Ten years after…

With the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks, I have become very reflective on the events of that day, how my life was affected, and how to answer my boys about 9/11.

For starters, ten years ago Kimm and I were living in our little starter home in Kalamazoo.  Max had entered our lives the previous year.  We were learning the balancing act that is being parents and transitioning from our lives as “dinks” (Dual income…no kids).  Kimm had soccer games each week.  I was still playing rugby.    We were figuring out how Max would fit in our social lives..now it's the other way around.

I had taken a job as a Corporate Account Executive with Nextel in February.  My career was taking nice strides.  Kimm and I had been transforming our “fixer-upper” of a starter home into a true doll house.  Coinciding with Max’s first birthday party, we had been putting the finishing touches on the house.  We had re-painted the exterior, the basement, the yard was in immaculate condition, all the beds were in full bloom, and I had just re-sealed the driveway.  Four days before 9/11 we had had our families over for Max’s Birthday.  He completely destroyed his little first birthday cake.  Everything in our little world was picture perfect.

Everybody has their memories of that day.  Mine are like most others…Shock, disbelief, and anger.  I do remember watching the news while Max was wearing a blue onesy was playing in his “bouncy-saucer” oblivious to how the world Kimm and I had brought him into had suddenly changed.

The next few days were truly a blur.  I remember word trickling in from friends and family that live in NYC and DC that all were okay.  I believe I was pretty much glued to the television and radio.  I remember attempting to get phones for my corporate customers that needed them.  FedEx was not able to fly so our shipments were not getting made.   I ran my demos around to my corporate customers as needed only to find their campuses/buildings still locked down.  I was meeting customers in parking lots trying to get them taken care of.

Our nation was in unchartered territory.  Every channel on tv was carrying coverage of the attacks.  News and rumors were rampant.  Our leaders were scuffling to regain a sense of security and normalcy.   Flyers were taped all over NYC trying to find missing loved ones.   As it was determined that the immediate attacks were over part of that normalcy was sports.  The NFL decided to go ahead and play their normal slate of games on the following Sunday.  If nothing else, people could use a distraction from “reality”.

Rugby was still a large part of my life.  I still practiced twice a week and had games on Saturdays.  It was my exercise, my social life, and a large part of my “identity”.    I was playing for the Grand Rapids Rugby Football Club at the time and we were scheduled to play a game in Toledo.  I had received a call from my coach, Graeme Leask, who told me Toledo had called, wondering if we were interested in still sending a side.  After calling around to our teammates, it was determined that we would have enough players who would be willing to play if they still were looking to host.  The game would be played.  We were taking our first steps towards normalcy.

Normalcy.

I remember waking Saturday and rocking Max for a while.  I ate and made sure my kit bag was packed.  It was pretty much a normal pre-game morning except for when I packed a shirt to wear home after the game.  Instead of grabbing an old club shirt or tour shirt, I packed a t-shirt I got during the previous 4^th of July that had “America” and a flag on the front.  Flags, if you remember, had sprouted up and were everywhere.  Lapel pins, window clings for car windows, and every home had one flying.  I put on a USA Eagles jersey I had and got ready to leave.  I asked Kimm if she wanted to come.  This of course meant we would be taking the baby for the road trip as well.  Her look was all I needed to know the answer.    Kimm stood there holding Max and asked the one question I really had hoped not to hear…”Do you really have to go?”  I had the jersey’s….I had to go.  It's what I did.  I shrugged.   

Normalcy. 

I sipped a coffee during the drive.  News was still all over the radio.  We had learned about Flight 93 and how the passengers fought back.  We had heard of Todd Beamer’s final “Let’s Roll…” Words that he had said on a regular basis with his family whether they were trying to get out the door to get groceries, make it to the school bus, or head out to play a game.  It had become the war cry of the first Americans that fought back. 

Also on Flight 93 was a passenger named Mark Bingham.  Mark had been a rugby player at the University of California.  To say Cal Rugby is like Duke Basketball does not pay Cal Rugby its due.  Cal Rugby has won 26 of the 32 collegiate national championships played since 1980.  Cal Rugby is the Gold Standard in not only their sport, but all sports.  Mark had played the #8 position.   Now, you need to be pretty tough to play rugby.  You need to be a tough rugby player to play the #8.  Mark was 6’ 4” and 225 lbs and along with the other heroes that rushed the cockpit that morning must have been a terrifying sight to the terrorists that day.  I certainly hope he was.  His story hit me hard.  Mark was like a lot of guys I knew.   A lot of guys I cared about.  I lot of guys I aspired to be like.  From all I have read about him, I am certain that Mark and I would have been fast friends under different circumstances.

The drive to Toledo was very quiet. 

A rugby pitch before a game usually has a "buzz".  The home team is getting the field set up.   Guys mill about stretching, warming up, and generally bullshitting about one thing or another.  On this day guys were there…but they weren’t.    It was quiet.  It was passionless.  We were there just trying to continue on.

Normalcy.

Grand Rapids at the time was a very strong club.  We had made deep runs in the DII playoffs each of the previous two years.  We had amazing athletes.  We had depth.  That depth helped us to have almost “interchangeable parts” on the field.  We could throw out six or seven line ups and still be your best.  If one player went down, the next would come in and not miss a beat.  We were a well-oiled machine.  This should be a game GR would win by 28 points.

