Scar Tissue

I wonder if "Popeye" and "Bluto" were common names in the 1930s?

I'm pretty sure no one gives their kids those names any more. "Olive", maybe. But "Wimpy" and "Swee'pea"? I doubt it.

I also doubt that Olive's brother named his son "Castor, Jr.". As for Popeye's father, I have a suspicion that "Poopdeck Pappy" was not the name you'd find on his birth certificate.

And who was Swee'pea's dad, anyway? Come to think of it, there were a lot of things about those stories that confused me. About the only thing I'm sure of is that eating spinach enables you to beat up any guy who flirts with your girlfriend, even if he is twice your size and also has abominably bad taste in women.

Anyway, those were just some random thoughts I had after writing my last blog entry. Today's topic is the status of my ankle.

A little background for those who have not heard the whole story. Back in 1990 (maybe 91), I went to Water World with a couple of swimming buddies. We had a great time surfing in the wave pool and riding various waterslides...until we got to THIS ride:



As you can see at the end of the video, the guys coming out of the tube skim the water for a bit, and then lose momentum and sink. The pool extends perhaps another 10 feet or so beyond where the video ends. Someone mentioned that if could skim across that entire distance and touch your toes to the opposite wall, you would be allowed to cut to the front of the line to slide down again.

It looked nearly impossible. No one was coming anywhere near that wall after shooting out of the tube.

But...none of those people were lifelong swimmers, masters swim team coaches, or World Champions in the Tazmanian Hula. I wasn't really thinking about those little facts when I launched myself down the tube, determined to be as fast and streamlined as possible. I simply intended to apply every bit of my swimming skill and experience to by-golly make it across that pool!

Witnesses later said that I hadn't slowed down at all when my feet slammed into the opposite wall. I came out of the tube with my feet locked together and my body aligned and rigid. I didn't dare look where I was going, because that would disrupt my streamline...so it was a complete shock when I smacked the concrete.

I was dazed and confused for a moment. I was expecting to drift to a stop -- so the brutality of the instant deceleration was disconcerting, to say the least. I was further surprised to find that I couldn't stand up. My left ankle was not supporting me. As a wobbled on one leg and shook the fog from my head, my clarity began to return. It slowly dawned on me that, while I had greatly impressed the onlookers with my lightning trip across the water (and had probably set some kind of record), the overall result might not wind up in the positive column.

The 16-year-old lifeguard was right on top of the situation. "Sir, could you please exit the pool so the next slider can come down?"

"Sure! I'll get out...as soon as you call the @*&^%! paramedics!"

I'll spare you the details of the trip to the hospital, the application of a bright red leg cast, and the months of walking around on crutches. The important part of the story is what DIDN'T happen -- I never did any physical therapy to rehab the ankle after having it immobilized for all those weeks. Because of this oversight, there was a massive amount of scar tissue built up in my foot, and my ankle hasn't moved normally for decades. Which brings us to the present.

When I signed up for the Colfax marathon, I finally recognized that I was never going to make it that distance with my current running form. For all these years, I've been running with a stride that's been modified to accommodate a partially immobile ankle. This has created all sorts of problems for my hamstrings and knees, not to mention my pride. My Quasimodo-esque running form elicits either sympathy or laughter from spectators, along with occasional referrals to psychiatrists and/or exorcists. I decided it was time to do what I could to regain more-or-less human body mechanics.

So, I've been seeing Bob Cranny, a well-known physical therapist who specializes in endurance athletes. I've been doing the exercises he recommended, along with making frequent visits for ultrasound and
deep (and often painful) scar-tissue smashing work.

It's paying off. My ankle's range of motion is returning, and there's less pain now when I run or walk. I've still got a ways to go, but I think we've turned the corner. I have hope that I may be able to someday run almost like a normal person. So even though various setbacks have combined to convince me to bail out on this month's marathon, I'm moving forward with an optimistic attitude. So if you see me just standing there rotating my ankle and grinning, now you'll know why.

If you are also one of those people with an old injury that still nags you, my advice would be to find a good therapist and get to work on it. I'll keep you posted on my progress. Have a great day!

Lines

As anyone who knows me can tell you, I don't have many original things to say. Most of my conversation is simply a recitation of my favorite movie lines. "Do you feel lucky, punk?" "That's a big twinkie." "Mein Fuhrer, I can walk!" etc.

So the thought that led to yesterday's puzzle was about movie quotes, specifically non-grammatical ones. The idea came from the fact that I liked one of reconstituted Spock's lines in Star Trek IV.

