Random Thoughts And Those On Swimming

The time at the moment was Pi.  You might remember the sign for Pi (𝛑) from school, especially if you had a kid in class who had memorized the digits for Pi out to a hundred decimal places and spewed their brilliance for the admiration of your teacher and anyone else who cared about math and numbers.  Perhaps you yourself were that kid!  If so, let’s just be honest and say that it’s a remarkable feat and pretty darn impressive to recall so many numeric figures!  Or maybe you use Pi on a regular basis and in various formulas while calculating the area and circumference of a circle; as an engineer or landscape architect might do for their next project.

I had a circle garden in the backyard of the first house that Cindy and I ever owned.  It was a good excuse to be creative and make use of the old rotten stump that used to be there on a slight slope just off the northwest corner of our brick bungalow.  I was able to level off the soil by building a retaining wall on the lower end; using a double layer of broken up concrete chunks from a motel in Machesney Park that was redoing their sidewalk.  I used Pi to calculate the fencing needed around the perimeter to keep rabbits out while still allowing chubby little fingers access through the rectangular wire holes to grab delicious cherry tomatoes and fistfuls of chives.

Sometimes in the middle of a junior high boy’s or girl’s basketball game, back when Cindy and I coached together, we’d notice when the clock on the scoreboard stopped at 3:14.  One of us would bring it to the other’s attention by exclaiming, "It's Pi!"  The first three digits to the Greek Symbol of Pi are 3, 1, & 4 (three and fourteen hundredths - 3.14).  It comes from the 3 plus a smidge more times that a circle’s diameter can be wrapped around the perimeter of that same circle.  It’s a decimal number that in reality extends infinitely, because well, you can technically always cut a piece of the pie thinner; even if it is microscopic!

Anyways, the present time was 3:14 when I started writing this entry aboard a Boeing 787-10 aircraft.  Ironically my wife and I were flying from Amsterdam and southeast off the tip of Greece on our way to Kenya - where we would eventually drive down into the bush country where my son and daughter-in-law live.  At that moment, far below the 35,000 feet we were flying, I could see the western tip on the island of Crete and sandy Elafonissi Beach.  In fact, I could see whitecaps rolling in along the shoreline from the Mediterranean Sea.  Imagine the height of those rollers for me to see them from tens of thousands of feet above them in the air!

Having grown up in Michigan and surrounded by the freshwater sea of the Great Lakes, I hold a personal attachment to water being whipped by the wind into whitecaps.  I absolutely love the thunderous roar of waves crashing on rocky outcroppings or pounding sand laden beaches.

I’m also terrified of them.  I know the seductive power behind those waves!  I almost drowned as a child; strangely enough while attending our community swim lessons at Otsego County Park.  It was within big waves, that were building from an oncoming front, when I decided in my little brain that I needed to learn to swim on my own right then and there - without a paddle board and in the deep area between two rafts.  It was also when the lifeguards earned their keep.  Somehow they noticed me in the waves, and pulled me up from below as I was going down into the bluish-gray abyss.

Isn’t it ironic how the waves that can be so fun and exhilarating to jump in when it’s only knee deep, can paralyze you when you have a near death experience?  Once I had recovered to their satisfaction, the director of the program drove me over to the other side of the lake; to the State Park where my Dad was a seasonal ranger when he wasn’t teaching middle school math.  It would be a couple of years until I could comfortably swim in water that was dark and over my head.  The traumatic experience hadn’t planted a seed of fear.  It was more like a backyard shade tree!  Who knew at the time that I would return years later to swim from that community park, nearly to the other side of the lake, and then back - while participating in what used to be the original distance for the Mark Mellon Triathlon.

I think about that near drowning sometimes, and try to mesh the fear I suddenly felt for deep water with the stories my parents tell of how as a toddler I would crawl fearlessly down sandy beaches and straight into the lake without even stopping!  My Mom said she had to watch me like a hawk, because I apparently could crawl pretty darn quick.  I do remember wanting to be “one with the water” when I was in middle school; wishing I could breathe like the character in the TV show from the late 70’s entitled, The Man From Atlantis.  I often mimicked the way that he swam, but unlike him, my lungs demanded air!

Part of the initiation strategy Dad used to rebuild my confidence in swimming was for him to hold me as he walked out to where he was neck deep and definitely over my head.  In that environment he would hold me out at arms length, briefly let go, and I was to swim back to him.  I remember clinging to his head and shoulders, and I think it took everything in his power to pull me away - both literally and figuratively.  Literally because of my gripping fingers, and figuratively because I was his son and he wanted to help me; in addition to the fact that he had grown up on a lake and was himself half fish.

