Seven

Australia - Break a Leg!

2009-10-28T14:00:00.003-06:00

For context, this article was originally published at ACALA Sports Training Systems. It is in the form of an open letter to teammates that were with me at the World Masters Games in Sydney, and a report to teammates that were not with us.

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I usually keep a journal on track meet journeys. It helps me remember the sequence of time and specific events during a trip. Often I will jot down an idea or two about topics I want to write about later. Before we left home, I stuck a spiral notebook into my carry-on bag as has long been my custom.

When I got home and began unpacking, I found the notebook, undisturbed, still occupying its original position. I had thought of the notebook on several occasions. Old habits are difficult to suppress, but I never managed to remove the book or write a single thought on its pages. Every page was pristine, the pen clipped tightly to the cover. If a pen could own feelings, it would have been suffering a case of neglect. It might have even glared at me for a few seconds since I had no ready explanation to offer.

Mark Hastings kept a journal. I watched him do it. Mark is always thorough in everything, so I know I can rely on his notes if I need them.

Without a note of any kind I sat down to write a blow by blow tale of the things our Houston Elite group encountered, and how we managed to fake, wheedle or cajole our way around every Australian obstacle placed in our way. I sat for quite a while without entering a single word through the keyboard. I was trying to reassemble a week’s worth of racing, touring and laughing without a written clue. Finally, with the monitor as blank as my notebook, I got up and headed for a meeting with one of my favorite clients. The client didn’t want to talk about architecture and the task he had for me. He wanted to hear all about Australia. Somewhere along the way, he asked me to rate my experiences there. He wanted to know what single event, site, or occurrence I would rank number one. I didn’t know the answer to the question, so I just looked past his smiling face and focused on a wind blown tree that stood outside his window. I took my time. I mentally cycled through the events and the days. He grew frustrated with my processing tardiness and went on to the next question. I left the meeting and began my drive home. My clients question hitched a ride with me. Like a summer mosquito buzzing my head, it wouldn’t leave me alone. Rethinking the week, memories worked their way in, soon to be crowded out by yet another memory, which was in turn replaced by still another memory of smiling faces and the surround of friends.

In that moment, as I drove, I knew the answer to my client’s question. There were too many memories to be ranked. There were too many warm embraces, both physical and mental. Too much laughter and fun to catalog in a tidy Letterman style top ten.

However, I fully realized the fountainhead for the cascade of warm memories. I comprehended the native source of my many fine memories. I had stumbled upon the origin, the wellspring.

The source of all the memories was the result of being surrounded by my friends. We were a tribe of several, and a warm unified heart of one. This was the answer to the previously unanswered question. I wanted to return and tell my client that I had arrived at an answer, and that I didn’t even cheat by looking in the back of the back. I knew the answer. Without my friends, without my tribe, without our unified heart, the source of all the memories and fun would not exist.

After I knew the answer I took the time to begin reviewing the video that Kathleen took of everyone during the competition. Captured on film is an extraordinary 4x100 relay run by a 100 percent Houston Elite team. The film documents a win for Houston Elite at a World Games level. The grand thing about it is we did it against a hand picked team of multi-national athletes that were many years younger than ourselves. The key to the win, no surprise, was the experienced and focused dash down the last straightaway by Coach Bill. Had that been all, it would have been enough to thrill. But wait, as they say on late night TV commercials, there’s more. Coach Bill performed the feat with a stress fracture that literally reduced him to writhing in pain at the end of the race, while he lay horizontal on the track attended by medical personnel. He was horizontal, but we were all victorious.

Why would a man with a ton of world competition gold medals do such a thing? He did it because he wanted to make sure his teammates, his friends, had a medal to take home. I don’t want to discount the remarkable valor of Bill’s sacrifice in any way, but I dare say any of us would do the same for the other. That’s the reason my memories are so warm and plentiful. I have friends that shared it with me, and cared about me all along the way.

There are times when our experiences in life unfold in a way that we can never fold them back. When a friend unfolds his friendship like Bill did that day, and you realize it is so meaningful it can never be folded back again, it can only make us smile, and be entirely aware why our memories are what they are.

I know what’s number one from my Australian trip. It’s all my friends. I promise I will run with a broken leg for you if I need to. Just like Coach Bill.

Please remember to pick me up and dust me off when it’s over. We have more memories to make.

To view the race go to: 4 x 100 Relay

Mark Hastings, Bill Collins, Rick Riddle, Charles Allie

Appointment of Dictionary Czar Confirmed

2009-09-30T11:29:00.012-05:00

Satire - Dallas, Texas

Frustrated that ABC correspondent George Stephanopoulos had the temerity to define the word ‘tax’ by looking it up in a dictionary, President Obama has appointed a new dictionary czar. Spokesman Robert Gibbs announced the appointment of Fred Jefferson at yesterdays press briefing. Mr. Jefferson is a former proof reader at ACORN according to Gibbs. Gibbs added that Jefferson’s extensive experience in proof reading gives him the perfect background to redefine words in a way that works well for the benefit of all Americans. “Production of a new authoritative and ‘flexible’ constitution, err, excuse me, dictionary is the change Americans voted for”, Gibbs continued.

When asked if it was true that President Obama is also considering a tattoo czar, Gibbs said he had no comment. Speculation has run strong in recent days that Kevin Inks, also a former ACORN executive, has been involved in talks with the administration about the possibility of creating a federal tax on tattoos that offer support to conservative ideas and tax breaks for those that support the administration. Contacted by telephone, Mr. Inks said there is no truth to the rumor. He also dispelled the rumor that Americans declining to get a tattoo would have to pay a tax, and that it had not been brought up by anyone outside of ACORN. “Besides, he said, the new dictionary czar should be able to work out all this word definition nonsense about the word ‘taxes’ in time to satisfy the less educated before the new tax is announced.” He added “ooops” before hanging up.

Will you still love me, when I'm 92?

2009-09-22T21:20:00.004-05:00

Ever wondered what life will be like when you’re 90 years old? I didn’t think so. I wondered it once, but it was because I was watching a local TV newscast about a 90 something year old. He was on the news because he had chased burglars out of his house at the end of a shotgun, while wearing only his underpants. Yep, really slow news night. He didn’t have a twinkle in his eyes. He was all stooped over and wagging a bony finger at the camera. A really big booger was at the edge of his nose. At least it looked like it was a booger. In French, of course, you pronounce it boo-jay, which I think is altogether more artful than buu-gurrr; which is how we say it in Texas. The old fellow was a mess frankly, but after all he was 90-something!

On that particular night I wondered what life might be like at 90 plus. Then I tired of the thought, with it being unpleasant and all, and I went on to think about sex and beer and fast cars. At one point I thought of them in all in the very same thought. It was a combining of the best ingredients of life into a virtual banana split of thinking. Yes, I’m aware that last sentence makes no sense whatsoever, yet any mental cases reading this are nodding their heads up and down and grinning, because they understood it anyway. Caught you didn’t I?

Yesterday, I saw another video of a 90 something year old. In fact, the man is 92 years old. After watching it I understood a little more about grace and dignity. You can watch the video here . Before you watch it however, I should fill you in on some detail. The speaker is named Ernie Harwell. For what seems like the last one million years, he has been the broadcast voice of the Detroit Tigers baseball team. Earlier this year he was diagnosed with an untreatable cancer.

Mr. Harwell is dying. He knows it. The Tigers fans that love him also know it.

He was asked to address the home crowd as this baseball season grows to a close, a moment pregnant with poignancy since Mr. Harwell’s season of life will end shortly, perhaps before this seasons bats and baseballs disappear from the dugouts.

Imagine you have been told you are going to die very soon. Imagine you have to say goodbye to 45,000 family members, under the lights, in front of a microphone on television and radio. Then pray you might be able to do it this well. If you can do so, it will testify to the fact that you have come to understand the power of acknowledging the ‘joy of your journey’. Listen to 92 year old Ernie Harwell say goodbye.

I was recently asked to collaborate on a book, which is now in publication, in which I pontificate as if I were wise about understanding the joy of life’s journey. The joy of the journey is all important to the quality with which we walk through life. Without this understanding, we merely spend our time moving from one completed action to another. Understanding the process and joy of being involved in the action can bring us new understanding about pleasure, joy and fulfillment. Some have simplified the thinking to a simple catch phrase; ‘living in the moment’.

Mr. Harwell’s farewell is simple, yet charged with a complex dignity that I believe so few of us possess and may never attain. But, I pray to God that someday, I might in my own life approach this same level of dignity when I tell the world goodbye. I pray my journey will have been so complete that letting go of life can seem so easy and even joyful that the word ‘dignified’ is the only word that can come to mind. I just hope I don’t have to do it in front of a microphone with the entire state of Michigan watching.

Watch video here

Ready to be like actually ....................

2009-09-16T22:52:00.011-05:00

Back in 2002 I took my son on a tour of college campuses to help him ‘discover’ what school he wanted to attend. He ended up graduating from the good ol rootin-tootin University of Texas, right here near my backyard. Well, maybe its a little south of my back fence, but anyway at least its in his home state. But, before he settled on full time partying and frat slumming at UT, he wanted to see New York University.

If you haven’t been there, let me tell you about it. It’s a unique campus, just cuz it doesn’t have a campus. Its buildings are strewn about the south end of Manhattan like confetti on a windy day, following a hero’s parade before the street sweepers arrive. Each building flies a purple flag on their front, with the logo “NYU” emblazoned on it, or maybe I should say it is imprinted, since emblazoned is probably too effusive a term. The flag has a nifty torch on it too, symbolizing something about' holding out a lamp of knowledge against the darkness of ignorance'. Must have been coined by an Obama speechwriter (speaking of overly effusive) back when he or she was a student. Anyway, the point is, you know you got off the city bus or subway at the correct point, to hold up your lamp, if you see the purple flag on the NYU owned buildings. So what, you ask?

Well, on the tour of NYU, (which - oh by the way - costs per year what 2 new Lexus costs and oozes the same class divide snobbery) there was a very intense, yet pleasant, young man who relied heavily on the phrase ‘actually’. As in saying, this is ‘actually’ where we have business classes, and this is ‘actually’ where the freshmen students can puke after too much beer, and this building is actually near the actual police station for this district. And so forth he carried on, with a steady stream of ‘actuals’ and ‘actuallys’.

At one point, I turned to BEG and said, this kid is overly fond of the word actually! Then I made a prophet of myself. I told her that it must be the newest ‘catch-cool’ phrasing and was likely to spread from Manhattan to Los Angeles and soon kids all across America would be using this phrasing.

How right I was! Now it is even commonly used by major network reporters! I’m ready to throw things. I love words, even though it sounds major geeky and I’m always sorry for sounding geeky, old or cranky – but by God and Jimi Hendrix – PLEASE everyone quit saying ACTUALLY!

First it was ‘like’ this and I was ‘like that’ and I said “Like dude, just get over it” – and now it’s ACTUALLY!

I’m like actually, like banging my head on my actual table, because I have like recently caught myself using this overused word as if it were the damned actual swine flu and I had failed to wash my hands of it.

It has me in its grip. I’d rather be like actually dead.

Do you like, actually here me? Can’t we just move on to the next, yet new, horrible overuse of a common five-cent word?

Sorry, I guess it didn't have anything to do with purple flags after all.

Etched in the Rain

2009-09-14T14:30:00.008-05:00

I was riding in the back of the car watching the rain slash across the windshield, while the wipers cleared the way to drive. My son had stopped at a traffic light. My wife was in the passenger seat. I sat alone in the back of the car, staring straight ahead at my family in the front seat. No one was talking.

The next morning our son would be leaving Texas, for a job in San Francisco.

I was reminded of my father’s death. More specifically I was reminded of the night of his death. It was raining that night too. The night my father died I drove my mother home from the hospital in the rain. It was quiet in the car. Our lives had changed, and both of us were very tired from the hospital vigil and the intense emotion it had brought us. We had little to say, yet we were bound by time and circumstance to one another in this time of pain. Our ride held meaning beyond any routine car ride. It was the type of moment that can renew our role in one another’s lives, a moment that can burn the sights, sounds and emotions into our memories for a lifetime. We all know the rhythmic sound of the wipers moving from the top of their arc to the bottom. We know the sound of the rain, a sound distinct to us all, even with our eyes closed. These are the images and sounds of everyday life that can suddenly etch our memory, when they occur in a significant moment. The sound of the tires across puddles when you’re in motion, the hypnotic image of red and green traffic lights splotched across the windshields surface, reflected off the droplets of water where the wipers can’t reach. When you couple the sights and the sounds with the emotion, like it existed in the car that night, it becomes impossible to erase the memory. When it is silent in the car, the memories burrow even deeper.

The memory of my father’s passing and the quiet bond between me and my mother came home while we sat at that traffic light in my son's car.

I don’t know why the memory chose that moment.

Maybe the power we call fate throws out random reminders of our mortality.

Perhaps the gods expect us to miss the reminders, like we might overlook the note scribbled on a piece of paper in front of us.

This note from fate, or circumstance, or whatever it is that places our minds and hearts and our bodies in a common experience, I didn’t miss. I caught it solidly.

I understood many things in that quiet moment in my son’s car.

I understood my mortality.

I understood the bond between my son and his mother.

I comprehended their allegiance to me.

I understood I was being given a glimpse into the future.

A time when I will not be in the car, yet they will.

I saw a time when the son will comfort the mother, once again.

I understood and caught the moment as though I were already gone.

I understood my place in the world in a more defined way.

I understood it in its past tense and its present tense.

Now, in this moment, I was offered a chance to know it in its future tense.

And I saw it would be alright.

Fate and circumstance will turn in their infinite revolutions.

And it will be alright.

Lone Tree on a Barren Prairie

2008-09-06T11:43:00.010-05:00

Don Miguel Ruiz published his book “The Four Agreements’ in 1997. It is an easy to read book that posits the idea that we all conduct our lives and make our decisions based on agreements we have made with life; agreements that are the result of our individual experiences and the positive and negative feedback received as we move along in time. The author states he is expressing a long held tenant of Toltec thinking handed down from his Mexican ancestors.

I am not a scholar of Toltec philosophy. To be so would require even more energy on my part than becoming a practitioner of Yoga, which still lies untouched on my list of things to conquer.

Nevertheless I remain fascinated by the concept presented and the challenge that lies inside this Toltec philosophy. Ruiz maintains that the ability to break these agreements, which are often founded in false reality, is the path of personal progress and self fulfillment.

It seems to me that he is on a track to understanding how to change destructive patterns of behavior and how to redefine our beliefs not by what we are taught, but rather by what we understand as a more natural truth. Like a lone tree on a barren prairie, we bend our lives in the direction the force of life takes us, just as the tree over time bends in the direction of the prevalent winds. We cope and adjust to life. We listen to parents and friends and teachers and we form agreements within our consciousness of what we believe and how we respond to circumstances of life. We rarely construct our agreements without the approval of others.

All this talk of Toltec philosophy and an eleven year old book brings me to the subject of politics. Specifically it enlivens the discussion of what we have come to know as ‘flip-flopping’. In the world of American politics it has become a negative term. Recall Bush supporters arriving at Kerry stump speeches waving flip flops in the air as he talked? The term is applied, as everyone knows, to the process of changing position or changing thinking on a political topic. It is assumed to be a political and personal character flaw in a candidate.

Is it a flaw? Maybe it’s merely the use of politically motivated language that paints such a heavy coat of negativity on a common life process. Can the practice of thinking through a position, then changing your opinion based on a re-analysis of fact be thought of as positive?

In my view this depends entirely on context. In matters of war it seems prudent to constantly weigh one’s position with respect to the facts available. Have the Iraqis let too many sunrises pass without taking possession of their governance responsibility? Would a very unpopular position to run Al-Qaeda from Iraq by sending more US soldiers work? Maybe, I don’t know the facts and I strongly suspect my readers don’t know unless you happen to be one of the privileged that receives top secret briefings. Isn’t it amazing how many of your friends and our celebrities around America know exactly what’s wrong and what to do without access to any of the facts available to the President? It is increasingly apparent that the hardest agreement many Americans have to break is the idea we are exceptionally wise while working with an absence of knowledge and fact about many world situations. A simpler way to express the point is to say, “We certainly have a lot of know it all blowhards in our midst, do we not?”

If we look at the context of abortion it seems less reasonable to own a shifting position. The biologic process has not changed and will not change between now and November 2008. Is the changing of one’s mind on abortion a negative when facts are stable?

I theorize that a majority of Americans will cast their vote for leadership based on agreements that remain unquestioned. Because of that fact, the candidates search for the so-called independent voter with their campaign dollars and their oration. Wouldn’t it be healthier for America if we all understood that our decision should be made on a rational analysis of available fact, with personal agreements questioned at every turn? Ruiz maintains in his book that this ability to reject agreements that limit us is our best hope for self awareness and the fulfillment of our potential.

Sadly I expect the populace and the networks to continue the vitriolic arguments that sustain and foster the strength of their personal agreements no matter the opportunity to base their opinions on objective assessment. We will argue our agreements instead of our natural truth, not comprehending the kernel of truth embedded in the Toltec philosophy. Vice Presidential candidate Spiro Agnew once referred to the press as “nattering nabobs of negativism” a well turned phrase pointed directly at this remarkable capacity of the media for finding fault rather than a positive, which returns me to the central point that ‘flip-flopping’ is not inherently evil or stupid.

Extending this argument about the breaking of agreements to the voting public is the logical extension of our expectation that our leaders be able to change position not only with grace but with intelligence. Can we, the voting American public, do more than vote our pre-existing agreements that Republicans are gun–toting mean racists or that Democrats are God hating socialists? Or, can we think and reason about which candidate offers our country and our children a safe and productive future?

Is our opportunity for continued success in America tied to our ability to no longer howl at the moon of our prejudices until we are hoarse? I think so, but it’s so hard isn’t it?

Truth Crushed to Earth

2008-08-10T19:00:00.004-05:00

If we imagined that good always prevails would we engage life with a different plan? The answer to that question might be more important than we think and as in all things important it might be painstakingly elusive as well. Why ask the question in the first place?

It’s only important if we embrace the possibility of truth being embedded in the statement 'good always prevails'. The idea that good will prevail over the course of time is a philosophy handed down by generations of writers and thinkers, theological and secular.

If we accept the truth of that idea as an acknowledged principle, then it raises the question of whether or not it should alter the way we live our lives. If I accept that good prevails I might elect to care not a thread if I abet its ultimate triumph, another way of saying it doesn’t matter what I do in my life. I might also say it this way, “If good always triumphs in the end there is no need for intervention on my part.” Conversely, if I decide that the flow of good required for triumph is inherently tied to my personal actions, it creates the need of a demanding code of conduct, a code directly predicated on embracing one simple belief.

If I answer one way, the moral direction of the universe demands nothing of me. If I answer the other way, the moral direction demands everything of me.

Martin Luther King wrote the beautiful phrase “Let us realize the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” It is a philosophical and poetic phrase. Is it true? If the moral universe bends toward justice do I have an obligation to help it bend? Do you?

In that same speech given on August 16, 1967, King quoted a William Cullen Bryant phrase of matching power, "Truth crushed to earth will rise again."

If good can be equated with justice or truth, then we might combine all of this thinking into the idea that good, justice and truth prevail over time, or as King poetically states, “over the arc of the moral universe”.

Do we have a part? Or is it out of our hands and lying in the larger hands of the Creator? Or, is it possible the hands of the Creator exist at the ends of our arms?

The One With The Flowers?

2008-07-26T07:00:00.003-05:00

In the past few days I waded through an imaginary swamp.

It was filled with water the color and texture of sewage. Large trees ripe with summer foliage overhung the mire and blocked my vision of a sky dark with heavy clouds. A distinctive grey darkness cast itself across the surface of every plant and animal. Debris of an indeterminate composition, representing the mistakes of my life, floated on the top of the thick water. Snakes of evil, casting an aura of unknown danger moved across the surface of the water, gliding in that distinctive curving fashion of a swimming serpent, the darkness of their backs moving from one debris pile to the other. Their eyes locked mine in a threatening stare and my own eyes locked onto theirs. Each of us measured the other with equal loathing and fear.

I hadn’t come here by design. When I left it was fields of waving green grass, speckled with multicolored wildflowers that I searched for. Throughout a sunny morning I had walked along the forest path looking left and right for an opening that would lead me to that field of pleasant dream. From the trees above the locusts hummed their incessant song. An occasional unexplained noise diverted my attention from the path yet nothing showed itself to explain the scurrying noise from the undergrowth. The canopy of trees above my head grew thicker, darkening the sandy path as the day grew longer.

Just beyond a brown stone bridge the path split. The side I chose led me longer into the day and deeper into the dark. Eventually cold water tickled at my ankles and my feet slid an inch deeper into turf that had become mud. Dark images of large birds mocked me from above. The scurrying sounds of the underbrush were replaced by an eerie quiet, the type of quiet that magnifies its presence by the forceful power of its nothingness. Still, I moved forward. I knew what lay behind. I didn’t yet know what lay ahead, though I searched with hope for my sun drenched field of green.

I noticed the outline of his small figure mirrored in the water to my right side. My attention raptly focused on the snakes and piles of mistakes had honed my alertness to a level that gave the water borne image unusual clarity. I moved my torso a quarter turn in the bog, the swishing of the water at my waist breaking through the silence. I stared at the figure, fuzzy and dark in the shadows of the trees. The outline of a small human form crouched along the earthen bank, his right foot closer to the waters edge than his left, his elbows resting on his knees. He held up his right hand and with a soft and slow folding motion of the hand beckoned me to come closer. He spoke no words. I moved one step toward him, lowering my head in an effort to see more clearly. I squinted my eyes in the manner people use to try to sharpen their focus. I could see he wore only a white shirt, long sleeved and buttoned only in the middle, the sleeves rolled up on his muscular arms in a haphazard fashion. His skin was peculiarly free of any hair, glowing and sleek in the way dolphin skin might look if transposed onto a human figure. His feet were longer than his body size would dictate they should be. The hands had the same out of proportion quality, the fingers long as they folded up and then back out again in the beckoning motion. His penis was small as if Michelangelo had re-sculpted David, crouched on an earthen bank in a bog wearing dolphin skin. I was unsure if I should obey the hand command. I moved three more steps forward and his hand uprighted itself in the stop signal. He smiled a radiant smile of brilliant white perfect teeth that seemed to have caught light from nowhere, further obscuring his facial features in the grayness that surrounded all but the smile. The small man spoke to me in a pleasant inquisitive voice.

“Are you lost my friend?”
“Yes”
“Are you looking for the green field, the one with the flowers, the one that everyone that passes here is searching for?”
“Yes”
“You missed it because you were not looking when you found it.”
“That’s impossible; I have looked all along the path I’ve walked. I never once closed my eyes or quit looking for the field.”
“How is it then that you have come so far to find me?”
“I don’t know, I just kept walking, I was just hoping to find the field and lie down in the sun, I didn’t realize I passed it.”
“You have passed it as I said, yet it remains in front of you.”
“How can that be, how can it be both in front of me and behind me?”
“It can only be found my friend when you are not seeking it. It lies behind you. It lies in front of you. It is on your right and on your left, but you have chosen to wade with snakes instead.”
“No, it’s not like that! I am only here because I got lost!
I looked quickly to my left to keep an eye on the snakes and the floating debris. When I looked back toward the dolphin skinned man he was gone. The eerie quiet returned.

Innocence and Experience

2008-07-08T19:00:00.006-05:00

Purple seagrass waves in the breeze
Summer announces
Am I seasoned, or am I young again?
Memories cross paths and the boy engages the man

Dreams of youth and the realities of the present
They seem strangers; the familiarity goes unexplained
The scent of cut grass and the memories of baseball
Phones ringing; insistence on experience

Innocence or experience
Collisions inside my mind
A girl in a short skirt
A stirring of memory

An unexpected glimpse of today in the mirror
A young girl laughs; her conversation amuses the elder
It excites the younger

Purple seagrass waves in the breeze
A tear decorates the man’s cheek

Memories cross paths
The boy engages the man
Familiarities go unexplained
Strangers

They are staring at one another
Perplexed by the other image
Purple seagrass waves in the breeze

Hello, my soul
Ageless
Content
Unexplained

I'll give you something to cry about.....

2008-06-30T15:30:00.006-05:00

I have been listening to all the news stories about the airlines charging $15 to check a bag.
I started traveling with one carry-on bag after my luggage was lost for 11 days during a trip to Italy. My wife's bag was lost (delayed in airline language) for the same time period. I learned something. You need far less things than you might imagine, even in a foreign country where you don't speak the language.
BEG and I made a pact to never check an airline bag again. It has nothing to do with fifteen dollars. We learned exactly what is really needed and how to pack it in a carry-on size suitcase. We spent 2 weeks in France this past March with one carry-on bag each. No problem, no kidding. It can be accomplished sooo easily.
Cut to the television interviews. One woman at O'Hare in Chicago is whining like a baby about the high cost of flying for a family with six children. Six children? Lady, this is the smallest of your problems. Having cashed 2 kiddos through college, trust me on this one, airlines are the smallest of your problems. And not to sound all Chinese and everything; but 6 kids! Good planning.
Another lady traveler is bemoaning the fact that she is being charged to carry the child seat she is taking to her daughter in Omaha. Huh? They don't have child seats at WalMart in Omaha? Think people! Another man says he might have to shift from his normal first class to sit in coach if fuel prices keep rising. Oh Good God! No, tell me it isn't true!
Another man says this is killing his trips to Las Vegas to gamble once a month. Oh no!
Cut to the TV anchor with a furrowed brow, asking the field reporter if there is ANY relief in sight? The field reporter sadly replies "not anytime soon." My lingering thought is this is a lot of silly crybaby excrement we're hearing. I'm sure the powers in Dubai are laughing their asses off at the ridiculous and whiny Americans.

My dad used to say when I would tear-up as a child, "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about." Harsh? Sure. But I know at this point in my life what he meant. I recently earned a bad ankle sprain and haven't been able to train on the track, which has made me agitated (according to BEG, and God knows she is the one that would know). I tested the ankle on the track this morning and still no go for me after 2 weeks of shut down. I grumped my way up to 7-11 to buy some coffee. A patron at the counter bid me a cheerful good morning. He was sitting in a wheelchair and had no legs. True story; not kidding you. Happened this morning.

"I'll give you something to cry about"
Now I Get It....maybe

Freckles and Sweat

2008-06-22T00:05:00.021-05:00

Beads of sweat, invisible in the darkness of night, ran off his forehead. He closed his eyes. A quick swipe of his fingertips removed the dampness from his eyelids. The mattress below him had grown wet from his perspiration, yet it meant nothing in the world he lived in. He slept in his own sweat every night. There was no air conditioning in his house. This night was cooler than the ones in his bedroom. The slight breeze that came with the growing Texas night was beginning to cool the sides of the pick-up truck’s bed. It was Friday night, and a few hours before his dad had hauled the queen mattress out of the house and dropped it into the back of the 1957 Ford pick-up. From his spot in the back of the truck his senses filled with the voices of the women laughing as if they were rehearsing a TV scene with Lucy and Ethel. The men spoke softly and drew large hits off a stream of never ending cigarettes that glowed like small lamps among the cluster of men. He concentrated on the small orange glows as they danced up and down, their movement caused by the practiced art of men talking while also holding a cigarette in their mouths.

Fireflies darted across his face, daring him to chase them. He was content in the back of the truck; the soggy pillow below his head doubled up where he could watch the dancing cigarettes and hear the laughter and high pitched voices of the moms.

He was 8 years old. He had been to a handful of these church socials. He didn’t know why the church members gathered in a city park on Friday nights. They would all sleep in the park tonight, on cots and in the back of pick-up trucks. He knew the small frame house where he lived next to the railroad tracks was hot and that maybe that is why they gathered in the park on these nights. It was also noisy at his house as the trains roared by through the night no more than 50 yards from his open window. Late at night the hobos that walked the tracks and rode the trains would appear at one of the windows and wake him up by knocking on the wooden window sill. It always scared him, but he tried to not let on. He just told them they only had enough food and stuff for themselves, sorry. That’s what his dad said to tell them.

The vacation from the small hot house and the productive railroad tracks was what made these Friday nights so much fun. There was laughter. There were games before the picnic dinners, men playing dominoes and smoking, moms laughing and preparing food. Now the stars above him were glowing with a full brightness through the leaves of the oak trees. The leaves moved gently in the cooling breeze of the evening, a breeze that had begun to make the sweat on his face feel cool. The same breeze brought the distinctive aroma of smoke from the group of men and also seemed to heighten the sound of the ducks near the pond, their constant quacking mimicking the back and forth voices of the group of women.

He lost himself in thought about Rebecca. She was confusing to think about. Small freckles decorated her nose and cheeks, the freckles were almost the same muted red color as her hair. He liked the way her hair would fall across her face when she ran. She would have to slow down and move it behind her ears before she could continue running. Her red canvas shoes were always topped by white socks that sagged to her ankles when she played with the boys. He didn’t know why he liked to think about her but it made him feel good to remember her running and tending to her hair. He liked it when she smiled right at him and he imagined holding her hand, but he also knew he would never dare.

He was happy. No hobos and no trains, just laughter and stars and ducks on a pond. He swatted a mosquito away from his ear. He thought about Rebecca’s freckles and smiled. His eyelids grew heavy and he drifted into sleep.

