Times I Almost Got Into a Fistfight: The Car Wash

I grew up boxing and wrestling, but I've never had a chance to fight for real. Every confrontation outside a ring has been either anticlimactic or totally overblown in my head. Hemingway I am not. Enjoy this series of almost-fights from an almost-macho writer. 

After a bit of awkward silence, he spoke up.

"So how do you know my sister?"

I was 19. It was one of those blazing-hot Redding summer days, and I had decided to go get my truck washed. My buddy and I had nothing better to do (one of those luxuries that only children on summer break and people in their early twenties can brag), so he decided to come along with me.

I took my Tahoe to one of those drive-through car washes, the ones where you pull your car onto a conveyor belt and it takes you through an elongated shed with automated jets and those brushes on huge rollers.

Basically, you're stuck in your car for 5 minutes while your car is being washed.

I'm not claustrophobic or anything, so normally that wouldn't be a problem. But I'm not normally stuck in a car with a guy who's asking me questions about how I know his sister.

I was trapped.

I had no idea who he was talking about...this girl could have been anybody I'd been in contact with for the 18 months that I'd been in Redding.

And the way he said it...no eye contact, just staring straight out the windshield. Voice as even and calm as a serial killer in his windowless basement.

I outweighed this guy by a few pounds, but if enraged, he might get the adrenaline surge that only comes when defending your sister's honor. Best-case scenario, I win the fight, but my Tahoe's interior is trashed. Worst case, he strangles me with my seat belt while the Tahoe gets a Clear Coat spray.

I could easily see it escalating to something like the clip below. Don't ask where the other guys came from.



While I scanned my mental Little Black Book for girls that looked like him (shudder), I tried to subtly scan my surroundings for a weapon. Cardboard soda cup from Jack-in-the-Box? Nope. Screwdriver? That's second-degree murder at best. I decided to suck it up and see what happened.

"Who's your sister?"

It turns out his sister was my roommate's girlfriend and we happened to be in a photograph together from one of the times we were all hanging out together, and the epic brawl never happened. Why that picture was framed in her room is anyone's guess, but I was in the clear.

The car was washed, and our friendship survived another day. But I learned a lesson that day - never get into a drive-through car wash with someone that you can't best in hand-to-hand combat.

Why they don't teach that in driver's ed is something I'll never understand.


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Caught Dead-Handed

This was written in June of 2011. It's the last draft I wrote for this blog before I got too busy writing for other people. My hand turned out to be fine, but it was about 6 months before I got all the feeling and strength back. In February of 2012, I quit my day job and have been writing full-time ever since.

I was thirty years old for a week before I found a way to inure myself by taking a nap.

It was my lunch break at my day job - I work part time at a gear shop to fund my writing - and it was a tough day; it was my first day back from a week off, I was exhausted from the trip, and I almost got into a fight with a customer who yelled at a female employee. Good times.

I walked into the break room, dropped into a chair, and started reading blogs on my iPhone. I woke up 20 minutes later with a numb hand. Odd, but it wasn't a big deal. I fell asleep slouched in the chair with all my weight resting on my left armpit - my arm was draped over the chair.

No big deal - I've done that tons of times. It became a bigger deal an hour later when my hand was still numb and I couldn't hold anything in it. Waking up the next morning without any improvement made it an even bigger deal.

Two hospital visits later, I was sitting in an orthopedic specialists' office.

He had a big grin on his face. "I wish I had an intern in here. This is textbook!"

"I'm so excited for you. Textbook what?

"We call this 'Saturday night palsy," he said. "Happens all the time."

Turns out that we have a bunch of nerves (a cluster, if you will) called the brachial nerve cluster on the inside of our biceps, just a few inches down from the armpit. When people drink - or fall asleep wrong in armchairs - they tend to put their weight on this portion of their arm. That can damage the cluster, leading to weakness, paralysis, and numbness. All temporary, apparently.

The first week or two scared the crap out of me. Couldn't tie my shoes, couldn't write - the first time I went to the clinic, I had to fill out the forms with my pen in my fist like it was a goddamn crayon. And the weakness - I did a strength test with my PT, and my pinch strength on my right hand was 70 pounds, while my crappy left hand was 7 pounds. Full hand grip on the right hand - 160 pounds. Left - 59. This did not bode well for climbing season. And don't even ask me about having to tell people how I hurt myself.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for the feeling and strength to come back. It's been about 3 weeks now since "The Incident" and my grip strength is serviceable, if not great, and I've gotten back a decent chunk of the feeling in my hand.

Ankles A-Poppin': Trail Running and the Perils of Hubris

 

"Lift your arms for balance."

"Don't step, just place your feet and let gravity do its thing."

"Watch out for loose rocks and hairpin turns."

When running down a singletrack trail at top speed, there are a lot of things to keep in mind. The problem with juggling thoughts while running as fast as you can is that some of those thoughts tend to get dropped.

