My Life: Everything but Buy the Book!: Part 2 of 2

My Life:

Everything but

BUY THE BOOK!

Part 2 of 2

SCOTT LUDWIG

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

MY LIFE: EVERYTHING BUT BUY THE BOOK!

PART 2 OF 2

Copyright © 2014 Scott Ludwig.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2531-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2532-0 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 02/12/2014

Contents

Dedications

Foreword

(Note: Chapters One through Six can be found in BUY THE BOOK!

Part 1)

Chapter Seven–JULY

Chapter Eight–AUGUST

Chapter Nine–SEPTEMBER

Chapter Ten–OCTOBER

Chapter Eleven–NOVEMBER

Chapter Twelve–DECEMBER

Acknowledgements

Epilogue

Other Books by Scott Ludwig

Running through My Mind: Confessions of an Every Day Runner

A Passion for Running: Portraits of the Everyday Runner

A Few Degrees from Hell: White Hot Tales from the Badwater Ultramarathon

In It for the Long Run: A Decade with the Darkside Running Club

Distance Memories: Reflections of a Life on the Run

My Life: Everything but BUY THE BOOK! Part 1 of 2

Books in the construction phase

The Edge of Exhaustion: Running Ultras the Only Way I Know How

Extremes: Pushing the Limits of Human Endurance

Books in the development phase

Run for the Money: Be Careful what you Wish For

Still In It for the Long Run: Another Decade with the Darkside Running Club

Children’s book (No title at this time)

Catptions: Letting the Cats Speak for Themselves

Dedications

To two amazing ladies I have known for all of my adult life:

Eva ‘Grammy’ Martin

Agueda ‘Mama’ Moon

You are both terribly missed by everyone whose lives you touched.

And to one amazing lady I’ve known since the day she was born:

Hope Frances Ludwig

Now please stop asking me to dedicate a book to you.

Foreword

On January 1, 2013, three hundred and sixty-five days ago I began writing Part 1 of this book with these words: ‘The first day of a brand new year.’ I can say the same thing again today. (Happy New Year, by the way!)

I am proud to tell you I kept my resolution to write a daily entry (with the content being both random and optional) throughout the entirety of 2013: One chapter for every day of the year. You are holding the proof in your hands at this very minute. Well, that is if you are holding Part 1 in your hands as well since that contains January through June. If you aren’t aware of the existence of Part 1 then you have every right to be a skeptic for the time being, but when you do your homework and discover that Part 1 does indeed exist I will expect a written apology from you post haste. Understood? Very well; let’s move on.

If you’re not familiar with this two-part anthology please know it’s intended for the casual reader (like me) with a short attention span (even more like me) who doesn’t like to be burdened with reading a 500-page novel only to get halfway through and have to put it down to tend to that embarrassing ‘family matter’ before you’re able to pick the novel back up again, only to realize you have no memory of the first 250 pages you read over three months ago. (Note: If that last sentence was too long for you to follow, no worries: It’s the longest sentence in the book. Also, please note one other thing: I’m prone to use little white lies to satisfy my agenda. This may have been one of them; then again, maybe not. It’s hard for me to say with absolute certainty either way. In fact, let’s just forget the whole thing.)

This book addresses a variety of topics, including family, football, weather, memory loss, high school, hump day, music, birth, death, marriage, justice, injustice, birthdays, sports, running, diets, street lights, home, pets, school buses, movies, summer, winter, butterflies, sandwiches, haircuts, health, sickness, yoga, sisters, brothers, 9/11, JFK, motor cycles, horses, volunteers, Volunteers, television, America, airplanes, heaven, hell, cancer, perfection, the good old days, comic books, material things, fraternities, pet peeves, fathers, mothers, the U.S. Navy, beer, the Florida Gators, elections, Germany, prioritizing, golf, deadlines, being thankful, Lee Corso, rivalries, inane policemen, the Grinch, marriage proposals, Facebook, friends, foes, farewells, Birdsboro, Bailey’s Irish Cream, Chinese fortune cookies, the Olympics, disco, fame, pride and farewells. And those are just the tips of many, many icebergs.

So if you’re ever in need of killing five or six minutes (waiting at the bus stop to pick up your second-grader after school, killing time at the end of a workday right before the clock on the wall hits 5 o’clock, passing the time during a rather unexciting lovemaking session), this book is for you. (Spoiler Alert: So is Part 1!)

Then again, you could be like my friend Al who took Part 1 with him on a flight from Atlanta to Salt Lake City. Al told me he started reading the book as the plane was taxiing down the runway for takeoff, and before he knew it the flight attendant was on the intercom asking everyone to prepare for landing, just about the time he was finishing the last page of the book.

Little did Al suspect that was my intent all along: To write a book that would grab your attention and make you want to keep reading because of the variety and randomness of the subject matter, the brevity of each chapter that allowed me to cut right to the chase and the emotional roller coaster you’ll find yourself on as you transition from one day to the next.

Al, as you make plans to read Part 2 I have a small suggestion for you: You might want to take a longer flight next time, because this one is a doozy.

Scott Ludwig

Peachtree City, Georgia

January 1, 2014—The first day of a brand new year

CHAPTER SEVEN

JULY

July 1—Family Matters

I suck at funerals.