Years later when he had all the things of value that life could bring him, when a generation of time had separated him from the boy and his personal wealth had grown, he would sit in his study and think about the happiness of the boy. He did it again tonight.

When we have so little, only dreams and an image of what comfort might be, why are we so happy? When poverty stricken children in third world countries chase a soccer ball across a barren field dotted with skinny cows, why does an enormous smile play across their face and why do their eyes dance with the fullness of life? Does ignorance of plenty enhance satisfaction with little? And if its true………….how do we return to the place where the leaves rustle in front of the stars and we care only about our dreams and the play that begins in the morning? Where do we find the place that we chase a soccer ball across a field of skinny cows, grinning like a child?

A Million Pounds?

2008-06-18T18:21:00.013-05:00

All day I have been working away at my job, but I have also had the cable news programs on in the background. Today President Bush upped the ante on the elections by pressing Congress to revoke the long standing legislation prohibiting off-shore drilling.
One startling overnight poll showed that Americans have shifted to being nearly 80% in favor of off-shore drilling, the percentages turning almost 180 degrees from where they have been in recent years.
For some reason that reminded me of the best joke ever written about prostitution. The joke is credited to Bernard Shaw.
He was at a party once and told a woman that everyone would agree to do anything for money, if the price was high enough.
"Surely not, she said."
"Oh yes," he said.
"Well, I wouldn't," she said.
"Oh yes you would. For instance, would you sleep with me for... for a million pounds?"
"Well," she said, "maybe for a million I would, yes."
"Would you do it for ten shillings?" he asked.
"Certainly not!" said the woman "What do you take me for? A prostitute?"
"We've established that already," said Bernard Shaw. "We're just trying to fix your price now!"

Sooooo....... I see the flip-over price is $4 per gallon.

Now I Get It...........maybe.

I Don't Believe You

2008-06-11T18:44:00.011-05:00

This post is like huntin with Cheney. I’ve got no idea where I’m aiming, but I might hit something if I just fire a round off.

My knee hurts. It doesn’t hurt like arthritis or any of that old guy stuff. It hurts because I have been banging the victim knee on hurdles. Fair enough, go ahead and wonder why a 56 year old man is jumping hurdles. Frustration awaits you if you seek an actual answer because the man doesn’t actually have a reason except that he thinks its fun to see if he can do it better than other 56 year old men. I never claimed to be motivated in enlightened ways. I lay claim only to being motivated, which of course was also true of Timothy McVea, so any association with the good implied by that statement is suspect from the time the light turned green at the front of the sentence.

Back to my knee. In the interest of going over the hurdles with optimum efficiency I am required to forcefully jerk my right knee over the top of the hurdle during the step over. Well, not required, but it helps if you want to win. Refer to the previous sentences regarding improperly placed motivations if you feel confused at this point. Several times in the course of a workout I manage to bring the right knee into serious impact with the hurdle. It hurts. The seventh time you do it in the same week hurts more than the first time. Here is what I said on the seventh impact. #(*^@$*@$*@&@*!!!!!.

So, being a fellow of diligence and serious motivation, however improperly placed or maniacal that said motivation might be when analyzed by a kind hearted counselor, and damn those guys cost a lot, I went to look for advice from a second expert. I found one only 75 yards away. A world famous track and field coach, that I call a friend, was working on the other end of the track with two Bejing bound athletes.

Understand that my coach friend is famous for his wit, wisdom and plain spoken passages about track and life. He is in his early 60’s, so plain speak is his earned province much like your old cantankerous uncle, whatever his name is in your case. I presented my hurt knee problem. Coach’s solution was quick and effective. He said “If I was you I would quit running hurdles. Crashing into them is what is making your knee hurt.”

Okeee Dokeee, thanks Coach. I wish McVea had asked for help too.

Last year this same friend told me something I have not forgotten and I want to talk to you about what he said. This is a man who has worked with literally thousands of college age athletes, many running at a world class level years after they leave his program. He has seen and accomplished a great deal in his profession and is widely known for his successes. Here is the wisdom Mr. Track Coach laid on me.

“People will always show you exactly who they are. The hardest thing is learning to accept that what they show us is the truth.”

I reflect on the relationships I have known of where abuse was present. The abused often stays around, refusing to believe what they have been shown. I had to make a decision in the past 2 weeks about a personal relationship based on a pattern of behavior that I had witnessed so many times before that it became crystal clear that this individual was showing me once again exactly who they are, and this persons behavior keeps repeating itself like a barroom parrot in a Jamaican bar.

Do you think this saying by my coach friend is accurate? Is it really possible that people always show us exactly who they are, but the hardest piece of the puzzle is fully accepting what we have been shown?

Speaking of showing us what you got, I’m going to Las Vegas for a wedding this weekend. BEG is going too so I have to figure a way to get her into one of the showgirl shows, you know the kind where 120 topless girls balance big feather things on their heads, which the women in the audience comment on, while the men wonder what feather head thing?

So while I’m gone, just talk amongst yourselves here if you want. Or come on out to Vegas. I’ll be at the MGM Grand showing Vegas exactly who I am. Ask for Seven Alevin, but don't be surprised if they think you want a Slurpee. Everybody’s welcome, but I don’t think you can go to the wedding.

An Old Coot Don't Need No Stinkin Gas

2008-06-09T17:57:00.008-05:00

I have a privileged slot in the pecking order when it comes to buying gasoline. What I mean is that I don’t have to buy much of it. I work at home and 90% of my everyday commerce is conducted electronically. I emailed an entire construction specification manual today by email. It was the 4^th book I have written in 3 weeks that reached its end user without my use of gasoline.

Taking advantage of the information age was a decision I made 10 years ago and it has paid far more lifestyle and financial dividends than I would ever have imagined. I don’t have to wear clothes when I’m working. I am able to do my run and weight training on a regular schedule since I don’t have a boss and can work deep into the night if I need to. I only drive in rush hour traffic if I happen to go temporarily brain dead and schedule a meeting in downtown Dallas or Fort Worth at a bad time. I eat the food in my refrigerator instead of fast food or restaurant food which is a necessity of my training anyway, but at least I don’t have to carry my lunch to work!

I’m not bragging, just feeling good about my circumstances. I know there are millions of Americans, especially young Americans with families that drive many miles to work for small wages. Surely this gas situation is a huge strain for them. I have empathy.

Still, maybe there is good that can come from the situation. Maybe more of us will learn to work from home and take full advantage of the new information age, lowering carbon emissions and simultaneously shooting a middle finger toward Dubai. Maybe we can learn to bicycle and plan our trips. It wouldn’t hurt Americans to lose about seven gazillion pounds collectively. My Lord, people surrounding me in public are just sooo fat these days! Riding a bike or walking like thinner Europeans can’t be as bad as the fattys might imagine. Maybe we will rediscover that we have neighbors living alongside us.

Maybe we will all stay home and become Guitar Hero legends. I can play Black Magic Woman now as well as any fifth grader on his second try and I’ve only been practicing for 2 months.

Maybe we will find something far more important. Maybe we will rediscover the simplicity of right now. That may be a confusing sentence without context, so let me explain. The frenetic pace of our culture has taught us to scurry like mice on a wheel. We run from here to there with a sense of urgency not limited by space, distance or the cost of fuel. In the course of that scurrying and the brain patterning that accompanies it have we lost our sense of simplicity, planning and the idea of being present in the now? Have we lost sunsets and meaningful conversation?

All that may seem a tad gray or old fashioned. Sorry for sounding like an old coot that don't need no gas.

Maybe what we will learn is that we have a new purpose and stewardship not only with our energy and environment, but also with our personal sense of where we are going as individual souls and why we are going there. Maybe we will have time to ask the question "why are we always needing to travel so far outside ourselves and at such a rapid pace." If we run fast enough might we be able to escape ourselves? A Jackson Browne lyric observes, "no matter how fast I run, I can never get away from me."

If we all had more time to sit at peace outside the immediate view of our steering wheels and gas gages and think about our lives and our perspective of the 'right now', is that really a negative?

You tell me.

Applause for Bigotry?

2008-06-05T08:11:00.013-05:00

I’m curious about the media’s insistence on referring to Barrack Obama as the first black candidate nominated by his party. After his victories earlier this week the headlines across America lead their stories with some variation of this theme. I might be accused of picking knit, but the tiniest bit of research indicates Mr. Obama is neither all black nor all white.

It leaves me with the idea that this is merely a new chapter in American racial bigotry rather than the mining of a new vein of acceptance and race blindness. What dictates that a bi-racial man is black rather than white? Is it because his appearance presents the image that lives in our minds about what a black man looks like?

Is it more sinister than that simplistic observation? Is it possible that our culture is presenting that once a white woman or white man has produced a child with a black person that the child is considered black rather than white because of institutionalized cultural agreement on permanent blemish or social devaluation?

This is my question for America. Why do we not refer to Mr. Obama as the first bi-racial candidate nominated by his party? Is this insistence that he is a black man America’s hoping and dreaming that our prejudice is resolved by electing a black man, when we actually elect a man that is both black and white?

Is the prospect that two races have merged to produce a unique and talented individual just too underwhelming for journalism? Or, is it possibly the biggest story of the day, left unearthed by a media stuffed full of its own unobserved bigotry?

You tell me.

The Gossip and the Green

2008-05-23T17:25:00.009-05:00

Eradicating vice from our daily life is an onerous task. The devil in many lives, my own included, is the daily dose of gossip and erroneous language that passes from mouth to mouth, infiltrating and infecting the wrinkled gray matter of everyone it contacts. Like a computer virus traveling by email, gossip races across its course with alarming speed and even more frightening it travels over multiple race courses, proving it possesses far more lives than the ordinary house cat. The vice of gossip is often attributed to housewives and women with nothing better to do with their time. The sexist notion wrapped therein is demonstrably false by simple observation. Men delight in gossip just the same as women. It is a non-biased stain on both genders.

Let’s talk about gossip and the green.

Recently, the American Institute of Architects instituted a new requirement for its membership to earn continuing education credits in sustainable design, a code phrase for ‘green movement architecture’.

This comes on the 15 year old heels of the requirement for continuing education in the first place which produced a vast array of education providers feasting on the Architect’s dutifully coughed up seminar money. Green is now gospel. Throughout the streets of America folks are wearing their ‘go green’ t-shirts with smug smiles of self indulgent pride in their do-goodness.

Now begins the task of preparing for the commercialism of the green movement. Look around and gather the easily apparent clues of the blossoming attempt to take your money and mine by promoting the ‘green movement’ in products. Stand back as the green commercial stampede claims its victims. This cascading phenomenon is firmly rooted in the fantastically fertile mixture of capitalism and gossip.

There are only a limited number of scientists with the credentials to understand the impact of man’s activities on the future of our planet. In reading what some of them have to say I have discovered they possess a large measure of humility, often stating directly that they are unsure of the results gathered at the end of their well intended and carefully controlled scientific pursuits. This appears to be a way of saying that they understand nature and science, but do not own the skills to extrapolate the longevity of the polar ice cap and other geographies from the gathered data. I also read disagreement among a few of the less humble scientists. One group espousing the coming doom, the other group lecturing to hang on a minute before you take the next flight to Mars; another way of saying that not even the brightest knows for sure what our future holds. The less objective of the scientist and the non-scientist shills with a platform use the whole discussion for personal gain. Al Gore secures a new fortune by preaching the coming firestorm. Rush Limbaugh pontificates that global warming is a complete hoax though my research shows he has no scientific training. Michael Moore continues to muddy reality with multiple lies disguised as truth, a fact well documented, aimed at the youthful, the ignorant and the blissfully absorbent and angry rebels in need of a cause.

None of the three individuals I mentioned has a scientific pedigree to make any statement whatsoever that should cause anyone to pay attention. The corollary that comes to mind is that this is the same as if your bank teller has diagnosed you with a malignant brain tumor.

My position in all of this ‘g-warming’ discussion is a simple one. I don’t know because I don’t have the credentials or scientific intelligence to know. A good portion of the reports I read I don’t even understand due to a lack of scientific background.

I consider the discussion analogous to gossip. Rush wants his listeners to believe in the hoax of the movement. Former VP Gore wants his listeners to believe the earth hangs in the balance of buying his book and stabilizing his legacy. This is the common form of gossip. It is the spreading of words, not dipped in the well of truth, being nonetheless orated as though it were true beyond any doubt. The listener believes it as truth, then passes it along to the next gossip participant. The underlying premise that this is a giant hoax or else a 180 degree opposite calamity with earth in the balance strains a rational man’s patience.

And so I am now stuck, with equal parts of amusement and disgust, as I watch the green movement turn into a products parade. The fertile mixture of gossip and capitalism tilled together, reaping a giant harvest of the ignorant and absorbent souls of our world wearing their new $21.95 “Go Green” t-shirts. Al Gore stares back at me from the cover of his apocalyptic revelation. Michael Moore apparently continues to harbor a misplaced need to unleash his vast anger and corpulent image on the general public. Rush smokes his cigar after lighting it with a $1,000 bill and smiles as he reminds the largest radio audience in America that it is all a hoax. And now, to continue being an Architect in good standing I have to sit in a CE class with a lecturer half my age teaching me how to collect rainwater from the roof, drain it into a cistern and wash my hair with it as though it were actually complicated and had not been first accomplished around 900 BC. The fact that I have no hair is seemingly immaterial in the face of this hurricane of gossip and fresh t-shirts.

Doubt me? Look around your local stores carefully at how many products are now “green’ though nothing really changed. I saw a plumber’s truck on the highways of Dallas yesterday with fresh painting on the sides declaring he was a ‘green plumber’, whatever the hell that might be. It‘s only the beginning.

Resist. Admit your scientific ignorance and save yourself a bundle, and if not money, maybe you can save yourself a lot of misplaced energy and frustration. Can we acknowledge there may be intelligence illustrated in knowing what we do not know?

Enjoy the sunset tonight instead of MSNBC. Yes, the sunrise and sunset are still out there, and that's not gossip. Its fact.

"Son, are you hungry"

2008-05-18T20:27:00.008-05:00

My father was a hard working man that selected his words carefully. Truth actually told he never selected more than a mere handful at any one sitting. On odd occasions he would pack me into his work pick-up, a 1957 red Ford, and haul my pre-teen randomness out to my Grandmother’s house in deep west Texas. It was a drive of over 300 miles, straight as an arrow through the Texas desert flatlands and cotton fields. Our mission was always the same. The back of the truck was stacked with building materials. My dad and I would spend the weekend fixing and renovating my Grandmother’s home. It was my father’s generosity and carpentry craft rolled into a gift, given in virtual silence and received by his mother in like silence. At the close of the day Sunday we would pack up and head home across the starry skies and flat plains of Texas. He would return to his regular work that following Monday morning. I would go to school, sleepy as a Mardi Gras partier after an all night parade.

On those long rides down the straight and dusty Texas highways, my Dad would always say the same thing to me. Its entire content was the useful question, “Son, are you hungry?” If I answered in the affirmative he would pull into some clapboard mom and pop restaurant along the side of the road. His door would open and then slam shut without a word while I tagged along after him. After all, it was perfectly clear to anyone except Larry, Curly and Moe that stopping at the restaurant meant we should go inside and eat. The meal and the remainder of the journey were executed in silence. That is also the manner in which he taught me carpentry. He used words only to make clear the aspects of the craft hidden from visual observation. What could be observed and translated with one’s eyes was assumed to need no explanation by word.

He has been absent from my world for more than 20 years, his early sixties life claimed by a cerebral aneurysm. I miss his silence as though it had been a symphony. And now in the 56^th year of my life I work at my own use of words. I work at how to best use them. Or more accurately I wonder how to not use them when silence is the better selection.

Words are surely the most powerful tool we own. They can hurt. We can all give testimony to their sting. They can heal the soul and dry tears just as easily, and this remarkable reversible property is always dependent on how we select the words we wish to use and the tone of voice we use to grant them life.

What I know with the degree of certainty that is the consequential partner of the older man with half a brain remaining is that our words matter a great deal. My words have been missing here for a while, but they have been applied other places, for better or worse. Or maybe they have been spent on the great god of Who Cares. I know my father sometimes seemed to look at words that way. His eyes frequently said “Who cares about all that talking?” Maybe it was nothing more than the silence of his own mother that birthed the silence of the son.

But I have discovered I do care. Words are a gift to be used with wisdom. Ignoring their power and usefulness can be as sinful as using them to negate.

I am working on using words in a better manner. Maybe the path of Goldilocks is what I seek, where my words are neither too few, nor are there too many, but somehow just right. And maybe by some sort of grace the words will even be the correct ones delivered in a suitable and welcomed tone.

For now I am having a small problem with this new exercise. I have been listening very carefully to my questioners and fellow conversators. (yes, conversators is a new word created here for my personal use) Now I think carefully before responding and I try to choose words that are appropriate and carry the proper meaning of what I want to convey. Several people have become agitated at my tardiness and repeated the question thinking I didn’t hear it on first resonance. I suppose next they will merely walk away. If they do they might miss the most carefully thought out and meaningful response I can give. I mean really, it could be very good after I have thought it all out.

You know what they say, “everyone wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.” I suppose waiting on me can be a bit like dying if you are already old?

The Rest Of The Story

2007-11-13T17:52:00.000-06:00

I have not tired from telling you this story. Unfortunately I am being squeezed from all sides, a bit like a cow udder in the hands of a strong dairy farmer. OK, I know cows get milked by machines now; I just wanted to create an illusion of being squeezed. I have no time to continue this story. I’m telling you the truth. My ‘earn a living work’ is taking away much of my fun time. I have also been asked to contribute to a book that will be published in February of 2008. The publisher has requested my portion be complete in 9.5 weeks! And of course, the holidays and family obligations are on top of us all.

So, I’m going to give you an executive summary of the remainder of the trip and adjourn from this site, most likely until February of 2008. For a little while, the chair will be empty. But, I will be back.

The Rest of the Story

I continued to call the airlines from pay phone booths, dialing the 21 consecutive numbers to locations all over the world. The problem I was having was having everyone push me off to another number and location that was guaranteed to solve my problem. One day, and I am not exaggerating, I stood in a noisy phone booth for 3 hours dialing and talking and being put on hold. I'm talking about 3 consecutive hours! I finally called a teammate in Houston and asked for help. The friends, a wonderful couple named Jerri and Mark Hastings, turned Houston Continental Airlines upside down on my behalf. The luggage was found in a Houston storage warehouse belonging to Continental Airlines. It wasn’t funny then and it remains unfunny to me today. BEG’s luggage arrived 10 days after we arrived. My luggage came the next day on Day 11.

Our wonderful friend Stephanie Collins continued to loan BEG clothes. She was and is kind and sweet beyond measure. After day six or so I started buying BEG new clothes, but out of absolute stubbornness, which is a character flaw of mine, I continued to wash and wear my same clothes for 11 days. A lot of the time I was actually at the track wearing competition clothes so that was a break for those that had to continue to look at me.

My ears and lips developed a case of fungus. That’s right; there was a fungus among us. My ears got all scaly, causing me to look as if I might be headed for a ‘circus freak’ audition. Step right up folks and see the “Scaly Man.” When I finally stood in front of the pharmacist and presented, he said something to this effect. “Oh yes, this is common for first time visitors to Italy. It is a bacterium that rides around in the public buses and other places. Italians are immune to it. You should have come in when it first started itching.”

Thanks a lot pal.

He gave me a fungal cream that was literally a miracle cure. OK, thanks for real this time.

In hindsight I am now aware that the enormous toll of the early days, lack of sleep and lack of food presented conditions ripe for a lowered performance on the track and opened the door for the sneaky Italian bus dwelling bacterium. The 200 meter races did not go particularly well. I made it to the final sixteen, but I was just too ‘off-track’ to haul my tired hiney and scaly ears around the track at my normal speeds.

The good news is that after an additional week I was given the opportunity to run on the USA 4x100 relay team and I had recovered some energy and my ears were nearing a normal status. The heralded British team ended up running a new World Record in the race, smashing the old record by a significant margin. We finished 3 or 4 strides behind the British capturing an easy second. I took a silver medal home and it is now engraved and proudly displayed in my home.

The even better news is that the remainder of the trip, spent in sight seeing, was truly wonderful and the gods and sun smiled on both BEG and myself. We visited Venice, Florence, Ferrara and Bolgna. Actually we went to Venice twice. BEG took over one thousand photos on the trip! The days were filled with glorious weather, wide smiles and were coated thick with treasured memories.

And a story I wanted to tell you; we damn near missed the flight from Paris to Houston. Again it was through no fault of our own. The connecting flight from Bologna was delayed and we ended up running through Charles DeGaulle Airport just as we ran through Houston Intercontinental 17 days before. I arrived at the gate breathless once again with BEG running up from behind. As Yogi Berra is famous for saying, “It was deja-vu all over again”…..except we MADE IT! Try this on for believability. They lost our bags again on the way home! True.

And for my faithful readers Kid Bratcher and Silver Lovely I want to acknowledge you and thank you for support in helping me relive the story. It was fun knowing you were reading with interest. For Kid, I am including a photo of Christine. The photo was taken by BEG on the day I finally got my luggage. Christine was so happy for me she kissed me! Maybe she was just really happy she was through dealing with me?

I wanted to develop some characters for you. Not in the way a fictional write might, but more to paint a picture of the real and wonderful people that surrounded me in Riccione. I wanted to paint a portrait of Charlie, a genuine prince of a man from whom I learned many lessons about competing in international competition. He wrote BEG and I a beautiful note the morning he left and we enjoyed rooming with Charlie and Jackie immensely. Charlie won a World Championship and a silver medal before sustaining an injury that put him on the sidelines.

I could have told you so much more about Bill, my coach and world champion sprinter. More important to know is I consider him a world champion friend. He is like a big brother, always with an eye cast my way to safeguard and make my track experience as good as it can become.

I would have told you about Stephanie’s always present smile, laughter and kindness. If you read this Stephanie, understand you are considered a treasure.

I could have gone on at length about our Aussie teammate Bob Cozens. He is a live wire at age 70, a man truly alive, refusing to succumb to what so many men his age might succumb to. He is 30 years old in my mind. That’s a gift to be observed and incorporated as I move along in age. Thanks Bob.

And most importantly I should remind you all of the golden treasure BEG brings to my life every day. In a trip filled with potholes and cold rain early on, she kept smiling and holding my hand. She even told me she loved me several times. Go figure.

I must go now and help write a book, but I’ll return next year.

Good Thoughts to you all,

Seven

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days - Day 6

2007-11-08T19:54:00.000-06:00

Over the next several days I will be telling you about my recent challenging, weird and wonderful 17 days in Italy. However, in the peculiar world of blogging that means the first story is on the bottom! So, if you want to begin at the first, go to the bottom. This is Day 6.

Day 6 - September 7, 2007

My sixth day in Italy was a gloriously beautiful day for weather. I strode out of the apartment into a bright and clear day of 72 degrees. The birds were singing. Cyclists rode past and smiled, then spoke as if I were their longtime friend. I was on my way to the Hotel Fedora, confident day 6 would be bring my luggage to my possession. BEG was wearing Stephanie’s clothes. Bob Cozens has loaned me a fresh shirt for today. We learned how giving and kind our friends can be and Stephanie and Bob definitely stepped up to the plate when it was really needed. It was odd to see BEG in clothes that didn’t quite fit. She didn’t have a hair dryer. She didn’t have make-up. We bought her a comb just the day before. And despite it all she kept smiling.

Christina saw me walk through the door of the Fedora. She smiled as if she had a secret. I knew my luggage surely had arrived. Nope. Apparently Christina was merely happy to see me. I would have loved for that to have been enough to please me but I was beginning to feel as if the gods had aligned themselves against me. I dug down deep to find a philosophical thread to hang on to. It was still a beautiful day on the Adriatic coast. Hard times can bring perspective. I wasn’t on the streets in a near hurricane trying to shelter BEG and find a place get out of the elements. No. The sun was shining and I had a place to sleep, so I wandered about the philosophical nooks and crannies of my brain searching for the optimistic thought or two that remained employed and on the job of keeping me sane. Those thoughts seemed to go out of their way to raise their hands to get my attention and let me know I had reasons to be happy. I headed for the too noisy phone booth whilst scratching away at my itchy ears. A call to the US, specifically to Continental Airlines, was my mission. My intuition told me they were sitting in the daddy chair at the table of my luggage troubles. I talked to Maurice at Continental. He was helpful in a hopeless fashion, meaning he tried hard but worked the policy line of Continental Airlines, a script certain to kill my every optimistic thought previously described. He told me the luggage was still in Houston. Yep. My image of the bags circling the carousel n Houston was remarkably near the truth. His explanation was as follows. “Mr. Seven the problem is that KLM Airlines was your last carrier and I see you have given them all the required information, but they have not requested that we send the bags.” I of course asked why not just go ahead and send them since the owner of the bags is on the phone with you requesting them? Nothing doing was the message I received, but it was delivered in corporate apologetic language. Gotta do things like the airlines do them. Can’t send them until KLM asks for them.

So, I hung up and I called KLM in Bologna. No answer. Again.

I walked back to the Hotel Fedora. Christina decided now was the time to deliver unfortunate news. She told me the Bologna Airport had been under siege for the past two days by students unhappy about something completely unrelated to airport functions. At least that is what I surmised from her valiant efforts to communicate in my sole language. She told me they had been calling about my luggage for 3 days but no one would answer because the police had closed the entire airport. I told her it was no concern anyway because I had been told my bags are in Houston, safe from unhappy students. She asked me “What is a Houston?” Never mind. My ears felt like they were on fire. The itching had stopped! Now they just felt hot and a little bit scaly. My lips burned in the same way.

I went back to the phone and called KLM airlines in Amsterdam. I was transferred to Maurice’s corporate evil twin who told me “Mr. Seven, we are waiting for Continental to send us the bags. We can get them to Bologna when order is restored to the airport, but they must of course send the bags to us first.” Catch 22, long dead in literary circles had been resurrected and had reached into my life and doomed me to wear my blue shirt and green slacks a while longer.

Much more conversation took place on the phone. Let it be enough to know I ended up pounding the sides of the booth and screaming at the evil, corporate line reciting KLM employee while simultaneously worrying about what the devil was wrong with my ears and lips as if I could not decide which current affliction to focus upon. Like all unscheduled temper tantrums by an alleged adult I can safely assume I did not advance my case.

I had to abandon my tantrum to run down the avenue and catch a bus with BEG and other US athletes and spouses. Today was an off day for the track meet officials. No events were scheduled. Our group, and others from the US contingent, were headed for San Marino, described as an ancient walled city of northern Italy. We didn’t have tickets for the trip. The tourist office where tickets are purchased was closed. We were woefully short on planning. It a phenomena that always develops when large groups try to travel together. There are simply too many talking heads and concerns about everyone’s needs and desires to create a smooth ride. I have always thought large travel groups should elect a king. The closest we had was a dynamo named Sydney Howard. Syd is in his mid 60’s and calls the northeastern seaboard of the US his home. He competes in the 1500 meters. My guess is he is every bit of 5’-4” tall if standing on his toes. What he lacks in stature he more than makes up for in energy, total number of words used in a day and genuine good heartedness merged artfully with a sprinkle of kooky, all of which renders him immensely likeable. Due to our failures in planning and lack of tickets we are herded onto a completely occupied bus and left to stand in the aisle. Syd occupies a place between Bill and me. Syd makes friends easily. He speaks loudly to a large man from Czechoslovakia seated directly beside him. The Czech, an enormous man that could squash Syd in a singular sweep of his hand smiles broadly but it is clear he has no idea what has happened or what was said. Syd informs his new Czech friend it is alright because according to ‘The Secret’ everyone has to be in their exactly correct place and all things are good. The Czech grins broadly again as if he has also read ‘The Secret’. Syd moves on to a taciturn couple from Scotland seated directly behind the Czech. They speak English in the Scottish manner and Syd tries to turn them into new friends on the spot. The Scottish husband seems to be very uneasy as Syd launches into a quiz with his somewhat shy but pleasant wife about Scottish history. Her brogue is thick, but she is sweet in nature and deals with Syd in a polite way. Syd is a bona-fide history buff and it soon becomes apparent that he knows more about Scottish history than the native couple. The husband never warms up, looking at Syd as though he is a snake oil salesman from the Wild West. Just as quickly as it began, the history lecture ends, and Syd asks me about my luggage. According to Syd my luggage is still in Houston because that is where I need it to be. He says ‘The Secret’ taught him that. I’m wishing the secret would teach the airlines how to move luggage between cities more responsibly, but I remain quiet. Syd surrenders to my inexplicable quiet and moves on to a couple from Belgium. They are polite but appear to want none of the boisterous US contingent, though I must say we were more spirited and happy to be going to San Marino than the rest of the buses human content. San Marino is no more than 20 miles from Riccione. As billed, it is an impressive ancient walled city of stone, the path to the top fortress lined with tourist shops of every type. I would learn later that San Marino is in fact a country unto itself, existing now by the grace of Italy. It sustains itself with the proceeds from the hundreds of tourist shops within the walls.

The bus rolled to a stop. Syd was in full gear asking the bus driver a dozen questions in non-stop fashion while not waiting to hear an answer, seeming to disappear from the bus in a fog of words and action. I reached up and felt of my ears. They were definitely scaly. My lips burned as if they were smeared with jalapeno juice. I stepped off the bus and gazed at the fortress tower. It would take a long winding walk of 1.5 hours to reach the top. I could see Syd already walking up the road, his arm around a new friend. I wondered if the new friend spoke any English.

