I’ve noticed a certain online phenomenon which seems to be on the rise along with the afternoon’s triple digit mercury: temperature taunting.

Temperature taunting occurs when friends in more moderate summer climes such as Seattle, New Hampshire, Michigan or Malibu post some ironic and sarcastic taunt on their blogs, Facebook or Twitter pages about how “godawful” their high-70s/low 80s/low humidity weather is and “However are we going to survive this heat wave?” or some such nonsense. If it were football season (and yes, Roll Tide, our boys reported for practice yesterday), these so-called “friends” would be flagged for a 15 yard penalty and loss of down.

I can think of several two-word retorts in reply to such contemptuous and gratuitous provocations, none of which I can publish here since this is a PG-13 blog (most of the time). But suffice it to say, we Southerners accept, even embrace, being slowly roasted like overcooked beef left too long in a crock pot.  It toughens us up and tempers our souls, burnishing us into a lively and colorful people who serve as rich grist for gritty, gothic stories that become instant New York Times bestsellers. Yankees may not wish to get drunk, sweat, shack-up, make love, marry, divorce, murder and remarry–all the while praying fervently to Jesus–at the same rate as we Southerners, but they do seem to enjoy lining up and paying big bucks to read all about it.

As our young men don their pads and helmets, an older man rolls up the sleeves of his white, long sleeve, pinpoint cotton dress shirt and loosens his skinny black tie at the end of his work day. From time to time, he has glanced out his window and watched the Hispanic landscape workers, their sinewy, well-muscled arms quivering from the violent rattle of mowers and gas-powered trimmers. Occasionally, they reach up and wipe the beads of summer sweat that glisten like small diamonds on their brows and merge into rivulets of rain that run down the creases of their leathery, brown jaws. They never seem to grimace or complain, and he admires their strength and endurance in the face of such hard labor. He reaches up and wipes his fingers across his own brow, finding it to be clean and dry like usual. He wonders if all the doctoring he does in the air-conditioned comfort of his office can truly be considered an “honest day’s work.”

He stands at the back door to the parking lot and hesitates to cross the threshold, knowing full well that when he turns the handle and tugs it will be like dipping his head into a steaming hot tub and drawing a deep breath; the first inhalation of liquid hot air will fill and sear his lungs, nearly drowning him. With a sigh of resignation, he steps into the sultry sauna, head bowed and braced against the brow-beating sun, and scurries quickly across the sizzling asphalt toward his car. It occurs to him during this short walk that perhaps his so-called life is a mere cosmic prank, that he is not really a rational, upright man, but instead a lowly, crawling ant fleeing the intense scrutiny of a mischievous 12-year-old boy with a very large magnifying glass. He parked in the long, morning shade of a large building, but the shadows have long since burned away, and despite leaving the windows and sunroof cracked, the car’s interior is a broiling inferno. The tan, leather upholstery is sun-baked, cracked like a parched desert floor in several places from years of exposure, and he wishes he could roll back the clock to 2002 and opt for the much-cooler cloth.

He sits on the hot seat just long enough to turn the ignition key. After he starts the AC, he steps back outside as the first wave of cooler air begins to push and disperse the heated gas through the open door and windows. A minute or so passes, and he sits back down, feeling the burning leather hermetically seal his back against the bucket seat, and quickly closes the windows and door to trap the cooling atmosphere for the drive home.  Off he goes, turning the car by gingerly touching the scalding, tightly-stretched leather of the steering wheel with the tips of his fingers, hoping it will cool off soon so he can grab onto it like he’s supposed to.

Once home, he parks in the garage and quickly closes the door. He slowly peels his sweat-soaked back from the seat and enters the house. The 25-year-old air conditioning unit is struggling to keep up, but it is still soothingly cool inside. You would think after surviving the drive home that he would quickly strip to his shorts and put on a fresh, white t-shirt, pour himself a cool drink, sit back in his recliner with the remote and call it a day.

But no, our man is not done yet. [...]

I had a very smart man, a rocket scientist in fact (we have a few in Huntsville), tell me recently that America was going to hell in a hand basket. He didn’t say it quite that way because a respectable Christian, Southern gentleman would never drop the “H” bomb in front of the ladies unless he was reading it out of the Bible. But that was the basic gist of it.

