Interlude: Springtime 2011

Springtime is the more enchanting when emerging from a long and severe winter.

 

Looking Back:

Sean's Run - 5K - Chatham, New York; May 1st, 2011.

Srun2010

Sean's Run, 2011 is the 10th annual celebration of a promising 17 year old man's life, cut short by a drunk driver motor vehicle accident. The mood is intentionally festive with music, balloons, banners and loudspeakers.  I was won over to this event last year by the cause, location, festivities, and a good (for me) 2010 performance, and returned with my wife, a closet power walker. I prepared for the race following my 5 Kelly's 5k run of two weeks earlier, by working 10 hour days in a dark cubicle facing 6 computer monitors, reading a myriad of X-rays, CTs and MRI scans.  My wife and I had a pre-race gourmet dinner at the beautiful home of friends where we allowed ourselves to be over-indulged by our generous hostess and host.  We earned our morning headaches, but have wonderful lasting memories of the evening.

 

May 1st has historic significance for various people throughout the world.  International Workers' day, with celebrations of workers and anarchists; the ancient Roman festival of Flora; Walpurgis Night celebrations in the Harz mountains; the Gaelic Bealtaine, a celebration of optimism, purification and transition; May Day with dancing around the Maypole and crowning of the Queen of the May; the celebration of the Virgin Mary, who is crowned with flowers; and not least, my baby sister was born on this day a few years ago (Happy Birthday Sis!).

 

Anarchist

This year's Sean's Run, May 1, 2011, was a perfect spring day; warm and sunny; spring flowers in bloom, trees in bud and birds in song -- note to self -- it's hard to appreciate the birds and sunshine when you have a headache.  Despite our misery, we didn't want to seem bad sports, so we suited up and drove the 40 minutes to Chatham.  Over 1,000 other participants also turned out, they seemed well rested, smiley faced and sans headache; not to mention young, fit and friendly - formidable competition for the aging Running Man in his come-back to running mediocrity.

Although there were serious runners in this event, I didn't spot a single foot glove.  Thankfully, little spandex was to be seen, at least in my field of view.  My headache and general malaise lifted with the excitement of the position jockeying at the start of the race. The weather and the mood of the crowd elevated us all, as I have no other explanation for bettering my time from the 5 Kelly's 5K run by a minute, finishing in the top 1/3 of the field at 28:40. My wife, also losing her frown and headache, broke into a smiling run at the finish, shattered her personal best 5k time of 41:53, beating over 100 other contenders.

 

Looking Forward:

The 137th Kentucky Derby - Louisville, Kentucky; May 7th, 2011.

Kderby

My wife and I were honored to be invited by old (not elderly) friends to be their guests for the Derby weekend. We look forward to Louisville in springtime. My only other two visits to Louisville were in the winters of 1981 and 1996 to subject myself to grueling oral board examinations in the medical specialty of Radiology and subspecialty of Neuroradiology. I am anticipating a considerably more pleasant time on this trip. The weather prediction is for rain but our dispositions are sunny. 

I take no responsibility for anyone reading this and betting on the race, but, I have done some research including review of a number of trial races on U-tube and have formulated a Rube-Goldberg type race theory on the following premises: 

1) No recent favorite has put out a good effort. 

2) The race is long, so I want a good finisher. 

3) I enjoy watching beer commercials, have personally tasted beer and have traveled to Mexico.

(download)

Therefore, my predictions for the winner of the 2011 Kentucky Derby comes from this trio of horses:

Nehro, Stay Thirsty my Friends, and Brilliant Speed.

Please watch the antecedent video for a hint as to where my money will be bet.

Running Man on the rebound: My experience in the Spring 2011 "5 Kelly's 5K" run for the benefit of the leukemia lymphoma Society.

Background:

"... Tis best in word or deed - To shun unholy pride;
Great words of boasting bring great punishments;
And so to gray-haired age - comes wisdom at the last."

    (The Chorus ending of "Antigone" by Sophocles)


A decade ago, I began running 5K races once a year with my children and their friends on New Year's Eve as a family gathering activity.  I prided myself in being able to run, without training, finishing somewhere in the middle of the pack of my children and their friends. As I progressed through my 50s, male menopause and the effects of dining as entertainment took its toll.  It became more difficult to run on a once a year schedule, with the final straw coming in the winter of 2009, when despite a full week of training, I became the laughing stock of our family (I know they were laughing, but I couldn't catch them at it) when I was not able to complete the 5K New Year's race without a short walking break.

This prompted a 2010 New Year Resolution to become a "Running Man", to regain my rightful place as the Beta Male among my family and friends.  I found a "Couch to 5k" Podcast program and targeted a formal race for April in nearby Chatham, NY (Sean's Run 5k).  I set my goal on finishing without walking or anyone laughing at me, hopefully in a time of under 30 minutes (a C+ type accomplishment).  I put in 10 to 12 weeks of running two times a week on the treadmill in my basement.  When the weather broke in March I was able to take a few training runs out of doors.

When the big day came I found myself several pounds lighter and several minutes faster than I had expected.  Could I have discovered the secret that, even without steroids, training and weight loss allows you to run faster?  No matter, I was on my way back to being a family contender.  My hopes were elevated for the New Year's race.  Maybe I could even beat the little brats this year.  All I had to do was to avoid that insidious slip backward into my usual bad habits, such as working and socializing with my friends.

But the fates must have their fun. On a wonderful summer trip to Arizona with good friends, and despite repeated New Age spa purification rituals, I was infected by a desert fungus, which knocked me out of commission for several months.  I wasn't well enough even by the winter to participate in the 2010 New Year's run.  With supportive family, friends and doctors, I found that each month left me stronger than the month before.  Although I had not quite fully recovered, I vowed to re-establish my running mediocrity.  I dusted off the "Couch to 5k" Podcast and found a suitable target race for the spring of 2011, the "5 Kelly's 5K" run for the benefit of the leukemia and lymphoma Society, a timely race, a worthy cause, and a location that was close to my home.

Race Day:

This is the reportage of the event.  Names are omitted to protect the guilty.

Sunday, April 17th, 2011:

I woke up to an absolutely miserable morning. The sky was an opalescent dark gray, the kind familiar to Upstate New Yorkers.  It was cold, windy and damp from the previous evening's steady rain.  I thought about blowing off the run, no harm to the event, because I'd already paid to preregister.  My curiosity of how my body would perform in a real organized run got the better of me.  I had a light breakfast and put on some foul weather running gear and my running shoes and made my way to the event at the Town of Colonie Crossings Park, ahead of the 10 AM starting time.

In the park I found the main registration area. The attendance was poor, maybe 150 runners.  Usually the local 5K runs have maxed out their registrations with over 1,000 runners. I suspect that the region has become saturated with so many events that people may be tiring of them or moving on to bigger and better runs.  No matter, 150 running comrades was okay by me.  I joined the pre-race huddle of competitors who were observing their rituals; stretching, bouncing up and down, blowing on their hands to stave off the coldness and nervously chattering to their neighbors.

Sizing up the competition has become my favorite pre-race activity.  There is a great variety of ages, body types, running attire and paraphernalia to be observed in both genders.  I divide the runners into three general categories:

1) The "Ath-Elites" - There were only a few in this group today. These are the god-like lean and muscled men and women in their 20s or 30s with legs of steel.  To them the run is a serious activity.  They warm up for the 5k by running 10k.  They run as if it's their job.  They don't talk to us mortals and tend to stare off toward Olympus.  They are decked out in trendy, body sculpted "dry fit" attire and sport the latest apparel such as the "foot glove".  These are the people who actually try to win.  I will only see them as they pass me on the return leg of the race.  I once knew such an "Ath-Elite", but he moved to North Carolina.

2) The "Family and Friends" - These are fathers and mothers in their 30s and 40s with their children, single women in pairs of all ages (not past 50) and mixed gender pairs who are dating or want to be dating.  This is the social group.  They talk to everyone, they line up to scarf the pre and post race snacks and they prize the event T-shirts and other freebie event Chotchkies.  They come in all shapes and sizes, wear varied sports attire and often expensive running shoes.  The younger members wear i-devices with earbuds to listen to tunes before, during and after the race.  Some of these runners are surprisingly fast.

3) The "Born-Again Runners" -  In this group are those who are attempting to hold back the sands of time, battle unwanted body shape demons, or are trying to regain something they may never have had in the first place. They are generally middle aged with the occasional senior citizen.  They are fairly social and like to chat.  Hydration is a religious rite to them despite frequent urinary complaints.  They tend to be a decade out of style, like to wear baseball caps, and the women are partial to spandex.  Their running pace is metronomic.  If you tire they will mow you down.  Their Achilles' heel is the lack of a finishing kick.  Stay close to one near the finish and you should overtake them.  Beware!  They won't like you.

Vibram-five-fingers

The prep time is ended and we are herded into the starting area. Because of the relatively low numbers of participants, it isn't very crowded, I am standing somewhere in the middle of the pack - I'm a middle of the pack type of guy, particularly in the running events.  After a few moments we are urged to crowd forward to the starter.  A hand signal is given and the run begins. There is a pace bicycle ahead of the group to show the way through the winding paved paths of the Town of Colonie Crossings Park. This is not an issue to me as I am not going to be in the lead at any time during the race. My task is to follow the fanny in front of me.

