Old Favorites Part III: It’s A Control Thing

Continuing our walk down memory lane… I originally wrote and posted this on July 11, 2007.

I like to sweat. I need it.

Exercise is my mental health program, almost entirely. The actual health benefits take a distant second place to the stress relief I get from it. I suppose I’m slightly addicted to the feeling of an elevated heart rate, as well as the fatigued satisfaction that follows a tough workout, but as habits go, I’m sure I could do worse.

I used to run when I was in high school and college, but my knees won’t let me anymore. I like the full body workout I can get on an elliptical trainer, and I love my Friday spin classes, taught by Pat the Perky Sado-Masochist / NICU Nurse / Bad-Ass, who believes in packing her 45-minute classes chuck-full of steep, virtual-muddy hills, and time trials. There are no downhills in her world, and she smiles and laughs her way through class while kicking the butts of all who dare to claim a flywheel.

Probably because of this, I recently rediscovered my bike.

The actual one, with wheels that touch the ground and move the bike from here to there.

I don’t know how to fix a flat. I can’t name or locate the parts of a bike beyond the wheels and gears and handlebars. Long parked in the garage with its ever-thickening coating of dust and partially deflated tires, seeing the sun only for the occasional leisurely ride with the kids, I finally took it out for a spin a few weeks ago.

Abby and Hannah were over at a friend’s house, either choreographing a dance routine for the camp talent show, or perhaps humiliating neighbor cats by forcing them to wear doll clothes and paper hats, so I asked Sam if he wanted to go with me. He said no, but I dragged him away from the computer and made him go anyway.

Given the choice, Sam will build Lego railroads and airplanes, or drive the Train Simulator from his computer chair for days at a time, so I wanted to get him outside for some exercise. I hadn’t been to the gym in a couple of days because of all the summer-kids-are-home-activities, so I also wanted to make the most of our ride through the streets, and went at a faster pace than our usual family roll through the ‘hood. He seemed to enjoy it in spite of his surprise at the pace (“HEY MOM! WAIT UP!”).

At about four miles, I looped by the house, giving Sam the option of doing another lap or stopping. He wasted no time telling me that, um, he was done, thank you very much, and in need of a Gatorade and some hammock time.

But that ride reminded me that cycling outside brings with it warm breezes in the face, sunshine and goldfinches and summer scents at every turn, like strawberry plants, barbecues, and freshly cut grass.

And downhills. Downhills!

So now I’m hooked.

I rode another four or five miles that day, and then eight or nine the next time. That became routine, so one day last week I rode twelve, just because I knew I could, and I because I thought double digits sounded cool. Yesterday, about halfway through my intended twelve miles, the number “eighteen” got lodged in my head, mostly because I just wanted to see what it would feel like to push it that far. And of course, once I got close to eighteen, I figured I’d make it an even twenty.

It took about 90 minutes, and it was a challenge to walk up the front steps once I got off the bike, but I loved that I did it.

20 miles! Woo hoo!

Not too bad for a confirmed doofus who, according to my mom, used to “trip over blades of grass,” and only very recently sustained injury while braving the treacherous terrain between the front door and my minivan.

One of the things I love about exercise is that I am in complete control, unlike much of the rest of my life, which often seems to set its own course and haul me along for the ride. There are obstacles I can overcome in almost every session, and goals I can reach, sometimes as simple as getting my butt out of the house and through a workout, even when I don’t feel like it.

That pattern and energy builds my confidence and makes me feel strong, and therefore capable of taking control of the rest.

I hated when my knees shouted a loud “NO!” to the running option a year or two ago; I don’t like admitting defeat. But biking is much easier on 41 year-old bones and joints, and although real cyclists know that 20 miles is roughly equivalent to a jog in the park, cycling mileage sounds far more impressive than the three or four miles that I could manage when I used to go out to run, beating up and breaking down my shins and knees and feet with every step on the hard pavement.

I like to sweat. I like the mental vacation. I like to push myself to see what I can do.

But before I take the bike much farther, I guess I need to figure out if I can fix a flat tire.

Old Favorites Part II: Death of a Michigan Man

Second in a series of old favorites… this was originally published here on November 18, 2006.

I remember waking up on Saturday mornings in the 70′s and 80′s, hearing the distant sounds of the Michigan Marching Band as they practiced for the day’s halftime show. I had no appreciation then for how talented they were, or how lucky I was to have access to a season ticket in a stadium that boasted seats for 101,701 crazed football fans.

The Michigan vs. Ohio State game was always heavily anticipated by Ann Arborites — a focal point of every fall. It never occurred to me that there were people anywhere who didn’t look forward to toe-freezing, windy, sometimes rainy and snowy November days on Stadium Boulevard with the passion and fervor that we did. No question; that’s what you did on Saturday afternoons. It just… was.

