Pat and I stood outside the house on Elm Street. Like the rest of the block it was ramshackle, dilapidated and kind of looked like it would fall down. I didn't want to go inside. I certainly didn't want to live there for the next 3 weeks while I was being trained as a VISTA Volunteer.
In early 1972 my draft board invited me to be drafted into the army. I refused, telling them I was a conscientious objector who would not fight or serve in Vietnam. To my surprise they agreed and said I should do 2 years of community work in the national interest. Great! I joined VISTA (think domestic peace corps) and was sent to Newport, Kentucky, a town of about 30,000 people on the Ohio River, right across from Cincinnati.
I was excited about Kentucky...looked forward to seeing blue grass...but there was none in Newport, just broken glass filled streets with bars just about everywhere. And I didn't want to go into the Elm Street house.
But Pat knocked on the door and we entered. There, in the middle of the room, stood a witch! A slightly stooped old woman with a badly wrinkled face and long stringy white hair, holding a broom while a toddler held fast to her leg.
"I'm not ready for the boy now, Pat," said Mrs. Clarke. "The house isn't ready. Come back later."
"Yeah, let's get out of here," I thought. But instead Pat responded, "Oh, Mrs. Clarke, it's fine. Mike will love it here." Before I could answer that I wouldn't, Pat had left and abandoned me.
I looked around. The wall paper and the paint were peeling in many spots. There were bugs. The staircase had many broken steps and some that were at strange angles. There was a man sleeping on a couch in the Front Room that I later learned was Mrs. Clarke's paralyzed oldest son and was always sleeping there. I had to go to the bathroom several times and soon found out that the sink was ajar and at such an angle that water wouldn't drain and the toilet could only be flushed every half an hour or so. The water pressure was so bad that a shower seemed impossible and a bath extremely unlikely.
Sam Oder was Mrs. Clarke's nephew who I would be sharing a bedroom with. He was 17, hyper in his talk and laughter and, after a few minutes, decided to show me the scars on his arms from several knife fights. I'd never lived anywhere but home and in my college dorm. I'd never met anyone like this. I was scared!
Ken, the middle son and father of the toddler, came in. He told Sam that I didn't want to see such things and couldn't he see that I was a nice guy and a gentleman. I wasn't sure if he was teasing me. But he wasn't. He was protecting me. Then I met the youngest son, Peachie, who had the bedroom next to ours. Ken said he was the first of the Clarke family to go to college and everyone was proud of him.
That night I went to a party to welcome the new VISTAS. I was having trouble with all the new things and new people I was seeing and meeting. I walked up to Peachie on 3 separate occasions and introduced myself. He thought it was funny.
It had been warm that night though it was February, but the temperature plummeted the next. Which was unfortunate because there was no glass in our bedroom window. The wind howled and I froze. I put on my clothes, my heaviest jacket, got under the covers, but it hardly helped. I thought the South was supposed to be warm?
I went out a few evenings later and didn't come back to Elm Street till the next morning. I didn't call, of course, because why should I? Ken told me that certainly I could do whatever I wanted but his mom had worried about me so could I please just let them know the next time I didn't come home? I agreed. I felt bad. This was sort of homey.
Mrs. Clarke was very sweet, kind of insecure and a good cook. I enjoyed my meals there as I became more and more comfortable. She told me that she had housed many VISTAS in training before me and I was the first one that didn't make her feel bad about the state of her home. Moving.
When training ended I found an apartment on Boone Street but it wouldn't be ready for 2 more weeks. So I asked Mrs. Clarke if I could stay. Of course she said yes. I'd learned how to negotiate the bathroom, stopped noticing the bugs, didn't care at all about the peeling paint and wall paper and regarded the askew steps as kind of a game. Only thing I couldn't do there was shower!
After leaving I knew I should do something nice for the Clarke's. They were baseball fans so, in the spring, I got tickets for a Cincinnati Reds game...naturally, against the Mets. As the only Mets fan in Riverfront Stadium I cheered extra loud and was rewarded with a Tom Seaver pitched close victory.
The next day Peachie called. His mom was furious with me. "How could that boy cheer so loud against our team," she had asked. She didn't talk to me again for several days but when she did she invited me over the following Saturday. The Mets game was on NBC and I had no television.
On game day, Mrs. Clarke said she had baked a strawberry pie. Would I like a slice? Well, I don't like strawberry pie, but given that I was still on probation from the ballgame and Mrs. Clarke was quite sensitive, I said yes and quickly ate it. Too quickly, perhaps, as she offered me another slice. Still feeling I shouldn't say no I had the second piece but ate it more slowly. When I finished she asked if I'd like a third. I felt that it would be okay to say no but turns out I was wrong.
"Oh, I guess you didn't like the pie, " said my host. Naturally I relented and had the final slice!
As a VISTA I did a few things. I set up a basketball league, a crafts and recreation program for kids in public housing and a program for those who hadn't finished high school to train to get their equivalency diploma. Mrs. Clarke was very smart but hadn't been able to get her degree. So she got into my program and got her high school degree at age 65. She was pretty proud.
