tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2808676195246601882023-06-20T06:49:59.361-07:00Buffalo ChipsBuffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-61732648916720291482012-01-11T17:23:00.000-08:002012-01-11T17:27:30.454-08:00Nugget #47Hello out there, I haven't been posting anything for a few months, but I'm ready to get back at it. I've been busy since early October, plus I badly hurt my knee falling off my bike October 9th (yes, a training wheel came off), but that is finally coming around and I should be running again soon. More importantly, I've been busy getting an article into it's final form for the magazine Marathon & Beyond. The article simply tittled "The Belle Watlings" appears in the current issue, which is the Jan./Feb. issue, and just hit the news stands a week or two ago. I'm pretty excited, as this is just my third time being published, and it got me inspired to get back writing. So whether you like it or not, here's my tale of joining a workout group recently in order to get in better shape since my running has not been going so well.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Siberian 360 Labor </span><place><placetype><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Camp</span></placetype><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span><placename><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Fitness</span></placename></place><span style="font-size: 18pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last October Diane, my wife, decided it was high time for both of us to get more serious about getting in shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, we were both running, but we seemed to be treading water, not really getting more svelte-like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Personally I felt I was looking pretty good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good being if the one looking at me was a water buffalo that also had a weight problem.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So anyway, we had been hearing about a program several people were doing, and they all said they were getting great results.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Diane looked into it, and with a little persuasion, she convinced me we needed to sign up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s amazing how persuasive Diane can be when she is holding me by one ankle while I dangle helplessly in the breeze with a view of the street below from outside our attic window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I mention Diane is strong like bull?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So off we went to the 360 Fitness Gulag over on Delaware Ave.,<br />
</street>not far from where we live in north <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We signed up, paying good, hard earned cash for the privilege of being tortured and humiliated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m here to tell you it’s been a wild, fun ride ever since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, right!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Read on my friends, and I’ll set you straight.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, for the purpose of this brief account, I will avoid using real names, so as to avoid being sued and/or beat up by angry fitness instructors, or anyone else for that matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that I think about it, I better change my wife’s name for this so as to avoid being beat up or dangled once again from the attic window, so for this article, I will only refer to her as Pooty Pie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Come to think of it, I better change my name too, or people may recognize me and thus know I’m talking about them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So for now, know me only as Snooky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait, that name seems too familiar as if someone else already goes by it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone who just might be able to beat me up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All right, I got it, just call me The Situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That should be safe enough.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Now in late October of 2011, Pooty Pie and I arrive at the Gulag on a cool Monday night for our initial class at <time hour="19" minute="0">7 o’clock</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a one hour happy hour to be held every Monday and Thursday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We arrive to find the class before us, full of local running legends, just finishing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They come crawling out, some blood soaked, and all sweat soaked, and tell those of us who have never done this to run for our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn to do just that, but Pooty Pie has me by the ankle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">There are about 15 of us brave souls ready and willing to begin, most of whom have done this eight week course before, and some just keep coming back for more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One other newcomer, whom I shall simply name John for this tale of woe, has forgotten his shorts, so he does not take my advice to use this as an excuse for not staying, and he proceeds to do the first class in his jeans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll bet he’ll never forget his shorts again, although in a future class he forgets his sneakers, and he does the class in his ski boots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people never learn.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We all gather in a room and for the first ten minutes, and I’m not sweating too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course we are just being lectured by the instructor (and owner of the camp) about the nutrition plan (more on this later), but even this talk produces tiny beads of sweat upon my forehead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t mention what my armpits are doing, nor my intestines, which are threatening to clear out the whole class with noises that are warnings of things to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of the veterans, who I will call Barb and Pete for this piece, know to keep asking questions in order to delay and shorten the torture yet to come, but alas, they are too nervous to be able to think clearly enough to hinder things for long.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Thus, we are told by the instructor to proceed to the other room and begin by warming up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He puts two of the best runners in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> in charge of the warm-ups. These wily vets, who have been at this suffering for over a year (and who have scars and a limp to prove it) I will name Brian and Victoria for the sake of anonymity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And thus it begins.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Oh yeah, I need to introduce the instructor, and I will be careful here in order to avoid more punishing workouts in the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will not use his real name, but his initials are G. K., and his name rhymes with Blenn Baifas, and from here on in I will refer to him simply as Blenn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blenn is a tall, strong, blond, blue-eyed Arian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m actually not sure about the blue eyes, but it just seems to fit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not even sure the part about being part of the Arian race fits, but once he proceeds with his methods, I can only picture him standing there wearing a black army uniform that has lightning bolts on the sleeves and a skull and cross-bones on the front of the cap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A German Shepherd by his side and a riding crop in his hands would round out the image perfectly. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We begin by marching the length of the building doing what I call the Sieg Heil March.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We goose step along while sieg heiling our feet with the opposite hand from the foot that’s in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe Blenn learned this exercise while attending the <place><placetype>University</placetype> of <placename>Nuremberg</placename></place>, at which he earned The Triumph of Will, Fitness, Wellness, and Psychological Torture Degree. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We do this sieg heiling a few times up and down the beer hall, er, the gym, and they we do lunges up and down, followed by sideway scoots<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(you don’t want to know), and another round of sieg heils, only now we have to skip through them, looking like a bunch of gay Nazis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m really starting to sweat now, and I look at the clock on the wall and see we have only killed four more minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I come up with all sorts of questions I should have been asking Blenn during the lecture portion a mere four minutes ago.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I have to say I came into this program somewhat nervous, but not too much since I do run and I’m in some kind of shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, a few things about me added up to strikes against me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First off, Back in the Day, which everyone knows means the 1970s, I was running <metricconverter productid="16 miles">16 miles</metricconverter> a day, which usually took two hours, yet I wouldn’t spend 30 seconds a week to stretch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just seemed like too much time to spend on something that wouldn’t help my speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Duh, strike one!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strike two is that I’m now 64 years old, and my flexibility, or lack there of, has suddenly come back to bite me in the ass big time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The third strike is that I’m 64 years old, and the first thing to go when one gets to be over 60, besides flexibility and control of your flatulence muscles, is your balance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So here I am, watching others, such as Victoria, who is sleek, trim, fast, and young, goose stepping along, with her kicking foot ending up directly above her head, and half way to the ceiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What flexibility, what balance, what humiliation for me as I begin to waddle down the hall, losing my shoe on the first kick, bumping into John who was five feet to my left<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on my second kick, and falling over on my third. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I composed myself and continued on, weaving in and out of the other participants, and weaving in and out of consciousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second time I bumped into John he began cursing as me, even though I think he was mad his jeans had split on his first kick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After four minutes of this I was ready to quit, and as I ran to my locker for my asthma inhaler (oh yeah, asthma, strike four) I thought of continuing out the door and running home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided I would not let this get the better of me, so back I came for more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bad judgment, strike five, and in any league that should be an out.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I got back just as Blenn was explaining what we would be doing next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first three victims would get on a treadmill facing backwards, hang on and make the tread go in reverse for a minute or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now we all know a treadmill has no reverse, so this aint easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When done with this, you proceed to doing 20 pushup-pull-through, which require you placing your toes on Frisbees so after each pushup, you can slide your legs up to your hands, thus leaving your buttocks aiming at the ceiling, and your already weakened flatulence muscles totally useless.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">From here you continued on by frog-jumping the rest of the way down the hall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe this exercise was named after the way French soldiers in World War II would run as they were retreating from the German Army, staying low and hopping along in order to throw off the aim of the Panzer tanks, thus frog jumps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not tough if you’re young and flexible, or a French soldier running for his life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just try doing this while off balance and desperately trying to regain control of said flatulence muscles. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Three quarters of the way through, and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was now run back, stand in place, pick up a <metricconverter productid="25 pound">25 pound</metricconverter> medicine ball, hold it high over your head, and then slam it to the ground,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Repeat 25 times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ouch!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally done, stagger towards the water fountain, and then hear Blenn say “Where you going toad, two more cycles of the same thing, so on the treadmill maggot, and give me three minutes!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be a freight train pulling 200 boxcars of steel coming straight at me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">By the time I finished, there were only 30 minutes left, and since I was last (the others finished five minutes ahead of me and looked refreshed and relaxed), Blenn said to pull out the yoga mats and lie on our backs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whew!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About time, a little relaxing yoga, and even though I’m lacking in the flexibility department, it can not be worse than what we just did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, oh, was that a freight train whistle I just heard coming around the bend straight towards me?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">That it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now it was lie on your back, head up, legs straight up in the air, knees not bent, hold 60 seconds, now right knee five inches off the ground, left leg straight up, hold 60 seconds, now switch legs, 60 seconds, repeat cycle three times, (stomach muscles screaming after one cycle), now reach right leg back, knee straight, touch left ear with right foot, hold 60 seconds, switch legs, 60 seconds, two more cycles, (stomach muscles beyond pain), both legs back, feet touching opposite ears, 60 seconds, cross legs, touch opposite hips, 60 seconds, three more cycles, (Stomach muscles split and joined to flatulence muscles), that’s it, now relax.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Five seconds later, it’s over onto your stomachs and into the “plank” position, which I believe got it’s name because pirates Back, Back in the Day (1630’s) would rather walk the plank than have to do ten minutes of the “plank” position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This means of torture consisted of balancing your body on your forearms, face down, with only your toes for support in the rear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sounds simple, but what went on from there is what made the pirates jump ship, so to speak. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So now it was hold this position 30 seconds. Then up to your hands only and do a push up, back down to forearms, repeat ten times, now up to hands and lift left leg and do push up, down to forearms, repeat ten times, now right leg up , push up, down to plank and repeat ten times, now lift both legs, up to hands and push up, back to plank and repeat ten times, and back to plank, now lift both legs and up on right hand, push up, down to plank and repeat ten times, same on left hand, and relax.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m dragging and my heart is beating faster than it ever has.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must admit, I did not finish every exercise completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the “planks” I most likely did one or two of each, but tried to hide it by collapsing whenever Blenn had his back to me (only later did I realize the place was surrounded by mirrors and he could undoubtedly see everything I was not doing), yet I was whipped, a soggy pile of sweat and pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I was so happy to hear him say “That’s it for today, we will get serious next time!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I crawled over to <state><place>Victoria</place></state> and asked: “This must get easier, right?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked me directly in my eyes, and with a look of foreboding, she simply said “NO!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, I’ll not be back I swore.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Blenn then gathered us around, said fair job, and since he would be off running the Marine Corp Marathon the next weekend, we would not be having another class until the Thursday of the next week, a glorious week and a half to recover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll be back!” I thought to myself, as I felt that would be enough time to recover from the evening’s workout/torment.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And so I would go back, but I must say, the next two days I discovered muscles I did not know existed in my body, only because I had never, ever used them before in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simple things such as sitting down, standing up, walking, and farting were suddenly painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew I had found a workout program that worked, and I was hooked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">More on the nutrition regimen and workouts that follow will be in a future blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all just keeps getting better!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-35276531648110382132011-10-03T07:57:00.001-07:002011-10-03T08:04:36.476-07:00Nugget #46This article appeared in Sports & Leisure in 2004.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Live, laugh, and love</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: -0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">To those who knew Kathleen Kavanagh, those words; live, laugh, and love, pretty much describes how she approached life. A pretty woman made beautiful by her ready smile, Kathleen loved life, running, laughing, her family, and her son Sean, a fifth-grader at St. Mary’s Elementary School in <city><place>Lancaster</place></city>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">On her fortieth birthday in May of 2001, Kathleen celebrated by running the Buffalo Nissan Marathon. Even after finishing the grueling <metricconverter productid="26 miles">26 miles</metricconverter>, <metricconverter productid="385 yards">385 yards</metricconverter>, she finished with a smile. Less than a half year later, tragedy struck, and left us only with memories and pictures of Kathleen’s smile. On the morning of <date day="6" month="10" year="2001">October 6, 2001</date>, while running with two friends before the Ellicottville Fall Festival road race, an off-duty <city><place>Lackawanna</place></city> police officer, while driving with a blood-alcohol count of above .24, struck Kathleen and Joan Gregoire, one of her running buddies. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Joan, though seriously injured, survived, and would recover to run again. Kathleen was instantly killed by the car that went crazy, and insanely turned the world upside down to those who loved her. So many people did love her, and had to find a way to remember Kathleen, a way that would honor the manner in which she lived. When her brother, Jim and her parents, decided to have a race in her honor, members of the Checkers Athletic Club rushed in to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kathleen was a member of Checkers, and had so many friends in the running community that wanted to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Not just the running community felt the loss. Last month on August 20, I volunteered and helped with the registration of the third annual KK5K, the race that is run to honor Kathleen. Held in <city><place>Como</place></city> Park in <city><place>Lancaster</place></city>, 714 runners and walkers signed up to pay tribute to Kathleen, and I saw so many more who just gave money to help the cause. It was their way of feeling the love and the laughter that was Kathleen.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The money raised by the KK5K is split between the St. Mary’s Elementary School Athletic Association, where Sean is now an eighth grader, and the Depew-Lancaster Boys and Girls Club. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The money is used for athletic equipment for these two programs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">No count is yet available as to how much was raised this year, but it is surely more than the $12,000 raised in each of the first two years.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I moved back to <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> from the <city><place>Cleveland</place></city> area two years ago, so I never knew Kathleen Kavanagh. I know her brother, Jim, fairly well, and I always figured if she was anything like him, she must have been a very good person. After being at the KK5K this year, and the post-race party, I saw how much love so many people had for Kathleen. I now know for sure what a wonderful person she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">People were willing to give because they knew their money was going to a good cause. But they also wanted to give as a way of saying thanks to Kathleen. Thanks for showing us the importance of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>living, laughing, and loving.</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-26166682730289835452011-09-26T05:17:00.000-07:002011-09-26T05:17:15.723-07:00Nugget #45This little number happened in 2004.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Must be the “luck of the Irish”</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -0.5in;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: -0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Local runner and tri-athlete Kevin Patterson has had a string of luck that can only be attributed to his being Irish. Now, I know Patterson is not an Irish name, but I believe it was originally O’Patterson when his grandfather came over from the old sod. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Whatever, I got to know Kevin and his wife Heather when they joined the Fleet Feet running group last year in order to train for a marathon. Both are very talented runners (Heather won Runner of the Year in her age group last year) and both are very driven. No, I do not mean that they have a chauffeur. They set lofty goals, and they usually reach them. Except, of course, when the “luck of the Irish” strikes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Last fall Kevin was training for a marathon and an Iron Man Triathlon at the same time. The latter is just a race where one starts off the competition with a two and a half mile swim, then proceeds to a <metricconverter productid="112 mile">112 mile</metricconverter> bike jaunt, and finally finishes with a full <metricconverter productid="26.2 mile">26.2 mile</metricconverter> marathon! One after the other! All on the same day! No naps in between! I’d rather have a root canal!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So last fall Kevin heads up to <city><place>Montreal</place></city> to do a half Iron Man triathlon, driving his three day old, brand spanking new Hummer. Kevin did the race and finished in fine fashion. Now comes the “luck of the Irish.” Kevin limps back to his car with nothing but his bike and the clothes on his back, (wet and smelly at that) and guess what, no Hummer! It’s gone, kapoof, vanished, on a ship to <place>Hong Kong</place> already.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Everything was stolen, including his laptop and his wallet with all his ID. There’s poor tired, sore, and smelly old Kevin with no way to get back to the States. Fortunately, on about his seventeenth try, Kevin found a disgruntled pimply-faced teenager working at a rent-a-car agency who was willing to take honest looking Kevin at his word, and rented him a car with no money or ID. How Kevin got back into the <country-region><place>US</place></country-region> is anybody’s guess.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Kevin’s second stroke of Irish luck came at the Boston Marathon this year. As I have written, it was 87 degrees that April day, and all 20,000 runners had that Irish luck to deal with. It’s just that Kevin took it one step further. Rumor has it that he lined up in heat that one could bake a pizza with wearing a pace band on his wrist. This lets you know what you must hit each of the <metricconverter productid="26 miles">26 miles</metricconverter> at so you know if you have a chance to reach your goal, and Kevin’s goal was, I’m sure, a sub-three hour marathon.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Most runners knew not to go for the gusto this day. Did I mention Kevin is driven? After finishing the marathon in a much slower time than he is capable of running, Kevin was a special guest of the medical tent, spending two hours recovering with IVs stuck in his arm trying to raise his blood pressure from 80/40. Gots to be the Irish in him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Good and bad things come in threes they say, and so it is with the “luck of the Irish”. While training on his bike for the Iron Man Triathlon to be held in <state><place>Wisconsin</place></state> later this fall, Kevin took his bike for a ride in early July. I have heard the <place>Wisconsin</place> race is particularly grueling, because they make you eat a pound of cheese before each event. So Kevin had his work cut out for him that July Sunday. No one knows what happened, not even Kevin, who doesn’t remember leaving his house. He suspects a car clipped him on the country bridge he was crossing, sent him flying, and left him for dead. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">A motorist did find him, and he was taken to the hospital for body-work. After getting over 150 stitches on his face, and a cast on his left fore-arm, which was fractured in two places, they could deal with some busted fingers and smashed up knees. I didn’t think I’d see Kevin for months.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Did I mention the lad is driven? Two and a half weeks after all that, I go to the Ronald McDonald House 5K race, and who shows up with a smile and his wit about him, but Kevin. And he’s running the race! Not only does he run it, he finishes right behind the lovely Heather. He later admits he dared not beat her (did I mention she is driven?). </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Now, at the time, I’m suffering from an ingrown toenail on my left foot, and I plan on using it as an excuse as to why I may not run so well. That excuse is sure as shootin out the window. I went and got the dang thing fixed by the Running Podiatrist, Mike Curry.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So if bad things do come in threes. Kevin should be safe from here on in. That goofy guy still plans on doing the Wisconsin Tri, and then in November, he’s running the New York City Marathon. Did I mention he is driven? Let’s just hope there is no “curse of the Germans”.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: -0.5in;"><br />
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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-50523885225326216052011-09-12T07:38:00.000-07:002011-09-12T07:38:49.566-07:00Nugget #44This is an article I wrote a few years ago about Checkers AC and their track program. It still pretty much applies, but now the program is coached by Vicky Mitchell.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Finding your true fast self</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">OK, so any of you who may have been thinking about running are now totally turned off to the idea after reading my first two columns. Who wouldn’t be after reading about training for a marathon during the winter months, and then reading about running a marathon in the heat of <city><place>Boston</place></city> this year? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Don’t give up hope yet. There are many more races out there besides marathons, and most of them are 5k, or just over <metricconverter productid="3 miles">3 miles</metricconverter> for you non-Canadians. Just look at the race calendar that accompanies this article. Not a marathon among them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I do recommend that if you start running, doing a race here and there is a great way to stay motivated. Once you try a couple, you will be back for more, and of course, you will be bitten by the competition bug, and you will want to improve.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The best way, if you become serious, is to take part in the Checkers AC Tuesday track workouts. Coached by Bob Carroll, one of the area’s top runners for years, and still running strong at the ripe old age of 47, Coach Carroll puts together one heck of a program for all comers. You just have to be a member of Checkers (worth joining just for their newsletter) and pay a $15 fee to help cover expenses. The workouts run from April till the end of October, and now we meet at Crosby Field in <place>Kenmore</place> before <time hour="18" minute="0">6pm</time></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Averaging 117 runners weekly, it is amazing that Bob can put together an organized workout week after week, yet he does. As a newcomer, he would place you in a group to train with based on your ability, and believe me, there is a very wide range of abilities out on the track, so anyone would feel comfortable. Bob obviously spends so much time on keeping track of how each runner is progressing during the year that most suspect he has no life. Coach Carroll’s credentials include being a three-time All American when he attended Fredonia State College, running a four minute mile, winning Buffalo’s Turkey Trot in the late 1980s, and having coached some of Western New York’s finest athletes, yet he welcomes runners of all abilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">When you show up the workouts are up on the board. You know exactly how fast you are expected to run the distances because there is a code word for the speed. You just plug it into your group number, and the pace for the different code words is right there. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">For example, the code words are something like cruise pace (which is slowest), date, rep, and I think the fastest is called OW!!! pace. So if you are in group 22, and you are supposed to run 10X400s at OW!!! pace, you find that in your group that means each <metricconverter productid="100 meters">100 meters</metricconverter> will be at 21 seconds, and using your amazing intelligence (which you must have since you are reading my column) you know each 400 should be run in 84 seconds. Ow!!!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">There are pros and cons to the workouts. One pro is that you have many people encouraging each other during the workouts. A con - if on a pain-scale of one to ten, with one being the pain you feel when you eat too much ice cream, and ten being the pain you feel as a friend pulls out all ten of your toe-nails with a pair of rusty pliers; these track workouts would rate a 17.7. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A pro – you get the expert coaching of Bob Carroll, and he puts so much effort into each aspect of each workout. A con – the workouts hurt very, very, very much! </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A pro – the tremendous feeling of satisfaction as you finish each workout. A con - you realize that you have to do it again next week.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A pro – the lasting friendships you are bound to make as all strive for the same goal, improvement. A con – did I mention it hurts a lot?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I could keep going, as there actually are so many pros, and I’m just a big baby when it comes to pain. When it comes right down to it, the biggest pro is the high so many runners get when they hit a PR, or personal record, in a race. Then all the hard work pays off big time, and you have new friends and a coach who will be as happy for you as you are for yourself. Just give track workouts a chance.</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-12703238169958121812011-08-29T08:45:00.000-07:002011-08-29T08:45:33.691-07:00Nugget #43<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;">Mr. Gas Man</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"> Bill Donnelly</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: center;"><i><u><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Why most lines of work don’t work</span></u></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The night ended much as it had begun, with an ice-cold chill running up and down my spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hands were numb, and my ears felt as if they were being held in the grip of frozen pliers, the pressure of which stung to the very base of my neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, I was just leaving the shop, waiting for the engine to warm up so I could put on the heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These damn cold Buffalo nights can make you forget any other problems you may have faced during the evening, but this night was just a bit more disturbing than most.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I work for National Fuel Gas, the operation that provides natural gas to most of western <state><place>New York</place></state> and northwest <state><place>Pennsylvania</place></state>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been with the company just under four years, and I’m now a full-fledged, leak qualified, gas certified, fire-school trained, explosive expert, line-locating whiz, relight <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>specialist, valve locator proficient, and all-around people-skilled serviceman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This means I’m now trusted to work the evening shift, and being low-man on the totem pole, that’s exactly what I’m doing for the next several months until some other sap with less seniority than me gets trained.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So this particular evening began on a bitter cold day at <time hour="14" minute="10">2:10pm</time>, with an ice-cold chill running up and down my spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hands were numb, and my ears felt as if the were being held in the grip of frozen pliers, the pressure of which stung to the very base of my neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You guessed it, I’m just leaving home and waiting for the car to get warm, so at least when I pull into the shop just before my <time hour="15" minute="30">3:30</time> shift starts, I’ll be somewhat warm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s only mid-December in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, but the temperature sits at 16 degrees with a wind chill near zero, and it only promises to get colder as the sun goes down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily it’s a fairly calm day, wind wise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have on two pair of socks, long-johns with boxer shorts over them (gots to protect the guys) and jeans, plus a long-sleeved tee-shirt, sweatshirt, a hooded sweatshirt, leather jacket, cotton glove-liner and mitts, and a stocking cap, and I’m still cold as my trusty silver Hyundai warms up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something about that frozen wind blowing in off of Lake Erie that seems to cut through anything and everything to get at you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I get to the shop, which is the <place><placename>Tonawanda</placename> <placename>Service</placename> <placetype>Center</placetype></place>, located on <street><address>Military Rd.</address></street> a couple miles north of <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, which is the city in which I make my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly turn on my van so it can warm up while I get my computer board that contains any work I might have for my swing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being that I work nights, I usually have none, as I’m out there for emergencies, and I’ll get sent jobs to do in-between leaks, line-hits, and emergency locates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nice to know someone just recently qualified for all these emergencies is the one out there at night, but that’s the way seniority works in most lines of work, and why most lines of work don’t work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are two other trucks out there doing the same thing as me, so if I have any questions, I can call them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, they too are low-man on the totem pole, so it’s much the blind leading the blind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then, <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> aint blew up yet, so I guess its working ok, except for my lack of any kind of a social life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We three trucks cover an area that starts in the middle of the west side at <street><address>W. Ferry St.</address></street>, up through most of north <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, and fans out to include all the <city><place>Tonawanda</place></city>’s, and <city><place>Amherst</place></city>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think Tonawanda is a Seneca Indian word that means “It’s <b><i>FUCKING</i></b> <b><i>COLD </i></b>here”, and so when the straight-laced founders of these towns needed a name, and being honest and to the point while not wanting to offend their women-folk, just took the native term for their towns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus we have <city><place>North Tonawanda</place></city>, The City of Tonawanda, and The Town of “It’s <b><i>FUCKING COLD</i></b> here”, I mean <city><place>Tonawanda</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Same thing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So anyway, this area the three of us cover seems about the size of Rhode Island, and more often than not, we get called on to help out in Niagara Falls and Clarence, which is like adding the state of Connecticut to our territory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it aint blew up yet, so I guess its working ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Course, I’ve only been on this night thingy a couple weeks, so give it time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back to this particular night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sign on to dispatch over the radio that often has the sound quality of a drive-through window speaker at a fast food restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often wonder if dispatch is asking me if I want fries with that order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Off I drive looking for a drip to check and pump until an order comes in.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A drip is simply a capped pipe connected to a big cauldron-like device that is buried under a gas main that has water in it because it’s an old steel pipe that leaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The theory is that the water will settle into the cauldron, and we servicemen with nothing to do can go around pumping the water out so as to keep the mains from filling with water that then gets into a customer’s meter and freezes if it gets cold enough (eight months of the year in Buffalo) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and cuts off the gas to said customer, thus giving us servicemen a job to do, which is blowing out said customer’s lines and changing the meter, which takes time, thus we don’t have time to pump the drips, consequently causing more troubles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you follow that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It must to the powers that be at the company, or else they would be replacing the old lines with new plastic lines that do not leak.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I pull up to a drip, and the number of these is always growing, but wouldn’t you know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No sooner do I climb out of my truck than my pager goes off, and an order appears on my board telling me to go to the drugstore at <street><address>801 Tonawanda St.</address></street> in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You guessed it, it must be <b><i>FUCKING</i></b> <b><i>COLD</i></b> on that street, and it is.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The order is to see why the store is getting no gas inside, but since I’ve been to this store already twice before in my short stint on nights, I known there is water in the lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s because we servicemen have been so busy changing meters and blowing out lines that we couldn’t pump the drip by this store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">And thus starts my wonderful night in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>’s Black Rock and <city><place>Riverside</place></city> areas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know these two areas fairly well as I graduated from <place>Riverside</place> High School so many long years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I attended in the days before busing, the school was attended by kids from these two neighborhoods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the area was made up of Eastern Europeans, the sons and daughters of immigrants who worked the steel mills, auto plants, and lumberyards that once flourished on the shores of The Lake and the <place>Niagara River</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Since my graduation, the area has changed mightily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Poles, Hungarians, Czechs, and others have mostly moved north to the “It’s <b><i>FUCKING</i></b> <b><i>COLD</i></b> here” towns, while the old neighborhoods are now inhabited by the poor and out of luck population that invades an area such as this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">This first order takes a bit more than an hour, since I have to remove the meter, which is outside in the cold, attach a tank of pressurized natural gas to the line, and blow the water out of the lines, which will of course all come back in a day or two since we don’t have time to pump the drip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all a tedious, finger numbing affair, made most annoying by the fact we have to keep said tank of gas specially stored in the truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just a long and exasperating process that one has to do over and over during most cold nights.