The game got started and from the beginning it was clear it would be a sloppy game.  No one was in synch.  Scrums were loose, the timing on passes were off, balls were getting dropped everywhere.  Later, I realized that I had fallen into the same trap as many that day.  Instead of “playing the game” and making the passes I should have been, I was taking balls and running into the teeth of the Toledo defense.  I was crashing my body into a wall of green jerseys over and over.  In retrospect I believe it was an attempt to release my pent up anger…that or trying to “feel” something after the numbing events of the week.  I know I was not alone.  It was the worst game I ever played with Grand Rapids.  Usually the class of our league, guys on our team were actually sniping at each other.  This was not fun.  The game had become a chore.

I honestly don’t remember the score or if we won or lost.  It certainly felt like a loss. I think of it as one.   Usually the winning team shows some adulation.  The losing team kicks at the grass.  Both teams give a quick cheer to themselves, their opponent, and the referee before heading off to a post-game party filled with food, beer, singing and recounting all the great plays you made that day.  Not that day.  I just remember the final whistle blowing and standing there completely unsatisfied with…everything.  I had wrecked myself physically in attempt to heal myself emotionally and failed.  The emotions of the week came flooding over me and my eyes welled up.  Self-conscious about my emotional state, I turned to head to the sidelines when the big “paw” of my opposite form Toledo grabbed my shoulder.  Traditionally you shake hands with the person you’ve played against in a show of good sportsmanship.   I looked over and he was as choked up as I was.  We stared awkwardly at each other for a second when he said “It didn’t help…did it?”  I shook my head.  “No…but we tried right?”.  I gave him a big bear hug and thanked him for the game.  We walked towards our cars.  “You gonna come to the post-game?”  He asked quietly.  “I think I just want to go home and see my family”.  I said.  “Yeah…” he admitted,  “...I do too.”

In which I get a good talking to....

This past week has been hard for me.  My normal exercise outlets of Yoga class on Monday nights and swimming at the Y have been unavailable due to seasonal down-time between yoga sessions and a weeklong closing of the pool for maintenance and cleaning.

I’ve used this time on things like mowing the yard and trimming trees and bushes in the yard that have grown tremendously this summer.  Usually, it becomes very dry by now and we have even abandoned efforts to water the yard.  This year we have a steady amount of rain and my yard is lush.  I actually should be mowing it as I type but I need to relate an odd occurrence from this morning. 

As I was lounging this morning, contemplating what I would do being unable to swim, the idea of lifting weights came to mind.  I have a curl bar and some dumbbells (…not my boys) that I could easily put together a good upper body workout with.  I was thinking about the different exercises I could do, the reps and sets in my head when I heard a sound….

“Psssst!”

I stopped and looked up expecting to see Kimm or one of the boys.  There was no one.  I went back to my business.  Then I heard it again.

“Pssssst!”

This time it was a little louder.

Again I looked up.  Our dog Bailey had not moved.  She’s 14 and I don’t know if she’s deaf or just doesn’t care what people say anymore.  I sat still for a minute and started looking down the hall thinking someone was calling me.

“Pssssst…Hey…down here!”  I looked over at the floor and all I could see was my pair of running shoes.

“Yeah…us…down hear” one said.  It strangely had a New York accent. 

“Hello?” I said, not believing my ears.

“Listen up Big Fella” the left one said.  “You’re on this kick to get back in shape so you can run again, correct?”   I was not sure if I was taken aback more by the fact my shoe was talking to me or the attitude it was speaking to me with.

“Hello?”  He boomed. “I’m talking to you here”.

“Uhhh…yea…” I stammered.  Still not sure if I was having a conversation with a shoe.

“You want to get where you are running again…so you go to a pool?  You do Yoga?  You fall down? You get up?  Now you want to go throw some weights around?” Lefty, as I decided to call him, continued completely agitated with me.

“Uhhh…sure.” I said unconvincingly.

“Then why…don’t…you…RUN?”  He screamed.  With this the right shoe started giggling at the situation.  This ticked me off.  I don’t need to get bullied around by a pair of running shoes.  “Wait...” I said trying to take command of the conversation again. “You’re a shoe…right”? I asked.  “Technically a left” he replied, “but you are correct”.  The right shoe continued giggling as if this was the funniest conversation he’d ever heard.  “You’re an inanimate object...”  I stated.  This set the shoe off “Oh, we’re gonna get PERSONAL now are we?”  With this the right shoe started waving his laces in the air and sticking his tongue out at me”.    “Stop that!” I insisted.  “I’ll throw you two into a bag for Goodwill if you keep this up”.

A stillness entered the room.   Lefty cleared his throat.  “Listen…I’m a reasonable shoe…”  he said quietly.  I interrupted “…and what, if you will, is an unreasonable shoe”?  “Flip-Flops for men...a complete waste of time”  he answered and continued as if I never interrupted him.  “All I want to know is…if you want to run?  Why not run?” 

I sat there for a minute.  Lefty had made a good point.  I’ve been avoiding the one activity that I’m really supposed to be trying to improve the most.

“You’re right” I conceded.  “Of course I am.” he said.  “Come on, lace us up and take us for a spin”.  I put them on.   I had an old rugby drill I wanted to do.  I grabbed Sam and headed over to a park.  He wanted to do some running to get ready for his soccer season.

