Rock bottom came for me on October 2, 1992 in the media parking lot of North Wilkesboro Speedway.
There was nothing left to lose back home in Nashville. I'd gone through the agony of a divorce, and after my ex-wife remarried, my son Richard was calling another man Daddy. That was a pain unlike anything I'd ever experienced, even more than the breakup of my marriage, and my job prospects were going nowhere fast. I was working as a telemarketer, a "profession" I absolutely despised with every ounce of my being.
I'd moved back to North Carolina a few weeks before, trying once again to find my way into the wondrous world of NASCAR. I had no job, no money and very nearly no home. I was being paid nothing for the stringer work I was doing for the newspaper in Columbia, Tennessee -- nothing for the stories I filed, no expenses, no nothing. The only thing I got out of the deal was a press pass.
Having covered a race at Martinsville the week before, I wound up sneaking food out of the press box for dinner and sleeping in my car. The plan was to do the same the next weekend in North Wilkesboro, but when I arrived, it didn't take long to figure out that meals wouldn't be provided to the media until race day on Sunday.
It was Friday morning, and I had not a cent to my name. Panic set in. I was devastated. Scared. Hungry. And worst of all, completely alone. There was nowhere to turn. More than two decades have passed since that day, and even now, I can smell the personal-sized pizzas other reporters were able to buy from the concession stands.
I'd met fellow reporter Jerry Lankford in the Bristol press box several weeks before, and I asked him if I could borrow a quarter to make a phone call. I had not told Jerry anything about my circumstances, but I guess he sensed them. Jerry gave me two dollars, and that's what I used to buy my dinner that night ... a small bag of potato chips and a Baby Ruth candy bar.
After practice and qualifying that day, I waited until every other media member had left the grassy parking lot behind the frontstretch grandstands. No way did I want them to see me setting up shop for the night in my car, and in that car in particular.
The next twelve hours or so were the longest -- and emptiest -- of my life. I ate the potato chips slowly, one at a time. After they were gone, I chewed every bite of the candy bar until there was nothing left to chew.
I cried that night, not knowing how things were going to turn out. I was more than 400 miles away from anybody I knew well enough to ask for help, and I was more than 400 miles away from my son. I tried to pray, but had no eloquent words. There weren't even any complete thoughts ... all I could manage was the same basic phrase, over and over again.
Oh, God ...
I was scared and saw no way out of the fix I was in.
Oh, God ...
Chips and a candy bar are no way to live.
Oh, God, please ...
Sleep was next to impossible. As soon as day broke, I washed off, changed shirts and walked to the garage. Not long afterward, I ran into Deb Williams, the editor of Winston Cup Scene.
In the NASCAR world, Winston Cup Scene reigned supreme. It was The New York Times, Washington Post and Sports Illustrated of NASCAR, and its writers were the best of the best. They were, in many ways, my rock stars -- Deb, Steve Waid, Joe Whitlock, David Green, Gary McCreadie, Gene Granger, Ben White and even the folks who freelanced for Scene like Mike Hembree and Ray Cooper.
More than two years had passed since I first contacted Deb and Steve about the possibility of writing for them, and for more than two years, they'd put me off. They'd finally consented to let me file a story on Robert Callicutt, a gasman for Richard Petty's team who'd been badly burned during a pit stop. Filing a story is one thing, but actually seeing it in print is another matter entirely.
Deb told me my story was going to run in the next week's issue. It wasn't a full time job, it was just one story, but it was at the very least an opening. Maybe I did belong. Maybe. I headed to the press box overlooking the track, and it was there that I again saw Jerry.
"Rick, I don't know why I didn't tell you about this yesterday," he began. "The family that owns the paper I work for owns another one not far from here, and they need a sports editor. Would you be interested?"
Before I could stop myself, I bellowed, "YES!!!" I didn't ask about the details, because they didn't matter in the least. I didn't ask where the paper was located -- it turned out to be in a little town in the mountains called Sparta -- or how much it paid. All I cared about was that it was a job, and even better, it was a job with an established newspaper.
Just a few days later, I drove from Gastonia to Sparta to interview for the gig. By the time I made it back "home" to the motel, I had a call that I'd gotten the job. It was mine. I was officially the sports editor for The Alleghany News. I started on October 15, 1992, twenty-two years ago tomorrow.