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">And so it goes on this night, a leak at a stove to investigate that turns out to be a pilot on the stove that is out and the young lady has no idea how to light it, and a leak called in because another young female wants her dryer hooked up, which is something we do not do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least these calls are fast and easy, but one never knows what lies around the next corner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">At five minutes to eight I get a call to head to <street><address>21 Lansing St.</address></street> to check the gas pressure inside for the people who live in the upper flat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously they are not getting enough gas to run their appliances, so it’s off to the sad little one-block long street right in the middle of Black Rock near Military and Austin Streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Staring at the decrepit looking houses that line the street, one would have a hard time imagining the once proud homes they used to be, full of the smells of home-cooked pirogies, kielbasa, and szarlotka, with the sounds of Polish and English intertwined with music from the old country.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">A young, stocky but muscular white kid in jeans and a t-shirt greets me at the side door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is friendly and easy going, which surprises me, since first impressions are usually right on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His closely cropped hair and heavily tattooed arms and neck, and his looking to be about 23 years old, gave me quite a first impression, but as I say, Joe, as that was his name, came across pleasant and one who should be easy to work with.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Joe explained that he had just had his furnace worked on twice in the past week, getting $500 worth of parts installed in the hopes of having it working by now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No such luck, and the third time the trouble-shooter for the heating and cooling outfit came by, he told Joe he didn’t have enough gas pressure getting to the furnace, and that was a “gas company” problem, which meant it was a “me” problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Joe says: “Yeah, the dude tells me the furnace is only getting two pounds of pressure or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s up here in the attic, let me just pull down these steps so you can get up there, but watch your step as the first couple slats are kind of busted.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">As Joe is lowering the very rickety looking apparatus that passes for a means of getting to the attic, I glance quickly about the small upper floor apartment, which used to be just the upstairs of this house, but has since been transformed into an upper residence so the absentee landlord can make double the money renting out the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe’s young and pretty girlfriend sits bundled up against the cold watching TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place is surprisingly clean, but not completely moved into yet, as open boxes litters the hallway and living room, obviously waiting to be unpacked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A gaggle of about 15 electric guitars are all standing at proud attention in their guitar stands, apparently the first items to be unpacked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I climb the ladder which is pretending to be a stairway, and using my small flashlight, I spy the furnace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most servicemen hate these attic furnaces, as you have to gingerly make your way across a dusty, littered, low space, worried you may fall through the floor, landing on your head next to Joe’s young and pretty girlfriend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the summer these attics are unbearably hot, and in the winter, cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Joe’s attic is typical, with boards over beams forming an uncertain floor (look out below Joe’s young and pretty girlfriend) and no room to easily move about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These attics and low basements are why we wear hardhats while working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trying to test the pressure up here will be difficult at best, so I decide to see if there is a hot water tank in the basement that would be easier to get at. Down the rickety steps I come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Can’t check the pressure on the furnace,” I say to Joe, “you got a hot water tank in the basement?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“No,” he says, “we got no basement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tank’s in the laundry room downstairs.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Another thing we servicemen hate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s houses without basements, because no matter how nasty and scary some basements are, not having basements presents all sorts of problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it means a horrible, filthy crawl space that we may have to, and you guessed it; <i>crawl</i> into to get at some appliance or gas leak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It can also mean gas pipes running under floors and behind walls so you can’t trace them to see which appliance belongs to whom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It usually means said appliances are stuck in crowded, inadequate spaces like closets or tiny laundry rooms, which gives one little room in which to maneuver while trying to deal with the appliance.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Joe’s laundry room presented me with two of these problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Located at the bottom of the stairs and to the right was a minuscule room loaded with washers, dryers, piled up laundry that hasn’t been touched for ages, trash, an <b><i>empty</i></b> trash can (go figure), two hot water tanks, and an old boiler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This room was to the left as you walked in the side entrance of the house, and to the right was the door to the lower tenant’s abode, but I had not paid much attention when I came in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hardy any room to work.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">The other problem was that the gas pipe to each appliance came up separately through the floor, so there was no real way to be sure which hot water tank was Joe’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since the boiler, which is the first item when entering the infinitesimal room, has to be the lowers, as Joe’s is in that lovely attic, I can guess that the tank right next to it is the lowers also.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I learned long ago not to assume anything on this job, so I ask Joe: “OK, which tank is yours?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“I really couldn’t say,” says Joe, “I just moved in here a couple weeks ago”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“OK,” says I, “I’ll guess it’s this one furthest away from that boiler.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My deductive skills amaze even me sometimes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I turn off the valve on the gas pipe to the tank and begin to remove the cap from the drip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, not the kind of drip we pump water from outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most gas appliances have what’s called a drip, which is a small bit of pipe that hangs below where the pipe tees off into the appliance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can remove the cap on it to check the pressure which that appliance is receiving.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">So I’m attaching my pressure gauge to the drip and says: “So what part of <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> you moving from?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Nah, we just moved here from <state><place>California</place></state>!” replies the lad.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Why the hell would you move from <state><place>California</place></state> to <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, and at this time of year?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“I’m in a rock band.” says Joe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Two of my members are from <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, and wanted to move back.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now I’m thinking what sort of drugs was this dude doing to think that moving a rock band from <state><place>California</place></state> to the frozen tundra known as <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> was a good career move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell, what the shit were those two former Buffalonians thinking in wanting to move back here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t they remember what the famous Seneca Indian word “<city><place>Tonawanda</place></city>” means?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Still I ask: “So what kind of music you guys play?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, I used to play drums in a band called “Hard Rain” in the <city><place>Cleveland</place></city> area for over twenty years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We played mostly original stuff we wrote, and we called it folk rock, being influenced by the likes of Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, and Leonard Cohen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I can work that fact into the conversation and impress the dude!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">He replies: “We’re real hard core punkers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Name of the band is ‘Evil Dank Fungus’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve played the Ozz-Fest 32 times!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I decide to keep my musical background my secret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But still I have to ask: “What instrument do you play?” forgetting the gaggle of guitars I saw upstairs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Guitar,” says Joe, “I have 18 of them upstairs!” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">By now I’ve checked the pressure, and it’s only at two inches of water column, not pounds as Joe had said. I tell him this and put the cap back on the drip, saying I’ll check your gas meter as soon as I relight this tank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two inches of pressure is too low, so I know there is a problem somewhere, as we should be getting at least seven inches.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">As I’m lighting the tank, the door to the lower apartment burst opens and out pops a mean looking young dude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is extremely emaciated looking, perhaps 22 years old, but who can say as I know he’ll look the same in thirty years if he lives that long, just with a million wrinkles on his face from hard living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His hair is cut to the skin, making Joe look like a hippy with his almost one quarter inch long hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has on dirty jeans, what was once a white t-shirt, and nasty gray socks that could probably walk around on their own even if this cat wasn’t wearing them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yeah, and he looked exceedingly pissed off! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“What the fuck ya doing!” he shrieks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Getaway from my fucking water tank ya fucking retard before ya fucking mess everything fucking up!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I get the feeling he has a limited vocabulary, and I’m mighty pleased big Joe is standing between me and this fully crazed hillbilly Zulu.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Joe has a big smile as he greets his downstairs neighbor with “Hey man, he’s just trying to figure out why I aint got enough pressure for my furnace, so he was checking my hot water tank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your stuff works fine, don’t it?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Fuck yeah it does, so why is he fucking messing around with my fucking water tank?” shouts Stanky, which is the nickname I imagine this dude to be called as I never get his real name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is your tank here!” he says pointing to the other tank, “It says 2<sup>nd</sup> floor right on top here.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well I’ll be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t think to look up there to figure out which tank is which.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I’ll just check the pressure for that one.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Joe tries to placate Stanky by telling him “You only gots two pounds of gas pressure going to your hot water tank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gas guy says that’s not enough.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Fuck him, man, my stuff fucking works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fucking Gas Company and their fucking employees are just out to fucking fuck us!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stanky’s agitated to say the least.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Trying to change the “fucking” subject, I ask Joe: “So is your landlord paying for the furnace repair?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Damn right she is, it’s just hard as hell to get hold of her right now.” laments Joe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Well fuck yeah,” breaks in Stanky, “she’s been scrambling like fucking crazy since she lost her fucking nigger whats been taking care of her.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Say what!” says Joe, “What nigger?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Didn’t you know? Replies Stanky, “Yeah, she been living with a fucking nigger the past two years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fucking sleeping with the fucking monkey cause he’s fucking loaded, and she’s got it fucking good, fuck it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the fucking nigger up and dies on her fucking ass, and now she’s fucking shit out of luck and trying to make fucking ends meet.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“No way!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe seems truly amazed, but smiling about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A nigger you say!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“A fucking nigger I say”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stanky is so good with turning a phrase. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Man!” says Joe, “And when I was looking at this place with her, I was saying ‘nigger’ this and ‘nigger’ that all over the place.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Stanky shoots back: “Well, she was desperate to rent the fucking place since her nigger died, and she’s a fucking good looking white bitch too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fucking shame sleeping with a nigger!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“You got that right!” says Joe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I just keep gritting my teeth, looking straight at what I’m doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve learned there’s nothing I can say or do to change Stanky’s hateful way of thinking, so I go about my work and wish for evil things to happen to Stanky throughout his life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure these things will happen to him, and I’m just as sure it will be Stanky who will make sure these things do happen to him!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I find that Joe’s tank is only getting about two inches of pressure and tell him I need to check the meter, which is outside in the freezing weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this night, it just had to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">So as I’m putting the cap back on Joe’s drip, Stanky is taking his leave of us with a hearty fare-thee-well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, not in exactly a genteel manner, rather with a: “I’ll see you later man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You mother-fuckers are just lucky I didn’t come out here with my fucking gun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear someone fucking around out here; I gotta protect my stuff and myself.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cripes, I think, I hope Joe is careful in the future when he does his laundry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe just gives me a “What can you do?” look and says “Don’t mind him, just do what ya gotta do to get my furnace working.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Out into the dark cold night I go, afraid of what I’ll find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I go to the two gas meters on the other side of the house and turn off Joe’s gas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to drop<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>his meter and turn it on to see if it produces a gurgling sound, which means water is in the pipes, which means I have to blow out the whole system, which means I have to turn off Stanky’s meter so I don’t blow up his appliances, which means I have to then turn on Stanky’s gas and light his appliances, which means I have to deal with Stanky again after he said not to fuck with his fucking stuff, which means I would have at least one too many “which means” to deal with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fortunately, when I listen to the gas there is no gurgling sound, so I attach my pressure gauge, and Joe is getting <metricconverter productid="9 inches">9 inches</metricconverter> pressure outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The meter is empty of water or ice, but old, so I take the time to change it in the hopes the meter is the problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now my fingers are like Popsicles, since you can’t do this work with gloves on, but I get a new meter on and head inside.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I check the pressure at Joe’s hot-water tank, but I do it very quietly so as not to let Stanky know someone might be fucking with his fucking stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows what kind of big gun he has.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Success!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pressure gauge reads <metricconverter productid="9 inches">9 inches</metricconverter>, so I relight his water tank and we have a nice big flame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I head upstairs to let Joe know the good news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We fire up his gas stove and the flames are bright, blue, and healthy looking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell him to turn up his thermostat and we’ll see if the furnace comes on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No way I want to go up there on that rickety floor and take a chance falling through to land next to Joe’s young and pretty girlfriend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">We hear the fan kick on for the furnace, and Joe starts bouncing around on chairs feeling at the heat vents which are at the top of the walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple minutes go by and nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To make small talk while waiting, I tell Joe some of his guitars are pretty nice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Check out the one in the corner!” says Joe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It has inlay of naked girls made of ivory!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I check it out, and sure enough, naked ladies made of ivory, in the pose you see on the mud-flaps of eighteen wheelers, adorn the neck of the guitar in-between every other fret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">As I’m wondering how much such artwork costs on a guitar, I hear a soft but urgent “Oh no!” coming from Joe, who is peeking out the top of the curtain on the front window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While standing on the sofa there checking the heating vent, he obviously spied something or someone outside that distressed him, for he was off the couch in a flash and by me so fast he was a blur.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I turned to see him sliding on sneakers over his bare feet and down the stairs without even putting on a jacket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could only wonder what sort of character was down below that would get Joe agitated, since even the nasty Stanky didn’t seem to faze him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With thoughts of drug deals gone bad or whatever, I glanced at Joe’s young and pretty girlfriend, who was finally showing signs of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I just shrugged my shoulders as she looked at me, and so she went to the window and peeked out a corner of the curtain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no idea what she saw, but she looked for just a minute or so and then sat back down, absorbing herself back into TV land, but I couldn’t help but notice something of a frown came over her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that she was smiling before, she had just had a bit of a blank expression that could have passed for a frown, but now it was definitely more of a frown. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe finally came bounding up the stairs, and upon seeing me in the kitchen, whispered “One of my groupie women friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had to keep her from getting to the doorbell!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I figured it was high time to get out of here, so I told Joe I would brave the attic to see what was going on with the furnace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fan was humming, but the thing was not firing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Figured I better check the pressure if I could.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I moved across the boards layed carefully over the beams and positioned myself in front of the turn-off valve on the gas line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carefully I took apart the pipe at the union after turning off the valve and checked the pressure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure enough, <metricconverter productid="9 inches">9 inches</metricconverter>, plenty, so I took off the pressure gauge and released some air, and it was air, no gas yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Changing a meter lets air into the system, so I let air flow until I could smell gas, then reattached the pipes, turned on the gas valve, and let the furnace do the rest.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">All this time I could hear Joe’s voice coming up through the paper thin ceiling I was trying not to fall through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t hear Joe’s young and pretty girlfriend’s voice, but she was obviously the other half of the conversation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Hell, she was just a fan of the band who wanted to say hi!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b><i>Pause</i></b>!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I couldn’t very well be rude to her, could I?!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pregnant <b><i>pause</i></b>! “How the hell do I know how she got my address?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tonight won’t be a night you’ll have a chance of getting your girlfriend pregnant <b><i>pause</i></b>!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That was just a friendly kiss I gave her!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Short pause!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now put down that guitar, you know I love only you, NOOOO!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">The furnace kicked on and I didn’t <b><i>pause</i></b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was down the steps, stepped over the neck of the broken guitar, told Joe he was all set, just give a call if you need anything, got my tool bag, down the stairs past a startled looking Stanky who wondered what the fuck was that loud noise he heard upstairs, out to my truck, put her in gear and I was out of there! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Just then my pager went off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The devise told me I had a leak to get to on the west side, <street><address>Potomac Ave</address></street> just off <street><address>Grant St</address></street>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now when we get a leak call, we have just 30 minutes to get to it as the company takes them very seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t want to lose any customers through explosions or asphyxiation. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Luckily I wasn’t far away, and I pulled up within ten minutes of getting the call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t mind the diversion from the last order, and I could relax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The order had hit my board, and it stated the people in the upper smelled gas in the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now any street around <street><address>Grant St</address></street> is pretty low-down and miserable, and <place>Potomac</place> is no exception, but after what I just came from, a leak at a range anywhere seemed relaxing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">The young folks who greeted me were cold and shivering and looked to be close relatives of Stanky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place was pretty empty except for a TV that was blaring, and a few little ones were lost in its grip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The young dude took me into the kitchen and explained they were moving all day and took the stove out and smelled gas and they unexpectedly had to spend the night there and were worried and there was no cap on the gas line but the valve was off and they couldn’t turn on the furnace in the attic as the same line that had fed the stove continued straight up into the attic and the valve was off since there was no cap on the line to the stove and they smelled gas so could I cap it for them and then they could open the valve and the furnace would kick on and boy they were cold but mostly worried about the smell of gas they swore they could smell we aint lying! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Using my Century, which will detect any gas leaking, I determined there was no leak. Using my brain to slowly figure out what the dude had been saying, I realized they had called in a leak just to get me there to cap the line so they could get the furnace running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without the cap, turning on the valve would mean gas would have flooded the kitchen instead of going to the furnace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These guys were no dummies.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">The company does not look kindly on false leak calls since they can tie us up when real leaks and emergencies demand our attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They usually piss the hell out of me too, but after the order from Hell I had just been on, and since there were some kids involved, I simply put a cap on the line and let them open the valve and turn on their furnace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the chorus of many thank-yous, I got back down and in the truck, punched in “no leak–false call” and went on my way, still reeling a bit from the call before. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was just settling in and looking for a drip to pump when I got another order, this one saying “Furnace out, elderly, supervisor approves relight”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turns out when a lot of people have problems with their furnace; they call us to try to light it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We usually will not and tell them to call a heating contractor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, if it’s cold and the people are elderly, and a supervisor feels they are worthy, we can help out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I was off to Oxford St in <city><place>Amherst</place></city> to help an elderly woman by the name of Sally Johnson.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><city><place>Amherst</place></city> for the most part is a pretty nice suburb of <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, but there are parts that are not quite up to the normal standards of this burg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The area where the names sound so upscale with monikers such as <city><place>Oxford</place></city>, <city><place>Cambridge</place></city>, Yale, and <place>Princeton</place> to name a few of the scholarly streets, are not so fashionable anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when I arrived at Sally’s small little house, I wasn’t sure what to expect.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Speaking of names, without being told she was elderly, I could have guessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We who deal with the public a lot get used to being able to figure out a person’s age from their name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ms. Sally Johnson is black, and anyone with a name like Sally, or Lillian, or Eleanor, or Cleopatra, more often than not will be my age or older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it were a young black woman, her name would have been Tieka, Nieka, Molita, or Treblinka.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">But I digress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was greeted by Sally, a very pleasant, grateful, and slightly confused black woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Confused in the sense that one look about the house and I knew what I was dealing with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She may have been about eighty, and her small home was filled to overflowing with piles of old newspapers and magazines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were piled neatly, but to get through the living room and kitchen to the basement, one had to traverse a maze of shoulder high piles of paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see this situation all too often with the elderly, usually women, who are alone with no one to help them take care of themselves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ah, but Sally, shivering in her worn sweater and tattered mittens, was so nice and appreciative of my even being there to help, she couldn’t try harder, offering me food or drink to make my night a bit easier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She obviously didn’t have a lot, but she was a happy person without a mean bone in her body, and after what I had witnessed earlier during these cold hours of darkness, she truly brought a ray of sunshine that seemed to lighten my mood considerably. I was going to do all I could to help her out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the basement, which was clean compared to many I have witnessed in my nearly four years with National Fuel, I was confronted by another labyrinth of neat piles of newspapers and magazines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Following a path, I found her old furnace in a far corner of the cellar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly deduced that the pilot was out, (we are highly trained gas technicians) and I hoped that was all that was wrong with the furnace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did all the necessary tests to make sure there were no leaks in sweet Sally’s gas line, and I lit the pilot, which came right on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went upstairs and found the thermostat in the muddle of newspapers squatting all over the dining room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned it all the way up, crossed my fingers, and went back down.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hurrah!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Success!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The furnace kicked on, and after a short wait, the fan began to hum, blowing heat throughout Sally’s abode, hopefully warming her up quickly, along with the mounds of precious periodicals she was hoarding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After making sure the flue worked, it was up the stairs again to turn the thermostat down, then back down the stairs (who needs a Stairmaster when you work for the gas company?) to make sure the furnace would go off ok and see that the pilot would stay lit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It did, and it did!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of course, with each trip to and from the basement, Sally was immediately there, saying how indebted she was and offering me cookies and pop or tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was finally done, she asked me my name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her, she wrote it on an envelope, and handed it to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured it obviously contained a Christmas card, as that holiday was near, so I thanked her and slipped it into my jacket pocket, and left, feeling great that I had helped out one of the good people in this city.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">No sooner had I gotten back into my truck then I got a page that sent me straight back into reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was to go to the upper at <street><address>21 Lansing St.</address></street>, as the tenant was reporting that his furnace had stopped working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was getting late, and I sure as heck did not want to deal with these people again, but I felt I had no choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Off I headed into the suddenly much darker night.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">My cell phone rang and it turned out to be the night supervisor, Russ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was wondering what had happened before at <city><place>Lansing</place></city> that I had to go back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I meandered through the streets I explained about changing the meter and getting <metricconverter productid="9 inches">9 inches</metricconverter> of pressure at the furnace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said I was at a loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said simply go there and check the pressure while everything was running. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Great! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only way I could do that was at the hot water heater, and that could mean dealing with Stanky again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could only hope that he was passed out after drinking his forty ouncer, but I doubted that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could picture him by his door, smoking a cigarette, assault riffle cradled in his arm, listening intently for some motherfuckingsonofabitchlowlifeniggerlovinggasman who might happen by to try to mess with his fucking equipment.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I arrived and went around to the side door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Opening it, I was immediately greeted by a smiling Joe, who was watching Stanky on the floor of the laundry closet trying to light his boiler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked Joe what was going on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Man, his boiler and hot water tank went out now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figure he has the same problem I had.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How about your furnace,” I asked, “did it stop working?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Hell no,” says Joe, “It’s working like a charm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called and said it stopped working to get you back to help him.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I looked at Stanky contorted on the ground, trying to light the boiler’s pilot with his Bic lighter, a definite scowl shining forth from his ugly puss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Thanks for calling, Joe!” I thought. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could tell by Stanky’s demeanor he held me completely to blame for his problem, and I could only guess what he would do to me if I couldn’t fix things.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was just about to head for Stanky’s meter with the thought of changing it when the lad let out a whoop. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Stanky’s scowl was now a bitter glare aimed at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I got the fucker lit now,” he snarled, “shut that fucking door before you blow the fucking pilot out again asshole!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just get the fuck out of here before you fuck it up again!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have to be asked twice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bid a found adieu to Joe, wished him luck, got to my truck, and took off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple blocks safely away from them I punched up the order on my computer and filled in my report.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deep down I knew Stanky had not solved his problem, but I was not about to tell him that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I began heading towards a drip to pump, as it was approaching <time hour="23" minute="0">11 PM</time>, and since my shift ended at <time hour="0" minute="0">midnight</time>, I was hoping I would get no more orders so I could basically relax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was only 15 minutes since I had left Joe and Stanky to their own devices when my pager went off again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The order showed up on my board, and wouldn’t you know it, 21 <city><place>Lansing</place></city> again, furnace went out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">The dispatcher called me and let me know that Joe called again, and that his furnace had stopped working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked to speak to the supervisor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him the situation and the attitude Stanky had towards me, and I indicated I did not want to deal with them again tonight, or any other night for that matter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Luckily, he agreed with me once I had described Stanky’s outlook towards life and towards servicemen in particular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He suggested they could call a heating contractor since we were providing enough pressure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thanked him, found a drip or two to pump, and my long, cold night was finally winding down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I brought my truck back to the shop, signed off and put my board in its compartment to download, and headed home.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I arrived a bit after <time hour="0" minute="0">midnight</time>, tired and disheartened about things after dealing with the likes of Stanky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I plugged my cell phone into its charger and pulled out my pager to turn it off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out of the pocket with my pager came the envelope that held the card Sally had given to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had completely forgotten about it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had not even read the envelope before, and I saw it said “to Mr. Gas Man – National Fuel”, and below she had written my name, Bill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside was a ‘just a friendly note” card, and I opened it to find five well worn single dollar bills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had written “Thanks so very much for coming out on such a very bad nite!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God bless, Sally Johnson.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And next to that she scribbled sideways on the card “$ for coffee & bagel.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;">We are not supposed to take tips, and I never would have taken Sally’s $5 had I known it was in the envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could hardly afford it, and that made those five well worn single dollar bills all the more meaningful to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fell into bed with all thoughts of Stanky and his problems erased from my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The night had seemed endless, and at times hardly worth the hassle, but helping out a wonderful person like Sally helps keep me going, and she and people like her makes my job meaningful, at least at times, and that is enough!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</span>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-74481128796754080622011-08-15T04:47:00.000-07:002011-08-15T04:47:52.357-07:00Nugget #42The following should have a picture of the Belle Watlings from 1978. Once I figure out how to put it up, it will be done, but I think you can get the drift for now without the picture.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">When the Old Geezers Club hit its Peak</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When people think of the Belle Watling AC today, they think “OLD!