I went for a ride this weekend, my first of the new year. It was an altogether awesome experience, but it occurs to me a primer on riding in Pennsylvania might be helpful. Some things to know:
1) The myth of tailwinds. There is a belief that if you ride into a headwind for the first half of your ride, it would necessarily follow that you would have a tailwind for the ride home. That rule applies where the rules of physics have, at the very least, some hold. That being said, this is the state that delivered Rick Santorum to Washington, so if you're thinking the rules of physics, or any form of what might be loosely construed as common sense, applies here, you're clearly mistaken. It was about 65 degrees, but with a front moving in, the winds whipped up to more than 50 miles per hour. At one point I almost got blown off the bike. The ride out was into a headwind. The ride back was spent dealing with a crosswind. The tailwind that should have been blowing me homeward, like a cycling Odysseus, was nowhere to be found. Still, I pedaled onward, clipping out after 20 miles.
2) There are three distinct seasons in Central PA. Summer, which is characterized by 90+ degree heat and 90+ percent humidity. Winter, which would be that season of ice, snow, slush, near Arctic temperatures. It's said if you can survive these two seasons in Pennsylvania, you're pretty much prepared to live anywhere. They neglect to mention the in-between time, known locally as Pothole Season. You'll recognize its beginnings when black ice and permafrost are no longer a daily thing; there is an occasional day where a bright orb, known in America as the Sun, can be seen occasionally in the sky; and people actually go outside for activities other than shoveling snow. This may or may not coincide with advice given by a certain groundhog from Punxatawney, PA which people recognize not so much as a prediction of future weather so much as one more excuse to drink and form a liquid barrier from the cold. We grow potholes in PA, and we grow them both large and plentiful. There are not a lot of advantages to testicular cancer, but one of them is that when you hit a Central PA pothole, you have a 50% better chance of surviving it intact than the average American male. Score one for me and Lance.
3) That first warm day is a lie. We had 65 degrees on Friday. It was 40 degrees on Sunday. Tonight we are looking at another 6 inches of snow. They say if you don't like the weather in Central PA, wait fifteen minutes. I don't think you usually need to wait that long. Honestly. Still, I got my ride in on Friday and a run in today, in anticipation that any semblance of outdoor-friendly weather was just a mirage. Sure enough, the mirage his rapidly disappearing.
So, if you're looking to ride in the area, I'm hoping this helps. And, if you're looking for a riding partner, I'll be the guy in the parka on the blue Cannondale. look for me at the bottom of a pothole.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
The Odyssey of Pastor Mike: Part V
Pastor Michael prayed and asked God what the next stage was, what more God might demand of him. “Go to Belarus,” was God’s reply. After five years of preaching in the prisons, hospitals, and streets of Russia, God was calling Pastor Mike to a new ministry.
The transition was difficult for Pastor Mike and for his wife Lena and his son Sasha. But God sustained them through the trials of the move. He started a church. God gave him power to heal the sick and to preach with authority, restoring families who had been broken by drug addiction and the rampant alcoholism in the country. Through it all, Michael remained a steadfast servant of God. His efforts, and the results they were bringing forth, attracted the attention of a local woman, Galina Samusenko, who would join the church and exhibit the same passionate fervor Pastor Mike had for serving others. She would go on to serve as an assistant Pastor.
Galina helped the church grow, and soon the worship services were overflowing. They opened a new church, then a third. They continued the Biblical commandments of feeding the poor and the needy, caring for orphans and widows. All of this activity began to attract the attention of the local authorities, who intimidated some of the parishioners. In Belarus, the only accepted religion is Orthodox Christianity, and to worship in the style of Pastor Mike and his parishioners is a jailable offense. Further, the collapse of the Soviet Union brought not liberation, but a tightening of the stranglehold the government of Belarus inflicted on its citizens. Times grew tougher for Pastor Mike's church.
Yet Pastor Mike and his congregation continued to worship. Further, their farms were prospering, and they began to feed the people of the local village, then the surrounding villages. Pastor Michael petitioned the local government to approve his church as an official church, and finally, after many years, it was accomplished. The church continued to face discrimination and injustices, but it also continued to grow.
Pastor Mike's church formed an alliance with my church, Aldersgate and things continued to prosper. The churches supported one another, and the financial support we were able to provide helped build a new church in Krichev. It was placed at the top of the only hill in the town, a shining beacon on the hill, and a sign of just how much things had changed. Further financial support from Aldersgate enabled Pastor Mike’s congregation to purchase a tractor, allowing them to grow more crops, and feed more people. And still the church grew.
The church garnered more land and set up pens for pigs, geese and ducks. Pastor Michael created a Church Camp, a safe haven for kids who no longer had to be at the mercy of predators in the streets. The Church created a children's Sunday school, a Bible school for adults, a daily prayer service, a women’s and men’s group, youth services, and Praise and Worship services. Today, the three churches have more than 200 people attending.
God continued his work of redemption with Pastor Michael right until the end. Shortly before his death earlier this summer, Pastor Michael received a message from God that He was going to call him home. True to his nature, Pastor Michael called his team, including Galina, the young woman who had so enthusiastically joined the church and served as his right hand, and told them they needed to begin preparations for a time when Pastor Michael would no longer be with them. They worked together to institute a transition plan, and the Krichev Church was accepted as a member of the International United Methodist Churches. Shortly thereafter, Pastor Michael was called to his rest.
The transition was difficult for Pastor Mike and for his wife Lena and his son Sasha. But God sustained them through the trials of the move. He started a church. God gave him power to heal the sick and to preach with authority, restoring families who had been broken by drug addiction and the rampant alcoholism in the country. Through it all, Michael remained a steadfast servant of God. His efforts, and the results they were bringing forth, attracted the attention of a local woman, Galina Samusenko, who would join the church and exhibit the same passionate fervor Pastor Mike had for serving others. She would go on to serve as an assistant Pastor.
Galina helped the church grow, and soon the worship services were overflowing. They opened a new church, then a third. They continued the Biblical commandments of feeding the poor and the needy, caring for orphans and widows. All of this activity began to attract the attention of the local authorities, who intimidated some of the parishioners. In Belarus, the only accepted religion is Orthodox Christianity, and to worship in the style of Pastor Mike and his parishioners is a jailable offense. Further, the collapse of the Soviet Union brought not liberation, but a tightening of the stranglehold the government of Belarus inflicted on its citizens. Times grew tougher for Pastor Mike's church.
Yet Pastor Mike and his congregation continued to worship. Further, their farms were prospering, and they began to feed the people of the local village, then the surrounding villages. Pastor Michael petitioned the local government to approve his church as an official church, and finally, after many years, it was accomplished. The church continued to face discrimination and injustices, but it also continued to grow.
Pastor Mike's church formed an alliance with my church, Aldersgate and things continued to prosper. The churches supported one another, and the financial support we were able to provide helped build a new church in Krichev. It was placed at the top of the only hill in the town, a shining beacon on the hill, and a sign of just how much things had changed. Further financial support from Aldersgate enabled Pastor Mike’s congregation to purchase a tractor, allowing them to grow more crops, and feed more people. And still the church grew.
The church garnered more land and set up pens for pigs, geese and ducks. Pastor Michael created a Church Camp, a safe haven for kids who no longer had to be at the mercy of predators in the streets. The Church created a children's Sunday school, a Bible school for adults, a daily prayer service, a women’s and men’s group, youth services, and Praise and Worship services. Today, the three churches have more than 200 people attending.
God continued his work of redemption with Pastor Michael right until the end. Shortly before his death earlier this summer, Pastor Michael received a message from God that He was going to call him home. True to his nature, Pastor Michael called his team, including Galina, the young woman who had so enthusiastically joined the church and served as his right hand, and told them they needed to begin preparations for a time when Pastor Michael would no longer be with them. They worked together to institute a transition plan, and the Krichev Church was accepted as a member of the International United Methodist Churches. Shortly thereafter, Pastor Michael was called to his rest.
The Odyssey of Pastor Mike: Part IV
Michael Kazimirov was wrapped in the arms of a forgiving God, weeping and appealing to God because he wished to live. To truly live. It was a sincere plea, born not out of a selfish need for preservation, but out of the realization he had not served God to this point in his life, and there was much to do. He pledged his life to God, begging for forgiveness, for direction, for absolution. And it came upon him in waves.
Several months later, as the date of Michael’s execution drew close, the military tribunal reconvened, unexpectedly. Michael faced the court, unafraid, knowing that God was moving, and was not surprised when he heard his sentence changed from death to a life sentence. He saw the hand of God moving now, committed himself to following where it led him. But where would it lead? What would happen next? How would he know where to go? He had so many questions, but this time he sought the answers, and he had a place to turn.
Michael returned to prison that day, and began to read. He picked up the Bible from his cell, seeking God’s words, devouring it like a meal set before a man who had been starving for years, which was, in effect, what he was. God continued to move, but now Michael knew who was in charge of his life, recognized the force of God. Michael was allowed to mingle with the other prisoners and began to share the word of God with the lost souls who occasionally surrounded him, men just as lost as he had been.
