LENNY

Lenny Kasten died last month. He was 80. From my athletic life, he was one of the people that I liked the best.

I met Lenny when he and his family came to the bungalow colony, Lansmans, where my family and I had long spent our summers. It was the mid 1960's and I was a teenager and he a grown man of about 40.

Lenny wanted to play on our softball team. The team was mainly, though not completely, pretty young. Most of the players were my age or just a few years older. "What's an old guy like that doing coming out for our team?" I thought to myself.

After Lenny smashed a bunch of long drives deep into the outfield in batting practice, including some that rolled into the woods surrounding the field, I understood. He was coming out because he was going to be one of our best players. Lenny made the team, becoming our starting third basemen and cleanup hitter.

Here's the way many of our games would start. I would lead off and get on base. Either Bobby or Tony, batting behind me, would also get on (sometimes they both would) and Lenny would get the long hit that drove us home. We had so many big first innings! We'd just blow teams away before the game had barely begun.

We won SO many games with Lenny, made the playoffs EVERY season and won more than our share of championships.

I don't think Lenny loved playing third base, however. He didn't really use his glove very well there. In fact he'd often let smashes bounce off his big barrel chest, fall to the ground at his feet where he'd pick the ball up and throw the runner out at first. Unconventional! What Lenny claimed was that in his youth he was a fleet footed outfielder. He said that at my age he was as fast as me. Sorry, Lenny, I never believed that one, maybe because I could never imagine that you were as young as me!

We had a bunch of hot heads and crazies on our team who would provoke huge arguements and even fights with the oppostion. Lenny was not one of them; he was almost always calm and soothing. I only remember a single time that he got mad. It concerned a most unusual game...

...It was played entirely in the rain at the Friedlander's field. They were a tough rival and the game was very close and very messy. I dropped a fly ball in leftfield. I caught another that travelled through a bunch of tree branches that overhung the leftfield foul line. I stretched a single into a double and scored the tieing run...maybe Lenny drove me in?...late in the game.

And all the while it rained. The rain got heavier and heavier but the umpires insisted that we play through it. They promised that, no matter what, we'd finish. But then it rained harder. And harder. And it became very difficult to even see the ball. But we were batting in the top of the last inning with the game tied, 2 out, 1 on and me coming up. Conditions were near impossible, however, and the umpire, who was from Lansmans, stopped play.

Friedlander's was furious. They thought this was a ploy on the part of "our" umpire. How it could be I still don't understand. But, as a compromise, "our" umpire agreed that the game would resume the following weekend exactly where it had been suspended, that is, with us batting with 2 outs and a runner on first.

While this sounds reasonable, it went against league rules which stated that a rained out game should be replayed in its entirety. Arguable Friedlanders would have the competitive advantage by this ruling since we had only 1 out remaining in the 7th inning while they had a full inning to work with. If we didn't rally and score and they did they would win this important game.

And that is exactly what happened. A week later we travelled to meet them, took batting practice, warmed up and then I grounded out on the very first pitch and they quickly scored a run and prevailed. We had spent over 2 hours of our afternoon to play for about 5 minutes and get stuck with a loss.

As we walked off the field, Lenny said: "I've never felt more humiliated in my life. Never." And he kept repeating it. Never had I seen Lenny so upset. But that just made the rematch with our arch rivals all the more exciting when we met them at the end of the summer in the championship contest. And, of course, it made our hard fought victory that day all the sweeter!

The softball times that I enjoyed most with Lenny, oddly enough, occurred when we didn't actually have a game. Lenny, as many of the men, worked in the City throughout the week and came up to Lansmans late on Thursdays. Those evenings, after dinner, deep into the twilight, he and I and a few others would go to the field for extended batting practice.

Except I wouldn't hit. I didn't care about hitting. All I wanted to do was play the outfield and chase long fly balls. And that was certainly okay with Lenny. He didn't want to go to third base and take more drives off his chest! And he was way more than happy to stand in the batters box till it got dark. So that's what we did. He would hit long, towering drives and I would run them down. Sometimes he'd get a little frustrated because he couldn't get too many over my head and out of my reach. But, since he didn't play much in the Lansmans outfield, he didn't fully realize my big competitive advantage...the field was on the top of a hill that sloped downwards from the middle of the outfield to the surrounding woods. Hit one over my head and, as I ran back for it, I was running down hill. So when I tracked down his long drives I had the help of gravity. The sweat was dripping from my face, the bugs were all around and I was flying! Oh, did I ever love that!!

As good as Lenny was at softball, I think his best game was paddleball. I can not remember EVER having beaten him. Of course I hope this is only due to a failure of my memory...though I must admit it's not like me to forget many successes!

