae favorite phrase of our coach. “You can’t beat fun.”

“Yeah,” comes the smart retort. “It’s like a sore dick.”

“Yes it is,” comes the laughing response. “Yes it is.”

Back at the fieldhouse the water fountains greet the group of thirsty runners. Faces flushed with sweat and hide darting eyes. “Well boys, we made it. 20 miles.”

“With nothing but warm lemonade at the ten-mile mark,” someone laughs. “Is coach trying to kill us?” “Maybe. But we made it.”

“Yes indeed. We made it.”

A 20-miler in 80-degree heat and no water. Insane? Or just another day’s work…

How times have changed.

 

 

 

Posted in race pace, running, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

If it’s change you want, it pays to invest in the Performance Piggybank

Change and Goggles.jpgAs athletes, we might imagine that change comes about in big breakthroughs. We train everyday hoping there will come a day when the nine-miler that felt hard last weekend suddenly feels easy.

Yet that’s not how it usually works. Instead, some segment of that nine-miler might feel good one week. Yet it gets buried in concerns over how slow we felt at the start, or how hard it was to finish.

That means we lose the good for the luxury of worrying over the not-so-good. I use the word “luxury” for good reason. Worry is a luxury you cannot afford as an athlete. If something worries you, there are two options. You can obsess over the cause, or you can do something to fix it.

Here’s where the process can get confusing. Fixing problems is seldom the result of an “instant” solution. Only once in a great while does that happen. I can point to the fortuitous gift of a pair of free Saucony Triumph running shoes as the near-immediate cure to my nagging Achilles tendon problems. It turned out that the angle of the heel counter on my Saucony Ride shoes were impinging those tendons, causing dire soreness.

The minute I tried those shoes, the problems went away. That was damned lucky.

More often, curing a problem such as an injury takes incremental steps to ascertain the source, implement the steps to adjust or adapt, and focus on the building blocks to return to health.

The same goes for training toward a goal. Progress typically does not happen by major leaps in performance. But anyone that has trained for weeks in the summer heat knows that the first cool day can result in surprisingly fast results. Absent the stifling heat and humidity, the body says “Let’s Go!” and suddenly the average pace per mile drops in chunks.

Solstice SunTraining on hills or in consistent winds can make it seem as if you’re making no progress as well. But the minute you get on the flat, seemingly major changes take place. Actually the change was taking place all along. You just can’t see it when you’re climbing. The pace per mile doesn’t show the training effect taking place.

Out here in Illinois where it is flat and open, the winds are almost always a factor in how a training day goes. Riding 40 miles in what feels like a consistently strong wind from all directions can be most frustrating. If you’re alone, there is no break. Most triathletes have the relative benefit of getting down in aero position to slice through the wind.

But you get the point. Even on days when it feels like you are the slowest athlete on earth, good changes are still taking place. Strength builds in the legs when pedaling in the wind. It is important to pay attention to form and not try to “cheat” yourself into short bursts of speed just to make yourself feel better on the bike computer. Most times that results in equally flat sections of the ride where instead of going 21 you’re slogging along at 15.

Sue's Mows compositionIt is in swimming that the positive changes are often the most difficult to ascertain. That’s why the change tossed next to my goggles on the nightstand caught my attention this morning. Swim training, more than any other segment of triathlon, is like putting change in the Piggy Bank of Performance. Swim workouts are typically done in an indoor pool or one that measures 25 or 50 meters. That brand of experience does not exactly replicated the open water experience. Which means open water is an almost entirely different sensation. NO need to stop, flip or turn! Just get out there and swim!

It’s not easy putting change into the performance bank in any of these three sports. Sometimes you don’t get the feedback you want. It can be frustrating as hell feeling like you’re not making progress. But there will come days when you can feel the progress you’ve made. Take stock and go “Alright! That was good!” And then get back to putting change in the bank.

It’s amazing how much that process can change you for the better in the long run.

PiggyBank.jpg

Posted in tri-bikes, triathlete, triathlon, triathlons, we run and ride, We Run and Ride Every Day, werunandride | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Thinking about bucket lists

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This trip out west to ride in Arizona was a bucket list moment. But not officially. 

I’ve never really sat down to make a bucket list. Perhaps you have, and it would be interesting if some of you would be motivated to share it. You don’t have to give your name if you would prefer anonymity. But if you have a bucket list of things you want to do in life, please share.

One of my favorite lines from the movies is one uttered by the Burt Reynolds character in The Longest Yard: “I’ve had my shit together a long time. It just doesn’t fit in one bucket.”

I guess that’s how I feel about bucket lists too. If I got started making one, it would never fit in one bucket.

But having done some fun things in life, I’m not feeling guilty about not having a truly defined bucket list. As a college sophomore I drove through blizzards and studied bird art for a month at the Cornell University Laboratory of Ornithology in Ithaca, New York. It was a stretch experience. Thanks to absolute naivete and overall lack of money at the time, I lived in a house down the road from the Lab that had no hot water. The house sat next to the wolf reserve, and one night I went out to wash my hair to find a large wolf staring at me through snowflakes in the dark.

