Running was an anchor for me during what was a turbulent spring of 1990. My grandfather, to whom I was very close, passed away. My parents were on the road to divorce. And I was 16, which is turbulent enough on its own. But running was there, every single day.
Tom's enthusiasm only grew as track season approached. He was convinced I was about to do some amazing things on the track. His confidence, combined with the coaching of Joelin Baxter, set up an amazing couple of months.
Coach Baxter was an assistant to Coach Wilson during cross country season. But she coached the spring track team's distance runners on her own during my freshman, sophomore and junior years. I loved running for her. She was a no-nonsense coach with a running pedigree. And she was encouraging of what I'd been doing during the offseason.
Due to some poor weather, we had a couple meets cancelled and didn't compete until five weeks of practice had passed. I could sense a greater fitness from last track season, but was eager to race and really see what I could do. I got that chance on April 6.
Coach Baxter scheduled me for the mile and two mile races at the Bishop Miege Invitational. I remember calling Tom a few days before the meet, knowing that he would say something that would give me a confidence boost. Based on what I did over the winter, I said, how should I approach these two races? I'll never forget his answer as long as I live. "In the mile, go out at a relaxed pace and if they're going to let you run away with it, go ahead. In the two mile, hold back until the final couple of laps before you take over."
I laughed out loud. I'd never even won a medal at a high school race, much less challenged for a victory. This kook not only thinks I'm going to win, but win easily. Whatever.
Of course, as would be proven many times, Tom was smarter than me. I led the mile from the beginning and won easily in 4 minutes, 39 seconds, setting a personal best by an astounding 19 seconds. Later in the evening, I sat in the 3200m race pack for almost seven laps, before cruising past everyone over the final 600 meters to win in 10 minutes, 24 seconds. It was another personal best, this time by a minute.
As my sophomore track season progressed, I kept winning races. Three at the Bishop Ward duel, one at the SM South duel, another at Louisburg, a win and two PRs at Olathe North, three wins at the Aquinas Invite. It was nothing short of shocking how much better I'd become.
The season's highlight came May 4 at the SM North Relays, one of the city's most prestigious meets. I was slated to run the mile, two weeks after I'd set a PR of 4:37 at Olathe North. Among the competitors was none other than my idol, Thad Sketers. I led the race for 600 meters, before Thad passed me by, along with four others. I settled for sixth place and a big PR of 4:29, four seconds behind the winner.
The final few weeks of the season didn't go as I'd hoped. At the rainy Eastern Kansas League meet, I placed fourth in the 1600m and third in the 3200m. Despite my improvements, I couldn't quite compete with Miege's Dan Decoursey and BV North's Dan Wnorowski. The 4A Regional meet at Hiawatha was marginally better, as our 3200m relay finished third to clinch my first state qualification. I then outleaned a kid from Lansing to win the 1600m (my first regional title) before running a nauseating 6th place race in the 3200m.
With that, we were set for my first foray to the state track meet in Wichita. I'd be leading off our 3200m relay before competing in the 1600m, where I was top-ranked in class 4A. Another of life's turning points had arrived.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Running: Part IV
I've been blessed with some wonderful teachers and coaches. Greg Wilson, who I first met the summer before my freshman year of high school, was and still is one of the great influences in my life. I was drawn to his obvious work ethic, but was also astounded by his attention to each and every one of his athletes and students, regardless of whether they were the fastest, the smartest or whatever. He makes everyone feel special.
Tom Dowling was very different from Coach Wilson, or any other coach I'd worked with. Like Wilson, he made people feel special. But he had a bookish way about him that qualified his teachings. And, as I've mentioned, he coached my idol, Thad Sketers, which gave him instant credibility with me.
I was 15 when I met Tom in December of 1989. When I look back on it now, the "secret" to the success of his Health Plus running program was no secret at all. Its participants simply ran miles, lots of them, during what was typically the offseason for high school runners. Th
at's a "well, duh!" concept to me now. But, back then, it was foreign. To my thinking, when cross country season ended in October, you moved on to basketball (or the couch.) When track ended in May, you moved on to baseball (or the Ronan's Roofing crew.) Tom introduced year-round running to me and it changed everything.
Initially, Tom and I had a brief chat about my past training and he used that knowledge to draw up a plan for the next few months. He instructed me to run a certain mileage each day (adding up to around 50 miles per week that first winter), at whatever pace felt comfortable. Program participants would meet at Health Plus on Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for group runs. (I even got to run with Thad a time or two.) I was on my own the rest of the time.
Thankfully, we were told to keep a journal of our daily mileage. (Otherwise, I'd have no recollection of how far or fast I used to run back then.) Tom would collect the journals each Tuesday, review them and return them on Thursday. It was a bit like having a teacher grade your homework. He would always pen some sort of motivating comment in the journal and I came to anticipate Thursdays, when I could read his latest thoughts.
As the winter progressed, Tom seemed even more excited than me about the upcoming track season. I knew I was getting stronger from the daily runs, but I had little idea of what this might mean for my sophomore track campaign. Tom, on the other hand, was resolute in his thinking. Just four weeks into the program, he wrote this on December 28, 1989: "You're doing great. You are going to wake people up to Thomas Aquinas." A few weeks later: "You are building an excellent base for your career!" In February, he was bolder yet: "In your junior year, everyone will know who Chris Ronan is." And, then, the capper, on February 16, 1990, a day before I turned 16: "Let it be noted here that I predict Chris Ronan will become one of the fastest runners we've ever had in the Health Plus program."
To be frank, I thought he was crazy. My personal best mile was 4 minutes, 58 seconds. I'd never run two miles faster than 11 minutes, 24 seconds. And this guy thought I was going to be one of the fastest runners from his program? The same program that included Thad Sketers? I was certain I'd run faster that spring, but I thought Tom was off his rocker. Still, Tom's jubilant confidence started to rub off on me. "Maybe he's a loon," I thought. "But even if he's just half right…"
And so the winter trudged on. People at Aquinas wondered about the crazy guy running down Pflumm Road on 15 degree afternoons. My parents wondered about their crazy, sweat/frost-covered son, stumbling inside long after dark. And I, with newfound strength and confidence, began to wonder what the spring may bring.
Tom Dowling was very different from Coach Wilson, or any other coach I'd worked with. Like Wilson, he made people feel special. But he had a bookish way about him that qualified his teachings. And, as I've mentioned, he coached my idol, Thad Sketers, which gave him instant credibility with me.
I was 15 when I met Tom in December of 1989. When I look back on it now, the "secret" to the success of his Health Plus running program was no secret at all. Its participants simply ran miles, lots of them, during what was typically the offseason for high school runners. Th
at's a "well, duh!" concept to me now. But, back then, it was foreign. To my thinking, when cross country season ended in October, you moved on to basketball (or the couch.) When track ended in May, you moved on to baseball (or the Ronan's Roofing crew.) Tom introduced year-round running to me and it changed everything.Initially, Tom and I had a brief chat about my past training and he used that knowledge to draw up a plan for the next few months. He instructed me to run a certain mileage each day (adding up to around 50 miles per week that first winter), at whatever pace felt comfortable. Program participants would meet at Health Plus on Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for group runs. (I even got to run with Thad a time or two.) I was on my own the rest of the time.
Thankfully, we were told to keep a journal of our daily mileage. (Otherwise, I'd have no recollection of how far or fast I used to run back then.) Tom would collect the journals each Tuesday, review them and return them on Thursday. It was a bit like having a teacher grade your homework. He would always pen some sort of motivating comment in the journal and I came to anticipate Thursdays, when I could read his latest thoughts.
As the winter progressed, Tom seemed even more excited than me about the upcoming track season. I knew I was getting stronger from the daily runs, but I had little idea of what this might mean for my sophomore track campaign. Tom, on the other hand, was resolute in his thinking. Just four weeks into the program, he wrote this on December 28, 1989: "You're doing great. You are going to wake people up to Thomas Aquinas." A few weeks later: "You are building an excellent base for your career!" In February, he was bolder yet: "In your junior year, everyone will know who Chris Ronan is." And, then, the capper, on February 16, 1990, a day before I turned 16: "Let it be noted here that I predict Chris Ronan will become one of the fastest runners we've ever had in the Health Plus program."
To be frank, I thought he was crazy. My personal best mile was 4 minutes, 58 seconds. I'd never run two miles faster than 11 minutes, 24 seconds. And this guy thought I was going to be one of the fastest runners from his program? The same program that included Thad Sketers? I was certain I'd run faster that spring, but I thought Tom was off his rocker. Still, Tom's jubilant confidence started to rub off on me. "Maybe he's a loon," I thought. "But even if he's just half right…"
And so the winter trudged on. People at Aquinas wondered about the crazy guy running down Pflumm Road on 15 degree afternoons. My parents wondered about their crazy, sweat/frost-covered son, stumbling inside long after dark. And I, with newfound strength and confidence, began to wonder what the spring may bring.
Running: Part III
(Part one of the saga can be found here. Part II is here.)
Thad Sketers. The name sounds fast, doesn't it? Indeed, Thad was a fast guy. Two years my elder, he was one of the best distance runners in Kansas during my freshman and sophomore years of high school. Every weekend, I'd see Thad's name in the newspaper after he'd won or placed high at a race. My five-kilometer (3.1 mile) cross country times tended to be around 18 or 19 minutes. Thad's times sometimes started with 15.
I was a mostly average high school cross country runner my first two years. One of the benefits of attending a brand new school was our athletic teams, particularly boys cross country, weren’t all that great. So I made the varsity team right away. Still, I knew I was capable of better than 18 minute 5Ks. How did Thad Sketers do it?
Such was my frame of mind when I returned to the parking lot after a cross country meet in the fall of 1989. I picked a brochure off my windshield. On the cover, Thad Sketers. The brochure's pages detailed the achievements of Thad and others, who'd attended the high school running program at Health Plus, an athletic club in Overland Park. I read numerous quotes to the effect of: "Before Health Plus, I couldn't break 11 minutes for two miles. Now, my personal best is 9:40!"