I laid a cone out at each corner of the field.  In the center, I placed my old, faithfull rugby ball.  I explained to Sam that we were going to do something called “Figure 8’s”.  We would walk the width of the field, jog to the center, and then sprint to the far cone.  Repeating this cycle a second time brings you back to the beginning and you have finished one lap.  When I played for the Detroit RFC, we would occasionally run these as a “part” of practice.  We would usually do 10 laps.  When training on my own, I used to do these.  I would do 15 laps in about 45 minutes.  When I was really feeling it I would do 5 Down Ups before the sprint section.  Today my goal was 5 laps.  To keep Sam focused, I made him bring a soccer ball to kick along to help him build his ball handling skills as well as endurance. 

A quick diversion on soccer…  I never was a big fan of soccer.  I don’t care that the rest of the world thinks it is the greatest sport.   In many of the countries that carry the opinion that soccer is “King” they also tolerate famine, totalitarian governments, and poor dental care.   Other than the game being painfully slow, my main problem with soccer is the “feigning of injury” in attempt to draw a penalty.  In rugby, there is one ref watching 30 players in a very physical game.  If you do not like the way another player “approaches the game” you will have the opportunity to let him know.   I remember one game where a team mate named Tim McGillen had a “differing opinion” with several U of M players regarding how high their tackles were becoming.   High tackles in rugby are considered “dangerous play” and the referee should have been calling penalties against several the lads in Blue.   Having seen enough, Tim getting the ball in the open, with me on his outside, with one tiny back to beat, are in the perfect position to score.  If Tim couldn’t run around this guy, I surely could run him over.  Instead of working a little two-on-one action, Tim tooks off at a 45 degree angle back towards the U of M defense trying to get back into the play.  Instead of trying to run past, over, or setting up a defender, Tim attacked him grabbing him with his free arm and hitting him in the chin with the arm holding the ball.  Upon dropping him, he looked found and attacked his second target and treated him in a similar manner.  McGillen was “cleaning up” the level of play.  Much like in life, sometimes you just got to clean up "stuff" on your own.   In soccer, a player who receives a glancing blow to the shoulder while running parallel with an opponent is likely to fall holding their hands over their face and proceed to roll on the ground as if they had a spear in their back, were on fire…or both.  As soon as they realize the ref is not going to call a penalty, they pop back up and begin playing as if nothing happened.  As a former rugby player…I can’t stand that.  So when my youngest started playing soccer, I was torn.  When he turned out to be pretty good at it, I was mortified.  It’s his life and he gets to choose his own path, though.  As one of my old rugby captains told me “let him ride his own wave”.  Thanks Geno.  Sage advice.  As always.  That said, the first time that kid fakes and injury he’s going to have to deal with the Old Bear on the sidelines…

Back to the Figure 8’s…we set the cones up and I walked to the center of the field and gently placed an old rugby ball I’ve had for years in the grass.  It is old, faded, grizzled, and its best playing days are in the past...much like its owner.  I turned and headed to the corner where Sam and would start our workout.  I thought I heard a contented "sigh" but no one was there when I turned around...

Sam and I stretched out.  As we got ready to begin I looked down at my shoes.  “You sure you’re ready for this?”  I asked under my breath.

“This is what we were made for!” Lefty assured me.  “Let’s do this!”

I smiled and Sam and I headed off.  Figure 8’s are a great work out because you can push yourself as hard as you want.  You also build up to full speed so there is not the shock to your body of sudden starts and stops you get in playing basketball. 

Walk, Jog, Run.  Walk, Jog, Run. We made it through the first one.  It was pretty warm out and there was a lot of moisture on the grass.  This made for pretty humid conditions.  As we passed the ball in the center my shoes cheered me on with a “GO!”  I’d lengthen my stride and push it through the far cone.  Sam would be waiting for me.  My shoes kept track of the number of laps for me.  "Two…three…come on two more!"  My shoes kept cheering me on as I went.  I think they were happy to be getting a workout too.  I almost felt guilty about wishing I had my cleats on because they would have given me better traction as I kicked into sprint mode in the slick grass. Can you cheat on a shoe?

“There you go Big Fella!” Lefty congratulated me as I finished my last lap.  I had a healthy sweat going from every pore in my body.  I clasped my hands above my head and breathed hard.  Sam asked if he could go romp on the playground equipment.  “Sure thing Kiddo” managed to escape from my mouth.   He bounded off as I inhaled a bottle of water.  I walked around picking up cones.   I headed out for the ball and about 10 yards from it,  I got an urge and darted for it, scooping it up in one motion.  I spun to avoid a tackler and headed straight up field.  For a second it was ten years ago.  I was scanning the field looking for black and orange jerseys in support and anything else to run over.  I heard the again voice urging me on…”go…Go…GO!”   After about ten steps, reality kicked in and I slowed to a stop.  “Easy there Big Fella” Lefty cautioned.  “You’re not ready for THAT!”  I laughed at myself and walked back to our gear.  I gathered it up, called Sammy to the car, and headed home. 

I sat on my bed in my workout clothes holding my ball and feeling pretty satisfied with my workout.  My legs did not have the old “jump” they used to but I did feel a bit of the "old spark" which was most encouraging.

