A(nother) Perfect Saturday

Yesterday will go down as one of the best days I've ever had...a little slice of life the way it ought to be. It actually reminds me one of the very first posts I ever wrote for this blog.

For the last 13 weeks, I have been training a group of people to run a Fall 1/2 marathon. We have met every Wednesday evening and Sunday morning for the last three months. This program, however, was actually not a 1/2 marathon training program - Running was simply the vessel for a much more important program...facilitating community.

Some of the "Just For The Run Of It" Team after the
Denver Rock N' Roll 1/2 Marathon.

Yesterday, most of my group ran the Denver Rock n' Roll 1/2 marathon (a few of us were training for other races), and I don't think it could have gone better. Quite a few of us ran our first 1/2 marathons while the rest of us soared on to new highs by either beating old personal bests or surpassing our goals. I waited nervously at our post-race rendezvous point to hear who would have the horror story of the day, but it NEVER HAPPENED. I was shocked and overjoyed. I'm so proud of those guys for following the training and adhering to the race day strategy so well...they worked so hard and earned every ounce of that glory.

But as I was saying before, this wasn't a 1/2 marathon training group...it was fertile ground to begin to grow organic community. During our first meeting, I told my team that I didn't care if they finished or even ran the race, but if they just trusted the training they would be ready come game time. "The purpose of this group is to build community and be a safe place for you to explore running."

Time spent in a program like this is probably 98% training and about 2% racing, so one of the things I'd hoped to facilitate in this group was finding the joy in the journey. Most of the magic happens during training (or recovering at the restaurant afterward), and not so much when you're pushing too hard to speak to the person running next to you. If you're "present" for these moments, the rewards are unfathomable.

Growing organic community is something that you can't do on purpose. All you can do is supply the ingredients, show up, buckle in for the ride, and free up all five senses to take in as much of it as you can.

It was amazing to watch the bonds between our teammates become stronger throughout the season. The team continued to show up for tough workouts every week, not out of guilt, but because "teammate" progressed to "friend," and who doesn't like spending time around their friends? We weren't half-way through the program before the "hey, what's going to happen after this is over?" question popped up.

Maybe it's just a Pavlovian association, or maybe we really are "Born to Run." I think we're just starved for true organic community in a society that is characterized by individual independence, self-sufficiency and a lost understanding of how to "need one another." Running just happened to be the conduit in this situation.

In a couple of weeks, when we're all recovered from our races, we're going to open this group up to anybody interested. This group gets the community vision, and it would be a cruel/selfish thing to try and keep it to ourselves.  If you live in the Boulder area, please feel free to join us. Even if you've never run before in your life, join us for food afterward...remember, it's a community group, not a running group.  8)

Saying Goodbye to a Friend.

Yesterday, many people in the Boulder community were forced to say our final goodbyes to our good friend Terence (TJ) Doherty, who we lost to a bicycle accident.

I'm selfishly writing this blog because my memory isn't what it once was, and want to be able to remember TJ years from now. I'm sharing it because it's events like these that help us to reflect on our own lives and the people involved in them.

I met TJ during my first week here in CO at a Monday night Fun Run at Fleet Feet, where I later took a job, and where also, TJ had once worked part-time. We ran the Wonderland Lake Loop that night, and I specifically remember TJ effortlessly pulling away from a pack of guys that I need a steady dose of caffeine and adrenaline to keep up with even now that I'm acclimated to the altitude. After the run, I remember inquiring about the Pumas he was wearing. He was the only person I really spoke with that night who I didn't already know.

We developed a unique friendship in that TJ, for some reason, felt the need to pick on me incessantly. 8)  Most of you know that I've got a pretty long fuse, but man, could he ever burn that thing down quickly. I specifically remember getting into an argument with him one day about something completely stupid and unresolvable. (He was also one of the few who could coax me into such arguments). As the issue was close to my heart and I'm a pretty passionate guy, I was noticeably upset when I failed to defend my point in this battle of wits. I'll never forget the look on his face as he immediately pulled his foot off the verbal gas pedal and we all got quiet. After a few moments, I quietly got up to catch my bus, and before I left, he made sure to look me in the eye and shake my hand.

From there, our friendship took on a slightly different shade. The needling never stopped - I think he knew that I needed it. He still made me want to smack him every once in a while, but inevitably, he would throw one of those "heeeyyy, c'mon!" grins at me, and I'd let it slide.

That said, TJ also went well out of his way to help me quite a few times, and as he was careful not to let anybody else know, I'll keep them to myself. But, it happened. He was good to check up on me as I went through the difficulties of trying to get plugged into a new city.

I remember a few weeks ago, I punched him in the arm. Not one to back down, even to a guy who was about 50 lbs. his senior, he hit me back. We smiled at each other, then jumped directly into a knock-down-drag-out, WWF-style wrestling match as our fellow runners looked on and rolled their eyes. Eventually, we called a stalemate, as he pushed me and my tractionless shoes across the floor, and I squeezed him till he turned red. We stood up, and I smiled a smile that said, "you know I was about to whoop your ass, right?" He read my smile accurately and replied aloud, "but that was pretty good though, right?"

My only fellow motorcyclist here in Boulder, TJ and I took a great ride one night after a Monday night run. We went out over Old Stage Rd. and out Left Hand Canyon, then back to Gunbarrel. There are few more beautiful places to ride motorcycles at night, and we both knew that as we nodded heads to each other before going our separate ways that night.

I was walking with one of my athletes at the Boulder Res a week ago as we finished up her run, and I heard a voice call "hey." I'd barely turned around before TJ went flying by me at a pace which I'll probably only ever dream about.

Yesterday, I arrived at work and was made aware that TJ had been in an awful accident and was currently in the ICU across the street. Time stopped. This just didn't seem possible. I, along with many others, went over to see him, and though I'm glad I did, I rather wish I hadn't. His body was being kept alive by machines at that point so that, in one last act of generosity, he could donate his organs to those in need. It's one of the most dreadful contrasts my eyes have ever made - seeing him so very vibrant, and then not so.

