Nugget #27

The following is a tale of running a marathon here in Buffalo just weeks after the Sept 11, 2001 terrorist attacks.  The race turned out to be an amazing experience.

Fear Takes it on the Chin

By Bill Donnelly

I recently (October 24, 2004) ran the Casino Niagara Marathon, and it was basically the eighth time I have run this course.  I ran the first six Slylons from 1974 to 1979, and that was pretty much the same course.  Oh yeah, and I ran the 2001 edition of the race, and that was quite a story in itself. 

            The race was held on October 21, and I entered it a couple of months earlier. Unfortunately for the world, September 11 happened, and so much has changed in our country.  Two weeks before the marathon, the race director, Jim Ralston, had to change the course. The customs people did not want to deal with the problems of this international marathon, and the course had to be changed so that it would be run entirely in Canada, starting in Fort Erie and wind around to make up for lost miles.  Not an easy task two weeks before the race, which does offer big prize money, and gets some good racers and numbers.

            A week before the marathon, Jim Nowicki and Ralston decided they wanted to have a symbolic gesture, and would have a few runners start in Buffalo at the same time as those in Canada, they would run the original course and cross the Peace Bridge and join the other runners at the designated point where the courses came together.  A friend of mine thought I would be interested and signed me up.  I was happy to be there.

Crossing the border into Canada the day before the race was an experience.  Wouldn’t you know it, going over the Peace Bridge I got sent over to Canadian Customs to be checked out.  I knew I should not have been wearing my good-luck turban I always wear the day before a marathon.  Anyway, the Canadian Customs officials couldn’t figure out why I was flagged, except for my turban, long hair, and the skull earring I was wearing, so they sent me on my way after a light search of my suitcase.  Fortunately they did not reach down into it, or they would have found some embarrassing things, (I will not go into that).

            Once at the marathon check-in area, I got my race number and chip, and some of us searched out Jim Ralston to find out the details. He informed us that there would be only nine of us running from the US into Canada, and they had already processed us through immigration. All we had to do now was relax, (yeah right), eat a good pre-race dinner (I of course had two giant chocolate chip muffins and Gatorade), and show up for the 10:00 a.m. start the next morning in Buffalo. Everything else was taken care of, or so we thought.

            I was actually able to get an excellent night’s sleep, in part due to a weather report that called for pleasant weather, 62 degrees, no rain, and little wind. My biggest worry was that four weeks prior to the marathon, I had a bad cold that turned into bronchitis, and I lost two weeks of training.  My main goal was to qualify for Boston, and I was hoping I could still do that.

            By 9:00 a.m. the morning of the race, the “Buffalo Nine” were beginning to assemble at the corner of

Delaware Avenue

and

Huron Street

, the starting point for us. Jim Nowicki answered all questions and assured us that marshals would be on the other side of the Peace Bridge to guide us along the course. Two of Buffalo’s finest arrived on their motorcycles to run interference for us. I wanted to go out at a 7:30 pace, and when I talked to the others, only one, Tom Appenheimer, had the same plan. We agreed to run together.

            Pleasant weather, 62 degrees, no rain, and little wind. Oh wait; this is BUFFALO, NY, AT THE END OF LAKE ERIE.  Ten minutes before the race was to start, a steady, cold rain began to fall almost sideways in the near hurricane-like winds.  Okay, so I exaggerate a bit, the winds were not quite reaching hurricane-like proportions.  We nine lined up, several pictures were taken, and we waited while Jim Nowicki listened on a cell phone to the starting line in Fort Erie. There were 1,200 marathoners over there, and it was announced to them what was happening in Buffalo, and apparently, we got a good amount of applause from them.  And then we were told to go, and off we headed into the rain, running north on

Delaware Avenue

.

            Let me tell you, this was a very strange, almost surreal experience. The nine split into three groups almost immediately, with Tom and me leading the way.  Running through the empty, rain and wind-swept streets of Buffalo with a motorcycle cop next to you, siren blaring, and almost no one out to cheer us on but a couple of people getting their Sunday newspaper.  It rained all the way to the Peace Bridge, four and a half miles, and at times it was very heavy rain.  Once we hit the bridge, the rain stopped for the remainder of the race, unfortunately, our shoes and socks were already soaked and would remain so.

            It was strange leading the marathon, but I knew this would change once we joined up with the other runners.  One problem for us was that there were no water stops. The rain kept us cool and moist, and then at the four mile point, just before turning onto the Peace Bridge, Jim was there handing out bottles of water.  Tom and I hit those two miles at the 7:30 pace we wanted, and we headed towards the bridge with water in hand and sirens wailing.  A local television cameraman was filming us going onto the bridge, and the US Customs people and security guys were clapping and cheering us on.  It did send goose bumps popping up on me, and then we headed across the long, high bridge. At the highest point in the middle you pass the three flags, Old Glory, the United Nations, and the Maple Leaf, and that was quite a thrill also.  It was also the five mile mark, we were at the top of the only hill on the course, and now it was a long downhill to the Canadian Customs area.

