Sunday morning

Danica and I had another nice run on Sunday morning - the same three-plus mile track, the same interval training approach (although Art corrected me at my workout on Friday - "They're fartleks," he said, which I kind of already knew, but there's something about that word that seems unserious).

But, oh my - for the second time, I had to be up at 5:40 a.m. to beat the heat.

If you don't already know, I am not a morning person. I lead a rich and interesting sleep life, with dreams as complex and satisfying as Russian novels, none of which I remember when I awake, which gives me another incentive to sleep some more, so as not to leave that world behind, forever lost.

The melody of the only song I've ever written was composed in my sleep.  "Witness Stand" is a blues in B flat, which is not a classic blues key, but it was what was on my mind when I woke up, raced to a piano, and captured the chord progression before it disappeared.

I've written hilarious jokes, poignant poems, and whole television series plotlines in my sleep. In my retirement, it's probably my most productive time, but gone like Snapchat before I can pour milk on my cereal.

So, you understand why I like to sleep and not get up early to go running.

And yet, there I was, walking up the street with Danica to the starting point, at 5:40 a.m.

In a way, this is very affirming, because it reflects that I am committed enough to getting into half marathon shape that I am willing to sacrifice something that means so much to me.  I used to do it when I was training for marathons with my friend Chad, pretty much for the same reasons, even in pre-climate change 1994. Houston gets hot in the summer, always has and always will.

The run was nice. We were both huffing, but also aspiring to improvement. Having both done the long runs before, we have that internal confidence that we can get back to where we once were.

That confidence was tempered, however, by a greater appreciation of our ages.  She's 57, I'm 59, and as often happens when people our ages spending time together, our conversation turned to the looming challenges of mortality. Wills need updating, retirement plans need nurturing, and friends keep turning up in the obituaries. It's the black cloud on the horizon that we are running away from.

And maybe that's why I am willing to get up at 5:40 a.m. As the man says, you can sleep when you're dead. 

I still want to beat my pension fund.

P.S.  Look at those splits!

I'm back (again)

I'll bet you thought that I had given up.

So did I.

But, as in so many things in life, you never know. (Deep, right?)

Here’s how I got back. The other day, I was visiting my buddy Sean, who lives down the street from me. Sitting at his kitchen island, I was chatting with his daughter Abby while Sean dried out the cardboard round from a frozen pizza in his oven (don't ask).  

(Side note: Abby, who is 24, I think, still refers to me as "Coach Scott" many years after I coached her in volleyball. I find that charming and wonder how many other now-grown men and women still remember me as "Coach" from my days coaching kids' volleyball, basketball, and soccer.)

After a while, Sean's wife Danica came home and joined the conversation.  We talked about this and that, and then, at some point, I brought up that I had signed up for the Half Marathon.

"You?" she said.

I wasn't sure how to take that.

"Yes, me," I replied.

"Oh, well, that’s great," she said. "I haven't run in forever."

Danica had been, for a time, a serious runner, working out with running groups in Pearland and training hard. Moreover, she and my friend John were also my workout buddies for a couple of years when we trained together for the 2012 Half Marathon.  (I finished in 2:28:07, edging out her time of 2:30:41, and John beat both of us with a 2:19:38.  She would go on to much better times, while I did not.)

"So, let's start," I said. "How about Thursday?"

She mused on that for a moment.

"Maybe,” she said. “You know, you were always good at telling a story that lasts exactly 3.1 miles. Text me and we’ll see."

The next evening, I texted her and we agreed to meet for a run around the neighborhood at 6:00 a.m. in the morning.  I set my alarm for 5:40 and went to bed.

The next morning, I woke up at 5:51 (I'd set the alarm for 5:40 p.m., instead of 5:40 a.m., a subtle act of self-sabotage, I guess), and had nine minutes to get to the meeting place.  I dressed quickly, grabbed my shoes and socks, and fast-walked barefoot to the meeting place.

"You could have put your shoes on," she said as I approached.

The heat, even at 6:00, was oppressive and damp. We set out, doing short intervals from one lamppost to the next, alternating running and walking.  I think it went pretty well - at least I didn't pass out.