Lenny was a smart player, he took good position on the court, he could hit the ball hard with either hand and he could place it expertly. He chose a very good partner who was also smart and complimented him well. And the two of them shared another characteristic in common...they were both SO BIG!

The key to getting good position in paddleball is to get in front of your opponent and close to the wall. From that position you can reach their killer shots more readily and place your own shots more effectively. But getting in front of Lenny and his partner Sol was SO difficult. They were so wide and bulky that I'd practically have to run off the court to get around them and, in this fast moving game, there just wasn't enough time to do that. So I played practically the entire match behind Lenny...from where I could barely see the wall, let alone the ball!

But these troubles disappeared one summer when Lenny and I were paired in the Men's Paddleball Tournament. We swept away all our opponents without any trouble. The finals was an absolute route. It was just another championship trophy that Lenny helped put in my hands!

To think there was a time that I viewed a 40 year old as, well, old. Now I think of them as young! Whatever our relative ages, though, Lenny was a great athlete and a wonderful teammate and partner.

Championships have been a lot tougher to come by without this old cleanup hitter.

MY WORST EVER

The thing I like about worrying is that the worst worry you can think of never actually happens. It's like a lucky charm or a vaccine: Worry enough and you are protected and immune. I ask my patients all the time: "What's the worst that can happen?" They usually laugh as they tell me. They know how silly it sounds. They know that their worst nightmare will just never,ever happen.

Well, almost never happen.

This New York Marathon was absolutely my WORST. What I feared might happen (what I hoped to ward off by thinking about it the day before) actually occurred. That stupid spasm that I had in my left calf early Saturday morning just locked the muscle up tight. It ruined everything.

I did all that I could think of for it. I did the gastroc stretch, the soleus stretch, the achilles stretch, the stretch in my little rocking device. I used the stick to message it. I iced it. I applied heat. I used wet heat. I alternated heat and ice. I rested it. I walked on it. And yet, every time I touched it, it hurt. It was SO sensitive.

And so on Sunday I traveled to the Marathon start believing that I couldn't do the race. I didn't see how the calf could possibly hold up to a 26.2 mile race feeling the way that it did...sore, stiff and knotty. Now, marathons intimidate me in general. I go to them half expecting bad things to happen. But this was even worse. I knew in advance just what the bad thing was going to be.

History was not on my side. I have run the day after a spasm but the runs have been short, slow and uncomfortable. Things definitely felt unhopeful. But what could I do? I wasn't going to be a no show for the New York Marathon after months of preperation.

So Sunday morning I did all that I could do...I stretched for hours. I'd touch the muscle and, to my pleasure, it wasn't sore! Then I touched it again and it was. But not as sore as the day before. So the pain was either all gone or at least diminished. Either way it was an improvement.

Still, it was hard to be hopeful. The calf just didn't feel quite right. I'd jog a few steps. No pain, but still that feeling of things not being right. I'd stretch again and get a good feeling. Then I'd walk and feel something funny. It was all making me so anxious. I looked at my heart rate monitor, expecting to see a number through the roof. It was 60. Well, I guess my heart wasn't all jumpy but the rest of me was. I tried telling myself the worst wouldn't happen but I'd answer that it was just a matter of time.

The race began and I kept a long sleeve shirt tied around my waist. If the calf gave out immediately I wanted to have something to put on and keep me warm for the long walk across the Verazano Bridge to the nearest subway in Brooklyn. Well, it didn't pop but I was cautious as I ran up the bridge and especially cautious on the way down. Any increase in speed, I feared, would surely tear the muscle so I put on the brakes to resist the pull of gravity.

I made it to Brooklyn and felt confident enough to discard the extra shirt. There were now plenty of nearby subway stations in case I needed to evacuate the course. My calf held up as I strode up Fourth Avenue but I never felt comfortable, I never felt confident. Since any step could be the one on which the muscle pulled I felt apprehensive each time my foot struck the ground. Everything felt labored; nothing felt easy. I was slow to begin with and each mile split was slower than the one before. Nevertheless maintaining even my mediocre pace was difficult. My heart rate, in the mid 140's, seemed too high for the 9 minute plus pace that I was running.

I felt little twangs in both calves from time to time. Whenever I unintentionally sped up I forced myself to slow down. Soon my glute muscle and left hip area began to hurt. Other runners were going past me. It felt like such an effort just to continue. It was NO FUN at all!

And the rest of the run was just as miserable. Nothing improved. About the only positive I felt was a sense of surprise that I was able to carry on as far as I did. I negotiated the Pulaski Bridge as gingerly as I did the Verazano. By the time I reached the Queensboro my stride had severely shortened as the pressure in my glut and hip caused my groin to tighten. I felt it a matter of pride to run every step of the way across that bridge. Run? Well, let's just say I didn't walk.

