Number 11 - Binge Watch an Entire Television Season in One Day

For six years I always looked forward to circling a certain week in August on my calendar; the week Cindy and her girlfriends made their annual pilgrimage to the beach.  For that was the week I made my annual pilgrimage to my living room where I would catch up on the latest season of the HBO series Dexter.  I called the week ‘Dexfest’ and enjoyed it immensely for the first six years of the show.

However, things changed during seasons seven and eight.  Cindy opened her first oil and vinegar store during season seven and her second store during season eight.  The girls’ pilgrimages to the beach--and Dexfest both came to a screeching halt: To this day I still don’t know how things turned out for Dexter Morgan, America’s favorite serial killer.

Which is why I was looking forward to this past Saturday: Cindy would be spending the day preparing for a party she was hosting at her store that evening, leaving the entire day for me to do what I wanted to do.  Since I had never watched an entire season of any television show in a single day, I thought this presented the opportune time to try binge watching (translation: rendering myself useless for an entire day).  I was all set to catch up on season seven of Dexter when a friend of mine told me Friday afternoon she was going to watch House of Cards over the weekend as she had heard really good things about it.  I had heard similar reviews of the show and decided House of Cards would be the main course on my Saturday menu.

Doing a little research I discovered season one of House of Cards was 675 minutes long, or 11 hours and 15 minutes.  Knowing I could fast-forward through the theme song of episodes 2 through 13 (Note: I always listen to the them song during episode 1 of any show just in case it’s a really catchy tune—the theme song for Cinemax’ Banshee being a prime example), that left approximately 11 hours of viewing to squeeze into a typical Saturday.  You may be wondering ‘How can a Saturday be typical?’  I wake up every Saturday at 3:45 a.m.  I drink coffee and take care of minor household chores (dirty dishes, laundry, litter box) until 5:15 at which time I drive to Al’s house for our weekly 10-mile run.  I’m home by 7:35 and take care of errands (grocery shopping, banking business, filling up the gas tank) that normally take me until 10 a.m.  Then the rest of the day is mine until I hit the sack around 10 p.m.  In other words, after my run with Al that left me with enough time to watch 11 hours of television if I didn’t stray too far from the living room.  The stage was set for the ultimate waste of a day.  Here’s how things played out.

The day got off to a fast start, as I started watching Kevin Spacey (magnificent in the lead role, by the way) take Washington D.C. by storm while I was having my morning coffee, literally seconds after I woke up.  By the time I met up with Al I already had the first episode under my belt.  (I might add I was already totally absorbed in the show.)

I went for my every-fourth-Saturday-morning haircut at 8:35 a.m., about 25 minutes before the salon opened.  I’ve known one of the stylists for many years and she always cuts my hair before opening the salon at its official opening time of 9:00 a.m.  When I arrived a man and his son were standing outside—in 30-degree temperatures, no less—and the father said to me ‘They don’t open until 9:00’ at the exact moment the front door opened just far enough to let me inside.  My haircut took six minutes (as always) that left another 15 minutes or so before the store was open to business.  I volunteered to go out the back door since the father and son were still standing outside, thus sparing her from any embarrassing questions when they saw I had gotten a haircut.  The stylist took me up on my offer, so I went around the back of the building only to realize I couldn’t get in my truck and leave because it was parked about 15 yards from where the father and son were standing and I didn’t want them to see I had not only entered the salon 25 minutes before it was open but that I had gotten a haircut as well.  So guess who else was now standing outside in 30-degree temperature wasting valuable seconds he could be plopped down in front of a television set watching House of Cards?                          

I stopped on the way home to pick up a couple grocery items as well as a bottle of rum Cindy needed for her party, my internal clock ticking all the while as I knew I still only had one episode under my belt.  Once I got home I watched the second episode when I decided to take my truck in for an oil change at the garage located about 2 ½ miles from the house.  As Cindy was busy preparing for her party I opted to run back home after dropping off my truck, getting home just in time to turn on the television to watch…

The Florida Gators play the Ole Miss Rebels in college basketball. Although they struggled periodically throughout the game the Gators ultimately came out on top. Since the game lasted slightly longer than two hours, I sacrificed watching at least two episodes of House of Cards during that window of time but I figured it was worth it: Florida will be ranked # 1 in the country when the next poll is released.