A year after I left Kentucky, the Mets battled the Cincinnati Reds in the National League Chanpionship series. The Mets won. I called Mrs. Clarke.
"Oh I was just talking about you to Ken," she told me. "I said if his Mets win, no matter what, we'd be hearing from him!"
I was sure lucky that I stayed in that house on Elm Street.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
MY SOON TO BE NEW HOUSE
As soon as I have enough "likes" on my recent facebook post, I will become the owner of my nephew Adam (and family)'s old house, the one they are leaving for a recently purchased larger one for their growing household. The post explains all about our tradition of giving me the things that Adam grows out of, so it's pretty certain to happen.
Sadly, however, the outgrown house is in New Jersey so, of course, I could never actually live there. And by "there" I mean not in New York City. And by "not in New York City" I mean Manhattan. I'm a New Yorker. I can't imagine, wouldn't want to imagine, living anywhere else. So my upcoming house in New Jersey, WAY at the other end of the George Washington Bridge, will never, actually, be my residence.
Having so quickly gained (almost certainly) my new home and then having to, just as fast, come to terms with its unsuitability has put me, naturally, in a reflective mood. It has me reflecting on the first home I did live in. Much smaller and far more crowded than Adam's, but, happily on the correct side of the GW in the most wonderful neighborhood EVER in the world.
I grew up on the Lower East Side in apartment 6E in 504 East 5th Street on the corner of Avenue A. Three rooms for the 5 of us. My parents slept on a sofa that opened up in the living room. My sisters Lysie and Diane (Annie wasn't invented yet) and I shared the bedroom. Not that we were that competitive or anything but I took pride in the fact that, night after night, both my sisters fell asleep before I did...I could see that they had dozed off and I hadn't!!
I also took pride in the fact that we lived on the 6th floor and the surrounding buildings that we could see from our living room window only had 4. I remember looking at them with my dad one stormy Winter night as he pointed out that we could see the snow on their roofs but they couldn't see it on ours. WE were in the bigger, more superior, structure!
The apartment never seemed cramped to me; I thought it was normal to live in such close proximity. I think that did foster competition...especially true when we had just 1 television set. In the afternoon after school Lysie always wanted to watch Roy Rogers while I wanted Popeye The Sailor. We were supposed to share but I'm pretty sure she got to watch what she wanted most of the time. Though no doubt my show was much better. We made up all sorts of versions of baseball, football and hockey and only caused serious damage to the house once when I threw a rolled up pair of sweat socks through the glass of the bedroom window. But that was after we'd moved to Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn (oh my gosh, we moved to Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn? From the Lower East Side? WHY??) so it really doesn't belong in this tale. Still, it does give an idea of the intensity with which we played.
Lysie is a little younger than me but was always a little taller than me, pretty strong and a very good athlete so that's probably why I've always thought it crazy (and dangerous!) to minimize what a girl or woman could do. I can't really say who won the majority of our household sporting events, though there is one thing I can say for sure...it wasn't Diane, the youngest in our family till Annie came along and made her a dreaded middle.
But my point is that Diane kind of suffered in our limited space. One game we liked, football, involved gently tossing a football to Diane at one end of our narrow bedroom. She was required to run to the dresser, but, sadly for her, both Lysie and I stood in front of the dresser, waiting to stop her. Without many options she generally plowed straight forward till one or, more likely, both of us made the tackle. In fairness, she had 4 chances to make it to the dresser and only had to succeed once.
She pretty much never did.
We also played hide and seek. With, again, few places in which to hide, our father, being creative, hoisted Di up and lay her on top of the open bedroom door, her midsection resting on top with her legs and lower body dangled on 1 side and her head and upper torso on the other. What an irresponsible thing for our dad to do! I mean, it was SO easy to spot her up there!
We also had linoleum on the floor in the foyer and hallway. I loved it...it was such a great surface to slide on, particularly when wearing your socks. Perfect for hockey games. The bedroom and living room both had wooden floors...great for rolling coins on...I used them to make up a terrific football game. This is where I learned that rugs and carpets are NO GOOD. Create way too much friction. Floors that you can roll and slide on...WAY more fun!!
You may think there was little or no privacy in my first home. Well, first of all, I learned that privacy was not the natural order of things so it wasn't that important. And when I did want privacy I could find it...in the kitchen, at night, after dinner. I'd go in there, close the door, sometimes even turn out the light and...turn on the radio to listen to the Ranger hockey game or the Knicks basketball game. Baseball, of course, was always second nature to me. I can't remember a time when I didn't watch, play and love baseball. But basketball and hockey was more an acquired taste. And I acquired it listening to those Knick and Ranger games on the kitchen radio, at once by myself while with my good friend the announcer talking to me and thousands of loud, noisy fans as well.
And in those wonderful broadcasts in the mid and late '50s and early '60s I learned something very important:
My teams SUCKED! There were hardly any teams in the NBA (8) and NHL (6) at that time, the majority, therefore, made the playoffs, and my teams almost never did! They certainly didn't win any championships. I had learned to root for losers! I had learned how to have my heart broken, season after season, and still root for and care about those damn miserable teams!
