Saturday, August 13, 2011

The Bridgeland Dawdle

Hello loyal readers ...or to be more precise, Hello Mom, Sherry, and Jennifer.

A long time ago, I participated in a coffee house where the patrons were encouraged to write out haikus and deliver them at lulls in between the various acts.  So for example, a guitarist would go up, strum a few tunes inspired by Travis Tritt and Bryan Adams (just translate that to mean "terrible music"), and then someone would offer a break from the next guitar act with a delightful little haiku.  ...I don't know; maybe the myriad number of bad singers and performance artists so dramatically affected my judgment that improvisational poetry proved itself an acceptable option (just translate that to mean "reprieve from crappy songs").  Anyway, one friend of mine offered a haiku that has forever stayed with me.

Oh why do I do
The stupid things that I do?
Someone stop me please.

So what does that have to do with anything?

I present to you my report of The Bridgeland Sprint of 2011 --What I will forever call “The Bridgeland Dawdle.”

To begin.

I did not train much (bad idea # 1).
I drank on Friday (bad idea # 2).
I stayed in the sun on Saturday (bad idea # 3).
I ate poorly (bad for training - good for living happily) on Friday and Saturday: (bad idea # 4).
I stayed up too late the night before because of stress (bad idea # 5).
I didn't find any friends at beginning of race (sadness leads to lack of enthusiasm = bad idea # 6).

Oh why do I do...
THE SWIM: 500 meters.  
My goggles band snapped one minute before the race.  I tied them back together with ten seconds left before the start.  Then we were off.   Kicked in the head, kicked in the side, water in the eyes, swimming an extra 20 meters to the right, swimming an extra 20 meters to the left, I was a mess on the course. 

Anyway, for the first half of the  500 meters, I was with a group known as the Clydesdales.  That's right, the Clydesdales.  It's just a polite way of saying the big athletes (200 lbs. plus) and make no mistake.  The Clydesdales are not just  big guys.  They're BIG athletes -like defensive line athletes (…who swim …and kick with a lot of gusto).

Clydesdales to the right of me
Clydesdales to the left of me
Mine not to reason why
Mine but to swim ...or die.
On went the Charge
of the Not so light big guys.

I got passed a lot.  Despite their size, many of those beasts are fast (faster than me anyway).  
Eventually, another wave passed me too.  For that one, I blamed the Shiner Bock.  The good news though was that the extra fat provided buoyancy; the bad news remained that I was slow. 

How slow? 

Well I knew I was in a bad way when a few pink and blue swimcaps from a third wave were exiting the lake with me.  Still, I plodded into transition, dried off, grabbed my bike and shoes, put on my helmet and ambled forth to the gate.

Now gratefully, the bike is my best section.  I knew I would make up some time.  …Oh, the hubris.

Oh why do I do...
THE BIKE: 13.5 miles 
This was the 2nd or 3rd ride I have done with clips (which simply means that my cleats are  kind of locked to the pedals).  Now at the very start of the Bridgeland bike course, the cyclists start out on
Fry Road
(a major street).   In order to let car traffic pass through, the cops stopped a few of us right before we could turn out onto the road.  But because I was not completely used to my clips, I forgot how to unlock my shoes and I fell over. 

“Careful there!” yelled an old man who caught my side. 
“Hey, watch it!” yelled another cyclist (who was in no real danger of me hitting him).  Still, he wanted to make sure that I knew how much I had irritated him with my amateur move. 
The cop allowed cars to go by.  Twenty or so cyclists began to pile up and wait.  Not surprisingly, the old man began groaning so as to let me know that he possessed a finite amount of strength to hold me up.  As quickly as I could, I fixed my clips, I up righted myself, and stared at the ground as I was too much of a focal point for my taste.    People were staring  (probably not but then my ego made me think they were).

As I was anxious to get away from the cyclist who I almost toppled into, I stood up and peddled fast.  …He still passed me.

Only when I  grew tired and moved to sit down did I discover my seat's problem. It had fallen forward such that I was now leaning out forward  in a very uncomfortable position.  Stubborn, embarrassed, but still frustrated by such a slow beginning, I decided to grin and bear it, enduring the discomfort for what I knew would be a rather short ride.

…As it turns out, "short" remains a relative term.    For instance, if  in the company of good friends and family and enjoying a feast, good music, and laughter, well then "short" might mean a month or two.  In this case however, I was riding 13.5 miles with a seat angled to provide as much discomfort as possible.  I thought 13.5 miles would be brief enough.  However, the  angled seat allowed for maximum aggravation as it visited parts of my anatomy I'd just assume it never met.  “Short” ceased to exist.

I stood up in the saddle for a long time and plodded forward.

Bikes to the left of me.
Bikes to the left of me.
Mine not to reason why.
Mine but to bike …or try.

I got passed a lot. 

“On your left.”  The fast bikes passed me.
“On your left.”  The slow bikes passed me.
“On your left.” The mountain bikes.
 “On your left.”  Little children.
 “On your left.”   Slugs,  Turtles, Snails, etc.

Ultimately, I had to stop and readjust the seat.  Of course, this only made the seat loose so then I had twice the aggravation.  Either the seat would be too far forward and I received little support …or it fell backwards and attempted to wrack me with abandon.

...The stupid things that I do?
I finished the ride  --far slower than I originally thought. 

Looking at my watch, I knew I was in trouble.  The sun was out and up and ready to hurt.  Taking in the horribly high temperatures and humidity of the day, I knew that I would have a terrible run.  And at the very first step after dismount, my back let me know how true that was.

…I guess I should point out that I’ve gained 18 lbs since last January’s marathon and all of my lumbar vertebrae hate the new weight (the old weight?).  I do too.

THE RUN: 3.5 miles
This was the worst part.  Sure, every part of the race was slow but at least the pace was steady.  Here however, the running was sporadic and painful.  And in those moments, my conversations with myself  became my only escape.

