Leonard Cercone was old school. Win all your intervals, go all-out on every down, beat the other guy, even if he's your best friend. Especially if he's your best friend. Leonard Cercone was the track coach at Wylie E. Groves High School, also assistant football coach and world history teacher, in that order.
I went out for track my sophomore year, and after failing miserably in the hurdles, I tried the quarter mile because Coach had been a quarter-miler and his default setting was to run the quarter. But I didn't have the speed, so I tried the half mile. I passed people on the second lap, and Coach Cercone said, "Dunc, you're a half miler because you get stronger as you go along."
I remembered that phrase, stronger as you go along. It would help me in a lot of things that didn't come easily. I wasn't much of a half miler either, at least not on a team like ours that was loaded with talent, not to mention that I had no idea what training was all about. So I ended up a high jumper my senior year and did alright once I switched to the Fosbury flop.
Yet I still didn't know what a workout was, and it was years later, after high jumping was all over and I needed something else to do, that the concept of aerobic conditioning entered my world. Like many aspects of physical nature, it is a harsh and beautiful thing. You can strengthen your existing muscle fibers by overloading them with progressively increasing resistance. You can cause your heart and lungs to get stronger by demanding that they do more than they are prepared to do. Push the instrument and the instrument responds.
The opposite is also the case. If you decrease the resistance, muscle fibers get weaker, and if you stop using them, they atrophy. Go a week or two without asking the cardiovascular system to rise to the occasion, and the system loses the capacity to do it. Like trying to run a marathon when you've trained for 10K, at some point there's an oxygen debt, and it ain't gonna happen. If there's insufficient oxygen delivered, there's no ATP and no go.
Back in March when the weather got nice, I was riding the old Schvinn and feeling pretty confident about putting some miles on it. In my endorphin-fueled excitement, I actually thought I could bike three times a week, with one long ride on the weekend, and keep increasing the distance week by week. If I add just half an hour a week to my long ride, I'll be up to a hundred miles by summer.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Not that I seriously believed I would do that. I just saw that it was possible and briefly entertained the notion that, in the abstract, it could be done. So what happened? It rained. It got cool and windy. It wasn't 65 degrees and clear every day during April. It rained again. Note the whiny tone. I thought about riding, but I had other things to do.
Consequently, when perfect weather returned the second week of May, I saddled up old Schvinn and moseyed on up the trail, and guess what. No gas in the tank, no wind in the sails, no ATP in the muscles to climb the long, gradual, half-assed central Ohio hill on County Line Road. Use it or lose it, and in a couple of weeks I lost it.
The first day was bad, and the second day was horrible. Where I come from - and Coach Cercone would certainly endorse this - being fit has moral weight. If you let the body go all slack, this demonstrates your failure as a person and reveals an undeniable character flaw. He would give you that glare.
The third day was better, much better, as if my sins had been redeemed and I was a good person again. The fourth day I was unstoppable. Cars ate my dust, and I climbed hills in high gear. Westerville to the Park of Roses? No problemo! Legs, heart, and lungs hitting on all cylinders. Mind and body humming on all chakras. Oxygen delivered on demand, and the endorphin bar is open.
Let's see how long this lasts.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Generaniums
Just another weekend of epochal proportions. Clean the house, weed the garden, play a drum, bake bread, plant geraniums, celebrate the non-Hallmark Mother's Day holiday and the daughter's twenty-fifth birthday. Another week, another quarter-century of life as we know it. This season within a season could be named Offspring.
Every time I get the urge to be somewhere else, I am reminded how many attachments I have in central Swingstate. After topping off the compost pile with weeds in the morning, I went to the biweekly drum circle at the rec center, and I knew about half of the people there. I guess I'm not the new guy anymore. Two of three of the regulars I've seen at other events in other places, so there is more of a community-like context, which adds texture, and we'll see where, if anywhere, that goes.
