Changes in Latitudes…Changes in Attitudes

Having made the decision to compete in my first Sprint Triathlon, I thought it best to enter a training program through a local sporting goods retailer that specializes in running and related activities.   My wife, Kimm, participated in the program over the winter and found the structure, training, positive atmosphere, and motivation to be of great assistance.   Seeing how much it helped her, I signed up for the program that has targeted the Sherman Lake YMCA’s 10^th Annual Triathlon a.k.a. “The Shermanator”  as the event to prepare for.  Come August, I will swim 500M in a lake, bike 20K, and then run 5K.  It actually scares me when I read those words.

Having sat through the introductory meeting, I was glad to see that all the praise Kimm heaped on the staff involved was spot on.  I was really glad I chose this route.

There were about 15 of us that were there.  I’m not sure how many were or have signed up for the program.  It starts Friday morning at 6:00 a.m.  We will be meeting at the pool on the campus of Kalamazoo College.  We will have a swim work out, move on to bike, and then a run.  Eventually we move out to Woods Lake and swim in open water…something we better get used to if we are going to swim in open water with 424 other people all wearing the same colored swim caps with a number on the side. (Mine will be the one stretched REALLY TIGHT)  What a sight THAT will be!

When I started this blog, my intent was to get to where I could "run" again. At least run without feeling so out of place.  What I've come to understand is that not participating in life is what makes me feel out of place.

As a result, my goals have changed.  I have found the concept of "challenging myself to do things I’m not sure I can do" to be exciting.  Getting out and participating in trail races is a lot of fun!  Kimm and I can do this with the boys as a family.  

You set off on one adventure and you find yourself off on another.  Isn’t it funny how life does that?

I have not yet completed the first training session but I have already mapped out a “To Do” list of events that a few years ago I never would have imagined myself considering:

1.     There is a one mile open swim in a Gougac Lake in Battle Creek in July.  I am going to  do it…

2.     Two separate opportunities to swim 2K in a lake at Camp Roto Kiwan.  I am going to do both…

3.      I will be leading a group of Cub Scouts on a 5 Mile hike of the Appledorn Trail at Roto Kiwan in order to help them earn badges.  I want to do at least one trial run before I have a bunch of boys with me.  They can earn a badge in each “season” they do it in and a larger badge for earning all four…  I am going to lead these boys on each one.

4.     There are several 5K runs my wife is looking at running.  I know I will get sucked into a couple of them…

5.     There is a Triathlon in Niles in September….

6.     There is a Triathlon on the campus of MSU in October…

7.     The indoor tri’s will start in December.

Doing...Doing...Doing.....

  

What the hell happened to me?

Last year I was fretting about signing up to run a couple of sprints at the State Games of Michigan. 

Oh yeah.  I’m throwing Shot Put and Discus at those again in June.

…and running the 100 Meters…

…and the 50 Meters…

…and participating in the Long Jump (Why the hell not?).

As I was signing the boys and myself up for our events, I noticed a posting that “Champions may participate in the State Games of America”.

I Googled “State Games of America” and learned that this is the “parent” event of the games the boys and I have participated in the last two years.  It will be held in June of 2013 in Hershey PA and to qualify, you must have medaled in your States events in 2012…or 2011! Cool!

I then realized that based on our efforts from last year, Max, Sam, and I qualify already!

I think my “To Do” list just got a bit longer….

Life’s little…and slimmest… of victories….

So I competed in my last Indoor Triathlon of the season last Sunday.  These races have you swim, bike and run for a set amount of time, in this case 20 minutes each.  You basically go as hard as you possibly can in each discipline for the time allotted and then move on to the next.  The scoring is weighted as to equal out the value of the disciplines, otherwise the bike portion would overwhelm the run and swim.

I normally do not worry about the point system.  My participation is based on proving to myself I can still do it and being amongst the amazing people that also participate.  They are truly inspiring.  The reason I detail out the scoring system is that for this last race…well…I did worry about it.

