Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
I'm on the couch in my apartment. I've been spending a lot of time there lately. And not just because I've moved out of my bedroom to be closer to the window unit. It's Thursday and I haven't run since last Saturday.
I needed a break.
I didn't want this break. But I needed it. It was difficult yesterday. The alarm went off at early o'clock and I had to stay in bed. I knew this would be the only way. In theory I could have just not set the alarm, but I didn't have the strength in the evening. I knew the only way to not run was to make the choice in the morning. It is much easier to stay in bed when you are already in bed.
2016 training miles complete with terrifying slowing trend.
I needed this break. My body feels tired and a bit worn. I think I am running too much for my body. I am not giving it enough time to recover and build itself back. I'm not running that much, just too much for my body. Or at least that is the theory. But I think it is backed up by evidence. The data are in the charts. I'm getting slower.
Three years of miles - and the trend line is still increasing!
At the last Fred's Team run I mentioned my slowing to one of the coaches. He recommended I take some time off. It made sense to me. My first year of running I took a week off (or maybe two) due to a foot injury. When I returned to running I felt as if I was giving the same effort. In fact I went out intending to do a very easy run to ease my foot back into the punishing pounding that is running. But when I finished I looked at the time and realized I had run much faster than I had up to that point. Maybe it was a fluke, but my pace improved with a bit of rest and recovery. I hope this will prove true again.
I like charts.
This break was hard because August could have had my biggest month yet. I enjoy keeping track of all my data and I really enjoy watching the miles pile up. And I wanted this month to be the biggest yet. But that is a stupid way to run a marathon. I took this break in hopes that I can have a faster time at the marathon. That is the point after all. But it still hurt giving up the miles.
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
Mile 11-16 are uphill, strongly uphill. Really strongly. Water bottle is low. No opportunity for a refill until mile 19. Everything wants to stop. But I can't. The only option is distraction. Distracting one's self from tired legs, bursting lungs, and a thirsty mouth is an art form. It isn't easy. It takes practise and effort. Usually.
It is much easier when you keep passing very large scat, large and full of hair. These woods are full of lions. No need to slow down. No need to think about my lungs, or legs, or thirst. I just keep scanning the fog shrouded fields for eminent death.
This is not my normal Central Park run. This is Santa Cruz.
View from the Dorm. The city and ocean are below the fog.
I was out in the west for work. It was a conference complete with dorm room accommodations and a pass to the dining hall. Breakfast was served promptly at eight and more importantly, breakfast promptly stopped at nine. Not wanting to go hungry till lunch I set my alarm for Very Early. My schedule called for 19 miles. I mapped out a route. At dinner I swiped a bagel and snuck it past the zealous food police. Back in my room I reviewed the route, and once more, and turned out the light.
It turns out that the sun is different in Santa Cruz. It rises much later than in NYC. And yes, I had changed my clock the appropriate three hours. It was black outside the open window. The lucky kids in Santa Cruz don't need air-conditioning. They never have to try to sleep when the cool of the evening is in the upper 80s. Each night the temperature drops into the low 50s. As it turns out this means it was dark and cold outside the open window. And I had to get up and run.
Santa Cruz: end of the wharf, civil twilight.
I ate the stolen bagel, gulped as much water as I could, and headed out. I was on the road at five. There had been a couple of street lamps near the dorm. But on the road the university was rather stingy. Soon I was away from the buildings and under tall trees. I couldn't see the lines on the road. I couldn't see anything. I started to think about mountain lions.
When I arrived and was given the keys to the dorm I was also warned that losing them would cost me $140. In a moment of unrecognized genius I took off the miniature flashlight from my key chain and placed the two dorm keys on it. And there in the darkness I remembered it in a flash of inspiration. It took me a bit of time to fish it out of the tiny pocket in my shorts but I could again see the white line under my feet.
Astronomical twilight comes before nautical twilight and then civil twilight. From my experience astronomical twilight is a lot like pitch black darkness. Technically some of faintest celestial objects become harder to see as the night fades into astronomical twilight, but under the mountain lion trees there was no hint of brightness.
Still the flashlight wasn't needed for much longer. As I ran out from the trees I ran into the fog and the black turned into a dark, blinding, wet grey. The fog condensed on my beard and dripped into my lips. The wall of grey lit up into bright white as A car materialized in front of me. There was no sidewalk, barely any shoulder. I muttered repeatedly, "this is safe."
I ran down towards town past sleepy blocks and sleepier houses. I ran to the edge of town and out on the wharf. Between the gulls, seals, and the horn, it was a musical place. Back in the sunshine of yesterday I planned on taking my cell phone so that I could take a few pictures of the sunrise and the town. It was now just a few minutes before 6am. And while it was now civil twilight, and noticeably brighter, it was still dark and foggy. I snapped a couple of pictures and with the fear of missing breakfast in my tummy I ran on.
The lighthouse. The condensing fog makes for a soft focus.