Maybe I should never have gone into that kitchen. But I still remember it as my own private world filled with stuff that I loved.
And that's pretty much how I remember Apartment 6E...filled with all sorts of things and people that I loved!!
Sadly, however, the outgrown house is in New Jersey so, of course, I could never actually live there. And by "there" I mean not in New York City. And by "not in New York City" I mean Manhattan. I'm a New Yorker. I can't imagine, wouldn't want to imagine, living anywhere else. So my upcoming house in New Jersey, WAY at the other end of the George Washington Bridge, will never, actually, be my residence.
Having so quickly gained (almost certainly) my new home and then having to, just as fast, come to terms with its unsuitability has put me, naturally, in a reflective mood. It has me reflecting on the first home I did live in. Much smaller and far more crowded than Adam's, but, happily on the correct side of the GW in the most wonderful neighborhood EVER in the world.
I grew up on the Lower East Side in apartment 6E in 504 East 5th Street on the corner of Avenue A. Three rooms for the 5 of us. My parents slept on a sofa that opened up in the living room. My sisters Lysie and Diane (Annie wasn't invented yet) and I shared the bedroom. Not that we were that competitive or anything but I took pride in the fact that, night after night, both my sisters fell asleep before I did...I could see that they had dozed off and I hadn't!!
I also took pride in the fact that we lived on the 6th floor and the surrounding buildings that we could see from our living room window only had 4. I remember looking at them with my dad one stormy Winter night as he pointed out that we could see the snow on their roofs but they couldn't see it on ours. WE were in the bigger, more superior, structure!
The apartment never seemed cramped to me; I thought it was normal to live in such close proximity. I think that did foster competition...especially true when we had just 1 television set. In the afternoon after school Lysie always wanted to watch Roy Rogers while I wanted Popeye The Sailor. We were supposed to share but I'm pretty sure she got to watch what she wanted most of the time. Though no doubt my show was much better. We made up all sorts of versions of baseball, football and hockey and only caused serious damage to the house once when I threw a rolled up pair of sweat socks through the glass of the bedroom window. But that was after we'd moved to Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn (oh my gosh, we moved to Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn? From the Lower East Side? WHY??) so it really doesn't belong in this tale. Still, it does give an idea of the intensity with which we played.
Lysie is a little younger than me but was always a little taller than me, pretty strong and a very good athlete so that's probably why I've always thought it crazy (and dangerous!) to minimize what a girl or woman could do. I can't really say who won the majority of our household sporting events, though there is one thing I can say for sure...it wasn't Diane, the youngest in our family till Annie came along and made her a dreaded middle.
But my point is that Diane kind of suffered in our limited space. One game we liked, football, involved gently tossing a football to Diane at one end of our narrow bedroom. She was required to run to the dresser, but, sadly for her, both Lysie and I stood in front of the dresser, waiting to stop her. Without many options she generally plowed straight forward till one or, more likely, both of us made the tackle. In fairness, she had 4 chances to make it to the dresser and only had to succeed once.
She pretty much never did.
We also played hide and seek. With, again, few places in which to hide, our father, being creative, hoisted Di up and lay her on top of the open bedroom door, her midsection resting on top with her legs and lower body dangled on 1 side and her head and upper torso on the other. What an irresponsible thing for our dad to do! I mean, it was SO easy to spot her up there!
We also had linoleum on the floor in the foyer and hallway. I loved it...it was such a great surface to slide on, particularly when wearing your socks. Perfect for hockey games. The bedroom and living room both had wooden floors...great for rolling coins on...I used them to make up a terrific football game. This is where I learned that rugs and carpets are NO GOOD. Create way too much friction. Floors that you can roll and slide on...WAY more fun!!
You may think there was little or no privacy in my first home. Well, first of all, I learned that privacy was not the natural order of things so it wasn't that important. And when I did want privacy I could find it...in the kitchen, at night, after dinner. I'd go in there, close the door, sometimes even turn out the light and...turn on the radio to listen to the Ranger hockey game or the Knicks basketball game. Baseball, of course, was always second nature to me. I can't remember a time when I didn't watch, play and love baseball. But basketball and hockey was more an acquired taste. And I acquired it listening to those Knick and Ranger games on the kitchen radio, at once by myself while with my good friend the announcer talking to me and thousands of loud, noisy fans as well.
And in those wonderful broadcasts in the mid and late '50s and early '60s I learned something very important:
My teams SUCKED! There were hardly any teams in the NBA (8) and NHL (6) at that time, the majority, therefore, made the playoffs, and my teams almost never did! They certainly didn't win any championships. I had learned to root for losers! I had learned how to have my heart broken, season after season, and still root for and care about those damn miserable teams!
Maybe I should never have gone into that kitchen. But I still remember it as my own private world filled with stuff that I loved.
And that's pretty much how I remember Apartment 6E...filled with all sorts of things and people that I loved!!