I was blown away. Here was the secret to my idol's success. I had no idea what Health Plus was. But, if it was good enough for Thad Sketers, it was good enough for me. I tucked the brochure away, determined to lobby my parents for the necessary funds at a later date.
A few weeks later, as our team prepared for the regional cross country meet in Garnett, KS, I noticed a dull soreness in my right foot. Within a few days, the soreness became a sharp pain. It couldn't have come at a worse time. We knew we were good enough to place in the top three at the regional, which would qualify our team for state for the first time. Without me, the team's top runner, our chances took a major hit.
My mother took me to the doctor, where a bone scan was conducted. The result: a stress fracture in a metatarsal. I returned to school, where our final practice before the regional was just ending. I made what I knew would be an unsuccessful pitch to Coach Wilson, arguing that one more race on my foot wouldn't be a problem. But he knew, as did I, that a stress fracture could lead to a full break of the bone.
I cried all the way home.
The next day, I drove to Garnett and watched, under a fittingly grey sky, as the Aquinas boys placed sixth at the regional meet. That night, I retrieved the Health Plus brochure and asked my mother for permission to enroll in the program. "Chris, you're a baseball player, not a runner," she said. "This stress fracture should tell you that. You're not doing that program."
Shaken, but not broken, I simply went outside and found my dad. Same pitch. Different result. He okayed enough money to pay for one winter of the Health Plus running program. I completed the brochure form and mailed it, absolutely unaware that this was one of life's turning points.
I was about to meet Tom Dowling.
Thad Sketers. The name sounds fast, doesn't it? Indeed, Thad was a fast guy. Two years my elder, he was one of the best distance runners in Kansas during my freshman and sophomore years of high school. Every weekend, I'd see Thad's name in the newspaper after he'd won or placed high at a race. My five-kilometer (3.1 mile) cross country times tended to be around 18 or 19 minutes. Thad's times sometimes started with 15.
I was a mostly average high school cross country runner my first two years. One of the benefits of attending a brand new school was our athletic teams, particularly boys cross country, weren’t all that great. So I made the varsity team right away. Still, I knew I was capable of better than 18 minute 5Ks. How did Thad Sketers do it?
Such was my frame of mind when I returned to the parking lot after a cross country meet in the fall of 1989. I picked a brochure off my windshield. On the cover, Thad Sketers. The brochure's pages detailed the achievements of Thad and others, who'd attended the high school running program at Health Plus, an athletic club in Overland Park. I read numerous quotes to the effect of: "Before Health Plus, I couldn't break 11 minutes for two miles. Now, my personal best is 9:40!"
I was blown away. Here was the secret to my idol's success. I had no idea what Health Plus was. But, if it was good enough for Thad Sketers, it was good enough for me. I tucked the brochure away, determined to lobby my parents for the necessary funds at a later date.
A few weeks later, as our team prepared for the regional cross country meet in Garnett, KS, I noticed a dull soreness in my right foot. Within a few days, the soreness became a sharp pain. It couldn't have come at a worse time. We knew we were good enough to place in the top three at the regional, which would qualify our team for state for the first time. Without me, the team's top runner, our chances took a major hit.
My mother took me to the doctor, where a bone scan was conducted. The result: a stress fracture in a metatarsal. I returned to school, where our final practice before the regional was just ending. I made what I knew would be an unsuccessful pitch to Coach Wilson, arguing that one more race on my foot wouldn't be a problem. But he knew, as did I, that a stress fracture could lead to a full break of the bone.
I cried all the way home.
The next day, I drove to Garnett and watched, under a fittingly grey sky, as the Aquinas boys placed sixth at the regional meet. That night, I retrieved the Health Plus brochure and asked my mother for permission to enroll in the program. "Chris, you're a baseball player, not a runner," she said. "This stress fracture should tell you that. You're not doing that program."
Shaken, but not broken, I simply went outside and found my dad. Same pitch. Different result. He okayed enough money to pay for one winter of the Health Plus running program. I completed the brochure form and mailed it, absolutely unaware that this was one of life's turning points.
I was about to meet Tom Dowling.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Running: Part II
(Part one of the saga can be found here.)
It's hard to describe the St. Thomas Aquinas High School of 1988 to people who know the school as it is today, but weren't around at the beginning. For years, Aquinas was located in Shawnee and its mascot was the Blue Streaks. The archdiocese decided to close that school and open a new one in the growing area near Pflumm Road and College Boulevard in Overland Park, much to the chagrin of Aquinas students who, understandably, weren't thrilled about saying goodbye to their school and its traditions.
A lot has changed at Aquinas since 1988. It's got more than twice as many students. It has its own athletic facilities. (We used to play our home football games on the campus of our rival, Bishop Miege.) It's got 20+ years of its own traditions. But, thankfully, one important thing hasn't changed. Greg Wilson is still there.
Coach Wilson managed to con fewer than 30 of us into comprising his first cross country squad. Several of the upperclassmen came from the "old" Aquinas, including the Huckabys, Heather and Kirk, who were the team's first MVPs. In fact, with a mix of experienced juniors and seniors and a couple of talented newcomers, the girls team was successful from the beginning, placing second at the 4A state meet that first year.
The boys were another story. As a group, we weren't all that talented and we didn't work particularly hard. Kirk, who did have a lot of talent, never seemed to like running very much. So, his mission each day was to see what sort of mayhem he could lead us into. (At the Lansing meet, instead of warm
ing up, he spent a good deal of time trying to convince the freshmen to pee on what he said was an electric fence, just to see what would happen.) In retrospect, it was all harmless and actually quite a bit of fun. But, at the time, it drove me crazy. I've always been driven to work (too) hard and, even as a 14-year-old, it didn't sit well with me when others didn't do the same.
(The accompanying photo is of the original boys team. I'm second from the left in the middle row. As I recall, 12 of the boys pictured lasted the whole season. Two of the eight freshmen were on the team as seniors.)
I spent that first fall doing whatever Coach Wilson (who was also my Latin teacher) told me to do and trying my darndest to beat Kirk. I never did catch him that year, but I got to where I was Aquinas' second runner by season's end and Kirk did qualify for state as an individual.
I did more than enough to earn my letter, which was then affixed to a jacket that I'm certain got as much wear as any letter jacket in history. And I made a lot of friends that fall that I still have to this day. I can't say that the daily act of running was doing much for me, though. If I liked it, it was because I was somewhat decent at it. In fact, I briefly quit the track team the following spring when I decided I was better suited for the golf squad.
My departure from track lasted exactly one day. I returned and performed slightly above my meager expectations, the season highlighted by a 4:58 mile and an 11:24 two-mile. The goal most spring days was to outlast Derek Weiner, my sophomore teammate. I can't remember how many races Derek would lead me for three laps (in a mile) or seven laps (in a two-mile), only to have me sprint around him in the final meters before the finish line. Just cruel.
My freshman year ended and I moved on to a summer of work at Ronan's Roofing, Inc.
It's hard to describe the St. Thomas Aquinas High School of 1988 to people who know the school as it is today, but weren't around at the beginning. For years, Aquinas was located in Shawnee and its mascot was the Blue Streaks. The archdiocese decided to close that school and open a new one in the growing area near Pflumm Road and College Boulevard in Overland Park, much to the chagrin of Aquinas students who, understandably, weren't thrilled about saying goodbye to their school and its traditions.
A lot has changed at Aquinas since 1988. It's got more than twice as many students. It has its own athletic facilities. (We used to play our home football games on the campus of our rival, Bishop Miege.) It's got 20+ years of its own traditions. But, thankfully, one important thing hasn't changed. Greg Wilson is still there.
Coach Wilson managed to con fewer than 30 of us into comprising his first cross country squad. Several of the upperclassmen came from the "old" Aquinas, including the Huckabys, Heather and Kirk, who were the team's first MVPs. In fact, with a mix of experienced juniors and seniors and a couple of talented newcomers, the girls team was successful from the beginning, placing second at the 4A state meet that first year.
The boys were another story. As a group, we weren't all that talented and we didn't work particularly hard. Kirk, who did have a lot of talent, never seemed to like running very much. So, his mission each day was to see what sort of mayhem he could lead us into. (At the Lansing meet, instead of warm
ing up, he spent a good deal of time trying to convince the freshmen to pee on what he said was an electric fence, just to see what would happen.) In retrospect, it was all harmless and actually quite a bit of fun. But, at the time, it drove me crazy. I've always been driven to work (too) hard and, even as a 14-year-old, it didn't sit well with me when others didn't do the same. (The accompanying photo is of the original boys team. I'm second from the left in the middle row. As I recall, 12 of the boys pictured lasted the whole season. Two of the eight freshmen were on the team as seniors.)
I spent that first fall doing whatever Coach Wilson (who was also my Latin teacher) told me to do and trying my darndest to beat Kirk. I never did catch him that year, but I got to where I was Aquinas' second runner by season's end and Kirk did qualify for state as an individual.
I did more than enough to earn my letter, which was then affixed to a jacket that I'm certain got as much wear as any letter jacket in history. And I made a lot of friends that fall that I still have to this day. I can't say that the daily act of running was doing much for me, though. If I liked it, it was because I was somewhat decent at it. In fact, I briefly quit the track team the following spring when I decided I was better suited for the golf squad.
My departure from track lasted exactly one day. I returned and performed slightly above my meager expectations, the season highlighted by a 4:58 mile and an 11:24 two-mile. The goal most spring days was to outlast Derek Weiner, my sophomore teammate. I can't remember how many races Derek would lead me for three laps (in a mile) or seven laps (in a two-mile), only to have me sprint around him in the final meters before the finish line. Just cruel.
My freshman year ended and I moved on to a summer of work at Ronan's Roofing, Inc.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Running: Part I
(A longtime friend, John Rinkenbaugh, recently blogged about Tom Dowling, the man who introduced us in the early 1990s. John's blog inspired me to write about running and what led me to become so enamored with it. Tom is a big part of the story. So is John. And Greg Wilson. And countless others. I'm writing this as much for myself and the preservation of memories as anything else. But, perhaps the story might mean something to someone else, too. Here goes...)
