Running and Jumping

Yesterday I decided to sign up for the Philadelphia Marathon. The race is scheduled for November 23, which gives me nine week-ends to fit in training runs ranging from 12 to 20 miles. I figure I can fit them in either on my work from home day or on the week-end day when Bin Ladin comes over for a visitation. Back in 2006 I planned to run a marathon in 2007, which would have been the 10th anniversary of the last marathon I ran. At the time I was interested to see whether, at the advanced age of 39, I still had enough gas in the tank to get through 26.2 miles without permanently damaging an organ or body part. Obviously, 2007 turned out quite differently than I had envisioned so I now get to attempt the distance at age 40, which will officially put me in the “master runner” category. “Master runner” is a term bestowed on people who have reached the apex of their running careers and are starting the long slow slide into physical disintegration. I first found myself placed into that category in the Long Island ½ Marathon I ran in May. Let me tell you, I found the competition pretty stiff. The older guys have more to prove and you always move faster when you can feel the grim reaper pacing you a few steps back.

It is hard to believe that I have been running consistently for 16 years. By “consistently” I mean that for the last 17 years, aside from the odd vacation and bout with the flu, I have run between 15 and 45 miles per week, every week, since 1992. There were times when I ran less, and times when I ran more, but putting foot to pavement has been the one constant thread running through the fabric of my bizarre-o life.

Last year I wholeheartedly embraced running as a way to help me retain my sanity in the face of Becky’s death and my own terrifying responsibilities as a new father. In early February I joined a gym and drastically stepped up my mileage. The end result was me losing 40 pounds in six months. I literally ran out of my old life into a new reality, which is a strange feeling. I look in the mirror and I don’t even physically resemble the person I was in January 2007.

I remember thinking quite consciously that I was going to need a huge increase in energy reserves to succeed as the single father of a small boy, especially in light of the fact that I was considerably older than the average dad and probably not in the best shape of my life. The first step towards building up more energy was taking the weight off. Taking the weight off meant that I had to stop eating so many bacon cheeseburgers and start shaking my rapidly expanding ass on the treadmill every day. On the week-ends, I loaded Jack into the baby-jogger and took off for the park. That kid logged more miles in his first six months than Ryan Hall did training for the Olympic marathon.

Somehow, it worked. I lost a lot of weight. I have more energy. The constant flow of endorphins into my bloodstream has also made me a very even-tempered and pleasant daddy to be around. Now I’m putting in a base of 40 miles a week and in 9 weeks time I’ll be toeing the line in Philly. I credit Jack for motivating me to put down the cheese doodles and get out there back into life. For that reason, I’ll be running the race for him.

Looking Forward

I haven’t posted here in awhile. Not because there’s been any lack of subject matter to post about (Dimitri’s adjustment to school, Jack barfing all over Erin and I in Fairway yesterday, etc.) but because the financial crisis and the election have completely diverted my attention away from this blog. I reopened my old blog and started posting on the Patriot again. I just couldn’t help it. I think the world is in for a real wake-up call and I’m consumed with worry about what kind of world Jack and Dimitri will be faced with when they head off to college. The cynical/realist side of me expects society 15 years hence to resemble the Times Square of the 1970s and 80s-filthy streets full of pimps and hustlers trying to separate you from your money. I remember what that was like, and while I had a great time wandering around the sordid back alleys of mid-town before it was turned into a Euro-Disney theme park, I could always get on the LIRR and escape back to the suburbs if a situation got a little tight. My worry is that the boys will not have the same margin of safety as I did.

In economic downturns, jobs disappear; Wall Street doesn’t operate in a vacuum. Competition for the remaining jobs will be fierce. Any self-respecting sociologist will tell you that the Horatio Alger myth in America is just that-a myth. Where you get in life is determined more by where you came from and who you know than by the fruits of your labors. Generations of West Virginia coal miners would agree with me. So the boys are going to have to muddle through the best they can. Hopefully we can help them along the way.

Two Legs Good, Four Legs Better

The rains came, and the rains left and we were none the worse for wear. Erin’s shower was rescheduled to Sunday so I had the boys to myself in decidedly better weather. We went to the animal farm and fed pellets of food to a variety of slightly crazed goats and sheep. We also took pony rides and had a whirl on the train. That such places exist is a testimony to the existence of parents who desperately need entertainment that a 100th trip to the park can’t provide. One of the main attractions at White Post Farms is a giant sandbox with playground equipment in it which the boys enjoyed more than the animals. I let them root around in the dirt for an hour while I compared parenting notes with the other adults. From what I can tell by talking with my peers, nothing we’re doing is causing any irreversible or irreparable harm. It’s always nice to check though.