Because I was in the neighborhood (and out of flour), I went to the coop, where I saw two more familiar faces. The nursery was on my way home, so I stopped to buy geraniums, and wouldn't you know it, I ran into a former co-worker who is an avid gardener. We chatted awhile - our gardens, other co-workers, my kids, her kids - and she returned to her reverie in the perennials while I picked out two flats of annuals.
After pulling more weeds - there are always more weeds - Gven and I went to Zelda's house for a birthday party. Her housemate David also had a birthday this week, so they cleaned the house and had a lot of people over. We arrived early and left early, had one drink, nibbled on Cheez-its, mixed with a few of their friends, and met a couple new ones. One, coincidentally, I had seen last weekend at a rest stop on I-80 in the middle of Pennsylvania. She was coming back from a film festival in New York, and I was on my way to New York to visit Zelda's brother Jessi. What are the odds? I figure it's the red hair.
Church on Sunday was focused on the theme of imperfection and the value of failure, in stark contrast to the safe, suburban liberalism that I see around me, which should be no surprise, since I undoubtedly project that same risk-averse attitude among that same congregation, whom I chose to hang out with, so pardon the digression. [Note to self: pick up Bruno Bettelheim's A Good Enough Parent.]
Since it was Mother's Day, after all, it was imperative that I go home and get busy potting geraniums in window boxes, the ritual that began some time in the 1980s and has become a sacred seasonal rite. The process is getting a little easier too. This time I used a square-bladed shovel to mix old potting soil in a wheel barrow, then filled several pots with soil and little plants from 4-packs, watered them in, and there you go. Just like Dad used to do back in Michigan.
I had to get it done quickly and efficiently because Gven and I had plans to go out to dinner with Zelda at the Tip-Top downtown, her choice of restaurant. The two of them decided to celebrate her birthday and Mother's Day together, and I had no objection. It felt entirely appropriate, as they have entered a new phase in the mother-daughter relationship, which, for lack of another term I will call friendship. It is quite a sight to behold.
Every time I get the urge to be somewhere else, I am reminded how many attachments I have in central Swingstate. After topping off the compost pile with weeds in the morning, I went to the biweekly drum circle at the rec center, and I knew about half of the people there. I guess I'm not the new guy anymore. Two of three of the regulars I've seen at other events in other places, so there is more of a community-like context, which adds texture, and we'll see where, if anywhere, that goes.
Because I was in the neighborhood (and out of flour), I went to the coop, where I saw two more familiar faces. The nursery was on my way home, so I stopped to buy geraniums, and wouldn't you know it, I ran into a former co-worker who is an avid gardener. We chatted awhile - our gardens, other co-workers, my kids, her kids - and she returned to her reverie in the perennials while I picked out two flats of annuals.
After pulling more weeds - there are always more weeds - Gven and I went to Zelda's house for a birthday party. Her housemate David also had a birthday this week, so they cleaned the house and had a lot of people over. We arrived early and left early, had one drink, nibbled on Cheez-its, mixed with a few of their friends, and met a couple new ones. One, coincidentally, I had seen last weekend at a rest stop on I-80 in the middle of Pennsylvania. She was coming back from a film festival in New York, and I was on my way to New York to visit Zelda's brother Jessi. What are the odds? I figure it's the red hair.
Church on Sunday was focused on the theme of imperfection and the value of failure, in stark contrast to the safe, suburban liberalism that I see around me, which should be no surprise, since I undoubtedly project that same risk-averse attitude among that same congregation, whom I chose to hang out with, so pardon the digression. [Note to self: pick up Bruno Bettelheim's A Good Enough Parent.]
Since it was Mother's Day, after all, it was imperative that I go home and get busy potting geraniums in window boxes, the ritual that began some time in the 1980s and has become a sacred seasonal rite. The process is getting a little easier too. This time I used a square-bladed shovel to mix old potting soil in a wheel barrow, then filled several pots with soil and little plants from 4-packs, watered them in, and there you go. Just like Dad used to do back in Michigan.