He said a lot of things, that we had strayed from the intent of the Founding Fathers to establish a “Christian Nation,” that widespread belief in evolution was the root of much of society’s evil and ills, including increasing teenage suicide rates, and that really things had grown much worse since prayer was banned in public schools.

He kept repeating how we as a citizenry have elected fools and put them in charge. He didn’t name names, but it was pretty clear whom he considered The Biggest Fool of All. He said we all really needed to “take back our country for God” before it was too late. It sounded a little like he was a recruiter for an army of some sort; the only thing missing was sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves.

Obviously, there was a lot of information and nuance that fell through the cracks. The spaces between the lines of his 32-pt Arial font were big enough to drive a Mack truck through, and I would have been happy to per her in overdrive and gone pedal-to-the-metal had he granted an opportunity for a little Q & A, but he didn’t.

In the end, there was a mixture of applause, some merely polite, some enthusiastic. I suspect most there generally agreed with the majority of his points, while a smaller number recognized his slick presentation for what it was: fear-mongering demagoguery.

But because it was fear-mongering demagoguery for a Good Cause (in the name of Jesus,) he received a free pass. And then the audience rose, shedding his ominous PowerPoints like water from a duck’s back, and grappled with the more pressing Question of the Hour: Chili’s or Logan’s Roadhouse for lunch?

Had I been able to ask questions, I might have mentioned all the biology professors at various Christian colleges and universities, including my own alma mater (Hail to thee!), who somehow manage to hold on to both faith and science and quietly encourage their students to do the same and have for decades (you have to do it quietly lest some large donor fret too much and withdraw his money in a huff).

I might have asked that if evolution, and not love of money, really is the root of all evil, then why don’t we get busy and use whatever means necessary to flush out some of those troublesome, suicide-assisting biology professors from our schools and fire them? Seems to me that if you’re going to take back America for God, a good place to start would be by cleaning your own house.

I think that I might have also pointed out that I’m too busy to join God’s merry little band of stormtroopers. Most days it’s all I can do to get up, go to work, provide decent eye care to my patients while affirming their humanity and honoring the Imago Dei in their wrinkled, grizzled faces, exercise, do right by my family (and even then, the people I love most get shortchanged), pay my bills on time, and try to generally be a decent human being.

That effort alone exhausts me. Usually by the end of the day I barely have energy left to operate a remote control, and even if I try to do the right thing and read instead, my lids grow heavy after 5 minutes, and faster than you can say “Mr. Sandman,” I’m off to La-La Land.

And you want me to spend even more mental, physical and spiritual capital by signing up to fight a Culture War? Isn’t it enough to just try to sew a few seeds of righteousness on the small patch of earth I’m fated to walk across every day? Isn’t loving my neighbor as myself and–egads!–my enemies to boot a tall enough order to keep every fiber of my being occupied?

Hmmm. Let me get back with you on that–right after my evening nap. [...]

Dear Tim,

I don’t usually talk to dead people, but the special circumstances of your untimely death call for unusual tactics. You see, it’s very important for people to know the story I’m going to tell because I think it gives a capsule insight into who you were.

Or are. My apologies; I really don’t know what to say, because I really don’t really know what lies beyond that murky river. I guess that’s why they call it faith. I hope it’s all true, but I can’t prove it. For all I know, you could be sleeping soundly. If so, you can read this when you wake up.

First let me say this: I’m so sorry that this happened. I know you would have never chosen this and would have done anything within your power to prevent it. Runners aren’t supposed to die, at least not at 31. They’re supposed to keep on well into their 80s and become shirtless, wrinkled, leathery geezers who shuffle up and down Bailey Cove on a soupy, crock pot summer morning. But they say your heart was too large for its own good. Mine is bigger than normal, too. Supposedly my arteries are clear and my echo normal, but I still think about it anytime I feel the slightest twinge or ache in my left arm.

We all know they’re coming: Death and all his friends, bastards every one of them. But I’m resolved after watching the way that you lived–and what you did for my sons–that they will not get the last word. [...]

Saturday dawned, cool and crisp, autumn having finally made its official appearance in these Southernmost parts. Here summer begrudgingly lingers, sending forth its last waves of punishing heat even as the leaves suddenly turn brown (and only rarely yellow or red) and begin their free-fall toward the welcoming ground. Young and old alike consider this disorderly sequence, and the many dark, discouraging signs that surround us in these trying times, and we long for that first refreshing blast of cool. It perks us up. It gives us hope.