None of it would have happened without Kostas Romo. By none of it, I mean the five Kansas high school state titles, four years on the University of Kansas track and cross country teams, top-100 finishes at the Boston and New York City marathons or the 30,000+ miles of running. I just don't know that any of it would've occurred without Kostas.
It was the summer of 1988 and Kostas, a Blue Valley Middle School classmate, was the only person I knew well who was planning to attend St. Thomas Aquinas High School. I wanted no part of Aquinas. I'd gone to Blue Valley schools since first grade. And, after very awkward sixth and seventh grade years, I'd finally hit something of a stride as an eighth grader. My friends were going to Blue Valley High School, so that's where I wanted to be.
One day, during eighth grade, my parents presented an unexpected ultimatum. I could attend high school at Rockhurst or the new Catholic school, St. Thomas Aquinas. (Just to give an idea of Aquinas' place in the consciousness of junior high schoolers in 1988, one of my BV classmates wrote this in my eighth grade yearbook: "Good luck wherever it is you're going.")
I begged and pleaded, but there would be no deterring mom and dad. I was headed to a Catholic school, for the first time since we moved to Overland Park from Shawnee in 1980, whether I liked it or not. Once I accepted my fate, my choice of school was uncomplicated. Aquinas had girls. Rockhurst didn't. I was going to Aquinas.
And so it was one summer day that Kostas and I shared a ride to Johnson County Community College for an informational fair, where we could learn about the extracurricular opportunities afforded at this new school. Kostas played football in middle school and planned to do the same at Aquinas. I figured I'd go along with that idea, despite no experience with organized football.
We arrived at JCCC and Kostas headed straight for the football table, while I perused the remaining booths. Band, debate, soccer, basketball. All the activities had a presence, staffed by pitchmen of various abilities. I don't know what it was about the cross country table that caught my attention, but I found myself lingering there while the man on duty chatted with a potential recruit.
I was about to stumble on to the next booth when I heard an excited burst, "So, you wanna run cross country, man?" Good grief. I'd been noticed. "Well, um, I don't really know what cross country is," I said. He replied, "You know what track is, don't you?"
Oh, sure, I knew what track was. I'd competed in junior high. Worked my way up to where I was the school's best mile runner. Even placed in the top three to win medals at a few meets. The man's eyes got big. "Shoot, cross country's just like track," he said. "Only it's run on grass."
That description was enough for me to put my name on his sign-up sheet. I still thought football was probably the place for me. After all, that's where I knew at least one person. But I was never good at rejecting people and there was no harm in humoring this guy.
When the phone rang at home the next night, I didn't expect to hear that excited voice again. "Just checking in, man. Thought any more about the cross country team?" I hadn't. But, in that moment, a question did come to my mind. See, the reason I ran track in junior high was two-fold. First, the coach (my history teacher) wanted me to pole vault, because he thought I had upper-body strength. I knew that was a tragic miscalculation, as I'd never so much as completed a pull-up. So, on the first day of track practice, I slithered off to where the runners had gathered. The second reason: all you really had to do to earn a Blue Valley Middle School letter was participate on a team. Track made the most sense. I competed and got my coveted letter.
I asked the caller, "Can freshmen letter in cross country?" "Oh, sure, man," he replied. "If you run on the varsity team most of the year, you can get a letter." That's all I needed to hear.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Fear
One of my favorite movies is "Defending Your Life." Albert Brooks' character, Daniel, dies when he steers his car into an oncoming bus. (It's funnier than it sounds.) Daniel wakes up in Judgment City, where the deceased go on trial. The goal: to determine if the recently deceased has sufficiently conquered his fears. If the answer is yes, he "moves on." If not, it's back to Earth for another try.Daniel's attorney, played by the hilarious Rip Torn, tells his client that a person on Earth uses such a small portion of his brain (around three percent) that most of life is devoted to dealing with fear. "Fear is like a giant fog," he says. "It sits on your brain and blocks everything -- real feelings, true happiness, real joy. They can't get through that fog. But you lift it, and buddy, you're in for the ride of your life."
That's one of the most useful quotes I've ever heard. I'm positive we would all live more fulfilling lives if not for fear. Stop for a second and count how many of your choices are influenced by fear. Not just the "big ticket" decisions, but the little ones, too.
Do you patronize the same restaurant or vacation spot because you fear you won't find another place as enjoyable? Do you pass off responsibility because you fear the consequences of making a poor decision? Have you ever given up on a dream or goal because you feared hard work may not pay off? Ever thought of asking someone out, but didn't because you were scared they might say no?
Now, I'm not saying fear isn't helpful sometimes. I fear bears. Therefore, I'm not going to climb into the bear exhibit at the zoo. So, fear can be good. But when we apply it to everything else, it's just a drag. And we all do it. Every single one of us. We make decisions on where to eat, how to dress, where to work, who to vote for, and a lot more, based largely on fear. We almost never realize we're doing it.
I'm as bad as anyone else. I watch that movie, see Daniel conquer his fear and end up with the girl (Meryl Streep) in the end. I focus, for a few days, on not allowing fear to unnecessarily influence my choices. But I drift back into living the way most of us do. I just wish we could teach ourselves to not let that happen, before we get to Judgment City.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Epic night in Des Moines
My tenth Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band show, on Monday in Des Moines, unseated April's Denver show from the top of my concert rankings. Just hearing "Incident On 57th Street" live for the first time would've been enough for me. But the whole experience, from start to especially the finish, was epic…
• This was Rachel's fifth show, but the first she's experienced in the pit. Only 255 people showed up between 1 p.m. and 4 p.m. to enter the
lottery for access to the area directly in front of the stage. (I've never seen fewer than 500 show up.) So, all of us got in. As you can see from the photos, we were 5-10 feet from the stage all night.
• I almost never say this about a concert venue. But kudos to the Wells Fargo Arena staff. Nice people all the way around. From the ticket takers to concessions to security.
• To those who wonder
why anyone would see a performer ten times, here's my explanation. I could point to the value one gets for the money (this show went almost three hours without a break) or the fact that bands like this just don't come along very often. But the biggest reason is simply that every show is different. I don't just mean the crowd reaction is different or the songs are ordered differently. I mean I've heard at least two different songs at every show I've attended. In Des Moines, I heard four—"Satisfaction," "The Wanderer," "Into The Fire" and the aforementioned "Incident." (Granted, two of those were covers. But I can't tell you how cool it was to see that band play "The Wanderer.") In total, I've heard 70+ different songs at ten shows.
And for the cherry on top…
The show ended just after 11:15 p.m. and we decided to let traffic clear out before heading for the car. We saw a handful of people, most carrying Springsteen memorabilia, standing near a loading dock. So, we thought that must be where the band exits and we may as well catch a glimpse.
About 10 minutes later, an SUV creeps out, the window rolls down and there's Springsteen. (As total luck would have it, I purchased a tour poster as we left the arena. They sold out of them at the Denver show and I got the "display model" here after the guy in front of me bought the last of the main supply.) Springsteen motioned for the waiting throng to come on over and he started signing autographs.
I have to say it was a pleasure to see the lack of pushing, shoving and general poor be
havior that I would've expected in this situation. I waited at the back of the group, fully expecting him to meet a few people, wave goodbye and be on his way. But, as the crowd thinned out, I thought, "Holy crap, I might actually meet the guy." Sure enough, my turn arrived. I think I thanked him for putting on a great show and I think he thanked me for coming to see it. All I'm sure about is he asked my name and I responded correctly, because my poster was signed "To Chris" when it was all over.
Others used their audience with The Boss to tell him how much his music affected them. But I'm afraid I didn't get to ask about his writing process or any other interesting subject. I figured the poor guy probably just wanted to get back to the hotel and go to sleep.
Frankly, I had the same thing in mind, after eight hours in downtown Des Moines. A long, epic day.
• This was Rachel's fifth show, but the first she's experienced in the pit. Only 255 people showed up between 1 p.m. and 4 p.m. to enter the
lottery for access to the area directly in front of the stage. (I've never seen fewer than 500 show up.) So, all of us got in. As you can see from the photos, we were 5-10 feet from the stage all night.• I almost never say this about a concert venue. But kudos to the Wells Fargo Arena staff. Nice people all the way around. From the ticket takers to concessions to security.
• To those who wonder
why anyone would see a performer ten times, here's my explanation. I could point to the value one gets for the money (this show went almost three hours without a break) or the fact that bands like this just don't come along very often. But the biggest reason is simply that every show is different. I don't just mean the crowd reaction is different or the songs are ordered differently. I mean I've heard at least two different songs at every show I've attended. In Des Moines, I heard four—"Satisfaction," "The Wanderer," "Into The Fire" and the aforementioned "Incident." (Granted, two of those were covers. But I can't tell you how cool it was to see that band play "The Wanderer.") In total, I've heard 70+ different songs at ten shows.And for the cherry on top…
The show ended just after 11:15 p.m. and we decided to let traffic clear out before heading for the car. We saw a handful of people, most carrying Springsteen memorabilia, standing near a loading dock. So, we thought that must be where the band exits and we may as well catch a glimpse.
About 10 minutes later, an SUV creeps out, the window rolls down and there's Springsteen. (As total luck would have it, I purchased a tour poster as we left the arena. They sold out of them at the Denver show and I got the "display model" here after the guy in front of me bought the last of the main supply.) Springsteen motioned for the waiting throng to come on over and he started signing autographs.
I have to say it was a pleasure to see the lack of pushing, shoving and general poor be
havior that I would've expected in this situation. I waited at the back of the group, fully expecting him to meet a few people, wave goodbye and be on his way. But, as the crowd thinned out, I thought, "Holy crap, I might actually meet the guy." Sure enough, my turn arrived. I think I thanked him for putting on a great show and I think he thanked me for coming to see it. All I'm sure about is he asked my name and I responded correctly, because my poster was signed "To Chris" when it was all over.Others used their audience with The Boss to tell him how much his music affected them. But I'm afraid I didn't get to ask about his writing process or any other interesting subject. I figured the poor guy probably just wanted to get back to the hotel and go to sleep.
Frankly, I had the same thing in mind, after eight hours in downtown Des Moines. A long, epic day.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Kids should stay in school, right?
