On Wednesday, I'll finish my first "year" of graduate school. Meaning I've completed fall, spring and summer semesters. I'll have knocked out 12 of the 36 hours required for a marketing communications degree from KU.
I distinctly recall telling myself several times during my last semester as an undergrad, way back in 1996, that I would never, ever go back to school. Seventeen years of school was enough. Or so I thought. Imagine how surprised I was a few years back when I found myself looking forward to cracking open the books again. I think, as we get older, we all have a greater appreciation for learning. Maybe it doesn't manifest itself in a return to school. But don't you find yourself more interested in things as years pass? Maybe you linger a bit longer in museums you raced through as a kid. Or perhaps the evening news ceases to be background noise and instead is something to focus on.
Anyway, I find myself far more focused on school now than I was in high school and college. It helps that most assignments and projects are related to my company or companies I'm interested in. For example, Crown Center was the subject of most of last semester's Marketing Research assignments. This semester, in Writing for Marketing Communications, I've used Crown Center and Brooks (the running shoe company) as project topics. (I won't say anything about the fall semester's dog food project, other than grrrrr.)
Unfortunately, I only get a three week break before the fall semester revs up. But I'm looking forward to the class—Financial Fundamentals for Communicators. Prime example of how I've changed since my undergrad days. Back then, I'd have run at the first sign of a financial class. Now, I know it's something that will help me do my job better. And I'm just more interested in investor relations, budgets and financial markets than I was as a 20-year-old.
One year down, two to go.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Turning back the clock
It’s Saturday night and 59-year-old Tom Watson is (I hope) enjoying sweet dreams in Turnberry, Scotland. Tomorrow, he’ll try to become the oldest person to win a major golf championship.
I’d be taken with this story regardless of where I lived. But it’s especially compelling to me as someone who shares Watson’s hometown. I’ve followed his career
since I was old enough to read a sports page. My dad’s roofing company even worked on Watson’s house. He’s beloved here for his fabulous career, his longtime support of Children’s Mercy Hospital and his reputation as a decent guy.
Not far from Scotland, another amazing sports story unfolds. Lance Armstrong is in the hunt for an eighth Tour de France victory. It wasn’t enough that he win the Tour after beating cancer. It wasn
’t enough to win it seven straight times. Now, he’s trying to win it at 37 years old.
As I get older, I’m ever more amazed by the power of athletics to uplift the spirit. Who can say how many people around the world are inspired tonight by Tom Watson? And how about Armstrong, whose image has helped raised millions of dollars for cancer research. Think about that. A man who rides a bike faster than most is able to stimulate such an outpouring.
I shake my head when I hear of local television news stations cutting newscast time allotted to sports, or cutting the sports department entirely. Because stories like Watson’s and Armstrong’s happen in towns all over the country. I know it because I once seeked those stories out as a local sportscaster. I hate knowing they may not be reported, that they might not have the chance to inspire.
Tomorrow, I’m going to get up at the crack of dawn and bike a bit. (Frankly, I’m not sure I ever would’ve started biking if it weren’t for Lance Armstrong.) Then, I’m going to plop down on the couch and watch Armstrong ride from Pontarlier to Verbier. And I’ll stay on that couch to see if Watson can win his most improbable major yet.
I don’t know if either man will be able to will their aging bodies to victory. But I do know I’ll be inspired as I watch them try.
I’d be taken with this story regardless of where I lived. But it’s especially compelling to me as someone who shares Watson’s hometown. I’ve followed his career
since I was old enough to read a sports page. My dad’s roofing company even worked on Watson’s house. He’s beloved here for his fabulous career, his longtime support of Children’s Mercy Hospital and his reputation as a decent guy.Not far from Scotland, another amazing sports story unfolds. Lance Armstrong is in the hunt for an eighth Tour de France victory. It wasn’t enough that he win the Tour after beating cancer. It wasn
’t enough to win it seven straight times. Now, he’s trying to win it at 37 years old.As I get older, I’m ever more amazed by the power of athletics to uplift the spirit. Who can say how many people around the world are inspired tonight by Tom Watson? And how about Armstrong, whose image has helped raised millions of dollars for cancer research. Think about that. A man who rides a bike faster than most is able to stimulate such an outpouring.
I shake my head when I hear of local television news stations cutting newscast time allotted to sports, or cutting the sports department entirely. Because stories like Watson’s and Armstrong’s happen in towns all over the country. I know it because I once seeked those stories out as a local sportscaster. I hate knowing they may not be reported, that they might not have the chance to inspire.
