Angry Music

Recently certain members of my family who apparently don't love me all that much signed me up to run a marathon.  In their enthusiasm to run, they assumed I would love to run with them.  Wrong!  Nothing could be more wrong!  One day last August, while my children were training  (I didn't actually train very often, but this is fodder for a different post), my daughter Sydney borrowed my I-pod because her battery was dead.   After she returned, she whined about my music selection, and asked, “Dad, what's up with your music?  It's all so angry." I dismissed her complaint as envy--everyone knows that my music is almost entirely classic rock--what's not to like about that?  Well that was my thinking until I experienced something during one of my few training runs last August in the in extreme heat.  As I was struggling through my long run and listening to JB (no, that's not "Justin Bieber"--that would be "James Brown") I started to think that maybe Sydney was correct.  Everything coming up on my playlist was indeed very angry. 
                                   I want Revenge, I want some payback. 
                                   I'm mad.  My patience ends on revenge.
                                   I want some get-back.  I don't know Karate, but I know Caarrrazzzy!
                                   You Mother get ready for the Big Payback!
                                   (James Brown--The Big Payback)

Whoa!  That seemed pretty angry.  I quickly skipped to the next song on my playlist:
                                   I'm gonna warn you just one time.
                                   Next time I warn you, I'm gonna use my gun
                                   I'm mad, like Jessie James
                                   (John Lee Hooker--I'm bad, like Jesse James)

Double whoa! Scary angry music.  Next song up:
                                   Born down in a dead man's town
                                   The first kick I took was when I hit the ground
                                   You end up like a dog that's been beat too much
                                   Till you spend half your life just covering up
                                   (Bruce Springsteen--Born in the USA)

Yep, you guessed it. More angry music.  It went on and on.  I wondered, "Don't I have any happy Pop music on my playlist? Surely, I must have some Britney, or Selena Gomez or something happy to run to."  When I got home I reviewed my playlist and discovered the only Britney song included on my playlist was "Piece of Me" which is probably Britney's worst display of attitude. 

So what's up with my running playlist?  I have thought long and hard about this question.  Is my playlist a subconscious representation of how I feel about running?  Or has listening to angry music negatively influenced my attitude towards running?  Loyal readers of Darrell's Yakimania have frequently lobbied prestigious universities for me to be bequeathed with an honorary degree in psychology because of my insightful ruminations concerning human nature, and in particular my numerous contributions to a greater understanding of the peculiarities of the male psyche.  I am sure that what I discovered is well based in scientific theory.

I hate running because of my life's experiences.  I don't remember hating to run when I was young--in fact, I have fond memories of chasing around my neighborhood as a kid.  I think it all started in Jr. High School when I first played football.  When we made mistakes our coaches punished us by making us run wind sprints.  Next, I tried out for track in high school but was not fast enough to sprint and did not have the endurance to succeed as a distance runner.  Consequently, I was unsuccessful in my bid to letter in track.  Finally, and most important is my many years of wrestling and cutting weight.  Dialing in your "strength-to-weight" ratio is critically important in wrestling.  Finding the point to which you can cut and not lose strength is a very tricky proposition. 

Essentially, the only way to effectively control your weight as a wrestler is to run.  Early in the season, I ran like a cross country runner to get within striking distance of my desired weight.  However, this is not what caused me to viscerally hate running.  Several days before weigh-ins I ran hungry.  Again, this is not what caused me to truly loath running.  The day before, and the day of weigh-ins, I usually ran thirsty.  Running thirsty is unbelievably difficult.  People who have never wrestled, pity "starving wrestlers."  They don't have a clue what wrestlers actually experience in trying to shed the last several pounds by extracting water from their bodies.  The thirst endured by wrestlers who are cutting weight is something you have to experience to truly comprehend.  While wrestlers who are cutting weight incessantly talk about food, wrestlers who are drastically cutting weight are singular in their obsession with water and liquids in general.  My freshman year in college was horrific.  During that season, I swore an oath that I would drink an Orange Julius every day for the rest of my life to reward my body for what it endured. Anything sweet and cold and juicy. Mmmm.  Running to extract heavy water from your body when all you can think about is sucking on something sweet and cool is enough to drive you crazy.  I am convinced that it's not my body habitus, it's not my attitude, and it's definitely not my angry playlist that causes me to detest running-- simply put, it's my experiences as a wrestler in cutting weight that has caused me to forever hate running.