"They are not the hell your whales."

So yeah, that's the common theme in the graphic. Gigantic sea mammals. More about that in a minute.

The problem is that I haven't had time to collect other such assaults against our language. The only other one I thought of was the one originally offered in response to the "lucky" question I quoted above. Everyone remembers the wounded bank robber (Albert Popwell) who looked up at Dirty Harry and said, "Mister? I gots ta know."

Perhaps I'll compile such a list some other time. Today, time is short, so I'll just review our picture, and then move on.



The first guy is Gregory Peck as Cap'n Ahab, who hunted whales fo' a livin' -- he jus' knock 'em in the haid with a stump. (Wait, I might be mixing my media there. In any case, the character will be forever associated with his ocean-going albino adversary.)

Panel 2 contains Cheech and Chong, in the scene where they're singing to crusade for animal rights. I have linked to the video on numerous occasions (because I think the song totally rocks), but if you haven't yet watched it, click here.

The third panel is the aforementioned Spock, standing next to his version of a whale-hunting captain, from the movie "Star Trek IV - The Voyage Home", which is the 2nd best movie in the series behind Wrath of Khan. The next panel features Stan Marsh and his crew in the South Park episode about saving whales on reality TV shows. And finally, we have HRH Charles, the Prince of Whales.

So, my friends, that's all the intellectual effort I can stand for today, cuz I can't stands no more (to quote another linguistically challenged badass.) I am outtahere. Have a great day!

I Feel Good

I finally feel like I'm getting back in synch.

As a result of my jolly mood and general peppiness, I really don't feel like complaining about anything. I'm in the mood for hugs and rainbows and high fives all around.

BUT...I promised you a rant, and I know how disappointed you'd be if I didn't allow my inner curmudgeon to blurt out at least a few pique-encrusted words.

It's tough, though. Not only am I in a good mood, but I can't even start by making fun of your puzzle-solving ineptitude. Everyone got this one right, even my culture-illiterate little brother.



Yes, I was planning to rant about the stock market, as foretold by the "Dow" puzzle above.

Panel 1 is Robert Downey, Jr. Panel 2 shows Roddy McDowall doing his impersonation of the simian congressmen who want to tax the Internet. Panel 3 is longtime broadcaster Hugh Downs, followed by Meadowlark Lemon. The Clockwork Orange psycho was played by Malcolm McDowell, and the last fellow is everybody's favorite high school jock, Wally Cleaver (as portrayed by thespian-par-excellence Tony Dow.)

[Not that this has anything to do with anything, but did you know that Eddie Haskell's best friend has achieved some fame as a sculptor? It's true!]

Anyway, my complaint isn't really with the stock market itself (although if I was smart enough to follow "Rich Dad's" advice, I'd be buying Laundromats instead of putting money in mutual funds--but that's a different discussion), but is with the newscasters who report on its progress.

I know, I know -- If I had a smartphone, I could access market data all day long. I could also follow Justin Bieber's Twitter feed, and watch the latest "Cat singing Trololo" videos as soon as they were posted. But I really don't have time for any of that. I get all the news I need from the car radio as I drive to work.

The problem is that I have a short commute, so I don't always hear the complete financial reports every day. So, when the reporter says "the Dow is up 20", it's not a meaningful number to me. I may not know what happened for the last several days, so the fact that it's up 20 doesn't tell me whether it's at 14,000, 12,500, or a million. I would prefer that the reporters simply state the market's closing number.

Am I the only one who feels this way?

Anyway, the only other pet peeve I'll gripe about today is about race information. I hate it when I get emails announcing a race without specifying the date, location, or cost of the event. Most of the time, that info is on the website (somewhere), but why waste my time and your bandwidth by making me go to a site when I'm already committed to something else on your race date?

And then, dear event directors...please, please put a RESULTS link in big bold letters right on your homepage. I hate trying to find out how my friends and teammates have done in their events when there's no clue how to locate results. There's really no excuse not to have live results these days -- but even if you can't get them posted right away, at least go to your site's results page and post a note saying "results will be posted at 5pm Monday" (or something like that.) Having last year's results pop up from the results link a week after your event just makes you look stupid.

So, that's all. No more ranting for today. Let's completely change the subject. About a month ago, I compiled the graphic you'll see below, intending to blog about its topic. But for the life of me, I can't remember what I was planning to say about it. Still...it's an interesting picture that evokes some specific memories, so I thought I'd go ahead and post it. If nothing else, we can discuss the images tomorrow.

Do you see the common topic that binds these folks together?