Lower Back:  Are you kidding me?
Shame and Willpower:  Shut up.  We’re almost done.  Let’s just finish the darn race.
Left foot:  Um, stop now.
Shame and Willpower:  Can’t.  Friends have seen me.  I must keep going.
Body Hating the Heat:  This is already a terrible race.  Why not simply quit?  No one cares.  People don’t expect you to finish.
Shame and Will:  Honestly, I want to, but c’mon.  We’ve done this distance a lot.
Reality: We have not.  We have not done 3.5 all summer, you liar.
Shame and Will:  Well,  we’ve done 3.
New Fat around My Belly:  I haven’t.  This stinks.  Let’s go rest and have some cheese!
Reality: …We’ve done 3 a bit, but you have been terrible all summer.
Shame and Will:  Okay, I’ll do better.
Reality:  How are you going to run a marathon in January? 
Shame and Will:  I’m going to be consistent.
Reality:  You?  Do you know you?  I know you.  You are not consistent.
Anger:  Shut up.  I can do this.  Stop saying no.  I’m here now.
Lower Back:  Hey, check the time. How long have we been running?
Disbelief:  This can’t be right.
Lower Back:  What?
Regret:  I’ve only run .6 miles.
Back:  That’s plenty.  It’s hot out.  Just stop.
Will:  I’m almost done.
Reality: Technically, you’re almost begun.
Back:  Hey, how far have I gone now?
Will:  Stop it.  We’ll run 4 / 1 intervals.  Will that be enough?
Left foot:  Why not reverse that? Walk for 4 and run for 1?
Will:  Not talking.  I’m running.
Grammatical Non Sequitur: Hey, the grammarian part of your brain here.  Are you aware that you’re shifting person every other statement?
All:  Shut it.
Dory: Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming.
Body:  Someone stop me please.

Pain to the right of me
Pain to the left of me
Mine not to reason why
Mine but to plod or die.

I ran.  I walked.  I griped.  I took an awful long time on the run.  Too long.  It could have been walked faster by my niece Lucy Grace …who hasn’t learned to crawl yet.  

Oh why do I do
The stupid things that I do?
Someone stop me please.

…But despite the heat, the chewmidity, and the pain in my lower back,  I finished.  I even got a medal.  Yeah, for that pathetic display, I got an accolade.  However, what I really got was a wake up call. 

REALITY CHECK:  No marathons will be completed with performances like that.

I began this week with the worst performance I’ve had in the last two years (and that is saying something). 

It was so embarrassing that I considered not writing the blog at all.  However, my friends came to the rescue once again.

All week long I’ve sought out trainers and running friends.  All week long I’ve stuck to my training schedule.  I’ve even incorporated yoga into my routine, and I’ve gotten serious about my food and drink choices (even forgoing meals  and drinks with friends four times  this week –I missed Mockingbirds, dinner after the Wednesday run, a Friday happy hour, and Saturday brunch).  I have even been adding extra core work with the hopes to strengthen my back as much as possible. 

And also, Beth Breuer forced me to run the entire loop at Memorial on Wednesday.  She thought the entire thing was psychological and I suspect she’s right for most of it.  Anyway, she didn’t quit on me or let me quit.  For that I am so grateful!  Sure,  I hated every step after the first mile, but I did it.  I know that sounds rather “ho hum,"  but man, it meant a lot to me.

In fact, it really seems that my Wednesday run and the diet have already provided me with some much needed confidence and resolve. 

…Because today, can you believe it?  I ran 7.

All that’s gonna be required for my success is consistency, I guess. Well if I'm honest, consistency, resolve, discipline, diet, friends, no belly, ...and a sense of humor.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

The Great Debate

The following is an example of the typical conversation I have with myself every other day in the summer heat of Houston.

Lazy Me:  You don't want to run outside in this heat.
Less Lazy Me:  Tell me something I don't know.
Lazy Me:  Um, what's on TV?
Less Lazy Me:  That's your solution to everything.
Lazy:  Food network?
LLM: You're trying to distract.
Lazy: You ate terribly the other day.  You are not going to run well.  Plants versus Zombies?
LLM: I don't need to stay distracted.  I need to get focused.
Lazy:  Have you thought about doing laundry?  You have laundry you could do.  That'd be productive.
LLM: Training first.
Lazy:  What about setting up the calendar for the fall play?  You could always do that.
LLM:  I need to get out there and run.
Lazy:  Other people don't run.  They don't run and they're happy.  Ask them.
LLM:  Other people also have metabolisms that work. 
Lazy:  Yours works.
LLM: Not so much there. Mine works on occasion.
Lazy:  Still counts.  Stay inside.  There's a bike.  You could do that spin class thing.
LLM:  I need to get out on the track.
Lazy:  Triple digits.  The temperature is in triple digits.
LLM:  Houston.
Lazy:  Well now, how long are you going to keep this up?
LLM:  Keep what up?
Lazy:  The running thing, the healthy thing.
LLM:  Excuse me?
Lazy:  That's not you.  You're about bacon and buttered pecan.
LLM:  That was actually my old nickname, I think.
Lazy:  Running? You get tired and stop.  Your back gets tight.
LLM: And the point is?.
LAZY:  You're terrible at running.
LLM:   I am not.
Lazy: Well you aren't good.
LLM:  That's friendly.  I am on my way.
LAZY:  ...But you could play guitar, go to lunch with a friend, do whatever you want.  Why run?
LLM:  I like it.
Lazy:  Are you sure?
LLM:  I am today.
LAZY:  Because you didn't do it for a while after the last run.
LLM: I got distracted.  Now I'm better.
Lazy:  Well, fine.  Just know that the creme brulee and the gumbo aren't going to eat themselves.
LLM:  I think there will be a few items of food left.
LAZY:  One last time.  The couch is comfortable and the weather outside is painful.  I mean, I heard that people are able to fry bacon in the window sills right now --that's how hot it is.
LLM:  Houston.  Get over it. 
Lazy:  So you're really going to do it.
LLM:  I am running.
Lazy:  Rats.  ...I'll try again tomorrow.
LLM: Good effort.

Weekly report: (Lost 2 lbs.)   Ran a few times, walked a few times, swam, cycled, and tried P 90 again.  Currently, P 90 is really about P 5 and a 1/2 ...X.   Truly, it's a killer.  I hurt my back a bit after the Plyo.  Still, I was on the Team Beachbody website and saw so many success stories that I feel like I need to continue trying the darn workouts. They are insane, but there is a lot of proof that the program works.

I have the Bridgeland Triathlon this weekend.  This time around  I have simple goals --to survive the swim without getting kicked in the face, to cycle with clips,  and to have a more solid run at the end --something I did not do last year.