I only ran occasionally during that month of study. But toward the end of the trip, I slipped into the indoor track facility at Cornell and did some interval training on the track. A few of the Cornell guys were there, and things got competitive as they kept perfectly synchronous pace on the opposite side of the track. I tired fairly quickly for lack of training, but kept the pace out of a sense of pride in my Luther College tee shirt.

That same week I visited the college dorm room of a childhood friend that I’d left behind back in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. And had I not been such a self-conscious geek in those days, that night could have fulfilled a major bucket list checkmark.

Such is life. We fill our bucket in some ways, and dump opportunities out in others.

But the running bucket list in my mind is relatively full. I took those years in the early 80s to train full time and honestly got as fast as I could get. I never broke 31:00 for 10k, which was on my bucket list at the time, but came damn close.

PP Clicking In

Triathlons expand bucket list potential.

The cycling bucket list was always looser than that. I raced a bunch of criterium races those first two years. It was fun, but the appetite for that kind of riding comes and goes. I talked with a guy this past weekend who said it best. “It would be okay if you could be sure that everyone in those crits knows what they’re doing. But you get into CAT 4 races and some guys are crazy and others know how to ride. I’m not sure it’s worth it. Too much chance of a crash. Broken bones. Road rash. Who needs that?”

Indeed, neither of those two painful things are on anyone’s bucket list to pursue. “Let’s see, this weekend I want to go out and crack my clavicle in two and get oozing sores all down the same side of my body. And oh yeah, a nice brain injury would complete that bucket list.”

It’s not just age that convinces you to move past the most dangerous forms of racing. It’s experience. All of us get some road rash eventually. If you ride fast at all, there will come a time when things just don’t add up. The bucket, as it were, is forced to tip over. So you learn from that, and move your bucket over a couple squares. And you place those cautionary experiences into the bucket holding the bucket list as well.

That does not mean you stop taking chances. You just learn to avoid the really dumb parts of the bucket list.

Now I’m doing triathlons, and this summer the swimming improved to the point where a bucket list effort came about during the Holidayman Triathlon. I swam a half mile with no problem in the open water. That opens the channel for bigger efforts next year.

Some of us do our bucket list accomplishments incrementally. We wish they could all be peak experiences, but in many pursuits in life, that’s just not how it happens. Someone who walks into their own home the first time may have rented first. Someone getting into the car to drive the first time requires lots of practice. Someone having real sex for the first time likely engaged in some heavy petting first. Some things are meant to be incremental. It doesn’t mean you can’t check them off on your bucket list.

Finish RunSome bucket list items are unintentional. Taking part in the Horribly Hilly ride in Wisconsin took a place in my uncalculated bucket list. Riding up that long climb to the top of Blue Mound was epic. It was hard. It took all my concentration. That’s a bucket list accomplishment right there.

There are plenty of things that I might like to add to a bucket list that I’ve accepted as part of an Unbucket List. Making a guitar cry and sing is one of those. I don’t think in music, and the learning process to do that would distract from so many other things I’m not sure it’s worth it. I don’t think I’d ever get good enough at guitar other than my trade in stock strumming of chords. And that’s okay.

But perhaps my imagination is too limited. Would love to hear what’s on your bucket list. Anyone care to share?

Posted in running, track and field, tri-bikes, triathlete, triathlon, triathlons | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

America, where are you now?

America.jpgThe late 60s were a heady time to be a pre-teen in America. My brothers were insightful sources of musical taste, and my 7th-grade friends were likewise caught up in the wonders of that era.

I specifically recall a classmate named Jeffrey Eisler singing the lyrics to a Steppenwolf song in the back seat of a team bus on the way back from a basketball game.

His voice was wonderful, and we all sat in rapt attention as his face contorted with the intensity of his singing, and the lyrics:

America where are you now?
Don’t you care about your sons and daughters?
Don’t you know we need you now
We can’t fight alone against the monster

As he concluded those lyrics, a coach of the 8th grade basketball team came trundling down the center aisle of the bus and hollered, “We lost! No more singing! You should be thinking about how to win next time!”

The bus fell silent of course. The irony of that authoritative voice thrusting itself into our midst was not lost on anyone. The coach retreated back through the darkness and we all fell back into our seats. Everything about that instance seemed to reflect the nature of America at that time. The Vietnam War. The racial strife. The death of President Kennedy and his brother Bobby. The murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Yet here was this coach:

“We lost! No more singing!”

But it felt like singing was the best thing we could have done then. Losing a basketball game meant nothing. We knew that already. The coach was right about only one thing: there would be other games to play.

Sure, playing games in a team sport brought us together. That’s why we were all on the bus in the first place. But coaches are mistaken if they think the games are the only things that matter to those that play them. A team is primarily a vortex of relationships. You learn from each other. Even competitors play a role in the intensity of competition. Because without interesting or challenging opponents, and the personalities that drive it, there is no reason to compete at all. It is our differences that ultimately bring us together. Old competitors become friends, and even new teammates. That happens a lot in life.

And that is the real America.