So, if your I-pod battery runs out of juice, I suggest you borrow some other friend's playlist.  My angry music might seriously jeopardize your enthusiasm for running for quite some time. 

I Need Better Friends

Getting ready to bike to Cowiche and back

Getting ready to run Peck's Canyon

Getting ready to Run Cowiche Canyon

Start of our Mountain Bike leg of the 4th of July Pentathlon

Start of our big swim

I have erstwhile friends who now spend most of their leisure time golfing, riding Harleys and watching TV.  I used to spend time with these friends mountaineering, rock climbing and riding bikes.  Apparently, my old friends quit calling because I occasionally had crazy ideas that made their wives nervous. When they refused to return my phone calls, I started calling younger people I knew who were willing to go with me.  While my ideas are just as stupid as they used to be, I am struggling to keep up with my vision of what constitutes an awesome day of recreating. 

Case in point, just yesterday one of my sons-in-law, Nick Jordan and his sister Chelsea suggested that we go on a big run or perhaps a big bike ride.  I replied, "Why don't we do both?!"  As this thought matured, I suggested that we do a Pre-Olympics Pentathlon.  This would consist of 1) a 5 mile road run, including the hellish hill that is Peck's Canyon, 2) riding our road bikes to Cowiche (25 miles there and back, which would include the hellish hill that is the Naches Grade), 3) a 4 mile trail run in Cowiche Canyon, which would include running down into the Canyon and back out, 4) a 9 mile very technical mountain bike ride also in the Cowiche Conservancy, and 5) a long refreshing swim in our pool.  In theory, this sounded like a big, fun challenge. In reality, lots of pain and some serious time to reflect about my current selection of friends.  My old friends?....Well, they were old, but with that age came wisdom.  When I used to suggest ridiculous things like today's Pre-Olympics Pentathlon to them, they would say things like, "You're an idiot!", or "Why don't you go by yourself moron?!" or most frequently, "You need new friends Bucko!"  This last oft repeated comment eventually came to fruition.  I have found younger friends, who are, unfortunately, very difficult to keep pace with.  They are fast and enthusiastic and willing to take on a stupid, spur-of-the-moment suggestion to do some physical challenge that is certain to produce immense physical pain. 

At precisely 11:43 a.m., as I was attempting to run the grade of Peck's Canyon, I had a revelation; to-wit: I need better friends.  I need friends who will tell me that I am totally wigged; friends who are willing to conduct an intervention, if necessary; and yes, friends who are unafraid to speak the truth to an aging, middle-aged man.  Alas, none of my younger friends are willing to engage in the type of candor that will protect me.  I suspect they quite enjoy seeing me suffer, knowing that I will make superhuman efforts to keep pace, but revelling in the fact that I will literally kill myself in an attempt to not show my age. As I reflected on my current biking, climbing and wrestling buddies, I realized that perhaps what I really need are not better friends, but rather older friends.

The Worst Kind of Friend, the Best Kind of Friend

Let me start this post with a trite truism: "The worst kind of friend is an old friend with a perfect memory." Unfortunately, I have many such friends. Recently, a very dear friend from high school, Greg Baker passed away. A mutual friend, Mark Wittke was passing through Yakima last week in his 18 wheeler on his way to heaven-knows-where and was kind enough to take some time off work to go to lunch with me. We reminisced about Greg and some very crazy things that happened during the lunacy of youth which I thought (and perhaps hoped) had long been buried and forgotten. No such luck. Mining the catacombs of our memories and retelling various events and experiences was wonderfully nostalgic, that is until I realized my wife and family have not likely heard these stories,and more importantly, must never hear these stories, no matter the cost of nondisclosure.

