You'd think that two surgeries was enough. I mean I had an enlarged prostate. So what? Lots of guys in their 60s have an enlarged prostate. Yes the symptoms could be mind numbing and awful. How would you feel if you couldn't pee and had to go to the emergency room? Terrible, right? But still, it was just an enlarged prostate. A single TURP surgery to cut it down the size should've done the trick. But two? That would DEFINITELY do it! No peeing problems for sure. FOR SURE.
Except it didn't. So when my new urologist said that he didn't understand what my first guy had done and how my prostate was still enlarged and still the cause of my problems, I just shook my head. When he said a third surgery was needed I couldn't believe it. How could this be? Really, I should've just stayed younger.
But I hadn't. And, as a result, we'd now have to try the same surgery again . And that would screw up my running even more.
I've always run and running has always made me special. Because I could speed around the bases and score runs. Because I could fly across the outfield and steal hits. Because I could outrun my defenders and catch touchdowns.
A bit older, I turned to road running...running great events like the New York Marathon in front of thousands and the Disney World Marathon through Magic Kingdom and Animal Kingdom and EPCOT. Shorter races too where I sometimes won my age group or at least finished among the swiftest.
And then my prostate decided to grow. I don't know why. Seems to happen to many of us, especially if we've chosen to be guys. And so, between the emergency room visits and the urgent care facility visits, the medication that elevated my heart rate and, ultimately, operation number one and operation number two, my training came to a screeching halt. Running became an infrequent luxury rather than a four or five times a week constant.
With all that going on and as I continued growing older, the 7 minute miles I routinely ran in races, the 6 minute miles I strove for in the shorter races, became the rare exceptions. I got slower and slower. When I could run at all. My speedy exceptionalism was gone. My athleticism was now something to be discussed in the past tense.
And, according to my new urologist, I still needed a third surgery. "Why should I believe this time it's going to work?" I asked various friends and family members, none of whom had particularly good answers. But I was still feeling lousy, my running wasn't getting better and the various other remedies I'd tried weren't helping. What choice did I really have?
I had my third TURP surgery in less than two years on September 24, 2014. I'm delighted to say that it's worked! In late October I was running short distances. Two months later I was doing hard workouts on the track. In early January, 2015, I ran my first race in forever!
I ran it, unfortunately, exceedingly slow!
I needed, I thought, something to inspire me and found it when I won a lottery to gain acceptance into the New York Half Marathon, a major New York Road Runners Event...2nd in prestige here only to the NY Marathon...that winds 13.1 miles through Central Park and the streets of Manhattan to its finish near Wall Street.
I trained for it hard and discovered there were things besides an unruly prostate that got in the way of running: Tight, vulnerable and easily injured muscles. My calves hurt. In the midst of a vigorous treadmill workout the inside of my left knee hurt so bad I had to stop. My calves spasmed and hurt again.
Nevertheless, I made it to the starting line and, more importantly, to the finish. My goal was to break 1 hour and 50 minutes which I did EASILY. If by easily we mean by 26 seconds. A happy achievement that put me tenth among my 76 age group competitors. On the other hand, my time was SO much slower than previous half marathon races. I really hoped that this was not the best I could do.
Still, except for brief pauses for an aching muscle here and there I was so happy to be running regularly. It made me feel, well, special. And young. A month later, in a 10 kilometer race in chilly, windy Central Park, I SMASHED my way through the 8 minute per mile barrier to return to my youthful 7 minute per mile pace. If by smash we mean beating 8 minutes by 2 seconds to run each mile at a 7:58 average.
But I was on my way, getting faster. And I was running really fast on 6th Street track when I blew out my left hamstring. How could my hamstring just go like that?
Maybe because my leg muscles have always been tight and I've avoided stretching them because stretching is a bore? And because the older I got and the longer I ran on tight muscles, the more vulnerable they became?
OK, I needed to stretch. Got it. But would I do that on my own? Not likely. So I hired a trainer to get me to do it.
Helen is great. We stretched. I felt better. Two weeks later I was running again. The first time was terrific. The second time the hamstring went yet again. I ran again three weeks later. But not fast, as I demonstrated in a soft ball game where I managed to get myself thrown out at first base on what should have been a single to left. Ugh!
More injuries. This time my groin. I went to a guy who does body work. "Movement is the key" it says on his web site. He twisted me into a pretzel. He worked the injured area in a way that REALLY hurt.
Each time I saw him I felt more limber and flexible. So, too, with Helen. Just as things started to get better there was another leg injury. It lingered. I had to do something to overcome or at least slow down the ravishes of aging but perhaps stretching and body work wasn't it. Is patience called for?
By mid October, after months of futility, suddenly it all seemed to click into place. The pain was gone. My flexibility was clearly better. I was running regularly. I could increase the distance.
Which was really quite fortuitous because I had signed up to run the Disney World Half Marathon in early January. Ten weeks of training is the minimum necessary to run it half well. I've been able to train consistently through the rest of 2015 so, 1 week from tomorrow I look forward to racing the race.
Yesterday, on the very last morning of 2015, I set out on a hard workout: A four mile tempo run which means four fast miles sandwiched between a mile warm up and a mile cool down. Hey, there have been mornings when I've tried this workout and quit after only three. Sometimes it's just too much. But this time I did it. All four swift miles at a pace of 8:20. Pretty good, right? Yeah, I felt pleased to end this whole year without prostate woes on such a strong note.
But just 8:20? That's slow! I've run this work out MUCH faster. In the past. I want to get back there. Don't know if I can.
Friday, January 1, 2016
Monday, April 6, 2015
OPENING DAY HEROICS
Yesterday, the Mets won the first game of the season. They did this without scoring an earned run, with their oldest ever opening day starting pitcher and a closer who, despite veteran status, had never before earned a save. Am I surprised? Not at all. We almost always win the first game.
It wasn't always that way.