Saturday, June 29, 2013
MY FIRST FIVE MILE RACE
My girl friend Cassandra had her secrets and I learned them only slowly. She was never on time for anything, sometimes showing up more than an hour late for our dates. She couldn't hold a job, perhaps because of secret #1, and always felt mistreated and in need of money. She asked for loans and never paid them back. And she didn't mention that she was married.
by
On the positive side, she really admired my running. And, as I'd only just begun to get into it, she gave me a book...The Official Book of RUNNING by Bill Emmerton to help me along. AND she wrote a very nice note in it:
"I look forward to saying I know that guy when you are handed your medal for winning
the Boston Marathon in well under 2 hours."
It's a good thing that Cassandra gave me a book at that point in my running career because, having not yet run more than 3 miles, I didn't know much about competitive running. Sure I knew that a marathon was longer than 3 miles but I didn't no how much longer. I also didn't know that a marathon time of "well under 2 hours" was not humanly possible as it would demand a pace of "well under 4 minutes per mile" for the 26.2 mile course.
But I didn't know that so I just felt good that I had a goal. And, in reading Emmerton's book, I saw that I also needed some medium range goals before the one of winning the Boston Marathon. I thought, perhaps, a 5 mile race might be a good stepping stone, so I signed up for my very first, scheduled for Brooklyn's Prospect Park on January 3, 1982. I also figured that an even more intermediate goal would be to actually run that distance at least once beforehand.
So I did that, the week before, on the indoor track at the McBurney YMCA on W 23rd Street. The McBurney Track circled the gym 1 floor below it...20 times around for 1 mile. So I ran around it a glorious 100 times...5 miles! I then dragged a wooden stool into the men's shower and sat on for my shower. I didn't have the strength to stand...but I was ready for the race!
On race morning I got to Prospect Park early...and was shocked to learn that there was a great big hill on the course! What was that doing there? The only races I'd ever run were short dashes and there were no hills on the track! Why I remember field day in junior high school when I won the 60 yard dash. The course was flat as anything. Yes there was controversy...Alan Ng complained afterwards that I'd cut him off at the start. One, Alan Ng is a big baby and a complainer and I hope he's since grown out of it. Two, I could outrun him anytime whether I cut him off or not which I DIDN'T!! And three, I'm sorry that I cut you off, Alan. My bad. But the point is...the course was FLAT, no hills!
But the Prospect Park course wasn't. It contained a simply awful hill on mile 2 that went up and twisted around forever. And that intimidated me as we lined up for the start. But I ran it well. At least I assume I did. Frankly I don't remember it at all. What I do remember, however, is running downhill on mile 4 and simply FLYING by lots of people who probably were worn out by the big hill. In any case I got to the finish line in 37 minutes flat, a 7:24 pace. Not bad for my first 5 mile race ever!
When I learned later that a marathon was more than 5 times longer than the race I'd run...and that, even if I maintained my pace (which, of course, I wouldn't) I'd miss my "well under 2 hours" goal by about 90 minutes or so, that goal seemed seriously in jeopardy. In addition, as my goal was also to win the Boston Marathon there was also the matter of the 872 runners who'd beaten me in Prospect Park. They could be a problem in Boston as well.
So Cassandra, it seemed, hadn't suggested very realistic goals. But it did get me into my first 5 miler and that was fun...just as all the ones I've run since, including this morning's effort, have been!
by
On the positive side, she really admired my running. And, as I'd only just begun to get into it, she gave me a book...The Official Book of RUNNING by Bill Emmerton to help me along. AND she wrote a very nice note in it:
"I look forward to saying I know that guy when you are handed your medal for winning
the Boston Marathon in well under 2 hours."
It's a good thing that Cassandra gave me a book at that point in my running career because, having not yet run more than 3 miles, I didn't know much about competitive running. Sure I knew that a marathon was longer than 3 miles but I didn't no how much longer. I also didn't know that a marathon time of "well under 2 hours" was not humanly possible as it would demand a pace of "well under 4 minutes per mile" for the 26.2 mile course.
But I didn't know that so I just felt good that I had a goal. And, in reading Emmerton's book, I saw that I also needed some medium range goals before the one of winning the Boston Marathon. I thought, perhaps, a 5 mile race might be a good stepping stone, so I signed up for my very first, scheduled for Brooklyn's Prospect Park on January 3, 1982. I also figured that an even more intermediate goal would be to actually run that distance at least once beforehand.
So I did that, the week before, on the indoor track at the McBurney YMCA on W 23rd Street. The McBurney Track circled the gym 1 floor below it...20 times around for 1 mile. So I ran around it a glorious 100 times...5 miles! I then dragged a wooden stool into the men's shower and sat on for my shower. I didn't have the strength to stand...but I was ready for the race!
On race morning I got to Prospect Park early...and was shocked to learn that there was a great big hill on the course! What was that doing there? The only races I'd ever run were short dashes and there were no hills on the track! Why I remember field day in junior high school when I won the 60 yard dash. The course was flat as anything. Yes there was controversy...Alan Ng complained afterwards that I'd cut him off at the start. One, Alan Ng is a big baby and a complainer and I hope he's since grown out of it. Two, I could outrun him anytime whether I cut him off or not which I DIDN'T!! And three, I'm sorry that I cut you off, Alan. My bad. But the point is...the course was FLAT, no hills!