I had to get it done quickly and efficiently because Gven and I had plans to go out to dinner with Zelda at the Tip-Top downtown, her choice of restaurant. The two of them decided to celebrate her birthday and Mother's Day together, and I had no objection. It felt entirely appropriate, as they have entered a new phase in the mother-daughter relationship, which, for lack of another term I will call friendship. It is quite a sight to behold.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Whether Report
Should I stay or should I go? The eternal dilemma nailed by the Clash was alive for me last week, on the horns of deciding whether to go to New York to see Jessi. Or not. I had an itinerary and the vacation days, but I also had a ton of things to do at home. You know how it is. You have to just go. Or not.
Gven couldn't find substitute teachers on short notice, so I would go by myself. Or not. The first weekend of May is garden planting season and comes but once a year, yet the forecast called for rain in central Swingstate, so I wouldn't get much done in the yard, and I might as well get out of town. It's good to know all those courses in the Department of Rationalization at The Swingstate University went to good use.
By the time I had baked a loaf of bread to take along, consulted Mapquest, made a list, checked it twice, read the paper, checked Facebook, done a taiji form and sat for 20 minutes, it was getting late. Gven says I have too many disciplines, and she is right, of course. So many must-do practices add up to one bad habit of keeping late hours.
So I slept a little later than usual, packed a bag, brewed a thermos of coffee, stopped at the bank, and headed up the road. A few miles up the interstate, I realized I had forgotten my sleeping bag and water bottle. Call me easily distracted. I was leaving an hour later than planned; the fan belt whined, I needed air, I needed water, and it rained in northeast Ohio and northwest Pennsylvania. Then it cleared and the countryside was beautiful. Central Pennsylvania looks a lot like central Michigan, except older; maybe it's all the pine and poplar trees.
A random barrage of music came through the air to Ranger Hank Ford from a succession of NPR stations. From WOSU to WKSU to WPSU to WVIA to WBGO, I heard the same news all day along with a Beethoven violin concerto, Pink Floyd's "Money," the Chiffons' "One Fine Day," and Booker T's nearly perfect "Time Is Tight" (from 1969) during an interview with Teri Gross. I didn't mind having to switch stations and take what they gave me.
Crossing New Jersey, it started raining again as it was getting dark, and I had trouble reading my directions on the bumpy surface of I-280, but roadsigns made it self-evident how to get to the Holland Tunnel. Coming out the other end in Manhattan, everything suddenly seemed more peaceful and orderly. Canal Street swept me along southward toward the Manhattan Bridge, and by this time I had to pee like a racehorse, but there was nowhere to stop with five lanes of one-way traffic jockeying for position on a Friday night in Chinatown.
After crossing the bridge into Brooklyn, stopped at a red light on Flatbush Avenue, a parking space miraculously appeared at the curb to my right. At the next corner I walked into a watering hole called Junior's Bar, and in my black jeans, boots, and T-shirt brazenly strode past tables with white tablecloths, up the stairs to the restroom, and found relief. I even tipped the attendant who handed me a paper towel.
It was a short drive down Flatbush, out Eastern Parkway, and around the block to Jessi's house. It's not as good as a bicycle, but driving through neighborhoods is a good way to get the lay of the land. Jessi and his housemates were grilling chicken, pork chops, and vegetables in their little back yard, and I got a nice reception and a Guinness. Besides Johnny, Chuck, Corey, Gabi, and Caroline, there were the cats, Lewis and Opie. Inside, the house was littered with musical instruments, bicycles and bicycle parts, books, and vinyl records. I found it remarkably livable.
It started raining again, so we ate a delicious meal inside. Jessi and I took the subway to Grand Army Plaza and walked up and down 5th and 6th Avenues in Park Slope, half looking for a place to stop but primarily walking and talking while getting a good look at a nice lively neighborhood. Jessi let me have his room, so I crashed early and slept like a rock.
It was cool but clear Saturday morning in beautiful Brooklyn. We went for a walk along a different route and saw another side of Park Slope, ending up at the Donut Diner for breakfast. It was early afternoon by the time we got to the MoMA and met up with Alex, who was working at the information desk in the lobby. She kindly got us complimentary tickets and took a break to go upstairs to "Compass in Hand" with geographical themes: spaces, directions, grids.