And Michael Kazimirov spoke with authority, showing the men how God was working in his life and the power of God’s forgiveness. Not surprisingly, his fellow prisoners began to listen. At first, just a few came, huddled close to hear the story this former Special Forces soldier, this murderer who had been redeemed by God’s love. Word spread throughout the prison of a man with the fire of God about him, and Michael was preaching with the fire and zeal of a new believer, a man who had experienced the redemption of the Holy Spirit. His ministry continued to grow in the prison and he became the prison pastor. After 12 years, he had 50 people in his group of believers.
The tribunal convened again, and Michael’s sentence was declared complete. After twelve years, God released him from his chains, and Michael was a free man. He went back to school and applied himself in the study of God’s word and was ordained as a Pastor. He preached in his native Russia for five years, building churches, visiting hospitals and prisons, bringing good news to all who would hear it. Michael looked at his work and felt satisfied; he was bringing the Word of God to his people, as he had promised to do.
But once again Michael began to get the feeling he was missing something, that there was a question he was not answering, that something was about to change.
Several months later, as the date of Michael’s execution drew close, the military tribunal reconvened, unexpectedly. Michael faced the court, unafraid, knowing that God was moving, and was not surprised when he heard his sentence changed from death to a life sentence. He saw the hand of God moving now, committed himself to following where it led him. But where would it lead? What would happen next? How would he know where to go? He had so many questions, but this time he sought the answers, and he had a place to turn.
Michael returned to prison that day, and began to read. He picked up the Bible from his cell, seeking God’s words, devouring it like a meal set before a man who had been starving for years, which was, in effect, what he was. God continued to move, but now Michael knew who was in charge of his life, recognized the force of God. Michael was allowed to mingle with the other prisoners and began to share the word of God with the lost souls who occasionally surrounded him, men just as lost as he had been.
And Michael Kazimirov spoke with authority, showing the men how God was working in his life and the power of God’s forgiveness. Not surprisingly, his fellow prisoners began to listen. At first, just a few came, huddled close to hear the story this former Special Forces soldier, this murderer who had been redeemed by God’s love. Word spread throughout the prison of a man with the fire of God about him, and Michael was preaching with the fire and zeal of a new believer, a man who had experienced the redemption of the Holy Spirit. His ministry continued to grow in the prison and he became the prison pastor. After 12 years, he had 50 people in his group of believers.
The tribunal convened again, and Michael’s sentence was declared complete. After twelve years, God released him from his chains, and Michael was a free man. He went back to school and applied himself in the study of God’s word and was ordained as a Pastor. He preached in his native Russia for five years, building churches, visiting hospitals and prisons, bringing good news to all who would hear it. Michael looked at his work and felt satisfied; he was bringing the Word of God to his people, as he had promised to do.
But once again Michael began to get the feeling he was missing something, that there was a question he was not answering, that something was about to change.
The Odyssey of Pastor Mike: Part III
The dungeon was a perfect place to wait for execution, if such a thing can exist. It was cold and there were no windows, no visible way to the outside. There was very little light, save what was offered by a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Michael tried to warm his hands by the heat of the bulb, but it was hung just too high. It was a place devoid of hope. “Perfect,” thought Michael Kazimirov. But there it was again, that feeling that he had missed something. Only now, Michael had no place to shoe it away to. He was a condemned man, a hard worker with no work to bury himself in, a soldier with no battles to fight, a boxer with no opponent on the other side. It was all gone: his career, his honor, the respect he had earned. He had nothing but the icy, inflexible floor of this prison and his life, and he recognized he would soon lose both. The recognition was without bitterness, only a slow resignation to his fate…except for that feeling. What was it?
The cell was sparse. Michael. The light bulb. A blanket. A book. Absentmindedly, he picked up the book, undoubtedly left by a previous inhabitant, who put it down as he walked (or crawled, or was dragged) out to die, as Michael himself would do when the time came. He wondered grimly how many men before him had done this exact pantomime. He did not open at the front of the book, but rather let it fall open, as he slumped down on the floor to read by that dim bulb.
It flopped open to Psalm 91 and Michael Kazimirov read:
…and the arms of God came into his prison, wrapped Michael in love and comforted him. It was that sudden. Michael Kazimirov had found the answer to his question, to his doubts, to his fears, to what was missing all those years. The suddenness of the realization shook him. First, there was no God, then there was God, though later Michael would realize there had always been God, it was only that he had not been looking for God, and therefore was not seeing Him. Michael Kazimirov once a hard worker, Special Forces Operative, and Champion Boxer of the Baltic fell into the arms of God and wept the tears of a Child of God.
The cell was sparse. Michael. The light bulb. A blanket. A book. Absentmindedly, he picked up the book, undoubtedly left by a previous inhabitant, who put it down as he walked (or crawled, or was dragged) out to die, as Michael himself would do when the time came. He wondered grimly how many men before him had done this exact pantomime. He did not open at the front of the book, but rather let it fall open, as he slumped down on the floor to read by that dim bulb.
It flopped open to Psalm 91 and Michael Kazimirov read:
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, "He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust." Surely he will save you from the fowler's snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you. You will only observe with your eyes and see the punishment of the wicked. If you make the Most High your dwelling – even the LORD, who is my refuge- then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent. For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. You will tread upon the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent. "Because he loves me," says the LORD, "I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation."
…and the arms of God came into his prison, wrapped Michael in love and comforted him. It was that sudden. Michael Kazimirov had found the answer to his question, to his doubts, to his fears, to what was missing all those years. The suddenness of the realization shook him. First, there was no God, then there was God, though later Michael would realize there had always been God, it was only that he had not been looking for God, and therefore was not seeing Him. Michael Kazimirov once a hard worker, Special Forces Operative, and Champion Boxer of the Baltic fell into the arms of God and wept the tears of a Child of God.
The Odyssey of Pastor Mike: Part II
Michael Kazimirov had it all: a solid career, renown, respect. But still there was a nagging in the dark recesses of his mind that something was missing. He had managed to brush it off and put it out of his mind, but it kept coming back. One night, while he was out with his comrades, he decided to go to dinner at a restaurant. There was a disturbance and the police were called. Two militiamen and an officer tried to quell the disturbance, but the situation escalated with the police and a full-on fight quickly began.
In the mind of Michael Kazimirov, the world went red. All of his professional training took over and all of his Special Forces hardness and boxing prowess came to the forefront. And, it was over. There was an odd stillness to the room. This was a restaurant after all, used to the bustle of tables being waited upon and food being ordered, of diners laughing at the days events or discussing their plans. The din was interrupted by the even louder conflagration of the fight, a rowdy soldier's brawl. And then there came that long, terrible silence. In the quiet, the red drained from Michael’s eyes and he looked around, and more accurately, down at the damage. Both militiamen were completely disabled, lying on the floor, their chests heaving from exertion but unable to move. The officer lay in an unnatural position, the kind that, had he been conscious, he would have immediately shifted his position for the pure discomfort of it. Looking intently at the officer, Michael suddenly realized what was different about the man: the heaving breaths, the signal of life exhibited by the two militiamen, was absent from the officer. A quick check revealed the man was dead.
There was a trial, performed in the Soviet style. Either you did something or you didn’t, and Michael had killed a man. An officer. The trial proceeded quickly, and at the end the court was “inclined to the maximum measure of punishment.” Michael was sentenced to be executed and was sent to the chamber of condemned men, a cold dungeon where he was to wait for his execution. He was alone, a man without hope, and it didn’t matter. He was just waiting to die.
In the mind of Michael Kazimirov, the world went red. All of his professional training took over and all of his Special Forces hardness and boxing prowess came to the forefront. And, it was over. There was an odd stillness to the room. This was a restaurant after all, used to the bustle of tables being waited upon and food being ordered, of diners laughing at the days events or discussing their plans. The din was interrupted by the even louder conflagration of the fight, a rowdy soldier's brawl. And then there came that long, terrible silence. In the quiet, the red drained from Michael’s eyes and he looked around, and more accurately, down at the damage. Both militiamen were completely disabled, lying on the floor, their chests heaving from exertion but unable to move. The officer lay in an unnatural position, the kind that, had he been conscious, he would have immediately shifted his position for the pure discomfort of it. Looking intently at the officer, Michael suddenly realized what was different about the man: the heaving breaths, the signal of life exhibited by the two militiamen, was absent from the officer. A quick check revealed the man was dead.
There was a trial, performed in the Soviet style. Either you did something or you didn’t, and Michael had killed a man. An officer. The trial proceeded quickly, and at the end the court was “inclined to the maximum measure of punishment.” Michael was sentenced to be executed and was sent to the chamber of condemned men, a cold dungeon where he was to wait for his execution. He was alone, a man without hope, and it didn’t matter. He was just waiting to die.
