One Day: Why

"I wish to preach, not the doctrine of ignoble ease, but the doctrine of the strenuous life."

----Theodore Roosevelt

Two Days: Food! Glorious Food!

So, yeah. Carbs made their reappearance into the pre-race diet in the last 24 hours. I lurves my quinoa and my rice and my spaghetti. And I immediately felt better physically. But also gained about 2.5 pounds overnight, after having maintained a constant weight during Christmas, the subsequent vacation, and even during the marathon taper. How is it possible to eat one wafer thin mint weighing a mere ounce and balloon up more than a kilo.

OK, so that was an exaggeration. I had Chinese food.

And red beans and rice.

And Quinoa and black beans.

DON'T JUDGE!

Next to the marathon expo to get my number and gorge on all the toys and trinkets, like a sugar-highed kid in a candy store.

YIPPEEEEE!

Three Days: Dress Rehearsal

This morning was my final run before the Houston Marathon, so I thought it would be a good day to do a dress rehearsal.

The first part of the dress rehearsal was just the running part. I ran from the gym out onto the course and then traced it back all the way to the finish line at the George R. Brown Convention Center, a route I never run during the prep for the race. I was able to notice some physical cues that will help on race day about my rhythm, breathing, and (strangely) relaxing my feet to smooth out the gait. Knowing the way my little brain works when it is under stress, I also picked out my 200 yard goals that I can achieve in the last 2 miles of the course (run to the top of the rise, . . . to the traffic light . . . to the Hyatt sky bridge and turn left . . . down past the Shell building to Pennzoil and turn right, . . . to the crane . . . to the parking garage . . . to the finish line). It was kinda fun to visualize the day of the race, where I hope to pick up the pace, refuse to let anyone else pass, and kick for home. Mental practice.

The other part of the dress rehearsal was actually doing the "dress" part, and I found out "what not to wear." I'm trying to come up with a plan of how to deal with a really cold start line, the chance for warming during the race, and yet "don't do anything new on race day." I like the way tights feel on my legs, and they don't get too hot, but after 2o miles they have a tendency to chafe some very odd places on the . . . on my . . . well, on the wobbly bits. So I experimented with going Speedo under the tights, thinking this would preserve, protect and defend said wobbly bits.

FAIL

So help me, God.

Dave Scott and Mark Allen notwithstanding, men were not intended to run in Speedos--even Speedos concealed under running tights. I'll just leave it at that.

So, the plan--especially if you are local and might try to spot me on the course--is to go to the start gate with a long sleeve to discard and loose running pants that I can chuck just before the gun or leave on as conditions dictate. If I keep the pants, I'll have running shorts I have used on long runs. Up top, short sleeve red top that will be high viz in the crowd. For warmth: arm warmers, black skull cap and black gloves I can chuck or hand off when it gets warmer.

Oh, and plenty of Body Glide, especially on the chestal area. With temps in the 40s, it is going to be Nipperific.

Four days: SHUT THE F*** UP, JOELLE. JUST DO IT.

You know these two--Bob and Jillian, light and dark, sensitive and coarse, good and evil, yin and yang, matter and anti-matter. They are the two halves of the guilty pleasure that is The Biggest Loser.

But last night, we risked the creation of a black hole sufficient to suck down the known universe when matter and anti-matter collided. Bob, in his words, was possessed by Jillian Michaels. He melted down and went "China Syndrome" on Joelle, a contestant that was faking positive outward talk to cover up that she was really quitting on the team.

Check it out:



Bob's meltdown is now my mantra.

Like everyone, I've got my own negative head talk that tempts me to pull back before giving it my all. I can cover it with words, or try to rationalize. But on Sunday, it's time to

SHUT THE F*** UP.

NOT ONE MORE WORD.

JUST DO IT, JOELLE.

JUST DO IT.

THREE . . . TWO . . . ONE . . . GO.

Five Days: Conditions Are Perfect

So, my last marathon, in Florida, was a hot and humid, Equatorial Guinean death march over four hours twenty minutes long.

Thirty minutes slower than my PR.

And then the next week they ran the Houston Marathon in perfect conditions where I KNOW I could have PR'd, had I not just flogged myself in Disneyworld.

But I haven't been obsessing about the weather.

Much.

Or long.

Sersly. I only checked it 8 days before.

And seven.

And six.

And I only checked here.

And here.

And here.