Jessi and I went up a couple of flights to "Tangled Alphabets," the exhibit I ostensibly came for, and it exceeded my expectations. Leon Ferrari and Mira Schendel have produced a lot of work with text, diagrams, equations, hieroglyphics, mobiles, floorplans, codes, scribbles. The web site doesn't do it justice, and I can't describe it either, so if you're interested in the graphic/spatial/visual qualities of language and symbols, you will have to go see it yourself. I was somewhat enthralled.
And somewhat exhausted, so at closing time a little walk in the park was just what the doctor ordered. Jessi and Alex indulged my need to take half an hour to do a taiji form in a perfect little grove of pine trees in Central Park, and I felt much better. I young man played a flute nearby. You can't plan these things; they just happen sometimes.
We found a bar in the East Village that looked inviting and watched a replay of the Kentucky derby. Jessi had a mint julep in honor of the occasion; I opted for a margarita, and Alex had red wine. Veselka was half a block away, so we enjoyed a hearty Ukranian dinner: beef stroganoff for her, cabbage rolls for him, bigos (hunter's stew) for me.
A quiet evening at home in Crown Heights included part of a Martin Scorcese documentary on Bob Dylan; I think they were indulging me again, but that's okay, it was worth seeing. I slept like a rock again. It was raining Sunday morning, but Jessi had a really big umbrella, so we walked to a bagel shop on Troy Ave. for breakfast. I am such a tourist; every street, every restaurant, every subway, every bookstore is another little pocket of New York culture in my midwestern mind, and it's all kind of welcoming. I had a good time. Thank you.
Even in the rain, the trip back up Flatbush, across the bridge, and Canal Street was smooth. Traffic? What traffic? Crossing Pennsylvania from the Delaware Water Gap into the Chesapeake watershed and across the broad Susquahanna River, I'm getting a different perspective on this big, wide, peculiar state.
The rain stops by the time I re-enter Ohio, and I meet my freshman roommate for our annual vigil at Northeast Swingstate University. Even after the fieldhand omelette at Mike's Place on Water Street, my expenses for the weekend are under $200. Hey, I could do this every few weeks. Or not.
Gven couldn't find substitute teachers on short notice, so I would go by myself. Or not. The first weekend of May is garden planting season and comes but once a year, yet the forecast called for rain in central Swingstate, so I wouldn't get much done in the yard, and I might as well get out of town. It's good to know all those courses in the Department of Rationalization at The Swingstate University went to good use.
I get all the news I need on the weather report.
I can gather all the news I need on the weather report.
Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile...
The only living boy in New York. (Paul Simon, 1970)
By the time I had baked a loaf of bread to take along, consulted Mapquest, made a list, checked it twice, read the paper, checked Facebook, done a taiji form and sat for 20 minutes, it was getting late. Gven says I have too many disciplines, and she is right, of course. So many must-do practices add up to one bad habit of keeping late hours.
So I slept a little later than usual, packed a bag, brewed a thermos of coffee, stopped at the bank, and headed up the road. A few miles up the interstate, I realized I had forgotten my sleeping bag and water bottle. Call me easily distracted. I was leaving an hour later than planned; the fan belt whined, I needed air, I needed water, and it rained in northeast Ohio and northwest Pennsylvania. Then it cleared and the countryside was beautiful. Central Pennsylvania looks a lot like central Michigan, except older; maybe it's all the pine and poplar trees.
A random barrage of music came through the air to Ranger Hank Ford from a succession of NPR stations. From WOSU to WKSU to WPSU to WVIA to WBGO, I heard the same news all day along with a Beethoven violin concerto, Pink Floyd's "Money," the Chiffons' "One Fine Day," and Booker T's nearly perfect "Time Is Tight" (from 1969) during an interview with Teri Gross. I didn't mind having to switch stations and take what they gave me.