In 1980, my first grade class held a mock presidential election. Ronald Reagan vs. Jimmy Carter. I voted for Reagan. There was an R next to his name, which I loved because my last name begins with that letter. And his name was in red, then my favorite color, so that sealed the deal. Little did I know I’d been indoctrinated.
Is this really what our country’s going to be? I understand arguing about health care. (Though I’m starting to think most Americans don’t realize there are two houses of Congress.) I get the immigration debate. I can see sniping over social security. But, the president encouraging kids to stay in school, that’s a problem? Really?
At least, that’s what I think happened. Nearly 30 years later, I’ve learned those sneaky Republicans pulled one over one me and my classmates, tempting us with bright colors and a smiling candidate. They did the same thing in 1991, when President George H.W. Bush delivered a nationally televised speech about the importance of saying no to drugs. Now, the shifty Democrats have the same thing in mind, as President Obama plans to address the nation’s students on Tuesday. He intends to encourage young people to work hard and stay in school.
This speech, many parents, politicians and commentators have noted, is a potential travesty. As Oklahoma Sen. Steve Russell said, “It gives the appearance of creating a cult of personality…something you’d expect to see in North Korea or in Saddam Hussein’s Iraq.” Florida GOP chairman Jim Greer says, "The idea that school children across our nation will be forced to watch the president justify his plans ... is not only infuriating, but goes against beliefs of the majority of Americans, while bypassing American parents through an invasive abuse of power."
Is this really what our country’s going to be? I understand arguing about health care. (Though I’m starting to think most Americans don’t realize there are two houses of Congress.) I get the immigration debate. I can see sniping over social security. But, the president encouraging kids to stay in school, that’s a problem? Really?
Harris Mirkin, a political science professor at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, told The Kansas City Star, “It shows the polarization and suspicion. It’s basically saying the president of the United States isn’t a legitimate person to speak to kids.” I’ll take him one further. It shows the fear. A lot of Americans are paralyzed by fear. Fareed Zakaria, editor of Newsweek International, writes of the U.S. in “The Post-American World”: “It needs to stop cowering in fear. It is fear that has created a climate of paranoia and panic in the United States and fear that has enabled our strategic missteps…To recover its place in the world, America first has to recover its confidence.”
This blog isn’t about politics. I couldn’t give a flip whether you think President Obama walks on water or if you long for the return of President Bush. What I do care about is how scared everyone seems to be. It strikes me as quite irrational that some parents fear the president will “indoctrinate” their children on Tuesday. About 1.2 million students drop out of school each year. Let me say it again. More than one million students drop out annually.
If the president can “indoctrinate” our children with the idea that they should stay in school, I hope we'd applaud, regardless of our politics. Instead, people worry he'll try to slip something into the speech about health care reform, the auto bailout and who knows what else. (As if the nation's schoolchildren would listen to and/or care about those things.) Lots of Americans are scared, by a speech about staying in school.
And that’s kind of scary.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
An open letter to my brother
My brother, Cary, and I have a common problem. Neighbors. Cary's complaint is one I'd not heard. It seems one of his apartment neighbors doesn't use air conditioning. The heat from that person's dwelling travels to Cary's and makes it harder for him to cool his home.
Cary hopes owning a freestanding home will alleviate his trouble. I'm here to tell him it won't. If anything, home ownership leaves us more exposed to annoying neighbors. When renting, moving away from the bad apples isn't nearly as difficult as when you've got a mortgage.
We've owned two homes. Here are my Top 3 Most Annoying Neighbors:
3. (tie) The one who warms up his truck and the one with the chimney pulling away from the house.
The truck warmer-upper isn't a big problem for me, as I'm usually out of bed by 6 a.m. He's more of an issue for Rachel, especially when it's pleasant enough to sleep with open windows. The truck warmer-upper starts his vehicle up and lets it warm up for at least 20 minutes, no matter the time of year. Sometimes, he'll let it go for 45 minutes. This isn’t an F-150 we're talking about, but a diesel-powered beast. That poor engine just churns and churns.
The one with the chimney pulling away from the house was a classic. His chimney issue, he said, was the result of city drainage pipes. I never could understand the connection, but he insisted the city should buy his home. As he told me one night, "I might just move out and let a bunch of homeless people live here. We'll see what the city thinks about that." Apparently, the city didn't think much of that, because he and his family continued living there long after we moved. (That's not to mention the time that one of the children pointed a rifle gun at Rachel and said, "Pow." But that's another blog.)
2. The one with the car alarm.
This neighbor parks both of his cars outside. One of the vehicles, which I assume is equipped with an aftermarket alarm system, sounds its horn anytime there's a clap of thunder. So, during a thunderstorm, every thunder is followed with "honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk." And it's not just thunder that does the trick. Even a passing motorcycle can trigger the alarm. Our bedroom overlooks their driveway, so we've awoke to the horn many times these past few years. (Most recently, the alarm sounded four times between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m. on Tuesday.) We've been over there to talk to them four times. Nothing changes.
1. The one with four dogs.
The City of Lenexa has an ordinance that restricts residents to two dogs per household. Of course, rules are made to have exceptions. For reasons that escape me, the city deems it acceptable for this neighbor to have four dogs. (And, no, they're not the quiet kind.) We've visited the home a half dozen times to ask them to reign in the noise. I won't recap every episode. I'll just share one example.
Earlier this year, we heard one of the dogs barking up a storm at about 7 p.m. Nothing unusual about that, as the dogs' owners often ignore their barking for 30-45 minutes at a time. The racket went on for an hour before I went outside to investigate. The dog was on the deck, the house pitch black. So, I went back inside and called the neighbor. No answer. Fast forward to 10 p.m. The dog's been barking for more than three hours. I go outside and find two other neighbors out on their decks. We all look at each other as if to say, "What now?" I go inside and call animal control. No answer. The dog's owner finally comes home just after 11 p.m. We call and basically ask, "What the hell?" He says, without a hint of apology, "We went out to dinner and didn't think we'd be gone as long as we were."
I wish I could say that's an isolated example. But we've called animal control about this home a dozen times over the years. Nothing changes.
So, Cary, there you have it. Home ownership has its advantages. But, unless you buy a Ted Turner-esque spread with plenty of acreage to protect your dwelling, there's no way to guarantee you won't live next to one of my all-time Top 3.
Cary hopes owning a freestanding home will alleviate his trouble. I'm here to tell him it won't. If anything, home ownership leaves us more exposed to annoying neighbors. When renting, moving away from the bad apples isn't nearly as difficult as when you've got a mortgage.
We've owned two homes. Here are my Top 3 Most Annoying Neighbors:
3. (tie) The one who warms up his truck and the one with the chimney pulling away from the house.
The truck warmer-upper isn't a big problem for me, as I'm usually out of bed by 6 a.m. He's more of an issue for Rachel, especially when it's pleasant enough to sleep with open windows. The truck warmer-upper starts his vehicle up and lets it warm up for at least 20 minutes, no matter the time of year. Sometimes, he'll let it go for 45 minutes. This isn’t an F-150 we're talking about, but a diesel-powered beast. That poor engine just churns and churns.
The one with the chimney pulling away from the house was a classic. His chimney issue, he said, was the result of city drainage pipes. I never could understand the connection, but he insisted the city should buy his home. As he told me one night, "I might just move out and let a bunch of homeless people live here. We'll see what the city thinks about that." Apparently, the city didn't think much of that, because he and his family continued living there long after we moved. (That's not to mention the time that one of the children pointed a rifle gun at Rachel and said, "Pow." But that's another blog.)
2. The one with the car alarm.
This neighbor parks both of his cars outside. One of the vehicles, which I assume is equipped with an aftermarket alarm system, sounds its horn anytime there's a clap of thunder. So, during a thunderstorm, every thunder is followed with "honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk." And it's not just thunder that does the trick. Even a passing motorcycle can trigger the alarm. Our bedroom overlooks their driveway, so we've awoke to the horn many times these past few years. (Most recently, the alarm sounded four times between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m. on Tuesday.) We've been over there to talk to them four times. Nothing changes.
1. The one with four dogs.
The City of Lenexa has an ordinance that restricts residents to two dogs per household. Of course, rules are made to have exceptions. For reasons that escape me, the city deems it acceptable for this neighbor to have four dogs. (And, no, they're not the quiet kind.) We've visited the home a half dozen times to ask them to reign in the noise. I won't recap every episode. I'll just share one example.
Earlier this year, we heard one of the dogs barking up a storm at about 7 p.m. Nothing unusual about that, as the dogs' owners often ignore their barking for 30-45 minutes at a time. The racket went on for an hour before I went outside to investigate. The dog was on the deck, the house pitch black. So, I went back inside and called the neighbor. No answer. Fast forward to 10 p.m. The dog's been barking for more than three hours. I go outside and find two other neighbors out on their decks. We all look at each other as if to say, "What now?" I go inside and call animal control. No answer. The dog's owner finally comes home just after 11 p.m. We call and basically ask, "What the hell?" He says, without a hint of apology, "We went out to dinner and didn't think we'd be gone as long as we were."
I wish I could say that's an isolated example. But we've called animal control about this home a dozen times over the years. Nothing changes.
So, Cary, there you have it. Home ownership has its advantages. But, unless you buy a Ted Turner-esque spread with plenty of acreage to protect your dwelling, there's no way to guarantee you won't live next to one of my all-time Top 3.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
It all adds up
Back in February, I wrote “Reveling in my cheapskatedness.” The gist of it was I’m the geek who pours over coupons and aims to save wherever and whenever possible. I’d decided in January that I’d quantify this year’s savings, to assure myself that thriftiness/frugalness/cheapskatedness is paying off.
Yesterday, I bought tickets to Bruce Springsteen’s October concert at the Sprint Center. And, in a moment of inspiration (or weakness, depending on how you look at it), I also purchased a pair to his St. Louis show, which takes place the night before the KC concert. Given this budget-busting moment, I think today is as good a day as any to total up my year-to-date savings.