The Odyssey of Pastor Mike: Part I
Pastor Mike was the pastor who welcomed me into his church family when I went to Belarus. He was an incredible man of faith, and I was asked to share his story with my congregation here, as a way to help my church understand the church in Belarus. While I was writing his story, he passed on to the next life after a massive heart attack. This is his story.
Michael Kazimirov was born in the Soviet Union near Bryansk, a small village nestled up to a dense and beautiful wood. Growing up, he busied himself with helping his family, as was the custom of children there. It was a physically demanding existence, but Michael was a strong boy. He took a keen interest in gymnastics, especially the horizontal bar, and soccer. He was a natural athlete and excelled.
At 16, he left home to go to Riga for school. It was here that he studied seamanship and joined the military, but it was his athletic prowess that won him initial recognition. Michael turned his athletic interests to boxing, and his strength and fearlessness led to many bouts…and many victories. Michael was relentless in his pursuit of excellence, and he finally reached the pinnacle of his boxing career when he was crowned Champion of the Baltic for his weight class.
Similarly, his military career was taking off; the incredible drive that made him successful at boxing also led to advances in his job. He was promoted to the highest level of the Spetsnaz, the Soviet Special Forces which are the equivalent of Soviet commandos. Their training is incredibly harsh, and the demands placed on Spetsnaz commandos are among the most rigorous in the world. In short, they are the elite fighting force of the Soviet Army, and Michael had risen through their ranks.
He was given the toughest missions and traveled throughout the region, meeting and exceeding the requirements of the most demanding assignments. Michael Kazimirov had it all: a solid career, renown, respect. But as is so often the case, something seemed…wrong. It occasionally nagged at him, creeping into the backdoor of his consciousness and gnawing at the edges of his mind and his…what was it? Michael tried to brush it aside, to shoe it out like a rodent and then plug up the hole. It was his nature to increase his efforts at work and his boxing, convinced that sweat, effort and focus would keep whatever that gnawing thing was at bay. Boxing and work, work and boxing, boxing and work: surely that was the solution! But, it always found a way back in, quiet as a church mouse.
Michael Kazimirov was born in the Soviet Union near Bryansk, a small village nestled up to a dense and beautiful wood. Growing up, he busied himself with helping his family, as was the custom of children there. It was a physically demanding existence, but Michael was a strong boy. He took a keen interest in gymnastics, especially the horizontal bar, and soccer. He was a natural athlete and excelled.
At 16, he left home to go to Riga for school. It was here that he studied seamanship and joined the military, but it was his athletic prowess that won him initial recognition. Michael turned his athletic interests to boxing, and his strength and fearlessness led to many bouts…and many victories. Michael was relentless in his pursuit of excellence, and he finally reached the pinnacle of his boxing career when he was crowned Champion of the Baltic for his weight class.
Similarly, his military career was taking off; the incredible drive that made him successful at boxing also led to advances in his job. He was promoted to the highest level of the Spetsnaz, the Soviet Special Forces which are the equivalent of Soviet commandos. Their training is incredibly harsh, and the demands placed on Spetsnaz commandos are among the most rigorous in the world. In short, they are the elite fighting force of the Soviet Army, and Michael had risen through their ranks.
He was given the toughest missions and traveled throughout the region, meeting and exceeding the requirements of the most demanding assignments. Michael Kazimirov had it all: a solid career, renown, respect. But as is so often the case, something seemed…wrong. It occasionally nagged at him, creeping into the backdoor of his consciousness and gnawing at the edges of his mind and his…what was it? Michael tried to brush it aside, to shoe it out like a rodent and then plug up the hole. It was his nature to increase his efforts at work and his boxing, convinced that sweat, effort and focus would keep whatever that gnawing thing was at bay. Boxing and work, work and boxing, boxing and work: surely that was the solution! But, it always found a way back in, quiet as a church mouse.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Dash for Drew
I ran. In a race. Frequent readers of the Fish Blog will remember my friend Randy Taylor who lost his son in a horrible car crash. Out of that tragedy, he and his wife Marcie created the Drew Michael Taylor Foundation. Through the Foundation, they have created a regional resource for people grieving the loss of loved ones, as well as providing athletic activities for underpriveleged youth. Pretty amazing stuff.
The Foundation also sponsors a race, the Dash for Drew. It's held every year to raise money for the Foundation. This year I went down with my two friends, Carl and Justin. My goal was to race the 2 miles in less than 20 minutes, a pretty solid goal given my recent practice performance and the fact that it is held on a cross-country course. We got there about an hour early, which is surprising since none of us knew exactly where we were going, a fact I learned as Carl drove south toward the race. Thank God for mobile phone apps and the power of Teh Inatrwebz (and like that).
Sign-in was effortless, then Justin went for a run while Carl and I went for a jog. We ended up doing a one-mile light jog around the track. It felt good and I stretched at the end of the jog. I felt nice and loose as the race approached. I pulled the laces tight and got up to the start area. The horn sounded and off we went.
I started in the middle-back of the pack, not comfortable to run with the rabbits, including Carl and Justin. That being said, I felt really good as the race started and began stretching it out a bit very shortly into the run. There was a small hill about a half-mile in, and I started powering up and forward. I still felt good. Coming down the trail, it narrowed and I settled in to a comfortable pace with some guys my own age. We came up on the first mile and the guy was belting out the current times: 9:07, 9:08, 9:09, 9:10... I had gone out fast, but I still felt good. I pushed passed the guys I was with and felt my lungs reach their limits.
It's not a bad thing, that feeling. I felt like it was sustainable pace with a mile to go. I decided to try to hold that faster pace through the end. The race comes out through the forest and back to a loop outside the track. I measured the track and the distance left to go and notched it up a half a beat. When I hit the track, I busted into a full (for me) sprint and finished strong.
All-in-all, it felt fantastic. I still felt I had more left at the end, but my time was 17:10, which is waaaaay faster than I anticipated.I was 24 out of 38 in my age group and 94 out of 178 overall. I can't wait to do it again next year!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
...And Justice for Some...
It's not often that I have no words, but this story coming out of Colorado absolutely takes everything right out of my mouth. It seems Martin Erzinger, a wealth manager for Morgan Stanley ran over a Doctor, one Steven Milo. But the doctor made the mistake of being on a bicycle, and accidents involving cyclists often seem to create a situation where justice is meted out in appallingly sparse portions and in an equally incomprehensible manner. After running over the good doctor, our wealth manager left him. For dead, presumably.
But, see, Marty invests over $1 Billion dollars in assets in the local Colorado community. So the District Attorney, Mark Hurlburt, decided that it would not be in anyone's best interest to prosecute this as a felony, and is hitting Marty with a couple of misdemeanors. Apparently, that's the going rate for getting run over and left in a ditch with spinal cord injuries and bleeding on the brain, not to mention what might be the end of his career as a liver transplant doctor.
Thank goodness Morgan Stanley has decided to do the right thing! Oh. Wait. "This unfortunate situation was not related to the individual's professional activities, but we are continuing to monitor the situation and will cooperate fully with law enforcement, if requested," said a Morgan Stanley representative. Translation: We'll keep this jerk on the payroll unless people stop investing their money with us.
But, see, Marty invests over $1 Billion dollars in assets in the local Colorado community. So the District Attorney, Mark Hurlburt, decided that it would not be in anyone's best interest to prosecute this as a felony, and is hitting Marty with a couple of misdemeanors. Apparently, that's the going rate for getting run over and left in a ditch with spinal cord injuries and bleeding on the brain, not to mention what might be the end of his career as a liver transplant doctor.
Thank goodness Morgan Stanley has decided to do the right thing! Oh. Wait. "This unfortunate situation was not related to the individual's professional activities, but we are continuing to monitor the situation and will cooperate fully with law enforcement, if requested," said a Morgan Stanley representative. Translation: We'll keep this jerk on the payroll unless people stop investing their money with us.
Oh HAI!!!!
Yes, I still live. They say all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Not sure what it does to a Fish, but it can't be good. That being said, it's not been all salt mines and unhappiness. So, to catch you up on my life, here's the basic rundown:
Item I: Youth Group
I am helping to lead my church's Middle School and High School youth group, including a group of Seventh Grade boys. It's something that has been following me for more than 10 years, since I left teaching. I'm really digging it, actually, and like the guys I have been grouped with. They bring a lot of energy and ideas, and it has made for a lively group with good discussion and high activity. Plus, we're tackling real issues for kids that age: purity, honesty, integrity, and the like.
Item II: My Gut
I haven't worked out consistently since August's LiveSTRONG Challenge. Funny how quickly that can get away from you. Clearly, cycling season is largely over, but I have begun running again. Or rather, tried to start running. I have a pair of orthotics and the right one is turning the bottom of my foot into hamburger. A half-dozen adjustments haven't made a difference and I am alternating between frustration and being homicidal. I'm not sure how that would sit with the youth group, but Christ did ask us to visit those in prison, so maybe that's something.
