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May Day May Day is the emergency call for help. It's also the day the mayflies come out in the South. Maybe there's a link. These buggers accosted me on my walk today and I felt I needed some emergency services. Terry was walking with me, but they left her alone. Either she was too small a target for them to find or my musk was too overpowering for them to ignore. Whatever the reason, I was doing the spastic mayfly dance throughout our walk this morning, jerking spasmodically, waving my hand frantically overhead, and slapping every bare piece of skin I had. It was not a pretty sight. Ever the glutton for punishment, I did an extra couple of circuits on the Canal Walk after Terry left. My ulterior motive? I wanted to go back and kill some of the bastards! I lost the battle, though. I killed one mayfly and two mosquitoes while they zapped me a dozen-or-so times. I did a second walk in the afternoon, bringing my daily total up to (drum roll) 10 miles. TEN MILES! I don't know how long it's been since I've done that. Too long to remember. I'm so stoked I feel like going back out again, but that wouldn't be smart. Hope I still feel this way tomorrow. Cue the Rocky theme. ABS-olutely Painful 
A thought popped into my head this morning that I should add some cross-training into my program. The Devil must have planted it there and I'm sure he had a good laugh while watching me writhe in pain.I've got some old "Abs of Steel" videotapes that feature beginner, intermediate, and advanced workout sessions. I used to max out on the sit-up portion of my Army PT test, so I figured I'd start out with an intermediate session. Big mistake. One minute and forty-two seconds into the workout, I was flopping on the floor like a big-mouthed bass. A charlie horse seized my gut and made every position I tried worse than the one before. Cursing the perky stick-figure on the screen, I finally stood, arched my back, and massaged my yelping belly. I could hear it lamenting: "Why would you do this to me? I thought we were friends. What happened to our agreement? You know, the one where you feed me greasy snacks and I give you a comfy resting spot for the remote control! Have you forgotten our pact?" I did a 5-mile walk then spent the rest of the day crafting a voodoo doll of Leisa Hart, the demonic aerobic instructor who kept insisting, "You can do it. And five more...and four more...and three...good job...you can do it." Grr, I'll show her what I can do! What a Loser With my early morning walks, I miss out on prime time TV, which is no big loss. However, I like to tape NBC during the week and watch the Tonight Show in the morning while I eat breakfast. Leno's a fun way to start the day, especially when you can fast forward through the commercials. Last night's tape included a segment from a reality show called "The Biggest Loser." The contestants are morbidly obese individuals who go to a fat ranch and work out under the supervision of two sadistic trainers and compete in various "challenges." Every week, one of the two people who lost the least percentage of body weight is voted off the show. The Biggest Loser is nearing the end and only four "Losers" remain. They've all lost tons of weight and are feeling great about themselves. Their final challenge is to do a marathon - A MARATHON! 26.2 MILES! Worse yet, one of the finalists is a gimpy old guy named Ron who has a bad knee. He walked the marathon using a cane and completed it in 17 hours. I was amazed. I, too, have a bad knee and can empathize with his pain. As soon as the episode was over, I put my walking gear on and hit the street. I didn't have an actual distance in mind but I was motivated into a long-distance hike. In the end, I went 10 miles. It might not be the 26.2 that Ron did, but it was a huge accomplishment for me. Woo hoo! I also learned a good lesson, just in case I try one of these "long walks" again. I'm a sweaty pig. After walking my first mile, I'm usually soaked as much as if I'd jumped in a lake. Well, one thing I hadn't counted on was wet feet. You see, my feet sweat less than the rest of my body but still enough to do some harm. Around mile 8 or 9, my socks were soaked through and they were rubbing on my feet. I probably could have walked farther, but I was risking blisters at that point. Next time, I'll have to find a way to bring a spare pair of socks. Half-Marathon Man Here was the plan: I would walk the 12.7 miles from my house to my friend Dawn's house and then add another 0.4 miles around her neighborhood so I could do a half-marathon. To do this, I'd have to carry an extra pair of socks and some water, so I started looking around for a Camelback. A Camelback is essentially a small backpack containing a water bladder with a drinking tube attached to the straps. You can sip from it without ever halting. The Camelback was developed for soldiers serving in the desert, but it has since been knocked off in the private sector. I went down to Dick's Sporting Goods and bought a Soaker 70. The Soaker 70 not only holds 2 liters of water, but it also has several handy compartments for carrying extra items. It was perfect for my needs. So, the plan was to pack up my Soaker 70 with socks, a walkman and storytapes, my cellphone (in case of emergency), and a couple of Fig Newton snack packs. Here's what happened: I straped the Soaker-70 to my back and left the house at 3 a.m., hoping to avoid traffic on the part of my walk without sidewalks. But I only got as far as the front steps of my house before realizing my back was soaked. My Soaker-70 (what an appropriate name!) had sprung a leak. Arghh! Flummoxed, I went back in the house, unpacked, and dropped the Soaker in the sink. I didn't want to carry bottles all the way to Dawn's house, but I wasn't going to go that far without bringing water either. Instead, I walked 8.1 miles in Poquoson, changed my socks and shirt, drove to Dawn's house, and then walked the final 5 miles in her neighborhood. The distance still adds up the same, but it doesn't feel like the same accomplishment as going a straight-line distance. Maybe next time. Dawn was a real trooper. When I arrived at her house, she walked with me for about 3 miles and then went inside to cook us brunch. I wolfed down three tofu burritos, her special recipe that I'm not allowed to share with anyone. If you haven't had tofu before, you might be thinking, "Tofu? Gross!" But I'm telling you, they were delicious. I had to say that, otherwise she wouldn't let me bring home a doggy bag. Hallowed Ground 
My nephew Ryan graduated today from Virginia Tech, my alma mater. I arrived a few hours before the commencement ceremony and decided to walk around campus, something I would have been unable to do a short while ago. Blacksburg is a hilly place, lodged in the New River Valley of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It seems even hillier to someone used to the flatlands of Hampton Roads.