Phase I of the run is jockeying for position. In this stage the goal is to find my place and pace.  At the beginning I am wedged in between a number of Family and Friends types; a father with his son and several women with their friends. There is the typical slow initial mass push forward, but because of the limited entrants, the field spreads out rather quickly and I attach to a man and his son who seem to be at my desired pace.  After 100 yards or so I realize they are slightly faster than I am comfortable with, and I drop back behind two Born-Again Runner women replete with spandex and baseball caps.

Phase II is the initial exuberance where nothing hurts, the novelty of the event and fun of being a participant carries me along at a slightly more rapid pace than I would run, left to my own internal clock.  This lasts about 10 minutes or so.  At that point I was in my position -- I had not passed and no one had passed me in several minutes. Fatigue and a little bit of leg burn starts to come into play.  I've worked up a light sweat so I take off my headband and gloves, stuffing them into my windbreaker.  While I am fumbling in my pockets, a small, short haired, capless woman who looks a little like a bag lady passes me.  I watch her ungainly stride and I can't believe how slowly she is moving her legs. Worse, I am obviously going even slower. I quicken my pace a touch but I can't keep up with her. My effort brings me into position behind a new couple of unattractive spandexed middle aged female fannies. I fall in behind them at their pace with a bit of an effort.

Phase III finds me trying to keep up with the spandex in front and behind me.  I don't wish to look back for fear my pursuers will get a mental lift, thinking I'm worried about them passing me.  The occasional trail double backs allow me to scope out my position.  I am maintaining.  I'm fatigued, bored and can't ignore the mild but constant leg muscle burn.  I am not winded however, and I know from training that I can maintain this pace. I try the mental Zenzercises of - no focus - out of body transfer - being the birds and trees - absorbing the wind and the cold... I'm not, never have been, and never will be that kind of guy.  I accept the leg burn, fatigue and boredom and am content to argue with my personal demon who is telling me to "stop just for a little while"... "rest"... "walk just for a little while".

I find a mental respite by watching two of the runners ahead who have developed a cheating routine. Among the doubling back of the trails, one of the runners shortcuts the trail and waits until their friend catches up -- who then takes their turn at the next shortcut across the trail, alternatively resting and shortcutting the course.  I hope they win a pair of running shorts two sizes too small.  The diversion has been useful and has taken me past my mental barrier.  I see a marker sign saying we have run two miles. I internally groan -- another 1.1 miles to go. On the bright side, I have maintained my place among the spandex, maintaining my own metronomic pace, and I have no more burn or fatigue than 10 minutes earlier. As I begin to hit another mental wall, I catch a glimpse of the final portion of the course and the finish area.

Phase IV is seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.  This is a good two thirds of a mile away, but the ancient wisdom "Respice finem" (look to the end) is effective.  The visualization gives me my second wind and I begin to unconsciously Zenzercise -- I guess that's the point, although I am still not that kind of guy.  I eat non organic red meat.  Oh but the birds... the breeze... the SPANDEX?  After a number of more minutes, I realize that my pace has picked up and I have a chance of catching those in front of me, but they seem to also have picked up their pace.  Spandexers aren't supposed to do that!  

Phase V is the final quarter mile, the chance for glory!  Out of no-where a fully adorned Ath-Elite, foot gloves and all, breezes past me like a gazelle.  Is this a runner who was already finished and is lapping me on a cool-down 5k?  More likely this is a Family and Friends / Ath-Elite hybrid who started out with a slower friend runner until he could no longer stand the thought of people like me beating him.  I gaze in admiration -- he is a sight to behold and continues a full quarter mile sprint pace to the finish. Then, while I am distracted, two younger Family and Friends women also pass me. One of the women, a redhead with a pony-tail in dry fits, turns around and laughs.

The real competition is now on. I quicken my pace, they quicken theirs. We pass the two spandexers in front. Unexpectedly, the friend of the pony-tailed woman tires and holds up -- the redhead is obligated to slow her pace, allowing me to pass them both in the final 100 yards.  The times are announced as we pass the finish line, I was in queue to get my card with my place of finish, and the pony-tailed redhead tries to cut ahead in line but is quickly chastised back into her place by one of the event officials. She could've taken a shortcut on one of the double backs. I wouldn't have told.  Perhaps she did.

My time is better than I had hoped, breaking my own optimistic goal at 29:47 with the perverse joy of frustrating a couple of young women who couldn't pull off an upset, not to mention passing a few spandexers.  There is the satisfaction of achievement, standing around among those who have finished the race, complementary water bottles in hand. Friendly smiles, boastful banter and rosy cheeks. I avoid the majority of the post-race snacking foods but can't resist a mini-muffin and home-made oatmeal cookie which I snarf on my way back to my car.  I was a contender among the Born-Again Runners and Family and Friends, particularly in the over 50 crowd. I don't care about the Ath-Elites.  I am a bit uncomfortable that I saw no one older than myself in the race.  Watch out my children -- New Year's 2012 isn't that far away!

Experience: Hitch-Hiker's Odyssey: Part III - "What? Me Worry?"

“… on the one hand lay Scylla, and on the other mighty Charybdis in terrible wise sucked down the salt sea water… and pale fear gat hold on my men. Toward her, then, we looked fearing destruction; but Scylla meanwhile caught from out my hollow ship six of my company… writhing were they borne upward to the cliff. And there she devoured them shrieking in her gates, they stretching forth their hands to me in the dread death-struggle. And the most pitiful thing was this that mine eyes have seen of all my travail in searching out the paths of the sea."

 

Narration of Odysseus

"The Odyssey" by Homer (translation of S.H. Butcher and A. Lang)

(download)

 

On December 27th, 1971, as 20-year-old University students, my friend "L" and I possessed that perfect storm of arrogance, inexperience and desire for adventure necessary to attempt a midwinter, 6,000 mile cross-country hitch-hiking road trip from Syracuse, NY; bound for anywhere in California where we could touch the Pacific Ocean; and then back to Buffalo in time to resume classes.

 

These are the tableaux from that event, with the facts (as accurate as I can recall) softened by the passage of nearly 40 years.  The experience blog is broken into 3 installments to entice readership.  This is the conclusion.

 

Part III of III - "What!  Me worry?"    

 

Day 6:  1/3/1972:  San Francisco, California to Reno, Nevada – 225 miles

 “Into the Donner Pass”

(download)

We realized it was time to leave California and set out for home by the Northern route.  The charm of Los Angeles and San Francisco quickly vanished as faceless rides brought us into central California in winter; a gray-brown scrubland scarred by endless highways.  We became victims of the Monday highway traffic, taking most of the day to get to Sacramento.  We were bored, I had a sore throat, and “L” was whining about living on peanut butter and cigarettes (but at only $0.35 a pack!)  Another hour in the cold did nothing to improve our mood.  To add to our misery, a young woman hitch-hiker, just emerging behind us in the twilight, was instantly scooped up for a ride.  While we were complaining of the injustice, a man driving a green Porsche pulled over.  He saw the whole episode and confessed he was also planning to pick up the girl, but since he missed his chance, his conscience got the better of him and he stopped for us.


We were skeptical that we could all fit in the sports-car with our gear.  The two seat, mid-engine 914 had both front and rear storage and our duffles fit neatly beneath the front bonnet.  I was wedged between the seats, side saddling the shift-stick, and “L” got the shotgun position.  The 40-ish driver seemed decent enough.  He claimed to be the education commissioner of California. He was driving up to Squaw Valley for a few days of skiing.  He offered us a pack of his “Lucky Strikes”, which we greedily chain smoked while chatting about everything but education.  I remarked that the 2nd or 3rd “Lucky” had soothed my sore throat.  We wound steadily upward in the dark through the mountains as growing piles of snow appeared along the roadside.


We came to the I 80 exit for Squaw Valley, somewhere around Truckee, the Donner Pass region, and we un-wedged ourselves from the warm interior, got our duffles and watched silently as the Porsche disappeared into black stillness.  We looked around but couldn’t see beyond the ten foot snow banks on both sides of the frozen asphalt trough that was our lifeline.  A few minutes passed.  Not to worry, surely there would be someone going from the Ski resorts to Reno that would give us a ride.  An hour, then two; the few cars that passed never slowed to look us over, much less stop.  We began to nervously speculate.  Perhaps drivers were frightened by our appearance in the night.  We had heard road stories of ghost hitch-hikers.  I joked that maybe we appeared to be members of the Donner Party… some 80 plus pioneers stranded in the winter of 1846 - 1847 in 20 foot snowdrifts… at just about the location where we were standing… only half of the group survived… there were claims of cannibalism…”L” wasn’t laughing.

