Yearbook

There were lots of events back in high school that students looked forward to every year.  The first day of school. Homecoming.  Christmas break.  Science Fair (geeks only).  Spring break.  Senior Week (seniors only).  Prom (non-geeks only).  Snow days (well, if there were such a thing as ‘snow days’ in Florida I’m sure we all would have loved them).  The last day of school (sadly, non-geeks only). 

But there was always one annual event we approached with enthusiasm, excitement and just the right amount of trepidation because we knew in our hearts it was the day the worth of our existence was determined: the signing of the high school yearbook.  Or in many cases the hope that our fellow classmates would sign our high school yearbooks.  After all, this was the day your self-worth was put to the test and you would catch a glimpse of what the future had in store for you.  This was the day you found out if you mattered.

For some students the day the yearbooks were distributed was simply a glorification of their existence for the past nine months.  For others it had the potential to be the most traumatizing event of the entire year; even more so than the time their 1:124 scale model volcano failed to erupt in front of 150 of their fellow peeks (peer + geek = peek) in the city Science Fair.

As for me, I always thought I was somewhere in-between on the glorification/traumatization scale.  On the glorification end of the spectrum I played on a high school athletic team (arguably, since the sport was golf), I played basketball twice a week and could hold my own against the guys on the school team, I dated regularly (arguably) and I was a member of the National Honor Society.  On the traumatization side I didn’t play on the school’s football team (an automatic glorification in our school), I wasn’t a partyer (beer drinker) until the middle of my senior year, I spent a lot more time with my pals than I did with my girlfriends and I was a member of the National Honor Society (yeah, this one could go either way).  Where I wound up on the scale each year was akin to playing a game of Russian roulette.

Sorry to leave you hanging, but the remainder of this tale will be included in

My Life: Everything but

BUY THE BOOK

Part 2

BUT, you ask: 

Part 2?  What happened to Part 1?  Did I miss something?

Fear not!  Part 1 is going to press at this very moment.  

Hopefully it will be available around Labor Day.

As for Part 2, I'm looking at Valentine's Day 2014: a much better

gift for your significant other than flowers or chocolate.

Well, less expensive, anyway.   

Annie's Song

Annie’s Song

Today I attended the memorial service for Annie.  Annie is the grandmother of a man I have worked with for the past 10 years.  He always spoke highly of his grandmother and when she passed—peacefully and of natural causes—he handled it as well as could be expected.  You see, after more than 104 years of life on this planet Annie told him she was ready to go home, so when the time came three days ago he was prepared.  That’s what grandmothers do: prepare their children and their children for whatever life happens to throw their way.

I listened intently as the pastor spoke of Annie’s life: Her commitment to God and church; her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren; and her 60 years of teaching the same Sunday School class (she was still teaching when she was 100 years old!).  I met Annie’s son, a youngster of 80 who said he once told his mother he hoped he had her genes so he too could live to see 100.  Annie’s reply: ‘You couldn’t fit in my jeans!’  Something tells me I would have loved this lady.

I thought about Annie and what she’s seen in her lifetime.  Born in November of 1908, she was a mere three years old when the unsinkable Titanic met its watery grave.  She was 11 when prohibition in the United States was ratified.  She was 21 when Wall Street crashed, setting off the Great Depression.  She was 33 when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, signaling the beginning of World War II.  She was 47 when the first McDonald’s opened.  She was 55 when John F. Kennedy was assassinated.  She was 64 during the Watergate scandal that led to the eventual resignation of Richard M. Nixon.  She was 72 when Ronald Reagan became President of the United States.  She was 87 at the time of the Centennial Olympic Park bombing.  She was 92 when the World Trade Center was destroyed.  And she was 104 when she made her presence known in heaven.

After the service Annie was going to be buried next to her husband.  After more than 50 years of being apart, they were going to be together once again. 

Midway through today’s service there was a problem with the church’s audio system, rendering the microphones inoperable.  A young man and a young woman were about to perform a song Annie specifically wanted sung at her service when the cassette player that would be playing the accompanying music suddenly became inoperable as well.  The duo had to sing the song acapella—without any musical accompaniment whatsoever.  You know, like in the good old days.

I couldn’t help but think Annie would have wanted it this way.    

Cover Letter (preceding the world's longest resume--somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 pages)

When my next book, My Life: Everything but BUY THE BOOK! (Part 1 of 2) is published the following will be on the back cover.  When the book is published I'm going to ask for your help encouraging the editors of the newspaper to give me a shot!!!  Read on:

To: Editor, Atlanta Journal-Constitution

I believe it's necessary I point out your newspaper has been missing something for the past two decades that was the original reason I was a loyal subscriber in the first place: the thrice-weekly columns of my all-time favorite writer: the late, great Lewis Grizzard.  Trust me when I say that as a loyal University of Florida graduate, it is difficult for me to admit there is in fact one good thing to come out of the University of Georgia.  Grizzard, born and raised in nearby Moreland, Georgia had a major influence on my writing style and it's beginning to pay dividends.  I've self-published five books, and the third was picked up by a prominent publishing company...that came knocking on MY door!