It was now just past 2:00 p.m. and time for me to get down to business.  I squeezed in four more episodes before Cindy packed up and left for her store.  During this time I only hit the ‘pause’ button when she was running something through the blender in the kitchen and drowning out the sound of the television.  The noise coming from the kitchen was so loud that if I didn’t know any better I would have sworn she was making granite milk shakes.  I caught a ride to the garage with Cindy so I could pick up my truck and drive it back home: One more errand complete. 

It was now 5:30 p.m. and I still had seven more episodes left.  It was time to get serious. 

As soon as I fed the cats, that is. 

Feeding the cats didn’t take too much time.  However, trying to determine which room one of the cats vomited in afterwards did.

So after finishing cat vomit mop up duty it’s now 5:45 p.m. and I still didn’t even have my finger on the fast forward button of the remote ready to bypass the theme song of episode seven.  Times-a-wastin’!  It was around 6:30 p.m. when I decided I would also fast forward through the credits at the end of each episode to gain another couple of minutes every hour: Finding out who played the role of ‘Hooker # 3’ or whom the gaffer (whatever that is) was would have to wait for another day.

From now it was just you and I, House of Cards.  For the rest of the evening know this: Your a** is MINE!

The final six episodes were easy to digest because they were absolutely delicious.  Sure, I had to battle back several 90-second naps during the course of the night—the result of a combination of being awake since 3:45 a.m., a busy day of running as well as running errands, lying back in a recliner for five straight hours and two or three (OK, three) glasses of Bailey’s Irish Cream—but just a few minutes before midnight I was able to claim victory: I successfully binge watched an entire 13-episode season of a television show in one day.

Now I figure I can move on to a double-header some weekend in the future: The 7^th season of Dexter on Saturday and the 8^th season on Sunday.  It shouldn’t that difficult: One season of Dexter only consists of 12 episodes, not 13.       

              

Number 10 – Run a Marathon when I had No Business Doing So

Before I get ahead of myself, a little background is required.

I ran my first marathon in March of 1979: The Florida Relays Marathon in Gainesville, Florida.  A couple of minutes before the race began I asked then Florida track coach Roy Benson for advice for a novice marathoner.  Coach Benson’s comment eliminated any possibility for misinterpretation: ‘Don’t run marathons.’

Fast forward to December 2012: I ran my 200^th marathon in Honolulu, Hawaii.  The trip to Oahu also served as a 35-year wedding anniversary present for Cindy and I, so having her meet me at the finish line of the marathon was pretty special seeing as she was there to see me start my first marathon almost two generations earlier.  (Did she hear Coach Benson’s advice?  Why yes she did, and thank you for asking.) 

There was a period of time when my running partners and I stayed in ‘marathon shape’ year round, the operative word being ‘was.’ 

Today that is not the case.  For the first time in my life as a runner I am not in shape to run a marathon: In between marathons #1 and #200 I’ve done everything possible to ensure my body is no longer capable of running 26.2 consecutive miles without inflicting a great amount of pain and suffering to a body that probably should have retired to the athletic attic several thousand miles ago. 

Getting back to the Honolulu Marathon (# 200, in case you’ve forgotten): Seconds after crossing the finish line in Kapiolani Park I told Cindy it would be my last marathon.  Of course it came with a caveat: Unless I could get healthy again.  

 

Last Labor Day I hosted an informal marathon consisting of five 5.2-mile loops.  My intent was to run three loops and wait for the other runners to finish so I could get their finishing times and round up the equipment once the event was over.  After I finished my third loop I was invited to run a loop with someone I hadn’t seen in a while.  Before I knew what hit me I had run just shy of 21 miles and spent the better part of an hour catching up with an old friend.  Then after I finished my fourth loop I realized I only had a couple of hours left before the last runner would finish so I figured why not make the time go by a little quicker and run one more loop and lo and behold  I had accidentally (inadvertently?) run my 201^st marathon.  (I speak the truth.)  What made it worse was this: I still did not consider myself to be ‘healthy again’ thus turning my promise of nine months ago into a lie.