One such time stands out vividly in my mind when we drove down to a lake somewhere in the middle of lower Michigan to visit family friends.  As kids we had fun playing together, picnicking, and searching for fresh water clams in the shallows.  When it came time for Dad’s attempted swim lesson, however, I wanted nothing to do with it and held on for all I was worth!  And while I trusted my Dad, I didn’t trust the water.  More importantly, I didn’t trust myself and my ability to swim when I couldn’t touch the bottom of the lake with my tippy-toes.  Fear like that was a real thing for a kid who only ever swam in lakes that got mysteriously deeper, darker, and muckier the farther you went from shore.

The opportunity that slipped through my fingers, and still haunts me to this day, was when I lost out on diving from a raft belonging to long-time friends who lived down on Heart Lake.  Those who know me now are familiar with the fact that I could dive off any sort of structure all day long.  I simply love the exhilarating feeling of slicing into water.  My dives themselves aren’t pretty, and on an Olympic scoring system…well, they probably wouldn’t even register on a scale of 1 to 10.  But, that doesn’t take away from my love to do so, even if my feet often come over too far and cause an unnecessary splash!

On that day, plain and simple, I didn’t get to share in the joy that my younger sisters and friends were able to have.   Granted, the littles probably jumped in with life jackets. And although I don’t remember all of the specifics, I know that I wasn’t able to submerge into the depths unencumbered and do what I saw some of the older kids doing.  What does come to mind is that the water was intimidating, and although the raft was not very far from shore, it was anchored out beyond a steep drop-off.

In the dive position I posed at the raft’s edge, but was frozen from entering the water.  It was regretful, especially when our friends moved soon after that to the Upper Peninsula town of Negaunee.  Fortunately I was able to come back to that same lake a decade later and swim at a resort just across the bay from where our friends had once lived and even took a group of middle schoolers water skiing there after my freshman year in college.  It helped rectify the earlier situation.

I wish I could recall when and where I got over my fear of deep water and not being able to see or touch the bottom.  I suppose it would help wrap the story into a tight little bow.  Like many things in life, time erased the memory of bravery as time erased the fright.  Perhaps I swam in water over my head on beloved Clark Lake where my Dad had grown up and we still had family.  Perhaps it was in Pickerel, Big, or Otsego Lake near our home outside of Gaylord, Michigan.  Maybe I swam in dark water in one of the Great Lakes - like Michigan or Superior.  The specifics will remain a mystery, but this I know; I love water and being engulfed in its fluidity.  Yet, from that frightening experience I also have a healthy dose of cautious respect; always checking for submerged debris before jumping in moving water, wearing a life jacket while kayaking or canoeing, and being aware of my surroundings and the weather.

If I have the opportunity, I’ll swing from a rope or dive off a dock into deep water again and again; it’s a joy and rush I rarely get tired of doing.  I usually only quit when I run out of time or something else catches my attention.  In fact, I’m always looking for the next watering hole where I can wade, swim, paddle, or dive.

It’s random memories, stories, and thoughts like these that I find rattling around inside my brain while flying out over the Mediterranean Sea; now long past the number Pi, the time of 3:14, and the white caps crashing onto the island shores of southern Greece - as we travel the long journey to the flip side of the Earth.

See you along The Way…

Running - Part#1: The History

        When I think back to my earliest memories of running, I picture my Dad.  Out on the dirt roads of Otsego County’s Dover Township, of Northern Lower Michigan, he’d pull out his Adidas racing flats.  Those shoes were classics, and some of the earliest versions of a running shoe (white shoes with red and blue stripes).  I can recall being in about the 3^rd or 4^th grade and following him down the hill towards White House Trail.  I distinctly remember stopping at the corner though, and coming home as he made his way on down to Sparr Store.  I’m sure part of it was that it was hard to keep up with him, although climbing the hills to get back home couldn’t have been fun.  It was more, however, about the horse that was in the field just beyond that corner.  I remember it was a dark, brown color; but I also remember that it was scary.  I think it had something to do with his loud whinny and the way it would run at the fence if you came near.  Apparently, at that age, I thought that running the hills back to the house was less of an issue than trying to catch up to my Dad and having that horse see me.  I was only slightly traumatized by horses when we lived in that home, but those are stories for another time.  It wasn’t long after that, when we got a quarter-horse named Buckles, that everything was made right, and I made the decision that I was going to be a horse rancher when I grew up.