My wife, Kimm has challenged herself to compete in the races.  She did one a few months back to establish a baseline of what she could do…without any real training.  She then joined a “Trizelle” program put together by Gazelle Sports that runs 10 weeks and prepares you for an indoor tri.  She has been getting up Friday mornings at 4:30 for the organized trainings and has religiously followed the training schedule of 6 days per week of gradually increasingly difficult workouts.  She has approached the program like a warrior.  Her program culminated in the race this weekend.  Many of her fellow program mates were also competing.  I was so impressed with the program, I am going to go through the next session starting in late May.

When our heats were e-mailed, we checked to make sure we were separated so one of us could watch the boys and assist/cheer on the other as needed.  She was in at 7:25 a.m.   I was at 9:55 a.m. 

That’s when I found out I cared about the scoring…

It turns out in the Male 45-54 age bracket, there was only one other racer.  Again, I rarely beat people so I joked that I only had one person to beat…  “Sure” said Kimm.  “That’s Doug Smith from Trizelle.   He’s in my heat.  I work with him at Stryker”.    Now I had heard her speak of some others in the Trizelle program…mostly women…but I remembered her speak of one man who would make me “look small”.  It was then I blurted out a question that I did not expect to be in a position to ask…  “Can I take him?”

“You will beat him in the swim but he will clearly beat you in the run”.

Now…I don’t like to think of myself as “overly competitive”.  I can go to the fair without winning a stuffed monkey and be fine with it.  Something deep inside was stirred though…

I envisioned a big bear of a man that I would attempt to out work.  Hopefully, my swimming advantage would more than offset his running advantage.  We would find out on Sunday.   As Doug works with Kimm at Stryker, I knew he would be a classic “Type A” personality and be pushing himself to succeed.  It’s just how they are wired.  This would not be a cakewalk.

Race day arrived and Kimm and I packed out gear in the car with the boys.  We arrived and found a good spot for the boys to camp out by the pool while Mom got ready.  Of course, one needed to find the bathroom.  I walked them through the locker room to the bathroom.  On our way out, a gentleman asked me if I was Kimm Mayer’s husband.  He introduced himself as “Doug Smith”.

I had met the enemy…and he was a really good guy.  Damn.  For starters, he was not bigger than me…he probably weighed what I did in High School.  This was not going to be easy.  We chatted before the race.  He said he enjoyed the training program so much he was going to be in the next one.  Cool.  I already made a friend with someone in the class.  Damn…I had to race a friend.

Kimm and Doug’s heat started on time and they were off.  Kimm did very well.  She completed 34 lengths in the 20 minutes.  This was an improvement of almost 20% from her first race!  Not bad for a person not fond of swimming.  Upon moving over to the bike portion it was clear from the start that Kimm was moving faster than those in her heat.  She ended going 8.11 miles which was also a great improvement over her first race.  In the run, she once again improved covering 2.4 miles to round out her efforts.  In a word…she rocked.  Okay, that’s two words but you get my point.

I could not help but make mental notes of Doug’s scores as well.  Doug swam 27 lengths, biked 7.53 miles, and ran 2.34 miles.  Kimm called it spot on…it was going to be a horse race…and this horse had to swim, bike and run well.

Now I knew that the scoring provided you get @ 1.5 points for each lap swam, 1 point for each tenth of a mile biked, and @ 16 points for each mile run…forgetting the “decimal dust”…  That meant that Doug had scored @ 154 points more or less.  I figured out that if I swam my normal 38 lengths, could match his bike, it would come down to me running 1.3 miles.  Not my strong suit to begin with and especially after the swim and bike, it would be achievable, but not easy.

When my heat started, I felt pretty good swimming but not as strong as normal.  I had Lasik surgery on my eyes in March and had only been cleared to swim a few days before.  I had only swam once in the previous 3 weeks.  I could tell I was not where I wanted to be and getting to 38 lengths was going to be harder than expected.  I managed to squeak out 37 lengths.  I prepped for the bike knowing I had a lead, but questioning if it would hold with my weaker two disciplines ahead.   “Make it up on the bike.” I told myself. 