I ran along a beautiful road that curved along the coast up towards the lighthouse. The road was flat and smooth and as the sky brightened and the fog thinned the view improved. All of the houses were on the right and the cliffs down to the ocean were on the left. In a few miles I reached the lighthouse. Built on a jutting curve of land, the light house is short and squat and home to the Santa Cruz Surfing museum. More importantly it also has a water fountain. I refilled my bottle, enjoyed another energy goo and continued to run.
Unfortunately I didn't have time to stop in.
At the 8 mile mark I refilled my bottle for the last time. As I left the little beach front state park I ran out of town and up Highway 1. I started looking for the trail that would take me up the mountain and back towards the campus. I didn't need to look very hard. I should have known any mountain ascent would start at the very bottom. The path quickly gave up all of the elevation I had gained since the wharf and even tunneled under the highway right where I started to climb the mountain. And climb I did.
The entire mountain climb averaged to about a 10% grade. But plenty of little bits were much steeper. I was digging into the hill. I was almost all on the balls of my feet. In seconds my lungs were bursting. In seconds my pace had soared. Suddenly I was really thirsty and tired. And then I past by a pile of recently deposited cat scat.
Cat Scat found in Russian Ridge.
Usually keeping your mind off of the exhaustion is difficult on a long run. But the fear of being hunted, attacked, and eaten alive has a way of worming into one's mind. I tried to think about running and my tired legs, But all I could remember was that mountain lions are most active at dawn and dusk. I couldn't forget that it was dawn now and that I was running through thousands acres of state forests and fields. I couldn't shake the idea that I was moving and breathing like a overweight and severely injured deer. I couldn't shake the idea that I would miss breakfast while being breakfast.
I made my plan. I would keep my eyes very open. I would see the attacking cat. The plan failed to fully firm up past that first step. But it was a first step. I had some vague ideas of trying to look big, fighting back with the keys in my little pocket, and simultaneously soiling myself. That, save for the last bit, was the helpful advice the sign at the entrance gave: "If attacked, fight back!"
I scanned the fields of dry grass and fog for hungry cats. I kept my eyes peeled. And then I looked up and saw four large deer immediately in front of me. And in their bored glance my plan went out the window. A few paces later I stirred up a covey of quail. At least they seemed just as startled as me.
My water bottle quickly ran low. And the climbing mountain of fields and fog kept growing. There were more and more trail branches than I had seen on the map. I kept choosing up. At this point my fear of being eaten my tired legs were locked in a dead heat for my attention. Near the top of the mountain I saw my first sun beams. And Then I stumbled out of the fog and onto the top of the hill. I drank the last of the water and joined the road down towards the university.
Perspective. Red: Chicago Marathon, Blue: NYC, Purple: Portland, Green: Santa Cruz run.
To reach mile 19 I would need to run down to the road that led back up to the dorm. But my empty water bottle, my watch, and my legs all persuasively argued that I should cut it short. So when I saw a trail leading to what must have been the campus I took it. And since I'm writing this you know I was right. In fact, I made it back in time for breakfast. It was just as delicious dorm food ever was.
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
I looked up and felt ridiculous. My short pilgrimage had come to an end. In the plain courtyard I sat on the bench. I hadn't come for the bench, though I knew that was all that would be there. I sat for a moment longer. And then I left to wander back down through the green and bright of the waking world.
I knew there would only be a bench. Still I was hoping to find something else. I had come for him, or some tangible memory, or something. I hadn't planned this pilgrimage well.
It started when I left my car at the station and boarded the train into the city. I rolled slowly past miles of tightly placed homes, small and expensive. I switched to the metro and began counting down the stops as we popped above and below ground. It was 15. I had never been to Berkeley. It is beautiful. I didn't realize it was the first school of the University of California system. Calling themselves "Cal" makes more sense.
The physics seniors of the class of 2016 dedicated a bench to Charles Townes in the small courtyard next to his office. The old tree which had stood from beyond memory fell last year after he died. And in the passing of two such monuments they decided to redesign the little space into a courtyard to honor him.
He told the story of the creation of the maser in his books and in person. And always he recounted sitting on the park bench in Washington D.C. next to the blooming azaleas. It was there he received his revelation. And it was there that the entire world changed.
Sitting on this bench 2500 miles away I knew I had come too late. Though, there wasn't much I could do about that. The simple reality was that I was born far too late. Still I had come and instead of an epiphany I just felt silly. I had wanted to feel a connection, some recognition of his spirit, something. But why? I didn't know Dr. Townes in any real meaning of the word.
While I had met him once, it was when I was very young, and at a funeral. Still, he was a bit of family lore and his name and story stuck with me. But for years he was only lore. Then in college I wrote him. I don't know who found his address, or what I even wrote him. But I still have the letter and papers he sent in reply to mine. Even now they number among my dearest possessions. In them he shared his thoughts and encouraged me to be a scientist and a religionist. He wrote in bullets.
A few years later I invited him to come lecture at Yale and he did! I remember the beer he ordered at Mory's before his talk. I remember his lecture. I remember as much as I can. And I had the entire drive back to JFK with just him. He called the lab at 6 am local time, 3am at the lab (because he knew they would be working). He was always going. And he was 92 at the time. We parted at the terminal. He was off to California and then Qatar. And that was it.