While I can’t say that I have followed the ins and outs of Michigan football as an adult (I realize this horrifies my parents and my brothers; I’m sorry) I do remember many specific details from that glorious era. Bob Ufer’s emotional and hilarious radio color commentary, Rick Leach’s team leadership, Ali Haji-Sheikh’s clutch field goal kicks, the thrill of Anthony Carter’s many physically impossible, magnificent catches and subsequent game-winning sprints into the endzone, the emotional rush of being part of an excited, sometimes overzealous crowd.

My sports-fan energy is largely focused on the Boston Red Sox these days, but my roots are in Michigan football, as a freezing cold kid equipped with hand warmers and a wool hat, sitting in Section 20, Row 56. I didn’t really get the nuances of the game, but I understood the thrill of the competition, the commitment of the team, and the level of excellence.

Mom and Dad went condo a couple of years ago, and landed right next door to Bo. They had known each other for years, but it has been fun to visit them in their new house knowing that The Man was right next door. He was a friendly neighbor, often stopping to chat in the driveway. He offered my parents a VIP parking pass so they wouldn’t have to walk through the crowds to get to the football games that they rarely attend anymore. He even volunteered to help around the house, telling my mom that he could “still get around pretty good.”

I urge anyone who appreciates great writing and/or loves the college football tradition to read Mitch Albom’s article, issued today at 3:00 AM. He wrote Bo’s biography back in 1989. They knew each other well. Mitch was one of my favorite writers long before he hit it big with his wonderful book Tuesdays with Morrie — his Detroit Free Press sports columns were almost always my first-must-read at the breakfast table before trudging off to school back in the early 80′s. He has a rare talent for hitting raw emotional nerves, using clean, simple language. This article is a beautiful tribute to a man who lived his life with intensity and loyalty; passion and purpose.

I can’t say I’m a dedicated, knowledgeable football fan — my brothers would laugh at me if I did — but Bo’s death has affected me in a way that surprises me a little. It’s a personal loss for my parents, of course. But Michigan football was a prominent part of my childhood and adolescence. Those games were dominant topics of conversation at school and around the family dinner table for as long as I can remember. Bo’s death puts another chunk of that era squarely in the past.

Go Blue, and rest in peace, Mr. Schembechler.

KDF’s Moving Guide

Saturday, April 20th – Wednesday, the 23th: Pick up boxes at moving company, pack, swear, bruise self, pack more, clean things, make arrangements for three (count ‘em, three) moving day all-day playdates, make liberal use of garbage dump and Goodwill bins, throw broken toys away, pack, swear more, pack, lose ability to speak, pack more.

Thursday, April 24th: Totally panic about a) lack of readiness for movers arrival (April 25th), and b) amount of stuff packed to go to hotel (= too much stuff.) Transport cats and children to hotel; check in. Unpack and organize; repack a lot of it.

Friday, April 25th: Distribute children to friends’ houses, all except for Abby, whose friend spent the previous evening puking. Return to house at 7:30 AM to meet movers. Pack, clean, freak out excessively. Praise Abby for dealing so well with 10 hours of total boredom. Collect children. Return to hotel for 9:30 PM collapse.

Saturday, April 26th: Return to house for final cleanup. Encourage kids to play in the yard. Assume that Abby’s whining and complaining is an emotional reaction to moving. Repeatedly point out that lying down in the parked, hot car might make her feel worse rather than better. Head out to Hannah’s soccer game, in search of normalcy. Be thankful that Abby doesn’t barf until after she exits the car. Yep. Right on the sidewalk.

Walk down the street to local grocer to obtain water, tissues, and plastic bags.

Proceed on foot to Hannah’s game.

Park self and green-faced daughter in adjacent baseball field, far away from all other children. Try not to laugh as Hannah screams, “FEEL BETTER, ABBY!!!” for all to hear. Cycle through three different grassy locations with puking child, bottle of rinse water, and rapidly filling plastic bag full of barfy tissues. Enjoy field nap in the sun with Abby once the barfing subsides.

Proceed to hotel and enjoy three more vomit explosions.

Nervously consult WebMD to check the “when to seek medical advice” guidelines regarding dehydration.

Sunday, April 27th: Spend the day rejoicing over the fact that the stomach storm subsided just as I was figuring out how far we were from the nearest ER.

End the day watching in horror as Hannah begins puking.

Seriously appreciate the part of hotel life that includes daily housekeeping.

Item #783 from Hannah’s Big Book of Stuff To Do with the Plastic Curlers that Came with the American Girl Doll that Your Aunt Got You for Christmas

Why, have your mother put them in your own hair and make what would otherwise be a regular old school day extra festive, of course.