Now Mark and I parted ways after high school when I went away to college, but at one point in life we were close friends and spent a lot of time together so naturally I am going to appear in some of his crazier stories even though I was not playing one of the main characters--at least that's my story and I am sticking to it. We mostly talked about Greg and his genuine way with people. Despite his physical challenges he was so supportive and upbeat, the kind of friend that everyone needs. He will be sorely missed by many.

As many loyal readers of Darrell's Yakimania well know, my memory is less than perfect (I remember only what I think I really need to remember, which is mostly based upon what is convenient and beneficial to me!); unfortunately, Mark's memory seemed pretty darn accurate. A chance to reminisce about the insanity that occurred in the environs of South State Street in Salt Lake City circa 1975 was really awesome. After our lunch ended and we both hurried back to work, I had some time to think about our lunch and had the sense that whatever the risks of revealing to my wife and children the embarrassing events from the memory bank of an old friend was well worth it when I considered the absolute joy associated with being with an old friend and remembering, retelling and reliving a very spirited youth and the genuine friendships that we enjoyed; friendships which in many ways continue to shape and influence who we are today.

So a very special "thank you" to an old friend for taking the time to call because it reminded me of a more important truism: "The best kind of friend is one who is willing to take the time to call an old friend." Regardless, Mark is forbidden from ever repeating these stories in front of my wife and children. (They still believe that nonsense that my fake front tooth was due to a biking accident....Whatever!)

Scorched Earth Birthday

Readers of Darrell's Yakimania will recall that last year there was a little controversy surrounding the battle between my son-in-law Nick Jordan and I about how to cooperate in the sharing of our birthday weeks. My birthday is February 24th and Nick's birthday is February 26th. Our birthday celebrations would invaribly bump up against each other causing tension and strife in our family. Last year a truce was called and Jimmer's birthday, February 25th was set aside as a birthday no-man's land, which we agreed that neither of us would try to celebrate or commandeer as our individual birthday time. This truce lasted exactly 363 days.

Yesterday was my special day. After working late in Kennewick on Thursday I drove to Portland to pick up Sheila. The plan was to go to Eugene to visit Nick, Syd and Evie to celebrate our birthdays. (Nick's birthday is Sunday.) I assumed that we would spend a nice day in Eugene celebrating my special day on Friday, on Saturday honor the truce we established, and then Saturday before we left to return to Yakima, have a brief pre-birthday celebration for Nick and give him a couple of modest gifts. The assumption was that Nick would not intrude into my birthdayness, and in particular, not besmirth my birthday with talk of his birthday on Friday.

No such luck. The truce has been shattered. As I was saying, it started on Thursday evening when I picked up Sheila in Portland. Sheila handed me a box of Paradise Bakery chocolate chip/coconut cookies (my favorite) and declared, "Happy Birthday, Honey. I bought your favorite cookies." "That was thoughtful Darling" I cheerfully replied. I am always thrilled to get pre-birthday gifts as part of my birthdayness. All was fine until Friday morning when she dropped the bomb, "Nick, I hope you don't overlook the cookies I brought you from Paradise Bakery for your birthday." "Say what?! I thought those cookies were for my birthday?" I screamed. As I thought about the rules relating to re-gifting I am pretty darn sure that you cannot re-gift a gift that does not belong to you. If the cookies were gifted to me as part of my birthday, what gives the She-wolf the right to re-gift my cookies to Nick?

Now I would like to say that this little faux pas by the She-wolf was the only bad thing to happen on my special day. Unfortunately, it was just the beginning. Nick suggested to everyone that instead of baking a cake, that we all go to a bakery and let me pick out a cake. Sounds great, right? No sireee! While I did in fact pick out a cake, so did everyone else--nothing special about that. Sheila then assigned me to go to the fly shop and REI and buy some nice gifts for Nick's birthday, while she and Sydney went shopping (For what else? Clothing for them!) All the while Nick and I were shopping for gifts FOR HIM on MY birthday, he keep referring to my special day as "the Eve of Jimmer's birthday."

