Before the heat sets in

The air was thick this morning just after dawn. It was cool, but you knew that wasn't going to last long, not by the way the humidity was hanging in the air.

Forecasts called for the heat to come in, and that's why I dragged myself out of bed at 5:15 a.m. I wanted to get ride in, beat the heat and get to work, all before sun started scorching.

I took Highway 52 east out of town, right into the sun. Water hung on the tall glass and shimmered in the light, and mist rose out of the patches of trees that lined the road here and there as I climbed the long hill. The suns rays angled through them, as if this were a movie and Jesus was being born in those woods. I rode through little bubbles of cool air, and the moisture started clinging to the hair on my arms and dripping off my helmet.

It was one of those mornings, you know, when you're glad to be alive. As I woke up on the bike, my legs started spinning and my breath evened out and my heart began humming inside my chest. What was that I felt? Oh, yeah, I felt strong. It's been so long since I've had that feeling.

The pockets of mist turned into out and out fog as I rode further out into the country, gliding along at at even 20 to 22 mph. Suddenly the fog surrounded me, and all I could only see about 100 yards in any direction. It was a nifty, disconcerting and scary feeling all at once.

It felt as if I were stationary, and the world was spinning beneath me. Houses and barns came at me from the mist, like ships at sea. I got this crazy notion of belonging in this particular place and time. At the same time I hoped that I wouldn't get hit by a Ford Econoline van, driven by some electrician on the way to work.

I was a little lost, too. I know these roads, but when you're in a fog, there's no sense of perspective, and the landmarks I use to measure where I am were lost in all that gray.

It was one of the best rides I've had in a long, long time.

Dumping organic

About a year ago, maybe longer, under the influence of a late-1970s-era, hippie-dippie book called "The Running Mind," I embraced a concept called "goalless running."

This was a feel-good endeavor to combat all the shoulds and have-tos in my life, and a way to embrace the pure joy and freedom of movement. I would be blessed with running highs and float along the sidewalks in a wave of euphoric bliss that comes with no aim other than to be a part of nature. Like a gazelle. Or a wild stallion. Or some other animal that runs for the sheer joy of it.

My good friend Kyle called this concept "organic" running. I liked that, because it captured the spirit of the natural which I was trying to attain.

The problem? It didn't work. Goalless running was all too soon replaced by runless running, and I promptly gained 5 pounds.

A couple of weeks ago, I bought a battery for my heart rate monitor, and went out for a three-mile run with it strapped to my chest. My goal was to keep my heart rate within the prescribed training zone for a man of my age.

I found that it was remarkably easy, and that for most of my runs, I've been going out to hard. While in many ways that's OK, it's also not very sustainable. Since then, I've been wearing the heart rate monitor to keep myself in check, much like the RPM gauge does on a car. And my runs have been easier, more fun and I've been feeling a lot more productive.

On Sunday morning, I ran for 7 1/2 miles, and felt fresh when I finished. It was the longest run I've clocked since, well, I can't remember the last time I ran that far.

I've decided that I'm going to charge up the old Garmin Forerunner next, and embrace it like a long-lost friend.

Not abandoned.

I read today that, according to the New York Times, "only 7.4 million out of the 133 million blogs the company tracks had been updated in the past 120 days. That translates to 95 percent of blogs being essentially abandoned."

I immediately felt a stab of guilt. This poor blog has been sitting at the truck stop of the Information Superhighway, while its creator has been, well, not really doing much of anything. Maybe this blog has been woefully neglected, but it's not been abandoned.

And just in case the you're monitoring, make that 7,399,999, Old Gray Lady.

Picking on the guitar

The finger tips on my left hand are all tingly and a little bit sore.

Usually this is a sign of romance, but this time it's because I have once again gotten the urge to learn how to play a guitar.

As of this writing, I have practiced three days in a row, for a time period of about 40 minutes or so. I run through a fingering exercise that was taught to me by JG Lightborne, a local performer. I strum through some chords, E, A and D, think, but God knows what they really are.

The trouble I am having is that my fingers, although not particularly fat, seem moosh onto more than one string at a time. This gives most chords a rather dull sound.

Now, I am in "working" phase of the 5 stages of mediocrity. And my question is this: Will more practice help ease this finger issue? Or do I suffer a guitar disability that cannot improve no matter what? Will a new guitar help?

Maybe I'll just try the harmonica.

Shorts weather

When you live in Wisconsin, life revolves around the weather.
So when there's a significant turning point, one must take the time to acknowledge the mark.
Today was such a day. I wore shorts on my run, first time for 2009.
I do love winter, really, I do. But there times when it starts to feel like a prison. The environment itself seems to bear down on you. It's as if you're wearing a suit of lead, one that has been stored in the freezer, at that.
So the first shorts day gives one the feeling of true liberation, freedom. It must be how birds feel when they take their first flight.
It all reminds me of that old joke about the guy who wears too tight shoes, because they feel so good when you take them off.
Winter is great, because it makes summer feel like heaven.

***

Of course, like anything in life, the bliss of spring must have it's cruddy counterbalance. For us, it's ankle-deep puddles, barf-colored left over snow and mud. My run today took me through a large local cemetery. It's one of my favorite routes, because there's no traffic and it's easy on the legs.
But the gravel roads are now soft and gushy. This particular run reminded me of the "Mud 'N' Grunters" race Dave and I ran in the Hudson Valley north of New York. Ugh.

Saying goodbye

Although I love winter, I do believe it is now time to move on.
Like old friends, winter and I have moved apart. Yeah, the skiing was fun. The bitter cold spurred me to grow a beard. And it's pretty.
But I would like to starting riding my bicycle outside now.
Photo by Kris.

The five phases of mediocrity

Of course, this all was very predictable, and you certainly can't say you weren't warned.
The progress of this blog has mirrored just about every other single endeavor I've undertaken in my life.
It's a five step process, and it goes something like this:

• 1. Idea phase -- In which it occurs to me, often after I've had a gin and tonic or two, that I should do something. Now that something can be a variety of things. It can be running a marathon, riding with the group of bike racers in town on their the weekly rides or playing the guitar.
• 2. Excitement phase -- In which I excitedly embrace something. I read books about the activity. I prepare plans. I buy equipment. I bore everyone around me with constant chatter about fartleks, bicycle tire choices or the fact that the ends of my fingers have callouses.
• 3. Starting phase -- In which I start actually doing said something. This is usually done with a flurry of activity, and is indeed, the most pleasurable phase of mediocrity. Because I am a beginner, I can still harbor the delusion that I might actually be good as said something. This spurs me to greater activity, usually to the point of overdoing said activity. I'll usually end up hurting myself.
• 4. Work phase -- In which I begin to become somewhat proficient at said something, but just enough to understand how much further I have to go to reach whatever murky, fanciful and unattainable goal I have set. Skill levels will plateau, and I'll become frustrated. Reality will set in and I'll become disillusioned. The thought "This sucks" will enter my mind often.
• 5. I quit.

So in some ways, this blog attempt is a resounding success, in that I've gone through the five phases, but have returned to continue on. That's progress. That's growth. I'm so proud of myself.