this morning I saw
you standing in the shower:
a naked godess
Category: life itself
Training for the NY Marathon
This afternoon I was doing speed work on a treadmill as part of my training for the New York Marathon on November 1. I am preparing to run the 26.2 mile course in 3 hours and 40 minutes, or 8:23 per mile, and this is the 16th of 20 weeks of training. Today’s assignment, according to the program I am using, was to run seven one-mile repeats at 7:28 per mile, alternating with .25-mile periods of recovery at an easy pace, then finishing heroically with a final quarter mile at nearly full pace.
The magnificent thing about this program is that it works. It gets gradually more demanding, calling on you to run farther and farther, run fast for progressively longer periods, run uphill for miles at a stretch, and so forth. And you do it. How? With your feet, one step at a time. Left right left right left right. At the end of week 17 there is a 23-mile run, then you taper off into a more merciful and gentle regime designed to let you recover from that exertion while staying well tuned until race day.
Cranking out the one-mile repeats on the treadmill I experience a remarkable sensation of freedom and power. Sure, it’s hard work, but this body — miraculously — rises to the occasion and not only does it, but does with confidence and relative ease. When the third and fourth repeats feel lighter and easier than the first and second, it seems as though one is getting stronger even while expending energy.
Today I had a weird and moving experience while banging out the last quarter mile at something close to as fast as possible. As I heard my feet drumming and felt my lungs working, there came to mind an image of a virtuoso pianist performing the closing measures of some fabulous show piece, perhaps Franz Liszt. The pianist dressed in formal concert attire, hands flying everywhere, her whole being absorbed in concentration, the music filling the darkened hall like thunder, the audience absolutely entranced. Nobody even thinks a thought, there is nothing other than music. I had the feeling that there was no difference whatsoever between that and this, this and that. Tears came to my eyes.
And the music was over. I pressed the “Cool Down” button, finished sweating for a few quiet minutes, then went and took a shower.
What is the Way?
Ask the cat.
Comcast, PSE&G, and don Adilio: thieves
Once again, my friends, it’s time to review an important teaching: people will steal your money if you let them.
I had three different entities try to reach into my pocket in the space of about two weeks. First it was the management of the building out of which I moved. The building manager Alberto presented me with a check for my security deposit — without interest.
“Dude, it’s with interest, I explained. “This isn’t just me; it’s the law.”
“Oh, well we don’t do that,” he said.
I repeated, “that’s the law of New Jersey my friend. Interest.”
I went on to suggest that at 2% per year the interest should be something like $50 for $1500 over a year and a half. This took place in the back office of the small supermarket that occupies the first floor of this building in beautiful and historic downtown Jersey City. The old Cuban gentlemen who owns most everything on that block was sitting at his desk witnessing this, and my effrontery apparently upset him. He went into a screaming rage. I did my best to ignore this and waited for Alberto to write out another check, accepted it, and bid them goodbye. The encounter was sufficiently unpleasant that it took tens of minutes for its residue to leave my body — those chemicals that tell you to fight or flee.
I have been considering how much of his tenants’ money don Adilio González has had on deposit for how many years. From a little consultation with don Google I see that he has been lauded as a hero of entrepreneurial capitalism, received honors and awards, for building his business up from very little. I wonder how much money he has cheated his tenants out of. He certainly didn’t like it when I refused to let him cheat me.
Next up, Comcast. I called to shut down the service in the first days of February. They said I was subect to a $150 early termination fee. I said fine, so what’s my final balance going to be? A hundred sixty-one dollars and change. Thank you very much. Imagine my surprise — I was simply shocked, flabbergasted! — when a few weeks later Comcast billed me for $293. Sarcasm aside, I was mildly astonished, speaking of effrontery, to read the invoice and see that on its face it plainly showed they were charging me for services not rendered. The itemization said termination, February 02, followed by the service for the following month. In other words they acknowledged it was shut off and yet continued to charge. Does it surprise you to learn that it took over 30 minutes of voicemail menu navigation, holding, and grappling with so-called customer service personnel before the matter was finally straightened out? Now, suppose I had gone ahead and paid the extra $132 they tried to overcharge me. Maybe they would have eventually detected their mistake, and said oh gee we’re sorry Mister Bludgeon, here’s your refund. I rather doubt it. Indeed I doubt it was a mistake. Closing an account is normal, routine business operation. A corporation of their size ought to be able to handle it properly on the first try, don’t you think?