Item III: Back to school.
Mrs. Fish is a teacher and Li'l Fish is a student. Man, that'll take a bite. I went on a field trip with Li'l Fish to a ropes course and did a lot of the activities. Climbing is sooooo much fun, and I had a great time with her and her classmates. A highlight was climbing a thirty foot obstacle as part of a team with one of the neighbor kids. I have to say it was awesome watching Li'l Fish challenge herself past her preconceived notions of what she thought was possible. I was very proud of her...and still am.
There are probably about 20,000 other things I haven't even touched on, but in the end we just know it as life. I simply wanted to throw it out there and say, "HEY! I'm still Alive!"
Item I: Youth Group
I am helping to lead my church's Middle School and High School youth group, including a group of Seventh Grade boys. It's something that has been following me for more than 10 years, since I left teaching. I'm really digging it, actually, and like the guys I have been grouped with. They bring a lot of energy and ideas, and it has made for a lively group with good discussion and high activity. Plus, we're tackling real issues for kids that age: purity, honesty, integrity, and the like.
Item II: My Gut
I haven't worked out consistently since August's LiveSTRONG Challenge. Funny how quickly that can get away from you. Clearly, cycling season is largely over, but I have begun running again. Or rather, tried to start running. I have a pair of orthotics and the right one is turning the bottom of my foot into hamburger. A half-dozen adjustments haven't made a difference and I am alternating between frustration and being homicidal. I'm not sure how that would sit with the youth group, but Christ did ask us to visit those in prison, so maybe that's something.
Item III: Back to school.
Mrs. Fish is a teacher and Li'l Fish is a student. Man, that'll take a bite. I went on a field trip with Li'l Fish to a ropes course and did a lot of the activities. Climbing is sooooo much fun, and I had a great time with her and her classmates. A highlight was climbing a thirty foot obstacle as part of a team with one of the neighbor kids. I have to say it was awesome watching Li'l Fish challenge herself past her preconceived notions of what she thought was possible. I was very proud of her...and still am.
There are probably about 20,000 other things I haven't even touched on, but in the end we just know it as life. I simply wanted to throw it out there and say, "HEY! I'm still Alive!"
Friday, August 27, 2010
LiveSTRONG IV: Part III
It was pouring down rain but we soldiered onward. A lot of people came out to wish us well, clapping, yelling, cheering and cowbelling. A bunch of families even set up tents in their front lawns to stay out of the rain but remain in shouting distance. Passing out BUTNZ! in the rain proved challenging, but I found if you gave them a Chinese-throwing-star action, they sailed farther. It was kind of cool to watch them flying through the air like something out of a Ridley Scott movie.
We arrived at the 70-100 mile route split and the race organizers said the 100 mile route was now closed. CLOSED! WHY? "There's lightning up on top of the mountain." Oh. That's a good reason. The bad news was we weren't going to get to ride 100 miles today. The good news is that instead of being 1/3 of the way done, we were now 1/2 way done.
There were a couple of guys that went up into 100 mile route, heading toward the hills. Kurt asked me if I would consider riding the 100 mile course unsupported. I said, "If something bad happens up there, you are alone. No help, probably no phone reception (it was spotty at best last year) and the hills all have switchbacks up and down them. I think 70 is plenty of riding today." He quickly agreed and off we went, with Sean, on the 70 mile course. The rain continued to pour down, but was getting lighter.
At one point Kurt, who is naturally gregarious, met a guy named Dana, who decided to ride with us. Dana was a good guy and we enjoyed riding with him the rest of the way. As we crested a hill, I looked and saw a long, slow, downhill ride ahead of me. I saw there was no shoulder to the right, and the right side of the road had been "repaired" by the local construction crews whose mandate was clearly, "Throw something in that hole; it's Miller Time."
All that to say I was riding about 2-3 feet into the road, which by Pennsylvania law is exactly where I should have been. I say that because suddenly there was a car behind me, honking. Urgently. There was no place for me to go, so I held me line, thinking this person would go around me, which they easily could have done as there was no traffic coming the other way. In short, I was being harassed because I had the temerity to ride a bike in a cancer event. Surely there must be something else going on. Finally, the Prius passed me and one of the fattest sausage-fingered hands came out of a rolled-down passenger-side window, and a single finger was extended. The Prius then rolled on ahead.
A woman cycled up next to me and said the car had been harassing people all the way down the mountain. I said, "I find they're often nicer when you catch up to them and let you know what you're doing" then dropped down a couple of gears and went up ahead. Sure enough, he was stuck behind another group of riders. I came up behind and said, "Sir, you know we're raising money for charity here, right?"
The guy rolled down the window, stuck his Duff Goldman-looking Fat-head out and launched into an expletive laced tirade about how we jam his roads up every year, how he pays taxes for these roads and we don't, how he's tired of people like me yada, yada, yada. Dude was pissed. I just looked at him and said, "Really? Really" Begin tirade two. We came to a crossroad and the car turned right. I'm glad it didn't escalate any farther, but I really don't understand how a Prius owner of all people could have a problem with cyclists. Really. I looked right behind me and Kurt was hanging next to me. He had seen the whole things and decided to get my back, riding up in support just in case. He looked at me and kind of laughed, but I know he was thinking, "Only the Irish guy can find trouble on a freaking charity ride." And, he's right. Note to Mrs. Fish - I never go looking for trouble, it just seems to find me. Honestly.
The rain had slowed a lot and we continued to ride. We came to yet another section of hills, with a sizable downhill. Volunteers at the top of the hill were telling people to slow down and take it VERY easy. I asked one of the volunteers, "What, no bombing the hill?"
"No," was all she said.
Of course, I was joking, having seen what happens when people overestimate their abilities and/or underestimate the treachery of the course. Neither of these scenarios appealed to me, so I pumped the brakes to make sure they were good and dry, then tilted myself down the hill.
Experienced riders lean their bicycles to steer. Inexperienced riders use their handlebars to steer. On a downhill, the difference is even more pronounced, because when you use the handlebars, the bike pitches to the side you are steering toward. Amateurs sense this pitching, this shift in weight of the bike, and it feels like they are going down. The natural response in this situation is to steer the opposite direction and brake. This is one case where the natural response is also the wrong response. The slowing down takes the energy out of your bike, the energy that is required to make the turn. And keep the bike upright. Which is why the guy directly in front of me went through this exact series of disastrous-ballet moves and went down in a heap right in front of me. In a way it was my fault, having not left enough room in the likely event this happened.
There is a promise that God gives that he will send his angels to protect us when we need them, and I believe this was (yet another) one for me. Everything slowed down to the proverbial slow motion. I saw him try to make the right turn, panic, overcorrect and fall to the left. I steered to the right so I didn't run him over and knew immediately I was going to clip the back end of his bike and go down. I unclipped my shoes from my pedals as the bike started too go down.
I yelled as loud as I could "CRASH CRASH CRASH!!!1!" so people behind us would know and avoid us. I flew over the handlebars, stepped down with my left foot right into his chainring teeth. My body pitched forward into a semi-pushup and my left hand got a rock stuck in it where it hit. I was so glad I went back to retrieve my gloves before the ride began.
The whole thing took less than 2 seconds.
I did a self-inventory and realized nothing was broken. There was a terrible stinging in my left foot where his chainring had bitten into my leg, and now rain and sweat were mingling in the shark bite there. My second thought was immediately to see if the other guy was okay. He had, in effect, just laid the bike down, and was fine. He kept apologizing over and over and asking if I was okay, and except for the hand and leg, I was okay. Then I remembered: My BABY!!! I reluctantly looked at my ride and there she was, lying on her side in the rain. I picked her up, gingerly, checking the frame. Fine. The wheels? Fine. The brakes and shifters? Also good. My water bottle had tumbled 50 feet down the hill, my odometer had gone about 10 feet int he same direction. I gingerly hobbled down to get both, but mercifully, everything was fine.
Sean, Kurt and Dana kept asking if I was fine, but I realized the real test was going to be getting back on the bike. I did. It hurt. A lot, actually. I pedalled and took a quick physical inventory. The leg hurt, the hand too, my collarbones/shoulders were both sore and my lower back was tightening up a bit, but I had maintained my record of 43 years without a broken bone. In the pain I was feeling, I actually gave more than a passing thought to one of my own cycling heroes, Jens Voigt, a man among men in the professional peloton. He crashed spectacularly in this year's Tour de France but refused to quit (Amazing story and funny interview about that: CLICK HERE). If Jens could do that, I could surely finish this. I also thought about how hard cancer survivors have to fight every day, and I knew I could finish for them. My guys asked me one more time if I was okay.
"Yeah. I got this."