Amen.
Some would call it a simple coincidence that I'd learned of my story running in Winston Cup Scene and the job possibility on the morning after such a terrible, dark, lonely night. No. No way. God heard the simple prayers I prayed that night, and He honored them. I'd heard the words of Psalm 30:5b many times before, but that day, I lived them.
Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Monday, October 6, 2014
My Bucket List
Over the course of my career, I've been fortunate enough to do some really cool stuff. I've driven a race car at Talladega, and got so jacked up by an adrenaline rush in the process that I literally could not dial my cell phone more than thirty minutes later. My hands were still shaking that badly.
I've shot the breeze over a two-hour dinner with Dale Earnhardt Jr., and stood in Dale Sr.'s pits as he crossed the finish line to win his first and only Daytona 500. I've whacked Buckshot Jones in the face with a whipped-cream pie as he was being interviewed on ESPN, and laughed myself breathless as Buckshot's arch-rival Randy LaJoie explained in great detail the things you can and cannot do with a TENS nerve-stimulating pain-relief unit.
I've watched as Sandi Estep -- my best friend's mom and the woman I call my godmother -- rode in the pace car at Daytona, and then listened as Sandi told me all about it hours later, still as giddily excited as a young schoolgirl. Come to think of it, I've actually driven the pace cars at Homestead and the Madhouse, Bowman Gray Stadium. Several times, I've watched as the sun came up over breakfast at Junior Johnson's shop.
I've stood on the flight deck of two honest-to-goodness Space Shuttles, and peeked in the hatch of a third. I've practiced for two launches and five landings on the Shuttle's motion-base simulator. I've sat alongside former flight controller Bob Carlton at his console in an otherwise empty MOCR as we listened to audio of him helping land Apollo 11 on the surface of the moon.
I watched from just three miles away as a Shuttle rose to orbit for the final time, and stood by on the runway as Endeavour landed to bring an earlier mission to an end.
There's no doubt that my life on the job has been pretty doggone amazing at times. Still, there remains one adventure that's far and away the Number One item on my bucket list.
I would dearly, dearly, dearly love to fly with either the United States Navy's Blue Angels or the U.S. Air Force's Thunderbirds. Take your pick, because beggars can't be choosers. Strapping into either one of those blue-and-yellow or red-white-and-blue birds and soaring off into the wild blue yonder would immediately go to the very top of the list of everything I've ever done in my career, hands down, without a doubt.
Why would a guy like me who absolutely detests flying on board a commercial airliner want to do such a crazy thing? The first reason is also the most obvious. I want to be, for once in my life, That Guy ... the one walking across the tarmac in his flight suit, fully rigged up and ready to climb into his jet fighter, the Top Gun theme music playing in the background.
As silly as that sounds, there are other, more subtle reasons.
Flight was a big part of my dad's life before he got sick with lung cancer, the result of coming in contact with Agent Orange during his service in Vietnam. He told countless stories over the years of the flights he took in the First Cav's Bell UH-1 "Huey" helicopters, and after making it back to the States, Dad took to flying remote-controlled planes.
After my mom passed away, he got his private pilot's license and bought an interest in a small plane. We never really talked about it -- we never really talked about a lot of things -- but I think it was his way of dealing with the hurt of losing my mom. He proudly took me for a ride in the machine he'd nicknamed "The Vomit Comet."
When he got sick, he lost his license and could no longer fly. What he could do was return to his hobby of the early 1970s and began building remote-control airplanes with a vengeance. Rarely, if ever, did he take a chance on flying them, but instead contented himself with very patiently building the intricate models.
A yellow Piper Cub he put together had to have had a wingspan that stretched upward of four feet or more. That sucker was huge and the engine in it expensive. I teased him about spending my inheritance, but I actually couldn't have cared less how much it cost. He loved it, it took his mind off what was happening to his body, and that was good enough for me.
So, to fly with the Thunderbirds or the Blue Angels ... yeah ... it would be for Pops. Dad was Army through and through, but I don't think he would've minded me hanging out with these particular Navy or Air Force guys too awfully much.
Then there's the fact that I'm now far closer to being physically able to fly with either team.