I got to the room with the spin bikes and focused on getting the seat to the right height and my feet strapped in correctly.  I made sure to hydrate and soon enough we were off and racing.  I had a good pace going.  About a quarter way through I realized that the handlebars were still set for the petite woman that was on the bike before me.  This was causing me to lean far more forward than I was comfortable with.  And when I mean “comfortable”… I mean “bike seat”.  Kimm helped me get the handle bars set higher and that eased the discomfort associated with the incorrect setting and I could simply focus on getting to 7.5 miles, or more, behind me.  With 10 minutes to go I was exactly 3.75 miles along…  Not good.  Half way to go with half the time gone and my legs were burning already.  Giving it everything I had I was able to get to 7.34 miles.  Again, I was behind where I wanted to be.  During the transition I was trying to rework the numbers in my head.  “If you can get to a mile and a half…you should be okay…”   I took some water and stretched my legs (who were not happy with me) as much as I could.

Getting on the treadmill I was familiarizing myself with its operations…and trying to figure out how fast I need to go.  A competitor beside me asked what my goal for the run was.  “I need to go a mile and a half”.  “So do I” she said.  “4.5 mph”.  As the run kicked off I dialed it up to 5.2m.p.h. and found a comfortable trot.  My thought was to get ahead of the pace as much as possible as I knew the 20 minutes would require some stretches of walking.  Fortunately, my knees co-operated and I really only had to deal with muscle fatigue and lung capacity concerns.  My pace changed up and down as my body would allow.  I mentally kept trying to run the math through my head.  I had the overall scoring calculations in my head as well as the changing pace on the run.  I knew I had to keep moving because a “kick” at the end can only cover so much.  At the 10 minute mark I was just over half way through.  I knew I did not have to save anything for another day.  That said, my body was now beginning to fight me.   Trying to run multiple calculations through my head while running and dealing with the pain left me confused about where I was and where I needed to be.  “Am I stressing myself over a lost cause?” I laughed.  I figured with 5 minutes to go, “screw it”.  Just push as hard as you can and let the chips fall where they may.  I abandoned my calculations. 

Without anything to keep my mind busy, the voices of my lungs and legs had a direct line to my brain.  I needed a distraction…anything for a couple more minutes. 

I mentally found myself on a rugby field lining up for a kick.  I saw the faces of my teammates.  I felt the wind on my face.  I smelled the grass underfoot.  I saw the ball kicked high, arching over the field I moved down in coverage.  As I got to the first breakdown the ball spun out to the wide side of the field, I continued "running" in pursuit. 

It worked.  The time passed and I was able to “manage” those last minutes.

They counted down the last 30 seconds and I went as hard as my body let me.  At the end… I looked at my mileage:  1.49 miles.   It was further than I had planned.  It was further than I had gone before in a race.  After I caught my breath I headed over to where Kimm and the boys were.  “How’d you do?”  she asked.   “It’s going to be close” was all I could say.

At the awards ceremony they listed the top 3 finishers in each category.  Kimm finished second in hers.  Considering her bracket was amongst the most competitive, she did great.  When they read the results for the Male 45-54, it turns out I had done enough.  I won.  It was a good day for the Mayer family indeed.

Yesterday, we got the e-mail from Gazelle with all the final numbers.  As it turns out, Kimm’s score was even more impressive.  She actually beat the winner in the bike by over half a mile.  Kimm was right on her tail in the run.  The winner, however, had swam 48 lengths…thirds most of any competitor that day!   Kimm actually had distanced herself from the 3^rd place finisher by 10 full points.  Her score would have handily won the race last year.  Not bad for her first “real” race.

In looking at my results I expected that my victory would have been by a point or two.  I was amazed when I saw the final tally:  John Mayer 154.403, Doug Smith 154.140.  I had won by .263 points!  The “decimal dust” I had written off so easily was now the size of boulders!  Basically, Doug’s score was 99.8% of mine.  I literally, won by a nose.