Through the years I watched the news knowing some day it would come. And it finally did. I walked to the corner and bought the paper. It is still yellowing in my desk. The greatest experimental physicist of the 20th century. Perhaps that is more truly when this weird and slow and poorly planned pilgrimage began.
It ended in a little courtyard with a view of his old office and a few dumpsters. I didn't find him there. I didn't find a connection, any meaning, or even some special memory. I just found a bench. This family myth turned exemplar hero was yet again far ahead. I had come too late and he had gone to where I can not yet go, born too late as I am. So I went a bought a coffee.
In writing this post I remembered a video of Charles Townes reading poetry and thought I'd link it here. His bit starts at 20:20 (with a short introduction) I highly recommend starting there. Oh to be such a Renaissance man!
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
Mile 11-16 are uphill, strongly uphill. Really strongly. Water bottle is low. No opportunity for a refill until 19 miles. Distracting oneself is key. If one doesn't, one stops. Distracting one's self from their leg tiredness, desire to stop, their bursting lungs is an art form. It isn't easy. It takes practice and effort. Usually.
It is much easier when you keep passing very large scat, large and full of hair. These woods are full of lions. No need to slow down. No need to think about my lungs. Just keep scanning the fog shrouded fields for eminent death.
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
The flight went without incident. The sole grievance was that my seatmate passed enough gas for a return trip. Still it was smooth. Even the screaming infant slept until we started to descend. I caught In the Heart of the Sea and Hail Caesar. Neither were particularly good. I filled the remaining hour with episodes of Portlandia intermixed with staring at the flight information screen.
No one looks out windows any more. No windows are even open, presumably to maintain the viewing darkness. I would have enjoyed looking for mountains. So I satisfied myself with the rough map of the US and the little plane graphic that slowly updated our position. The windspeed, altitude and temperature were all reported. It is a rather odd thought (in the middle of a hot summer) to remember how thin the warm skin of air is. We were flying through ridiculous cold.
Our data last updated at we touched down. We were still supposedly 180+ feet above the service and cruising at a tortoise pace of 165 mph. And then the screen went blank.
A warm bus ride through traffic and mountains and now I am in my dorm room. I am hungry and there are still three hours till dinner. I walked to the cafe, but no one was there. It was open, but I couldn't find anyone to make me a sandwich. I may try the Mexican joint I heard about. I was told it was up "cardiac hill." Sounds promising.
I'm headed to San Francisco and on to the Santa Cruz Developmental Biology Meeting.
Everyone seems more than a bit grumpy. The flight attendants are snappy, the passengers, after a ridiculous security line, an "issue with boarding," and an overbooked flight, are venomous, and the screaming infant in front of me seems to think she's being boiled alive in oil. Good morning!
Two years ago I made the same trip. I can't remember if there were any travel issues. All I remember is the great science, amazing weather, and Fantastic time playing in San Fran with M and J. I'm sure my memories of this trip will be the same.
But at the moment I'm all back of the bus, and not with the cool kids.
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
A busy stretch of days has kept me from the blog and many other things. Fortunately, I've kept running. Even last night.
Last night was hot. But it wasn't just the heat. It was also humid, but it wasn't just the humidity. The dew point was extremely high. The air felt like soup. New York Road Runners had a race, but they cancelled it. I hadn't been planning to run it, but it was terrifically hot and miserable - enough to be worried about one's safety - so I went for a run.
C ran with me and was caught in a brief explosion of rain that did nothing to ease the heat. Fortunately, I was still inside the lab listening to the thunder and changing into my shorts at the time.
I am used to sweating this summer. Between my under-adequate air conditioning unit, my record breaking broken AC subway car finding(50%), and the running, I'm usually pretty gross. Plus, this summer is much hotter than the last three. Oddly enough, my running times and temperatures (which I track) do not show this. I assume that this anomaly can be explained by my new 50 minute commute. I'm running even earlier in the morning adjusting temperatures down a degree or two.
Summer Temperatures
Anyway, C and I ran in the park. C will be running with me in Portland. He has already broken the 4 hour barrier. I don't doubt he'll do it again. Anyway, Again, we were running past all the race preparations and all of the volunteers taking down the race preparations. As we kept plugging we noticed more and more runners making off with food and popsicles. And finally when we reach what would have been the finish line we found the treasure. Boxes and boxes of popsicles, intended for the finishers were quickly coming to temperature and were being given away. Not a bad way to refresh yourself mid run.
Not a great way either. But still, the colors were bright, the sugar content was high, and the wooden sticks came with really bad jokes printed on them. All in all, it felt like summer. Which made me remember prettier, less humid runs. Like the pictures of my runs on the beach.