 

We were numb but not too dumb to run to the car that pulled over for us.  It was driven by a tall, dark severe looking young man with a blonde girlfriend.  She looked like a showgirl.  They claimed to be University of Nevada, Reno, students coming back from skiing.  They chided us on crossing the Donner Pass at night, telling us that “you had been lucky to get a ride… we don’t usually pick up hitch-hikers… hadn’t you heard the rumors of cult groups along the Donner pass welcoming hitch-hikers, then murdering and eating them?... didn’t you hear of Charles Manson and his gang out there in New York?”   They were enjoying themselves, a laugh a minute.  We let them have their fun.  After a short, warm trip downhill to Reno we cautiously accepted the offer to stay over in the driver’s dorm-room.  He stayed elsewhere.  His room had no cult artifacts, but I recall it did have a zebra skin rug, which I slept on. (I understand they have now come back into style.)

 


Day 7:  1/4/1972:  Reno, Nevada to Salt Lake City, Utah – 525 miles

“What is the Mustang Ranch?”

 

(download)

Our first ride out of Reno was with a boisterous group of men, loudly dressed casino workers in their 30’s and 40’s, who were heading to a place called the “Mustang Ranch”.  After they had a few laughs on us -- we had never heard of the Mustang Ranch – really -- they informed us that it was a “whorehouse” located about 10 miles east of Reno, and had been legalized by the Storey county authorities just the year before.  Our ride was short, we didn’t ask and they didn’t offer.  They left us off at the well advertised I 80 exit that leads to the “ranch” access road.  Coming from that exit we had no trouble getting our next ride with a trucker, passing through, who wanted to hear all about our visit to the Mustang Ranch.  He looked at us with contempt when we told him we never caught a glimpse of the place or the girls.  He wasn’t that interested in New York or college stuff. (A version of the ranch is reportedly still thriving.)

 

Continuing east on I 80, we soaked in the windswept high desert and mountain atmosphere of Northern Nevada.  The air was crisp and easy to breath.  We caught scattered rides with locals and truckers.  One local was a cowboy type; lean and coarse; dirty jeans, dusty boots and filthy shirt; heading from Winnemucca to Elko because he had “run out of ‘Coors’, and when you run out of ‘Coors’, there’s only one thing you can do – go get more ‘Coors”.  124 miles seemed like a long way to go for beer, at least to “L” and myself, but we didn’t argue.  We obliged our new cowboy friend when he asked that we join him in finishing off his last six-pack of pale yellow cans with the roaring stream on the label.

There were more faceless rides through the stark beauty of eastern Nevada.  My next memory is rocketing over the string straight section of I 80 across the Salt Flats of western Utah in a 1965 Impala.  The driver was a newly-wed who expertly drove well in excess of 100 mph, with one arm around his wife, who was nuzzling him from her position in the middle front bench.  They had just been married in Reno and were coming back to Salt Lake to see her parents.  “L” and I, gazing in all directions from the rear seat, were mesmerized by the distant mountain landscapes, endless salt desert and the immense Great Salt Lake.  The scenery is not less stark in the summer.


Salt Lake City was an urban oasis.  We ended up downtown and got a ride in a VW beetle with a cheerful, stunning, blonde girl of about 20, a sophomore at Brigham Young University, who was in town doing genealogy research during the winter break.  She took us over to BYU and showed us around the campus.  She knew about central and western New York.  The Mormons had started there in the early 1800’s and still have an annual summer religious pageant near Palmyra.  She turned us over to some of her fawning male admirers.  She instructed them to allow us to stay with them in their dorm overnight.  They obeyed.  The Mormon guy students turned out to be a friendly bunch and were very nice to us.  They took us to check out the University ride board and we found someone heading to Chicago the next day.  One local phone call and we were set for the next 1400 miles.  Despite the religious atmosphere, we felt a little impure on our pilgrimage; an arranged ride didn’t really qualify as hitch-hiking.

 


Day 8: 1/5/1972: Salt Lake City, Utah to Chicago, Illinois – 1400 miles

"The End of the Road"

(download)

The ride-board ride on I 80, across the northern plains and prairie, with a quiet, polite Mormon grad student, left me with few memories.  We shared the gas costs and the driving and rolled into Chicago early on   Thursday morning, January 6th.  “L” and I had had enough of the road and asked our ride to take us to the O’Hare airport. 

 

 

Day 9: 1/6/1972:  Chicago, Illinois to Buffalo, New York – 500 miles

"Back to the future"

(download)

We felt a little sinful, spending our last $25 on standby flights to Buffalo, but we had already compromised ourselves with the ride from Salt Lake.  We learned that predictability alters your perception of time and travel -- less excitement -- but we had had enough unpredictability for a while.  We also were veterans of patience, it didn’t matter to us how long it would take to get a flight, lounging in a warm, dry airport, but it turned out to be not long.


When we arrived in Buffalo, I called my room-mate for a ride to the UB campus.  Except for the call to set up our ride in Salt Lake City, it was the only phone call I had made during the entire trip.  I called my family when I got back to my apartment.  My mother said she was glad I had a nice time.  She had plenty of other concerns with 4 of her 6 children still at home; ages 15, 14, 13 and 5; girl, girl, boy and girl.


We had hitch-hiked by car, truck and school bus 4,600 miles in 7 days, endured a 20 hour, 1,400 mile brokered car ride, and paid to be flown 500 miles in 2 hours, for a total of 6,500 miles in 8 days.  We had crossed the continent to touch the Pacific Ocean.  We had passed through 17 states and part of Canada.  We had been bored, amazed, embarrassed, entertained, frightened and awed.  We were well treated by our countrymen.  We had experienced much of the good that the United States has to offer.

 

 In the words of Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 From his

 “Ulysses”


 “I am a part of all that I have met;

 Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

 Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades

 For ever and for ever when I move.”

...

 “Come, my friends,

 ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.”

...

 “We are not now that strength which in old days

 Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

 One equal temper of heroic hearts,

 Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” 

 

Experience: Hitch-Hiker's Odyssey: Part II - "The Promised Land"

 

“‘Approach! thy soul shall into raptures rise!

  Approach! and learn new wisdom from the wise!"


(From the Sirens song to Odysseus)

Book XII, The Odyssey (Homer - translation of Alexander Pope)

A_01_ulysses_and_the_sirens

 

On December 27th, 1971, as 20-year-old University students, my friend "L" and I possessed that perfect storm of arrogance, inexperience and desire for adventure necessary to attempt a midwinter, 6,000 mile cross-country hitch-hiking road trip from Syracuse, NY; bound for anywhere in California where we could touch the Pacific Ocean; and then back to Buffalo in time to resume classes.

These are the tableaux from that event, with the facts (as accurate as I can recall) softened by the passage of nearly 40 years.  The experience blog is broken into 3 installments to entice readership.

 Part II of III; "The Promised Land"

     (Written in San Francisco; January, 2011)

Day 4:  12/30/1971; Flagstaff, Arizona to Los Angeles, California - 475 miles.

(download)

"All roads lead to L.A."

"Get your kicks on Route 66!  You rednecked A__-hole!", jeered "L" as yet another truck barreled by our cold, bleak hitch-hiking station.  Ultimately, it was to be an authentic red-necked trucker who transported us through the scrub, rock, desert and small towns along the Route 66/40 highway system of western Arizona - crossing into California at the town of Needles.  The trucker informed us that he didn't usually stop for "long-haired hippies", but we had looked cold.  We thanked him for the ride.

From Needles, all rides West were leading to L.A.  We tolerated the next long desolate stretch of scrub and desert through to Barstow.  As we finally descended along the growing rivers of asphalt dissecting the suburban sprawl outside of Los Angeles, we were entranced.  Our widened eyes could only see dazzling sunshine, palm trees and blossoming flowers.

My first memory of L.A. (Is Hollywood a part of L.A.?) was the grinning face of "L" -- filthy blonde curls flying -- running toward me on Hollywood Boulevard -- pushing a "borrowed" shopping cart.  We were in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater.  I tossed my duffle into the cart and we wandered Hollywood.  Amidst winter flowers and greenery, we occupied ourselves in the study of lifeless cement bodypart impressions of such celebrities as Charleton Heston and Marilyn Monroe.  We ignored the palmtrees to inspect the Hollywood sign in the hills and kept off the grass as we strode Sunset Boulevard at sunset.

Sunset Boulevard was seedy, but we fit in well enough with our shopping cart, and after a while we got a ride with a clean-cut young man -- 35ish.  I don't recall his name, but in retrospect, he was a Ted Bundy look alike.  "Ted" claimed he picked us up thinking we might be Rockstars.  We could go to his place... he knew some "girls"...  This sounded agreeable, so we ended up going with him to his Westwood apartment.  Ted made some phone-calls, but the "girls" never materialized.  We figured that they doubted we were Rockstars, but in hindsight perhaps they thought "Ted" smacked a little of a serial murderer.  We didn't care -- we could smell the Pacific!


Day 5:  12/31/1971;  Westwood to Venice Beach to East LA to Pasadena, California - 30 miles

(download)

"The Pacific"

We slept well at "Ted's" place and showered for the first time (on our trip).  We let ourselves out ("Ted" had to go in to work early at UCLA -- we could stay as long as we liked) and then we headed over to Venice Beach to see and touch the Pacific Ocean, completing our pilgrimage.  On contact with the water of the Pacific, “L” sank to his knees on the shoreline, arms outstretched, face to the Western horizon. I would like to claim a similar deep emotional moment, but I only remember thinking that I preferred the beaches of the Atlantic.