I kicked off my shoes.   I stared at them for a minute.  They just kept staring back at me with silly grins on their faces.  “Thanks guys” I finally conceded.  “I couldn’t have done it without you”.  Lefty winked and said “No worries…it’s what we do”.    With that I got up and executed a pop pass with my old rugby ball into a chair and headed to the shower.

“Nice pass, mate” I heard with an Aussie accent.  I turned and looked at the ball.  I walked over, slowly picked it up, and eyed it closely.  “Who do you think was yelling at you to go?” it asked me.  I laughed out loud realizing the ball had been cheering me on.   “Thanks for the run old friend” he said.  I patted him and said “You’re welcome”.  I put him back down when Lefty looked at me….

“Hey, look…a talking ball!”

The Downs and Ups of Getting Back in Shape

I know it’s been a while since this Tortoise has updated his blog.  My trek has been side-tracked by a family vacation.  We spent a week in West Olive Michigan at a cottage right on Lake Michigan.  It was nice, relaxing and away from my computer.  My phone froze up a few days in and I was actually cut off for the first time in 15 years.

Being away from reality gave my head a chance to unwind.  I did manage to stay active.  As a family we participated in a race in Holland.  Kimm and Sammy ran a 5k in which Sammy won his age group.  Yeah!  Max and I ran the 1.5 mile race.  We all had fun.

I even got up several mornings and went to the Grand Haven Aquatic Center and swam before the birds woke up.  It is a beautiful facility that is part of the High School.  I had done an indoor triathlon there last winter.   The alone time allowed my brain to think about a short story I’ve been muddling around in my head that I need to write.  The “endless” hot shower was most welcomed as well.

As I left the facility, it was still nearing 8 a.m. and the football players were making their way in for the start of their practices.  Two-a-days…good times.  I was impressed by the size of some of these players.  In a way, I was glad I was not going to be butting heads with them all day.   Once upon a time, I would not have thought twice about it.  I’m not 18 and bullet proof anymore.

Getting back home, I got back into my workout activities.  I swam Monday morning and had yoga class that night.   While at the Y, I realized that I had a big problem in that the pool will be closed next week for cleaning and that the current session of yoga was ending and the next class won’t be starting until after Labor Day. 

I need something to do to keep on my trek.

I keep thinking about football.  Not that I want to really play a game but about what I used to put my body through when I was one of those strapping young men like I saw at Grand Haven.   So I decided that I would make my workout tonight one of the drills I used to do 30 years ago:  Down Ups.

Down Ups are pretty much what they sound like.  You run in place.  You fall down.  You get back up.  Simple right?  We used to do 15-20 reps each practice as part of our warm up.  These would also be used as a punishment.  Jump off sides…10 Down Ups.  Make a bone-head play…10 Down Ups.  Don’t hustle between stations…well…you get the idea.  They would also be used for more severe punishment.  I once got in a "little scrap" with a team mate that dissagreed with the way I was blocking him.  That cost me 100 down ups and200 yards of grass drills.  As a sophomore, we lost a game to Hazel Park.  My JV head coach had played there.  I lost track of the number of Down Ups we did the following practice.  Curt Arnold said it was 175.  I’ll take his word.  I was still sore the next game.  I learned a lesson that day.  The lesson was this “Coaches can be stupid at times”.

I decided I would do 25 down ups and see how I felt.  I threw on some rugby shorts and a t-shirt from the "2005 Aspen Ruggerfest" for good karma and headed out to the back yard.  I stretched.  I looked at the ground and thought about 25 Down Ups.  I decided to stretch some more.  I found what looked to be a nice flat, root and rock free area of the yard and finally began running in place.

“Tweet”!   I mentally heard a whistle blow and dove for the ground.  When you are 18 you can arch your back, roll like a break dancer, and pop back up.  At 46, I hit the ground with the grace of an outdated Vegas casino.   I pushed up with my arms and got my feet back under me.

“One.  That sucked…”  I thought as the next “tweet” blew again signaling me back down on the deck.  I scramble back up to my feet and questioned if gravity had increased its power suddenly.   The exercise in humility continued.  “Tweet”…thump…struggle, struggle, struggle…  “Tweet”…thump…struggle, struggle, struggle…

I make it to 10.  I see my son Max looking out the window at me with a “what is the Old Man up to now” look on his face.  My glare at him made him realize he best mind his own business.  He ducked away.

My “running in place” has become a poor imitation of Jennifer Beals in Flashdance….  “Tweet!”  The ground eagerly greets me.  The soft cool grass wonders why I keep leaving it.  I still do “Down” really well.  "Ups” however, are becoming more laborious.  I look at my reflection in the family room window to see if there is a tranquilizer dart in my butt so Jim and the gang from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom can come in, tag my ear, and put a transmitter around my neck.

“Tweet” the whistle blows.  The “thumps” are beginning to feel more like “whams” and I find myself lingering on the ground longer each rep.  “I said 20 reps not 25…right?” my mind says attempting to renegotiate on the fly.