But the Prospect Park course wasn't. It contained a simply awful hill on mile 2 that went up and twisted around forever. And that intimidated me as we lined up for the start. But I ran it well. At least I assume I did. Frankly I don't remember it at all. What I do remember, however, is running downhill on mile 4 and simply FLYING by lots of people who probably were worn out by the big hill. In any case I got to the finish line in 37 minutes flat, a 7:24 pace. Not bad for my first 5 mile race ever!
When I learned later that a marathon was more than 5 times longer than the race I'd run...and that, even if I maintained my pace (which, of course, I wouldn't) I'd miss my "well under 2 hours" goal by about 90 minutes or so, that goal seemed seriously in jeopardy. In addition, as my goal was also to win the Boston Marathon there was also the matter of the 872 runners who'd beaten me in Prospect Park. They could be a problem in Boston as well.
So Cassandra, it seemed, hadn't suggested very realistic goals. But it did get me into my first 5 miler and that was fun...just as all the ones I've run since, including this morning's effort, have been!
Saturday, June 15, 2013
BACK IN THE RUNNING
I had one thought as I walked to the beginning of the 5K race at Roosevelt Island this morning...don't get too close to the start. ALL the runners up there will be WAY too fast for me.
It was my first race in 9 months. A physical issue had played havoc with my life since September, depressing, difficult, uncomfortable...and really screwed up my running! Now I'd only been back at it for 6 weeks...no speed work, nothing long, nothing too hard. Was I ready to race? Not really. But it was exciting to be there to try!
So I searched for the right spot to line up, knowing that I intended to run (if I was up to it) at an 8:30 per mile pace. I walked beyond the front row right at the starting mark, and a bunch more rows beyond that. Finally I came to a group of racers all wearing head phones and heavy looking t shirts. A few others were wearing costumes. "I'm not going behind these people," I thought. "I'm out of training but at least I look like a runner!" I settled in in front of them. And waited.
Soon the horn sounded and we were off, running south along the Queens side of the island. I found a comfortable pace that felt sustainable and stuck with it even as hordes (it seemed) of people passed me, including some with the heavy looking t shirts. None of the costumed characters did, though, so I didn't feel embarrassed into speeding up. About a third of a mile in to the 3.1 mile race and we turned right, then, quickly, right again. Now we were running uptown along the Manhattan edge.
Only a few racers were passing me by and they all looked young and athletic and must have arrived late and started near the back of the pack. I wasn't bothered by them. I felt fairly comfortable and was looking for the 1 mile marker. Soon it was there and I looked at my watch...7:56! A minute faster than ANYTHING I'd run in training and way faster than my intended pace. Too fast. Unsustainable. I came upon a sharply descending ramp and flew down it. Wow! Speedy. "Maybe I could keep this up," I thought. "Maybe I could run this pace for just 2 more miles...." Fortunately reality intruded. NO WAY. If I tried I'd throw myself into oxygen deprivation and have a miserable time before the end. Would probably hurt so much I'd end up walking, an absolute disgrace in the shortest of all middle distance races. How would that sound on facebook?
I slowed down. Good thing I did. As I passed the water station just beyond the race's half way point I felt myself involuntarily slow further. I was pooped! Suddenly I began thinking that maybe this was all too much for me, that I'd never be able to sustain even this reduced pace and that I'd squander my first, fast mile. "Where is that damn second mile marker," I thought, even as I knew the answer as I'd run this course before. It's at the spot where we cross back to the Queens side of Roosevelt Island and head south to the finish. I came to it and fearfully looked at my watch. With all the slowing I'd done the time could be bad. It wasn't...8:36.
Two miles down and still ahead of my goal pace. But slowing by 40 seconds from mile 1 to mile 2 was not good. If that happened on mile 3 it would ruin everything. I needed to at least maintain the speed I was running at. But now I was exhausted and uncomfortable and the wind, which I'd never felt at my back, was now in my face. I thought of walking. REALLY terrible to do that so close to the finish. So instead I played a game. Run to the next landmark and then we'll see. Then go on to the next landmark. And so I kept pace to the next bench, to the next tree, to the place where the sun stopped and the shade began, to where, the shade ended and the sun resumed. I was lost in my game, barely noticing that no one was passing me, till, suddenly, I felt someone on my left.
I knew I couldn't hold him off so I just hoped that he wasn't in my age group. And, as he passed, I knew that he wasn't. Because he wasn't a he. He was a she A young she. And even my addled, oxygen deprived brain knew that a young she won't be in the men's 60 to 64 grouping.
No one else passed me, but I did slow down a bit to stop hurting so much and then, feeling a bit better, picked up the pace again. Where was that damn 3 mile marker? Finally, it appeared and, passing it, I looked at my watch. For the first time in the race I actually hit my intended pace...8:30 on the button! Actually faster than mile 2! Just a tenth of a mile to go. My goal pace would've brought me in at 26:21. The clock wasn't even at 26. I tried picking it up and finishing before the minute hand had a chance to tick up. I couldn't. 26:02.