If you are still with me, I'll bring you up to speed on my speed. I look to be mostly on target for a 3:51:59 racing time. Or, I should say, I'm on target as one can be. I've now run two marathons and with that infinite wisdom I've learned that they are hard and can surprise you. Still, I managed to run a half marathon last weekend with decent time and in sub-optimal conditions (stopping every four minutes for traffic lights). It's the fourth from the last point (8:28 pace). The last point was the popsicle run. We stopped to walk and savor.
So get your donations in! Only so many more days. The summer is quickly fading. HOME and Fred's team could really use your help. And I know I do! Check out the marathon donation multiplier. Find out if that is for you! And donate today!
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
I have some really wonderful friends. This was our third Relaxening, and first at the Chesapeake Bay. Each year the days are filled with all sorts of activities like sitting, eating, talking, and otherwise being together. And the nights look much like the days. (Though we keep going to bed earlier and earlier. Adam and I had a race to see who could fall asleep faster during our after-dinner conversation. I'm pretty sure I won.) While lovely, this weekend was far too short. I wanted at least an extra day with each of them. There was far to little time to catch up, to hear, to just be.
Anyway, here are a few pictures to enjoy while you donate monies!
The Bay and the liquid fire sand. The hottest weekend of the year.
We managed to squeeze in a few miles - and I managed to take a few pictures of the running route.
Amazingly I took zero pictures of corn. It seemed like we only ran through corn upon corn.
Eric had trouble lifting the bushel of crabs
We pretended that we would need a few sides.
Midway through. My lips were wrinkly from the old bay. Bourbon helped.
The aftermath. While the rest of us enjoyed the porch, Adam and Amrit cleaned the rest for cakes the next day.
The rental house listed a bit.
I even made it home with some fridge worthy artwork! Becca, whose signature was forged, was the one using my shorts as a tissue. And yet she still managed to be ridiculously cute.
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
Just came back in from a run. Why, eight miles, thank you!
As a little rain doesn't stop a marathon it is best to keep at the runs even in drippy weather. A hurricane did stop the marathon a few years ago, but this was just a bit drizzly today. Still it was enough to keep most people from the park.
Exactly a year ago it wasn't raining. Also, I was in Chicago running and meeting seniors through H.O.M.E.
Usually, as I walk up to the park from my house I see many many runners and tons of bicyclists already zipping past. Today, there wasn't anyone. in fact I was completely alone until well after I left the northern most section. The Harlem Hill area is usually the emptiest place of the park (the hill is real) but that means I'm usually running with lots of other people. I counted 6 runner and bicyclist in my first 12 minutes of running. It was surreal to have so much space.
It wasn't a great run as my digestive failings made themselves known (is the title a double entendre?), I dropped my sweat rag, and my shoe came untied. But I grabbed the miles and that is the important part.
So here I am busting my chops through gale-force* winds and rain, and the donations are just barely dribbling in. But I don't want you to feel guilty. I want you to do something today! How about you support low-income seniors through H.O.M.E.! Even small donations can make enormous quality of life improvements in their lives. Home repairs that otherwise would go unfixed can make each day more wonderful and can keep these seniors independent longer (which if you like numbers, keeps long term costs down). Or maybe you'd like to put your monies towards cancer research with Fred's Team. I wouldn't be alive today if it wasn't for discoveries fueled by dollars. And now I can plan on getting old and gray and needing safe housing too.
Sign up with my Donation Calculator so I know you are planning on giving, or better yet, donate today!
*I just found out that gale is a descriptor, or measurement of wind i.e., moderate gale, whole gale, and my favorite, "Fresh gale:" 39-46 mph.
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
It's a throw-back Thursday (as the kids used to say) to a year when I wasn't so tired. Enjoy this blog post from over two years ago. I resisted the urge to correct misspellings and find better phrasing. Perhaps that was a mistake. But I doubt it. Either way I was too tired to fix it.
(July 8th, 2014)
During one of my frequent visits to the doctor I noticed an ad in the waiting room. A support group entitled Dating and Disclosure was meeting that very week and in the building I work in. How could I pass this up? Back in high school I invented the sexy locker lean. Take my word for it - and don't look into it - I did really well. But in my more immediate past, things have slowed down a bit. Maybe I could stand to pick up a few pointers.
Actually, I was more interested in the disclosure aspect. From the very beginning disclosing my diagnosis was difficult. I wanted to tell my parents when they were together, but of course when my mother picked up the phone my father was out. I can usually bounce and deflect with ease, but the first words out of her mouth asked about what the doctor had said. I could have done it better.
The week I learned of my diagnosis was filled with hospital visits and phone calls. It was overwhelming. I told my parents to ban phone calls from friends and family. I didn’t want to be rude, but I needed time to figure out what was going on, what I was thinking, how I was feeling. I could have done it better. When I found out that the cancer wouldn't take me out of this world in a couple of months, but rather I was expected to make a full recovery - and only in a matter of months - I decided to not tell people that I didn't think I would see during treatment. I would avoid disclosure.
Avoiding disclosure didn’t work. I’d end up seeing someone. “You shaved your head!” “Yes, I did – well no, um – sort of, yes, well, just not intentionally.” I could have done it better.