If you know me at all—either personally or through reading any of my other books you’ve probably gathered that little tidbit of information about me by now.

I would estimate that over the course of my lifetime I’ve attended well over 100 funerals. The two companies I’ve had the privilege to work for have both supported the practice of management employees attending the funerals of one of their employees or members of their employee’s immediate family: spouse, mother, father and child. I’ve attended my fair share of funerals for all of them and while it has always been a little bit harder for me to accept a parent losing a child, that doesn’t stop me from tearing up any less over the death of an employee or their spouse, mother or father. I’ve always empathized with my employees, putting myself in their shoes and mourning their loss as if it were mine.

I know that’s not always the most logical or practical way to approach the funeral of a virtual stranger, but that’s the way I’ve always done it. Like I said: I suck at funerals.

That’s why the memorial service I attended yesterday beneath a shaded pavilion on the edge of a lake in a remote, hidden park in Covington, Georgia was so refreshing: I didn’t tear up (much) as the service was much more a celebration of life than it was a memorial service.

Mama Moon, who took care of our boys from the time they were in diapers until the time they started school, passed away several weeks ago. Yesterday’s service was held in her honor.

Mama Moon loved and cared for Justin and Josh as if they were her very own. She was also raising her daughter’s two little girls, Kim and Stephanie. (Kim and Stephanie had an older brother Kevin who was living with his father in Knoxville at the time.) You might be thinking that caring for four young children—two of them in diapers—would be too much to handle, but I truly believe Mama Moon loved being surrounded by children because she thought it was God’s plan for her. Besides, it made her very, very happy.

When Cindy and I first met the Moons (Mama and her husband Larry, better known as Papa Moon) we both knew immediately that our boys would be in good hands, just as Cindy’s parents had known over 20 years ago when they asked their neighbors Eva and Lee to take care of her when she was in diapers. Today I can proudly say that our boys have the distinct honor of having had four sets of grandparents in their lives: my parents, Cindy’s parents, Eva and Lee and the Moon’s.

Yesterday’s service was attended by a small gathering of family members and close friends. Kevin, now a Captain with the Fire Department in Knoxville and whom Cindy and I hadn’t seen in many years started the service by recounting several memories of his grandmother and a few of the life lessons she had taught him. It was evident that not only was Mama Moon a good teacher, but that Kevin was a very good student. Kevin’s dream when he was a little boy was to be a fireman; it did my heart good to see someone who successfully pursued their childhood dream and was happy once they achieved it. Kevin is now happily married and the father of a happy and energetic little boy, Mama Moon’s great-grandson.

Kim choreographed the memorial service. She arranged for lunch, made the programs, invited the guests, chose the venue and I’m pretty certain was responsible for the cooler weather, unusual for the last day in June in Anywhere, Georgia. Kim and her husband have two children, upping Mama Moon’s great-grandchildren count to three.

Stephanie and her husband had their hands full, keeping their son from chasing after the geese and watching after their 12-day old infant daughter (final tally = five great-grandchildren!). Stephanie told Cindy and I that people had been telling her that Mama Moon was her daughter’s guardian angel. There is no doubt in my mind that they speak the truth.

Getting back to the service, Papa Moon spoke next and said some words that had an impact on everyone gathered beneath the pavilion. How hard it would be living without someone he had spent every day for the past 50 years with. How Mama Moon would always be with him. How she told him that his only fault was he didn’t say ‘I love you’ often enough. How much she had suffered in the past year and that she no longer was in pain. How much he would miss her every single day for the rest of his life.

Larry asked if anyone else would like to say anything before we had lunch. I felt like he wanted me to say something, but I didn’t. I’m not sure if it was because I didn’t think I could say anything semi-articulate/coherent without breaking down or because I was thinking that this was the Moon family’s time and I didn’t want to do anything to take away from it. Then I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind that Cindy, Justin, Josh and I were a part of the Moon family, only to then start remembering how much I suck at funerals. Attempting to speak at this time about Mama Moon would have been much too difficult as it’s hard for me to enunciate without any saliva in my mouth.

After lunch we all wrote messages to Mama Moon on cards hanging from a small ‘memory tree’ as well as on a bouquet of helium-filled balloons. At the conclusion of the service everyone grabbed their balloon by its string, formed a circle outside of the pavilion and simultaneously released the balloons so they could take our messages up to Mama Moon. As simple as it was, I must say it was quite spectacular.

Throughout the day I couldn’t stop thinking about how much Mama Moon would have loved being with us. Children were everywhere; playing, laughing and running free. The people she loved were there. The people who loved her were there; even if we didn’t say it often enough.

As for today: Happy birthday, Mama Moon! You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?

After all, I’m family.

P.S. We all love you.

July 2—When Deer Cry

In my first book, Running through My Mind I wrote about finding a deer along the side of the road during an early Saturday morning run in October of 2006. The story, ‘Oh Deer’ described how I originally thought the deer had been struck by a car and killed, but as I got close to the deer I found it to be very much alive and trying desperately to scurry away from me—with only the use of its front legs. Apparently a car had struck its backside and immobilized the two back legs. To say it was one of the saddest sights I have ever seen is an understatement. I ran hard for the next two miles until I made it to a Waffle House and asked to use their phone. I frantically dialed ‘911’ and told them what I had seen and the exact place (‘the intersection of Windgate and Robinson directly beneath the streetlight’) they would find the deer in distress. The voice on the other end of the phone said ‘I’m on it’ and that was that. Later that day I returned to the scene of the crime and found it to be without a trace of what had transpired earlier.