            By now Tom had pulled away from me, and I followed him as he went by officials next to vehicles with flashers going, and we followed their directions around the Canadian Customs area, headed right and then right again, and found ourselves in a truck holding area, and no way to go. That stopped us cold, and as we stood around a couple of minutes wondering what to do now, thoughts of a premature end to my race flashed through my mind. I was just starting to climb a cement barrier to get to an area I thought I vaguely remembered passing on the old Skylon course when a truck pulled up with two Canadian Customs officials. They said to go to the next street and turn left, then right on the next street, and that would take us to the course which we would get on by turning left again.  On we went, and when we hit the course, race officials pointed us in the right direction.

            This marathon has many elements to it, including a walking marathon, relays, and an inline skating marathon, all of which started earlier in the morning, so we were joining some of these people too. We were looking for the six mile marker, as we should have seen it by now. After a bit we saw a mile marker ahead with the water station next to it, and I actually was hoping maybe it was for the seven mile mark.  When we got near it we could not believe our eyes, it was the nine mile marker and we had inadvertently taken quite a short cut. We looked at each other, and felt at a loss. Tom said pretty much all we can do is finish, realize our projected good times will not mean anything to us, but still use it to qualify for Boston, so on we went.

            Now, when we first entered the course, officials yelled that many participants were already ahead of us. However, all we were seeing were skaters and walkers.  At ten miles my watch read somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 minutes, and I realized that that was Kenyan time. My mind worked quickly. This was a big race with some good prize money, which drew good runners and some Kenyans. But also the prize money, $25,000 in all, was Canadian money, worth approximately $213.17 in US currency, so the best Kenyans do not show up. The winning time last year was 2:21, which was not 5 minute per mile Kenyan time as I was showing on my watch.  MY GOD, WE ARE WINNING THE RACE!  Then it hit me, my God, we are winning the race, and we do stand out like sore thumbs!  Now Tom was pulling away from me.      

At this point, Tom Somerville, who was one of the “Buffalo Nine”, had pulled away from his group and caught up to me. All he could say was, “Man, this is a weird position to be in.” He had followed us off the bridge and was in the same boat. He was also wearing a full-sized American flag wrapped around his shoulders, and he carried it the entire distance. He too pulled a bit in front of me, and as we hit the twelve mile mark, the fun began.

            First a police car with lights flashing passed slowly by, and then a pace car with race officials.  One leaned out of the window and with a smile asked if we were the Buffalo runners.  He then informed me the real leaders were about to pass me. First came the slight Kenyan, Jean-Paul Niyonsaba.  Directly ten yards back was El Mostafa Damaoui from Rabat, Morocco. This was certainly a new experience for me, watching the front runners as they glide effortlessly by me, it was quite exciting, AND I hadn’t been arrested for impersonating a front runner!

            Now, few people know this about me, but I can actually read the minds of other runners during a marathon. Usually it is very mundane stuff, but what these guys were thinking might interest the reader. Jean-Paul’s thoughts were: “AIYEE, how did this fat, gray-haired one get in front of me. He must be a stealth runner to have gotten such an early lead without me seeing him. AIYEE!”  El Mostafa, on the other hand, did not have such good thoughts about me: “By the hair of my neighbor’s wife’s beard, what is this thing I am passing? It runs like a three-legged dog, and a fat one at that! The cur has thrown my concentration off and now I can never stay with the Kenyan!”  I don’t know what they thought as they passed the two Toms ahead of me.

            Imagine that, I got about a three mile head-start on these guys, and they still caught me by twelve miles. I felt smooth going along at a 7:30 per mile clip, but these guys passed me like I was standing still, and now I didn’t feel so smooth.  One bright spot: almost right after being passed we hit the 20K mark (this is Canada) and my brother Tom was there to run in a young woman he had been training.  You should have seen the expression on his face with me running along in a strong fifth place. I simply yelled to him that I would have been doing better, but the Kenyan tripped me.

            From then on in it was downhill, as I kept being passed, and I could catch no one, not surprisingly.  A pack of five passed me next and their thoughts made little sense since it was a group.  All I heard was, “Cripes…he’s rather slow now…where’d that fat one come from...Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, Duke, Duke…like a wounded three-legged dog…” And on and on. On I pushed, and soon a young, strong looking Mexican flew by, looked over his shoulder at me, and started to walk.  I never saw him again, and I cannot print what he thought.  Spicy, like their food.