Through July, grocery, restaurant and other coupons had saved me a total of $869.41. Store savings (basic sales, special “club” pricing, etc.) totaled another $923.11. The grand savings total is $1792.52. Now I don’t feel so bad about going overboard on Springsteen tickets. Come to think of it, I could go to seven more of his shows and still come out ahead. Now, that’s a nice thought.
Yesterday, I bought tickets to Bruce Springsteen’s October concert at the Sprint Center. And, in a moment of inspiration (or weakness, depending on how you look at it), I also purchased a pair to his St. Louis show, which takes place the night before the KC concert. Given this budget-busting moment, I think today is as good a day as any to total up my year-to-date savings.
Through July, grocery, restaurant and other coupons had saved me a total of $869.41. Store savings (basic sales, special “club” pricing, etc.) totaled another $923.11. The grand savings total is $1792.52. Now I don’t feel so bad about going overboard on Springsteen tickets. Come to think of it, I could go to seven more of his shows and still come out ahead. Now, that’s a nice thought.
Monday, July 27, 2009
One down...
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.
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.
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.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Sweet Justice!
A great thing happened Saturday evening.
We were coming home from church, driving south on I-35 near Lamar. I looked in the rearview mirror to see a large red truck, operated by a gentleman and his cell phone, had positioned itself inches from our bumper. We were going 65 in a 60 mph zone, in the middle of three lanes, so I didn't feel any duty to speed up.
The man swerved his truck to the right lane, gunned the engine and briefly tailgated a car in that lane. His frustration mounting, he swerved back to his position behind me, then quickly into the left lane, where he sped away.
I turned to Rachel and said, "Wouldn't it be great if he's so distracted by that cell phone that he speeds past the state trooper who got on I-35 in front of us a few miles back?"
And so we watched as the red truck cruised south on I-35. And we saw the state trooper driving in the left lane about a half-mile ahead. And wouldn't you know it, that red truck sped right past him. And…wait for it…
Those familiar red lights began flashing. The trooper pulled behind the red truck. Both vehicles veered to the side of the road. And as we passed by, I slowed slightly, rolled down the window and saluted Kansas' finest with a big thumbs up. Sweet justice!
We were coming home from church, driving south on I-35 near Lamar. I looked in the rearview mirror to see a large red truck, operated by a gentleman and his cell phone, had positioned itself inches from our bumper. We were going 65 in a 60 mph zone, in the middle of three lanes, so I didn't feel any duty to speed up.
The man swerved his truck to the right lane, gunned the engine and briefly tailgated a car in that lane. His frustration mounting, he swerved back to his position behind me, then quickly into the left lane, where he sped away.
I turned to Rachel and said, "Wouldn't it be great if he's so distracted by that cell phone that he speeds past the state trooper who got on I-35 in front of us a few miles back?"
And so we watched as the red truck cruised south on I-35. And we saw the state trooper driving in the left lane about a half-mile ahead. And wouldn't you know it, that red truck sped right past him. And…wait for it…
Those familiar red lights began flashing. The trooper pulled behind the red truck. Both vehicles veered to the side of the road. And as we passed by, I slowed slightly, rolled down the window and saluted Kansas' finest with a big thumbs up. Sweet justice!
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Buses, bikes and thanks
Thoughts while enjoying a very quiet evening at home…
• Took the bus most of the way home tonight, then jogged the remaining few miles. I brought an MP3 player and headphones along to listen to on the bus. So I figured I’d leave them on while running. I never run with headphones and today reminded me of why. They altered the running experience to the point that it was almost completely unfamiliar. I didn’t have a full sense of what was going on around me. I wasn’t dialed in to my breathing, stride or much else going on with my body. All in all, the music was just a big distraction. I’ll stick with running the old fashioned way.
• A young man was killed while riding his bicycle to work this morning. He was riding northbound on I29/35 just south of Front Street when a semi-tractor trailer hit him. Early indications are that the cyclist was riding where he shouldn't and the driver couldn't have avoided the accident.
Posters to the KC Star’s comments section of the story will inevitably hide behind anonymity to spew hate about how this is another example of why bikes shouldn’t be on the road. Wrong. This is an example of two things. First, some bicyclists ride where they shouldn’t. Cycling on the interstate is illegal. Not only that, but it was 4:30 a.m., dark and raining. Second, Kansas City hasn’t done many favors for people who don’t drive cars. I’m guessing anyone riding a bide on the interstate at any time of day isn’t doing it by choice. He simply had to get from one side of the river to the other and that bridge was his only way. Despite that, the Missouri Department of Transportation designed the currently under construction Christopher S. Bond Bridge without a pedestrian/bicycle lane. Brilliant.
• Our church, St. Pius X in Mission, always pays tribute to veterans on Memorial Day weekend. And Father Ken Kelly always makes a particular comment when recognizing veterans of World War II: “Thank you for saving our lives.” Each year, when he makes that comment, I think of people like my grandfather, who served his country in the war and in the Battle of the Bulge. Could they have possibly known then what their service and sacrifice would mean to us and to the world?
Simply put, if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be here now enjoying a very quiet evening in Lenexa, Kansas.
• Took the bus most of the way home tonight, then jogged the remaining few miles. I brought an MP3 player and headphones along to listen to on the bus. So I figured I’d leave them on while running. I never run with headphones and today reminded me of why. They altered the running experience to the point that it was almost completely unfamiliar. I didn’t have a full sense of what was going on around me. I wasn’t dialed in to my breathing, stride or much else going on with my body. All in all, the music was just a big distraction. I’ll stick with running the old fashioned way.
• A young man was killed while riding his bicycle to work this morning. He was riding northbound on I29/35 just south of Front Street when a semi-tractor trailer hit him. Early indications are that the cyclist was riding where he shouldn't and the driver couldn't have avoided the accident.
Posters to the KC Star’s comments section of the story will inevitably hide behind anonymity to spew hate about how this is another example of why bikes shouldn’t be on the road. Wrong. This is an example of two things. First, some bicyclists ride where they shouldn’t. Cycling on the interstate is illegal. Not only that, but it was 4:30 a.m., dark and raining. Second, Kansas City hasn’t done many favors for people who don’t drive cars. I’m guessing anyone riding a bide on the interstate at any time of day isn’t doing it by choice. He simply had to get from one side of the river to the other and that bridge was his only way. Despite that, the Missouri Department of Transportation designed the currently under construction Christopher S. Bond Bridge without a pedestrian/bicycle lane. Brilliant.
• Our church, St. Pius X in Mission, always pays tribute to veterans on Memorial Day weekend. And Father Ken Kelly always makes a particular comment when recognizing veterans of World War II: “Thank you for saving our lives.” Each year, when he makes that comment, I think of people like my grandfather, who served his country in the war and in the Battle of the Bulge. Could they have possibly known then what their service and sacrifice would mean to us and to the world?
Simply put, if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be here now enjoying a very quiet evening in Lenexa, Kansas.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Inez Mae Ronan
Our grandmother passed away on Thursday. She wasn’t one to waste words, so I’ll pay tribute by keeping this short.
Several years ago, I spent some time working on a family tree project. I interviewed many family members, including Grandma. Those who know her won’t be surprised to hear I didn’t get much out of her. She was quiet. But she was also one of the stronger people I’ve had the benefit to know. She raised seven children, who all turned out to be decent people. She was married 67 years, an achievement remarkable to anyone familiar with Grandpa’s orneriness.
I'm aware of how fortunate I’ve been to grow up knowing each of my grandparents. Nearly all of them said something to me at one time or another that’s stuck with me. Grandma was different in that she taught me something important by not saying anything at all. More specifically, to not talk unless you have something worth saying. Because that's how she operated, when Grandma talked, people listened.
She’ll be missed.
Several years ago, I spent some time working on a family tree project. I interviewed many family members, including Grandma. Those who know her won’t be surprised to hear I didn’t get much out of her. She was quiet. But she was also one of the stronger people I’ve had the benefit to know. She raised seven children, who all turned out to be decent people. She was married 67 years, an achievement remarkable to anyone familiar with Grandpa’s orneriness.
I'm aware of how fortunate I’ve been to grow up knowing each of my grandparents. Nearly all of them said something to me at one time or another that’s stuck with me. Grandma was different in that she taught me something important by not saying anything at all. More specifically, to not talk unless you have something worth saying. Because that's how she operated, when Grandma talked, people listened.
She’ll be missed.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Close encounters with the canine kind
I mixed it up a bit and ran a route that took me from Crown Center back home this morning. Bike To Work Week is coming up. So I loaded up the car with a week’s worth of clothes, dropped it off at CC and ran back.
I was hoofing it down Gillham Road at about 40th Street when I heard the familiar jingle of dog tags behind me. Turned and saw a dog racing toward me, drool glistening from its mouth. It started barking when I turned to see it. Those who know me and are aware of my bravery won’t be surprised to hear that I jumped in the back of an F-150 that was parked on the street. (I’m not sure what made me think the dog couldn’t have jumped right in there with me if it wanted to.)
As the snarling dog crouched in front of the truck in what appeared to be “I’m about to eat you” position, I heard a female voice say, “Oh, he won’t bite.” The woman was standing at the closest house, sucking down a cancer stick. I replied, “I’m not sure how I could have known that.”
She walked over, grabbed the dog by the collar and led it back to the house. (It was then that I noticed her other dog tied to a tree.)
I tell this story to bring up a few points:
• I am a very tough and brave person.
• Unless I know you and your dog, I have no idea whether your dog is good, bad or indifferent. I don’t know if it will bite. I don’t know if it will jump on me. I don’t know anything about it.
• What I do know is that I’ve been bitten, knocked over and otherwise bothered by several dogs over the years. In each and every case, the owner said something to the effect of, “I can’t believe he/she did that!” Well, maybe it’s because the dog saw something running and that triggered one of any number of instincts….fear, aggression, playfulness….who knows.
For whatever reason, lots of people believe they and their dogs are exempt from leash laws. I’ve never understood why. I see loose dogs on at least half of my weekly runs. One time I was running down Johnson Drive during rush hour and a dog ran at me from across the street, causing several approaching cars to slam their brakes to avoid it. In that case, the dog just wanted to play and I stood with it until its jogger owner crossed over to retrieve it.
