Against the Wind

Well those drifters days are past me now
I’ve got so much more to think about
Deadlines and commitments
What to leave in, what to leave out

Against the wind
I’m still runnin’ against the wind
Well I’m older now and still runnin'
Against the wind

--Bob Seger, "Against the Wind"

While I highly doubt Seger was inspired by 35 mph gusts of wind during an early Saturday morning 12 mile run, this song popped into my head on numerous occasions as I faced seemingly relentless winds. After three months of accumulating apparel designed to protect runners from cutting winds, the only part of my body not covered in some sort of polyester-vinyl-spandex-like material is my nose and mouth. Coincidentily, this is the area that usually gets bombarded by debris, ice chunks, and other unidentified flying objects. I used to run into grunting 300 pound offensive lineman. Now I was battling a different type of ugly, brutish force. My youthful life of limited commitments that permitted me to drift has blown right by. I had to chuckle when Seger's song came bellowing out of a jukebox later that night. Yeah, I'm a little older now, but I'm still runnin' against the wind. With or without running shoes and wind proof gear, I don't see myself stopping anytime soon.

Fundraising Invite To All

I just finalized plans for my first fundraiser of the campaign. I've attended many fundraisers in the years past. Most of them raised a lot of funds. Most, however, needed to raise the fun. I'm going to attempt to do both. A special thanks to the Karras Bros Tavern for hosting this event. It's open to the public, stop on by, first drink's on us!

Wimp or Wise?

Before I began writing this post, I went back and read the past few months of my comments dealing with cold weather. I was whining about cold winds, snow covered trails, and numb body parts while consistently wondering whether the worst was behind me. After Saturday's run, the only thing that was behind me was my ego, self-confidence, and possibly my pinky toe. The temperatures at eight 'o clock in the morning peaked at 3 degrees F. The wind chill made it feel like -15. A scheduled 12 mile run was shortened to just over 7 miles because seemingly relentless wind and painfully freezing temps, prevented me from ever warming up. My wind proof jacket, pants and underwear were no match for these conditions. The cold simply laughed at my thermal socks. Like the many boxers who stepped into the ring with Joe Louis, my corner threw in the towel and conceded defeat after a brutal beating.

Unlike the previous comments I've made on these pages, this comes without exaggeration or drama. I've got an abrasion on my neck where the zipper of my jacket froze to my skin. Quitting this run ate at me the entire day and I repeatedly asked myself, "am I just weak, or was this decision actually smart?" Wise or not, I still felt like a quitter. A quitter with frozen toes, nonetheless. This bothers me so, because I've come to the realization that completing this marathon will be just as much a test of mental strength as it will physical endurance. Maybe the running Gods were testing this strength? If so, I've been praying the past few days for them to turn the thermostat up a tad for their next test.

Snow Shoeing For Gold

The Winter Olympics kicked off this weekend while I made a strong bid to introduce snow running as the next Olympic event. With nothing but a pair of ordinary running shoes, participants must take on the never ending snow that the "lake effect" of western Michigan dumps like clock work. This may seem fun to the novice. This did seem fun to this naive writer. This was in fact not fun .....and there were no pretty girls handing out bouquets of flowers and gold medals at the finish line. Needless to say, I was proud of the 11 miles I trudged through on Saturday on the Kal-Haven trail.

I lived and studied in Kalamazoo, Michigan for four years of undergraduate. To this day the city possesses many of my favorite things. My favorite beer is freshly brewed at Bell's Brewery and always for a reasonable price. My favorite coffee shop, Water Street Cafe, serves up the greatest milk shake (with espresso) I've ever had. The Kalamazoo Institute of Arts can be consumed in an afternoon and has one of my favorite pieces of public art hanging in its main entrance. The constant and relentless snow, however, is far from my favorite thing. I'm not even sure what this "lake effect" is or how it works, but native west Michiganders love to blame their winter existence on this phenomenon. I do know that this had a major effect on this week's training run.

Some avid runners claim that a layer of snow on the ground provides added cushioning and takes stress off your joints that the hard roads would otherwise provide. This seemed true for a couple miles along the trail. Then my shoes got heavy. Then my feet began to slip. All the while giant snow flakes began to bombard my face and find shelter in my hair and eye brows. I began to keep my head down to make sure I didn't slip or trip along the trail. I began to worry about safety. I realized that I wasn't able to turn my mind off and simply flip the auto pilot switch like I've become accustomed to. I began to appreciate the ease and comfort of running without thinking and wished I was on a dry paved trail. I had to treat myself to a couple Bell's Pale Ale after this run. It can't get any tougher, can it?