We talked about various things (all covered by runner confidentiality) and did a solid two-plus miles before walking the rest of the way. 

As always, she's good company and I don’t think I slowed her down much.

We will try again this weekend.  Woo hoo!

June 21

I had a nice walk yesterday. It was a little involuntary, but nice.

Here's what's going on. Yesterday, I went in to see my doctor for my annual ultrasound and ABI test. It's the usual "patient in the dark" procedure - the technician globs some gel on an ultrasound wand, gets readings at various spots in your body while furiously typing into a computer, then hands you a tissue and sends you on your way. Sometimes, I never know what the results were, which is good, I guess.

Before I went into the ultrasound room, however, my doctor talked to me about my weight.

"It's not good," he said.

"I don't know why," I said. "I work out five days a week now, plus basketball on Saturdays."

"Uh-huh," he said, looking down at my chart. "I think I'm going to start you on Ozempic."

This threw me for a loop. I'd heard good things - rapid weight loss - and bad things - gallstones, diarrhea, burps that taste like rotten eggs, lesions, and even something called "Ozempic face" where the elasticity of the skin on your face doesn't keep up with your weight loss.

Ozempic face.

"It's worked really well for other patients," he said. "Just a needle in your belly once a week."

Yuck.

As I was driving home, I got a text from the CVS telling me that the Ozempic prescription was pending insurance approval. For once, I was rooting for the cheapskates at Cigna to put a kibosh on this strategy.

I started canvassing my friends and family about my doctor's plan, and they were pretty uniformly against it.

"Um, no, dad," Sarah said.

"You need a new doctor," Josh said.

"You know that the way it works is by making you so sick, you have no appetite," my friend Elizabeth told me. "That's no way to live."

When I told Art, both of his eyebrows went up, an extremely rare occurrence. 

"I think it's a bad idea," he said. "You just need to commit to better choices. You want me to start making your dinner?"

As tempting as that was, I couldn't impose on him. I could bankrupt him, the way I eat. 

He then told me to eat lots of fresh vegetables, eat smarter proteins, and start drinking water instead of Diet Coke.

He also told me to get back on the 500 calories of cardio a day plan. "You have 400 calories left today," as he pointed to the treadmill at the gym.

When he told me that, I had just finished a workout with Sarah (a new and happy development for the summer) and she gave me a subtle stink-eye about having to stay any longer at the gym than necessary. So I told Art we needed to get back home, but that I would do it that night.

"Uh-huh," he said. "How do I know you'll do it?" He knew the non-existent value of my promises regarding self-directed exercise. 

"How about this?" he said. "If you don't do it, you pay for your partners' workouts for next week."

Not being made of money, I respectfully declined.

"Okay," he countered. "If you don't get your 400 calories in tonight, you walk a half-marathon with me this weekend."

Having "walked" with Art before, I knew that 13.1 miles would be three hours of aches, chafes, and blisters at a pace that would melt the soles of my shoes. Plus, it would be three hours in early Houston summer, where the morning "breeze" would be slow-roasting me like a pig on a rotisserie spit.

"Sure," I said, precisely because I knew it would make me go.

So, when I got home, I worked a little on my book, then I went outside and power-washed the sidewalk in front of my house. (Side note: there is nothing more satisfying than etching grime off of concrete and exposing the clean white surface underneath. After I was done, I went outside three times to admire it again and again.)

After that, I was wiped, but the prospect of Art's walk loomed over me. So I took a shower to get the grime splatter off of my legs, then laced up my shoes and walked in the dark until I got the calories in. Then I showered again, and slept the sleep of the righteous.

I am eating right, exercising more, and looking over my shoulder, trying to outrun the Ozempic vampire.

Onward.

P.S.    Here's a recording of my weird new dog Frankie. For a small dog, his bark seems to come from a deep, dark place in the depths of his old dog soul. He may be the best burglar deterrent I have ever owned. 

June 5

Hi!

I’m writing this from the balcony of the Houston House of Blues, waiting for one of my favorite bands to take the stage.  I’m here alone because it’s hard to explain to my friends how much I like this band without getting one of those looks.

“Toad the Wet Sprocket?”