Venice beach was a funky people zoo.  We loitered and wandered the boardwalk, taking in the sights: the provocative women rollerskaters, the manly-men, the jugglers, art vendors and other various street characters.  It was cold by the ocean and although "L" was content, I was bored and anxious to move on.  With no plans where we were going next, we decided to explore more of California, on the premise it was better to linger where it was warm.

We meandered back into Hollywood -- nothing new there -- and then found our way into East L.A.  We didn't quite fit in with the locals.  We had a sidewalk discussion with some serious young men sporting berets over Afros who wanted to "Free Angela Davis".  As we were from New York, they tolerated our ignorance of Angela's plight and offered to take us with them to Pasadena to demonstrate. We took the ride in their van amidst an array of signage, but declined the demonstration part. They left us off on someone's front lawn saying it was OK to camp out there.  It was a warm still evening and there were numerous other people, citizen types, who already had sleeping bags spread out on the grass.

 

Day 6:  1/1/1972;  Passadena to Berkeley, California - 375 miles

(download)

“Waking to Roses”

Streaming sunshine filtered by treetops; shrill brass and rythmic drums; intense floral aromas -- disoriented, I rolled over in my sleeping bag towards the sounds and smells.  A few yards away, moving slowly down the palm-tree lined road was a locomotive sized structure entirely covered in white roses and adorned with beautiful gowned and crowned women who were waving to me.  This was followed by a group of sombreroed men in silver festooned Spanish costumes, riding sleek Palomino horses in formation.  We had unknowingly procured choice spots among a huge crowd of people on the main Rose Parade route.  More and varied floral floats; equestrian groups; marching bands and the Grand Marshall, Lawrence Welk, all passed our review. I am not a parade or Welk fan, but this was an amazing spectacle (thank you, Black Panthers).

After the parade ended we were literally engulfed by a swarm of humanity who swept us off with them to the Rose Bowl. We waited outside the stadium, listening to the ebb and flow of roaring noises inside.  Near the end of the first quarter we were able to beg two tickets from scalpers.  We joined the other 100,000-plus fans and cheered on the teams from our end zone seats.  It was an exciting game, even for a neutral party; Stanford upset Michigan on a last-minute field goal; 13 to 12.  We departed with the swarm and caught a ride to the freeway with a car full of Michigan students who were celebratory despite the outcome.

Our next ride was in a retired yellow school bus driven by a graying Professor (Sociology) wearing blue jeans and a tie-dyed T- shirt, shepherding a handful of self-proclaimed student activists.  They were heading back to Berkeley from a demonstration -- It was a kind of "field trip". They were less cheerful than the Michigan students but friendly to us.  We were amiable in return and willing to concede that "the people" should have power and that politicians seemed untrustworthy.  As an aside -- SUNY Buffalo had its student riots when we were Freshman.  (I can still remember the sting of tear gas.)  Like most students of the era, we had wondered what the 40 year old guys with beards and head bands were doing around our campuses (picking up girls?).  Although mostly apolitical, we hung around the ubiquitous "student" demonstrations largely because of curiosity.  To the point, we were experienced in how to socially interract with "activists" of all types.

After a long, unscenic trip north to Berkeley through the center of the state, we stayed overnight with them in the gracious Professor’s home – up steep hills from the bayside highway, through a jungle of greenery and the fragrant tingle of eucalyptus.  The stylish house had elegant Oriental decorations, and was by far the nicest place we were to stay in.  It was very late in the evening when we arrived.  Exhausted, I fell asleep on one of the Professor's plush carpets.  I hope it wasn't tied by tiny hands.

 

Day 7:  1/2/1972:  Berkeley to San Francisco, California – 20 miles

(download)

“Tourists for a day”

One of the student activists (I don't believe he was actually a student) was staying in San Francisco somewhere on or by Haight Street.  He took us into the city and let us stay at his place while we explored.  “L” and I considered ourselves somewhat experts on San Francisco, having just seen the movie “Dirty Harry” and were anxious to see the sights.  We ended up doing touristy stuff –- people watching on Haight and Ashbury -- "hanging out" in Buena Vista and Golden Gate Parks -- "hanging off" of cable cars on steep hills -- meandering around Fisherman’s Wharf. 

That night I fell asleep on a couch in the bay window of a blue Victorian walk-up, listening to a music system that occupied an entire wall of the room.  I was hypnotized watching the slowly turning reels of the large tape player in the near darkness.  Soft sounds came from the immense speakers.  It was Reginald Kenneth Dwight, (a.k.a. Elton John) singing “Tiny Dancer” (1971 bootleg copy?). 

     "Hold me closer, tiny dancer

      Count the headlights on the highway

      Lay me down in sheets of linen

      You had a busy day today"

On the floor near me I could see my friend “L” slipping away in reverie.  He had found his home.  (He eventually moved to and still lives in San Francisco.)


Next: Part III:  "What!  Me worry?"

Experience: A Hitch-hiker's Odyssey 1971-72

"Yea and the gods, in the likeness of strangers from far countries, put on all manner of shapes, and wander through the cities, beholding the violence and the righteousness of men."

 Anonymous suitor: Book XVII; The Odyssey - Homer

 

On December 27th, 1971, as 20-year-old University students, my friend "L" and I possessed that perfect storm of arrogance, inexperience and desire for adventure necessary to attempt a midwinter, 6,000 mile cross-country hitch-hiking road trip from Syracuse, NY; bound for anywhere in California where we could touch the Pacific Ocean; and then back to Buffalo in time for classes.  A two-week timeframe -- no problem; $100 a man -- plenty of money -- no place to stay -- so what!  In fact, I had never been west of Buffalo.

 

These are the tableaux from that event, with the facts (as accurate as I can recall) softened by the passage of nearly 40 years.  The experience blog is broken into 3 installments to entice readership.

 

Part I of III - "You can't go home again"

 

Day 1: 12/27/1971; Syracuse, New York to Windsor, Ontario - 350 miles

  

(download)


"California or Bust"

I looked with disgust at my "California or Bust" cardboard sign as I tossed it into the trash bin at the Syracuse Thruway tollbooth. It was freezing cold with that dismal twilight winter gloom unique to central New York. After several mind-numbing, unsuccessful hours of hitchhiking, we had yet to catch that all-important first ride. I glanced back at "L", He had the perfect look for the job -- right thumb extended, stringy long blonde hair, rumpled surplus army jacket, wool cap and hiking boots – He could have been my twin.  How could anyone pass us by!

 

After another hour or so in the hitchhiker's queue, a pair of middle-aged women en-route to Rochester stopped for us. I suppose we reminded them of wayward sons or nephews, but I didn’t ask. No memory of conversation, or the other rides obtained, as we cruised by the northern route (I know, but that’s where the ride was going) across western New York state, through Buffalo and on into Canada, ending up just short of Windsor, Ontario in the dead of night.

 

Tired and cold, but still upbeat, we had just settled into our “good to 40 degree” sleeping bags along the sheltered side of a rest-stop service building, when a startled man nearly stumbled over us on his way to the men's room.  With a few questions he quickly sized up the circumstances -- we were dangerous only to ourselves -- and he invited us to his home to sleep inside for the night; bringing us to Windsor (across the bridge from Detroit) in the morning to resume our journey.

 

 

Day 2:  12/28/1971; Windsor, Ontario to Denver, Colorado - 1,450 miles

 

(download)


"The Longest Ride"

Crossing back into the United States, we caught rides south from Detroit on Route 75, taking us to the windswept intersection with Route 70, just outside of Dayton Ohio.  Our first day on the road was disappointing, and today it'd taken us into the early afternoon to travel about two hundred miles.  We were worried that at this rate our trip could be a failure.  As if responding to our thoughts, a dirty blue Ford Fairlane station wagon pulled over.  It was driven by a blond haired god-like young man of few words.  He never disclosed his name or where he was from, but we were ecstatic as he told us that he was headed to a friend’s home outside of Denver. He planned to drive through the night and wanted our company to keep him awake -- no, we couldn't drive but we could take turns as co-pilot -- yes, it would be helpful if we could ante in for gas ($0.35 a gallon).

 

The ride itself was a confusing blur of sights, thoughts and sounds of the road after dark.  "L" and I alternated between the shotgun position and sleeping in the extended back of the station wagon.  We were generally diligent in elbowing our driver back into consciousness when he periodically dozed, but occasionally we would all nod off together and the sound and feel of speeding tires on highway shoulder gravel would jolt us back into the moment.

 

I recall the black prairie and rolling hills of Missouri and Kansas and the reflections of the city lights off the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers.  I remember seeing the Golden Arches of St. Louis and eating at the "Golden Arches" in Kansas City.  We rolled into Denver about 6 AM -- a ride of 15 hours and 1100 miles.  We were beyond the point of no return.