Detox through photosynthesis

Admittedly, the Super Bowl and its four days of utter excess and late night activity did a number on my body. On Monday morning, I could feel my organs protesting this abuse and looked to my "go-to" coffee pot to bail me out. Didn't work. I figured a long run and a good sweat would do the trick. I figured wrong. I tried some multi vitamins called "Mega Men" in hopes of feeling normal again. By Tuesday, the nausea, aches, sweats and general crapiness was overwhelming my thought process turning me into a whimpering "Mega Grump." I took a walk at lunch across the street to my favorite hidden Detroit gem inside the Guardian Building for some visual aesthetics. I noticed that a new juice bar had just opened up. I stumbled into the place with apparently the look of somebody needing sympathy and a miracle product. The very nice girl behind the counter offered both. She gave me a shot. Not the type of shot that caused this mess. Not even the shot involving needles and pudgy fingered nurses poking you in unmentionable places. She gave me a shot of Wheat Grass. She walked over to a large pot of what appeared to be her front lawn, cut a chunk of this lawn with shears and jammed the blades of grass into a contraption straight out of a Rube Goldberg museum. Out of this device came a bright green liquid that smelled like last summer's grass clippings. She wasn't kidding. This was definitely grass. Desperate, I took it down like a Mega Man.

Two hours later I not only felt better, I felt like I could run the marathon that afternoon. I'm not exaggerating. I felt great. This lead me to again consult my trusty research assistant Mr. Google to learn more about this foul smelling shot of sod. What I learned was amazing. I'll simply summarize the complete set of information. I encourage you to take a glance yourself here

In addition to a laundry list of vitamins and minerals that I can't pronounce or spell, there are four special components of wheat grass, which make it particularly valuable: (1) Superoxide Dismutase (SOD), (2) P4D1, (3)Muco-polysaccharides, and (4) Chlorophyll.

The first three are flat out scary. According to this research these proteins help rebuild damaged cells and studies suggest that it is an effective fighter of cancer and aging. All good things. The last, Chlorophyll, hasn't been an issue in my life since 5th grade science class. I can still remember choosing between the shades of green in my Crayola set to color the diagram of a giant weed going through photosynthesis. Chlorophyll, however, might just have saved my week. The health benefits of liquefied weeds fall into three main categories, purifying, anti-inflammatory, and renewal. Most importantly, it builds blood and cleanses parts of your body that have become toxic. Mainly my liver. On a day that started out with me struggling up the steps to my office, ended with a great 6 mile run. I'm crediting that nice girl's front lawn and will be keeping my eye out for similar vegetation in Vancouver.

Super Bowled Over

Sea of Super Bowl Humanity descends upon the streets of Detroit - (Photo Courtesy of Todd McInturf - The Detroit News)

The heart of the Motown Winter Blast, Campus Martius Park (Photo Courtesy of Robin Buckson - The Detroit News)

I'm writing today without a single clear thought running through my head, let alone thoughts about my training. You see, the city of Detroit hosted a game last night that ended up being the largest week-long party I have ever been a part of. This game was the catalyst to events that kept me up until dawn on consecutive nights while refusing to let me relax for any period of time to collect my thoughts. My cell phone began rivaling telemarketing networks for activity as I unexpectedly became the unofficial organizer of out-of-town guests looking to inhale the hysteric air that steadily became more and more overwhelming. It may sound as if I'm tossing out Super Bowl hyperbole, but I'm not. There is not an army of adjectives that can be used to accurately describe the madness of Super Bowl XL in Detroit. While the following will have very little to do with the theme of this blog, I would feel remiss for not commenting on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to experience the World's largest sporting event in my own backyard.

Thursday, February 2, 2006

6:00 pm

I won't officially admit it, but my weekend started after work on a Thursday as the Motown Winterblast officially kicked off. I ripped off my tie and left my suit coat in the office and walked down Woodward Ave a few blocks north in an attempt to catch a local band I've been meaning to see for some time. Five separate stages were set up hosting bands jamming to jazz, R&B, hip-hop, gospel, country and rock. The rock stage was located in a huge heated tent in the heart of Greektown. By 6:30 I finally ducked my head into the tent and was nearly run over by a gang of very large, hairy, and tatooed guys who looked like they drove their winter Harley's all day long from Pittsburgh. One of them actually splashed some beer on my coat. Content with just moving on, the Pittsburgh native immediatley apologized and within minutes put a Coors Light in my hands and was patting my shoulders like we were long lost friends. I knew this night, this weekend, this event was going to be like nothing I've ever seen.