When the team came into existence in 1962 I was wise enough to largely ignore them. I was having enough adolescent troubles without adding 120 losses, including 1 on opening day, to the mix. In 1963, much to my horror and at least somewhat to my surprise, I became a Mets fan. From that I learned 2 things: You can't control who (or what) you love and I can be optimistic about anything. Somehow I entered that soon to be horrendous season with a sense of hope. The season's first pitch was a called strike and I remember thinking "we're off to a good start!" The second pitch was hit softly on the ground to our third baseman who fielded it (okay, still good) and threw it into the stands. I don't remember what I thought then or what I thought when we lost that game. Or what I thought when we lost the next season's opener. Or the next season's. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next.
That's right, the Mets lost their first 8 opening day games! Which is quite a coincidence, because they also began my initial season as a Mets fanatic by losing their first 8 contests. Did I lose heart? Not at all. In fact, I remember the incredible excitement of the next 4 games which we swept from the Braves. Our shortstop, Al Moran ("Our man, Al Moran!") hit like crazy which is something because he never did again. Nor, for almost the rest of the 1960s, did we get to celebrate many 4 (or 3 or 2) game sweeps. Didn't matter. I was hooked for life.
So am I surprised we won this year's opener? Not at all. Since failing in every one of my teenage years to win the first game of the season, the Mets now have the best first day record in baseball. Given that, in 53 years we've only won the last game of the season twice, you may think that triumphing in the opener is not very important. But you'd be wrong.
As all optimists know, we still have a chance to go undefeated!
It wasn't always that way.
When the team came into existence in 1962 I was wise enough to largely ignore them. I was having enough adolescent troubles without adding 120 losses, including 1 on opening day, to the mix. In 1963, much to my horror and at least somewhat to my surprise, I became a Mets fan. From that I learned 2 things: You can't control who (or what) you love and I can be optimistic about anything. Somehow I entered that soon to be horrendous season with a sense of hope. The season's first pitch was a called strike and I remember thinking "we're off to a good start!" The second pitch was hit softly on the ground to our third baseman who fielded it (okay, still good) and threw it into the stands. I don't remember what I thought then or what I thought when we lost that game. Or what I thought when we lost the next season's opener. Or the next season's. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next.
That's right, the Mets lost their first 8 opening day games! Which is quite a coincidence, because they also began my initial season as a Mets fanatic by losing their first 8 contests. Did I lose heart? Not at all. In fact, I remember the incredible excitement of the next 4 games which we swept from the Braves. Our shortstop, Al Moran ("Our man, Al Moran!") hit like crazy which is something because he never did again. Nor, for almost the rest of the 1960s, did we get to celebrate many 4 (or 3 or 2) game sweeps. Didn't matter. I was hooked for life.
So am I surprised we won this year's opener? Not at all. Since failing in every one of my teenage years to win the first game of the season, the Mets now have the best first day record in baseball. Given that, in 53 years we've only won the last game of the season twice, you may think that triumphing in the opener is not very important. But you'd be wrong.
As all optimists know, we still have a chance to go undefeated!
Thursday, October 16, 2014
MILESTONES
I was just a boy and it was dark and the block from Avenue B to Avenue A seemed endless. Walking slowly towards our apartment at the corner I didn't feel scared, just thoughtful. I thought about what I wanted. What I wanted was to be older.
I wanted to have as many years as I had fingers on my hands. I thought it would be great to be 10!
Shortly before making it to 10, I sat in my dentist's chair and listened to the Dodgers beat the White Sox to clinch the World Series in 6 games. A painful yet happy day for me that I well remember, recall, in fact, far better than the day I reached double figures, which I don't recollect at all. I do, however, recall what I felt a short time late: Disappointment. Being 10 wasn't enough. I needed a year with a "teen" at the end of it. I wanted to be a teenager.
I wanted to be 13. That milestone, of course, would come with another...my bar mitzvah. That was a hard thing to study for; I feared embarrassing myself in front of everyone. Preparing for it was surely the toughest thing I'd done to that point. Good thing I did, because, while I can't remember my 13th birthday at all, I sure remember the big ceremony 10 days later.
It was raining really hard in the morning and, as it was ending, the rabbi said I'd become a man. That was silly. I knew I hadn't. Would a man's legs have been shaking so uncontrollably as mine had when singing my hav Torah? Certainly not. Nevertheless, I hadn't screwed it up so thank goodness for my studying. That was fairly manly, I guess. And, I did 1 other manly thing. Early that morning, at the urging and with the help of my dad, I'd shaved for the first time! Though no hair or stubble had been removed...or was initially present...from my face, it was still quite a manly act! So today I was sort of a man!!
In a few years I'd reached the milestones of moving away from home, attending college and earning the first "D" in my life. Approaching 18 in my sophomore year, my friend Diane wished to take me out drinking to celebrate my legality. Unlike the rest of my family (and certainly to the great confusion of my father who seemed to like most other things about me), I didn't actually enjoy drinking. My preference was to stay in the dorm and watch the hockey game. Diane, sadly, was not a hockey fan. Happily, however, we did no drinking that night.
College continued in my 21st year, as did the war in Vietnam. Things were starting to get a little more difficult. Facing my final semester at Stony Brook, I was student teaching at a nearby high school. I had to survive those classes, graduate and then decide how I wanted to handle career and my low draft number.
Near my 21st birthday, I taught a history class that was observed by both my cooperating teacher at the high school and my supervisor from Stony Brook. The class went very well. At it's conclusion, the students REALLY seemed to understand why Washington didn't want the U.S. to get into any foreign "entangling alliances." In fact, the class went too well. It had concluded 15 minutes before it was scheduled to officially end. What to do with all that additional time. Perhaps my choice of sitting there silently, thinking of the horrible things my cooperating and supervising teachers were about to say, was not the best way?