Bottom line, please leash the dogs. I’d love it if you did it because you cared about my well being. But if that doesn’t do anything for you, then do it for your dog’s.
I was hoofing it down Gillham Road at about 40th Street when I heard the familiar jingle of dog tags behind me. Turned and saw a dog racing toward me, drool glistening from its mouth. It started barking when I turned to see it. Those who know me and are aware of my bravery won’t be surprised to hear that I jumped in the back of an F-150 that was parked on the street. (I’m not sure what made me think the dog couldn’t have jumped right in there with me if it wanted to.)
As the snarling dog crouched in front of the truck in what appeared to be “I’m about to eat you” position, I heard a female voice say, “Oh, he won’t bite.” The woman was standing at the closest house, sucking down a cancer stick. I replied, “I’m not sure how I could have known that.”
She walked over, grabbed the dog by the collar and led it back to the house. (It was then that I noticed her other dog tied to a tree.)
I tell this story to bring up a few points:
• I am a very tough and brave person.
• Unless I know you and your dog, I have no idea whether your dog is good, bad or indifferent. I don’t know if it will bite. I don’t know if it will jump on me. I don’t know anything about it.
• What I do know is that I’ve been bitten, knocked over and otherwise bothered by several dogs over the years. In each and every case, the owner said something to the effect of, “I can’t believe he/she did that!” Well, maybe it’s because the dog saw something running and that triggered one of any number of instincts….fear, aggression, playfulness….who knows.
For whatever reason, lots of people believe they and their dogs are exempt from leash laws. I’ve never understood why. I see loose dogs on at least half of my weekly runs. One time I was running down Johnson Drive during rush hour and a dog ran at me from across the street, causing several approaching cars to slam their brakes to avoid it. In that case, the dog just wanted to play and I stood with it until its jogger owner crossed over to retrieve it.
Bottom line, please leash the dogs. I’d love it if you did it because you cared about my well being. But if that doesn’t do anything for you, then do it for your dog’s.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Thoughts On The Run
Thoughts during today’s run…
• The Killers concert at Sandstone was pretty good. Didn’t think they quite reached the level of the Boulder and Denver shows we saw, but still a fun night. Note to self: don’t be stupid enough to take the I-70 route to Sandstone again…24/40 all the way.
• Really hoping “Chuck” gets picked up for a third season. Fun show. Fun actors. And Yvonne Strahovski is a credit to the great country of Australia.
• 30,000+ Americans die each year from the “regular” flu. That doesn’t stop us from flying, taking the train, shaking hands or anything else. Put the word “swine” in front of “flu” and everything changes. We’re a nation of panickers.
• Top “Shaft” movies:
1. "Shaft"
2. "Shaft"(2000 remake)
3. "Shaft’s Big Score!"
4. "Shaft in Africa"
(The 1973-74 TV series was an abomination .)
• Best 80s movie featuring a “Chuck” NSA agent: Has to be “My Bodyguard,” Adam Baldwin’s first movie. Also featured Matt Dillon (three years before “Outsiders”), Jennifer Beals and Joan Cusack.
• Has grocery shopping become such a strenuous exercise that a Starbucks is mandatory for tooling around the store? Those things are more hazardous to shopping cart operation than cell phones are to car operation. (And watch out when a Starbucks, cell phone and shopping cart are mixed.)
• Best Adam Baldwin quote from “My Bodyguard”: “Poor little guy... poor little guy.”
• How did “Caddyshack II” ever see the light of day?
• The Killers concert at Sandstone was pretty good. Didn’t think they quite reached the level of the Boulder and Denver shows we saw, but still a fun night. Note to self: don’t be stupid enough to take the I-70 route to Sandstone again…24/40 all the way.
• Really hoping “Chuck” gets picked up for a third season. Fun show. Fun actors. And Yvonne Strahovski is a credit to the great country of Australia.
• 30,000+ Americans die each year from the “regular” flu. That doesn’t stop us from flying, taking the train, shaking hands or anything else. Put the word “swine” in front of “flu” and everything changes. We’re a nation of panickers.
• Top “Shaft” movies:
1. "Shaft"
2. "Shaft"(2000 remake)
3. "Shaft’s Big Score!"
4. "Shaft in Africa"
(The 1973-74 TV series was an abomination .)
• Best 80s movie featuring a “Chuck” NSA agent: Has to be “My Bodyguard,” Adam Baldwin’s first movie. Also featured Matt Dillon (three years before “Outsiders”), Jennifer Beals and Joan Cusack.
• Has grocery shopping become such a strenuous exercise that a Starbucks is mandatory for tooling around the store? Those things are more hazardous to shopping cart operation than cell phones are to car operation. (And watch out when a Starbucks, cell phone and shopping cart are mixed.)
• Best Adam Baldwin quote from “My Bodyguard”: “Poor little guy... poor little guy.”
• How did “Caddyshack II” ever see the light of day?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
On the road again...and again.
A classic novel you've likely never heard of was reissued this month. John L. Parker Jr.'s "Once A Runner" was first published in 1978. Whenever someone asks me why I run, what running does for me, or anything in that vein, I direct them to "Once A Runner." It answers those questions in ways I never could.
The problem, until this month, is "Once A Runner" was almost impossible to locate. It was reprinted a few times over the years, but was generally only found on eBay (for upwards of $200) or in too few public libraries. (My autographed copy is currently in the hands of a friend, if his baby girl hasn't eaten it yet.)
Anyway, I was thinking about the book on Sunday morning. It was one of those mornings when I really wasn't sure I wanted to go out to run. It'd been pouring rain all night and while the downpour had lessened to a sprinkle, it looked like it could start gushing again at any time. And I was a bit sore from Saturday's 5K race. But when you've been running as long as I have, you tend to find those kind of mornings can turn into the best kind. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I've stayed in on a morning like that. So off I went.
As has happened so many times before, it turned into a special run. The weather had scared everyone else into staying inside, so I had the roads and trails to myself. The race soreness faded away and I settled into the kind of groove that makes me love running so much. Here's what happens during those grooves...
Time and distance don't seem to matter. Both simply pass by without much thought. Nothing hurts. You breathe the same way you would while walking down a grocery store aisle. It all seems absolutely effortless. You can only hope you don't notice the groove. Because once you notice it, you start wondering when it will go away. It almost always goes away.
And that brings me to how running is a lot like golf. The average golfer hits a lot of balls into the rough, the sand, the water, even neighboring homes. It's so frustrating that a lot of golfers quit. The ones who keep at it do so because every so often you hit the perfect shot. It feels so good that you can't wait to do it again. So you persist through the sand balls and the water balls and the house balls. All because there's a chance the next shot will be THE shot.
That's how running is for me. I have days where it's a major chore to complete just a few miles. On those days I can't help wondering why in the world I do it. I have other days where running isn't spectacular, but it's a fine way to fritter an hour away. And then I have those special days when the groove happens. And it's a feeling you wish you could bottle up because everyone in the world would want to buy it. That's what Sunday was like.
Of course, Monday's run was average. Today's run was just so-so. But there's always the chance tomorrow will be special. And that's one of the reasons I run.
The problem, until this month, is "Once A Runner" was almost impossible to locate. It was reprinted a few times over the years, but was generally only found on eBay (for upwards of $200) or in too few public libraries. (My autographed copy is currently in the hands of a friend, if his baby girl hasn't eaten it yet.)
Anyway, I was thinking about the book on Sunday morning. It was one of those mornings when I really wasn't sure I wanted to go out to run. It'd been pouring rain all night and while the downpour had lessened to a sprinkle, it looked like it could start gushing again at any time. And I was a bit sore from Saturday's 5K race. But when you've been running as long as I have, you tend to find those kind of mornings can turn into the best kind. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I've stayed in on a morning like that. So off I went.
As has happened so many times before, it turned into a special run. The weather had scared everyone else into staying inside, so I had the roads and trails to myself. The race soreness faded away and I settled into the kind of groove that makes me love running so much. Here's what happens during those grooves...
Time and distance don't seem to matter. Both simply pass by without much thought. Nothing hurts. You breathe the same way you would while walking down a grocery store aisle. It all seems absolutely effortless. You can only hope you don't notice the groove. Because once you notice it, you start wondering when it will go away. It almost always goes away.
And that brings me to how running is a lot like golf. The average golfer hits a lot of balls into the rough, the sand, the water, even neighboring homes. It's so frustrating that a lot of golfers quit. The ones who keep at it do so because every so often you hit the perfect shot. It feels so good that you can't wait to do it again. So you persist through the sand balls and the water balls and the house balls. All because there's a chance the next shot will be THE shot.
That's how running is for me. I have days where it's a major chore to complete just a few miles. On those days I can't help wondering why in the world I do it. I have other days where running isn't spectacular, but it's a fine way to fritter an hour away. And then I have those special days when the groove happens. And it's a feeling you wish you could bottle up because everyone in the world would want to buy it. That's what Sunday was like.
Of course, Monday's run was average. Today's run was just so-so. But there's always the chance tomorrow will be special. And that's one of the reasons I run.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Facebook and a friendship's new chapter
The Internet can be a wonderful thing. I was reminded of this today when Justin Brown entered the realm of Facebook. Justin's presence on Facebook marks the latest chapter in our mostly online friendship, which dates back to the relatively early days of the Internet.
It was the late 90s and I was living in Lawrence, working as the Sports Director at Sunflower Cablevision. Many of you know I've dabbled in autograph collecting at times during my 35 years. One day, while perusing a message board dedicated to autographs, I began a back-and-forth with someone who, like me, collected the signatures of great track and field athletes. (The list of such collectors is short, but distinguished.)
I eventually learned that my fellow collector lived in Geelong, Australia, with his wife and
son. Our dialogue began simply with the sharing of collecting tips and the trading of autographs. It moved to the occasional life updates and, I'm happy to say, was highlighted in 2005 when Justin and Michelle made Kansas City one of their stops on a whirlwind trip to the United States. Rachel and I reciprocated later that year with our maiden voyage Down Under, which included a few days in Melbourne and a visit to the Brown home in Geelong.