Which brings me to today: I’m on the starting line of the Five Points of Life Marathon in Gainesville, Florida wearing a yellow race number.   There is no doubt I should be wearing a blue number just like last year when I ran in the accompanying half marathon.  But when I signed up four or five months ago I felt certain I would be ‘healthy again’ by the time the marathon (February 16, 2014) rolled around.  My yoga regimen (recommended by a neurosurgeon, no less) seemed to be paying off and I was still maintaining a solid (albeit much slower) mileage base that was very comparable to the distance I was running when I could complete a marathon at the drop of a hat.  (Our running group had a slogan back then: Stay in marathon shape year round because you never know when one is going to break out.  Believe me: I upheld my end of the bargain.)  But today I can assure you: In no way, shape or form am I ready to run a marathon: In my entire running career I have never had to make such an admission. 

As you may have gathered Cindy gave me a good dose of guilt before I actually made it to the starting line (admittedly I deserved every bit of it).  Telling her I would hold off deciding whether or not I would run the full marathon ‘until I saw how I felt’ didn’t seem to do much good, probably because she knows me well enough to know I had no intention (nor the intellect) of opting for the shorter yet-much-more-reasonable distance of the half marathon--regardless of how I felt.

Once the race was underway I stuck to my original game plan of keeping my effort and exertion at less than 100%; I figured it was the only chance I had of gutting out 26.2 miles.  As I was running my first mile I noticed the 3:30 marathon pace group pass me by.  Soon after the 3:45 marathon pace group did the same.  (Note: I should mention that all of the half marathon pace groups passed me by as well during the first mile, even though their race started about 150 yards behind mine.)  I reached the first mile marker in a robust 8:51. (I was targeting a nine-minute pace for the entire race, meaning I would be very satisfied with a four-hour marathon.)  I was pretty happy with my first mile, at least up until the moment the 4:00 marathon pace group dusted me like there was no tomorrow.

Not the type to be easily dismayed I maintained my pace—give or take a few seconds—for the next 12 miles until I reached the point of no return: The 13-mile mark where a volunteer was stationed to direct the half marathon runners to the right for the last tenth of a mile to the finish line, and the marathon runners to the left for another 13.2 miles of undulating hills and climbing temperatures before they would reach their respective finish line.  I turned to the right, only to be stopped by the stalwart volunteer who refused to let me pass seeing as I had a yellow number indicating I had signed up to do the Full Monty and there was no way in hell I would be the cause of him not being named the local running club’s Volunteer of the Year in 2014 because he allowed me with a yellow number to run the last tenth of a mile reserved for runners with a blue number.  I rehearsed that last sentence in my head so many times over the next 13.2 miles I almost started to believe it myself; I figured I would have no problem selling it to Cindy in a couple of hours or so.

Somehow I managed to maintain the same pace for another 11 miles.  I was on pace for a four-hour marathon but was quickly succumbing to the various ailments caused by allowing my ‘good’ left leg to do most of the heavy lifting for the better part of 24 miles.  (More background: My right leg has, for all intents and purposes been on the ‘disabled list’ since September 2010, which in condensed form explains the yoga, the reduced mileage and the overall non-marathon ready condition I find myself in today.) 

But then something inside of me clicked.  Maybe it was because I feared this might be my last marathon ever and I wanted to finish it in less than four hours.  Maybe it was because I was in Gainesville where I ran my first marathon almost 35 years ago and how cool it would be to run my last marathon—if it in fact turned out to be my last—in the same city.  Maybe it was because I wanted to do well in my age group if this ultimately became my marathon swan song and coincidentally there just happened to be two men just in front of me who looked like they might be right around my age. 

Whatever it was, I feel comfortable saying I ran those last 2.2 miles about as well as I’ve ever run 2.2 miles in my life.  Was I in extreme pain?  Yes.  Would I be admitted into an ER if I had run directly into one without breaking stride?  Absolutely.  Did I FOR ONE MINUTE think I was doing something that could cause irreparable damage to my body in the future?  Without a doubt.  Did any of this matter?  Allow me to clue you in on a little phrase recently introduced in the running community that I’ve lived by three decades before it ever found its way onto a T-shirt: Harden the f*** up.  In other words no, none of it mattered at all.  The only thing that mattered was running hard enough to finish in less than four hours, regardless of how much it hurt or how much permanent damage it might be doing.

