When Things Fall Apart

I’ve achieved a new personal record as we runners like to say.  I now have a small collection of little amber pill jars; 3 actually.  That’s the most I’ve ever had at one time.  My previous personal best in pill jar collecting was two and it usually came after oral surgery; antibiotics and the ever popular Vicodin. 

Dis-HEART-ened

It’s Tuesday the 8^th and I’m in bed by 7:30.  On a normal evening I would be relaxing after dinner and feeling good about the day’s run.  It’s not a normal evening.  My heart is doing its version of the Macarena or the Rhumba.  It’s pretty much a middle-aged white guy version of one of those dances; or any dance for that matter.  You see, middle aged white guys are supposed to be notorious for not having rhythm; I’m a prime example.  And so that about describes what my heart is doing; it’s beating to no particular beat; out of rhythm.  It’s a condition known as atrial fibrillation.  Those of us with a more intimate knowledge of the disease refer to it contemptuously as a-fib.

Thanksgiving Leftovers

Sitting amongst the wreckage of Thanksgiving at the kitchen table – some dinner rolls in a zip lock, a cranberry cake (deliciously baked by my daughter I might add), some cornbread and God knows what’s in the fridge.  I’m almost afraid to open the door for fear of being buried by an avalanche of leftover feast.

A Five Ring Sunday Circus

Alright, so I got sucked in.  I’ve taken to watching the games and in large measure it took track and field to hook me.  Well, it took track.  My cynical side, which as anyone who reads this regularly would know is dominant, tells me that the strength events are PED tainted.  I still feel burned over those two USA Track and Field Championships at Stanford a few years back.  A few years back can be translated to mean “the Balco years.”   I spent top dollar for good seats, hyped the events to Cora and then we found out after the Balco bubble burst that many of the results from both meets were frauds. 

Running I: You Either Get It or You Don't

“Some mistakes we never stop paying for.”   Roy Hobbs; The Natural

The call came over the bullhorn, “First call, 880; First call."  That was my alarm to start warming up; a slow jog around the high school campus in my black fleece, Aragon High, sweats.

I’m sitting here staring at my right ankle.  It isn’t horribly swollen but comparing it to the left I can see a puffed up band running along the front of my ankle between those two knobs of bone on each side.  I can also tell when I slip on a sock that the right one feels noticeably tighter. 

“Second call 880; second call.”  I’d worked up a light sheen of sweat and was stretching on the infield paying some attention to the events in progress and trying to figure out how much time I had before my race.