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not mean they think “Cripes, that club has been around forever!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, they think “OLD!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People think: “Average Age between 87 and OLD!”; “I sure hope I can even walk when I’m that OLD!”; “I wonder if any of them knew Grover Cleveland!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m still one of the “Babies” of the club at 56 years of age, and I suppose I help keep their average age under the century mark.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I first joined the Belle Watlings in 1975, I thought “OLD!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most Watlings were in their forties, with a couple in their late thirties, and Dave Bogdan, Fred Gordon and I were the youngsters at 27.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the Watlings were one of the top running clubs in the area, and we used to bring home the team trophies when we traveled all over the state to run races.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, there were not many races around in those days, in fact we were lucky to find one a month, and that usually took some traveling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the races back in those days also had team competitions, and this led to the growth of the running clubs such as Checkers, Greater Buffalo, the Philharmonic, and <place><placename>Nickel</placename> <placetype>City</placetype></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, the competitive spirit and friendship that existed among the runners led to the team concept, which led to running clubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, right, much the same as the competitive spirit and friendship among the nation’s leaders led to World War I.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, the runners back in the Day were a very competitive lot, as were the teams, and this led to some very good PRs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were mostly runners who used the occasional short race as training for the Big Show, the marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was what mattered, and of course, the Boston Marathon was the Main Event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe that at the 1978 <city><place>Boston</place></city>, the Belle Watlings put together perhaps the best effort ever by any <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> running club that competed in the Main Event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some people feel that 1978 was perhaps among the best Bostons in its own right, as 2047 men (out of 3872) and 29 women (out of 186) broke 3 hours, and 32 broke <time hour="14" minute="20">2:20</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By comparison, in the 2001 <city><place>Boston</place></city>, which I can attest to as having been the same, weather-wise, 840 men (of 8592) and 45 women (of 4814) broke 3 hours, with just 19 breaking <time hour="14" minute="20">2:20</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were no Kenyans there in 1978 either, as 9 Kenyans broke <time hour="14" minute="20">2:20</time> in 2001.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am using gun times for the 2001 <city><place>Boston</place></city>, as that is all we had back in 1978.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The picture accompanying this article is of most of the Belle Watlings at their water tower in Hopkinton in 1978.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gathering at the tower before the race is a Watling tradition started when The Founder, Dick Sullivan, discovered in one of his earliest <city><place>Boston</place></city>’s that the tower is named after a Sullivan, saw that as a sign, and so he adopted it as the “Belle Watling Water Tower”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rest is history, although I do wonder what The Founder was doing rooting around over by the water tower in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps a lack of enough facilities is the answer, or maybe he was having a secret meeting with Kathy Switzer before the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Now come on, he would only be giving her pointers.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I mean running tips!)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In listing the PRs of the Watlings, I rounded down to the minute to simplify things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, if I listed actual times, mine would be <time hour="14" minute="34">2:34:57</time> while that of Bill Donnelly’s brother Tom Donnelly would be <time hour="14" minute="35">2:35:12</time>, a difference of a mere 15 seconds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, <time hour="14" minute="34">2:34</time> compared to <time hour="14" minute="35">2:35</time> gives me a full minute on him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this fair, you ask?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m the one writing this, so HA HA Tom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Know too that all the PRs listed above were not run on this fine day of <date day="17" month="4" year="1978">April 17, 1978</date>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Belle Watling A team did have some fantastic results, however.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Only the top three runners for a team counted in the team scoring, and our team came in third out of 71 teams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those days they gave each team member a place number for where he came in among just those on teams, and then added them up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First place was the Greater Boston Track Club, who, with the overall winner Bill Rodgers, fifth place finisher John Thomas, and twentieth finisher Tim Donovan, ended up with just 10 points. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In second place with 66 points was the Washington DC Running Club, followed by the Belle Watlings with 67 points.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One point behind us was the Atlanta Track Club, which was gratifying to us since our Club is named after the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gone with the Wind</i> character that ran her house of ill-repute in <place><city>Atlanta</city>, <state>GA.</state></place></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The three top runners for the Belle Watlings?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were Ralph Zimmerman, who finished 28th in <time hour="14" minute="18">2:18:55</time>, John Pfeil, who finished 56th in <time hour="14" minute="23">2:23:34</time>, and Fred Gordon, who finished 76th in <time hour="14" minute="25">2:25:29</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now-a-days, instead of doing points, <city><place>Boston</place></city> just adds up the times of the top three finishers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doing it that way, the 1978 Watlings had a combined time of <time hour="19" minute="7">7:07:58</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The winning team in 2001, the Lehigh Valley Road Runners, had a team time of <time hour="19" minute="25">7:25:13</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking at the records, the 1978 Watlings would have easily won any of the last five Bostons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not only was Zimmerman the fastest Belle Watling, he was the fastest runner from the state of <state><place>New York</place></state>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was 40 seconds and five places behind the 1972 Olympic Marathon gold medal winner, Frank Shorter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 30 years old, Shorter was seven years younger than Ralph, and that day, Zimmerman set the <country-region><place>US</place></country-region> age group record for those 35 to 39.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not bad for a guy on the brink of OLD!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was the fourth guy on the Belle Watling A team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finished 320th, but my time of <time hour="15" minute="36">3:36</time> even (I’m not rounding down here to impress Tom, my time was <time hour="14" minute="36">2:36</time>, period) was well over ten minutes behind Fred Gordon’s time, our third man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fred always could kick my butt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the few times I ever beat him was that same year in the Lockport 10 Miler, which you all know is in the lovely month of February.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That day Fred ran to <city><place>Lockport</place></city> from his home near <place><placename>Delaware</placename> <placetype>Park</placetype></place>, a distance of 20 miles (while climbing over snow banks), then ran the race, and even took a wrong turn during it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I beat him by four places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>HA HA Fred, I beat you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not making this up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was darn happy with my time in <city><place>Boston</place></city> though, as I may have gone out a bit too fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept a running journal that year; unfortunately, it was the only year I did so back in the Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve kept one ever since 1990, but boy, do I wish I had kept one for all the years I ran in the 1970s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Listen to the voice of wisdom kids, or at least listen to me, and keep a journal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes fascinating reading all these years later.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, in my entry for that day, I have it that I hit ten miles in 55 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>YOW!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I go on to say that my legs tightened up on the hills and I had to slow down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll bet I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was my style, the old going out like a bat out of hell routine and then hanging on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, it is down hill at first, and I sure liked to use that to my advantage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now-a-days that whole course just eats me up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Besides the Belle Watlings, other Buffalonians did well that day, some unattached, and some representing the Buffalo Philharmonic AC and Checkers AC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some would be future members of Checkers, including Zimmerman and myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leading the way for Checkers was Jim Herzog, who ran a <time hour="14" minute="48">2:48:07</time>, followed by Paul Allaire (<time hour="14" minute="54">2:54:27</time>) and James Harrington (<time hour="15" minute="1">3:01:05</time>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Allaire was a real baby, being just 19.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Philharmonic was led by Peter Mathias in 2:50:55, followed by such OLD-TIMERS as 47 year old Jesse Kregal, in 2:59:48, 44 year old John Peradotto in 3:09:25, and 43 year old Russ Miller in 3:10:01.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also must mention my good friend and my dentist, the Late, Great Allen Gross, who at age 50 hit a <time hour="15" minute="29">3:29:04</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Running unattached and doing well was Mike Miesczak in <time hour="14" minute="45">2:45</time>, and his fiancée, Nancy Dragoo, who ran a <time hour="14" minute="57">2:57:58</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nancy Miesczak would go on to set many records at all distances across the state and elsewhere.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Among the Belle Watlings, Dave Bogdan, John Richardson, Bob Herzog, Tom Donnelly, Pat Janiga, and Paul Schwandt all broke 3 hours that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Founder, 49 year old Dick Sullivan, stayed back to make sure no one got lost, and he finished in <time hour="15" minute="3">3:03:46</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should mention that Tom Donnelly ran a <time hour="14" minute="54">2:54:08</time> that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, I think I’ll round that up to <time hour="14" minute="55">2:55</time>, or better still, I’ll round it up to the nearest hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>HA HA Tom, you ran a 3 hour <city><place>Boston</place></city> that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I used to think some of those guys in the Belle Watlings were OLD.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell you, I wish I could hit some of the times now that they used to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m still a Belle Watling, and proud of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m still one of the “Babies”, but the OLD guys keep bringing home the hardware.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They even still do some traveling to find races with team competition so they can clean up in the OLD categories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they do, and I hope I can still come close to what they are doing when I’m OLD!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’ll still just be one of the “Babies”, and I’ll still be chasing the times they are doing now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-38270136626534487762011-08-01T11:20:00.000-07:002011-08-01T11:20:50.909-07:00Nugget #41This was part of the toast I gave my brother Tom when he got married six years ago. Of course I tied the story into his making the best choice of his life when he married Julie, his wife now of six years. Sometime I will put the whole Trouble for Tommy story on this blog. He had quite a childhood.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 22pt;">More Trouble for Tommie</span></u></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Chapter 79</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Fangs for the Memories</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">By </span><place><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I.</span></place><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Seymoore Duckz</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a hot, still summer’s day in tiny <place><city>St. Cloud</city>, <state>Minnesota</state></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The temperature was heading towards the century mark, and most residents (with names like Lars, Gerta, and Gayland) looked anxiously towards the sky, knowing that such a day could easily end with a tornado suddenly sweeping down on their fair town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Meanwhile, back at <street><address>507 3<sup>rd</sup> Ave. So.</address></street>, Bill and Marion Donnelly had no concerns about what the weather might bring, for they lived daily with the threat of disaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No day passed for this quiet and soft speaking, fun-loving couple without the threat of calamity visiting them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For they were the parents of the human tornado that went by the name of Tommy Donnelly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On this particular hot, sunny day, the other six Donnelly siblings were busy with either their Good Will Club, searching the skies for alien invaders, or busy filling squirt guns so they may try to cool off Marion, who was heavy with child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When was she not? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three year old Tommy was busy playing in roofing tar, seeing what effect it would have on his curly blond hair.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly, Bill Sr. was on the front porch frantically calling to his always well behaved children, and Tommy, to get into the house immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently a police report had just been issued on the radio that a rabid dog was in the vicinity of St. Cloud State College.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first six Donnelly children were in the house in a matter of seconds, of course, for they were well trained to obey their father’s commands at all times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Tommy finally came in 47 minutes later, Bill calmly explained to them about the rabid dog, and how they might as well help mom with the chores inside while waiting for trouble to pass.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Trouble rarely passed the Donnelly household.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being too small to do any chores, Tommy sat amid the galoshes by the front screen door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Donnelly’s had never had a pet that Tommy remembered, and he had always wanted a dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The idea that a “rabbit-dog” was in the neighborhood fascinated him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his mind he pictured a hopping, long-eared dog munching on carrots, for what else could a “rabbit-dog” look like.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When the big German Shepard ambled into the front yard, Tommy was a bit surprised, but quickly called to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too young to know about doggy body-language, Tommy naturally thought the crazed cross-eyed stare and the frothing drool dripping from Fang’s mouth meant that the pooch just wanted to play catch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Looking around for something to throw to the hound, Tommy grabbed one of the stocking caps that hung on a hook, which was waiting patiently for winter, not wanting to be a dog’s chew-toy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tommy opened the screen door and threw the hat to Fang, who pleased the boy by leaping and catching it instantly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bill Sr. happened by at that instant, and sprang into action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, The Donnelly clan had but two stocking caps to share amongst themselves, being such a big, and proud family without a lot of ready cash on hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the frigid <state><place>Minnesota</place></state> winters, you dared not venture out without a stocking hat for fear your ears could freeze right off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why else do you think so many Minnesotans had names like Lars, Gerta and Gayland, names that can be heard even without having ears anymore?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This particular hat, which now rested firmly in the doggie’s tight sharp-toothed grip, was the one <city><place>Marion</place></city> referred to as the Billy, Michael, Tommy, I mean Katie’s hat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, Marion and Bill had almost saved up enough money to buy another stocking cap for the family, but a spate of recent fines and damage payments concerning Tommy’s exploits on the <street><address>10<sup>th</sup> Street</address></street> Bridge had wiped out their savings once again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore, without a thought to his own safety, Bill instantly headed out the front door in the direction the startled dog had gone off in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tommy watched delightedly as first the dog, and then Bill disappeared around the back of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After only a few seconds of shouting and loud growling from behind the house, Tommy was once again rewarded by the sight of Bill sprinting back towards the front of the house, frothy hat in hand, screaming for Tommy to open the door, with the frothy-mouthed dog hot on Bill’s heels, snapping his jaws in outrage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Bill had not run so fast since his days as the miler for Notre Dame, and legend has it that if Tommy had not opened the door on Bill’s seventh time around the house, Bill would have been the first man to break the four-minute barrier for the mile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, it is said that when Roger Bannister read of this episode in the St. Cloud Daily Times, he hired out the same rabid dog to pace him in the mile two weeks later, and thus he was the first sub-four-minute miler.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Meanwhile, once back inside the house with the worse for wear hat in hand, Bill could only catch his breath, look at Tommy rolling on the floor laughing, and wonder what punishment now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew there would be none, for punishment would never teach young Tommy to make better choices when dealing with life’s challenges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bill knew that only with growing up would Tommy ever likely, or hopefully, outgrow his habit of making foolish choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would that ever happen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would he ever start making good choices?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only time would tell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-24648085456027192802011-07-25T11:25:00.000-07:002011-07-25T11:25:23.171-07:00Nugget #40I did the Flying Pig Marathon back in 2000, and then in 2004 I traveled with some friends who were doing that race. This is their story.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Traveling witt da Wiseguy</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Tony Legatuna</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;">As told to Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Foist things foist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m known as “Big Tony” Legatuna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll tell you right off I’m a wiseguy, a made-man in da Family, if yous knows what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My cover, er, job is driving a limo for my boss, Vinny “Chickenlegs” Pauladuchi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now da other day Vinny calls me into his office and tells me of a job he wants me to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seems he owes a big favor to “Uncle Chuck” Paul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now dis is a mug what changed his last name years ago to Americanize it, if yous knows what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something to do witt mistakes he made in his yoot, so I can’t really blame him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yous know what they say, yoot is wasted on the young.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So anyways, Vinny wants me to drive “Uncle Chuck” and his wife, Patricia, and some of their acquaintances to a marathon called da Flying Pug <place>Marathon</place> being held in <place><city>Cynci Nitti</city>, <state>Kentucky</state></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I of course jump at da chance to drive down to Cynci Nitti, because I know da history of da town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, it was named after da widow of my distant cousin and right-hand man to Alphonse Capone, that being one Frank Nitti.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, after Frank died in da 1930s, his widow Cynci moved across da Ohio River from <place><city>Cincinnati</city>, <state>Ohio</state></place>, and sets up shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Took over da town and soon named it after herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They say she was pug-ugly, so I’m guessing that’s why they named da marathon da Flying Pug.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sos anyways, I picks out da biggest stretch limo we got, and oily in da morning of May foist, I picks up my charges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now we gets a late start cause one Jonathan Bialek took it upon himself to oversleep, thereby causing much pain and consternation among those what showed up on time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked “Uncle Chuck” if he wanted me to take care of da situation, if yous knows what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Da late Jonathan coulda been sleeping wit da fishes right now, and I don’t mean witt da Legatunas, if yous knows what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miss Patricia Paul overhoid me and would have none of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jonathan, let me just tell you, you owes Miss Patricia big time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But then da mug shows up, and he’s wit dis dame wit da handle Lisa Maly, and now I knows why da mug “overslept”, if yous knows what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A real looker, this dame was, let me tell yous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then so were all da dames on dis trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t say da same for da guys on da limo, but they all had some good looking dames hanging out witt them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So let’s get da introductions out of da way foist off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides da ones already mentioned, there was Bill “Meterman” Donnelly and his goil, Diane “Swear on a Bible” McGuire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These two mugs were along for da ride just to cheer on their friends in da race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nice guys, if yous knows what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also in da limo were Jack “Rodeo Boy” Rimlinger and his old lady, Susie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I can’t forget Bill “Bo Didley” Bly, even though I’d like to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We just called him Billy Bo Didley.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris “Bubblegums” Connelly was there for da race, as was his goil Lisa “Da Banker” Fadden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She woiks for da M&T Bank, as does Laura “<city><place>Boston</place></city>” Ginnette and Mairead “Braineac” McKendry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They was all running da race, and now I knows who to go to when I gots some money what needs laundering, if yous knows what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That McKendry dame went to one of those high falutin Poison Ivy League colleges like Yale, or Clemson, or <place><placename>Florida</placename> <placetype>State</placetype></place>, I’m not sure which one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she was ok for a high falutin college dame.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So da trip down went just ducky and I got the mugs to their race expo in Kentucky, and while they ran around getting race numbers, chips, free junk and shirts from da Fleet Feet from Cynci Nitti, I went and paid my respects at da graves of Cynci and Frank Nitti.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a very moving ordeal, let me tell you, and I made sure I went back every chance I could over the next two days.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But anyways, for some reason da Flying Pug <place>Marathon</place> started across da river in <city><place>Cincinnati</place></city>, sos I had to get these mugs to their hotel over there, and then we went out to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was at some high falutin Italian place called Bippity Boppity Boom or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ate well and a good time was had by all, but da food was nothing like my dear old mama, “Big Rosie” Legatuna, could make.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh well, when in <city><place>Rome</place></city>, eat like da Romans do.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, now I had to get da mugs back to da hotel, cause da race was starting at <time hour="18" minute="30">6:30</time> in da AM, if yous knows what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most went right to sleep, except for Billy Bo Didley, who stayed up all night writing some top ten list or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Da others thought it was pretty funny, but it all kinda went right over my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m guessing Jonathan didn’t sleep much, what witt getting all that extra sleep the night before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But oily da next moining I got da runners loaded up, along witt da Pauls and Lisa Maly, and off we headed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For some reason they weren’t thrilled witt me stopping back in <state><place>Kentucky</place></state> to pay my respects at da graves again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still got da mugs to their race just in time, which was good, as they didn’t have to stand around for long in da cold rain that was coming down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Off they went into the cold windy morning, I dropped da others off at a coffee place, and headed back to da hotel for da others, but of course I went by way of <state><place>Kentucky</place></state>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yous just can’t pay too much respect to da dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After picking up Bill, Diane, and Susie, it was once more back to <state><place>Kentucky</place></state> before getting the Pauls and “Nervous Nelly” Lisa all to da finish area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a comment, da flying pugs on all da shirts looked more like pigs to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guess they couldn’t afford a good artist.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So Lisa, Susie and I waited for da crew to come in, but that wasn’t good enough for da others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They ran out to meet da runners, and “Uncle Chuck” ran in witt Chris, Miss Patricia and Diane ran in witt Lisa, And Bill ran in witt Billy Bo Didley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me tell yous, these mugs what ran the whole marathon did ok if yous ask me, what witt da cold conditions and all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They all broke four hours, and they were all pleased to have beat da time of some mug named Loncto, at least ways the time what he ran in da last Boston Marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He must be some kinda runner, what witt them using him as da role model to beat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyways, Chris ran a <time hour="15" minute="16">3:16</time>, followed by Jonathan in <time hour="15" minute="30">3:30</time>, Laura in <time hour="15" minute="39">3:39</time>, Mairead in <time hour="15" minute="44">3:44</time>, Lisa in <time hour="15" minute="45">3:45</time>, Billy Bo Didley in <time hour="15" minute="56">3:56</time>, as was Jack Rimlinger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not bad for a bunch of mugs as these guys was.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Being these mugs was as wet and cold as da weather outside, we headed right back to da hotel, skipping da party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wouldn’t even let me get back one more time to <state><place>Kentucky</place></state> to pay my respects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s da woild coming to anyways. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After da showers we headed back to <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had some tired mugs in da limo, some slept, some watched movies, some had a beer or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me tell yous, they all deserved it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a successful trip all around, if yous knows what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I got to pay my respects several times to Cynci and Frank Nitti.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-31733740256285917942011-07-18T07:24:00.000-07:002011-07-18T07:24:19.456-07:00Nugget #39Ah, the good old days when I ran no matter what.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Running with Wolves</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I never much liked winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hated going out into the cold, didn’t much like winter sports, and oh yeah, I HATED going out into the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a lad growing up smack-dab in the middle of <state><place>Minnesota</place></state>, and then moving to <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> when 16, that pretty much meant I never much liked upwards of nine months of the year.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But then I started running, and all that totally changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, I didn’t mind the cold so much as I started to experience so much that I had been missing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think what I came to appreciate the most was the beauty of nature, especially in winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I came to realize that, as I ran, I was experiencing things with my senses that most people were totally missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I became kind of smug about that, in fact I still feel that way.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How many get to experience the beauty of feeling you are the only person alive seeing the beauty of Forest Lawn in the early morning after a windless snowfall has left snow precariously balanced on every branch and twig in the cemetery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many times have you stopped while running in the country to watch a nearly frozen brook that is more beautiful than any postcard you have seen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the thrill of running around Delaware Park in glorious <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bitter cold sunshine, yet as you look to the south you see the line of nearly black clouds on the horizon, and you thank God you decided against going to Chestnut Ridge because you know it is getting two feet of snow.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My strongest memory of winter running goes way back to when I was training for my first <city><place>Boston</place></city> in 1974.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those days I ran my miles everyday no matter what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither snow, freezing rain, blizzards, my girl friend, nor time of day could stop me from getting my oh so many miles in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this time in my life I made my living as a substitute teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not much of a living in that, so that year I also worked delivering and picking up tax forms for 24 offices of a tax preparing firm that shall remain nameless, but whose initials are H&R B.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This endeavor would take me four hours, so that on days I also taught (or at least survived the kids) I would not get home till eight at night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet running I would go.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I would spend no time stretching in those days, but by the time I put on seven layers of cotton shirts and sweats, and four layers of long johns and sweatpants, usually with some old socks pinned inside the front to prevent frost-bite to certain delicate body parts (THANK GOODNESS for modern protective running wear), it would be 8:30 before I was out the door heading for eight laps around the Delaware Park Meadow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember that first January night clearly, for it was bitter, with no wind or clouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heading around the park with the snow crunching beneath my feet, I was totally alone with only my daydreams of winning the Boston Marathon to keep me going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Just as I was going by the zoo at Colvin, the nearby howl of a wolf shook me to my soul, for even as a boy growing up on the prairies of <state><place>Minnesota</place></state>, I had never heard such a terrifying sound, for wolves were long gone there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a sound it was, and what feelings it leaves one with when not expecting it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My next lap was probably the fastest I ever ran, and I was probably wondering how I would clean my long johns later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The wolf was still howling, perhaps at the moon, but as the laps flowed by, I got to look forward to going by the zoo and hearing my friend, for to me I made it a greeting from one solitary soul to another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the rest of that winter, the nights were more special if I heard the howl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was something I alone was experiencing out there in the cold darkness, and did I feel smug about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-80537152281925536802011-07-11T10:01:00.000-07:002011-07-11T10:01:28.053-07:00Nugget #38Here's a rather long recap of a vacation we took two years ago to my sister's place in Saint John, in Canada.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">The sticky Case of the Disappearing Syrup</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a dark and stormy night!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, to tell the truth, it wasn’t actually night, more like five of the o’clock in the afternoon, so it wasn’t really dark yet, but just not sunny out since there was a drizzling rain, the kind that makes you damp through and through, so I guess you could say it wasn’t stormy either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just always wanted to start a story like the first line I used in this tale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I guess to be truthful, it was a drizzly gray day when Diane (that’s my assistant and main squeeze who I take along with me on tough cases), and I set off by automobile, leaving the mean streets of Buffalo behind us, heading for the wide open expanses of Eastern Canada, that being Saint John, New Brunswick to be exact.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You see, I’m a Dick, that is to say, a private eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the day I work for the local natural gas company, keeping people in gas when they need it, or turning off the juice when the deadbeats decline to pay what’s owed my bosses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, a mild mannered Mr Gasman by day, but by night, I take on cases that prove to be too tough for the local flat feet to figure out, or maybe I just take on the tedious work of following some skirt because her old man don’t trust her and pays me to provide the proof of her indiscretions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rotten work, but it keeps providing me with enough whisky so I can wash the taste of the street out of my mouth each night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gotta get out of that unhealthy habit of licking the street every time I get out of my car.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Name’s Bill, but to my friends and enemies, of which I got many, I go by Gumshoe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nick-name actually goes back to a very embarrassing and painful time for me I’d rather not go into.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, let’s just say it had to do with my high school senior prom and me stepping on a big wad of gum on the dance floor and ending up with my foot stuck to the top front of my date’s dress and her being exposed for all the world to see and me running after her with the top half of her dress flopping behind me still stuck to my shoe thanks to the gum, but that’s all I’m going to say on that subject.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So anyways, the reason for us heading out towards Canada on that drizzly Saturday afternoon was that my sister, who goes by the name of Elizabeth, but who’s nickname is Gumshoe-Dress (since she was the dame what was my date at that prom so long ago, and I’ll never forgive my mom for making me take my little sister to my prom, nor will Elizabeth ever forgive my mom for her humiliation that night at the hands, or should I say foot, of her big brother, but that’s all I’m going to say on that subject), anyway, Elizabeth had thrown a big fat mystery my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that, for no reason them Mounties out there could figure out, all of New Brunswick was in the midst of an extremely severe shortage of maple syrup, and what with the biggest Canadian National holiday, which we all know is “Pancake Day, Eh”, coming up on the first Monday of September, people were understandably nervous about what a shortage of maple syrup would mean to the economy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Why, there was a very real fear they would be reduced to asking their big brother, the good old US of A to step in and declare all of <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region> the 51<sup>st</sup> state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a bad thing for them, if you was to ask me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First off, they would get a bailout like everyone else here, plus they could stop using their play money, and stop carrying around so much darn change but rather be able to stuff their wallets with paper dollar bills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, they can finally tell what the weather outside is because they would use real temperatures for reporting the weather (imagine thinking 30 degrees is a hot day), and distances would get shorter using miles instead of kilometers (it’s much easier running just six miles instead of all of ten kilometers). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The advantages are endless I tell you, while the one advantage to the US of A is we would have more English speaking Americans to off-set all those Latinos here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, there is the problem of all them Frenchies, but I figure we could just ship em all off to <state><place>PEI</place></state> and declare that a <place>Third World</place> <place>Island</place> nation.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So anyways again, what with me being the big hearted magnanimous guy I like to think of myself as being, off we head, taking two and a half days to traverse the <metricconverter productid="900 miles">900 miles</metricconverter> to get to my sister’s lair, which actually sits right on the shore of the gorgeous Saint John River in Grand Bay-Westfield, Canada, just outside of Saint John, a city what’s seen more than it’s fair share of hard times, and the maple syrup shortage wasn’t helping.