Among the pleasures of the past two days was the chance to sit on the banks of the Tennessee River and watch Number One and his University of Alabama teammates compete in their first regatta of the season. Several schools were there–LSU, Sewanee, Alabama and Auburn. Since the Barner crew was seated next to us, I turned up the volume on my radio a bit as Nick Saban inserted 365 lb. defensive lineman Terrence Cody into the game at fullback, where he proceeded to collapse the entire right side of the Ole Miss line in advance of Mark Ingram’s march into the end zone. They looked the other way and pretended to ignore my little taunt, but I know they were listening.

Number One’s boat did well for a new crew on their first cruise, slicing through the sun-dappled water with relative ease and efficiency. They were pleasantly tired as they hauled their boat out of the water moments later, but pleased with their first-time effort. Time and place were mere secondary concerns. What really mattered was the elemental pleasure of being on the water on such a glorious day, the camaraderie and the fellowship, the exulting in the vigor of youth while the time was ripe, before the days come when rowing against the stream is no longer some kind of metaphor, but instead a gritty and somber reality which dogs you every step of the way.

Well all that, and the score. “What is it?” they demanded as they lifted their boat out of the water and made a beeline toward the nearest radio.

Early Sunday, I met up with my own crew for our weekly long run. I’ve been struggling lately, feeling very tired and achy during and after my runs, and frankly I’ve been discouraged and wondering how much longer I can keep this up. But yesterday was a new day, and considerably cooler, and as I reached for my gloves, long-sleeve shirt (and yes, new shoes!), I bucked up a little and dared to dream of a pain-free run.

I settled in quickly, bobbing along like a rhythmic metronome, my running mates and I hashing out all manner of middle-age concerns, letting go, releasing our cumulative stresses and strains into the crisp morning air where they commingled with the diaphanous vapors and floated away.

My friends are all better runners than I am, several of them rugged, experienced triathletes, and they’re used to me lagging a little, to looking back, slowing down (Is he still there? Should we go back for him? Do you think he’s okay?) and waiting for me. But not yesterday. I kept the pace and at times even set it. “Nice run, Mike,” one called out. “What’s gotten into you?” asked another.

As we topped a hill near the end of our 7-miler, the rising sun hit us like a spotlight, warming our old, chilled bones, causing us to squint and lower our heads in homage. We passed a street where a family recently struck by tragedy lived, a house where a young mother was probably up at that early hour, grieving for her husband and wondering how she and her four young children were going to make their way in this life without him.

The sparkling dew was diamond dust to those of us who were alive and warmed by the rising sun. But for the widow, and for so many others, it was the thousands of tears shed and the thousands more to come.

I finished that run light as a feather but with the weight of the world on my shoulders. What do you do in the face of so much light and dark? How do you deal with the despair that lurks around every corner and down every street?

You face it all and offer up a thankful prayer for being alive. You take the day gently and humbly in your hands and treat it like rare and fragile glass. You push back a little. You row, run–whatever–against the stream.

That’s how fast a group of physicists have calculated Usain Bolt would have run in the recent Olympic 100-meter final had he not started celebrating and thumping his chest with 20 meters to go (he still ran 9.69, a new world record).

I don’t know about that, there are a lot of assumptions there as the article points out, but if he really would have ran 9.55 I’d bet that would surely eclipse the longevity of Bob Beamons’ 29 ft. 2.5 inch mark in the long jump which stood from 1968 to 1991.

Bottom line, whatever it is that you’re doing, people, run through the tape. Always, run through the tape.

Sorry. I had to use that one because “lightning strikes twice” was already taken–about a gazillion times.

And this time he even ran through the tape (somebody probably gave him a talking to after the 100-meter showboating).

Yeah, he’s cocky, but mon, can he ever back it up! I like him, and I’m not going to jump on the old fogey bandwagon and start dumping on him. He’s young, on the biggest stage in the world, and he’s totally in charge. The other runners don’t seem put off by his antics at all, but instead seem to like him and enjoy being seen on the same stage with him.

I know my “old school” father-in-law, who ran the 400 for the University of Iowa “back in the day,” is pointing toward all the Zeus-posing as yet another sign of the decline of Western Civilization.