But with all the miles I've been logging, I was able to trek around the stomping grounds of my youth without having to be medevaced out of there.Not-So-Skinny Dipping Terry mentioned that she had a canoe and it had been a while since I made an utter fool out of myself so I said, "Hey, why don't we go canoeing some day?" Well, today was that day. The canoe had been sitting in her back yard for some time, so we flipped it over, washed off the muck, and scooped out a handful of daddy longlegs. We pulled it over to her neighbor's pier and I dragged it in while Terry stood on the pier and steadied it with one of the paddles. At this point, I should probably mention something about how confident I felt as I raised my foot to step in the canoe. You see, I've been on the water aplenty throughout my life. As a kid, I kayaked all over the place when I went to camp and in the Army I paddled thither and yon in inflatable zodiacs. I'm also a strong swimmer and when we'd do capsize drills in the zodiacs, I never panicked and had no problem getting back in the boat. Of course, that was many years (and many pounds) ago. Which brings us back to the moment at hand: my foot, hovering in the air above the canoe; me, brimming with confidence, ready to launch off on a fun-filled day on the water. "In" the water actually. I set my first foot onto the aluminum floor without problem, but when I tried to bring my second foot in, the boat acted with a mind of its own. The front end lifted up and the tilted to one side. I held onto one of the pilings for dear life and the front end splashed back down. Terry tried to steady the boat, but only managed to pull the front underneath the pier. Because of my bad knee, I couldn't pull my leg out of the boat, which was getting closer and closer to capsizing...BEFORE EITHER OF US HAD EVEN SAT DOWN. Finally (sigh), the canoe won the battle and I took a header in the water. Mmm, brine. Terry suggested we use the steps at the end of the pier, which were, you know, actually made for this kind of thing. She pulled the canoe to the end of the pier with her paddle and I turned around to get out. But my troubles weren't over with yet. The silty muck at the bottom sucked the shoe off my foot and I had to go fishing for it. We finally got in and launched out into the water, where the laugh parade continued in earnest. I was sitting up front and Terry was in back steering...at least, I think she was steering. It was hard to tell the way we zig-zagged through the harbor like the Exxon Valdez. Several times I thought we were going to ram one of the zillion-dollar yachts anchored in the water. A wide expanse of open blue, and we come close to hitting the only object out there. Of course, it wasn't helping that the canoe almost tipped over several times due to me being off-balanced so much of the time. There was also an osprey nest on top of one of a piling smack dab in the middle of the inlet. When we paddled near the nest, the mama started screeching at us then flying circles around us. I was sure she was going to dive bomb us, her talons carving a hunk of flesh from my neck. But, no, we managed to skedaddle before she got too angry. We weren't out there terribly long, but we made it back without any more swimming. What an adventure. Arggh Mateys! "Good Job" I walked 6-and-a-half miles this morning and when I was on the home stretch with about a mile left to go, someone at an intersection I was passing called out his car window, "Good job!" I have to tell you, that felt pretty good. I was soaked and feeling (and probably looking) like a drowned rat at the moment and his words served as a pick-me-up. Now, there have been plenty of times when people have passed me on the road and offered encouragement or just tried to say hello by honking. I appreciate the sentiment, but each time scares the bejesus out of me. Usually the honk comes right as the car pulls alongside me and the driver realizes, "Hey, that's Bill." They tap on the horn and watch me dance on the side of the road, probably figuring I'm excited to see them. Actually I'm trying to stop my heart from racing or trying not to twist my ankle while jumping away from the road. There are a certain number of people out there, teenagers mostly, who enjoy screaming right as they pass by, and I give the same energetic dance to them as to my well-meaning friends, but this morning's morale-boosting shout was a first. I hope it's not the last. Pride Goeth Before The Fat Man's Fall So, this morning's walk started out uneventful. I was strolling along at a casual pace when a female walker intersected my path from a side street. As she rounded the curve to turn and head in the same direction I was going, she glanced back at me and then started picking up her pace. And the race was on. She was shorter than me, older than me, and only 20-or-so feet ahead of me. I figured I'd catch up and pass her in just a few minutes. But that broad could boogie. I was only catching up at what felt like an inch-a-minute...and it was killing me! But there was no way I was going to back off. Then she'd know that not only had I sped up to pass her but that I'd failed as well. After about a mile of jockeying for position I