Crossing New Jersey, it started raining again as it was getting dark, and I had trouble reading my directions on the bumpy surface of I-280, but roadsigns made it self-evident how to get to the Holland Tunnel. Coming out the other end in Manhattan, everything suddenly seemed more peaceful and orderly. Canal Street swept me along southward toward the Manhattan Bridge, and by this time I had to pee like a racehorse, but there was nowhere to stop with five lanes of one-way traffic jockeying for position on a Friday night in Chinatown.
After crossing the bridge into Brooklyn, stopped at a red light on Flatbush Avenue, a parking space miraculously appeared at the curb to my right. At the next corner I walked into a watering hole called Junior's Bar, and in my black jeans, boots, and T-shirt brazenly strode past tables with white tablecloths, up the stairs to the restroom, and found relief. I even tipped the attendant who handed me a paper towel.
It was a short drive down Flatbush, out Eastern Parkway, and around the block to Jessi's house. It's not as good as a bicycle, but driving through neighborhoods is a good way to get the lay of the land. Jessi and his housemates were grilling chicken, pork chops, and vegetables in their little back yard, and I got a nice reception and a Guinness. Besides Johnny, Chuck, Corey, Gabi, and Caroline, there were the cats, Lewis and Opie. Inside, the house was littered with musical instruments, bicycles and bicycle parts, books, and vinyl records. I found it remarkably livable.
It started raining again, so we ate a delicious meal inside. Jessi and I took the subway to Grand Army Plaza and walked up and down 5th and 6th Avenues in Park Slope, half looking for a place to stop but primarily walking and talking while getting a good look at a nice lively neighborhood. Jessi let me have his room, so I crashed early and slept like a rock.
It was cool but clear Saturday morning in beautiful Brooklyn. We went for a walk along a different route and saw another side of Park Slope, ending up at the Donut Diner for breakfast. It was early afternoon by the time we got to the MoMA and met up with Alex, who was working at the information desk in the lobby. She kindly got us complimentary tickets and took a break to go upstairs to "Compass in Hand" with geographical themes: spaces, directions, grids.
Jessi and I went up a couple of flights to "Tangled Alphabets," the exhibit I ostensibly came for, and it exceeded my expectations. Leon Ferrari and Mira Schendel have produced a lot of work with text, diagrams, equations, hieroglyphics, mobiles, floorplans, codes, scribbles. The web site doesn't do it justice, and I can't describe it either, so if you're interested in the graphic/spatial/visual qualities of language and symbols, you will have to go see it yourself. I was somewhat enthralled.
And somewhat exhausted, so at closing time a little walk in the park was just what the doctor ordered. Jessi and Alex indulged my need to take half an hour to do a taiji form in a perfect little grove of pine trees in Central Park, and I felt much better. I young man played a flute nearby. You can't plan these things; they just happen sometimes.
We found a bar in the East Village that looked inviting and watched a replay of the Kentucky derby. Jessi had a mint julep in honor of the occasion; I opted for a margarita, and Alex had red wine. Veselka was half a block away, so we enjoyed a hearty Ukranian dinner: beef stroganoff for her, cabbage rolls for him, bigos (hunter's stew) for me.
A quiet evening at home in Crown Heights included part of a Martin Scorcese documentary on Bob Dylan; I think they were indulging me again, but that's okay, it was worth seeing. I slept like a rock again. It was raining Sunday morning, but Jessi had a really big umbrella, so we walked to a bagel shop on Troy Ave. for breakfast. I am such a tourist; every street, every restaurant, every subway, every bookstore is another little pocket of New York culture in my midwestern mind, and it's all kind of welcoming. I had a good time. Thank you.
Even in the rain, the trip back up Flatbush, across the bridge, and Canal Street was smooth. Traffic? What traffic? Crossing Pennsylvania from the Delaware Water Gap into the Chesapeake watershed and across the broad Susquahanna River, I'm getting a different perspective on this big, wide, peculiar state.
The rain stops by the time I re-enter Ohio, and I meet my freshman roommate for our annual vigil at Northeast Swingstate University. Even after the fieldhand omelette at Mike's Place on Water Street, my expenses for the weekend are under $200. Hey, I could do this every few weeks. Or not.
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