And since we’re talking hair…

For those days when you’re feeling extra sassy, a Hannah Montana wig can come in handy, especially when gathered into pigtails and paired with pink and burgundy soccer socks worn with your big sister’s Converse All-Stars.

Trick or Treat!

Here’s hoping that all your treats are chocolate, and all your bats are big ones.

Designed and carved by (clockwise from top left:) Sam, Hannah, Abby, Me

MY FINAL AND ONLY BASEBALL CELEBRATION UPDATE: Love the Red Sox or hate ‘em, we could all take a lesson in “dancing like nobody’s watching” (even though a bazillion people were) from pitcher Jonathan Papelbon, described this morning on Sports Radio as “just the right combination of insane and intense.” Plus, ya gotta love the Dropkick Murphys cruising through the streets of Boston on a flatbed truck.

Since Uncle Doug Outed Me…

1) Yes it is my birthday. Thank you for the birthday wishes in the comments section of my most recent post.

2) No, I am not 29. I am 29 plus an eighth grader.

3) Hannah gets very excited about all birthdays, because, a) she is a loving and generous child; and, b) she is ever-optimistic that there might be leftover cake and presents that just maybe, possibly, could be for her.

Just like most days, I was folding laundry this morning when Hannah woke up.

I heard her little voice croak, “Mom?” The tone indicated that she was still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

“Yes, Hannah?” I smiled, anticipating enthusiastic birthday wishes and multiple bear hug-tackles from my 47-pound blonde.

She paused to yawn. I beamed, already feeling the unabashed affection about to come my way. Then, Hannah asked, with tremendous love and concern: “Did the Red Sox win?”

She did come in soon after that to present me with my first homemade, pop-up birthday card of the day. And I did get hugs and kisses, from all of my kids, but not until after they had properly “WOO HOO!!!”d and proclaimed relief and excitement regarding the Big Game 1 Victory.

I admire that level of commitment. And they will get cake.

Post-Friday Spin Class Update

Pat the Perky Sado-Masochist is the Sovereign Bad-Ass Goddess of Spin. More details to follow, as soon as I catch my breath. (This may take a while.)

24 HOUR UPDATE (re: “This may take a while”): You thought I was kidding?

It’s A Control Thing

I like to sweat. I need it.

Exercise is my mental health program, almost entirely. The actual health benefits take a distant second place to the stress relief I get from it. I suppose I’m slightly addicted to the feeling of an elevated heart rate, as well as the fatigued satisfaction that follows a tough workout, but as habits go, I’m sure I could do worse.

I used to run when I was in high school and college, but my knees won’t let me anymore. I like the full body workout I can get on an elliptical trainer, and I love my Friday spin classes, taught by Pat the Perky Sado-Masochist / NICU Nurse / Bad-Ass, who believes in packing her 45-minute classes chuck-full of steep, virtual-muddy hills, and time trials. There are no downhills in her world, and she smiles and laughs her way through class while kicking the butts of all who dare to claim a flywheel.

Probably because of this, I recently rediscovered my bike.

The actual one, with wheels that touch the ground and move the bike from here to there.

I don’t know how to fix a flat. I can’t name or locate the parts of a bike beyond the wheels and gears and handlebars. Long parked in the garage with its ever-thickening coating of dust and partially deflated tires, seeing the sun only for the occasional leisurely ride with the kids, I finally took it out for a spin a few weeks ago.

Abby and Hannah were over at a friend’s house, either choreographing a dance routine for the camp talent show, or perhaps humiliating neighbor cats by forcing them to wear doll clothes and paper hats, so I asked Sam if he wanted to go with me. He said no, but I dragged him away from the computer and made him go anyway.

Given the choice, Sam will build Lego railroads and airplanes, or drive the Train Simulator from his computer chair for days at a time, so I wanted to get him outside for some exercise. I hadn’t been to the gym in a couple of days because of all the summer-kids-are-home-activities, so I also wanted to make the most of our ride through the streets, and went at a faster pace than our usual family roll through the ‘hood. He seemed to enjoy it in spite of his surprise at the pace (“HEY MOM! WAIT UP!”).

At about four miles, I looped by the house, giving Sam the option of doing another lap or stopping. He wasted no time telling me that, um, he was done, thank you very much, and in need of a Gatorade and some hammock time.

But that ride reminded me that cycling outside brings with it warm breezes in the face, sunshine and goldfinches and summer scents at every turn, like strawberry plants, barbecues, and freshly cut grass.

And downhills. Downhills!

So now I’m hooked.