Looks like the consensus is for cold temps at the gun, right about 40 degrees, with highs no more than the lower 60s.

Meaning it should be no warmer than the mid 50s when I finish.

By 10:40 a.m. or earlier.

Conditions are perfect. It's Business Time.

Six Days: You Might Be Tapering If . . .

You might be tapering if:

1. Everything hurts. Everything. Feet--from the little bony parts to the stiff plantar fascia parts. Shins. Knees. Quads. Ass. Groin. . . . . Teeth. . . . . Eyelashes.
   
2. Your hypochondria knows no bounds--to the extent that you can't tell what part of the pain is real, what is psychosomatic, and you think you feel a sinus infection coming on but refuse to go to the doctor for fear that he'll confirm your worst fears.
3. It could be a tumor.
   
4. You feel like a cripple getting out of bed every morning and groan so loud you get "shushed" by your spouse.
5. It takes you 40 minutes of running before you even warm up enough to feel like you have a stride and can breathe normally. You wonder why anyone would run six miles and then order a side of 20 to go with it.
   
6. Doing your pre-load scrub of carbs from your diet makes you crave them even more--you want a carb so bad it would be justifiable homicide to shove a child into traffic for their bag of pretzels.
7. YOU'RE NOT SHOUTING!!!
8. You keep track of your pee color and your salt intake.
9. You're not crying, you just got something in your eye.
10. You dream of running someone down and ripping their legs off in the last 400 meters of a 42 kilometer race.

This is healthy, non?

Seven Days

One week from right now, I'll be experiencing some reality--finding out if my training was true, or just truthiness.

Seven days, and I'll be running the goal race that has guided my recreational hours since August.

I will look myself in the face at the starting line and inquire, "are you really willing? Are you able? Did you train with integrity, or did you just get by?"

Seven days and there will be no faking, no cramming, no room for equivocation.

The training was either enough, or it was not.

I either did it with sufficient faithfulness, or I didn't.

I will either push myself past my limits, or I will accept some perceived limit along the way.

I will either race wisely, or I will make a costly mistake.

I will either focus, or listen to voices in my head that belong to a doubting desk jockey who must be slain every time I do this type of race.

Seven days from now, the Houston Marathon will be run, and I will be one in the crowd, running alone against myself, and I'll be running together with the support of thousands, and best of all a few friends.

On paper I should be able to run about 3:40:00. Some of the speed work would indicate a faster potential, but the endurance workouts negate that. And again, we don't run the races on paper. I've never run anywhere near 26 miles maintaining an 8:24 per mile pace. So, what gets you off the paper and onto the roads? What gets your feet moving in the direction of the unknown?

Faith--But not leap in the dark faith. Faith built on workouts, past performances and pace charts, kind of like a kissing cousin of being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11:1)

So, I intend to line up with the 3:40 pace group, discipline my pace through the first 20 miles or so, and see who gets dropped.

Me?

Or the group.

We'll see. In seven days.

100 Days

OK, we have entered the "100 days" period. No, not HIS 100 days. This blog is all about me.

It is 100 days until the 25th running -- or riding -- of the MS150 from Houston to Austin. I am doing it this year just like I always do. So this means several things for you.

First, it means I'm going to start asking for donations. You'll just have to bear with me, because I ride this every year, and I do it because Mrs. Greyhound has Multiple Sclerosis, so this is kind of a big deal for us.

Donate HERE.

Subtle, non?

Second, the freaking event sold out in 7 hours, so many of the people I was trying to get in the event to ride with me as a team were shut out. If, however, you did get registered, and you would like to ride with the Greyhound group, go HERE and click on the appropriate tab and also leave me a comment. I'll be needing to work out lodging and transport logistics for whomever wants in.

Third, and before you join up, you should be advised, that this team is a little bit different from the average team full of Freds on expensive bikes. We will be riding from Houston, past the overnight in La Grange, and on to Bastrop on the first day, 120-ish or so miles. And if lodging cannot be arranged in Bastrop, we may just have to go all 150+ miles to Austin in one day.

And then run off the bike.

Because that's how we roll.

Because that's the Ironman way.

Dot the M, Baby.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

In the next year, plant your feet firmly on what has gone before, and start now to go boldly in the direction of your dreams.

A Triathlete's Offseason Christmas Dream

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a spouse.
The tri-bikes were hung in the man cave with care,
In hopes that warm temperatures soon would be there.