In the last four miles, we faced quite a head wind. I wasn’t being passed by so many runners anymore until the last half-mile, when everyone was sprinting in, but I was not.  Still, I finished in 3:03:13 and in 43^rd place. Tom Appenheimer and Tom Somerville were waiting. Appenheimer finished in 2:54:16 and searched out race director Jim Ralston and told him what had happened. Ralston’s comment was simply what can you do, just take the time. Somerville hit 2:58:47, but we were all disappointed and very sore anyway. We waited for the rest of the “Buffalo Nine”, and soon they were dragging in. Turns out the officials realized the mistake they had made with us and started to point the remainder of the Buffalo runners the other direction when they got to the parkway.  So there were some disappointment among the “Buffalo Nine”, but if truth be told, we were glad to have had the chance to represent those who refuse to let fear run their lives.

We did take the times for qualifying for Boston, since through no fault of ours we were led astray.  Oh yeah, the Kenyan won the marathon with a 2:24:28, followed by American Kyle Fraser in 2:28:56. El Mostafa Damaoui of Morocco dropped to third in 2:29:32.  Apparently the sight of me leading him for twelve miles was enough to throw him totally off his race.  It was a good day.

Nugget #26

WARNING!!! Read the following at your own risk.  This is the article I wrote and sent in to be published in the Checkers Newsletter a couple years ago, and said article was banned.  It was not deemed fitting for the likes of sensitive members of the club.  It was not much different than nugget #12, it just deals with things that happen.  As the saying goes, "Doo doo happens".   Ah, how times have changed.  Back in the Day, the local running clubs were full of characters, now the motto of Checkers might be "Characters not welcome".  Some people are just too squeamish for their own good.  Anyway, read on, and I hope you enjoy without getting upset.

Those Secret Rites of Passage

By Bill Donnelly

            I first moved to Ohio in late 1976 in order to attend Kent State University.  I lived in Kent and drove bus for the Campus Bus Service until the summer of 1977, when the lure of Buffalo brought me back.  I do not know what the lure was, but here I am again living in the jewel of Lake Erie, and loving it.

            When I lived in Kent Back in the Day, I of course kept up my running, but I missed my running buddies back in Buffalo.  But then in the late spring of ’77, several friends from Buffalo showed up to run the Greater Akron 10 and 20 Kilo run.  Held in Akron, Ohio, which was about ten miles west of Kent, I jumped at the chance to run with and against my old teammates, as most were Belle Watlings. 

            The contingent, which included the Founder, Dick Sullivan, Ralph Zimmerman, Olcott Brown, Ham Ward, and John Peradotto of course chose to run the 20 K race as we were all manly marathoners, and when given the choice, always took the longer distance.  It was not unusual for us to travel such distances for a race Back in the Day, since there were way fewer races to be found in any one area.  We thought nothing of traveling to Rome, NY, Utica, NY, Cleveland, OH or even West Virginia in order to put ourselves through the ordeal of running a long race.  The satisfaction of a race well run was always worth the drive.  Besides, we always made sure there was a good party afterwards.  The official Belle Watling motto was “Raciest Hardeto, Partiest Hardetoer”, which Sully said was either Latin or Gaelic and literally translated as “Race Hard, Party Harder”.

            Well, I of course jumped at the chance to run with my old pals and entered the 20 K.  I had a decent race, but what I want to share with the reader is how in this race I first went through one of those secret rites of passage that we all share.  I call them secret because rarely does one admit to these things happening to them, but we all know it does.  How we know is just one of those mysteries, perhaps hearing people talking and figuring it out, or seeing or hearing others actually have it happen to them.  We just come to realize that we all share in these things that we do or have happen to us.

            You know the type of things I mean.  Who ever admits to saving their belly button lint in order to some day make a pillow with the lint as the stuffing?  We all never admit to it, but somehow we know we all do it, right?  Or how about when you are in the shower and you start singing like Tiny Tim and prance about as if tiptoeing through the tulips?  I know we all do that!  It’s only natural, but who ever admits to it, yet we somehow just know.

            Perhaps the best example of these well known secret pastimes is the way we all realize certain musical qualities we all have, but rarely do we show them off in front of others.  Of course I’m talking about how at a young age we learn that we can get great tonal range in the sounds emanating from a certain nether region of our body, and with practice, we can recreate the best of the Boston Pops, or even better.  Of course, this skill takes great dedication and the eating of many bean and beef burritos.

            I first learned I had this skill at a very young age while my family was in Queens, NY visiting my grandmother.  She used to buy the love of us young Donnelly kids by handing out piles of candy corn, which we called chicky corn since she would gather us around by saying “Here chicky, chicky, chickies!” while spreading the treats on the floor like a farmer’s wife feeding the chickens.  It worked.  We would run around like said chickens with their heads cut off, tripping over each other to get those precious pieces of pure sugar bombs.