They liked the class. They advised me of what to do with extra time. They thought I could be a good teacher. Soon I graduated. Eventually I convinced my draft board that perhaps I could serve the country better not in the army. Twenty one turned out a good year...just can't recall the big celebration.
Soon 30 was approaching. This seemed strange. Thirty is not young (ask me if I still feel this way!), and I'd often heard that no one over 30 could be trusted. Frankly that seemed silly to me. On my 30th birthday I wrote myself a note which I still have. It read: "Already?" That morning I went to my grandmother's apartment on Avenue A to pick up some food she'd cooked for me. While there I looked out the window at the kids going into my old elementary school, PS 63. Many of them had once looked so formidable to me. Now they looked like children. I had, indeed, become older!
At 40 my family held a party. My Uncle Billy congratulated me, gave me $100 and observed: "Life begins at 40." Grateful for that encouragement, I looked up from the money and saw that he was smiling and rolling his eyes...not so encouraging! But, in fact, he was right, as I'd just finished therapy school and had begun my practice as a psychotherapist. As I was now finally doing work that I really enjoyed, life had, indeed, just begun!
As 50 approached, however, I was getting a bit tired of aging. I decided NOT to think at all about this milestone but instead concentrate only on the New York Marathon for which I'd registered for the first time and was scheduled 2 days after my Halloween Birthday. It all was going well till a series of calf injuries limited my training. I showed up at the starting line anyways and did my best, but that only got me to mile 17 where I staggered off the course. The next year, however, I tried again and made it to the glorious finish line. I'd now ALWAYS be a marathon finisher! My second half century took a while but was now off to a promising start.
And now my 65th approaches. Three weeks ago I had surgery and that requires that I now take it easy. I thought then that a great goal for the big day would be to do my first post surgery run then. However I've been recovering well and yesterday my surgeon said go ahead and start working out. So today I did 30 minutes on the elliptical. Not too tough, but makes me think that I can run before we get to October 31. So now I'm revising the milestone. Come Halloween I plan on running 65 miles...not that fast, of course...1 mile for each of my years....
Just kidding. I'm a kidder! Maybe I'll aim for 5 or 6 miles, to commemorate either the second or first digit of my new age. That should get things off to a good start!!
I wanted to have as many years as I had fingers on my hands. I thought it would be great to be 10!
Shortly before making it to 10, I sat in my dentist's chair and listened to the Dodgers beat the White Sox to clinch the World Series in 6 games. A painful yet happy day for me that I well remember, recall, in fact, far better than the day I reached double figures, which I don't recollect at all. I do, however, recall what I felt a short time late: Disappointment. Being 10 wasn't enough. I needed a year with a "teen" at the end of it. I wanted to be a teenager.
I wanted to be 13. That milestone, of course, would come with another...my bar mitzvah. That was a hard thing to study for; I feared embarrassing myself in front of everyone. Preparing for it was surely the toughest thing I'd done to that point. Good thing I did, because, while I can't remember my 13th birthday at all, I sure remember the big ceremony 10 days later.
It was raining really hard in the morning and, as it was ending, the rabbi said I'd become a man. That was silly. I knew I hadn't. Would a man's legs have been shaking so uncontrollably as mine had when singing my hav Torah? Certainly not. Nevertheless, I hadn't screwed it up so thank goodness for my studying. That was fairly manly, I guess. And, I did 1 other manly thing. Early that morning, at the urging and with the help of my dad, I'd shaved for the first time! Though no hair or stubble had been removed...or was initially present...from my face, it was still quite a manly act! So today I was sort of a man!!
In a few years I'd reached the milestones of moving away from home, attending college and earning the first "D" in my life. Approaching 18 in my sophomore year, my friend Diane wished to take me out drinking to celebrate my legality. Unlike the rest of my family (and certainly to the great confusion of my father who seemed to like most other things about me), I didn't actually enjoy drinking. My preference was to stay in the dorm and watch the hockey game. Diane, sadly, was not a hockey fan. Happily, however, we did no drinking that night.
College continued in my 21st year, as did the war in Vietnam. Things were starting to get a little more difficult. Facing my final semester at Stony Brook, I was student teaching at a nearby high school. I had to survive those classes, graduate and then decide how I wanted to handle career and my low draft number.
Near my 21st birthday, I taught a history class that was observed by both my cooperating teacher at the high school and my supervisor from Stony Brook. The class went very well. At it's conclusion, the students REALLY seemed to understand why Washington didn't want the U.S. to get into any foreign "entangling alliances." In fact, the class went too well. It had concluded 15 minutes before it was scheduled to officially end. What to do with all that additional time. Perhaps my choice of sitting there silently, thinking of the horrible things my cooperating and supervising teachers were about to say, was not the best way?
They liked the class. They advised me of what to do with extra time. They thought I could be a good teacher. Soon I graduated. Eventually I convinced my draft board that perhaps I could serve the country better not in the army. Twenty one turned out a good year...just can't recall the big celebration.
Soon 30 was approaching. This seemed strange. Thirty is not young (ask me if I still feel this way!), and I'd often heard that no one over 30 could be trusted. Frankly that seemed silly to me. On my 30th birthday I wrote myself a note which I still have. It read: "Already?" That morning I went to my grandmother's apartment on Avenue A to pick up some food she'd cooked for me. While there I looked out the window at the kids going into my old elementary school, PS 63. Many of them had once looked so formidable to me. Now they looked like children. I had, indeed, become older!
At 40 my family held a party. My Uncle Billy congratulated me, gave me $100 and observed: "Life begins at 40." Grateful for that encouragement, I looked up from the money and saw that he was smiling and rolling his eyes...not so encouraging! But, in fact, he was right, as I'd just finished therapy school and had begun my practice as a psychotherapist. As I was now finally doing work that I really enjoyed, life had, indeed, just begun!