 

 

Day 3: 12/29/1971; Denver, Colorado to Flagstaff, Arizona - 1,100 miles

 

(download)


"Critter, Cowboy Bob and The Army Buddy"

We caught several rides south from Denver on Route 25, traveling through the fantastic open landscapes of Colorado.  A business-man hoping for sales in Pueblo -- a trucker, passing through Trinidad -- and a pleasant couple in their 50s, the woman wearing purple buckskin, who delivered us into an artist colony in Santa Fe.  I thought it would be warm in Santa Fe in the winter -- I didn't know we would still be in the mountains!  We hung around in the artist colony for a while.  We should have been more interested, but at the time, it wasn't our thing -- we were programmed for motion.  Someone in the artist colony was headed to Gallup, New Mexico and offered us a ride.  (No, it wasn’t Georgia O’Keefe, although I can't be certain.)

 

Gallup seemed a godforsaken place, but it wasn't long before we were picked up by a 59 Chevy Bel Air (with fins), driven by a thin, pasty, middle-aged man in a dirty cowboy shirt. He was accompanied by two other characters he had acquired along the way, only one of whom spoke. The articulate one called himself "Critter" and Critter called the driver "Cowboy Bob". Critter was of uncertain age, tall and thin with a coon-skin hat, a bedraggled rabbit-skin jacket, and eyeglasses containing only one cracked lens which Critter said was on his blind side.  The silent one was a teenager and appeared to be Critter's sidekick.  Looking back, maybe he was his son.

 

Critter promised us a "shortcut" to Phoenix through the mountains in the Tonto forest – on the way we could stop at his "Ma's house" near a town named Sunflower.  He assured us that she would insist on giving him money for their trip.  "L" and I contributed a few dollars for gas and enjoyed the show. Critter claimed to have grown up outside of Phoenix, lived in various California communes and currently was on his way to nowhere. He simultaneously would carry on conversations, mostly monologues, with all four of us at the same time, filling us in on his opinion of the current state of affairs in the West and mercilessly tormenting his side-kick and Cowboy Bob.  From time to time Bob would stare off into space and weave the Bel Air from side to side as he reached for nitroglycerin pills that he took for “heart trouble".

 

Bob faithfully followed Critter's directions through the forest and mountains northwest of Phoenix, making a few circles and loops, and unbelievably, we actually found the town of Sunflower.  Critter piloted Bob to a ramshackle cabin with a sandy yard of cactuses, tumbleweeds and various discarded appliances surrounding the entrance area. A large disheveled woman in obvious bad spirits peered out of the cabin doorway, surrounded by several filthy young children.  Critter assured us that "Ma" would love to see us, feed us and fund us on our further travels; but he needed to speak to her alone first, as he hadn't seen her in several years. Critter disappeared into the cabin and after about 15 minutes came skulking out. Not only did he come up empty-handed, but his mother never wanted to see him again. Critter solemnly directed us out of the wilderness. "L" and I were disappointed that instead of heading toward Phoenix as we anticipated, they turned north on Route 17 to Flagstaff where we were unceremoniously left off.

 

It was late, dark and cold in Flagstaff while were trying to catch a ride west on Route 40. Unexpectedly, a taxi pulled up to us, and a young man who looked something like “Ratso Rizzo” jumped out waving his arms and yelling to my friend "L" -- "Jim! My old Army buddy!"  We were amused -- how many characters are there in the West?  Nothing could convince the man that "L" had never been in the Army, much less as his buddy. Not to be denied our company, he insisted that we stay overnight with him and his wife in their three-room roadside shack. The wife, thin and pallid, looked about seven months pregnant, and was herding a sweet two-year-old urchin about the house. I remember that they listened in wonder about our description of New York; they couldn’t conceptualize the difference of “The City” from the rest of New York State – an intellectual task that we learned was achieved by few outside of upstate NY.  After an hour or so, our host abruptly got up, called a cab, and ran out to buy beer -- I don't remember the brand -- leaving us with his wife and child.  Thankfully, he came back.  We drank the beer and stayed the night.  We offered, but they wouldn't take any money from us.  The next morning we said good-bye and returned to Route 40 heading west.

 

Next installment -  Part II - "The Promised Land"

Experience: A Golfer’s Story – August 16, 2003

At the request of daughter number three, I risk boring you with a golf story, which she favored over another ramble on the neurobiology of knowledge.

 

It is late fall.  I look over the golf course in my back yard.  The leaves have turned and most have fallen.  The tamarack trees are orange.  The grass is starting to fade.  The wonder of another change of season brings memories of prior times with friends and family.  One memory I wish to share is the lesson of the potential of pleasant surprises on any day of our lives.

(download)

It was the August 2003 week-end golf Club Championship at SM Country Club. As advertised, this is an annual event to determine the champion of all the male club golfers;  young, middle-aged and old -- good, bad and ugly; but mostly middle-aged and ugly.

It started badly. I felt slighted by not receiving an automatic bid for seeding in the low 8 of 16 players.  I couldn't play in our Friday qualifier round because of work and without a seed, I was out of the tournament.  As a 4.8 handicap, I felt that I deserved to be one of the low 8 seeds -- it shouldn't matter that I hadn't broken 80 in the last two weeks from the white tees because of a recently acquired but persistent yip with my driver.  I wanted to play -- whether my game was competitive or not!  But now my playing seemed unlikely.  I was surprised when several days before the weekend, I got a phone call from our golf pro asking if I wanted to be in the field as the #7 seed because of two late dropouts. The game was on!

Friday, the day before the tournament, was horrific at work because of a power outage. I became miserable. I was grumpy and didn't wish to socialize. My wife, MJ, shamed me into a cameo to a farewell cocktail party for our friends B and MF D.  The party elevated my mood marginally, it made me happy to hear other people's problems. After saying goodbye to B and MF, MJ and I went to the Larkin restaurant for dinner.  Consoled by some excellent Tetley ale with dinner, I came home, went to bed and suffered a miserable night's sleep with a stiff neck.

Saturday morning came -- ready or not. I certainly was not feeling ready for competitive golf.  I went to warm up at the practice range. Negative thoughts invaded my mind: Would my swing be functional?  Would I embarrass myself with a miserable showing?  Should I withdraw using the time-honored excuse of a "sports injury"?  I felt stiff and old --  I am stiff and old. I hit a few balls, none well, about 1 in 10 with any control.  I looked around at my fellow competitors. CH, CL, DL, MikeM (my worthy opponent for the first round), and MR. All were striking each shot crisply with the tell-tale sizzle of the ball that equates to perfect contact. I started to panic. I tried every Band-Aid swing thought -- but things got worse. I became paralyzed by analysis. I stayed so long trying to fix my driver swing that I didn't have time to practice putting.  I was desperate not to crash and burn in front of my peers. I didn't want to hear that I had no business being seeded #7 -- even though it was true!

The rite of the first tee is intimidating. Other club members and competitors huddle about, watching each of us tee-off in hope of seeing a topped shot or a ball sliced out of bounds; allowing them the pleasure of thinking they could have done as well.  My opponent, Mike M is a wonderfully nice man with a legitimate 5 handicap.   I (and likely everyone else) felt he had the advantage.  He had played well in the Friday qualifier shooting a 78 or 79 and had been striking the ball solidly.  He was also younger, stronger, and in better shape than I.  As the #7 seed, I was on top of the scorecard and had "the honor" to tee-off first. I cleared my mind, took the club slowly back and then lurched into a forward spasm - the ball careening dead left in a smothered pull into the rough on the ninth hole.  A long quiet period, then a quip from our pro, SJ, "That seems a popular spot!"  I couldn't bear to watch Mike hit his drive, but the sound of pure contact, the applause from the crowd and our Pro's comment, "Great ball!" told me the result.

We decided to ride in a cart -- likely a good decision as I would spare a caddy embarrassment, and proceeded to our balls. It was with slight relief that I found I had a decent lie in the rough. I felt it was conceivable that I could hit a high faded 5-iron to the green, 180 yards away, through a slot between two trees that were 50 yards in front of me. With a swing than previously produced a 10% success rate, the ball took off solidly, barely clearing the trees. I could no longer see distances more than about 150 yards away, but I heard Mike yell, "Great shot!" My spirits lifted a bit. The mental fog started to fade away.  Approaching the green, I saw I had hit it to 12 feet from the pin.  Mike had made a solid shot to the front of the green, but rolled his putt 4 feet by and missed the come back.  Even with no practice putts, I  was able to get down in 2 for a par.  I was one up.

My mindset changed --  I forgot about trying to make a good swing and accepted an imperfect rhythm and tempo that led to imperfect but playable shots for the next three holes. Mike had won the third hole and we were tied, both one over par. On the fifth hole, a 522 yard par 5, we both hit the green in regulation, Mike 20 feet, and I, 40 feet from the hole. Standing over the putt, a peculiar thought entered my mind from playing recently with my friend DC, who had joked, "See the golden path of the ball -- each shot is its own reward."  What bull-s___!  I looked at the hole, and not really trying, put a good roll on the ball.  I looked up and to my surprise saw the ball track squarely into the dead center of the cup. Mike let out a gasp, but gentleman that he is, congratulated me and then missed his 20 footer. I was back to one up.