            Well, on one particular day we had just finished a big dinner of sauerkraut, polish sausage and broccoli, with a big side of baked beans.  After a bit Grandma created the usual sugar scrum in the middle of the living room, and after I had gotten my hands full of the corn, I headed outside to get my sugar-high in peace.  Going down the back stepped I tripped and the candy corn went flying in all directions.  As I was quickly bending and reaching and stretching in all directions to retrieve my bounty, the dinner caught up to me, but I hardly noticed the tooting going on as I was zeroed in on the objects of my affection.

            Suddenly, I realized the tune “Mary had a Little Lamb” was going through my mind, but just as suddenly I realized it wasn’t my mind the tune was going through.  What a revelation, what a talent I thought I and I alone had.  Why, I must hone my skills and who knows.  Perhaps, one day to be on the Ed Sullivan Show.  Oh, to dream!

            From then on it was corned beef and cabbage and practice, Mexican food and practice, Polish food and practice.  Oh, I was getting pudgy, but I was getting good.  I was particularly proud of my “The Flight of the Bumble Bee”, but my proudest moment came one summer’s day years later.  I was visiting my girlfriend and her folks at their summer cottage in Rose Hill, Ontario.  I was changing into my bathing suit while they headed down to the beach. 

            All of a sudden the three cold baked bean sandwiches I had eaten while on the Crystal Beach bus caught up to me.  I believe I may have performed the best rendition of “The 1812 Overture” ever, with perfect placement of the cannon firing.  Upon finishing, I left the bedroom to discover my girl and her parents had returned to fetch the lemonade for the beach.  The look of amazement on their faces let me know that my performance was a masterpiece.  I was never able to find out how much they enjoyed it, for my girlfriend broke up with me quite soon after that.  But that is neither here nor there.

            It wasn’t long after this that I gave up my idea of ever appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show.  Some sixth sense told me I wasn’t alone with this skill.  Somehow I suspected everybody could do it, so why struggle with my musical talents when I may only be average.  Besides, big Ed Sullivan had died, and what other TV show would be willing to sandwich my act in between Woody Allen and the Amazing Smengy Brothers tumbling and juggling act, and followed by the Doors.

            But I came to know for sure that others practiced the art of musical tooting one June day only a couple years ago.  My brother Tom and his lovely wife Julie, alone with Diane McGuire and myself were having dinner at Ming Teh, the fine Chinese restaurant just across the border in Ft Erie, Canada.  I had excused myself to wash up in the rest room, and while doing so, Tom entered one of the stalls.  Just as I was drying my hands I heard the first challenging notes of “Dueling Banjoes” coming from Tom’s stall, but he wasn’t playing the banjo, if you know what I mean.  Before I realized what was happening, I was answering young Tom, and before you could say Deliverance, we were playing fast and strong.

            As Tom and I were being tossed unceremoniously from the restaurant (it was soon after this that Ming Teh added the item “Fragrant Clouds” to their menu, but we received no thanks) that I had an epiphany.  All MUST practice this art, they just keep it to themselves, as they do with so many other secret pleasures.  And thus, I finally get back to my tale of my secret rite of passage that happened away back in Akron, Ohio on a warm day in 1977.

            On that day, all 700 runners took off together.  It was not an easy course, with a tough hill in it, and we all ran 10 K together.  After doing that loop the 10 K runners, which were just over 500 of us, separated and finished, while we lonely souls running another 10 K had to repeat the loop.  It was a warm day, and the temperature did not help my stomach, which was usually made of cast-iron, but today was protesting my breakfast of sausage, eggs, toast and sauerkraut.  Criminy, but how I love sauerkraut.

            Now you know as racers we have all been through this embarrassing rite of passage I was about to experience for the first time, we just won’t talk about it.  Well I’m here to throw off the ugly veil of secrecy so all may come out of the darkness, thanks to my honest example, and live in the bright light of truth as we all admit to having been there.

            Yes, with three miles to go, my stomach was going wee wah, but I thought I could make it as I was running strong.  The race ended at the University of Akron, but I was a mile and a half away running through a neat residential section when disaster hit.  With no woods, port-a-potties or gas station in sight, I headed up a driveway to take care of business as the other runners went by, looking over in curiosity but quickly averting their eyes as they realized what was happening.  I quickly got rid of the wee wahs and was on my way, but I could only imagine the thoughts of the poor little old woman who probably lived in the house whose driveway I picked by necessity. 

            Oh my, it is so good to see these young folks doing something so stimulating as running.  Why look, that handsome young fellow is coming up my spanking clean driveway I just washed this morning?  Now what is that young fellow up to, why did he disappear from view?  If I just stand on my tiptoes I can see him.  Say, is that “The Flight of the Bumble Bee” I hear?  OH MY LANDS SAKES ALIVE!  AGHHHH!  Thunk!