Five years ago, I weighed nearly 400 pounds and couldn't possibly have squeezed myself into a flight suit, much less the cockpit. I'm reminded of that day in the motion-base simulator, the day that began my weight-loss journey when I was unable to fasten one of my safety harnesses. I'm reminded of the searing pain in my ribs when I tried in vain to suck in my gut enough for the latch to finally snap shut.
It never did, and it broke my heart and very nearly my spirit. I'm reminded of virtually every step of the nearly 2,000 miles I've walked and run since that day, and how badly so many of them have hurt. I've planked, squatted and lunged, Body Pumped and boot camped more times than I could ever count. Walking a 5k led to running one, then running a 10k, then doing both a 5k and a 10k on the same day and last but not least, a half marathon, the mother of all hurts.
The strange thing is, a Blue Angels or Thunderbirds flight would not make all that effort worth it. It was worth it just to get into better shape, to hopefully put myself in a better position to be there for my wife and kids later in life. It would not be a reward, because nobody owes me anything for trying to improve the quality of my own life.
What the Thunderbirds and Blue Angels have done, however, was serve as inspiration. Whether it was some foolish Quixotic quest or not, I've talked myself up many a hill and onward toward many a mile by imaging myself in a Blue Angels F/A-18 or one of the Thunderbirds' F-16s.Would I keep going up this hill or for another few miles if it meant the chance to fly with those folks?
You'd better believe it.
So ... Thunderbirds or Blue Angels, Blue Angels or Thunderbirds ... call me. I'll be here.
I've shot the breeze over a two-hour dinner with Dale Earnhardt Jr., and stood in Dale Sr.'s pits as he crossed the finish line to win his first and only Daytona 500. I've whacked Buckshot Jones in the face with a whipped-cream pie as he was being interviewed on ESPN, and laughed myself breathless as Buckshot's arch-rival Randy LaJoie explained in great detail the things you can and cannot do with a TENS nerve-stimulating pain-relief unit.
I've watched as Sandi Estep -- my best friend's mom and the woman I call my godmother -- rode in the pace car at Daytona, and then listened as Sandi told me all about it hours later, still as giddily excited as a young schoolgirl. Come to think of it, I've actually driven the pace cars at Homestead and the Madhouse, Bowman Gray Stadium. Several times, I've watched as the sun came up over breakfast at Junior Johnson's shop.
I've stood on the flight deck of two honest-to-goodness Space Shuttles, and peeked in the hatch of a third. I've practiced for two launches and five landings on the Shuttle's motion-base simulator. I've sat alongside former flight controller Bob Carlton at his console in an otherwise empty MOCR as we listened to audio of him helping land Apollo 11 on the surface of the moon.
I watched from just three miles away as a Shuttle rose to orbit for the final time, and stood by on the runway as Endeavour landed to bring an earlier mission to an end.
There's no doubt that my life on the job has been pretty doggone amazing at times. Still, there remains one adventure that's far and away the Number One item on my bucket list.
I would dearly, dearly, dearly love to fly with either the United States Navy's Blue Angels or the U.S. Air Force's Thunderbirds. Take your pick, because beggars can't be choosers. Strapping into either one of those blue-and-yellow or red-white-and-blue birds and soaring off into the wild blue yonder would immediately go to the very top of the list of everything I've ever done in my career, hands down, without a doubt.
Why would a guy like me who absolutely detests flying on board a commercial airliner want to do such a crazy thing? The first reason is also the most obvious. I want to be, for once in my life, That Guy ... the one walking across the tarmac in his flight suit, fully rigged up and ready to climb into his jet fighter, the Top Gun theme music playing in the background.
As silly as that sounds, there are other, more subtle reasons.
Flight was a big part of my dad's life before he got sick with lung cancer, the result of coming in contact with Agent Orange during his service in Vietnam. He told countless stories over the years of the flights he took in the First Cav's Bell UH-1 "Huey" helicopters, and after making it back to the States, Dad took to flying remote-controlled planes.
After my mom passed away, he got his private pilot's license and bought an interest in a small plane. We never really talked about it -- we never really talked about a lot of things -- but I think it was his way of dealing with the hurt of losing my mom. He proudly took me for a ride in the machine he'd nicknamed "The Vomit Comet."