I say leave him alone–he spiced things up and made it interesting. It’s good for the sport, which has suffered a major decline in interest (and increase in doping scandals) over the last few years (man, he’d better be clean).

What can he possibly do to top this? How about coming back to London in 2012 and doing it again, plus the 400 meters.

Hey mon, don’t put it past him.

UPDATE: Old Fogey Alert!!

Ah yes, the ol’ missing first paragraph is back:

My Olympic dream died sometime around 1978. The reality was that I could barely crack the top 10 of an average high school cross country race, so there was little hope of me ever mounting the winner’s platform and hearing “The Star-Spangled Banner” in my lifetime.

And here’s the rest.

BONUS:
Here’s some footage of me running the last lap in that charity fundraiser at Harding University in 1983.

And here I am today with my Sunday morning running buddies, “Team Wannabe” (that’s actual speed, not slow-mo).

Old Olympic dreams never die–they just go slower.

For Jim Ryun, his Olympic dream of winning a gold medal went unfulfilled. He failed to qualify for the 1500 meter final in 1964 (he was still in high school, though) and then finished second to Kip Keino in the high altitude air at Mexico City in 1968.

But the most bitter disappointment came in 1972 when he was tripped by another runner in a qualifying heat. Although the judges ruled that he was fouled, the International Olympic Committee (IOC), for reasons still not understood, didn’t reinstate him. Dream over.

Still, an Olympic Silver Medal, a world record in the mile and a high school mile record (3:55.3) set in 1965 that stood for 36 years–not too shabby if you ask me.

I’d take it. All I got was a trophy from Ol’ Earl.

Ryun went to The University of Kansas, ran in the Olympics and won a medal, went on to a successful career in business and eventually became a U.S. Congressman.

I went to Hardly Harding University, ran the race of my life in a fundraiser event on the school track in front of the lovely ladies of Sigma Phi Mu and became an obscure optometrist in a small Southern city.

Are you picking up on a pattern here?

Eventually, though, our paths would cross. Years later, after the boys were born, I spied a picture of Ryun setting his high school mile record in a runner’s magazine.

Inspired, I dropped him a short note at his House of Representatives address telling him how he had been my running role model and that I showed that particular picture to my young sons as an example of what it was like to “give one’s all” on the athletic field or in any life endeavor.

I know–gag. It was a real groupie thing to do, but I didn’t ask for a thing. Honest. But needless to say, I was thrilled when this arrived in an official looking government envelope a few weeks later:

That picture hangs on the wall of my office to this day.

But that wasn’t the end of it. A few years ago, Ryun spoke at Hardly Harding, and I drove over to Scarcely Searcy to hear and meet my boyhood hero:

That’s him signing his book for me. He’s smiling (or is that a smirk?) at something I’m telling him. To find out what we talked about, check my column in The Huntsville Times this coming Sunday.

My Olympic dream dead? Not so fast!

Okay, so I didn’t really look like Jim Ryun, even though I tried to, and I sure wasn’t as fast as he was.

What did I look like back in 1978 at the so-called “peak” of my running career? Behold:

The ectomorph in the middle is me. I think I may have weighed 130 lbs back then…sopping wet. The blond Adonis on the right who looks like he should be giving massages to rich, middle-aged women at Club Med is Lindsey. Coach Earl “Dude, where’s my car?” F. is on the left.

Now before all you ladies go getting too worked up over Lindsey, I should point out that he never beat me in a race, and we all know how important that is later in life. Like good looks are going to get you anywhere–ha! Besides, all that muscle can really weigh you down around mile-3 anyway.

It’s amazing how fast you can get when you’re that skinny. I was fast, but alas, not the fastest. But I still enjoyed putting on my Nike Waffle racers and blasting pell-mell through the woods with 50 or so other dudes, especially if there were several creeks to cross. What a rush.

A word about ol’ Earl. He didn’t know a lick about running. He was a biology teacher (a specialist in “botany,” if you will) who was doing the coaching gig for the extra money. He also had a farm where he grew various plants, some legal, some not.

Earl often taught–and coached–in a marijuana-induced haze (hey, it was the ’70s), so much of the actual coaching of the team fell to me and Lindsey. But when the year ended poorly for me, flat on my back in a hospital after major reconstructive thoracic surgery (a long story that I’ve never told but maybe will someday), Earl showed up at my hospital bed with my trophy from the end-of-the-year banquet which I wasn’t able to attend.