Tomorrow, I’m going to get up at the crack of dawn and bike a bit. (Frankly, I’m not sure I ever would’ve started biking if it weren’t for Lance Armstrong.) Then, I’m going to plop down on the couch and watch Armstrong ride from Pontarlier to Verbier. And I’ll stay on that couch to see if Watson can win his most improbable major yet.
I don’t know if either man will be able to will their aging bodies to victory. But I do know I’ll be inspired as I watch them try.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Sweating it out
Thoughts while longing for a return to the Rockies…
- Great trip to Colorado for the Independence Day weekend. After spending a few days with Candice, Roland and the girls, we returned to Lenexa via a southern route that took us through Dodge City and Hutchinson. It took a bit longer, but we got to see parts of Kansas I think every Kansan ought to see at some point. Highlights: the Kansas Cosmosphere, Braum’s (as always, great food with crappy service) and E Street Radio on Sirius.
- The warm, humid weather has really knocked me on my butt this week. As I’ve sweat my way through bike riding the past few days, it’s occurred to me that I never once had to squeeze sweat from my helmet while riding in Colorado. The weather there was just perfect. One can see why so many Coloradoans are out running, biking or just enjoying the outdoors. Humidity seems to take a greater toll on me each year. It’s like kryptonite to my running. And it wreaks almost as much havoc on me while biking.
- I’ve spent far too much time zoning out on Tour de France coverage. It makes no sense. I do envy the people lining the course, though. To be lounging in the Pyrenees, waiting for the peleton to fly past…
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Bikes, streaks and fathers
Thoughts while hobbling through this morning’s 16 miles…
Minor Victory
Those who know me well know I’m not mechanically inclined. Whatever gene accounts for that ability got lost between my dad and me. So it’s with great pride that I tell you my two bicycles are sitting in the garage with clean chains and cassettes. It’s a minor job for most cyclists to disassemble the chain and rear wheel cassette, clean them and put everything back together. But it takes me the better part of a weekend. That said, it’s done, no blood was shed and only a few expletives were uttered.
Streaks
I don’t know when I became beholden to streaks. Maybe from my boyhood love for baseball and the requisite admiration for hitting streaks and the like? Or the schooltime awards for perfect attendance? Wherever and whenever streaks took hold in me, they are not at all good for my running. Earlier this year, I ran on 125 consecutive days. (Barely worth a mention. I’ve run every day for a year before, in high school. And the current record streak, held by Mark Covert, is nearing 41 years.)
But was anything gained by running on 125 straight days? Wouldn’t my body have benefited from a day or two off during that time? The answer is yes. Absolutely, yes. Still, the streak takes hold of me.
So it’s with great pride that I tell you I will not be running until Saturday. I’m taking five days off. With that, a streak will end. I’ve run a total of at least 60 miles every week since the first of April. That’s twelve consecutive weeks.
This streak has been great for my fitness. But Saturday’s hilly races beat me up. And I’ve been training with a strained soleus for two weeks. Who does that? Seriously, who trains with a strained soleus? Me, that’s who. For a streak.
No running for five days. (I’ll bike instead.)
Father's Day
I wrote recently of how fortunate I’ve been to know each of my grandparents well. Similar thoughts have occupied my mind on this Father’s Day. My three grandfathers were very different people. But each taught something important in his own way.
Papa Gasparovich, my mother’s father, was this big man who always seemed to be nodding off. We children didn’t know that was likely a side effect of a multitude of medications. But he always treated me so well.
Papa Boutross, my mother’s stepfather, was also a big man. (More wide than tall.) And, a
s I learned long after his death, he had shortcomings from which the grandchildren were blissfully ignorant. There was a time when I dreaded being around him because he would tease me mercilessly, mostly for my devotion to Nana Boutross. But there came a time, I was probably 11 or 12, when we began to connect. We’d drive to the now defunct Ak-Sar-Ben in Omaha to watch the horse races. He’d let me place $2 bets on 60-1 shots. And then he’d let me take the wheel during the journey home on I-29. (It was then that I learned not to stay in the left lane, unless passing.) I was a high school sophomore when cancer took him.