Monday, July 25, 2011


It's the 25th of July and I'm in my second week of marathon training. 173 days left to go. So far, it's been brutal as Houston isn't known for its easy summers. Every mile in the park feels like cross training - an unnatural hybrid of running and swimming as the air is so thick. My friends and I call it Houston's Chewmidity Index as in, "Houston's air always seems humid enough to chew." While this may do wonders for my skin, it certainly impedes my desire to get out and train.

So I have gotten out of the habit of daily exercise and careful eating since January. Excuses have been plentiful. February was recovery from the marathon. March and April were casual (and I had the play). In May and June, things were sacrificed to other projects and work and my first real rest since the play. And then of course, ...I just didn't wanna. Okay, now it's the end of July. There is no time left to goof off. I need to reignite the fires that got me running in the first place.

The goals are simple. I want to finish the Houston Marathon in under 6 hours. I want to wear size 34 jeans before I turn 41. Finally, I would like to step on a scale and not see a 2. That's it.

How far away am I? ...Far away. Far.  Think of your hopes for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull versus the the reality of that film.  That's how distant my goal is from reality right now.

I mean yesterday, I ran intervals for 2.25 miles and then walked it in to complete my loop. That's a bad sign. Slight back spasm and the heat was a killer. I am out there again today and my plan is to make it all around without slowing once. Also, I need to keep working on my core. As Dad always said every morning he dropped us off for school, "Today's the day to start the big push."  Big push.  Got it.  Big push.  Here's to hoping the advice means more to me now than it did when I endured Latin class.

Friday, February 4, 2011


January 30th, 2011
Chevron Houston Marathon
Officially: DNF
Unofficial Time: 6:23:32
Unofficial Time to write this: 6:23:32
Unofficial Time to read this: 24:25:24

Everywhere I turned, I got advice. Run intervals. Run with a pace crew. Run without your watch. Run naked. Nutrition every four miles. Nutrition every 45 minutes. Start slow and put some extra speed into miles 14-18 before you don’t have anything. Pretend you have to run 34.2. Wear plastic around your feet if it rains. Use band aids everywhere …everywhere. Just run like you’ve been doing in training. Shotblocks. Gu. Beans. Don’t eat the stuff on tongue depressors because it’s not paste. Water only. Get pretzels whenever you see them. Run at the 5:30 pace and fall back as needed. Run at the 6:00 hr. pace and don’t go any faster than the last balloon. Don’t run. Wear a brace. Run in silence. Run with music. Take in the crowd. Drown out the crowd. Wear two braces. Get up close and personal with Body Glide. Wear compression socks. Tape everything.
It’s a lot to filter through.
Training had been difficult. According to the Garmin and my calendar, my longest runs prior to Sunday had been 17.2, 19.25, 18 something, 16 something, 15 something, 14, 14 and multiple 13’s. The problems: All of those had some walking and the bigger issue was that I hadn’t run any of those distances in three weeks because of a cold and my left leg.My left leg: I hated it almost all of January. Somewhere around Hermann Park and Rice University on a long training run, I jammed it. I had done something similar in December, but I just woke the monster up a bit more and it didn’t want to go away. Every step on this one January training run, it gnawed at my muscle and bone. Rather than stop, I hobbled through because I assumed the pain was simply part of the process of training. I ran until I cried and that’s when I first thought the marathon dream was over.

Consulting smarter people (i.e. people with any common sense), I was given great advice: rest, Advil, ice, repeat. After three days of that, I grew restless and tested the leg out (complete with a compression sock to augment the recovery). The advice worked. The leg was tight, but I could manage. I eventually found my groove on my runs after the first two miles. Only on occasion would it flare up.
(SIDENOTE: As a Boy Scout, I had learned to say “Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits” whenever smoke got in my eyes from a campfire. This always made the smoke turn in a different direction. Hoping for something similar, I got into the habit of whispering under my breath, “Left leg, left leg, left leg.”)

I woke at 4:30 on the morning of the race, and I felt okay. I hadn’t slept much due to nerves, but I figured I would settle down on the run. Following the advice of the wise, I figured it best simply to focus on finishing the thing. I would run with the 6:00 hr. pace crew and not even think about pulling ahead for the first 18 miles. It wouldn’t matter how slow I felt I was going: I was not permitted to speed ahead. It wouldn’t matter if I felt like I was chomping at the bit to drive forward; I was to remain with the pack (never leave your wingman / stay on target / stay the course / etc.).

So on Sunday morning, there I was at 5:45 in the George R. Brown Convention Center in downtown Houston with 22,000 other participants and Lord knows how many volunteers. It was a humid, misty morning, the race conditions were oh so muggy, and everyone was wearing disposable bags all over the place. Despite the less than perfect temperature, the energy was incredible. I saw Lara Allen, my first PIM running coach, and we had a nice visit. My friends Kristin and Lisa each had different starting positions from me so we all said our goodbyes, took a couple of pictures, offered up some Tolkien quotes (most notably Theoden's "DEATH!" over and over), and went out onto the streets for the start.

Outside, I found my pace crew, visited with some of the people who would be running alongside me, and tried to appraise my fitness in comparison with them. Some were injured. Many were first timers. …Hearing their stories, I felt good about my chances. I had plenty of nutrition, my compression socks, a bib with something everyone could yell (“DAN THE MAN!”), and an ipod with music I wanted on it as well as some inspirational messages from friends and family.

(SIDENOTE: This ipod thing quickly became one of the more humorous aspects of the run. Chris Wardwell had cornered various teachers, friends, and my sister and had them offer words of advice and humor to keep me running. In addition, he had also spliced together clips from Animal House, Full Metal Jacket, and God knows what else to try and get me inspired. Occasionally on the run, I heard Beth Breuer offer cheesy advice: "You've got to forget the last mile before you try the next. Your body can't remember the next mile." Sometimes, it would be Mike Adair trying his best to bore me to tears, " Dan, I'm, ...waking up right now, ...and, um, I can't decided if I want the French roast or the dark roast... um, well let's think about this..." There were even moments where the Wardwells' dog Delilah chimed in as a harmonica played. She has always had an uncanny pitch for a canine. )

As we started out, I cried. It had taken me a long time to get to this point, and a starting line that big meant so much to me. I thought about everything -the training, the injuries, the worry, the countless conversations, the love of family, and the sacrifices (not hunting, not traveling, not sleeping in, etc.). I thought about the support shown me by everyone this past year. In my mind, this race was some sort of grand tribute to all of my friends and family – some grand thank you, a love note to my mom and dad, some proof to my sister that I love myself and care deeply about my life. In those first steps, my gratitude for all of the responses to the fire, the help with the training, the places to stay, the guitar, the furniture, the clothes, the gifts, the letters, the bike, and then the donations to combat Alzheimer’s …well, those thoughts came crashing down on me. It was a cathartic mile one cry to say the least (but I also immediately grew worried about hydration).