finally passed her and restrained myself from laughing derisively as I did so�not out of a sense of chivalry but a lack of oxygen. Also, I'd put myself in a pickle. I couldn't slow down now, thus announcing that my pace had been fueled by machismo, so I had to keep zipping along. When I finally turned around at the 2.5 mile marker I saw my adversary was nowhere in sight. She'd probably turned around shortly after I passed her. As I returned home at a gentler and more dignified pace, I considered the "race" from the woman's point of view. When she turned the corner and saw this sweaty beast lumbering toward her, she'd probably picked up the pace due to her sense of smell (we sweaty beasts do tend to travel in our own clouds of noxious perfume) or a sense of self-preservation (as every TV show these days seems to emphasize avoiding strange men...especially the smelly ones). I can hear her now, relating the story to a friend: "I tell you Bertha, the way that fat boy was bearing down on me, I thought I was a goner for sure!" An Idea is Hatched   This past weekend, Dawn and I had plans to attend two barbeques, one on Saturday at 2 PM and one on Sunday at 5 PM. When we arrived at Newport News Park on Saturday and headed out to the appropriate picnic shelter when Dawn realized we didn't know anyone there. I'd been ready to make the rounds armed with the usual comment I offer when shaking hands with somebody I don't remember: "Been a long time, huh? What you been up to?" Rescued from that faux pas, we got out of there and double-checked our notes. Turns out we had the times reversed�the 2 o'clock BBQ was Sunday and the 5 o'clock one was on Saturday. After I chastised her for giving me the wrong times and dates (I mean, it had to be her fault, not mine) and she calmly reminded me how she'd told me it was the other way around (just like a woman to try shifting the blame), we decided to make use of our afternoon. We drove down Route 17 to Yorktown and then decided to take the Colonial Parkway out to Williamsburg. It's amazing how much history lives in this area and how little of it I've stopped to notice. I've lived here 30 years but this was the first time I'd gone by Yorktown's Surrender Field, where the British laid down their arms to surrender to the colonists they had once ruled. And Colonial Williamsburg draws visitors from around the globe, but I've never bothered to visit the historic displays and reenactments even though I'm only 45 minutes away. I'm even fit enough now to walk around Yorktown's battlefields and Colonial Williamsburgs cobblestone streets without running out of steam. On the drive back, I checked the mileage and saw that the Colonial Parkway was now a distance I could actually walk. Maybe I can make an adventure of this: spend a day in Yorktown exploring the historic sites then walk to Williamsburg on the Parkway and spend the next day there doing the same. Dawn won't do the walk with me, but she said she's up for the exploring part. So, that's the plan. You'll have to check back later to see how it turns out. Uncle Charley Uncle Charley came to visit me in the middle of the night. He's a prankster, that Charley. He saw I was fast asleep, cavorting in dreamland with scantily clad models, each fulfilling my wanton desires. So what does Charley do? He grabs my leg and twists until I sprang out of bed to greet him. I've had many Charley Horses before, but they've always been located in my thigh. My friend Dawn has always had them in her calf. Those are the two most common locations for a charley horse and they can usually be "stretched out" as described HERE. But last night was the first time one attacked my groin muscle. The entire inside of my leg from my crotch to my knee was on fire and I couldn't find a position to relieve the pain. I was finally able to massage it away and then gingerly laid back down to sleep. Alas, the models were gone, and when a dream overtook me it was the one where a giant dung beetle eats the roof off my house and I have to fight him off with a roll of Christmas wrapping paper. Damn you Uncle Charley! Dog Food I went over to Dawn's house last night. We put on some art house movie that had gotten scads of praise and found we couldn't follow it one bit. After about 45 minutes, we pulled the plug. Without a movie for the boob tube, what else was there to do? "Well," said Dawn, "I've got to do some shopping. The dogs need food and tick spray." A movie, a pet store outing, it's all the same to me; I lead such an exciting life. So we go to Care-A-Lot and cruise over to the dry food aisle. I'm pushing the cart, which has rear wheels that extend out farther than the width of the basket, causing me to bump into standing displays and aisle racks as I steer too close to them. Dawn's dog food choice comes in an industrial-sized, 50-lb bag that makes a booming sound when I drop it in the cart. As we go to the register, the man in front of us bangs into a stack of boxes with his rear wheel and I shoot Dawn a look that says: "See, it's not me, it's the cart." She shoots me back a look usually reserved for someone explaining something to a slow-witted friend; I read it as: "It's not the cart; it's all men." Anyway, we get