“Yeah. They did ‘Walk on the Ocean.’ You’d know it if you heard it. No? ‘Fall Down’? ‘All I Want’? No?”

“What, do they perform in frog outfits? Are they some kind of art collective? Toad… the Wet Sprocket?”

Sigh. Even my wife begged off. Sometimes it feels like being Joe Schlabotnik’s only fan.

Anyway, what I feared at the beginning of this quest has come to pass - it’s now HOT. 

The additional complication now is that about a week ago, I had my face peeled off with a dermatological procedure called photodynamic therapy. It was to clear a bunch of pre-cancerous keratoses from my face, in lieu of freezing a bunch of individual spots.

I was told to be much more careful being out in the sun while my face heals. So, I have been - lots of sunscreen and couch-lounging, waiting for the danger to pass.

So when Art asked me why I hadn’t made any new entries in a while, I told him that I was following doctor’s orders.

He arched an eyebrow.

“Don’t you have a treadmill?”

“Yes, but it’s out of order. I need someone to tighten the belt and lube its joints,” I said.

“You know, you can get a new treadmill,” he said, arching the other eyebrow.

“I could,” I said, “but I won’t.”

Here’s what I know about treadmills: you buy one with the best intentions, and then they eventually (and inevitably) become a really expensive laundry rack. It’s why my old treadmill is in the garage - Lisa challenged me to tell her when I’d used it last, and I couldn’t remember.  And when I turned it on, the belt was sliding under my feet (a very vertiginous feeling, kind of like that scene in the opening credits to “The Jetsons”):

It also started making a funny smell as it ran, which could have been friction, or the accumulation of sweaty bacterial sweat from when I used to use it.

But all it needs is a tune-up, and after my son’s move-out last month, we have room upstairs to store it. It may take some spousal convincing, however, since she has a Plan for the upstairs that probably does not include featuring a decrepit treadmill in the middle of one of the rooms.

Anyway.

I am still committed to getting into half-marathon shape by next January, so this morning, I took the bull by the horns (brief aside: Who takes a bull by the horns? That is an idiotic idiom, and should really denote someone who wants a painful death, which now that I think about it, is kind of appropriate when talking about getting into half-marathon shape in June.  End of aside.) and I took a 4.5 mile walk at a clean 16 minute pace. Aside from some chafing, which I should have prepared for, it wasn’t so bad after a long layoff. And then an hour later, an hour with Art, doing arm exercises at the gym.

Tomorrow, the same, except that I will be working out at the gym with my daughter! So great - except that tomorrow will be working out the quads, which is kind of the worst for a first gym workout with a trainer.  Lots of squats. I hope Art will be kind to her.

The next couple of months will be pretty important to how the rest of the year goes. I play in the Main Event of the WSOP in July, I’m still working on my ethics book, and I need to start laying the foundation for 13.1 miles in January.  No more procrastinating.

Last thing: we have a new family member. We adopted a 12-year-old dog whose owner is in hospice care. He is every single day of his twelve years, with an apparently benign mass in his chest, a leaky eye, some patchy fur, and long claws that click on the floor. But how can you not love this old man, especially the way his paws splay out?

Onward.

May 6

I got tired of the "Day X" convention, so now this blog will update you on the dates that I train.

I am at a crossroads now - it's getting late in the spring and the weather is getting progressively more hot and humid.  The weather's been good for my herb garden - I have been harvesting basil (which seems to be one step removed from a sturdy weed, hard to kill) as well as my first two jalapenos, which I promptly pickled and stored in a glass jar in the fridge, where they glare at me every time I open the door, daring me to use them in something, and not promising that they won't set my mouth on fire.  I have lunchbox sweet peppers, thyme, rosemary, sage, and Italian parsley as well.

But the weather is going to make it harder for me to leave the house. I have a treadmill, but it's about thirty years old and needs some maintenance. Plus it's just hard to go for long in one place without feeling like a gerbil on a wheel.

That all said, the decks are clearing - I won a big case last week, which takes that off my docket, and I don't really have anything else coming down the pike. This means that my only priorities now are:

• Writing my book.
• Preparing for the World Series of Poker Main Event (I qualified for an entry last week).
• Getting fit.