When he got sick, he lost his license and could no longer fly. What he could do was return to his hobby of the early 1970s and began building remote-control airplanes with a vengeance. Rarely, if ever, did he take a chance on flying them, but instead contented himself with very patiently building the intricate models.
A yellow Piper Cub he put together had to have had a wingspan that stretched upward of four feet or more. That sucker was huge and the engine in it expensive. I teased him about spending my inheritance, but I actually couldn't have cared less how much it cost. He loved it, it took his mind off what was happening to his body, and that was good enough for me.
So, to fly with the Thunderbirds or the Blue Angels ... yeah ... it would be for Pops. Dad was Army through and through, but I don't think he would've minded me hanging out with these particular Navy or Air Force guys too awfully much.
Then there's the fact that I'm now far closer to being physically able to fly with either team.
Five years ago, I weighed nearly 400 pounds and couldn't possibly have squeezed myself into a flight suit, much less the cockpit. I'm reminded of that day in the motion-base simulator, the day that began my weight-loss journey when I was unable to fasten one of my safety harnesses. I'm reminded of the searing pain in my ribs when I tried in vain to suck in my gut enough for the latch to finally snap shut.
It never did, and it broke my heart and very nearly my spirit. I'm reminded of virtually every step of the nearly 2,000 miles I've walked and run since that day, and how badly so many of them have hurt. I've planked, squatted and lunged, Body Pumped and boot camped more times than I could ever count. Walking a 5k led to running one, then running a 10k, then doing both a 5k and a 10k on the same day and last but not least, a half marathon, the mother of all hurts.
The strange thing is, a Blue Angels or Thunderbirds flight would not make all that effort worth it. It was worth it just to get into better shape, to hopefully put myself in a better position to be there for my wife and kids later in life. It would not be a reward, because nobody owes me anything for trying to improve the quality of my own life.
What the Thunderbirds and Blue Angels have done, however, was serve as inspiration. Whether it was some foolish Quixotic quest or not, I've talked myself up many a hill and onward toward many a mile by imaging myself in a Blue Angels F/A-18 or one of the Thunderbirds' F-16s.Would I keep going up this hill or for another few miles if it meant the chance to fly with those folks?
You'd better believe it.
So ... Thunderbirds or Blue Angels, Blue Angels or Thunderbirds ... call me. I'll be here.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Chapter Two: The Moon Rises!
Before I'd taken 10 steps in the 10k, I knew I was in trouble.
This was it, the big rematch with my arch-rival and friend Bob from the Y. I'd won the first round, and had to defend my honor over the course of 6.4 long miles in the second. Like before, though, I didn't really expect to beat Bob. Could our first race have been nothing more than a fluke?
We were about to find out.
The gun sounded to start the race ... I took one step ... and felt my brand-new compression shorts shift. I took another, and they started to shimmy downward. Another few steps, and those suckers were in an all-out southbound retreat. By the time I made it out of the parking lot which marked the earliest stages of the event, the shorts were completely to my knees.
How did it happen? I don't know, and didn't particularly care at that point. All I knew was that I was suddenly ... and there ain't no other way to put it ... going commando. I had a decision to make. Bob was a few yards ahead of me, and I couldn't let him gain too much ground on me. I was going to keep running, compression shorts or no compression shorts.
It was at about that point, however, that I saw a police officer directing runners at the first turn. He was laughing ... and he was laughing at me.
But why? I looked down and it dawned on me what I was wearing. My running shorts were made of sheer fabric, cool, lightweight ... and in the right light ... almost completely see through. And with my compression shorts down around my knees ... awwwwwwwwww, man ...
I was determined not to stop. If you can picture this, I ran/waddled/stumbled/shuffled maybe twenty yards with both arms reaching inside my running shorts and down to my compression drawers, desperately trying to tug the blamed things back up.
It didn't work.
Finally, I stopped at some bushes on the side of the road. I threw the gloves and hydration belt I was wearing to the ground, reached back inside my running shorts down to the compressions and pulled them back up to where they were supposed to be. I threw my belt back on and took off, putting my gloves on as I ran.
And as I did so, the compression shorts fell right back down again. !@#$%^&^%$#@!