        When I reached junior high, I ran track.  I think I ran the mile and did the long jump.  I was small, and thin, and it was tough running in those Chuck Taylor basketball shoes.  Those shoes miraculously became my track shoes when spring rolled around on that old cinder track.  I just tried not to get lapped by Pete who was a year older than me, and the man-child of running at our school.  The summer of 1979 was the turnaround though.  That was the summer when running started switching from a way to get from point A to point B into more of a passion.  I’d always run, and although I wouldn’t say I got a lot faster, or that I even started growing, I did start enjoying it more.  When I was real little, I would run up and down the back hill in the summer with my wagon and scooter, or with my green saucer sled in the winter (talk to my parents for pictures and family movies of my sisters and I playing together).  

        From those experiences, running evolved into sprints to explore; adventures with my dog King into the hills, and valleys, and swamps behind our farm.  Some would probably argue I was running from the house as quickly as possible to avoid starting homework, but either way it was running.

        During the summer of 1979 I was in between my 7^th and 8^th grade year of school.  While visiting my extended family in southern Michigan, my cousins and I decided to run a recently established race around Clark Lake that our Grandma lived on.  We trained and practiced with two of my cousins’ friends by running around the lake for the better part of a Friday afternoon; the day before the race.  The following day; Saturday, we ran the race.  It was a seven mile run.  

It was my first road race ever.  We were young and the muscles in our legs were like those of any kids back in the day.  We made it and finished 14+ miles in two days, plus the swimming in between.  That Sunday morning though, coming down the stairs of the old farmhouse in the orchard off Jefferson Road, was not pretty.  Our legs didn’t want to bend, and so we had to side step our way down; much to the humor of my Aunt and Uncle.  If I remember right, my Uncle “helped” us by wrestling and pounding on us a little.  It was great fun let me tell you, but the fire of running had been lit. 

            I ran cross country my freshman year in high school with my friend Chris.  I didn’t even weigh a hundred pounds yet (not until the end of that year), but I finally managed my fastest time on the very last race of the year, in a snowstorm on our home course, at the county club out west of town.  

Chris and I are on the far right top row.

Throughout our season we ran on different courses throughout Northern Michigan; from turkey farms, to downhill-ski resorts and state forests.  That was the only year I ran cross country, as I started marching in the band the following fall.

            It was within the next year or so that I began occasionally running the five miles to our newly established farm after school, as well as starting the tradition of running our own town’s road race.  It was the climax to Gaylord’s week-long celebration called Alpenfest. 

Sister Becky with the H2O

Some might argue that the climax to the festival was the parade, but I did both of them, and although I really enjoyed each event, I loved the preparation for the race.  It was 7.5 miles long at that time; on a hellacious course that was out in the open with big, long hills.  It was run the 3^rd Saturday of July.  Even in Northern Michigan, it was often unbearably hot.  Looking back in my sketchy running journals of the time, I actually trained well for that race over the years as I did intermediate runs throughout the week and a long run on the weekends.  Somehow I’d figured that out.  Many times I ran it with my friend Jim, once or twice with my Dad, and several times with my boss at the local IGA store, Pat Heath.  Mr. Heath was a good runner, competitive, but helpful in the way that he offered good advice on training.  I knew I had run a good race if I was close to him or his older son Mike.  

In '84 (following HS graduation) with Mr. Heath
After the Alpenfest Race.

        Later during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college, while at home working at the IGA store, I went with the Heath family down to Flint, Michigan to run the 10 Mile Bobby Crim Race.  It was my first long run beyond the Clark Lake or Alpenfest Run distances.  The event had a lot of runners, I finished strong, and the crowds lining the cobblestone streets created a huge rush.  

While home from college those two summers, I also competed solo in the local and well known Mark Mellon Triathlon, as well as in the “Run through Hell” (in Hell, Michigan) with my Dad and Aunt Cherie.  That race obviously had a cool T-shirt.  Printed across the back was the phrase, "I Ran Through Hell."  And I did!

            While attending college, my roommate Tim Johnson and I began running together.  We trained in neighborhoods around the school and at one point, along with several other guys from our suite, kept track of our times and tried to beat our record for that course every time we ran.  It worked and we got faster; until the point that we “bonked”.  It was then that I learned the importance of scheduling rest days to allow your body the time to recuperate. 

