Number 15 - Made to be Broken

The following story may or not be based on actual incidents that may or may not have occurred to people that may or may or may not exist.  It could also be a figment of my imagination, a story someone related to me a long time ago or something I dreamed after chasing two dozen oysters with as many bottles of beer that would fit in the silver bucket full of ice the waitress slammed on the table at Big Daddy’s a couple of nights ago.

Just know this: Fiction is sometimes stranger than the truth.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s talk law and order.  On second thought, law and disorder is probably a better way of putting it.

First, a brief history lesson about Johnny Law and I is needed.  I’ve been issued seven speeding tickets in my life: The first was in 1973.  I drove off campus (I was a senior in high school at the time) for lunch and on my way back I was pulled over for driving 10 miles over the speed limit (35 MPH in a 25 MPH residential area).  My fine was $25, quite a bit to pay for a Huskee Junior and a vanilla shake at the time.  My last speeding ticket was in 1985.  I was on my way to get a haircut when Power Station’s Some Like it Hot, my favorite song at the time came on the radio.  I drove around the block just so I could listen to the entire song.  Big mistake: Once the sounds of the bass came blaring through the speakers my right foot uncontrollably got heavier and heavier, resulting in flashing blue lights and a $75 fine for speeding.  In between there were five others, but the sum total of all of my fines is still less than the $750 ‘super speeder’ ticket a buddy of mine received for doing 30 miles over the speed limit on the I-285 perimeter around Atlanta.  (If you’ve never driven on I-285, you should know that driving 30 miles over the speed limit barely keeps up with the regular flow of traffic.  Except during rush hour, when you’re lucky to be able to drive as fast as 30 miles per hour under the speed limit.)   

My other encounters with the Men in Blue:

I was involved in an accident—totally my fault as I ran a red light and smashed into another vehicle—and was issued a citation for ‘Failure to Yield.’  A more suitable citation would have been for ‘Flying too Low’ or possibly ‘DWNBDS’ (Driving With No Business Doing So; I trust you can do the math): Believe me: It coulda/woulda/probably shoulda have been a WHOLE lot worse than simply ‘failure to yield.’

I was also issued a citation for ‘Failure to Move Over.’  I won’t go into detail—it’s been well documented in another book and I don’t need to go into any more detail about the incompetency of the judicial system of the sh*thole of a town where it occurred (but if you’re interested pick up a copy of Distance Memories).  Let me just say I doubt I’ll ever be sworn in as Mayor of Tyrone, Georgia anytime soon.  

Then there was that nasty incident in Albany, Georgia several years ago (also documented in Distance Memories—tell the truth: NOW you want a copy, don’t you?) where I was the recipient of a failed citizen’s arrest.  Long story short: Fast marathon + hot day + running shorts drenched in perspiration + not-quite-quick-enough change into dry clothes +public parking lot + local redneck looking for trouble = allegations of indecent exposure.

Now back to the original story.

Sum total: I’ve been issued nine citations in my lifetime up until now.  All were unintentional in the vein that I wasn’t trying to get a ticket although I will admit to speeding on all seven occasions and (wink wink) failing to yield; I will NOT admit to failing to move over (sorry, but you’ll have to read about it in Distance Memories).

This made me wonder if I had it in me to intentionally get a citation.  If I were to knowingly break a law, regulation or rule.  After all, aren’t rules made to be broken?  What’s the worst that could happen?  A fine?   Incarceration?  A criminal record?  Didn’t I have anything better to do with my time?  So many questions; it was time to look for some answers.

Before you get all nervous and excited there are two things you need to know:

(1) I am the most law-abiding person you might ever meet.  I use my turn signal to turn into my driveway; I live on a cul de sac.  If I’m driving I won’t take a sip of your incredibly delicious and delightful I-can-almost-taste-it-in-my-mouth home brewed wheat beer if I’m driving—even if your house is a couple of football fields away from mine and we just so happen to live in the same subdivision.  So yeah: I follow the rules.  