Next up, PSE&G, the electric and gas utility. Service at this apartment was discontinued early in March. So they sent me an “estimated” bill for $86 for the last few days of service. Please note that in the entire history of the account my bill never once exceeded $53 and change. Odd, isn’t it? Does it surprise you to learn that I had to call them on the phone to turn it into $12? Again, do you think they’d have refunded my money if I had simply paid them?
Comcast, PSE&G, don Adilio: shame on you. I only wish you would find a means of livelihood that doesn’t involve stealing from people.
These cats
These cats
one black and white,
one orange and white
come in the night to sleep in our bed.
warm and furry beyond reason
they slither under the covers in cold weather
Or install themselves above our heads
as if to coronate us
there to purr in all their regal magnificence
and sleep untroubled like gods.
Until they get hungry!
then they start knocking
shit off the dressers, upending lamps
they trash the place like vandals
and claw our flesh without mercy.
goddamnit, cats! all right. you win.
we will go downstairs to the kitchen
and eat some cat food.
Hazelnut-flavored coffee: yuk!
Coffee is sublime. It really is one of the greatest things ever invented, isn’t it. Coffee is great. Everyone knows that. And the smell of quality coffee in unsurpassed.
Hazelnut — well, it’s inoffensive in and of itself.
Flavored coffee is an abomination. Let’s face it: it is disgusting. The flavor of coffee itself is marvelous, and needs no assistance. The very notion of “flavored coffee” is insulting. Get that shit out of my face, please.
But hazelnut coffee, apparently the most popular flavor of all flavors for flavoring coffee: to say that it sucks is an understatement. It is utterly revolting. Nauseating beyond words. Horrible. A tragedy if ever there was one. It could almost be considered a crime against humanity.
2008, year of firsts
In 2008,
- I got my first divorce. You know what they say about divorce: the first one’s the hardest. Let’s hope so. Anyway, the hard parts were accomplished in 2006 and 2007. In ’08 a judge signed a piece of paper.
- I sold my first piece of real estate, which was also the first and only one I have ever bought. We (ex-wife and I) sold it after property values peaked, but a couple months before they collapsed. The new owners must be pissed that they paid so much.
- I bought my first Toyota Prius. Indeed, this is only the fourth car I have owned in my 50 years. I am thoroughly satisfied. Now all I have to do is read the manuals and figure out how to work all that fancy shit. Don’t hold your breath.
- I ran my first marathon, and found it extremely enjoyable and satisfying.
- Come to think of it, I ran my first half-marathon. That’s what got me addicted to distance running.
- I took my first week-long vacation in Aruba with Amy. We enjoyed it so much, we just might go do it again.
- I had my first colonoscopy. Too much information? Sorry. Anyway the preparatory purging and fasting was not nearly as unpleasant as I thought it might be. And being knocked out cold by an anesthesiologist is always great fun. First you’re there, then you’re — not anywhere.
- I jumped off a 36-foot diving platform — twice. Can’t recommend it enough. Nothing like a good blast of pure, naked fear to wake you up.
Happy new year.
Buying Long-Term Health Care insurance: oh, fun!
My parents — all of whom are old — have Long Term Care insurance. For years I felt that it was almost their ethical duty to have this insurance, although I myself had no obligation to insure myself. Apparently my unexamined assumption was that they were old and getting older, and would get infirm enough to require care in their final years, whereas I was young, and therefore would never become old and infirm, and thus never need LTC insurance. In my 50th year this delusion has begun to dissipate.
Then I had to overcome my reluctance to get involved in one of the uglier products the insurance industry provides in our capitalist economy. Profitting from old age and frailty is reprehensible. A civilized society should care for its weaker members at government expense. (Call me a socialist, that’s fine.) But I persuaded myself that this is the way it is, and the longer I delay, the higher the premiums will be.