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So me and my main squeeze Diane arrive at the abode of my sister just in time for some much needed grub and relaxation before taking on the case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are greeted at the door by Elizabeth, who I thinks ekes out a living teaching little brats to deal in black-market pottery and other various arty-types of endeavors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is with her main squeeze, her brand new ball and chain who goes by the name of Phil Nelson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A big, strapping hunk of Canadian manhood, Phil makes his living on the high seas, just like most of his ancestors, going back to his Great, Great Uncle Admiral Lord Nelson, the famous British slave trader.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My sister proceeded to fill us in on what was happening with the maple syrup case while filling our bellies with a delectable seafood chowder, made with bits of seafood that I suspect was hand caught by Phil on one of his recent expeditions on the high seas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After getting our fill of both food and information, it was down to the shore to watch the stars, drink mass quantities of <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>’s national sport drink, which goes by the name of Schooner, and just shoot the breeze and catch up on the goings on of our family and friends, those few who remain above the sod.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The watch on my wrist told me it was time to stop flapping our gums and hit the sack, that and Diane’s snoring in the beach chair next to mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, but I’m saying it since this is my narrative; I was tossing and turning all night with visions of poor Canadian brats going maple syrupless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to solve this case before we had a country full of squealing rug rats not able to keeps up with USA kids in the obesity race because they aint getting their daily fix of pancakes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The next dawn found me wide awake, and over that first cup of joe, I found out Elizabeth had to get into town to run her weekly water-boarding class, a little side gig she had going to keep her in enough whisky to help wash the taste of the street out of her mouth every night (she had that same darn habit of licking the street I did-I think we inherited it from our great uncle Frances who died at a young age when he wasn’t looking while licking the street in front of his house and he got himself squashed flat by a street sweeper).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I decided Diane and I should tag along, as I learned long ago, you find clues to a mystery in the craziest places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I call this class water-boarding, because that’s what the local yahoos call this perverse form of torture my sister dishes out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><city><place>Elizabeth</place></city> likes to call it water-aerobics, but after giving it a whirl, I’ll go with what them locals who see it for what it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So we arrived bright and early at the work out joint in the heart of <city><place>Saint John</place></city>, a pretty nice place since it was built for the Canada Games of a few years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was an Olympic size pool, that by my calculations, must have been frozen over for the games, since ice hockey and curling are the only games Canadians know how to play, as far as I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So this is a senior class that’s to last 45 minutes, and looking over the group as they were putting on their floatation devices, I’m thinking this will be a breeze, kind of treading water for the better part of an hour while these old timers struggle to just stay afloat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">You see, Diane and I consider ourselves to be in pretty good shape thanks to all the running and bicycling we do, and this group of 70 to 80 year-olds didn’t look to be in too good a shape, if you know what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what I mean is while they came in all shapes and sizes, the majority size was somewhere between large and whoa-mamma, look out below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, they didn’t let these dames jump into the pool for fear the tsunami they would create would wash the kids in the other end of the pool right out into the street and on into the Bay of Fundy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they was all dames, other than me and this old codger who limped into the pool area with a cane.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m standing there licking my lips, thinking that during this easy workout I can keep my eye on all these dames and maybe get an idea about the maple syrup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then I notice one skirt in particular who had a smirk on her face that sent shivers down my spine as if the iceberg that sank the Titanic was giving me a back rubdown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To say she was big would be a gross understatement, why that dame looked like a rhino on steroids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weighing in at least 375 if she weighed an ounce, her bathing suit looked like a circus tent on steroids, and she was 85 years old if she was a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had on a most colorful bathing cap that looked like a bowl of Fruit Loops on steroids, and as she eased herself into the water, the pool level rose and began to gently overflow the sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her name was Gertrude Starchesski, or just plain Gerti to her friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided, for my own well being, to keep from getting between her and the side of the pool.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So now we’re all in the deep end of the pool, not able to touch bottom, and Elizabeth, who is safely out of the pool, starts us off easy, she says, with running in place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m telling you, a minute of this and I’m looking forward to the end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But no, now she picks up the pace, having us go through all sorts of routines, a minute at a time, all the while narrating what we should be imagining what our arms and legs are doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pumping your legs like you’re crushing grapes into wine, then moving them so fast that your creating bubbles like you’re in a hot tub (I just expelled a bit of gas for the same effect, but then Gerti smacked my head for doing it, so it was back to work crushing the grapes), then it was scissor kicks from the waist down, keeping your legs straight, imagining you’re slicing butter for chocolate chip cookies, and now I’m sweating and I sees that Diane is struggling to keep her head above water, and after what seems like a half hour of this water boarding, she says to ease off back to a running in place for one minute and I finally spot a clock on the wall and am dismayed to see we are only three minutes into the drill and Diane is already floating on her back and I’m thinking of joining her when Elizabeth says alright, let’s intensify, and I’m thinking of quitting but then I see Gerti with that smirk on her face and I just have to keep going.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So it’s off to work we go, and now we are scissor kicking again, you know the drill, slicing butter for the cookies, but I notice that while everyone else is making a swish-swish sound, I notice Gerti’s swish-swish sound sounds more like a swish-swish sound on steroids, sorta like <b>SWOOOSH-SWOOOSH.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also notice that, besides that dang awful smirk on her mug, she has her hands above water wiggling her fingers, while I’m desperately using my arms in the water to stay afloat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then <city><place>Elizabeth</place></city> says in fifteen seconds we will all intensify by putting our hand above our heads and wiggle our fingers for one minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thirty seconds in I’m sucking in water, and I see Diane is floating face down in the water, and all I hear is <b>SWOOOSH-SWOOOSH,</b> and I try to rouse Diane, but she gives me the stink-eye and tells me to leave her alone while she naps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">At this point the other guy in the class gets out, tells <city><place>Elizabeth</place></city> his hip is bothering him, and limps off with his cane (I later see him running down the street to catch a bus, no cane anywhere in sight, so I’m on to him, but that doesn’t help me at the time).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, after what seems like four hours, and thousands of <b>SWOOOSH-SWOOOSHES</b> later, the class mercifully comes to an end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other dames give my sister a round of applause in appreciation if you can believe that, but I’m busy trying to find Diane at the bottom of the pool, and I get her to the surface none too late.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">By the time I have enough energy to get out of the floatation devise, most everyone else is long gone, so I stagger to the locker room, and being quite out of it, I lurch into it and round the corner into the shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine my shock to see Gerti there, wearing only what God gave her, except fortunately she was totally lathered up, but with that smirk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first deduction was what the H E double hockey sticks was she doing in the men’s shower, but then it hits me like a ton of bricks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m in the ladies shower, so I skedaddled out of there and made my way to where I belonged, showered and got the H E double hockey sticks out of that workout joint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, I was no closer to solving the mystery of the maple syrup. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So the rest of the day I was too tired to look for clues, so it was back to my sister’s digs to recover from the water boarding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a while of feeling like I’d been in the ring with Mohammad Ali for fifteen rounds, with me getting the worst of it, <city><place>Elizabeth</place></city> says it’s time to head back into town for a track workout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite Diane’s protestations, I figure it’s the best way to meet some new mugs and maybe rustle up some evidence as to what’s going on here, maple syrup wise. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So off we meander into <city><place>Saint John</place></city> heading for the local track where these masochists head when they wants to suffer the pleasures of tough running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hot (I don’t care the temperature says 28 degrees, it don’t take no private dick to know it’s way above freezing) and it’s muggy, but we get right down to business and start warming up with laps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s plenty of runners here, and as far as I am concerned, everyone of them’s a suspect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">There’s Marta, a dame with a pretty mug and a quick laugh, but all that sweetness just smells of maple syrup to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the two guys running so fast I figure they gotta be running from something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what about Alex, who owns a running store that would be the perfect cover for moving hot maple syrup.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Along about 5:30, just as the shadows of the trees would be giving us some welcome shade if it weren’t raining out and there then could be shadows, along comes the coach of these here suspects, a cat that goes by the name of Darryl, aka Coach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mug has on a sports coat and slacks and an easy going manner that cries out ring leader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We gather round him like a pack of jackals around a dead zebra, waiting for words of wisdom, or at least to find out what the workout’s to be.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">With a demonic glint to his eyes and a wicked grin, he simply declares today we are doing Crazy Eights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When everyone groans and starts looking for rocks to throw at him, I deduce we’re in for a long and hard evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I deduced right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what’s with this “we” business, he had on a sports jacket, slacks, and an umbrella no less.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The workout consisted of us doing <metricconverter productid="800 meter">800 meter</metricconverter> runs, and with just a minute rest between them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After finishing each, coach would tell us how to run the next, which could be the first 200 all out, followed by a moderate 400, followed by another all out 200.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we gulped for air, he would give us another variation of what to run, and off we ran, 800 after 800.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally after running somewhere less than 40 of these (I lost count because of pain) but more than six, he said the last one was to be a full out time trial for <metricconverter productid="800 meters">800 meters</metricconverter>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m moving along, going as ok as one can while gasping for air, being passed by Phil, then Elizabeth running with Marta, followed by Diane, and even Coach passed me by, smiling and keeping the rain off his sports jacket and slacks by holding up his umbrella, yelling to me he needed to jog one 800 just to get his blood flowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, with <metricconverter productid="200 meters">200 meters</metricconverter> to go, behind me I hear <b>SWOOOSH-SWOOOSH-SWOOOSH,</b> and sure enough, who passes me but Gerti, slicing the butter with her scissor kicks, hands above her head while wiggling her fingers, and with a smirk on her face as she went by.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">After that workout, it was back to <city><place>Elizabeth</place></city>’s dwelling, where we partook of some mighty fine carrot soup she whipped up, along with a mess of grilled corn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it was down to the shore for some much needed Schooner, which, if you recall is <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>’s national sports drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a massive number of bottles of Canada’s national sports drink, which is called Schooner, and after much reflection on how the day went, which as of then hadn’t yielded many clues, just a lot of suspects, I hit the sack reflecting on how the H E double hockey sticks was I going to survive three more days here after barely making it through the first day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The sunshine pried my eyes open about <time hour="8" minute="30">8:30</time> in the AM, and after a couple cups of java, I checked my vitals and found I was still alive, if just barely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was going to have to take a different track if I ever wanted to see <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we planned a shindig for that evening to be held at my sister’s pad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured this would kill three birds with one stone, as the saying should go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, Diane and I volunteered to get the supplies in town, which would give me a chance to case the joint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Second, the party would bring together under one roof most of the suspects, and what with plying them with a lot of Canada’s national sports drink, which is called Schooner, I might get someone to inadvertently spill the beans, as those of us in the private dick business say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the third bird killed with that proverbial rock you may ask?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why, that bird would be keeping Elizabeth from killing me with any more workouts that day, as we had to spend time preparing for the party.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">That afternoon we found we had the preparations for the party well in hand, so I suggested we go on the river to case things out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I always say, you never know where you might find a clue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So Diane and Elizabeth take out a couple kayaks to search the shores, while Phil and I took on the more rigorous job of searching the river far and wide in their boat, which they named the Zodiac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It actually looks like a kids wading pool on steroids, and is powered by a Mercury outboard motor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking along some of <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>’s national sports drink, called Schooner, we search high and low along the treacherous <place>Saint John River</place>, but to no avail.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So now we got ready for the party, and what a blast it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The food was great, the night beautiful, and the Canadian national sports drink, called Schooner, flowed freely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many suspects were there, but the couple that really caught my attention went by the aliases of Earl and Gina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This couple had some strange ways about them that cried out “suspect!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Take for example this little ditty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They want to take a trip to <state><place>Hawaii</place></state>, but they feel they need a reason to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what do they do, you ask?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why, they enter this event called the Iron Man Triathlon, which, if you can believe it, involves a competition in which one swims two and a half miles in open water, then rides a bike for <metricconverter productid="112 miles">112 miles</metricconverter>, followed by running a marathon, and all in one day, and all one right after the other. To get to the Iron Man in <state><place>Hawaii</place></state>, you have to do this somewhere else to qualify, and we won’t even go into how much it costs to enter one of these events, let alone the cost of equipment and time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My goodness, just use your air miles and be on your way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But more on them two suspects later.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">After a bit Phil built a bonfire, which I figured was a good subterfuge, as it would put everyone at ease, and maybe make someone open up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he threw a match on the wood, it exploded in a huge ball of fire, and we had an instant bonfire, and a beautiful time was had by all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I mentioned to Phil how amazingly fast Canadian wood caught fire, he told me he used a liquid accelerant to help it along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I later learned he had poured vast quantities of <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>’s national sports drink, called Schooner, onto the wood for this purpose. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We spent the evening flapping our gums, and I, in my most subtle manner, brought up the topic I most wanted to scrutinize, that being the maple syrup shortage, but I wanted to do it without raising suspicion of my intended motive, which was to figure out which one of these wise guys was the guilty party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a way so as not to arouse their suspicion or to put them on guard, I simply threw out: “So, which one of you birds is responsible for the disappearing maple syrup?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t try to be coy with me now, I got my ways of finding out, so the guilty party may as well spill the beans now!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And with that the party quickly dissolved as the suspects all scurried away to their dens of iniquity, throwing out the usual lame excused such as they had to go to work in the morning, or in the case of Earl and Gina, they had to get up at 3:10 in the morning to do their two kilometer training swim in the river before biking <metricconverter productid="100 kilometers">100 kilometers</metricconverter> (see, <metricconverter productid="62 miles">62 miles</metricconverter> would sure would be shorter) after which they had to run <metricconverter productid="20 kilometers">20 kilometers</metricconverter> to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A likely story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dragged myself up to bed for another night of tossing and turning, trying to make sense of all I had learned at the party, which was that <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>’s national sports drink, called Schooner, sure makes a good fire accelerant. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">After dragging my sorry self out of the sack at 7:30, and drinking several dozen cups of joe in order to clear the cobwebs out of my head, Elizabeth decided we might make headway into finding clues by closely examining the roadways of Grand Bay-Westfield, and what better way to do it than to run seven miles in what felt like 90 degree temperature, even though the thermometer at my sisters place said it was only 30 degrees out, so I was wearing sweats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those sweats, plus imbibing of too much fire accelerant, also called Schooner, the night before, made for a rough run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Add to that the many hills we ran (I heard that the word Brunswick, as in New Brunswick, was a French Canadian word that meant friggin’ hills) I was a bit worn out and didn’t pick up many clues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So after a great breakfast of omelets and bacon <city><place>Elizabeth</place></city> whipped up, we relaxed until a lunch of grilled burgers were whipped up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now of course we had to work off all the food, so off we went on a <metricconverter productid="16.6 mile">16.6 mile</metricconverter> bike ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wanted to ride <metricconverter productid="30 kilometers">30 kilometers</metricconverter>, but I convinced them I was only up for the miles since they were fewer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was still only 31 degrees out, so I was bundled up in even extra sweats, and did I work up a sweat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mountains we were riding on didn’t help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I mention that <city><place>Brunswick</place></city> is the French Canadian word for friggin’ high hills?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course Diane had to be a show off as to what great shape she was in, so she used this special device she has which puts pressure against her rear tire so she has to pedal much harder than us, and of course she beat us all in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing like a dame who has to always be showing us guys up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Well that evening we had another spectacular dinner by the shore of the beautiful <place>Saint John River</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why, we had grilled shrimp and grilled corn and pasta, washed down with <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>’s national sports drink, called Schooner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it hits me as the sun was soon to go down, lets go out on the river and try to catch the maple syrup culprits red handed, as by now I figured whatever was going on had to be done under the cover of darkness, probably on the water, since even I hadn’t been able to figure out this caper. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So we loaded up the Zodiac with life vests and a supply of <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>’s national sports drink, called Schooner, for Elizabeth, Diane and myself, and off we went with Phil handling the big Mercury and doing the steering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time the sun had almost set we reached out destination, a small tributary to the big river that was about two miles west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Going in we passed great masses of the water reed they call goose tongue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now it’s my understanding, after doing much deductive research, that this reed is called goose tongue because it is edible, and when prepared properly, it can taste quite a bit like the famous Canadian national dish, which is fried Canadian goose tongue, which is usually served with pancakes, and with “Pancake Day, Eh” coming soon, there are a lot of very quiet Canadian geese <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>flying about the skies of New Brunswick, and it’s sort of a case of “cat’s got your tongue”, if you know what I mean.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So it’s getting dark, but we’re seeing bald eagles and ospreys circling above, and now and then we pass beaver huts, and we even see the occasional beaver right before it slaps its tail in warning and disappears beneath the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We go deeper and deeper into the tributary, and it’s getting so dark we can hardly see. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly we see a dark shape ahead, and as we get close it slaps the water with its tail and goes under, another beaver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But close by is a very strange shape in the water, and as we near it, there are guesses of it being a porcupine or perhaps a deer, or as Elizabeth said, after enough Canadian national sports drink, called Schooner, it might even be a porcupine on a dears head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we get close it submerges, and Phil explains that it was just another beaver, and it looked so strange because it was carrying a large amount of leaves to its den to eat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I wasn’t buying it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of my highly trained deductive powers I saw and heard things they missed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First off, this so called beaver did not slap its tail on the water before submerging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Second, even though it was very dark out, what looked like leaves to Phil, with my eagle-like vision I saw something much more colorful, more like a bowl of Fruit Loops on steroids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, and when I saw a pair of hands sticking up above the waters, wiggling it’s fingers, I was almost certain, but what nailed it for me was that, even above the roar of the Mercury outboard motor, I could hear, thanks to my ultra sensitive audible range, the <b>SWOOOSH-SWOOOSH-SWOOOSH</b> as if someone was slicing butter for chocolate chip cookies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Only one creature with an MO like that, Gerti, but I knew enough to keep my observations to myself, so I did suggest we head back as it was pitch black out and a fog was starting to settle in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So back we went, and as Phil fired up another bonfire, my mind was racing, putting together all the clues I had just gathered out on the dark waters of the mighty Saint John River. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another night of tossing and turning lay ahead of me, but that’s just what I do best.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The next morning dawned sunny but bitter cold, with the temperature hovering around 31 degrees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had my parka on and was toasty warm; in fact I was sweating buckets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After more delicious omelets, we decided to try a new track, since this was to be our last full day in this beautiful area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We decided to check out an area we hadn’t searched yet, so we went to the Irving Nature Preserve, for which the big oil and gas company from this area must have been named.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city><place>Elizabeth</place></city> wanted to hike eight kilometers, but I was so exhausted I insisted on only doing five miles, which turned out to be how long the trail we followed around the island was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a rugged path with many ups and downs, since this was <state><place>New Brunswick</place></state>, and we all know what the word <city><place>Brunswick</place></city> means in French.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The view was spectacular, the wildlife awe-inspiring, and the cold breeze off the <place>Bay of Fundy</place> was invigorating, but we found no new evidence to the mystery. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We had to get home to rest up for a busy evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It started with a visit to Earl and Gina’s abode, which was high, high up a very high French Brunswick behind where <city><place>Elizabeth</place></city> lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have a stunning view of the river, but any time these two kooks go out running or biking from home, they end with an amazingly, excruciating climb to the end of their workout.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We had had enough of the Canadian national sports drink, called Schooner, and the two of them offered us wine or his homemade beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a nice change, but during our visit I had to eliminate the both of them as suspects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, at first they seemed to be so serious, what with all their training, and that, in my book, made them very suspicious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But being at their house with them, I found them to be just a couple of very playful little minx with each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before he got his homemade brew out of the refrigerator, I saw Gina shaking it up violently, and when he opened it, the look on his face as it spewed all over was priceless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost as priceless as when she tried to drink her wine from the special dribble glass he substituted for her original glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh how they both laughed as wine dribbled down her outfit and onto the brand new counter top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, much too playful to be suspects. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We had a blast there, but soon made our way to Leo’s Italian Restaurant, which specialized in Thai food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very good, but strange, which is why we cased the joint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No luck there either, so finally it was back to the beach in front of <city><place>Elizabeth</place></city>’s place to gaze at the many stars and watch the meteor shower going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the perfect end to our trip, but disappointing in that we had failed to solve the dilemma of the missing maple syrup, or so I thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">After sleeping soundly, and a breakfast of strawberry pancakes, covered with a bit of maple syrup Phil obtained on the black market that exists on the high seas, Diane and I packed up and bid a sad farewell, for despite the disappointment of not solving the case, we had had a most amazing visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While driving away along route seven, I spotted a shop I had totally overlooked before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the Grand Bay-Westfield-St John, New Brunswick Canadian House of Pancakes, or GBWSJNBC-HOP for short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">When I saw the sign in front promising an all-you-can eat pancake bar with maple syrup for only $25 Canadian (that’s $1.13 US currency), I had to stop and check it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was entering, I could see the back of the pancake bar, and it blocked my view, but what I heard stunned me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard a voice in sing-song mode singing “slicing the butter, pouring the syrup” over and over, accompanied by the rhythmic <b>SWOOOSH-SWOOOSH-SWOOOSH </b>of two large but very powerful legs, and it hit me like a ton of bricks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I didn’t waste a minute, but we drove straight to the nearest Mounties station, I found a bloke in a red uniform on his horse, gave him my information, and off he went, and off we went, shuffling off to <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We made it in two days, and a couple bits of news awaited us when we arrived home.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The first was that Gerti had been apprehended, and “Pancake Day, Eh” was saved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took ten Mounties to nab her, and she fought hard and furiously when she realized they would be depriving her of her beloved pancake bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, three Mounties and two of their mounts were seriously injured and had to be sent to the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One victim, Sergeant Joe Friday, said he was squeezed by her legs, and it was if giant scissors were trying to slice the butter to make chocolate chip cookies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just wanted to get hold of whoever got this woman’s legs into such great shape.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The other bit of news was <city><place>Elizabeth</place></city> finally sent us wedding pictures from the July ceremony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Phil did look so very handsome in his suit, and <city><place>Elizabeth</place></city> looked positively radiant in her wedding dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had, in order to save money, worn the dress she wore to the prom with me so many years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had repaired it quite nicely, but she could not get my shoe unstuck from the front of her dress, so she used it to hold her bouquet, and it worked beautifully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That shoe was the right half of the best pair of penny-loafers I ever owned, but that’s all I’m going to say on that subject. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; 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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-53505051704772732222011-07-04T05:59:00.000-07:002011-07-04T05:59:24.478-07:00Nugget #37So last weeks blog was about the joys of training for the Boston Marathon here in Buffalo, NY during a typicaal winter. That happened to be written just before the 2004 Boston, and what transpired at that year's Boston sometimes just seems so normal for us long suffering Buffalonians. Read on:<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">That summer feeling!</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">When first we met, I was writing about the joys of training through a particularly cold Buffalo Winter with friends who were planning to run a spring marathon. Most were preparing for the Boston Marathon, which was held on Monday, April 19.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Wouldn’t you know it, after training in all that miserable freezing weather, the officials in charge of the Boston Marathon apparently struck a deal with the Devil himself, and imported excess heat from the nether regions of Hades. Just for good measure, old Lucifer threw in strong winds that came straight out of all the pizza ovens in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>. Wow, what a scorcher that Monday turned into!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Fortunately for me, I wasn’t running in this year’s race, but I was there to cheer on my friends, and to share with them in their success. I also wanted to enjoy a few barely-malt beverages while all of them were hydrating on water and Gatorade.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">At the 1976 Boston Marathon the temperature was 96 degrees at the start, and that race was called “the run for the hoses” for obvious reasons. There was a sea breeze that year, so the last few miles were run in much cooler 60 degree temperatures, but of course the damage was already done. About 40% of those runners did not finish. This year it was 83 at the beginning, got as high as 87, and was still 85 degrees at the finish line. The strong hot tail wind just made things worse.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">As I waited at the <metricconverter productid="25 mile">25 mile</metricconverter> mark by <place><placename>Fenway</placename> <placetype>Park</placetype></place>, I quickly realized I wouldn’t see any of my friends come by in the times they had hoped to run. What, you ask, tipped me off besides the heat and my amazing powers of reasoning? The Kenyans, those bird-like creatures from the hot continent who had dominated <city><place>Boston</place></city> for fifteen years, were struggling mightily. What chance did the penguin-like creatures from the cold planet of <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> have? As most people know, the city of <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> was not named after the beasts of the plains, but rather it was the Seneca Indians who named the area with the word that meant to them “Gosh, I wish we could move to <city><place>Miami</place></city> for the winter!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">When the crowds began to pass me, I had trouble picking everyone out. I finally spotted Tom Appenheimer at <time hour="15" minute="40">3:40</time> into the race with a mile to go. He is much faster than that. Dan Loncto, a potential three hour marathoner came by at 3:50, and Diane McGuire came by with Bob Honan on pace for a 4:23 marathon, over 40 minutes behind what they were capable of. Rhea Tard’s time of 4:28 was just behind her sister-in-law Leah, and they were both behind Leah’s brother and Rhea’s Husband, Must (a Scandinavian name, I believe). </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">A few runners such as Fred Lew, Jennifer Hulme, Heather Patterson, Maureen LaChiusa, and Pattie Paul could feel good about their run as they were all within a half hour of what they had hoped to do. Then there were those such as Heather’s husband, Kevin, who finished, but ended up in the medical tent with an IV in his arm for two hours. The thing all these runners had in common was that they were all victorious just for finishing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Perhaps the best performance of the day belonged to Dick Sullivan, the 75 year old Founder of the Belle Watling AC, and who was running his 29<sup>th</sup> Boston Marathon. It is said that when he ran his first, the official starter was Paul Revere. I’m not sure that this is true, but it was away back in 1973 that he first toed the starting line for <city><place>Boston</place></city>. Having run 28 straight Bostons, he had run his last in 2000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He qualified for this year’s race with a <time hour="16" minute="45">4:45</time> last May. I must say I was a bit worried about him as the other runners staggered past me. I shouldn’t have worried. I didn’t see him go by, but when next I saw him, he was smiling to beat the band. He broke five hours by a few seconds and he was feeling pretty darn good. With Sully, it was the old Irish saying: “May the road rise up to meet your feet, and may you reach the finish line before the Devil knows you ran.” Well, it’s something like that. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-2878678125172432782011-06-27T11:33:00.000-07:002011-06-27T11:33:58.636-07:00Nugget #36I wrote the following back in 2004 just before the Boston Marathon, which I did not run, but which my wife, Diane, did. Next nugget will be the results of that race. Nothing like winter marathon training in Buffalo.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">The Joys of Winter Marathon Training</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Spring is in the air and runners by the boatload are out enjoying the warm breeze and sunshine upon their faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you happen to be out and about in the city of <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> on Sunday, May 30, you may see hundreds of runners challenging themselves as they try to finish all 26.2 miles of the Buffalo Marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I write this, many of my friends are poised to run the same distance in Boston on Monday, April 19 in the world famous Boston Marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And many of you may think to yourself, what crazy people, running that far at once, what an accomplishment!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t know the half of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just to get to the point of being able to complete a spring marathon such as these two, one has to put in many months and many more miles of training just to reach that goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tough for anyone, but I think even tougher for Buffalonians than for most other runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I have been training with many friends for these races, and as a matter of fact, I may run the Buffalo Marathon, I know the hardships they all faced to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I’m going to try to convey to you what it takes to run a springtime marathon, just in case you ever might think of doing one, or at least to give you a better understanding as to what these amazing, courageous, and idiotic people go through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Training through a <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> winter?