our stuff back to her house and as I'm hefting a bag over my shoulders and hauling it into the house, I realize that this dead weight on my shoulders is about the same amount of weight I've lost so far. I found myself taking each step up to her house a little more gingerly and understood finally how much I'd been undermining my ability to do anything. Last year, when I'd been carrying around that extra "dog food" all the time, I'd have to rock myself up from the sofa and still have to put my hands on my knees for support as I stood. Plus, every little thing was accompanied by huffing and puffing. These days I only wheeze when I'm making obscene phone calls. Of course, I've still got two or three extra dog-food bags I need to lose. If you're in the aisle when I'm dropping them off, you better stand back; even if my wheels don't clip your ankles, the bags may crush your feet. One of Us When my sister lived in Holland, she used to take long treks across the countryside with the locals. These scenic strolls were called Volksmarches, and the Hollandaise�er, I mean the Dutch�have hundreds of Volksmarch clubs that organize outings throughout the year. This comes as no surprise since just about everyone is healthy in Holland. What does come as a surprise, however, is that Volksmarch clubs also exist here in the States. A quick search online revealed the American Volkssport Association, whose credo boasts: "Meet friends and walk scenic trails at your own pace for fun, fitness, and friendship." The local chapter goes by the name Virginia Vagabounds and they were hosting a walk this morning in Newport News' City Center. The information I read said that anyone could come and walk for free, so I thought I'd give it a try. Of course, once I got there the walk's organizer, a Vietnam Veteran named Sam Tollett, gave me the sales pitch and told me about all the extras I'd be missing out on if I didn't pony up a few bucks. He had a strong Southern drawl and a folksy manner that was hard to resist. For $5, he said, I could get a tracking booklet for today's walk and any Volksmarches I did in the future. Once the booklet filled up, I could send it in to the national organization and receive certificates and prizes (pins, hats, t-shirts, and such). As a former Boy Scout and soldier, I love anything that comes with pins and medals. I was in. Sam's wife Annette processed my payment and the two of them told me stories of Volksmarches dating back to '79, when they'd first gotten involved with them. "Sometimes you can do a march like this (today's walk was 10 kilometers) and wrap things up in little over an hour," Sam said. "And then I've done some that took 11 hours." "11 hours?" I asked. "What, was there a beer hall on the route?" "No, no. We had to lie down and watch the boats (I should have asked a follow-up here�What boats?�but I was slow and he was on a roll) and then we passed a deer farm and everyone had to stop and pet the deer." (Ditto my last comment). I wasn't the only Volksmarch Virgin this morning. There was one other, Chris Krex, an ex-military type who, like me, was trying to lose weight after being sidelined with an injury. He didn't look like he had much, if any, to lose. Standing 6-feet 4-� inches, Chris could stand in for the Jolly Green Giant. All he'd need is a leaf toga and some green body paint. Sam pointed out the regular walkers and convinced one of them to do the course with us. The regulars looked ready to go to war. They had walking sticks, utility belts with holstered water bottles, and T-shirts with funny slogans about walking. I didn't have anything except my car keys, so I went back to the car and got out a handtowel so I could mop sweat from my brow during the walk. There, I was prepared. Annette handed me a newsletter and brochures about upcoming walks. The Tolletts seemed genuinely thrilled to have new blood in the group. A silly thought entered my head that I just couldn't shake and I was grinning as if I'd downed a handful of Zolofts. I imagined the club performing an initiation ceremony akin to the 1932 film Freaks where Cleopatra is accepted as a member of the sideshow troupe while they chanted, "One of us. One of us..." I should have been paying attention instead of daydreaming about old B-movies. When I looked around for the guy who was supposed to act as our guide, he (and everyone else) was gone. Chris and I took off after them, map and course instructions in hand. We went at a good clip and I had to practically bound to keep up with Chris's long stride. We passed a couple of people on the walk but never were able to catch up with that main group. Still, I kept up with Chris and we finished the 6.2 mile course that zig-zagged through neighborhoods and business districts in about 1 hour 40 minutes. When we got to the finish point, Annette said, "You must've been eager. We were wondering where you went." Turns out the regular group had stepped into a restaurant near the starting point to use the restroom while they could. Oops. All in all, it was a fun day with fun people, and I look forward to doing my next Volksmarch. I'll even come in proper attire...you know, lederhosen, suspenders, and a felt hat with a feather in the brim. |