I laughed with Kimm because I am well aware that I had the advantage of knowing where I had to get to and if the positions were reversed Doug would have found a way to win.  Regardless, I will take the win and move on.  I now have a month before my Trizelle program starts and I prep for an outdoor sprint triathlon.  I have a lot more work to do.

I know in the big scheme of things, my winning a silly race doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.  However, to paraphrase Leslie Nielsen as Officer Frank Drebbin in one of the Naked Gun movies:  “Well… this is MY hill…and these are MY beans!”  That said, I am truly grateful for one of life’s little victories, especially one coming by the slimmest of margins.

“He never calls… He never writes…”

Wow.  What a slacker I have become.  I realized my last post was in November.  Nice hiatus Big Fella…

Actually, my absence has really only been on the writing.  In November, I referenced a total of 8 Indoor Triathlons that I was targeting to participate in.  Little did I know that several of these were being held on the same date (well done organizers) and that one of the events I had targeted was the same weekend my oldest was bowling in the Michigan State Youth Bowling Tournament.   I am pleased to report that I completed 5, have one more this coming weekend, and participated in a 5k (walked it with Sam).  That gives me 7 events and considering that at one event, after my own race was done, I swam again as part of a “team” with Max handling the bicycle and Sam running.  That gets me to 8 events!

During this time, my wife decided that I need not be the only crazy person in the house and joined a triathlon training class held Friday mornings.  She has been dutifully getting up to be at training at 5:30 Friday mornings.  She has stayed on course finding ways to work in swim, run, and bike workouts throughout her busy week. 

Her efforts are inspiring.

She did one indoor tri right before her class started to set a baseline.  I can’t wait to see what she does this weekend.  She will rock!

That said, I have looked at the structure of her class and am convinced that it would help me as well.  As the indoor tri season is wrapping up there is not going to be another class like hers.  The next starts at the end of May and is designed to prepare for a “sprint triathlon” held at the Sherman Lake YMCA known as “The Shermanator”.    

I’ve signed up.

“The Shermanator” is 500 yards of swimming, 10 miles of biking, and 3.2 miles of running.   500 yards of swimming is basically 10 laps in a pool.  That is less than 5 minutes of swimming to me and would be considered…relatively easy…except this will be out in a lake with all the other swimmers churning up the water and swimming on top of each other.   I will need to figure out how to handle the crowds, the lack of lanes, and how to stay on course.  I am certain the class will help.

The biking is 10 miles and follows the roads around the area.  There are some hills to deal with but I can comfortably go 6 miles now so I will need to simply train up.

And then the run.

It always comes back to the run doesn’t it? 

I am reminded of my childhood when while living outside Pittsburgh, my Mom slipped on some ice and broke her ankle while taking us kids to swimming lessons.  She was laid up and not able to do much for 3 months.  My Dad had to go to work, get groceries, cook, clean, and keep my brother, sister and me in line.  At one point we had a big ham.  Dad took the leftovers and made ham salad in the new blender.  It is important to note that my Dad does nothing on a small scale so when I say we had ham salad…I mean gallons of the stuff.  What really topped it off was he put pickle relish in it. 

Excuse me.  Simply writing those words made my gag reflux twitch…

That winter I ate as much ham salad as I will ever need to.  One Saturday morning my Dad was trying to get food into us so we could get down to the Y for our swim lessons.  The plates with the ham salad on Wonder Bread were waiting for us as we came into the kitchen.   With one look I knew I needed someone to eat my lunch for me.  My sister wouldn’t make eye contact with me knowing if she didn’t engage…she wouldn’t have to say “No”.  I’m begging my brother… “Please….just eat it…make it go away”.  “I don’t like it any more than you do!” he whispered so Dad wouldn’t hear.  Dad did.  He heard everything.  Flustered, he tried to approach the matter logically:  “If you don’t eat your sandwich…you don’t get to go to swim lessons”.  It sounded like brilliance only displayed by the likes of Ward Cleaver!  That is when I spoke back to my Dad for the first time in my life….

I blurted out “Going to swim lessons is how we got into this mess in the first place!”