The sixth hole plays 419 yards from the back tees. I had not played the back tees once that year. With false confidence, I over-swung and barely made contact on the toe of my Great Big Bertha II driver.  The shot felt awful but the ball went straight down the center of the fairway, at no point more than 4 feet off the ground.  Mike hit a well struck, but pulled shot into the left rough, one of his few drives that missed the fairway. We drove off to the balls. I was astounded.  My low skulled drive had rolled about 280 yards down the left center of the fairway leaving me a 9 iron to the green. What golf club technology!  Mike had caught a bad break and was buried in a terrible lie in the rough. He hacked his ball back to the fairway, hit the green but then missed a 25 footer for bogey. I hit the green and two putted for par -- two up.

The seventh hole is our number 1 handicap hole and had been plaguing me because of my inconsistent drives. I hit a big fade to the center of the fairway as did Mike, both of us about 150 yards from the green. We both proceeded to hit bad 8 irons, mine pushed to the right, off a tree limb and into the right fescue about 10 yards from the green. I went to my ball but couldn't find it. Mike came over cheerfully to help me look. Suddenly, the Pro appeared -- "I saw it Doc, your ball is right over here".  At first glance it did not seem like such a bad lie for the fescue, but on closer inspection my ball was sitting about 6 inches off the ground, suspended on matted grass.  Mike was just off the green in the left rough.  I took a swing with a 60° wedge that barely contacted the bottom of the ball, it popping almost straight into the air and landing several feet short of the green. Somehow the ball bounced upward and kicked unexplainably hard to the pin, rolling to 4 inches from the cup. My opponent walked over and knocked the ball back to me.  The Pro. who had not been watching, came back over, clearly surprised as I was smugly tossing the ball up and down in my left hand with a par. Mike couldn't get up and down, and now I was three up.

Number eight is a short-ish 381 yard par 4 with no particular trouble. Both Mike and I hit the fairway and made good second shots into the green. I was just thinking about my lead, and made a bad stroke, missing my 12 footer.  Mike smoothly rolled in his five foot putt to get back to two down. On the 9th hole, two smooth swings left me a 6 foot putt which I holed for birdie and a win. A few people were gathered by  the 10th tee including our Pro. Mike showed him our score after 9 -- Mike a 2 over par 39, and I, a 1 under 36. The Pro looked at me quizzically.

Number ten is a potentially driveable 310 yard par four. With my driver confidence problems I pulled out a seven wood and with our Pro watching, I nearly whiffed, hitting a weak shot to the right but getting a good bounce in the fairway. Both Mike and I were able to par the hole for a half. The eleventh hole from the blue tees requires a draw to avoid the right rough. I was unable to hit any shot but a fade or slice with my driver but somehow managed to hit a draw with my three wood into the center of the fairway. With confidence building I hit a smooth iron to the center of the uphill green and two putted for par. Mike lost the hole with a bogey. On the par 3 twelfth hole, we both missed the green, but I was able to get up and down for par, winning yet another hole -- five up.

The 13th hole is a 485 yard par 5 with long fescue along the right side and a creek all along the left. Fearing my slice, I badly pulled the ball left into the seventh fairway, nearly hitting my friend, JC. Somehow I was able to recover for par, halving the hole. Dormie!

Holes fourteen through eighteen at SM are great finishing holes and except for the 165 yard par 3 fifteenth, are tortuous. Fourteen, a dogleg left 376 yard par 4, required a shot over a line of tall trees to allow a faded or sliced drive a chance at making the fairway. With the confidence of knowing I only needed to halve one more hole, I picked a line over the trees for a high fade. The swing felt okay, but as I looked up, I saw the ball bulleting 20 yards too far to the left and 10 yards too low to clear the trees.  Mike and I both carefully listen for the sound of hard contact of golf ball on tree.  We heard nothing and looked at each other. I could tell Mike was certain my shot didn't make it over.  On that line, even if my ball miraculously missed the trees, I would still need at least 270 yards of carry to reach the left rough.  As Mike had hit the center of the fairway, 120 yards from the green, I didn't want to hit a provisional ball at this point in the match and we drove out  to look for my ball in the left rough.  After a minute or two (definitely less than 5) I spotted a glint of white nestled deeply down in the grass, but only 85 yards from the hole. One more good swing with my 60° wedge and two putts later, I had won my first club championship match. Mike congratulated me and at his request we agreed to finish the round.

Through the 15th, 16th and 17th holes, my driver play remained marginal but my iron play was solid and I easily parred these holes, hitting each green in regulation.  At that point Mike notified me that I was one under par from the back tees. I had not thought of my score up to that moment. Previous to this my best round had been even par 72 from the white tees. I was over 50 years old now and realized my future chances of breaking par would be decreasing.

Standing on the tee of our 18th hole, a 421 yard dogleg left with an elevated green, memories of other good rounds ruined by snap hooks into the trees on the left or bad slices into the trees on the right flew through my mind. I decided to go with what had served me to this point and hit a hard slice into the deep right rough about 160 yards from the green. More bad thoughts tormented me -- if my next shot is a flyer out of the rough, I will be dead over the green with little chance of getting up-and-down. If I catch too much rough and end up short of the green I would still have a chance for an up-and-down par for 71.  I elected for the short play, selected an eight iron and caught a lot of grass, pulling the shot well left. The ball had no spin, hit several yards short of the green and bounced upward onto the upper level of the greeen.  I watched as the ball curved slowly to the right and caught the downslope, tracking toward the pin to about 8 feet just above the hole.  Now all I needed was a two-putt from 8 feet.   Again the flurry of negative thoughts -- too hard would leave a 3 - 4 footer back up the hill -- too easy, a two-foot downhill knee-knocker.  I honestly don't remember pulling the trigger on my putt but I looked up to watch the ball take a 12 inch right to left break and slowly drop across the front center of the hole for birdie. I'd shot my personal best round -- two under par 70 to Mike's good round of 78.

Back at the clubhouse the Pro seemed startled by my 70.  Why not? He hadn't seen me hit one good shot.  The computer that we use to track our handicaps told me to check my entry as my score was lower-than-expected. New respect came from my competitors.  I was a contender!  Unfortunately it didn't last long.  The next day in round two, I fell into my prior funk and shot 80-ish, losing to MR, 3 and 2.  What the golf gods giveth, they taketh away.

Medicine and Life: The Scientific Basis of Empathy - Physician Heal Thyself (with a little help from your friends)

(download)

Dear readers,

I dedicate this blog to the empathy that I observed in my wife for our oldest daughter during our daughter's recent labor and delivery which resulted in our first grandson.

We all become aware of the suffering of family and friends which allow us the opportunity to experience empathy.  There may be confusion of the definitions of empathy, sympathy and compassion.

Empathy can be defined as the understanding, on an emotional level, of another person's suffering.  This may be thought of as being "in tune with" the emotional state of the other person.

Sympathy is emotion beyond empathy, during which the sympathizer shares the emotional state of the other suffering being.

Compassion is a related state that includes being consciously aware of another's suffering, combined with the emotional state of empathy, and then taking action to relieve, in some way, the other being's suffering.

In the October 13, 2010 edition of the Journal of the American Medical Association, is the commentary, "Empathy in Medicine -- A Neurobiological Perspective", authored by Helen Riess, M.D.  The article is a brief overview of the current medical knowledge of the physiology, anatomy and the relevance of empathy in medicine.  The article describes how recent advances in Neuro-sciences have led to improved understanding of human emotions.

Learning points include:

          1) There are specialized brain cells called "mirror neurons" that facilitate learning of the emotions and actions of others by simulation through mimicry. These are felt to be important in acquiring language and motor skills through imitation of observed behavior, as well as to promote emotional intelligence by embedding the social circumstances of these processes, including empathy, within the brain of the observer.

 

Xmimic


          2) When an empathetic individual observes another person's suffering, he or she experiences sadness and pain associated with autonomic (not consciously controlled) nervous system changes in skin electrical activity, heart rate and breathing patterns. These physiologic changes are associated with increased cerebral metabolic activity involving multiple central and surface regions of the brain (amygdyla, cingulate gyrus as well as the insular, frontal and parietal cortex).

 

(download)

 

          3) The degree of empathetic pain, sadness and other responses depend upon the caring individual and the circumstances that are encountered. Experiments using functional MRI techniques demonstrate that a wife may feel more empathy when pain is inflicted on her husband compared to the empathy response measured when pain is inflicted upon an unrelated stranger, or someone who "deserves" their pain.

 

 

Empathy

 

          4) Some individuals may preselect medicine as a profession because of a tendency toward empathetic responses.  The training process in medicine, however, may be associated with down-regulation of the empathy response. Without emotional regulation skills, the constant exposure to others' pain and distress may be too much to bear and can lead to anxiety, professional burnout or physiologic responses related to empathy which may hinder procedural performance.

          5) Diminished empathy may be a worse problem, leading to dehumanization of physicians' relationship with patients, shifting physicians' focus from the whole of the person to a state where the patient / person may be regarded as a combination of a disease process with target organs and test results. Physicians with lack of empathy may also experience lesser job satisfaction, greater rates of suicide and substance abuse, and higher rates of medical malpractice lawsuits.

          6) Empathetic relationships between physicians and patients (as well as a patient’s relations to other medical team members and care-givers including family and friends) is important in the healing process with measurable physiologic benefits such as improved immune function, shorter post-surgery hospital stays, stronger placebo response and shorter durations of illnesses.

