As happens so often with most things in life, it begins innocently and without agenda. In this case, it’s time to walk Mojo. He’s just eaten dinner and his bowels are eagerly pointing him to the great outdoors for post-dining relief. I have him on his leash, poop bags in hand. My flip flops go on with nary a second thought, and we head out to the deck on our way to the mean streets of Wild Dunes. A repeat of a drill done at least a thousand times in the almost two years since the big guy joined our family. It’s been raining and everything has a nicely glazed sheen to it. Beautiful. And, then, fate decides to hiccup. As I work my way down to the first landing, my weight distribution shifts just a bit and the combination of the rain-slickened staircase and my less than tenacious flip flops causes me to lose my balance. My feet take off in a direction I had surely not anticipated, my body goes horizontal, and in that micro-mini second of awareness, you know nothing good is about to happen to you. My body crashes downward to be intercepted by the edge of the last step above the landing. I hit very hard and the pain shoots through me as no pain I could ever recall. I am in disbelief but the spectacular pain in my back reminds me every passing second now that what I think has happened, in fact, has.
As I lay on the landing, my right hand spastically and reflexively reaching for my back, my various body parts extend at oddly inconvenient angles. Cattywampus, some might say. Others might legitimately have mistaken me for the damaged scarecrow in “The Wizard of Oz” laying in a disorganized pile by the side of the road. I moan, I scream, I grunt. In my own mind, I am groaning loud enough to be heard on Neptune. Lily, however, is no more than twenty feet away behind closed doors and, apparently, hasn’t picked up on the tumult just steps away. My mind is racing: Have I truly damaged myself? Can I get up? Have I severed my spine? Has Mojo run off? Do I still own two kidneys? Do I need an ambulance? The pain is now at DEFCON 4 and not subsiding. Lily does emerge and is aghast. She asks me if an ambulance might be needed, but for a few moments I think maybe I can shake it off. All I need to do, I say, is walk. Lily takes the leash from the amazingly patient Mojo and we head down the street. I don’t think we are more than 60 feet from our driveway when the reality sets in that “walking it off” is not the kind of serious medicine that is called for here. We head immediately back to the house and then off to the nearest emergency room.
After three hours of lolling about a seemingly empty ER, the diagnosis is presented to Lily and me: a broken rib. Internal organs: good. Internal bleeding: none. I am sent packing with a prescription for oxycodone and a shrug from the doctor that suggests there’s really nothing else to be done. I should be fine in maybe 4 to 6 weeks. What they didn’t tell me is that it might also be a good idea not to laugh, sneeze, burp, hiccup, and, for all I know, fart. Those things can set off the kind of shock waves in my way too fragile body that are not to be casually invited.
In the aftermath, when folks learn of my mishap and, naturally, want to learn how it happened, I have the strongest urge to tell them it was an unfortunate outcome from a hang gliding incident, or maybe a spelunking adventure, or possibly a heroic effort to save someone from a burning house. But, life doesn’t dish these things up quite so neatly, or quite so romantically. No, I fell victim to the mundane not the sublime, slipping and falling at my own home engaged in the simplest of tasks, and now my life is out of joint for weeks. No golf, no running, no swimming, no running with Mojo, no nothing. Nada, zip, zero.
What was it Robert Burns said almost 250 years ago? “The best laid schemes of Mice and Men oft go awry, and leave us nothing but grief and pain, for promised joy!” Yeah, maybe for the hang gliders and skydivers among us. For the rest of us… I’m not sure we are such worthy illustrations for Mr. Burns’ lofty thoughts.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Cardinal Rules
We have visitors. No, not the type you think. Not out of town friends or relatives here to soak up some rays or dine in the splendor of Charlestonian cuisine. No, these visitors are far more colorful, more ornate, yet tantalizingly more elusive. In fact, they are birds, two of them as best as I can tell. They are cardinals, or so Lily says. Mr. and Mrs. C, I call them. I’m not sure how long they are staying; we don’t seem to have much to say about that. But, their presence is more than just a bit of seasonal charm. They are intruding on our senses and at some point they could prove to be less than charming to their hosts.