We rode the last 20 miles or so in good humor. The riding was getting things moving, and except for my lower back, everything else felt a little better. It was more of a blur this year, and the time went more quickly, I think in part due to the shortening of the course. I took the lead for Team Fish and rode in, Kurt, Sean and Dana riding in behind me. It's my favorite part of the ride for many reasons, but mostly for the remembrance of all the people who make up Team Fish, of those who are with us and those who are not. Some years it's just a little too much and this year was one of them; I finished with tears in my eyes this year thinking about all of the people who made up Team Fish, and for those who are no longer with us.
Thank you, Team Fish, for all of your thoughtful support over the past four years. Words cannot express the depth or breadth of my gratitude, and just how much it means to have you with me.
We arrived at the 70-100 mile route split and the race organizers said the 100 mile route was now closed. CLOSED! WHY? "There's lightning up on top of the mountain." Oh. That's a good reason. The bad news was we weren't going to get to ride 100 miles today. The good news is that instead of being 1/3 of the way done, we were now 1/2 way done. There were a couple of guys that went up into 100 mile route, heading toward the hills. Kurt asked me if I would consider riding the 100 mile course unsupported. I said, "If something bad happens up there, you are alone. No help, probably no phone reception (it was spotty at best last year) and the hills all have switchbacks up and down them. I think 70 is plenty of riding today." He quickly agreed and off we went, with Sean, on the 70 mile course. The rain continued to pour down, but was getting lighter.
At one point Kurt, who is naturally gregarious, met a guy named Dana, who decided to ride with us. Dana was a good guy and we enjoyed riding with him the rest of the way. As we crested a hill, I looked and saw a long, slow, downhill ride ahead of me. I saw there was no shoulder to the right, and the right side of the road had been "repaired" by the local construction crews whose mandate was clearly, "Throw something in that hole; it's Miller Time."
All that to say I was riding about 2-3 feet into the road, which by Pennsylvania law is exactly where I should have been. I say that because suddenly there was a car behind me, honking. Urgently. There was no place for me to go, so I held me line, thinking this person would go around me, which they easily could have done as there was no traffic coming the other way. In short, I was being harassed because I had the temerity to ride a bike in a cancer event. Surely there must be something else going on. Finally, the Prius passed me and one of the fattest sausage-fingered hands came out of a rolled-down passenger-side window, and a single finger was extended. The Prius then rolled on ahead.
A woman cycled up next to me and said the car had been harassing people all the way down the mountain. I said, "I find they're often nicer when you catch up to them and let you know what you're doing" then dropped down a couple of gears and went up ahead. Sure enough, he was stuck behind another group of riders. I came up behind and said, "Sir, you know we're raising money for charity here, right?"
The guy rolled down the window, stuck his Duff Goldman-looking Fat-head out and launched into an expletive laced tirade about how we jam his roads up every year, how he pays taxes for these roads and we don't, how he's tired of people like me yada, yada, yada. Dude was pissed. I just looked at him and said, "Really? Really" Begin tirade two. We came to a crossroad and the car turned right. I'm glad it didn't escalate any farther, but I really don't understand how a Prius owner of all people could have a problem with cyclists. Really. I looked right behind me and Kurt was hanging next to me. He had seen the whole things and decided to get my back, riding up in support just in case. He looked at me and kind of laughed, but I know he was thinking, "Only the Irish guy can find trouble on a freaking charity ride." And, he's right. Note to Mrs. Fish - I never go looking for trouble, it just seems to find me. Honestly.The rain had slowed a lot and we continued to ride. We came to yet another section of hills, with a sizable downhill. Volunteers at the top of the hill were telling people to slow down and take it VERY easy. I asked one of the volunteers, "What, no bombing the hill?"
"No," was all she said.
Of course, I was joking, having seen what happens when people overestimate their abilities and/or underestimate the treachery of the course. Neither of these scenarios appealed to me, so I pumped the brakes to make sure they were good and dry, then tilted myself down the hill.
Experienced riders lean their bicycles to steer. Inexperienced riders use their handlebars to steer. On a downhill, the difference is even more pronounced, because when you use the handlebars, the bike pitches to the side you are steering toward. Amateurs sense this pitching, this shift in weight of the bike, and it feels like they are going down. The natural response in this situation is to steer the opposite direction and brake. This is one case where the natural response is also the wrong response. The slowing down takes the energy out of your bike, the energy that is required to make the turn. And keep the bike upright. Which is why the guy directly in front of me went through this exact series of disastrous-ballet moves and went down in a heap right in front of me. In a way it was my fault, having not left enough room in the likely event this happened.
There is a promise that God gives that he will send his angels to protect us when we need them, and I believe this was (yet another) one for me. Everything slowed down to the proverbial slow motion. I saw him try to make the right turn, panic, overcorrect and fall to the left. I steered to the right so I didn't run him over and knew immediately I was going to clip the back end of his bike and go down. I unclipped my shoes from my pedals as the bike started too go down.
I yelled as loud as I could "CRASH CRASH CRASH!!!1!" so people behind us would know and avoid us. I flew over the handlebars, stepped down with my left foot right into his chainring teeth. My body pitched forward into a semi-pushup and my left hand got a rock stuck in it where it hit. I was so glad I went back to retrieve my gloves before the ride began.
The whole thing took less than 2 seconds.I did a self-inventory and realized nothing was broken. There was a terrible stinging in my left foot where his chainring had bitten into my leg, and now rain and sweat were mingling in the shark bite there. My second thought was immediately to see if the other guy was okay. He had, in effect, just laid the bike down, and was fine. He kept apologizing over and over and asking if I was okay, and except for the hand and leg, I was okay. Then I remembered: My BABY!!! I reluctantly looked at my ride and there she was, lying on her side in the rain. I picked her up, gingerly, checking the frame. Fine. The wheels? Fine. The brakes and shifters? Also good. My water bottle had tumbled 50 feet down the hill, my odometer had gone about 10 feet int he same direction. I gingerly hobbled down to get both, but mercifully, everything was fine.
Sean, Kurt and Dana kept asking if I was fine, but I realized the real test was going to be getting back on the bike. I did. It hurt. A lot, actually. I pedalled and took a quick physical inventory. The leg hurt, the hand too, my collarbones/shoulders were both sore and my lower back was tightening up a bit, but I had maintained my record of 43 years without a broken bone. In the pain I was feeling, I actually gave more than a passing thought to one of my own cycling heroes, Jens Voigt, a man among men in the professional peloton. He crashed spectacularly in this year's Tour de France but refused to quit (Amazing story and funny interview about that: CLICK HERE). If Jens could do that, I could surely finish this. I also thought about how hard cancer survivors have to fight every day, and I knew I could finish for them. My guys asked me one more time if I was okay.
"Yeah. I got this."
We rode the last 20 miles or so in good humor. The riding was getting things moving, and except for my lower back, everything else felt a little better. It was more of a blur this year, and the time went more quickly, I think in part due to the shortening of the course. I took the lead for Team Fish and rode in, Kurt, Sean and Dana riding in behind me. It's my favorite part of the ride for many reasons, but mostly for the remembrance of all the people who make up Team Fish, of those who are with us and those who are not. Some years it's just a little too much and this year was one of them; I finished with tears in my eyes this year thinking about all of the people who made up Team Fish, and for those who are no longer with us.
Thank you, Team Fish, for all of your thoughtful support over the past four years. Words cannot express the depth or breadth of my gratitude, and just how much it means to have you with me.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
LiveSTRONG IV: Part II
Papa Behr and Patfish decided to do the 45 miles. Team Fish usually rides the first 20 miles or so as a Team and we decided to do exactly that, riding out of the 100 mile chute in a light drizzle. All things considered, and in light of just how hot it has been in past years, I was actually welcoming the change. The first year we did it, the temperature rose to triple digits and the humidity was above 90%; the suffering was epic.In fact, this marked the first year where the temperature did not rise into the 90s.
I spent the time riding back and forth between Team Fish members, chatting with them and just generally enjoying the time we had together. It was good to reconnect with my brother, and we talked about his beautiful twins, and how fast they're growing up, how different they are, and how funny. The power stops were well organized and well-spaced again this year, about every twelve miles, so the first one was a perfect place to regroup. Having passed the place where Patfish got three flats in an eight mile span the first year, I felt like we could breathe a little, even though the rain seemed to be picking up.
About 15 miles into the ride, two police motorcycles came cruising over a hill going the opposite direction. I looked to see if it was officers John and Poncharello, but it was too hard to tell. Nonetheless, I knew they were harbingers of a different sort of arrival and said to those around me, "Here comes LANCE!" Sure enojavascript:void(0)ugh, riding right behind them was a small cadre of riders with Lance right in the middle. He passed within 10 feet of me, and while I should have turned around and dusted him over the next hill (I spared him THAT embarrassment, this being his special day and all), or at least said, "On yer left" what I managed was, "Thank you, Lance!"
Sadly, there was one lady right next to me who said, "That wasn't really Lance, was it?"
"I told you he was coming, didn't I."
"Yeah, but I didn't believe you." She was seriously bummed out.