Justin and I hav
e seen each other less than a week during our 10+ year friendship. But I've been able to observe his love of cricket and his obsession with the Melbourne Demons. (Yes, Justin loves the Melbourne AFL team even though there's one in Geelong.) I've met his family and shared the joy when he, Michelle and Brandon welcomed a new family member, Renee. (And another on the way this year!) And he's shared the highlights and lowlights of my life, too.
How else could all this have happened, if not for the Internet?
We can do lots of great things online now—from banking and shopping to YouTube and Twitter. But nothing beats the creation of a friendship, 10+ years long and going strong. Welcome to Facebook, Justin.
It was the late 90s and I was living in Lawrence, working as the Sports Director at Sunflower Cablevision. Many of you know I've dabbled in autograph collecting at times during my 35 years. One day, while perusing a message board dedicated to autographs, I began a back-and-forth with someone who, like me, collected the signatures of great track and field athletes. (The list of such collectors is short, but distinguished.)
I eventually learned that my fellow collector lived in Geelong, Australia, with his wife and
son. Our dialogue began simply with the sharing of collecting tips and the trading of autographs. It moved to the occasional life updates and, I'm happy to say, was highlighted in 2005 when Justin and Michelle made Kansas City one of their stops on a whirlwind trip to the United States. Rachel and I reciprocated later that year with our maiden voyage Down Under, which included a few days in Melbourne and a visit to the Brown home in Geelong.Justin and I hav
e seen each other less than a week during our 10+ year friendship. But I've been able to observe his love of cricket and his obsession with the Melbourne Demons. (Yes, Justin loves the Melbourne AFL team even though there's one in Geelong.) I've met his family and shared the joy when he, Michelle and Brandon welcomed a new family member, Renee. (And another on the way this year!) And he's shared the highlights and lowlights of my life, too.How else could all this have happened, if not for the Internet?
We can do lots of great things online now—from banking and shopping to YouTube and Twitter. But nothing beats the creation of a friendship, 10+ years long and going strong. Welcome to Facebook, Justin.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Random thoughts from the Arizona getaway...
Phoenix traffic can be horrible. We Kansas Citians don't realize what a blessing it can be to have so many highway options.
The Royals can be horrible. Man, they looked bad against the Rangers. But it was easy to overlook that when the sky was blue, temperature was near 80 and you're sitting 5 rows from the dugout. That said, there should be a law against funnel cakes costing $6.
Every vacation should include time to just do nothing.
Sedona is like Manitou Springs, CO on steroids.
What a great place for running in April. (June/July/August/etc., not so much.)
If you're ever in Scottsdale and think it'd be nice to visit Taliesin West, one of Frank Lloyd Wright's homes, bring your wallet. You can't go in without going on a tour…and a tour costs a minimum of $27.
Kudos to Valle Luna restaurant in Scottsdale…and to Cary for recommending it.
Thoughts during the Springsteen show:
#8 show I've seen…and I'd probably rate it 8th out of the 8. It was a great concert, just not as great as the other seven. Only the second show of the tour, so saw a few more screw-ups than I'm used to.
Updated concert rankings (in order): Kansas City, Houston, Dublin #2, Omaha, St. Paul, Dublin #1, Dallas, Phoenix
Kind of weird to see "Badlands" open the show.
Lots of stuff from the new album—"Outlaw Pete," "My Lucky Day" and "Kingdom of Days" were great.
There should be a law against a bag of roasted nuts costing $7.50.
Clarence is showing his age...but the big man looked great dancing during "Out In The Street," whistling during "Working On A Dream" and hitting all the big notes when he had to.
Does any song really need two tambourines? ("Because The Night")
Two new backup singers for this tour…that means 12 people on stage.
I could do with "American Land" leaving the setlist…but it was great to finally hear "Land of Hope and Dreams" live.
Can't wait for the Denver show (Good Friday)
The Royals can be horrible. Man, they looked bad against the Rangers. But it was easy to overlook that when the sky was blue, temperature was near 80 and you're sitting 5 rows from the dugout. That said, there should be a law against funnel cakes costing $6.
Every vacation should include time to just do nothing.
Sedona is like Manitou Springs, CO on steroids.
What a great place for running in April. (June/July/August/etc., not so much.)
If you're ever in Scottsdale and think it'd be nice to visit Taliesin West, one of Frank Lloyd Wright's homes, bring your wallet. You can't go in without going on a tour…and a tour costs a minimum of $27.
Kudos to Valle Luna restaurant in Scottsdale…and to Cary for recommending it.
Thoughts during the Springsteen show:
#8 show I've seen…and I'd probably rate it 8th out of the 8. It was a great concert, just not as great as the other seven. Only the second show of the tour, so saw a few more screw-ups than I'm used to.
Updated concert rankings (in order): Kansas City, Houston, Dublin #2, Omaha, St. Paul, Dublin #1, Dallas, Phoenix
Kind of weird to see "Badlands" open the show.
Lots of stuff from the new album—"Outlaw Pete," "My Lucky Day" and "Kingdom of Days" were great.
There should be a law against a bag of roasted nuts costing $7.50.
Clarence is showing his age...but the big man looked great dancing during "Out In The Street," whistling during "Working On A Dream" and hitting all the big notes when he had to.
Does any song really need two tambourines? ("Because The Night")
Two new backup singers for this tour…that means 12 people on stage.
I could do with "American Land" leaving the setlist…but it was great to finally hear "Land of Hope and Dreams" live.
Can't wait for the Denver show (Good Friday)
Thursday, March 19, 2009
First impressions, second chances
Former Iowa State basketball player Paul Shirley writes a fun blog for ESPN.com. The subject is often music. A few weeks back, he wrote about how he decided to listen to a CD several times (seems it was seven) before making a final determination on the CD's worthiness.
It's a great idea, though unrealistic for the average person who can't spare the time (or effort) to re-listen to a CD that initially doesn't seem all that great.
I thought about Shirley's blog while listening to the latest albums by Bruce Springsteen and U2. Each of them seemed, at best, average on the first listen.
But I stayed with them, thinking surely I was missing something. Turns out I was. Now that I've spent some time with each CD, I really enjoy them both.
Springsteen's "Working On A Dream" follows last year's "Magic." He hasn't made consecutive records this quickly in a long time, leading many people to feel The Boss sacrificed quality for speed. WOAD certainly is a departure from Springsteen's recent work. "The Rising" was heavily influenced by 9/11, while "Magic" is Springsteen's response to the George W. Bush presidency. WOAD isn't quite as deep as either of those. Songs like "Surprise, Surprise," "Kingdom of Days," "My Lucky Day" and "This Life" find The Boss in a celebratory mood, which I found to be a nice departure from the tone of his previous two albums.
That's not to say WOAD doesn't have some meat to it. "The Last Carnival" is a moving tribute to Danny Federici, the E Street Band member who died of complications from melanoma last year. And "The Wrestler," which won a Golden Globe, but somehow didn't get an Oscar nomination, is a great tune as well.
While Springsteen has been producing work at a rapid pace, U2's "No Line On The Horizon" is their first album in nearly five years. Again, I wasn't wild about the first listen. But I'm appreciating it more and more. I dig Edge's work on "Magnificent." I like the whole feel of "I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight," which is the song we heard live at the Letterman show. And Adam Clayton's bass on "Moment of Surrender" is addictive.
Of course, there are certain artists who've earned repeated listens from me. Springsteen and U2 top that list. But I'd like to think I'll take the time to give other artists more of a break in the future. Because you never know what you'll miss on that first listen.
It's a great idea, though unrealistic for the average person who can't spare the time (or effort) to re-listen to a CD that initially doesn't seem all that great.
I thought about Shirley's blog while listening to the latest albums by Bruce Springsteen and U2. Each of them seemed, at best, average on the first listen.
But I stayed with them, thinking surely I was missing something. Turns out I was. Now that I've spent some time with each CD, I really enjoy them both.Springsteen's "Working On A Dream" follows last year's "Magic." He hasn't made consecutive records this quickly in a long time, leading many people to feel The Boss sacrificed quality for speed. WOAD certainly is a departure from Springsteen's recent work. "The Rising" was heavily influenced by 9/11, while "Magic" is Springsteen's response to the George W. Bush presidency. WOAD isn't quite as deep as either of those. Songs like "Surprise, Surprise," "Kingdom of Days," "My Lucky Day" and "This Life" find The Boss in a celebratory mood, which I found to be a nice departure from the tone of his previous two albums.
That's not to say WOAD doesn't have some meat to it. "The Last Carnival" is a moving tribute to Danny Federici, the E Street Band member who died of complications from melanoma last year. And "The Wrestler," which won a Golden Globe, but somehow didn't get an Oscar nomination, is a great tune as well.
While Springsteen has been producing work at a rapid pace, U2's "No Line On The Horizon" is their first album in nearly five years. Again, I wasn't wild about the first listen. But I'm appreciating it more and more. I dig Edge's work on "Magnificent." I like the whole feel of "I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight," which is the song we heard live at the Letterman show. And Adam Clayton's bass on "Moment of Surrender" is addictive.
Of course, there are certain artists who've earned repeated listens from me. Springsteen and U2 top that list. But I'd like to think I'll take the time to give other artists more of a break in the future. Because you never know what you'll miss on that first listen.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Hanging out with Letterman and U2...sort of
I love to plan vacations almost as much as I love the vacations themselves. But sometimes the best trips are the ones you don't have time to think about beforehand.
Three weeks ago I got a call from John at The Late Show with David Letterman. Several weeks earlier I'd heard that U2 would be Letterman's musical guest every night for the week of March 2, in conjunction with the release of their new album. So I went to The Late Show Web site and put in a ticket request.
I've put in a Letterman ticket request every time I've been to New York. And my name has never been picked. So imagine my surprise when John asked if I was still interested in tickets for March 4. "Oh, absolutely," I said. John asks, "So you're going to be in New York next week?" "Oh, absolutely," I said. (I could always figure out later just how realistic the trip would be.)