Grandpa Ronan, my father’s father, is the kind of person I’d like to think we all get to know at some time. Sure, he’s cantankerous. Most people are at 88 years old. (Though some may argue his disposition has been consistent for most of those 88 years.) But he and my grandmother turned out seven decent kids. So he must have done something right. I can sum up my experience with Grandpa Ronan with one memory…
There’s a video recording of my State 3200M track race at the end of my junior year of high school. My dad is holding the camera. Grandpa is sitting next to him. I led the race by more than 100 meters with a lap to go. Dad says, “Looks like he’s got this one in the bag.” To which Grandpa replies, “Well, it’s not over yet.” And just when you’re thinking he might be a bit of a heartless you-know-what for not having more confidence in his grandson, you can hear him cheering wildly during the last minute of the race.
And then there’s my own dad. I am not overstating it to say that everything I am has in some way been influenced by my dad. Everything I learned about work ethic, which has fueled my ambition
in school, running, my career and, well, everything, comes from watching him come home with splintered hands after long days roofing houses.
I have friends whose parents are their best friends. And that’s admirable, even enviable. But I’ve done pretty well, too. My dad gave me a safe place to live, sent me to a great high school, put me through college and basically gave me all the tools I needed to create a good life for myself. I’d say he did alright.
Minor Victory
Those who know me well know I’m not mechanically inclined. Whatever gene accounts for that ability got lost between my dad and me. So it’s with great pride that I tell you my two bicycles are sitting in the garage with clean chains and cassettes. It’s a minor job for most cyclists to disassemble the chain and rear wheel cassette, clean them and put everything back together. But it takes me the better part of a weekend. That said, it’s done, no blood was shed and only a few expletives were uttered.
Streaks
I don’t know when I became beholden to streaks. Maybe from my boyhood love for baseball and the requisite admiration for hitting streaks and the like? Or the schooltime awards for perfect attendance? Wherever and whenever streaks took hold in me, they are not at all good for my running. Earlier this year, I ran on 125 consecutive days. (Barely worth a mention. I’ve run every day for a year before, in high school. And the current record streak, held by Mark Covert, is nearing 41 years.)
But was anything gained by running on 125 straight days? Wouldn’t my body have benefited from a day or two off during that time? The answer is yes. Absolutely, yes. Still, the streak takes hold of me.
So it’s with great pride that I tell you I will not be running until Saturday. I’m taking five days off. With that, a streak will end. I’ve run a total of at least 60 miles every week since the first of April. That’s twelve consecutive weeks.
This streak has been great for my fitness. But Saturday’s hilly races beat me up. And I’ve been training with a strained soleus for two weeks. Who does that? Seriously, who trains with a strained soleus? Me, that’s who. For a streak.
No running for five days. (I’ll bike instead.)
Father's Day
I wrote recently of how fortunate I’ve been to know each of my grandparents well. Similar thoughts have occupied my mind on this Father’s Day. My three grandfathers were very different people. But each taught something important in his own way.
Papa Gasparovich, my mother’s father, was this big man who always seemed to be nodding off. We children didn’t know that was likely a side effect of a multitude of medications. But he always treated me so well.
Papa Boutross, my mother’s stepfather, was also a big man. (More wide than tall.) And, a
s I learned long after his death, he had shortcomings from which the grandchildren were blissfully ignorant. There was a time when I dreaded being around him because he would tease me mercilessly, mostly for my devotion to Nana Boutross. But there came a time, I was probably 11 or 12, when we began to connect. We’d drive to the now defunct Ak-Sar-Ben in Omaha to watch the horse races. He’d let me place $2 bets on 60-1 shots. And then he’d let me take the wheel during the journey home on I-29. (It was then that I learned not to stay in the left lane, unless passing.) I was a high school sophomore when cancer took him.
Grandpa Ronan, my father’s father, is the kind of person I’d like to think we all get to know at some time. Sure, he’s cantankerous. Most people are at 88 years old. (Though some may argue his disposition has been consistent for most of those 88 years.) But he and my grandmother turned out seven decent kids. So he must have done something right. I can sum up my experience with Grandpa Ronan with one memory…
There’s a video recording of my State 3200M track race at the end of my junior year of high school. My dad is holding the camera. Grandpa is sitting next to him. I led the race by more than 100 meters with a lap to go. Dad says, “Looks like he’s got this one in the bag.” To which Grandpa replies, “Well, it’s not over yet.” And just when you’re thinking he might be a bit of a heartless you-know-what for not having more confidence in his grandson, you can hear him cheering wildly during the last minute of the race.