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Running most every day, going out in sub-zero weather at eight o’clock in the morning (which means getting up by six) to run sixteen or more miles into the wind and snow, with poor footing because it snowed six inches the night before, and gee whiz, the Buffalo snowplows haven’t quite gotten around to clearing the streets this Sunday morning when most people are sleeping in!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But let me tell you about the joys of running, as there must be some, for most of these runners have done it many times before, and will assuredly continue to train for spring marathons.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dick Sullivan, the 75 year old Founder of the Belle Watling A.C. running club, will be running his 29<sup>th</sup> Boston Marathon this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His teammate Jack Meegan will be doing his 25<sup>th</sup> <city><place>Boston</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The list goes on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve run seven Bostons, starting back in 1974, taking a break after 1979, but for some reason getting back into it so that I ran <city><place>Boston</place></city> the last three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not running this year, but I’ve been training with many friends who are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What makes us do it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surely not <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>’s winter wonderland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is it? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let me explain a bit about the running boom before I go on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in the Day, or during the first running boom during the 1970s, most runners were marathoners, and we were extremely competitive, running 100 mile weeks even during the winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first <city><place>Boston</place></city> in 1974 had 1700 runners, which was considered a lot then. My best time of <time hour="14" minute="34">2:34</time> in <city><place>Boston</place></city> in 1975 placed me 181st out of 2000 runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last year there were 17,000 runners, and a time of <time hour="14" minute="34">2:34</time> would have been in the top 100, and that is true of the last five Boston Marathons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are way more people running marathons now, and plenty are darned competitive, but more are in it for a healthier lifestyle kind of thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If training in a <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> winter can be called healthy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back in the 1970s, we pretty much just ran the miles, getting in speed when a group of us got together, and the testosterone took over and we were soon flying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was pretty much every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can say testosterone because there were very few women running back then, locally you could count them on one hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now the figures are pretty even, and I say, viva la figures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now every one runs more like 40 to 50 mile weeks, but usually using a training method much smarter then we used to use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Testosterone just aint all that great!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So let’s finally get to the winter training that we do today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just talking marathons since I’m still crazy enough to keep running them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today there are so many more runners who go in for the shorter distances, and I say more power to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, they too train through the <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> winter, just not as many miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now a few people do some of there training on a treadmill, but for a imagination-impaired klutz like me, it’s just too boring, and being a klutz, I’m deathly afraid of a misstep, which often results in one flying off the back of said treadmill and landing face-first into the back wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happened to me the second time (and last time) I used this terrible invention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Others like to run indoors on tracks like the one at the <place><placename>Flickinger</placename> <placetype>Center</placetype></place> at ECC downtown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now this provides a nice warm place to run if you don’t mind keeping track of the laps, which are nine per mile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not bad if running only two or three miles, but try getting up in the miles, you will get dizzy, confused, and nauseous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take the case of the two runners who last winter ran 21 miles together up there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t name names, but when my brother Tom and his girlfriend Julie Doell ran those 189 laps, they were not right in the head for months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that I think of it, they’re still not!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So anyway, nowadays I train with a group through Fleet Feet, the running store on <street><address>Elmwood Ave.</address></street><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s owned by my old friend from days of running together for <place><placename>Buffalo</placename> <placetype>State</placetype></place>, Dan Loncto, and he’s been putting on this training program for about three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He uses <place><placetype>University</placetype> of <placename>Buffalo</placename></place> track coach Vicki Mitchell, who is an excellent runner in her own right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She puts together an amazingly comprehensive program, taking into account a person’s ability, experience, and the marathon they are training for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The program has grown each half year (they do it for fall marathons too, and training through a <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> summer is a whole different article) and the crowd she has to work with this time around is 110 nuts, er, runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite a task for the coach, but we have to do the workouts.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We get together each Sunday at eight in the morning for the long runs, and many get together mid-week for the speed work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to the <u>Buffalo News</u> Runner of the Year race schedule, the racing season ends with the Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day (the oldest continuously run race in <place>North America</place>) and starts with the Shamrock run in early March.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We marathoners must keep up our mileage throughout this period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through December we try to keep running between 35 and 45 miles, not tough through that warm month of December.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then comes January and the training program starts, and this winter, as you Buffalonians know, was very cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yow!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Again, I won’t name names, so I will give my running partners fictitious names, ones that fit their personality and mentality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran with my posse of one guy, Rufus Leaking, and the sisters Leah and Rhea Tard., and newcomer Warren Pease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That first Sunday, January 4th, we ran 8.3 miles, giving me 42 miles for the week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We built from there, hitting ten miles in zero degrees wind-chill the next week, and 10.5 in snow and cold the next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On January 25th, the sun was out and there was little wind, as we ran 12 miles on the hills of Chestnut Ridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, did I mention it was -8 degrees when we started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that sun was wonderful.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now it’s getting colder and I ran 52 miles for the next week, and our Wed. speed workouts are ten miles or more in horrific conditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On February 8th we ran 14 miles in 10 degree weather, and then came our first race of the year, a <city><place>Boston</place></city> tune-up out in <city><place>Lockport</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a ten mile race in the area the Seneca Indians used to call Na-ga-winda-inna-facea-alla-wayga, which simply translated means “one heck of a cold and windy day if it’s early February.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was chilly, with a good deal of wind, but the worst part is the finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whoever planned this course thought it would be funny to have a long, steep hill right before the finish!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ha Ha guys, we get the joke, now could you please get rid of the hill!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now we are building up the mileage, as the next week the Fleet Feet group ran 17 miles in the cold and snowy wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next Sunday, which happened to be February 29, it was sunny and warm, which meant it was above 32 degrees, and we ran another 17 miles, getting 45 for the week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now we get to the Shamrock Run, an 8 K, or basically 5 mile race with one heck of a party afterwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those who could, it was on to Chestnut Ridge for 18 the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must say, the Irish in me got the better of me, and I couldn’t quite make it to the Ridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><time hour="8" minute="0">Eight o’clock</time> came too early that day!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now we are getting serious, running sixteen the next weekend, but mostly at marathon pace, which in laymen’s terms means fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the crew decided to run at Chestnut Ridge on March 21st at <time hour="12" minute="0">noon</time>, to get used to hills, since <city><place>Boston</place></city> has many hills, at <time hour="12" minute="0">noon</time> since the Boston Marathon starts at <time hour="12" minute="0">noon</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since it was late March, the weather should be ok for running 20 miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was 20 degrees and almost a blizzard out there, one of the toughest runs any of them ever did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, I was stuck out in <city><place>San Diego</place></city>, Calf. that day, running in shorts and a tee-shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Darn it to Heck!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should have sent them a post card.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally getting there, the last tune-up for some of the runners, the Around the Bay race in <place><city>Hamilton</city>, <state>Ontario</state></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just 30 K, or 18.6 miles, with one hell of a hill right near the end. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Must have been designed by those same witty people who planned the <city><place>Lockport</place></city> ten miler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So after three months of running 40 or 50 plus miles a week in horrendously tough, freezing conditions, it’s time to start winding down for the Boston Marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now to cut back the miles and rest up to get mentally ready to run the 26.2 miles, which is all most spectators will see you do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we know better. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-38171509499519116472011-06-20T12:12:00.000-07:002011-06-20T12:12:15.813-07:00Nugget # 35Ah, it's good to be done with traveling for a good long time. Two short (short in days away, not distance) trips on airlines with stops in Chicago, and three out of four travel days involved long delays. Here in Buffalo we expect delays when we travel in the winter, but not in May and June. Yet the delays were weather related, so who says climate change isn't happening. Anyway, here's a short piece I wrote back in 2004 about a friend of mine who was doing a few pieces for the local NPR station. Oh yeah, Rich did finish the marathon, and many races since.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">When the “FOG” rolled in</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Anytime you see an ad for a fitness center, all they show you are people working out who have bodies to die for. Go to see a movie or watch a television show, and it’s likely to be more of the same. Magazines usually only make matters worse, more pictures of people who look absolutely like no one any of us have ever known. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I hang out with runners who put in 40 plus miles a week, and I know no one who has a perfect body, at least the type of body the media bombards us with constantly. That is, no one other than my girlfriend, Diane. Figured I better slip that in just in case she reads this article.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It is no wonder this country spends so much money on losing weight through diet programs and diet pills and diet whatever. But let’s face it; few people will ever reach the “Ideal” body, and how many have tried losing weight just to gain it all back, and then some. It takes exercise also to keep that weight off! It’s just that a lot of people are too intimidated to get out there to start a workout program when so many around them who are working out are already fit. And it takes a lot of effort to stick with it to reach your goal.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Back on a Wednesday evening in the early spring, or as it can be around here, the late winter, I started to run with the Fleet Feet training group. We get together on these evenings just to share in the misery of the cold snowy run, or help to each other through a speed workout. One guy really stood out before the run, because he was big. I don’t mean tall, or big boned, or famous, or important, or, well, he was fat! </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The guy just didn’t fit in, but I gave him credit for trying, and I gave him a couple weeks, maybe three of showing up. Well, he kept showing up, and if I missed a run or two, he’d ask me where I had been. Heck, I hadn’t even asked his name for a while, figuring I wouldn’t know him long.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My bad! Finally, after a couple months, as we were finishing a run, I asked him his name, and how much he was running besides on Wednesdays. First off, he was running a lot more than I expected. Second, his name was Rich Hubbard. The guy was hanging in, and I could see he was getting into it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Rich is still running, and as I write this, he has gone from <metricconverter productid="260 pounds">260 pounds</metricconverter> (see, I said he was big) to under 230. Still large, but he’s working on it, and now he is training to run the Casino Niagara Marathon on October 24 of this year. And he is doing it wisely, running with the Fleet Feet marathon training group, and not over training too quickly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Turns out Rich has been doing a series of commentaries on WBFO, 88.7 on your dial, and explaining his motivation. He has done two of them, and he plans a final one after he runs the marathon. He calls them the FOG Chronicles. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Let me explain. Rich is a husband, father, self-described computer geek who teaches computers at ITT. He is also all of 44 years old. Oh yeah, did I mention that he is (or was) big. Being the geek, he needed a three letter acronym for his title. Thus FOG, for “Fat, Old Guy.” Being 56 myself, and since I do not think of myself as being old, I think he should have gone with “<u>Young</u> And Big And-Definitely A Bodacious And-Delightful Orator.” Yeah, the YABA-DABA-DO Chronicles would be better, but that’s just me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I have become quite impressed with Rich Hubbard. He is always there, grinding out the miles, and getting faster. He has run some races, and he keeps showing improvement. He has come to enjoy running, and the friends he has made. He has come to enjoy how much better he feels. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Come the Casino Niagara Marathon, which I plan on running also, I truly expect Rich to finish. Whatever the results of it for either of us, I do expect to see Rich soon after at another Wednesday Fleet Feet workout. And I look forward to listening to his next installment of the FOG Chronicles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He shows what one can do when one sets goals that are reasonable. He may never look like any of the people we see in the ads for fitness centers, but he will look and FEEL a whole lot better!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-78341490044078527342011-06-06T13:37:00.000-07:002011-06-06T13:54:40.503-07:00Nugget #34Been away for a bit, and will be gone again next week, so here's a tasty nugget for you for now. This is just a short piece I wrote about a Belle Watling road trip to Utica for their 15K a few years ago. This was when we ran the Boilermaker in 2004, and the article was written for a local sports paper called "Sports and Leisure Magazine". It was therefore written tongue in cheek, and everything had a double meaning as to what happened. Lets just say, without giving everything away, our behavior at the meal the night before really ticked off the people next to us, and they refussed to leave a tip (not the waiters fault, so we provided the tip, plus the staff and other patrons were on our side), and the person removing a barricade the next morning was one of ours. I haven't been able to run the Boilermaker in a few years, but I am looking forward to doing this wonderful race once again next month.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">A Belle Watling road trip</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">One of the best things about running is all the new friends you make, and the adventures you can have with them. I am a member of the Belle Watling AC, one of the oldest running clubs in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>. Due to the many characters in this running club, we tend to have had many wonderful adventures over the years. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The road trips are often the best. We find a race we want to do that is far enough away we must spend a night or two in a motel. Look out world! Such a road trip took place this past July 10<sup>th</sup> when we traveled to <place><city>Utica</city>, <state>NY</state></place> to run in the 27<sup>th</sup> running of the Boilermaker.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A little background on the Boilermaker might be in order. First run in 1978, this 15K race starts at a factory that used to make boilers, and winds up and down and through <city><place>Utica</place></city> and finishes at the Saranac Brewery (originally the Utica Club Brewery). The first race had a few hundred runners, but now it gets in excess of 10,000, and most are running for the free beer one gets at the finish.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The Belle Watlings, some who have done almost all 27 Boilermakers, met at ten the morning of July <metricconverter productid="10, a">10, a</metricconverter> Saturday. Ten of us caravanned straight towards <city><place>Utica</place></city>, stopping for a picnic lunch. Once we checked in, it was on to the expo to get our numbers and meet with old friends from past races.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Now it was time to start hydrating. It was on to the old watering hole, McGill’s, where we loaded up on barley-malt beverages, the hydrating drink of choice for the Watlings. Then it was on to Grimaldi’s, for carbo-loading and much more hydrating. This is where the adventure really gets fun, as we were seeing many old friends, but making so many new ones.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">We were having one of our typical dinners with Richard Sullivan, the Founder, at the head of the table, presiding over the eleven other diners. His brother Ted entertained with a welcoming speech and the <place><placename>Bennett</placename> <placename>High School</placename></place> cheer. Jack O’Sullivan and Sandy Bueme made sure the whole table got liquid refreshment, while everyone enjoyed the great food.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Then, just as we were about to leave, The group at the table next to us let us know in no uncertain terms just how much they enjoyed sharing the evening with us. There was talk of the next days race, finger-pointing as to who was looking good, and we even got to the point where we came close to kissing each other on the cheeks. Fortunately it didn’t go there, but the father of their clan was never at a loss for words in describing the time we shared. He may have been from the old country, for I did not understand all the words he used.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Before we parted ways in the parking lot, we found our new friends were short of money, and had but $5 extra to leave as a tip on a $300 bill. We could not let them leave looking like such cheapskates, so we chipped in $30 so they would feel better, and their waitress would be able to pay her rent. Then it was back to the motel, for the race was starting at <time hour="8" minute="0">8AM</time>, so to bed we made haste.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The morning of the race was uneventful, other than a woman we spotted who was protesting the way President Bush had given up running for mountain biking. Crazy, but that seemed to be her cause, and she showed her contempt for Bush by moving and destroying Police barricades set up to protect the runners. This proved to be our good fortune, as we were able to go through a newly destroyed barricade and find excellent parking.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That Sunday was hot and sunny, as it usually is in <city><place>Utica</place></city> in July, but everyone had a good race. We hung around at the party hoping to see our new friends, but we missed them in the crowd. We did partake of a Saranac brew or two, got tingles as the F16 fighter jets flew overhead, danced to the live music, and just had a most wonderful time. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Finally it was time to pack up and head home. We all had good races and memories to carry with us. Most of all we had new friends we hope to see again in <city><place>Utica</place></city> next year.</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-8880254408455681252011-05-16T05:45:00.000-07:002011-05-16T05:45:07.329-07:00Nugget #33And now the rest of the Dribble Kabibbles<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">More Running Dribble Kabibbles</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Running with the Dogs</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have to admit, I was pretty pleased with my Boston Marathon this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My chip time of <time hour="15" minute="34">3:34:51</time> was almost exactly one hour slower that my PR, run almost exactly 30 years before at the 1975 Boston Marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As someone at work told me, I had aged two minutes per year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll take it, especially after the dismal times I ran at my last three Bostons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m here to tell you, my secret was in the training, which is similar to Jeff Galloway’s method in that it involves a lot of walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Different from <place>Galloway</place> in that it involves very little running.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My special training started when I began working for the company that provides Natural Gas for the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It shall remain nameless, but its name rhymes with Irrational Fool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, I began reading meters for them last year in April, and I usually walk anywhere from ten to fifteen miles a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do my regular running workouts, but my main training is the walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, walking by itself will not get you in top racing shape, you must also work on getting your heart rate up, and a lot of bursts of speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s where the dogs come in. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You see, I meet so many dogs all day long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All kinds of dogs, big ones, small ones, friendly ones, mean ones, cute ones, and ugly ones (I once met one so ugly I thought it was a donkey, but I found out it was a monkey working for FEMA).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most times I know they are there because the hand-held computers we carry to punch in the numbers on warn us if the next stop has a dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Problem is, it beeps at us when we are halfway across the lawn of the next stop, and the beeping is a very high pitch that humans can hardly hear, but which seems to do a good job of irritating the heck out of the dog sleeping under the bush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hand-held will usually say something like “mean dog – inside invisible fence so it’s ok” but meanwhile, I’m inside the invisible fence too, with an irritated “mean dog” coming at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is the sudden burst of speed part of my training method.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of these each day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often the dog is inside a fence of the next house after the one where you are bending down at to read the meter, so you haven’t been warned of a dog yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as you are calmly punching in the reading, a seemingly rabid dog is leaping the height of the fence right next to you with blood-curdling growls that would scare the ugly off the director of FEMA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the part where the heart rate gets going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m here to tell you my training method works.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course all the weight I lost walking helped me too.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The big downsize to my training method would be dog bites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you do not like dog bites, this method would not be for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been through two episodes of bites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first was more annoying than anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Away back last year, a little old lady couldn’t catch her two little yappers, so she said to come on in, they would be fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I got to the basement door, I was wearing one on my calf like some strange piercing, and I’m shaking my leg and the thing is still yapping while hanging on for dear life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not much of a bite, but I don’t even like needles, and I had to go get a tetanus shot, since I had carefully avoided getting one for, oh, 25 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I mention I don’t like needles?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My next K-9 biting episode happened about a month ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a steamy hot morning, I entered a yard to head for the back door of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hand-held did not warn me of a dog, nor did the wooden fence say anything about a dog, and the hand-held indicated I should go to the back door to gain access to the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as I reached the back door, a huge set of teeth attached to a blood-curdling growl latched onto my arm before I could react.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started swinging my hand-held at the teeth (I really have no Idea what kind of dog it was, all I saw was snarling teeth) and used a chair to keep the teeth at bay until I could get out of the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t till I got out that I realized the teeth had gotten me pretty good, and blood was gushing out of my arm.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wrapped it and headed for the medical center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being a dog bite, they were reluctant to put stitches in, but the wound was deep enough they put in a few loose stitches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>NOT NEEDLES!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, they numbed it first, but that took a bigger needle than the one they put the stitches in with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So there you have the downsize of my training method.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a method that works better than <place>Galloway</place>’s, just skip the dog bites. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yeah, try to stay away from monkeys and donkeys also. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Pet Peeves</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Speaking of Jeff Galloway, just a short Dribble Kabbible to tell of one of my pet peeves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the Peeve I had as a kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That Peeve was a type of monkey (actually called Peeves because they peed a lot) that had a bad disposition, was constipated, and looked like a donkey, but I managed to sell it to some unsuspecting sucker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, this pet peeve concerns Jeff Galloway and part of his running advice.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><place>Galloway</place> used to coach pretty good runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brother Tom, better known as “Bill Donnelly’s slow little brother”, was training directly under <place>Galloway</place> back in 1989.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had Tom and a couple other runners actually training quite hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They built up to doing 13 one mile repeats at about a 5:30 pace, and their long runs got to be up to <metricconverter productid="30 miles">30 miles</metricconverter>, while going through 26 at a 2:56 pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Tom was ever set to break <time hour="14" minute="30">2:30</time> for a marathon, this was his time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I came to <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> to watch him attempt it at the Buffalo Marathon help the first weekend in May of that year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately for Tom and the others, <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> woke up to about six inches of wet, sloppy snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starting off in that, the runners kicked up that snow onto their legs, and very few were happy with their times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom’s legs tightened up so much he dropped out shortly after the halfway mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since then, <place>Galloway</place> has dumbed-down his training method.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now he aims at the greater masses of runners by preaching a method of running where you run ten minutes and then walk one minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You do this all the way, for long training runs and long races.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In marathons he suggests you do your walking at the water stops, and this is where I get annoyed with his method.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I do not care if people use his method or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It works for some, and not for others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What <place>Galloway</place> apparently didn’t think to tell the runners is to use common sense and common courtesy when stopping for water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In any of the big marathons like <city><place>Boston</place></city>, <place><city>Chicago</city>, <state>New York</state></place>, or whatever, it’s a madhouse at the water stops anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To have many of the people stopping right in front of you as you are reaching for water is so annoying and dangerous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grab water and then get behind those giving it out so I can stop to quickly drink it without choking on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to keep moving or get out of the way, and so many Peeves do not seem to understand this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, it’s off my chest, and now I feel better, until it happens to me again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I will politely say to whoever stops in front of me “You are such a Donkey!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I won’t mean it as a term of endearment like some would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in -0.5in 0pt 0in;"><br />
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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-57780730566253804842011-05-09T05:54:00.000-07:002011-05-09T05:54:40.472-07:00Nugget # 32Here we go again with those Running Dribble Kabibbles.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">More Running Dribble Kabibbles</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wow, I can hardly believe how many people told me they loved my last article entitled “Running Dribble Kabibbles”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate to brag, but I would put the number of people gushing about it at somewhere less than 10,000 people, yet definitely more than two people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore I decided to do a sequel to that article, and write more Running Dribble Kabibbles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now comes the one slight problem; many readers, and I would have to guess this number at somewhere less than 10,000 people, yet definitely more than two people, do not know what a Dribble Kabibble is, even though I told you all to check out the July, 2004 issue of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Checkers Chatter</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My article in that issue, called “Straight Eye for the Running Guy” clearly defines the term.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, it seems that the issues of the newsletter that you can read online at the Checkers website do not go back to last year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This creates quite a problem for many of the readers since we have so many new members that do not have an extensive collection of past issues as do all the older members.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You old-timers save each issue, don’t you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, with so many people joining Checkers each month, and I put that number at somewhere less than 10,000 people, yet definitely more than two people, I decided to reprint that passage which describes the Dribble Kabibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So without any further ado, oh wait, a brief explanation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The article describes what I wore in my first-ever road race, which was the 1973 New York City Marathon, and the Dribble Kabibble is just one item I wore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now, without any further ado, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now, I want to keep this article serious, as always, while not offending any delicate souls out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore, I will use code words for the piece of sports equipment I’m talking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So for this article only, if I write the word dribble, I mean jock, and if I write kabibble, I mean strap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is that clear?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So anyway, the first thing I put on was my dribble kabibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yeah, if I write wibble, I mean cup, and if I write jibble, it means size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So anyway – wait- if I write zibble, it means big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I put on my dribble kabibble whose wibble jibble was of course quite zibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m here to tell you that a dribble kabibble, while perhaps fine for most sports, was never meant for long distance running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The material it is made of is some sort of indestructible elastic stuff that, and I have this on good authority, was originally created as a covering for the heat shield for the Project Mercury Space Capsules, sort of an extra protection for our astronauts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, the material proved too abrasive and was destroying the heat shields, so the makers of this evil stuff had too find a new use for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You guessed it, dribble kabibbles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, just for good measure, they added ribs, which I’ll code name nibbles, to the wibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So now I’m wearing a dribble kabibble whose nibbles on the wibble will rub my inner thighs raw, especially because my wibble jibble is so zibble, there are more nibbles on my dribble kabibble than there are nibbles on the wibble of the average guy’s dribble kabibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway, this marathon was the last time I wore a dribble kabibble, since my thighs were rubbed raw practically down to my knees, thanks to my zibble wibble jibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, I hope I was able to handle this delicate topic without offending anyone, yet still being able to keep to the serious nature of the article, as I always try to do.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So now you know, all somewhere less than 10,000 people, yet definitely more than two people who are new members, what I’m talking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so now, without any further ado, this month’s Running Dribble Kabibbles.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Terms of Endearment</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Often we runners know each other fairly well, but do we really get to know each other?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, we get to know which runners are always positive, which are extremely competitive, and which to avoid while running because they continuously pass gas at the drop of a shoe (or the beeping of their stop watch).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe that is why Patty Webb is always running alone during track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean she is just so darn positive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t think I meant she was, you know, too competitive?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, do we really get to know each other?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I came to this realization at a recent party when I got to really get to know a lot about another runner, something that I never would have guessed about her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The runner to be roasted here, err, I mean described, is Anne Reif.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anne is the always positive, competitive, and flatulating woman who works for the YMCA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anne is the Go To Girl of the Turkey Trot who put the Y in the Village People.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anne is the one who takes troubled behavior problem kids from <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> on trips to <country-region><place>Greece</place></country-region> in order to try to leave them there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What I didn’t know about Anne, and I’m sure most of you did not know, is that underneath her outgoing and apparent self-assuredness is a little girl who craves attention of any sort, which makes her feel so alive and worthwhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I mean any kind of attention; she especially likes it when people point out her flaws so that she can work on improving herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She even loves insults of any kind, for in her mind, what says “I care” more than a good zinger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weird?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, but this is Anne Reif’s way.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anne even has developed a term of endearment she uses for people that she feels have complimented her in such ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you should be so lucky as to touch Anne with a really good putdown, or point out one of many flaws, she thanks you in her own special way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will look you straight in the eye and lovingly say “You are such a Donkey!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, she doesn’t use the word “donkey”, it is the word that stands for a donkey, starts with the letter <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>a</u></b>, and rhymes with class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she means donkey.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How does this phrase come to be a term of endearment?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that when Anne was but a tot of three, she had a pet monkey that meant the world to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An exotic pet, but her folks could only afford it because it was on special.