Photo 1 - Bill and the Syd 'The Secret' on board the San Marino bound bus.

Photo 2 - Inside the tourist shop filled walls of the fortress at San Marino.

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days - Day 5

2007-11-06T19:33:00.000-06:00

Day 5 - September 7, 2007

The initial mission of day five is to compete in the semi-finals of the 100 meters. Sixteen runners remain from the initial field of forty eight. The race is scheduled at 10:30 am. For the first time since I left Texas I slept soundly through an entire night. In fact it was one of those extraordinary sleeps filled with dreaming. Not the traditional semi-haywire, separated from reality, subconscious bubbling over where you wake up and think; “what the heck was that all about?” Not that kind. These were the dreams I have learned to enjoy. They are the soft and pleasant type dream where good abounds. Often they are erotic in content. They had been mostly erotic last night and it always leaves me with a slightly embarrassed feeling as if I want to tell someone, “you’ll never believe what I was doing last night, and who was there!” Yes, I want to tell someone even though I know it didn’t actually happen. The bonus is I’m not likely to develop any STD's having sex this way.

I had agreed to meet Charlie and Bill at 8:15 to walk to the buses. There was never a question of Charlie or Bill advancing to the final rounds. Bill is a multi-world record holder and Charlie is the world record holder at 400 meters in age group M55-59. Both are many times world champions and both have been selected to the USATF Hall of Fame. I was surrounded by the best in masters track. It can be humbling to walk around a world track meet with either one of them since they are recognized and constantly stopped by other athletes. The humbling part occurs when I have to continually introduce myself to their fans. Next time I will describe to Bill and Charlie’s admirers the content of the erotic dreams. Maybe they will remember me that way? I felt good in the warm-up. I wasn’t feeling 100% but was appreciably better for having slept. The partial smile I wore was merely left over from the dreams and not illustrative of my true mood.

As I stared down the track moments before the race I felt I would be able to uncork a good run and advance to the final that would be run later in the day. The warm-up was thorough and I felt more alive than I had in the previous more troublesome days. I had drawn lane 2. On my right in lane 3 was none other than Alasdair Ross. He was beginning to feel a little like a shadow; an aloof shadow at that. On my left in lane 1 was a Polish runner with a determined and unsmiling countenance. When the gun sounded I drove low and hard from the blocks. Throughout the summer I had been using a personalized visual image to remain low and drive through the important start portion of the race. Staying low and driving through is a concept required for the best time you can run and I had taught myself to imagine I am pushing a stalled car with my head. Odd as it sounds, it had done wonders for my start and in fact it had helped me run very fast times in the early part of the summer. I had come to Riccione with the second fastest time in the world for 2006 at 100 meters. There is danger in this preoccupation with driving low. It is possible to slightly hang a spike or lose your balance in this precarious execution of technique. My drive out was excellent and the video shows I cleared the blocks earlier than the competition. Then as if I had not been doused with enough disaster for one trip, fate intervened once again. On the fifth step I drug a spike ever so slightly across the top of the track. It produced a stumble that sent one hand out before I quickly regrouped and maintained balance. It was over. Racing against the 16 fastest in the world allows no margin of error. Interestingly my time was actually faster than the day before but well below my ability. I ran the race through but I couldn’t make up the ground required to advance to the final. I watched from the infield as my friend Bill blew away the field in heat two with ease. I remain in awe of his amazing consistency in big meets.

Bill and Charlie would both race in the 100 finals at 3 pm. For me the interim time period was filled with eating lunch, conversation and luggage tracking. I made some progress with KLM by email. Our luggage was now showing on the KLM lost luggage section of their website as being in process. They have the proper bag tag numbers and the address of the Hotel Fedora is correct. Even if my race was a miserable failure, at least there is some hope on the luggage side of things.

For the 100 finals it is necessary to get a seat early. The final of the fastest race of the meet brings large crowds. At race time the stands are packed with athletes and fans, often dressed in the colors of their country, or wearing the track warm-ups with the countries name embroidered across the back. BEG busies herself with trying to get a photo of every different uniform she can see. The crowd is gearing up, giving off enough energy to power a couple of generators. As the various age groups begin racing an odd cultural collision occurs in the stands. I am the first victim. One of my training partners Cindy Steenbergen is racing in the W50-54 final. As the race develops I stand up to get a better view over the plexiglass barrier since I can’t see her at all. Once the race is over I am told a couple of guys behind me want my attention. The message the two young Italians, located one row up and several seats down have for me is to ‘remain seated.’ In painful English one tells me to stay seated in an openly hostile tone. It’s really not good timing to be messing with me, but his tone toward an elder is more the issue than his message. I tell him “#**%*&$^%&&” he can stand up as easy as I can stay seated. Hostility develops quickly. I wonder what that particular hand sign he just used means in Italian. This particular scene is repeated several times afterward between Italian fans and other American athletes in that area of the stands. I am witnessing and even participating in a bizarre clash of cultures. Italians apparently expect everyone to remain seated during an intensely exciting 100 meter race. Americans stand and cheer for their teammates without even thinking about the cultural implications. Each time there is spoken displeasure from the Italians and a return of fire from the American athletes. Each side needs a timeout. Maybe a separate set of stands separated by a plexiglass barrier? And of course maybe the need for plexiglass barriers at this particular stadium speaks volumes about true Italian comportment at sporting events?

Bill races to yet another World Championship in the finals roaring down the track in full control of the race from the gun. Charlie runs second to a fellow American. Both are happy and I am happy for them. It’s been a long day at the track and at around 6pm we all climb aboard the buses for the trip back to the apartment. My ears are itching. Not just that littly ‘itchy itchy what is that’ kind of feeling but more of an ‘I can’t stop scratching my ears, dang it’ kind of constant itching. I’m riding along with a bus load of people from all over the world. They stink quite honestly, but I assume I am also doing my part to flavor the buses ambiance. I’m standing up and holding the overhead rail with one hand while the other hand paws manically at both ears. It never occurred to me what small pesky infections might be crawling around on a buses hand railings. Unfortunately I was destined to find out.

Photo - Bill runs away from a world class group. Again.

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days - Day 4 Part 3

2007-11-04T17:35:00.000-06:00

Day 4 - September 6, 2007; Part 3

“Seven, my God! You’re getting blood all over the pillow and sheets. Get up so I can get that stuff in the washing machine.” BEG is a stickler for taking care of things like linens, still I wondered why she wasn’t interested in what happened. Dutifully, I got up out of the bed. I stared at the small clock on the nightstand. I had been asleep about 2 hours. “Why didn’t you put a band-aid on that cut before you went to sleep? I sure hope all this comes out”, she added in exasperation. I silently wondered where the hell I was supposed to get a band-aid without any luggage, not to mention I was afraid I was fainting again while wearing only a towel. I kept my distance amid the flurry of BEG’s elbows and the popping corners of sheets as they flew off my bed. “By the way, I came in here to tell you Stephanie, Jackie and I are going down to the beach. You need to be more careful with your razor, that’s an ugly cut. Did it hurt? It makes my knees weak to look at that. Anyway, I’ll see you later, Stephanie and Bob are cooking dinner in their apartment tonight.” She smacked my butt playfully as if all was quickly forgiven. The last thing I saw was the corner of a sheet get hung in the door as it closed. Just as quickly the door opened a crack, the corner was extracted, the door slammed, and I stood in the room alone staring at a bed that was as naked as I was. We matched. The bed and Seven were both starkers. I was marked with dried blood but the mattress had escaped that fate. I got dressed in a stupor, vaguely understanding I had been scolded and left alone in the room like a bad puppy. I couldn’t blame her. Less dramatic company probably seemed more palatable to brown eyed girl after the last 4 days with me.

The apartment was quiet. I guessed correctly that Charlie was asleep in his bedroom. I decided to pursue our luggage. BEG had begun wearing Stephanie’s clothes on loan. We expected our luggage issue would be handled in 2-3 days since that seemed to be the norm for everyone at the meet. Just for the record, lots of luggage was misplaced by airlines on the way to Bologna. Nearly all of it arrived the next day. I believed I would end up belonging to the majority. We were in day 4 without luggage and I wanted to check with the Fedora fully believing I would find our luggage had been delivered. I dressed in the same blue shirt and green Dockers I had been wearing for 4 days. I walked out into a gorgeous afternoon to collect my luggage. When I arrived the lovely Christina was not working at the desk. The front desk attendant was an Italian woman around 45 years of age. She had sharp features that resembled the hard chiseled look of Renaissance sculptures. She owned dark black hair and was adorned with large hoop earrings made from bright red ceramic. She made an elegant appearance until she talked, revealing a mouth of jagged teeth separated by black voids where other teeth had once been located. She stared solemnly at a man that wore too tired eyes and wrinkled clothes; a man that had a fresh cut on the front crown of his shaved head. We were not made for one another.

“Hi, I was here talking to Christina about my luggage yesterday, and I was just wondering,” I began before I was cut off.

“Attenda un minuto che non posso parlare affatto inglese,” she answered.

I raised my hands in the palms up traditional signal of ‘I don’t understand.’

“Il sir I vi ha detto appena che non parlassi inglese.”

She raised her hand in the stop signal before I could speak louder English. She motioned with her finger in the ‘come with me’ signal. I followed her across the lobby while I reflected on how early man developed language. I assume they began with the same simple gestures that were occurring between the lady with the red hoops and the tired traveler. For example, one caveman holding his finger to his lips for quiet during a critical part of the football game. It surely was cavewoman that started talking first, necessitating the fingers to the lips to begin with. The men were probably fine with hand gestures that meant ‘give me the remote’ or ‘where is this or that?’ which is all we usually need to communicate. The red hooped lady was taking me to a man of about 35 years of age that seemed to be the general manager. He spoke English. Kind of.

“Hi, I was here talking to Christina about my luggage yesterday, and I was just wondering…” I began before I was cut off.

“Ah, si, yes senor, si, I have seen you on day before this day now. Your bagaglio did come maybe?”

It did! My luggage is here? I asked. This brought a very sad expression to his face reminding me of the power of non-verbal signals. I would become accustomed to the sad face and slow negative shake of his head. He resembled a sad clown with no make-up when he was confirming ‘no luggage’ for me.

"No, no senor. We will make call for Bologna Airport to see for your…ummm how you say bagaglio?" His face lit up like a halogen lamp when he quickly remembered the word for bagaglio was luggage. “Luggage!” he shouted out happily.

“Will you call now?” I asked.

"Ah, si, we will make by telephony a time for your luggage to be sent on a time they are aperto” he reported back with a broad smile. He didn’t move. He seemed satisfied our mission had been accomplished. I shrugged and headed off to a phone booth to call KLM Airlines.

I had discovered that a phone booth stood along the main avenue between the apartment and the Hotel Fedora. The booth did not have a door so I was destined to talk on the phone with a finger crammed deep into my ear as a never ending flow of traffic moved down the avenue. I had bought time on an international phone card before leaving home. This caused the need to dial the 10 digit ‘password’ number for the card, followed by the country code then the actual phone number of the party I was trying to reach. That meant a string of 21 numbers each time I made a call. I couldn’t really memorize all 21 numbers which meant trying to hold a piece of paper plus the phone receiver in my left hand since my right hand index finger was stuck in my ear as if to signal a suicide was imminent. I clumsily called the Bolgona Airport number for lost KLM luggage. No answer. I tried 3 times thinking I might have incorrectly dialed the number. Never an answer. I decided I would try later.

I left the booth and headed back to the apartment. Tomorrow would bring a semi-final race in the 100 meters. I craved rest and food and desperately needed to wash my clothes. On the way to the apartment I was intercepted by the ladies returning from the beach. BEG was beaming from ear to ear and telling me about the photos she had taken and the people she had seen. She asked sweetly if the hotel had our luggage. I stared vacantly toward the ocean. I was beginning to have a very bad feeling about the luggage. I had developed a recurring vision inside my head. In the vision our luggage is riding around and around a carousel in Houston. Thousands of travelers come and go, extracting bags and going on their way while an olive green and black suitcase move in an endless circle like unwanted orphans.

The vision was near clairvoyant. I just didn't know it as I stared at the ocean.

Photo 1 - The Riccione Beach by Brown Eyed Girl.
Photo 2 - Left to Right - Charles Allie, Jackie Allie, Bill Collins, Stephanie Collins, Bob Cozens, Seven

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days - Day 4 Part 2

2007-10-30T09:35:00.000-06:00

Day 4 - September 6, 2007; Part 2

The gun sounds. Eight runners move down the track. For the first 20 meters the field is more or less even, a normal set of circumstances at a world competition level. It’s 3 or 4 seconds later that we will begin to separate ourselves from one another. Track sprinters speak a language of their own. They talk about the ‘drive phase’ and the ‘acceleration phase’ and they hope to ‘close out’ in good order. It is those phases that will make the difference in this field of 8. Contrary to what many believe, the 100 meter sprint has technical components. Mastering each while possessing world class speed is the prescription for victory.

At 50 meters I had what appeared to be a slight lead on Alasdair Ross of Great Britain. I couldn’t sense any pressure from the other lanes. As we moved through the last 50 meters I would feel the fatigue of the last several days. I could tell the customary break away speed simply wasn’t in my legs. At 75 meters I was aware Ross had moved even. He sprinted forcefully into a slight lead. I took a quick look left and right at the lanes surrounding me. The field was vanquished with the exception of Ross. Knowing that the first 2 from each heat would advance to the semi-finals I employed a strategy that is common. I pulled off the effort and cruised to the finish line in second place saving energy for the semi-finals the next day. It was only when I looked at the finish board and times that I felt I was in real trouble. The time I had run was the slowest time I had run in 4 years. Ross had run a time normal for him, but my effort to run a slow time relative to my ability told the tale of my fatigue and lack of sleep. I changed into my warm-ups on the infield after the race while a thousand thoughts raced through my brain. Would I be able to recover by tomorrow? Was I simply past my competition peak and this was the best I would run in Riccione?

I returned on the bus to the apartment with BEG. Rather than go with the group to a nearby produce store I wanted to take a shower and rest. I was already concerned about tomorrow and wanted to try to catch a nap. The fatigue had become overwhelming.

The shower in the bathroom of the apartment consisted of a square of white colored terrazzo set into a ceramic tile floor positioned in the corner of the bathroom. Surrounding the open 2 sides was a plastic shower curtain. A small curb around the terrazzo base, in conjunction with the curtain kept most of the water in the surround. The hot water could be scalding hot. This was common in the northern part of Italy wherever we went. A small slip of the faucets or a bump with an elbow and you had better be ready to run from the shower or make a trip to the emergency room for burn treatments. I stood in the tiny shower with the water balanced to a comfortable temperature. I had begun the process of trying to shave my head with the throw-away Bic razor I had bought at the pharmacia. The normal thing is for me to shave my noggin with what is known as the ‘Head Blade.’ The ‘Head Blade’ is a cool tool of a razor specifically designed to fit in one hand and race across your noggin, removing stubble quick as Jeff Gordon tours the Talladega race track. My Head Blade was in my lost luggage, the luggage I was expecting to arrive at any moment. Shaving with the cheap razor was an arduous task. I had about one half of my head taken care of when I began to feel light headed. I pressed on. A little woozy is nothing I thought to myself. Bad move. I don’t remember going down.

I came to consciousness lying on the cold wet terrazzo base, one my legs splayed out over the curb sticking out below the curtain. If you had entered the bathroom at that moment you would have certainly wondered why one of my legs was sticking out of the shower confines. I had no idea how fainting feels. It had never happened in my 56 years. I assumed that if I awake on the floor with my razor five feet away and my butt hurting as if I were hit by a speeding Tahoe, then I must have fainted.

I stood up holding myself against the slick tile walls. I rinsed my battered body. I dried off and looked in the mirror. Cozens had been right. I did look like ‘bloody hell.’ My eyes had dark circles. My ears had begun to grow an itchy scale on the surface of the lobes. A razor cut on my scalp was bleeding, apparently the last stroke as I fainted and went to the ground. Approximately half of my head was shaved. The other half had 80 plus hours of stubble. I looked like a rabid football fan in an odd ‘gothic sort of Halloween mimicry’ maybe headed for an Oakland Raiders game.

I was embarrassed about the fainting. I had resisted resting and acknowledging my fatigue until the body finally demanded its way. I moved quickly and silently to the bedroom, passing a collection of visitors to our apartment that occupied the dining area. Someone called out a retort about my wearing only a towel. I didn’t hear or understand all of what was said to me. I was feeling lightheaded again. I went directly to my small bed and covered up. The cut trickled warm blood down my head, tickling as it dripped off the edge of my ear to the pillows surface. I didn't care. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I’m not certain if I fainted again or if I simply fell asleep. My body and brain were in full rebellion, they were taking themselves out of the game for a rest on the sidelines.

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days - Day 4 Part 1

2007-10-26T16:29:00.001-05:00

Day 4 - September 6, 2007; Part 1

On day four I am awake at 6am as intended. The only complication to the simplicity of that statement is that I have been awake earlier that morning on more than one occasion. The source of my sleeplessness is a suddenly stuffy nose. I have no idea what to blame the situation on. Is it a totally different climate in Italy? Is it the presence of some tree to which I have never been exposed? Am I getting sick as result of the fatigue and strain of the previous 72 hours? Allergies are rare for me, maybe an episode once every 3 years, but when it happens it is dreadful. My nose reaches the point of what feels like impossible clogging combined with the fantasy that an unimaginable explosion of my entire face might occur at any moment, resembling the reaction of a propane tank filled far beyond its structural capacity. I feel I should walk around with a warning sign around my neck reading “This man’s head may explode at any moment, observe safety clearances of 30 feet.” Off and on through the night I have been awake struggling to breath through my nose, yet failing and ending up as a completely unattractive ‘mouth breather’ which is an impossible way to sleep. Thank goodness it has been dark and BEG is in her own single bed across the room.

I dress in my competition clothes. Today is the day racing begins for me. The running tights are an artful combination of red, baby blue and navy blue, the words “USA” imprinted vertically up the sides of the tights. The top is the same color combinations with the USATF (USA Track and Field) official emblem and logo stenciled on the front and back respectively. I should feel excited to pull the USATF mandated gear on for the first time. Instead I try to blow my nose and I worry about how I will feel at 10:30, the scheduled time for my quarterfinal heat of the 100 meters. I am coming into the meet having run the second fastest time in the world for my age group in 2006. Only my coach and friend Bill, the current world record holder, has gone faster. This should leave me with confidence. Instead it now seems a burden. The swift time was run in June. I had run slower in the USA national championships in August. Now it is September and the burden of carrying such a high seed has become a source for anxiety. Exacerbating the anxiety are my fatigue and inability to breathe. I walk into the living area of the apartment where Charlie and Bill are waiting. Its time to head for the bus and the trip to the stadium “How are you Seven?” Bill asks. My reply sounds like a TV ad for a decongestant. “Nime nus fair, I nan’t breathe so nood right now” is what I squeeze out.

The warm-up area at the main stadium is filled with athletes. The 100 meters is the glamour event of track and field and as such it draws the biggest fields of competition. I watch as the colorful assembly of men stretch and jog while checking out one another with quick glances. Many athletes from outside Europe are not known to each other on sight, but instead are known by their names and rankings. Bill draws the most attention since he is the star of all stars in masters sprinting. He is a multi national and world champion and holds several sprint age group world records. He and I warm up together and I can feel the stares and see the pointing. Several athletes stop to ask if I am who they think I am. I acknowledge they are correct in their assumptions. They have now associated a face and body with a name and I can imagine them preparing to slay the world’s no.2 guy since Bill is out of their reach. What all of us know is running quick times in the early season may mean little here today. In the odd world of track training and ‘peaking’ for important races, what will matter is which of the top ten in the world is truly ready to run their best in Riccione. I scan the crowd. I can spot the well-known Italian and British sprinters; all the top names I see in European results throughout the year.

My warm-up is sluggish. I feel slow and tired. Sadly it is becoming increasingly obvious to me that the toll of the previous difficult hours will extract its due, but I am failing to truly deal with the fact. At 10:05 am, the appointed time to enter the call tent, Bill and I head for the stadium. The race officials check us in one by one into the small holding area on one side of a large white tent. The tent sits just outside an entrance portal to the stadium. Later an official will lead us single file into the stadium, arranged in order according to our lane assignments. I am told I have been assigned lane3 for the quarterfinal race. There will be 2 top seeds placed in each of six heats for a total of 48 runners. Only 16 of the 48 will advance to the semi-finals race the next day. I am the top seed in the second heat of the day for my age group. I have affixed my lane assignment sticker reading “3” to my left hip. To my right, in lane 7, will be Alasdair Ross of Great Britain, the no. 2 seed in the heat and a formidable competitor with times very near mine. The rest of the field is composed of men from Croatia, Italy, Germany, France and Mexico, though I don’t recognize any of the names. The officials have us seated across from one another in the tent, sitting on benches while we wait for the official to escort us to the track. The Croatian appears to be very anxious, constantly scanning the tent and tapping his hands on his knees in no discernible rhythm. The Italian is solemn, staring at the ground in front of him, his spikes clutched tightly in his hands. It appears he is talking to himself, his lips moving slightly though emitting no sound. Perhaps it is a form of prayer. Alasdair Ross is directly opposite me. He resembles a rock star. He is dressed in the familiar thin blue and red stripes imprinted over white that is characteristic of British track uniforms. We are all between the ages of 55 and 59 so I am tempted to use the phrase ‘aging rock star’ regarding Ross except for the fact that he seems very youthful. His physique is that of a 20 year old in top shape. He has long blonde hair in the fashion of a reformed older musician and owns an aloof personal manner, gazing around the tent but consciously avoiding eye contact with me. The German is smiling like a man that has won the lottery but isn’t quite ready to tell me about it. I like the aura around him. He seems to be enjoying every moment of the experience.

I am wondering if my head does explode will I be allowed to reassemble the pieces and not be disqualified. I am worried. The warm-up was telling in a negative way. My energy level is noticeably down. The fact that having had 7 hours of fitful sleep in the past 76 hours might be a problem has not been formally acknowledged by my brain, though my biology feels completely conversant with its reality. Normally I would be a little fidgety and excited sitting in the tent at this point, but I find that my mind is wandering and unfocused. The official calls us to go to the track. She commands us in Italian which only the Italian runner understands. He recognizes the fact the he is the host in our group of eight and uses hand motions to let us know it is time. The official calls out names and places us in order by lane assignment. It is a curious protocol. It seems terribly formal as if we are all in kindergarten again. Nevertheless we obey, marching single file into the stadium under a picturesque blue sky, temperatures in the high 70’s. Once in the stadium the official calls our names again to place us in our correct lanes.

We elder kindergartners have begun to ignore her because it is apparent we are far more experienced at our task than she is. We are on familiar turf in this environment. We are in our workplace and home. Aluminum starting blocks glisten under the bright sun. They are firmly anchored behind the start line of the brilliant blue surface of the track. Each athlete begins to set his blocks and do the last bit of warm up as the track announcer begins to announce athlete names and countries. I stare down to the finish camera to establish the point of the finish line in my mind. I look into the stands as the Italian announcer struggles with the Croatian’s name. I know BEG is in the stands by now. She has come with Stephanie a couple of hours behind us. I’m hoping she found a good spot because the stands are full. Unlike in the US, the Europeans take track very seriously.

Once the introductions are complete the starter stares across the field to determine that each athlete is ready to participate. Satisfied with his observation he will repeat the commands that are second nature to his task. He begins with “runners stand behind your blocks,” announced in English to my great surprise. I stand behind my starting blocks in lane 3 though I remain unfocused and it confuses me and bothers me. Nervous energy radiates up and down the line of competitors. The starter lifts the microphone up to his mouth to begin the race. “Runners, take your marks.” I look into the stands again. The capacity crowd is buzzing up there, the race is about to begin.

The photo was taken by BEG at the exact moment described in the text where the starter calls us to our marks. If you click on the pic and look at in a larger format you can see the starter at the far right. I am in lane 3.

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days - Day 3 Part 2

2007-10-24T18:22:00.001-05:00

Day 3 - September 5, 2007; Part 2

The day in Riccione is as beautiful as the night before was awful. There are branches of trees and other debris strewn around the roads as a result of the storm, but the sun is shining out of a clear blue sky and the sun warmed temperature is around 75 degrees. We have gathered at the pizza restaurant on a corner of the main avenue, midpoint between our apartment and the Hotel Fedora. A menu has been distributed to everyone. It does little good for any of us since it is all in Italian. Charlie and Jackie Allie are at the end of the large table that was placed together for our group. The Aussie, Bob Cozens is at the opposite end. BEG and I sit across from Bill and Stephanie Collins. We have a language barrier with the waiter and more importantly we lack any sort of rapport with him as well.

Over the course of the 17 days in Italy I will not see ice in a glass in a restaurant. Water is served in 1 liter bottles, the bottle placed on the table lightly chilled, yet not cold. You can choose from sparkling water or natural water. This will hold true as far as my travels take me, stretching from Venice to Florence, or as the Italians say, from Venezia to Firenze. The one and only time I had ice in a glass was at a McDonalds in Venezia, but only after I accepted it as an available option.

“If I had a bloody beer I’d drink it,” Cozens informs the group. That thought is replaced by his next thought, which is also expressed out loud to the group, “Wow, look at the knockers on that gal would ya,” as his head swivels to follow a fashion plate olive skinned Italian girl in a tight sweater walking by the open air seating; though I don’t think he noticed her complexion. None of the other guys say anything with wives present, but we do look immediately. At her complexion I mean.

The women in Italy are different from American women in many ways. They are thinner and generally speaking they dress as if they care about their appearance a great deal. It is also somewhat rare to see chubby Italian women. They do exist, but as I said they are rare. For the most part they are rather sleek. All ages.

Stephanie and Jackie decide that the lady with the cool knockers has really cute shoes. “Just what I was thinking” is what I said. Everyone stares at me. “I’m too sleepy and brain dead to be witty,” is what I was about to say to the stares, but it never got out because the pizza had arrived at the same time. For some reason I am expecting something special from an Italian pizza restaurant. I guess my level of expectation is produced from the Travel Channel. Remember where the too happy host sticks the pizza in her mouth and goes “ummmm, so special” as she mugs into the camera and adds “Italy is famous for its amazing pizza!”

This pizza in front of me is a vegetable pizza according to the menu. (The menu had pictures for the slow and sleepy) Have these people never trained at Pizza Hut or Pizza Inn? There are four vegetables on the pizza in front of me. There is one slice of tomato on one of the four quadrants. Not diced or chopped, mind you, just a singular slice of tomato sitting on thin cheese over a hard baked flat bread crust. On another quadrant is a slice of eggplant. It too is sitting there in solitary confinement on its designated quadrant. The third quadrant is decorated with 3 black olive slices. Just three thin slices though, no need to get carried away. The fourth glamorous quadrant is naked except for its thin coating of white cheese. Staring down at the pizza I am reminded of a Salvador Dali painting. I guess its because his paintings always seemed so sad to me. Remember the odd paintings with droopy ears supported by a crutch while a clock is melting off the wall in the background and such nonsense? This pizza is sad that way, with its three little vegetables scattered around, sort of droopy themselves. This is a poverty stricken pizza, though it will cost E15 to eat it.

After lunch I mosied over to the Hotel Fedora. Mosieing is an acquired art. My friend Bill is a master at mosieing. Its a distinctive manner of walking. Its also hard to spell. More about mosieing later. This is the day I met Christina, a front desk clerk at the Fedora. Christina spoke a wee bit of English; just enough to make her fun and very cute in a charming way. What was most important to me was she seemed to genuinely care about my situation. Later in the trip I will show you a photo of Christine kissing my cheek. I gave her all the info I had to create a delivery of the luggage to the Fedora. She determinedly picked up the telephone and called the Bologna Airport to give them the delivery information. They didn’t answer the phone in Bologna resulting in a shrug of her shoulders, a sweet smile and apology. Then her index finger jabbed the air with a new idea. Using my KLM Airlines papers she faxed the info to Bologna. The fact that the lost luggage department did not answer their phone was significant though I didn’t realize it at that moment. I thanked her and said goodbye. I went down the streets near the apartment looking for a razor to erase my 52 hours of stubble. I found one in a pharmacia which I would learn many many days later was a prudent move according to my sweet and loyal friend Kathi Bratcher. For those of you wondering about toothbrushes and such, BEG and I each had a minor toiletry kit in our carry-on packs. Our teeth had been brushed many times during the travels.

The day went on without sleep. BEG and I discussed that there was no need to buy a lot of clothes this day since the luggage would probably arrive in a day or two. Our friends affirmed this decision.

We went to dinner that night at around 6pm only to be turned away at the door of every restaurant we approached. Here’s the thing. They don’t open for dinner until 8 or 9pm in Italy, as if I wasn’t sleepy and tired enough without waiting for a late dinner. The opening round of the 100 meters was set for 10am the next morning. In order to make the walk to the bus, get to the stadium and properly prepare, a 6am wake-up would be required. When dinner ended at 11:30 pm we headed for the apartment and the only real sleep in our last 58 hours of existence. That sleep would last about 5.5 hours. Yes there are details as to why I was in a restaurant until 11:30 pm, but let it be enough understanding on your part to know that circumstance continued to wind its way around us in a fatefully menacing way despite my best intentions. I had choices to make. Race the next day on no food and adequate sleep, or try for both. I managed the food part only. Day 3 was over.