And then there’s my own dad. I am not overstating it to say that everything I am has in some way been influenced by my dad. Everything I learned about work ethic, which has fueled my ambition
in school, running, my career and, well, everything, comes from watching him come home with splintered hands after long days roofing houses.I have friends whose parents are their best friends. And that’s admirable, even enviable. But I’ve done pretty well, too. My dad gave me a safe place to live, sent me to a great high school, put me through college and basically gave me all the tools I needed to create a good life for myself. I’d say he did alright.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Singing in the rain? Try running in it
I love running in the rain. Always have. Might have something to do with it being a rainy day when I discovered I had a talent for covering long distances in a short amount of time.
Spring of 1988, 8th grade. The mile run. This was essentially our PE class final exam. Track season had ended just a few days before. I don't remember much about that season, except I'd run well enough to win a few medals. But I couldn't run a mile in less than 5 minutes, 30 seconds. And I was only the second or third best miler on a team that didn't have a particularly impressive distance group.
Blue Valley Middle School sat what couldn't have been more than a half mile from a convenience store. Might have been a Quik Trip. Our daily distance workout consisted of jogging to that store, buying a soda, drinking the soda, and jogging back. The track/football coach, Mr. Porter, never paid much heed to where we went, so long as we didn't bother him.
Ironically, I got a much more intense workout during daily PE class. We'd run laps around the perimeter of the school and, not knowing any better, I'd turn every day's run into a race. Come to think of it, it's probably a good thing I wasn't running any harder at track practice, given how hard I'd already run during PE class.
Anyway, back to our final exam, the mile run. It's one of the few memories from that time of my life that doesn't involve humiliation. Cloudy morning. Rain spitting from the sky, but not hard enough to send us back inside. There must have been 30 of us amassed in a gobblygook on the track.
But I don't remember what anyone else did that day. The teacher yelled, "Go!" and I took off. And I hope I never forget how the next few minutes felt. It was as if I was empowered by the cool sprinkles. Between the rain and the concentration I devoted to navigating the maze of lapped runners/walkers, I just didn't have time to think about being tired. The four laps went by in a blur. And I'm not sure I'd remember my finishing time if Omar Davis hadn't signed my yearbook, "I can't believe you ran the mile in 5:11! Have a good summer."
I have lots of other rainy running memories. Like my college 1500M PR, run in light mist at the University of Minnesota, when I and three of my KU teammates finished behind Olympian Steve Holman. Or the many training runs where a steady downpour could turn an otherwise forgettable eight miles into an hour of play.
And so here we are on June 16, another rainy morning. I sit in the living room at 5 a.m., trying to convince myself to head out to the wet streets. But while I do love running in the rain, lightning is another matter. The creation of a new rainy running memory will have to wait.
Spring of 1988, 8th grade. The mile run. This was essentially our PE class final exam. Track season had ended just a few days before. I don't remember much about that season, except I'd run well enough to win a few medals. But I couldn't run a mile in less than 5 minutes, 30 seconds. And I was only the second or third best miler on a team that didn't have a particularly impressive distance group.
Blue Valley Middle School sat what couldn't have been more than a half mile from a convenience store. Might have been a Quik Trip. Our daily distance workout consisted of jogging to that store, buying a soda, drinking the soda, and jogging back. The track/football coach, Mr. Porter, never paid much heed to where we went, so long as we didn't bother him.
Ironically, I got a much more intense workout during daily PE class. We'd run laps around the perimeter of the school and, not knowing any better, I'd turn every day's run into a race. Come to think of it, it's probably a good thing I wasn't running any harder at track practice, given how hard I'd already run during PE class.
Anyway, back to our final exam, the mile run. It's one of the few memories from that time of my life that doesn't involve humiliation. Cloudy morning. Rain spitting from the sky, but not hard enough to send us back inside. There must have been 30 of us amassed in a gobblygook on the track.
But I don't remember what anyone else did that day. The teacher yelled, "Go!" and I took off. And I hope I never forget how the next few minutes felt. It was as if I was empowered by the cool sprinkles. Between the rain and the concentration I devoted to navigating the maze of lapped runners/walkers, I just didn't have time to think about being tired. The four laps went by in a blur. And I'm not sure I'd remember my finishing time if Omar Davis hadn't signed my yearbook, "I can't believe you ran the mile in 5:11! Have a good summer."