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had a lot wrong with it, including a bad disposition, constipation that resulted in much flatulence (this didn’t bother little Anne, although the monkey was bothered by her similar problem), constant drooling, and a face that looked more like a donkey’s face, or was it that word that rhymes with class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, the little creature was Anne’s pride and joy, and when people pointed out the monkey’s flaws to tiny Anne, in her child’s pea-brain, she felt they must love it too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus, her love of being insulted to this day, and also why she will say “You are such a Donkey!” to show her pleasure.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The best example of this strange behavior was recently reported to me by my brother Tom, better known to you all as “Bill Donnelly’s slow little brother”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom Donnelly’s new little wife, Mrs. Tom Donnelly, or better known to you all as “Did you know Julie Doell married Bill Donnelly’s slow little brother”, sadly lost her father last year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie and her Step-mom, and many of her father’s best friends, had a very moving ceremony for John, Julie’s father, in August.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may know the date, because it was the same day as the Checkers’ picnic, thus explaining why Tom, Julie, and I were not at the picnic, and why the picnic was so dull.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The constant rain did not help either.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, we were in <place><city>Rochester</city>, <state>NY</state></place> for the Memorial Service, and Anne Reif joined us, as she and the Donnelly’s have become fast friends since Tom became race director of the Turkey Trot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I have said, it was a very moving ceremony at the golf course where Julie’s dad and step-mom were married, and as a bag-piper played, John’s ashes were spread over the area he was married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course it was raining constantly, yet tears were running down the faces of the many people who loved John, and of those of us who didn’t even know him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knew Julie, and that was enough.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anne too had tears as she huddled under an umbrella to stay dry from the crying heavens, and with good reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, she wore a very nice white outfit for the occasion, but one that was practically see-through as it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She dared not get wet or it was wet-tee shirt (and pants) day at the old golf course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ceremony ended, and the golfing friends of John prepared to tee-off for a memorial round of golf, John’s favorite sport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left, because I had to attend a surprise 75<sup>th</sup> birthday party for Jesse Kregal, the other Grand Old Man of Running here in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, and founder of the Buffalo Philharmonic A.C.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rest of the story was told to me by Tom.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You see, since Tom, Julie and Anne did not play golf, they took it upon themselves to ride around together on a golf cart providing barley-malt beverage sustenance for the golfers braving the rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The three of them were mighty popular with the golfers, and all was going well with Tom driving, Julie huddled tightly next to him, and Anne riding shotgun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Going well until the narrow path Tom had to traverse.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You see, the path ran through a whole mess of dripping wet bushes, and I’m not talking about the President’s daughters’ gone wild while on Spring Break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, these were super-soakers, and Tom was heading right for the path only wide enough to get a bike through without getting wet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, Tom <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">WAS</b> driving, and of course, his instinct for self survival was to veer right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thirty yards worth of veering right!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, who was it I said was riding shot-gun?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yeah, that would be Anne Reif, wearing her almost see-through white outfit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, looking like one who had just gone through a car wash, you would think Anne would have been upset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But NOOOOO!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see Anne had been feeling left out a bit, and no one was paying her much attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now she <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">knew</b> people would be paying her attention!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Tom did tell me her purple thong and purple with pink hearts-bra stood out quite well).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe Anne knew Tom had done her a favor, and that is why she turned to him and said: “You are such a Donkey!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she meant it!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tom immediately hit another narrow path, and veering hard-right, now knowing Anne appreciated it, really let her have it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once again, “You are such a Donkey!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie didn’t quite get it, but she was just happy Anne kept her dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another “You are such a Donkey!!!!” followed, and Tom knew he had made Anne’s day. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And right he was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the party after the golfing, Tom, and Julie could hardly buy a drink, because the happy golfers were so thankful for them providing the suds while they played kept them in whatever they wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anne, on the other hand, was the center of attention she wanted to be, and truly enjoyed it every time one of the golfers would playfully throw her out into the rain if she happened to be drying off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a good day for everyone, and all the way back to <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, she kept letting Tom know how thankful she was for his golf cart driving skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Thus it is that Anne shows her pleasure, and it all goes back to her pet monkey of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">sooo</b> many years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The monkey is gone now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hired by Dubya to head FEMA, and it is now relaxing in the <country-region><place>Bahamas</place></country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But next time you see Anne Reif, make her feel good and loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Point out one of her major flaws, or better yet, just insult the heck out of her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you do, you will probably be rewarded with a “You are such a Donkey!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try it; it will make you feel better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But remember, you won’t hear her say donkey, but rather the word that rhymes with class. </div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-42038263272151576042011-05-02T11:10:00.000-07:002011-05-02T11:10:14.086-07:00Nugget # 31And now for Running Dribble-Kabibbles<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Running Dribble Kabibbles</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just recently I was at the awards ceremony for the Ronald McDonald House 5K.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I hadn’t run, but I thought they might give me some sort of award or recognition for all the “Super-Size Me” I have taken part in over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No such luck, but still, there were many friends for me to cheer as they received their awards for a race well run, so I stayed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I mention there was free beer and food there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that that mattered to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, a couple times my good friend Kieran O’Loughlin was involved in embarrassing situations through no fault of his own, and more than a couple times, after each episode, different people came up to me immediately and told me I should include the incidents in my next article because they were so funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kieran, isn’t it nice to know your running buddies from Checkers think <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">so</b> highly of you, they are <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">so </b>quick to sacrifice your good name on the Altar of Bad Taste, with me being the High Priest of said Altar?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do they really think I would sink so low as to endanger our friendship just to get a laugh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think again old pal.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Actually, at first I thought “No Way!”, since it has nothing to do with “Back in The Day!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the more I thought of it, and thought of a couple other incidents I always wanted to write about, but were too short for a whole article and were not about the way-back, I decided to do a bunch of short observations, or running stories if you will.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, what to call these “short” musings?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t call them “Running Shorts”, because Beebe Bailey already has that one locked up for The Buffalo News articles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Running Socks” stinks, “Running Spanks” just doesn’t cover it enough, and “Running Deer” was the name of a Native American girl I once dated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it hit me, “Running Dribble Kabibbles”, just because it sounds good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember, if you do not know what a Dribble Kabibble is, check out the July, 2004 issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Checkers Chatter</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so without any further ado, here are my “Running Dribble Kabibbles”:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">A Boy Named Sue (or Kieran)</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span>Back to the Ronald McSupersizeme awards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a crowd of us yapping away while the presenter of cheesy awards, and a very effeminate looking Ronald McDonald, tried to announce the winners over a sound system taken directly from a drive-up window of McDonalds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not being able to hear well (I thought I heard him ask if I wanted fries with that) we were all excited to hear Kieran O’Loughlin’s name being called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s excited, his time of 19 Minutes and change usually not good enough to win something in his tough age group, but here he was getting an award.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hold on there Mr. Kieran.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That award was for third place overall for women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The scorers had just probably never seen the good old Irish name of Kieran, so they assumed it was a woman’s name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So already a couple people are telling me I should write this up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But wait, there’s more!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s right, ten minutes later as they are going through the age groups, whose name comes up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You guessed it, they clearly said “Do you want fries with that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kieran O’Loughlin” </b>and up he went once more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And once again, you guessed it, they were calling for first place, 45-49, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I just don’t get it, didn’t the scorer notice the first time Kieran went up, or is it that the scorer’s wife also has a beard and just wouldn’t look good in spanks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s a low blow Kieran; you would look just fine in spanks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By now Kieran is walking back very embarrassed and dejected, and at least three people are tugging at my sleeve telling me <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I have to write about this now!</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now I have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We finally checked the results and found Kieran did come in fourth in his age, but no cigar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, wait, I just have to add my Two cents worth, you see, this wouldn’t have happened Back in The Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I go again, but back then we runners knew to have Manly names that everyone understood to be Manly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Names like Bill, Tom, Jack, or Dick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, so there was Kim Wettlaufer, who was one of the top runners back then, but his last name was very Manly sounding, and in fact his last name was German for “Wet Manly Thing!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even our nick-names were Manly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Names like Richard “The Founder” Sullivan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or Tom “Bill Donnelly’s slow little brother” Donnelly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was even a pretty good runner back then, who you still might see running around <place><placename>Delaware</placename> <placetype>Park</placetype></place>, named Tony Anthony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, Tony’s a Manly name, but what a cruel sense of humor his parents had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His name was Anthony Anthony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wonder what his middle name was?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BoBanthony? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I mean, there is nothing wrong with the name Kieran, although when in <country-region><place>America</place></country-region>, do as we do, and learn English for cripes sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh wait, that’s part of my diatribe for my article for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">White People who Show their Intelligence by Shaving their Heads and Carving Swastikas into their Arms with Safety Pins Party Paper.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But come on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you know what Kieran means in Gaelic?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, let me tell you, it is actually the Celtic word used in the movie “Million Dollar Baby”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, the nick-name Clint Eastwood gives Hillary Swank to use when she fights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Manly thing to do, fisticuffs and all, but he finally tells her that it means “Little Darling” right before he pulls the plug on her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nice of him, huh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gee, I hope this doesn’t ruin the movie for those of you who haven’t seen it yet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, that said, it wasn’t a good night for the O’Loughlins at all, as far as the awards went.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kieran’s lovely wife Joann won her age group, but somehow the people in charge missed her finishing completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know she finished well, because I saw her come in as I was waiting for my Super-Sized-Me-Meal to arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boy, did they screw up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never got my meal either!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But speaking of Joann, now there is a Manly-FeManly name, and is she running great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think of all the Manly Joes out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe Jordan, Joe DiMaggio, Joe Camel, Joe Momma, and Mighty Joe Young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess it just goes to prove my point, we knew how to do things right Back in The Day. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">My Bad</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span>A very brief “Running Dribble Kabibble”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the last issue, when comparing the 1977 Fredonia 10K to the 2005 <city><place>Lancaster</place></city> 10K, I said Ralph (a Manly name) Zimmerman came in fifth with a time of 32:32.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My bad, his time was actually 31:32.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was almost exactly eight months before Ralph would run a <time hour="14" minute="18">2:18:55</time> in the Boston Marathon of <metricconverter productid="1978, a">1978, a</metricconverter> Manly time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that was not a PR for Ralph.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In fact, I ran that same <city><place>Boston</place></city> in <time hour="14" minute="36">2:36</time> even, and that was not a PR for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only bring this up because in the previous “Kabibble”, I did not mention my nick-name from Back in The Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kind of hate to say it, but my many female admirers referred to me as Bill “Kieran” Donnelly, and they did so for obvious reasons, since you now know what “Kieran” means in Celtic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I always had the announcers use Bill when presenting me with the many awards I should have won.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe Kieran should change his name to a really Manly name, like Bill, or William, or Liam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just thought I’d throw that in.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Captain Freddy “Long John” Lew </span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And The Quivering Lip</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now here’s a story about our dear friend Fred Lew and the 2004 Boston Marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The title of this “Running Dribble Kabibble” may throw you, but let me clear that up right away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not implying that Fred is some sort of Buccaneer captain, and his Pirate ship is the Quivering Lip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, Fred’s nick-name “Long John” (and a Manly nick-name it is) comes from the fact that when Fred was a young lad, each November, his loving mother would sew him into a pair of long-johns that he would have to wear until April.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember, we did have colder winters back then, and by April, he emitted a very Manly smell, and without having to eat burritos.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn’t run this particular <city><place>Boston</place></city>, but I was there to cheer on many friends, one of them being Jennifer Hulme.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was her first <city><place>Boston</place></city>, and she was understandably very nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My good friend Dr. Dave Walborn was able to calm her down the night before the race, and to this day I do not know what prescribed medication he used.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next morning, I saw all my friends off to Hopkinton, went for a run myself, and then settled into my hotel room at the Howard Johnson (Manly) Fenway (Manly) with a few beers (Manly) to watch the run on TV (Manly), until I would go to the one-mile-to-go mark and cheer everybody in (Manly).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The rest of this story I got second hand, since I wasn’t in Hopkinton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seems everyone was doing OK, despite the fact that the temperature was approaching 87 degrees, a bit too hot for most marathoner’s liking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally it was time to head to the start, and Jennifer joined Fred and many others on their trek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they went along, runners were dropping off their bags at the designated busses, which of course, went by their number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With 17,000 runners, this is a very complicated procedure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fred handed his bag to the appropriate bus, as did others, and race time was drawing nigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jennifer’s number was something like 10,001, and they came to the last bus, whose last number they would take was 9,999!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out, Jennifer should have turned left a half mile back, and found her bus a half mile up the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“Ladies and Gentlemen, the race will start in 15 minutes!”</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yow!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jennifer quickly realized her predicament, and being her first <city><place>Boston</place></city>, she felt lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did a very FeManly thing, her eyes welled up with just a touch of tears, and her lower lip began to quiver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, it’s not a Pirate ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out, when Fred was a lad of eight, he got a new puppy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was March, and when the puppy smelled Fred in his long johns, it’s eyes welled up with just a touch of tears, and it’s lips began to quiver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fred never forgot the feeling of helplessness he felt then (he could have cut off the dang long johns), and when he woke up the next morning, little “Kieran” had run away, never to be seen again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ever since, Fred was a soft touch for the “Quivering Lips”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He quickly took control, and gently said “Follow me Kieran (for he knew what the word meant in Celtic, and knew it’s soothing qualities), and we shall be fine.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Freddy “Long John” Lew did the Manly thing that day, and got Jennifer’s bag stowed, and made sure she made it to the starting line just before the gun went off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like to say everything turned out great for everyone involved, but remember, this turned into one of the hottest Bostons ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least 87 degrees with a wicked hot wind that could cook pizzas; not many had a great day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I watched as good friends of mine struggled past, and just to finish on this day was an amazing accomplishment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some, like Richard “The Founder” (Manly) Sullivan and Diane “Mangoes” (FeManly) McGuire did well to finish in decent times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never saw Fred or Jennifer go by, but <city><place>Boston</place></city> is so packed with runners, I missed many, plus those one or two or three beers back in the hotel didn’t help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I heard what happened.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jennifer had a great time, considering the conditions, just a few minutes off her PR.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fred did OK, and finished, but no where near what he wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that when Jennifer passed him, she thanked him profusely, but then said: “Please don’t ever call me Kieran again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I Know Celtic and it is not FeManly enough for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But thanks again for your help, and I’ll see you at the finish.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now I swear this is how I heard it from those involved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you don’t believe me, just ask one of those involved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that would not be the Manly thing to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing you with my next “Running Dribble Kabibble” articles, this is Mike, err, Bud, err, I mean Bill “Kieran” Donnelly signing off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-75853918163646073092011-04-25T06:25:00.000-07:002011-04-25T06:25:02.297-07:00Nugget #30The following is a story I wrote for the Checkers newsletter in July of 2004, and then was later expanded and appeared under the same heading in the Jan/feb, 2008 edition of <em>Marathon & beyond.</em><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Straight Eye for the Running Guy</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I may have mentioned before, I started training for my first road race in April of 1973, and I ran that race at the end of September of that year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s about six months training for my first race, which should be plenty, unless that first race is a marathon, which mine happened to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was inspired to run this distance after watching Frank Shorter win the Olympic Gold in <city><place>Munich</place></city> the year before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I waited till April to train since who would be crazy enough to train in the winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As you can already see, I was not very knowledgeable about long distance running.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had run cross country and track in high school, and just a bit in college, but I had never raced anything over three miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I did know running, and those high school days taught me how to prepare for a race (if it’s three miles or less.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew nothing about training for a marathon, or running it for that matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would quickly learn some valuable but painful lessons.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>I remember my first pair of running shoes for my training.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went into a sporting goods store and grabbed a pair of promising looking shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t run a step for about four years, and back when last I ran all shoes had leather uppers, and were always Adidas or Pumas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not remember which brand I bought, but I do remember they were Joe Namath Specials, so they came in that lovely light green and white of the New York Jets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yuck.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now the thing about leather uppers was that they were great at giving your feet blisters until the shoes were broken in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That usually finally happened about two days before the darn shoes wore out and you had to get a new pair of feet-eating shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn’t you know it, that is what happened to me, so after going through about 17 roles of medical tape, and the shoes, I scraped together a few dollars in order to go shoe hunting.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This time I took my time to look around, and low and behold, I found a new type of shoe on the market, with the brand names of Nike and Tiger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wow, were they something!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing like the shoes of today, for they had little support, and all were a deep blue with white swooshes or stripes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they had nylon uppers!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picked out the Tiger Bostons (Tiger is now Asics) which cost all of $17, and after running for a week blister free, I was sold on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tiger Bostons would carry me through many a marathon, including my first race, which was in <state><place>New York</place></state>, so my shoes were no problem there, but everything else I did and wore became a real learning experience.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I picked the New York City Marathon to run because my sister Maureen lives in <city><place>Manhattan</place></city>, so I had a place to stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I trained hard, always running <place><placename>Delaware</placename> <placetype>Park</placetype></place> by myself, because I knew none of the other runners, nor did I often see many runners in those early days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always ran hard, timing myself against the kitchen clock at home, not a real accurate method, but we didn’t wear timing devices in those days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other then for stop watches you could carry in your hand, they didn’t exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I built up to running ten or twelve miles a day, and I do remember my longest run was sixteen miles, which I did only once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh Boy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They say ignorance is bliss, and I guess that’s true if by bliss we mean: “I sure as hell did not know what I was getting myself into and if I had I never would have done it ever, never in a million years because who would put themselves through such torture just because some dude won the gold in Munich the year before why did I even watch those darned Olympics I’ll never do this again, ouch, Ouch, OUCH!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So the morning of the race arrived (after a pre-race dinner the night before of STEAK because that was what we used to think we should eat the night before a race) and I had my can of Nutriment for breakfast, a dietary supplement that my high school coach had us drink as our lunch before any cross country meet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, it wouldn’t provide a lot of what one needed for a marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also stayed away from any other fluids, such as water or vodka gimlets, because we had been taught liquids might cause a runner to get a stitch, or better yet, make him completely cramp up in terrible agony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily, as I ran the race, I saw other runners taking water at the two water stops provided in <place>Central Park</place>, and as I was getting thirsty, I thought they might be on to something.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I get ahead of myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, what to wear for my first race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had never been told not to wear anything brand new for a marathon, but that was ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was dirt poor, so it didn’t cross my mind to buy anything new as I couldn’t afford it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the first thing I put on was a piece of equipment that I had worn while running since I first tried to put one foot in front of the other in rapid succession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not saying this was the same one I wore from years ago, but it was well worn I’m sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the piece of sports apparel that all boys were taught to wear while engaging in any athletic endeavor, so as to keep their manhood safe and sound.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, I want to keep this article serious, as always, while not offending any delicate souls out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore, I will use code words for the piece of sports equipment I’m talking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So for this article only, if I write the word dribble, I mean jock, and if I write kabibble, I mean strap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is that clear?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So anyway, the first thing I put on was my dribble kabibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yeah, if I write wibble, I mean cup, and if I write jibble, it means size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So anyway – wait- if I write zibble, it means big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I put on my dribble kabibble whose wibble jibble was of course quite zibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m here to tell you that a dribble kabibble, while perhaps fine for most sports, was never meant for long distance running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The material it is made of is some sort of indestructible elastic stuff that, and I have this on good authority, was originally created as a covering for the heat shield for the Project Mercury Space Capsules, sort of an extra protection for our astronauts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, the material proved too abrasive and was destroying the heat shields, so the makers of this evil stuff had too find a new use for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You guessed it, dribble kabibbles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, just for good measure, they added ribs, which I’ll code name nibbles, to the wibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So now I’m wearing a dribble kabibble whose nibbles on the wibble will rub my inner thighs raw, especially because my wibble jibble is so zibble, there are more nibbles on my dribble kabibble than there are nibbles on the wibble of the average guy’s dribble kabibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway, this marathon was the last time I wore a dribble kabibble, since my thighs were rubbed raw practically down to my knees, thanks to my zibble wibble jibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, I hope I was able to handle this delicate topic without offending anyone, yet still being able to keep to the serious nature of the article, as I always try to do.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Next to go on were my shorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me tell you, these were not the amazing light shorts of today, no; they were regular cotton gym shorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, those five pound shorts we used to have to wear in gym class, the ones that slid down to your ankles so easily as the football players liked to “pants” the cross country fellows in front of the girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there I would be, in nothing but my dribble kabibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How humiliating!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I could have worn the new nylon shorts of the day, but I couldn’t afford them, and they were nothing like the nylon shorts of today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were very stiff, so much so, in fact, that when you took them off, they would stand quietly in whatever corner you threw them in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you ran in them, they made an annoying whistling sound, similar to the sound corduroy pants made when walking, only at a higher, more constant pitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they weren’t very kind to your skin, only aggravating the rawness created by the nibbles on the wibble of my dribble kabibble.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, the problem with cotton shorts is that they wear out quite quickly in the area where the wibble is, due to all the rubbing that goes on there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That, mixed with the sweat, and that part of cotton shorts usually lasted about two days. To save money, I learned to patch my own shorts, and I learned that the material that would last the longest without having to be repatched, was denim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had some old blue jeans that were worn out, so I cut out pieces to use as patches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted something that would last since I hated sewing so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time of the marathon, that heavy, abrasive denim patch was about the size of <state><place>Rhode Island</place></state>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Next I put on my blue cotton tank top, which I always wore tucked in because it was so long it reached down below the bottom of my shorts if left hanging out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was obviously not made for running, rather, for a very tall tank operator working for Field Marshal Rommel in <place>North Africa</place> during World War II, thus the name tank top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also had the ability to hold about twenty pounds worth of sweat, which would stretch it out so that, if left untucked, and I’m not making this up, it would reach down to my knees.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Next on went my pair of old, worn socks, hopefully washed, and my trusty Tiger Bostons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it was on to the West Side YMCA, located at <street><address>63<sup>rd</sup> St.</address></street> and Central Park West.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There we picked up our numbers, and I do mean numbers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just recently I discovered my mom, who used the race as an excuse to visit my sister, actually filmed bits of the race with our home-movie camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a find!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I discovered from watching it a detail I had totally forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All runners had to wear their race numbers on the front AND back of their shirts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think that was the only race I ever ran that had that requirement, other than in the next year’s NYC Marathon, and it wouldn’t have been so bad, except for the numbers we were given.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You see, and I still have one of my numbers to prove this, they were on big square pieces of thick, indestructible plastic, probably a close cousin to the material used to make dribble kabibbles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all know how plastic close to your skin can make you sweat, while at the same time irritating your skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, we had this problem on the front and the back of our shirts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the way, the numbers were painted on using some sort of house paint, at least that’s my guess as to what they used.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But now I was ready for my first marathon, and I made my way to the starting line near the Tavern on the Green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little did I know how poorly I was prepared for what was to follow, both training-wise and with the outfit I had on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I managed a <time hour="15" minute="1">3:01</time> race that day, which was good enough to qualify me for <city><place>Boston</place></city>, and that was my goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you can bet your dribble kabibble that I never made those mistakes again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, new mistakes awaited me in the future, and I guess those mistakes can make running such an adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least they provide a few laughs all these years later, even if I wasn’t laughing at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-90536104267848021422011-04-18T08:31:00.000-07:002011-04-18T08:31:34.983-07:00Nugget #29As today is the running of the 2011 Boaston Marathon, I thought I would reprint the following, which I put into the Checkers Chatter in May of 2005. I submitted it right before I ran the 2005 Boston, which was my 8th and last one. In this one, I am introducing an article I wrote back in 1978 about running the 1978 Boston, and my comments in the intro about Barry Bonds and Mark McGwire were of course sarcastic, as even back then we suspected dopping. Ah, the modern sports hero.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><city><place><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Boston</span></place></city><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> Revisited</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I write this introduction, it is exactly one week until I will be running in the 2005 Boston Marathon, which will be my eighth time doing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recently rediscovered an article I wrote that appeared in the <date day="3" month="5" year="1978">May 3, 1978</date> edition of The Buffalo Rocket, that fine <place>North Buffalo</place> paper that is probably perused by ones of readers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is my take on the running of the Boston Marathon just a few days before, and I wrote it as soon as I returned, so the memories were fresh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I am going to share this with you even though it does not contain much of the humor I usually try to write with. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it gives a pretty good look at what it was like to run this race back in the Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More importantly, it shows how much things have stayed the same, at least as far as why so many want to put themselves through this tough experience. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Among the changes, we used to finish at the <place><placename>Prudential</placename> <placetype>Center</placetype></place>, there are way more runners now, but better crowd control so runners never have to run single file.