The next morning would bring the first experiences on the track at the 2007 World Championships!

Photo 1 - The Pizza Restaurant on the corner

Photo 2 - Bill and I visit the Fedora Hotel to deal with lost luggage

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days - Day 3 Part 1

2007-10-22T21:16:00.000-05:00

Day 3 - September 5, 2007; Part 1

Loud music reverberated around the walls of the apartment. I sat straight up in the tiny one person bed. I stared the short length of the small bedroom toward the bed where brown eyed girl had fallen in a heap. Her eyes opened for a second but they blinked shut again as if she had willed the music would not defeat her need to sleep more. The loud bass thump of the music owned the walls. I looked at my watch on the nightstand. It was 9:30 am. We had been asleep for about 2 hours. I had a pillow in my hands; a pillow that resembled a poor woman’s pancakes, as if they were made as flat as possible to feed a family of 10 on a hard times budget. When I first put my head down it seemed as if I would feel the texture of the sheets on my ears through the pillow’s thinness, still its lack of comfort was no match for my fatigue. The music however was an obstacle. I folded the pillow around my head hoping to cover my ears. The ends of the old cotton case covered pillow reached around the back of my head just far enough to get my ears barely covered. I soon realized having my arms flexed to hold the pillow in that position did not create an ideal sleeping position. The music I identified as ‘Yeah’ by Usher. A few seconds passed as I thought about the rudeness of the situation, then I heard a female voice singing, a voice belonging not to the television, but a live voice singing for all it was worth in harmony with Usher. That is how I came to know that our roommate Jackie Allie loves to sing. I had never met Jackie and at that moment I could only assume it was Jackie, but then I heard my teammate Charlie Allie talking to her. His voice is a voice I know. I couldn’t believe it. Why would they behave in this way with BEG and I trying to sleep? I moved to our door and cracked it open. I peeked outside, my mission being to connect a visual image with the rude behavior. Jackie Allie was not only singing, she was dancing as well! Charlie was sitting in a chair at the dining table reading. I gently shut the door and went back to my bed. I covered up in the thin blankets and tried to ignore the music.

Around 10 am the music stopped abruptly and I heard Bill’s voice inside the apartment. He knocked on our door. I looked at BEG to make sure she was covered and answered “come in.” Bill was laughing when he opened the door and simultaneously telling me that the Allie’s had no idea we were even in the apartment. Charlie, a few inches shorter than Bill stood on his tiptoes and looked over Bill’s shoulder into the room. I could see the top of his head and his eyes, nothing more. He said ‘hello’ and ‘sorry’ in virtually the same breath. After BEG and I were dressed and standing in the main part of the apartment, Jackie let us know she was sorry but just as relieved that she was not dancing in her underwear. They had not heard a sound when we entered earlier and had no clue anyone was in the apartment with them. The music was coming from the Italian version of MTV. American music was more the rule than the exception we discovered after several days of MTV dancing and singing, presented by Jackie Allie, who as a matter of fact had a terrific singing voice. Bill had come to our room on a mission. He had been to the stadium to declare for the 100 meters race. Bill had attempted to declare for me, but the officials were not going for it. In most meets this would be acceptable, but these were the World Championships and the official in charge of declarations had seen I was seeded fourth overall and had a fast and competitive set of marks. He was not taking a chance on a protest from other athletes. It was a limb too thin for his liking. He told Bill he would accept the proxy declaration temporarily, but I would have to appear in person to sign in before 2pm or be disqualified. The extension to 2pm was a rules infraction on his part and he told Bill it made him very nervous. He made Bill swear he would return with me.

Bill suggested we change clothes and head to the stadium. Very funny. I reminded him we had no other clothes. My blue button up shirt and olive green Docker slacks will adorn me for many consecutive days to come although I have no understanding of this as I stand in the apartment accompanied by my whole 2 hours of sleep. As an alternative I changed into my track clothes, the set of warmup and competition clothes that had been riding around on my back.

We walked up the street to catch the bus to the stadium. The small streets we would walk to catch athlete buses day after day were lined with vendors, selling everything from clothes to produce to jewelry. There were also pizza restaurants and bars. There was a singular Gelato stand that we would visit regularly. Gelato is nothing more than ice cream, but it is extremely popular in Italy. There are more flavors than the old Baskin Robbins chain even dared dream about. The bus dropped us at the main stadium after a five minute ride. Three stadiums in the area would be used to accommodate the over 9,000 athletes from around the world. The declarations tent and main administration offices were inside the area where the main stadium was located. We went quickly to the declaration tent and found the official that had granted the extension. He met Bill with a look of relief and asked if he had brought the ‘other guy’ to declare. He was quite serious. Bill pointed at me. The young man was overjoyed to know his criminal generosity was going to get covered. I signed the sheet he thrust in front of me and showed him my identification. He spoke decent English. It was the broken yet understandable sort that we would become accustomed to. Two weeks later my own English had picked up the odd pauses and Italian inflections in a sort of reverse type of language immersion. I mentioned this to BEG who quickly pointed out that I always talk oddly and not to make too much of it since no one was likely to notice in my case. I love you too sweetie.

After taking care of all my official ‘declaring’ for the 100 meters the official made a dramatic collapse onto his desk to illustrate his mock relief that Bill had actually brought me back in person. (photo attached) I realized that all the decisions I had made to arrive in Riccione as soon as possible had allowed me to compete in the 100 meters. Another handful of hours and I would have been shut out by the very strict declaration process. I wandered around the tent with Bill and we looked at the race seeding for our M55-59 100 meters as well as other races in other age groups. As I look around at the athletes from other nations I am struck by the amazing diversity in ages and cultures. Masters track arranges the athletes in 5 year age groups beginning at age 35 and going all the way into the 90 year olds. There are athletes that competed in the last Olympics or open World Championships and athletes that appear they may need a walker to reach the start line. Many are sleek and athletic and give off the aura of the world class athletes they are while others appear to be attending to merely compete and have a good time. We walked over to the stadium and I went inside for the first time to see the track where I will be competing. It had been freshly resurfaced for this World Championships; no competition of any kind had taken place on the new surface. The track is blue, not rare, but still a little uncommon. The track is separated from the spectator stands by an unbreakable plexi-glass barrier. The barrier is a solution to the rowdiness and violence of European soccer fans, but it will be a visual interference for the track spectator.

I’m still sleepy and tired and I know brown eyed girl is also, but the group wants to go eat lunch at one of the pizza restaurants nearby the apartment. We say “Yes, we will go too.” Everyone heads for the bus. It’s crowded aboard the bus since it’s a busy day for declaring. In fact its standing room only with many patrons holding the overhead bracing bars, arms extended and armpits exposed. It is apparent bathing is optional in many parts of the world. Racing begins tomorrow morning. I’m not sure if I am more hungry or more sleepy. I need both things. I also need my luggage.

Bill says we can have the luggage sent to the Hotel Fedora just a few blocks from our apartment. That instruction had come from the leasing agent for the apartment. Having it sent to the hotel is necessary because there is a very good chance no one will be at the apartment to accept the luggage when it arrives. The walking route from the apartment to the Hotel Fedora will become a common routine for me. Today will be my first visit there. I will be unshaven and my eyes and brain will be sleepless. I will make more choices about my luggage, eating and sleeping as the days go by. All the choices will seem so rational at the time.

(Photo 1 - Bill and I make an appearance to 'declare' for the next day's racing)

(Photo 2 - The official expresses his relief that Bill actually brought me with him)

(Photo 3 - The main stadium track)

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days - Day 2 Part 6

2007-10-18T19:49:00.000-05:00

Day 2 - September 4, 2007; Part 6

I fetched my brown eyed girl and we headed back to the bar, no more than 3 or 4 blocks away. Once inside we picked a table and sat down, weary as two well diggers working double shifts with one arm. The same girl I believed to be a hostess served as the only waitress and she brought us a menu. She had a small diamond piercing midway up one of her nostrils, popular with 20 something females in Italy. She had a lovely face set off by a ready smile. Her English was barely intelligible and labored, filled with long pauses and silent hand gestures while she tried to think of possible words to use.

The music was loud in the bar so we yelled out the things that neither of us understood increasing the absurdity factor. We might not understand one another, but we were certainly going to talk loud enough to prove it. We ordered food from the menu by pointing. We had a small clue that we were ordering sandwiches based on the waitress pointing to a sandwich on a plate across the room and then pointing back to the menu.

Over the course of the next 2 hours I continued to order various things, including tea, coffee, pizza and sandwiches. It was my trade with the lovely girl and her boss for letting us sit there so long. She continued to try out her English on training wheels, accompanying it each time with her smile, good natured shoulder shrugs and long “ummmms”. Between food and drink orders I would run back to the apartment and pound on the front door hoping for a response that never came. I would then run back thru the cold to the bar to deliver my bad news. I finally laid my head down on the table. I don’t think the bar’s owner or our friendly waitress really understood our predicament. We had tried to explain, but the divide of language left us to remain a mystery in their bar. The bar owner was cleaning the bar and clearly approaching the time he would ask us to leave at 6:30 am. It was 6:15 am when he told us, by hand motions, we had to leave. No one else was in the bar. My sleepless marathon had reached 43 hours.

We walked out into a morning that was dark. Sunrise would come each day to Riccione around 7:30 am. However, a calming surprise awaited us. The storm had passed. It was cool, but not cold. Just as the cold rainy storm had come quickly, it also vanished quickly. The temperature outside was tolerable, the wind and rain had moved on to the weather cemetery, its miserable fleeting task accomplished. Later we learned the storm had been as bad as our experience told us it had been. Below is a reprint of text that appeared in various publications carrying the story of the track meet as written by track and field writer Ken Stone.

“But that night and the next morning, hurricane-force winds attacked -- uprooting trees and forcing a delay in cross country races. The weather turned gentle after that.”

BEG and I had lived out this nightmare in the midst of a near hurricane. No wonder the locals were a little testy with us! All this Texan has to say is “Bunch of cry-babies.” And as Forrest Gump famously said, “That’s about all I have to say about that.”

We were headed back to the apartment at 6:30 am in the gentle weather described in the news account. When we arrived I decided on a new tactic. I went to the side of the apartment and stood below a second floor balcony. At the top of my voice I yelled out one of my teammates names. It went like this “Bill. Bill Collins. Are you in there? Bill. Bill Collins.” It was yelled loudly. I stared up at the balcony, my concentration focused on the sliding door. I had no idea what to expect. Perhaps another angry janitor with a mop? Within seconds none other than the requested Bill Collins emerged from behind the sliding door. He would tell me later that he had opened the door for fresh air no more than a few seconds before I yelled. He looked at me as though he were puzzled, as if I might be merely the ghost of Seven. We were saved. The apartment did indeed contain my teammates, and best of all we were discovered, urchins riding the streets in the midst of a near hurricane, saved. Finally.

Bill hustled downstairs and wanted to know how we got there so soon. He believed we would have to wait for the next day’s flight to Paris and would arrive in Riccione the next morning. BEG poured out the story in a tumble of disjointed sentences, followed by eventual paragraphs of information about Amsterdam and freezing nights and closed bus stations and bastards in Houston and on and on. She told him about the lost luggage. I listened. I even smiled. I could tell that BEG now had stories to tell for a lifetime. Not good stories, but stories all the same. Bill listened with amazement. We were soon standing inside his apartment. Waiting there were his wife Stephanie and a fellow Houston Elite teammate that was competing for Australia, a fellow named Bob Cozens. Bob stared at me and said in simple Aussie fashion, “Where ya been mate, ya look like bloody hell.” Beg started the story all over with Bill interjecting the parts he had just learned. Cozens broke in with "So that was you a-bangin on the door all bloody night eh? You kept me awake all the night you little bugger, I thought it was drunks having a party in the storm!" I stared like a zombie, dropping into a trance induced by finally seeing that my work might be over and that after 43.5 hours I might actually be able to sleep.

At the conclusion of the harrowing tales dispensed by BEG in a tumble of words resembling a confused cliff notes account, we were taken upstairs. We wanted a bed. We were sharing an upstairs apartment with another teammate Charles Allie and his wife Jackie. They were still asleep in their bedroom when we entered the apartment using the key Bill had saved for us. Bill showed us our bedroom. There were two single beds. Fine. Anything. He said, “Get a little rest, but remember you have to go the stadium and declare for your races sometime this morning.”
I barely responded. After he closed the door we dropped every stitch of clothing we were wearing (43.5 consecutive hours worth) and fell into the beds. Our rest would be short-lived, and the clothes would be worn again, but day 2 was mercifully over and we were horizontal.
Day 3 was peering at us over the horizon, its crooked fingers of fate pulling the sun gleefully up behind. The sun broke through the window at the head of my bed. I fell asleep with total disregard for the time of day.
(Photo 1 - Seven standing in the door of the infamous beige apartment building and its glass door )
(Photo 2 - My roommate/teammate, M55-59 400 meter World Record holder Charles Allie)

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days - Day 2 Part 5

2007-10-16T18:28:00.000-05:00

Day 2 - September 4, 2007; Part 5

The rain had slowed to a light sprinkle and shortly afterward the wind began to slow as well. In its wake however, the temperature had continued to drop. We shivered as we moved up the main beachfront avenue of a darkened Riccione. We had gone about 10 city blocks when in the distance in front of us a pair of headlights emerged. The light from the car glistened across the puddles, the rapid speed of the car given away by the sound of the same puddles being disrupted by the car’s wheels. At virtually the same instant we both realized it was a taxi. BEG raised her hand. I took a more drastic action stepping in to the road and holding my hand in the classic ‘stop’ position. The car slid to a stop.

I asked the cabbie if he spoke English. He did. Was our luck changing? I pulled the address out of my pocket. The paper had grown a little tattered, but it was legible. I thrust the paper inside the cab and asked if he knew where the address was and if so, would he please take us there? Without hesitation he told me yes he knew where the street was located, but this late at night he had no choice but to charge 15 Euro for the ride, after all as he put it “it’s an awful night out here really”. The immediate rejoinder that came to my mind was ‘No shit, Sherlock’ but I simply smiled and told him I would be happy to pay E15 for the delivery. Little did he know that at that point in time I would have given him E200 for the ride as I was beginning to worry over BEG’s welfare and was feeling guilty for leading her into such a travel mess. The cabbie believing he had won the fee arrangement, hopped out and opened the door for BEG. The cab was practically new, though tiny. It was a strange sight for US citizens accustomed to riding in the filthy old cabs of the US. There was no meter. It felt as if a friend had picked us up in his new compact car. The car's heater was cranked to high, a beautiful relief for us both. The cabbie made a 180 turn in the deserted road. He drove 2 blocks and turned left. I saw that the sign on the street read ‘Via Petrarca’. We had walked to within 2 small city blocks of the street where the apartment was located. I found it ironic to the point of funny, but also supposed the apartment could easily be miles away down this street. Wrong again. The address Via Petrarca 11 was no more than 50 meters after the turn. Little wonder the cabbie had hopped out so quickly. I didn’t mind. I was overjoyed we had reached the apartment, the goal of the long travel odyssey. The cabbie pointed at the sign on the building. It read No.11. He asked if that was correct. I looked at the paper again. It read ‘Via Petrarca 11’ in black ink. I handed the cab driver the 15 euro. He thanked us in English and drove away. We walked happily toward the door of building No.11. The building was the typical type found throughout Italy, beige color plaster from head to toe. It was 4 stories tall and had projecting balconies with frosted glass balcony railings. At the front door were buzzers for the individual apartments.

The front door was locked. That’s right, locked tight as a Wells Fargo bank vault at night. I studied the buzzers without a clue which apartment would bring my teammates to the front door. I decided that the safest way would be to start at the top and work my way down buzzing each apartment and waiting for a reasonable time, after all the occupants would have to get out of bed, get dressed (I suppose) and make their way to the door. BEG had begun to tremble from the cold. After ringing three bells without any result I took a look at BEG’s condition and decided to simply bang the hell out of the glass door with my fist. BEG protested that I was going to wake everyone up. The phrase “No shit, Sherlock” returned to my mind. I pounded away like a man with a cause.

We waited. I pounded again. We waited. I pounded again. We waited. Fifteen minutes had passed. My fatigue in conjunction with the cold had become both physically and mentally numbing. BEG shivered in the cold and laid her forehead on my shoulder. I interpreted it as a simple prayerful imploring for anyone to answer the door. I would have welcomed Hannibal Lecter had he appeared.

There was a sign on the wall that contained the phone number for the apartment rental agency. I took BEG’s already often used airline blanket and wrapped it around her. I jotted down the phone numbers and told her to sit in the corner out of the wind where she could respond if and when anyone came down to the door. I was going to find a phone booth in the vain attempt to rouse someone at the leasing office that could let us in the building. I knew that was unlikely at 3:25 am, but I also hoped to discover any business that might be open, a place to take BEG out of the cold until someone was awake in the apartment. BEG huddled in the dark corner, I sat out in a jog into the cold night, still without a jacket since it was in my lost luggage. I splashed my way through the puddled streets in search of life of any kind. I looked back at BEG. For all the world she looked like a homeless lost soul huddled in the corner of the building. I reflected on my choices and how it had led us to this point. I wasn’t pleased with myself. I didn’t reflect too long. It was too damned cold for introspection. I turned the corner the cab had turned a few minutes before, jogging at a quick clip, looking for light, sound, any life. Maybe I could find a phone booth or a police officer. The water from the puddles splashed onto my shoes and made its way through the shoes, soaking my feet in the icy water. Down the street I could see a very large restaurant with its lights on. I picked up the pace. Arriving at the lights I saw that the building was a gigantic pizza ristorante. It was closed. The lights were on because the janitor was inside cleaning. He was holding a standard issue mop in his hands, making the familiar mopping motion, a white apron stretched across an enormous stomach. He was an older man. From outside I guessed him to be in his seventies. He was large, in the vicinity of 6-3 or 6-4 and easily weighed 250 pounds. As unbelievable as it might seem, a large cigar was jammed into his mouth as he mopped, creating a virtual caricature of any janitor our mind would might conjure with its first conjugation. I imagined if I could communicate with him that I would arrange for us to sit in the warmth of the building until my teammates were awake. I walked to the front door and knocked loudly. The janitor was startled, jerking his head around so forcefully that the centrifugal force brought the ample stomach half way round with his head. I had clearly scared him. The reality of my presence registered with him in a second or two. He charged the door, mop in hand. His big meaty hand was shaking the mop like a weapon. From his mouth came a loud tirade of what I can only imagine was a colorful stream of Italian profanity. He brought his face as near the door as he could without bending the big cigar and shook the mop with enough vigor to knock it against the glass. He resembled an angry Tony Soprano with an additional twenty five years on his resume. I had been in Riccione approximately 2 hours. I had now been scammed by a cabbie and colorfully screamed at in Italian profanity for the crime of knocking on the door. Having dealt with many an angry scene in law enforcement I stood my ground. I asked in hand gestures for him to open the door. This only set him off all the more. After a brief session of additional screaming he turned abruptly and marched back to his mop bucket.

I hit the street at a jog again, looking left and right as I passed side streets. On a side street to my left I recognized a familiar Texas sight. It was a lighted beer sign. Not just any beer, but an honest to goodness Mexican Corona beer sign. I could hear music down the street. It was muffled but contained obvious American lyrics. I jogged toward the sign and spotted two men entering a car at the side walk. I moved farther up the street to discover a small bar with lights on and patrons inside. I went to the door to find out if it was open all night. The girl at the hostess station spoke minimal labored English. I asked about the hours in Spanish. It got through. She took me to the door and pointed to the open/close sign on the door. They were open until 6:30 am! I wanted to kiss her, and she was pretty enough to make it a pleasure rather than a chore. I had no way to tell her I would be back, so I smiled like a chimp with a banana and set off toward the apartment to get BEG. I had found a refuge. Damned teammates, why couldn’t they just answer the door! Damned crazed old janitor. Screw him! It was 3:47 am.

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days

2007-10-14T14:38:00.001-05:00

Day 2 - September 4, 2007; Part 4

I remembered my handheld compass was stowed in my backpack. It’s a small orienteering style compass that I take on trips to cities I’ve never been in before. I dug it out of the backpack and held it in my left hand, the darkness causing me to strain to see its indicator. The red north needle pointed to my right. I was riding reverse in the train car facing the rear of the train which meant the train was traveling due east. That was a good thing since Riccione lies east of Bologna. I felt comforted, but continued to watch the signs at the stations. One after another the station names whizzed by in the night, the train giving no indication it intended to stop at any of them. The names of the towns went by quicker than I could make them out in the dark.

It began to rain. The rain pelted the outside of the car in a steady rhythm. The floor of the car was growing damp. The wind had picked up appreciably and was rocking the sides of the train car as it rattled down the tracks at 60 miles per hour. The wind had grown even colder, cold enough to force BEG and I into a differnt car where the window was just as broken, but broken in the closed position at least, little more than a ½ inch crack showing at the top. An English speaking train ticket attendant came down the corridor peering into the individual cars. When he discovered us he entered and took a look at our ticket. He told us the train would not be stopping in Riccione this late at night. He told us to get off in Rimini, approximately 7 miles away and take a city bus the rest of the way. With a matter of fact manner he informed us Rimini would be the next stop.

I was grateful to know that we were at least going in the correct direction. I smiled at BEG knowing we were moving ever closer to being able to sleep and rest with a roof over our heads. The train rolled to a stop at the brightly lit Rimini train station. There was little activity, but the area was bright and a cluster of heavily rain coated Italian police officers stood at the main entrance to the building. I noticed as soon as I left the train that the temperature had dropped considerably, the rain was heavier, and the wind was on the edge of scary for an area that neighbored the ocean. I hustled through the rain, BEG’S hand in mine and asked one of the Italian officers if he spoke English. He affirmed that he did. I asked where to catch the bus to Riccione. He pointed through the building to a bus idling at the front curb. He said “This is the last bus to Riccione tonight. The storm is here. Hurry, go pronto, don’t miss it!” He followed the two of us through the station waving his arms at the bus driver to wait. We boarded the bus, wiping the rain water from our head and clothes in the process. We were both freezing. The bus seats were empty. The bus driver spoke no English. It was obvious he had been waiting for the train from Bologna in order to take the last passengers to Riccione. I asked about bus tickets. He waved me into the bus amid a swarm of Italian words that meant nothing to me. I stuck out a wad of Euros toward his hand thinking he would take the bus fare and return change. He looked at me with exasperation and laid his head down onto the oversized bus steering wheel in a demonstrable display of frustration with an American that had no Italian skills. He pointed again to the bus seats and refused the money. We obeyed this time, moving to the mid portion of the bus, sitting down in bright yellow plastic seats. Rain streaked the windows in a way that made looking outside difficult, the train station lights merged with the water droplets into a Jackson Pollock style rendering, though I don’t think Pollock ever actually painted an Italian ocean front resort.

The bus driver started the bus forward as soon as we were seated. It was a large city bus with two patrons and a clearly agitated driver, headed for Riccione. I smiled. A bed was waiting. My watch read 2:17 am.

My smile underwent a reversal as the bus rolled along Rimini’s main beachfront avenue. I noticed there was absolutely nothing open on this cold rainy night, save an occasional small bar or two. Large trees swayed in the stiff wind. It was later that BEG and I learned we were traveling in a storm that disturbed the locals and made regional news throughout Italy. We were traveling in conditions this coast had not seen in a long time, explaining the bus driver’s exasperation with loons like the two of us. The storm had not caught those wiser than we by surprise. The hotels had warned the guests and each hotel had closed it doors and set the window storm shutters in place. The power of the storm had shut down every business along a normally thriving corridor of beach front. A lone holdout of a bar here and there had lights burning. Presenting evidence that alcohol knows no inhibition, the bus came to a halt where seven youth in their early twenties stood below a bus stop sign. They spoke French rather than Italian and were filled with the bravado of drink. Our somber bus, even in the middle of a cold rain storm grew loud with their swagger and youth. Two girls accompanied five boys. One couple held hands, the others arranged themselves in separate seats apparently being only friends. Time would show us they were leaving one bar in search of another along the length of the bus route. The five friends talked and laughed excitedly though I understood none of it. The couple nestled in a seat together. The young girl was making the cliché ‘get a room’ come to life. She aggressively made out with her boyfriend, tongues in mouths, under the bright fluorescent glare of the bus interior. Her hand casually slid from his chest down to his fly where it massaged as he squirmed. She began unzipping his fly causing the other five to roar in approval. She had the fly half way down before the boy shot a glance down the length of the bus at us and shooed her hand away, all seven tipsy kids dissolving in giggles. A few seconds later the group had spotted another open bar and were furiously pulling on the bus stop chord. They clambered off and into the selected bar.

The somberness and quietness of the bus returned. I spotted a small poorly lit sign out the window. It read ‘Riccione’. I smiled. We had made it. Finally. It was a testament to resolve, persistence and a degree of stubbornness. We were in Riccione. It was now 38.5 hours and counting since I had slept, but I smiled any damn way. We would get to the Riccione bus station, go inside to its warmth, and call a cab.

The bus pulled alongside and stopped at a dark building. We sat patiently. The bus driver turned and stared. He opened the doors. He stared us again. Finally he tried his Italian on us and I made out the phrase ‘Riccione bus station’. He was telling us we were as far as he was going. He waved his arms aggressively. We stepped off the bus into the rain and wind. The bus station was dark. It was closed. There were no overhangs to stand underneath. Before I could turn back to the bus and re-board hoping to make a different arrangement he had quickly shut the doors. I looked inside the bus door at a man that clearly was headed home and felt no remorse about our predicament. He studiously avoided eye contact. He drove away. We were in Riccione, but as I looked up and down the streets there were no signs of life. No humans. No open businesses. The hotel signs were lighted, but the interiors were dark. I looked for a phone in order to call a cab. I would learn later that public ‘street side’ phones in Riccione are a rarity. There were none in sight, not even at the closed bus station. BEG remembered there had been an open bar back down the road toward Rimini. She suggested we walk that direction. If we found an open hotel or phone along the way, she said, then all the better. We turned into a stiff wind. As if on cue to our needs the rain stopped, a small prize in this odd roulette wheel of travel chance we were spinning around. We trudged down the dark streets of Riccione, backpacks secured, eyes attentive for any sign of life. I had the apartment address in my pocket, but no clue which way it lay. My compass, were it human, would have laughed at me. It was 2:47 am.

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days

2007-10-10T22:16:00.000-05:00

Day 2 - September 4, 2007; Part 3

The Bologna Aerobus is a 24 hour bus system that takes airport passengers to the train station every 15 minutes round the clock. I handed the bus driver 5 euros each for the two of us. He took it without a word and we settled into a hard plastic seat. In the back of the bus were two other passengers. Each one of the gentlemen bore a resemblance to a wanted poster and my police instincts noted that neither man carried luggage of any sort. Maybe the airlines lost their luggage too?

Various dilapidated buildings passed the open bus windows on what was an unusually chilly night. I knew it was chilly beyond the norm only because I had been told so by an English speaking fellow as we waited for the bus back at the airport.

As advertised the Aerobus pulled up to the train station about 30 minutes later and dumped us and the ‘wanted poster’ boys at the curb. The Bologna Centrale train station is a central rail hub in northern Italy and it is big and imposing on first sight. (see photo) It is also somewhat dingy and gives off a strong aura of urban life. I would learn later in the trip that it is a beehive of activity in the daytime. However at half past midnight it is more or less abandoned. We walked into the main ticketing area in total bewilderment as to how to board a train to Riccione. I assumed there would be someone there to help us sort it out. For example, someone at a window selling tickets. Someone that could tell us what it cost and from which track the train would leave. There are 16 tracks running through the station, each flanked by a loading platform. There were plenty of ticket windows and information kiosks. No one was present in any of them. We glanced around the area. There was not a single sign in English. All signs and instructions were in Italian.

I don’t happen to speak or read Italian which presented considerable complexity as far as getting to Riccione. There were zero trains in the station. We stared around blankly feeling overwhelmed by our ignorance of the language and our general fatigue and mental stupor. An assortment of drunken homeless lay against the walls, regarding us with zombie like stares. A handful of experienced train travelers busied themselves at the self-service ticket kiosks. I sifted a clue from this and walked up to one of the self service ticketing machines. Simultaneously we were approached by a man that BEG would later refer to as the ‘man with three teeth’. He appeared to be late 60ish, and in fact had a mere three teeth in his head so far as casual observation could glean. He smiled broadly and spoke to us in Italian, removing his grungy fedora from his head in the process. In a friendly sort of manner he managed to communicate that he knew very little English. Using two word phrases such as ‘where go?’ he discerned we wanted to go to Riccione. He took command of the ticket machine. He punched up several screens, all in Italian. He asked for 20 euros. Reluctantly I handed the 20 euro bill to him. With dramatic flair he fed it into the machine. In a couple of seconds a single train ticket emerged. He pulled it clear of the vending slot and happily pointed to the words Riccione and the time of 1:06 am stamped in the upper right hand corner. He bowed at the waist with his fedora sweeping below as if he had performed a veritable feat of magic. In my eyes, he had done just such a thing. I of course realized he was working for tips and gave him 5 euro from the change that returned from the machine. He smiled broadly again showing all three teeth and replaced the fedora atop his head. He then glanced around for new customers. We asked him where to catch the train. He pointed outside toward the tracks as if it was all we needed to know. When we exited the building is the time we realized there were 16 tracks. The individual tracks are referred to as ‘bins’ in Italian. We had no clue where to catch our train or even which direction it was to run. We decided to go down stairs below the tracks and have a look at the information screens. Going below the tracks was the only way to make ones way to the individual tracks so it seemed a natural progression, not to mention that the wind was picking up and combined with the cold night it was becoming unpleasantly cold. Though a little warmer, it got scarier down below. The drunken and addicted homeless had staked out a haven down in the warm corridors below the tracks. They gave us defiant looks as though we were trespassers on their property. A man passed out against the wall had issued a fresh stream of urine running from where he lay to across the corridor. We hustled back upstairs into the cold to look for any English speakers. As we were befriended by the man with three teeth, we were similarly guided by a young man from India. No older than our son he explained in precise English that we needed to board the train at Bin 6. He was riding the same train, but taking a longer journey, some 300 more miles beyond our stop. We decided to trust him in the same blind and helpless way we had trusted the ‘3 toothed man’ of ticket machine magic. We were cold now. The wind was whipping through the station as we waited. BEG stood behind me using me as a shield. At the appointed time a train made its way up to Bin 6 where we waited with 10 to 15 others for the train headed to Riccione. It stopped and we got on board, our full trust invested in the word of a young man from India, the only person we could find in our thirty minute search of the station that spoke a word of English.