Compression socks nestled all snug on my legs,
While visions of carbon wheels danced in my head.
And mamma in her yoga fleece, and I in my heat wrap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When in the garage there arose such a clatter,
I gingerly rose, groaning "What is the matter?"
Away to the man cave I limped like a flash,
Tore open the door and so too my road rash.

The lamp on the carbon equipment did glow
For swim, bike and run it all stood in a row.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a strength coach, with kettle bell, stop watch and snear.

With a Serbian accent so deep and so thick ,
I knew in a moment it must be Coach Mik.
More rapid than eagles his orders they came,
And he taunted, and shouted, and called me mean names!



note: this is the real Coach Miki


"Jor back and jor arms, and jor core aa-r-r-r-r like children,
Jorr booty and stomach aa-r-r-r-r like pregnant women!
To the top of the bar! Pullups! Weight vest and all!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

Like tifosi that before the pro peleton fly,
When they meet with the Pyranees, mount to the sky.
So up to the chin bar, my courses I flew,
With the vest full of weight, and Mik's kettlebells too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the room
The clanging and thudding of each heavy tool.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Right straight at me, Coach Mikilous came with a bound.

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
From his shirt to his pants to his big combat boots.
The tools of his trade he had flung on his back,
And he looked like the Spetsnaz, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his smile was just scary!
His chuckle was frozen, his gaze made me wary!
His serious brow was all furrowed to show
That his plan was to see me PR, not go slow.

The stump of a pen he held tight in his teeth,
And training plans circled his head like a wreath.
He had a strong back, and a flat, washboard belly,
That's nothing resembling a bowlful of jelly!

He was wiry and lean, a right hardy old Serb,
And I gulped when I saw him, and knew that he heard!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had something to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Wrote down all the programs, then turned with a jerk.
And laughing once more at my weakness and woes,
And giving a nod, from the man cave he road!

We sprang to our bikes, as he blasted his whistle,
And away we both flew like a Serbian missle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he rode out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

It Ain't Over . . .

Those of you who have been here awhile will recall back in April when a so-called law enforcement officer tried to bully me off the road. I stood my ground, complained to his superior, kept insisting on a proper response, received a back-dated ticket, got picked up in some papers and blogs, and beat the ticket in court.

But still, the officer is just as ignorant of the traffic laws and the rights of cyclists today as he was in April. Even more, he's suffered no adverse consequence, even to his pride, as a result of some abominable behavior. Anyone but a lawyer might have been too frightened of the system to do anything about it, and he'll doubtless keep on acting like an ass unless there is a price to be paid.

So, I have long intended to write the department and the officers involved another letter as a prelude to deciding whether to seek some type of sanction. But we had that whole "hurricane," natural disaster thingy, so I it seemed only sporting to let them deal with important stuff like that.

But now, just in time for the holidays, I got my final letter out. Set out on my law firm letterhead, it reads:

Constable Hill, Chief Deputy Constable Wood, and Deputy Constable Williams:

In the event you do not yet know, the District Attorney dismissed the traffic citation that Deputy Williams improperly backdated to April 19, as there was no legal basis for the citation nor for the manner in which Deputy Constable Williams acted on April 19.

On April 19, Deputy Williams executed an unsafe pass, intentionally tried to intimidate me with his vehicle, cut me off and then stopped in front of me, based upon his demand that I ride on the shoulder of FM149. Under Texas law, however, a cyclist is never required to ride on the shoulder, let alone the uneven two foot shoulder that exists on FM149. On the contrary, a cyclist is entitled to use the roadways, just like any other vehicle, unless some provision of the Transportation Code alters that right. Tex. Transp. Code § 551.101. Here there is no such provision.

The provision on which Deputy Constable Williams relied in his backdated citation requires cyclists to ride as near as practicable to the right edge of the roadway. Tex. Transp. Code. § 551.103(a). “Roadway,” however, is a defined term in the Transportation Code, and it does not include “the berm or shoulder.” Tex. Transp. Code § 541.302. Thus, cyclists are entitled to use the Roadway—the lane in which motorized vehicles travel. They may also use the shoulder, but are not required to do so.

The law also provides that a cyclist may take the lane when (as here) it is less than 14 feet wide, or it is not safe to share the lane with a car. Tex. Transp. Code § 551.103(a)(4). The lanes on FM149 are only 11 feet wide; thus, the law I was charged with violating does not even apply.
When a cyclist takes the lane as he or she is entitled to do, it is the responsibility of automobile traffic, including constables in pickup trucks, to wait for safe clearance to pass. Deputy Constable Williams clearly did not do so.