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, now we have to endure hours before the race in the <place><placename>Athletes</placename> <placetype>Village</placetype></place>, and many more bathrooms are provided in the way of port-a-potties, but still every tree and bush in Hopkinton becomes a potential bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also mention passing some wheelchair participants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember, this was when they first had wheelchair racers, and the picture from the <date day="18" month="4" year="1978">April 18, 1978</date> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston Harold American</i> shows the winner of the wheelchair participants crossing the finish line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A guy named George Murray won that year in a record time of <time hour="14" minute="26">2:26</time>, and he is in a regular old fashioned wheelchair like you have to use when they wheel you out of the hospital after having an ingrown fingernail fixed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No souped up racers like they now use that gets them to the finish line over an hour faster than in those days.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A couple disclaimers are in order also.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my article I make a point by using O.J. Simpson as an example of a star athlete, and I did so because he was a big hero in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, times have changed, and events happened that might make him less the hero if I were writing this today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I were putting pen to paper now, I would undoubtedly pick a sports hero who has an untarnished record, perhaps a Barry Bonds or Mark McGwire.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Also in my article, I mentioned I finished in 316<sup>th</sup> place with a <time hour="14" minute="35">2:35:45</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is how I was listed in the <city><place>Boston</place></city> papers the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Months later when I got my results book, I had been moved back to 320<sup>th</sup> with a time of <time hour="14" minute="36">2:36</time> even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not know how I lost places or time, but they didn’t have the technology of today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We finished going through regular finish chutes like you see in small races, and of course there were no computer chips. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The main thing about the article that has not changed in <city><place>Boston</place></city> is the thrill of the crowds cheering us on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That brought us back again and again, and now it lures even more runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So read on, and if you have ever done <city><place>Boston</place></city>, see how your experience compares, and if you haven’t run <city><place>Boston</place></city>, dream on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe one April day you will, and I guarantee you, it will be the thrill of a lifetime.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Boston</span></i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> Crowds turn grueling marathon into exciting event for runners</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">By Bill Donnelly</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 122.25pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I sat, with back leaning against the wall, and my aching legs stretched out before me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in the glass enclosed lobby that separates the </i><place><placename><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prudential</i></placename><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><placetype><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Center</i></placetype></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> from the Sheraton Hotel in downtown </i><place><city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i><state><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass.</i></state></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My whole body was sore and tired, but my legs were in especially bad shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My throat was dry and I was shaking from exhaustion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People who passed by stared and one man even took my picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had just finished running the </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marathon</i></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> and I felt great!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I watched as many of the other 4,000 men and women who had run in the marathon walked, limped and staggered past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in a good spot to see the runners from </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buffalo</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, because we had all agreed to meet at a certain bar in the hotel in order to quaff a few beers after the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was eager to see how others had done in the race.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally, some </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buffalo</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> runners appeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fred Gordon was delighted by his best time ever of 2:25:29, but seemed just as pleased by the effort of his fellow teammate, Ralph Zimmerman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ralph had accomplished what many runners dream of but very few do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He broke 2 hours and 20 minutes (</i><time hour="14" minute="18"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">2:18:55</i></time><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to be exact) and so now is designated as a world-class runner.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This simply means that Ralph no longer needs a car, because he can get around faster by running.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ralph’s place of 28<sup>th</sup> out of 4,212 runners was the best of any Buffalonian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had set a </i><country-region><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">US</i></place></country-region><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> record for his age group, which is 35 to 39 years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pat Janiga actually danced a jig that made my legs hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bob and Jim Herzog limped in together and Jim simply collapsed next to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom Donnelly staggered in as did Dave Bogdan, Mike Miesczak, and Paul Schwandt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All my friends had one thing in common.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were all very pleased with their races.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There is an excitement and thrill in running the </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marathon</i></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> that can be equaled by no other sporting event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why else would so many people come from all over the world to put themselves through such agony?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just to go to </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, one must qualify by running another grueling marathon, and many of us have run </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> more than once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is it that makes it so exciting?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I believe for all runners, much of the lure of </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> is the people there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the minute we arrive there, we are treated as stars, not just a group of crazy runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The media plays up the event bigger than any professional sporting event going on there, including the </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stanley</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Cup Playoffs.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The race is run on the third Monday in April, which is Patriots Day in </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Red Sox and the Bruins are playing, but the event of the day is the marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over one million people turn out and line the whole 26 miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OJ Simpson may have had the thrill of hearing 80,000 fans cheer him after scoring a touchdown, but in </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I literally had one million people cheering me on.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From the very start when we arrive at Hopkinton, where the race begins, electricity fills the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A town of 6,500 residents, Hopkinton does not have enough bathrooms to service over 4,000 very nervous individuals who anticipate the agony they are about to endure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus, every available bush or tree in town becomes a potential bathroom.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Balloons, doughnuts and t-shirts are being sold everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hot-air balloon rises near the starting line, and I count five helicopters directly over the start at one time.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We line up, and I am fortunate to be near the front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over 4,000 runners on a two lane road form a line several blocks long, and once the gun goes off, the last runner will not cross the starting line until five minutes later.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The announcer shouts “Ten minutes till we start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone please line up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe Stump’s mother is looking for him to get his sweats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will number 2507 please come to the official start because you’ve lost your number.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On it goes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We make small talk, but I wonder what the heck I am doing there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve run 13 marathons and I know only too well what pain I will be in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why should I be so happy and excited about being here?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The gun finally goes off and we slowly surge forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple runners fall in the start and one can only hope that they get up before being trampled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s downhill at first, and we are flying, feeling loose and good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are people lining the whole course, but in the first towns they are thickest, sometimes 10 people deep.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have long contended that the </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marathon</i></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> is the greatest of all spectator sports because the spectators actually take part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many people come with water or ice to hand to the runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thousands spend the night before slicing oranges to hand out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some have hoses to spray us, and some simply hold out their hands hoping a runner will slap it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rest will cheer loudly and help carry us through the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it because we are amateurs that the spectators become so enthused and involved?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over the next 14 miles, whenever I feel let down in my strength, I wave my arms “Rocky style.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crowds love this and cheer all the more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the half-way point my legs are already very tight and hurt, probably from going too fast on this cool day.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But at 13 miles we hit Wellesley, an all girls’ school with the enthusiasm and spirit of a </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buffalo</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> stampede.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These women get me moving.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then came the Newton Hills, which includes the famous Heart-break Hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These hills would be impossible but for the fact that the spectators are thickest and most encouraging here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crowds become so thick that we have to run single file through them.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the top, a police officer with a bullhorn congratulates us for climbing Heartbreak Hill, and informs us that we have only a bit over four miles to go, all downhill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crowds grow larger, and police and national guardsmen have to hold back the spectators to give us room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pass a few of the wheelchair racers, who started before us, and they give me added inspiration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could hardly make it up those hills using my legs, and 17 are doing it using their arms.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The last four miles through </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> are long and hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to quit, but the crowd urges me on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two miles from the finish I pass a runner bent over losing his breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see the </i><place><placename><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prudential</i></placename><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><placetype><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Center</i></placetype></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> but it looks miles away while the crowd tells me I have only a mile to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A runner from </i><place><placename><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></placename><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><placetype><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">University</i></placetype></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> passes me and is getting very loud cheers; I wave my arms in appreciation as if the cheers are for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crowd loves it and cheers me all the more. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I turn onto </i><street><address><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hereford Street</i></address></street><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, three blocks to go, but my heart sinks simply because there is a slight incline to climb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get over it, turn towards the finish, one last block, and all downhill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can only struggle in, there is no sprint left in my aching legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each step feels like someone is hitting the bottom of my foot with a sledgehammer, and the pain shoots through my legs.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I finish 316<sup>th</sup> in a time of 2 hours and 35 minutes and 45 seconds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later I will be pleased with that, but in the finish chute I don’t give a damn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so tired, and so glad it was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slowly staggered through the huge crowd, getting congratulations and a cold beer from someone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I meet my girlfriend, Eleanor, and am glad to see her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It is over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We partied that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t be able to walk without pain for a week, and going down stairs will be near impossible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am happy and have had one of the most memorable, thrilling experiences of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next year I will be back in </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to live it again. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-70598757141571735222011-04-04T10:17:00.000-07:002011-04-04T10:17:49.330-07:00Nugget #28The following is a sample of one of my earliest writings about running here in Buffalo Back in the Day. The intro that follows explains it all.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">The Seeds of the First Running Boom</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">by Bill Donnelly</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The year 1969 was a year chock full of momentous events in our nation’s history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard Nixon was sworn in as President, and the Viet Nam War was continuing on its nightmarish course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the world of sports, the Joe Namath Jets and the Miracle Mets both won championships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We put a man on the moon, and Ted Kennedy put his car in the drink at Chappaquiddick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While Liberals went to see “Alice’s Restaurant”, “Easy Rider”, “Midnight Cowboy”, and “Bambi meets Godzilla”, Tricky Dick’s newly named Silent Majority watched “True Grit” starring John Wayne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Chicago Seven were found not guilty, and Charles Manson and his cult went on a killing spree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><city><place>Woodstock</place></city> showed the world that Flower Power could work, but then <place>Altamont</place> showed the world that it didn’t work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lost in all this was a little noted event that took place in <place><city>Buffalo</city>, <state>New York</state></place>, and was perhaps the most momentous event of the whole year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am of course talking about the founding of one of the early running clubs in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, the Belle Watlings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, 1969 was the year “The Founder”, Richard Sullivan, his brother Ted, and one Norm Wagner, were sitting at the bar at The Place, which is still located across from the Food Co-op on <street><address>Lexington Ave.</address></street>, and they decided to run a race, since they had recently started running to get in shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even after sobering up, they still decided to go through with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so they went to <place><placename>Delaware</placename> <placetype>Park</placetype></place> and, starting at the fire hydrant next to the expressway, they had a race that went twice around the meadow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dick Sullivan won, and back they went to the Place for the Sports Drink of the day, Boilermakers (not named after the race in <city><place>Utica</place></city> – that wasn’t around yet).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While discussing the idea of starting an actual running club, they decided they needed a name for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting nearby was one Charlie Lesselles, a non-runner, who suggested the name Belle Watling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing the quizzical looks on Sully and his pal’s faces, he explained that Belle was the red haired madam with the heart of gold who was Rhett Butler’s confidant in the book “Gone With the Wind.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The name was perfect, and thus the Place may be the place where the first seeds of the Running Boom were born in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think of these roots of the Belle Watlings at this time because I recently ran in the 28<sup>th</sup> annual running of the Founders Day Race, held in honor of that fateful day in 1969 when Sully and friends ran twice around the park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The race still starts and ends at the Belle Watling Fire Hydrant, and some people consider it the top race of the year in the <place>Eastern United States</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people feel <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> should have gotten the Long Distance Running Hall of Fame because of this race, instead of <city><place>Utica</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people consider this the only true Runner of the Year race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course by some people, I mean Dick Sullivan and his brother Ted.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The highlight of The Founders Day Race is the awarding of The Founders Day Trophy, which has been won by the likes of Jack Meegan, Dave Bogdan, Fran Emerling, Jack O’Sullivan, Diane McGuire, and Yours Truly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a much sought after honor, and it was rumored that even the Buffalo Bills thought of entering the Founders Day Race in 1995 in order to win this trophy, since they couldn’t win the Super Bowl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Part of the purpose for writing a monthly column for the Checkers Chatter is to give the reader a taste of what running was like back in the seventies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore I am going to reprint a story I wrote about the running of the third annual Founders Day Race, which was held on <date day="15" month="6" year="1978">Thursday, June 15, 1978</date>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the late seventies, one of my good running buddies was Jim Caher, who was Deputy Corporation Council for the city of <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, and a member in good standing of Checkers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His wife, Sharon, was Editor of The North Buffalo Rocket, a fine neighborhood weekly paper, with a circulation of 18,000, and probably actually read by three of those people who got the paper thrown on their doorsteps for free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being that Sharon and Jim both ran, the Rocket became a place that running related articles could appear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bob Atanasio, a local runner who practically lived at <place><placename>Delaware</placename> <placetype>Park</placetype></place>, wrote a weekly column called “Delaware Park Beat” in which he would write of what was going on with the running community, or express his opinions about the world, from morality to hedonism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was quite a column.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I also wrote articles now and again, which were usually along the lines of a runners society column about races and events, and believe it or not, written with a humorous bent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The following was one such story, and should give the reader an idea of some of the runners from 1978, and what they were capable of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will note that Joe Jordan is mentioned, and for those who do not know, he is the owner of Checkers Bar on <street><address>Hertel Ave.</address></street>, and the founder of the Checkers AC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story was under the headline “Prestigious and well known ‘Bounders Day Race’ was a huge Success”, and can be found on page six of the <date day="21" month="6" year="1978">June 21, 1978</date> issue of the North Buffalo Rocket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jim Caher, being a lawyer, would read my articles first, just to be certain no one could be sued for libel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So read on, and hopefully enjoy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The third annual Belle Watling Founders Day Race was held Thursday at the </i><place><placename><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Delaware</i></placename><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><placetype><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Park</i></placetype></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Meadow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starting at the famous Belle Watling fire hydrant, the race wound twice around the golf course for 3.6 miles</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The official starter of the race was Dick Sullivan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dick is the Founder of the Belle Watling A.C., the premier running club of </i><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Western New York</i></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> and </i><country-region><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Canada</i></place></country-region><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The club, named after Belle Watling of “Gone With the Wind” fame, holds the race each year in honor of Mr. Sullivan’s first race in 1969.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well over 100 runners participated and somewhere under 100,000 spectators lined the route to cheer on the athletes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike “Rabbit” Donnelly took the lead early in the race before fading after a quarter mile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lonny Doan then took over the lead and held on to win in 18 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lanny, better known to his friends as Larry, surprised everyone by coming off a rather delicate operation a short time ago to win the race.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Because of his victory in this all important race, Lanny is said to be in negotiations with General Mills to replace Bruce Jenner on the Wheaties box.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Placing close behind Loony was Roger Hauck, once again snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roger’s time was </i><time hour="18" minute="15"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">18:15</i></time><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In third place, with a time of </i><time hour="18" minute="27"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">18:27</i></time><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, was Fred Gordon, who probably took time out from a 30 mile run to partake in this event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Next came the ever dynamic and anemic Kim Wettlaufer, who set the course record a year ago when he won in </i><time hour="17" minute="30"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">17:30</i></time><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This year he was only able to do a </i><time hour="18" minute="30"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">18:30</i></time><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite a come down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right behind Kim was Dave Bogdan in </i><time hour="18" minute="37"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">18:37</i></time><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Within the Founders Day Race was the contest among members of the Belle Watlings to win the Founders Day Trophy (named after the Polish bowling great, Bronslaws Trophy.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All Belle Watlings were handicapped, and the lovely trophy was won by Tom Donnelly, who for some reason was given a two minute handicap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom’s real time was 19:55, well behind the 19:19 run by his brother, Bill.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jim “Jim” Herzog also ran an excellent race, placing seventh just ahead of Randy Halm, and totally humiliating his brother Bob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dick “Roller Skates” </i><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kendall</i></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> proved to all, especially John Richardson, that he is well on the comeback trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dick ran a splendid </i><time hour="20" minute="16"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">20:16</i></time><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The main feature of the race, a grudge match between Orky Brown and Dick Sullivan (the two grand old men of running), never took place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was because, as Sullivan said, “I do not believe in humiliating the old boy again, and so soon after the last time.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Linda Rodgers was the first woman finisher, running in a time of </i><time hour="21" minute="40"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">21:40</i></time><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not far behind her was Sharon Caher, editor of the </i><city><place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buffalo</i></place></city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Rocket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sharon’s time of 16:30 would have been a course record, unfortunately, she still had a lap to run.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pat Janiga, who also ran, asked me to mention his name in this article.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wants to cut it out and put it in his running scrapbook he’s been keeping for ten years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With this article, Pat can finish filling in the first page.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Notable runners made conspicuous by their absence from the race were Ralph Zimmerman, Dick Berkle, Frank Shorter, Bill Rodgers and Bob Atanasio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All sent their apologies to the Founder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was even rumored that the former great Olympian Paavo Nurmi would have liked to run the race, but the fact that he died 20 years ago prevented him from doing so.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">After the race there was beer and watermelon for all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe Jordan’s performance in delivering the beer was excellent, which is more than can be said of his race performance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bottles of fine wine were given out as prizes to many of the runners.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Most runners remained at the park an hour or two after the race, just getting back to nature, and getting slightly zonkered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beer finally ran out, so we helped the Founder to his feet and dusted him off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people meandered home.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Belle Watlings headed for their official club house, which the Founder saw fit to name after his chief rival running club, Checkers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so the park was once again empty, except for Dave Bogdan, finishing his workout.</i></div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-18756646962456474092011-03-28T12:55:00.000-07:002011-03-28T12:55:59.470-07:00Nugget #27The 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.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Fear Takes it on the Chin</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">By Bill Donnelly</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I recently (October 24, 2004) ran the Casino Niagara Marathon, and it was basically the eighth time I have run this course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran the first six Slylons from 1974 to 1979, and that was pretty much the same course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yeah, and I ran the 2001 edition of the race, and that was quite a story in itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>, starting in <place>Fort Erie</place> and wind around to make up for lost miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not an easy task two weeks before the race, which does offer big prize money, and gets some good racers and numbers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> at the same time as those in <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>, they would run the original course and cross the <place><placename>Peace</placename> <placetype>Bridge</placetype></place> and join the other runners at the designated point where the courses came together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A friend of mine thought I would be interested and signed me up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was happy to be there.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Crossing the border into <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region> the day before the race was an experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn’t you know it, going over the <place><placename>Peace</placename> <placetype>Bridge</placetype></place> I got sent over to Canadian Customs to be checked out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew I should not have been wearing my good-luck turban I always wear the day before a marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately they did not reach down into it, or they would have found some embarrassing things, (I will not go into that).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 <country-region><place>US</place></country-region> into <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>, 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 <time hour="10" minute="0">10:00 a.m.</time> start the next morning in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>. Everything else was taken care of, or so we thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My main goal was to qualify for <city><place>Boston</place></city>, and I was hoping I could still do that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By <time hour="9" minute="0">9:00 a.m.</time> the morning of the race, the “Buffalo Nine” were beginning to assemble at the corner of <street><address>Delaware Avenue</address></street> and <street><address>Huron Street</address></street>, the starting point for us. Jim Nowicki answered all questions and assured us that marshals would be on the other side of the <place><placename>Peace</placename> <placetype>Bridge</placetype></place> to guide us along the course. Two of <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>’s finest arrived on their motorcycles to run interference for us. I wanted to go out at a <time hour="19" minute="30">7:30</time> pace, and when I talked to the others, only one, Tom Appenheimer, had the same plan. We agreed to run together.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pleasant weather, 62 degrees, no rain, and little wind. Oh wait; this is <place><city>BUFFALO</city>, <state>NY</state></place>, AT THE END OF LAKE ERIE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ten minutes before the race was to start, a steady, cold rain began to fall almost sideways in the near hurricane-like winds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, so I exaggerate a bit, the winds were not quite reaching hurricane-like proportions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We nine lined up, several pictures were taken, and we waited while Jim Nowicki listened on a cell phone to the starting line in <place>Fort Erie</place>. There were 1,200 marathoners over there, and it was announced to them what was happening in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>, and apparently, we got a good amount of applause from them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then we were told to go, and off we headed into the rain, running north on <street><address>Delaware Avenue</address></street>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It rained all the way to the <place><placename>Peace</placename> <placetype>Bridge</placetype></place>, four and a half miles, and at times it was very heavy rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was strange leading the marathon, but I knew this would change once we joined up with the other runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom and I hit those two miles at the <time hour="19" minute="30">7:30</time> pace we wanted, and we headed towards the bridge with water in hand and sirens wailing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On we went, and when we hit the course, race officials pointed us in the right direction.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <country-region><place>US</place></country-region> currency, so the best Kenyans do not show up. The winning time last year was <time hour="14" minute="21">2:21</time>, which was not 5 minute per mile Kenyan time as I was showing on my watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>MY GOD, WE ARE WINNING THE RACE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it hit me, my God, we are winning the race, and we do stand out like sore thumbs!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now Tom was pulling away from me.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First a police car with lights flashing passed slowly by, and then a pace car with race officials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One leaned out of the window and with a smile asked if we were the <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then informed me the real leaders were about to pass me. First came the slight Kenyan, Jean-Paul Niyonsaba.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Directly ten yards back was El Mostafa Damaoui from <place><city>Rabat</city>, <country-region>Morocco</country-region></place>. 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!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know what they thought as they passed the two Toms ahead of me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One bright spot: almost right after being passed we hit the 20K mark (this is <country-region><place>Canada</place></country-region>) and my brother Tom was there to run in a young woman he had been training.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From then on in it was downhill, as I kept being passed, and I could catch no one, not surprisingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A pack of five passed me next and their thoughts made little sense since it was a group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never saw him again, and I cannot print what he thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spicy, like their food.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I finished in <time hour="15" minute="3">3:03:13</time> and in 43<sup>rd</sup> place. Tom Appenheimer and Tom Somerville were waiting. Appenheimer finished in <time hour="14" minute="54">2:54:16</time> 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. <city><place>Somerville</place></city> hit <time hour="14" minute="58">2:58:47</time>, 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 <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> runners the other direction when they got to the parkway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We did take the times for qualifying for <city><place>Boston</place></city>, since through no fault of ours we were led astray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yeah, the Kenyan won the marathon with a <time hour="14" minute="24">2:24:28</time>, followed by American Kyle Fraser in <time hour="14" minute="28">2:28:56</time>. El Mostafa Damaoui of <country-region><place>Morocco</place></country-region> dropped to third in 2:29:32.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently the sight of me leading him for twelve miles was enough to throw him totally off his race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a good day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-15929353727396766182011-03-21T12:42:00.000-07:002011-03-21T12:45:51.042-07:00Nugget #26WARNING!!! 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.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Those Secret Rites of Passage</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I first moved to <state><place>Ohio</place></state> in late <metricconverter productid="1976 in">1976 in</metricconverter> order to attend <place><placename>Kent</placename> <placename>State</placename> <placetype>University</placetype></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lived in <country-region><place>Kent</place></country-region> and drove bus for the Campus Bus Service until the summer of 1977, when the lure of <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> brought me back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not know what the lure was, but here I am again living in the jewel of <place>Lake Erie</place>, and loving it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I lived in Kent Back in the Day, I of course kept up my running, but I missed my running buddies back in <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then in the late spring of ’77, several friends from <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> showed up to run the Greater Akron 10 and 20 Kilo run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Held in <place><city>Akron</city>, <state>Ohio</state></place>, which was about ten miles west of <country-region><place>Kent</place></country-region>, I jumped at the chance to run with and against my old teammates, as most were Belle Watlings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We thought nothing of traveling to <place><city>Rome</city>, <state>NY</state></place>, <place><city>Utica</city>, <state>NY</state></place>, <place><city>Cleveland</city>, <state>OH</state></place> or even <state><place>West Virginia</place></state> in order to put ourselves through the ordeal of running a long race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The satisfaction of a race well run was always worth the drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, we always made sure there was a good party afterwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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”.