(2) You need to know which ‘laws’ I wanted to test.  There happen to be two obscure laws in Georgia (actually, there are a whole lot more than that.  Many more, actually. but I narrowed it down to these two) that I would bet my last dollar a policeman wouldn’t recognize if it walked up to him, dropped its pants and pooped on his shoes:

·      No one may carry an ice cream cone in their back pocket if it is Sunday.

·      It is illegal to say ‘Oh Boy’ in Jonesboro.

You can probably imagine in which town I decided to throw all caution to the wind, right?  Besides, out of curiosity I wanted to find out if the police were even aware of these two laws.  If I was a betting man…

So I headed off to Jonesboro one Saturday morning wearing the loosest pair of pants I could find, knowing I would be putting an ice cream cone in the back pocket at some point.  I found a place that sold ice cream cones and sat in the parking lot before realizing the chances of finding a policeman were pretty slim since I hadn’t seen one in over 30 minutes and there wasn’t a doughnut shop anywhere in sight.  I drove to another shopping mall and hit pay dirt: Ice cream cones for sale and a 24-hour doughnut shop right around the corner…with two police cruisers parked right outside.  I bought myself an ice cream cone, took a few bites and waited patiently until I saw the two policemen get up from their table inside the doughnut shop and head to the cash register.  I carefully slid the cone and its remaining vanilla ice cream inside into my back pocket and headed towards the vicinity of their vehicles in nervous anticipation of getting their attention.

It worked.  They both gave me a double take as I walked in front of them.  The one with the doughnut powder on his chin elbowed the other (holding a bag of doughnut holes under his arm) and said to me: ‘Hey, do you know you have an ice cream cone in your back pocket?’

To which I replied (wait for it…): ‘What are you going to do; arrest me?’

(It doesn’t get much better than this, people!)

Then this from doughnut hole holder: ‘Are you being a smart ass, boy?’

He had no idea how close I was to having just cause for a citizen’s arrest of my own. 

But I didn’t want to push my luck.  After all, they were letting me slide on that ice cream cone caper I was pulling off—whether they knew it or not.  

Believe it…or not.    

Number 14 - Run for Twelve Hours

  

At first glance the idea of running for 12 hours may come across as a bit strange.  Perhaps if you knew the reason, it may make it a little less strange.  Or quite possibly a lot stranger; it all depends on your perspective.

I’ve run in races that have required me to run for hours in multiples of six—beginning with six and going all the way up to 36.  With one exception: I’ve never run a race that took me 12 hours to complete.

There were several 40-mile races that took me six hours to complete; my best 100-mile run took me 18 hours (as did dropping out at my first Western States Endurance Run after 62 miles!); there have been several 24-hour timed runs that I stuck around for until the final gun; I finished the Western States Endurance Run (two years after my aforementioned drop) in 30 hours; and I completed the 135-mile Badwater Ultramarathon in 36 hours.

Six hours.  Eighteen hours.  Twenty-four hours.  Thirty hours.  Thirty-six hours. 

I like things neat and orderly.  Look in my closet and you’ll find shirts of a similar color hanging side-by-side.  Look at my compact disc storage unit and you’ll find all of them alphabetized by artist.  I can always find my car keys, reading glasses and cell phone because I always put them in the same place. 

Now you can understand why I needed to run a race that would take me 12 hours to finish: I need my running to be neat and orderly just like everything else in my life. 

With that goal in mind, what could be better than a 12-hour timed run?  The Stroll in Central Park 12-Hour Endurance Run in Cumming, Georgia was just what I was looking for.  The fact that the Race Director is a friend of mine who always puts on a first class event made the decision even easier.  So one cool and breezy March morning I found myself on the starting line—a crack in the asphalt of the 1.03-mile path encircling the baseball and soccer fields of Central Park—ready, willing and hopefully able to keep my feet moving for the next 12 hours.

But before I begin, a little more backstory is necessary.

