November 22, 1963 – Shots heard around the World

In 1960 dad’s naval career landed our family in Holland.  We didn’t own a television—it wasn’t necessary since cable and satellite hadn’t been invented yet and besides, all of the shows were broadcast in Dutch anyway.  Our only means of staying up with what was going on in the world was through the handful of American-speaking radio stations available in Europe.

One Friday night my dad’s best friend and his family came to our apartment for dinner and conversation.  The son and I were playing in my room when my mom peeked in, smiled and said our guests were getting ready to leave.  It didn’t take long for us to pick up the toy soldiers strewn across the floor, and when we walked out into the living room I was caught off guard to find my mom standing in the middle of the floor crying.  It came as quite a shock, not only because she was smiling just minutes before but also because it was the first time I ever saw my mom cry.  I didn’t understand what was happening until I heard the radio announcer report:

I repeat: John F. Kennedy, the President of the United States is dead.

For a moment time stood still.  Actually as I think back to that fateful day and visualize it in my mind—everything still as clear as if it happened yesterday--time didn’t stand still; rather it appeared to be moving in slow motion. 

My mom continued crying.  My dad—more solemn than I had ever seen him before-- firmly shook the right hand of his best friend.  His friend left without saying a word; his family followed right behind in total silence, obviously stunned by what we had just heard.

I was eight years old.  I had only seen pictures of President Kennedy in the newspaper.  What I knew about JFK I learned from my third grade teacher at the American School in Den Haag.  My parents were never the type to talk much about politics—at least not in front of my sister and me, but I did know they had a lot of respect and admiration for President Kennedy.  It was never more apparent when they heard the radio announcer on that fateful Friday evening a half century ago. 

In the years ahead the life of John F. Kennedy had a definite, perhaps even dramatic impact on my life.  The President’s commitment to physical fitness led me to my first 50-mile hike as a child and 45 years later my first JFK 50-miler as an adult.  I studied speechwriting while I was in college; my professor was enamored with the eloquence of President Kennedy and taught me many of the finer aspects of his unique gift.  I don’t think there has ever been a student who was more attentive than I was in that Anderson Hall classroom. 

There remains the eternal speculation of ‘what might have been’ had the President not been assassinated.  Some say he was destined to be the best President our country has ever known.  Sadly, we have no way of knowing: John F. Kennedy was taken away from us much too soon.    

My dad’s best friend gave me a copy of The Torch is Passed when we left Holland for my dad’s new assignment in Rhode Island.  The book is a tribute to President Kennedy and a true masterpiece; a historical treasure and worthy addition for anyone’s personal library.

In closing, I leave you with the words of the 35^th President of the United States, spoken at his Inaugural Address on January 20, 1960:

Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans—born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage—and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world.

Good Neighbor Sam

A few years ago when Cindy went with me on a trip to Boston.  I was running in the marathon, and afterwards we would be spending the rest of the week seeing the sights and enjoying all that ‘America’s Walking City’ had to offer.

The day after the marathon Cindy and I scheduled the first tour of the day (10:00 a.m.) at the Samuel Adams Brewery.  That would allow us the rest of the day for some of the other things Cindy wanted to torture me with.  Sorry, that was supposed to read tour with me: other things Cindy wanted to tour with me.  (Damn autocorrect.)

So we arrive a bit early but not early enough to beat the other 10:00 a.m. group that would also be touring the brewery.  They arrived in one of those huge tour buses with the tinted windows and the name of the bus line embossed on the side in letters that were closer to calligraphy than cursive.

When the bus door opened we watched 60 or more men and women from an assisted living community somewhere in Pennsylvania begin piling out.  (Does molasses ‘pile out’ of a bottle?  Maybe it was more like they were ‘pouring out.’  But that makes it sound like a mob scene and this was far from that.  So maybe ‘piling out’ is the phrase I’m looking for.  It will have to do unless I can come up with something better.  Perhaps ‘streaming out.’  That sounds slower, gentler and more methodical.  ‘Streaming out’ it is.)

So anyway these 60 or more men and women get out of the bus and make their way into the brewery.  Cindy and I follow them inside where we were divided into three different groups.  Our tour guide was both knowledgeable and effervescent; every sentence she spoke seemed to tantalize me more and more as it continued to hint of the promise of a sip or two of the delicious golden beverage being created before our very eyes waiting for us at the conclusion of the tour.  