A guy pulled up next to us and said, "Thanks for the heads-up that he was coming. That was SO COOL!"
"See," I said to the lady. "He believed me."
We talked for a while longer, then I gave her something even better than a moment with Lance. I gave her a BUTNZ!
I pedalled up with Kurt, Sean, Patfish and Papa Behr with Randy up ahead slightly. I noticed a guy in some distress on the right side of the road, and as is customary of riders, I asked, "You good?"
"Do you have any air?" he asked.
I told Team Fish to go on, I was going to get this guy some air for his flat tire.Sure enough, he had a flat, had replaced his inner tube and then jettisoned his air capsule all over the outside of his tire. I retrieved my air capsule (cyclists can carry an inner tube and enough air to inflate it under the seats of their bikes) gave it to him and showed him how to use it. He didn't look so sure, so I asked him if he wanted me to do it. "Please!" he said. I pushed the button and the air went into the tire. And right back out again. His inner tube had a flat in it. Either it was faulty or he didn't check the inside of the tire before putting a new one on. Either way, he was stuck and had to wait for one of the support vehicles, telling me he would be fine. Then, I gave him something that made the rain and the flat tire and the frustration all disappear: a BUTNZ!
I pedalled on faster, now, trying to catch up to Team Fish, and came upon a guy who went down badly. The medics were arriving, and there were a couple of cyclists with him, one sitting next to him and just speaking quietly. I later learned that he lost control in the turn and slammed into the guardrail on the opposite side of the road. It happened right in front of Randy, who stopped immediately to help. He stayed with him until the medics had things under control. Randy said he was sure bones were broken and that internal bleeding was even a possibility, but the response of the medics was very swift. I didn't see Randy there as I passed, but he remained behind us for the rest of the day. He is a strong cyclist, so I assumed he was ahead of us, rather than behind, and spent the rest of the day looking the wrong direction to find him.
And then the Heavens opened up. The light drizzle that had been present all day, sprinkled with intermittent rain, turned into a full onslaught of barbaric proportions. It was one of those sudden downpours and I couldn't see more than 10 feet ahead. We were riding over hills, and the uphills slowed me down and the hard pedalling served to help me stay warm. The downhills caused an increase in speed, and the rain stung like being shot with rock-salt. They bill this ride every year as a Challenge and every year the Challenge is a little different. Heat. Humidity. Hills. And now, rain. Surely, no amount of BUTNZ! would make this better. It sucked.
But then, something amazing happened. I prayed for help to get through this, and I started thinking about all of the people I knew who had cancer, including those who have passed. I thought specifically of the tears that have been shed BY them, and especially FOR them by their friends, their families, by the people who love them. And, I thought about how the heavens were crying now, reminding me of that. Like cancer itself, there was no use in complaining about it sucking, no sense in wishing it would stop. There was only the realization that we were all in this together, going forward, wrapped in a veil of love and tears.
I pedalled on with new resolve. And better perspective.
I spent the time riding back and forth between Team Fish members, chatting with them and just generally enjoying the time we had together. It was good to reconnect with my brother, and we talked about his beautiful twins, and how fast they're growing up, how different they are, and how funny. The power stops were well organized and well-spaced again this year, about every twelve miles, so the first one was a perfect place to regroup. Having passed the place where Patfish got three flats in an eight mile span the first year, I felt like we could breathe a little, even though the rain seemed to be picking up.
About 15 miles into the ride, two police motorcycles came cruising over a hill going the opposite direction. I looked to see if it was officers John and Poncharello, but it was too hard to tell. Nonetheless, I knew they were harbingers of a different sort of arrival and said to those around me, "Here comes LANCE!" Sure enojavascript:void(0)ugh, riding right behind them was a small cadre of riders with Lance right in the middle. He passed within 10 feet of me, and while I should have turned around and dusted him over the next hill (I spared him THAT embarrassment, this being his special day and all), or at least said, "On yer left" what I managed was, "Thank you, Lance!"
Sadly, there was one lady right next to me who said, "That wasn't really Lance, was it?"
"I told you he was coming, didn't I."
"Yeah, but I didn't believe you." She was seriously bummed out.
A guy pulled up next to us and said, "Thanks for the heads-up that he was coming. That was SO COOL!"
"See," I said to the lady. "He believed me."
We talked for a while longer, then I gave her something even better than a moment with Lance. I gave her a BUTNZ!
I pedalled up with Kurt, Sean, Patfish and Papa Behr with Randy up ahead slightly. I noticed a guy in some distress on the right side of the road, and as is customary of riders, I asked, "You good?"
"Do you have any air?" he asked.
I told Team Fish to go on, I was going to get this guy some air for his flat tire.Sure enough, he had a flat, had replaced his inner tube and then jettisoned his air capsule all over the outside of his tire. I retrieved my air capsule (cyclists can carry an inner tube and enough air to inflate it under the seats of their bikes) gave it to him and showed him how to use it. He didn't look so sure, so I asked him if he wanted me to do it. "Please!" he said. I pushed the button and the air went into the tire. And right back out again. His inner tube had a flat in it. Either it was faulty or he didn't check the inside of the tire before putting a new one on. Either way, he was stuck and had to wait for one of the support vehicles, telling me he would be fine. Then, I gave him something that made the rain and the flat tire and the frustration all disappear: a BUTNZ!
I pedalled on faster, now, trying to catch up to Team Fish, and came upon a guy who went down badly. The medics were arriving, and there were a couple of cyclists with him, one sitting next to him and just speaking quietly. I later learned that he lost control in the turn and slammed into the guardrail on the opposite side of the road. It happened right in front of Randy, who stopped immediately to help. He stayed with him until the medics had things under control. Randy said he was sure bones were broken and that internal bleeding was even a possibility, but the response of the medics was very swift. I didn't see Randy there as I passed, but he remained behind us for the rest of the day. He is a strong cyclist, so I assumed he was ahead of us, rather than behind, and spent the rest of the day looking the wrong direction to find him.
And then the Heavens opened up. The light drizzle that had been present all day, sprinkled with intermittent rain, turned into a full onslaught of barbaric proportions. It was one of those sudden downpours and I couldn't see more than 10 feet ahead. We were riding over hills, and the uphills slowed me down and the hard pedalling served to help me stay warm. The downhills caused an increase in speed, and the rain stung like being shot with rock-salt. They bill this ride every year as a Challenge and every year the Challenge is a little different. Heat. Humidity. Hills. And now, rain. Surely, no amount of BUTNZ! would make this better. It sucked.
But then, something amazing happened. I prayed for help to get through this, and I started thinking about all of the people I knew who had cancer, including those who have passed. I thought specifically of the tears that have been shed BY them, and especially FOR them by their friends, their families, by the people who love them. And, I thought about how the heavens were crying now, reminding me of that. Like cancer itself, there was no use in complaining about it sucking, no sense in wishing it would stop. There was only the realization that we were all in this together, going forward, wrapped in a veil of love and tears.
I pedalled on with new resolve. And better perspective.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
LiveSTRONG IV: Part I
I woke up and rolled my bicycle out of the hotel, the swish of the doors closing behind me, hermetically sealing in my still-sleeping family. It was 6.00 am and the riders of Team Fish were arriving to the site, with me only minutes behind. The parking lot was glazed over with a light sheen from an evening rain, and the way the skies were lightening gave me the feeling that there was more on the way. I ran back inside, grabbed a couple of donuts from the continental breakfast, and then piled into my car. I changed my routine this year: I always lay out my complete ensemble the night before, meticulously accounting for everything I need and making sure it is exactly where I want it to be. In hindsight, I wish I had done it again Saturday night. The traffic was about the same as always, which meant that I was going to be right on time. But, upon pulling in, I really would have liked to have had more time to get things ship-top-shape and squared away.
This was my fourth tour of duty with LiveSTRONG and I was joined this year by my brother, Patfish Hunter (4th Tour): Kurt Fishmagic (3rd Tour); Papa Behr, the Patron Saint of BUTNZ! (1st Tour); Sean (2nd Tour, 1st with Team Fish) and Randy (1st Tour). I set a goal of six riders (the most we have ever had was four) and I was so glad these guys came out to ride with Team Fish this year. I contacted (a different) Kurt, the BUTNZ guru, and he designed and created pint glasses for the Team Fish riders, which I presented to them as a thanks for riding with me. It was like passing out really cool groomsmen's gifts, and they were very well received. Now all we had to do was pedal 100 miles to fill them.