It’s been almost two years since I ran my last ultramarathon (any race longer than the standard marathon distance of 26.2 miles).  I swore off running marathons in December 2012 after reaching lifetime marathon #200 (since then I’ve accidentally run two more, but I digress).  Why the long-distance inactivity?  One part chronic fatigue, one part old age and two parts various physical ailments that are collaborating to do their absolute best to limit my long runs to no more than 15 miles.

So once I told two people--both well aware of my physical limitations--of my intentions of running for 12 hours, I didn’t get a lot of support or encouragement.  Instead they both made me make a promise they both knew me well enough to know I would have a hard time keeping:

·      To my friend Al, I promised I wouldn’t run a marathon.

·      To my wife Cindy, I promised I would only run ‘for a few hours’ and ‘help out' the rest of the time.  

Getting back to the race…

The morning was sensational.  At 7:00 a.m. there were the crisp sounds of horsehide meeting metal bats coming from the baseball fields, the enthusiastic screams of supportive parents coming from the soccer fields and the buzz of the runners competing in the 12-hour run all fresh and full of energy, dreams and aspirations of what was to come in the day ahead.  I had no complaints the first few hours, as it appeared my physical ailments just might have decided to take the day off.

Around noon I discovered they didn’t take the day off; rather, they just slept in late.  Once they showed up, the physical ailments made it virtually impossible for me to run each loop without a walk break or two thrown in every 1.03 miles.  It wasn’t too long after that I had to resort to walking each loop, with a run break or two thrown in if I was lucky.  In the end it was pretty much all I could do to walk the last couple of loops.  It was at this time one of the volunteers posted a picture of me walking on on Facebook with the caption: ‘Scott Ludwig is NOT running a marathon.’

It didn’t take long for my friend Al to make a comment:  No, but he is probably walking a marathon. Tell him I said to stop. He knows he'll pay for it tomorrow!

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that his final seven words were on the money. 

Al hit the nail on the head with his first eight words as well, because I pretty much did walk the equivalent distance of a marathon that afternoon, equating to 25+ long, lonely loops around Central Park.

As for that first marathon distance in the morning, however, I ran every one of those 25+ loops.  So I sort of kept my promise: I didn’t run a marathon; I went ahead and did two.     

As for Cindy, if it’s any consolation, I didn’t run the entire duration of the event.  Did I run most of it?  Yes; but not all of it.  My 12-hour run will have to wait for another day.  So I sort of kept my promise to her as well.

Don’t you just love semantics?

Number 13 - Swear off Soft Drinks

I’ve never truly given up anything for Lent.  To do without something that has been a constant in my adult life always frightened me: Hell, if it was in my life it had to be something I either needed or wanted, right?  What possible reason could there be for doing without? 

According to most of the sources I could find, here is the meaning of Lent:

To prepare for Easter by observing a period of fasting, repentance, moderation

 and spiritual discipline.

OK, point taken: This year I’ll give Lent an honest effort.  For years my close friends, my distant friends on social media and who could forget, science (damn you, science) have been warning me of the perils of drinking Diet Coca Cola, my beverage of choice.  ‘Diet Coke can be used to clean the corrosion off of battery cables,’ they warned.  ‘Diet Coke can be used to clean toilets,’ they advised.  ‘Diet Coke can be used to clean the bugs off of the front bumper of a car,’ they admonished.  OK, OK; as I was saying before, this year I’ll give it an honest effort.

The first couple of hours of Day One without Diet Coke weren’t too difficult.  My normal routine calls for two cups of coffee before my morning run.  Hopefully the coffee would provide all the caffeine I needed to make it through the day.  For that day—the very first day of Lent—that was the case: The caffeine in the coffee did the trick.  However, when I got out of bed the next morning all bets were off.  I woke up with a feint headache, blurred vision, a slight touch of vertigo (or perhaps it was nausea; it was hard to distinguish) and a strong urge to go back to sleep.  Or die.  If I didn’t know better I would have sworn I was out late the night before throwing back one boilermaker after another at the Cat’s Meow up until when the bartender called for Svend the 285-pound Swedish bouncer to toss me out on my ass because I was creating a scene. 