Later I found that I'd won my age group as, sure enough, the young lady who'd beaten me at the end had not changed sexes or grown older. Doesn't matter. My age group, at least in this race, was pokey. More telling, I finished exactly in the middle of the 124 men and 80 of the 253 finishers. That wasn't bad.
In fact this was by far the slowest 5k I've ever run. I've never run any race below a half marathon distance at a slower pace. And yet my last mile and a half here was SO hard fought, so in the competitive, athletic spirit, that I feel really good about it.
And I guaranty, with consistent training, that young lady will not be going by me on mile 3!
It was my first race in 9 months. A physical issue had played havoc with my life since September, depressing, difficult, uncomfortable...and really screwed up my running! Now I'd only been back at it for 6 weeks...no speed work, nothing long, nothing too hard. Was I ready to race? Not really. But it was exciting to be there to try!
So I searched for the right spot to line up, knowing that I intended to run (if I was up to it) at an 8:30 per mile pace. I walked beyond the front row right at the starting mark, and a bunch more rows beyond that. Finally I came to a group of racers all wearing head phones and heavy looking t shirts. A few others were wearing costumes. "I'm not going behind these people," I thought. "I'm out of training but at least I look like a runner!" I settled in in front of them. And waited.
Soon the horn sounded and we were off, running south along the Queens side of the island. I found a comfortable pace that felt sustainable and stuck with it even as hordes (it seemed) of people passed me, including some with the heavy looking t shirts. None of the costumed characters did, though, so I didn't feel embarrassed into speeding up. About a third of a mile in to the 3.1 mile race and we turned right, then, quickly, right again. Now we were running uptown along the Manhattan edge.
Only a few racers were passing me by and they all looked young and athletic and must have arrived late and started near the back of the pack. I wasn't bothered by them. I felt fairly comfortable and was looking for the 1 mile marker. Soon it was there and I looked at my watch...7:56! A minute faster than ANYTHING I'd run in training and way faster than my intended pace. Too fast. Unsustainable. I came upon a sharply descending ramp and flew down it. Wow! Speedy. "Maybe I could keep this up," I thought. "Maybe I could run this pace for just 2 more miles...." Fortunately reality intruded. NO WAY. If I tried I'd throw myself into oxygen deprivation and have a miserable time before the end. Would probably hurt so much I'd end up walking, an absolute disgrace in the shortest of all middle distance races. How would that sound on facebook?
I slowed down. Good thing I did. As I passed the water station just beyond the race's half way point I felt myself involuntarily slow further. I was pooped! Suddenly I began thinking that maybe this was all too much for me, that I'd never be able to sustain even this reduced pace and that I'd squander my first, fast mile. "Where is that damn second mile marker," I thought, even as I knew the answer as I'd run this course before. It's at the spot where we cross back to the Queens side of Roosevelt Island and head south to the finish. I came to it and fearfully looked at my watch. With all the slowing I'd done the time could be bad. It wasn't...8:36.
Two miles down and still ahead of my goal pace. But slowing by 40 seconds from mile 1 to mile 2 was not good. If that happened on mile 3 it would ruin everything. I needed to at least maintain the speed I was running at. But now I was exhausted and uncomfortable and the wind, which I'd never felt at my back, was now in my face. I thought of walking. REALLY terrible to do that so close to the finish. So instead I played a game. Run to the next landmark and then we'll see. Then go on to the next landmark. And so I kept pace to the next bench, to the next tree, to the place where the sun stopped and the shade began, to where, the shade ended and the sun resumed. I was lost in my game, barely noticing that no one was passing me, till, suddenly, I felt someone on my left.
I knew I couldn't hold him off so I just hoped that he wasn't in my age group. And, as he passed, I knew that he wasn't. Because he wasn't a he. He was a she A young she. And even my addled, oxygen deprived brain knew that a young she won't be in the men's 60 to 64 grouping.
No one else passed me, but I did slow down a bit to stop hurting so much and then, feeling a bit better, picked up the pace again. Where was that damn 3 mile marker? Finally, it appeared and, passing it, I looked at my watch. For the first time in the race I actually hit my intended pace...8:30 on the button! Actually faster than mile 2! Just a tenth of a mile to go. My goal pace would've brought me in at 26:21. The clock wasn't even at 26. I tried picking it up and finishing before the minute hand had a chance to tick up. I couldn't. 26:02.
Later I found that I'd won my age group as, sure enough, the young lady who'd beaten me at the end had not changed sexes or grown older. Doesn't matter. My age group, at least in this race, was pokey. More telling, I finished exactly in the middle of the 124 men and 80 of the 253 finishers. That wasn't bad.
In fact this was by far the slowest 5k I've ever run. I've never run any race below a half marathon distance at a slower pace. And yet my last mile and a half here was SO hard fought, so in the competitive, athletic spirit, that I feel really good about it.
And I guaranty, with consistent training, that young lady will not be going by me on mile 3!
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
IMPOSSIBLE
This morning I've taken the first steps in doing what seems impossible. Self cath. Hard to believe I can really learn it. Hard to believe I can really do it. But after taking the first step I have no choice but to try.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
TOO PAINFUL A MORNING
This morning I rode the R Train to our first softball practice. I won't be participating in it. Nor will I be playing next Sunday when the regular season and the defense of our 2012 championship title officially begins.