So sadly, I will never have the honor of calling TJ an old friend. I am so thankful, however, to be able to have called him a good one. My heart breaks at the thoughts of what I looked forward to seeing him become and achieve, and it goes out to those who knew him far better than I...especially his fiancée Adrienne, and his surviving immediate family.

TJ, I hope you were able to see all the people who came out in your honor last night. You have left an important, impactful legacy. You are inspiration to us all to live, and you will never be forgotten, brother. Our lives will be different without you, but more importantly, our lives are/will be different because of you.

So...I live in Colorado now.

Hey everybody!

For some reason, I just haven't been able to muster up the "I've moved to Colorado" blog until now. Actually, even now, it's proving trickier to write than I'd imagined...no thanks to the fact that I've taken yet another multi-month hiatus from the blogging world. If you enjoy my blog, I do apologize. I just want to make sure this remains a privilege, not an obligation.

On September 6, it rained all day in Nashville. I spent most of that morning pacing, waiting for a guy to come buy my old motorcycle so I could hit the road. I thought he'd be there around nine or ten in the morning, but he didn't end up getting there till one. Most of my things were either packed or sold at that point, so I had nothing to do but get impatient.

What do you do in the final moments of living in a place where you've lived for the last 12 years? Honestly, I think you just get overwhelmed. I was leaving something far too vast for me to process, on the way to something that was also far to vast for me to process...talk about a mind-job.



As soon as that guy showed up, I helped him load the motorcycle, and I jumped in my Jeep to tow a u-haul (that I was pretty sure was WELL over weight capacity) about 1200 miles to my new home. I was rather nervous that my Jeep wasn't actually going to make it here, so I'd already planned contingencies for what I'd do if/when it broke down in the middle of Kansas. By the way, one gains about 3,000' of elevation travelling from the east side of Kansas to the west side. Not as flat as you might have imagined.

I slept in the back seat of my car at a rest stop in Topeka, KS that night for a few hours, woke up with the sun and pressed on. The Jeep, the U-haul and I did a 20-hour drive in a span of about 25-hours total. Hellboy (my Jeep) never balked for a second. Real trooper. I started my new job at Fleet Feet Sports in Boulder two days later, and have been working there since then.

I'll give more details about CO later. For now, I'll say this. I'm lucky to have always had family to lean on when moving to a new place. I'm living with my uncle, aunt and cousins until I get my feet on the ground, and they continue to take good care of me. I'm very thankful to have a job, and one I enjoy as much as Fleet Feet. Good people are everywhere, they're just not always easy to find...fortunately, that wasn't my lot here. I've already found people to spend time around who make me smile, and that's valuable.

Nashville friends, know this: Good friends can NEVER be replaced. I've had a few very sad and melancholy days here thinking about how I miss you guys. I am REALLY thankful to already have been visited by a few of you. I don't know when I'll be able to make it back for a visit, but I sure hope it's soon. In the meantime, my bed is all yours if you'd like to come for a visit. I've been looking for an excuse to sleep on the porch anyway. 8)

remember that day I got hit by a truck and a train?

So, I almost died yesterday. Yeah - just like that. Almost never got to see my family or friends again. Almost never got to see my house again, play my guitar again, drink a beer again, flirt with a girl again, rescue a dog again. I almost became one of those tragedies where not only the parents, but the grandparents outlive the children/grandchildren.

The physics of the situation is actually a little complex (there's a video at the bottom that may better explain), but here's the nutshell version:

My buddies, Kevin Kazlauskas, Jeff Snider and I were on our way over to East Nashville for a run with a few other guys. On the way, we got stopped at a railroad crossing on a busy road that doesn't have drop bars...only flashing lights. It was bright enough outside that we almost missed the flashing lights indicating that there was a train coming. We stopped, but a semi-truck coming from an awkward angle into the crossing missed the lights. The back end of the truck was still on the tracks when the train went through. It smashed the trailer of the truck the whole way across the intersection into the drivers' side of the car that we were sitting in.

I watched the whole thing happen. In fact, the last thing I said before the train hit the truck was, "Wow, that's going to happen." Now, I'm not exactly a stranger to subtle, and not-so-subtle near-death experiences:

One time, a buddy of mine accidentally hit a glass Snapple bottle with a soccer ball. I got hit in the neck with the cap after it shattered. Upon closer examination, part of the bottleneck was still in the cap, and it was nothing but sharp shards. It was one revolution away from severing my jugular.

Then there was the time Ricker and I were driving "a little over the speed limit" on a windy road back home. We lost control of the car and eventually landed in a creek.

Those both happened so quickly I didn't know what happened till it was over. This, however, happened quickly, but it went slowly enough that I actually had time to know what was going on...to speculate...to panic...to be afraid. I'm glad to say that my adrenaline-infused mind over-estimated the weight of a semi-truck. I knew it was going to hit my seat RIGHT on the money and thought for sure Kevin and Jeff were either going to look back to see half the SUV ripped right off with me nowhere in sight...if they were even conscious. At the very least I expected to be mangled, broken, or wake up in a hospital bed...if at all.

The whole thing felt like a clever game of mousetrap, and I was the mouse. I felt like I was caught in the trap and there was a sledgehammer coming down to seal the deal.

Truth be told, I think my biggest fear is helplessness. I'm a big believer in "it ain't over till the fat lady sings," and if I'm in control, I can at least go down fighting. That wasn't the case yesterday though. I was trapped and was subject to whatever physics felt like dealing.

Jeff, Kevin and I walked away unscathed. After dealing with all the politics, we actually drove Jeff's mangled SUV over to the park and went on our run anyway. That's when we began to speculate on the "what if's."

That truck was full of raisin bread. What if that truck had been full of something heavier? What if it had been a fuel truck? What if we hadn't seen the flashing lights and were on the tracks as well when the train went through? What if it had been a car full of women? What if there had been a child involved?

I gotta tell you - I'm so glad I was with those guys. About ten minutes after the accident, we were out joking with people about the raisin bread all over our car and the intersection. We took videos, pictures, updated our facebook statuses with pictures, and gave somewhat whimsical interviews to the news crews. Then we went and processed together during an hour-long run, during which we looked much deeper into what just happened. We actually talked the first half of the run, then spread out a little and were silent for the second half. I think we celebrated life.