I have lots of other rainy running memories. Like my college 1500M PR, run in light mist at the University of Minnesota, when I and three of my KU teammates finished behind Olympian Steve Holman. Or the many training runs where a steady downpour could turn an otherwise forgettable eight miles into an hour of play.
And so here we are on June 16, another rainy morning. I sit in the living room at 5 a.m., trying to convince myself to head out to the wet streets. But while I do love running in the rain, lightning is another matter. The creation of a new rainy running memory will have to wait.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Dr. Bob Frederick
Dr. Bob Frederick passed away Friday after sustaining massive head trauma as the result of a bicycle accident in Lawrence the previous day. Many fitting tributes have been written (and will continue to be written) about Dr. Frederick. In this age of seemingly rampant CEO corruption, he was the antithesis of greed.
Dr. Frederick was the athletic director at KU during my time as a student-athlete, as well as during my media career. Without exception he treated me with kindness and respect in every dealing I ever had with him. Just a really solid person and administrator.
I wish there were more Dr. Bob’s out there.
Dr. Frederick was the athletic director at KU during my time as a student-athlete, as well as during my media career. Without exception he treated me with kindness and respect in every dealing I ever had with him. Just a really solid person and administrator.
I wish there were more Dr. Bob’s out there.
Friday, June 12, 2009
God bless the cashiers
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home from work today. After collecting a few needed items, I stepped up to one of the checkout lanes where there appeared to be no wait. Alas, a customer had ventured back to one of the aisles to hunt down what they’d forgotten.
No big deal, I could spare a few moments. Especially because lying next to the cash register was a box of Fat-Free Nabisco Crackers. I had to know why it was sitting there unscanned. I got my answer when the cashier said into his phone, “She’s wanting to know if she can get the Nabisco crackers instead of Keebler. She can’t? Okay, I’ll tell her.”
It turns out the store had a special sale on Keebler crackers. But it seems Keebler either doesn’t produce a fat-free cracker or else doesn’t have a fat-free version this customer liked. So she assumed she could substitute another manufacturer’s fat-free cracker for the sale price.
Sort of like if you went to a car lot where Honda vehicles were discounted. But you didn’t like any of the Hondas. So you picked out a Porsche and assumed you’d get it at the Honda price. (Maybe not a perfect analogy, but you get the idea.)
Well, let me tell you, she did not like what she heard. She let the cashier and everyone around her know about it, too. We all looked at her like she was an alien, which she may well have been. Even her husband stood about 10 feet away and acted like he didn’t know her. (Only when he joined her as they walked out could one know they were acquainted.)
I’m not sure what the point of the story is. Maybe it’s just to suggest we don’t check our manners at the door when we enter a store, restaurant or other place of business. Just because we’re gracing the premises with money doesn’t mean we’re allowed to do or say whatever we like. You know, the whole “Do unto others…” thing. A dose of the Golden Rule sure would’ve made that cashier’s day go a whole lot smoother.
No big deal, I could spare a few moments. Especially because lying next to the cash register was a box of Fat-Free Nabisco Crackers. I had to know why it was sitting there unscanned. I got my answer when the cashier said into his phone, “She’s wanting to know if she can get the Nabisco crackers instead of Keebler. She can’t? Okay, I’ll tell her.”
It turns out the store had a special sale on Keebler crackers. But it seems Keebler either doesn’t produce a fat-free cracker or else doesn’t have a fat-free version this customer liked. So she assumed she could substitute another manufacturer’s fat-free cracker for the sale price.
Sort of like if you went to a car lot where Honda vehicles were discounted. But you didn’t like any of the Hondas. So you picked out a Porsche and assumed you’d get it at the Honda price. (Maybe not a perfect analogy, but you get the idea.)
Well, let me tell you, she did not like what she heard. She let the cashier and everyone around her know about it, too. We all looked at her like she was an alien, which she may well have been. Even her husband stood about 10 feet away and acted like he didn’t know her. (Only when he joined her as they walked out could one know they were acquainted.)
I’m not sure what the point of the story is. Maybe it’s just to suggest we don’t check our manners at the door when we enter a store, restaurant or other place of business. Just because we’re gracing the premises with money doesn’t mean we’re allowed to do or say whatever we like. You know, the whole “Do unto others…” thing. A dose of the Golden Rule sure would’ve made that cashier’s day go a whole lot smoother.
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