Doctor's Orders

Christmas was over, the New Year was approaching and I had six days off from work to spend with Krischan and relax.  Well, that plan worked for a couple of days up until the point that whatever it was that had been keeping Krischan under the weather had found its way over to me.  That’s when the fun began.

Let me explain how this particular ‘fun’ worked.  A persistent cough that felt like a scalding hot, razor sharp blade was penetrating my chest cavity.  Sneezes were similar although more painful; much more so, in fact.  Congestion that couldn’t have been any worse if a vise was holding my nostrils closed.  Constant chills, except for the occasional times when I became so hot my clothes became soaked in perspiration in a matter of seconds; an overall weakness that defied any and all logic and that skin-hurting-when-clothing-touches-it thingee that probably never will be explained if we all live for a thousand years.    

And lest I forget, what ‘fun’ wouldn’t be complete without a total loss of appetite and a perpetual desire for nothing other than restful, healing, pretend-it-don’t-hurt-no-more sleep?

So now that you understand my definition of ‘fun,’ know those last four days of my vacation time with Krischan were exactly as I described and for those reasons I will always remember them as fun.  The kind of fun you’ll always hold dear in your memory. 

Because for those four days Krischan did everything he could to ‘take care of his G-Pa.’ For those 96 hours he was the embodiment of every flawless albeit fictional doctor I watched on television while I was growing up.    

Don’t believe me?  Get out your scorecard and you’ll see how well young Marcus Welby MD fared:

Compassion: With every cough (or sneeze) as I lay prone on the couch, Krischan would lean over and kiss me on the cheek to make me feel better.  The crazy thing is it worked every time, because I actually did feel better.

Medical care: At regular intervals (it seemed like every two hours, but I was in-and-out most of the time so it’s hard to gauge exactly) Krischan told me it was time for my medicine.  He would then give me one piece of raspberry sorbet Ice Breaker’s Ice Cubes chewing gum and then help himself to one as well because it was not only medicine but ‘our favorite gum’ as well. 

Proper treatment: As Krischan patiently* sat by me on the couch as ‘just a few more minutes’ turned into hours that turned into several hours after that, he would reach over and rub my forehead, neck or shoulders.  (*Patience to a five-year old constitutes having a fully-charged iPad on one’s lap and the Nicktoons channel playing on the television.  Now you know.)

Patience: As previously described and to include other ways of passing the time.  Like drawing one’s own bath, for instance.  Krischan asked if he could take a bath (he had a plastic alligator and four frogs he wanted to play with in the tub).  I asked if he was able to take a bath without me, and the next thing I knew I heard the bath water running.  An hour (two?) later I called out to see if he was ready to get out of the tub.  ‘Not yet.’  An hour (two?) after that I asked again and got the same answer.  This time I wasn’t taking no for an answer (translation: I was now able to pry myself off the couch) so I went into the bathroom and found Krischan splashing around in no more than three inches of very cool bath water…without any evidence any actually bathing had occurred.  I ran some warm water and poured a cup of it on his head so I could wash his hair.  The next thing I know he’s screaming ‘it’s hot—it’s hot.’  It was barely lukewarm, but I guess when you’ve been sitting in cool bath water for two (four?) hours or so it would give the illusion of being hot.  All this to say: Krischan did a good job occupying his time while I was sleeping.  I’m just grateful he didn’t turn into a prune.

Accountability: Not once during those four days did more than a few hours go by before Krischan would touch his palm to my forehead and offer his medical opinion of my current condition.  ‘Yep, you still have a temp-a-toor’ seemed to be the most popular one offered.  (I believe it was fairly accurate.) 

I’m not sure I would have made it through those four days without him: Cindy was working, I didn’t feel like doing a single, solitary thing and I’m a man and you know how needie we are when we’re sick.

Having Krischan watch over me those four days was just what the doctor ordered. 

      

Skarlette

Krischan went ice-skating with his Uncle Josh a couple nights ago.  I wasn’t there, but thanks to a 30-clip of video Josh captured on his cell phone I was able to see how my grandson handled skating on thin ice for the first time in his life.  Three words: Not very well.