Hey guys - remember that time we got hit by the truck that got hit by a train? What a day...what a day.

Lola Louise

It's been a busy week+, which I guess is somewhat evident in my lack of online presence.

Sunday morning, I woke up to get ready for my annual Super Bowl party that happens here at Castle Stoner. While I was brushing my teeth, I heard a "banging around" on my back porch. In my neighborhood, we've got our share of stray cats, possums, birds, squirrels, and other wildlife that don't really have much sense of boundary. That said, I'm not unaccustomed to hearing these types of noises on the back porch.

I ignored it for a few minutes, but I eventually realized this was a bit more of a clatter than I'm used to hearing. I glanced out the door and saw a little dog who was almost literally knocking on my back door. She would knock at the door for a while, walk around the house to cover the exits, then head back to knock on the door again. I'd never seen this dog before, but she was acting almost like one of my friends who came by to see me, but was not content with the, "go away, I'm asleep" response.

I came to the sad and difficult conclusion a few years back that I just can't save them all. My plate is pretty full right now, and this would not have been the first dog I've taken in. Knowing what a responsibility that is, I agonized long and hard about taking her in. I think it was Gandalf [Optimus Prime, not Gandalf - Thanks "Angry Asian"] that said something to the effect of: "Fate rarely calls upon us at a moment of our choosing." I decided to meet the East Nasties for our Sunday run, and if she was still there when I got back, I'd put food and water out...I'd be committed.

Well, darn it if she wasn't sitting in the back yard looking expectant when I got back - I guess I respect that kind of persistence. I sure had to work hard to get her to come to me, though. What's crazy is that this isn't the first time a dog just showed up at my house and wouldn't leave. It's like they know where I live.

I named her Lola Louise. She just looks like a Lola, and she has a bit of a bull dog-like "wheeze," so I added Louise since it seemed to flow so nicely. Anyway, with some help from my friend, Marie and a few others, Lola now has food, has been vaccinated, will be spayed next week, but has sadly tested positive for heartworms.

Even with some serious generosity on behalf of some fellow dog-lovers, I just have to admit that I'm stressed. There's a long road ahead for Lola. My friends and I are going to fight for her though. Why? Because she's about five years old, and it doesn't look like anybody's been on her side for a LONG time. Because she came to my house for whatever we consider to be the driving force behind fate. Because she is sweet as candy and deserves a chance. Because she gave me one.

The eyes of a baby girl

My friends, Josh and Meredith, got married this weekend, and I attended their wedding. I have this rotten habit of arriving at weddings mere seconds before the bride and her posse make their entrance. This wedding was no exception. Staying true to form, I got stuck in the very last seat in the back of the groom's section.

I'm not really much of a ceremonious type of dude. Ceremonies feel scripted and a bit impersonal to me. The receptions, on the other hand, are where people usually let their hair down. Receptions are much more my style. We have the option of two-way communication with each other, and we don't have to worry about composure so much. We "commune" with each other.

That being said, my mind is unlikely to stay focused through a wedding ceremony, no matter how hard I try. This was no exception. Part way through the service, a father sitting in front of me hoisted his little baby up so that she was face-to-face with me...this is where my memory of the wedding starts getting fuzzy.

She stared at me the whole time, unabashedly. I could only return her gaze for so long before I felt embarrassed and kept having to look away, but eventually I found I couldn't look away from her.

I've had an issue with eye contact since I was 15. The girl I was dating mentioned that the way I made eye contact made her uncomfortable, and I didn't want her to feel that way. In that simple sentence she transfered her discomfort and insecurity to me, and to this day, as I stand on the doorstep of 30, eye contact is a huge struggle for me.

A little over a year ago, I wrote this blog, which cryptically alludes to this struggle of mine, and some other things. I had honestly forgotten about what I said that day until I got caught in that little girl's tractor beam. In her eyes, a multitude of things revealed themselves to me. I saw beautiful innocence. I saw peace. I saw truth. I saw confidence. I'm not sure I can explain this, but the oddest, most prominent thing I think I saw in those eyes was forgiveness...almost as if that's the one thing she wanted to convey to me. All in the eyes of that baby girl who can't even talk yet!

Eventually, she lost interest in me, got fussy, and was taken out into the lobby. Immediately, I felt a bit like somebody turned out the lights and the room was suddenly short on oxygen as I came out of the trance. I guess it's been a long time since I've taken the time to really see something as beautiful as a little baby girl. I never saw her again, and though that makes me sad, I know it's ok. We exchanged a few moments where she was the teacher and I was the student, and that was the end of our story.

There isn't really a point to this, because I'm not sure I understand it yet. I do know it was beautiful, and I've got a lot of other thoughts in my head now.

Extended Weekend Power-Fail

My car broke down five times between Friday night and Monday morning.

On Friday night, I was on my way back from working in Franklin when my radio died and my dash lights started dimming. I know those signs...the alternator crapped-out two blocks from my house...REALLY? (Yes, I'm thankful it wasn't further away, but still.)

ONE.

Rod picked me up, and we got the battery charged just enough. I ran every stop sign till it died pulling into my driveway.

TWO.

Saturday morning, I should have rested in light of my 3-mile time trial on Sunday, but I stubbornly ran anyway.

Saturday afternoon. With coffee, a few rides to O'reilly & Autozone, and an extra hand catching nuts & bolts I pulled out of my car (all of which were provided by my friend, Brittany), I replaced the alternator and Hellboy (that's my Jeep's name) ran again.

Saturday night. "Check Engine." Now, Ol' Hellboy's got almost 200k miles on 'em now. I've had that light come on for nothing, many times, in many vehicles. I decided to proceed with caution and drive.

Sunday morning - The 3-mile Time Trial. I missed my goal by 12 seconds...probably because I was an idiot and ran the day before...or maybe I'm just not in good enough shape. Either way, FAIL.

Later that morning...Car breaks down in Shelby Park by lake. I eventually get it started, then to Hunter's, then home, thanks to Rod and Brittany again.

THREE.

I walked/jogged to the bar that afternoon and bummed rides from Hunter and Drew the rest of the day. I spent most of the day wondering what I could possibly have screwed up on the alternator to cause this.

