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, as 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!