Even assuming I had violated the law, there is no set of facts that could have made Deputy Williams’ conduct on April 19 appropriate. He intentionally used his vehicle as a direct threat to my safety, and he fully intended and hoped that he would frighten me. That is not a traffic stop; that is a felony. His abusive and bullying attitude after I stood my ground is likewise not the type of conduct civilized societies tolerate. A bully with a badge is still only a bully. Indeed, a police officer in New York City has recently been indicted for assaulting a cyclist on the roadway.

This is your final opportunity to do the right thing. The Constable’s Office and Deputy Williams will apologize in writing, without equivocation and commit to enforcing the traffic laws as I have set them out. If so, I will excuse the whole affair. Absent that, I will pursue whatever remedies I feel are appropriate for Deputy Williams’ actions. You have 30 days.

Very Truly Yours,

[Greyhound]

Frankly, I'm not holding my breath.

I Need A Vacation

"Listen to your body."

That's what they always say. Of course, if we listened to our bodies, we would never run a lick, let alone race, because running and racing cannot be accomplished without ignoring discomfort. A certain amount of "mind over matter" is the cost of admission.

But yesterday, my body said, "enough with the running, already." Fatigue and aches that could be ignored suddenly turned into acute dysaesthesia of the distal tibialis anterior.

For all those readers who are not Iron Jane, M.D., the meaning, in plain English, roughly translates as follows:

The lower outside part of my shin hurt like a MoFo.

Suddenly, 18 miles in to a planned 20+ miler, the wheels came off: sharp pain associated with landing and toe-ing off. I walked, tried again, and again it happened. So, I walked it in.

It hurt all afternoon when I walked or flexed my foot, then without explanation it completely disappeared.

WTF? Anybody know an injury that hurts like a MoFo and then just evaporates? But for the "disappearing pain" it sounds like shin splints. But who gets shin splints after completing 4 marathons and two Ironmans? Honestly. Isn't that the injury you get as a beginner?

**Insert healthy dose of overinflated, fitter-than-thou ego here**

Could it be that I've run a bit too much on the horrible, hard, uneven surfaces of the marathon course?

Could it be that my program needed a bit more in the way of recovery for a "man my age?"

Could it be that I need some more padding and arch support for my freakishly high arches?

Could it be that when you switch from triathlon to marathon training, there's just SO MUCH MORE FREAKING RUNNING INVOLVED?

Could it be that I neglect my nutrition and recovery for simple running workouts in a way that I would never do while doing Ironman two-a-days?

Uhm. Yeah. Maybe.

Possibly.

Probably.

Well, OK, yeah. Guilty.

But now, we are where we are. 33 days to the big dance and still more peak training to try to put hay in the barn. What to do?

Now that I feel ok, I am tempted to run ez this week and pick up where I left off next week. At the same time, if this is really an injury or a near injuyr, maybe a week of cross training is in order? I won't lose so much fitness that my goal is in doubt. Right?

And while I am obsessing in my self-absorbed little corner of hydrochondurbia, I should be just enjoying the life I still have. It is guaranteed beyond doubt that my mother will cite this article as precedent that I should not be running at all.

I hate reading stuff like that (or worse yet knowing people about whom such stuff is written). You can't help reading an article about a death at a marathon and without asking, "why?" And even as you ask it, you know there is no answer coming. Indeed, there are no words at all, and any attempt at an answer sounds cheap, sacharine, and empty. Why? I don't know. I can't know. But I do know this. Me and my mother--we both hurt when we get up out of bed in the morning, but mine's the good kind of hurt.

So. This week? I'll experiment with some ez running on controlled surfaces. If it hurts, time for cross-training. Beginning next week I try to get back on track with the program, substituting this week's harder distances for next week's easier ones. That said, no more running on uneven concrete. From here on in, it's crushed gravel Memorial Park, round and round like a gerble. No more marathon course for you.

Until . . . the day.

Running? Easy, right?

Sometimes you gotta take your victories where you find them.

And sometimes only three and a half minutes at a time.

I need a bit of recovery this week after a good, solid, marathon buildup. And, fortunately, I get a bit of recovery this week.

Only a bit.