Forty-five agonizing minutes later we were seated at the end of a long wooden table along with the other members of our entourage.  There were two other long tables, one on either side of ours occupied by the others from the tour bus.  It was now time for the moment of truth.

One of the tour guides talked much too long about the pitchers of beer he and the other two tour guides were holding in their hands; after all the longer he spoke the warmer the beer would eventually be.  Was he inSANE? 

Finally the pitchers were placed—one at the end of each table—and made available for our eager taste buds to sample.  Tiny glasses (six ounces, perhaps?) were stationed on the table in front of each one of us.  I worried the pitcher might not have much left in it by the time it made its way down the table to Cindy and I; after all there were 20 people with six-ounce glasses and since a pitcher contains maybe 64 ounces it didn’t look good for the home team.

But lo and behold: When the pitcher got to Cindy and I it was still halfway full (note the optimism; I could have easily said it was half-empty)!  It didn’t stay that way for long, as the beer tasted just as good on my tongue as it had in my mind during the 2,700 agonizing seconds of the tour.  It must have tasted that way to Cindy as well since she had no problem keeping up with me, ounce-for-ounce. 

Then the tour guide presented another type of beer and before long a second pitcher of beer—this one almost ¾ full--found its way home, if you know what I mean.  Apparently the folks from the tour bus were either pouring what amounted to a couple of drops of beer into their cups or were not taking any beer at all.  Could we have possibly picked a better day for a tour of the Samuel Adams Brewery? 

It wasn’t long before pitchers of beer from the other two tables were finding their way to Cindy and I.  The kind people from Pennsylvania realized how much we were enjoying ourselves and were doing their level best to make us happy.  Besides, collectively they had about as much use for beer as I do for cigarettes, Georgia Bulldog football or a kidney stone.

An hour or so later I was living proof of the well-known phrase:

Too much of a good thing.

Meanwhile Cindy had been pacing herself for the last 30 minutes or so and was eager and excited to start touring Boston once the brewery tour was finally over.  (I use the word ‘finally’ as if it was someone’s fault other than mine that it was past noon before the tour was officially over.  Believe me when I say: The fault was all mine.)

I on the other hand was ready for a nap.  That’s why it made perfect sense for me to hop on the tour bus with the calligraphy on the side...along with everyone else on the tour.       

Passing the Torch (November 10, 2013)

I haven’t run well in just over six years.  While the yoga has been helping with my running the past couple of months, it’s still nothing worth writing home about.  Heck, it’s not even worth writing about period, so forget I even mentioned it.

I met Ferit Toska, a graduate student from Turkey at the University of Florida about a year after my running began its dramatic nosedive.  In February of 2008 I was speaking at the exposition for the Five Point of Life Marathon in Gainesville, Florida.  Ferit was in my rather small audience and I could tell from the eye contact he maintained with me throughout my 40-minute presentation he had the desire to be a runner; one of the best.  He spoke with me afterwards and said he wanted to run the half-marathon the next day in 1:52, or as he put it ‘5:20 per kilometer.’  I was going to be running the full marathon, but I said I would be glad to run the first 13.1 miles with him.  In a pair of soccer shoes and with me by his side, Ferit ran his first half-marathon in 1:49.  He hasn’t looked back since.

Cindy and I have been friends with Ferit and his wife Gizem ever since.  When we travel to Gainesville for a Gator football game or a race we spend the weekend with them, and when they come to Peachtree City for a race they spend the weekend with us.  Two years ago this month they had their first child, a boy they named Derin.  Today Cindy and I consider the three of them as family and I trust they feel the same way about us.

Ferit and I run together every chance we get.  When we do I offer suggestions to promote Ferit’s talent at running further and faster, while Ferit reciprocates by encouraging me to cut back on my mileage and allowing my body to heal.  So far Ferit has been doing a much better job of listening than me, as he continues to amaze me with the speed and endurance he’s been showing at such an early stage in his running career while I continue pounding my body with more mileage than I should.  

