Monday, February 28, 2011

nugget #23

Ah, 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.


2 Live Hurdle Crew
by Bill Donnelly

            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.  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.  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.
            A great way to learn this is to volunteer to help out at some races.  Doing so can be a real eye-opener.  I’ve had the fun of working traffic control at several 5K races, all of which happened to be held on Buffalo’s lower West Side.  I’ve been called some colorful Latino names by upset drivers wanting to get somewhere fast.  Didn’t know what these expressions meant, but I know I would never say them to Gramma Mora’s face.  And this is just stopping traffic for a 5K.  Imagine the things I would be called had the race been a marathon.
            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.  I was at the 17 mile mark, so we were there quite a while getting things ready and handing out the refreshments to runners of all shapes and sizes.  I of course got to work at the table handing out the Power-Sticky-Aide.  By the time I was finished, ants were crawling all over me to get at the goop that had been spilled on me.  But it is always an interesting perspective to see a marathon from this vantage point, rather than being one of the participants.
            So volunteering for races can be challenging yet very rewarding and enlightening.  I always enjoy doing it.  That is, until this past June when Roger Roll put out the emergency call for help with the Empire Game trials.  Seems the trials were supposed to be held in Rochester, but because of a scheduling conflict (probably something important like a tractor pull) the officials informed the University of Buffalo it would be held at their track.  This was five days before the event.  And UB’s two track coaches would have to put on the event.  And the two coaches, Vicki Mitchell and Perry Jenkins, were out of town when they were informed of this.  And they would have to come up with the volunteers.
            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.  He had to get helpers, and get them fast.  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.
            Roger needed enough people to work two shifts, till , and till about when hopefully everything would end.  Being the type of people who hate to sleep in on a Saturday morning, Diane McGuire and I volunteered for the morning shift.  If you believe that hating to sleep in crap, I have some great real-estate I’d like to sell you.  It’s located in the 9th ward of New Orleans.  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.
            We also had a beer-tasting event at the Sterling Place Pub to go to at , so we wanted to have time to rest up for it.  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.  I was worried they might be tired and late for the all important beery event.
            Well, Saturday, June 17th arrived very bright and early for us.  We managed to get out of bed, but we had to skip out usual weekend ritual of treating ourselves to some Starbucks coffee.  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.  By the time we finally woke up completely, we were out the door and headed for UB.  We arrived just before seven just as Roger was rolling up (no pun intended) with a hot steamy Starbucks in his hand.
            Others arrived within minutes, as Roger was very clear that we were needed at seven sharp.  These included the usual suspects, Amy Fakterowitz, Linda and Becky Forrestel, Cathy Levine, Russ Trippe and Jim Christen.  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.  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.
            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.  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 .  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.
            The Amherst police records for Saturday, June 17th show that at exactly the dispatch received a frantic 911 call that was later traced to Roger Roll’s cell phone.  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.  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.
            The rest of us meandered over to the high jump pit and collapsed on the jumping mat and made small talk.  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.  Oh yeah, that was Roger’s call, and it was back to talk of running him out of town on a rail.