Monday morning - I take Ol' Hellboy to my man, Ali, at David's Tire and Alignment. Unfortunately, his code reader's busted, so I have to run down to Autozone to get it read, but it's there that my car...breaks down.

FOUR.

Eventually fired it up with some starter fluid and made it to the intersection of Nolensville & Thompson where it broke down...TWO blocks from Ali's place.

FIVE.

On Monday, I paid for a tow truck for the first time in my life, and paid to have somebody ELSE fix my car for the first time in at least six years. Ali explained it all to me, and was kind enough to show me that I'd installed the alternator fine, and that the distributor was a completely unrelated issue.

As it's still "Dry January," I couldn't just meet somebody for a drink to cap this off properly. So, I ended the night quietly at home with a meal from Fat Mo's, a chocolate malt shake, a half box of Swiss Rolls, and the "A-Team." A reasonable substitute, I guess.

It's not for sympathy that I record this story. We all have really bad days so that we can properly appreciate the really good days when they happen.

Bachelor Power!

I used to wonder if growing up betwixt two sisters made me soft. I guess it probably did a little bit in some ways. Just like dudes have to be dudes, ladies have to be ladies, and I think I probably have a bit more patience/understanding for that than most dudes. I mean, have you MET my sisters? 8)

Every once in a while, if I'm feeling like I'm just not "dudely" enough, I stop, take a deep breath, and look around my house.

Being a single guy who lives alone, I have a lot of freedom:

Wardrobe changes: I can change clothing anywhere in my house. It's not uncommon for me to have to race home, after inviting people over, and have to pick up all of the clothing that has been shed in all of the rooms in my house. I'm usually just in a hurry to get to a run, or tired, or watching TV and don't see any reason to leave the room. For that matter, I'm not really obligated to wear any clothing at all while I'm home alone, now am I?

I like having things readily accessible. I have three guitars in my living room. Why? Because if they're in their cases in the next room, I'm going to be less apt to play them. That's the reason why my vacuum is prominently placed between two of those guitars...actually that's a lie. I bought the dude equivalent of the "roomba." It's the irobot "Dirt Dog," (I named him Sanchito) and is designed to tidy up one's workshop. Seems to work well in my house though. I don't know why that other vacuum's there.

I have lockers in my room for all my running gear. I broke the glass globe of the light on the fan in my living room punching for the sky during "another MTSU First Down" over a year ago...doesn't bother me. There are a leaf blower and a hedge trimmer in the corner of my kitchen because...well, I don't know why exactly. I have a quilt on my bed that is camouflage with army tanks and such on it - matching pillow cases too. Uh, my movie collection...HELLO.

But guys, I took things to a whole new level yesterday. Are you ready for this?!?

Not the tools on my kitchen table, not the sweaty jacket hanging in the back, or even the stuff all over my fridge. Nope...Look all the way to the top. That, my friends, is a pull-up bar...IN MY KITCHEN!!!

Ok, I suppose you're asking why (and probably rolling your eyes...I get that sometimes).

1. cause it's AWESOME!
2. I ordered inversion boots and there was no room to hang upside-down anywhere else in my house so I'd still have room to move and do exercises.
3. umm, did I mention that it's AWESOME?!?
4. err...that's all I got.

Yes, I can get it back down and patch the holes in no time when I go to sell my house, but for now, it's MY house, and as such, shall maintain optimum level of dude-ness.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some pull-ups to do.

Backwoods wiring...

So Neal, one of my fellow East Nasties, came to me the other day apologizing that he was unaware of my profession and the fact that I'd been voted Nashville's Best Handyman in 2008 & 2009 - Yeah, I was too busy doing other stuff to win last year. 8) No biggie at all, Neal. I don't go around touting that award...I'm too busy touting all my other, far more lucrative abilities.

Anyway, Neal asked me if I'd be willing to come look at a ceiling fan, and a vintage media console for him. He'd actually done a fine job installing the fan himself, but the wiring in his place was causing some confusion. The console had been working fine, but upon a little bit of moving the power cord, it just stopped working.

The fan was a pretty straighforward fix (for somebody like myself...Neal was right to be confused), and I even got to wire up a couple of remote controls for the fan. I've probably mentioned my enjoyment of electrical work. Generally speaking, it's clean...I don't have to play in sewage or get covered in drywall, and when you're done, the payoff is getting to see a light turn on, or an outlet work. Plumbing offers similar payoffs, but you often have to get at least wet, if not "yucky" to get to the payoff.

Fan - Check. I moved onto the console. It was one of those cool old consoles that looks like a piece of wooden furniture, but discretely houses a stereo usually featuring a turntable, a radio, sometimes a cassette player, and maybe if you're really lucky, an 8-track player. Neal seemed to think the cord may accidentally have been wrenched loose, causing the unit to refuse to power up.

I took the back off and began digging around, but couldn't find any shorts or breaks in the power cord, so I dug a little deeper. After another couple of minutes I came across a small set of RCA jacks. They looked as though they were from the same vintage as the console, so I'd overlooked them before. This time, however, I noticed scotch tape and safety pins, which are not components that manufacturers typically use when fabricating electronic audio devices. It was a sure sign of backwoods rigging!

Whoever had this console before tried to rig up an auxiliary speaker output jack. They did so by pushing safety pins through the existing speaker wires, then looping them through the respective contacts on the jack. Then they used the scotch tape to "insulate" them so they wouldn't touch.

I'll give them credit...this was pretty resourceful, and somewhat ingenious. I've done plenty of projects @ 2am, when Hope Depot is closed and I'm limited to whatever parts I've got sitting around...something tells me that wasn't the case here. I took the safety pins out of the wires and the unit fired back up. (Honestly, I'm not sure what that had to do with the power not coming on, but it works now...maybe I'm just overlooking something.) At any rate, Neal & I had a good laugh about it, and were both glad to see that thing making music again.

Anyway, thought you guys might get a kick out of that...I know I did. 8) For anybody that cares, I've included some facts below. For everybody else - or maybe just everybody - catch you next time!