As 50 approached, however, I was getting a bit tired of aging. I decided NOT to think at all about this milestone but instead concentrate only on the New York Marathon for which I'd registered for the first time and was scheduled 2 days after my Halloween Birthday. It all was going well till a series of calf injuries limited my training. I showed up at the starting line anyways and did my best, but that only got me to mile 17 where I staggered off the course. The next year, however, I tried again and made it to the glorious finish line. I'd now ALWAYS be a marathon finisher! My second half century took a while but was now off to a promising start.
And now my 65th approaches. Three weeks ago I had surgery and that requires that I now take it easy. I thought then that a great goal for the big day would be to do my first post surgery run then. However I've been recovering well and yesterday my surgeon said go ahead and start working out. So today I did 30 minutes on the elliptical. Not too tough, but makes me think that I can run before we get to October 31. So now I'm revising the milestone. Come Halloween I plan on running 65 miles...not that fast, of course...1 mile for each of my years....
Just kidding. I'm a kidder! Maybe I'll aim for 5 or 6 miles, to commemorate either the second or first digit of my new age. That should get things off to a good start!!
Saturday, August 23, 2014
RACING THROUGH HARLEM
I'm good with numbers but these didn't make sense...7:20, 13, 8:30, 135. It was 7:20 this morning as I sat in my 13th Street apartment, calves resting on a heating pad, warming and relaxing them for the 8:30 race starting at 135th Street and St. Nicolas Avenue. Chatting contentedly on the phone, Gracie The Cat purring in my lap, it all felt so good till it struck me...What am I doing here? Not fully dressed, no race bib and number, not on the train to Harlem? I'm going to miss the race!!
Contentedness gone, I yelled to my startled friend that I was way late and had to go. Sending Gracie The Cat unintentionally flying, I threw on my things, hoped I'd not forgotten anything else, raced out the door, up 13th to 6th Avenue (just part of my warm up I reassured myself), got a cab and headed uptown.
One hour till race time. I grumbled at each red light, cursed when Central Park appeared closed to traffic, twisted in frustration each time we stopped at another light on 8th Avenue. Did I have enough cash to pay? How do you use a credit card in a taxi? How could I with no glasses and unable to see where the credit card was supposed to go? We passed 120th Street. Forty minutes to race time. I'll make it...if I can find where to get my race bib. Suddenly we halted at 125th...blocked off for the race.
"Damn these runners," I thought, missing the irony. I paid in cash, leaving a big tip as there was no time for change. I started running the half mile to 135th. Other racers were warming up around me...it felt comforting to be among them. It looked good, if only I could find the place to pick up my race number. There it was! Right across from the start line. In then out. Got everything. Bib, singlet, racing flats on, baggage dropped off. Ready with 20 minutes to spare.
A quick final warm up and stretch. To the start. The loud speaker is on. 50th anniversary of the Civil Rights Act. Chaney, Goodwin and Schwerner. Percy Sutton. Harlem Festival. Trumpet plays America The Beautiful then The Star Spangled Banner. It's time. We're off.
I want to do better than I did 2 years ago. The first mile is narrow and I can't pass anyone. Good. Keeps me under control for the NASTY hills around 1/2 mile in. UP, up, up, turn to the left and up some more. Why hadn't I trained on hills? Another turn left. Mile 1 marker...8:03...9 seconds faster than before. Finally a good number. I'm feeling strong.
But not for long. The course opens up. Mile 2 is fairly flat but I'm suddenly fatigued. Everything feels strained. Pushing on, getting passed by a few but not many, bypassing a couple myself. I think about slowing, want to slow but force myself not to. Mile 3 is easier; just got to get there. The mile 2 marker...8:01. A tiny bit better than last time.
I'm well positioned for a sub 8 minute pace because the final mile is mainly downhill. Gravity will help, I tell myself. Just hang in there. No slacking off so close to the finish. Streets are going by. Where's the damn downhill? I'm about a quarter mile in...have they changed the course? So far just flat. I'm hurting and struggling. There it is! A STEEP downhill. One block. Then 2 blocks. Three. Four. I'm flying! This is the way to race! Left turn at the border of St. Nicolas Park. The downhill had to end sometime. But no! Another lovely downhill block!
I turn downtown towards the finish. It should be soon but this is 127th Street and the race doesn't end till about 135th. I can't see the finish banner. Can't see any more downhills. No more uphills, thankfully, either. But it's a tremendous struggle. WAY too close to the end and my goal to slacken. Just have to push. The streets go by. Still no end in sight. Then there it is! Three mile marker. Got it! 7:39! Gravity is good. Sub 8 minutes in the bag. Tenth of a mile to go. Why is it so long? Don't slow. Instead push. 47 seconds. I'm across the finish line.
24:31 on my watch. A solid 19 seconds quicker than 2 years ago. I've gotten faster. Have I also gotten younger? Exact same time as last week but on a much tougher course. So I'm a better runner now...perhaps a better person? 7:55 pace. Given the state of my training, that's good.
A woman recognizes me and introduces me to her friend: "He's one of the fast ones." I'm pleased. I go to cheer others to the finish. I'm also noting the many who are now ending after me. I especially note the guys and, in particular, the younger guys, which pretty much constitutes ALL the guys.
Another woman, this one wearing a Greater New York singlet like mine, approaches. On the same team but we've never met. She's also recovering from injuries. More runners, including younger guys, stream in. She, too, was late to the start and had no time to get ready. "So mile 1 was your warm up," I observe. "How fast did you run it?"
"7:30," she responds. Damn! Way faster than me and I had several warm ups and I'm also, you know, a guy. She apologizes for telling me all about her injuries. To make her feel better I tell her all about mine, emphasizing that they came not just from running but from softball too. I'm a multi athletic guy is my point though incapable yet of racing a 7:30 on crowded, uphill first miles.
It's all relative, you know. And for me this was relatively good.