Coach must seem to believe I can turn it up a notch from my last marathon effort, because today was scheduled to be 10 miles at an aerobic pace.

When I went out to do it, I could still feel last week in my legs, including Sunday's 21 mile long run. The thought of 10 miles more was more than my wee, canine brain could handle. It immediately started looking for the emergency exit or the ejection switch.

But, notwithstanding the aching in the tired chassis, I rambled through one mile and settled on a plan to keep me from bailing: the Ipod Fartleck workout--a/k/a the I-Fart.

OK, admittedly we need to work on the name.

The basic plan is you only have to run hard for one song--about 3 and a half minutes on average--and then you get to ez jog.

For one song.

Then you have to run hard again.

It's a devilishly clever workout, because by the time you're looking for a way out, you're into the last chorus of the song, and you can make yourself hold out a little longer.

And when it's time to go again, you have enough in the tank you can actually go.

So, instead of running 10 miles, I "I-Farted" one song at a time until 10 miles were done.

Because the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

Now for a nap.

I Kick Jason Bourne's Ass

This just in: Trigreyhound Kicks Jason Bourne's Ass.

It's true.

I can't deny it.

And it's not just because I'm takin' my girl on a tropical ,20th anniversary vacation to make hot, sweet lovin' with my new marathon-running-weight-lifter body.

As if Matt Damon could survive that comparison . . .

Nope. I just happened to notice a little blurb in Runners' World where Matt Damon ran a 10K as part of losing weight he gained for a role.

Gained for a role? Yeah, right. Me too. I ate all those Kolaches to play the role of middle aged office worker.

And a 10K? Just a 10K? Phhht. PUH-LEEEEZE. You should hardly call it a race if you're done before the morning coffee break. What? You just run 6 miles? Cute.

And get this. He ran it in just a few seconds shy of one hour. Fifty Nine minutes and forty some-odd seconds.

Phhhht. Is that what they call running in Hollywood?

Three years ago, I ran a 48 minute 10K PR. This year, at 42 years old instead of 39 years old, my 800 meter track workouts are now 15 to 20 seconds faster than they were the year of my marathon PR. Are you trying to tell me that deskbound, 42 year old Greyhound could finish the race, go out for a coffee and a shower before Jason Bourne saw the finishing line?

Matt, just have your people call my people and I'll arrange some coaching sessions--for running or anything else in the "man department" that you might need help with.

P.S.
**I probably kick J-Lo's Ass in triathlon, too, which is a notable Kadunkadunk to be kicking. I'm just sayin'. **

P.P.S.

**I really needed that little boost because I have one more super long run before some recovery, and I'm feeling like Punky Brewster could mop the floor with me right about now.***

Iron Turkeys--A Thanksgiving Tale

Thankful for another year of good health and plenty, 7000 Pilgrims met in Houston to trot---before consuming mass quantities of calories and watching obese men fight over an oblong ball on their high definition television sets.





Some of the Pilgrims were trotting for the first time ever--even though they had a sore knee and probably felt pressured by the Iron Patriarchy to suck it up buttercup and do it anyway because she had done all the training before taking her freak fall with the blown out flip flop.





But the Pilgrims also had support from friends and family.






And, like the first Thanksgiving, the Native Americans participated with their Anglo friends.






At first the Anglos were concerned that the Native Americans might be hostile.






But the Native Americans were friendly and helped the Pilgrims with their race gear and timing chips and such---before running a 37 minute 10K.

Yeah, those Indians are fast and used to run distance for the local U.





And Superpounce ran across the line with Mrs. Pilgrim just like it was an Ironman. Pilgrim ran all the way, all 5ks.

Smelling History

I baked a pie with a pioneer tonight.

Sallie Taylor, later Sallie Dyer, was born in the Oklahoma Territory in 1900, seven years before the Oklahoma Territory and the Indian Territory became the State of Oklahoma. Her folks came to Oklahoma in a wagon, and they settled in the country of southern Oklahoma County. (A park in south Oklahoma City bears the family name to this day.)

Sallie was 66 when I was born, and married to one of 8 brothers in the Dyer family. She had a large, extended family around her and life was good. But you would not have seen that coming from her early life experiences. After her mother died during Sallie's childhood, she worked in the local box factory, even as a child. Sallie then eloped with Melvin Dyer, took the train to the State Fair and got married at the age of 15--married into a family where chopping cotton and choking dust in the Oklahoma sun was daily fare. Credit crisis? Hard times? Yeah. right.