Maybe a mile into the race, and it was all over. Bob was gone. Bob was history. Bob, by this point I was sure, was already back at the finish line waiting on me. I was never going to hear the end of it, and it was all because of these forsaken shorts.
A patrol car from the local sheriff's department was up ahead. I had no choice. I had to stop again. As other runners made the turn, I went straight to the car. They asked if I was okay, and physically, I was. Mentally? That was another matter entirely. I was ticked, and I was ticked big time.
I ran behind the car and again tore off my gloves and hydration belt. This time, though, there was no awkward reaching down under my running shorts to get to my underwear. Nope. This time, I dropped 'em altogether entirely ... and in the process mooned Rural Hall, North Carolina. At that point, I just didn't care.
I took hold of the compression shorts and gave them a monstrous yank. I pulled them up very nearly to my chest, and in so doing gave myself the mother of all wedgies. Back up came my running shorts. Back on went my hydration belt and gloves. Why, I didn't know. The race with Bob was over, and I had to consider my options. I could quit then and there, or keep going.
By that point, I was so angry that I was all but in tears. Bob was nowhere to be seen, and neither were very many other people in the race, for that matter. The only ones around were a couple of ladies walking, one of them pushing a baby stroller. Forget about not beating Bob. I wasn't going to beat anybody.
I took off, up three small hills within the next mile or so. After that, the course was as flat as anything I've ever run before. I saw a runner I thought might possibly be Bob, but the figure was so far away, I couldn't be sure. As the course doubled back on itself, I began to meet runners heading in the opposite direction.
No Bob.
No Bob.
No Bob.
No Bob.
At last, he was there. He was probably a little more than a half mile ahead of me, with about three miles remaining. I was never going to catch him, ever. But still ... I picked up my pace.
Once I made the turnaround myself, I could see who I thought to be Bob. I wasn't completely sure it was him, but still ... I picked up my pace a little more. Bob came into focus. As soon as I was certain ... I picked up my pace a little more still.
Four and a half miles in, two miles to go. Pick it up.
Five miles in, a mile and a half or so left. Pick it up. I can see Bob. It's him. It's definitely him.
Five and a half miles in, a mile left, and I was at as close to a sprint as I could've possibly been after running that far. I'm gaining, but I'm not going to catch him. But still ...
Bob turned back into the parking where all this had started. I was a hundred yards back. Bob crossed the finish line, and then so did I. I finished in an hour and five minutes, my best ever time in a 10k by far. Jeanie made the comment that if it hadn't been for my problem at the beginning of the race, I would've made it in less than an hour.
That's not necessarily the case. If it hadn't been for those problems and trying to catch back up to Bob, there's absolutely no way I would've ever pushed myself that hard. Bob beat me by several seconds, fair and square. No excuses.
Except maybe for ...
This was it, the big rematch with my arch-rival and friend Bob from the Y. I'd won the first round, and had to defend my honor over the course of 6.4 long miles in the second. Like before, though, I didn't really expect to beat Bob. Could our first race have been nothing more than a fluke?
We were about to find out.
The gun sounded to start the race ... I took one step ... and felt my brand-new compression shorts shift. I took another, and they started to shimmy downward. Another few steps, and those suckers were in an all-out southbound retreat. By the time I made it out of the parking lot which marked the earliest stages of the event, the shorts were completely to my knees.
How did it happen? I don't know, and didn't particularly care at that point. All I knew was that I was suddenly ... and there ain't no other way to put it ... going commando. I had a decision to make. Bob was a few yards ahead of me, and I couldn't let him gain too much ground on me. I was going to keep running, compression shorts or no compression shorts.
It was at about that point, however, that I saw a police officer directing runners at the first turn. He was laughing ... and he was laughing at me.
But why? I looked down and it dawned on me what I was wearing. My running shorts were made of sheer fabric, cool, lightweight ... and in the right light ... almost completely see through. And with my compression shorts down around my knees ... awwwwwwwwww, man ...
I was determined not to stop. If you can picture this, I ran/waddled/stumbled/shuffled maybe twenty yards with both arms reaching inside my running shorts and down to my compression drawers, desperately trying to tug the blamed things back up.
It didn't work.
Finally, I stopped at some bushes on the side of the road. I threw the gloves and hydration belt I was wearing to the ground, reached back inside my running shorts down to the compressions and pulled them back up to where they were supposed to be. I threw my belt back on and took off, putting my gloves on as I ran.