Boring facts:

• They actually make wire splices that do something similar to what the safety pin was doing...but those actually work.
• Safety pins aren't actually bad conductors.
• Scotch tape is NOT a good insulator.
• Most speaker wire connections INSIDE a stereo unit will be soldered. The safety pins were just dangling...sometimes making the connection, sometimes not.
• It's generally a bad idea for any two wires (speaker/power/etc.) to touch if they are not meant to be touching.
• feel free to add your own...

Born to Run + ENFL

Guys, I cried a little bit yesterday.

No, I didn't try and cut a glass bottle with my teeth. I did try the Jedi mind trick though...I figure it can't hurt, right...actually, I think I try that on something almost everyday. I digress. The truth is, I cried because I finally finished the book, "Born to Run," by Christopher McDougall.

I've heard the hype for two+ years and just now read the book. I think I mentioned in a previous blog that I'd actually used many of the theories from the book (passed on to me by fellow runners) to change my running life for the better. The story behind it, however is worth every bit as much as the facts found amidst it.

You know why I cried? It can be summed up in four words:

East Nasty For Life.

I don't want to risk butchering McDougall's story at all, so this will be quite cryptic, but his story reminded me of why I love East Nasty AND Running.

Last weekend, I ran with my friend Julie, and somehow we got onto the subject of struggling through long races. The surprising thing is this...it never ends badly. Whether it's a close friend, or a random weirdo you've never met, somebody is always there to pick you up when you fall, or encourage you through it when you think all hope is lost. ALWAYS.

Julie actually coaxed me through the disaster that became my first marathon attempt, which involved agonizing side stitches, an IT band lock-up on my right knee, and a thunderstorm which made them call the race before I had the chance to finish. That day I was pulled off the course at 20.5 miles on a 26.2 mile course.

That's why McDougall's account and reference to the community that running provides brought tears to my eyes...because I've been basking in that beauty for almost three years now, if my memory serves me correctly. It's changed my life, and quite possibly saved it.

So last night, in honor of this great book and Running in general, I broke out my Vibram fivefingers and did my normal Monday night 6-miler...I'd forgotten how good the earth feels when your bare feet (almost bare in this case) meet it. Then I swung by Kroger to pick up some pinto beans, corn tortillas and some cilantro to enjoy a Rarámuri-style recovery meal.

If you don't run, I hope you find yourself doing it someday. I hope you can find a group like East Nasty has been to me. If you do run, I hope you get frequent reminders of how good we have it. If you haven't read the book, you're doing yourself a true disservice, and perhaps those around you as well.

I believe it firmly. We are born to run.

How to Cut Glass Bottles (a video how to)

My friend Gail (I call her HandyGail) has a wonderful blog called "My {re}Purposed Life." Some of you may also know HandyGail as my friend Jamie's mom (the HandyGraham shop is in Jamie's garage).

The last thing I'll say about Gail is that if you don't go see her blog, it's your loss...aside from that, her blog speaks for itself far better than I ever could. Gail did mention something about cutting glass bottles the other day. It just so happens I know a thing or two about that, so I decided to make my first "How to" videos on cutting glass bottles. There are 3 videos below. Enjoy!

Glass Bottle Cutting 101 - (the contraption)

Glass Bottle Cutting 102 - The Tile Saw

Glass Bottle Cutting 103 - Edge Clean-up

Hey Jealousy

Ironically, I heard that song yesterday, and hated it just as I've always done.

I'm jealous today because I read my friend Sarah Brown's blog earlier, and she's headed to Tahoe to go skiing this week. Many southerners have to specify that as "snow skiing," but everywhere else, it's just "skiing."

Anyway, Sarah expressed some insecurities about her skiing abilities...well, this one's for you, Sarah.

A few years back, I was visiting my Uncle and his family out in Colorado and we decided to hit the slopes at Winter Park. I'm a pretty competent snowboarder. I'm not afraid to hit the double diamonds and hammer them out. I'm a far, FAR cry from that mutant Shaun White, but I do like to try and hit the jumps when I can.

There were about 10 of us who went up there together for the day, so we all went to our favorite parts of the mountain and agreed to meet for lunch at noon or something.

For most snowboarders, the mogul field is a nightmare. For me, however, it is a smorgasbord of jump after jump after jump...and I LOVE IT! I found a huge field of moguls that ended in a big powdery section with a sweet jump in the middle of it and dug in.

Perhaps I'll venture a bit more honesty about my snowboarding capacities: I can carve and go fast for days...no problem. I LOVE jumps, but the truth is that I get to snowboard so little that my landings are often a textbook definition of "tumultuous."

I spent the WHOLE morning riding through that mogul field over and over...run after run. I would just go as fast as I could through them until I simply couldn't control myself anymore. Then, I'd crash hard and smash into the next few moguls with whatever body part gravity hated most at the moment. At the end of the mogul field, I'd stand for a second so my eyes would uncross, then head full-speed toward the big jump to attempt some trick that I didn't have a chance in the world at landing.

Lunchtime rolled around, and I was giddy. I dragged myself into the lodge to meet my crew for some nourishment. My uncle said, "Hey Graham, give me your backpack. I put the bread and pretzels in there." I sheepishly handed him my backpack...which I had been wearing for the WHOLE morning crash session. After opening it, he just smiled and looked at me with incredulity asking, "Man, what the hell were you doing?!?" The whole loaf of bread was flat as a board, and the whole bag of pretzels had been reduced to crumbs too small to see with a microscope.

Fortunately, those guys have come to expect a certain degree of crazy from me, so we all had a laugh about it. You guessed it. I went right back out and did the same thing all afternoon.

Anyway...not sure what you should take from this. Go for it? Falling is more fun than not? Don't volunteer to take the bread and pretzels if you treat yourself as a human crash-test-dummy?

Whatever. Have fun Sarah - do some shredding for me!

The Italian Stallion

Until last night, I had never seen the original "Rocky" movie. I'm ashamed to admit that as I'm from Pennsylvania, and I love Philly, but sadly, there remains an embarrassingly long list of movies that I should have seen already and haven't.