I left my desk and took the elevator to the lobby. I found the little room where a few people had already gathered. There was a lot of condensation on the pitcher of water on the table. We soon introduced ourselves telling as little or as much as we felt comfortable. I was younger than everyone else, maybe by as much as 20 years. It was mostly women.
We did discuss disclosure. It was decided that there was no ‘right’ time to tell a date, or, for that matter, a friend. You can and should take your time and disclose when you were ready. However, it was decided that the first date is most definitely not the right time. But past that we mostly talked about other things, deeper things.
It seemed that most in the room were afraid. Dating at 30 is one thing. Dating at 50 is probably another. Dating at 50 when you are covered in scars and missing a breast or ovaries, and have no energy or hair, is daunting. Each person seemed to have a very similar concern. They were afraid of being turned down because they were sick. When the facilitator asked why they thought this would happen, all were in agreement. If the tables were turned they would never want to date someone who had their condition. They wanted someone who was healthy. How could anyone go in for someone who was sick? Who could love them?
It was clear that they hated the cancers that had taken so much from them. But I wonder if some of that hate had gotten mixed up. The cancer may have abated in their bodies yet it was strong in their minds. Could the cancer have become such a part of their identity that they saw themselves, and not just the cancer, as broken and despised?
The facilitator steered the conversation towards a message of encouragement. She wanted us to know that anyone who would be turned off by someone who is sick isn’t worth our time. She wanted us to know that we would get turned down but it would be OK. She wanted us to know that we could do this. She wanted us to know that it would be worth it, that we were worth it.
I’m not sure how much of her words sunk in. The benefit may have come from the other group members. Each one seemed to realize that the other people around the table were valuable and worthwhile. They listened and encouraged and noted how silly it was to worry about having short hair, extra scars, or needing a bit of help. “If he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t deserve you.”
It seemed strange to me that they could see the insecurities in their neighbors for what they were yet they couldn’t see their own. They were convinced that they were unworthy of love. It seemed strange to me. Yet I think I do this in my own way from time to time.
I don’t have any visible scars, unless you count the small dent in my gums where cottage cheese gathers. But in other ways I am more similar to my co-survivors. I see my own failings and find myself wondering if I’m made for a relationship, if I’m worthy of love. And my problem is worse than a physical scar.
I can – if I choose – inflict a lot of pain. I can kill, but it is a death by a million paper cuts. I can wound in tiny ways, in inconspicuous ways, such that I can always claim innocence. I can drain all the joy and pleasure from life if I want. In short, I am selfish. I don’t like this about myself. I hate it even.
At times I see this and wonder how I could be worthy of love. Would it not be better to avoid relationship? Would it not be better to avoid the eventuality of inflicting pain? But that is not a way to live life. Furthermore, it might only be another lie to hide another truth. I am afraid of relationship. I am afraid because I will be revealed to be just another human constantly making mistakes, constantly needing to be forgiven, constantly needing love, and still only learning to love. This is truly what I do not want to disclose.
If I had been quicker with my thoughts, if I had been brave enough to share my fears, I think I know what the ladies would have said. Between smiles and laughs, I would have heard that I am still worth it. I would have heard that I am valuable. I would have heard that while I have my own real scars and flaws, I am yet worthy of love. Worthy of love: it's a wonderful truth. Worthy - and this is a 30 year old that just bought more underwear because he didn't do the laundry!
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
I woke up in terror and smacking my lips. Looking through
the window I collected my thoughts and took the glass from the table. A few
sips and the dark sky and I turned back into the couch.
This summer is hot, far hotter than past years. I am going
by feel as my charts show another story. After each run I mark the pace,
mileage, and temperature. And last year was significantly warmer. At least,
according to my charts. But I think I’ve found the modifying variable. My
commute increased by 1100%. I wake and run earlier now.
This year my bedroom is also much farther from the living
room and the living room window unit faithfully (when used) pumping in cold
air. And last year I didn’t have a roommate so committed to “natural” living. I
came home from work at 10pm this week and it was 90 degrees in my bedroom
instead of the usual 87. Now after brushing my teeth I take my pillow and sheet
and camp out under the fan in the living room.
Running outside the city. Who could have bad dreams with beautiful mornings like this?
Perhaps it is the heat. Or maybe it’s something I ate. It
could even be something more mysterious, but I’ve been having some rather
terrifying dreams on the couch. In the dreams, some vivid and lifelike, others
more surreal, I see scenes of death and sorrow, pain and sadness. But worst of
all, the pain comes directly from my happiness and joy. As an example, in one I
have called a dinner celebration together with all my friends. But the night
ends in savage death.
Looking at them together, while the stories and details are
very different, the consistent theme is that my happiness kills those around
me. My joy turns to death. Everything I touch turns wrong.
This is a bit ironic given the ending of the last blog post.
I don’t know what these dreams mean, if they mean anything.
They are probably just a bit of poorly digested food. My digestive track has
its share of problems. But now that I’ve had a few such dreams, all identical
in theme, I have to wonder.