The focal point of our concern is that these feathered redheads, predominantly Mrs. C, appear to have delusions of moving in, and by that I mean move IN. The grounds of our home do not appear to be quite enough for these apparently upwardly mobile social climbers. Although for millennia the trees of this world have suited their forebears well enough, Mrs. C has apparently decided to push the evolutionary envelope by house hunting, and ours is the one they’ve set their sights on.
How do I know this? We have many windows in our home, facing all directions. At this juncture, there is barely one that has gone unpecked on, if I may coin a phrase. Starting almost like clockwork at 7:45 a.m., Mrs. C starts tapping on our bedroom windows. Incessantly. The pecking by itself would be sufficient to awaken us, but the wing flapping -- charming in some circles, I’m sure -- adds a certain note of panic to this morning serenade. She repeats this overture again and again and again. At some point, Lily and I just admit defeat and get out of bed since there is simply no sleeping through this feathered assault. Sometimes, I go to the window next to my side of the bed and stare back at her during those moments when she uses her toes to secure a tenuous foothold at the window’s edge. We make eye contact. She cocks her head in 12 different directions never taking her eyes off me while I unwittingly play her game by cocking my own head from side to side as if somehow this will have some meaning for her. So far, this does not appear to be the case. She chirps, however, with a certain methodical cadence straight at me that, I swear, has to mean something. I want to yell at her through the glass, “Dude! Please say it in English.” I’m not optimistic.
A word about Mr. C. I hesitate to jump to conclusions about these things, but as far as I can tell, Mrs. C most definitely wears the pants in this family. Mr. C has made a couple of appearances, but only in a supporting role. She does the talking. He flits around a bit, sometimes clinging to the window ledges next to her, but mostly he retreats. Probably back to his man cave. He may be more brightly colored -- he does have that on her -- but if it didn’t sound so weird in this context, I’d say he was henpecked.
And so it remains to learn what it is exactly Mrs. C is seeking. Maybe she’s just fed up with the way we use our TV remotes. Maybe she’d like to see us eat more organic foods. Maybe she just has designs on the third bedroom. It’s so hard to tell. But, I’ll tell you this: I’m not loving this early morning drama day after day. I’ve been consulting with Mojo on possible solutions since it appears, as you might imagine, he has more than a casual interest in this. But, sadly, English isn’t Mojo’s strong suit either.
The focal point of our concern is that these feathered redheads, predominantly Mrs. C, appear to have delusions of moving in, and by that I mean move IN. The grounds of our home do not appear to be quite enough for these apparently upwardly mobile social climbers. Although for millennia the trees of this world have suited their forebears well enough, Mrs. C has apparently decided to push the evolutionary envelope by house hunting, and ours is the one they’ve set their sights on.
How do I know this? We have many windows in our home, facing all directions. At this juncture, there is barely one that has gone unpecked on, if I may coin a phrase. Starting almost like clockwork at 7:45 a.m., Mrs. C starts tapping on our bedroom windows. Incessantly. The pecking by itself would be sufficient to awaken us, but the wing flapping -- charming in some circles, I’m sure -- adds a certain note of panic to this morning serenade. She repeats this overture again and again and again. At some point, Lily and I just admit defeat and get out of bed since there is simply no sleeping through this feathered assault. Sometimes, I go to the window next to my side of the bed and stare back at her during those moments when she uses her toes to secure a tenuous foothold at the window’s edge. We make eye contact. She cocks her head in 12 different directions never taking her eyes off me while I unwittingly play her game by cocking my own head from side to side as if somehow this will have some meaning for her. So far, this does not appear to be the case. She chirps, however, with a certain methodical cadence straight at me that, I swear, has to mean something. I want to yell at her through the glass, “Dude! Please say it in English.” I’m not optimistic.