Come together

And on that team bus, with kids from different grades ignoring social structures to share the excitement of hearing our friend sing a Steppenwolf song with such clarity…it made us feel we were members of an entirely different kind of team. We were raising our collective and individual consciousness through shared experience. That was something that really seemed to matter.

Yet that moment was lost entirely on the coach who came to chew us out for ‘celebrating’ because the eighth grade team had lost. To him, winning only meant one thing. His personal gratification.

Turtle.jpgMood of the times

I can’t say that there were a whole lot of coaches in tune with the political mood of the times. All through the 70s, things were pretty mixed up about who was right and who was wrong. But there were some who saw beyond the age-old constructs.

My track coach Trent Richards was politically involved, and campaigned for causes in which he believed. To his credit, he never argued with us singing rock songs in the showers, win or lose.

He knew well that the past could not be revised by silencing the voices of the present. He truly hated losing, but he never let that stand in the way of the relationships that were built through mutual strife.

He understood that it wasn’t worth worrying about a loss except to work harder to win the next time. Ultimately, he knew that you could not keep kids motivated for the future if you quell their spirits. So we ran with our guts, and sang our hearts out. That’s really all you can ask of anyone. Trent Richards wasn’t a perfect man by any stretch of the imagination, but at least he let us stretch ours. And that’s a form of leadership.

In many ways, that’s how I’ve felt about all the people I’ve trained and run with all these years. Many have been inspiring. Some have been conservative. Some have been liberal. Some claim to be Libertarian. In every case, I’ve learned there are no shortcuts to truth or fitness. That much is true.

Politics and religion

My training mates and I have discussed politics and religion and sex and war during all those miles together. Real engagement is what makes America truly tick. Sure, some people say you shouldn’t discuss those things. But I say they’re simply afraid to admit they don’t know really know what they’re talking about.

How many Christians do you actually know that can conduct an informed discussion about whether the bible actually contradicts evolution? They may be armed with all sorts of anecdotal evidence fed to them by the church or their favorite hard-right website, but deep down they have no idea if those supposed “facts” are right, or what the bible really says about the subject of material science at all.

Just as importantly, there are too few people who actually stop to think what the bible really says about politics and religion. How profound it is that John the Baptist and Jesus both branded the religious and political authorities of their day a “brood of vipers” and “hypocrites” for their legalistic, authoritarian ways. This important lesson in the bible is most often ignored by Christians eager to ally themselves with powerful worldly figures for the chance to “win” at life somehow. How sad. And how bitterly ironic. That brand of religion deserves to be challenged, because it is false, yet feeds so much of what passes for Christian input in politics these days.

Shallow ways and a flattened nation

People go out and vote based on the shallowest threads of political or religious fabric. It’s tragic, but that’s an America tradition of sorts. Our nation is not so much exceptional as it is shallow in its weak depth of conscience and rabid willingness to fight to the death for the right to stay that way. Hence we find Nazis and white supremacists demanding legitimacy for their viewpoints despite the fact those worldviews have been discredited and defeated in wars that cost millions of lives. It’s not just our right to shout them down, it is our obligation. And the claim that “both sides” are at fault is a sickly attempt at political gerrymandering.

That’s why, as I ran home yesterday and spotted that flattened “AMERICA” can on the road, I could not help stopping to take an image of it. On many types of social media people complain that politics and religion should not be discussed, yet that’s exactly what we should be doing. People complain about the ‘intrusion’ of politics on Facebook, and whine on Linkedin that politics has nothing to do with business. The shallowness of both claims is breathtaking. What matters more than god and country? Cats knocking things off shells on YouTube? People posting their self-aggrandizements on Linkedin?

At least Twitter is honest, for it tends to be the most political social media tool of all. That’s because politics and religion are fair game on Twitter. They are also the two factors that drive everything that happens in America. But because people are reticent to truly engage and go to the trouble of defending their viewpoints rather than spouting borrowed phrases and manufactured memes, we wind up with a flattened version of what America is truly all about. Twitter is no exception.

Why Budweiser’s America sucks

Detritus.jpgIt disgusts me that a beer company had the gall to put the word AMERICA on its can in the first place. In a nation where supposed patriots are bitching about confederate statues being torn down and football players are derided for kneeling during the National Anthem in protest of ugly racial politics, hardly a word was uttered against the idea of putting a popular name for our country on a Budweiser beer can.

You want to know where we should draw the line on respect for our country? I say it starts right there. No faux patriotism on beer cans. Because what’s next, the United States of Tampons? The Declaration of Depends?

Budweiser thought it would be clever, picking up on the political mood of the time when Trump supporters were going bonkers for anything with a red, white and blue theme. Some advertising agency said sure, why not shove some liquid swill their way and see if they’ll drink it in celebration of their supposed triumph?

America, indeed. But let’s be clear: the marketing scheme has failed in one critical way. The symbol of a crumpled beer can on a dirty street absolutely describes the low measures we’ve adopted as a means to make America great again. It has accomplished the precise opposite of its intended effect.

What it will take to restore some sense of conscience is people willing to sing in the back of the bus, and stand up to the bully coach who thinks that winning means only one thing in this world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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