8:00 pm

After a rousing set by local band The Hard Lessons a crew of friends from Detroit met me with equaled excitement. Each live, work and socialize in Detroit. Each agreed that they had never seen anything like this. We headed over to one of our favorite spots a block away and discovered a line of people outside waiting to get inside. This is the same place I used to frequent in law school because of their unconscienably cheap prices and scant crowds. An almost blinding blur of black and gold jerseys, hats, mardi gras beads, scarfs and even inflatable football helmets awaited us as we finally got inside. Pittsburgh Steeler fans took over this place and likewise had plans to start their weekend a day earlier. I spoke with one family from the northern suburbs of Pittsburgh who drove their RV all day long and were parked in a lot a few blocks away. They had no game tickets, no invitations to swanky parties, and absolutely no clue about Detroit. What they did have is an impressive amount of energy and passion toward the Steelers and were not bashful in expressing their feelings. "Go Steel!, Go Steel!" seemed to be the most popular chant that was repeatedly screamed into my ear.
Steeler fan (Photo Courtesy of Daniel Mears - The Detroit News)

11:00 pm

I attempted to call it a night but was met by a barrage of peer pressured responses to continue taking in the sights. By this time, that's exactly what it was: sight seeing. All of Detroit was pulsating with light and music. Police were on every street corner directing the mobs of people waiting to cross the street. Meanwhile I just kept looking around in amazement and reminding myself that this is in fact Detroit. Our final stop took us down Beaubien street to a gritty but charming sports pub where again, I felt like a tourist. Up way past my regularly scheduled bed time, with an early morning alarm clock ready to remind me of this fact, we finally threw in the towel when a friend offered to drive me back home. I even outlasted the parking garage I use to drive to work which closed a hour before my night ended.


Friday, February 3, 2006

6:30 am

Alarm goes off

6:31 am

Coffee pot is pumping out the only product that will get me through the day. I got a little additional help from the mile and a half walk to work that was also on the agenda. (see reference to car locked in garage above)

12:00 noon

Some work collegues and I walked accross the still crowded Jefferson Ave to the Ren Cen (General Motor's Headquarters) where the NFL media center was located. By this time tourists, downtown workers and general media types had flooded this building looking for celebrity types and pro athletes being interviewed by the seemingly countless media outlets camped out for the week. It reminded me of shopping in a stuffy mall the weekend before Christmas, except people were walking around with martinis, and other beverages with olives in them. I spotted a surprising number of suits within this crown who presumably left work for lunch and ended up forgetting to return. The scene was impressive and I spotted a number pro athletes with cameras and microphones in their face. The autograph hounds were also out in full force trying to muscle their way into an ebay profit. This added lunch time excitement also diverted my mind from focusing on how little sleep I got the night before.

6:00 pm

I left work and headed to Jacoby's for a few Happy Hour drinks with some of my co-workers. What is normally a modestly attended bar in Detroit's Bricktown district, was packed 8-9 people deep at the bar. All 8-9 people looked like they too had been there since lunch, the previous day.

6:20 pm

I headed down the street to another local dive bar, The Detroiter, again with hopes of starting my weekend with a cold one. This place too was packed. A mixture of suits, ski parkas, grey hair, young hipsters and the ubiquitous Steeler fan were throwing back suds like Super Bowl tickets were burried in the bottom of their pint glasses. I spent a solid half hour fielding calls from friends, acquaintance, friends of acquaintances and a few random people I have never met. All wanted the same information from me: "How do I get downtown? and where do I park?" On any night of any non-Super Bowl weekend, this would be a fairly simple question to answer. With the number of bodies filling the streets, I quickly learned that discovering the formula for cold fusion appeared to be an easier task than directing out-of-towners into the madness.