Last year, Lance was at the World Cancer Summit, the beginning of an attempt to bring the nations of the world together to make collaboratively curing cancer a global concern. This year, he chose to spend the Sunday with us. The LiveSTRONG Philadelphia event offically kicked off with a great rendition of the Star Spangled Banner by a local soul/jazz singer. Note to humans: when the Anthem is sung, one is to remove one's hat/helmet, stand still and at attention facing the flag (or the music, if you can't see the flag), and SHUT UP! KTHXBAI. Lance gave a speech about how much he appreciated 3,200 riders coming out and raising more than $3 million to fight cancer. He also stated that Philadelphia had significantly raised the bar in fund-raising, and that his home town of Austin now had some catching up to do. He finished up by saying that he really likes the Philadelphia course because it's a particularly challenging course. I think a lot of people kind of perked up at that. I heard more than one person say, "Wait. Did he say Challenging? Lance thinks this is challenging? What did I get myself into?" There was the obligatory safety speech, which I actually listened to, given the conditions. I think a lot of people gave it the same attention they do airline attendants and company webinars, and I wondered how many of them would later regret not listening.
And then it was time. We started rolling out over the names of riders, chalked into the road Tour de France-style, a reminder of just how many people were involved in this event. The crowd was huge and everyone was cheering for us. I was reminded of those scenes in war movies where the soldiers march out (there's a great one in Glory) and people are trying to pass on their strength and courage to the guys going into battle. It felt like that, I imagined, and then I realized that we are at war. And we're going to WIN! It actually gave me goosebumps (yes, again) to hear the cheers of all those people and to think of Team Fish and the support you gave this year, to look around at the riders of Team Fish, a bunch of guys who decided to give up a lot of time to train to do this, to fundraise, and then spend a Sunday riding in the rain with some fool who thought it would be a good idea three years ago and hasn't had the good sense to quit. I love TEAM FISH!
And out onto the course we rode....
This was my fourth tour of duty with LiveSTRONG and I was joined this year by my brother, Patfish Hunter (4th Tour): Kurt Fishmagic (3rd Tour); Papa Behr, the Patron Saint of BUTNZ! (1st Tour); Sean (2nd Tour, 1st with Team Fish) and Randy (1st Tour). I set a goal of six riders (the most we have ever had was four) and I was so glad these guys came out to ride with Team Fish this year. I contacted (a different) Kurt, the BUTNZ guru, and he designed and created pint glasses for the Team Fish riders, which I presented to them as a thanks for riding with me. It was like passing out really cool groomsmen's gifts, and they were very well received. Now all we had to do was pedal 100 miles to fill them.
Last year, Lance was at the World Cancer Summit, the beginning of an attempt to bring the nations of the world together to make collaboratively curing cancer a global concern. This year, he chose to spend the Sunday with us. The LiveSTRONG Philadelphia event offically kicked off with a great rendition of the Star Spangled Banner by a local soul/jazz singer. Note to humans: when the Anthem is sung, one is to remove one's hat/helmet, stand still and at attention facing the flag (or the music, if you can't see the flag), and SHUT UP! KTHXBAI. Lance gave a speech about how much he appreciated 3,200 riders coming out and raising more than $3 million to fight cancer. He also stated that Philadelphia had significantly raised the bar in fund-raising, and that his home town of Austin now had some catching up to do. He finished up by saying that he really likes the Philadelphia course because it's a particularly challenging course. I think a lot of people kind of perked up at that. I heard more than one person say, "Wait. Did he say Challenging? Lance thinks this is challenging? What did I get myself into?" There was the obligatory safety speech, which I actually listened to, given the conditions. I think a lot of people gave it the same attention they do airline attendants and company webinars, and I wondered how many of them would later regret not listening. And then it was time. We started rolling out over the names of riders, chalked into the road Tour de France-style, a reminder of just how many people were involved in this event. The crowd was huge and everyone was cheering for us. I was reminded of those scenes in war movies where the soldiers march out (there's a great one in Glory) and people are trying to pass on their strength and courage to the guys going into battle. It felt like that, I imagined, and then I realized that we are at war. And we're going to WIN! It actually gave me goosebumps (yes, again) to hear the cheers of all those people and to think of Team Fish and the support you gave this year, to look around at the riders of Team Fish, a bunch of guys who decided to give up a lot of time to train to do this, to fundraise, and then spend a Sunday riding in the rain with some fool who thought it would be a good idea three years ago and hasn't had the good sense to quit. I love TEAM FISH!
And out onto the course we rode....
Monday, August 23, 2010
LiveSTRONG IV: Prelude
First, I need to say a huge thanks to Team Fish, who reached EVERY GOAL we set this year! LiveSTRONG, and indeed surviving cancer, is all about the incredible people who surround me. I could not do ANY of this without you, and the words to express just how much I cherish you fail me.
I went down to the ride early on Saturday because I had to get my car serviced while I was in the area. I dropped my car off at the shop and took off for a ride, one of the advantages of having my bike with me. My tire had gone flat from the reinflation I did with the air canister (for some reason, when you use a canister to inflate the tube, it deflates drastically in about a day or so). Then I went 21st Century, cranked up my Blackberry and checked for bike shops near me. There was one 3 minutes from where I was, so I rode over there, borrowed a pump and rode on. I tooled around the Main Line, took a wrong turn and ended up in Philadelphia, then eventually found my way back, putting in about 20 miles. It was (mostly) a nice, easy meandering spin and it was cool to see the area from a bike.
One of my favorite things to do is go to the Expo the day before. Patty, a very personable volunteer, took the Team Fish information and promised to pull together our packets, then encouraged me to go enjoy the Expo. I always write down the names of the people who supported me, and the people they have asked me to remember, adding them to the wall. I had a really hard time adding Collin Marsh to a Memory Card instead of an Honor Card, this year. I miss Terri and Bob and Christine, and my friend Will's wife, Beth. But, I still was able to add a lot of Honor cards, and survivor cards for some friends, including my friends Bev, Bill and Doug. There were so many more cards, and it has always been bittersweet to hang them on the wall; this year was no different.
I returned back to see Patty and she had put all of the Team Fish packages together. I also was able to meet Dylan Trakas, who has helped put together the Philadelphia event every year. I always look forward to seeing him, and he seems to bring a positive attitude and a lot of energy to what he does. The volunteers are really what makes this event run, and they are incredible people for doing what they do. I picked up the packages and also went to the Long's Cycle tent, picking up 2 pairs of sunglasses (one normal and one high-tint yellow) and an Irish cycling cap for less than $20: Score!
My family has a tradition of eating dinner with Mrs. Fish's mom and we did it again for the fourth straight year. She has had health concerns, so I was ecstatic when I saw how good she looked and that she was able to join us yet again. We went to a local restaurant, got terrible service, but still managed to have a great time. Wrapping up, Mrs. Fish, Li'l Fish and I checked into a local hotel, had some Ben & Jerry's Imagine World Peace, and retired for the evening.
I went down to the ride early on Saturday because I had to get my car serviced while I was in the area. I dropped my car off at the shop and took off for a ride, one of the advantages of having my bike with me. My tire had gone flat from the reinflation I did with the air canister (for some reason, when you use a canister to inflate the tube, it deflates drastically in about a day or so). Then I went 21st Century, cranked up my Blackberry and checked for bike shops near me. There was one 3 minutes from where I was, so I rode over there, borrowed a pump and rode on. I tooled around the Main Line, took a wrong turn and ended up in Philadelphia, then eventually found my way back, putting in about 20 miles. It was (mostly) a nice, easy meandering spin and it was cool to see the area from a bike.
One of my favorite things to do is go to the Expo the day before. Patty, a very personable volunteer, took the Team Fish information and promised to pull together our packets, then encouraged me to go enjoy the Expo. I always write down the names of the people who supported me, and the people they have asked me to remember, adding them to the wall. I had a really hard time adding Collin Marsh to a Memory Card instead of an Honor Card, this year. I miss Terri and Bob and Christine, and my friend Will's wife, Beth. But, I still was able to add a lot of Honor cards, and survivor cards for some friends, including my friends Bev, Bill and Doug. There were so many more cards, and it has always been bittersweet to hang them on the wall; this year was no different.
I returned back to see Patty and she had put all of the Team Fish packages together. I also was able to meet Dylan Trakas, who has helped put together the Philadelphia event every year. I always look forward to seeing him, and he seems to bring a positive attitude and a lot of energy to what he does. The volunteers are really what makes this event run, and they are incredible people for doing what they do. I picked up the packages and also went to the Long's Cycle tent, picking up 2 pairs of sunglasses (one normal and one high-tint yellow) and an Irish cycling cap for less than $20: Score!
My family has a tradition of eating dinner with Mrs. Fish's mom and we did it again for the fourth straight year. She has had health concerns, so I was ecstatic when I saw how good she looked and that she was able to join us yet again. We went to a local restaurant, got terrible service, but still managed to have a great time. Wrapping up, Mrs. Fish, Li'l Fish and I checked into a local hotel, had some Ben & Jerry's Imagine World Peace, and retired for the evening.