In my heart the deer was rescued, was being treated for its injuries and would soon be released into the wild. In my head… well, in my head I knew better. I just refused to admit it, like I’m doing right now, and will still be doing 10 years from now.

Yesterday one of my employees missed work. He wrecked his car on his commute to work after running into a deer at 50 miles an hour (the car, not the deer). The deer got caught underneath his car, causing it to veer sharply to the right and into a ditch. Surprisingly, once the car came to a halt the deer furiously kicked with all four legs until it had freed itself from beneath the car, stood up and ran off into the woods. Meanwhile my employee had to wait until a tow truck was available.

I’ve hit two deer myself so I understand what my employee went through. Both times I struck a deer in December—one year apart—on the same road. I now travel well under the speed limit on that road whether it’s day or night, much to the chagrin of each and every driver who has had the unfortunate luck of being behind me (it’s a two-lane solid-yellow-center-line road offering very few opportunities to pass). I doubt they’d be flashing their bright lights at me quite as much if they knew they were in Deer Alley; after all, I’m doing it for their own good.

This morning about three miles into my run I found a fawn lying on the grass along the side of the road, the victim of what essentially boils down to a hit and run. The baby deer—maybe a couple months young—was alone, its mother nowhere in sight. I couldn’t help but think the mother was nearby, afraid but still intently watching me to make sure I didn’t disturb her little one. I ran off as quickly as I could: partially because I couldn’t bear to look and partially because I wanted to give the mother the freedom to mourn her loss.

My thoughts began darting all over the place as I ran off. How does a mother deer mourn the loss of a child? How long will she mourn? Does she mourn privately? If not, how does she communicate her loss to her children? To other loved ones? How long will she mourn? Will she ever get over the loss of her child?

Does a deer cry over the death of another deer?

I can tell you first-hand that humans do.

As I told you yesterday: I suck at funerals. Especially when they’re for children.

July 3—Permit Me

There are a variety of reasons Cindy and I moved to Peachtree City, Georgia just over 23 years ago. The lengthy list of ordinances governing the city is certainly not one of them.

Obviously some (most likely many, but I’m trying to make a point here so I’ll stick with ‘some’) of the ordinances are viable. But what I’ve seen hither and yon since living here? Well, it’s best if you judge for yourself:

• We had a sprinkler system installed in our yard. During the course of the installation a random ordinance inspection by the city resulted in Cindy and I being fined $50 for failing to obtain a permit for the sprinkler system that resulted in yet another expense of $50 for the permit.

• The first year I conducted the Peachtree City 50K on the golf cart paths I was notified by the city’s Recreation Department that in the future I would need a permit to conduct such an event. When I asked what the difference was between what I was doing and what the local running club did every Saturday morning for their 6.2-mile club run, the answer was ‘nothing.’ When I asked ‘well, why don’t they need a permit?’ I was told ‘good question.’ I never got a ‘good answer’ but I do get a permit every year. You know, just to cover my a** in case they chose to disregard my ‘good question’ that still remains unanswered.

• A few years back some friends of mine wanted to sell their house but first wanted to clear out some overgrown shrubbery and kudzu behind their house, as it was obstructing the ‘view of the lake’ they had fallen in love with when they originally bought the house. All they wanted to do was provide any potential new owners with the same magnificent view that had caught their attention years ago. So one weekend (actually it took four days; I just happened to be on vacation at the time and didn’t have a whole lot going on) my son Josh and I helped our friends remove and haul three 40-foot truckloads of view obstruction to the county landfill. When we finished, the original view of the lake had been restored; the house sold soon thereafter. You know what else was ‘soon thereafter?’ A $2,000 fine for unlawful removal of city property (maybe not the exact wording on the fine, but pretty darn close). My friends appealed the fine in court, basically using the narrative in this paragraph as their defense; however the court/judge/King of Peachtree City (I can’t say for sure as I wasn’t there) upheld the fine.

• Every November when I put on my 50K race I mark all the turns on the 5.2-mile route by painting arrows on the paths with spray chalk. Spray. CHALK. A few years ago I marked the course the week before the race on a Saturday and the next day I ran the course to see how the arrows looked, only to find that someone had gone behind me and painted OVER my yellow arrows with black paint. Next to one of the spots where an arrow used to be was a small sign on a stake. It read (I know exactly what it said because the sign is now in my running club shed next to my shelf of spray chalk and I’m looking at it as I’m typing):

Painting on golf cart paths is not permitted.

Peachtree City Municipal code section 50-16

• Every 4th of July the city holds a parade that follows a route along Peachtree Parkway beginning on the north side of town and finishing on the south side. Over the years it’s become customary for residents to ‘stake out’ their spot along the parade route by placing blankets, sheets of plastic, folding chairs or other distinguishing objects in the grass alongside the Parkway in advance. At first they would do it on July 3rd. Then July 2nd. Last year I’m pretty sure I saw some blankets as early as Flag Day. But this year there were large signs plastered all over Peachtree Parkway a few days ago:

!!! NOTICE !!!