            I continued running after marrying right out of college and moving to Rockford, Illinois.  Usually I’d begin running in the early spring, and build up to run summer and fall races.  I added the local Rockford 4^th of July race to my traditional two races back in Michigan.  Tim and I also continued getting together to

run; often competing in duathlons as well as road races.  The Cherry Valley Duathlon (run-bike-run) was a favorite since it was nearby.  Sometimes we competed as a team, and sometimes as individuals; although my fat-tired mountain bike made that endeavor a bit more difficult.  My fastest running times during those early 90’s came at the old Beloit Fall Classic 10K (where I ran in 38:51 at a 6:16 pace) and the Rockford Jingle Bell Run 5K (where I ran in 19:15 at a 6:12 pace).

            In 1992, while in the middle of my 3^rd year of teaching, I got to know our D.A.R.E. officer at school.  Deputy Rick Sager was into long distance races; races called marathons (26.2 miles).  Somehow he talked me into running one that June up in Duluth, Minnesota.  How could I say no to someone who said I could easily do it?  How could I say no to running a marathon along Lake Superior’s northern coast?  

Rick Finishing Grandma's Marathon in '93

Cindy & I after my 1st Marathon in '92.

Now, 25 years later, with a lifetime of ups and downs throughout it all, the passion continues.  It’s a passion that encompasses people, and training, and courses, and trails, and races.  That, however, is a story for another time.  Stay tuned…

            See you along The Way…

Bogged Down

     It was our 8th year heading to this "Up North", Michigan destination.  Of course what requires many hours of driving to get to now, used to only be a step out the back door growing up.  My sisters and I were raised there, playing in the rivers and lakes of Northern Lower Michigan. Driving the two track roads of the nearby state forest with my parents often led to out of the way places where adventures started.  I love my sisters, but the cousins from my Dad's side of the family are the closest thing I have to brothers.  Friends from high school, friends from college, or guys I teach, run, or hang out with are all connections I have related to in one way or another over the years; great guys and great relationships that could easily start up again from where we left off - no matter how much time has gone by.  I have grown up with my cousins, however, and since we were young kids we have always gone "all out" when we've gotten together.  Along with my sisters, we would race along the lake shore where they and my Grandma lived.  We'd ice skate, sled, ski, swim, run, bike, throw apples in the orchard, shoot old bottles with BB guns or wrist-rocket sling shots, play with the animals in the barn, fish, sail and a host of other adventures when we gathered together.  A good visit was an exhausting visit, whether we came south to the lake or they came north to the farm and woods; either way it was the best of both worlds.
     The "Twins", Brad and Brian, were the cousins we hung out with when we were younger, but in my mid teens Chad and Sean were born and joined the ranks. 

The Seven Cousins - 1982

My Dad's side of the family was small; just he and his sister Cherie and their Mom; my Grandma.  Now, two generations since, we've exploded in numbers.  The cousins number seven between my sisters Becky and Karen, myself, and then the four boys.  By the time you add the spouses, the sixteen kids, and then the dogs - it's become quite a crew when we get together every few years.  Traditionally my own immediate family has been able to carry on with our visits to the lake each winter and summer, only occasionally missing out when life's schedules get in the way.  In addition to that is this trip "Up North".  It involves Brad, Brian, Sean and I at this point; four guys for five days.  It's a lot of fun.  It's a lot of work.
     Yes!  It's finally here.  I do what I do all year...slowly wearing down until I get back here...  Here is where I rejuvenate and recharge.  Like scales from a blind man's eyes, the to-do lists and pressures fall away and leave vision. (From my 2014 journal)
     To describe what we do wouldn't make much sense to most people.  When the five days are complete, we're pretty much exhausted, but ironically refreshed at the same time.  It starts with the planning, and then the packing, before our energies turn towards the drive Up North. 

Once we arrive back in my boyhood town, we do a majority of the grocery shopping at our favorite little "Save a Lot" grocery store owned by a high school friend and his brothers.  Usually our trip also involves a quick stop at "Jay's Sporting Goods" for fishing spinners and any other last minute, outdoor necessity; as well as "Glen's Market" for real maple syrup and Bush's Baked Beans. 