So now I'm ready to take it to the next level.

Consider this book as my joint job application/resume for a writing job on your editorial staff; this verbiage on the back cover is in fact my cover letter to you.  I would like to propose a new column--I could do one every day if you'd like--for your newspaper.  I wrote this book--one chapter a day--while maintaining a full time job, running 70 miles a week, caring for a houseful of cats, being the world's greatest G-Pa and staying married to my wife of 36 years.  Imagine what I could do if I only had to write two or three 'chapters' a week and actually had time to proofread and/or edit them.

I could be downright dangerous.

Write this Way

This evening the Barnes and Noble store on Peachtree Road in downtown Atlanta hosted an author book-signing event.  I’ve attended several in my life but none like this one.  You see, this time the author was…me. 

For someone who always dreamed about writing a book and having it published, it was literally (has anyone ever used this word more appropriately?) a dream come true.  I felt both honored and humbled to see posters announcing the event…my event throughout the store.  A stack of 20 copies of the book A Few Degrees from Hell—my book were in plain sight on the counter at the front of the store, virtually impossible to miss as you walked inside.

Several rows of chairs were lined up in the corner of the store.  A small wooden desk and a single leather chair were positioned directly in front of them.  A copy of my book and a smaller version of the poster were in the middle of the desk, two black Sharpies lying in wait next to them.  You know, for autographs and personalized messages to any potential future book owners.   

I met with Karen, the store representative who set everything up for the event.  We spoke for 20 minutes or so and she told me that these types of events were ‘hit or miss,’ meaning I just might have an audience or, then again I might not.  Hell, I was still in the honored-and-humbled-to-be-invited stage.  Actual attendees would be a bonus.

About two minutes before the official start of the event, the first attendee showed up.  Karen was excited.  Me?  Not so much; it was my wife Cindy.  After I introduced the two of them, not one but two true attendees showed up and took a seat.  As they sat down in chairs in two different rows, and with Karen and Cindy in seats as well it presented the allusion that there was indeed a crowd forming.  I started informally talking to them when two more people—a young, married couple joined the gathering.  Attention: crowd control!

At this point Karen stood up in front of the audience and officially kicked off the event by introducing me and explaining that copies of my book could be purchased at the front of the store and I would be happy to autograph them at the conclusion of my presentation.  (‘No pressure,’ she added.  I like Karen.  She’s a lot like me: the type of person who couldn’t sell ice water in hell’s millionaire district.)  I have always been humbled by anyone asking for my autograph as well, and the warmth in my cheeks when she mentioned it indicated as much.  Hopefully no one noticed.

The next hour or so passed by in a flash.  I enjoyed telling the story of how I found myself running in the 2003 Badwater Ultramarathon, ‘the toughest footrace on the planet’…how Cindy giving me the video of Running on the Sun was what inspired me to do it in the first place…how my crew and I not only fared but survived running, walking and crawling 135 miles in temperatures exceeding 130 degrees through Death Valley.  Good times. 

There were stories about other runners: eventual winner Pam Reed, runner-up Dean Karnazes and four-time Badwater champion Marshall Ulrich (I mentioned all three had written books but only two of them had their titles on the shelves in the store!).  There were stories about the members of my Badwater support crew: Gary and his melting shoes as he ran next to me through the desert…Crew Chief Paula allowing me a one-minute nap at the brief stop we made at the 72-mile mark…Al venturing into the desert and asking Paula to ‘put him down for a turd’ as she was meticulously recording everyone’s intake and outtake…Eric keeping my spirits up during the 46 miles of steep climbing required of us to conquer three different mountain ranges…my son Josh pacing me to a quick 8:15 mile around the 100-mile mark to overtake the 7^th place runner…how I asked the crew not to tell me anything negative during the event because I needed to focus on all things positive (they honored my request to a fault; they didn’t even tell me they lost my American Express card while I was out in the desert putting my life on the line). 

I found it mildly amusing to find some of the most surprised expressions on the face of my very own wife.  My guess is now she might finally break down and read my book.

There was a brief period of questions and answers, my favorite being a question directed at Cindy: How did she cope with her husband running 135 miles through Death Valley?  Her answer: ‘I know when Scott sets his mind on something he’s going to go for it, but I didn’t go on the trip with them because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing him suffer, and that in turn might jeopardize his chances of finishing.’  Hmmm; maybe she read the book after all.

The night ended with the privilege of signing copies of my book, each with a personalized message to the recipient.  I was pleasantly surprised to sign more copies of my book than there were people in the audience; quite a few bought more than one copy.  I feel pretty confident stating my book was the top-selling title of the day at the Barnes and Noble on Peachtree Road in Atlanta, Georgia.*

*That last sentence was for Martin, an editor who told me several years ago that my narrative tales of running weren’t what sold, but rather instructional books about training and racing.  Martin, I want you to know three things: (1) A Few Degrees from Hell is a narrative book about running, not a training guide; (2) I didn’t seek a publisher for the book; the publisher sought me; and (3) I didn’t see any titles from your publishing company in this particular Barnes and Noble, but I did see one of mine.