I get to 20.  I stand panting.  “This idea can be filed under W…for WTF” my inner voice says to me disgustingly.  “Tweeeeeeeet” responds my head.  Down again.…to rise again…slowly.  I get to my feet.    “What the hell was that?”  the voice demanded!  “Tweeeeeeeeeeet”!  My body hits the ground again.  It is only a spectator of the battle that is going on in my head.  I am literally thinking about each move I have to make to get back up on my feet .   “Tweeeeeeeeeeet” blows the whistle right as I stand preventing my dissenting voice from getting a foothold on my thoughts.  “Two more…”  I count as I get back up.  “Get your knees up!” I hear my coaches yelling.  “We can do these all day!” Instinctively, I begin to run in place… quadriceps burning… “Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeet”  blows the whistle.  I dive for the ground.  It hits me like George Kennedy boxing Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke”.   The ground takes pity on me.  It no longer enjoys this.  I get to one knee.  I stand back up.  I am numb.  I have one more Down Up to do.   I trot in place….

“Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!”

The Best of Times

I recently read an article about my wife’s high school, White Pigeon, participating in a football game against a long-time rival Centerville.  What made this game interesting is that it was not the students that played in the game, rather the alumni of each school coming back to play.  It was a charity event used to raise money for the athletic departments of each school.  The players paid to play and the fans paid to watch.  Everyone wins.  Great idea!

This, along with my body clock telling me that “football season is near” has been a major distraction for me.  I spent one summer as a lifeguard at a family pool association.  To this day if I am anywhere near water, I am counting heads, anticipating which kid may slip under, and thinking about the best route to get to them.  The impending football season makes you think about all the things you would be doing.  Right now would be our pre-season conditioning involving interval training and lifting weights.  Two a days would start in about 10 days.  The first week would be without pads, the second with.  There would be a four-way scrimmage and soon enough our first game would be played.  This used to be against Bloomfield Hills Lahser.

I played for Birmingham Seaholm.  Our cross town rival was Birmingham Groves.  I can’t help but wonder what would happen if there was an alumni game.  Would I participate? 

Yes.

Let me rephrase that…

HELL YES!

The reality of the matter is this.  I was an offensive tackle.  With the way my body has “matured” since then, I am certainly not moving anywhere else off the line, perhaps an interior defensive line position.  With the quarters being 12 minutes long we are talking 48 minutes of game.  Based upon an even split of possession we are looking at 24 minutes of playing time.  This might result in 50 snaps of the ball.  Assuming that there are a few other linemen looking to play and that most would be younger than 46, I would probably be given maybe 10-12 snaps.  Yeah…I could do that.

It did make me think about my team mates that would still be able to suit up.  Mike Lutomski and John Bookmyer look like they are still in about the same shape as they were back in 1982.  Eric Mariani would be counted on to be our “playmaker”.  I never knew Mark Sacket to have a bad game at anything we ever competed in.  Curt Arnold could “will” his way through anything….I am certain he would play well.

At quarterback we had Bill Kiptyk.  Bill was a great athlete with a strong arm and the speed and size to take on any tackler.  He has dropped off the face of the earth.  The last I heard he was living in Europe.  Although most welcomed, I doubt we’d see him come trotting back for a game.  Some youngster would need to call signals.

I can’t help but think of the movie “The Best of Times” with Kurt Russell and Robin Williams.  They replay the game of their life to see if Robin Williams would drop the game winning catch...again.  It iss not really a football movie...though it is about a football game.  It is about friendships..self-confidence, and making the most of life's opportunities.   If you’ve never seen it I highly recommend it. 

If such a game were to happen, this is how it would break down. 

1.       The event would be scheduled.

2.       The word would spread out amongst the old players from each school.

3.       Most would immediately indicate a willingness to participate.

4.       Reality would set in.

5.       "Scheduling conflicts" would arise.

6.       The initial 50-60 participants would whittle down to 18-24 per side.

7.       Coaches would have to trim down the play books to a few…very simple plays.

8.       During the game, at least 4 players from each team will not be able to finish due to pulled hamstrings or calf muscles.

9.       One knee will be completely blown.

10.   The 24 year old who played D3 ball will dominate for each side.

11.   There will be at least one hit causing a concussion that will make everyone else wonder if they were sure this was a good idea.

12.   No matter what the score, organizers will declare that “everyone won tonight”.

13.   The players will leave the locker rooms where their wives will be waiting for them like their girlfriends did 30 years ago.

14.   A local restaurant will be the place to go for a post-game meal and “re-hydration therapy” session.

15.   Each player will remember the game completely differently than the next.

16.   None of the players will want to, or be able to get out of bed before noon the next day.

God…it would be beautiful.

Wrestling with my biggest foe...myself.

Tonight it is 86 and humid at 9:00 p.m.  It is too hot to go out for a trot around the neighborhood.  Not that I need an excuse to avoid running.  I’ve been able to do that pretty well on my own.  Literally my legs are still not where I want them to be.  I’ve been staying active though.  I have continued to walk, do yoga, and swim.  Swimming is my salvation.  It is the one thing I can do for cardio that I actually feel better once I get done with.  I usually swim a half-mile to a mile depending on time constraints and how good of a work out I’m getting.

Saturday, I went to the Y and got in my lane and started.  It was a battle from the beginning.  A while back I hit the water and felt like a dolphin.  This time, I felt like a Water Buffalo.   My breathing was out of sync.  I had a pinched nerve in my shoulder blades that I hoped would work itself out.  My stroke was just plain ugly.  Even for me.