A word about Mr. C. I hesitate to jump to conclusions about these things, but as far as I can tell, Mrs. C most definitely wears the pants in this family. Mr. C has made a couple of appearances, but only in a supporting role. She does the talking. He flits around a bit, sometimes clinging to the window ledges next to her, but mostly he retreats. Probably back to his man cave. He may be more brightly colored -- he does have that on her -- but if it didn’t sound so weird in this context, I’d say he was henpecked.
And so it remains to learn what it is exactly Mrs. C is seeking. Maybe she’s just fed up with the way we use our TV remotes. Maybe she’d like to see us eat more organic foods. Maybe she just has designs on the third bedroom. It’s so hard to tell. But, I’ll tell you this: I’m not loving this early morning drama day after day. I’ve been consulting with Mojo on possible solutions since it appears, as you might imagine, he has more than a casual interest in this. But, sadly, English isn’t Mojo’s strong suit either.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Running to Daylight
Imagine you are standing outside but you are boxed in, as you might be in a corral. As these things go, a small corral. Sharing the corral with you are 4,000 people who are so close to you you can not only read the labels on the insides of their shirts, but you can identify the space between their neck hairs. Any other place or time, you would likely become the target of a protective order. And, then, you are asked to run. The legs start, the adrenalin starts pumping, but there is absolutely nowhere to go.
This was pretty much the scene last Saturday morning at the beginning of the Cooper River 10K Bridge Run, an annual event of some celebrity here in Charleston. The overt task: run 6.2 miles through the streets of Mt. Pleasant, up the graceful span of the Ravenel Bridge, and then down the mean streets of Charleston to the edge of the historic district. The less advertised task: to keep from getting trampled from behind by a tidal wave of hyper motivated runners, and to pretend you are doing a nifty bit of broken field running as you dodge slower moving humans as if they are enemy linebackers. There were about 40,000 of us that day, mostly runners, but also a fair number of walkers. Some are with strollers, mini-baby racers getting their first taste of competition. Others are in costumes, as outlandish as you can get while still permitting the legs to run, as they must. One guy had his dog with him.
There are 12 “waves” or corrals, as I prefer to call them, that are set in motion, each at 3 minute intervals, as they ever so smartly unleash groups of only 4,000 at a time until the approximate crowd of 40,000 are set free upon the local streets. My wave is about mid-way to the rear, somewhat ahead of the tortoises and zombies who bring up the rear of the field. Notwithstanding the sea of humanity I stare at ahead of me (and, no doubt, the nearly countless thousands staring at me from behind), the energy and excitement is universally shared as the countdown for each group is loudly announced. Temps are in the low 50s and the sun is just clearing the tops of the surrounding buildings. Perfect.
As many others do, I put on my earpieces and get the juices flowing even stronger as the running tunes I had selected fill my head with totally extravagant and unwarranted confidence. Funny thing about listening to music as you run. Naturally, you are very aware of the masses around you, but in a strange way the music turns you inward. You are alone with your thoughts. Only the occasional jostle from another runner, or the sudden swerve you need to navigate to avoid a collision brings you back outside. It’s such an odd sensation to have such a solitary, personal experience amid the teeming hordes at your elbows and shins.
And, then, the bridge looms in front of you. It is as intimidating as it is gorgeous. As I looked up the graceful upward span absolutely choked with runners, it is as if the whole world is running as fast as it can to get to see who can get to the gates of heaven first. The span is steep. It is more than a mile, seemingly straight up, to the top of the arch. Only the fittest (or most foolish) try to maintain their normal pace as they strive for that golden moment when you reach the top and know the rest of the course is downhill and then blessedly flat. The calves start to burn, the lungs too. Movements become more labored, more mechanical. Many folks who got off to jackrabbit starts move to the sides of the course, hands on hips, chests heaving. Sisyphus -- I feel your pain, baby. I had thought I would pause at the top, take in the view; smell the roses, so to speak. But, I didn’t. I think I was so elated to make it to this point that stopping was like an insult to my effort. And, senselessly, I figured this was the perfect moment to leapfrog a lot of competitors. Yeah, right. As if this would land me among the first several thousand finishers!