As we all have seen (and my oldest daughter delights in telling me) it is unfortunately too often in the practice of "modern medicine" that the emotional connection to patients is lost due to various reasons, and in a well-intentioned attempt to cure every disease process and negate every symptom, the best interests of the overall condition of our patients may not be served or even understood.

Recently, I was directly reminded of the value of empathy.  For the first time in my adult life I experienced a significant illness.  The empathy, sympathy and compassion that I received from my friends and family, medical associates and personal physicians was truly uplifting.  These generous gifts certainly enhanced my healing and state of well being.  Thank you all.

In the words of my reading companion, Marcus Aurelius, from his Meditations, this passage seems relevant:

        The things which are external to my mind have no relation at all to my mind.—Let this be the state of thy affects, and thou standest erect.

To recover thy life is in thy power. Look at things again as thou didst use to look at them; for in this consists the recovery of thy life.”

Book review: The Picture of Dorian Gray -1891 by Oscar Wilde - A Victorian era horror story with modern implications for Halloween 2010.

Pictures copied from frames of The Picture of Dorian Gray – BBC Play of the Month, 1976

Peter Firth as Dorian Gray, John Gielgud as Lord Henry Wotton, Jeremy Brett as Basil Hallward

John Gorrie - Director, Cedric Messina - Producer

Dear Readers,

Halloween is a time for horror stories. The definition of horror according to Merriam-Webster, is "an overwhelming and painful feeling caused by something frightfully shocking, terrifying, or revolting"

The Victorian era produced Jack the Ripper and classic horror stories including Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde ,1886 by Robert Louis Stevenson and Dracula ,1897 by Bram Stoker.  Written in-between these novels in 1891 by Oscar Wilde, is my personal favorite horror story, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

 

Wilde states in his introduction to The Picture of Dorian Gray, "Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex and vital."  His only novel has drawn diverse opinion on several levels through many generations.  Originally The Picture of Dorian Gray was an instant success and widely read for the obvious appeal of its principal story.  The not so subtle homosexual inuendo soon made the work to be considered scandalous and leading to the corruption of youth in its day. This made Wilde an enemy of many important men of the time including the Marquess of Queensberrry, the father of one of the corrupted youth.  Wilde was tried and imprisoned on corruption charges, lost his fortune, and died in Paris, November, 1900, destitute and friendless at the age of 46.

 

The basic plot of The Picture of Dorian Gray is an archetypal exploration of evil and horror.  It is enhanced by caustic wit, charm and exquisite prose. Characters are developed in wonderful complexity. As an example, Lord Henry, the satanic tormentor of Dorian, is noted to pick a daisy from the garden and then, as he toys with Dorian's sensibilities, tears the flower to pieces.  Interestingly, the homosexual aspects of the novel do not seem shocking in our modern times, and lend a naïve charm to the work, with hidden phraseology such as the word "curious" used as a substitute for "queer". Descriptions of these subtleties are explained in the Edmund White's introduction of the Oxford world's Classics edition, which I recommend.

 

Dorian Gray is introduced as an unspoiled 20-year-old aristocrat who becomes acquainted to two sophisticated men, the artist Basil Hallward, who falls in love with Dorian and produces a masterpiece portrait of the younger man, and Lord Henry Wotton, an Oxford friend of Mr. Hallward, who amuses himself with the corruption of Dorian, convincing Dorian to pursue a hedonistic lifestyle.

          Lord Henry - "Yes Mr. Gray, the Gods have been good to you. But what the Gods give, they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly and fully ... Be always searching for new sensations... For there is such a little time that your youth will last."

 

Lord Henry's words had found their mark. As Dorian stares at his own portrait he murmures, "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June... If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that -- for that -- I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!" Basil then presents the portrait to Dorian who displays it in his London home.

 

Dorian promptly pursues a lfe of unbridled pleasure and falls in love with the actress Sybil Vane, a commoner. After winning her love, he callously rejects her, and she leaves his home in despair. Dorian reflects on his portrait and observes a subtle change, "...there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth."  Dorian retires to sleep, and unknown to him, Sybil commits suicide. The next day, Lord Henry notifies Dorian of Sybil's death.  Dorian's reaction: "So I have murdered Sybil Vane, murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden...She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her."

 

Dorian, aided and encouraged by Lord Henry, pursues a downward spiral of obsessive self gratification. He explores the pleasures of  rare gems and "beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories..."  He immerses himself in drugs and sexual experiences, corrupting men and women without regard to class distinction. Over a span of nearly two decades his friends and acquaintances marvel at his unchanging youth and reject the rumors of Dorian's decadence because of his purity of countenance. During this time, Dorian accepts his relationship with his portrait and finds some amusement in its degradation.

 

Basil Hallward is the only person identified in the novel ,other than Dorian, to view the changes in the portrait. Basil visits Dorian to counsel him regarding his behavior. Dorian presents his portrait to Basil who is shocked by the unexplainable hideous transformation of the painting, now almost unrecognizable as his original work. Viewing the montrosity they exchange words.

          Hallward - "You told me you had destroyed it."

          Dorian - "I was wrong.  It has destroyed me."

          Hallward -  "I don't believe it is my picture."

          Dorian - "Can't you see your ideal in it?"

          Hallward - "My ideal as you call it..."

          Dorian - "As you called it... It is the face of my soul."

          Hallward - "Christ!  What a thing I must have worshiped.  It has the eyes of a devil."

          Dorian - "Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him Basil."

          Hallward - "My God!  If it is true, and this is what you've done with your life, why you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be."

 

 Dorian is overcome with loathing for his former admirer and stabs him to death. Adding to his crimes, he blackmails another of his male encounters, Alan Campbell, into disposing of Basil Hallward's corpse.  Alan subsequently commits suicide. Dorian's does not become a suspect in the crimes and he remains unexposed, only subject to society gossip.

 

Dorian begins to question his deeds and actions. He considers beginning a new life and to pursue goodness. He performed what he felt was an honorable act, releasing a potential female conquest. He believes that this might begin to heal his soul. With hopefulness, he views his portrait but sees no evidence of change except for a new look of cunning and hypocrisy. He becomes confused as to the significance of his evil actions. He does not regret the murder of Basil Hallward who he blames for the painting.  He concludes that the problem is not his behavious as much as the existence of the portrait as a visible conscience.  If he would destroy the portrait, the action will destroy his past and set him free.

 

The conclusion:

          "He looked round, and saw the knife that stabbed Basil Hallward. He cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead he would be free. It would kill this monstrous soul life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it."

          "There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms... When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was."

 

 

Oscar Wilde and The Picture of Dorian Gray come from a time that produced Charles Dickens, Lewis Caroll and the Communist manifesto. In our modern era "Greed is good."  What red-blooded American capitalist would not applaud Lord Henry's comments and the courage of Dorian Gray to pursue his God-given right to freely pursue his every desire. Who can condemn the actions of consenting adults. Are not good and evil, right and wrong, justice, moderation and compassion, antiquated terms.  To paraphrase Ecclesiastics, "Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die."  Should not we open our eyes; the wicked of this world are not punished, criminals are those of the lower classes of society who are stupid enough to be caught or cannot pay to have laws changed in their favor. We recognize the expediency of circumstance.  For instance, no matter what compromised actions may be used to accumulate wealth, these become justified in time; in one or two generations, the heirs of these fortunes become our ruling class, our defacto nobility.

 

Modern man surely possesses superior technology and unlimited information. With our ability to find data instantly, how could it possibly matter if we do not have the time to transform this into knowledge, much less wisdom?  Should anyone question our pursuit of individualism at all costs?  Why should we study archaic philosophies espoused by long dead former sages such as Confucius, the Buddha, Jesus, and Mohammed?  Do their teachings really have any place in modern secular society?  Consider the inconvenience and burden that would result if we respected tradition and rituals, exhibited real generosity and compassion, or routinely treated others as we would wish to be treated.  Similar arguments must logically hold for the philosophical teachings of other has-beens such as Socrates, Plato and Marcus Aurelius.  Caveat Emptor!

 

Some may note that mistakes have happened in modern history, such as the development and use of atomic weapons, Hitler's Holocaust and Stalin's systematic murderous purges, but these are certainly exceptions that prove the rule of our modern superiority.  How can our sophisticated  societies ever repeat such atrocities.  If we would have any concerns for our future, we can take comfort that our elite educational institutions prefer not to trouble students with these types of questions for fear of deviating the future graduates and potential foundation donors from their pursuit of the acquisition of wealth that no doubt will improve the world economy and trickle down to improve the plight of our own working classes.  Does a middle class need to exist in a modern society?

 

Fortunately, these cynical views are not new or the moral dilemmas unique to our time.  For instance, no less than Leo Tolstoy (1828 -- 1910), a contemporary of Oscar Wilde, had considered such questions in his 1882 pamphlet, "A Confession". 

 

I do not presume to paraphrase him -- in his words:

 

            "With all my soul I wished to be good; but I was young, passionate, and alone, completely alone when I sought goodness. Every time I tried to express my most sincere   desire, which was to be morally good, I met with contempt and ridicule; but as soon as I yielded to low passions I was praised and encouraged. "

 

            "Ambition, love of power, covetousness, lasciviousness, pride, anger and revenge -- were all respected.  Yielding to those passions, I became like the grown-up folk and I felt that they approved of me."