I muddled through my half mile and took a breather…  “That sucked!” I thought to myself.  So I continued.  I determined if my body was not going to co-operate, I would just keep going to a mile and exert my “au-thor-a-teeeeeee” over it.

I finish my mile.  My body is still rebelling.  I have also developed a sore spot near my right clavical where the hairs on my chinny chin chin rubbed while turning my head to breathe. 

There are times in life when one is just not happy.  I was honestly pretty pissed with my body.  Here I am finally trying to be good to it and it was fighting me at every step like a hoarder on “Buried Alive” refusing to part with a five year old pizza box.  I am determined that I am not going to let it win…I have no time constraints today…I’m going to keep swimming until I feel good.  I make one concession to my body and listen to my bladder who sounded exactly like Forrest Gump pleading with me…”I gotta peeeeeeee…..”   I head to the locker room and take care of business and head back out.  I realize it at first but the Dad’s and kids in the locker room are steering well clear of me.  I catch a glance of myself in the mirror.  Other than a green hue, I look like the Incredible Hulk.  I am a large man, with an upper body fully pumped from swimming, and brooding as I move through the helpless masses that cower as I approach.  I realize how pissed I am at myself.  I hold the door open for a Dad and two boys out to the pool in an attempt to re-image myself to my normal affable self.  The lane is still waiting for me.  Getting back in the water I realize how much heat my internal furnace is throwing off.    I push off.  I start thinking about my yoga classes and how we stretch and breathe through pain.  I force myself to reach a bit farther.  A few laps in, I feel my body give in.  I start hitting a groove.  I push through a third half mile.  I finally feel like I am in charge of myself again.  I can change gears up and down at will.  I tear off a couple laps and then slow my pace back up.   The endorphins must be kicking in because all my aches and pains are gone and I am no longer fighting myself.

This gives me time to think as I swim.

The middle of August is a few short weeks away.  Soon, and old feeling will be rising in my body.  It is the beginning of football and rugby seasons.  For almost 20 years that meant pawing at the ground with cleats on, charging across the fields, and throwing my body around with reckless abandon.   Maybe that’s why my body hates me.  It’s resentment built up over years of abuse.

I’ve been somewhat disappointed with the results of my efforts so far.  I’ve lost about 5 pounds and my wife has pointed out my shoulders and chest are coming back.  Don't get me wrong...I'm glad my wife is noticing these things...still, I was hoping for more.  I was hoping to be running better and dropping more weight.  My body and mind are not getting along. 

I decide that my problem is I need to redouble my efforts.  Sure I’m working out…but I need to do more.  I’ve been watching what I eat…but I can do better.  

So I believe I need to approach my whole diet/workout routine like I did my swim.  I just need to bear down and press on until my body gives in and accepts the new lifestyle I am working to adopt.

This isn’t going to be pretty. 

There’s a wall in front of me.  I can’t go over it.  I can’t go around it.

Gonna have to go through it.

On "Being Prepared" "Perspective"....

This past week was a hectic one for me.  I was able to get a swim in.  My boss was in town and we played a round of golf in sweltering conditions.  All very good.

My youngest, Sam, went off to Cub Scout Camp Thursday at noon.  This is also a very good thing.  He loves being in Scouts and the whole experience has been very good for him.  Kimm had packed a duffle bag with everything on the list the camp sent us and Sam was comfortable knowing the first night he’d be on his own.  I had made arrangements to be one of the “helping” dads and arriving Friday after work. 

So all was good.

I should have known better when the night before he went to camp, Sam asked me a question:  “Dad, when I get back from camp, can I get some new shoes?”

“Sure thing, Kiddo” I promised him, blowing right through a red flag that had been raised.

Off to camp he went. 

Friday morning came and the phone rang.  It was Paul Steele, the “Pack Master” for Pack 289 and he was telling me Sam wanted me to bring some different shoes out. 

“No problem, I’m coming out after work and can bring a different pair” I said.  “Actually, I’m running by my house in a while…you could leave them on my front porch.”  Paul recommended.  “Will do!”

Red Flag #2...again missed.

I arrived at Camp Rota Kiwan shortly after 5:00 and got checked in.  One of the Dad’s that had been there the day before pointed me in the right direction to our cabin and complimented me on how well Sam had been behaving.  I was very pleased.

Getting to the cabin I saw Sam and a handful of other Cubs in their glory.  Filthy, sweaty, playing on a pile of dirt, banging it with sticks.  I’m not sure but I think they were “looking for gold”.  They were all taking this very seriously and working very hard.  It was a glorious “Lord of the Flies” sight.  Upon seeing me, Sam bounced over, gave me a hug, and showed me to a bunk.   His bunk was on the other side of the cabin.  “The bunk above me is open…” I offered.  “I’m okay here.  Sam responded.  The other dad’s chuckled at the dissing I got from my kid.    I unpacked and soon it was time to head over to the mess hall for dinner.

“Can I have a ride Dad?”  Sammy beamed.  “Sure thing Kiddo!” I said and swooped him up and on my shoulders in one move.  I walked him through the woods listening to all his adventures from the last day and a half.  Other than the sleeping arrangements, I was drunk in the moment!   I was the best dad in the world.  Ward Cleaver would bow at my feet.   These are the moments Dad’s remember always…

The campers have to line up and do some cheers, sing songs and have some fun before dinner is served.  I helped set up the tables with pitchers of water and juice.  I also made sure there were sporks on each  napkin.