The two pace leaders made sure to let us know what we would be doing. We were to run everything at 4:2 intervals (4 minute run following a 2 minute walk). This was actually lighter than anything I had trained ever. I really thought it sounded easy so I was glad to do it. In fact, I was thrilled. These guys had run ultra marathons and were serious about getting us to the end. As nervous as I was, I felt confident they could get us in on time.

In fact for the first 9 miles, there were no problems. 4:2 intervals seemed an ideal way to run! I set the pace for a long time. They gave me the balloons to hold onto so that they could use the restroom or confer. A running friend grabbed a picture of me as the pace leader –awesome stuff. My legs felt strong. No injuries. No pains. Life was good. At this point, I felt confident.

Also, we were running with all of the half marathon people so we were part of a large group. Our name was legion. It was a wonder that I found any of my friends along the way but I saw so many. Mike and Dorothy McConnell were there. Jeff, Sara, and the Breuers saw me. Positive energy everywhere. Everyone seemed happy about the whole thing. Kristin Necessary showed up right next to me right before the half marathon turn off. We had a nice little moment together and then the half marathon people turned back up Montrose. …Hello silence.

MILES 9-13: MONTROSE TO UNIVERSITY: Goodbye fans! Hello new pace?
I didn’t realize how far back in the pack the 6 hr. crew was until the turn off of the half marathoners. All of a sudden, we were left on our own and we were traveling toward Hermann Memorial Park with little to no fanfare. I must admit I enjoyed the bagpiper, but I never saw the priests sprinkling holy water. In fact, the crowd was darn sparse, but I understood. I mean, the weather was hot and humid; the light drizzle couldn’t have attracted people to stay outside for long. So instead, I simply took in some of the scenery, reminding myself that this was actually my city, my home. I knew Hermann Park and Rice University. I had run multiple loops around both.

Somewhere on University Boulevard, one of the pace setters said we should pick it up a bit so that we could have a little wiggle room at the end. This seemed perfectly logical and I was feeling good so I didn’t speak up. We picked up the pace. When I say we picked up the pace, it was not a light transition. My watch, which has yet to work since Sunday, revealed that our pace had shifted from a 13:30 average down to a 12:20. …I know these speeds might not seem fast to other people, but after 11 miles of running at 220 lbs., that speed hike is herculean.

Suffice to say, I grew somewhat uncomfortable with the new speed. In truth, I started to fall a little off pace. The balloon guys were now a bit in front, but I was with the majority of the pack and we were trucking along at the fastest rate we could muster. We were still on target, but the speed grew faster and faster and the distance to the balloons grew greater.

MILES 13 to 18: WESLAYAN to TANGLEWOOD --the last decent split.
At the end of mile 13, I was scared by the pace, but luckily I saw Mike Adair. He was enjoying the fun of the day with his wife and children. There they stood on Weslayan to watch all of the runners try and tackle the Westpark Bridge. …That @#$#%^**&!!@ bridge!

Anyway, Mike and Leslie were excited to see me, and I certainly was glad to see them too. Also, I spied one of my theater parents, Cynthia Lokken, who has alway made me smile (It’s amazing how a friendly face at just the right moment inspires.). This gave me such encouragement and I got excited about the race again. Then Mike surprised me even further. He instructed a band to play some music for me. The band actually announced to the crowd on their PA that “DAN THE MAN” was coming through. The crowd went nuts. They roared. My running friends and I laughed. …I soaked it all in and well, wow!

But truly, I hurt there. Mike Adair has raced more than a few of these marathons, and he saw that I was in a bad way with the humidity, the heat, and the pace. I had lost track of the intervals for a time and simply wanted to walk. Instead, he helped me run toward the bridge. …I’ve never liked him more.

When I got to the bridge, we said our goodbyes and I hobbled my way up. At the top, the breeze reinvigorated me a bit and I took stock of where I was, how far I had gone, and what I had gotten myself into. Marathons …they ain’t for wimps. My pace balloon guy was about a quarter of a mile ahead of me, but the majority of the pace group was still with me. So at the base of the hill, I talked to them all and asked, “Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? …Well it ain’t over now!” We laughed and pressed on. (SIDENOTE …I had heard this on my ipod earlier thanks to Chris Wardwell.)

Anyway, the group and I decided that we would run what we could and try our best to stick with intervals. So miles 15 to 18 were essentially that. We ran, and then we walked, and then we ran, and then we walked, and we ran, complained, and never gave up. None of us were confident that we would finish in time by now; however, all of us were hell bent and determined to finish. …And somehow, I got a pebble in my shoe.

MILES 18 to 21: Chimney Rock to Memorial Park: “WHAT DOESN’T HURT?”
…My earlobes? They were fine. The skin below the elbow? A-Okay. Right eyebrow? Hunky dory. Sadly, these were on the short list after 18 miles. Certain parts HURT. Now up until now, I had been panicking about when my knee might buckle or when my left leg would quit on me. I had fretted over my lower back which had given me such trouble at the San Antonio Half. However, I was amazed at how none of these injuries were bothering me. That being said, I was slightly more amazed at which parts were.

Mile 18: The right foot, Old Reliable, is nothing more than a damn turncoat of an extremity. Who needs the right foot? Actually, it wasn’t even the whole foot …just the toes. They were not happy. Stupid toes.

Mile 19 –what I currently refer to as the “Robert Earl Keen Mile” in that the road went on forever. By the 610 Loop, all the little pains had slowly grown into larger pains. All the small hurts were combining into one -aches upon aches, tense muscles, taut muscles, strained muscles, just keep moving, just keep moving, ouch, ouch $#%$@#$ OUCH! Stupid pebble. Again I reminded myself, “Marathons ain’t for wimps.”