            I managed to finish in 40^th place with a 76:20, while as usual, Ralph Zimmerman finished first among the Watlings, placing ninth with a 69:28.  The Founder, Sully, won his age group, which was 48 to 55, (they had strange age groups there) with a time of 80:37, good for 56^th place out of 167 finishers.  I never ran that race again; in fact I never dared run in Akron again.  But we Watlings did pratice our motto, as we “Partiest Hardetoer”, and soon I forgot my embarrassment earlier in the day.  I just hope the paramedics got to the little old lady in time.   

            And there you have it, my dirty little secret is out.  But don’t we all have such tales to tell.  Maybe from now on when Paul Wandel does his getting to know you column, he will ask in each interview for the member’s most embarrassing moment.  But it will all be good therapy, as you too will realize that it was just another of those secret rites of passage that we all share.  

           

                   

             

           

        

Nugget #25

I wrote this article last year shortly after my brother, Tom, was elected President of Checkers AC.  It never was published in the Checkers newsletter.

The Great Race

By Bill Donnelly

            I just finished the July Checkers Chatter, and the President’s letter really caught my eye.  First off, I must admit to being very proud of my brother, Tom, for he has really come a long way in the Buffalo running world.  You see, most of you did not know him back when he started running, weighing in at somewhere under 400 pounds, but definitely over 200, and wearing my worn out running shoes.  This was, oh, about 34 years ago, and look at him now after his meteoric rise to the top of the heap, President of Checkers AC.  Who could see that happening so fast?

            My whole family is very proud of him overcoming his oh so many handicaps to rise to the top.  Most are a bit annoyed at having to address him as “Your Royal and Most Exalted Omnipotent Grand Poohpah and All-knowing Highness.”  My 90 year old dad really chafes at this.  Why, when I was President of the Buffalo Philharmonic AC, I simply went by “The Great Serene One.”  If you stop to think about it, if the two of us had been President of these two clubs at the same time, the combined number of runners under our complete and unrelenting domination would have numbered in the many hundreds.  Why, Checkers alone has many hundreds of runners, and if you add the three Philharmonics who still run, why, what power we could have held together.  Oh, I can just see it.  Bwaaah-haa-haa-haa!  Ah, but it was not meant to be.

            Anyway, back to Tom’s message on safety in the July Chatter.  His advice on running safety and listening to your gut when it tells you to take it easy was excellent, and I will not comment on it, except to say that sometimes after a couple bean burritos, I try to ignore what my gut is telling me, much to the chagrin of my wife, Diane.  What caught my eye in his message was right near the beginning, and I quote: “Not so much in regard to fireworks, I don’t go near them.”  Oh Really!  

            Let me tell you about my brother “Back in the Day”, back when those on Grand Island feared for their safety come July 4^th.  Now this wasn’t Back, Back in the Day, but more like the early nineties when Tom lived on Grand Island and was quite busy helping to raise his four beautiful kids who all grew up to be amazing adults despite the handicap of, well, why beat a dead horse. 

            In those days I was busy teaching in the Cleveland, Ohio area.  But word reached me even there of the amazing fireworks displays that took place every July 4^th on the front lawn of one Tom Donnelly’s place.  Of course, word reached me via a few letters from said Tom, and I decided I had to come and see one of these amazing fiery performances myself, so I came for a visit during said holiday.  Oh, and was I to be rewarded for my effort.

            Tom always had a big to-do for the 4^th, and most think he did it for his kids.  This is only partially true, as he does dearly love them, and does quite a lot for them.  Believe me; I am being serious about that.  But Tom also loved to entertain, (hard to believe), and to put on a show, so he would have a big party followed by his big fireworks extravaganza. 

            I well remember that display I witnessed.  But even before the fireworks, all the guests were first treated to perhaps what could have been the race of the century that could have determined the permanent winner of The Donnelly Cup once and for all.  You see, beside Tom and I, my brother Mike, who ran the marathon in a respectable 2:41 time, was also at the party.

            After a day around the pool in the hot sun, most of the many guests at Tom’s party started clamoring for a race to be held with only the Donnelly boys participating.  I had just gotten back into running, and my first effort in a marathon in ten years produced a time of 3:14.  Now Tom of course, since my PR for a marathon was a whole 13 seconds faster than his, started needling me about how painful it must have been to run so slow as to be on the course for a full 3 hours, let alone those excruciating extra 14 minutes.  Tom’s running friends picked up on this theme and decided the three Donnelly guys should settle who was the fastest once and for all right then and there.