I reached Manhattan and now every step sent pain through my calves. I was done. Only greater injury could come from continuing this forced march. I asked a cop to let me through a barrier so I could leave the course. "Do you need an ambulance?" he asked. "Just a bed," I responded.

MARATHON WORRYING

I'm worrying.

The Marathon is tommorrow and I'm worrying. Will I run well? My recent race times are, generally, nothing great. So maybe my training hasn't been enough. My groin has tightened up during a few runs lately. Maybe it will again...perhaps, as it did in 2002, so badly that I'll have to quit. And early this morning, while in bed, my left calf spasmed. Whenever this has happened in the past, my running was disturbed for a day or two. That makes running 26.2 miles tomorrow very iffy to say the least. So I'm worrying about all of this.

And, even without all these worries, I'd be worrying, because the Marathon itself is worrisome. I just can't seem to get it right. I never run as fast as earlier races suggest that I am capable of. And I never run the whole course, having to walk larger and larger distances late in the contest. I've never gone beyond 21 good miles and that was on the flat Disney course. In New York, 17 or 18 has been my limit. So I end up feeling that I've competed only up to that point; afterwards I'm simply surviving. Not very athletic.

My best distance run, actually, came in a 22 mile training jaunt that included a 15K race in the middle. It was a cold day in December, 2005, and I did 7 easy miles to begin, arriving perfectly at the starting line just as the race itself commenced. Interestingly, all those early miles were slower than 9 minutes. Once I got involved with the racers, however, I ran about 8:30 pace over the remaining 15 miles. As there was water available, I never stopped once. For 22 miles in challenging Central Park (though the course did not include the North Hills), I averaged 8:46. And I did that wearing or carrying a sweatshirt and without the benefit of gatoraide.

I've never run that well for that long in any marathon. Why? Easy, I think. It's because I've never run that slowly at the start. It's too boring not to mention too worrisome to hold myself back...I fear I'm selling myself short. But I pay for that misjudgement in 10, 11, 12 minute and slower miles much later on.

So I know what I need to do this time...and, of course, I worry that I won't allow myself to do it, that I'll just get too caught up in the excitement and in the thought that maybe THIS TIME those low to middle 8 minute miles won't catch up to me and do to me what they've always done before. Well, if I can overcome that worry then I'll try the slower pace and see where that gets me. That could lead to a really good result. Provided I've trained enough, of course. And provided also that the groin doesn't tighten and the calf doesn't pull. Because the marathon is a difficult challenge filled with lots of worries.

And then, of course, there are several possible problems with the weather.... :-)

GRETE SUCKS!

Well, a more honest title would be that I sucked at Grete's half marathon Sunday. Since Grete is highly unlikely to read this, however, I'll leave my misleading headline as is. Hopefully, my performance was the result of nothing more than the awful weather. Ninety percent humidity when the race began! I knew it was trouble when I stood at the starting line, absolutely soaked with perspiration after only a light warmup.

I ran 1 good mile and should have headed for home. Instead I slowed by 20 seconds in each of the next 2 miles, hoping I'd feel stronger. I didn't. I slowed by another 20 seconds per mile over the following 4 miles and knew it absolutely wasn't my day. From there it only got worse. MUCH worse.

This has happened to me before in bad weather, particularly during long races. Two years ago in Queens I ran a virtually identical 1:45 plus half and did one even slower once in the Bronx during a smog alert. The ABSOLUTE WORST was the 2005 Disney World Marathon. It started so early (6 AM) that we ran a long way in relatively decent conditions, but eventually things became SO hot and humid. By mile 18 it felt like the sun was radiating off the open road and into my face. By mile 22 I felt overwhelmed. I could not run another step. I walked my way to a 15:30 mile! That helped me recover a bit but it was an absolute ordeal to make it the rest of the way. It was the first time I ever felt pleased with 11 and 12 minute miles.

Well, the last 5 miles of Grete wasn't that bad, but it they did suck. Everything was over 8 minutes. I told myself it was okay because it was no longer a race but a speed workout. Not a speedy one.

Strategically, I don't do hot weather races well, obviously. Beyond that I'm hoping and trusting that Grete doesn't mean anything about my present state of running ability. I hope that is better reflected by my recent, excellent, long run which was easily my best this year and by my terrific mile race. But I guess we won't know for sure till my next race...and that could well be the New York Marathon!

RACING THE MILE

Racing a mile down Fifth Avenue was the most fun I've ever had in a race. Except for the parts where my chest felt like it was going to explode and those other parts where I considered walking off the course.