Under the 610 Loop, I lifted my head up a bit to stare at the entertainment. It was in that moment when I discovered where all of the hidden pains had resided. Maybe I knew where they were before, but I had allowed myself not to think about it. This time however, the pain wanted to say, “Hello.” Evidently, I had been carrying my head down for the better half of the race. This is not good. I have a big head (7 & 5/8” in a fitted cap –huge and filled with rocks). When I finally lifted my head up, a searing pain shot through my shoulders and I knew I had an interloper far more severe than any stupid pebble. I had the mother of all knots parked on my back. I was Quasimoto with the world’s meanest hump.

It’s like someone must have come up from behind me and jammed a knife into my left shoulder blade. It was not simply on fire. It was stewing in acid while on fire and exploding all over the place. “Left shoulder, left shoulder, left shoulder,” I whispered. It didn’t work.

I looked at my watch and realized I had time to finish if I could only run for the remainder of the race. However, I questioned the feasibility of that. The pack had dwindled down. Some of the people had fallen back. Some had quit. The cop cars were telling us to get to the side of the road as we neared Memorial Park. It seemed like the race was trying to get us to surrender and we didn’t want to. We weren’t done.

Mile 20: I had never gotten this far. Mile 20. What was it that Mike McConnell said? A marathon is two races: the first 20 and the last 6.2. Son of a gun! I had made it to Memorial Park! Who cares who pushes me to the side? Official or not official, pain or no pain, dead legs or live legs, I was going to see this out. …But yes, I still had to walk on occasion. I had a running friend near me and we were still trying 4:2 intervals. It was still working, but she was complaining in the walk, and I was just about to lose the will to start the interval back up.

That’s when I saw Beth, David, Kristin, Sara, and Jeff. There they were -friends who were waiting to see me cross the finish line. I felt like a kid and I made the best effort I could to run to them. I wanted to hear their support. I wanted to be near them and I was going to jog over. I knew they would laugh at seeing me pick it back up. I thought they might smile at my sudden enthusiastic jog. To be truthful, I was slightly surprised where the energy came from. But who cares, huh? I just wanted to hear what they might say. And as I was nearing them, so grateful they were there, I also thought that I had let them down. I had fallen behind the pace group. I had tried and now I was behind the slowest marathon finishing pace. The tears started again big time. I was feeling so guilty right when I trotted by them.

Beth yelled out first, “I know how you feel Dan! This is the farthest you’ve ever run!”
I continued to cry.
“Way to go Dan!”
“You’re almost there!”
“You got this!”
I continued to cry.
“It’s okay Dan. I cried too!” …One thing I love about Beth is how well her voice carries.

…But before you knew it, I was alone again. I was now running by the park my friends and I always went through and it was all in my grasp. Six miles? I could do that even if I had to hop in on my left toes. I was not going to let anyone down. I was going to stay positive and finish the darn race. Not only that, I had determined I was going to sign up and do it again next year and drop fifty pounds and cure cancer and…
“Hello Mr. Green.”

Mile 22-26 –the Beauty of Friendship
David Breuer joined me on the run. For a second, I thought I’d be running it in on my own, with just my thoughts to keep me company. They were the only things about me still running wild and running quickly. However, David ran up from behind, and said he wanted to help me finish. For those who don’t know, this is the same guy who took me in after the fire. …Beth married a good man.

It was awesome. I simply surrendered and yelled at him for a long time. He got me past Starbucks and Tri on the Run where I bought my first running shoes. On we ran. He got me past St. Thomas where Beth Breuer and Will Nash inspired me to start running. On we ran. The shoulder still hurt. The toes still hurt. He got me to the Allen Parkway where I ran my first 5 mile race (Jingle Bell 2009). He got me up the little valleys on Allen Parkway …and I have no pleasant memories connected with them now or ever.

“David, call Kristin. Tell her to text Kathleen Woodhead. I think her parents are waiting for me at the finish line and I want to let them know I’m going to be there …someday.” …He called Kristin. He got me to the beer mile and we drank the beer and there was much rejoicing. (NOTE: GOD BLESS THE BEER MILE). Anna Aniban yelled out at us as she was walking away from the race. I might have waved, but I can’t recall. He let me walk a bit.
Nearing downtown, I saw Beth and Kristin and Jeff and Sara one last time.

“You have this.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Way to go!”
David stayed with me. He got me into downtown. Finally, I could take it no longer.
“David, are we breaking any rules about having you run along side me?”
“What rules?”
“Great. Can you get this %^#$%# knot in my back while we run? It’s killing me.” …He massaged the knot.
“Dan, you are almost there. We are going to turn the corner and you’ll see the finish line.”
“What if they have closed it down? Is this a DNF? Does this count?”
“It counts.”
“I better get to cross something after this.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“…Where are we going to go eat?”
“We’ll call Lisa and decide later.”

Downtown Houston was closing down the race. Runners were leaving the GRB. The awards had been handed out. The gates were still up, but the celebratiion was ending. I had definitely missed the cut off for an official finish by 20 something minutes. Still, I turned the corner and there was the finish line.

…David pulled over to the side.
“Way to go Danny!”
“Dan the Man!”
”Finish strong!”

Would you believe it? I had a group waiting. Theresa Torres had made a sign for me and was standing right near my Beaumont neighbors. She had been the last friend to wish me well that morning right at the starting gate. Now she had remained to be one of the first to welcome me home -a beautiful friend.

Also Kathleen Woodhead and her parents were there alongside Karen Clark. These were my Beaumont neighbors, and they had promised my mom they would see me across the line! The Woodheads and the Clarks were standing there waiting for me because my mom and dad were up in Maryland with my sister and her newborn. I was so touched!

I waved at them, smiled, and then ran as fast as I could toward the end.

...So many people have run these things. So many people have managed to trek 26.2 miles. Well, I never thought I'd be one of them. And so as I ran in I cried (That's kind of my thing I guess). The shoulder no longer hurt. The toes were inconsequential. Dad was in my heart, Mom was in my heart, and just a bunch of love for everyone, you know? It didn't matter that I missed the time. It didn't matter that I had to walk some of the race. It didn't matter.

I had set a goal. I had promised myself I would run my first marathon before I turned 40. I had promised myself I would not give up. On top of that, I also raised $2100 officially and a little more unofficially for Alzheimer's Research. I honored my grandmother and my father and my whole family with that. So my thoughts in my head as I crossed the finish line?

10) Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you God.
9) Why didn't I just take the pebble out?
8) I love my friends and family.
7) The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
6) Yay me! Go Green Go! Freeeedom! DEAAAAAATH! For the SHIRE!
5) My shoulder is killing me.
4) Where are we going to eat?
3) Do I get a medal or not?
2) I bet I can do this faster if I drop 40 lbs.
1) Please don't die.

Rejoice. We conquered.

And if you can’t tell, I love everyone …and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Fire Update

Dear Everyone,

I am happy to report that things have gotten better since last month. I have received so much support from family and friends, from my work at St. Thomas and my running friends in Houston that how could they not?

CHESS UPDATE: Chess is a happy dog again. The veterinarian has given him an all clear on any and every issue from the fire. He is off all medicine and gallivanting around the Breuers’ house like he owns it. He is playing (rather roughly) with Winston, the Breuer’s chocolate lab. They play tug of war with ropes and toys, they play keep away with whatever the other dog wants, and their games of chase are epic. In other words, Chess in heaven and he’s getting into some trouble. While I was away at a family reunion, he managed to chew up Beth and David’s comforter. …I don’t know who feels guiltier about this, me or him, but we’re both truly sorry.

HOUSING UPDATE: Thanks to a colleague of mine, I have found a nice place to stay while my house gets rebuilt. Michael Lynch is a physics teacher and soccer coach at St. Thomas. His parents have a garage apartment near the medical center. They have graciously opened that space up to me for the upcoming year. I might have to watch their three dogs on occasion, but I think Chess would love that anyway. This location will also allow me to continue my training with friends and colleagues in and around the Houston area. The commute to work is only about 25 minutes according to Mike who did that drive everyday while in high school. Taking into account the breakneck speed at which most high school drivers attempt and factoring in the increased traffic since 19--, I still think I can get to work in under forty minutes.

DONATIONS: Many people have offered all sorts of items to me since June 22nd. I have been offered dog crates, water bowls, refrigerators, bicycles, beds, clothing, etc. My plan is now to purchase a larger storage facility as the apartment I am moving to is already furnished. I am trying to write everyone, but my inbox was flooded for a while and I might not have contacted everyone immediately. For this, I apologize. It has been a rather hectic (yet grace filled) month.

DANSTOCK: Chris Wardwell is a theology teacher at St. Thomas and one of my closest friends. He has organized a party at the Mucky Duck which he has called “Danstock - Three Hours of Peace, Love, and Dan.” I am deeply touched by this and I am also very excited about the party. The information is listed below. I hope to see you there!


Dan Green

Danstock - Three Hours of Peace, Love, and Dan
Time August 14 • 12:00pm - 3:00pm


Location McGonigel's Mucky Duck
2425 Norfolk Street
Houston, TX


Created By Chris Wardwell


More Info Danstock
Three Hours of Peace, Love, and Dan

As many of you know, our friend, Dan Green, lost his home and all of his belongings to a fire this summer. Dan often uses his artistic talents to benefit others: as the drama teacher at St. Thomas High School he spends countless hours working on the student productions; as the director of the videos for Round Up (St. Thomas' fundraiser that provides financial aid for many of the studen...ts who would not otherwise be able to attend school there); and as a crucial member of the teacher band, No Late Work (that often plays at Round Up), in which Dan sings and plays guitar.

SO let's celebrate his love for music at Danstock!

Here are the details:

"Danstock" will be three hours of peace, love, and Dan (and a whole lot of fun and good food too!). We would love for you to join us!

We will have three bands playing including The Dragliners and... a special guest.

Included in his losses in the fire was Dan's much-loved guitar. Because Dan has given so much through the arts, we'd like to give him back some of that "art." We are holding a benefit to raise money to buy Dan a new guitar.

Saturday August 14, 2010
Noon - 3:00 pm

McGonigel's Mucky Duck
2424 Norfolk St., Houston, Tx
McGonigel's Mucky Duck has been nice enough to host this. They serve great food, so come hungry and show our thanks by eating lunch there.

How much?
We will be accepting donations at the door. Every gift, regardless of the amount, will be appreciated. The money will go to buy Dan a new guitar and to cover other costs he is facing.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

I've seen better film on teeth #1.

Another Flashback. ...Sorry, I'm on vacation.

The following is my review of the worst movie ever made. I'm writing about my family this week. It takes some time.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007 at 11:01am | Edit Note | Delete

At World's End should have been called: We Don't Know What We Are Doing -Part 2.
Nothing about this film worked. The plot was nonsense, the acting overdone, and the exposition everywhere. It was a train wreck from beginning to end …except that train wrecks generally occur because of one or two problems. A better analogy for this disaster of a film would be that it was akin to the black plague. The disease was everywhere, infecting all, one was safe.

The whole movie seemed vomited forth from the deep recesses of some terrible marketing place specilaizing in spawning singularly crap. Of course, this is what most people had the good sense to predict. Still, there is something about me that likes pirate movies and I had just watched Treasure Island at the Alley the day before.

As with the other two films, the opening was filled with intrigue. Dozens and dozens of people walk single file on their way to the gallows. A chorus rises and every damned soul sings a song calling for justice.

At this point I thought, “…maybe.”

But no. …no, no, no. The plot oozed forth, slowly, sluggishly, like so much venom and bile from the kraken ...who at least had the good sense to die off screen.

I would take time to describe my disgust with every single scene –random and confused, clever but not smart, visually interesting but bereft of purpose, defaulting and settling for disgusting, etc. However, that would suggest I cared enough about the universe of Pirates to try and make sense of the story they offered.

All I’ll offer is that the climax of the movie occurs amid a maelstrom created by Calypso, the goddess of the sea and the betrayed lover of Captain Davy Jones. The East Indian Trading Company is there, Davy Jones is there, …ah who cares. Perhaps it was intended, but I rooted for the maelstrom -the perfect metaphor for the plot, the development, and the frenzied, out of focus action, etc. I wanted every character dead, really dead, not brought back to life dead.

...I wanted Calypso to pull a lever and flush the entire pirate universe down the proverbial commode.