Contentedness gone, I yelled to my startled friend that I was way late and had to go. Sending Gracie The Cat unintentionally flying, I threw on my things, hoped I'd not forgotten anything else, raced out the door, up 13th to 6th Avenue (just part of my warm up I reassured myself), got a cab and headed uptown.
One hour till race time. I grumbled at each red light, cursed when Central Park appeared closed to traffic, twisted in frustration each time we stopped at another light on 8th Avenue. Did I have enough cash to pay? How do you use a credit card in a taxi? How could I with no glasses and unable to see where the credit card was supposed to go? We passed 120th Street. Forty minutes to race time. I'll make it...if I can find where to get my race bib. Suddenly we halted at 125th...blocked off for the race.
"Damn these runners," I thought, missing the irony. I paid in cash, leaving a big tip as there was no time for change. I started running the half mile to 135th. Other racers were warming up around me...it felt comforting to be among them. It looked good, if only I could find the place to pick up my race number. There it was! Right across from the start line. In then out. Got everything. Bib, singlet, racing flats on, baggage dropped off. Ready with 20 minutes to spare.
A quick final warm up and stretch. To the start. The loud speaker is on. 50th anniversary of the Civil Rights Act. Chaney, Goodwin and Schwerner. Percy Sutton. Harlem Festival. Trumpet plays America The Beautiful then The Star Spangled Banner. It's time. We're off.
I want to do better than I did 2 years ago. The first mile is narrow and I can't pass anyone. Good. Keeps me under control for the NASTY hills around 1/2 mile in. UP, up, up, turn to the left and up some more. Why hadn't I trained on hills? Another turn left. Mile 1 marker...8:03...9 seconds faster than before. Finally a good number. I'm feeling strong.
But not for long. The course opens up. Mile 2 is fairly flat but I'm suddenly fatigued. Everything feels strained. Pushing on, getting passed by a few but not many, bypassing a couple myself. I think about slowing, want to slow but force myself not to. Mile 3 is easier; just got to get there. The mile 2 marker...8:01. A tiny bit better than last time.
I'm well positioned for a sub 8 minute pace because the final mile is mainly downhill. Gravity will help, I tell myself. Just hang in there. No slacking off so close to the finish. Streets are going by. Where's the damn downhill? I'm about a quarter mile in...have they changed the course? So far just flat. I'm hurting and struggling. There it is! A STEEP downhill. One block. Then 2 blocks. Three. Four. I'm flying! This is the way to race! Left turn at the border of St. Nicolas Park. The downhill had to end sometime. But no! Another lovely downhill block!
I turn downtown towards the finish. It should be soon but this is 127th Street and the race doesn't end till about 135th. I can't see the finish banner. Can't see any more downhills. No more uphills, thankfully, either. But it's a tremendous struggle. WAY too close to the end and my goal to slacken. Just have to push. The streets go by. Still no end in sight. Then there it is! Three mile marker. Got it! 7:39! Gravity is good. Sub 8 minutes in the bag. Tenth of a mile to go. Why is it so long? Don't slow. Instead push. 47 seconds. I'm across the finish line.
24:31 on my watch. A solid 19 seconds quicker than 2 years ago. I've gotten faster. Have I also gotten younger? Exact same time as last week but on a much tougher course. So I'm a better runner now...perhaps a better person? 7:55 pace. Given the state of my training, that's good.
A woman recognizes me and introduces me to her friend: "He's one of the fast ones." I'm pleased. I go to cheer others to the finish. I'm also noting the many who are now ending after me. I especially note the guys and, in particular, the younger guys, which pretty much constitutes ALL the guys.
Another woman, this one wearing a Greater New York singlet like mine, approaches. On the same team but we've never met. She's also recovering from injuries. More runners, including younger guys, stream in. She, too, was late to the start and had no time to get ready. "So mile 1 was your warm up," I observe. "How fast did you run it?"
"7:30," she responds. Damn! Way faster than me and I had several warm ups and I'm also, you know, a guy. She apologizes for telling me all about her injuries. To make her feel better I tell her all about mine, emphasizing that they came not just from running but from softball too. I'm a multi athletic guy is my point though incapable yet of racing a 7:30 on crowded, uphill first miles.
It's all relative, you know. And for me this was relatively good.
Friday, August 1, 2014
WHY I'M THINKING ABOUT WILBUR HUCKLE
I've been thinking about Wilbur Huckle. Wilbur was an infielder in the Mets' farm system from 1963-1971. He was featured with Cleon Jones on a TOPPS baseball card, 1964 Mets Rookie Stars. Unlike Cleon, however, a star he was never to be.
But what a name! Once I had to give a speech in high school English class. Among the topics I chose: Met players with funny names. Choo Choo Coleman and Duke Carmel got laughs. Cliff Cook and Hot Rod Kanehl not much. Wilbur Huckle? People rolled in the aisles!
I saw great possibilities. Suppose he joined the Mets and lead the team to victory over Pittsburg. Next day headline: Huckle Buries Pirates! Dwelling, perhaps, too much on his inability to get on base (.314 on base percentage), the Mets were blind to the potential.
The fans were displeased, but had limited means of self expression. They created a button to be worn to games: "Wilbur Huckle For President," read one, but LBJ was elected instead and no major party nominated Huckle. Despite his name, the Rookie Card, my imagination and the buttons he played out his 9 year career without ever joining the Mets.
He became our disappeared hero.
Which brings me to Wilmer Flores. His similarities with Wilbur are obvious. Almost the same first name. Both have been righty batting infielders playing for a bunch of Met minor league teams. Oh, and a difference: Where Wilbur couldn't hit or hit for power (14 home runs in 746 games), Wilmer can (13 this season alone in 55 AAA games with Las Vegas).
You'd think this would make Wilmer of interest to the big club. We've struggled for runs and have a shortstop, Reuben Tejada, who is a limited hitter with no power. His .289 slugging average is dwarfed by Flores' monumental .568 for Las Vegas this season. Heck, even Huckle slugged better, at .324 lifetime! As Wilmer was born in Venezuela, we can't nominate him for President, but he could be an upgrade at shortstop, right? Only common sense that he deserves a chance. The Mets, apparently, disagree.