You’ve seen the cartoons where the rabbit, the cat or the mouse—in an attempt to escape the jaws of death from a larger adversary—begins pumping its legs in a circular motion for several seconds before the legs take hold and they actually begin running, right?  It was just like that, except Krischan was holding onto the side rail for dear life while his skates were digging a six-inch crevice in the ice.  While it lacked in grace, it sure was fun to watch. 

But I’m not here to discuss Krischan’s outlook for the Winter Olympic Games a decade or so down the road.   Rather, this is about Krischan’s new friend Skarlette.

Beautiful long reddish-brown hair, dangling earrings and an infectious gap-toothed smile that melts your heart, Skarlett is the daughter of Josh’s lovely girlfriend Bernice.  Only eight years old, Skarlett already has the quiet wisdom and insight of a young lady well beyond her years.  She is also—and this may be one of the reasons Krischan took to her so quickly—one of the boys.  

    

Skarlette came to visit us during the Christmas holidays and as Krischan does with all first-timers who come to our new home in Senoia, he wanted to take them out on the trail in the woods behind the house to hunt zombies.  First things first: Weapons.  I grabbed my foam sword in the garage and Krischan grabbed his, leaving the plastic sword that nobody uses because the blade breaks every time you hit a tree limb with it for Skarlette.  To her credit, she didn’t complain one bit. 

She fell in line behind the Captain of the mission (Krischan) and his soldier (me) as we began blazing the trail behind the house.  Following Krischan’s lead, Skarlette began swinging her sword at every branch, vine and plant that she encountered.  She was a natural.

At one point I stopped to pick up a stick and threw it about 10 feet in front of Krischan (I do this all the time when we’re in the woods and almost every time he doesn’t know I threw it).  Krischan raised his arms (as he always does when he doesn’t know I threw the stick)) and said ‘nobody move, I heard a clue.’  I looked back at Skarlette and she had both hands over her mouth, fighting back a giggle that I’m certain would have sounded like a melody had it been audible.  About a minute later Skarlette bent over to pick up a stick and did the exact same thing I had done earlier, and it had the same results.  ‘Nobody move, I heard a clue.’  I looked over at Skarlette and she had her hands clamped down on her mouth so tight I thought her big brown eyes were going to pop out of her tiny head.   

The rest of the weekend Krischan and Skarlette were inseparable.  They sat next to one another on the couch for quite a while Saturday night; Krischan was mesmerized by Skarlette’s prowess playing the latest video games.  I might add that it was obvious Krischan is in no hurry to impress the ladies: he sat close to Skarlette the entire time, looking over her shoulder with his security sheet firmly in hand and his thumb in his mouth.  In fact the only words he said over a two-hour window of time was when he asked for ice water because his ‘breath was hot.’  Charming, eh Skarlette?

Sunday morning we all went to church (Krischan loves church—‘they have a playground’).   He insisted Skarlette come to his classroom, full of kindergarten age children a couple of years younger than her.

Skarlette wouldn’t have had it any other way: The two of them were inseparable during this special, memorable weekend.   

It was pure magic.

Burning Bridges

Buckman.  Fuller Warren.  Acosta.  Dames Point.  Mathews.  These are the names of a few of the many bridges you’ll find in Jacksonville, Florida. 

If you want to visit Jacksonville you’re inevitably going to cross the St. Johns River. 

Main Street.  Hart.  If you’re going to run in Jacksonville’s top running event, the Gate River Run, you’ll be crossing the river via these two bridges.  On foot, of course.

I’ve run the race 10 times.  I ran my first 15K at the River Run.  I ran my fastest 15K  there, arguably the best race I’ve ever run.  At one time it was my favorite race.

I’ve also been to Jacksonville to run the marathon no less than nine times.  At one time the race finished in downtown Jacksonville; the route included the crossing of two bridges; one early in the race and one late in the race.  I ran my first Boston qualifier in Jacksonville.  I’ve run my personal best there as well.