The rest of the way was a blur. Almost anti-climatic. Until the end. With crowds bunched along the sidewalks, yelling their support, whatever reservoir of adrenalin there was kicked in for many as the streets of Charleston slid away under our feet, and the promise of a finish line became a quickly approaching reality. As I’m sure many folks who enter these events will tell you, there is no way you don’t sprint to the finish line once it comes in to view, like some sort of oasis in the desert. You’ve worked too hard to get here and the joy is all the fuel you need.
How did I do? Only some 12,000 or so finished ahead of me. Never had 12,000th place felt so good. Thank goodness for the tortoises and zombies.
This was pretty much the scene last Saturday morning at the beginning of the Cooper River 10K Bridge Run, an annual event of some celebrity here in Charleston. The overt task: run 6.2 miles through the streets of Mt. Pleasant, up the graceful span of the Ravenel Bridge, and then down the mean streets of Charleston to the edge of the historic district. The less advertised task: to keep from getting trampled from behind by a tidal wave of hyper motivated runners, and to pretend you are doing a nifty bit of broken field running as you dodge slower moving humans as if they are enemy linebackers. There were about 40,000 of us that day, mostly runners, but also a fair number of walkers. Some are with strollers, mini-baby racers getting their first taste of competition. Others are in costumes, as outlandish as you can get while still permitting the legs to run, as they must. One guy had his dog with him.
There are 12 “waves” or corrals, as I prefer to call them, that are set in motion, each at 3 minute intervals, as they ever so smartly unleash groups of only 4,000 at a time until the approximate crowd of 40,000 are set free upon the local streets. My wave is about mid-way to the rear, somewhat ahead of the tortoises and zombies who bring up the rear of the field. Notwithstanding the sea of humanity I stare at ahead of me (and, no doubt, the nearly countless thousands staring at me from behind), the energy and excitement is universally shared as the countdown for each group is loudly announced. Temps are in the low 50s and the sun is just clearing the tops of the surrounding buildings. Perfect.
As many others do, I put on my earpieces and get the juices flowing even stronger as the running tunes I had selected fill my head with totally extravagant and unwarranted confidence. Funny thing about listening to music as you run. Naturally, you are very aware of the masses around you, but in a strange way the music turns you inward. You are alone with your thoughts. Only the occasional jostle from another runner, or the sudden swerve you need to navigate to avoid a collision brings you back outside. It’s such an odd sensation to have such a solitary, personal experience amid the teeming hordes at your elbows and shins.
And, then, the bridge looms in front of you. It is as intimidating as it is gorgeous. As I looked up the graceful upward span absolutely choked with runners, it is as if the whole world is running as fast as it can to get to see who can get to the gates of heaven first. The span is steep. It is more than a mile, seemingly straight up, to the top of the arch. Only the fittest (or most foolish) try to maintain their normal pace as they strive for that golden moment when you reach the top and know the rest of the course is downhill and then blessedly flat. The calves start to burn, the lungs too. Movements become more labored, more mechanical. Many folks who got off to jackrabbit starts move to the sides of the course, hands on hips, chests heaving. Sisyphus -- I feel your pain, baby. I had thought I would pause at the top, take in the view; smell the roses, so to speak. But, I didn’t. I think I was so elated to make it to this point that stopping was like an insult to my effort. And, senselessly, I figured this was the perfect moment to leapfrog a lot of competitors. Yeah, right. As if this would land me among the first several thousand finishers!
The rest of the way was a blur. Almost anti-climatic. Until the end. With crowds bunched along the sidewalks, yelling their support, whatever reservoir of adrenalin there was kicked in for many as the streets of Charleston slid away under our feet, and the promise of a finish line became a quickly approaching reality. As I’m sure many folks who enter these events will tell you, there is no way you don’t sprint to the finish line once it comes in to view, like some sort of oasis in the desert. You’ve worked too hard to get here and the joy is all the fuel you need.
How did I do? Only some 12,000 or so finished ahead of me. Never had 12,000th place felt so good. Thank goodness for the tortoises and zombies.
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