The train car is best described as the type you might imagine from a 1930’s movie scene with Humphrey Bogart. Maybe the imaginary movie would be titled “The Something or Other Express’. It contained a corridor on one side of the train car which gave entrance to individual riding cars of 6 seats each. It was old and dilapidated, reeking of a long history and thousands of miles. We sat down in one of the compartments alone, a fateful minor luxury since the train was practically deserted. In a few minutes it began to roll down the tracks, a distinctive clikety clakety sound emanating from below the steel wheels. The cold wind rushed into the open window above our heads. I got up and tried to close the window. It was broken in place, the victim of too many miles and too many tugs. I sat back down, mired deep in a pool of fatigue. BEG stared back from the seat opposite mine, a look of odd ‘nothingness’ in her expression. I wanted to lie down on the seat and go to sleep for the1.5 hours it would take to reach Riccione. I didn’t. I wasn’t fully convinced we were even on the correct train. I was destined to watch for depot signs with equal doses of vigilance and anxiety at each stop. Still, I imagined our long nightmarish journey would soon be over. My sleepless string had reached 36 hours. I hoped and even prayed Riccione truly existed an hour and a half in front of us. I concentrated on a soft bed located at Via Petrarca 11, the apartment address which was still riding in my pocket. The cold wind knifed through the car. BEG huddled below her airline blanket. She had moved to my side of the car and propped herself against my shoulder. I closed my eyes and prayed again. The clickety clack of the steel wheels sang counterpoint to my prayers.

A Texas in Italy - 17 Curious Days

2007-10-08T19:00:00.000-05:00

Day 2 - September 4, 2007; Part 2

The eight hours waiting for the KLM flight to Bologna was spent in a fatefully benign way. I use the word benign in the sense that no other immediate troubles emerged on our already darkened horizons. That new trouble would come later, hiding behind the corner, measuring its prey and waiting to pounce.

We took the full measure of the Amsterdam airport on foot, looking at flower shops and duty free shopping areas. I shopped for a razor since my emerging face and head stubble had left me looking a little rough. There wasn’t a single disposable razor to be found. Odd for an airport. I did find several non-disposable razors at 2x the regular cost. Thanks, but I guess I’ll remain stubbly for a while.

We ate at one of the internal restaurants, sharing a salmon on piadina bread sandwich.

For the most part we wandered around feeling sleepy and tired. Near time for the flight I laid my head down on a snack bar table while BEG had a conversation with a woman on her way from Brazil to Germany to see her grandchildren. I nearly fell asleep, but not quite. Since I am a fitful sleeper to begin with the top of a plastic laminate table and a hard bar stool were not exactly pampering.

With a degree of mercy combined with mental and physical fatigue on our part it was finally 8:30 pm and time to board the flight to Bologna. Eight additional hours had passed and I had not slept for 33 hours. Boarding the smaller flights in Europe is accomplished by boarding a bus with your fellow travelers and being transported to the edge of the plane. From there you ascend portable stairs and board the plane. We stood outside the jet and I gazed into the dark Netherlands sky. It was a pleasant evening and despite my fatigue I was now relieved that Bologna and the train ride to Riccione were on our immediate horizon. I think I even managed a smile and a joke for BEG as we waited. I kept telling her we were getting closer by the minute to reaching our goal. She didn’t seem impressed with my enthusiasm.

The flight took us over the French Alps, which we couldn’t see in the dark, and into the Bologna airport in about 2 hours. Naturally, we had to climb down the stairs hooked up to the plane and board a bus for transport to the terminal. A strange thing happened when the bus was fully loaded. The bus sputtered up and belched out the typical bus emissions, took a right turn and drove approximately 30 feet, across a pair of yellow lines and stopped adjacent to the door of the terminal. I’m not kidding. We could have walked the 30 feet twenty minutes sooner than he bus delivered us. The bus content of humans broke out in laughter. I was too tired to consider it funny. To me it merely seemed stupid.

We walked into the dingy bowels of the luggage carousel area. It was depressing and dark, yet filled with travelers and activity. I remained in a fog that had been induced by sleep deprivation. We went to the desk labeled ‘lost baggage’, a small grime laden desk with 2 attendants. The girl available when we walked up spoke very limited English. I’m not really complaining. After all we were a guest and we were the ones that spoke only one language. With broken English from her, hand gestures from us and a little patience we presented our bag tags and told the story of the bags being in Houston. She asked us where the airport should send the bags. We filled out the forms. She handed us a KLM sheave of papers that included all the phone contact information for the Bologna airport.

Now we needed to make a key decision. It was midnight in Bologna. The bus ride or cab ride to the Bologna train station would take about 30 minutes. The train ride to Riccione would be 1.5 hours. We would arrive in Riccione at approximately 2am. My no sleep marathon would have reached 38 hours. The alternative was to wait in the Bologna airport until daylight, approximately 7 hours away. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep in the airport. I could see in BEG’s face the weariness of the past 30 plus hours. She had slept soundly on the flight to Paris but showed the fatigue of our ordeal.

I knew from my research on Riccione that it was a popular European tourist area. I knew it was layered in hotels, bars and restaurants virtually nonstop for miles of beachfront. I decided, as any self-respecting urban creature would do, that all the above would be open when we arrived in Riccione. Did I mention yet that we didn’t know where our apartment was in Riccione? In my pocket was the apartment address; Via Petrarca 11. I never could get Google Earth to resolve the address and my coach Bill Collins told me there was no worry since the apartment rep was planning to meet us at the train station and lead us there. Of course I ended up not traveling with my teammates and at this point they had no clue where I might be. No one was carrying cell phones because none of us actually owned a GSM capable phone. We had all decided on international phone cards to make any calls back home. The apartment did not have a land line telephone. Communication with my teammates, even in the year 2007, was impossible. All laptops were left at home because the apartment also had no internet connections. Hard to believe. Its a cruel thing to have become so pampered in the age of communication and then have it jerked fully out of your grasp.

So my plan was as follows. Catch the Aerobus to the train station. Catch the train to Riccione. Walk into a hotel or bar and request a cab to deliver us to Via Petrarca 11. My teammates would be there and our long ugly travel plight would be over in about 2.5 hours. I would finally be able to sleep after 38 hours and prepare for my race the following day. Things were looking up.

Dark Fate smiled behind his veil, delighted with my decision, mirthful at my simple ignorance.

A Texas in Italy - 17 Curious Days

2007-10-06T21:01:00.000-05:00

Day 2 - September 4, 2007; Part 1

Once in the Amsterdam airport I made a straight course for a Continental agent. Good fortune placed him in my view almost immediately. Actually it was more likely good airport planning since he was just outside Continental’s only two gates. The line to talk with the agent was 7 deep. Twenty four hours into my trip we no longer had a quarrel with waiting; it had become the norm for us. I remain impressed with the Continental agent and simultaneously furious with the constraints he operated underneath. Impressed, because in the time I stood in line he conversed with passengers in Dutch, French, German, Spanish and ultimately spoke English with me. That’s very impressive indeed in a Jackie Kennedy sort of way. I remain furious right up to today because I had a simple request of him. It went like this, “Sir, I am almost certain our luggage is still in Houston. It was only checked to Houston you see, and then I was put on this flight as a secondary measure, and I could tell the agents in Houston weren’t listening to me……so, anyway, I am wondering if you could give a ring to Houston and have our luggage sent to Bologna? With a small smile that indicated he had heard such a story a million times he told me “No can do. The luggage will be the responsibility of KLM Airlines since your next and final flight will be with them.” I stalled hoping for common sense to take effect using the following logic. “But the bags are in Houston. I’m sure of it. KLM doesn’t operate out of Houston, which means Continental has to fly the bags somewhere for KLM. It gets back charged to KLM either way, so why not just send them to Bologna?” The agent began to repeat himself instead of dealing with my straightforward logic which upset me a great deal since I had heard him the first time. Additionally he told me that if he ordered the bags from Houston they would end up in Amsterdam. I innocently asked why, since it seemed easy enough to tell them to send them to Bologna. After all, language barriers seemed non-existent to him. Apparently common sense was not as universal a talent for him. He went on and on about the rules and he said with finality, “That’s just the way it is in the airline world. Tell the folks in the lost baggage office in Bologna to have KLM order them from Houston. I surrendered. The line behind us was growing restless in three or four different languages.

I walked to a TravelEx currency exchange window. I handed the young girl 500 US dollars. She gave me back 335 Euros. Bad deal in my mind, but I was growing passive to injury at that point.

I was really tired and I could tell I was operating at a mental disadvantage. Nevertheless as it turned out my now 25 hour day was actually quite young at that point. More work awaited. My next task was to find out if we could go stand-by on the 2:30 pm flight, now approximately 3 hours away from its scheduled departure. Overhead the intercom system was a beehive of verbal activity, every message read in Dutch and then in English. I searched for a KLM logo and any symbol of KLM ticketing to make the inquiry about the 2:30 flight. Finally, after inquiring at an information booth I was directed to the other end of the very big airport. At one point BEG and I walked through a food court where we were met face on by a gray cloud of cigarette smoke. Unlike the US, cigarettes are still in vogue in the Netherlands and smoking them is permissible in designated areas in the Airport. Not small out of the way places mind you, but places you have no choice but to trespass. We both coughed and put our hands over our noses. It has been only a few years of smoke-free environments in the US but the recognition that this was not a healthy area was immediate for us both. So the Netherlands has smokers that will tax the health system with lung diseases and America has obesity with similar negative effects on the health system and health care costs. Pick your poison. Smoke yourself to death or eat yourself to death. Either way, those healthy by choice will pay the unfair tax generated by the addicted.

We found the KLM ticketing area, but not until we took a long walk through the very modern and perhaps even elegant airport. (Some photos provided herein) The KLM ticket area operated on a ‘take a number’ basis’, so I did just that, sat down on a provided waiting bench and closed my eyes. I was so very weary and sleepy. I prayed. I prayed for the 2:30 flight to have 2 seats. When my number popped up on the overhead board I went and stood in front of a 20 something KLM agent that was wearing a yellow blazer just like the one worn by the other 12 female agents. Not a male agent in sight. Maybe they don’t like yellow blazers. Atop her head perched a baby blue beret nestled in a head of dark brown hair. Her lips were painted up with a dark red lipstick. She smiled and said ‘whasssup’ in Dutch. I guess that is what she said…..I told her English please and she smiled the same smile again and said “how can I help you sir?” I asked about the flight. She turned to her keyboard and worked it with professional ease. She smiled (wrong reaction) and told me I had as much chance as an ice cube in Houston in July. Actually what she really said was “I’m sorry sir the flight is overbooked. There is a standby list of 11 persons in front of you, and I can promise you that you won’t be able to get on. But I can put you on the list if you want,” she added brightly at the end. I turned and looked at BEG. She could tell from the expression on my face. I asked the ticketing agent to confirm that we were booked on the 9pm flight to Bologna. She worked the keyboard expertly again and rendered an affirmative answer this time. I explained I had not slept in a while and asked her if there was anywhere to sleep while we waited the 8 hours. She advised not only was there no place to sleep, but the police commonly remove people from the airport if they are caught sleeping in a horizontal position. Well, damn it to hell, that just happens to be the ONLY way I CAN sleep!

I turned to BEG. She picked up her camera backpack and purse and trudged behind me. I had no idea where we were going from there. The flight to Bologna was 8 hours away. It appeared the Amsterdam airport would be our home for awhile. I thought about Tom Hanks in the movie ‘Terminal’. However, as I recall, Tom did have his bags in the movie.

(To Be Continued)

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious days

2007-10-02T16:31:00.000-05:00

Day One Continued - September 3, 2007

Continental Flight 11 is flying a route that parallels the east coast of the United States. The aircraft is making its way directly over Bangor, Maine before turning east to cross the Atlantic. BEG and I are both freezing. Covered in an airline blanket, BEG is sleeping. I am not. The seat headrest is just a slight bit too far back for my head to rest comfortably. I tried resting my head to the side but my neck begins to ache. I am shivering under my blue Continental blanket. My ass aches from a too-hard seat, not to mention having sat on the previous flight for 7 hours. I can see a man in the center row with his head hanging down awkwardly, his chin is resting virtually on his chest. However his chin isn’t actually touching his chest which must place a horrid stress on the man’s neck. His head bobs to and fro as the planes rocks in turbulent air. I once worked a crime scene where a man sat dead in a leather recliner in exactly the same position. His head didn't bob, but then again perhaps it might have in an airliner, sans the rigor mortis period. Overhead a monitor shows the course, altitude, headwind and other details about the flight. It’s a sort of ‘follow along while we fly’ techno-thing, a gizmo that would make old Mitch Miller proud. I am growing very tired, the day becoming taxing while we have traveled and battled with airline schedules and airline seating. I woke at 5am this morning. Right now, somewhere over Bangor or thereabouts we are about one third of the way to Amsterdam. It’s 11:30 pm on my biologic clock.

When we reach Amsterdam it will magically become 11:40 am. The warping of time is messing with my brain as I try to work out the details of getting to Riccione and how much time I will have to rest before competing on the track. I’m told Einstein often felt frustrated in his work with the physics of time. I grant him my total respect and admiration since I have become clumsily confused to the point of mild retardation with a seven hour time difference. Where is Albert when I need him most? Though it will be 11:40 am in Amsterdam it will be 5:40 am on my biologic clock. Because of my inability to sleep on the plane I will have been awake over 24 hours when the flight is complete.

It turns out Eddie Murphy was doing a promo for Shrek, one of the in-flight movies. I’m watching with my cherished Sony earphones plugged into my ears, laughing like I always do at ‘Donkey’ and his lines. Even when Eddie is a donkey he makes me laugh. An hour and a half later, somewhere near Iceland according to the ‘follow along’ monitor, I make my way to the lavatories in the center of the plane. Oh My God, what are people doing in there? The smell around the lavatory area is atrocious. When I come out I give the passengers seated adjacent to the small smelly rooms my best look of “I am so sorry you have to sit here.” They just gaze sleepily back at me seeming to be anesthetized. I presume their noses have gone on strike and shut down their work in protest.

Time has passed in the ice cold cabin and London shows to be underneath our wings now. BEG has blinked her eyes open a couple of times, long enough to complain about the temperature and scrunch herself into a tinier ball. I’ve passed the sleepy and tired stage into some other odd world of observation and numbness. The man that resembles the murder victim is still comatose and I worry about his neck. I imagine him spending the rest of his life stuck in this unimaginable pose, attending business meetings with his chin near to his chest, his vertebra forever welded into the unfortunate pose. I imagine him looking at great works of art by lying down on the floor in front of the painting. Rationality and purposeful thinking are evasive in my fatigue.

Mercifully the first 24 hours of our trip ends with a normal descent and landing in Amsterdam. We are welcomed in Dutch and English, though I don’t understand a word of the Dutch. It is a West German derivative and it sounds very peculiar and harsh as if it would be a monumental task to speak correctly. I cross learning Dutch off my list.

I am wrapping up my headphones now and preparing to deplane into Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport. BEG stirs and begins folding her blanket. I’m anxious about what will happen next and I am sleepy and tired. Thoughts of our luggage will not exit my brain and I really do fear the worst. I’m relieved I have my competition clothes and spikes in my carry-on backpack. I applaud myself for outwitting the system on that detail. I keep thinking, although the thinking is accomplished through a sleepy jet lag stupor, that its day two now, and maybe things will begin to brighten up. Maybe we can go standby on the 2:30 flight to Bologna. That will mean only 3 hours in Amsterdam. I cross my fingers, say a prayer, and head up the jetway to the Netherlands. I’m headed into day 2!

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious days

2007-09-29T20:18:00.001-05:00

Day One Continued - September 3, 2007

We were finally airborne again after over 3 hours on the ground. We landed in Houston a scant 20 minutes later. I looked at my watch. The time for the Paris flight, 6:45 pm, had passed. My watch read 6:47. Our rain related trouble continued. Because there had been so many flights into Houston grounded all the available gates were occupied by other aircraft. We were destined to sit on the ground in Houston for another 30 minutes as we waited for a clear gate to let us exit into the airport.

Hoping that the airport shutdown had also delayed the Paris flight we hit the jetway in a fast walk. Once inside Houston Intercontinental we found a departures electronic board as quickly as possible. Scanning the board, the flight to Paris was no longer listed. Our luggage, which had been checked only to Houston, would be rotating around the baggage carousel shortly. We walked over to a Continental Airlines information rep to ask about our alternatives for getting to Paris, though with reasonable intuition I believed there was only one flight per day to Paris. Amazingly, the rep told us the flight had not left. She said she would call the agents at Gate 39 and tell them to wait for us. I told her about the luggage. She said “Don’t worry, just tell them at the gate, and now hurry! Run if you can!”This development touched off a series of decisions and choices that would define the course of events for the next several days. We were unsuspecting insects, and the heavy shoe of fate was about to roll down on top of us.

As instructed, we ran off down the corridors of the airport. Scanning the overhead gate direction signs at jog pace we scurried like folks with a time problem to the amusement of other airport patrons. I guess those that were amused have some sort of idea that if a person is in time duress then it is jolly well funny; that it is my problem and not theirs? One ass yelled out the threadbare cliché “Run Forrest Run.” They remain fortunate that I was in an authentic hurry and had no time to insensitively address their need for sensitivity training. I reached the gate agent completely out of breath. BEG trailed by the margin appropriate for an untrained runner chasing a trained sprinter. I had not intentionally left her behind, but I felt if I got there ahead they would surely wait for us both. I asked if the Paris flight was still boarding, though it was asked with about 4 to 5 breaths between words, words that were garbled and yet hopeful. Without looking up a gate agent, later nicknamed ‘Miss Sunshine’, intoned that the flight to Paris was gone. She said it just like that. “Paris is gone.” Three words of finality that meant nothing to her. I noticed there were other agitated passengers standing at the counter. I tried to ask her what alternatives I might have. She remained fixated on her keyboard, completely disinterested in my plight. The other patrons at the desk glanced at me to see what my reaction would be. I explained we were told the flight would be held for us and the lady back down at the other end of the airport had called them to say we were coming. One of the men standing at the desk replied, “yeah, me too.” I looked at him. He pointed out several people that shared our predicament. The stone faced Continental lady was clearly agitated with the entire circumstance. Behind the desk a very calm young man whose name tag read “Raul” looked at the bitch, then at me. With a kind voice he said the problem could be solved. “It’s best not to wait for the Paris flight tomorrow, he said. It’s full and space is going to be hard to come by. There is a flight leaving for Amsterdam tonight. I can put you on it with these other folks.” My response was one of confusion, but I still managed a reasonable question. “How will I get to Bologna from Amsterdam?”

He answered, “That’s no big deal, there is a flight at 2:30 pm that you can be a stand-by for and I can confirm you on the 8 pm to Bologna from Amsterdam right now.”

BEG came jogging up behind me at this point. As it turned out all the other folks at the counter had been left behind also. A total of 14 passengers grounded as BEG and I were. They also ran to the gate. We were all left standing there with Amsterdam as our alternative.

I had decisions to make. There were teammates in Houston not going to Paris that would put us up for the night, but remember I had just been told I had a minimum chance of getting aboard the next days flight. If I missed that one I would also miss the opening days of racing, the entire reason I was going to Italy!

My track competition clothes and spikes were on my back in a backpack. That lesson had been learned by nearly all the athletes over the years. Do not take a chance on lost or delayed luggage! Our checked luggage was by now circling the luggage carousel in some distant part of the airport. I told Raul about our luggage. I told him if it was not tagged to Paris it was certainly not tagged to Amsterdam. He said in the most amazingly calm voice for a man rapidly changing fourteen tickets, “No worries, we will tag it through to Bologna, pick it up when you get there.”

I turned to BEG. She was totally bewildered having arrived later than much of the ongoing conversation. I asked Raul what gate the Amsterdam flight was leaving from and what time it would leave. He calmly pointed across the corridor to a gate in plain view. He said “It leaves in 5 minutes, all the passengers are on board, and you need to decide.”

Standing at my newly arranged Amsterdam departure counter I tried to explain to the gate agents that my luggage was not checked to Bologna. Truth be told, they probably never heard what I was saying. They were incensed with their fellow agents across the corridor for booking 14 people onto their flight at the last minute. Ugly talk and frayed nerves radiated between the employees. They took our 1 minute old boarding passes and shooed BEG and I down the jet ramp as if we were stray cats being shooed out of the airport. I explained again to the agent walking us down the jetway about the luggage. Anxiety had taken control of my senses. Too much was unfolding in too short a time. I had a carefully planned itinerary designed to drop me in Bologna in time to catch a train. The train was timed time to allow one nights rest before the opening quarterfinal heats of the 100 meters in Riccione. I could see my carefully laid plans dissolving in the confusion of a long walk down a jetway to an aircraft bound for Amsterdam. I was doing a new itinerary clock in my head as I talked with the agent. Complicating the task is the fact that Italy is seven hours ahead of Houston. The last thing the agent said was “Don’t worry, the luggage will get to Bologna.”

We walked on board a huge Boeing 777 and even the flight attendant picked up the baton on herding us to our seat and treating us as if as if we were the main reason for the airline’s continuing loss of revenue.

Seated on the plane, which was huge and freezing cold, I turned to look at BEG. She was ashen faced. The run through the airport and the anxiety had caused her asthma to flare. It had all happened so fast she understood little of the details apart from the fact we were going to Amsterdam. She looked scared and concerned. I’m not sure if my face was reassuring. From the plane’s intercom not more than one minute later, the pilot’s voice resonated through the aircraft. “Well, we finally have everyone on board. We are going to be pushed back shortly for our non-stop flight to Amsterdam. If you did not intend to go to Amsterdam, well it’s too late now.” This brought laughter from the majority of seated passengers. The comment made my stomach do a flip. I was committed. We were headed to Amsterdam on a 9 hour flight. Once there we faced an 8 hour layover at Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport. Counting the time since we left our door that morning we would be looking at travel and airport time of 24 consecutive hours to arrive in Amsterdam. The flight to Bologna was expected to be 3.5 hours. The trip to Bologna central train station would take 30 minutes. The train ride to Riccione takes 1.5 hours, leading to a grand total of 29.5 hours travel time.

We sat back and settled in. The plane flew down the runway. The wheels below made that familiar sound as they folded back into the aircraft body. Eddie Murphy appeared on the monitor in front of me. Oh good, I really like Eddie Murphy!

(Continued Later)

A Texan in Italy - 17 Curious Days

2007-09-26T19:39:00.000-05:00

Over the next several days I will be telling you about my recent challenging, weird and wonderful 17 days in Italy.

Day One - September 3, 2007

The first leg of the trip is flying from Dallas to Houston. In Houston we are scheduled to take a Continental flight to Paris. From Paris we will fly to Bologna. From Bologna we will take a train to the track meet site in Riccione, Italy. The entire trip is approximately 16 hours of combined flight and train rides combined.

The flight from Dallas to Houston is one of the small regional jets that perform commuter duty. It’s the type plane in which a tall man has to stoop over to move down the aisle. There are 2 seats on one side, a single seat on the other side. (the photo above is the actual plane) BEG is bubbling with energy and excitement knowing she will be in Italy in a matter of hours.

Little did she know that fate would intervene in a cruel way. Have you ever done something awful like squish an ant or insect, then realize you held its fate in your hands and knew what would happen, while they understood nothing of your power or what was about to happen? Looking in hindsight at the morning we took the Continental flight to Houston, I am left wondering if the power behind the phenomena of human fate felt bad for us. I hope so.

Mid-flight we were told a rain storm had developed in Houston. The pilot said we did not have enough fuel to amble around the skies so we would land and spend the duration of the storm in College Station, Texas. That’s about 150 miles or so from Houston and the home of Texas A&M University. Fortunately our flight to Paris doesn’t leave Houston for 4 more hours so I feel comfortable time is not an issue. Like other unscheduled landings I have been part of over the years, we dropped in a free-fall into the College Station airport like a rock to earth. The weather was Texas hot, 90 degrees or so and the sky was a brilliant blue, no sign of a storm in view.

What is it with people farting on airplanes? Now, don’t get me figured for being all righteous, I’ve been known to fart some now and then, but I dang sure don’t fart on a little airplane! That’s just plain nasty and rude!

Now we’re grounded in College Station and according to FAA regulations we cannot leave the plane until the pilot says we can. It’s an FAA cruel version of Simon Says. She tells us the airport does not have enough personnel to put us through security again so we will just sit on board until the Houston airport re-opens. So let me think about this. If we get off the plane we have to go through security again? This is in case a terrorist is lurking in the College Station airport, waiting for their big chance to board an unexpectedly grounded airplane? Or maybe the person that was already on board and had just been thinking about terrorism, but now that we are grounded realizes it is their big chance to go into the airport and buy guns and bombs to bring it down once we resume? No guns or bombs for sale in the airport? I’ll explain that to the FAA.

After an hour BEG breaks out a lunch she had prepared for eating at the Houston airport between flights. Its grapes, sandwiches and power bars, though I feel a little guilty eating and not sharing with my fellow grounded travelers. Except for the mystery farter. All I really want to share with him or her is the business end of a stun gun. After eating I decide to walk back to the lavatory. Just for fun I decide to check all the women to see how many are wearing earrings. Don’t ask me why, I am merely a keen observer of human culture. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. What I learned on my passage to the back is that there is not one, nope, not even one lady on board this grounded aircraft that is not wearing earrings. Don’t know what this means, but all the women are wondering what my problem is since I stared at each ones ears on my way to the back. They probably think I’m some shaved head horny bastard looking to make the best of my ground time. I’m not quite sure where a person would perform the deed in this situation even if they did get lucky, but that’s never stopped a woman from thinking the worst of me.

I estimate half of the flyers are speaking a language other than English, including a giant of a man directly behind me speaking a loud and excited Polish into his cell phone. His too large left leg is sticking into the plane’s tiny aisle. It’s not his fault really since he is too large for the space assigned a normal size passenger. Oddly the big Polish fellow is wearing a Texas Rangers baseball jersey.

The wait turns into 2 hours; two hours on a small regional jet with a mystery farter that seems to have no control of his or her overly active sphincter. I’m looking around for a cork just in case I can trace a sound to a source. It’s been two hours with angry and tired travelers speaking loudly into cellphones. I’m looking at my watch. The Paris flight is becoming iffy as the hands move around the watch. The pilot is no longer on board. I guess she never heard of the golden rule. This isn’t good.

The pilot returns. Instead of speaking directly to the small assemblage of 38 persons in a regular voice, she makes her way to the cockpit and uses the intercom to tell us that the airport in Houston is open again, but the storm is headed our way and we can’t be airborne until the storm passes our location. True to her prediction about 30 minutes later an authentic Texas tail twisting black rainy nasty storm emerges over the horizon. The rain pelts the sides of the airplane as the flight attendant hurriedly closes the main door. The wind rocks the small plane back and forth on the runway, the wings visibly tipping up, then back down as each gust runs below the plane. I’m glad we are on the ground as I see the magnitude of the storm, but I look at my watch and begin to think about alternatives. I try to call my teammates scheduled to fly with me to Paris. No one answers. I surmise this is because they are all on board Continental Flight 11 bound for Paris. I’m on the ground 150 miles away.

(Continued later)

The photo is the ACTUAL PHOTO from aboard the small plane, taken by BEG who has a Canon Rebel digital camera surgically implanted in her left hand.

Adriatic Dance

2007-09-23T10:21:00.000-05:00

Written September 9, Riccione, Italy

A cool ocean breeze blows through a louvered glass balcony door. From the chair where I am sitting I can see the city lights outside the door, hotel signs blinking in neon reds, pharmacy symbols in green. Blue fluorescent tube lights from a hotel façade announce that the Hotel Fedora is open for travelers. All these lights are being filtered through the leaves of trees adjacent to the balcony, the leaves doing their own slow Adriatic dance as the sea breeze moves through them. It’s a picture perfect September evening on the Adriatic coast of Riccione, Italy.

Across the room I watch BEG in the small apartment kitchen. She’s busy preparing dinner for our roommate and other teammates in the apartment below. I am reflecting on how many years she has been taking care of me and caring for others as she is doing on this gorgeous night. She loves travel. She loves to cook. Tonight she is happy. She’s smiling and talkative, exchanging sweet words with all that cross her path.