But the OTHER parts were great. Other than having to jump around an incredibly slow runner (wearing head phones yet!) who lined up right on the starting line directly in front of me, I got off to a great start. Too great, really, because I was keeping pace with runners who were too fast for me. I knew it but I didn't slow because I wondered what my quarter mile split would be.

76 seconds! A 5:04 pace. My fastest quarter ever! With the uphill second quarter next I knew I had to slow. I also knew that it was physically impossible forme not to. And that it was so uncomfortable that I didn't want to continue like this. So I slowed. But I didn't exactly mean to slow by 16 seconds! 92.5 seconds for the second quarter. Well, that's 2:48.5 for half a mile, also my fastest ever. I knew then that this would be a good race. After all, my goal was just to break 6 minutes. Now I knew I would and that I'd do better.

The third quarter was downhill. The only runner near me pulled away. I didn't care. Other runners were far ahead. I assumed there were a bunch behind me. Again, I didn't care. The race was just with me and the intense pain I felt. Of course I didn't know it, but my heart rate had already reached what I believed was my 164 beat per minute maximum towards the end of the first half mile. Now it had moved beyond even that, eventually peaking at 167. How could I maintain my pace in this ultra max state? How could I not slow down and limit the intense discomfort? On the other hand, how could I do anything to screw up this terrific time I was running? There was less than 10 city blocks to go. Surely....

I did 87.6 for the third quarter. Not good in itself, but plenty good enough to ensure a sub 6 minute finish. On the final quarter I could not speed up. Even as I passed the 200 meter to go sign I couldn't kick. Truthfully, I didn't want to. I just wanted it to end. My legs were concrete. But I saw the clock at the finish line and it was still under 5:50. I pushed to get in before it could change. Now I wanted to speed up. I tried, but I have no idea if I actually did. My final quarter was 92.4, so I probably didn't! Not good, really, but the absolute best I could do then, of that I have no doubt.

I finished in 5:48.5! I smashed 6 minutes! I surpassed my 2002 performance of 5:54! Five years older, 6 seconds faster! I broke 5:50! And, don't forget, I actually started in the second row and was slowed at the start. My age graded time computed to well under 5:00. Surely this great race would put me among the award winners.

Sixth place. I took 6th place. Five men in my group ran faster. How is that even possible? Don't they realize that they're supposed to slow (certainly more so than me, since I apparently, have fastered) as they age? Well, at least I was the speediest 57 year old in the race!

To throw in a little more injury, the official results had me at 5:52. According to it, I didn't break 5:50. Oh, well, I don't care. I DID!! I'm believing my watch!

Man, it was great flying down Fifth Avenue. Especially that first quarter. And especially at the finish line.

NO SENSE

I crossed the finish line last week at the Newport 5K and the clock read 20:38. This was 2 seconds under my fastest time ever. I had run, according to the clock, my best race ever.

But I didn't think so. It didn't feel right to me. Nothing I'd run recently indicated that I could do this. In this race, I'd completed the first mile in 6:36 (a good start) but slowed to 6:59 for mile 2. As tired as I felt and as twisty and turny as mile 3 was, could I have really done the final 1.1 miles in an average of 6:23 per mile? No way!

It just makes NO SENSE!!!

So, instead of celebrating I trotted up to the race director and asked if he was sure the course was measured correctly. He insisted it was. Other runners, however, were not so sure. Virtually every one I questioned said that they also felt that their time was too quick. The consensus was about 30 seconds too quick. That agreed with my impression of 30 to 40 seconds off.

On the other hand, the man who finished second felt that the course was 30 seconds too SLOW! Who should I believe, him and the director or the other runners and myself? My sense that mile 3 went by too quick, however, was just too strong. Perhaps the course WAS measured correctly, but perhaps, for some reason, we turned too quickly away from the twisty, slow waterfront and too soon to the more direct main road. That's what I think happened.

But, of course, I'm not sure. So I went to see the posted results. I know that I can at least be sure of who finished before me and who I beat out. More importantly, I can be sure of whether or not I'd won an age group award. And there it was! My name in capitals, signifying that I'd finished first in my age group!!

Unfortunately, they had me listed in the wrong age group!!!!!!!!!

I was first among men 60 to 64 and I was listed as 60. In fact, that won't happen till October, 2009, 25 months into the future. Well, I told the race director and this mistake he acknowledged and corrected and I was returned to my proper division where I only placed second. Well, at least I'd won something!

And my conclusion about the race? The race is 2 years, 1 month and 30 seconds too fast!

HOW COULD THEY?

How could the Mets do this to me? They are the WORST. What happened to Reyes? And the pitching? They are the WORST. EVER. I'm in a daze.