ADVANCE RESERVING of space for the 4th of JULY prohibited.

No stakes, tents, barricades, or canopies allowed.

No unattended vehicles, golf carts, or personal items allowed.

Tarps and blankets ONLY may be placed beginning after DAWN on JULY 4.

Illegally placed items can be REMOVED AS TRASH.

PEACHTREE CITY CODE:

Sec. 54-14 & Sec. 70-3

Adopted June 6, 2013

I was really looking to see how many ‘illegally placed items’ I would find tomorrow morning as I drove up Peachtree Parkway around 5 a.m. (before DAWN on JULY 4) on my way to the Peachtree Road Race. That was until the city announced today that all 4th of July festivities were being postponed due to the ‘100% chance of rain’ in the forecast for tomorrow. Maybe next year.

As I said from the very beginning there are a lot of ordinances in Peachtree City. By definition there are two things I’ve noticed in the past 23 years that in all fairness should be covered by the ordinances but apparently aren’t. I know this to be true because the list of ordinances also lists what isn’t covered by the list of ordinances (not kidding here). Specifically I’m referring to:

• The hideous little pink house (John Cougar Mellencamp be damned) I pass by every time I run the Peachtree City 15K course. I can’t decide if the color is more blinding or frightening. Hell, it’s both!

• The homeowner who regularly parks his/her RV on the curb in front of their home… for weeks at a time. That monstrosity blocks the view of traffic and one day will cause a serious accident. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I also notice ‘trimming of shrubbery’ is not considered a code violation. Gee, I wonder if it’s not too late for my friends to get their $2,000 back? What say ye, court/judge/King of Peachtree City?

July 4—Independence Daze

It’s the 4th of July in Atlanta. For most people that means grilling out with family and friends, carving up a watermelon and watching fireworks at the end of the day. However for me that means getting up before the crack of dawn and heading to the north side of Atlanta to run in the largest 10-kilometer race in the country, the Peachtree Road Race.

I moved to Atlanta in June of 1979. One month later I ran my first Peachtree. Today I ran my 35th. If you did the math correctly (I’m certain most of you did, but in case you attended the University of Georgia…) you correctly determined I have run 35 consecutive Peachtree Road Races. In other words, I have not had the opportunity to sleep in on America’s birthday since I’ve lived in Atlanta.

There have been a lot of changes in the event since 1979. I thought it might be interesting to do some comparisons between then (1979) and now (2013):

Then: There were 20,000 runners.

Now: There are 60,000 runners.

Then: Finish line in Piedmont Park.

Now: Finish line on 10th Avenue, parallel to Piedmont Park.

Then: Men’s winner was Craig Virgin of the United States.

Now: Men’s winner was Mosinet Geremew of Ethiopia (Note: A Kenyan or an Ethiopian has won the men’s division every year since 2000).

Then: Women’s winner was Heather Carmichael of New Zealand.

Now: Women’s winner was Lineth Chepkurui of Kenya.

Then: Entry fee was $5 (if memory serves) and included a coupon for a free meal at Steak and Ale (that I used without fail each and every year it was offered).

Now: Entry fee was $35 and included a coupon for a free waffle at Waffle House.

Then: I parked (for free) in the Lenox Square parking lot, about 100 yards from the starting line. A public bus returned me to my car after the race. For free.

Now: I parked (for $10) in the parking lot about ½ mile from the finish line. As I’ve done for the past six or seven years, I ran to the starting line before the race began. For free (as if anyone was going to pay me for it).

Then: I started about 30 yards behind the starting line.

Now: I started about 300 yards behind the starting line.*

*Regarding my starting line position over the years:

At one time I was able to qualify as a ‘seeded’ runner at Peachtree. That meant I was assigned to the very first starting corral (with a three-digit race number) and was allowed to warm up on Peachtree Street with the Kenyans and the Ethiopians.

One year for the sake of journalistic investigation I started at the very back of the race (my race number was in the 90,000 range). It took me almost 90 minutes to GET TO THE STARTING LINE! My starting corral was so far back from the starting line that I warmed up by running north on Peachtree Street (instead of the southern direction of the race) and almost ended up in South Carolina.

This year my race number was in the 4,000’s.

Then: I drank mostly water and a little Gatorade during the race.

Now: I drank mostly beer (OK, only beer) during the race. What can I say? Some of the Peachtree Street bars offer it for free; plus it’s always easy to get one from the generous fans enjoying their early morning beer along the course.

Then: I ran the Peachtree Road Race competitively, something I would do all the way through 2003. My primary (and perhaps only) goal was to run faster than 38:15. Anything slower than that would result in depression and a lot of what I referred to as ‘punishment runs.’

Now: I ran the Peachtree Road Race in search of free beer, something I’ve done every year since 2004. What can I say? Since 2004 I’ve had three goals at Peachtree: (1) Finish. Success. (2) ‘Beat my age in minutes,’ this year my target being 58 minutes as I’m 58 years old. I ran 50 minutes and change. Success!) (3) Drink free beer. Success! No more post-Peachtree depression or punishment runs for me!

Then: The Peachtree T-shirt had the original, traditional large peach on the front.