While I have been writing our friends and teammates have returned to our apartment where the food smell has attracted them like the nearby sea attracts vacationers.

It’s loud and chaotic again, the sweetness and quiet of my earlier reflections broken, but I continue to watch BEG and observe her undiminished happiness. Now, for all the right reasons my own happiness is lighting up my interior like the hotel laden strip of beach that glitters outside the window.

The voices grow louder. The plates clatter. The silverware rattles and the food disappears. She smiles at me from across the room. Days like these stamp their imprint in my memory and lay their blessings at my feet.

Short Message from Italy

2007-09-20T12:31:00.000-05:00

I am writing from my hotel in Bologna. We have been in northern Italy since September 6th. We will visit Venice for the second time tomorrow then come home via Paris and Houston on Saturday. So much to tell you. Words fail, especially english words when used in Italy to non-english speakers. My feet are tired. At night after walking all over the danged country my feet smell. Of course I wash them each night in the bidet.
I came to maybe set a record or two in track and failed. We came within .28 seconds of breaking the World Record in the 4x100 relay. Alas, my USA team finshed second to an incredible British team that destroyed the old WR some 3 or 4 strides in front of us. I did set a dubious record of sorts, at least among the friends I traveled with. I went 11 days with zero luggage, wearing one shirt, one pair of pants, etc. Not kidding. Wait until you hear the incredible misery of this story of lost luggage. Not to mention gross incompetence on the part of KLM Airlines in Bologna.
Arrivederci for now.
Much much more when I get home and can use a true American keyboard. Ever try to decipher the Google Blogger control panel in Italian? Sheeesh!

Spiral Notebooks

2007-09-02T19:00:00.000-05:00

BEG and I leave tomorrow morning for Italy. We will be on the Adriatic Coast in the tourist beach cities of Rimini. The track meet is in Riccione. I will be staying in an apartment with other Team USA members and I'm told that its very nice and spacious, yet has no landline telephone. The reason? Apparently Europeans take their holidays very seriously. The coastal towns we are in are a major beach/vacation destination for holiday making Europeans. A telephone is considered a bad thing! I'm also told it is a young, tanned and fashion savvy beach and night crowd. Figure I'll fit right in......
Obviously there is no internet connection. The wifi's are in the hotels down the road, so I am going sans laptop. I will be keeping notes and thoughts the old fashioned way, in my spiral notebook. I will try to re-create the days when I return. Until then, stay safe and cheer for Team USA!
Yo Frien, Seven

This is Rimini on the Adriatic Sea

I Love Your Nails

2007-09-01T19:00:00.000-05:00

I’m staring at her grocery cart. It’s filled with garbage. Not the type of garbage that goes in a dumpster and smells bad in a handful of hours, but garbage that no one should put inside themselves. I am standing in a grocery line at Wal Mart. I buy groceries there for the most important reason I can think of, they are less expensive than anywhere else. Roaming the aisles of Wal Mart can create an overwhelming cultural mental meandering on my part. I start feeling sorry for some of the folk I see there, then of course I snap into reality that I am a member of the collective presence on that day and imagine they might be feeling sorry for me too, and if not I don’t have any business feeling sorry for them anyway. Maybe they are all millionaires saving a little money.
The lady with the cart of garbage is wearing a Baylor University t-shirt. She looks like the college educated type. Her hair is a curious blend of red and blonde, but obviously professionally colored, cut and styled, not the hair color box type gone terribly awry. That type hair dye belongs to the cashier, bored to the ninth heavens, dragging grocery bar codes across the scanner.
I notice the garbage cart lady also has professionally manicured nails on her hands and a lovely pink polish pedicure on her toes, little yellow sunflowers painted on each toe, all evident through her sandals. What is most obvious is she is the size of 3 women, rolls of fat spilling out from under her arms and around her legs. Now my head has gone into overdrive, imagining our friend Robert Shapiro is standing alongside me teaching me (once again) to discern, not judge. As far as discerning goes I am can easily assess her lifestyle is not for me. The grocery cart is filled with bags of Fritos, Lay’s potato chips, Chocolate Chip cookies, a gallon tub of Blue Bell Ice Cream…well you get the picture and there was nothing I could spot that could be considered nutritious, not even to a bored, disinterested and drunk dietitian.
So of course it is perfectly obvious to me why great rolls of fat are spilling out of her clothes. Nevertheless her nails and hair have been professionally accommodated.
What I learned is that I can feed myself for approximately two weeks for $78. After dumping judgment for discernment, (Robert will be proud of his stubborn, yet slow student) I went back through the grocery aisles (i have no real life) putting my groceries back. The Fig Newtons went back. The 10 containers of sugar-filled yogurt went back to the shelves.
I was now on a new personal cultural mission. I built a mental menu of 28 meals. I only eat two meals a day so it wasn’t too brain cell damaging. I recollected food based on my reformist thinking. When I checked out it came to $78.16.
I would have been able to make it through two weeks with only what I bought. I promise I could have, except BEG sort of needed to eat too……..
Anyway since then my eyes have been seriously observant of the extreme waste of food in our culture. I am ever more observant of the obesity epidemic, men, women and even their children walking about with fat rolling along with them, grocery carts filled with nothing but expensive garbage that I imagine a wild animal might turn its nose up to and simply walk away preferring to be hungry.
Something good came from this. In the month of August I have lost 8 lbs of body weight and I began the crusade with only 10.2% body fat as a start point.
I did it by not drinking Diet Coke, by not snacking between meals, by eating only when I was actually hungry and then only the amount that made me not hungry any longer.
It took discipline. I’m 8.9% body fat today, shipping out on Monday to race in Italy. I have a little more pop and zip on the track, something track athletes refer to as “lift”….only thing is I need to have my nails done before I leave, maybe a little hair coloring. Wait, I don’t have hair. Maybe I’ll spray paint a racing stripe down the middle ‘mohawk style’.
Seventy eight dollars for two weeks. Not kidding. Think about it.
By the way, practicing anorexia is cheating.

Yes, earlier I did mean to say ‘stubborn yet slow.’ It reminds of a consulting firm I used to work with whose slogan was “We may be slow, but we’re not any good.” It kind of reminds me of the airlines these days.

Flying In a Straight Line

2007-08-30T11:39:00.000-05:00

If we imagine running a track race as a metaphor for our lives, what could we learn from the picture on the left? A casual examination shows men between the ages of 55 and 59 trying with some willful might to arrive at a finish line before the other. Ironic isn’t it that in life we so often hope to reaches our life’s finish line later than sooner?

A closer examination reveals a finer point to me. On the left is the eventual winner of this race, my aforementioned friend Bill Collins. He hasn’t been beaten in many years, still the rest of us manage to imagine that someday, if the wind blows right and God has a sense of humor………….

Notice Bill’s face. He is focused on the track in front of him. There is no distraction from his immediate mission. This is a cardinal rule of the sprinter and the advice of sprint coaches everywhere. There is no one to beat in the race. There is only the lane in front of you. You can do nothing about another person’s race. You control your lane, your effort and the mission is to find yourself at the finish as expeditiously as…well, as fast as you can deliver you.

Look now at my face. I am on the far right in the black sleeveless shirt, shaved head. My eyes are drifting across the field of runners in mid-race. It is a sprinter technical mistake. I am attempting to diagnose my present position, mid race, based on the positioning of others.

If we can transport this track lesson to a larger picture, that is to make it into a wide screen, high definition lesson for all of life, what we conclude?

Isn’t it all so easy to be distracted by what others might own that we do not own. How many of us dwell on the money earned per year by our friends and colleagues, wondering why we are not earning the same? Maybe we think our friends are far more talented and skillful. Maybe we think they are much prettier or more articulate and generous.

This is the life lesson equivalent of mistakenly viewing life outside the lane we are given to run in. Can we really control the person alongside us? Do we wish to do so for the wrong reasons?

If I could find a way to wake each morning and see my life as having a lane that belongs to me and to no one else; and that what I do in that lane of my own accord and initiative is all that matters when the finish line is at hand, would I draw nearer to being complete?

My mother used to say in exasperation that I should ‘straighten up and fly right”, I am officially revising it to “Straighten up and fly straight, and do it in your own lane, eyes ahead on the mission in front.” It's more wordy I suppose, but it will make me a better friend to all, and I think it will make a more complete Seven as well.

I’m going to Italy for the “World Championships of older men racing one another” this Monday. I’m dreading the 9 hour portion of the flight a little, but maybe the flight will be conducted from Houston to Paris in a straight line, just for me?

Reporting from my lane, your friend,

Seven

White Dogs and Hard Work

2007-07-28T19:00:00.000-05:00

On a pitch dark morning at 4am this past Tuesday, I saw a white dog across the street. Even though it was dark, the dog, approximately the size of a collie, seemed to glow with an eerie iridescence. I had opened the door to retrieve the morning newspaper. The white dog, and it was white from stem to stern without blemish, stopped and stared at me. The dog watched me walk to the end of my sidewalk adjacent to the street where the newspaper lay at my feet. He trotted a few steps down the street, almost prancing, but suddenly stopped and turned completely around to look at me again. I stared back, mesmerized by the glowing brilliance of this dog's coat, a dog I had never seen in my neighborhood. I turned after a few seconds, believing I had won the stare down contest and walked half way up my walk. I stopped there and looked again. The dog, almost as if being cued by a movie director, stopped and turned completely around again to stare at me. Then with a quick about face the white dog began moving away. Down the street it went, disappearing from sight around a corner.
This of course means nothing to you. It was a signal for me. I have much work to do in the near term, work that sends me in new directions. Enough said about spooky/divine signals. Take your pick of the choices of divine or spooky, or define it as you see fit, after all you are all writers.

I have been trying to establish a better pattern of writing consistently here. I have been unsuccessful due to a tight training and work schedule that leaves me little time to visit your blogs, let alone write effectively. I'm off to Maine at the end of this week for a National Championship track meet and then I will be in Italy for 3 weeks of September to compete in the World Championship. I am going to be missing from this blog address indefinitely.
I do want to leave you with one important thought. I want to reinforce the thought with one of my most cherished photographs.

This is a meaningless photograph for you, so let me explain why I cherish it and maybe you will understand.
The scene is the end of a 200 meter race at last year's National Championships in Charlotte NC. It is the period immediately after the race. The period where sprinters are recovering their breathing and allowing the finality of the results to infiltrate their consciousness.
The man on the left is Bill Collins, the winner of the race. He is also my friend, teammate and coach. He owns more World Records than I can keep up with, well past 20 at my last knowing. The reason he excels is due not only to talent, but an enormous work ethic and the strong will to drive himself in exhausting workouts. His success is the mark of true effort combined with enormous talent.
The man on the right is me. I finished second and at that moment was struggling to believe I had actually done so on this important stage. The conversation taking place I want to keep private.
It is the conversation of two friends. Two warriors that pursued a purpose which demanded training, pain, confidence and hope. We had pursued it to a profitable conclusion on an unbearably hot summer day in August of 2006. Bill had set yet another World Record in this race and meet.
I cherish the photo because it locks me into the understanding that our individual achievements can only be measured by our collective success. We can find the meaning of our achievement only when we find meaning in our love for one another and the successes of one another. Without each of the components we remain incomplete.
Alone we are simply alone, running in a race of one. United in love for one another we find a reason to run, and even exist in the first place. This photograph holds that meaning for me. Maybe you find that meaning in the photographs of your children and other loved ones. Maybe you find it in a memory of love and shared achievements. I know you understand what I am saying. It's a truth we all know, but too often forget.

I'll be gone, most likely for a long while. I have seen the white dog.
You have my email in the meantime, and I open it regularly just like any other O-C disorder computer jockey.

Now I Get It.....maybe

God's Peace to Each of You.
Seven

Out Foxed

2007-07-24T19:04:00.000-05:00

I turned on Fox Cable News this morning at 7:30 am as I started work. Yep, I work at home and sometimes the television at my work station keeps me company. I quit driving the freeways to work several years ago. Yes, I am gloating. It's one of the best decisions I ever made because I timed it almost perfectly with the development of e-communications. The early going was tough, but in the past handful of years the email, internet and other communications have become almost flawless. It's nice to be semi-removed from racing my fellow rats.
As I was saying about FNC, as soon as it came on they were talking about some girl named Lindsay Lohan that had been arrested for drunk driving and having cocaine in her pocket. That's bad. I would imagine over the breadth of the US there were thousands of DWI arrests that night. I once made 5 DWI arrests in one night working alone. So, I was wondering what's so important about this girl, among all the thousands of DWI arrests that occurred.
I turned off the TV cuz I wasn't interested.
I turned it on again at around 9am. They were talking about the arrest of Lindsay Lohan. A famous psychiatrist was opining.
I turned off the TV cuz I wasn't interested.
I turned it on again at around 11am. They were talking about the arrest of Lindsay Lohan. The arresting police officer was being interviewed. Don't they know the department has to pay him overtime for that?
I turned off the TV cuz I wasn't interested.
I turned it on again at around 1pm. They were talking about the arrest of Lindsay Lohan. Greta Van Susteren was being interviewed about interviewing others about Lindsay Lohan.
I turned off the TV cuz I wasn't interested.
I turned it on again at around 3pm. They were talking about the arrest of Lindsay Lohan. They were showing photos of this girl and apparently this is not the first of her trouble.
I turned off the TV cuz I wasn't interested.
I turned it on again at around 5pm near the end of my work. They were talking about the arrest of Lindsay Lohan. #(@**$*@($)(!@#$(%&*^^@Dirty Words in Large Bunches!
Who the hell is Lindsay Lohan anydamnway? Has she made some great contribution to mankind that I missed! Do Fox's sponsors know they are talking all damn day about this girl, whoever she is?
Hello, Planet Earth? Any one sane still left there? Can your hear me? Earth? Sanity? Are you there?

Super Hero?

2007-07-23T10:52:00.000-05:00

The last post was about celebrity and a comment from Paul reminded me of something I have been reluctant to talk about. He commented that very often we treat Jesus as a celebrity. Often we declare our love and devotion on bumper stickers or through the latest ‘Christian music’ lyrics where the celebration is set to song.

Between you and me the bumper stickers that declare “I Love Jesus” are especially insulting to me. As I said, I have been reluctant to discuss the subject in a public venue because it floats perilously close to being judgmental. But I also consider myself a spiritual individual and although not a scholar, I am well read in the Christian faith and I am intimately familiar with the New Testament and its gospel. In that way I think my opinion matters.

When we ride about with bumper stickers that declare ‘I love Jesus’, do we make a soft pathway for celebrating the person of Jesus, rather than engaging in the seriously hard work of incorporating the teachings and divine message of Jesus into our lives? Have we reduced the realities of Jesus’ life and teachings to the same level of celebrity worship that seems rampant in our culture? Did Jesus bring his message to help us develop our soul, or did he preach in order to become famous and celebrated?

I believe to be celebrated is a natural development for those that take their existence and life skills to a new level, and in that respect no quarrel can be raised with being celebrated for the correct reasons. I also believe Jesus and the message he carried from the Creator are intended to be instructions for developing our soul. The celebration of Jesus as a celebrity to be sung about and placed on bumper stickers without the hard work of processing and developing the message inside ourselves is the equivalent of a vehicle with faulty GPS moving farther and farther from its intended destination.

I didn’t have to look very far on the Internet to find bumper stickers with outrageous slogans. And naturally I found a plethora of bumper stickers and slogans that attempt to couple Jesus or Christianity with an individuals business or service. I find that especially offensive. How offensive is this?
I also found a sticker depicting Jesus as a super hero, a form of reducing the Christian message to the form of, oh say, Spiderman?

Celebrity

2007-07-15T09:00:00.000-05:00

I know from genealogical research that I have a 3x great grandfather, a gent by the name of John W. McHorse that fought in the Texas War of Independence. He’s buried in the Texas State Cemetery about 3 headstones from Stephen F. Austin. I didn’t do this research, it’s not my thing. It was carefully produced by my law school professor first cousin. Witnesses say she has not been seen without a book in her hand since she was 5 years old. A friend that loves Texas history declared that this fact about my Texas ancestry makes me a virtual celebrity. Ummm….I don’t think so, but I do want to talk a little about celebrity. Before I start I should tell you it is also written in several texts that my long ago grandfather John McHorse had a best friend who was widely known by the nickname “Horse Thief Shorty.” From what I understand the name was earned through merit. Also, poor Grandpa John, a Baptist minister by trade, was booted right out of the Baptist church for what was vaguely referred to as “un-Christian conduct.” He married the granddaughter of President William Henry Harrison in 1890, but she divorced him in 1896, the divorce seeming to be related to the “un-Christian conduct.” Apparently I inherited his penchant for rebellion and self-direction.

Celebrity, I assume, is a derivative of the word celebrated. Celebrating people is a good thing if the celebrities have accomplished things that elevate our society. That is my definition of what celebrity should be.

Is the idea of ‘celebrity’ out of control? Do you know a celebrity personally?

I want to tell you 2 stories about celebrity that might best illustrate the points I want to make. If I fail to make any points then you have lost some valuable minutes you will never get back, but that happens all the time anyway. Right?

I coached select baseball teams for several years. Baseball is a lifelong passion of mine. I had many outstanding young players. As it turns out one of my students, a lad named Hunter Pence, has become the center fielder for the Houston Astros this year. As of today he is leading the National League in hitting and is considered a leading candidate for Rookie of the Year. This has resulted in instant fame for Hunter in Houston and around the knowledgeable baseball world. Recently the Astros played the Rangers here in the DFW area and BEG and I had a courtesy (gift) seat directly behind home plate. Hunter’s mom told us that Hunter is unable to go out in public in Houston. He is besieged by autograph seekers and a line begins to form as soon as he is recognized. When he finally has to walk away from the line of people that want his signature, some will actually be angry and say unkind things to him. He has had to change his cell phone number several times in the past 2 months. Young female fans in Houston carry big signs to the ballpark asking if Hunter will marry them. In high school the girl fans of our team treated Hunter like any other guy on the field. There’s more, but you get the point. My memories of Hunter are of a very hard worker that dedicated himself to the game, but I also remember a 13 year old boy with braces and a goofy smile. I remember him at 17, growing past 6 foot seemingly in front of my eyes, still owning the same goofy manner and smile he owned at 13. Today he is famous and rich at 24 years old. He is also hounded night and day by celebrity seekers.

This past Tuesday I was talking with Jon Drummond on the track during my workout. For those not knowledgeable about track and field, Jon is a former elite sprinter that won gold in the Sydney Olympics on the USA 4x100 relay team and has a sterling track resume beyond Olympics competitions. Today he is the coach of the currently presumed ‘World’s Fastest Human’ Tyson Gay, a fact that is garnering Jon a lot of national attention. He is also the founder of the Jon Drummond Achievement Foundation targeting the inner city children of Philadelphia for assistance.

On Tuesday Jon was telling me about the infamous incident in the Sydney Olympics after the USA team had won gold in the 4x100 relay. The USA team was celebrating the victory in a way many felt was too vigorous. Anyone that knows Jon understands he is anything but understated, yet they need also to understand that he was born with spina bifida and told he would never walk. I would say winning a gold medal in the sprints in the Olympic Games when you were told you would never walk constitutes grounds for celebration. For the other 3 athletes, let’s just ask ourselves if we won an Olympic gold medal would we be happy? The coverage declared that the US should not be so boisterous, and the athletes should understand they were supposed to win. Excuse me? American athletes that achieve the highest level are supposed to understand they should not be happy? They didn’t exactly break out guns and run around the track shooting people. They merely carried a US flag around the track and posed for photographs for the crowd. The American governing track authorities declared that the athletes appeared to be ‘over-happy.’ Is that a word? If so does it make any sense? National media such as Good Morning America picked up on the ‘over-happy’ theme and publicly wrung its hands about the sadness of the unlovable Americans. As we know, at ABC everything is America’s fault, don’t you dare be one bit happy about the successes of your country!

I am reminded of the Italian film maker that won an Academy Award and went absolutely berserk, running off the stage and into the audience, shouting in Italian and jumping about like a madman. He was widely embraced as a wonderful, engaging and lovable soul. Four hard-working U.S. Athletes exhibiting far more reserved behavior are characterized as ‘over-happy’; meaning please remember to remain restrained in the face of your accomplishments. It’s only endearing if you are a bizarre behaving, short skinny Italian film maker?

The obvious point to my writing here is that we, along with a celebrity focused media, too often create something that is devoid of reality when we obsess about celebrities. We build prisons for them and then scowl if they do not conform to our invented image of what they are supposed to be. This is a bizarre fashion of thinking that we might actually own them. If we own them we can control them, and if we can control them we might become like them?

What I know for certain is that Hunter simply loves playing baseball. He has made it his life’s work. I also know he is entirely human, the same kid I have known all these years. He sleeps, he breathes, he feels and I have seen him at his most human. He deserves to be treated as you would treat your son, brother or friend. Anything else is a false reality created by our own imaginations.

Jon is a man that is gregarious and full of life. That is who he is. He has also created a foundation for the enrichment of the inner city Philadelphia child, a testament that being over-happy in life can perhaps be a purely positive thing, no matter your country of origin?

Unlike my 3x grandfather's friend, 'Horse Thief Shorty’, maybe we should quit taking and start giving. Maybe instead of attempting to wrap ourselves around the lives of celebrities, stealing their freedom to be as they are, what we should do is look inside our own lives for an original source of inspiration? That, you see, is what will actually make us worthy of being celebrated.

"Nuts and Neurotics Holiday"

2007-07-07T09:00:00.000-05:00

Last night a couples friend came to our house for dinner and a movie. We watched 'The Good Shepherd' which I recommend, especially if viewed in my high quality home theater. I can even pump in the smell of popcorn if you like that sort of thing. The best thing about a home theater is you can pause a movie so someone can go pee or if they have a question, and God knows you women are full of questions. Last night I was given an official pause signal by BEG. What happened after that is my wife asking the other wife, "Don't you just love that dress she's wearing"? Please, that should not be an official pause. I will have to develop a penalty for such pause transgressions.
Speaking of being anal......
The male part of the visiting couple is a psychologist that conducts group sessions with folks that have extra problems with, well, whatever they are having trouble with. He calls them his merry band of nuts and neurotics, which doesn't seem very nice, but after all he is the doc. During dinner I asked him if the two of them had a nice Fourth of July. Yes, I am capable of inane and plodding conversation. He answered that nuts and neurotics don't recognize any holidays. Once you are officially a nut and neurotic there are no days off. This was his way of saying he was on call and got called.
This led to a sleepless night for me. I stayed up worrying about nuts and neurotics and the fact that there is no time off for holidays. It doesn't seem right to me. Since today is officially my day, being the seventh day of the seventh month of the seventh year, I decree all July 7th days henceforth to be an official "Nuts and Neurotics Holiday."
There you are, take the day off. You deserve it. If you need me I'll be in the pool all day. McCain and I have a lot of resting up to do.

Living in Hope....err.....Wonderland

2007-07-06T07:55:00.001-05:00

The count on presidential pardons/commutations shows Senor Bimbo Eruption leading George by 396 to 113. If it was a football game we would not be able to watch for the lop-sidedness of it all.

It didn’t stop former ~~Master~~ ~~Pardoner~~ Prez Bill from saying this Scooter Libby commutation from George was outrageous, creating open mouths of astonishment to the crazy conservatives that think for themselves without Bill and Hillary’s help.

Then, naturally, Hillary jumped into the steaming pile of hypocrisy with both feet kicking, declaring the Bush team thinks it is above the law. I think we are all waiting for her to give back the White House items she stole when she left after her first two terms; the items that the Bush team waived aside not wanting to make a fuss.

This silly charade should provide plenty of ammo for Obama, Letterman and Leno.

By the way, did you know that the most famous Clinton pardon of all, Marc Rich, was supported by and argued for before the Master Pardoner by none other than Scooter Libby? If I put it in a novel, you wouldn't believe it. What's next for the Dem frontrunners? Maybe a $1,200 dollar haircut for a man that runs on the concept of 2 Americas, one very rich and one very poor, a problem that vexes him to no end? Well, for starters, if Mr. Edwards is serious, he could get a $15 haircut like the rest of us and give the $1,185 balance to ~~a homeless man~~ me.
Don't hold your breath.

If I Went Away

2007-06-28T21:00:00.000-05:00

With head lightly bowed and a prayer in our heart, can we see beyond the barrier where the vanished have gone? If I could sing a song designed to bring them home, or perhaps to take me there, what song would I sing? What words would hold the secret?
If I could sing a song to bring my father back, if I could lower my head and concentrate and discover something more than a thought or memory, or if I could touch his shoulder the way I did the evening he died and have him smile; what song would bring him home?
If I could go where he went and somehow come back, I would begin to pack. If I could go now, I would go. If I knew the words to the song that races across the dark and says 'come home', I would sing with all the voice I could find. I would sing today. With rain pelting my roof as I think, and thoughts of what was lost, I would sing with tears in my eyes and a catch in my throat, yet I would sing fully and with all I could find, if I could bring him home.
For the children that died young, I would sing the song.
For the peace seeking fallen soldiers, of any nationality, I would sing the song.
For the store clerk in the wrong place at the wrong time, I would search for the lyrics to bring them home.

Is there no song? No song I could sing that would change the path, and bring them back to their mothers, fathers and friends? Is there a song for my funeral, if I went away? Would you sing my song for me, if I left the words behind?

If I went away, what would I sing? Would I sing a song to bring you across to me?

Would you sing a song for me? Could we sing a song from either side that filled a universe of dark? Could we sing a song that moved us back and forth from what was, to what might be?

If I went away, would I find the words to sing for you? Would you sing for me?

If I Went Away?

Adidas Kim Collins- Impossible Is Nothing

2007-06-15T13:02:00.001-05:00

In the video above Kim Collins is the lead voice and athlete in the Adidas commercial. The commercial is a series developed by Adidas to express the timeless thought that there is really nothing impossible.
I had the good fortune to meet Kim Collins during one of my workouts last week. For those of you not knowledgeable about track and field (probably 98% of you) Kim was the 2003 World Champion at 100 meters, and holds other remarkable credentials beyond that race. He is a native of St Kitts & Nevis.
I was working on starts and his coach introduced him to me. He told me he had seen me sprint in a recent local meet. He made suggestions on my starts and then he mentioned something to me that two of you readers have also mentioned. He asked if I knew of ‘The Secret.’ I found that interesting and now since my blog friends, and Kim have pointed me in that direction I will go and have a look.
I want to write about another subject today however and it involves Kim also. His coach Monte Stratton, in an interview after Kim won the World Championship said, "In a world of wildebeests, he is a gazelle, who runs without noise, without friction, almost without disturbing the air around him."
I watched Kim run from the blocks the same night I was there, still under the watchful eye of Stratton and was indeed impressed by the remarkable ease with which he attained eye-opening speeds. I think in a world of wildebeests I wish to be a gazelle as well. Maybe not in track where I am simply what I am, but can we translate that remarkable quote by Mr. Stratton into a life lesson?
Did you ever feel as if you were trying so hard at some task or goal that it impeded your efforts? The ancient Taoists teach somewhat along the lines of letting the flow of life envelop you, a way of ‘going with the flow’ to quote popular vernacular.
The ad says “Impossible is Nothing”. Our typical understanding of impossible challenges is to work with all our might and to induce the strain of our mighty will against the challenge deemed impossible. Translated, our hard work will bring us to the impossible.

I have found two concepts vital to my progress as a track athlete.
One, I must be totally prepared physically. I have to run the enormous workouts my coach deals out and spend ample time in the weight room. I must be physically prepared to achieve what I hope to achieve.
Two, When in the midst of a race I must sprint in a totally relaxed manner. I know that sounds contradictory. I don’t have the space here to explain it (nor you the patience to read it) but it is necessary to sprint in a relaxed manner to achieve high speed. To do this successfully refer to concept Number 1 one above.

I think there is some element of universal application in this small bit of track wisdom. Namely we must always prepare properly for our dreams, but also know we must let the consequences of our work happen without disrupting the natural flow around us. I want to do it that way I think. I want to be a gazelle among the wildebeests, running through life without noise, without friction, almost without disturbing the air around me. Isn’t that a fine vision?

Hold on...wait a minute....I think I just recommended going through life without breaking wind? I guess that's a good idea too.

The Devil Made Me Do It

2007-06-13T20:15:00.000-05:00

I used to have the spirit scared right out of me by Baptist preachers. Now many religious bloggers and strangely enough secular bloggers are starting to scare me a little. The reason they scare me is that they insist on the presence of a Satan. I am comfortable enough in my beliefs that I am not concerned I will be converted, but instead concerned that a figure known as “Satan’ can be blamed for so much in the world.

I heard all about Satan as a child. I once dressed as Satan for Halloween. I suppose if there is an actual red Halloween costume complete with pitchfork and long tail, then the reality of the rascal is oddly difficult to dismiss.

However I have managed to reason the devil out of my existence. I trust in a natural law system of belief. I believe man is already complete and perfect in concept. The key phrase of course is ‘in concept’. I find it intellectually small to imagine that across our universe a loving God is doing battle with a Satanic force. It defies credibility if we observe the natural pattern of our world. Why wouldn’t Satan simply pull the sun from the solar system if he were real and possessed powers enough to torment the Creator? It would shorten his work load here in a dramatic and creative way, and certainly it would be evil and demonstrate his equal powers.