A little more than one year ago Ferit and I went for a 10-mile run on a Saturday morning before a Florida Gator football game.  I was still battling some leg issues at the time and failed to lift my right foot high enough to clear a slight rise in the sidewalk with only a mile left in our run.  I hit the sidewalk with a perfect three-point landing, the three points being my right palm, my right elbow and my right knee.  All three were bleeding profusely as I lie there in the middle of the sidewalk.  Ferit asked it I needed help (getting to my feet): I said ‘no’ while my body clearly was signaling for an ambulance.  I looked up at Ferit and said ‘I think it’s time I passed you the torch,’ meaning it was now his time to be the better runner, the faster runner, the longer runner…and most certainly the wiser runner. 

One month later Ferit won one of my favorite races, the Tallahassee Ultra Distance Classic 50-Miler with an outstanding time of 6:34:53.  If you do the math you’ll find he averaged less than eight minutes per mile…for 50 miles!   I wasn’t there to see it personally, but moments after Ferit won, the Race Director—a very good friend of mine—Emailed me in amazement about Ferit’s run.  (Note: I told the Race Director before the race to ‘watch out for Ferit’.)  I sent a note back to him saying pretty much what I said to Ferit four weeks earlier: ‘It’s about time for the torch to be passed.’

This weekend the Toska’s—Ferit, Gizem and our ‘second grandson’ Derin—spent the weekend with us.  Ferit was running in my event, the Peachtree City 50K.  On race morning I woke up early to get to the start of the race to get things set up.  Before I left I put a copy of my book Distance Memories by the coffee maker on the kitchen counter with a note:

Happy Birthday!  You’ll enjoy the chapter titled ‘Gainesville.’ 

Be sure to read pages 237-239.

  Today will be the official Passing of the Torch.

I wrote in those identified pages of four runners who have incredibly bright futures in front of them.  Ferit Toska is one of them.

Ferit won the Peachtree City 50K today, running a spectacular race and finishing over 14 minutes in front of the second place male.

The torch has now officially and unequivocally been passed.  I trust Ferit will keep it burning for quite some time. 

You Don't Want to Hear This

‘You don’t want to hear this.’

Not exactly what you want to hear your wife telling you after you drift off to sleep for the night.  

‘Then don’t tell me.’  It seemed like the right thing to say.  Obviously my words had no effect on her, because then this: 

‘Did you have a piece of that pie for dinner tonight, because if you did it had mold all over it?’

Believe me when I tell you this: Her words most definitely had an effect on me.

When I woke up this morning my stomach was making noises I’ve never heard before.  If I didn’t know better I would have thought two whales were actively engaged in an undersea mating ritual.

Cindy then told me about finding the mold on the strawberry/rhubarb pie she bought from a family bakery in (a small town north of Peachtree City) only three days ago (I won’t mention the bakery by name, but I’ve already given you one clue and now I’ll give you one more: It’s located very close to a fast food restaurant that sells death burgers.  OK, you beat it out of me: It’s Sonic.)   I wondered how an allegedly fresh pie could have mold on it so soon.  Cindy, knowing I wouldn’t spend one red cent in (a small town north of Peachtree City) if my life depended on it because it’s *a sh*thole of a town, started defending the bakery as their food had always been good in the past. 

*Actually (a small town north of Peachtree City) is a quaint little town; 
some might even consider it idyllic. 

It offers a wide variety of dining, shopping and entertainment options sure to satisfy almost everyone.  The people are friendly and hospitable; like the ones you might find in Mayberry on the old Andy Griffith show.

Regarding that last paragraph: I am totally lying.  It's a sh*thole.

I’m hearing her say this as I’m wondering to myself if I had consumed enough mold to kill me.  After all I never even noticed any mold as I had mindlessly cut a piece of pie, threw it in the microwave for 30 seconds and buried it under three (maybe four) scoops of vanilla ice cream.  I had no earthly idea how much mold I might have ingested. 

So how did I feel this morning?  Thank you for asking.

Let’s see; there were stomach pains, a touch of vertigo and a hint of nausea.  Going out for a run in the cool morning air provided temporary relief; afterwards all three of them came right back, and they all brought their big brothers with them. 

I’ve always been told to eat a lot of yogurt because it’s filled with bacteria; the kind of bacteria that eats the stuff you don’t want roaming around in your stomach.  I’m guessing the Tyrone family bakery’s ‘special frosting’ falls into that category.

God willing and the creek don’t rise, I won’t die in my sleep tonight. 

The town slogan of (a small town north of Peachtree City), I believe.