January's off to a quiet start as I'm abstaining from alcohol for the month, and it tends to limit your evening social activities. I was bored last night, and the only movies on TV were "Ironman," which I've seen a few too many times, and "The Crow," which I nixed because I wasn't really in a vengeant mood. Rather than go back out to the redbox, I checked my on demand and decided it was high time that I moved Rocky into the plus column of my movie checklist.

"Rocky" came out in 1976. I was born in 1981. While I was growing up, I watched every Van Damme movie in the video rental store multiple times. I'd seen "Bloodsport" somewhere between a million and infinity times. There's just nothing like mindless, plotless ass-whooping to nurture a teenage boy's brain.

These days, I...well, my taste hasn't changed much. Watching Rocky actually led me to some surprising (to me, at least) realizations.

Movies nowadays not only cater to, but probably also shorten our (already short) attention spans. Every time the camera watched Rocky walk down the road, I was waiting for something to happen, but he just kept walking till he got to his destination. I was waiting for the scene to end/transition. Since they never ended quickly, I was under the impression that they were just building suspense for something bad to happen. The loan shark would come rough Rocky up, Apollo Creed would send the media to humiliate him, or maybe the ghosts of a thousand British soldiers would crawl out of the Delaware River and ambush him in a hail of musket fire. Nope, the scene was a 30-second walk down the block...end scene. I don't know if I've ever seen anything like it.

I expected the loan shark, Rocky's shady employer, to find some reason to shake Rocky down for money he didn't have so Rocky would have a more desperate cause to beat Apollo. Turns out Rocky was going to get the money, win or lose. The loan shark actually turned out to be a pretty good dude, generously GIVING Rocky money for a date with Adrian and more money later for training expenses...no strings attached. He even came to see Rocky's fight.

Rocky's training scenes didn't pump me up like I expected them to, and in the end, although Rocky lasted all 15 rounds with Apollo, Apollo still won by decision. The movie didn't make me hate Apollo like I usually have reason to hate antagonists, but I still felt the need to see Rocky floor him.

So...I think I LOVED it. I hadn't realized how conditioned I'd become to expecting a movie to take me from extreme highs to extreme lows. Extreme tension - resolution. Extreme oppression - revenge. Extreme suspense - relief.

I hadn't realized how modern movie scripts are designed to give us such severe mood swings. Stallone was just trying to tell a story about a simple guy, so he kept the story simple. Genius.

Eh, that's all, I guess. Thanks Sly, for a good reminder that life is a marathon, not a sprint.

How about some brass tacks?!?

All right tricks...

Enough of all this, "oh, I've been gone so long, what do I write???" crap.

Today, I'm taking a belated snow day.

I've had the good pleasure of meeting a guy through East Nasty by the name of Cheyenne. He and I have struck up a fun friendship right from the off because he's one of the few people I know here in Nashville with an affinity for all things ghetto. Oddly enough, on Sunday at our post-run brunch, after discussing good hip hop, R&B, football and running, we found ourselves discussing (of all things) books.

Now, picture this: Cheyenne and I are isolated off in the corner of this house full of runner-types. I'm wearing my infamous, larger-than-life yellow fleece sweats, a hoodie, and my hat cocked to about 1 o'clock. Cheyenne's in b-ball type shorts, a t-shirt and rocking his ice-stud earrings (I may or may not have a similar set).

I guarantee you that none of my friends at brunch who saw us would have guessed in a million years that the two ghetto kids in the corner were on the topic of literature. Chey and I had quite a few riveting discussions, not the least of which was a debate regarding reading fiction vs. non-fiction books. I'll spare you the details, but by the end of our debate, I'd convinced Chey to read "Call of the Wild" by Jack London, and I was headed straight home to find a non-fiction book to read.

When I got home, I called Rodimus Prime Jones for a suggestion on a good/enticing non-fiction book to read, and he suggested "Devil in the White City." The official classification of my attention span is: "Distracted," so I have a tough time reading books that don't have intriguing stories and knew Rod would have a good suggestion. I was about to run out to snag a copy when I realized that I had a perfectly good non-fiction candidate sitting on my kitchen table.

For years now, I've heard about "Born to Run." Having heard the lessons learned from it recounted to me by my friends many times, I never felt the need to read it. In fact, a year ago, I actually completely changed the way I run altogether as a result of this book that I'd never even opened. As it turns out, I really love running, and this book is not only about that but is rumored to be quite non-fictionally plot-driven. My older sister, Gretchen, who is somewhat new to running (and yet has already completed her first 1/2 marathon with another on the books) lent me this book a few months back after she finished it. It seemed like a no-brainer, so I dove in and am quite glad I did. I'm about 60 pages in and am contemplating a trip to Mexico ASAP. Perhaps I should finish the book before I do anything rash.

Hasta entonces - ¡Que corran bien amigos!

harder than I'd thought...

It's Thursday morning. I'm at my favorite coffee shop, Crema. I just saw my friends Cindy & DJ Murphy. I'm wearing my sweet North Face fleece. Last night was our weekly East Nasty run. I'm having a writer's bottleneck.

Many of you have known me as a bit of a talker. Historically, it's actually how I used to work my thoughts out...rotten luck to those innocent bystanders who were ambushed by my raw thought process.

One of the reasons I grounded myself from reading/writing blogs was this: I'd get so caught up in my own head trying to figure out my thoughts and the thoughts of those around me, I'd occasionally sort of forget that the real world actually exists. So, in my 313 days of penance/freedom, I have gotten MUCH better about not over-thinking, but rather, living.

So, I'm sitting here thinking...

-have I forgotten how to think/ponder?

-do I even remember the dude who wrote all these old handygraham blogs?

-gosh...blogging is harder than I remember.

-do I backtrack and tell old stories, or do I focus on moving forward?

-this blog is getting way too serious.

-my pandora hip hop station kicks ass.

Woah, ok, I think I just needed to get that crap out. I feel way better now. Getting back into blogging is, indeed, harder that I'd thought. Feels like my rhythm's starting to come back now. I owe you guys something fun for wading through that, so I'll leave you with this...

I think I feel a pulse...

Dear blog-world - It's been 313 days since my last confession.

I kind of picture today's blog like so many movie scenes where somebody just disappears unexpectedly, and without any type of warning. People have long since forgotten that the person is gone, and then... Peter Pettigrew shows up on the Marauder's Map.