If we were created to be complete in perfection, how would an evil force be co-created? Over the years I have convinced myself that our world is one of natural law and natural order. It will not surprise you to know I think the perfect harmony is grounded in our ability to love not only one another, but all things that surround us. Simplistic? Yes.

Inside all great beauty lies simplicity. Even when we unravel the remarkable complexities of biology we simultaneously discover the remarkable simplicity of evolution and adaptation.

Can the world be so simple that Satan is made up to explain away the fallibility of human choice? I believe this is partially true. I also believe Satan has been created to control other humans. There is no Satan, there is merely the function of free will imperfectly executed. We are granted free choice by the Creator for a simple reason. If we were not, we would be mere slaves to a steady state of nothingness. With free choice we become an experiment in learning the good way, the natural law of our world. When we fail it is only because of inappropriate choice.

Amid all of this preaching of mine a signal is arising that life is easy and all we need do is go out and make the correct choice. Having fallen many times in my life I know the weaknesses of my theory. It is one of those difficult thoughts that send us forward into complexity only to emerge years later with an understanding of the simplicity. It can resemble a tangled string that we labor to unravel from the middle rather than searching for the two ends before we begin. Once we have it all untangled, we see the ends of the string clearly. Or are we seeing the beginnings of the string?

I believe all the things that surround us that we call evil or we attempt to attribute to a Satan are nothing more than failures in the perfect exercise of free choice.

This is the natural law I embrace.

If I walk across the street tonight and murder my neighbor, is it permissible to blame it all on the Devil? I think not. It is permitted within the design of free will to make disastrous and unnatural choices, and that is all.

Satan does not exist.

I could go on and on and on. Perhaps you would move to your links and click ‘next’ if I did? Still I want to make a point to you about something I have learned. There is no Satan. There is no evil that operates in an absence of human choice. Perhaps we can fear choice and maybe we can seriously fear the choices of others. But, can we please quit absolving ourselves of the responsibility for our searches and our choices and quit scaring the children in church?

Satan does not exist. If we concern ourselves with expressing our innate perfection, we can transcend such shallow thoughts as believing in evil forces at work on us, but we must begin with purging ourselves of such an easy excuse for our failure to search.

You Aint Nobody

2007-06-07T21:00:00.000-05:00

"You are what you are in this world

That’s either one of two things

Either you’re somebody

Or you ain’t nobody"

Those words come from the movie American Gangster. They are more powerful if you hear them spoken by Denzel Washington the prime actor of the movie. You can do that here.

I got hung up on those lines midway through the trailer. The words spit in the face of gentler philosophies such as Taoism or Christianity. A gentler way says we are all important, one of us is just as important as the other.

What do you think?

It’s possible to embrace both sides of the discussion. I think we can make a solid case for the power of the individual that controls his or her environment. I think this is especially true if this mastering of our circumstance is accomplished in a benevolent manner. The great inventors, philosophers and scientists fit Washington’s professed ideology. That is to say they are ‘somebody’ on the world stage. The man or woman that buses the tables at the local restaurant, diligently wiping off table tops, is obviously less known to the world on an individual basis. Is the bus boy a nobody? Is he less important than Monty Jones?

I am reminded of the line from Jack Nicholson in The Departed where he declares he ‘does not want to be a product of his environment, but rather prefers that the environment become a product of him.’ (paraphrased)

I think the truth of our existence occupies a precarious place of balance among such rash statements. These are statements that can land us in large trouble, and ironically it is also the attitude that might deliver us to greatness as a society and as individuals.

What do you believe?

Turning Stones

2007-06-04T21:00:00.000-05:00

We all have some origin that we hold no responsibility for. We didn’t get to choose our landing place. Of course I don’t know all of your circumstance and what you may have been granted that you never asked to receive, so as usual I am left to talk about myself.

I was born into a family that took its Baptist religion straight-up. It was like ordering coffee black; you had to be man or woman enough to handle it without any artificial sweetener. Sometimes bitter, sometimes less so, but just like coffee, always very real to the senses, particularly if you were not crazy about coffee in the first place.

My spiritual immersion was the Southern Baptist version of Christianity. I think when Jesus worked his message to the first listeners he did not exactly have the Southern Baptist church in his vision, but like all things that we think about in our biologically mandated individual manner, mine is only an opinion of one.

The subject comes up because I have been lately stuck on random thoughts about the churches in my area of Dallas-Fort Worth. Everywhere I look in the bible belt that surrounds me I see churches. We have 3 churches per four corners in North Texas. There are gigantic ones and little tiny ones about a block apart. My professional work is currently overwhelmed with churches requesting what my skills provide; the estimation of construction cost for new facilities. A facility I estimated last week will take 20 million dollars to construct. This leads me to my central thought for the post. Churches that were birthed to spread the message of Christianity are now business centers. We have churches that (if you will grant me some small allowances for generalization) have become business centers. What is the business? Too often I am seeing the funding of salaries, construction of facilities and non-religious education as the central, and certainly unofficial, mission statement.

When I was young I was sent to church every Sunday morning and Sunday evening. Each service lasted approximately 2 hours. Add the weekly Wednesday evening service and the twice yearly week-long revivals and, well you see my point that I have seen the inside of the southern Christian church and therefore I am not a pretender in writing about the same. At the age of separation from my parents I simply rebelled. No more church. Please God, no more church. I retained my spirituality. I even dared expand it while in the middle of my ‘church rebellion'.

I am struck today by some thoughts worth exploring. Is the 2007 version of the ‘business of church’ still conducive to Christian education? With potential exposure to sounding old and dated I will tell you that by the time I was 14 years old I had read the New Testament 3 times, the entire Bible once and listened to countless sermons on both texts. Does the new ‘business model’ church of 2007 require its youth to read the Bible? Maybe they do, and maybe like so much of life it simply depends on the individual church/teacher in question. Whatever the facts, I have become a questioner of the ‘business model’ approach to the development and continuation of the Christian message. It is always easy to question isn’t it? Too often we ask questions because we want a sure and quick answer rather than having to think, so I will turn the frontal attack on the church on its head and suggest that if the Christian churches are ignored, no matter their ‘model’ status, who is left to move the message forward? Is asking the question dangerous in this way?

What’s next? While Muslims hate and kill and those Muslims that do not hate stand by idly without admonishment for those that do hate, what next for Christianity? Are big business and Crystal Cathedrals all we have to offer the world?

I am full circle to the opening thought that each of us has some origin that we hold no responsibility for. Some of us were born Muslim, some Hindu, some southern Baptist Christians and some were born into the poverty of spiritual absence. As we grow older and learn to discern and think for ourselves, will we gravitate to the message that reaches us; or in contrast, will we move toward the message we have reached out to find?

When we begin to reach, do we reach toward the ‘businesses’ of Christianity, or do we reach for the truth and the peace of knowing something finer, something more meaningful than who might have the largest sanctuary and most televised pastor?

Smooth Nuts

2007-05-30T09:00:00.000-05:00

I have a love/hate relationship with the advertising industry. The hate part because I dislike being pandered to with insanely sloppy repetition of insulting themes. For example: Mens attraction to womens breasts. I mean please, are we all still 13 years old?

The love part because I really enjoy the remarkable creativity and humor of the industry when it gets the creative part right and doesn't take the easy road of pandering. Another love part comes because my son works for a very large worldwide agency. His branch of the firm focuses on the Internet. Recently my son sent me an ad his company was responsible for that has sold a ton of Phillips electric razors. Here is the link to the Phillips Body Groomer ad

OK, I guess the ad is a little silly and maybe even pandering, but it is creative and fun.

Then today..........I hear a Norelco ad that was completely insulting of the 'I hate it variety'! The voice-over talks about having to get a close quick shave at the office before he heads for a 'hot' date with his wife. Huh? A hot date with your wife? Like you're not gonna get some from your wife if you have a small stubble? I'm pretty damned romantic..but a 'hot date' with my wife?? What is the deal with the phrase 'hot-date' anyway? Do any of us intentionally select cold or lukewarm partners for dates? So when we happen to choose a hot one to date is this what creates a 'hot date' instead of going out with the lukewarm girl? I think you don't know if it is a 'hot date' until its over?
Come on Norelco. I don't want to hear about hot dates with my wife. I want to know how to shave my nuts like in the good ad.

*****************

OK, I guess am still 13 years old. Wanna make something of it?

Amber Waves of Grain

2007-05-26T06:06:00.000-05:00

The chickens ran faster than Jose now. When he had been a teenager and even into his mid-20’s he could always catch them. His father would send him into the yard to catch at least three chickens on special occasions when the whole family was gathered to eat. His father had also taught him how to wring their necks and drain the blood from the body. He was too old and slow to catch the chickens now. His mother and father died many years ago in their hometown of Oaxaca, Mexico. When Jose was sober, he would remember crossing the Rio Grande River into South Texas. When he heard about the availability of migrant farm work in Florida he had paid a man $50 to drive him in the back of a solid sided delivery truck to Florida. He and the other human cargo in the truck had been forced to urinate in the corner of the truck and had gone without food or water for the 32 hours of the non-stop trip. Even when the driver would stop for fuel or eat at restaurants on the route, the immigrants remained in the back of the sweltering truck without water or food.

He worked the farms in central Florida for many years, sending the money home to his wife and 3 children in Oaxaca. When possible he had placed any extra money in the hiding place inside his trailer, pulling up the tattered green carpet from the corner of the tiny bedroom. Once the carpet was pulled aside he could reach into the crevice between the floor structure and metal casing over the wheel. The crevice is where he stored the savings he eventually sent to his family via courier, trusting only his fellow immigrant friends from the fields to deliver the money. The trailer had been given to him by a farm owner after many years of working on the farm and running the illegal crews the farmer employed. Jose didn’t speak English well, but he was capable of understanding what was required and communicating the instructions to the Spanish speaking crews. The farm owner had helped him secure citizenship papers, but it was an illegal arrangement, so Jose never felt truly safe from authority. He couldn’t read well either, but he managed to get along by relying on those around him. He kept a low profile and tried to avoid any contact with the police.

The drinking had begun when he returned to Oaxaca and discovered his wife had run away with another man, taking the children, leaving with the money and possessions his earnings had provided. She left no address where they could be found. Heartbroken he had returned to Florida. His sustaining thought had been that the money he earned now was his to spend. Twenty seven years had passed since that last trip home. Jose was rarely sober now in the last half of the sixth decade of his life. A great deal of the money he earned on the farms was spent on the never ending supply of alcohol. He tried very hard to be sober in the fruit gathering season, at least during the day, but it had now become hard even to view the morning’s first light with clarity. When the non-work part of the year came around he found the relief to his pain and loneliness in the best friend he had, the fuzzed reasoning and deep sleep of too much alcohol.

Jose’s reasoning wasn’t always clear, but he knew it was the Christmas season because of the Christmas lights that were strung on the houses nearby. He remembered the long ago Christmases of Mexico when he had been a boy. Now he had no friends or family and no one to celebrate the holiday with, though the lights told him that many families would be gathering and the children would be happy as he had been so many years before. The pain in his chest had grown worse in the past few days and now even the alcohol would not let him ignore the damage. The pain seared through his deepest drunken stupor now. His left eye twitched uncontrollably and his skin had begun to change color, the pale coffee brown tone turning to yellow. The whites of his eyes had also begun to change color. Today the pain had been so severe that he had drank even more heavily, but the pain knifed through his fog. He stumbled to his knees when one of the chickens had run in front of him. In a lurching motion he had tried to grab the chicken as it ran past. He picked up his left hand from the dirt. A skinned area on his lower palm began to bleed through the skin. It didn’t hurt. Oddly he couldn’t feel the hand at all. On all fours now, his hands in the dirt along with his knees, he noticed the ants in front of him. The ants were busy in the way that ants use to mock the lazy, running about the ground carrying debris into and out of the hole with righteous sobriety. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hitting the ground and creating tiny craters that the ants navigated without concern. He noticed that the ants worked on anyway, treating his tears as part of the days challenge. Jose watched the ants for a long time. The ants were fuzzy and seemed to be walking sideways unless Jose squinted his eyes just so. The squinting made him dizzy and his forehead would plop down onto the center of the ant bed for a moment until he could raise his head to study the ant’s relentless march of production once again. Jose noticed the ants crawling over his hands and arms only after they began to sting him. He raised his head higher to a point where he could see the house across the street. He thought he might try to ask for help, but he knew the couple across the street would want to take him to a hospital where his illegal papers would be necessary and he might be exposed. He knew the lady was named LaToya, but he wasn’t sure of her husband’s name. They had helped him before. He liked them. He didn’t communicate too well with them because of his language problem, but he could see in their eyes that they cared about him and he knew they would help, but there was so much about his life they didn’t understand.

He knew they wondered why he slept in his car. When he had a family in Oaxaca, in the time before they had gone off with the unknown man, he had proudly driven them around town in the car, music blaring from the radio, smiles on the faces of his children and wife as together they showed off the wonderful treasure gained by working in America. It was a car like no one that worked in Oaxaca could afford and it made him feel proud. The last time he had seen his family he had driven them all weekend in the car. He slept there to try and remember them. He tried, through the alcohol and pain, to remember his son’s happy smile and the laughter of the boy’s younger sisters. His son would be 34 years old now but Jose had not seen him since he was seven years old. Seven years old is how he pictured his son. He would stare at the radio that had filled the air with music that weekend in Oaxaca trying to remember how it had all been.

He didn’t want the police to find him this way. It meant certain trouble for him. He rose unsteadily from the ground and turned toward the car only to fall to his knees again. He began to crawl, the pain in his chest overwhelming now. When he had finally gotten himself into the back seat he rolled onto his back and the rear window swayed above him. The pain could not be quieted and for the first time in his life Jose prayed to die. He was too tired. He wanted to see his family. He wanted to see his seven year old son. The windows were fogging and he thought again about the family across the street. He wondered if they would notice he was gone. He hoped they could use his chickens. He liked the neighbors. Jose closed his eyes tightly and prayed again.

The police talked to the neighbor across the street. The officer that seemed to be in charge asked the neighbor when he had seen Jose last. He asked him if he had noticed anything unusual the night before. He asked if Jose had any relatives that he knew about. He said it appeared Jose had died of natural causes.

The neighbor crossed the street to tell his wife LaToya what had happened. When she heard about the man with the chickens, the one she had waved at each morning and had helped on some occasions, she lowered her head to the table where she was wrapping Christmas presents and began to softly cry.

The medical examiner’s assistant removed the wallet from the small brown man’s hip pocket. She searched through the contents for a clue to the man’s identity, hoping to contact his relatives. Inside the wallet she discovered a photo of a young and smiling Mexican woman and 3 children. The oldest child in the photo, a boy, appeared to be around six years of age. A younger sister stared into the arms of the mother, smiling at a newborn baby sister. The mother smiled at the camera. In an inside sleeve of the wallet she found another curious piece of folded paper. It was a full page of white notebook paper with what appeared to be the words of ‘America the Beautiful’ written carefully in blue ink. The paper was worn and tattered, not all of the words legible after riding many years in the man’s pocket. Enough of the words were present for her to understand what it was and as she re-folded the paper into the complete square in which it had been originally folded she could just make out the words ‘amber waves of grain’ in the center of the outside fold. She sat the paper aside and studied the photo again. These are beautiful grandchildren she thought to herself.

Overwhelmed

2007-05-25T17:58:00.000-05:00

Enemy of the Republic was very kind to check on me. (comments on last post) I want to assure you I am not being indifferent to my blog friends here. I am simply OVERWHELMED by business obligations at the moment. I will be back, and thank you for checking on me every once in a while.
Seven

Rattamatazz

2007-05-08T17:56:00.000-05:00

I am a fan of animation and clever little critters that have human voices. I love the art and creativity of the genre. Did you know Ratatouille is coming to your movie theater soon? Its the story of a small mouse consumed with the goal of becoming a famous chef in Paris.

Want in on an early preview of the cooking mouse? Use this link for some fun and knockout animation..........Watch the 9 minute preview!
The path to the preview is Enter Site/Videos/Film Clips

Lost in Complexity

2007-05-07T09:00:00.000-05:00

I made my way through a dark day
Blaming what I feel on the forces that tug with determination
Against my smile and a more gentle way

Your smile and your tenacity
Those two things
They finally won the day

Wandering, lost in complexity, I guess it’s just my way
And then at the end of the day I find your simplicity of reason
Your way to make me need to stay
Unfolding for my senses, yet another season
Of magnificent simple reason

The season of reason I will call it for now
The smile that crosses that freckled face
And opens the door to my own smile somehow
The beginning is close at hand, I think we can tie the lace.

And smile again
In an embrace like hand in glove
Smiling into that lovely freckled face
A face of love

The beginning has come round again
We can tie the lace
And smile again
Face to face

Seven Wonders

2007-05-06T10:32:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I heard a Democratic operative declare that Hillary should be considered for president because she has done so much for women's causes. I'm left wondering what would be said in the liberal mainstream press if it is declared that a man should be considered for president because he has done so much for men's causes? I think these are functionally equivalent statements, but I'm confident the mainstream media message plays far differently between the two. In fact I suspect a male candidate would never DARE to form that sentence in the first place.
I wonder why?

Three out of every four women I saw at the grocery store today were obese. Not kidding. Not chubby, I'm talking rolling bags of fat. Three out of Four.
I wonder why?

I saw a special on TV (which places it in immediate doubt) about older men approximately my age using internet chat rooms to score with barely teen girls. The Houston PD was setting them up by pretending to meet with them, then busting them when they appeared. Even Miss America has worked a sting operation. Some of the guys they showed were 50 somethings with huge bellies, pocket protectors, etc. So I'm wondering what are we selling/telling our young teen girls that makes them susceptible to these individuals? That is, why would they agree to meet them in the first place? And why in God's name is a fiftyish man interested in a 13 year old girl?
Just wondering both things.

Why do people try to rush to the front of the line to board an airplane. I mean every seat is assigned (except for Southwest) and I have never had an airline not check to make sure every ticket holder is on-board before leaving. Since it takes about 20 minutes to load an airplane and every seat is assigned why are folks elbowing up to the front as if its first come first served?
I wonder why?

Do you notice store employees always ask you "How are you?" or they cheerfully say "Hello!"
But when you stop to tell them how you are, they are walking away, or if you say hello back to them they aren't actually listening? So obviously retailers think their employees should do this, but they don't instruct them to actually care?
I wonder why bother with one half and not the other?

I have Satellite TV. It goes out in big storms, every single time it rains hard, without fail. An announcement is produced on my TV screen that the signal has been lost probably because of weather conditions. Yesterday my satellite TV provider sent a promo mail postcard telling me this is the season of tornadoes and storms in Texas. So, they say, when the big storms come, be certain to tune in to their programming for valuable insights to survival.............???? OK, will do, there must be a subliminal in the blank screen.

The Death of Desire

2007-04-29T09:00:00.000-05:00

I was in Philadelphia this past weekend. I ran in the Penn Relays and things went well for me and for my Houston Elite teammates. We repeated as the 4x100 champions in our age category. I am inserting a video link here if you are interested in watching. There is a different angle from a different web site here. We are the team in dark uniforms in lane 7, and I ran the second leg. Yes, that is the shiny head of Seven.

However, it is not my specific intention to write about a track meet today. During the course of the weekend I was struck by a more conceptual thought that I want to process through your helpful brains if I might.

Some of you that have read here for a while might remember how excited I was last year when I returned from the Penn Relays. It was my first year to race with Houston Elite and the victory from 2006 was important to me. The win Friday, in 2007, was just as important but it felt different in a way. I think the way to express it properly is to say ‘the newness of the experience was not present’ and therefore it was not quite as exhilarating.

Another interesting moment that formed a buttress for that thought occurred later in the day Friday. Here is what happened. My team also had a 4x400 relay team entered to race later in the afternoon. I’m not a member of that foursome but I can tell you the team is widely respected, even feared, and they win at Penn consistently. Well, a funny thing happened, as they say, on the way to that particular race. Amid the chaos that is Penn Relays and the 2.5 hour delay brought on by heavy rains, my teammates were not on the track at race time. They literally missed the race because of a time misjudgment. Trust me, it was easy to do and other teams also failed to show.

It seems to me that a lot of us might react to that situation with anger or frustration. They had flown to Philly from Houston for the race. In the cell phone calls that came after the missed race my coach called me and asked me to come down to the awards area. All four members of the team were there when I arrived. They weren’t angry. They weren’t frustrated. They were even a tad jovial and had found smiles for the irony of it all.

What does this story and the earlier story have in common you might be asking? Our coach Bill Collins said this to me, “We missed it and it’s too bad, but what this means is that some other teams that have been trying for years to win at Penn had a chance to do so today and they will take home medals, and they will deserve them.” It took me another half hour to process that attitude, but I can tell you all the team members owned the same feeling. You see, they have won so many times that the ‘new’ has worn off and yet they can still remember the thrill of the first victory and they felt alright in letting another group know that feeling, even if at was at their own expense.

So I want to take the two thoughts and marry them into a singular thought.

I think it is possible that the presence of satisfaction can signal the death of desire. However, it is not a fatalistic statement, nor does it represent a flaw in the nature of being satisfied.

If I look at that thought closely, it’s possible to examine it in two interpretive ways. Many in our culture express a belief that the achievement of satisfaction is the true goal of our life. Is there more to seek than to be completely satisfied? If we imagine a rotund Buddha in motionless seated nirvana are we seeing a human in perfect satisfaction? If so, what then? Will the Buddha not need to eat or think again? Is the Buddha now without desire? Is this our goal, to be without desire?

Extend that thinking to imagine a world without desire. To me its seems reasonable to imagine a stalled civilization, one ‘satisfied’ that all things are as good, noble or as perfect as they might ever become. How many of us believe the US Post Office has reached a perfect status that we can be satisfied with? Do we believe automobile travel is at its safest? Clearly we can develop questions like these for hours on end.

If satisfaction is the death of desire, then maybe satisfaction is not all it’s trumpeted to be?

My thinking is that satisfaction has its place in a balanced equation. It’s important to reach a plateau of satisfaction so we can rest for a moment and reflect on what we have achieved. But dare we sit too long and risk the death of desire?

I imagine it this way. Desire is the road we travel, satisfaction is represented by the places we stop to visit, the friends and sights that give pleasure. Even though we might stop for moments, days or even years, there is always the never ending road of desire that propels us forward to a new place. I trust it’s a better place as well.

What I do know for sure is I would have never run in the Penn Relays without a desire to do so. I would never have met the men that smiled through their disappointment and wished happiness on others simply because they had already known the same happiness themselves. On the other end of that arrangement is a new Penn 4x400 relay champion that might never have been champions on Friday if they had not continued to bring their own desire to the track.

I’m not dismissing satisfaction, I love being satisfied. I am not dismissing desire. It propels me to newer and keener satisfactions and it has revealed qualities in my teammates that make me proud to call them friends.

I’m looking for the balance. Desire that moves me to satisfaction, then a brief rest in the satisfaction. Afterward, anticipating the desire that moves me down the road another distance in a restless search for the better and for, dare I say it? Satisfaction.

Brothers Are We

2007-03-29T08:00:00.000-06:00

Are you familiar with the phrase, ‘It Sucks to Be Me’? What follows is funny only if you are not me. In the ordered world we live in, that is ALL of you. Carry on, but please retain some degree of sympathy for the one person in the world that is actually me.

When I travel without BEG to an out of town track event that lasts no more than two days, I pack light. I pack so that I have one carry-on small suitcase. If BEG goes, she’s taking half the house and we are checking luggage so I may as well take more too. But when traveling alone, I dress in one set of clothes and I put my track gear and competition clothes and toiletries in a hyper small suitcase. I will only wear the clothes half the time I’m away, the majority of the time I will be at the track venue in track clothes anyway.

So last Friday morning I dressed in a black silk long sleeve mock turtleneck and pressed blue jeans. I also had a light jacket vest (black) that was not needed in Texas but was necessary in Boston. On my feet were tan slip-on Arnold Palmer loafers. I looked good, eh? At my side was the small suitcase the brown-eyed girl had tried to separate from me earlier. Barney Fife had released me on my own recognizance.

I retrieved my boarding pass from the e-ticket machine and then sat at the gate reading for an hour and a half. Remember BEG dropped me off early? Ten minutes before the time shown for boarding the plane I went to the men’s room. I’m sort of a micro-planner. I wait until boarding time is near to go pee so I don’t have to go on the plane. Because I waited, I really HAD TO GO; full pee load on board.

When I turned the corner of the men’s room I saw all the urinals were occupied. I went for a stall. I rolled the suitcase in behind me, closed the door, unbuttoned and zipped down the fly of my jeans. I reached in for the man part and pulled Sleepy free. That’s right, all us men name our penis. My part is aka ‘Sleepy’. Too much info? The thing is that a penis is always in the dark. It only has two functions. If you think about it a penis spends most of its life in the dark hanging around and doing absolutely nothing. So I figure they do a lot of sleeping. I would if I were a penis. Sleepy seemed like an appropriate name to me. Some guys go for Big Jake or The Big Boy, which seems grandiose and even fantastical to me. I like the understated ‘Sleepy’.

So as I was saying, I pulled Sleepy out of bed and aimed him at the big bowl. It was time for him to do one of his infrequent tasks, the lazy slob. For you women that have not been around men, we typically hold our man hose in one hand and the other hand holds the pants slightly aside. I know you can see this in your mind’s eye. All you guys know I’m right. That was my position as a full stream of saved up pee splashed into the porcelain and water below. A second or two after commencing, my cell phone rang. It was in the pocket of my ‘carpenter style’ jeans on the outside of my right leg about mid-thigh down.

I could still aim Sleepy with my left hand and reach down with my right hand, but that meant I would have to open the phone with one hand, push the talk button and hold the phone to my right ear. That seemed very awkward to me. I devised a workaround on the spur of the moment. I retrieved the phone with my right hand by slightly squatting and reaching down while continuing to hold my best friend with the left. Since I was in a stall with the door closed I pushed my jeans downward enough to create a safe trajectory for the stream, exposing half my rear, but it freed my left hand (Sleepy was peeing solo at this point). I used the now unoccupied left hand to transfer the phone to my customary listening ear on the left.

I said hello, maybe the only normal thing that was to follow. It was a teammate calling from Houston. He had a horrific story to tell about one of our teammate’s car catching on fire at Houston Intercontinental Airport. This story he was telling me is worth telling you, but I’m only going to tell one story at a time since I’m not a skilled novelist. But believe me it was one of those “Are you shittin me!” kinds of stories. I was totally absorbed by the story of the fire in Houston, but I could also feel my pants starting to slip farther down. I instinctively retrieved them a little higher while I listened. Totally amazed by my comrades story I continued to pee and listen. Then I felt something warm on my right leg. I looked down. Sleepy was no longer aimed at the bowl.

When I had pulled my pants a little higher during the phone conversation I had pulled the fly to a position high enough where I was peeing half into the bowl and half into my jeans. I adjusted in a split second. I told my friend I had to go. No, really GOODBYE, I’ll see you in Boston.

I finished. I pulled up my jeans. From the crotch, where the trajectory had been aimed, to just above the right knee they were soaking wet!

I had accidentally peed my pants! These were the only pants in my possession. It was approximately 3 minutes until boarding time. In the stall stood a grown man with peed pants. He owned a ticket to Boston for a flight that was scheduled to leave in minutes.

I assessed my options.
1. Go to Boston on a totally full flight with peed pants.
2. Don’t go to Boston.
3. Tear the bathroom to pieces in a fit of rage.
4. Accuse someone else of wetting my pants.
5. Take off my pants and soak the whole thing in the lavatory and declare my dryer at home is broken.
6. Have a brain hemorrhage.
7. Put on my track clothes and fly to Boston looking like a semi-retard.
The track clothes I had packed looked a lot like this gents.

I chose option 7. I heard the boarding announcement for my flight over the restroom intercom. I opened the suitcase and rifled through the contents in a near panic. The confines of the stall were not helpful. I found the running gear. I took off all the other clothes. Have you ever been standing totally naked in a toilet stall at the airport? It’s very weird. Even reality TV can’t invent my life. Sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes.

I put on the running clothes. I re-considered not going to Boston. I wondered how to explain to teammates that I couldn’t come to Boston because I peed my pants. I hurried faster, my elbows banging against the sides of the stall. I smushed all the clothes, yes including the jeans, into the suitcase that was not designed to carry that much. It bulged like it was going to have baby suitcases. I tied my running shoes and hit the men’s room door in a light trot. The suitcase was tucked under my arm like a gigantic square football.

I was the last person to reach the jetway entrance. The gate agent took my pass and gave me a ‘twice–over’. She asked if everything was alright? I said, oh yes, most certainly. I pretended people fly everyday wearing track clothes. What does she know anyway, she only stands at the boarding line each day.

The last man on the plane walks down the aisle with a pregnant suitcase wearing the clothes of a man who appears to want to challenge other passengers to a race on board the plane. What the hell, its a long flight. Every face on the plane searches mine for a clue to my secret. I gave them the biggest and sunniest actor’s smile I could summon. Of course right now I have a mouth full of braces. I think I looked a lot like Eddie Murphy in Bowfinger as I smiled my way down the aisle to the only seat left on the plane.

I squeezed into the middle seat next to a young mother holding an 8 month old baby boy named Evan. On the way to Boston, Evan and I became best of friends. After all, we have some things in common. We have man tools. We pee in our pants. Brothers are we.