And as I did so, the compression shorts fell right back down again. !@#$%^&^%$#@!
Maybe a mile into the race, and it was all over. Bob was gone. Bob was history. Bob, by this point I was sure, was already back at the finish line waiting on me. I was never going to hear the end of it, and it was all because of these forsaken shorts.
A patrol car from the local sheriff's department was up ahead. I had no choice. I had to stop again. As other runners made the turn, I went straight to the car. They asked if I was okay, and physically, I was. Mentally? That was another matter entirely. I was ticked, and I was ticked big time.
I ran behind the car and again tore off my gloves and hydration belt. This time, though, there was no awkward reaching down under my running shorts to get to my underwear. Nope. This time, I dropped 'em altogether entirely ... and in the process mooned Rural Hall, North Carolina. At that point, I just didn't care.
I took hold of the compression shorts and gave them a monstrous yank. I pulled them up very nearly to my chest, and in so doing gave myself the mother of all wedgies. Back up came my running shorts. Back on went my hydration belt and gloves. Why, I didn't know. The race with Bob was over, and I had to consider my options. I could quit then and there, or keep going.
By that point, I was so angry that I was all but in tears. Bob was nowhere to be seen, and neither were very many other people in the race, for that matter. The only ones around were a couple of ladies walking, one of them pushing a baby stroller. Forget about not beating Bob. I wasn't going to beat anybody.
I took off, up three small hills within the next mile or so. After that, the course was as flat as anything I've ever run before. I saw a runner I thought might possibly be Bob, but the figure was so far away, I couldn't be sure. As the course doubled back on itself, I began to meet runners heading in the opposite direction.
No Bob.
No Bob.
No Bob.
No Bob.
At last, he was there. He was probably a little more than a half mile ahead of me, with about three miles remaining. I was never going to catch him, ever. But still ... I picked up my pace.
Once I made the turnaround myself, I could see who I thought to be Bob. I wasn't completely sure it was him, but still ... I picked up my pace a little more. Bob came into focus. As soon as I was certain ... I picked up my pace a little more still.
Four and a half miles in, two miles to go. Pick it up.
Five miles in, a mile and a half or so left. Pick it up. I can see Bob. It's him. It's definitely him.
Five and a half miles in, a mile left, and I was at as close to a sprint as I could've possibly been after running that far. I'm gaining, but I'm not going to catch him. But still ...
Bob turned back into the parking where all this had started. I was a hundred yards back. Bob crossed the finish line, and then so did I. I finished in an hour and five minutes, my best ever time in a 10k by far. Jeanie made the comment that if it hadn't been for my problem at the beginning of the race, I would've made it in less than an hour.
That's not necessarily the case. If it hadn't been for those problems and trying to catch back up to Bob, there's absolutely no way I would've ever pushed myself that hard. Bob beat me by several seconds, fair and square. No excuses.
Except maybe for ...
Monday, September 29, 2014
Chapter One: How In The %^&@ Did You Get Here?!?
There's a guy just like him in every gym in every town across the country.
Bob ... in order to protect the guilty, that's not his real name ... is the older gentleman who'll spend an hour on the stair climber and then move to the treadmill following his warmup. He's closing in quick on 70, but he's a rock star when it comes to staying fit.
Bob's also the guy in your gym who's never had an unexpressed thought. He's going to say what's on his mind and he's going to say it at the very top of his voice ... not in a confrontational way ... just ... very loudly.
That's where I come in. One day a couple of years ago, Bob turned his attention to me.
"Rick," he bellowed at or very near the top of his lungs, "you need to lose some weight!"
I'd already lost 90-some-odd pounds at that point, and I told him so. He evidently didn't believe me.
"No, you haven't!"
Yes, I have.
"No, you haven't!"
Bob, really. I have.
"No, you haven't!"
I took out my smart phone and showed him my "before" picture, and that finally convinced him. Still, he wasn't finished.
"Well ... what you need to do now is start running so you can tone up!"
But ... Bob ... I've already done eight or nine 5ks and one 10k.
I should've known what was coming.
"No, you haven't!"
Yes, I have.
"No, you haven't!"
Yes, I have.