I took a big step in that direction on Saturday when I "ran" a "5K" with Art and his daughter. I say "ran" because it was mostly walking, and I say "5K" because it took about a half-mile to get to the starting line and another half-mile to get back to the car, so we really went about 4.5 miles or so.

I felt good, no aches and pains - just the usual old age and heaviness keeping me firmly on the ground instead of gliding like I prefer. The company was GREAT - Art's daughter Everly was doing her first race ever, and I was honored to be a part of it. I told her stories about my dog, Penny, and we raced from point to point to keep her mind occupied, and she finished AHEAD OF ME. A four-year-old prodigy!

I am so proud of her, and a little bit proud of myself.

Onward!

Day 4

I am writing this from the airport as I await my flight back from Phoenix to Houston.  I was visiting my sister-in-law and her family, and really had a lovely time - we got to sit on the front row behind the dugout at the Arizona Diamondbacks game; we played miniature golf on a course designed by Tiger Woods; and we had dinner at Benihana with one of the fun chefs.

Exercise-wise, while I was there, I had a nice walk with my sister-in-law, and I watched my nephew’s son Haydan at baseball practice. Not an intense fitness week for me, but I did get out for a little bit.

I was kind of amused by an email Avina sent to our group, which prompted a few responses:

Avina was hating me and Sam because we had both cancelled our appearances at the Friday workout, leaving her solely at Art’s mercy (meaning no mercy at all). But she was taking credit for being close to the top of Art’s mysterious rating system, which Art explained as follows:

He told me last week that I had been a regular in his top ten when I was regularly walking, but now… not so much.

He is a master of motivation, setting benchmarks, however arbitrary, and creating competition between us. Sam and I are wise to this, and yet we still keep track of how our efforts compare with each other.

This upcoming week is going to be kind of gnarly for me, but then it will be clear sailing for a couple of months. I will do my best this week, and then - with no excuses available to me - I will really get to uwork on my training plan.

Onward!

Day 1 (restart)

New developments since I last posted:

·          I did not win the lottery to get into the New York Marathon. As a generally lucky person, I was a little surprised that it didn't happen for me this year.  I can still get in with a charitable contribution of about $3000, which might happen if I do well in this year's World Series of Poker, but I am not counting on it. Instead, as the new title of this blog indicates, I am reorienting my goal to something a little more attainable (more on that in a moment).

·               I signed a contract with Thomson-Reuters, a pretty big publisher of legal books, to co-author a handbook on legal ethics. "Handbook" sounds manageable, like something you slip into your briefcase on the way to court, but this ain't that. If you click on this link to the previous edition of the book I am now working on, you will see that it is 6362 pages in three volumes, selling for a cool $1281. Now, I am only responsible for 600 pages of the book, and my final draft is not due until mid-November, which seems like a long time until you do the math and realize that you have about 200 days to write 600 authoritative pages on the Texas Rules of Disciplinary Procedure.  This is kind of weighing heavily on me lately.

·       For some reason, I fell off the wagon on walking. This is also weighing heavily on me, both mentally and physically, because I am currently feeling quite, er, husky. It is also bothering me because I know that the great weather we have been enjoying this year is about to give way to a hellscape of melting concrete and convection oven airflow and will stay like that for about six months.

To his credit, Art has periodically (but not too annoyingly) reminded me that the blog has been quiet. So, this weekend I decided it was time to get moving again and make exercise a part of the handbook writing process - the more structured my day is, the more likely it is I will regularly write.

So this weekend, I played basketball, rehearsed with both of my bands (fun!), and then this morning, did a tasty 4.72 miles, which included three half-mile runs without stopping. When I told Art this, he arched an eyebrow but did not repeat his highly sensible advice about not running until I lose weight. Instead, he suggested that I only do fast runs twice a week, which I will do.

Now, my new goal (absent some kind of ridiculous luck in Vegas which would finance the NYC Marathon), is to run the Houston Half Marathon in January of 2024.  My pal Avina has promised to run with me, which is nice, plus last time I checked, 13.1 miles is much less than 26.2 miles, which is also nice.

Will I keep this going? We will see!