The Dyers came to Moore, Oklahoma long before there was an Oklahoma. They spent their first winter in a wagon by a creek south of town and nearly froze or died of sickness. The wind whips over there from the interstate and the strip center today, across a small grave yard with tombstones bearing the Dyer name. Back then, the wind just whipped over from the panhandle, or from Canada.

Sallie didn't know how to cook or sew or any other skill required of an agricultural woman in 1915--her widower father was in no position to teach her. But she was taken in by the rough and tumble Dyer family with their 8 sons. It fell to Grandma Dyer to teach her how to cook, and it fell to the boys, all 8 of them, to tease her when things didn't go right. Sometimes, all it took was, "that ain't how ma done it," to start the tears flowing.

But Grandma Dyer was a good teacher. "That's all right. You'll do better next time."

And she did.

Among the things Grandma Dyer taught her was how to make an apple pie. Nothing fancy. Still, how could it not be good with such basic things as apples, sugar, cinnamon, and butter.

But if Grandma Dyer didn't teach you, how would you know that Jonathan apples make the best pies?

And how much sugar is enough for the filling? Just about that much right there.

And don't forget to put a smidge of flour in with the apples and sugar so the juice won't be too soupy. Now add some cinnamon.

How much? You'll know--if Grandma Dyer taught you.

And Grandma Dyer taught her that the top crust sticks down better if you wet the edges with water.

And you have to secretly dollop some butter on top of the apples before you put on the top.

Then, you use your fingers--just so--to crimp the pie crusts together.

But the real secret is the top crust. If you want it to be perfect, give it a light coating of milk just before you put it in the oven and sprinkle it with sugar and cinnamon.

That's the way Grandma Dyer did it.

I never knew her, but she taught Sallie. Sallie, my great grandmother, taught me. She also taught her daughter and her grand daughters. When Sallie's daughter became too infirm to cook, Sallie's son in law, my grandfather, even made pies this way.

And they smelled just the way my house does now. I remember it.

I remember them.

Is This Thing Still On?

Well, it's been a quiet week in Spring, Texas, my home town, out on the edge of the megalopolis. More like two weeks actually. A colleague, one of the few who knows that I blog, mentioned to me this morning that it had been two weeks since I blogged.

Let me explain.

No, let me sum up.

I've been working. Real work. All day. Getting ready for a court session that has now been successfully accomplished. It would seem that when everyone else is watching their economy go sideways, the vampire guild of litigation lawyers has reason to celebrate.

Secondly, I have lost a little of my blogging mojo. I'm running and training for a marathon, but no triathlon or Ironman happenings in my life right now. So, I'm feeling a bit uninspired. But since I'm a total comment ho', I want to write stuff that you want to read. This is where you come in.

I'll just ask you. What do you want to read? What do you want me to write about? What would you ask if we were sitting across the table on a Friday evening with a pitcher of Shiner Bock between us and no limit on the time we had to kill?

Sound off, and for goodness sake give me something to write about.

[Don't] Be Sensible

Dad showing Superpounce how not to be sensible.

I'm a sensible person. To a fault. And I come from a long line of sensible people

Often times, that's good. We act like grownups. We're responsible. We live within our means. We are the ones carrying zero credit card balances in the worst credit crisis in history. We are the ones driving 10 year old cars on which we researched the safety rating and reviews in consumer reports. Convertibles need not apply.

But is there too much of a good thing? People like us were born old. We forgot how to play or played only carefully. We avoided some of the tragedies that befell our contemporaries in college, but we also never howled at the moon.

And somewhere along the line you wake up realizing that you didn't dream all night, or all day the day before. And you're a sensible taxpayer with a sensible job in a sensible suburb with a sensible sedan. No fault in that. But . . .

But what child lies on his or her back, looks up into the night sky, and dreams of being a dentist? Or an accountant? Or a lawyer? Not that there's anything wrong with that. But when do we give up being firemen or astronauts or race car drivers or ballerinas or princesses? And why do we have to? Because they're not sensible.

At one point in my life, I was a musician. I studied with the finest teachers, played with the finest conductors, gave concerts in New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami. I had, at one time, dreamed of being in the Chicago Symphony, the orchestra my heroes. Then, I got sensible. The odds were against it. It was a long shot. The more likely outcome was working in a non-living-wage orchestra and getting locked out by a labor dispute and selling insurance instead. So, I got sensible, and went to law school, did well, got a good job . . . . all in the family tradition.