 

            "...I cannot think of those years without horror, loathing, and heartache. I killed men in war, and challenged men to duels in order to kill them; I lost in cards, consumed the labor of the peasants, sentenced them to punishments, lived loosely and deceived people.  Lying, robbery, adultery of all kinds, drunkenness, violence, murder -- there was no crime I did not commit, and for all that people praised my conduct, and my contemporaries considered and consider me to be a comparatively moral man."

 

            "My question -- that which at the age of 50 brought me to the verge of suicide -- was the simplest of questions, lying in the soul of every man from the foolish child to the wisest elder: it was a question without answering which one cannot live, as I had found by experience. It was: "What will come of what I am doing today or shall do  tomorrow? -- What will come of my whole life?"

                       --Leo Tolstoy, "A Confession"

Reportage: A Nandi Warrior Lion Hunt, British East Africa, November 20, 1909: As witnessed and described by Theodore Roosevelt

(download)
Reportage as defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as: "writing intended to give an account of observed or documented events".

For no other reason than the book was present on my parents' shelves, I read African Game Trails by Theodore Roosevelt, when I was 12 or 13 years old.  I was fascinated with the story of Roosevelt's 1909 - 1910 Safari through Africa.  I was astonished by his exploits, detailed in graphic description, of shooting scores -- no -- hundreds of animals, braving dangers of the wild, and (at least to me) the unforgettable highlight of his safari -- his first-hand eyewitness account of a native lion hunt, staged in his honor by the Nandi warriors of what was, at that time, British East Africa.

The idea of including a long-past, foreign and brutally savage experience comes to me from reading The Faber Book of Reportage, edited by John Kerry, Merton Professor of English at Oxford university. In Mr. Kerry's introduction, he notes several characteristics of good reportage.  These include first-hand eyewitness account of a specific, dateable, real life event, typically written in the heat of the moment, and often about life and death circumstances. Mr. Kerry notes that "Reportage ~ lays claim directly to the power of the real, which imaginative literature can approach only through make-believe. ~ the absolutely vital ingredient of reportage ~ is the simple fact that the reader knows all this actually happened. ~ reportage may change its readers, may educate their sympathies, may extend -- in both directions -- their ideas about what it is to be a human being, may limit their capacity for the inhuman. ~ since reportage, unlike literature, lifts the screen from reality, it's lessons are -- and ought to be -- more telling ~"

Please read this, remembering the context of the time in which it was originally written -- It is not for the faint of heart.

Quoted from African Game Trails:

"At Sergoi Lake there is a store kept by Mr. Kirke, a South African of Scotch blood. With a kind courtesy which I cannot too highly appreciate he, with the equally cordial help of another settler, Mr. Skally -- also a South African, but of Irish birth -- and of the district commissioner, Mr. Corbett, had arranged for a party of Nandi warriors to come over and show me how they hunted the lion.

"The Nandi are a warlike pastoral tribe, close kin to the Masai in blood and tongue, in weapons and manner of life. They have long been accustomed to kill with the spear lions which become man-eaters or which molest their cattle overmuch; and the peace which British rule has imposed upon them -- a peace so welcome to the weaker, so irksome to the predatory, tribes, -- has left lion killing one of the few pursuits in which glory can be won by a young warrior.  When it was told them that if they wished they could come to hunt lions at Sergoi eight-hundred warriors volunteered, and much heart-burning was caused in choosing the sixty or seventy who were allowed the privilege. They stipulated, however, that they should not be used merely as beaters, but should kill the lion themselves, and refused to come unless with this understanding.

"The day after our arrival there was mist and cold rain, and we found no lions. Next day, November 20th, we were successful.

"We started immediately after breakfast. Kirke, Skally, Mouton, Jordaan, Mr. and Mrs. Corbett, Captain Chapman, and our party, were on horseback; of course we carried our rifles, but our duty was merely to round up the lion and hold him, if he went off so far in advance that even the Nandi runners could not overtake him. We intended to beat the country toward some shallow, swampy valleys twelve miles distant.

"In an hour we overtook the Nandi warriors, who were advancing across the rolling, grassy plains in a long line, with intervals of six to eight yards between the men. They were splendid savages, stark naked, lithe as panthers, the muscles rippling under their smooth dark skin; all their lives they have lived on nothing but animal food, milk, blood, and flesh, and they were fit for any fatigue or danger. Their faces were proud, cruel, fearless; as they ran they moved with long springy strides. Their head-dresses were fantastic; they carried ox-hide shields painted with strange devices; and each bore in his right hand the formidable war spear, used both for stabbing and for throwing at close quarters. The narrow spearheads of soft iron were burnished till they shone like silver; they were 4 feet long, and the point and edges were razor-sharp. The wooden haft appeared for but a few inches; the long butt was also of iron, ending in a spike, so that the spear looked almost solid metal. Yet each sinewy warrior carried his heavy weapon as if it were a toy, twirling it till it glinted in the sun-rays. Herds of game, red hartebeests and striped zebra and wild swine, fled right and left before the advance of the line.

"It was noon before we reached a wide, shallow valley, with beds of rushes here and there in the middle, and on either side high grass and dwarfed and scattered thorn-trees. Down this we beat for a couple of miles. Then, suddenly, a maned lion rose a quarter of a mile ahead of the line and galloped off through the high grass to the right; and all of us on horseback tore after him.

"He was a magnificent beast, with a black and tawny mane; in his prime, teeth and claws perfect, with mighty thews, and savage heart. He was lying near a hartebeest on which he had been feasting; his life had been one unbroken career of rapine and violence; and now the maned master of the wilderness, the terror that stalked by night, the grim lord of slaughter, was to meet his doom at the hands of the only foes who dared molest him.

"It was a mile before we brought him to bay. Then the Dutch farmer, Mouton, who had not even a rifle, but who rode foremost, was almost on him; he halted and turned under a low thorn-tree, and we galloped past him to the opposite side, to hold him until the spearmen could come. It was a sore temptation to shoot him; of course we could not break faith with our Nandi friends. We were only some sixty yards from him, and we watched him with our rifles ready, lest he should charge either us, or the first two or three spearmen, before their companions arrived.

"One by one the spearmen came up, at a run, and gradually began to form a ring around him. Each, when he came near enough, crouched behind his shield, his spear in his right hand, his fierce, eager face peering over the shield rim. As man followed man, the lion rose to his feet. His mane bristled, his tail lashed, he held his head low, the upper lip now drooping over the jaws, now drawn up so as to show the gleam of the long fangs. He faced first one way and then another, and never ceased to utter his murderous grunting roars. It was a wild sight; the ring of spearmen, intent, silent, bent on blood, and in the centre the great man-killing beast, his thunderous wrath growing ever more dangerous.

"At last the tense ring was complete, and the spearmen rose and closed in. The lion looked quickly from side to side, saw where the line was thinnest, and charged at his topmost speed. The crowded moment began. With shields held steady, and quivering spears poised, the men in front braced themselves for the rush and the shock; and from either hand the warrior sprang forward to take their foe in flank. Bounding ahead of his fellows, the leader reached throwing distance; the long spear flickered and plunged; as the lion felt the wound he half turned, and then flung himself on the man in front. The warrior threw his spear; it drove deep into the life, for entering at one shoulder it came out the opposite flank, near the thigh, a yard of steel through the great body. Rearing, the lion struck the man, bearing down the shield, his back arched; and for a moment he slaked his fury with fang and talon. But on the instant I saw another spear driven clear through his body from side to side; and as the lion turned again the bright spear blades darting toward him were flashes of white flame. The end had come. He seized another man, who stabbed him and wrenched loose. As he fell he gripped a spear-head in his jaws with such tremendous force that he bent it double. Then the warriors were around and over him, stabbing and shouting, wild with furious exultation.

"From the moment when he charged until his death I doubt whether ten seconds had elapsed, perhaps less; but what a ten seconds! The first half dozen spears had done the work. Three of the spear blades had gone clear through the body, the points projecting several inches; and these, and one or two others, including the one he had seized in his jaws, had been twisted out of shape in the terrible death struggle.

"We at once attended to the two wounded men. Treating their wounds with antiseptic was painful, and so, while the operation was in progress, I told them, through Kirke, that I would give each a heifer. A Nandi prizes his cattle rather more than his wives; and each sufferer smiled broadly at the news, and forgot all about the pain of his wounds.

"Then the warriors, raising their shields above their heads, and chanting the deep-toned victory song, marched with a slow, dancing step around the dead body of the lion; and this savage dance of triumph ended a scene of as fierce interest and excitement as I ever hope to see.

"The Nandi marched back by themselves, carrying the two wounded men on their shields. We rode to camp by a roundabout way, on the chance that we might see another lion. The afternoon waned and we cast long shadows before us as we rode across the vast lonely plain. The game stared at us as we passed; a cold wind blew in our faces, and the tall grass waved ceaselessly; the sun set behind a sullen cloud bank; and then, just at nightfall, the tents glimmered white through the dusk."

~ Theodore Roosevelt; November 20th, 1909