Wilmer has been called up 4 times over the last 2 seasons. The first, in August of 2013, came when David Wright was injured. Flores played until he stepped on third base the wrong way...hey, at least he'd made it to third...and sprained his ankle. Season over. This year he didn't make the squad out of spring training, but got called up...for 1 game at second base...then sent back to Las Vegas. About a month later, with the team having trouble scoring, back he came to play shortstop. In fact he played only sporadically and was soon returned to the minors so he could play regularly. That he did and well, amassing a 23 game hitting streak and driving in more than a run per game. Enough to earn a recall? Nope. Not till Tejada took a fastball to the helmet.
Up came Flores, but not to play regularly. Since that recent recall he's not started more than 1 game in a row. The Mets must be waiting to make sure Tejada is okay and hasn't lost any of his power. Then they can ship out Wilmer again or relegate him to the bench.
Many Mets fans are unhappy. There's a "Free Wilmer" campaign bubbling on line. Met blogs and twitter are filled with angry, uncomprehending, comments. For all the good that it's done, next we might try buttons.
Flores has been treated like a yoyo. While it may seem he's had more of a chance than Huckle who never rode all the way up, the opportunity is largely illusory. Without anything approaching regular time, Flores has been placed in a situation most likely to bring on failure. Then he can continue to yoyo till he quietly fades away. Disappears.
Wilmer Flores is becoming the new Wilbur Huckle!
But what a name! Once I had to give a speech in high school English class. Among the topics I chose: Met players with funny names. Choo Choo Coleman and Duke Carmel got laughs. Cliff Cook and Hot Rod Kanehl not much. Wilbur Huckle? People rolled in the aisles!
I saw great possibilities. Suppose he joined the Mets and lead the team to victory over Pittsburg. Next day headline: Huckle Buries Pirates! Dwelling, perhaps, too much on his inability to get on base (.314 on base percentage), the Mets were blind to the potential.
The fans were displeased, but had limited means of self expression. They created a button to be worn to games: "Wilbur Huckle For President," read one, but LBJ was elected instead and no major party nominated Huckle. Despite his name, the Rookie Card, my imagination and the buttons he played out his 9 year career without ever joining the Mets.
He became our disappeared hero.
Which brings me to Wilmer Flores. His similarities with Wilbur are obvious. Almost the same first name. Both have been righty batting infielders playing for a bunch of Met minor league teams. Oh, and a difference: Where Wilbur couldn't hit or hit for power (14 home runs in 746 games), Wilmer can (13 this season alone in 55 AAA games with Las Vegas).
You'd think this would make Wilmer of interest to the big club. We've struggled for runs and have a shortstop, Reuben Tejada, who is a limited hitter with no power. His .289 slugging average is dwarfed by Flores' monumental .568 for Las Vegas this season. Heck, even Huckle slugged better, at .324 lifetime! As Wilmer was born in Venezuela, we can't nominate him for President, but he could be an upgrade at shortstop, right? Only common sense that he deserves a chance. The Mets, apparently, disagree.
Wilmer has been called up 4 times over the last 2 seasons. The first, in August of 2013, came when David Wright was injured. Flores played until he stepped on third base the wrong way...hey, at least he'd made it to third...and sprained his ankle. Season over. This year he didn't make the squad out of spring training, but got called up...for 1 game at second base...then sent back to Las Vegas. About a month later, with the team having trouble scoring, back he came to play shortstop. In fact he played only sporadically and was soon returned to the minors so he could play regularly. That he did and well, amassing a 23 game hitting streak and driving in more than a run per game. Enough to earn a recall? Nope. Not till Tejada took a fastball to the helmet.
Up came Flores, but not to play regularly. Since that recent recall he's not started more than 1 game in a row. The Mets must be waiting to make sure Tejada is okay and hasn't lost any of his power. Then they can ship out Wilmer again or relegate him to the bench.
Many Mets fans are unhappy. There's a "Free Wilmer" campaign bubbling on line. Met blogs and twitter are filled with angry, uncomprehending, comments. For all the good that it's done, next we might try buttons.
Flores has been treated like a yoyo. While it may seem he's had more of a chance than Huckle who never rode all the way up, the opportunity is largely illusory. Without anything approaching regular time, Flores has been placed in a situation most likely to bring on failure. Then he can continue to yoyo till he quietly fades away. Disappears.
Wilmer Flores is becoming the new Wilbur Huckle!
Thursday, July 24, 2014
FINDING PENNY MARSHALL
I went on an adventure yesterday. But first, some background:
From the day we met in high school, I've thought about Penny Marshall. She was in 3 of my senior classes at Lincoln, sitting next to me in 2. We talked and she was fun and sweet and very pretty. Best, of course, was she seemed to like me. I certainly liked her.
Her interest grew, I think, after she'd read a copy of a short story I'd written for English class the year before. "A Hard School's Test" was the tale of the hero's tension filled preparation for the big Geometry Regents Exam and his stunning dream the night before about being chased for hours by a series of obtuse triangles. My teacher gave me the highest grade in the class, 95, and read it to everyone. His sole criticism was that the story had no plot. A plot? People were rolling in the aisles, doubled up with laughter when he'd read it. It needed a plot too?
Penny must've agreed with my analysis because, after reading it, she seemed much more impressed with me. When I casually mentioned our school's football team and how it was fun to go to the games she responded: "If that's an offer, I accept."
It was our first date. It was also MY first date. It was exciting. All that I remember, however, is that it was cold at the game and Penny complimented my clothes coordination. "So few guys make the effort to have their socks match their shirts," she commented. And I thought: "Socks are supposed to match shirts?" Still, happy about the stroke of good luck, I nodded.