I don’t remember my Dad’s reaction, but I am certain it caused him to get that exasperated stare that all parents get at moments in life….maybe even the eye twitch.

 But I digress…

The run will be a 3.2 mile jaunt around the tree lined campus of the Sherman Lake YMCA.  Something I am not sure my knees will allow me to do on a good day, let alone after a 500 yard like a bunch of salmon and riding 10 miles on a bike!

The run….

To paraphrase myself from 40 years ago…

“Trying to run was how we got into this mess in the first place!”

My knees have actually been treating me better and I will be taking the time leading up to my program getting started to build up some endurance.

No time like the present to get things started!

I started a joke....

In 1977, Woody Allen released a film that many consider to be his best work.  “Annie Hall” was a departure from his “screwball comedies” such as “Take the Money and Run”, “Bananas” and “Sleeper”.  He demonstrated a far more mature use of humor as he explored the topics of love, relationships, and how we are affected by them.  The beginning of the film was a single shot of him, playing the role of Alvy Singer, speaking to the camera:

There's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly. The... the other important joke, for me, is one that's usually attributed to Groucho Marx; but, I think it appears originally in Freud's "Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious," and it goes like this - I'm paraphrasing - um, "I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member." That's the key joke of my adult life, in terms of my relationships with women.

As the film proceeds, we see that these jokes epitomizes Alvy’s life. 

I’m sure you’re probably thinking “What the hell happened to the blog about John trying to get back in shape?  What is this…At the Movies?  Is Roger Ebert going to show up here?

No such luck.  I mention this because I was thinking about an old joke my Dad always used back when I was playing football back in High School days:

What you guys lack in size, you make up for by being slow.

I never took it personally.  In a way, he nailed it.  My senior year I started the first game of the season at @ 220 lbs.  I was the biggest guy on the team.  I actually had decent speed for an offensive tackle.  We actually had a play where I pulled around right end!  Overall, we had some very good athletes, but we were never a team that you’d take one look at and think “Geesh…look at those monsters”.

In a way, much like Alvy, that joke sums up my athletic career.  I had what one of my rugby coaches called a “burst of slow”.  It was a visual thing…I actually was running slower than I looked.

 

I’ve strayed from my work out routine.  There are several reasons but when I run them through my head they really sound a lot more like excuses than reasons.  I’ve kinda been in a “funk” lately.  So last week I’ve decided that I needed to get some shorter term goals to shoot for.  As winter approaches, the season for Indoor Triathlons is about to start.  These are events where you swim, bike and then run for a prescribed amount of time and then you add up the distance you’ve travelled.  Usually these are 20 minutes per event.  A few years ago I did one.  I really enjoyed it.  I then did two the next year.  Last year I participated in the West Michigan Indoor Triathlon Series.  This was a series of three events in different venues over three months.  I also did a local one in Kalamazoo to round out the year at four.  This year I have found a total of eight events I am going to participate in.  This will force me to keep hitting it.  The events are fun.  Everybody cheers each other on. 

The first one is December 17^th in Muskegon.  I have a little over a month to prepare.  I have decided that over that time period I should be able to swim a total of 15 miles, run 15 miles, and bike 75 miles.  This morning, I got up before the cows and got to the Y to swim my first mile.  Paraphrasing the old U.S. Army recruitment commercials from the early 80’s, I cracked myself up at the thought that “I swam more by 6 a.m. than most people do all day”…  You’ve got to keep your mind busy while swimming at 5:45 a.m….

So my goal to be able to run with the sprinters at the 2012 State Games of Michigan without looking like…well…me from 2011 is still intact.  I just have set a few other goals along the way.  Tonight I’ll do some yoga and if I still feel motivated, take a 1 mile trot around the neighborhood.