As is protocol for The Late Show, John had to ask me a trivia question about the show before guaranteeing the tickets. This worried me, as I don't watch the show as much as I used to. He says, "There's a bit we had on the show for many years, but stopped doing recently. I'm going to give you the title and leave out a word. You just have to tell me the word." Again, don't watch the show much. And, at that moment, I couldn't recall a single one of the bits. He continues, "Great moments in BLANK speeches."
Truly, this is the only bit I could possibly have named, other than the Top Ten list. The answer was "Presidential." And I had my tickets.
It was hard to keep my mind on class that night as I looked forward to getting home and seeing if the airfare and hotel costs would be reasonable enough for this trip to happen. And I was very surprised to find the rates were pretty darn cheap, even just a week out.
We sweated the weather forecasts for the next few days, especially the period when NYC got almost a foot of snow. But it had all cleared up by March 4 and we flew out that morning. The flight was flawless and, after a bit of an annoying cab ride (thanks to some awful Midtown Tunnel traffic), we were at the hotel by noon. (If you're ever traveling to NYC, I've had great luck with the Hampton Inn at 51st and 8th. It's been our NYC base the past three trips.)
We didn't have to pick up tickets at the Ed Sullivan Theatre until 2 p.m. So we took the advice of Will DiMartino, a native New Yorker who now forms a great KC photography team with his wife, Jill, and had lunch at Zen Palate at 46th and 9th. I don't eat meat during Lent, so I'd asked Will for some good NYC vegetarian options. He was right on the money with Zen Palate...one of the best veggie burgers I've ever had, along with some tasty sweet potato fries.
From there, we booked it over to the theatre. A crowd had gathered on the south side of the building, awaiting U2's arrival. We stood (and froze...no sun) out there for several minutes, before heading to the front of the building to wait in line with the other lucky ticket winners. They opened the doors at precisely 2 p.m. and we shuffled inside to have our IDs checked.
I'd read somewhere that the more enthusiastic you appear, the more likely you might get better seats. Now, anyone who knows me knows I'm not typically an outwardly enthusiastic p
erson. But believe me when I say I was off the charts enthusiastic between 2 p.m. and 2:30 p.m. The staffer at the head of our line, after pulling out our two tickets, asked if we were excited to be there ("Of course!!" and if we had a favorite bit on the show ("Great Moments in Presidential Speeches...what a bummer Dave doesn't do it anymore. Oh, and by the way, we came all the way from Kansas City for this!" before saying, "You guys look like you're ready to have fun today. So I'm going to do you a favor." She applied a small sticker to each of our tickets and told us to go meet another staffer on the other side of the room.
So off we went, along with a handful of other folks, whom I can only assume were just as enthusiastic as we were. This staffer tells us that we must have caught the eye of the line staffers, because we'd been picked to be among those seated in the first few rows of the theatre. Success! We just had to come back and meet our group at 3:15.
We bounced across the street to a deli, mostly to warm up for a few minutes, and then made our way back to the theatre. The "select" group turned out to be 75-100 people (the theatre holds 400 or so for Letterman's show) and, upon meeting at 3:15, we were led inside the lobby of the Ed Sullivan Theatre. We lined up and the next 20-30 minutes were spent being entertained by one of the staffers, whose job it was to get us suitably pumped up for the show. The kicker was we could hear U2 sound checking in the theatre and no one in our group was paying attention!
Sometime around 3:45, we were led into the theatre. They filled up the first and second rows of the center section, then directed us to the second row of the right section (stage left.) We were lined up with a direct view of Letterman's desk. A warm-up comedian came out and explained a bit about how the show would work, told a few jokes, then introduced the house band. They played for several minutes, while we clapped along. Then Paul Shaffer came out and they played a bit more. At about 4:25, Letterman came on stage, sans jacket, said hello and took a few questions from the audience. Now, I was thinking the show didn't begin until 5 p.m. So imagine my surprise when I saw a camera guy counting down. When he got to 1, Letterman walked briskly to the back of the stage, out of sight, and the band started playing the intro music. Guess the show starts at 4:30!
I won't go into all the detail about the show. Letterman came out and did his monologue. U2 came out and did the Top 10 list, which was hilarious. Dr. Phil McGraw was the guest. He turned out to be funnier than I expected. The show moved along in real time until about 5:20. They took a bit of extra time to set up U2's equipment. Then the band came out and did "I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight" from the new album. It was, of course, excellent.
And that w
as it. The lights came up and we filed out.
The rest of the trip may seem ho-hum by comparison to that first afternoon. But we got to do and see a lot of things that we'd missed on our previous trips. Saw two shows ("Jersey Boys" and "August: Osage County," both excellent), got out to Brooklyn and walked the bridge, saw the American Museum of Natural History and the New York City Police Museum, walked through Central Park (and I ran around it several times), dined at some great places and, all in all, had a great time.
Already looking forward to planning the next trip...
Three weeks ago I got a call from John at The Late Show with David Letterman. Several weeks earlier I'd heard that U2 would be Letterman's musical guest every night for the week of March 2, in conjunction with the release of their new album. So I went to The Late Show Web site and put in a ticket request.
I've put in a Letterman ticket request every time I've been to New York. And my name has never been picked. So imagine my surprise when John asked if I was still interested in tickets for March 4. "Oh, absolutely," I said. John asks, "So you're going to be in New York next week?" "Oh, absolutely," I said. (I could always figure out later just how realistic the trip would be.)
As is protocol for The Late Show, John had to ask me a trivia question about the show before guaranteeing the tickets. This worried me, as I don't watch the show as much as I used to. He says, "There's a bit we had on the show for many years, but stopped doing recently. I'm going to give you the title and leave out a word. You just have to tell me the word." Again, don't watch the show much. And, at that moment, I couldn't recall a single one of the bits. He continues, "Great moments in BLANK speeches."
Truly, this is the only bit I could possibly have named, other than the Top Ten list. The answer was "Presidential." And I had my tickets.
It was hard to keep my mind on class that night as I looked forward to getting home and seeing if the airfare and hotel costs would be reasonable enough for this trip to happen. And I was very surprised to find the rates were pretty darn cheap, even just a week out.
We sweated the weather forecasts for the next few days, especially the period when NYC got almost a foot of snow. But it had all cleared up by March 4 and we flew out that morning. The flight was flawless and, after a bit of an annoying cab ride (thanks to some awful Midtown Tunnel traffic), we were at the hotel by noon. (If you're ever traveling to NYC, I've had great luck with the Hampton Inn at 51st and 8th. It's been our NYC base the past three trips.)
We didn't have to pick up tickets at the Ed Sullivan Theatre until 2 p.m. So we took the advice of Will DiMartino, a native New Yorker who now forms a great KC photography team with his wife, Jill, and had lunch at Zen Palate at 46th and 9th. I don't eat meat during Lent, so I'd asked Will for some good NYC vegetarian options. He was right on the money with Zen Palate...one of the best veggie burgers I've ever had, along with some tasty sweet potato fries.
From there, we booked it over to the theatre. A crowd had gathered on the south side of the building, awaiting U2's arrival. We stood (and froze...no sun) out there for several minutes, before heading to the front of the building to wait in line with the other lucky ticket winners. They opened the doors at precisely 2 p.m. and we shuffled inside to have our IDs checked.
I'd read somewhere that the more enthusiastic you appear, the more likely you might get better seats. Now, anyone who knows me knows I'm not typically an outwardly enthusiastic p
erson. But believe me when I say I was off the charts enthusiastic between 2 p.m. and 2:30 p.m. The staffer at the head of our line, after pulling out our two tickets, asked if we were excited to be there ("Of course!!" and if we had a favorite bit on the show ("Great Moments in Presidential Speeches...what a bummer Dave doesn't do it anymore. Oh, and by the way, we came all the way from Kansas City for this!" before saying, "You guys look like you're ready to have fun today. So I'm going to do you a favor." She applied a small sticker to each of our tickets and told us to go meet another staffer on the other side of the room.So off we went, along with a handful of other folks, whom I can only assume were just as enthusiastic as we were. This staffer tells us that we must have caught the eye of the line staffers, because we'd been picked to be among those seated in the first few rows of the theatre. Success! We just had to come back and meet our group at 3:15.
We bounced across the street to a deli, mostly to warm up for a few minutes, and then made our way back to the theatre. The "select" group turned out to be 75-100 people (the theatre holds 400 or so for Letterman's show) and, upon meeting at 3:15, we were led inside the lobby of the Ed Sullivan Theatre. We lined up and the next 20-30 minutes were spent being entertained by one of the staffers, whose job it was to get us suitably pumped up for the show. The kicker was we could hear U2 sound checking in the theatre and no one in our group was paying attention!
Sometime around 3:45, we were led into the theatre. They filled up the first and second rows of the center section, then directed us to the second row of the right section (stage left.) We were lined up with a direct view of Letterman's desk. A warm-up comedian came out and explained a bit about how the show would work, told a few jokes, then introduced the house band. They played for several minutes, while we clapped along. Then Paul Shaffer came out and they played a bit more. At about 4:25, Letterman came on stage, sans jacket, said hello and took a few questions from the audience. Now, I was thinking the show didn't begin until 5 p.m. So imagine my surprise when I saw a camera guy counting down. When he got to 1, Letterman walked briskly to the back of the stage, out of sight, and the band started playing the intro music. Guess the show starts at 4:30!
I won't go into all the detail about the show. Letterman came out and did his monologue. U2 came out and did the Top 10 list, which was hilarious. Dr. Phil McGraw was the guest. He turned out to be funnier than I expected. The show moved along in real time until about 5:20. They took a bit of extra time to set up U2's equipment. Then the band came out and did "I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight" from the new album. It was, of course, excellent.
And that w
as it. The lights came up and we filed out.The rest of the trip may seem ho-hum by comparison to that first afternoon. But we got to do and see a lot of things that we'd missed on our previous trips. Saw two shows ("Jersey Boys" and "August: Osage County," both excellent), got out to Brooklyn and walked the bridge, saw the American Museum of Natural History and the New York City Police Museum, walked through Central Park (and I ran around it several times), dined at some great places and, all in all, had a great time.
Already looking forward to planning the next trip...
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