I crossed the finish line in three hours, 55 minutes and 21 seconds.  I won my age group.  I ran what may turn out to be my final marathon in the city where it all began: Gainesville, Florida.  Time to quit while I’m ahead, right?  Especially considering Cindy wasn’t happy (‘But I won my age group, dear!’) that I ran the full marathon and didn’t believe my story about the 13-mile volunteer for a second, even though by now I had convinced myself it was the absolute truth.

The next morning I woke up after a restless night with the absolute worst pain in my right kidney: If I didn’t know any better I would have sworn it was used as a punching bag by Rocky Balboa because he wasn’t able to find a suitable side of beef.  As I stumbled into the living room of our good friends Ferit and Gizem Toska-- whom we were staying with for the weekend, I fell onto the couch to watch cartoons with their two-year old son Derin.  On the television a talking taxi was returning a young boy who had become separated from his mother.  As she thanked the taxi for returning her son, the boy took off running to play with his friends.  The mother called out to her son:

Don’t run, honey.  You could hurt yourself.

I think I just might get that phrase printed on a couple of T-shirts.  One for me, and one for Roy Benson who told me the same thing almost 35 years ago, although it not so many words.           

Number 9 - Running Hot and Cold

Today is Wednesday, February 12, 2014: The day the Governor of the state of Georgia closed the city of Atlanta.

Let me back up for a moment.  Two weeks ago today an unresponsive and unprepared Atlanta became the laughing stock of the nation when three inches of snow resulted in devastation and destruction other cities might experience from an even meaner side of Mother Nature.  You know; something along the lines of a tornado, hurricane or earthquake.  But then again this is the Deep South, where the ability to drive in the snow is needed about as often as a Georgia native turns down grits at the local Waffle House.     

So two days ago, in a public announcement to proclaim a legitimate State of Emergency the Governor—with two-week old egg still all over his face—essentially requested Atlanta to shut ‘er down at the prospect of an impending ice storm. 

After turning on the television this morning I can only say: Good call, Governor.  Your chance of being reelected just improved and maybe, just maybe the late night shows won’t use you as fodder in their opening monologues for a while.  Then again, the world’s busiest airport is closed, the production of Coca-Cola has hit the pause button and perhaps worst of all, the filming of The Walking Dead in the Atlanta suburb of Senoia is at a standstill.  Let’s hope for a quick thaw once the ice storm has run its course.

Speaking of ‘run,’ today’s was rather unique.  I left the house this morning around 9:30 and was greeted by a stiff breeze that brought the wind chill down to a brisk 17 degrees.  On the streets I encountered numerous broken branches and tree limbs; the last time I had seen anything like it was after a hurricane passed through town.   Apparently last night was Arbor Day’s evil twin (Pearl Arbor Day?) as the combination of sleet, ice and wind did quite a number on the local foliage, turning the gray asphalt streets into a veritable sea of green.  One thing is for sure: Whoever is responsible for cleaning up this mess nature left behind is in for a very busy next couple of days.

But the obstacles on the asphalt were not what made todays run unique: Rather it was the dramatic change in temperature I experienced five miles into it. 

As the Governor had advised against driving during the ice storm, and with me being the law-abiding citizen that I am, I followed his advice and opted to run over to the assisting living complex Cindy’s dad was living in to take him some personal items he wanted.  When I got to his room I opened the door and found him asleep in his bed.  I was hoping so much he would be snoring, because a couple nights ago something inspired me to create several colorful analogies to describe snoring.  NOTE: I PROMISED MY WIFE I WOULD MAKE IT VERY CLEAR THAT SHE WAS NOT THE SOURCE OF THIS INSPIRATION.  (Are you happy now, sweetheart?)  I so much wanted to tell you I found him asleep sounding like his tonsils were caught in a bear trap ... or a ballpoint pen being stuck in an electric pencil sharpener… or a dentist cracking open a jaw so he could insert a titanium post to support a crown to replace the incisor on the right side of your mouth since you did such a horrible job taking care of it all these years. 

