The pre-season #1 and #2 ranked college football teams just fell out of the Top 25. So much for high falutin analytics.
I was 39 years young the last time the Mariners won a playoff game. I hope I won’t be 87 the next time.
Sometimes it takes awhile. SDarnold and BMayfield were putting on a quarterback clinic yesterday. DanDantheTranspoMan chalked it up to bad defense, but what does he know about football anything?
UCLA won a football game against a formerly great team. So much for going winless and getting the number one draft pick.
I finished fifth out of seven on Michigan Hill Saturday. A shell of my former self. TMAT was second.
Can we please make the Ryder Cup Great Again by kicking out every single loud and obnoxious American knucklehead on their first offense? Related. Who wants to go to Adare Manor with me?
Keep an eye on Quenton Lanese of Olympia High School. He’s got the goods. Related. My 1k/year running streak is in serious jeopardy as a result of very stubborn left heel bursitis that has put a serious dent into my mileage. Try not to let that ruin your day.
A word I just made up. An “update” includes positive and negative developments. A “downdate” is a decidedly negative update. Here goes.
Lynn’s symptoms are growing in number and worsening. And she’s darn near non-communicative.
Since the MSA diagnosis, she’s been like a jack spinning so fast on a hard tabletop that you wonder when, oh when, will it stop.
I want to ride my trike. I want to go to the Y. I want to dodge the garbage cans and go from the back yard to the front in my wheelchair. I want to stand up on my own. I want to do it myself. I want to be normal. I want to live. And now that I’ve stopped caretaking, and can exhale, I wonder, who can blame her for her fighting spirit?
Now, though, the jack slows and wobbles. No more trike. No more trips to the Y. Alison said last night she held tight to a few garden tools, but no real gardening took place. It’s like this disease broke into our house, took every single thing in it, and then, not content, broke out a sledge hammer to destroy the walls. Now, I’m afraid, it’s going to torch the exposed wood framing. It’s relentless.
Since Lynn’s move to an adult family home five weeks ago, Alison and Jeanette have been amazing. Investing tons of time and energy. Ready to catch her as the wobbling worsens.
Lots of people continue to be amazing. Ebony, for example, is a hospice volunteer who comes twice a week to help Lynn shower. The last time she didn’t know I had slipped into the bedroom that is connected to the bathroom where she was helping Lynn. Ebony was so ebullient. She kept asking Lynn if the temperature was okay and continued talking to her like she was her own mother. She was having a genuinely good time aiding Lynn, and by extension, our family. Such humanity.
And Lynn’s friends. And their flowers. And cards. And visits. As a group, they are wonderfully unbothered by her decline. Like Alison, Jeanette, and me, they need her smile and probably wonder what they’re going to do without it.
A significant change is that Lynn is coming to grips with the fact that nature is running its course. And that her time is short. Her quality of life is such that she’s more okay with that now. One can only endure so much.
As for me, I’m living a double life. Monday, I had an amazing swim in a beautiful local lake. Tuesday, five friends and I were bearing down on Tenino when a herd of 50+ cows and calves, all the exact same white color, moved in unison towards the road to seemingly spur us on. That was surreal, and when combined with our idyllic weather, and the trees starting to show out, it’s tough not being able to enjoy my favorite time of the year with my favorite person.
When I get home from the lake and the group ride, the kitchen is empty. There’s no one to ask, “How was your swim? How was your ride?” So my autumnal joy is tempered by a void. My love of fall is no match for this loss of intimacy. Unlike Lynn though, I will be okay. In time.
Not the fleeting kind that ends in hoisting a trophy. The real “meaningful life” kind.
Scottie Scheffler, the world’s #1 rated golfer, is winning more tournaments than anyone else and just asked at one of the most honest and provocative sports pressers in recent memory, “What’s the point?” You don’t have to be a golf junkie to watch/appreciate it.
Maybe his perspective is even more impressive than his game. He somehow knows fame is fleeting. And ultimately, unfulfilling. Especially compared to family.
I quit competing in triathlons after conducting a mental exercise. I thought to myself that if I truly committed to consistent training, age group wins at decent races were possible. And qualifying for the Kona World Championships. And these best case scenarios didn’t move the needle nearly enough for me to continue racing. I concluded, “What’s the point?”
There is one convincing reason for aging weekend warriors to keep entering races. Races provide many the needed motivation to train.
Back in my earliest triathlon racing days, I integrated swimming, cycling, and running into my life to the point that I regularly do some combo of all three each week*. Thus, that rationale doesn’t hold for me. I get “out the door” without signing up for anything. But, I suspect I’m an outlier in that respect.
*Haven’t swam in July yet. Father/Mother, forgive me, for I have sinned. My excuse is I’m allergic to something in the lake. And it seems like a crime to swim indoors in July.
The title of an article in the morning’s New York Times. Anna Watts opines:
“You don’t need a flashy new bike or fancy gear to get a solid cycling workout. The most important thing is that your bike fits your body and you enjoy being on it.”
One wonders, does Watts regularly spout heretical things or is this a one-off?
Nursing the morning coffee while mentally preparing for the inaugural road ride of 2024. Check the weather app to see just how cold I’m going to be. See the following, “Wind gusts up to 3mph.” Gusts?
As a result of running 4.2 miles yesterday morn, I maintained my now twenty-five year long streak of running at least 1,000 miles a year. On Gull Harbor Road, at mile 999, I thought to myself, what if that oncoming car just drifts over the fog line and takes me out? Of course, I still have the lateral movement of an elite punt returner.
For the record, the streak continued at the intersection of 47th Ave NE and Boston Harbor Rd as I turned the corner with TSwift, Bon Iver, and Evermore.