Lately at work I feel as if everything is going rather
poorly. I took this postdoc – this gamble of years – knowing that the odds were
against me. But if you can’t bet on yourself then who will? And still, anything
can change, of course. My work could start working and results could be
exciting. But I’ve done this work long enough to start reading the signs. And I
am seeing the signs of failure.
Failure isn’t bad, of course. But I doubt anyone who has
done it really enjoys the process. Perhaps that is what is weighing on my mind.
After a long day, on my commute home, I look back over what I did at work and I
often see all my poor choices. I have felt many times that every choice I make
is wrong. That feeling often bleeds out into the commute itself. But that is
not fair. There truly is no right choice between the bus and the subway.
So maybe in my dream I am working through my feelings that
all of my choices are toxic. But then why is it my friends who suffer and die
in my dreams? And why is disaster born out of moments of true joy? For that is
the hardest part.
In short I don’t know.
In the most vivid dream, the one with scary reality, I woke after
I fell apart under the weight of sorrow and was committed to an insane asylum. It
was my joy that had killed and it utterly broke me. In the one last night I was
screaming, screaming in terror and impotence as I saw from far above my friends
shot and bleeding out. There was no justice and could be none. It was the
police who were shooting. Yet I was the ultimate cause of their death. And I
was unable to save them. All I could do was scream. The words in my mouth were
a paraphrase, “Oh that God would come down.” But in the dream they meant, “why
won’t God come down.”
I woke up with the words still ringing in my ears and
smacked my dry mouth. With a few sips and the dark sky I turned back to the
couch. I wondered about the dream. I wondered at my fear of joy. And I wondered
at the heat.
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
It's Friday! We have lab meetings each Friday. It is my turn. I presented two months ago. And I have nothing new to show. My student accomplished a bunch, but I will let her present in two weeks. And while I repeated a few experiments to add to my numbers, that isn't really anything worth telling.
About every time I've set about getting ready to present I feel as if I haven't done anything. But then I go about getting my work together and soon enough I realize I have a lot. And I need to think about what exactly to present and what will need to be left out. This time it didn't happen. So I am going to present ideas. Ideas for experiments. But only ideas. I wonder if the boss will notice.
That last bit is a joke. Of course she will notice.
This is not lab meeting. But I will still look just as zoned out.
J. gave me a few more pictures from the Survivorship celebration. I suppose you could tell. I had to look him up, but I'm sure you all remember Scott Hamilton. I found a video of him doing a backflip on ice-skates, his signature move. And it was pretty cool. Still, it felt like Sloan Kettering was digging rather deep to find a celebrity. He won gold in the olympics. But it was the year I was born. Still, I mentioned his name to someone at work and was overheard by another coworker who went ecstatic. So perhaps I just wasn't the target audience.
Very humorous, exceptional speaker, and all around short guy.
But Scott wasn't there because of his celebrity (heyday or not). He was there for his attitude surrounding his cancer diagnosis. Cancer didn't stop Scott. He embraced the challenge and kept moving, kept living, and his attitude is inspiring and infectious. He has been raising money for cancer research for years. He has been spending his time encouraging and supporting. I hope I can grow up a bit more to be like him. Just taller.
That evening of "celebration" got me thinking. I can tend towards the pessimistic side. I haven't completely shaken my childhood nickname of Eeyore, "If it is a good day, which I doubt." I find myself unconsciously looking for the worst to happen, seeing the hard things, or the annoying things, like noticing how much of my work doesn't work, and how little I've accomplished in the last two months, and even the last few years. I don't know how to focus on the good things without feeling like I'm pretending everything is cheery. I don't know how to keep everything in perspective.
But it is not for lack of good examples. At the celebration there was a wall to pin notes of happiness and excitement and celebration. And standing there I thought of someone I knew and loved who had cancer and yet kept things in perspective. I remembered his infectious enjoyment. I remembered his desire to support and encourage. I remembered his grill and cigars and his "I was saving this for a big win, but today will have to do" attitude. And I wanted to live into that even if just a little bit. So I left my note.
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
I'm cooking dinner and realizing that I touch my eyes and nose far more than I should. Far more than I should while cooking. And far more than I should at any time, frankly. You'd think I'd learn to handle jalapeños. But no. This is my future.
I like the New York city bus system. Well, not really. Like is far too strong a word. But after getting trapped on the subway in the morning for what seemed like hours and then jumping into an oven car in the evening, I need another option. So yes, I love the bus system. And each time that it stops and lets another super slow senior citizen climb aboard I try to refocus my impatience into gratefulness that there is a public transit system you can use even if stairs prove difficult - which is often the case for seniors.
Last year I wrote about H.O.M.E.'s bussing service that provides transportation services to grocery stores and pharmacies. And I will probably tell you about that again soon. It is a great service. But it is only one of many that H.O.M.E. provides for some of Chicago's most vulnerable residents. Right now I want to tell you about their home repair services.