The campers went in first.  Each cabin had assigned seating. I waited outside and came in with the last of the parents.  Hot dogs and brats were on the menu.  Sammy had saved a seat for me.  Dad and Kid…no hot dog ever tasted better.  Sammy even offered to clear our paper plates.

It was only then I noticed his limping.

“Sammy…what’s wrong?”  I asked.  His little face looked up at me “My feet hurt” he winced.  I carefully took his shoe off and say that the blisters he worked up from his undersized shoes had since popped and gotten filled with dirt while “digging for gold”.   I told him we needed to get back to the cabin and clean up his feet.  I took his hand and he tried to walk but the pain was really bad.  I picked him up and carried him through the crowded mess hall and got outside.  Back up onto my shoulders and back to the cabin at double-time pace.  I couldn’t imagine what a terrible parent I was.  I pealed his shoes off and washed his feet for him.  He was filthy.  What had been a cute “Norman Rockwell” picture of a boy was now a terrible mess for his father.  I got his feet cleaned up.   I quickly realized how unprepared I came to camp as I had no antiseptic or bandages.  Fortunately the other Dad’s, the “GOOD  ONES” as I was already calling them in my head had all the necessary gear to clean out the open wounds and get band-aids on them.   Paul even had some Ibuprofen for his pain.   Sam was back in action. 

I was so embarrassed.  “I’m going to run out and get the kid some shoes that fit” I announced.   “Is there anything else we need?”  I knew the answer, ”no….the good dads came with everything they needed.”

I run out to the nearest Meijers.  I find some size 4’s that I think Sammy will like.  I also get him a 6 pack of larger socks thinking these will go over the bandages easier.  BANDAGES!!!!  I go get a pack of bandages and some Bactine.  I see a whole little First Aid Kit in a little white plastic box…I grab that too.  I am in full “over-compensate mode” and my guilt would not be denied.  Some gummy candies and a new flashlight later, I am headed back to camp.  With any luck, I can salvage my son’s first experience at camp.

As I drove, I had ESPN on the radio.  I was not paying attention at first but then I heard a story come on about a boy named Adam.    He was now 16 and when he was younger he was a star football player.  It’s the only thing he ever wanted to do.  He was very good at it.

Then he got sick.

I’m not sure what the disease was, but it was one of those cruel blood disorders that take a long time to diagnose.  The poor kid was in and out of hospitals for years.  He lost part of his lower intestine due to complications.  When they thought the worst was behind him, he had a stroke leaving him paralyzed on his left side.

He was in a coma for over three weeks.  His mother refused to leave his side because she was afraid he was going to die alone.  He came out of the coma but the ongoing treatments took a tremendous toll on him.  “God must have chosen me because I am strong enough to deal with it” his young voice said.

The announcer continued the story “but that was not always the case…”  His mother began to speak of how when things got really bad, her son asked her to help him die.  That the doctors could just give him some medicine to help him go to sleep and never wake up.

I had to pull the car over because my eyes were welling up.  I sat there emotionally taxed.  The story continued with Adam meeting his hero, Tim Tebow  of the Denver Broncos.  Adam got to go to a practice and draw up plays that Tim would run.  It was a nice story about a kid and a family that had been through hell and back.  Okay…not back.  The kid is still very ill.

I sat in my car for a moment.  I looked down and saw the box of Sketchers I bought for Sam.

“I cried because my son had no shoes…” I thought to myself.

I got back to camp re-bandaged up his heels and got the new socks and shoes on his feet.  Within minutes he was back to the pile of dirt and leading one cabin of boys on an “attack” of the cabin up the road. 

Despite my new perspective on how lucky I was, I still felt somewhat sorry for myself.  As “taps” and “lights out” came,  I sat on my bunk when all of a sudden a little boy stood in front of me with a pillow and sleeping bag….

“Dad, can I still have the bunk above yours?”

“Sure thing Kiddo…”

Tadpoles and Guppies and Minnows! Oh my!

As I’m having continued issues with my legs that are preventing me from actually getting some roadwork in.   I’ve tried to find other, less stressful methods of exercising until I’m ready to get some miles under me.  I’ve purchased one of those big inflatable balls that we used in yoga class.  I find using this makes it easier to get good stretches in, adds new twists to doing push-ups and sit-ups, but makes me feel like I’m in the Belinda Carlisle video of “Heaven is a Place on Earth”. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOGEyBeoBGM&feature=artistob&playnext=1&list=TL2NuzwqHUXyE

Taking my dog Bailey for a walk gets me out too.  She is about 14 years old and still looks great for an old girl and her pace is fine as I gimp around. 

That said, to get a really good work out in while my legs heal up, I need to do the one thing I can push myself hard doing without doing more damage than good.  I need to swim.

So I head over to the YMCA.