The current route of the Jacksonville Marathon doesn’t include any bridges.  The course is as flat as week old road kill.  I ran this year’s race and was surprised to find myself red-faced, embarrassed and totally exhausted.  What’s even more surprising is that all of this happened 15 hours prior to the start of the race: At the packet pickup where I picked up my race bib (number).

Let me explain.

I signed up for the marathon back in June.  Early registration was $70, a relative bargain in today’s world of ever-increasing entry fees.  (In comparison this year’s New York City Marathon cost $255 to enter; $347 for non-U.S. residents.)  I sent my application and a personal check through the U.S. mail.  My friend Valerie--who entered the race on a whim at the last minute—well after I signed up--and I went to the 1^st Place Sports Running store on Baymeadows Road to pick up our race packets.  Incidentally, I’ve brought many a runner to the Jacksonville races over the years; I mention it because the significance of that comment will be apparent shortly. 

We checked the printed list of entrants in the store’s parking lot to find our corresponding race numbers so we could ask for our respective packets.  Val spotted her name immediately and had her number in hand while I was still scouring the list for mine.  It became evident after five or six minutes that my name simply was not on the list.

I was directed to the go inside the store where I was handed off to Jane Alred, who just so happens to be the wife of the marathon’s Race Director.  (I assure you I had no intention of using her name; however as you will soon understand why I told her I intended to write about this experience in the very near future and she subsequently handed me her business card so I could spell her name correctly.)   

Jane asked me if I had proof that I registered for the marathon.  Well, let’s see: I had the original application in hand that clearly shows I detached the mail-in application, I drove all the way down from Atlanta to participate and I’ve been running races in Jacksonville for well over 30 years.  Most of all—plain and simple-- I’m telling you that I did.

Sorry, not good enough.  Jane asked me if I had the canceled check for the entry fee.  I explained that my bank didn’t send canceled checks with the monthly statement and I really didn’t know.  ‘Well, here’s what you can do: You can pay the early entry fee again and once you prove you already registered I’ll refund your money.

Now it was my turn: ‘Sorry, not good enough.’  Val told me later she could tell how upset I was because my face was beet red (actually what she said was ‘as red as my chicken’s wattles and comb when they get mad’ but I have no idea what that meant).  Val added that anyone could tell I was being completely honest by the conviction in my voice and face.  Apparently anyone except Jane, that is. 

Jane went to the back room and returned with a cardboard box containing the applications that had been mailed in.  There couldn’t have been more than 50 in an event that encompassed thousands.  Mine wasn’t in there.  ‘The U.S. mail isn’t always perfect; maybe they returned your entry.’  I assured her they didn’t.  She assured me she didn’t receive my entry and didn’t ‘want my money twice,’ although earlier she asked for my money twice because I knew with absolute certainty I mailed my application and she already had my money once.    

I told her I was a Race Director myself and if the roles were reversed I would believe her without hesitation and grant her request in a heartbeat.  I told her I’ve always known runners to be the most honorable people in the world. 

She replied that she’d been taken advantage of—many times, in fact—over the years and it wasn’t going to happen again. 

Being the hothead I can be when I know I am absolutely right, I said ‘fine, I’ll just run without a number.’  Jane shrugged and walked off.   (I want to mention I did not have my checkbook with me and I wasn’t about to give her my credit card information that she promised to refund once she received proof of my ‘alleged’ earlier payment.  Seriously, if they lost/misplaced/whatever my application, what were the chances I would get my credit card refund?)

That’s when cooler heads prevailed.  Val asked me to call my wife Cindy and ask her to go online and check our bank statements.  I knew Cindy had a really busy weekend and wasn’t sure she would even have the password with her (she was working at her store at the time) but I called anyway.  Miracle of miracles: Cindy found the canceled check online (cashed on June 17), scanned a photo of it and sent it to my cell phone.  I in turn sent it to Val’s tablet which I took to Jane who in turn asked me to follow her outside where she hand wrote my information and gave me a number for the marathon…without the slightest hint of an apology.  I repeat: Without the slightest hint of an apology, although she continued to try and convince me she didn’t want to take my money twice and how some people can be so dishonest.   