I am not particularly handy. My last "repair" was more of a destroy job. In fact, that is exactly what it was. I was dripping with sweat as it was a sticky 97 degrees in my apartment. Fed up with the heat and the window bars that blocked the installation of my window unit I pulled out my trusty hacksaw. Trusty isn't the right word as I had never used it before (not handy, remember). After about 30 minutes, some serious cramping, and a peppering of bad words, I had successfully cut through the ten bars. Home improved. All that was left was to explain it to the landlord.
Cross Promotional Synergy.
Yet, past such destructive improvements I have to rely on the help of professionals. And professionals cost money. And here lies the problem for many low-income senior citizens. They do not have the resources to keep up with the ever increasing maintenance costs of their homes. Serious issues are left unaddressed. Having the furnace go out during winter is a real emergency. Not being able to fit safety bars in the bathroom is dangerous.
H.O.M.E.'s upkeep and repair services is available to those who have an income below the federal poverty level. As you can imagine, paying full price for a repairman isn't on the table when you are just keeping afloat. In fact, 68% of H.O.M.E.'s clients said that they would have had to go without the repairs if H.O.M.E. had not provided them.
At the moment there is so much demand for service that H.O.M.E. has a four month waiting list. They prioritize "emergency repairs" which often center around plumbing issues as these can often become extensive problems if left unattended. Even with the long waits the request keep coming in because for most of their clients there are just no other options.
Sometimes when a company realizes they have you - when demand is super high - their customer service goes down hill. Time Warner Cable, if you think this is a veiled reference to you, you're wrong. There is no veil. And while the "professional" "handy" man my landlord hires probably costs a ridiculous amount his work is almost as good as mine. When the front door started drooping so much that the dead bolt wouldn't lock he didn't rehang the door. Instead, he took a hammer and chisel and beat a new hole into the frame. Home improved indeed.
Perhaps you would think that H.O.M.E. could fall into these traps. But they have not. They are not in this business for the money. They aren't even here for the glory and fame. They want to provide vulnerable, low-income seniors in their city with safe and secure homes to live in. It is that simple. They are here to help others. And that philosophy permeates their culture at all levels. As one of their clients said, "They are trustworthy. I feel freedom when H.O.M.E. comes in to work for me."
Will you partner with H.O.M.E.? These services cost money and H.O.M.E. runs on donations, donations like yours and mine. Without our help H.O.M.E. would not be able to keep going. Make a big difference in someone's life, donate today! Or choose to use the donation multiplier and make it even bigger! Don't forget to write in "marathon" in the "note" section.
To read real stories about real clients served by H.O.M.E.'s upkeep and repair read this entry of their blog!
PS. With a great post title like this you were probably thinking this was about my knees and shins. Boy were you wrong. That said, I think I need to find some ice, do some stretches and go to bed. Sleeping is my favorite repair.
PPS. I feel "freedom" when our handyman is around the apartment. Yes, I feel just how free I am to listen to his jolly, and loud, Christmas music in July. So free.
We lay on our backs, looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when he made life so sad. - On the Road
L'Éternel dit à Caïn: Où est ton frère Abel? - Genèse
Her phone is probably off. It is late there. I am sure she will check in when she can. Things are chaotic and busy. I am sure it is only that. I am sure. (Edit: She checked in at 4am!)
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
As I need a distraction and the milk, slowly turning to yogurt in my oven, doesn't provide much of a show I will write more silly nothings. Plus it has been a while since I've updated you on my running. And who doesn't love graphs?
First the good news! The donations are coming in. You surprise me each year. In case you haven't donated yet, consider it today. you don't want to miss out. Right now Fred's Team is edging out H.O.M.E. with 53% of the donations. Combined, you've raised 5.1% of our goal! This is a great start.
And now for other good news. The running is going well. I've avoided injury. I'm stretching a bit better than in the past. I exfoliated my toes by running on the beach a few weeks ago. And I'm enjoying each run - even on days like today where I had to swim through the moist air.
Lately I've been reading up on acoustic waves for a project at work. Applying my kindergarten level of knowledge and understanding the the graph below I'd say that the amplitude is increasing in my training paces. A higher amplitude means, of course, that there is more energy in a wave. This is obviously true for my running too. Or at least it feels like it.
The training plan I'm on has many types of running days. Some runs are to be done at marathon pace (in the future I'll mark these on the graph). Some are to be run at a more conversational pace (minor gasping aloud). And some are to be run with with intentional variations in speed. I'm not sure what all that means - for me or for waves - but I'm putting my trust into the online coach.
I know most of you are holding off on donating so that you can use the Marathon Donation Multiplier, see link above. And while it may be hard to estimate my race day running pace from the above chart, this second one might be a bit more useful. Below I've plotted my runs by month, distance, and speed. As July bleeds into August and September quickly follows you will see the miles lengthen and hopefully the runs quicken.
Lastly, just in case you think I'm slacking off compared with bygone years, here you can see my miles from my two previous marathon training sessions. I think I'll be setting a July record this year. As long as I don't injure myself! I think I'm going to PR in Portland. The question is, for you donation multiplier player, by how much!