Martin, maybe you were wrong.  Perhaps I have the write stuff after all.  

Compelling Reasons

Compelling Reasons

Two days ago—on the eve of the Peachtree Road Race I posted the following on Facebook:

If anyone can give me a really, really compelling reason why I should give you my Peachtree Road Race T-shirt, it’s yours!!

The rules:

1.     I am the sole judge of this contest.

2.     Entries must be submitted by 4:30 a.m. tomorrow morning (EST) via Facebook (Note: This is the time I would be leaving my house to run the race and I wanted to think about the entries while I ran.)

3.     Winner must provide me a mailing address (or come by my house to get the shirt…or find me at the finish line…or send a carrier pigeon to locate me (winner’s choice).

4.     I will use your winning entry in a future book I’m writing (Note: This one!).

5.     Winner must be satisfied with an XL.

So once I got back from the race yesterday I looked over the entries from what I considered to be the leading contenders.  Here they are in no particular order:

•  Alan, who submitted a photo of a gun with a dog held to its head with the caption ‘If you don’t I’ll shoot this dog.’  (Note: Most everyone who knows me knows how much I love animals, but I still found this entry funny if not for the sheer absurdity of it.)

• Ronnie, whose reason was he ‘works 96 hours a week to provide for my family and could use an awesome T-shirt (Sorry, Ronnie—I had to disqualify you for calling it an ‘awesome’ shirt.  My sister’s post on Facebook says it all: ‘Is this the shirt that gets uglier every year?’  Yes.  Yes it does, and it did so again.).

•  Jeff, who wanted the shirt ‘to prevent Gordon Cherr from running shirtless—don’t make me provide pictures!’  However, photographs of a shirtless Gordon have (easy now) ‘graced’ the pages of the Darkside Running Club newsletter on more than one occasion.  At this point it’s impossible for my eyeballs to burn any more than they already have.  No shirt for you, Jeff—you’re a little late to the party, but I do like your thinking.

•  Eric, who says he’s never run Peachtree and probably never will but wanted to wear it so someone could say to him ‘Boy it sure was wet that year’ and he would reply ‘What are you talking about?’  Eric predicated his entry on the weather forecast for race day that called for a ‘100% chance of rain.’  Guess what?  It didn’t.  Sorry, Eric: no shirt for you since your imaginary scenario could never play out.  You should know better than counting on the weather gurus being right.

• Mark, because when he runs through his neighborhood people always shout ‘Please!  Put a shirt on!  We’re trying to eat over here!’  He thinks his neighbors would appreciate him wearing a shirt.  I think his neighbors should be grateful Mark and not Gordon lives there.  Mark—you might want to make a trip to Target and pick up a little something to hide that appetite suppressant torso of yours (consider me the voice of experience).

•  Leslie, who was trying to think of something clever along the lines of ‘a wet T-shirt contest.’  Sorry Leslie—not even close (see Eric’s storyline above).

•  Francis, who ‘only got to run one Peachtree back in 1976’ when he was stationed at Fort McClellan, Alabama.  Since you ran Peachtree three years before I ran my first one, no T-shirt for you, Francis!

•  Beth, who submits that ‘I’m you’re number one fan and you’re my number one fan.’  Tough to argue with that one, Beth, but in all honesty one day you’re going to have a whole lot more T-shirts than I ever dreamed of having.  (See, I really am your number one fan!)  

•  Melissa, with the shortest, sweetest and undoubtedly oddest entry: ‘I love you.’  Moving on.

•  JoEllen, who wants to give the T-shirt to her daughter ‘whom I am making run this summer in hopes it will ‘take’ and when she is wearing it I will tell her: remember the running stories I told you about the guy I used to work with?  He’s the one who gave you that shirt.  If he can run more than 130,000 miles in his life you can run three today!’     

 Not that I needed help deciding on the most compelling reason, I had some anyway:

•  Sheryl: ‘I vote for Jo’s daughter!  You could have a hand in creating a lifelong runner!’

•  Ryan and Felicia: ‘I vote for JoEllen.   If a shirt can inspire a girl to take up the sport that is a part of our lives and possibly change hers…that is a noble and compelling reason.’

Sheryl, Ryan and Felicia—I couldn’t agree more.  Those sentiments pretty much echo what I’ve been preaching since I ran my first Peachtree Road Race way back in 1979.

Therefore, JoEllen’s daughter will be getting this year’s Peachtree Road Race T-shirt.  My challenge to her is that she stick with running and earn the Peachtree T-shirt on her own in 2014!   

I feel honored to be able to say I’ve run the Peachtree Road Race 35 consecutive times over the course of five different decades.  One day I hope to make those numbers 50 and six, respectively. 

When that day comes I just might keep the T-shirt for myself.