Those first two cups of coffee didn’t seem to make a difference.  Neither did my run on a windy 40-degree morning that remedied many-a-hangover for me in the ‘80’s.  Another mid-morning cup of coffee at the office offered no relief.  Neither did the Tootsie Rolls, handful of salted almonds or White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Clif Bar.  Maybe a large plate of orange chicken and rice for lunch would do the trick.

Then again, maybe not.  The Diet Coke withdrawal pangs continued to go on.  And on and on.

And on.

Tick, tick, tick…

Time seemed to pass by slower and slower.  Seconds seemed like minutes.  Minutes seemed like hours.  Hours seemed like days.  If Father Time and molasses were in a footrace, molasses would have lapped the old fart too many times to count.    

Speaking of ‘count:’

Lent lasts for 40 days. Forty loooong days.  It’s hard to describe the experience, other than to say I can now understand and appreciate what someone with a nicotine addiction experiences when they try to quit smoking or what someone with a running addiction experiences when they try to take a rest day (don’t look at me—I’ve run every day since November 1978 and if I ever miss a day I swear I’ll tear your throat out and did I mention that running is a great stress reliever?).  

   

Tick, tick, tick…

Headache.  Nausea.  Vertigo.  Apathy.  Anger.  Frustration.   All caused by the absence of my good friend Diet Coke.

Tick, tick, tick…

My God; when will this end?

Giving up Diet Coke for Lent proved to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my entire life.  And believe me, I know the meaning of pain: I’ve had a root canal without the benefit of any anesthetic, I’ve run 135 miles across Death Valley and I sat through an entire performance of The Nutcracker in the seventh grade less.  But giving up Diet Coke?  Well, that’s just taking pain one step too far. 

Forty days?  Hell, I barely made it for 40 hours.

But it certainly seemed like 40 days. 

   

      

             

Number 12 - Create a Dessert

I’m always amazed by the number of people I know who are fascinated by The Food Channel.  They can name the shows, the stars of the shows and the soon-to-be-stars of future shows on America’s favorite (only?) network catering to (Warning: Cliché dead ahead) the way to a man’s heart.  My wife is no exception.

Long before Cindy opened her first oil and vinegar store she would stay up late on Sunday nights to watch an elimination cooking competition (think Survivor set in a kitchen), the last chef standing rewarded with their own show on which they would one day show the world how to cook the best rutabaga casserole known to man.  For the longest time I would tease Cindy because none of the meals she saw created on television in 30 minutes or less ever found its way onto our dining room table.

However that’s changed recently.  Inspired by the products carried in her store, Cindy has made some of the most amazing meals over the past two years.  I have to admit (although I’ve known it for many, many years): Cindy is one fine cook.  She created/invented/whipped up one incredible grilled cheese sandwich a couple weeks ago that turned out to be quite a hit at a birthday party her store hosted recently; I am not one bit surprised. 

Speaking of surprised, very few people know I do in fact know how to prepare a few dishes of my own.  When Cindy and I were dating, lasagna was my specialty.  Cindy always enjoyed it, although I’m not sure if it was because she liked how it tasted or because she didn’t have to cook dinner that night.  Either way my lasagna was always a hit with her.  (Chef’s secret: If I had to guess I would say that I never cooked lasagna the same way twice.  I used recipes printed on the box of spaghetti noodles, on a can of tomato sauce, from an old cookbook and sometimes I would simply rely on trying to remember what ingredients I used the last time.  And if I’m ever uncertain if the lasagna may not turn out like it’s supposed to, I add a butt load of cheese.  I’ve learned cheese can conceal almost any cooking sin.)  I’m also quite adept at putting together a bowl of cereal, cooking a frozen pizza in the oven between 350 and 425 degrees, heating leftover soup in the microwave and pouring a glass of Bailey’s Irish Cream over ice (Crushed, cubed, shaved: It doesn’t matter; I can do it all).  That last one is among my favorites as it always satisfies my sweet tooth.  Speaking of sweet tooth…    

Once recipe I regret not having is the one my Aunt Minerva (Auntie) followed for making the world’s best vanilla cake (my all-time favorite dessert).  I used to spend many afternoons in the kitchen with her as she used ‘a dash of this’ and ‘a dash of that.’  I often wish I had taken the time to write down all those dashes but Auntie would always talk—and bake as well--really, really fast and it was all I could do to listen, let alone write anything down.  Besides, I was only five years old and I didn’t know how to write yet anyway. 