This one was was tough, especially after dealing with blood clots in early August and then chronic achilles tendonitis which I haven’t managed smartly.
Bagging a thousand used to be easy, especially when doing half marathons, marathons, and/or triathlons. Hitting four digits was just a routine annual byproduct of being ready to race decently. Now that I’ve retired from competition, the lengthy streak itself is the only motivation. And being fit and enjoying life more as a result of improved physical, mental, and spiritual vitality.
On top of the running, I’ve swam just over 200 kilometers and rode just over 5,000 miles this year, so a decent bit of cross training.
I enjoy swimming and cycling a little more than running these days because they’re less difficult. To continue the streak, I have to sublimate my ego, and let go of pace. I suppose, as I run shorter and slower, I will contribute to the common good that is Strava endurance athletes who can feel better about their relative performance.
I don’t know how long I can or want to keep it going. The key to extending it will be doing a better job of listening to my body in terms of how often, how far, and how “fast” to run. More specifically, I suspect I will need to run shorter, even slower, and more often to extend it.
Thanks to my ace training partners for their continued inspiration and company most Saturdays. MARN, who decided to take up marathoning in his sixth decade. The Byeson, who is a marvel at 5+ years older than me. The Pal, who is somehow getting faster in his fifth decade. And the undefeated University of Washington Husky who effortlessly rows, cycles, and runs right past you.
Thanks especially to the GoodWife for stirring my inner-athlete the most this year. Despite serious health challenges, she is channelling her father’s spirit and is displaying real grit, regularly walking, swimming, and cycling. Watching her pick her way up, down, and around Natches Peak trail in early October was inspiring beyond words.
If I stay healthy and can be half as tough as her next year, the streak will continue.
A few days ago I was cycling southbound on the Chehalis Western Trail (CWT), a gem of Thurston County public infrastructure. And thanks to attentive parents, I successfully dodged a few 3 year-oldish riders on those amazingly small bikes that darn near enable babies to ride home from the hospital under their own power.
And I wondered what would it be like to be three years-old, to live through the 21st Century and check out sometime in the 2100’s? On the surface, probably pretty great since technology and medical advances continue to amaze and you don’t have to go the Department of Motor Vehicles in person anymore. And some of us don’t have to go to gas stations. And global poverty is way down. And despite Fox News propaganda, crime is down. And despite serious income inequality and low savings rates, people can find jobs and the economy is resilient.
And yet.
I wouldn’t want to be my tiny CWT cycling friends because if I had to capture the current zeitgeist in one word it’s “sad”. Despite continuing substantive improvements to our quality of life, a critical mass of people in the (dis)United States seem, for lack of a better term, sad. Why is that?
And why don’t I know the answers to that. Does my multi-layered privilege blind me? Short answer, of course.
I don’t think I’ll beat myself up for not knowing, because as I tell my students, “It’s okay to not be okay. And it’s okay to be okay.” Still, I would like to better understand why you are sad or why people you know well are sad. Is it as simple as the rent is too damn high or is it climate anxiety or is the answer more abstract, philosophical, even spiritual?
If you accept my premise, that we’re in the grips of a wave of sadness that shows no signs of abating, please enlighten me as to why. Thank you in advance.
I bought a new bike. This will cause some, like DanDantheRetiredTranspoMan, to go apoplectic. Let me beat him to the punch.
“Another bike?! What was wrong with the one you just bought?! How many do you need? You’re a sad(sick) guy.”
If someone buys a new bike every 20 years, then yes, it may seem like I just bought Blanca. In actuality it was January 2020, so this is season four with her. I confess, that is a short upgrade cycle especially since nothing is wrong with Blanca. She’s still exceptional. The purchase is really some cycling friends’ fault for getting me thinking about a slightly lighter version of her. The whole idea is getting into a better rhythm on long climbs. What’s more important in life than that?
And as to number of bikes, I will be selling Blanca, keeping the quiver to a grand total of two or a fraction of the number most cycling enthusiasts have in their garages.*
You may be thinking maybe I should just train harder, lift more weights, cut back on the Costco Tuxedo cake, but all that requires more discipline and work than wiring Eric in Portland some scratch.
I met Eric at Starbucks in Woodland, WA. Recently, when he got his dream job at Specialized, as the head of their design team, he immediately put in an order for one of their nicest/lightest bikes. Shortly afterwards, he got whacked, which meant he could no longer afford the nice, light bike still in the box. Then he had to find a needle in a haystack. More specifically, someone 6’2″ with some spare change. I turned out to be his needle.
Eric revealed that a part of the problem of being laid off is they have their children in private schools. “How old are they?” I asked. “12 and 15.” When you send your kids to private schools, you’re paying twice—property taxes which fund the neighborhood schools you drive past, and of course, the private school’s tuition. That requires something Eric’s family is currently lacking, a lot of disposable income.
I thought about sending him this post,”The Private School Myth“, from way back in the day, but obviously I don’t know him well enough.
Because I didn’t need to purchase his bike, he may have taken a loss on it even factoring in his work discount. If somehow he finds that post, accepts my premise, and decides with his wife to send his kids to public schools, they’d be on their way to bouncing back. Here’s hoping.
That was the message on the “TRUMP 2024” sign on Old Military Rd in Tenino, WA yesterday as I cycled by. Which got me thinking.
Who took America? When did they take it? Where did they take it? The Good Wife said the answer to the first question is “obviously liberals”. But I’m a liberal and I haven’t taken it anywhere. So some subset of liberals? Even then, there’s the other questions.
If you happen to find it, please report its whereabouts.
Pressing Pause 