Penny was very smart. She wrote papers and essays that I read and had no idea what they meant. I told her they were excellent and thought provoking. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of reading one in English class. At its absolutely incomprehensible ending, many in the room groaned, rolled their eyes and shook their heads. A few exclaimed: "What?" The teacher herself sounded peeved with Penny. Obviously, they didn't see what I did!
We went out a good bit. Penny lived in a gated community called Sea Gate on the western end of Coney Island. Two busses to get there and a third if I wanted to take the private one through the Sea Gate community to her Maple Avenue home. The first time I was there Loving Spoonful music played in the background. Her father was incredibly mean to me, ignoring all my attempts to make conversation, while her younger, very pretty and bubbly sister Vickie was flirtatiously nice. At one point she grabbed my head and hugged me to her chest. "Vickie has very soft breasts," I remember thinking...and feeling.
Penny, Vickie, Penny, Vickie! This was one wonderful house on Maple Avenue!
Penny was precocious. So much so that she graduated in January, 5 months before me. That last term was sad, not having her in 3 of my classes, sitting next to me in 2. She felt differently...excited about being at Brooklyn College...cue the ominous music.
In June, I got us tickets for a Friday evening Mets game. She was away on vacation but planned on returning the morning of the contest. Two days before she called to say she wasn't as she was having so much fun she wanted to extend the time away. Sadly that wasn't the true reason.
A week later Penny told me the truth. One of her college professors had driven up to see her. "It was so romantic," she insensitively said. "And he proposed to me!"
"Proposed what?" I sarcastically replied.
Marriage! I was heartbroken. Also 16. Seems that, without knowing it, I'd been involved in an unfair competition. I couldn't offer marriage and this guy probably understood her essays.
We remained friends but, of course, it was never the same. Once we were together and she looked at the clock. "Oh, he should be getting out of class now," Penny said in a dreamy voice. "Ugh," I thought.
A few years later we made plans, dinner plans, for the last time. "Vickie is still single," she announced. But I got sick and didn't make it and we never rescheduled. Years after that we ran into each other on the street and talked about all the fun we'd had. She concluded by saying how much she'd loved "our" restaurant. Unfortunately I'd never actually been there. Perhaps she was thinking of someone else!
Many more years went by and I thought little about her. Until the age of personal computers and an email from Classmates.com. It could show all the people from my Lincoln graduating class that signed on. I checked, of course. Penny wasn't there. Nor was Vickie in her class. Periodically new solicitations from Classmates.com came in and I'd look to see if she'd joined up. Nope. Feeling a bit teased, I extended the search to google and social media. No luck.
Until yesterday and another Classmates.com email. As usual neither was listed. Suddenly I felt a strong desire to leave the current world and reconnect with the past. I was going to find Penny! I wouldn't give up. I kept looking and found a link to a site that located people. Typing in Penny Marshall brought me nothing of value...how could it, it was almost surely not her name any more. But Vickie Marshall in New York did...a person in Brooklyn. I clicked on it and found that Vickie Marshall in Brooklyn was 2 years younger than me! Could this be the real one of her?
I found more information...a list of her relatives. And one was Jaye Penny Leeds! Could Jaye Penny be the real one? Some more nosing...there is a Jaye Penny Leeds in New York who's one year older than me. My gosh! Had I been dating an older woman? No wonder it hadn't worked out. Still, of course, I wasn't sure.
More information was available but not for free. I paid $9 and did a search. There were Jaye Penny's last 3 addresses. One of them is 1616 Maple Avenue! I checked a real estate site at that address. For $1 I saw a bunch of current pictures of that home with the unfriendly dad!
Penny's email address (hopefully active) was there, too, and I wrote her yesterday. I've not heard back. Maybe I will, maybe I won't, maybe she doesn't remember me now at all. Where ever life has lead her over these many years, even back to Maple Avenue, in a way it doesn't matter.
With all that I now remember...half of which I wouldn't have recalled two days ago...I realize that I've refound the 17 year old counterpart to my 16 year old self.
From the day we met in high school, I've thought about Penny Marshall. She was in 3 of my senior classes at Lincoln, sitting next to me in 2. We talked and she was fun and sweet and very pretty. Best, of course, was she seemed to like me. I certainly liked her.
Her interest grew, I think, after she'd read a copy of a short story I'd written for English class the year before. "A Hard School's Test" was the tale of the hero's tension filled preparation for the big Geometry Regents Exam and his stunning dream the night before about being chased for hours by a series of obtuse triangles. My teacher gave me the highest grade in the class, 95, and read it to everyone. His sole criticism was that the story had no plot. A plot? People were rolling in the aisles, doubled up with laughter when he'd read it. It needed a plot too?
Penny must've agreed with my analysis because, after reading it, she seemed much more impressed with me. When I casually mentioned our school's football team and how it was fun to go to the games she responded: "If that's an offer, I accept."
It was our first date. It was also MY first date. It was exciting. All that I remember, however, is that it was cold at the game and Penny complimented my clothes coordination. "So few guys make the effort to have their socks match their shirts," she commented. And I thought: "Socks are supposed to match shirts?" Still, happy about the stroke of good luck, I nodded.
Penny was very smart. She wrote papers and essays that I read and had no idea what they meant. I told her they were excellent and thought provoking. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of reading one in English class. At its absolutely incomprehensible ending, many in the room groaned, rolled their eyes and shook their heads. A few exclaimed: "What?" The teacher herself sounded peeved with Penny. Obviously, they didn't see what I did!
We went out a good bit. Penny lived in a gated community called Sea Gate on the western end of Coney Island. Two busses to get there and a third if I wanted to take the private one through the Sea Gate community to her Maple Avenue home. The first time I was there Loving Spoonful music played in the background. Her father was incredibly mean to me, ignoring all my attempts to make conversation, while her younger, very pretty and bubbly sister Vickie was flirtatiously nice. At one point she grabbed my head and hugged me to her chest. "Vickie has very soft breasts," I remember thinking...and feeling.