I sort of remember seeing him, but I saw a lot of things during those morphine-drip days. But my parents said he placed my trophy on the bedside table and sat silently, with his head bowed, not speaking a word for a good 15 minutes.

I later learned from those who attended the banquet that he gave me a nice tribute, recognizing the fact that he couldn’t have coached the team without me.

He was a good man, and I hope he’s doing well.

Some of you have been clamoring for a shot of the proprietor of this joint. Well, here’s a shot of me “back in the day” when my morning workout was truly a run and not just a slog:

I sense some skepticism out there coursing the interwebs and emanating from my computer screen. What’s that you say? Is that really the Eyeguy?

Would I ever pull your leg, kid around, be factitious, yank your chain, or otherwise out and out lie simply for effect?

Yup, you bet I would.

Actually, that’s a very young Jim Ryun working out in the 1960s when he was rising to the top of the distance running world and around the time that he set the world record in the mile run. He was my boyhood hero (did you know that he grew up in the Church of Christ and was recruited heavily by Harding?), and I tried to be just like him.

And I came pretty close too. Oh sure, there were differences, such as his setting the world record in the mile, routinely beating the world’s best runners, running for the Kansas Jayhawks, winning a silver medal in the ’68 Mexico City Olympic Games and becoming a Congressman, but sheez, let’s get picky why don’t we?

How fast was Ryun? He could outrun a Mustang:

Notice the unrestrained small child looking on from the passenger side. Those were the days, weren’t they?

I’ll share some more of my memories of Ryun over the next few days and the curious ways in which our paths ultimately crossed.

In the meantime, here he is in one of his happier moments. Jim McKay has the call.

It’s August in Alabama, and that means triple digit heat indexes all across the state over the next few weeks. It’s sauna city the instant you step out the door, and then just try doing anything. The gurus at Nike haven’t even conceived of wicking fabric that can pump away the gallons of sweat produced on a typical Deep South “dog days of summer” afternoon.

That makes exercise in this stuff particularly tricky. Do I go for a morning run and deal with 90% + humidity and less heat, or do I wait until the evening when there’s typically less humidity but the temperatures often stay in 90s up until the time the sun sets?

I usually go with the morning slog. But that produces it’s own problems as I try to stop sweating after I’m done. That usually takes a ride to work with the AC turned on full blast and Number One complaining (we’ve been carpooling to our respective jobs this summer) about how I’m freezing his skinny little butt off.

But at least my morning slog is not complicated very much by a more insidious respiratory threat–smog.

As this NYT article shows, don’t expect too many world record performances in the distance events of the track and field competition at this year’s Summer Games in Beijing. The air quality there is horrendously bad; so bad, in fact, that US athletes are training in a more relatively smog-free city in the same time zone and not making an appearance in Beijing until the last minute.

Haile Gebrselassie of Ethiopia, the current world record-holder in the marathon and probably the most versatile distance runner of all time, has opted out of this year’s marathon and will compete only in the 10K instead out of health concerns related to his asthma.

I remember walking around in Washington DC and marveling at how large the EPA building was and thinking, geez, what a bloated bureaucracy that one must be.

I have an idea: We could reduce our EPA by 50% and send China the other half–sounds like they could use one.

But enough of that–it’s time for the morning slog. See ya down the road, Homer.

In a few minutes, I’ll lace up my Nike Vomero running shoes (black and gold swoosh for Harding–Hail, alma mater!) and once again hit the pavement for an early morning 5-miler. It’s a habit with roots from the early 1970s, more specifically, the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich, Germany.

I’ve been reminiscing some about that time these past few days as I’ve been writing my next Huntsville Times community column which will appear on August 10th, the opening weekend of the 2008 Beijing Summer Games.

Here’s a sneak preview:

During the 1972 Munich Games, American runners like Jim Ryun, Steve Prefontaine, Dave Wottle and Frank Shorter captured my elementary schoolboy imagination and launched my own much less stellar running career…

…I fashioned a makeshift running singlet by cutting off the sleeves of a white t-shirt and stenciling a crude “U.S.A.” across the front in red and blue magic marker. Soon I was racing an imaginary Kip Keino around my house, and I eventually wore a bare path in my father’s lawn, not as sacred and pristine as the track at the University of Oregon’s legendary Hayward Field, but just as oval…

Intrigued? Check back on August 10th for the rest of the story.