Back story: Several years ago a friend of mine was running competitively for the Atlanta Track Club at the Gate River Run.  She called me the day before the race and explained that she was given a back-of-the-pack number rather than a seeded number (reserved for faster runners so they can start at the front of the race) and needed my help.  I wrote the Race Director (Jane’s husband, remember?) and vouched for my friend’s credentials as an established and talented runner.  He took me at my word and gave my friend a seeded number while I took comfort that my reputation in the world of running meant something.  Heck, a similar testimonial from the office of the Atlanta Track Club on my friend’s behalf moments earlier had fallen on deaf ears, thus the request to me.

After giving everything I possibly have to give to the sport of running for these past 36+ years I didn’t deserve to be treated the way I was at 1^st Place Sports.  Factoring in the absence of an apology only made matters worse.  Again, if the roles were reversed I would have offered her the sincerest of apologies once I was proven wrong.  Not only wrong, but dead wrong.    

It got me to thinking about a lot of things.  I woke up the next morning at 1:30 a.m. and spent the next four hours thinking about these very words you are reading right now.  What could possibly have made Jane treat me the way she did?  What triggered her comment about ‘being taken advantage’ of? 

Then I thought of something I’ve said (as well as written) many, many times: Runners are some of the finest people I’ve ever known.  Could I have been wrong all this time? 

Then this thought dawned on me: Road races—particularly marathons and ultras, are charging more and more money every year for the simple privilege of running in them.  I have a difficult time believing these costs are justifiable, yet here we are.  Why do the big-name and big-ticket events charge outrageous entry fees for their events?  I can’t help but think the answer is—plain and simple—because people will pay them.

Most people, that is.  It’s entirely possible that some runners have had to resort to fabricating stories about ‘lost applications’ to finagle their way into a race they desperately want to run: That special race charging an exorbitant entry fee, money that could be put to better use towards other things.  Food, clothing and shelter for example; things a little more important than a three-dollar finisher’s medal or a race shirt listing all of its sponsors on the back.

So perhaps the way Jane treated me wasn’t the reason I found myself red-faced, embarrassed and totally exhausted before the Jacksonville Marathon even began.  Maybe the real reason is something that has been bothering me for the last 10 years: Race Directors that are more interested in making a buck than taking care of their runners.

That’s why I’ve always been fond of the races in Jacksonville: Sensible entry fees and a passionate concern for the welfare of the runners.

That’s why it saddens me to say I won’t be returning to Jacksonville to run either the Jacksonville Marathon or the Gate River Run ever again.

Those bridges across the St. Johns are now in flames.   

Just Plain Stupid

I've seen a lot of things in my life that were just plain stupid.  Granted, I was responsible for most of them; just not all of them.  Here are a few that instantly come to mind every time I hear the joke about a redneck's last words being 'bet you've never seen anyone do this before!'

1.  I was at a cookout and the man responsible for grilling the hot dogs had no feeling in either hand.  Apparently he fell backwards off a ladder some point in his life and broke his fall by stretching out his arms, thus landing on his palms and destroying the nerves in both hands in the process.  What that translated to was his 'talent' for cooking the hot dogs on a hot, flaming grill by rolling them with his bare hands since he wasn't able to feel the heat.  The fire, however had another effect on him:

Me:  You realize your both of your hands are in the fire, right?

Him: (Boldly, because his chest was puffed out) Yes, but I don't feel a thing.

Me: Maybe so, but your flesh appears to be melting.

2.  There was a man who voluntarily ran across Death Valley, over two mountain ranges and all the way to the portals of Mount Whitney, a distance of 135 miles.  It was in mid-July and the temperatures reached the low 130's.  It took him over 36 hours.  But he finished, dammit.  He finished.   (OK, so this one was me.)