Two days ago, I was running down a serpentine section of one of Whiskeytown Lake's amazing singletrack trails. I my buddy Matt and I were running with Trevor Nelson, professional athlete and all-around nice guy. I'm no pro, but I'm cocky, so I was doing my best to keep up with him. Instead of trying to maintain speed (and control) on the downhill sections, I decided to race as fast as I could and try to stay as close as I could to him.

It only took half a mile to sprain my ankle. I was whipping downhill, dodging rocks and poison oak, when my right foot hit a loose rock and rolled over like a well-trained dog. I heard a pop, hissed a quick prayer ("JESUS!"), and kept going.

Since I'm not one to learn lessons, I picked up the pace, kept my eyes on the trail, and promptly sailed straight through a switchback, trying unsuccessfully to hurdle a huge bush of poison oak.

Thankfully, the last five miles went without further incident. The ankle actually felt pretty good, but later that afternoon, my ankle started to stiffen up and look like it was taking HGH.

Can't even tell, right?

Matt, the wiser of the two of us, kept a comfortable pace and made it through the run unscathed. Apparently pride does go before a fall. 

I plan on falling a lot.

I've been hitting the RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) method pretty hard, giving it regular dunks in the old ice bucket, and applying Iron Hands liberally. Things are looking better already. 

Good as new(ish)

Congratulations, Dan Lance...

...you got to see me wearing tights! Oh, right-you won some sunglasses,too.

For the two of you who've been following the mad scramble to snag photo evidence of me actually running in my running tights, the suspense is over.

Dan, Sean Baxter, and I busted out a frigid 6(ish)-miler at six in the morning last Wednesday. With temperatures floating around the mid-30's, the situation called for the tights. After the run, Dan busted out his iPhone, snapped a picture, and won himself a pair of sweet Pivlock V90s with the Ignitor polarized lenses.

Well done, Dan-o.

I've got a pair of Sugoi HOV bike commuting pants that I've got to give away...I'll have to think of something good for those guys...


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On Rope Swings, Part 1

Speaking of doing things that frighten you...

Every town has at least one of those little spots that only the locals know about. In fact, if your town only has one of those little spots, I'd recommend moving to a town with three or four.
These little spots are usually characterized by four things:

A) They're secluded, but accessible

B) They're either natural formations or abandoned buildings/mines

C) There's an element of danger or a rumor that someone was disfigured or killed in that area

D) There's usually some rite of passage involved. You almost always end up standing on some precipice, thinking "this is how all those stupid rednecks get killed," before doing it anyway or chickening out and waiting for your next chance to prove your mettle.

One of my favorite local spots, a 30-foot rope swing at whiskey town lake, hit all the marks.

Accessible? Yeah, but you had to earn it. It was right off highway 299, but you had to know where to turn off and you had to swim a quarter-mile to get to the thing.

Natural? It's rope tied to a tree.

Dangerous? Keep reading.

This rope swing consisted of a knotted rope tied about forty feet up into an evergreen tree that jutted out of a rocky slope that descended into whiskey town lake. To get to it, you had to swim across a hundred-yard expanse of water and climb a gut-wrenchingly steep rock slope with the rope in one hand and your other hand grasping at the ground in front of you to keep from sliding face first down the granite cheese grater on which you were standing.

As with many rope swings, you have to clear a certain amount of area before you can safely let go. In this case, you had to clear the rocky ascent and then about fifteen feet of shallow water to avoid breaking your legs and drowning in four feet of water because you can't stand up and your friends are laughing too hard to help you.

Also, be sure to enter feet first. Anyone who's ever belly-flopped into a pool knows how bad it hurts from four feet. Imagine the pain of belly-flopping from twenty. Check this kid out.


Once you were at the top, you were faced with one of those life-defining decisions. Staring down at your friends (who were egging you on) and a gaggle of girls (who were inevitably gauging your viability as a mate based solely on whether or not you jumped), you either thought, "Screw this, this is how all those rednecks get killed" and climbed back down, or you thought, "Screw this, this is how all those rednecks get killed", took one last look at the girls (who were judging you) and one last hateful look at the friends (who brought you to this point), and you jumped. I jumped.

Luckily, the fear of swinging back towards the rocks overcame my fear of letting go, and I managed to peel my fingers off the rope at the apex of my swing. It felt like a literal do or die situation. I did. And after what seemed like an eternity, I plunged feet-first into the lake.

The bottom line-I survived. Established my masculinity in the eyes of my peers, and duly impressed (maybe) the girls who were present.

Heck, I married one of them (although she denies that the rope swing had anything to do with it).

"Do not pray for easy lives..."

"...pray to be stronger men." -John F. Kennedy

Do something hard. Run a mile or three. Climb that mountain that you see every day (Shasta residents). Apologize to someone.

I was talking to a buddy of mine, and he was saying that he wanted to climb Mt. Shasta, but it "looks hard."

Now this guy is a natural athlete, one of those guys that you love to hate, because it would take him two weeks to be better than you at something you've been practicing for years. He could probably climb Shasta after a month or two of training.