It wasn't funny, inspiring, good, fun, enjoyable, or entertaining on any level. I hated every single second this story stole from me because I liked the initial concept so much. The directors and producers and actors and story hackers should all take a lesson from the Krakken.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

In honor of the flooding

The following is an article I wrote about nine years ago after losing my car to a flash flood. In honor of recent events and the current flash flooding, I present this flashback. Apologies for the misuse of an adverb.


June 15, 2001, 2:54PM
Dan Green

Things learned from a flooded freeway

Dear Everyone, I don't know if you've been following anything in the news besides the execution of Timothy and the obnoxious L.A. Lakers, but we've had a bit of flooding down here in Houston. I've been in flash floods before but I think it's safe to say I've never experienced one as incredible as the one brought about by Tropical Storm Allison.

There I was last Friday night, leaving my girlfriend's house (yes, that's read correctly -I'm no longer "Platonic Dan") and heading back for my apartment eager to get to sleep and out of the light drizzle I'd been driving through all day. Thankfully, the sanctuary of my little Acura Integra made for a pleasurable cruise from her house to Interstate 10 west. Tuning into the radio stations, I knew that Interstate 10 was the only highway that wasn't experiencing traffic jams or severe weather so it seemed likely that I'd have an easy 13 mile journey to my apartment....Damn my hubris.

12:06 a.m.: Static:
The first sign of trouble is the radio. Regularly, the reception around Houston is as clear as a whistle but in this case, the rain and the static have taken every other word. For a moment I am entertained by the game, filling in my own words for the song which I thought was "Freeze Frame" by the J. Geils Band (a perennial classic). As a cautionary tactic, I decide to reduce my speed from 70 to 55. However, the other cars and 18 wheelers around me barrel onward.

12:08 a.m.: The Clue I Didn't Pick up on Until Later:
I casually notice that there are no cars, SUVs, or trucks heading in the opposite direction. In my head I'm thinking it's because two of the highways in that direction are closed...

12:10 a.m.: The Moment of Truth:
Visibility is somewhat difficult but part of that is because I'm now riding to the left of an 18-wheeler's back wheel which is spraying my car continuously with water picked up from its treads. My wipers are working full throttle but it's to no avail. I begin making up my own song about 18-wheeler jerks but am interrupted in mid-flat-note by the emergency broadcast system. It is not a test. Both Interstate 59 and Interstate 45 are closed as is the city's loop on the east side. I deduce that the problem is behind me as I'm heading west but I reduce my speed to 35. The people around me follow suit.

12:15 a.m.: The Chevy Blazer:
I-10 is a four lane highway heading west through the city. I am now in the third lane (2nd from the center median) as I'm predicting the traffic will spread out for the upcoming loop division (some four miles away). A 1989 Chevy blazer cannot take the speed that everyone is choosing to go so it exits the 3rd lane and proceeds to pass us all on the left. I called him several unfriendly words at the top of my lungs. Suddenly, the Blazer begins to shimmy. It starts to skid and slide sideways. It is now hydroplaning and I am pressing down on my breaks firmly (It is approximately 10 car lengths ahead of me). Ultimately, the Blazer skids to a halt and sits still as I pass it (now at a cautionary 20 miles an hour).-Deductions I made from witnessing the hydroplaning:
1) Water is accumulating in some areas so be careful.
2) If you see any big puddles, exit.
3) Stay close to the median so as to avoid the puddles at all cost because your Acura can't handle it.
4) The guy driving is an idiot.

12:16 a.m.: The Warning and the Waiting:
As I drove towards the 610 loop, I saw a blinking yellow sign which read, "Expect delays at the loop." Within a half a mile of that sign, I found myself at a standstill underneath the T.C. Jester Boulevard overpass, out of the rain for the moment, stuck in a typical Houston traffic jam, singing the words to "Desperado," (much to the amusement of a Vietnamese woman as I later found out). There are trucks in front of me, vans, other sports cars, and several large cars. There are also tankers and other big rigs behind me. I'm not going anywhere for a while-if only there were a Snickers bar around.

12:20 a.m.: The Cop Lady's Request:
A cop in the 2nd lane rolls down her window and flags me. She ask very politely if I wouldn't mind "scootching over" towards the median even more because she's noticed the water level rising around us. I acquiesce ever so graciously.

12:25 a.m.: The Rising:
The cop is now out of her car, moving things out of her trunk. Hers is the only "car" in the 2nd lane. The rest of the vehicles are rigs of one kind or another. She seems perturbed. I don't like angry cops so I try to ignore her (truly my finest hour). Water is now accumulating underneath my car. I get angry with the truck driver behind me because first, his lights are on and flashing right into my mirror and secondly, he is driving forward sending small waves into my car's exhaust. Has he no conscience? Is he just pure evil? Other drivers also jeer at him. We are united in our disgust; a very reputable mob mentality. Suddenly, a Nigerian man calls to me and ask if I have water in my car. I check. Nope. We both sigh relieved.

12:30 a.m.: The 1st Wave:
I've been relaxing for a moment, my seat eased back, the car off, listening to the rain. My foot has been resting slightly on the clutch. I decide to sit up and stretch. I put my foot down and I hear a splash. There is a centimeter of water in the car. "That's not so bad," I think. I can have this thing cleaned out tomorrow and it'll be as good as new. I just gotta hope that the rain will stop. Looking out into the night, I study the rain and come to the frightening conclusion that the rain can go on a little longer. A motorcycle weaves its way by me through traffic without difficulty. I am jealous of the Chinese kid in the Prelude who rolls down his window for the sheer delight of shooting the finger at the motorcyclist. "Why didn't I do that?" I ponder.

12:35 a.m.: The Hard Fought Loss:
I grab a coffee mug that I've had in my car since mid-May and start bailing water out. I also grab a water bottle and using my trusty scout knife, cut off the top to have a second water bailer. My father's voice echoes in my head as I remember my sailing days, "Bail! Bail! Bail! Bail!"
...He would have been proud of my effort. Water is now nearing the top of the seat cushion. It seeps in with greater ease than my ability to send it out. I notice an Irish tape floating underneath the center console. It serves as the catalyst for one of my finer barrages of expletives-directed primarily at myself and the rain. "You stupid idiot! You stupid %$#@** moron! AAAAAAAAGGGGHHH! Of all the *&##@ luck! %%&$$^% this rain! *&@#% this car! *%##@ this night!" Thankfully, the neighbors couldn't hear me.