At the end of “Annie Hall”, Woody Allen breaks tradition with the Romantic Comedy genre.  Annie and Alvy don’t end up together.   They have a chance meeting and a nice, if not awkward conversation.  You voyeuristically see them from afar on a street corner.  The big climatic moment when they realize they are meant for each other and wrap their arms around each other never comes.  Annie waves her good-bye and crosses the street exiting the scene, film, and Alvy's life.  Alvy stands there clearly heartbroken hoping she’ll come running back.  Realizing she was gone he walks off as his voice over narrates:

After that it got pretty late, and we both had to go, but it was great seeing Annie again. I... I realized what a terrific person she was, and... and how much fun it was just knowing her; and I... I, I thought of that old joke, y'know, the, this... this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy; he thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" The guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships; y'know, they're totally irrational, and crazy, and absurd, and... but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it because, uh, most of us... need the eggs.

So Allen bookends his masterpiece with a couple of old jokes.  Put into context, they are anything but old jokes, rather poignant commentary on questions we all face. 

I’d love to have a great joke to bookend this posting.  A joke that was both poignant and memorable.  One that could provide some rationale to why I keep pushing myself to get out and do things crazy and absurd.  After much thought, the only thing I could come up with is…well…

“I need the eggs”

The Middle of the Road...I hope.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted.  I could make up some lame excuses about how “the back to school schedules of Max and Sam and all their activities has really put a crimp on my time…” but that would be a load of crap.

Part of the blogging experience for me is to help me hold myself accountable.  I have not been working out as much.  True, the back to school/new schedule thing is part of it.  But there is something more.  Something a lot of people are simply afraid to admit.  Something I’ve been avoiding and am hoping that spilling it out here will help.

I’m scared.

There!  I said it. 

Several weeks back I was reading the Kalamazoo Gazette, from the comfort of my bed, on my EVO using the MLive application.  I had read a sad story about the ending of a 5K race held over at the Celery Flats area in Portage.  A 42 year old man collapsed after completing the “Peacock Strut” and shortly thereafter passed away.  I had not initially recognized the name. He was a resident of the nearby community of Scots, so I didn’t think that Kimm or I would know him from school.  Still I was going to mention it to her because she knows so many people that work with her at Stryker.

Then I saw his picture. 

I went cold. 

Shawn Brown….the pieces came together.

Shawn had a daughter, Brady that played co-ed soccer with my son Sam last spring.  I met him probably a couple dozen times watching games out at the county park and at the practices held at the Kingdom Soccer Complex.  Practices can be pretty boring, so finding a kindred soul to talk to helps the time pass.  Shawn and I would sit and chat.  He was a large gregarious man standing several inches taller than my 6’2” frame.  He had short cropped hair that had more salt than pepper in it.  He was an ex-football player from Olivet College.  Most importantly, he was a doting father who loved his two kids.  I liked the guy immediately.  We may not have been “peas from the same pod”, but we were definitely of the same crop.

We’d chat about the kids, sports, and football.  I told him rugby stories.  He wished he was younger so he could give it a try.  He would have been a hell of a second row.  Every now and then his voice would boom “Brady!” to make sure his daughter’s head was where it needed to be.  He always had one eye on the field and specifically on his kid.

And suddenly, inexplicably, Shawn’s gone.  There’s one less parent on the sideline.  One less Dad.  One less husband.

This is a tragedy for the family that I don’t want to begin to try to fathom and my heart goes out to them.

The other thing my mind can’t let go of is that  “a large gregarious man”, “short cropped hair that had more salt than pepper”, “an ex-football player”,  and “a doting father who loved his two kids” are all statements that someone may very well use to describe...me.  In a way, I felt I was reading my own obituary.  I have never felt so mortal.

So, for the past few weeks, I’ve been in a mental state of “lock down”. 

Having thought it through, I know that you can’t go through life afraid.  You can’t be afraid to ride the bus because someone got mugged.  You can’t be afraid to eat cantaloupe because there was a listeria outbreak. 

And…you can’t be afraid to go out and exercise just because someone you know passed away while doing so.

You have to go on living.

Tonight, I will put on my shoes, go out and exercise and work out in order to improve myself.  I will go out and LIVE LIFE…because…well…it’s the only game we get and like any other sport I’ve played : 

You stay in the game and do your best until the coach takes you out.

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!”