Is There A Problem Here?

2007-03-28T20:41:00.000-06:00

Want a story about BEG? OK, get your coffee.

When I went to Boston last weekend I asked BEG if she would take me to the airport on Friday morning. That way I wouldn’t have to leave a car in the remote parking lot at the airport. She said she would do it, but she was also going to a seminar in Fort Worth that morning so she said she would just drop me off early.

My flight was at 9:30 am and she had to be in downtown Fort Worth at 8:00 am. I won’t bore you with the details of the timeline, you only need to know that she was on a mission to drop me, then head 30 miles to the west and she didn’t want to be late.

When we arrived at the airport she accidentally overshot the correct terminal for my flight. That meant she had to make a full loop through the traffic of the wrong terminal in order to return to the correct terminal.

That took extra time. It was extra time she used to scrunch her face into a look that seemed to say “you are not my favorite person right now.” I don’t know why. I didn’t miss the turn for the terminal. She frantically honked at a man pushing an empty wheelchair through a pedestrian zone. He stopped and looked at her completely confused as to why she was honking at him. He was approximately 90 years old. It took a while for him to re-group, confounding the exasperation of one “I’m in a damn hurry you ignorant old fool” BEG. I sat quietly wearing my wrong turn assigned guilt like a good soldier.

I bought BEG a new Ford pick-up truck last year. We needed a truck and she likes to feel safe when driving. No problem. She is now an authentic 107 pound Texas girl in a four door pick-up truck and she drives as if she understands her vehicular rank when she is in a hurry.

We ultimately arrived at the door of the proper gate at the proper terminal. Her watch was ticking like a time bomb in her ear. I opened the door of the truck and got out. She said “I love you, run like the champ you are.” I closed the front door. BEG drove off.

I quickly banged my fist on the trucks bed. She waved merrily with her right hand and I could see her smiling at me in the reflection of the rear view mirror. She was gaining speed as she moved out of the drop-off zone and into the flow of traffic.

I chased her waving my arms. I’m pretty damned fast, but I preferred to save the running for the track meet in Boston. I yelled. A cop on the sidewalk looked at me and blew his whistle at BEG trying to help. She kept going. I kept going!

Finally she saw me running behind the truck, looking like O.J. in the commercials of long ago, jumping seating and suitcases in pursuit of a flight, except I was chasing a truck.
She pulled to the curb and stopped. She lowered the passenger window to talk to me.
She asked “What’s the matter, did you forget to tell me something?”
I said “No”
She said “Did you forget your tickets?”
I said “No”
“Oh”, she said, "you are so adorable; you forgot to say you loved me back. That is so sweet. But, I’m really going to be late sweetie, I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
The cop that blew the whistle came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and wanted to know what was going on.
As I explained the situation to Barney Fife, BEG rolled up the window, blew me a kiss and took off again!
I started chasing her again, waving my arms and yelling at the top of my voice. Fife was yelling at me to stop running.
She saw me in the rear view mirror again. She stopped and rolled down the window again. All the love was lost. Her face was imploring. It was a face that seemed to both glare and say WTF is it with you???????....
I decided I better tell her straight out and not try to answer her questions this time, besides Fife was on his way down the sidewalk again. He owned persistence, but not my trained and honed speed.

“Could I please have my suitcase from the backseat?” I said.

BEG lit up in the biggest grin this side of a Texas sunset, and said “Seven, you are the most forgetful thing, you worry me sometimes.”
I smiled, opened the rear door she had never given me a chance to open 50 yards up the terminal street, took out my suitcase and stepped back to get out of her way.

When she was gone I muttered under my breath in a way that would make Steve Martin proud, “Well, EXXCCUUUUSE ME !!

Of course that was about the same instant I realized my cell phone was in my pocket. Hers was in the truck's console. Calling is easier than running, but after all I am forgetful it's said.

Postscript: It wasn’t a great morning for me. There’s more. It gets worse. Wanna hear about it?

Words Matter

2007-03-26T08:00:00.000-06:00

As I told you Friday, I went to Boston this weekend for the USA Masters Indoor Championship track meet over the weekend. After running two hard races on Sunday, I arrived home last night a little after midnight. I had to fly from Boston to Houston, and then backtrack from Houston to Dallas, a total of 5-6 hours in the air with a very gabby seat mate. So, I was remarkably fatigued, both mentally and physically as I sat here in my office chair around 1 am thinking about the whole of the weekend. I re-learned something this weekend, and I want to tell you what the renewal involved.I say re-learned because I know this particular fact of life and yet I often need to re-learn old wisdoms.

Sunday I was waiting in my lane before the finals of the 200 meter dash. Legendary track announcer Peter Taylor was announcing the six finalists to the crowd at Reggie Lewis Center prior to the start of the race. I was in the upper lane, lane six, and so I was the last to be announced. The race included two of my teammates who are members of the USA Track and Field Hall of Fame and hold individual world records, their resumes are impeccable. I fidgeted and adjusted my blocks, listened to the credentials of my friends, monster sprinters I was about to compete against, and I wondered what Mr. Taylor would have to tell the crowd about me. When he came to lane six he told the crowd of my usual credentials and yet had not given them my name on his pass through the introduction. As he was summing up, he said “he is often known as Seven, but his real name is Rick Riddle.” I wasn’t completely caught off guard because Mr. Taylor had chatted with me earlier about reading the blog, but I was very surprised to imagine my writing name had been linked to my track career and indeed to my very persona in front of a crowd of track fans and fellow track athletes 1,500 miles from my home.

And what did I re-learn from this incident?

It’s a lesson as simple as kindergarten really. It is this; ‘Our Words Matter.’ Our words have power and they hold meaning about what we are, what we think and in fact, our words form an image for how others perceive our motivations and behaviors. I didn’t know a famous and highly regarded track announcer had ever seen my little blog attempts at describing my world, but he has. And it is logical to assume his understanding of my beliefs and personality has been structured by his reading.

That is a scary proposition to consider for many of us that love to write. It can be equally scary for those that love to talk.

We can wring the scary out of the proposition. We can discipline ourselves to use our words in ways that are meaningful yet truthful. We can choose words that are charitable yet authentic. We must choose them wisely. We must understand we can hurt and create damage with careless words. We will fail at times. There were masters athletes this year that took nasty tumbles after furious dives at the finish line, their bodies depleted from the racing effort. They got up and they raced again the next day. This is how it is with words I believe. We will fall down. We will misuse our words sometimes. But we must get back up and use the words that define our intent, beliefs and even love, and we must do it even after falling or failing. And of course we must always use our words with whatever wisdom we can summon.

What the elder track cat, ‘sometimes known as Seven’ re-learned this weekend is that his words matter. If I fall, maybe you will pick me up with your own kind words. Thank you, Mr. Taylor, for reminding me with your own kind and instructive introduction.

Off to Boston

2007-03-23T04:17:00.000-06:00

I'm flying to Boston this morning for an indoor track meet this weekend. And oh my...it's in the 30's and 40's there! Brrrr.
So sorry I haven't been around to see everyone in the past 2-3 weeks. The biz and personal schedules have been unrelenting.
So...I'll see you when I get back and will come to visit like a good fellow blogger should.
TTYL
7even

Across The Harbor

2007-03-20T20:00:00.000-06:00

Paco had grown old in spite of his willful opposition to the idea. The wind from the ocean knifed through his windbreaker. The sharp cliffs of Salina Cruz veered high above the ocean below, and now as he sat on the uppermost perch of the highest cliff for many surrounding miles, Paco began to think about a woman he had known many years before.

On his right sat his wife Raina. They peered into the horizon above the oceans surface anticipating the setting of the sun over their native Mexico. On this night it seemed rather useless as a thick fog of gray mist clung to the bottoms of the clouds overhead. In the distance Paco could just make out the steady blink from the lighthouse at Caruba. The ever present sea gulls soared through the fog as if it were only a part of another days work along the beach, their loud squawking announcing whatever it is gulls announce with such hardy proclamation. Paco and Raina had sat on this same rock on countless nights holding hands and understanding in unison that many of the mysteries of life are easier to make peace with if they first considered the mighty ocean alongside their own mortal ignorance. Paco was not an ignorant man really. He was a scholar of physics, having held the title of Professor in the United States while teaching in California. He was retired now and he and Raina had come home to Salina Cruz and their homeland.

The woman on Paco’s mind was not known to Raina, she was instead a memory of Paco’s passion and romance from his wandering days. He dared not speak of her now; there was no point these many years later. The woman had been unique in a thousand ways to Paco’s senses. Born in Thailand and an immigrant to the United States, she had positioned herself front row and center of Paco’s physics lectures.

There were so many memories of her that Paco would often ruminate about their time while he sat with Raina on the cliff. He meant no disrespect to his wife. It was something about the cliff and the ocean and the mystery of nature that reminded him of her native beauty and wisdom. She taught him to look into everyone’s eyes, not just the faces of his students and passersby’s in his day, but to look deep into their eyes. The eyes, she said, were the harbor of the soul and the reflector of all emotion. Over time he had come to understand that she was right.

She taught him to dance, something he had only done when it was forced upon him. On a beach in California, much like the one below him now he had danced an entire night with her, learning to move without self consciousness around the small fire she had constructed, her flowing skirt billowing out in the wind, her panty clad small bottom entrancing in its predictable appearances below the edges of the skirt as she twirled.

She taught him the power of water. She showed him how to see the soul of water and she had even taught him how to divorce the physics of the water from his mind and stand in the pouring rain with a smile on his face as big as all of Mexico. She had taught him he didn’t even need to understand why it made him so happy. She said “Happy is enough by itself.” He didn’t always understand, but he loved all of her ideas and challenges, and he always tried to understand all she had to say, even when it seemed bizarre to his scientific nature.

There was one saying she taught him that had always stuck with him. He had the saying written on an old piece of paper. He had kept it carefully stored over the years, and now he had forgotten where it was kept. It didn’t matter really. He knew the saying by heart and its deeper meaning still evaded him. Scrawled on the now lost paper was something she told him in their last days together. If Paco closed his eyes he could still see it written clearly, “Sexual Energy and Spiritual Energy are identical Energy. When Source Energy flows through you, it flows through you. You cannot separate one from the other.”

The physicist in Paco always got in his way of understanding this saying. He felt it was true, but he could not explain it with equations. He knew energy as a slew of equations, a cascading flow of numbers across a chalkboard intended to prove that something about energy was true or maybe false.

Paco stared across the ocean at the lighthouse beacon, its rhythmic blinking pulsed on and off, its signal insistent and steady. Raina buttoned her coat and pointed at a freighter in the distance. She shivered slightly, a signal to Paco that their date with the sunset was concluding. He knew that he would be back the next night to contemplate what the young student had told him. It was funny, he thought, that such a young girl from another side of the world had given him a saying about energy he knew to be true, but could not prove. After all, he should have been the one handing out theories about energy.

As Paco looked across the harbor at the fogged in beacon he realized his lack of understanding was bound up in the metaphor of the lighthouse. Maybe this energy of the soul was like the rain, he didn’t really need to understand to know the feelings it brought him. Perhaps the fog meant nothing; after all he knew exactly where the lighthouse lay. There are times when our personal fog obscures the reality of what the small lights signal, he thought, but we still know the truth of what lies at the base of the light, often from memory, therefore the fog has no real power.

Raina rose and brushed her hand across the seat of her pants, then held the same hand out to Paco. He smiled and looked into her eyes. She wanted to know what he was thinking about, but he could see that she had decided against asking.

Old Habits Die Erect

2007-03-13T18:18:00.000-06:00

I collect change in jars. When one gets full I find another one and just keep filling them up. Today I became aggravated with myself because I had just too many full change jars in my personal space. I dumped all the jars into one giant plastic paint bucket and took it to my grocery store. My grocery store has one of those change counting machines where you dump in all the change and it counts it for you, then screws you out of 7 percent of the total. When I was finished with my dump, and had taken my 7 percent screwing I had a voucher for $337 US.

At first I thought it was kinda cool. But then I realized the only reason I have so much change is because I use cash all the time. I carry a lot of cash, sometimes $600 or 700 dollars in my pockets. It’s an old habit. As the Rolling Stones sing, old habits die hard; which come to think of it is exactly the way I wish to die, rigid in all parts, it just seems heroic to me.

Anyway, I also realized that not many people carry cash any longer. Debit cards are the way to go, and yes I do have one. Still I use cash a lot. That makes me part of an old class of hombre. I see a day, starting tomorrow, when only old men will carry cash around, sort of like a dying breed, similar to how old men also wear Fedoras on their head, but no young men wear Fedoras unless they are in a rock or blues band. Or, maybe if they are retarded and shop at Goodwill, no offense intended to the retarded that might be reading here and you know who you are. Maybe. OK, and also no offense intended if you shop at Goodwill. Who would buy a hat at Goodwill anyway?

I carry cash and I feel really dated.

I’m old. I have cash. I have change.

Don’t judge me.

Help.

Oh crap. Damn change.

Damn 337 dollars.

I wonder if they would credit my debit card instead of giving me cash?

I think I need a Fedora. A new one to make me feel like one of the band.

Catching the Sun

2007-03-08T21:00:00.000-06:00

Church bells rang in the distance. The rhythmic harmony of the chimes washed across my sunlit face, danced across the air and into my ears. The back of my head rested on my folded shirt. I had removed it to gather the sun’s heat across my chest. A light breeze had minimal effect on the warm surface of artificial grass that lay below my shoulders. Small beads of sweat rolled from the edges of my forehead as if to herald the coming spring.

The combination of warmth, blue sky and sunshine combined with the peacefulness of the bell tower’s chimes bathed me in one of those ‘everything is alright’ beautiful feelings that come along too rarely.

When those moments come for each of us its difficult sometimes to stay right in the moment, isn’t it? I managed nicely today to hang on and feel the warmth and peace of it all. It was a gentle workout day at the track. A day of stretching from the hard track work of yesterday, a few sit-ups and pushups combined with some gentle running on the grass.

When I was complete with my work, I went back to my previous horizontal position on the turf and began to think about the peaceful feeling that had washed over me. I also thought about my inability to hold onto the moment for as long as I wished. With equal perspiration I wondered about the origin of the feelings.

On the north end of the track two masters track athletes in their sixth and seventh decades of life completed their workout. On the south end of the artificial grass field young high school athletes stretched under the prodding of their middle aged coach.

I contemplated if the oldsters and the youngsters were possibly sharing in my fleeting moments of warmth and peace.

I think these moments are far too complex to analyze or describe in an easy manner, and certainly they are far too individual to personal circumstance to assign any quantitative analytical data. Instead, they are in my opinion moments of spirituality and understanding as unique to the individual as a fingerprint.

Some spiritualists teach that we must first dance with death before we can live. What they mean is that we must embrace the reality of death, coming to full grip with our own mortality, understanding that each day before the end beckons is a day of celebration. I have seen this in friends with a terminal illness. They come to understand in the final days of their lives how to truly be alive and love those that surround them. You have witnessed or heard of this phenomenon I am confident. Confronted with death, we come to understand the value of being fully alive. This is the ‘dance with death’ taught in many native belief systems. I have seen it at work and I hold it to be wise counsel.

There is another kind of being fully alive. It is the glory of childhood. It is the philosophical polar opposite of the ‘dance with death’. It is the absence of understanding that life has any path beyond play and discovery. It is the remarkable character of mind that we see in a child of 2 or 3 years. They are unassuming about consequence or need, fully alive in a God granted blissful ignorance of death and lack, living in the moment so soundly that even make-believe becomes real.

It occurred to me while lying on a warm turf football field, sun and blue sky overhead, excited chatter and laughter of surrounding athletes filling the air that I had surmised we come down to two possibilities for owning these fleeting moments of peace and understanding. We can be childlike or we can ritualistically ‘dance with the dead’.

Either way I stumbled across a handy and convenient truth; both are a choice freely exercised. There is also a sparkling paradox embedded within both ideas. Both choices are a form of being ‘born again’.

The church bells began to chime once again as I daydreamed in the sun.

An hour had passed.

Time.

Its valuable, especially when its so very real.

Looking From The Hallway

2007-02-27T21:00:00.000-06:00

I’m looking from the hallway into an empty room that I regretted becoming a reality. An empty bedroom, a few scattered items left behind like the bits of our lives easily forgotten. Amid the forgotten things, I manage to find what reminds me of a still very young life filled with good and purpose. A high school yearbook. A University of Texas yearbook. A fraternity handbook.
Music CD’s that entertained him when he was 14.
A collection of comic books from the ‘Batman’ era when he was 8.
A Cobras baseball t-shirt, the select baseball team I managed and he played for most of his first 18 years. Autographs from the Houston Astros, scribbled across a spring training program from the summer he was 11.
A beaten up metal locker plastered with a thousand stickers. I rescued it from a demolition project at a school and brought it home to fill with tools. He wanted it. No problem.
Carpet stained with the Lord knows what. No, I truly don’t want to know, just rip it up and put it by the curb.

So many nights he was banging around the house at 3 am and I wished for quiet.
Always asking “What’s for dinner?” as if he thought we were servants at his beck.
Sprawled across the couch with remote in hand, playing alpha male as if it weren’t actually MY job in this house.
Little irritations.

Looking from the hallway into an empty room that I regretted becoming a reality.

He’s grown. He’s college educated. He’s employed.
Mostly, I sense he’s gone.
He moved to an apartment this weekend.
BEG said to me tonight, “You do understand he won’t ever live with us again don’t you?”
I stare into the empty room at the reminders he left behind.
But more than anything else I see that he is gone.

I confess now to my own mind that I have not dwelled on this until now. Now on a Tuesday night, tears fill my eyes and I have to stop writing to dry them.

Twenty four years ago we walked into the adoption agency and he was placed into our arms on a Christmas Eve. He was six weeks old. We walked out with smiles the size of Christmas morning itself.

I suppose he’s not really gone, but then again that room is empty, and it has never been empty before. He’s strong, competent and willful just like his dad. BEG knows us both like no one else can know us, and she says he won’t live here again.
So, I stand in the hallway looking at the little bits left behind. Tattered fragments of memories left behind as if fate had choreographed a movie scene. And all I can think to tell his room and the aura of my once upon a time young son is……

“Be sure to save a room in your heart for me, and I’ll save this room in mine for you.”

Deal?

Third On The List

2007-02-24T21:00:00.000-06:00

I used to tell people that the way to thwart terrorists on airliners was to fly naked. It makes it very difficult and perhaps painful to hide weapons. I thought I was original in this thought until I saw a NY Times column by Thomas Friedman dated December 26, 2001. It was titled ‘Naked Air’. I was doing a little research on writings that occurred immediately post 911 and ran across the column. It pre-dates my thought but I don’t remember reading the column at the time. Friedman proposes it, but laughs it off as a tongue-in-cheek suggestion as the column rolls along. Today the news is of the new x-ray scan machine that looks through your clothes. It appears the public is in a gigantic panic about the ‘see-through’ x-ray machine.

I am a rebel about clothes. My feelings about clothes go all the way back to my childhood. I can remember as a young boy, 7 or 8 years old, wondering to myself what the great secrecy was all about. I was raised in a fundamentalist religious family. Fighting and thinking my way out of that triple-layered bag has taken a lifetime, but the thing about clothes pre-dates my religious rebellion.

I used to stand at the bathroom window as a child after a bath. I was maybe 4 feet tall, but if I stood on my tip toes I could, wearing only my birthday clothes, peer out the window into the Texas summer heat. I used to stand there and wish I could go outside, but it was totally unacceptable in my childhood household to emerge from behind the locked bathroom door less than fully dressed.

I have been a bit of a rebellious and inquisitive soul from the first moments I can actually remember. My mother spent many years massaging her forehead and giving me that ‘look’ of genuine perplexity. I am curious by nature and also questioning by nature.

I question the necessity of 24/7 clothes.

Nudity is a subject that generates a plethora of reactions in our society. The reactions can be levity, shame, blushing, horror, panic, stupidity, pornography, jokes and all the ones you can think of on your own.

It seems that airline passengers are now horrified that scanners can see through their clothes. I’m wondering what will happen? Will they spontaneously combust? Will God banish them to hell because someone has seen them in their birthday suit? Possible jail time?

I have a contrarian view on all of this. I think our culture’s insistence on clothes 24/7 in all situations actually facilitates sex crimes and unnatural leering. I think our inordinate preoccupation with nudity is founded on the fact that we are not ‘supposed’ to be nude by command of those composing cultural law even as they stand far outside the harmony and simplicity of natural law. What could be more natural and innocent than being nude? Would we put clothes on an apple? On a waterfall? On a tiger? On an antelope? That idea is sophomoric at fist read I confess, but could any truth be more self apparent to even a casual Saturday afternoon philosopher or thinker?

I also hold the view that it is a control mechanism placed on mankind and womankind. It is a puritan and unnatural restriction on the natural beauty of man and woman. Those of you that read here regularly know that I talk often about a world or ‘order’ of natural good. I find nudity perfectly natural and even normal. However, we all willingly accept these restrictions, if not willingly we are generally compliant with little fuss. In doing so we set into motion all of the unnatural behaviors that our society is plagued with. We have ‘strip joints’. We have weird television and movie preoccupations with the subject. We have tittering little jokes about nudity. We have Brazilian women wearing strings on the beach instead of simply going nude. We have Madison Avenue advertising that distorts this cultural repression to the n-th degree and uses it to sell, sell, sell.

All unnatural.

If I consider going to the curb in the morning to collect my newspaper in my god given clothes, I will be summoned straight to jail for being obscene. Obscene? One of the breathless reporters on the x-ray story today said many people feel the see-through machines are generating pornographic images. Pornographic?

Children being massacred in Darfur is pornographic. Television shows and movies with senseless violence as their staple are pornographic. Despite the rave over "Kill Bill', I found it pornographic, and yes, I understand the genre and the implications of the genre of Kill Bill.

I doubt I’ll see the day when my culture owns any semblance of an idea about the innocence of the skin God gave us. I think it’s an intellectual and philosophical shame.

Maybe we all actually understand this, but can we find the courage to overcome it? What do you think? Is nudity pornographic or obscene? And before you answer, no I'm not talking about nudity that is within the framework of sex with animals or bondage or all the mixed up things that occur around sexual activity that involves nudity. To answer nudity "is pornographic if it involves sex with children" is not the discussion I am looking for here. That type answer is readily apparent. I am asking about simple everyday nudity. I am talking about sunning on the ocean's shore, for example. Pornographic or obscene?

If I owned the magic cultural hammer, its the third thing I would change in our 'culture'.

Praying for What?

2007-02-21T21:00:00.000-06:00

I am a student of the philosophy that we live in a world of ultimate potential. I also believe in a world of natural law that produces what we request from it, but our request must be available through the application of natural good. The presence of evil, while real, is the illustration to us that we are operating outside the natural law of good. We are choosing evil outside of the natural law, sometimes willfully and sometimes in ignorance. That is a tidy summation in a couple of sentences I know, but I don’t really expect you to understand my beliefs based on the two sentences. Life is complicated and messy, we all know that don’t we?

The logical conclusion of this philosophy is that the one we call God or Creator lives in a perfect balance of always knowing only good. The next step would be to conclude that the total absence of evil from the process of being God render God unable to answer prayers requesting the unnatural because he or she has no knowledge of the unnatural.

Would we consciously pray for the unnatural? Some might. I think a lot of individuals pray for a solution while in the midst of a benign ignorance of what is good natural law and what is not. What do I mean? Assume a ballerina prays that she will dance better than all the other dancers. Assume the ballerina is also the least prepared of the dancers. If God answered this prayer it would mean intervention into the process of ultimate potential I discussed in the first sentence above. Even though our potential is unlimited, it does not mean we gain our skill-sets from nothingness. We must earn them through a world that operates in natural law. If the ballerina prayed, on the other hand, for the strength, stamina and health to practice her craft to her full potential, would God reward this prayer? In my belief system he/she would do so.

Is it possible to conclude that God has evolved to a level that he/she does not recognize the unnatural? Is it possible that unnatural request is not even understood by the Creator?

I think the majority opinion in our culture would dismiss this outright. The common notion in Christian religions is that God operates with full knowledge of all things good and evil and discerns between the two. Still, entertain me, and maybe entertain yourself with the notion that in a world designed to honor the natural law of good is it possible that our highest ascent occurs when the unnatural is totally eliminated from our consciousness? Is it possible that this is when we have become God or God-like?

If we think about the things we pray for and we carefully discern if what we ask for is good and falls under natural law we may find that our prayers become more successful. We can ask to be healed from cancer and we know it works. We know we can pray for the health of others and it works. Can we say that praying we will be the richest man or woman on earth works? No, and for good reason. Such a prayer falls outside of natural law. If we all did this we could not all be the richest man or woman by even the simplest reach of logic. If any one of us were granted this request we would then need to re-define the objective nature of the Creator.

Is it possible that prayer that fits the natural order is answered and prayer that does not fit is rejected because it is not understood by natural law in its perfection? If this premise is entertained it raises the specter that we can learn and understand the natural good and the natural law of the world by the practice of prayer and the faithful observations of its effects.

Do you believe the Creator is capable of recognizing evil? If so, does he/she carry a component of evil or a memory of evil?

Running Behind

2007-02-19T09:00:00.000-06:00

I wrote Saturday morning about an LSU professor because I was traveling to Baton Rouge, Louisiana that day. I wasn’t going for Mardi Gras, but I did see some Mardi Gras partiers.

I was running in an indoor track meet on the LSU campus Sunday. Things went well for me and as an added bonus my teammate Bill Collins shattered the World Record in the 55 meters for men over 55 years old. He was in the lane next to me. I finished ½ second behind so I guess I had the best seat in the house for the new World Record. I was pretty close to the record myself, but it wouldn’t have mattered since the record wasn’t merely broken, but instead re-established with complete dominance.

My lasting thought from the trip out to Louisiana is about time, the subject with which Einstein occupied his brain. I like things to run on time. If time is relative to our speed in space it’s OK with me, but I am far more concerned with time running to suit me here on earth under practical conditions. I found myself dwelling on how well we Americans manage time. If you have traveled you understand that this mindset is not a worldwide attribute. Many like to debate if timeliness is in fact an attribute. I believe it is. I think it is an attribute because it is a marker of our ability to respect others. Is there anything more annoying than standing in a line? Yes there is. It is standing in a line where someone is creating difficulty for all those in the line behind them by being poorly prepared. You know the type? I’m talking about the lady that waits to do simple things like getting the checkbook out of her purse until all items are priced? “Your total is $43.96.” OK, let’s see, I know my checkbook is somewhere underneath these vast piles of stuff in my purse. I’ll start looking now while everyone waits in line behind me. I couldn’t actually get it out and start writing the check until I knew the total. Grrrrr.

On a brighter note, what I kept noticing this weekend is how everything happened right on schedule. I witnessed a track meet with legions of races and athletes running exactly on time with remarkable precision. Check

I saw airlines loading folks of all ages, intelligence and physical capability into a small metal flying tube and leaving the airport on time. Check

I saw luggage reaching the conveyor system at the same time as the travelers. Check

Car rental brought to the pick up door as I exited the airport. Check

All of it just like I like it. I don’t care about Einstein’s relativity even if I should. I like it when the world runs on time. When the play starts at 7 pm as advertised instead of 8:23 as it does in Mexico, I like it.

We spend a lot of our time complaining, don’t we? Well, I found something worth applauding this weekend. It could be caused by the wheels of commerce. It could be the American sense of free enterprise. It could be more reasons than I can uncover, but I prefer to think of it as respectfulness. Respect for another’s time and life.

I love this idea we have in our country. If you are late you get left behind. We learn it as children. Maybe it’s cruel, and maybe it is not. After all, we as a culture have safety nets for those that are impaired instead of merely lazy. Are you listening in the Arab world? As you dawdle in your oil money and your insistence that ½ of your citizens live behind veils and in uneducated ignorance, and as you refuse modernity because you bow down to the hate preaching clerics so you can stay in power, are you listening? It is very easy to get left behind Mr. Arab world leader. And worse yet your populations are now 60% under the age of 18. Half of the 60% are women, women sentenced to illiteracy and a life without skills while you cling to the old ways of totalitarian regimes pumping oil, intolerance promulgated by hate filled clerics, and choice that sustains the illiteracy of more than ½ of your population. The clock is ticking, and you are getting left behind.

I love the USA. We run things on time. We do it by allowing our women to be part of the labor source and part of the solution. And we grant a bonus. We also let women go to school and show their faces. We respect people. We respect their time. We respect our women and their time and their life. In this way America and other parts of the world are ‘on time’ while the Middle East and Islam fall farther and farther behind while their young populations demand more and more sustenance. This is the reason for the systemic hate that threatens the free world. It is a loss of simple dignity in a world that is quickly disappearing beyond their vision. Ask any Palestinian that endured Arafat and now suffers additionally under terrorist nation state rule. There is no dignity in throwing rocks at Israeli tanks. I make no excuse for Israel’s insistence on overreaching its boundaries, but rocks and hatred are no match for authentic scholarship, commerce and technology. The proof is in Israel’s economic power. It's trains run on time while the former Arafat’s trains were long ago sold for parts.

I love my ‘running on time’ respectful country. I really do. And, my love isn’t relative, its everyday real.

It's About Time

2007-02-16T21:00:00.000-06:00

Well, thank goodness. I'll be sleeping better tonight. Good going Professor Kak!

LSU Professor Resolves Einstein’s Twin Paradox