Penny, Vickie, Penny, Vickie! This was one wonderful house on Maple Avenue!
Penny was precocious. So much so that she graduated in January, 5 months before me. That last term was sad, not having her in 3 of my classes, sitting next to me in 2. She felt differently...excited about being at Brooklyn College...cue the ominous music.
In June, I got us tickets for a Friday evening Mets game. She was away on vacation but planned on returning the morning of the contest. Two days before she called to say she wasn't as she was having so much fun she wanted to extend the time away. Sadly that wasn't the true reason.
A week later Penny told me the truth. One of her college professors had driven up to see her. "It was so romantic," she insensitively said. "And he proposed to me!"
"Proposed what?" I sarcastically replied.
Marriage! I was heartbroken. Also 16. Seems that, without knowing it, I'd been involved in an unfair competition. I couldn't offer marriage and this guy probably understood her essays.
We remained friends but, of course, it was never the same. Once we were together and she looked at the clock. "Oh, he should be getting out of class now," Penny said in a dreamy voice. "Ugh," I thought.
A few years later we made plans, dinner plans, for the last time. "Vickie is still single," she announced. But I got sick and didn't make it and we never rescheduled. Years after that we ran into each other on the street and talked about all the fun we'd had. She concluded by saying how much she'd loved "our" restaurant. Unfortunately I'd never actually been there. Perhaps she was thinking of someone else!
Many more years went by and I thought little about her. Until the age of personal computers and an email from Classmates.com. It could show all the people from my Lincoln graduating class that signed on. I checked, of course. Penny wasn't there. Nor was Vickie in her class. Periodically new solicitations from Classmates.com came in and I'd look to see if she'd joined up. Nope. Feeling a bit teased, I extended the search to google and social media. No luck.
Until yesterday and another Classmates.com email. As usual neither was listed. Suddenly I felt a strong desire to leave the current world and reconnect with the past. I was going to find Penny! I wouldn't give up. I kept looking and found a link to a site that located people. Typing in Penny Marshall brought me nothing of value...how could it, it was almost surely not her name any more. But Vickie Marshall in New York did...a person in Brooklyn. I clicked on it and found that Vickie Marshall in Brooklyn was 2 years younger than me! Could this be the real one of her?
I found more information...a list of her relatives. And one was Jaye Penny Leeds! Could Jaye Penny be the real one? Some more nosing...there is a Jaye Penny Leeds in New York who's one year older than me. My gosh! Had I been dating an older woman? No wonder it hadn't worked out. Still, of course, I wasn't sure.
More information was available but not for free. I paid $9 and did a search. There were Jaye Penny's last 3 addresses. One of them is 1616 Maple Avenue! I checked a real estate site at that address. For $1 I saw a bunch of current pictures of that home with the unfriendly dad!
Penny's email address (hopefully active) was there, too, and I wrote her yesterday. I've not heard back. Maybe I will, maybe I won't, maybe she doesn't remember me now at all. Where ever life has lead her over these many years, even back to Maple Avenue, in a way it doesn't matter.
With all that I now remember...half of which I wouldn't have recalled two days ago...I realize that I've refound the 17 year old counterpart to my 16 year old self.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
AARON
Aaron has been my favorite person on all of W. 13th Street where I live. He's friendly, lively, energetic and loud. Often he'd see me in the lobby after I'd completed a morning run. He'd ask how far I'd gone and when I told him he'd throw his head back, smack his hands and say that's incredible, you are in such good shape and you look SO young. I was perpetually delighted by his comments, but did have the modesty to realize that it is, of course, all relative. Aaron was 94.
Aaron liked something about me even more than my running exploits: We were both graduates of Abraham Lincoln High School in Brooklyn. "Of course, we went at very different times," he'd tell anybody who happened to be in the lobby with us. Then he'd laugh, grab me around the shoulder and pull me in for a hug, generally slamming my chin into his chest. Damn, 94 and strong!
It took awhile before it occurred to me that I'd not seen Aaron in a while. I intended to ask about him but, somehow, I didn't. Till 1 day last week when Dino, our super, approached me in the lobby and said Aaron had just died. He'd been ill and surgery offered his only hope for full recovery, so he chose to roll the dice and bet that it wouldn't. But it did.
It must've taken a lot of courage to risk what he had in the hopes that he could regain his full vitality. I'm not surprised that he tried.
This morning I walked through the lobby on my way to work and expected to see him. Early morning this past Saturday, I thought I'd see him walking towards 5th Avenue on his way to make breakfast for and visit his girlfriend. No such luck. Aaron and I both went to Abraham Lincoln High School in Brooklyn. Just at different times.
Lincoln's lost a prominent alum.
Aaron liked something about me even more than my running exploits: We were both graduates of Abraham Lincoln High School in Brooklyn. "Of course, we went at very different times," he'd tell anybody who happened to be in the lobby with us. Then he'd laugh, grab me around the shoulder and pull me in for a hug, generally slamming my chin into his chest. Damn, 94 and strong!
It took awhile before it occurred to me that I'd not seen Aaron in a while. I intended to ask about him but, somehow, I didn't. Till 1 day last week when Dino, our super, approached me in the lobby and said Aaron had just died. He'd been ill and surgery offered his only hope for full recovery, so he chose to roll the dice and bet that it wouldn't. But it did.
It must've taken a lot of courage to risk what he had in the hopes that he could regain his full vitality. I'm not surprised that he tried.
This morning I walked through the lobby on my way to work and expected to see him. Early morning this past Saturday, I thought I'd see him walking towards 5th Avenue on his way to make breakfast for and visit his girlfriend. No such luck. Aaron and I both went to Abraham Lincoln High School in Brooklyn. Just at different times.
Lincoln's lost a prominent alum.
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