            Being that we were all so competitive, and being that we were being hounded by the others, and being that several barely-malt beverages had been consumed by all there, we agreed to a race.  We lined up in front of the house, and were to race to the corner and back, a distance of about 800 yards.  The rules were laid down, Dan Loncto acted as the official starter, barked off: “set and go!” and away we went.

            Now, you must remember that the three of us Donnellys were lifelong siblings, and we knew each other as if we had been raised from birth as brothers, which we were.  Without saying a word to each other about strategy, we took off at a leisurely walk, meandering towards the corner.  The whole party of onlookers began howling for us to take off, but we kept to the pace, and by the time we turned to head back, droves of onlookers were heading back to the pool for more beverages and food. 

A few onlookers remained, sure that our competitive nature would kick in, and one or more of us would break into a sprint.  As we crossed the finish line neck and neck and neck, even Loncto threw up his hands in disgust and rejoined the other partiers.  We may not have provided the highlight of the day, but most were not too upset, because they knew that would come later at dusk when the highly anticipated fireworks display would occur.      

Finally darkness started to descend and all the party goers gathered around, but Tom made certain I was in the front row, next to his kids, Becky, Patrick, Alison and Paul.  He had been talking up the display all day, and waited till a sufficient amount of barley-malt beverages had been had by all, and the sun was almost set so the night sky would provide the perfect backdrop for his amazing explosions.  I remember especially how his oldest, Paul, looked on with wide open eyes, waiting for what he knew would be something only his father could produce.  I could tell by the look in his young, trusting eyes, that he was wondering why all of Grand Island’s inhabitants, (and not just his glorious father’s slightly wobbly friends, including his beloved Uncle Bill-The Great Serene One), were not there to see his father’s masterpiece.

            I must tell you that young Paul had a strange nickname, as did all of Tom’s children, and there was a reason for all of their nicknames.  Paul’s nickname was “Bottle Rockets”, or “Bottles” to his close friends, and this was not because Tom shot off so many bottle rockets, as he did, but because of what had happened to Paul when he was even younger.  So let’s leave Tom’s fireworks for a minute, and I will explain Paul’s nickname to you.

            You see, Tom used to have season tickets to the Buffalo Bills, and when Paul was just two and a half years old, Tom started to take young Paul to the games.  Tom to this day will tell you it was to build up Paul’s leg strength for his future running career, but some might doubt this.  You see, Tom figured out that he could sneak a few cans of his favorite beer, Genny Light, into the stadium by placing them into the inner pockets of Paul’s winter coat, a thick parka that Tom made him wear.  The ticket takers would never check the cute kid you see. 

            Tom started with only a couple cans at first, but as he realized how well it worked, he kept adding more cans; Tom would say to build up his son’s strength gradually.  After a while, Tom taught his second child, Alison, to sew pockets into the inner parka (thus Alison’s nickname “Pockets”), and he kept adding the beer.  Tom’s other kid’s nicknames (Patrick is “Noodles” and Becky is “Bo-Ecky”) are a story all there own, and fodder for another of my future columns.

            Some might think that this was a great way to build up Paul’s legs, but for Paul, it was becoming a nightmare.  He never doubted his dad’s motives, but that parka was heck to wear at those hot September games, and in the cold months of November and December, those ice cold beers against his body were almost as heck, but the opposite. Paul now lives and works in the state where cold-hearted Tom was born, Minnesota, and when Paul shows up for work in a Donnelly Design T-shirt and shorts in January, and everybody is complaining of the cold, Paul just knowingly says “You don’t know what cold is till you’ve been to a Bills game.” 

            Things came to a dramatic conclusion one frigid, snowy December Sunday afternoon.  The Bills were playing Miami, and Tom finally achieved beer nirvana when he reached his dream goal of packing a full case of Genny Light cans into poor Paul’s parka’s inner pockets (Alison was good!).  Just as they reached their seats at the top row of their upper-deck section, the over-loaded young Paul lost his balance and began tumbling down the many rows of the aisle, looking like a tiny boy in a barrel bouncing down a hill.

            Fortunately for the boy, the 24 cans of cold beer cushioned him as he bounced down the steps, and the bottom railing prevented him from flying off into the lower section.  Unfortunately for the boy, the by now over-pressurized cans of beer simultaneously popped their tops and off went Paul like a misguided bottle rocket, his twisty flight path visible by the convoluted trail of foamy beer that hung in the air long after the boy landed, dizzy but safe, in the lap of one Ralph Wilson, who had just settled into his seat.  Thus the nickname, Bottle Rocket, and this episode also explains why Tom no longer has season tickets to the Bills.