After spending most of the day, shopping for gifts for Nick, Sheila suggested that we go watch Nick play in an intramural basketball game where we could root for him. Yeah, that's just what I want to do on my birthday! I thought. I was so busy shopping for Nick that I didn't get to the Oregon Running Store to buy the trail running shoes that I came to Oregon to buy. Instead, I went to Nick's game and enthusiastically rooted for Nick. Darcee showed up shortly after Nick's game and invited me to go running with her early Saturday morning. "Sorry, Darc, I don't have any shoes. I was so busy shopping for Nick on my special day that I didn't get to the store to buy the one thing I was hoping to get for my birthday." Instead of running this morning in my new trail shoes, I drowned my pity in several of Nick's special birthday cookies.

Now there are those who might read this and suspect that there is a tinge of hyperbole in this post. Not so--every word is true. However, what is also true is that I enjoyed a wonderful day shopping with Nick. I bought some things I really wanted (a GPS running watch, some luggage for travel with Sheila and some running tights. Most importantly, I enjoyed a fantastic birthday with all of my grand kids and special calls from my mom, Chelsea, Shea and Lil D. I am absolutely crazy about my kids (and even my sons-in-law). Nick and I had a lot of fun buying manly gifts for both of us. The grand kids were hilarious, of course.

Above is a picture of Nick stealing my cookies unable to hide his guilt.

Oh, Don't Worry.

My wife bought me a very nice wedding ring in May of 1979 with money she earned as a grocery bagger at Wray’s Grocery Store. I used to wear this ring with pride. It’s a beautiful ring really. Now back in the day when my waist size was a smaller number than my pant length, I apparently had thinner fingers. Circa 1979 I was wrestling in the 142lb. weight class. These days, I am happy when my weight is anything south of 2 bills. In-the-know readers of Darrell's Yakimania have commented that I have sausage fingers, whatever that means. An important point of this post is that I can no longer wear my wedding ring. I live a life style that often requires that I remove my wedding ring. Things such as, wrestling, rock climbing, lifting weights, etc. I have purchased a number of temporary rings to replace my wedding ring with the thought that I would eventually lose the weight and slip back into my real wedding ring.

Friends have suggested that I simply have the ring stretched. I consulted a jeweler, but he recommended against it because it would likely ruin the design of the ring. Because these temporary rings were just that—temporary—I have continued to lose them. Now I have mostly purchased cool CTR rings, and interesting rings from gas station jewelry display cases—you know the rings that in a week turn your finger green. The She-wolf commented that I don’t take care of my rings and continue to lose them because I know they are cheap rings and don’t value them. I suspect this is likely true.

For my birthday, I asked for a nicer ring; one that I would value and take care of—just like my original skinny ring that lies safely in the She-wolf’s jewelry drawer. While vacationing in Hawaii, the She-wolf found a beautiful Titanium and Koa wood ring—something perfect for a Wolverine, don’t you think?! However, I balked at the price of $195. I have become accustomed to spending nothing more that $19.99 on the temporary rings I have purchased over the years. Her response? “Oh don’t worry, that’s nothing compared to what you’re going to spend on the next ring you buy me!”

There was a very long pause. I gulped, laid down my plastic do-anything card and pulled the trigger on what is apparently a very inexpensive ring.

Little Boys

Anyone who has ever observed little children at play recognizes immediately the extreme difference in gender at even a very young age. This gender-based observation was on prominent display recently at a resort that Sheila and I were staying at in Hawaii. The Hilton Grand Waikoloa resort has a covered lanai with artwork, which runs the length of the resort—over a mile in length. While there is a train and aboat to transport guests to various locations on the resort, Sheila and I mostly walked the lanai. Every afternoon, we noticed that someone had strategically placed little stones at the rear end of the animal statuary to appear as dung. I was mildly amused and thought it funny. “Now what kind of person do you suppose would
do that?” I queried. “Well, you can be rest assured that it was not a female.” My wife replied. Hmmm…She's probably right, I had to agree. As I thought about this further, I concluded that it was probably some young boys who recognized a prime opportunity at some quality humor. The resort staff would quickly remove the stones, but by afternoon, the dozens of statutes had all apparently defecated that morning’s breakfast. It’s embarrassing to admit that I found this whole scenario grossly amusing. I noticed grown men laughing when they observed the stone feces; their spouses on the other hand, exhibited obvious signs of disgust. The She-wolf, of course, was disappointed that I also found this all so entertaining; and was mortified when I wanted to document my keen gender-based observations for my blog with photographic evidence.