I went to the site of a company that provides LTC policies to federal employees, and began the process of educating myself in the bewildering jargon and options. Within 30 minutes I was a veritable expert — compared to 30 minutes before — but I still had questions. You can choose between a three-year, five-year or unlimited term of coverage. Of what use is this if, for example, after your three years elapse you still need to pay someone to empty your bedpan? The website encourages you to call if you have questions, so I called and was promptly connected to a knowledgeable and courteous gentleman. He explained to me that the majority of people who require LTC are dead in about 2.7 years. Fifty percent of policyholders therefore choose the 3-year option, thus placing a grim but rational bet against their survival. Another 30% take the 5-year option. And what of the other 20%? They are generally in two categories: either they have high enough incomes that they just don’t care about the higher premium, or else they have a nasty family history of longevity and Alzheimers.
Much as I would like to fancy myself a clear-eyed and courageous realist, having to make this choice is troubling. The temptation is to choose “unlimited”, almost as if doing so would make my lifespan unlimited. On the other hand I am disgusted at the idea of giving more money than necessary to a for-profit venture that benefits from human beings’ decline into helplessness and death. I sat in front of the computer for a while, playing with different options in their interactive rate-quoting thingy.
A few days later I came across a blog entry by Jane Gross describing how large insurers like Conseco have been fucking their LTC policyholders — I paraphrase, to be sure — by wrongly denying claims and erecting all manner of bureaucratic obstacles in the hope that the customer will die before they have to pay. The program I am considering involves different companies, but the current financial meltdown teaches us that even the largest and oldest of financial services companies are subject to collapse. By the time you need to file a claim, they may have disappeared; if not, they may fuck you.
This dirty business is emblematic of the orgy of greed and incompetence that has been dragging these United States down the toilet. People like Gore Vidal have been telling us for years that the American empire is in decline. Kevin Phillips compares our collapse to those of the English, Spanish and Dutch empires of centuries past. Perhaps these closing days of the Bush administration are the final movement of some glorious symphony of decadence and corruption, the fantastic scandals of Governor Bagojevich and Bernie Madoff exploding like great fanfares of brass and tympanies.
As it turns out, however, there is nothing to be gained by failing to procrastinate about buying my LTC policy until the eve of my next birthday. Rates are tied to age, but a 50.01-year-old is treated the same as a 50.99-year-old. So I can wait until my next birthday approaches, well into the Obama administration. If I don’t get hit by a bus, and if Obama hasn’t established the socialist utpoia that the right so dreads, I will deal with LTC insurance in the spring.
Why run a marathon?
For over 20 years I have been running for recreation and fitness, anywhere from about .8 to three or four times a week for distances of 4 to 6 miles. I have rarely been concerned about performance or proving anything. I was in it for fun and fitness. Suddenly, at age 50, I am signed up for the Philadelphia Marathon on November 23, 2008, and training seriously. How did this happen?
The influence of a running-fanatic friend was a factor. He encouraged me to try a half-marathon organized by the New York Road Runners back in January. This was the longest distance I had ever run and I was not properly trained for it. I was sore as hell for days afterwards, but I loved it. Five thousand pairs of feet trotting through the cold air of Central Park, a kin-hin line writ extremely large. I decided I would meet the NYYR requirement for entry into the New York Marathon in 2009 by running in at least nine races in 2008, and thus open the option of doing a marathon.
Then my running friend got into my head again: Why don’t you do Philadelphia in the fall? It’s open to anyone who pays the registration fee. I thought this over for a couple weeks, fretting over the difficulty of fitting training into an already busy life. Then just said fuck it, hit the website and did the deed.
Now I am embarked on a formal training program (from the Running Planet) that prepares you to complete a marathon in four hours. I felt irrationally attached to the four hour number even before arriving at it rationally. It’s a nice round figure, and four hours of continuous running is quite enough, thank you, so let’s get it over with. It’s a fortunate coincidence that my running history is such that the four hour goal does appear to be reasonable and attainable. So I am going at it five or six days a week, getting up before dawn to trod the pavement and run around Liberty State Park as the sun comes up, hitting the treadmill at work, exerting myself like never before in my life.
Why do this? I have long been vaguely curious about the experience of completing a marathon and thought it might be interesting to try it some day and find out if I could do it. Then I noticed I was 50 years old. Now seems like a pretty good time to get started, rather than waiting until 60 or 70.