            Ah, but I digress, so back to the fireworks.  Tom proceeded to fire off his huge display, which consisted of, oh, maybe thirteen firecrackers, three bottle rockets (in honor of Paul), and a couple Roman Candles. And every guest was given a lit sparkler, which we were told to twirl in the night sky.  Well, let me tell you, the whole 23 second display put me in mind of the Rice Krispies ad, you know, Snap, Crackle and Pop, only this was snap, crackle and fizzle.

            I simply looked Tom in the eye and stated “Be still my heart!”  This cracked us both up, and we rolled on the ground we were laughing so hard.  We rolling on the ground laughing uncontrollably turned out to be the highlight of the party, but by the time we regained control, the rest of the party guests had returned to the beverages and food.  All, that is, except for Paul, who stood there with the look of such pride in the show his dad had just put on.  I guess all it takes is a couple bottle rockets and a lot of love, and that was something Tom has always provided.  There has never been a fireworks display anywhere that equals the love Tom has for his kids.      

           

             

                 

Nugget #24

This is another Back in the Day story that tells of the dangers of winter running.

Put a Sock in it!

By Bill Donnelly

            Here it is, July, and I’m trying to think of a topic to write about, you know, something fascinating from Back in the Day.  While looking through the advertisement sections from the Sunday paper it hit me.  Why not write about what we used to wear for winter running.  How did that connection happen, you ask?  Yeah, it’s July, but look at what’s being advertised now in July. 

            Cripes, they put bathing suits on final clearance sale months ago, and summer hadn’t even begun.  Now I hardly have a reason to look through the ads anymore.  By the time you read this, the sale of winter clothing will be right around the corner, and I’ll already have gotten some great deals on shorts even though summer’s just begun. 

            To all you teachers out there, I know what a kick to the old gut it is seeing back to school ads already, and school just let out days ago.  They don’t give you time to even relax and forget the kids.  You’ve just finished setting up the hammock and mixing a vat of daiquiris, and you are now constantly reminded that the little darlings are out buying supplies of pencils and spit-balls and sneezing powder and whoopee cushions and, oh I could go on and on.  Suffice it to say, as a former Special Ed Teacher who now reads meters for the natural gas company whose name rhymes with irrational fool, I like the meters because they don’t talk back to me.  No spit-balls or sneezing powder or whoopee cushions either, but I digress.

            Back to the topic at hand, the winter clothing we ran in Back in the Day.  I should start by making it clear that winters were much worse back then, being much colder, windier, and as I think I have pointed out before, the snow was much deeper.  Be that as it may, and of course I have my own theories as to why things were tougher Back in the Day, the clothing we wore was much different than what we wear today.  Remember, I stopped running in 1981, and when I began again back in 2000, imagine my amazement at the changes that had occurred in running clothes.

            Today, you can throw on a pair of tights and a shirt and jacket, along with mitts and head gear, all made out of modern miracle materials, and you could pretty much brave running in the artic.  Criminy, they have races there now, thanks to modern materials.  Back in the Day (A second here to explain something.  When reading or saying the term “Back in the Day”, you must use the right inflections, with the emphasis on “Back”, a bit of a pause, being almost religious about it, and then with reverence, “in the Day”, with a bit of accent  on “Day” of course.  Go ahead, practice it a few time to make sure you have it right.  When you feel comfortable with it, and a bit in awe, proceed with the article.)

            So anyway, Back in the Day, we basically had but one miracle fiber, and that was cotton.  We wore cotton everything.  Now, cotton has many wonderful uses, such as stuffing in the top of aspirin bottles and on the ends of Q-tips.  It is also good for making nice looking clothing, as long as you don’t have to sit or bend or release gas, for then it must be immediately ironed.  But that’s about it for cotton.  Running clothes should not be made out of cotton, and I will explain why, since it is one of the many things I am an expert on, thanks to my running experiences from …Back in the Day!!!

            We runners were the inventors of the fashion of layering.  Since cotton does not do much of anything to protect you from the cold and wind, we had to wear many layers of cotton products.  How cold it got would determine how many layers.  For very cold days, the number that sticks in my mind is seven.  That’s right, seven pieces of clothing, at least on top.  This would usually be four tee-shirts, a long sleeved shirt, and a couple of bulky sweat-shirts.  This sure did nothing to show off our trim figures.

            And talk about heavy.  As anyone knows who ever wore cotton to run in, you know how it absorbs sweat, and keeps it nice and clammy against your body.  Well, with seven layers, I figure the average runner would build up about 43 pounds of slimy sweat in the course of a sixteen mile workout.  Remember, we were all doing 100 mile weeks Back in the Day, and on longer runs, the pounds of sweat would double.  I contend that this form of weight training we did was what made us so fast.

            For extremities, we usually wore a couple wool stocking caps, and I always preferred a couple pairs of old running socks for mitts.  I figured out early on that mitts helped keep your fingers warm much better than gloves.  Are you starting to visualize what a fashionable group we runners were Back in the Day, especially if you saw a whole herd of us rounding Delaware Park together.