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, I of course jumped at the chance to run with my old pals and entered the 20 K.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I call them secret because rarely does one admit to these things happening to them, but we all know it does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We just come to realize that we all share in these things that we do or have happen to us.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You know the type of things I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who ever admits to saving their belly button lint in order to some day make a pillow with the lint as the stuffing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all never admit to it, but somehow we know we all do it, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know we all do that!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s only natural, but who ever admits to it, yet we somehow just know.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, this skill takes great dedication and the eating of many bean and beef burritos.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I first learned I had this skill at a very young age while my family was in <place><city>Queens</city>, <state>NY</state></place> visiting my grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Going down the back stepped I tripped and the candy corn went flying in all directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a revelation, what a talent I thought I and I alone had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why, I must hone my skills and who knows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps, one day to be on the Ed Sullivan Show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, to dream!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From then on it was corned beef and cabbage and practice, Mexican food and practice, Polish food and practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, I was getting pudgy, but I was getting good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was particularly proud of my “The Flight of the Bumble Bee”, but my proudest moment came one summer’s day years later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was visiting my girlfriend and her folks at their summer cottage in Rose Hill, Ontario.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was changing into my bathing suit while they headed down to the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All of a sudden the three cold baked bean sandwiches I had eaten while on the Crystal Beach bus caught up to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe I may have performed the best rendition of “The 1812 Overture” ever, with perfect placement of the cannon firing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon finishing, I left the bedroom to discover my girl and her parents had returned to fetch the lemonade for the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The look of amazement on their faces let me know that my performance was a masterpiece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was never able to find out how much they enjoyed it, for my girlfriend broke up with me quite soon after that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that is neither here nor there.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It wasn’t long after this that I gave up my idea of ever appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some sixth sense told me I wasn’t alone with this skill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow I suspected everybody could do it, so why struggle with my musical talents when I may only be average.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I came to know for sure that others practiced the art of musical tooting one June day only a couple years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had excused myself to wash up in the rest room, and while doing so, Tom entered one of the stalls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I realized what was happening, I was answering young Tom, and before you could say Deliverance, we were playing fast and strong. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All MUST practice this art, they just keep it to themselves, as they do with so many other secret pleasures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And thus, I finally get back to my tale of my secret rite of passage that happened away back in <place><city>Akron</city>, <state>Ohio</state></place> on a warm day in 1977.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On that day, all 700 runners took off together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not an easy course, with a tough hill in it, and we all ran 10 K together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Criminy, but how I love sauerkraut.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes, with three miles to go, my stomach was going wee wah, but I thought I could make it as I was running strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The race ended at the <place><placetype>University</placetype> of <placename>Akron</placename></place>, but I was a mile and a half away running through a neat residential section when disaster hit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh my, it is so good to see these young folks doing something so stimulating as running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why look, that handsome young fellow is coming up my spanking clean driveway I just washed this morning?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now what is that young fellow up to, why did he disappear from view?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I just stand on my tiptoes I can see him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say, is that “The Flight of the Bumble Bee” I hear?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OH MY LANDS SAKES ALIVE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>AGHHHH!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Thunk!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>I managed to finish in 40<sup>th</sup> place with a 76:20, while as usual, Ralph Zimmerman finished first among the Watlings, placing ninth with a 69:28.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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<sup>th</sup> place out of 167 finishers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never ran that race again; in fact I never dared run in <city><place>Akron</place></city> again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we Watlings did pratice our motto, as we “Partiest Hardetoer”, and soon I forgot my embarrassment earlier in the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just hope the paramedics got to the little old lady in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>And there you have it, my dirty little secret is out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But don’t we all have such tales to tell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div 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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-32244037140632732002011-03-14T10:15:00.000-07:002011-03-14T10:15:10.829-07:00Nugget #25I wrote this article last year shortly after my brother, Tom, was elected President of Checkers AC. It never was published in the Checkers newsletter.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">The Great Race</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I just finished the July<i> Checkers Chatter, </i>and the President’s letter really caught my eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First off, I must admit to being very proud of my brother, Tom, for he has really come a long way in the <city><place>Buffalo</place></city> running world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, most of you did not know him back when he started running, weighing in at somewhere under <metricconverter productid="400 pounds">400 pounds</metricconverter>, but definitely over 200, and wearing my worn out running shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who could see that happening so fast?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My whole family is very proud of him overcoming his oh so many handicaps to rise to the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most are a bit annoyed at having to address him as “Your Royal and Most Exalted Omnipotent Grand Poohpah and All-knowing Highness.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My 90 year old dad really chafes at this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why, when I was President of the Buffalo Philharmonic AC, I simply went by “The Great Serene One.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, I can just see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bwaaah-haa-haa-haa!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, but it was not meant to be.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, back to Tom’s message on safety in the July <i>Chatter</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b>Oh Really! </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let me tell you about my brother “Back in the Day”, back when those on <city><place>Grand Island</place></city> feared for their safety come July 4<sup>th</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In those days I was busy teaching in the <place><city>Cleveland</city>, <state>Ohio</state></place> area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But word reached me even there of the amazing fireworks displays that took place every July 4<sup>th</sup> on the front lawn of one Tom Donnelly’s place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and was I to be rewarded for my effort.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tom always had a big to-do for the 4<sup>th</sup>, and most think he did it for his kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is only partially true, as he does dearly love them, and does quite a lot for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe me; I am being serious about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I well remember that display I witnessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, beside Tom and I, my brother Mike, who ran the marathon in a respectable <time hour="14" minute="41">2:41</time> time, was also at the party. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had just gotten back into running, and my first effort in a marathon in ten years produced a time of <time hour="15" minute="14">3:14</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We lined up in front of the house, and were to race to the corner and back, a distance of about <metricconverter productid="800 yards">800 yards</metricconverter>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rules were laid down, Dan Loncto acted as the official starter, barked off: “set and go!” and away we went.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without saying a word to each other about strategy, we took off at a leisurely walk, meandering towards the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">A few onlookers remained, sure that our competitive nature would kick in, and one or more of us would break into a sprint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we crossed the finish line neck and neck and neck, even Loncto threw up his hands in disgust and rejoined the other partiers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could tell by the look in his young, trusting eyes, that he was wondering why all of <city><place>Grand Island</place></city>’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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So let’s leave Tom’s fireworks for a minute, and I will explain Paul’s nickname to you.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ticket takers would never check the cute kid you see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some might think that this was a great way to build up Paul’s legs, but for Paul, it was becoming a nightmare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Things came to a dramatic conclusion one frigid, snowy December Sunday afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus the nickname, Bottle Rocket, and this episode also explains why Tom no longer has season tickets to the Bills.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ah, but I digress, so back to the fireworks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <span style="font-size: 8pt;">snap, crackle and fizzle</span>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I simply looked Tom in the eye and stated “Be still my heart!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This cracked us both up, and we rolled on the ground we were laughing so hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All, that is, except for Paul, who stood there with the look of such pride in the show his dad had just put on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess all it takes is a couple bottle rockets and a lot of love, and that was something Tom has always provided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There has never been a fireworks display anywhere that equals the love Tom has for his kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in -0.5in 0pt 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in -0.5in 0pt 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-46007373269179195522011-03-07T09:32:00.000-08:002011-03-07T09:32:37.950-08:00Nugget #24This is another Back in the Day story that tells of the dangers of winter running.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Put a Sock in it!</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">By Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While looking through the advertisement sections from the Sunday paper it hit me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why not write about what we used to wear for winter running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did that connection happen, you ask?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, it’s July, but look at what’s being advertised now in July.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cripes, they put bathing suits on final clearance sale months ago, and summer hadn’t even begun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I hardly have a reason to look through the ads anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t give you time to even relax and forget the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No spit-balls or sneezing powder or whoopee cushions either, but I digress.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back to the topic at hand, the winter clothing we ran in Back in the Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Criminy, they have races there now, thanks to modern materials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in the Day (A second here to explain something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on “Day” of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go ahead, practice it a few time to make sure you have it right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you feel comfortable with it, and a bit in awe, proceed with the article.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So anyway, Back in the Day, we basically had but one miracle fiber, and that was cotton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wore cotton everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, cotton has many wonderful uses, such as stuffing in the top of aspirin bottles and on the ends of Q-tips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that’s about it for cotton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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!!!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We runners were the inventors of the fashion of layering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How cold it got would determine how many layers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For very cold days, the number that sticks in my mind is seven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, seven pieces of clothing, at least on top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would usually be four tee-shirts, a long sleeved shirt, and a couple of bulky sweat-shirts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This sure did nothing to show off our trim figures.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And talk about heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember, we were all doing 100 mile weeks Back in the Day, and on longer runs, the pounds of sweat would double.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I contend that this form of weight training we did was what made us so fast.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For extremities, we usually wore a couple wool stocking caps, and I always preferred a couple pairs of old running socks for mitts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured out early on that mitts helped keep your fingers warm much better than gloves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <place><placename>Delaware</placename> <placetype>Park</placetype></place> together. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now we’re talking a lot of cotton, all I can say is thank God for the invention of the cotton gin.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was never one for doing a lot of stretching before or after running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who had time, what with running sixteen miles every day?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then there was the time it took to put on all those clothes, oh say a half hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peeling off the soaking wet nasty clothes took even longer, so stretching was just out of the question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All these pieces of clothing created quite another problem once you finished running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As you peeled them off, you had to find somewhere to dry them so they would be ready for the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lamps were great, as the heat from the light bulbs helped in the drying process, and the stove provided a couple spots for drying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s face it, everything in my abode had wet, smelly clothes hanging from them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It made watching the TV tough, and I missed many phone calls trying to find the dang phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder if there was a connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guess I’ll never know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they weren’t happy, all they had to do was wash and dry my running clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t, since that was women’s work Back in the Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just can’t figure why my girlfriends always left me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That way, all your cotton things get that uniform gray color we men find so appealing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t we runners start to stink pretty bad by the second day?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why yes, and thanks for asking, but what did we care?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were few female runners to impress, and we men certainly enjoy trying to outdo each other in emitting bad smells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why else would we be so fond of tacos and beans?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Besides, Back in the Day the winters were so cold, our smell would freeze in mid-air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was even talk back then of relocating the Zoo away from <place><placename>Delaware</placename> <placetype>Park</placetype></place> because the June thaw and it’s resulting stench was always so upsetting to the animals there.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, if you have any kids near you, I suggest you have them leave the room before you continue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All clear?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good, let’s continue.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m going to talk about a part of my anatomy that needed a little extra protection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll try to do this without being vulgar, so I’ll not name that part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll give hints though, it is the part of me that protrudes quite a bit and needs extra protecting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, not my nose, although that did often need a scarf wrapped around it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is something men have that women do not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No again, it’s not a lack of common sense, and why would we need to keep that warm.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let’s try again, I’ll only say that this body part starts with the letter p.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no again, I’m not talking about my pierced ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I already said I wore a couple stocking caps for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the part of me that a certain someone (who shall remain nameless but whose initials are D<span style="font-size: 8pt;">iane </span>M<span style="font-size: 8pt;">cGuire</span>) calls her “Mr. Love Machine.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, No, No!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not talking about her electric toothbrush.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">One more time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the part that I used to cover with my dribble kabibble whose wibble jibble was of course quite zibble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To understand that, check out my article called “Straight Eye for the Running Guy” in the July, 2004 issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Checkers Chatter</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok, you got it, finally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people are so dense, and I just wanted to keep this piece from offending any delicate souls out there. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So believe it or not, this particular body part can be very susceptible to the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did know of one runner who actually had a bit of frost-bite there, and believe me, he said it was quite painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strange that never happened, but protect myself I did anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As mentioned, I used old running socks for mitts, and I found they also worked as frost-bite protection elsewhere. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Yes, thank God for the modern miracle fabrics they make running clothes out of now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only do they save time in getting dressed and undressed for running, they take up less space for drying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They certainly weigh a lot less when running, and do not get so heavy with sweat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I do not have to save my old running socks anymore; I can just toss them away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I must admit that some things about running today are better than they were Back in the Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280867619524660188.post-5511583516051497182011-02-28T06:41:00.000-08:002011-02-28T06:41:04.079-08:00nugget #23Ah, we just got back from a vacation in sunny Florida, so here is a story that takes place during one of the nicer months here in Buffalo, June.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Rounded MT Bold"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Tunga;">2 </span><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Live Hurdle Crew</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">by Bill Donnelly</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As runners, we all know the thrill and fun of competing in races, both long and short, on roads, tracks or over Hill and Dale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dale Hill was actually a friend of mine who fell in a race right in front of me, and I had to literally go over him, thus the term, over Hill and Dale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, if all you ever do is run in the races, you really never get to know what it takes to pull these events off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A great way to learn this is to volunteer to help out at some races.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doing so can be a real eye-opener.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve had the fun of working traffic control at several 5K races, all of which happened to be held on <city><place>Buffalo</place></city>’s lower <place>West Side</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been called some colorful Latino names by upset drivers wanting to get somewhere fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t know what these expressions meant, but I know I would never say them to Gramma Mora’s face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this is just stopping traffic for a 5K.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine the things I would be called had the race been a marathon.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Speaking of marathons, I have worked the water stops at a few of these LONG races in my day, the last time being the Buffalo Marathon in May of 2006.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was at the <metricconverter productid="17 mile">17 mile</metricconverter> mark, so we were there quite a while getting things ready and handing out the refreshments to runners of all shapes and sizes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I of course got to work at the table handing out the Power-Sticky-Aide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I was finished, ants were crawling all over me to get at the goop that had been spilled on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it is always an interesting perspective to see a marathon from this vantage point, rather than being one of the participants.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So volunteering for races can be challenging yet very rewarding and enlightening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always enjoy doing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is, until this past June when Roger Roll put out the emergency call for help with the Empire Game trials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seems the trials were supposed to be held in <city><place>Rochester</place></city>, but because of a scheduling conflict (probably something important like a tractor pull) the officials informed the <place><placetype>University</placetype> of <placename>Buffalo</placename></place> it would be held at their track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was five days before the event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And UB’s two track coaches would have to put on the event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the two coaches, Vicki Mitchell and Perry Jenkins, were out of town when they were informed of this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they would have to come up with the volunteers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s where Roger Roll, the President of Checkers, or as he likes to be called, “the Great Exalted Grand Pooh-Bah and Royal Highness Himself Forever”, comes in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to get helpers, and get them fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s where we lowly peons who are mere members of the club come in, we were silly enough to say why sure, we would love to help, just tell us where and when and should we bend over for this too.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Roger needed enough people to work two shifts, <time hour="7" minute="0">7am</time> till <time hour="12" minute="0">noon</time>, and <time hour="12" minute="0">noon</time> till about <time hour="16" minute="0">4pm</time> when hopefully everything would end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being the type of people who hate to sleep in on a Saturday morning, Diane McGuire and I volunteered for the morning shift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you believe that hating to sleep in crap, I have some great real-estate I’d like to sell you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s located in the 9<sup>th</sup> ward of <city><place>New Orleans</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, Diane and I thought it best to take the early shift so we could get it over with and have the rest of the day for ourselves.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We also had a beer-tasting event at the Sterling Place Pub to go to at <time hour="17" minute="0">5pm</time>, so we wanted to have time to rest up for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By brother Tom, better known as Bill Donnelly’s slow little brother, and his wife Julie, better known as Bill Donnelly’s slow little brother’s wife, were also going to the beer-tasting, but they offered to help out during the afternoon shift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was worried they might be tired and late for the all important beery event.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, Saturday, June 17<sup>th</sup> arrived very bright and early for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We managed to get out of bed, but we had to skip out usual weekend ritual of treating ourselves to some Starbucks coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just one of those little treats we save for ourselves, but this morning we had to skip it because they were not open yet when we first got up, and as we needed our coffee right NOW! we made our own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time we finally woke up completely, we were out the door and headed for UB.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We arrived just before seven just as Roger was rolling up (no pun intended) with a hot steamy Starbucks in his hand. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Others arrived within minutes, as Roger was very clear that we were needed at seven sharp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These included the usual suspects, Amy Fakterowitz, Linda and Becky Forrestel, Cathy Levine, Russ Trippe and Jim Christen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we made our way onto the track, Roger informed us that he ordered bagels for us on his computer, but he was afraid that since he hadn’t paid his AOL bill in six months and they cut his service, he was worried the order didn’t go through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was more upset with the fact he couldn’t get on MySpace.com anymore, but we were more concerned with the lack of sustenance.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then Roger told us he thought of setting up the Checkers tent for us, but decided against that since it would involve too much effort to be worthwhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We peered towards the cloudless sky with already parched lips and sunburned foreheads, searching for any small cloud to block out the blazingly hot sun, which already had sent temperatures towards 90 degrees, even though it was only <time hour="7" minute="5">7:05am</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, so maybe I exaggerate a bit, but then we were informed by the team of students out to raise the Stars and Stripes that the meet would not be starting until sometime after nine, so we had plenty of time to go find a Starbucks or something, as we were not needed for two hours.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The <city><place>Amherst</place></city> police records for Saturday, June 17<sup>th</sup> show that at exactly <time hour="7" minute="6">7:06am</time> the dispatch received a frantic 911 call that was later traced to Roger Roll’s cell phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The recording is chilling, with a shaky, frightened voice screaming “Bill Donnelly has me in a headlock” followed by a gurgling sound and then silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The others quickly pulled me off Roger, but I think only so they could have at him, but he quickly escaped, err, went to see if he could find Coach Mitchell or Coach Jenkins.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The rest of us meandered over to the high jump pit and collapsed on the jumping mat and made small talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The small talk was mainly about impeaching his Grand Holiness, and there was talk of heating up some tar and plucking a few chickens for their feathers, all of which would be presented to his Exaltedness, but soon the hot sun had us delirious enough we forgot about his Pooh-Bah and thought how nice a tent would have been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yeah, that was Roger’s call, and it was back to talk of running him out of town on a rail.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally Coach Vicki showed up, Starbucks in hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is there no justice?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing that we, as a group, had no direction, she organized us and had us set up the hurdles for the races to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those gosh-darned hurdles, which we would all soon grow to hate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coach Jenkins was also now on hand, and he walked about giving orders through a bullhorn, which we would also grow to hate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These hurdles were not your new state of the art hurdles you would expect a big school like UB to have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coach Vicki said something about them being purchased for the first Olympic trials back in 1896 or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe that to be true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some were broken, and all were difficult to raise and lower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since the first hurdle event would be the high hurdles, we had to raise all 80 of them to their highest position and place them appropriately on the track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To raise them, you had to use both index fingers to push in these stubborn metal nipples (can I say that word here, oh well, I did) in past these finger-eating sharp holes in the shaft (can I say that word here, oh well, I did) of the hurdle and pull up or push down to the next finger eating hole, whereupon the nipple pops into the hole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you have to raise or lower it two or more notches, that means more finger- eating pushing with your already bloody index fingers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, we got the hurdles set up, and we were satisfied with our work, when Coach Jenkins yells into the bullhorn, even though he was two feet from us, that the first event would be the <metricconverter productid="10,000 meter">10,000 meter</metricconverter> run, so please move the hurdles off the track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amy and I looked at each other knowingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She, being a third grade teacher, and myself having taught for over twenty years, knew busy work when we saw it, or in this case, did it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to call it “bell work”, and it’s what you gave the kids to do as they first came into the room each morning just to get them settled in and to let them know who is the boss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boy, did we feel like third graders.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After we cleared the hurdles, they called for volunteers for other events, and as Linda and Becky Forrestel looked at their bloody fingers, they quickly agreed to go work the javelin event outside the stadium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard later they misunderstood the directions of what they were to do, and instead of measuring the throws, they thought they were there to catch the javelins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That explained the sharp dents in Linda’s forehead later, and as her husband Peter told me since, she was never very good at playing catch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daughter Becky did much better, and she was actually kind of pleased to have lost her index finger on her left hand as she will never have to work the hurdles again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Meanwhile, the rest of us watched the exciting 10K race unfolding before our sunburned eyes, as runners went lap after excruciating lap around us as we pretended to be sitting under the tent Roger didn’t bring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then a moment of action as we set up the steeplechase hurdles, and waited while a few 3K races were run here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was close to <time hour="11" minute="0">11am</time> and only “bell work” so far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But all that changed in an instant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly Coach Jenkins was calling for the “hurdle crew” (it was nice to have a title at least) to set up for the high hurdles at the blue lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was over in a flash, and it was time to move the hurdles to the white lines and lower them a notch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again a flash, and move them again back to the blue lines and lower them two notches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jim Christen held up a finger that was actually gushing blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We started to use other objects such as keys and Chap Sticks to push in those nipples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then Coach Jenkins is barking at us that the hurdles have to be raised one more notch, we lowered them too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A flash and move the hurdles off the track for the <metricconverter productid="100 meter">100 meter</metricconverter> dash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now Coach Vicki is gathering us together to give us instructions for the finals of all the hurdle events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh no, not again!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But first she promised us gloves for our hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, she could find none, but she did give us socks to use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently the school had gotten tons of socks to use as rewards for the football team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time they would win a game last year, each member of the team would get three new pair of socks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They still had tons of socks after that season, so Coach Vicki gave them to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little help in fighting those finger eating hurdles, but we would have nice clean white sock to wear next time we went out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except for Jim, since he tried using his for the hurdles, and now they not only have holes in the toes, they are all bloody.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now Vicki gave us instructions for the upcoming hurdle events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe they were very detailed, but as we were all zoombiefied by now, and as it was <time hour="11" minute="50">11:50</time> and the next hurdle crew should be arriving shortly, none of us caught much of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After Coach left us, thinking she had all under control, Amy turned to us and asked “Did any of you catch any of those instructions at all?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I know how my third graders feel as I try to impart wisdom into their pea-brains!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was true, we all had that dazed third grader look and all any of us heard Vicki say was “Now as soon as yuba yuba yuba move them to the blue line yuba yuba then you yuba yuba yuba which will be right after the yuba yuba and then lower them three notches yuba yuba to the white lines yuba yuba”, well, you get the idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we didn’t worry, our relief would soon be here at <time hour="12" minute="0">noon</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At <time hour="12" minute="45">12:45</time> I was on Amy’s cell phone to my brother, as no one had arrived yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the way Amy, did my blood wash off the buttons ok?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, Tom, my slow little brother, said they were leaving shortly as Roger said anytime between <time hour="12" minute="0">noon</time> and <time hour="14" minute="30">2:30</time> was fine, which would explain why the other afternoon help did not arrive until at least <time hour="13" minute="0">one o’clock</time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I informed the morning hurdle crew of this, they actually almost left to find those chickens to pluck.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We were hungry, tired and sunburned, but we hung in there till help arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it did, we were out of there feeling sorry for our relief, as they would be there probably till forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Diane and I arrived at the Sterling Place Pub about two hours later, there were Tom and Julie, looking fresh as can be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seems everything was over by three and they hardly had to move any hurdles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>YOW!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are those chickens when you need them?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh well, after a few Flying Bison barley malt beverages at the pub, I mellowed out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you know what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roger was at that track meet all day trying to coordinate everything just to save the club some bucks for next year when we use UB’s track for our workouts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spent so much time setting things up and wrapping things up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And never a complaint from him, just smiling all day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except when I had him in that headlock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div>Buffalo Chipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09846301299283031618noreply@blogger.com0