Time out for an old war story: My absolute favorite baking story that just so happens to be Cindy’s absolute least favorite.  During college the Betty Crocker recipe cards were popular, and Cindy had quite the collection.  One day she tried to bake a cake from a Betty Crocker recipe card for my best friend Stan and I, but for some reason the cake ‘fell’ while baking in the oven.  Once the two layers cooled off, she tried putting one on top of the other and ‘patching’ the bad spots with the homemade icing.  While there wasn’t a name for it at the time, there is one now: Epic Fail.  Disappointed, Cindy went to the library to study while Stan and I decided to round up the ingredients Betty Crocker called for and gave the cake a shot of our own.  Several hours later Cindy returned and found a picture perfect (I cannot imagine a more literal interpretation of the phrase ‘picture perfect’) cake on the dining room table.  Standing next to the cake was the Betty Crocker recipe card; the picture of the cake was identical to the freshly baked cake next to it, right down to the tiny piece of parsley positioned in front of the cake plate.  (Were Stan and I both in the running for the crown of Ultimate Smartass?  Why yes we were, thank you very much.)

So today, following the Florida Gator victory on the basketball court over the Louisiana State Tigers I was inspired to create a dessert recipe of my very own.  I don’t count the the chocolate lover’s milkshake I made for Cindy one Valentine’s Day that consisted of everything in the grocery store I could find that I considered to be part of the chocolate family: ice cream, milk, candy (everything from Hershey to Godiva), sprinkles and syrup, among other things.  (Grocery store managers: Have you ever considered having one aisle designated for all things chocolate?  It has potential.)  The concoction wound up to be nothing more than a large glass of chocolate sludge, but Cindy pretended to like it anyway so I checked it off in the ‘win’ column.

Now back to where I was heading earlier: Ladies, gentlemen and Georgia Bulldog fans (that should cover just about everyone): I give you the recipe for the Victory Vanilla© Milk Shake:

·      Several scoops of vanilla ice cream (none of the generic store brand, please; and don’t for one second think you can substitute frozen yogurt for ice cream)

·      A generous helping of milk (2% or whole only; not skim or 1%--this is a VICTORY shake, not a LOSER shake)

·      A splash of French Vanilla Kahlua (please note: ‘French Vanilla’)

·      A dash of vanilla flavoring (if you happen to have a bottle of this from Mexico, even better!)

·      Equal dashes of Blue and Orange Curacao (remember this is a FLORIDA GATOR Victory Vanilla© Milk Shake and the official school colors must be used; after all, could there be any other reason Orange Curacao even exists?)

Here’s where it gets tricky:

·      Find a blender.

·      Plug the blender into an electrical outlet.

·      Put all of the ingredients inside the blender.

·      Put the top back on the blender.

·      Push any of the buttons on the front of the blender (Note: Not the one on the far left as this would be the ‘OFF’ button)

·      Listen to the sound of the blender until you hear the desired consistency of your milk shake come to fruition.

·      Push the ‘OFF’ button (Note: This should be the first time you touched this particular button.  Again, it’s the one on the far left.  Unless your blender was made in Japan, then it might be the one on the far right but you may have already figured that out two steps earlier.)

·      Remove the top of the blender. 

·      Pour yourself a glass of Victory Vanilla© Milk Shake.

·      Enjoy.

·      (Repeat if necessary)

As I wash out the blender and stare at the backyard out of my kitchen window, one thought comes to mind:

I wonder what recipe I could come up with using kudzu as the main ingredient?