            For bottoms, I know I usually wore a pair of briefs, a couple of pair of long johns, a pair of bulky sweat pants, and running shorts over that just for added protection, and in case Runners World was in the area looking for a model runner for their next cover.  Now we’re talking a lot of cotton, all I can say is thank God for the invention of the cotton gin.

            I was never one for doing a lot of stretching before or after running.  Who had time, what with running sixteen miles every day?  And then there was the time it took to put on all those clothes, oh say a half hour.  Peeling off the soaking wet nasty clothes took even longer, so stretching was just out of the question. 

            All these pieces of clothing created quite another problem once you finished running.  As you peeled them off, you had to find somewhere to dry them so they would be ready for the next day.  Believe me, my place of residence in the winter would take on an unworldly vision, what with pieces of wet cotton hanging from every possible drying post.  Lamps were great, as the heat from the light bulbs helped in the drying process, and the stove provided a couple spots for drying.  Let’s face it, everything in my abode had wet, smelly clothes hanging from them. 

            It made watching the TV tough, and I missed many phone calls trying to find the dang phone.  Come to think of it, every girlfriend I had Back in the Day always seemed to break it off with me about a month after winter settled in.  I wonder if there was a connection.  Guess I’ll never know.  If they weren’t happy, all they had to do was wash and dry my running clothes.  I couldn’t, since that was women’s work Back in the Day.  I just can’t figure why my girlfriends always left me.

            I actually did my own wash back then, but I wasn’t overly fond of the task, so I would probably average ten days between washing, and of course when I did wash, everything went in together in one big load.  That way, all your cotton things get that uniform gray color we men find so appealing.  Didn’t we runners start to stink pretty bad by the second day?  Why yes, and thanks for asking, but what did we care?  There were few female runners to impress, and we men certainly enjoy trying to outdo each other in emitting bad smells.  Why else would we be so fond of tacos and beans? 

Besides, Back in the Day the winters were so cold, our smell would freeze in mid-air.  It wouldn’t be until the spring thaw in June (yes, winters were longer then too) that a winters worth of bad manly stink would unfreeze all at once, and you couldn’t run in Delaware Park for a week at least.  There was even talk back then of relocating the Zoo away from Delaware Park because the June thaw and it’s resulting stench was always so upsetting to the animals there.

Now I come to the last item that was so important to wear in the winter, and I must find a way to do this tastefully, since The Chatter is a family newsletter.  In fact, if you have any kids near you, I suggest you have them leave the room before you continue.  All clear?  Good, let’s continue.

            I’m going to talk about a part of my anatomy that needed a little extra protection.  I’ll try to do this without being vulgar, so I’ll not name that part.  I’ll give hints though, it is the part of me that protrudes quite a bit and needs extra protecting.  No, not my nose, although that did often need a scarf wrapped around it.  It is something men have that women do not.  No again, it’s not a lack of common sense, and why would we need to keep that warm.

            Let’s try again, I’ll only say that this body part starts with the letter p.  And no again, I’m not talking about my pierced ear.  I already said I wore a couple stocking caps for that.  It’s the part of me that a certain someone (who shall remain nameless but whose initials are Diane McGuire) calls her “Mr. Love Machine.”  No, No, No!  I’m not talking about her electric toothbrush.

One more time.  It’s the part that I used to cover with my dribble kabibble whose wibble jibble was of course quite zibble.  To understand that, check out my article called “Straight Eye for the Running Guy” in the July, 2004 issue of Checkers Chatter.  Ok, you got it, finally.  Some people are so dense, and I just wanted to keep this piece from offending any delicate souls out there.

So believe it or not, this particular body part can be very susceptible to the cold.  I did know of one runner who actually had a bit of frost-bite there, and believe me, he said it was quite painful.  I came close to frost-bite when I first started running in the winter, and I quickly realized I better protect myself, just in case one of my girlfriends would last through the winter with me, and want to start a family some day.  Strange that never happened, but protect myself I did anyway.  As mentioned, I used old running socks for mitts, and I found they also worked as frost-bite protection elsewhere.  I would simply pin one or two socks to the inside front of my briefs, and wha-la, protection from the cold, and it would impress the girls, if there had been any running Back in the Day.

Yes, thank God for the modern miracle fabrics they make running clothes out of now.  Not only do they save time in getting dressed and undressed for running, they take up less space for drying.  They certainly weigh a lot less when running, and do not get so heavy with sweat.  And I do not have to save my old running socks anymore; I can just toss them away.  Now if I could convince a certain someone, who shall remain nameless, to wash my clothes for me now and again, I would smell better too when running.  Yes, I must admit that some things about running today are better than they were Back in the Day.