Another great day to donate! Two marathons and two charities! Let's raise a combined $6,500 for cancer research through Fred's Team and low-income seniors with Housing Opportunities and Maintenance for the Elderly (H.O.M.E.)!
Check out who had the pleasure of taking a picture with me recently. None other than Craig Thompson, President and CEO of Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.
A photo posted by Fred's Team MSKCC (@fredsteammskcc) on
Each year the hospital celebrates survivors and throws a party. I was asked to share my experience as a survivor. I shared the stage with Craig, José Baselga, (Physician in Chief, and CMO), Olympic gold medalist Scott Hamilton, and Kelly Leach, another survivor like myself. You know, a regular Tuesday night. I rehearsed my speech a few times. I don't like reading from notes - and I don't like completely canned speeches - so aimed for a free flowing, almost natural level of speaking. Turns out I needed one more run through. About halfway through I forgot what the next thought was supposed to be. And as my mind raced trying to figure out where to go I paused momentarily. Fortunately this pause came right on the heals of a rather upbeat moment with an impromptu culminating phrase "So I am a survivor." And to my surprise The audience erupted in applause. I wonder if it looked as if I had been milking them for feedback. Believe me, I'm not that good.
A different Tuesday. I match like a rainbow.
Still, It bought me a moment, thought when I charged ahead I skipped an important bit. I wanted to say the important bit first, so I could reference it later - in this bit that I was saying now. Without it, it wouldn't make sense. It is funny to me how my mouth can go on talking while my mind is thinking about how to cut and paste and jump and still get a coherent thought out. No one noticed. A handful of people thanked me. One person told me I had a career in public speaking. José told me, and the crowd, that the next time I took that stage it would be to share my important research. I hope he is right. As my moment of fame quickly evaporated I walked into one of my First Descents friends, Mariel "Montell Jordan" RauerNigro! I had forgotten she was treated at Sloan Kettering too. I loved being reminded of that amazing trip and all the wonderful people I met. Sometimes it seems so far removed from my normal experience that I wonder if it wasn't a dream.
Montell and a few of the other Ouray 11. She has the dark helmet. I have the uncombed hair.
And when she left and everyone else had forgotten about me and was busily crowding the food tables I wandered around and found the photo table and begin to take a few photos which I may use with some repetition during my fundraising. But as I need to pump myself Up for my next run I'll include this one right here.
I'm coming for you.
Lastly, if any of you have made it this far and are interested in what I was supposed to say in my speech here is the text:
My name is Andrew. I am a scientist. I work across the
street in the hospital’s research facility. I’m studying the cerebellum – the
hindbrain element that enables us to run and dance and do all sorts of
important things – and am hoping to find things that will lead to better
treatments, cures and one day even prevent the tumors that sometimes form in
the cerebellum.
I am also a survivor.
Less than a year after starting my fellowship at the hospital
I became a patient. One day I was walking through the halls of the hospital to
a lecture. And the very next day I was in the same hallways, now in a bed,
watching the lights and ceiling tiles float past.
When diagnosed I was surprised, afraid, anxious, confused,
and everything moved far too fast. And When
my doctor Alison Moskowitz had finished carefully, and clearly, and thoroughly explaining
my diagnosis, and my treatment plan and the first steps to take, I paused, and
said, “Wait, do I have cancer?” She graciously started over.
I guess I’m not the only one who has felt that way, or has
had such trouble “hearing,” or at least “getting.” But there was something else said that first night. And at
the moment I am afraid it is still rather unique.
After getting it, and thinking of everyone I knew that had
had cancer, I asked the only important question I could think of, “How much
time do I have?”
And here is what was unique.
She replied, “No. You misunderstand. We are going to cure
you.”
Some time later, after my treatment concluded, I discussed
this moment with the other participants in the weekly support group. It was, we
decided, a moment of whiplash. Obviously good whiplash, but none-the-less it
felt like crashing and there was lots of confusion even in its hopefulness.
I think about this often. Across the street with our
hypothesis and experiments, chemicals and calculator, lectures and seminars
we are trying to do just this. We are trying to give more and more people –
everyone – this whiplash. Or at least until even the bite of the word cancer is
forgotten.
So, here I am, a "survivor." But I don’t see myself that way.
Perhaps because, compared with others, I was touched so lightly – the survivor
guilt doesn’t allow it. Or maybe because I don’t feel wiser, or more generous,
or less worried about the vagaries of life – these wonderful gift others have
reported after a brush with mortality. I’m still just me.
No I am not a survivor. I wasn’t cured to be a survivor. I
was cured so that I could be just me.
So let me end by telling you a story that pleased me.
During my last round of chemothereapy I took Neulasta. The most painful drug I have ever taken. I guess I never had bone pain before. I now know what "to
writhe" means. But it kept me healthy. I heard it was developed at the hospital.
In fact, it was discovered in a lab on the floor where I worked – and further, Dr
Malcom Moore was still around. So a few days later I stopped by work and found
him outside of his office. I told him I had just taken his drug. I thanked
him. And he smiled. And then we both smiled.