"No, you haven't!"
Finally, I had an idea. There was a 5k scheduled for the very next weekend here in Yadkinville, and I told Bob to sign up. It wasn't a challenge, because there was no way I was ever going to beat him. Not a chance. Not the way he could spend hours on end on the cardio machines. No way, no how. The best I could hope to do was maybe impress him by just finishing.
Come that Saturday, the race started and I saw Bob ahead. I passed him within the first quarter mile or so, but that didn't mean anything. I always start out too fast, and there was a lot of traffic to negotiate. Surely, as the race wore on, he'd come roaring back by me.
That never happened, but again, it didn't necessarily mean anything. I tend to get tunnel vision during a race, not fully knowing everything that's going on around me. It's part concentration, part exhaustion.
Jeanie and the boys were at the finish line, which always means the world to me. Adam and Jesse went off to find me a bottle of water while Jeanie and I headed for a seat in the shade. I still didn't see Bob.
He. Wasn't. There.
Three or four minutes later -- I'm gonna call it four! -- I saw Bob approaching the finish line. A smile stretched across his face, right up until the moment he saw me. Suddenly, the smile was gone. What he said -- bellowed -- next would forever be the highlight of my athletic career.
It was mo' better than anything I ever did in Little League baseball, high school football or church softball.
Bob saw me sitting there, already finished with my race ... his smile vanished ... and he announced for all the world to hear.
"How in the %^&@ did you get here?!?"
In the soundtrack of my life, that's pretty much where the theme songs from Rocky and Rudy and, just because it's me, Forrest Gump would all start playing. How in the %^&@ did you get here?!? Yes!
It wasn't long until we'd agreed on a rematch ... a 10k in Rural Hall. A wardrobe malfunction helped decide the outcome.
Check back soon for Part Two: The Moon Rises!
Bob ... in order to protect the guilty, that's not his real name ... is the older gentleman who'll spend an hour on the stair climber and then move to the treadmill following his warmup. He's closing in quick on 70, but he's a rock star when it comes to staying fit.
Bob's also the guy in your gym who's never had an unexpressed thought. He's going to say what's on his mind and he's going to say it at the very top of his voice ... not in a confrontational way ... just ... very loudly.
That's where I come in. One day a couple of years ago, Bob turned his attention to me.
"Rick," he bellowed at or very near the top of his lungs, "you need to lose some weight!"
I'd already lost 90-some-odd pounds at that point, and I told him so. He evidently didn't believe me.
"No, you haven't!"
Yes, I have.
"No, you haven't!"
Bob, really. I have.
"No, you haven't!"
I took out my smart phone and showed him my "before" picture, and that finally convinced him. Still, he wasn't finished.
"Well ... what you need to do now is start running so you can tone up!"
But ... Bob ... I've already done eight or nine 5ks and one 10k.
I should've known what was coming.
"No, you haven't!"
Yes, I have.
"No, you haven't!"
Yes, I have.
"No, you haven't!"
Finally, I had an idea. There was a 5k scheduled for the very next weekend here in Yadkinville, and I told Bob to sign up. It wasn't a challenge, because there was no way I was ever going to beat him. Not a chance. Not the way he could spend hours on end on the cardio machines. No way, no how. The best I could hope to do was maybe impress him by just finishing.
Come that Saturday, the race started and I saw Bob ahead. I passed him within the first quarter mile or so, but that didn't mean anything. I always start out too fast, and there was a lot of traffic to negotiate. Surely, as the race wore on, he'd come roaring back by me.
That never happened, but again, it didn't necessarily mean anything. I tend to get tunnel vision during a race, not fully knowing everything that's going on around me. It's part concentration, part exhaustion.
Jeanie and the boys were at the finish line, which always means the world to me. Adam and Jesse went off to find me a bottle of water while Jeanie and I headed for a seat in the shade. I still didn't see Bob.
He. Wasn't. There.
Three or four minutes later -- I'm gonna call it four! -- I saw Bob approaching the finish line. A smile stretched across his face, right up until the moment he saw me. Suddenly, the smile was gone. What he said -- bellowed -- next would forever be the highlight of my athletic career.
It was mo' better than anything I ever did in Little League baseball, high school football or church softball.