Not a family tradition of practicing law, but a tradition of sensibility, of dreams deferred. I am the offspring of a sensible girl from Oklahoma who, after soloing with the Oklahoma City Symphony in the 1950s, turned down the opportunity, offered by the guest conductor, to study at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. Sensible girls did not do such things in the 1950s. They went to college, if at all, close to home, where they could find a husband and raise families. And she did. And it was good and sensible.

But was it great?

Sometimes, sensible people explode. They wake up in the suburbs and start dreaming again. Potentially those crazy dreams are destructive and you see sensible people "overcompensating" with expensive red convertibles or betraying the ones who depend upon them. Thankfully, not here. By God's grace alone, I'm still more sensible than that. I haven't exploded, and hope that I don't.

Other times, we simply shrug off the heavy load under which we were sagging. We find ourselves running in the dark, cool breeze before sunup while the sensible people are still asleep. While they sleep, we are dreaming of what might be, hours and minutes and seconds and distances, of limits and whether they are real. We think crazy thoughts about just how fast we might run for three hours, about swimming and biking and running all day. And this from lawyers and accountants and fully grown dentists "competing for the ultimate prize." Crazy. But sometimes good crazy.

Because life can't be caged. Because life needs a certain amount of craziness and creativity. It is conquest. It is adventure. Otherwise, it's not really life. It's just a couch. And it's beige.

I was thinking on these things Monday morning as I ran, and I thought about Superpounce, and I smiled. Her dolls and stuffed animals are turning up with new outfits that she designed and sewed herself. She made them on the sewing machine she just acquired, the one on which she is to begin sewing lessons on which she insisted (because neither I nor Mrs. Greyhound can sew). She is taking sewing lessons because she wants to be a fashion designer, and we told her she would have to learn how to sew. So she is. And a couple of weeks ago, at age 11, she was searching out colleges on the internet at which she could study fashion design. And she wants to take French. And she wants to go to Paris. And the colors in her world are alive.

It reminded me of these lines (from an old commercial, no less) that I heard on a fantastic fitness podcast:

Here’s to the crazy ones.

The misfits.
The rebels.
The troublemakers.
The round pegs in the square holes.
The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules.
And they have no respect for the status quo. You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them,
disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them.
About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them.
Because they change things.

They invent. They imagine. They heal.
They explore. They create. They inspire.
They push the human race forward.

Maybe they have to be crazy.
How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art?
Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written?

Superpounce dreams big. God forbid that I ever conciously or unconciously communicate to her that she ought to be sensible. I'd rather catch her in my arms after she flies too close to the sun.

And Now For Something Completely Different

"Whenever a man has cast a longing eye on offices, a rottenness begins in his conduct."

Thomas Jefferson

I am prescient.

Yes, it's true. I can see the future.

I will not predict who will win today's contest. That's child's play. I will look far down the corridors of time and tell you what will happen years from now.

1. The deficit will be enormous.
2. The chosen candidate will fall short of the exorbitant promises made to court his constituents.
3. The chosen candidate will act to preserve his own personal power.
4. The people will eventually run the rascals out of town on a rail.
5. Oh, and we'll be militarily engaged in the middle east and will not have energy independence.

How can I be so certain? Because none of these things depend upon who wins the legislative or executive contests. It's life and human nature, and there are some things that just won't bend to politics. Reality.

But, the good thing about life is that it's stubborn. It goes on. And it will take whatever you want to fill it with. Or, it can just sit there empty and unused like a sports car in the garage. And it does not depend upon "leaders" or parties or permission. It just is. It depends on you. And often it's better to ask forgiveness than to beg permission.

So, don't be bummed if your guy loses. And don't get too intoxicated if your guy wins, only to suffer the hangover in two years when you find out he's "just like all the rest of them." Do your duty today by voting your conscience, and then

LIGHTEN UP.

Give a little whistle, ride your bike, hug your kids or your dog or your spouse. Live big. Love recklessly. And giggle.

I'm Greyhound, and I approve this message.

Power Control

The hearts of Men are easily corrupted. And the Ring of Power has a will of its own.

But something happened then the Ring did not intend . . . It was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable . . . A Hobbit . . . Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.

For the time will soon come when Hobbits will shape the fortunes of all.