On my subway car, I saw several people in running gear. No doubt they were heading to Central Park for today's 10 kilometer race. I ran that contest several years ago and completed the 6.2 mile course at a pace just under 7 minutes per mile, the fastest I'd ever gone for that mid level distance. Even with no softball practice I wouldn't be running that race today.
This juxtaposition of things I really want to do but can't feels awful. A way too painful reminder of this awful thing I've been going through for months now. I can't pee.
Two weeks ago my urologist took his second crack at a surgery (called TURP) designed to remove excess prostate tissue that could be getting in the way. Just as he did after the first one back on Nov 1, he said it went well. At it's conclusion, a catheter is installed to allow the trauma done to the area to subside. Nine days later it was removed. At first things were okay. Then, at 1 AM, I awoke to find that I couldn't pee. Before things could become too painful I was back in the ER having a catheter put back in. Hate to rush to judgment but it sure seems to me that this surgery was a failure.
The prostate is not the problem, that seems clear enough. That leaves either a too weak bladder (though a test a few weeks ago said that it was plenty strong enough) or an overly tight sphincter muscle, perhaps one that is prone, for some reason, to spasm.
I spoke with my urologist last Tuesday. He has since spoken to another. I myself, on Friday, met with a third. They all say that there are ways of dealing with either a weak bladder or a tight sphincter. Some I'm more comfortable trying than others. One scares the shit out of me. And the thought of another possible trip to the ER...just how much more of that can I take?
But this morning on the R Train...amidst road runners and heading to softball players? Too painful.
On my subway car, I saw several people in running gear. No doubt they were heading to Central Park for today's 10 kilometer race. I ran that contest several years ago and completed the 6.2 mile course at a pace just under 7 minutes per mile, the fastest I'd ever gone for that mid level distance. Even with no softball practice I wouldn't be running that race today.
This juxtaposition of things I really want to do but can't feels awful. A way too painful reminder of this awful thing I've been going through for months now. I can't pee.
Two weeks ago my urologist took his second crack at a surgery (called TURP) designed to remove excess prostate tissue that could be getting in the way. Just as he did after the first one back on Nov 1, he said it went well. At it's conclusion, a catheter is installed to allow the trauma done to the area to subside. Nine days later it was removed. At first things were okay. Then, at 1 AM, I awoke to find that I couldn't pee. Before things could become too painful I was back in the ER having a catheter put back in. Hate to rush to judgment but it sure seems to me that this surgery was a failure.
The prostate is not the problem, that seems clear enough. That leaves either a too weak bladder (though a test a few weeks ago said that it was plenty strong enough) or an overly tight sphincter muscle, perhaps one that is prone, for some reason, to spasm.
I spoke with my urologist last Tuesday. He has since spoken to another. I myself, on Friday, met with a third. They all say that there are ways of dealing with either a weak bladder or a tight sphincter. Some I'm more comfortable trying than others. One scares the shit out of me. And the thought of another possible trip to the ER...just how much more of that can I take?
But this morning on the R Train...amidst road runners and heading to softball players? Too painful.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
TODD
The death last week of my brother in law Todd stings. In the 30 years we knew each other he was a large, kind, provocative, fascinating, enfuriating, influential presence.
Todd thought I needed his help with finances. Money was more important to him than it was to me...he loved the "finer" things and I just wanted the proper sports equipment. He figured I should be doing more with my savings then just saving it. He got me to buy my first shares of stock.
Haber was a new technology company and Todd got me to invest. The company had developed a process to non toxically separate precious metal like gold from the ore that it was found in. It was fun to be an investor. The company did good things and the value of its stock kept going up. As I had no need for the money I just slowly increased my number of shares and watched the price continue to rise.
And then there came a time when I did need it. That was when, in the mid 1980s, I decided to leave my steady social work job and develop a private practice as a psychotherapist. As I earned $25 total in my first week of practice, I knew I'd need my savings and investments to help me.
Sadly it was at exactly this time that investors began to notice that Haber, despite all its new technology promise, wasn't actually extracting precious metal from the ore it came in. Nor, of course, was it making any money. It's price share went down, stabilized, then plummeted.
I was in shock. Everything was disappearing just when I needed it. I met with Todd, who was a stock broker, to decide what to do. He owned far more shares of Haber than I did. He said he couldn't bear the idea of selling after such a downturn. "I'd rather watch it go down to zero," I recall him saying, "and go out in a blaze of glory then give up on something that has so much promise."
I, however, had no desire to go out in a blaze of glory, or, more accurately, to lose all of the investment. I needed this money now. "SELL," I should have said. In fact I said nothing and Todd left.
Over the next few days the stock continued to lose its value and I continued to watch in muted shock. Until the day I received a note from Todd's office. The day after we spoke he'd sold all my Haber shares! I actually made a relatively small profit overall. More importantly I had enough now to allow me to develop my therapy practise.