I rode another four or five miles that day, and then eight or nine the next time. That became routine, so one day last week I rode twelve, just because I knew I could, and I because I thought double digits sounded cool. Yesterday, about halfway through my intended twelve miles, the number “eighteen” got lodged in my head, mostly because I just wanted to see what it would feel like to push it that far. And of course, once I got close to eighteen, I figured I’d make it an even twenty.

It took about 90 minutes, and it was a challenge to walk up the front steps once I got off the bike, but I loved that I did it.

20 miles! Woo hoo!

Not too bad for a confirmed doofus who, according to my mom, used to “trip over blades of grass,” and only very recently sustained injury while braving the treacherous terrain between the front door and my minivan.

One of the things I love about exercise is that I am in complete control, unlike much of the rest of my life, which often seems to set its own course and haul me along for the ride. There are obstacles I can overcome in almost every session, and goals I can reach, sometimes as simple as getting my butt out of the house and through a workout, even when I don’t feel like it.

That pattern and energy builds my confidence and makes me feel strong, and therefore capable of taking control of the rest.

I hated when my knees shouted a loud “NO!” to the running option a year or two ago; I don’t like admitting defeat. But biking is much easier on 41 year-old bones and joints, and although real cyclists know that 20 miles is roughly equivalent to a jog in the park, cycling mileage sounds far more impressive than the three or four miles that I could manage when I used to go out to run, beating up and breaking down my shins and knees and feet with every step on the hard pavement.

I like to sweat. I like the mental vacation. I like to push myself to see what I can do.

But before I take the bike much farther, I guess I need to figure out if I can fix a flat tire.

Spring Soccer

It’s that time of year again.

Here, the goalie receives motivational advice from Coach Phil.

10 points to the first reader who correctly identifies the item in Hannah’s right hand.

Death of a Michigan Man

I remember waking up on Saturday mornings in the 70′s and 80′s, hearing the distant sounds of the Michigan Marching Band as they practiced for the day’s halftime show. I had no appreciation then for how talented they were, or how lucky I was to have access to a season ticket in a stadium that boasted seats for 101,701 crazed football fans.

The Michigan vs. Ohio State game was always heavily anticipated by Ann Arborites — a focal point of every fall. It never occurred to me that there were people anywhere who didn’t look forward to toe-freezing, windy, sometimes rainy and snowy November days on Stadium Boulevard with the passion and fervor that we did. No question; that’s what you did on Saturday afternoons. It just… was.

While I can’t say that I have followed the ins and outs of Michigan football as an adult (I realize this horrifies my parents and my brothers; I’m sorry) I do remember many specific details from that glorious era. Bob Ufer’s emotional and hilarious radio color commentary, Rick Leach’s team leadership, Ali Haji-Sheikh’s clutch field goal kicks, the thrill of Anthony Carter’s many physically impossible, magnificent catches and subsequent game-winning sprints into the endzone, the emotional rush of being part of an excited, sometimes overzealous crowd.

My sports-fan energy is largely focused on the Boston Red Sox these days, but my roots are in Michigan football, as a freezing cold kid equipped with hand warmers and a wool hat, sitting in Section 20, Row 56. I didn’t really get the nuances of the game, but I understood the thrill of the competition, the commitment of the team, and the level of excellence.

Mom and Dad went condo a couple of years ago, and landed right next door to Bo. They had known each other for years, but it has been fun to visit them in their new house knowing that The Man was right next door. He was a friendly neighbor, often stopping to chat in the driveway. He offered my parents a VIP parking pass so they wouldn’t have to walk through the crowds to get to the football games that they rarely attend anymore. He even volunteered to help around the house, telling my mom that he could “still get around pretty good.”

I urge anyone who appreciates great writing and/or loves the college football tradition to read Mitch Albom’s article, issued today at 3:00 AM. He wrote Bo’s biography back in 1989. They knew each other well. Mitch was one of my favorite writers long before he hit it big with his wonderful book Tuesdays with Morrie — his Detroit Free Press sports columns were almost always my first-must-read at the breakfast table before trudging off to school back in the early 80′s. He has a rare talent for hitting raw emotional nerves, using clean, simple language. This article is a beautiful tribute to a man who lived his life with intensity and loyalty; passion and purpose.

I can’t say I’m a dedicated, knowledgeable football fan — my brothers would laugh at me if I did — but Bo’s death has affected me in a way that surprises me a little. It’s a personal loss for my parents, of course. But Michigan football was a prominent part of my childhood and adolescence. Those games were dominant topics of conversation at school and around the family dinner table for as long as I can remember. Bo’s death puts another chunk of that era squarely in the past.

Go Blue, and rest in peace, Mr. Schembechler.