Surprisingly, taking two toddlers out of the house into a world where everything within sight had the potential to cause incapacitating injury or death didn’t stress me out to the level I expected it to. Both of the lads were generally well behaved and fun to be with. I was so pleased at my organizational skills that after we pulled out of the animal farm I took them both to Target for toys, followed by a food-shopping jaunt to Waldbaums. Aside from D clawing his way into the contents of the cart in the supermarket, the whole thing went off without incident. Of course, as soon as we got home they both melted down. It was a long day and in the end all that wandering around the suburban jungle pushed them to their collective limits. I’m sure Erin thought they were howling like feral bobcats all day but it truly wasn’t the case. Next week-end we’re planning on a trip to the Long Island Renaissance Fair. No problem.

Beginners Mind

I received a text message this morning from the weather channel warning of the potential for flooding in New York. It wasn’t specific as to time, and since the sun is merrily shining over the Meadowlands I have to assume that ark-building can be deferred until tomorrow morning. The remnants of tropical storm Hannah are winding their way up the coast and are due to hit Long Island some time in the next 24 hours. After the last big storm took out the power in Great Neck for several hours I now know enough to fill the hurricane lamps and get out the flash-lights. I’m not especially worried about losing power. I’m more worried about finding something to entertain Jack and Dimitri if we’re stuck in the house all day tomorrow due to foul weather. I tried to get them to sit down to watch the Chronicles of Narnia last night but quickly realized that the movie was geared for a slightly older audience. Shrek II it ain't.

It is challenging trying to understand the world of the imagination that three year old boys reside in. Dimitri can concoct elaborate narratives sitting at the kitchen table which rival anything C.S. Lewis came up with. Tales of monsters and superheroes, gathered from disparate references which stuck in odd corners of his mind, gurgle forth in stream of consciousness storytelling. It is a fascinating thing to see. At some point in our transition to adulthood we lose the ability to wonder at things and to weave complex fables out of our sensory input. Phenomena that completely amaze us as children; clouds, butterflies, the dew on the grass in the morning, become ordinary and routinized after repeated encounters. If only there was some way to keep this “beginners mind” when we become adults. Unfortunately as we become “educated” we learn to classify and categorize, discriminate between good and bad and assign value to things and ideas. We also become conscious of social structures and accept external limitations on our behavior. Not all of this is bad, after all, if we all ran around as undisciplined as three year olds nothing would ever get done. But I’ll bet we would all have a lot more fun.

Resting from One's Labors

I love fall. It is probably my favorite season. The bounty of the harvest, the rich changing colors of the leaves and the way the light splays across the landscape, all signal the waning of the season of beach and bar-b-q and the beginning of the gentle slide into winter. Labor Day week-end always changes my seasonal mindset and gets me thinking about tweedy jackets and the smell of wood smoke, even though today the mercury is still bumping up against 90 degrees. This past week-end Erin and I decided to forgo invitations to two end-of-summer events and just hang around the Island. On Saturday we threw the boys into the bike trailer and took a ride from Bethpage State Park to Jones Beach, a pleasant 13 mile pedal along a wooded corridor of green that gradually transitions to a wide path along the Wantagh Parkway with striking views of the bay and the Ocean. It was a humid day but the boys tolerated it well, even after we got to Jones Beach and they had to do a lot of walking around to find food. The day started with a downpour and the beach was curiously deserted for a holiday week-end. When we finally got to the ocean, Jack could barely contain himself and ran head-on in the direction of the water shrieking with delight. I had to keep him firmly in hand since if I let go he looked fully prepared to attempt a swim to Europe. While Dimitri loved the idea of the ocean, when he got up close to it, the power and majesty of the waves crashing into the shore proved too much and he had a minor melt-down. He isn’t the first person to be awed by the power of the ocean and I daresay he won’t be the last. Dmiitri has been quite protective of his little brother lately and he was scared that Jack and I would be carried away by the water. We got out quickly. Frankly I was afraid that if I lost my grip Jack would disappear beneath the waves. I’m going to get him swimming lessons as soon as possible, i.e. next summer when the pool reopens. There was also the issue of the jellyfish. The water appeared to be free of the annoying creatures but the stinging all over my body and the pieces of their corpses washing up on the sand gave away their presence. Jack seemed wholly unaffected by them but I needed a cold shower to get the venom off. Next time we both wear wetsuits.

Sunday was visiting day with daddy and despite my bravado in a prior posting, I was treated to the full spectacle of A. sitting on my sofa and raiding my refrigerator. At least he brought a cake. Mocha. Quite good, although it crossed my mind that he might have done something to it. I ate it anyway and it tasted vaguely of sorrow and tears. In the end D. ended up throwing him out after about two hours. The argument started over a DVD and resulted in A. giving his son the silent treatment because he felt slighted. By a 3 year old. Maturity does not necessarily come with age. Dimitri asked him to leave and he actually did. I’m not going to editorialize, just let the facts speak for themselves. We went to the pool in the afternoon and splashed around. A. was forgotten.