Now: The Peachtree T-shirt featured yet another unattractive design chosen from an annual competition open to everyone with a pencil, paint brush or crayon.

Then: I was younger and faster.

Now: I am older and slower.

Then: I thought to myself after the race: ‘I might run this again next year.’

Now: I thought to myself: ‘Just 15 more and I’ll make it to my goal of 50 consecutive Peachtree’s.’

Then: The race was hilly, hot and humid.

Now: The race was hilly, hot and humid. Some things in Atlanta never change.

Especially in July.

Postscript: There was added security at the race this year, a direct reflection of what transpired at the Boston Marathon a little over two months ago. Other than the fact there was a much more noticeable police presence this year, there didn’t seem to be the least bit of apprehension amongst the runners. The 4th of July is truly America’s holiday.

July 5—Compelling Reasons

Two days ago—on the eve of the Peachtree Road Race I posted the following on Facebook:

If anyone can give me a really, really compelling reason why I should give you my Peachtree Road Race T-shirt, it’s yours!!

The rules:

1. I am the sole judge of this contest.

2. Entries must be submitted by 4:30 a.m. tomorrow morning (EST) via Facebook (Note: This is the time I would be leaving my house to run the race and I wanted to think about the entries while I ran.)

3. Winner must provide me a mailing address (or come by my house to get the shirt… or find me at the finish line… or send a carrier pigeon to locate me (winner’s choice).

4. I will use your winning entry in a future book I’m writing (Note: This one!).

5. Winner must be satisfied with an extra large shirt.

So once I got back from the race yesterday I looked over the entries from what I considered to be the leading contenders. Here they are in no particular order:

• Alan, who submitted a photo of a gun with a dog held to its head with the caption ‘If you don’t I’ll shoot this dog.’ (Note: Most everyone who knows me knows how much I love animals, but I still found this entry funny if not for the sheer absurdity of it.)

• Ronnie, whose reason was he ‘works 96 hours a week to provide for my family and could use an awesome T-shirt (Sorry, Ronnie—I had to disqualify you for calling it an ‘awesome’ shirt. My sister’s post on Facebook says it all: ‘Is this the shirt that gets uglier every year?’ Yes. Yes it does, and it did so again.).

• Jeff, who wanted the shirt ‘to prevent Gordon Cherr from running shirtless—don’t make me provide pictures!’ However, photographs of a shirtless Gordon have (easy now) ‘graced’ the pages of the Darkside Running Club newsletter on more than one occasion. At this point it’s impossible for my eyeballs to burn any more than they already have. No shirt for you, Jeff—you’re a little late to the party, but I do like your thinking.

• Eric, who says he’s never run Peachtree and probably never will but wanted to wear it so someone could say to him ‘Boy it sure was wet that year’ and he would reply ‘What are you talking about?’ Eric predicated his entry on the weather forecast for race day that called for a ‘100% chance of rain.’ Guess what? It didn’t. Sorry, Eric: no shirt for you since your imaginary scenario never played out. You should know better than counting on the weather gurus being right.

• Mark, because when he runs through his neighborhood people always shout ‘Please! Put a shirt on! We’re trying to eat over here!’ He thinks his neighbors would appreciate him wearing a shirt. I think his neighbors should be grateful Mark and not Gordon lives there. Mark—you might want to make a trip to Target and pick up a little something to hide that appetite suppressant torso of yours (consider me the voice of experience).

• Leslie, who was trying to think of something clever along the lines of ‘a wet T-shirt contest.’ Sorry Leslie—not even close (see Eric’s storyline above).

• Francis, who ‘only got to run one Peachtree back in 1976’ when he was stationed at Fort McClellan, Alabama. Since you ran Peachtree three years before I ran my first one, no T-shirt for you, Francis!

• Beth, who submits that ‘I’m you’re number one fan and you’re my number one fan.’ Tough to argue with that one, Beth, but in all honesty one day you’re going to have a whole lot more T-shirts than I ever dreamed of having. (See, I really am your number one fan!)

• Melissa, with the shortest, sweetest and undoubtedly oddest entry: ‘I love you.’ Moving on.

• JoEllen, who wants to give the T-shirt to her daughter ‘whom I am making run this summer in hopes it will ‘take’ and when she is wearing it I will tell her: remember the running stories I told you about the guy I used to work with? He’s the one who gave you that shirt. If he can run more than 130,000 miles in his life you can run three today!’

Not that I needed help deciding on the most compelling reason, I had some anyway:

• Sheryl: ‘I vote for Jo’s daughter! You could have a hand in creating a lifelong runner!’

• Ryan and Felicia: ‘I vote for JoEllen. If a shirt can inspire a girl to take up the sport that is a part of our lives and possibly change hers… that is a noble and compelling reason.’

Sheryl, Ryan and Felicia—I couldn’t agree more. Those sentiments pretty much echo what I’ve been preaching since I ran my first Peachtree Road Race way back in 1979.

Therefore, JoEllen’s daughter will be getting this year’s Peachtree Road Race T-shirt. My challenge to her is that she stick with running and earn the Peachtree T-shirt on her own in 2014!

I feel honored to be able to say I’ve run the Peachtree Road Race 35 consecutive times over the course of five different decades. One day I hope to make those numbers 50 and six, respectively.