Yes, but that’s doesn’t answer the question: why do this? I read some place that there are as many reasons as there are runners, but that’s another evasion.
Am I trying to outrun the grim reaper? Well, no, I fully expect to die. But first I would like to run a marathon.
But why? Am I trying to prove that I am disciplined and tough? Maybe a little. I don’t think I need to prove that I am fit, it’s a pretty simple and uncontroversial fact. But I will rather enjoy showing my medal to people. I guess that would be about ego gratification.
Why? Why go to so much trouble for ego gratification, or whatever it is? I don’t know. Yesterday I was in Urban Athletics buying gear, and had a chat with one of the co-owners. When I raised this question with him, he simply said, cross the finish line and you’ll know why.
I am reminded of something my Zen teacher once said to me: Ultimate truth cannot be known. But it can be experienced. Perhaps Jerry from Urban Athletics was saying the same thing.
Update: A few days later, Sensei was not impressed when I told him this story about the above remark from the guy at Urban Athletics. Ever the consummate Zen dude, he said: why ask why?
On turning fifty
I had the honor of turning 50 the other day. My girlfriend (not quite 42 years old) generously hosted a back yard party at her house. There were about 25 delightful people, flawless spring weather, splendid food and drink. Had I been invited to say a few words to mark the occasion, I would have said something like the following.
I have no scruples about making a big deal out of my 50th birthday. If multiples of ten are noteworthy, multiples of 50 are huge. Living 50 years is an accomplishment one usually does not repeat. It’s a good time to take a look at one’s life and notice how it is unfolding, developing, changing, and to savor the pleasures of getting older.
When you get old enough, your past becomes so long that it can be considered history. When I turned ten the year was 1968. Martin Luther King had been assassinated a couple weeks before, and cities were burning. Robert F. Kennedy was to be assassinated in June, as Hillary Clinton so tastefully reminded us the other day. The United States was mired in a catastrophic imperial misadventure in Viet Nam, where what is known as the Tet Offensive was in full swing. The Pentagon and the CIA were in a power struggle over lying to the American public about enemy troop strength. Grim and bloody news of the war came to us daily through radio, television and print media. Many young people were rebelling and doing a lot of drugs. I was in fourth grade and my friends and I would ride around freely on our bicycles with neither supervision nor helmets.
At 20 I was a music student, working diligently and with determination to become a classical guitarist. Remember the Jimmy Carter administration?
At 30 I was a fairly accomplished classical guitarist and quit the business in favor of “real” full time employment. Late Reagan era, Bush senior about to ascend to the throne.
At 40 I was well established in a reasonably honorable and well-paying career, a homeowner, married, no kids. The Clinton years.
At 50 I am in the same job, the divorce very nearly a done deal, my daughter recently turned five, the house about to be sold (profitably, housing collapse notwithstanding). I live peacefully and contentedly in good health with two superb cats, and things have never been better. I am immensely grateful for my good fortune. Meanwhile, as Barack Obama prepares to defeat John McCain in the fall, the human race has probably never been in greater peril. Will my daughter’s planet be inhabitable when she is approaching fifty?
* * *
In our society a lot of us have a troubled and complicated relationship with aging. We lie about our age, or we snicker and chuckle and joke about it. “You look much yonger than fifty” is considered a high compliment. I can’t help but think that underlying that attitude is fear of nothing other than death. We grasp and cling to life and run like hell from death, we generally avoid thinking about the inevitable extinction of our selves and our loved ones — until it’s too late. Life is replete with unspeakable suffering, and then, in the best case scenario, you get old age, sickness and death for your trouble. That being the case, what — if any — is the purpose, value, meaning of anything? Is “I don’t know” a satisfactory answer? Does it matter?
I am convinced that the time to face the large questions is now, when you can still reasonably expect to have a couple decades to work on it, not when you’re in the hospice with three days to live. And the most important way to work on this little side project is to stare at the wall every day without fail. If I have to confess to having a goal or objective in practicing Zen, it is this: keep stilling the scattered, chattering mind and use the tools Zen provides to help us face facts. When it’s time to go, be prepared. In the meantime, enjoy living life instead of worrying about losing it.