            Finally Coach Vicki showed up, Starbucks in hand.  Is there no justice?  Seeing that we, as a group, had no direction, she organized us and had us set up the hurdles for the races to come.  Those gosh-darned hurdles, which we would all soon grow to hate.  Coach Jenkins was also now on hand, and he walked about giving orders through a bullhorn, which we would also grow to hate. 
            These hurdles were not your new state of the art hurdles you would expect a big school like UB to have.  Coach Vicki said something about them being purchased for the first Olympic trials back in 1896 or something.  I believe that to be true.  Some were broken, and all were difficult to raise and lower.  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. 
            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.  If you have to raise or lower it two or more notches, that means more finger- eating pushing with your already bloody index fingers.
            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 10,000 meter run, so please move the hurdles off the track.  Amy and I looked at each other knowingly.  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.  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.  Boy, did we feel like third graders.
            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.   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.  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.  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.
            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.  Then a moment of action as we set up the steeplechase hurdles, and waited while a few 3K races were run here.  It was close to and only “bell work” so far. 
            But all that changed in an instant.  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.  That was over in a flash, and it was time to move the hurdles to the white lines and lower them a notch.  Again a flash, and move them again back to the blue lines and lower them two notches.  Jim Christen held up a finger that was actually gushing blood.  We started to use other objects such as keys and Chap Sticks to push in those nipples.  Then Coach Jenkins is barking at us that the hurdles have to be raised one more notch, we lowered them too much.  A flash and move the hurdles off the track for the 100 meter dash.  And now Coach Vicki is gathering us together to give us instructions for the finals of all the hurdle events.  Oh no, not again!
            But first she promised us gloves for our hands.  Unfortunately, she could find none, but she did give us socks to use.  Apparently the school had gotten tons of socks to use as rewards for the football team.  Every time they would win a game last year, each member of the team would get three new pair of socks.  They still had tons of socks after that season, so Coach Vicki gave them to us.  Little help in fighting those finger eating hurdles, but we would have nice clean white sock to wear next time we went out.  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.
            Now Vicki gave us instructions for the upcoming hurdle events.  I believe they were very detailed, but as we were all zoombiefied by now, and as it was and the next hurdle crew should be arriving shortly, none of us caught much of it.  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?  Now I know how my third graders feel as I try to impart wisdom into their pea-brains!”  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.  But we didn’t worry, our relief would soon be here at . 
            At I was on Amy’s cell phone to my brother, as no one had arrived yet.  By the way Amy, did my blood wash off the buttons ok?  Well, Tom, my slow little brother, said they were leaving shortly as Roger said anytime between and was fine, which would explain why the other afternoon help did not arrive until at least .  When I informed the morning hurdle crew of this, they actually almost left to find those chickens to pluck.
            We were hungry, tired and sunburned, but we hung in there till help arrived.  When it did, we were out of there feeling sorry for our relief, as they would be there probably till forever.  When Diane and I arrived at the Sterling Place Pub about two hours later, there were Tom and Julie, looking fresh as can be.  Seems everything was over by three and they hardly had to move any hurdles.  YOW!  Where are those chickens when you need them?
            Oh well, after a few Flying Bison barley malt beverages at the pub, I mellowed out.  And you know what.  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.  He spent so much time setting things up and wrapping things up.  And never a complaint from him, just smiling all day.  Except when I had him in that headlock.                     