But he was actually sleeping quite peacefully; much more so than Cindy was a couple nights ago.  NOTE: THIS IN NO WAY NEGATES MY NOTE IN THE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH.  Which brings me to what made today’s run so unique: The thermostat in the room was set at a robust 85 degrees.  (I didn’t even know thermostats could be set that high.  The thermostat in my car can be set as low as 60 degrees or as high as 80 degrees; anything beyond and the setting reads either ‘low’ or ‘high.’)   In other words, the temperature in the room was almost 70 degrees higher than what it was outside.  What made matters worse: He woke up while I was in the room and wanted to talk, giving me a good 30 minutes to dry out and get warm before heading back out for the five miles back.

On the run home it took me a couple of miles before my teeth (and a certain crown where an incisor used to be) stopped chattering and the wet stuff covering my eyeballs (forgive me, for I suck at science) started thawing out.  All in all I enjoyed the run, a rather peaceful 10 miles only disturbed by the occasional howl of the wind or the distant murmur of tree limbs being fed into a wood chipper which, if I didn’t know any better would have thought was the sound of someone’s tonsils being caught in a bear trap.          

   

Number 8 - Place a Bet

This year’s Super Bowl presented a couple of prospects for doing something I’ve never done before.  Having seen every single one of the first 47 Super Bowls I considered skipping this one altogether, thus making me ‘that guy’ that didn’t see the biggest game of the year.  Then again perhaps this would be the perfect opportunity for me to place a legitimate bet for the first time in my life.  After all the Denver Broncos, the highest scoring team in the history of professional football was playing a team led by a second-year quarterback.  The mighty Broncos were led by Peyton Manning, who this season had passed for the most touchdowns and the most yardage in the history of the National Football league and been named the League’s Most Valuable Player for a record fifth time.  The line in Las Vegas was Denver by three points: Hell, I would have given Seattle two touchdowns without blinking an eye. 

So skip the game, or bet on the Broncos?  It seemed pretty obvious to me. 

I considered my history of watching the first 47 Super Bowls: The first one in 1967 with my dad in a hotel room in Dallas as we were driving cross-country before moving to Hawaii; the 1969 game and rushing outside at halftime to throw the pigskin in the front yard with my best friend, fighting over which one of us would be Joe Namath; the heart-breaking 1980 game as the Steelers won their fourth Super Bowl in six years by defeating my favorite team, the Los Angeles Rams.  (Yes, at one time I actually liked professional football and even had a favorite team—an odd choice in that I had never even been to Los Angeles before.)

Then I considered my tendency to be compulsive about things: Running every day since the fall of 1978 (if I considered the equator as one lap, today I would have been running through Romania—for the sixth time); my quest to run 50 consecutive Peachtree Road Races (this year will make 36); a challenge I met in 2013 by writing a story every single day of the year (published in two books—Parts 1 and 2 of My Life: Everything But BUY THE BOOK!).  Being only two years away from watching 50 Super Bowls in a row, I deferred to my other option: Placing a sure-fire bet on the Denver Broncos.

The last time I gambled was during college.  Cindy and I used to drive from Gainesville to the Ocala Fronton to watch Jai-alai, perhaps the fastest moving sport you may have never heard of.  Long story short, it’s like a gigantic game of handball played on a three-sided basketball court with the players wearing boomerang-shaped bamboo gloves and throwing a goatskin-covered ball at speeds over 200 miles per hour.  The players sported names like Chucho #1, Chucho #2, Javier the third and Ronaldo IV.  We would place $2 wagers on a quinella, meaning we would have to correctly pick the first and second place winners in any order (for example, if we picked Chucho #2 and Ronaldo IV, as long as they were the top two performers we would win the bet, regardless of which one of them actually won the game).  We did quite well; if memory serves Cindy and I tended to be a bit compulsive when it came to our Tuesday and Friday night trips to Ocala.  The people working at the Fronton may have even considered us as ‘regulars.’