I thought to myself yesterday, "What do you blog about when you've been off the reservation for the better part of a year?" Well, how about why?!?

Perhaps you're asking...where have you been? The short answer is: "bricks & mortar." The longer answer begins with this: I grounded myself from all things blogging, and... You know...I'm just going to leave it at that. 8)

So, if you were enjoying my blogging, I do apologize for the not-so-brief lapse. If you weren't enjoying it, you're welcome. Also, I haven't read any blogs during this span either... If I missed anything, I hope you told me.

Why come back now?

-I talked to my buddy, Cary Graham (The Hack Novelist) the other day about his blog, and it must have called my writing spirit out of slumber.

-I also checked on Annie's blog the other day to find the sad status of "The Honda." I broke the no blog-reading rule...Hell, I might as well go all in with the writing part too.

-2010 may have been the craziest, best, worst, most-meaningful year of my life. 2011 is going to be a big year, and it's going to need to be documented.

-I've missed writing.

Anyway, not exactly a triumphant return, but seriously if I'd tried to blog about 313 days of material we'd be in quite the cluster right now. More exciting entries to follow...

In the words of Drew Jones, "I think it's safe to say, 'He's back!'"

or am I just that shallow???

A few weeks back, REI had a sweet clearance sale, and I just so happened to have a little bit of Christmas money that I'd not yet squandered. I've never really had a clothing budget. I buy new clothes as inexpensively as possible when the old clothes are so worn out that they don't do the job anymore.

Anyway, I bought two articles of North Face clothing because they were SEVERELY discounted. I've always liked North Face clothing, but simply can't justify dedicating that much of my budget to clothes when it could be so much more enjoyably spent on big cheeseburgers, fries and chocolate malt shakes. Fat Mo's anybody?!?

That being said, I absolutely LOVE my North Face fleece jacket. I'd wear it all the time if I could. If handymanning weren't such a dirty job, I'd wear it to work. It's wicked soft. It's considerably warm. It actually fits me! I have a terrible time buying clothing because I'm slim, and I have long appendages. If I buy a "large" shirt, the sleeves aren't long enough. If I buy an "extra large," the sleeves are good, but the body fits me like a rain poncho. This jacket fits me amazingly.

I have a confession to make. I'm an incredible sucker for a good logo. In high school, I was like an Adidas poster child. I still think the original Adidas logo is amazing. I like the font of the letters and the little "flower" (i guess you'd call it) insignia. I always wore Adidas in high school.

The North Face logo speaks to me as well. I just like the simplicity of it. The question I often wonder is: am I attracted to this because it's the "in" thing? My buddy Hunter, who works at REI, was telling me about people who go into REI to buy things because of the logos. They come into the store on Saturday mornings when the people for whom REI originally came into being are actually out doing things outdoors. It's the same people who buy Hummers to drive around the city. So much capacity put to so little use.

I'd just finished a seven+ mile trail run before I bought my North Face jacket, so why do I still feel like a fraud having one? Maybe the same reason I have trouble calling myself a runner even though I'm clocking 30+ miles a week.

Did I just buy the jacket for the logo? Do I just believe it's better because it says North Face on it? Do I feel just a little more legitimate wearing it? Eh, I dunno. I do know this though: I LOVE this jacket and I enjoy wearing it. Perhaps those other questions don't really matter so much.

Happy Weekend, Friends!

oh, to be uncool...

Many of you know that I used to work at a record company as a sales rep. It's always fun to see what kind of a reaction I get when I convey this information to people who only know me as Handygraham, or only know me from church or from my East Nasty running group. Generally speaking, these reactions are usually to some tune of "surprise."

Maybe they're really used to me showing up at places with my tape measure on my belt and my pencil in my hat. Maybe they're used to me hanging out in coffee shops when normal people are working. I think, however, they're just used to the idea that I'm completely, unapologetically, unashamedly UNCOOL. Actually, when I consider that, even I find it hard to believe that I once worked in an environment where being hip was a prerequisite.

I know what you're thinking..."No way, Graham - YOU ARE THE COOLEST PERSON I KNOW!" I'm so, so sorry to have to do this, O imaginary blog fans, but the truth is quite contrary, and I think I'll give up lying for lent...or at least for today.

Good Ol' HootenAnnie Parsons recently alluded to guilty pleasures in one of her blogs...I realized that I don't actually feel guilty about some pretty lame pleasures. How am I "uncool?" Let me count (some of) the ways:

• I keep a copy of Lord of the Rings next to my bed and read it cyclically.
• AND I would gladly join Dwight Schrute if he went to New Zealand and journeyed from Hobbiton to Mordor.
  
• I know spells from Harry Potter better than Seamus Finnigan.
• I don't just think Saturday Morning Cartoons suck now, I've got a multifaceted argument to prove it.
• When I get home from work, I put on Nickelodeon. iCarly is my favorite.
• I appreciate Van Halen's "Jump" for it's musical genius & still listen to it even when I'm not at an eighties party.
• If it wouldn't scare the majority of my clientele, I'd always rock my Fu-Graham-Chu.
  

I could go on for days. I guess my point here isn't really to show how uncool I am, but more so remind myself that a lot of the uncool things about me are what make me who I am.

To quote Philip Seymour Hoffman's character in "Almost Famous:"

"The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with somebody when you're uncool."

I had trouble communicating with people at the record company, and often times just people in Nashville, because of this. For quite some time now, I've been pretty okay with my uncool preferences...Okay, okay...perhaps a bit TOO okay with them sometimes. 8) It's often difficult finding somebody who is either okay with their uncool preferences and/or okay with mine. But I'll tell you what - I couldn't even begin to put a value on the friends of mine with whom I share the bond of mutual uncoolness. Nothing compares to the freedom to be one's self - not to mention having friends who encourage this whether intentionally or unintentionally. So, here's to you, my friends who accept me for who I am...the good AND the bad. You've been a source of saving grace for me and will continue to be such.

AND, while I'm bleeding here on the altar of dignity...