LiveSTRONG IV
We survived another LiveSTRONG event. There was weather, crashes, road-rage and a few tears. Full ride report is coming up, and BUTNZ! will be coming out shortly. A HUGE THANK YOU to Team Fish for everything you did this year.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
When I set p my goals for this year's LiveSTRONG Challenge, I was trying to be optimistic. I set a goal of 6 riders, and lo and behold, six riders agreed to be part of Team Fish. I set a goal of $5,000, significantly more than I raised last year in an economy that is still down. Still, there it was. To date, we are already above $4,000. My personal goal was to raise $2,500 and I am currently just this side of $2,000.
What that means is this: we're close. REALLY CLOSE. Would you please consider joining Team Fish. This year's Philadelphia Challenge is complete covered by corporate sponsorships, which means that all of the fundraising money goes directly to the cause, to help kill cancer. I already have 40 people who have joined me on Team Fish. If you'd like to make a contribution, no matter how small, CLICK HERE. It's quick, it's easy, and it helps me kill cancer. Thanks so much!
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Cancer: Four Years Later
Today is the fourth anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. I celebrated by riding 68 miles with my buddy Kurt and a bunch of his buddies. I was pretty good until about mile 55, at which point I began to realize I hadn't eaten enough. I started to bonk, but managed to get through the last 10 miles by gritting my teeth and thinking about how much it hurts to have cancer. I thought about people I have known and people I have never met and people who have passed and how much they would love to be riding with me on this day.
Upon arriving home, I found that Teh BUTNZ! have arrived! I think it's my other buddy Kurt's best work ever. The second BUTNZ has a place to put names on it - how incredibly cool is that? Cheggit:
I then cooked shrimp and pasta for the beautiful Mrs. Fish and for Li'l Fish and we're going to enjoy (I think) Julie and Julia.
I always think I had a good handle on how blessed my life was, even before cancer, so I haven't really have any life-altering revelations in the four years since I was diagnosed. Maybe I appreciate, a little more, how fragile life can be, and how sweet, and like all things fragile and sweet, it's meant to be savored a little more.
Upon arriving home, I found that Teh BUTNZ! have arrived! I think it's my other buddy Kurt's best work ever. The second BUTNZ has a place to put names on it - how incredibly cool is that? Cheggit:
I then cooked shrimp and pasta for the beautiful Mrs. Fish and for Li'l Fish and we're going to enjoy (I think) Julie and Julia.
I always think I had a good handle on how blessed my life was, even before cancer, so I haven't really have any life-altering revelations in the four years since I was diagnosed. Maybe I appreciate, a little more, how fragile life can be, and how sweet, and like all things fragile and sweet, it's meant to be savored a little more.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Doubts
Every year around this time I go through a period of doubt. I think wrestling with the mental part of the LiveSTRONG Challenge is almost as big a part of the Challenge as the physical part. I have less than two weeks to go and those niggling details hit the back of my mind.
Have I ridden enough miles?
Have I covered enough hills? I still haven't made it up Lamb's Gap, my test of preparedness in past years.
Have I prepared enough? Am I going to cramp up like I have in past years in the heat?
Has my diet been what it should have been?
Have I done enough fundraising, because that's really what this is all about?
Have I neglected other things to do the Challenge?
The doubts come and go and for the most part I can keep them at bay. I realize also that being mentally tough is a HUGE part of survivorship, and that's probably why the Challenge is set up the way it is.
Thanks to all of you for your thoughts, prayers, and support. It means so very much.
Have I ridden enough miles?
Have I covered enough hills? I still haven't made it up Lamb's Gap, my test of preparedness in past years.
Have I prepared enough? Am I going to cramp up like I have in past years in the heat?
Has my diet been what it should have been?
Have I done enough fundraising, because that's really what this is all about?
Have I neglected other things to do the Challenge?
The doubts come and go and for the most part I can keep them at bay. I realize also that being mentally tough is a HUGE part of survivorship, and that's probably why the Challenge is set up the way it is.
Thanks to all of you for your thoughts, prayers, and support. It means so very much.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Second Milestone!
I went away for a week, camping with Li'l Fish, and came back to see that Team Fish or Cut Bait has cleared $2,000 in the fight to beat cancer! A huge thank you to Team Fish for your continued thoughtful support.
Want to be a part of Team Fish or Cut Bait? CLICK HERE and follow the simple directions to make a pledge. No amount is too small - we just want you with us!
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
FBS: Where Have You Been All of my Life?
My buddy Brad, in between bouts of complaining about the government, comes up with some excellent ideas and shares some great information (actually, he still manages to do that while complaining about the government, too). He was part of the brain-trust that came up with the Men's Moving Mission, a group of guys from church that help people in difficult places move, including a lot of women who are in domestic violence situations. It was Brad who first invited me to go to Belarus (which, incidentally, was the catalyst for starting this blog).
So, when we were talking about favorite foods one day, and he mentioned a Fried Bologna Sammich (FBS) I knew I was in for something special. I'd never had one, having grown up in my mother's house, a land of baking from scratch and whole-food ingredients long before it was the fashionable thing to do. I remember we used to go down to the local farm early in the morning so Mom could get the freshest eggs, which were brown as eggs should be. It wasn't until I started eating at the homes of friends that I learned there were white eggs. Mom's house was most definitely NOT a home that included the standard white-trash comfort foods of Middle America, though I suspect this was as much out of ignorance (Mom was born in Dublin) as choice. Hot dogs, rarely served, anyway, came with ketchup and without baked beans, mac-n-cheese was never served in my house, and even soup was just as often made from scratch as from the ubiquitous red, white and gold can of Warhol's suburbia.
I determined that I had to try a fried bologna sandwich and committed to doing it properly. I made slits through the center of three slices of bologna in an "X" pattern. I dropped them into a non-stick pan a cooked them until crispy, then plopped them on wheat bread (I know, if it was a real FBS it would have been white, but I can still, at 43, hear Mom's disapproval and I don't doubt for a second she would have called me the second I took a bite and asked just "what do you think you're DOING?"). I put on a slice of American cheese (I now prefer Colby-Jack), lettuce and tomato, and settled in to eat my creation with a mixture of fear and anxious anticipation.
"Oh. My. Gawd! FBS, where have you been all of my life?" It was fantastic. Amazing. The slight crunch of the crispy bologna was reminiscent of the current culture vogue item, bacon. The contrast of cold lettuce and hot bologna, sweet tomato and salty bologna were like the magic of Siegfried and Roy: good on their own merits, but infinitesimally better together.
Now I am off and running into the exploration phase of FBS. With so many options out there, there's simply so much to explore, and I have 40+ years of catching up to do. Want to make a FBS and don't know a Brad or similar Bologna-Zen-Master who can guide you? I also found this simple video helpful:
Bon apetit...fer real!
So, when we were talking about favorite foods one day, and he mentioned a Fried Bologna Sammich (FBS) I knew I was in for something special. I'd never had one, having grown up in my mother's house, a land of baking from scratch and whole-food ingredients long before it was the fashionable thing to do. I remember we used to go down to the local farm early in the morning so Mom could get the freshest eggs, which were brown as eggs should be. It wasn't until I started eating at the homes of friends that I learned there were white eggs. Mom's house was most definitely NOT a home that included the standard white-trash comfort foods of Middle America, though I suspect this was as much out of ignorance (Mom was born in Dublin) as choice. Hot dogs, rarely served, anyway, came with ketchup and without baked beans, mac-n-cheese was never served in my house, and even soup was just as often made from scratch as from the ubiquitous red, white and gold can of Warhol's suburbia.
I determined that I had to try a fried bologna sandwich and committed to doing it properly. I made slits through the center of three slices of bologna in an "X" pattern. I dropped them into a non-stick pan a cooked them until crispy, then plopped them on wheat bread (I know, if it was a real FBS it would have been white, but I can still, at 43, hear Mom's disapproval and I don't doubt for a second she would have called me the second I took a bite and asked just "what do you think you're DOING?"). I put on a slice of American cheese (I now prefer Colby-Jack), lettuce and tomato, and settled in to eat my creation with a mixture of fear and anxious anticipation.
"Oh. My. Gawd! FBS, where have you been all of my life?" It was fantastic. Amazing. The slight crunch of the crispy bologna was reminiscent of the current culture vogue item, bacon. The contrast of cold lettuce and hot bologna, sweet tomato and salty bologna were like the magic of Siegfried and Roy: good on their own merits, but infinitesimally better together.
Now I am off and running into the exploration phase of FBS. With so many options out there, there's simply so much to explore, and I have 40+ years of catching up to do. Want to make a FBS and don't know a Brad or similar Bologna-Zen-Master who can guide you? I also found this simple video helpful:
Bon apetit...fer real!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Team Fish or Cut Bait: First Milestone!
Team Fish or Cut Bait has cleared it's first $1,000 in the fight to beat cancer! A huge thank you to those who have made contributions for your thoughtful support. An equally huge thank you to those of you who have e-mailed, called, PM'd and otherwise pledged your support for our ride.
Want to be a part of Team Fish or Cut Bait? CLICK HERE and follow the simple directions to make a pledge. No amount is too small - we just want you with us!
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