8:30 pm

By now a crew of 10-12 friends had successfully consolidated at one of the countless downtown spaces that dusted off years of spider webs and abandonment to take part in another popular American sport.....Capitalism. Decades of economic hardship and blight were cosmetically transformed into brand spankin new bars, restaurants and retail shops all with one goal: make as much coin off Super Bowl mania as humanly possible. If this means charging $8 for a bottle of domestic beer, or $12 for a plate of luke warm nachos..... than so be it. I silently resented the greed, but refused to let it sour what was an almost palpable excitement. While a definite contributor, alcohol was not the sole source of this excitement. I spoke to people from all over Michigan, who were returning to the city for the first time in years. Most had stories and fond memories of a city that it simply lost contact with. Most of these people had their heads on a swivel in an attempt to reacquant themselves with Detroit. Before ten 'o clock I was physically hugged by three old ladies after asking me for directions to Detroit's popular gimmick bar, Hockeytown Cafe. They too were partying like rock stars.

12 midnight

Our crew made our way South along Woodward Ave and through the heart of the Motown Winter Blast. Jazz bands, ice sculptures, light shows, dog-sleds, beach volleyball, wave pools, snow sledding hills, food stands, and of coarse, booze bombarded us from every angle. In and out of huge heated tents were more human beings than I have ever seen in my entire life. It was an absolute sea of humanity beyond anything that I ever predicted. It struck me after a few minutes, that I barely recognized this city. Three days earlier I ran down Woodward and was greeted by a handful of people at the bus stop. Now I could barely see the pavement. The generously poured glasses of Irish whiskey were also contributing to the blur.

1 am

In an attempt to discover just how much ground this party was covering, we ventured a few blocks West of the major action. The previous week I noticed a lot of construction and hasty prep work in a ground floor space on Park Ave (not quite NY's version) By the time we walked through the freshly painted doors, this place had been open for business for only two hours. There was still dry wall dust on the floor of a beautifully designed and historically aesthetic building that I later leaned was a famous speak easy during prohibition. Like every other place at this time, the Super Bowl partyers were in full force. One of the bartenders told me there was actually people outside waiting in line the first time the doors opened for business. Regardless, more amber colored beverages were being poured and placed in my hand. By this time the pain in my legs and hips had miraculously dissipated.

It was also about this time (I think) that I made my final effort to meet up with my parents who were somewhere within the millions of people in Detroit. They too were wearing their feet to bloody pulps walking in awe mile after mile of excitement. The same excitement that prevented movement and any hopes of spotting a familiar face in the crowd.

3 am

Late night hunger gave a call to the crew of friends who were now demanding greasy food and poor service at the ever charming Plaka Cafe. When handed a menu, I noticed that each of the food items had mysteriously been raised about $2. Detroiters, love their coney dogs. I'm not an exception. But Detroiters know that $5 for hot dog slathered in chili and mustard is outrageous. I attempted to point this fact out to the frantically overworked staff. I even attempted to persuade my friends to join me in my grievance. Instead I staged a one man boycott that presumably put a hurting on the Plaka Cafe's bottom line. Nonetheless me and the haggerd group of friends still standing managed to bum a ride back to my apartment for some well needed shut eye. Before this happened, we found ourselves inside a display model of a Cadillac Escalade at GM's Headquarters. Apparantly we were making a scene but were so comical, the security gave us immunity.

Saturday, February 4, 2006

1:00pm

I woke up to an apartment that looked and smelled like the Pittsburgh Steeler locker room. My couch squatting friends soon woke up and began piecing the previous night's activities together and laughing histerically trying to do so

4:00pm Showered

Running through the scene

I ran past one of Detroit's trendy club's last night trying a avoid the battalion of limos, stretched Hummers, and base-thumping Cadillac Escalades that were dropping off finely dressed scensters and presumably the celebrities they hoped to be seen with. In a line that was easily 75 people deep I noticed more fur being warn than a Star Wars Woookie convention. I'm not even sure such a thing exists, but I am sure that Chewbaka would have a difficult time getting an invite to this gig without a $400 salon visit, Italian designed suit, and jewelry that could be seen from a galaxy far, far, away. Which is exactly where I wanted to be when one of the beautiful people shouted at me "Run, Forrest Run!"

This was a common scene around the 6 mile loop I ran around downtown. Bars that just last week were promoting $2 wells for all card carrying union members, had barrel chested behemoths out front with velvet ropes checking to make sure your shoes were made of top quality lambskin. Part of me is excited about the drastic change of scenery, while another part is kind of annoyed that I felt like an outsider. Either way, I'll keep running like Forrest. The Super Bowl is coming, and I'm just going to have to take it all in. Maybe Asics makes a mink running suit?