Monday, February 7, 2011

nugget #22

My wife, Diane, and I are going on a vacation to wonderful. sunny florida next week, so this will be my only post for the next couple weeks.  Here in Buffalo, we have had a very cold winter, as has much of the country, so we are looking forward to hopefully being able to spend several days running in just shorts and aq short sleeve shirt.  Since we will be hopefully warm, I will print a story that I wrote back at the end of 2006 right after Buffalo was hit by an unexpected two feet of snow in the middle of October.  Since the leaves were still on the trees, and the snow was so wet and heavy, thousands of trees were destroyed, and most Buffalonians were without power for days and days.  We had just gotten back from a vacation to Eugene, Oregon, so as we get ready for another vacation, you can read about a past one we had.


The Ducks vs. The Pigeons
By Bill Donnelly

            I’ve just finished raking the leaves at my home in North Buffalo, and boy was it backbreaking work this year.  I think it was tougher this year since the leaves were still attached to the huge branches they grew up on during the past year.  I broke three rakes because of those dang branches.
            Oh, we all have our horror stories or tales of heartwarming events to share of that wonderful mid-October snowstorm that kicked Buffalo right where it hurts.  Two feet of the fluffy stuff that was none too fluffy, but rather heavy and wet like two feet of freshly poured concrete.  It made running such an adventure as you tried to avoid getting clobbered by falling branches, crippled by tripping over said tree pieces, or even getting electrocuted by downed power lines hiding in said debris.
            People called it by different names: Friday the 13th Horror, October Surprise, October Nightmare, October Fest(ivus for the rest of us), October storm, Ach du Lieber.  Whatever one names it, the storm was a cruel reminder that winter is on the way, and it seems to have come six weeks early this year.  Like we need six more weeks of winter around here.  My guess is a long cold winter for training, guaranteeing a record hot Boston Marathon for 2007.
            Any hopes by me that this still might be a mild winter were dashed just days after the storm when I spied a Wooly Bear in the parking lot where I work.  To many people, the Wooly Bear is a sure predictor of winter, especially to the people of Northeastern Ohio where I lived for over twenty years.  The Wooly Bear is actually the caterpillar that becomes the Isabella Tiger Moth, but in the larva stage it is a fuzzy looking black worm with an orange stripe in the middle.  According to those in the know, the width of that orange stripe, which changes from year to year, tells you how long and cold the winter will be.  Holy shades of Punxsutawney Phil Batman (like whether a fat groundhog seeing his shadow or not on February 2 tells us we still got at least six more weeks of winter coming our way.) 
            Anyway, the Wooly Bear tradition is big around Cleveland in large part thanks to local and very popular weatherman Dick Goddard, who has been predicting the weather for a local TV station since way back when weather was first invented.  Goddard is a huge proponent of the caterpillar’s ability to predict the coming weather, and now that I think about it, Goddard was no better at predicting the weather than any other weatherman situated near the great lakes, so why not get rid of the lot of them and just hire a few Wooly Bears and old Punxsutawney Phil, except Phil probably would feast on the poor caterpillars, and that wouldn’t be good for family viewing.  But I digress. 
            Goddard is such a proponent of the squishy bugs that the little town of Vermillion, located somewhere to the west of Cleveland, started an annual Wooly Bear Festival, held right in the middle of October, when the streets are covered by slithering black and orange hairy slugs.  Goddard is always the Grand Marshal of the little festival, thus guaranteeing much free publicity during his weather show, when he freely admits to guesstimating the forecast.  At the festival, they have a big parade where everyone dresses up as Wooly Bears and march through the Wooly Bear covered streets slipping and sliding on the scurrying larvae.  What fun!  I just hope they don’t have a Wooly Bear eating contest.
            So finally back to the Wooly Bear I saw that told me all I needed to know about the severity of the coming winter.  This was right about October 16, when usually we are enjoying wonderful weather.  I don’t remember how wide the little fella’s orange stripe was, but what struck me was that the bug was curled up in the fetal position, frozen to the pavement.  You’re right, I don’t know that a caterpillar has a fetal position since it starts out as an egg, but you get the idea, and frozen solid in mid-October was not a good sign.
            I guess what got me most about the October Storm was that it came just two weeks after I had returned from Eugene, Oregon, where the weather had been a sunny 85 degrees and dry.  What a wakeup call that snow was, as if reminding me that Buffalo aint the land where everyone seems to be either out running, roller-blading, or riding bikes this time of year.  You see, after working over two years for the natural gas provider for western NY, whose name I shall not mention, but which rhymes with Irrational Fool Class, I took my five whole days of vacation all at once, and along with Diane McGuire, flew out to Eugene to visit my sister Kate and her husband, Jim Caher.
            Back in the Day, Jim was an early member of Checkers, a marathoner, as was the time a male under forty years old needed to qualify for Boston.  A lawyer, he was Deputy Corporation Council for the city of Buffalo.  He was one of the runners I ran with quite a bit, and we became close friends, socializing quite a bit.  Through this connection he eventually met my sister.