“What if someone thinks you are the culprit?” she asked.

I tried to reassure her, “I’m 55 years old, who’d suspect me?”

Her reply shocked me, "I know you and I think you're capable of exactly that!"

Wow was all I could muster.

While I can’t be certain the culprit(s) of these vulgar, random acts of humor was a young boy (Afterall, it could have been a grown man!), the She-wolf assures me that it was a not a female of any age.

An Little Indiscreet Dinner Table Revelation

The She-wolf and I recently celebrated a very romantic Valentine's Day in Hawaii. We went to
Kauai for several days for our annual firm retreat, after which we returned to the Big Island to the Hilton’s Grand Waikoloa resort. We had taken our kids to this resort about a decade ago and had a fabulous time. As a pre-Valentine Day gift my thoughtful wife gave me a totally awesome T-shirt that read: I Put the "Man" in Romance.

Enough said. If you buy yourself the shirt, you appear the desperate fool. It's absolutely meaningless. However, if your lover gifts you the shirt, YOU are the man! The fact that this shirt was gifted to me by my lover truly communicated something special to me. To say that I was thrilled, would be a mild understatement.

Now when it comes to the “Romance-O-Meter” I have always considered myself somewhere near the top. The Shirt simply confirmed what I already believed to be true. I planned on wearing The Shirt on Valentine’s Day—maybe even to a romantic dinner. Even though, a nice restaurant might frown at such casual attire, I reckoned that an exception would likely be countenanced for my wife’s romantic gesture.

Several days before Valentine’s Day, we were having dinner with our law partners at Roy's in Kauai, when Mistee Verhulp (one of my partners) asked the Sheila, “Do you have any special plans for Valentine’s Day?” My wife replied, “Not really. Although, we are trying to get reservations for The Beach House--a very nice restaurant that Darrell and I went to the night of our 20th Wedding anniversary.” I interjected, “I’m pretty sure we’re going to have one of the most romantic Valentine’s Day of our entire marriage! Sheila has already bought me a most amazing gift, haven't you Sheila?!” Sheila, was apparently a little embarrassed by my bragging and declared, “Oh, as a joke, I bought Darrell, a silly little shirt.” ...Total silence on my part… I was musing to myself: What do you mean a silly little shirt? That shirt says it all, doesn't it?! Totally unaware of the dumb-cow look on my face, Sheila, cruelly continued, “Yeah, as a joke, I bought Darrell a funny T-shirt, that reads, I Put the Man in Romance.” “Ha, Ha, Ha!” Everyone was laughing…everyone that is, but me! I was devastated. “You mean it was joke? I thought you meant it. Why else would you give me such a cool shirt?” The crushed look on my face said it all. When Sheila saw the wrecked pain in my face, she tried to recover and say something sweet about me. However, the truth was already firmly established—The Shirt was merely a joke!

I am not sure how to put all of this in perspective really. I know that my wife loves me. She thinks about me all the time and is constantly doing nice things for me. She builds me up and speaks words of passion and love all the time. Despite all of this, at some level, apparently she doesn’t take me all that seriously. Her indiscretion was a cruel and painful revelation for me. Now, the worldwide readership that is Darrell's Yakimania well know that the naked truth is sometimes best to be avoided—this is particularly true in marital relationships. Yes, we demand fidelity and trust, but the TRUTH? Most definitely not all of the time. There are times that we simply need to be contented with honor, commitment and a lifetime of loyalty. I think the truth of how she treats me every day speaks louder than a slogan on some silly T-shirt. So in the future if you catch me proudly wearing the very cool shirt my wife thoughtfully gifted me for Valentine’s Day, go ahead, eat your hearts out--she might have really meant it! Well, that’s my version of the truth regardless of her little indiscreet dinner table revelation.