These are the details that you may or may not be interested in.
     I'd love to describe what we do and how we do it from there on out; like how we drive the gravel and two-track roads to where we set up camp.  Once that's complete it's all about the cooking, cleaning, wading while fishing, hiking, running the trails, and swimming to cool off and bathe.  I want to write on those things but quite simply I get bogged down in trying to even start.  It's been a week since we returned and yet this is all I've managed to crank out and write into my journal.
     The way this entry started, and how it's ending, may remind you of some junior high kid.  The kind of kid who has to write a 500 word essay; realizes that he's suddenly at 475 and then scraps his creative ideas and wraps it all up in two run-on sentences.  It was not my intention to mimic such an endeavor.  Partially because I've struggled, at least at this point, to put everything we do into words; partially because I think it would be better to break the whole into parts that could be written about throughout the year until we meet again; partially because some of it must remain secret.  Not secrets that remain unmentionable and hidden in silence to anyone outside of our family, although that's some of it.  It's more of a secret to protect revealing too much about what's behind our giddiness from exhaustion.  How do you explain what we do? Who would understand?  You can try in generalities without revelation I suppose.
     Take Sunday, July 19th for example.  It was Sean's birthday.  We started early.  After 5 1/2 to 6 hours of sleep (our average) we were up and getting at it.  I mention this not to be heroic, it's just what we do...and what the sun, red squirrels, chipmunks and birds allow.  Brad made coffee for himself and his brothers on a cool little "Emberlit Camp Stove" that you feed little sticks into as fuel for a flame.  With waders and vests on, and a pole in hand, we headed out on a trail that rides the river downstream so we could fish back.  It's about a 3 mile hike in to a place that seems almost sacred. 

The Twins & I - Pushing Water

In addition to our regular gear, Sean was hauling eggs, sausage, cheese and potatoes (all prepared and ready to go) in a backpack.  I also had a backpack on that was filled with plates, frying pans, utensils and my flint and steel to make a fire.  Each of us carried our own fresh water from our base camp's artesian spring. 

Once we found an ideal site under a canopy of large white cedars, the rest of the crew hiked down and fished up to me.  In the meantime, I had collected wood, started a fire, and began cooking breakfast.  I've dreamed about doing this for the last couple of years and it finally came into fruition.  I was able to cook like I do all winter and combine it with trout fishing with the brothers of cousins.  Cooking out and fishing are some of my favorite things to do.

      Once fed, we fished.  But to say we fished sounds easy and slightly boring.  We don't keep track of time much when we're in the bush, but as near as we can figure we were "out there" for at least 9 hours.  I run marathons.  I love running and doing strenuous activity over long periods of time.  I enjoy the feeling you get from that and then having nothing left afterwards.  When we returned that afternoon, however, I had moved beyond that frame of reference. 

Talk about being bogged down!  While fishing the river that day and even reflecting back a day later, I was elated.  There were some moments though, I must admit, that were touch and go that last hour or so as we were hiking back.  Not just for me; for all of us.  It was a warm day, our energy was depleted, and camp was still a ways away when we broke down our poles and started trudging back.  I say trudging because we still had on our waders and boots.  This is one of the reasons why our waders only last a few years. 

Sean, Brad & I - Resting in the River

When the top section of Brian's pole came up missing, I think it was Sean who voiced, "If it was me, I'd want someone to help."  We back-tracked as best we could; and retraced our trail through the goldenrod, bee balm, and bracken fern.  It was, unfortunately, to no avail; and so it was in this condition that we collapsed back into camp.  The good thing was that it was only in the afternoon; and in the far North, on the far western edge of the Eastern Time Zone, that means it would be light for quite some time yet.  I sat for a while before I could muster the energy necessary to reach down and take my boots off.  Brad and Brian jumped in a vehicle to run to a nearby store for fresh ice we needed for our coolers and to get a new pole.  I fell asleep face down for about a half hour, woke slightly discombobulated, but regained my wits enough to start a fire and begin preparing food with Sean before the boys rejoined us.  We jumped into the refreshingly cold river behind our camp to rinse off and revive the body.  For supper that evening we made tinfoil dinners.  I've made these a lot over the years with family and friends, but I think that evening was perhaps one of the best.  Inside the double wrapped foil we had added potatoes, sausage, onions, sauerkraut, mushrooms and zucchini.  Writing about it makes my mouth drool.  Our emotions warranted flashbacks of Bill Murray eating at his psychiatrist's house in the movie, What About Bob?  To top it off, we had a little strawberry cheesecake the Twins had picked up for Sean's birthday while they were in town.  It was heavenly.  It was what we needed.  Isn't it amazing how good food can taste when you've been outside all day and you're tired?  That meal was great regardless!

     As darkness fell, we lit our Coleman Lantern that hung from the branch of a nearby white pine.  We still had to clean up and repack things in our vehicles before going to bed.  The following day was going to be another big day, in another favorite spot; high on a ridge overlooking another snaking river.  Were we exhausted?  Yes indeed; but we've been doing this type of thing, as a pack of cousins, since we were old enough to run around.  Reflecting back on this year's trip and the past 8 years, it's rather mind boggling to think of the time honored tradition of running ourselves ragged until we're simply bogged down with permanent grins etched on our faces.
     See you along The Way...