            I moved to Ohio in 1978, and the last time I saw Jim was in 1982 when he and Kate stopped at my home in Kent for a short visit while on their way to Oregon.  Since then Kate earned her law degree and is now a Judge, and Jim has his own Law office, and is a leading expert on Bankruptcy Law.  He and his brother John wrote the two versions of Bankruptcy for Dummies in the famous series.  He does not run anymore, but he bikes and roller-blades with the same intensity he always put into his running.
            Seeing Jim again was great, and we caught up on what has happened to each other over the years.  We also spent much time reminiscing about Back in the Day.  Bad news readers, for memories came flooding back and I now have material for countless more articles.  “Oh No!” you say?
            Why Jim stopped running is a very interesting story.  Seems about six months after arriving out west, Jim was flying along with the boss of the firm he hooked up with, winging in a small plane towards southern Oregon on business.  While buzzing over the mountains at 12,000 feet, the plane’s single engine exploded with a loud bang.  The windshield was covered with streaks of oil, and then there was the sound you never want to hear at 12,000 feet, the sounds of silence.  And I don’t mean Simon and Garfunkle’s song.
            I do not know about you, but if I were in the very situation Jim found himself in, certain thoughts would definitely be going through my mind.  Almost immediately I would be wondering if I would be able to clean, let alone ever wear my pants again.  Then I might wonder if the others stuck with me in this tragic, cramped space of a rapidly falling airplane would notice the horrible odor coming from my pants.  Next I would realize, what does it matter, as in mere moments, all in the plane, along with my foul pants, would soon become one with the mountain.  With that realization, my pants would become truly unrecoverable, but once again, why care.
            Well, I learned from Jim that he clearly remembers his thoughts.  Initially he thought, “Cripes, how are we going to get home!” as if they were in a car that broke down in the middle of nowhere. But then Jim understood the gravity of the situation and he became a sudden realist.  His final thoughts as the plane descended were “What a waste, I’m too young and there is so much more I want to do, and what about those dummies who will never understand bankruptcy?” 
            Well, fortunately for all those dummies, not to mention my sister, Kate, myself, and of course Jim, he survived the crash.  The plane hit a tree and somehow turned over before landing on the ground, up high in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, and all survived, though upside-down.  So now Jim probably thought “Cripes, how are we going to get home!”  Jim crawled out, as did the others, they were rescued by loggers, and the worse Jim suffered were two broken ankles, thus, the end of his running career, and the start of his looking for other means of exercise.
            So Jim, Kate, Diane and I did much reminiscing during our holiday together.  Oh, how Jim and I relived those glorious Back in the Day days, why I’m in a daze just thinking of those Back in the Day days.  What stories I have to tell, you lucky readers.  My gosh, I’m thinking of putting all these tales into an epic book, one that will have everything.  It will have love, intrigue, running, betrayal, blood, guts and vomit, running, near nudity, dribbles kabibbles, running, more running, and Belle Watling herself.  It will be the grand story of a bygone era that no longer exists.  That wonderful time known to all as Back in the Day.  I may call my masterpiece “Gone with the Breeze!”
            But I get away from myself.  What a surprise!  Since we all have so rudely been reminded of winter, the one short narrative Jim told that I will share with you at this time, and the only one involving snow, occurred on our last full day in Eugene.  Jim, Diane and I had climbed the two mile path to the top of Spencer’s Butte, the highest point in Eugene.  It was a gorgeous day, not a cloud in the sky, 90 degrees and as clear as can be because of no humidity.  We sat atop that butte for two hours trading tales, and Jim reminded me of one time we had run together during a winter Back in the Day. 
            The first thing you need to know, before telling this tidbit,  is that I am extremely pigeon toed, meaning my feet point inward when I walk and run.  You all know what I mean, but I mean I’m extremely pigeon toed.  In the mid 1970s I ran the Rochester marathon, and afterwards learned from a friend that a podiatrist he was seeing had been running behind me and wanted to get hold of me to make orthotics for me.  I went to him, he told me that babies born now would have their ankles broken and reset if they were born as pigeon toed as I was,  and he made me orthodics that actually cured a lot of the injuries I had been having because of my condition.  But still when I ran marathons, I often finished the race with bloody ankles because of kicking myself because of my condition.  My feet were so inverted, it was like my big toes were in love with each other and tried going through life looking into each other’s nails. 
            Jim on the other hand is what we call flat-footed, or as those of us with the clever sense of humor of a seventh grader called duck footed.  And as tremendously pigeon toed as I was, Jim was as exceptionally duck footed.  When he ran, pictures of Charlie Chaplin’s the Tramp came to mind.  It was as if his feet were made of magnets, and the toes were the same pole, thus forcing them apart.
            So Jim’s simple tale was of a time we met and were the only ones running around Delaware Park just after a new snow fall.  I so remembered that time, and how as we came full circle to a spot where we had been running single file for some reason, we saw our footprints and almost went into hysterics.  It was as if some strange creature had been running before us, one with perhaps the front feet facing away from each other, and the hind feet facing inward.  Silly, I know, but Back in the Day we got such a kick out of it, imagining some Dr. Seuss like creature running ahead of us.  Perhaps a being that was simply a cross between a giant Wooly Bear and Punxsutawney Phil.  I do miss running with Jim.