But it's the thought of the struggle that holds him back. I don't get it, That should be your motivation to do something-because it looks hard.

I wanted to climb Shasta because it was something that I never thought I could do. It turned out to be one of the toughest things I'd ever done, and when I got back down it wasn't the summit, the views, or the snowboarding back down that I valued the most from my trip. They were all amazing, but it was those three times that I decided to turn back...then kept on going instead that made it unforgettable. Learning that I had more in me when I thought my tank was dry was the best thing about that trip.

You should want to do it to prove that you can, or at least to know that you tried. To learn something about yourself whether you get to the top or circumstances force you to turn around.
Struggle makes you a better person. It refines you, toughens you up. It gives you more confidence for the next challenge.

And be assured there will be a next challenge. Life is a struggle. It can be a fulfilling struggle like a sleepless night with your kid or a draining struggle like having to work with a terrible boss, but you know that something's going to come up.

The more used to adversity you are, the better you'll be equipped for whatever life throws your way. Whether it's a more patient disposition, better coping skills, or just the thought that you've been through worse and survived, it's a matter of fact-the more you've handled, the more you can handle.

In the HBO series "Band of Brothers", there's a scene where a green recruit joins a group of battle-hardened troops into a war zone. As they're standing there, mortar shells are exploding in the distance. The new guy ducks every time something explodes, but the vets don't flinch. They've been there before, and it doesn't faze them. I'd rather be a vet than a rookie. I'm getting too old to flinch every time something blows up.

Try something that you don't think you can do. Do something that scares you a bit. Or a lot. Find your limits, them make new ones.

Even if you don't succeed, you'll learn something about yourself, and there's no way you can call that a failure.


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Running Tights: The Saga Begins

Today is my first day with the new pair of Mizuno running tights. It'll be a short run, maybe five the usual five down Hilltop and up Miracle Mile. I've made a huge deal out of making the transition to running in tights, so to celebrate this breakthrough, I thought I'd give away some more gear.
I always said that you're more likely to see Bigfoot than you are to see me running in tights, so the first person who gets visual proof of me running in these things (a phone pic or whatever) get a pair of Smith Pivlock V90 sunglasses ($139.00 at Smith.com) with the Charcoal frames and Ignitor polarized lens.
I wrote a review of them a while ago on Uncooped.com and wrote them into an article or two for the Record Searchlight, so you know I like 'em.






If you want them, snag a picture of me running in the tights and post it on FB to complete the humiliation cycle.

It's not going to be easy, but these glasses are sweet, so it won't break my heart if no one gets them.

Philip.

It's easy to overlook a panhandler. In fact, I've devoted years to perfecting a process for dealing with a street-corner panhandler, a process which includes:

-Avoiding eye contact by fumbling with phone or looking for cross-traffic.
-Cursing said panhandler for adding a modicum of guilt to my day.
-Instantly forgetting him the second he's out of my sight.

It's extremely easy when you see a person with a cardboard sign as just another sad face, as a prop to the story of your life.

It gets tougher when that face has a name.

As of right now (January 7, 11:01am), Philip is sitting in a wheelchair at the cross-section in the Target parking lot on Churn Creek in Redding.

He's wearing a camouflage jacket, and a black hat and gloves that I just gave him. It's about 34 degrees outside.

He's wearing two pairs of ripped jeans to help keep his legs warm. I have clothes that I haven't worn in years.

He looks to be in his fifties. He has fingernails that haven't been cut in a while, he's got longish grey hair that's balding on top, and he lights up when you make eye contact with him.

He says "beautiful" a lot.

When I looped around the parking lot to wave goodbye, to told me that my brake light was out.

He's not just a prop to add ethos to your life. His name is Philip, and he's got a story of his own.

At the very least, smile at him if you see him today. It'll make a difference to him.

But for God's sake, don't ignore him.



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1,000 Miles

A few years ago, I posted a blog called 26.2 that announced my plans to transform myself from a non-runner to a marathoner. The process was a lot of fun-I even managed to sneak a sprint triathlon into my training.












Done and done. Now that I'm addicted to running, I'm working on a new goal: 1,000 miles in 2011. This ought to keep me busy for a while.

I'll be recruiting folks for daily runs, going over what gear I love (and want), and hopefully trying out a few races-tri's, halfs, another marathon if I stay healthy, and maybe it'll even end with an ultramarathon. I'm sure I'll end up looking like this again:

I'll be posting weekly and total mileage every Saturday, and I'll be counting on you guys to keep me accountable. If anybody cares to join me, feel free to let me know-post your mileage, how your training and races are going, whatever.
Oh, man. Here we go.

Seize the Day

I just got a Christmas present from my family that I absolutely love: my Brass Knuckles Coffee Mug!






You're more likely to seize the day by force when you've got a mug like this.
When iPads and PS3's dominate the shopping season, it's nice to know that sometimes the smallest things can make the biggest impressions.

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Location:Alamine Dr,Redding,United States