So now, 40 years removed from my last real wager, I was faced with finding a bookie.  That may have proved difficult, seeing as I’ve never met a bookie in my entire life.  But fortunately I have a friend who has a friend who knows a guy who knows another guy who has a friend who knows a guy who knows a bookie.  I gave my friend five $20 bills (the same friend who has a friend who knows a guy who knows another guy who has a friend who knows a guy who can give my money to the bookie), confident I would be getting back ten $20 bills after the big game.

A little background before kickoff: The past seven days had been pure hell.  Atlanta had a devastating three-inch snowfall (no laughing) the Tuesday before the Super Bowl.  My older son totaled his car after hitting a patch of black ice and smashing into a high concrete burb (he wasn’t hurt), my younger son had a similar accident and wrecked the front of my prized Gator Truck (he wasn’t hurt; I was—emotionally) and Cindy (as well as Justin, since Cindy made an eight-mile four-hour round trip in a snow and ice storm to pick him up on the side of the road) had to spend Tuesday night at her law firm because she couldn’t drive home since Atlanta was paralyzed from the snow and ice (like I told you before: no laughing).  Then on Super Bowl Sunday our dishwasher decided to call it quits and a couple pieces of tile broke loose from our newly remodeled front porch.  Throw in one of our cats ‘scooching’ across the carpet and leaving behind a couple of brown streaks for me to clean up and I had all the proof I needed that Karma simply hates me. 

Once toe met leather and the Super Bowl was officially underway, I had a good feeling about the game’s outcome since I was long overdue for Karma to pay me a visit.  I should have known better: Seeing my boyhood idol Joe Namath tossing the coin on the 50-yard line before the start of the game wearing a coat made out of polar bear (If I had to guess) should have tipped me off on what was going to happen next.  In other words whatever it was, it was sure to be ugly.  On the very first snap of the game Peyton Manning was calling signals and took a step towards his offensive line, a split second before the center hiked the ball to the spot Manning had been standing two split seconds earlier.  The ball rolled into Denver’s end zone for a safety.  After 12 seconds of the 48^th Super Bowl the score was: Seattle – 2, Denver – 0.  The next time Denver had the ball Manning threw an interception.  Things went downhill from there:  Manning threw an interception that Seattle turned into a field goal. Manning threw an interception that Seattle returned for a touchdown.  At halftime the score was 22 – 0.  Denver had been hapless on offense for 30 minutes, but things had to improve in the second half; they just had to.  Karma, are you listening?

Apparently not.  Seattle’s Percy Harvin returned the second half kickoff for a touchdown.  The play took 12 seconds off the clock, the same amount of time it took Seattle to score in the first half.  Ah, so there’s that Karma I was looking for…

During the week leading up to the Super Bowl the talking heads of the NFL pregame shows were debating about whether or not Peyton Manning should be considered the ‘best (quarterback) ever’ if he led the Broncos to victory in the Super Bowl. Manning’s play on the NFL’s biggest stage reminded me of his four years playing quarterback for the Tennessee Volunteers.  Against my (and Percy Harvin’s) alma mater, the University of Florida, Manning’s Vols lost all four games by a composite score of 161 – 86, including 31 – 0 and 62 – 37 drubbings in his first two seasons.  Ironically, the year after Manning graduated the Vols won the NCAA National Championship led by quarterback Tee Martin, Manning’s former backup.  Karma can be cruel sometimes.    

As the Super Bowl drew to its inevitable conclusion (a 43 – 8 Seattle victory) I was feeling sort of sad I would never have the chance to meet the bookie who knows a guy who has a friend who knows a guy who knows another guy who knows my friend who I gave the $100 to wager for me a few days ago. 

As for Karma—well, like I said earlier: Karma hates me. 

As for Peyton Manning: He had a sensational season in 2013, broke a lot of records and earned the love and respect of every Bronco fan around the world.  But when all is said and done, even though he earns a kazillion dollars a year Peyton Manning and I have one thing in common:

Neither one of us won a Super Bowl this year.

Karma doesn’t think much of Peyton Manning either.