I may or may not have watched most of "The Devil Wears Prada" last night.
I may or may not have changed the channel quickly when my buddy Aman arrived to watch 24 with me.
I may or may not have to borrow it from one of you so I can see the end.
I may or may not have a bit of a thing for Anne Hathaway.

On a far more manly note...I started yesterday by watching "Invincible" with Mark Wahlberg and ended it by watching Jack Bauer beat up on bad dudes.

Hey, I'm okay with being uncool...not unmanly.

In the words of Miranda Priestly, "That is all."

Colds are STUPID!

I'm into my fourth day of having a wicked-annoying cold. I'm in a sour mood because of it, and I'm just going to embrace that, so buckle in.

Mindless musings of a man on Sudafed...

I spent Monday & Tuesday sick on the couch, for the most part, which doesn't really happen all that often. I redboxed "Coraline" which was pretty cool. On Tuesday, I bought "The Patriot" on Blu-ray because it was on sale. I hadn't seen it in a while, but I know why it's on sale.

At one of my high school track meets, I was about as sick as I am now...not sick enough to stay home, but certainly not well either. I brought a bottle of Dayquil to that meet, determined that I would not be sitting out...and I didn't. I wasn't really thinking about what I was doing and began treating that bottle like cough lozenges. Well, half a bottle later, my dad retrieved me from lying sprawled out at about the 50-yard line. He told me the meet was over and it was time to go. It was the only track meet I ever won all four of my events. (to his credit, my buddy Mike who was my long jumping superior, was on an injured ankle that day.)

One good thing about saying home sick is that you know you just can't work. I couldn't focus on email, and I surely wasn't about to go out and fix somebody's "something or other." There is a certain degree of liberation that comes with that. It usually gets squelched, however by the fact that we need money and we can't make it while we're sick on the couch.

A couple of years ago, my flag football team had their playoffs all on a Saturday. I was, of course, sick as a dog. I knew I needed some Dayquil (I take recommended dosages these days), but I knew I also needed some caffeine, so I grabbed a Full Throttle energy drink on the way to the game. Let's just say I wasn't exactly at my best that day. I remember the huddle felt a bit like the circle of Charlie Brown's friends swaying around the Christmas tree...or was that the Who's (I debated on that apostrophe...too sick to care) of Who-ville? Well, the huddle wasn't swaying, but it sure seemed like it.

Colds suck because they have to run their course. I can't arm-wrestle a cold. I get really frustrated with them because they block off my nose entirely so I can't sleep properly. In exhaustive stupors, I lose my cool and get really frustrated and angry at the cold, which makes it even more difficult to fall asleep. Not to mention the fact that I have to try and sleep sitting up in attempt to keep my nasal cavity open.

Perhaps colds are a reminder for us to be empathetic toward one another. We all get colds, and they're not fun for anybody. Note to self, take care of the sick...now where have I heard that before?!?

In closing:

If I could punch a cold in the face, my fist would come out the other side of its head.

That's how much I hate colds.

More cohesive and positive thoughts to come!

Special thanks to Rod Jones this morning, whose blog posting made me laugh so hard I literally cried into my cereal!

More Super than the Super Bowl???

So, I had a Superbowl party last night, and it was FANTASTIC!

I love hosting/throwing parties at my house...and I must say that I put on some pretty good parties, if I do say so myself. 8)

I'll get to my point in a little bit, but let me go ahead and set the scene here:

A month ago, my buddy Aman (the one who decided 2010 is my year) called me and said, "Hey Stoner, are you planning on throwing a Superbowl party?!?" I thought about it for a second, remembered how much fun my SB party was last year and replied, "Uhh, heck yeah, man!"

As of yesterday, 14 people had RSVP'd to my party, which is plenty to have a great party. For those of you who don't live in Nashville, RSVPs for Nashvillians are meaningless. Case in point...from six pm till ten pm last night, there were between 40 & 50 people in my house...err there were that many people in my living room and kitchen all night, and somehow it worked.

It didn't take me long to realize Aman's true intentions to have me host the Superbowl party...he wanted to throw a good party, and my house is kind of a party house. Let's get something straight: I absolutely LOVE IT when my house gets volunteered as a party-hosting site!!!

Aman showed up with two marvelous party platters from Jimmy John's. He also set up a beer taste test with voting sheets and all. My buddy Hunter made three pots of chili - two pots with different spice levels and one pot of vegetarian chili. These guys and my friend Julie showed up early to help set up...Hunter even helped wipe-down my kitchen and bathroom while I hustled to make final preparations. I'd spent most of the day alleviating the disarray of my bachelor pad...no small task. I spent much of Saturday building a mount to hang my projector from the ceiling in my kitchen so we could watch the "big game" in BIG. The kitchen is always where people congregate and chat anyway. For the die-hard fans, the TV in the living room was accompanied by surround-sound. For those who didn't really care, I set up a few Atari games in my bedroom.

As kickoff came and went, people began showing up in droves, and they all brought what we'd asked them to bring. I quickly ran out of counter and table space for all the food, and I'm pretty sure my house was in some sort of fire code violation.

I ask you: Are there any better times in life than being in a house surrounded by good friends while enjoying the over-abundance of food and drink at your disposal???

I'm going to brag about my great friends now a bit. As the game concluded and the night wound down, people began cleaning up my house for me. I watched as my friend Jen washed my dishes for me. Not only was the trash properly disposed of, the recyclable trash was separated out for me. Somewhere during the night, somebody emptied my regular trash can. My friend Christy made a heroic, emergency run to the store in the middle of the game as we had a ton of chili, but no bowls to put it in. This happens at my parties almost every time. My friends are awesome!

So my point: My favorite part about parties is that it's a great excuse for me to be surrounded by the wonderful people I have the privilege and pleasure of calling my friends. I also get to watch worlds collide as these individuals intermingle and find common ground in the crucible that my house becomes. If you take a moment to soak in a situation like that, it can be pretty overwhelming. Hardly all of my Nashville friends were in my house last night, and yet in that small collection of personalities, I had in my house last night more value than any bank, any vault, any treasure on earth.

Here's to a great night! Here's to my friends! Here's to the Saints' first Superbowl win! Umm...the Saints won, right?!?