When that day comes I just might keep the T-shirt for myself. After all, I still have that very first one from 1979.

July 6—New is not always Better

I saw a large billboard in Atlanta two mornings ago as I was running to the start of the Peachtree Road Race. It was promoting Heineken’s brand new bottle, as if that would suddenly make you believe their beer didn’t taste like shit. Sorry, fellas: This is Atlanta, the home of Coca-Cola. You have heard of New Coke, I assume?

But you’re not the only one trying to put one over on the general public, Heineken.

Colonel, do you really think you can get away with disguising your fried chicken by dropping 17 letters from the name of your restaurants and simply calling them KFC? (True fact #1: The first Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant was in Utah. True fact #2: Their chicken is still fried.)

JC Penney, I realize you’re in financial straits but promoting yourself via the less-recognizable JCP? If your marketing ploy were a person, it would be asexual. I do believe James Cash is rolling over in his grave right about now.

Seriously, whenever I hear ‘new and improved’ it makes me wonder what was wrong with the product that made it need to be new and improved. You know, back when I paid good money for them… and before they were either new and/or improved. Should I be concerned? Worried? Waiting for the flaw or imperfection to surface that needed to be either new or improved?

Some companies are always looking for the next ‘best thing.’ Sony’s Betamax comes immediately to mind; so do eight-track players. Here’s one you may have forgotten: McDonald’s Arch Deluxe. You may have washed it down with a Crystal Pepsi. Doubtful though, as neither stuck around for very long.

Another new gimmick: less is more. Case in point: Breyer’s ice cream. At one time it was sold in half-gallon containers for (let’s say) $4.00. Then I noticed the price dropped to (let’s say) $3.50. Such a deal, right? WRONG! The size of the container is now 1 ½ quarts, 75% of the former half-gallon size.*

*(If this is news to you, you’re welcome.

If you’re the CEO of Breyer’s and this book makes the New York Times Bestseller List: sorry.)

Where am I going with all this? I’m not really sure. I guess I’m still fuming over that insipid Heineken billboard. The nerve of them thinking a new bottle will draw you to their product. Next thing you know they’ll be selling beer in aluminum bottles… as if there could be such a thing.

Here’s a marketing slogan for you, Heineken:

Heineken Beer: Distinctively Insipid.

Feel free to use it. In fact I insist, and you won’t owe me any royalties.

July 7—Who’s got my back?

So I got a call over the weekend from my friend Andy. I met Andy at a 24-hour run almost 11 years ago in Sylvania, Ohio. You might say that’s a pretty unusual place to meet someone for the very first time, especially since he lives only 30 minutes away from me back home in Georgia. But that’s how I came to know my friend Andy: fellow runner, former racecar driver, aspiring pilot, family man… and orthopedic surgeon. One year after we met we crossed paths again in the middle of Death Valley as we were both competing in the 2003 Badwater Ultramarathon (that experience has been well documented in several of my other books). One last thing worth mentioning about Andy: he is originally from Peru. You’ll understand why I even brought it up shortly.

Andy lined me up for an MRI on my lower back a couple weeks ago. I have been battling numbness in my right leg for almost three years. The pain was diagnosed several years ago by an MRI revealing a slightly bulging disk in my lower back, ultimately leading to the leg problems. Two series of spinal injections helped reduce the back pain, but for the last couple of years the numbness has been taking quite a toll on me, causing other parts of my body to do more than their fair share of the work to compensate for the deficiencies of my right leg.

Andy speaks with a strong Peruvian accent, so it’s difficult for me to understand every single word he says in person… let alone over the telephone. Always with an upbeat, energetic delivery he could be telling me I needed to have my leg amputated as easily as he would recommending a shot of cortisone. To say I need to give Andy my full attention when he is giving me medical advice would be like warning the grim reaper that if he’s not careful he could take someone’s eye out with his sickle. So obviously Andy had my full attention.

Not that it made much of a difference. Andy rattled off the lengthy names of two procedures (they sounded like Latin) he felt were appropriate (I’m taking artistic license and assuming some of the things I’m saying today are fact) for ‘Scott the patient’ and not necessarily for ‘Scott the runner.’ (Note: Andy knows how much running every day means to me and since I’ve known him he has never recommended or done any medical procedure on me that would impose on my daily run, so yes—there is a definite difference between addressing me as the ‘patient’ or the ‘runner’). The surgery he recommended came with two caveats: (1) After the surgery I would be out of work for 10 days, and (2) I wouldn’t be able to run for four weeks. In other words, my streak of running every day since November 30, 1978 would be over.

As I still want a second (and perhaps third, fourth and maybe even fifth) opinion I am having a neurosurgeon review my MRI as well. In the meantime I asked Andy to send me the names of the two surgeries so I could study them and make an informed decision of what I want to do. Besides, as far as I know one (or both) of the surgeries may call for the removal of my numb right leg.

I spoke to my admin today. She had surgery on her spine back in April after making a challenging, difficult life-altering decision. The doctors put two titanium rods and 10 screws in her back in a surgery they felt necessary to keep her from becoming paralyzed within the next 18 months. She showed a lot of courage in the weeks and days leading up to the surgery and has made an amazing recovery after having it done. She will be returning to work in the next couple of weeks. I thought about her as I went to sleep last night: how frightening the thought of spinal surgery must have been, how brave she was to go through with it and how strong she has been during the course of her recovery.