I usually swim early in the morning when only a few die-hards are there.  It nice, quiet, and I can get a lane to myself.  This is a necessity not a choice.  Not that I’m a prude but I’ve determined that I am a bit of a “bull in a china shop”.    I’m a large man.  I’m not graceful.  Okay, I have had my moments, but these are few and far between.  Even if I were the size I’d like to get back to, I’d be considered a “big ape”.  Just this past Friday, for example,  I met my wife and some of her co-workers for an after work “re-fresher”.  As I slid into the booth, I mis-judged the space and hit the back wall of the booth a bit harder than intended.  The wall shook. The glass above us bowed.  I thought I knocked the whole thing down and we would all be covered in glass and splintered wood.   Any security cameras capturing this would soon have a viral video out on You Tube and I would eventually be flown out to Los Angeles for a “Web Redemption” spot on Tosh.0.  Actually, that would be kinda cool. 

But I digress…I CAN’T share a lane.  I’d kill someone with an inadvertent elbow. Really…or as my youngest, Sam, would say…"For real!”

I figured the “Y” would be busier on a Saturday morning at 10:00 than what I’m used to.  What I had not expected was the lobby, which doubles as a viewing area for the pool, would be packed with people.  There were kids.  There were parents.  There were grand-parents.  None of which has any spatial respect for any other human beings.  I begin to step around, crawl over, and dance between the obstacle course of humanity to get to the front desk.  Remember, I’m a bull...in a china shop…with a gimpy leg.

I have to stop for a second…Why do 7 people have to come watch one kid sit on the edge of a pool refusing to get in the water to “blow bubbles” and kick their feet?  None of them WANT to be there.  Come on people!   Instead of going for a swim, I felt like I was waiting for my allotment of Soylent Green.  (It's "goodness from the sea" don't ya know!)

My patience for humanity at times like this lead me to reconsider my scoffing off that “career guidance” exam I took years ago that recommended I become a “Light-House Keeper” or “Shepard”.

“How long until there is open swim”?  I asked, hoping that the classes would be wrapping up in a couple minutes at the top of the hour.

The young lady behind the counter pointed out that lane 3 was roped off for lap swim and with a quick glance pointed out “It’s all yours”.  

“Really”?  I asked unbelievingly.

“For real!” she assured…sounding very much like Sammy.

I quickly headed to the locker room to change and shower.  I walked out on the deck and headed over to my lane.  Everywhere around me are three, four and five year olds in little groups about the pool splashing and kicking.  Amid all the chaos that is a pool full of tadpoles and guppies and minnows, there is an avenue of peace and clarity that was “lane 3”.  I’m pretty sure there were dark clouds parting and a ray of light that pointed right at my lane.  I slip in the water with all the grace of a tripped water buffalo.  The instructors from the classes on each side shoot me quick, dismissive looks.  “Uh…sorry” I shrugged, not really sure they heard or cared.  I was immediately pleased I had not invested more sincerity in my apology.

Upon fixing my goggles, I pushed off and began swimming.  Usually it takes a few laps to get going but by the time I made my first turn, I had found the always sought for “groove”.  This is something found in every sport I participated in.  In running, the “groove” is hitting your stride at a pace you feel like you can run forever at…strong and quick…able to dart and react to anything.  In rugby, it was the feeling that any ball, anywhere on the field was yours.  Others got to hold onto it until you got there.  Your team mates sensed they needed to give it to you…your competition would tremble as you ripped it from their hands.  In football,  it would be lining up and knowing you could tell the defensive tackle across from you the play, the count, and what direction you were going to block him and he could not stop you. 

“Grooves” are glorious feelings.

So I found my “swim-groove”.  My body felt like a dolphin cutting through the water.  My strokes were long and strong.  My heart beat and breathing were in perfect synchronization.  It felt as if my spine were stretching with each stoke and I were reaching a foot farther than I should be able to.  I was hitting each turn in stride and exploding off the wall.  I tore off the laps and before I knew it I had reached a half mile.  A one mile swim is usually a pretty good work out for me.  Today, I was killing it.

Having the lane to myself in the middle of the pool was beautiful.  With all the kids in the pool I felt like a Tour de France rider riding through the spectator lined streets of Paris.

A mile is 72 lengths.  40, 50, 60, were flying by.  At 10:30 the classes let out and the last 12 lengths of my work out had the kids shuffling out.  By the time I got done, the pool deck was empty except for the lifeguard and the instructors picking up the array of kickboards, noodles, and diving toys.

One of the best things about swimming is the “pump” you get.  Upon getting done, I got out of the pool and my chest, shoulders, and arms were huge.  I looked like Mr. incredible.

I strolled over to my towel and headed into the locker room for a well-deserved hot shower. 

Getting my groove back feels good.

Now to find it while running….

On a side note:  There are certain “sounds” associated with sports that I love.  I grew up a few blocks from the high school I later attended.  As a little boy, I could see the “Friday Night Lights” glowing over the trees and hear the marching band drum cadence through the night.  It was magical.  Other sounds I love are light towers turning on with a “click-chunk” from an electrical box, the collective groan of 16 men as a rugby scrum comes together, and the sound of a person shooting baskets in an otherwise empty gym. 

Yesterday I was reminded of another “sound” that is unique and beloved.  All swimmers will recognize it…the sound of a Suitemate water extractor.  This is the wall mounted machine that performs a quick “spin-cycle” pulling much of the water out of your swim suit.  It sounds a bit like a UPS truck slowing down in front of your house with a vibrating “rumble, rumble, rumble…”

The one sound I am longing for is that of running shoes slapping out strides through a quiet neighborhood.

Oh well…Rome wasn't built in a day.