From the opening ceremonies until the Olympic flame was extinguished and the charge given to the world’s athletes to reassemble in Montreal in 1976, the Munich Olympic Games were marked forever in controversy and tragedy.

I’ll be serving up some of my own memories of that time and trying to track down some vintage YouTube footage as well.

It would go even better if we could make it a group project. Where were you in ’72?

To my Gen X and Y readers: Yeah, yeah, I know some of you weren’t even born yet. But you can still talk about your earliest Olympic memories if you like.

The last time I climbed Sharp Top Mountain, one of the two Peaks of Otter in Bedford County, Virginia, was in 1997. That year, I was in training for a marathon and had just run my first 20-miler. The very next day, my “recovery” day, I hiked the strenuous, 1.5 mile trail to the top of Sharp Top as if it were a mere stroll in the park.

A lot has changed in 11 years. This year, I only ran 4 miles and then hiked the very vertical trail to the top of Sharp Top the next day. And while I did feel a little more strain than last time, I’m pleased to report that I made it to the summit with oxygen to spare, passing several huffing and puffing younger men along the way.

At 3875 feet, Sharp Top was once thought to be the tallest peak in Virginia back in the early days. But more recent surveys have found many taller mountains in the Old Dominion (Mt. Rogers, at 5729 feet, is the highest). Still, a piece of stone from Sharp Top wound up in the Washington Monument, designating it as Virginia’s “loftiest peak:”

It was a hazy, 90 degree day, not ideal hiking conditions, but when time is short, you take what you can get. When Numbers 1-3, Cousin Nathan and I started out, we had no idea of the dangers that would be lurking around every corner. Speaking of which, here’s Number One being mauled by one of the locals:

Soon he was joined by his brothers and Cousin Nathan and together they broke all sorts of rules about communing with the wildlife (Hey, hard-core naturalists, don’t blame us; Bambi started it). As you can see, she’s pretty friendly:

Maybe a little too friendly:

Once we summited, Numbers One and Two quickly spotted the most isolated, hard-to-get-to (and dangerous) perch available and spread out to catch a few rays:

Number Three and Cousin Nathan opted for a different rock:

Before descending, the crew paused for a group shot. Round Top, which is actually a few feet taller than Sharp Top believe it or not, is in the background:

On Otter’s summit we made our stand. It may not have been the tallest peak around, but it was tall enough.

You don’t have to be a track and field fan to appreciate this.

Three Oregonians (Eugene residents, no less) sweep the men’s 800m at the trials.

Somewhere, Prefontaine is smiling.

Nick Symmonds’ finishing kick reminds me of another American from the past–Dave Wottle.

Jim McKay (God rest his soul) has the call.

Numbers One, Two and I ran the Cotton Row Memorial Day Run in downtown Huntsville this past Monday. None of us had been running much lately (I’ve had a bad case of “turf toe” since February), so a 5K for fun (and to get the t-shirt) seemed about right. We were running late, so we ended up at the back of the pack at the start.

As we stood there waiting for the gun to go off, we suddenly heard the people around us applauding and cheering. We looked up and saw the very last 10K finisher (it had started nearly 2 hours before) crossing the finish line.

He was a very large African-American man, about 6’4″ and I would guess around 400 lbs, who was “sprinting” for all he was worth. But what really got my attention aside from his heft was his entourage. He was being escorted by five very fit and trim military-looking types who had apparently run the course with them. I have no idea who they were, but my first thought was that they were some kind of medical support crew that race organizers had arranged to have run with him.

I’m all for people losing weight, achieving their goals and getting a fresh start, but the whole scene struck me as a little reckless, especially with all the heat and humidity that morning. But I sincerely hope he uses his finish to go on to even greater things (like a 150 lb weight loss).

When the gun went off, it took us a couple of minutes to weave our way through the mass and really get going. Number One finished first, and then Number Two with me bearing down on him at the finish. We were all pretty slow, but it was fun and satisfying. And there was pizza and ice cream at the finish.

Where was Number Three you ask?

Sleeping in.