Pretty nice of Todd to come to his senses and realize what I needed. And pretty dramatic of him to do it without letting me know!
One day around this time Todd had a massive heart attack. I visited him one night at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital where he was recovering. It was just the two of us. Todd looked back at his life and said "I've always run at the head of the pack. The best of everything." By that he meant the finest of steak, the best cigars, a whole host of things that, I thought at the time, might well have contributed to his heart attack and drastically changed his life. But he was unremorseful, unappologetic and, seemingly, accepting, of the bargain he'd negotiated for himself.
I was dismayed. We'd always had different views on exercise, working out, healthy eating, healthy life style. I was hoping that he'd now develop a different attitude and commit himself to changes that could help to really make him better. But I also marvelled at his no regrets attitude. He wasn't beating himself up over past choices that couldn't be changed, something I'm not so good at doing. Maybe that was his way of not getting depressed and being able to go on with optimism.
Over the years, Todd and I often argued. I think he liked to make a point in a provocative way and see what reaction it would stir. Many times it stirred a sense of challenge, fun and interest in me. Sometimes, however, he would just make me angry.
Though much of our political views were usually not that different, Todd was a huge supporter and defender of the free enterprise system. Sometimes that put us at odds like the time, in our last huge fight about a year or so ago, I reacted to the latest banker scandal by saying "all those bankers should be thrown in jail."
My brother in law did not think that a very smart comment and called me "a fucking idiot."
Todd thought it would be interesting to explain to me why I was mistaken. I decided to focus more on the "idiot" part of his reaction and explain why I couldn't just let that one go and move on to the merits. Voices, okay, my voice, escalated from there.
So there it is. Todd evoked a lot of passion. It was NEVER boring to be around him. I wish we had another 30 years.
Todd thought I needed his help with finances. Money was more important to him than it was to me...he loved the "finer" things and I just wanted the proper sports equipment. He figured I should be doing more with my savings then just saving it. He got me to buy my first shares of stock.
Haber was a new technology company and Todd got me to invest. The company had developed a process to non toxically separate precious metal like gold from the ore that it was found in. It was fun to be an investor. The company did good things and the value of its stock kept going up. As I had no need for the money I just slowly increased my number of shares and watched the price continue to rise.
And then there came a time when I did need it. That was when, in the mid 1980s, I decided to leave my steady social work job and develop a private practice as a psychotherapist. As I earned $25 total in my first week of practice, I knew I'd need my savings and investments to help me.
Sadly it was at exactly this time that investors began to notice that Haber, despite all its new technology promise, wasn't actually extracting precious metal from the ore it came in. Nor, of course, was it making any money. It's price share went down, stabilized, then plummeted.
I was in shock. Everything was disappearing just when I needed it. I met with Todd, who was a stock broker, to decide what to do. He owned far more shares of Haber than I did. He said he couldn't bear the idea of selling after such a downturn. "I'd rather watch it go down to zero," I recall him saying, "and go out in a blaze of glory then give up on something that has so much promise."
I, however, had no desire to go out in a blaze of glory, or, more accurately, to lose all of the investment. I needed this money now. "SELL," I should have said. In fact I said nothing and Todd left.
Over the next few days the stock continued to lose its value and I continued to watch in muted shock. Until the day I received a note from Todd's office. The day after we spoke he'd sold all my Haber shares! I actually made a relatively small profit overall. More importantly I had enough now to allow me to develop my therapy practise.
Pretty nice of Todd to come to his senses and realize what I needed. And pretty dramatic of him to do it without letting me know!
One day around this time Todd had a massive heart attack. I visited him one night at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital where he was recovering. It was just the two of us. Todd looked back at his life and said "I've always run at the head of the pack. The best of everything." By that he meant the finest of steak, the best cigars, a whole host of things that, I thought at the time, might well have contributed to his heart attack and drastically changed his life. But he was unremorseful, unappologetic and, seemingly, accepting, of the bargain he'd negotiated for himself.
I was dismayed. We'd always had different views on exercise, working out, healthy eating, healthy life style. I was hoping that he'd now develop a different attitude and commit himself to changes that could help to really make him better. But I also marvelled at his no regrets attitude. He wasn't beating himself up over past choices that couldn't be changed, something I'm not so good at doing. Maybe that was his way of not getting depressed and being able to go on with optimism.
Over the years, Todd and I often argued. I think he liked to make a point in a provocative way and see what reaction it would stir. Many times it stirred a sense of challenge, fun and interest in me. Sometimes, however, he would just make me angry.
Though much of our political views were usually not that different, Todd was a huge supporter and defender of the free enterprise system. Sometimes that put us at odds like the time, in our last huge fight about a year or so ago, I reacted to the latest banker scandal by saying "all those bankers should be thrown in jail."
My brother in law did not think that a very smart comment and called me "a fucking idiot."
Todd thought it would be interesting to explain to me why I was mistaken. I decided to focus more on the "idiot" part of his reaction and explain why I couldn't just let that one go and move on to the merits. Voices, okay, my voice, escalated from there.
So there it is. Todd evoked a lot of passion. It was NEVER boring to be around him. I wish we had another 30 years.
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