Bob saw me sitting there, already finished with my race ... his smile vanished ... and he announced for all the world to hear.
"How in the %^&@ did you get here?!?"
In the soundtrack of my life, that's pretty much where the theme songs from Rocky and Rudy and, just because it's me, Forrest Gump would all start playing. How in the %^&@ did you get here?!? Yes!
It wasn't long until we'd agreed on a rematch ... a 10k in Rural Hall. A wardrobe malfunction helped decide the outcome.
Check back soon for Part Two: The Moon Rises!
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
No. 66 -- Jesse Houston, Backseat Stalker
You know those moments in movies where somebody gets behind the wheel of their car, and when they look in the rear view mirror, there's an intruder looming in the shadows of the backseat? You know how it always scares the living bejeebers out of the driver?
Yeah ... that happened to me tonight.
Jeanie left the house early to pick Adam up at football practice, and I thought Jesse had gone with her. After checking a couple of quick e-mails, I headed out to my car so the four of us could meet in a few minutes for dinner.
There's nobody in the passenger's seat. I put the key in the ignition ... look up into the mirror ... see the outline of somebody I did not know was in the car ... and at that split second ...
Hey, Dad!
Jesse always sits directly behind me when we're going somewhere, and more often than not, will start to sit there even if it's just the two of us. That's what he did tonight, and the thing is, he did not mean to intentionally frighten me. If he had, surely, it would not have worked nearly as well.
My car very nearly became a convertible when I jumped, trying to escape the "danger." I guess I should be proud, because I neither cussed nor peed in the floor in the process! Jesse couldn't stop laughing once he was sure that I was not, in fact, having a heart attack.
Me? Not so much.
Yeah ... that happened to me tonight.
Jeanie left the house early to pick Adam up at football practice, and I thought Jesse had gone with her. After checking a couple of quick e-mails, I headed out to my car so the four of us could meet in a few minutes for dinner.
There's nobody in the passenger's seat. I put the key in the ignition ... look up into the mirror ... see the outline of somebody I did not know was in the car ... and at that split second ...
Hey, Dad!
Jesse always sits directly behind me when we're going somewhere, and more often than not, will start to sit there even if it's just the two of us. That's what he did tonight, and the thing is, he did not mean to intentionally frighten me. If he had, surely, it would not have worked nearly as well.
My car very nearly became a convertible when I jumped, trying to escape the "danger." I guess I should be proud, because I neither cussed nor peed in the floor in the process! Jesse couldn't stop laughing once he was sure that I was not, in fact, having a heart attack.
Me? Not so much.
Friday, July 18, 2014
No. 65 -- Blue Moon
Adam just ran through the house in his drawers, happened to bend over ... and just like that, we discover a huge and strategically placed hole in the drawers that show for all the world to see that, yes, he is in fact most definitely a boy.
Me, Jeanie and her mom and dad are laughing so hard we're all crying, which of course just eggs him on. There's nothing that kid won't do to get a laugh, which Jeanie says will make him the perfect frat boy someday.
Hey, y'all. Watch this.
Jesse is also laughing hysterically and starts yelling, "My eyes! My eyes!" This is what it's like to live at my house.
Me, Jeanie and her mom and dad are laughing so hard we're all crying, which of course just eggs him on. There's nothing that kid won't do to get a laugh, which Jeanie says will make him the perfect frat boy someday.
Hey, y'all. Watch this.
Jesse is also laughing hysterically and starts yelling, "My eyes! My eyes!" This is what it's like to live at my house.
No. 64 -- Jesse's Untold Tales of the ER
The boys and I came across one of those television shows where kids who've gotten in trouble get taken to jail to see if it will possibly turn them around. Jesse watched a few minutes and said that if he ever got in that much trouble, he would probably wind up on television but it wouldn't be on something like Scared Straight.
He's a man of few words, so it kind of got my attention. When I asked him why, he said, "If I ever mess up that bad, I'll have to go on Untold Stories of the ER so they can remove your foot from my butt."
Yep ... and I'm thankful he knows that.
He's a man of few words, so it kind of got my attention. When I asked him why, he said, "If I ever mess up that bad, I'll have to go on Untold Stories of the ER so they can remove your foot from my butt."
Yep ... and I'm thankful he knows that.
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