I hope—if I ultimately have to make a similar decision—I can be like her and make the right one.

Whatever that might mean.

July 8—Thumbs Up

Roger Ebert passed away one week ago today. I grew up watching Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel reviewing movies on the Public Broadcasting System’s weekly show Sneak Previews (back in those days PBS was the equivalent of a cable channel). Their rating system was simple, as each movie warranted either a simple ‘thumbs up’ or ‘thumbs down.’ I didn’t always agree with their ratings, but then again what do I know about being a film critic? Then again, I didn’t find Synecdoche, New York to be the best film of 2008 as Ebert suggests. (Then again, I never even heard of the film until Ebert mentioned it.)

As a tribute to both Ebert and Siskel (who passed away in 1999) I thought I would suggest a cinematic Top Ten in their honor. Not the Top Ten Films, however. Nor the Top Ten Actors or Actresses or Directors, either.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present my Top Ten Carnal Moments in Films with an ‘R’ Rating:

# 10—(Tie) Jennifer Beals straddling a chair on stage while being doused with water and later eating lobster and playing footsies with Michael Nouri in Flashdance.

# 9—Rachel Ward in a white skirt standing over Burt Reynolds in an elevator in Sharky’s Machine.

# 8—Jamie Lee Curtis dancing in the bedroom for Arnold Schwarzenegger in True Lives.

# 7—Jennifer O’Neill standing on a chair in the kitchen in front of Gary Grimes in Summer of ’42.

# 6—Rebecca DeMornay and Tom Cruise in the house when his parents are away in Risky Business.

# 5—Diane Keaton in every single one of her scenes in Looking for Mr. Goodbar.

# 4—Kim Basinger dancing behind the blinds for Mickey Rourke in 9 ½ Weeks.

# 3—Rachel Ward and Jeff Bridges in the cave in Against All Odds.

# 2—Diane Lane in every single one of her scenes in Unfaithful.

# 1—Ellen Barkin and Al Pacino in the drugstore in Sea of Love.

Gentlemen: If you haven’t seen these films do yourself a favor and give them a look. You can thank me later. Trust me: They all merit a ‘thumbs up.’

Of course my definition of ‘thumbs up’ may not be exactly what Ebert and Siskel had in mind.

I neglected to bring this up on the day it happened, but I was saddened to learn of the death of Annette Funicello two days ago. She was one of the first girls I ever saw in a bikini: The year was 1965 and it was in the film Beach Blanket Bingo. I remember her co-star in the film, Frankie Avalon performing several years ago at the Peachtree City Amphitheater praising her for a variety of things, one being opening the Annette Funicello Fund for Neurological Disorders. As Frankie went on to say that evening, she was truly ‘as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside.’

July 9—Life on the Fat Farm

You’re so fat your driver’s license photo says ‘continued on other side.’

You’re so fat the only thing keeping you from going to the gym is the doorframe.

You’re so fat when you get on an elevator it can only go down.

True confession: I was fat once.

As a 23-year old newlywed I let myself go. From a fairly svelte 165 pounds as a high school senior, in four short years I had become a 194-pound college graduate sporting a nifty 38-inch waistline and almost as many chins as a phone book in China. As you probably surmised by now, a fanatical running regime took care of 45 unwanted pounds and five or six unwanted inches around the waist to the point that I now physically resemble the person I was when I had my learner’s permit.

I had a rather overweight friend tell me once he enjoyed being fat because he never felt guilty sitting on the couch, watching television, eating potato chips and drinking beer.

While I couldn’t find fault with his contention, I did mention I may very well live 20 years longer than him and could still look down while standing and see both of my feet (well, I might not have actually said ‘feet’).

Later I thought about it—and by ‘it’ I mean ‘being fat’—some more and realized I have some serious issues with those who over eat, under exercise but in all likelihood probably a little… or more likely a lot of both. In other words, self-inflicted fat (I realize there are medical conditions that cause obesity, etc. I’m not talking about that). That being said, it’s time for yet another Soap Opera Alert:

• Let’s say I buy a new polo shirt in a large size at Kohl’s (my clothier of choice, by the way) for $30. My couch-potato friend buys the exact same shirt in XXL (double-extra large) for the exact same price. Doesn’t the manufacturer know it takes a butt-load more material to make an XXL shirt than it does a large shirt? Not to mention more time and thread to sew it together? Why isn’t the XXL shirt priced higher? Who’s paying for the ‘extras’ of the XXL for the few who need it? The many of us reasonably sized guys who are paying the same price for the larges, that’s who.

• When Cindy and I flew back from Jamaica there was a 50-pound limit for checked suitcases on the airplane. My suitcase weighed 48 pounds and Cindy’s weighed 54 pounds. The ticketing agent said ‘uh uh’ so we frantically stuffed some of Cindy’s clothing into my suitcase and our carry-on bags until both checked suitcases weighed exactly 50 pounds. Together the two of us weight about 300 pounds. So our luggage (50 pounds X two bags) and us (300 pounds) total 400 pounds. After our ordeal at the check-in counter the man behind me checks in his suitcase and it weighs 45 pounds. That’s fine, except that as far as I can tell THE MAN WEIGHS ABOUT FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY POUNDS!!! So this fat, fat man and his suitcase weigh in the ballpark of 500 pounds while the two of us with our luggage weigh 400 pounds. Us = two plane tickets and 400 pounds. Fat guy = one plane ticket and 495 pounds. What. The. Hell. Who’s getting the shaft here? The under eat/over exercise contingent, that’s who.

