You ever get wore out to the point where syllables just sorta run together? I’m feeling a little of that right now after a crap day at work and a tiny little bike ride on the stationary, then some time walking concrete floors at the prison. If I keep doing this behind-bars teaching thing, I’m gonna have to spend some real pesos on boots made for concrete.

There ain’t much going on besides my belly-aching. The temps are slowly moving up and maybe there will be outside riding this weekend. Lawd, that’d be something. So far in 2006, I’ve ridden about 169 miles at the gym and outdoors. That puts me in the top 2000 riders for the year in terms bike miles traveled, per the ol’ bike journal. The top rider of the year has more than enough miles to cross the Lower 48, no matter what direction you choose (3700+ miles), and this person lives in Kansas! Do you know what Midwestern winters are like? Holy cow.

Anyhow, gonna drag this carcass into the bedroom. Y’all be happy now, ye hear?

Distance: 4.38 miles
Time: 15:00 minutes
328 calories burned

For no particular reason other than she’s in my thoughts today as she continues to recuperate from a lifestyle-related accident. (Doesn’t that sound sexier than what really happened? ;-))

Two new locker room etiquette rules:
1. When naked, ALWAYS squat. Never bend over. Thanks a lot, sir, for the surprise lifetime memory.
2. If you’re going to leave your cell phone in your locker, set it to silent mode. We do not want to hear your perky Caribbean drum song nor is there any chance we’re going to do the Bossa Nova. Sheesh.

Enjoying the last state three-day weekend until Memorial Day. Spent a lot of time this week grading papers and setting up my classes for the rest of the semester. Also spent a little time in search of my favorite blood chemical, the definition of which is courtesy of Wikipedia:

Endorphins are endogenous opioid biochemical compounds. They are peptides produced by the pituitary gland and the hypothalamus in vertebrates, and they resemble the opiates in their abilities to produce analgesia and a sense of well-being. In other words, they might work as “natural pain killers.” (emphasis added)

This is one reason I believe in God. There is probably more than one evolutionary anthropologist who can easily explain why our bodies developed such a yummy reason to exercise, no doubt along the lines of need to curb pain in order to survive extended hunting periods. I think it’s simpler than that. God wants us to stay in shape over long periods of time and rewards us when we hit a certain point in our exercise program. For those folks who’ve experienced the feeling naturally, we know it’s almost a spiritual event. (By the way, “endorphin” is a contraction of the phrase “endogenous morphine”.)

I used to be on the outside, looking in at people who search of the natural endorphin. More accurately, I was looking down at them, wondering why the hell they put themselves in such pain. But you know, now that I’ve been on the path, there is sometime to the feeling of delicious agony that cannot be found anywhere else in the human experience.

If you ain’t done it, then I’m not going to try to describe color to the blind, but listen: put down the éclair and Starbucks. Put on some shoes and go outside. If you’ve never been there, you’re missing a whole world of ecstasy and yummyness that can’t be found in a Crispy Crème shop or under the Golden Arches. If you have been there and have lost the way, we’ll slow down and wait for you. Endorphins are best when they’re shared.

Today’s chemical rush was unplanned, especially in light of my last two biking sessions at the gym, which I was forced into because of snow throughout the weekend. I got up early on Saturday and went to work to grade papers, then headed over to the gym, but didn’t eat or drink anything before I went. I was wasted after a relatively short time, but was heartened (will never use that word, again) by my pace. If I had kept going, I would have been close to setting a personal best: 9 miles in 30 minutes.

Saturday:
Distance: 6.05 miles
Time: 20:00 minutes
455 calories burned

I had to go back to work on Sunday because I forgot to bring the teacher stuff I needed to grade papers. After that, it was back to the gym to try again, but my mistake that time was pushing myself too fast, too early. I’d forgotten that biking is a marathon, not a sprint, and whatever energy reserves I had were gone far too quickly. It was the shortest time I’d been on the bike in a while, but the pace was still on track for the 9 miler:

Sunday:
Distance: 4.50 miles
Time: 15:00 minutes
399 calories burned

I started today with two pieces of toast, then it was off to the gym and the bike. I started off good, keeping speedometer rolling along between 18 and 19 miles per hour, listening the Rolling Stones and Prince, but I started to wilt at the 13 minute point, so I dialed down the bike and chose to be happy with another eight-mile day. I wasn’t going slow (16-17 mph), but it wasn’t going to happen today.

At the 20-minute mark, I clicked over to distance readout and was pleasantly surprised to still be within reach of six miles. I figured I could withstand the pain for ten minutes, so I dialed the bike back up and tried to stay as close to 19 mph by using my thighs to push the pedals as much as possible. But it wasn’t working. I kept dropping below 18 mph. I wasn’t horribly behind the pace, but lord, it was frustrating not being able to keep a steady rhythm.

But my frustration was for naught, it turned out. At about the 28.5 minute mark, the odometer read around 8.5 miles, which meant I had 90 seconds to get that last stinking 2600 feet. Quit or die? Easy choice. I dialed up the bike and rode like a sumbitch. When the odometer clicked over before the timer ran out, I shot my arms up like I’d just won the gold:

Distance: 9.02 miles
Time: 30:00 minutes
676 calories burned

As I sat there, bent over the handle bars, with my head on my crossed arms, the rush hit me and it was good. From this point forward, whenever I’m down on myself, I will remember today’s race against myself and how I beat more that just a personal record.

The subject of grief and mourning have been floating in the debris lately. Walking through Raley’s the other day in search of warmed-over Chinese cuisine when a thin old lady with curled grey hair entered my peripheral vision. I caught my breath but motored on, knowing intellectually it was nobody I knew. Middle Daughter (affectionately known as PBJ because she’s stuck between two pieces of white bread) is still dealing with the passing of her namesake, her great-grandmother. Aunt Lily recently wrote of her mother’s passing. In the seven months since it’s happened, it’s safe to say all three of us are missing Grama.

Cultures handle the aftermath of death in the way that suits them best. Asian cultures balance spirituality and realism during their funeral services; they know death is a part of the wheel of time, accept it, and move on. At the other end of the scale are the Scots and Irish, my antecedents, who hold drunken celebrations of life and get every feeling and memory out into the open. Nothing is sacred, least of all the recently deceased, and an emotional purge of grief and happiness help cleanse the souls of loved ones left behind.

Grama’s memorial was perfect for her. It was tearful, solemn, and respectful of a woman who did so much for her family, but while it was appropriate for her, I’m wondering if it helped us move on. Maybe we need to have a good old-fashioned Irish wake with plenty of booze, music, and bad behavior.

And we should make it just loud enough for Grama to wonder what the hell we’re doing down here. :-)

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The title of this blog is from an old Irish tune whose lyrics go something like this:

What did I have, said the fine old woman
What did I have, this proud old woman did say
I had four green fields, each one was a jewel
But strangers came and tried to take them from me
I had fine strong sons, who fought to save my jewels
They fought and they died, and that was my grief said she Long time ago, said the fine old woman
Long time ago, this proud old woman did say
There was war and death, plundering and pillage
My children starved, by mountain, valley and sea
And their wailing cries, they shook the very heavens
My four green fields ran red with their blood, said she

No one can do sadness and depression like the Irish.

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Along those lines, Craig Ferguson is a late-night talk show host whose father recently passed away. Here is his public tribute to his dad from Craig’s TV show. It’s worth fifteen minutes of your life.

Needs more dancing and singing dolphins and a lot more Severus Snape. Less Guy Fleegman would help, too.

Like vanilla cake with a chocolate pudding center: it’s bad but it’s gooood.