3.  The route I drive to work through a small town in Georgia crosses a train track.  Once in a while the train comes and when it does the railroad is blocked off by those big wooden arms with the flashing lights.  When that happens I--as well as every single other driver I've seen in the last 11 years--turn right, drive about half a mile, turn left onto a road that runs beneath the train tracks and merge back onto my normal route.  Simple.  However one day when the wooden arms with the flashing lights were staring me in the face, I happened to be the third vehicle 'in line.'  The two vehicles in front of me apparently were content to wait out the train; I wasn't.  I pulled around the two cars and turned right, just like anyone else save these two yahoos in front of me on this particular day would have done.  Big mistake: The first vehicle in line was a police car.  Instinctively I pulled over to the curb, about a nanosecond before the flashing blue lights signaled me to.  The policeman got out of his car, walked up to my window and said 'give me your license so I can write you a ticket.'  He walked back to his car and returned 30 seconds later and asked me why I would pull around a policeman at a stop sign and turn in front of him.  I said I--as well as every single other driver I'd seen in the last 11 years--did it all the time when a train came through.  The policeman then retaliated with perhaps the worst (translation: dumbest) analogy in the history of the English language by asking: 'If a policeman was watching and everyone was jumping off of the top of a building, would YOU?'  Shortly thereafter he returned my license to me and told me to 'go on…just go on.'  I consider myself fortunate this occurred at 6:58 a.m. on a Thursday morning, or two minutes before the policeman's shift was over.  His police station was directly on the other side of the railroad tracks, coincidentally.  

4.  Once upon a time I had a root canal.  Without any anaesthetic.  The end.  

5.  When Cindy and I were dating, we spent one summer at my parent's house in Virginia.  One night we went out to see a movie and on the way home decided to stop for a few minutes to park (Is that what they still call it?  Parking?) in my parent's subdivision in an area where new houses were being built.  It was raining--heavily--and the dirt we parked in soon turned into mud.  Once we realized our car was stuck in that mud, I walked to a neighbor's house and asked for their help.  I didn't bother asking for their silence because I thought that was understood.  The neighbors were able to help us get our car out of the mud that night, and 12 or 13 years later my parents finally let me in on their little secret: They knew about it the very night it happened.  Moral of the story?  Don't park in the mud.    

6.  There was a man who voluntarily ran 100 miles through the Sierra Nevada mountain range on a route that went up-and-down-and-up-and-down-and-up-and-down.  And up.  This man had no business running through the mountains, since most of his training miles were run on asphalt.  The course was exceptionally wet and the man's running shoes stayed saturated for 30 hours.  At the end of the run the man had a deep gash right down the middle of the ball of his left foot.  The best description of the foot is this: If the bottom of the foot was the state of Arizona; then the deep gash would be the Grand Canyon.  Yes, it was that deep!  (Me again.)

7.  Did you notice I didn't mention the name of the small town in #3?  That's because the men and women of the Fairburn Police Department don't have a sense of humor.  

8. In sixth grade I was sitting in the back of the classroom next to my best friend.  Abruptly he lifted his right leg and passed gas so passionately (I don't know what else to call it) that it rumbled--LOUDLY--in his wooden chair and echoed throughout the classroom.  I put my face down on my desk because I just knew I was going to laugh until I cried.  Thirty seconds later I lifted my head and saw every single face in the classroom looking directly at me.  I glanced over to my best friend and found him solemnly pointing at me--as if he was disgusted I would do such a thing.  

9.  It is entirely possible to trip over a quarter-inch rise in the asphalt while running.  It is also entirely possible to run two miles in 12 minutes with blood gushing out of a one-inch gash directly beneath your chin.  I hate that I know these things to be true.  

10.  It is entirely possible to forget the names of people you've known for two generations.  I hate that I know this to be true as well.    

Looking back over this list, perhaps I'm confusing 'stupid' with 'getting older.'  Maybe there's hope for me yet.  

The policeman in Fairburn, however, doesn't stand a chance.