• When Cindy and I had season tickets to Florida Gator football games we paid a little extra to have seat backs and cushions. We paid extra for several reasons: (1) the seating at the stadium is comprised of long aluminum benches with the tiniest of seating space marked on the aluminum; (2) when everyone stands during the game it is always best to sit back down first so you have ample space to park your butt; (3) the seat backs and cushions essentially reserved your butt space; and (4) at this stage in life Cindy and I need all the butt and back support we can find. But quite honestly it’s primarily reasons 1, 2 and 3, especially since for the most part the other Gator fans in our row have more than their fair share of maximus gluteus. I feel sorry for anyone without a seat back and cushion who sits next to anyone wearing a XXL Gator jersey.

In other words, if I paid for the seat I don’t want part of your a** in it! And while I’m on the subject, from what I can tell what I pay for health insurance is no different from what an obese person pays for the same coverage. The way I figure it I’m much less likely to need medical care than the obese person, so basically part of my premium is being used to help defray the expense to insure the obese person.

That’s enough ranting for now; I’m starting to work up a sweat. I’ll close with this sentiment:

You’re so fat you have to buy two plane tickets.

That wasn’t intended as a joke.

Getting back to my medical quandary, Andy sent me the names of the two surgeries today:

Percutaneous micro discectomy

Mini open hemi laminectomy discectomy

And all this time I thought those were the scientific names of dinosaurs. Anyway Andy recommends the second option. I scheduled an appointment with a neurosurgeon, but it won’t be until August 26. Until then I’ve got a lot of things to consider. Hopefully my back can hold up for another seven weeks.

July 10, 2002—Chance Encounter

Tomorrow night I will be doing a book signing for A Few Degrees from Hell at the Barnes and Noble on Peachtree Road in downtown Atlanta. Ginger, my Marketing/PR representative made the arrangements several weeks ago. While it’s too late to think about it now, I can’t help but wonder ‘what might have been’ if the event could have been publicized in conjunction with last week’s Peachtree Road Race, especially since the store is located near the 1 ½ mile mark of the Peachtree course… and also because the race had 60,000 runners!

I was having a little difficulty focusing on what I wanted to say at the signing. I was asked to speak for 15 minutes and then allow 15 minutes for questions, the final 90 minutes being left open to sign books. That makes me wonder how long they’re thinking it takes me to sign my name, since I was told by the store manager they will (only) have 40 copies available for sale.

I spoke with Karen, the store’s creative consultant yesterday and she told me she briefed her staff about what my book was about. When she told them Badwater was a 135-mile footrace through Death Valley and over three mountain ranges, their only question was ‘why?’

Perfect! ‘Why’ it is!

With that in mind, here’s the first draft of what I intend to say tomorrow night to a crowd of (somewhere between one—because I know Cindy is coming and) up to 100 or more:

The Badwater Ultramarathon is a 135-mile invitational running race starting in Badwater in Death Valley (elevation 280 feet below sea level) and finishing at the Whitney Portals on Mount Whitney (elevation 8,360 feet). The course runs through Death Valley—where runners could face temperatures reaching 130 degrees—and over three mountain ranges with a finish on the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. Badwater is recognized as ‘the toughest footrace on the planet.’

So why would anyone want to do it? More specifically, why would I want to do it?

I’ve always enjoyed running on roads. In time I learned I enjoyed running really long distances on roads. When I first moved to Atlanta in 1979 it was one year after Stan Cottrell had run 405 across the state of Georgia in five days. I ran my first 50-miler at Stone Mountain (on asphalt) in 1982 and six years after that I ran 101 miles at a 24-hour event in Atlanta. My first attempt at a ‘Stan Cottrell Moment’ was in the fall of 1982 when I decided to try to be the first person to run across Georgia from west to east (Cottrell had run from north to south), starting in Phenix City, Alabama and finishing in Savannah, Georgia, a distance of 280 miles (primarily on Highway 280, coincidentally). After a failed attempt after 159 miles I gave it another shot 10 years later. In 1992, I was able to make amends and completed the entire distance in a little over six days.

On Father’s Day in 2002 Cindy gave me a copy of the film Running on the Sun, a documentary of the 1999 Badwater Ultramarathon. I remember vividly seeing it for the first time and—with the exception of the runners who had to be given fluids intravenously—realized I had put myself in every single distressful situation shown in the film. Besides, what really drew my interest to the race was that the entire distance was run on asphalt, my preferred running service. At the end of the movie I said loud enough (for Cindy to hear, because she was the only one in the house with less than four legs) ‘I’m doing it.’ Equally as loud she said ‘Oh, no you’re not!’

So I immediately wrote to the Race Director and asked if my 101 miles in a 24-hour event met the Badwater requirement of completing at least one 100-mile run. His reply: ‘Check the website.’ I figured out it would qualify