12:40 a.m.: Abandoning Ship:
I am now out of my car and loading things up into my backpack · anything I can salvage. Other motorist are out and about doing the same thing. The water is now above my knee. I put everything on top of my back speakers and go watch the flood from the median. There I visit with the Vietnamese family, the Chinese kid (Steven), the Nigerian who lost his alligator shoes, computer, dry cleaning, cell phone, and CD player. Typical questions: Are you insured? Can you believe this? When will it end? Did you hear any warnings on the radio?

12:50 a.m.: THE MASS EXODUS:
The rain is now up to the window of my car. The electricity shorts out on it, causing the alarm to sound for the first time in nine months, much to the delight of my neighbors. I frantically search for my alarm control and drop my keys. Reluctantly, I immerse myself into the water. Using my toes, I manage to retrieve the keys but I am 100% soaked in the process. Thankfully, other people's alarms are sounding as well and the hatred for me is short lived. The alarm fails to respond to my control but eventually it cuts itself off (it would do that several more times). I study the water and realize that it's still rising steadily. I go to my car, open up the hatchback and retrieve everything I can put in either my backpack or my Snoopy pillowcase. Then I carry them above my shoulders over the median to the southern bank of the TC Jester overpass. Other people follow suit. Some draw allusions to Moses, some to Noah, and some to INS and the Rio Grande. Andalé Muchachos!

1:00 a.m.: The S.S. INTEGRA:
People point out which car is going under first. The Hondas, Acuras and Mitsibushis will go, no doubt. Somebody has a BMW roadster too. People delight in watching it go under. We also notice that all of the truck drivers are staying with their rigs. We hate the truck drivers. Now we are one collective, using each other's cell phones, shaking our heads in unison, borrowing each others dry stuff. For the moment, it is okay to be under the bridge, out of the rain and the water, watching the spectacle. I notice that cars are floating into one another a little bit. All that can be seen of my car is the sun roof. I think to myself that I've now lost one car to black ice and another to a flash flood. Nature 2, Me zip.

1:10 a.m.: The Flash Flood:
Somebody calls out that they just timed the water. It's rising a foot every ten minutes. We all sit there with our mouths open.

1:30 a.m.: The Truck People:
The water is at least 6 feet deep now. It has covered a Landcruiser and an Astrovan in the last few minutes. Trucks start blowing their horns much to the dismay of those of us sleeping on the embankment. Our group finally figures out that some of the truckers are in trouble and we go to help. The truck drivers' rigs are now shorting out and they are escaping rapidly. We form a pretty weak firemen's line to help those of them that are escaping to the Southern bank. I saved a blanket.

1:50 a.m.: The Guy Who Couldn't Swim and His Family:
One Trucker honked on his horn for several minutes until finally people figured out he was trapped inside (His locks were electrical and the electricity wasn't working in his rig.) Once the door was pried open, he grabbed his two boys, ages 8 and 4, and tried to carry them to our embankment. His back had a slipped disk that he was taking medicine for, so the weight of both children caused him some distress. Also, he was not a very strong swimmer. Already wet, our group decided to help out as much as possible. We managed to get them all over to our underpass safely.

1:55 a.m.: The Fire:
It was a good thing that we got the family out of their rig because a small fire broke out inside it. Ultimately, the electrical fire grew ten feet tall and enveloped the entire rig. We all sat there in disbelief. The man hugged his children tight and prayed. No one said anything for a while. 2:00 a.m.: Let's Get the Hell Out Of Here!:
I have never seen lightning so close in my life. Less than 200 yards away, lightning struck the tail end of a tanker which was floating high (I later learned that it was empty). Everyone screamed. A security guard exclaimed that there was a Texaco Station behind us if we wanted to leave the shelter. I yelled at the top of my lungs, in Batman fashion no less, "To the Texaco Station!!!!!" Like a band of Gypsies we grabbed everything we could and made our way up the embankment to a shelter that had already been discovered by about 200 other people.

3:00 a.m.: The View.
Tankers and 18 wheelers are floating into one another now. I-10 has been renamed by us as "Bayou 10." We worry that the rain will continue and we'll have to seek higher ground again. It is approximately 6 feet to the top of the "levee."

I stayed up watching the news, watching the rain, hearing horror story after horror story. I found a bed for the two kids that were saved by our group. I bought a Tylenol for the guy with the bad back as he had to stand up. I cursed the manager of the Texaco station for kicking the children out of the dry bay of his garage. I consoled the Nigerian 38 year old who was uninsured and worried that his Dad would explode. I cracked jokes with some gang bangers who were exceptionally polite (they were from Beaumont no less). I spoke Spanish for the better part of the evening with two life insurance salesmen from Colombia. I drank Yoohoo Sodas and ate Funions, something I hadn't done since 7th grade.

The rain didn't stop until 7:30. Houston amassed 22 inches of rain in 7 hours, this after being flooded partially on Tuesday night. The area where I was camped out received the brunt of it in the city as it was the section of I-10 right next to Buffalo Bayou which had already overflowed from the Tuesday downpour. My car was approximately sixteen feet under water. I would have been okay with all of that had I not found out that the police made a special trip to TC Jester to help a trucker move his cargo to higher ground. I was told the cargo was Ross Perot's nephew's Lamborgini Countache. It sat there atop the TC Jester overpass, directly above my submarine. The entire gas station was anxious to see it fall into the water. Justice would have been served. I wasn't picked up until 9:30 and I couldn't get home until Sunday.

The lessons I learned from this experience:
1) Always carry a toothbrush with you where ever you go.
2) Pay attention to weather patterns.
3) People are generally friendly, once you get past their outer images.
...except for the manager of the Texaco Station at T.C. Jester and I-10.
4) Don't curse people out in a storm ...because you just might end up spending the night with them at a gas station.
5) Keep a pillow, blanket, 1st Aid kit, flashlight, poncho, water and batteries with you in the back of your car at all times (I had everything but the blanket).
6) Don't skimp on insurance ever.
7) Don't end dates early simply because you want to sleep.
8) Drive bigger cars.

In all honesty, I'm okay with what happened. I'm insured. I'm alive. There are people in far more dire straits than I could ever be. This is actually pretty minor now. My car is caked in mud. There are flies all over it, but it's been towed away and I have a claim number. ...I am now looking into trucks again. I'm done with small cars.
God bless everyone and stay out of the rain.