Until then, I am just happy to be feeling good, and hope to skate through the rest of the day without experiencing any of the week's previous ennui. I hope you are feeling peppy and full of vigor, too, and will visit again tomorrow. Have a great day!

Seriously?

I'm generally not a winter hater.

I like snow, and am normally pretty tolerant of cold temperatures. But c'mon, this is starting to get ridiculous. The gravel pond is supposed to open for swimming in a little over a week, and there's a half-foot of powder on the ground. And it's still coming down!

I'm over it. I want Spring to arrive. Now.

Oh well, at least my toaster is working. And the PT on my ankle seems to be achieving results. It hurts a bit less, there's slightly more range of motion, and I'm optimistic that one day soon I'll be able to run along the sidewalk and possibly be mistaken for a normal human.

But I am postponing the marathon. Indefinitely. My training has not been close to what it needs to be, and all the Vegas oddsmakers have me listed as 99% likely to permanently damage important body parts if I were to continue toward such a self-destructive goal.

That means I need to find a good open-water swim to do. Somewhere fun. Somewhere warm.

But for now, that's enough about the weather. Tomorrow, I'll indulge in a bit more ranting, but this time it will be about non-meteorological things that irritate me. The first topic on that list will center around the common ground shared by the fine people in the graphic below. Can you figure it out?



For now, though, I'm just going to try to make it through the day without allowing my winter frustration to give way to full-blown pyromania. I'll endeavor to keep warm with my space heater, a dozen layers of clothing, and thoughts of being cocooned inside an abundance of thick fuzzy blankets. Let's all think toasty thoughts, shall we? And maybe then these confusing seasons will finally shift to match the calendar.

Have a great day!

Certifiable

If I'm going to spend an entire day in a meeting, it really helps if it's about swimming.

My friend Cliff and I attended a USMS coaching certification course on Saturday, and enjoyed hanging out with a bunch of other coaches and masters swimming enthusiasts. Most of the material covered was not new, but I did pick up a few ideas that the Foothills Team can expect to see popping up in upcoming practices. But most of the discussion seemed to verify that we have a pretty good program going.

That was definitely the highlight of my weekend. I'm still not feeling caught up on my rest and recovery after my recent head cold, so my enthusiasm for taking on additional projects is pretty low right now. And if general fatigue wasn't enough, I had a power outage incident on Friday night that further interrupted my sleep sequence.

I know what you're thinking: "How does a power failure interrupt sleep? Wouldn't it be even quieter and more peaceful without the sounds of the fridge compressor, the heater fan, and other sundry appliances?" You'd certainly think so. And without the sidewalk lamps shining in the window, it's even darker than usual. Seems to be a formula for deep and uninterrupted slumber.

Well, yeah, except for this particular device.

When I moved into the condo, I bought a carbon monoxide alarm to protect me from deadly invisible gases. (Well, OK, I really bought it because I get a discount on my homeowner's insurance if I have one.) Up until Friday, it had remained silent, analyzing the air in quiet solitude. But just like smoke detectors that chirp when batteries are low, this guy feels compelled to warn you when there's a power outage. Loudly. It started shrieking as soon as the electricity shut off.

I had no idea which device was causing the racket, and with all the outdoor lights extinguished on a moonless night, it was really dark throughout the condo. Of course, being a former Boy Scout, I have a crank-chargeable flashlight sitting in an easily-accessible location on the floor of my bedroom. All I'd have to do is grab the light, track down the source of the beeping, and hit the reset button.

Except that the flashlight wasn't there. I groped around for a bit before I remembered that I had used it a while back to help me read the labels on the back of the TV set when I was installing a new antenna, and apparently hadn't returned it to its rightful spot. I knew it was in the condo somewhere, but would never find it by blindly waving my hands around.

Hmm. Plan C would be the flashlight I keep in my car, but that would require getting dressed for the outdoors, and that task would also be a major challenge in the darkness. Plan B was the emergency candle I keep in the kitchen utility drawer. So I fumbled my way into the kitchen, pawed through the drawer until I found the candle, and somehow managed to locate and strike a match to get the thing lit.

Hmm, a subtle vanilla scent. Very nice. But an unsteady flame, and not nearly enough light output to do any reading or serious troubleshooting. It was adequate, though, to enable me to locate the CO detector...but not to figure out how to tell it to shut up.

Since I couldn't immediately silence it, I decided to bury the detector at the bottom of the laundry basket, which muted the chirping to the point where I thought I might be able to get back to sleep.

Then, some good news. As I took the candle on a quick sweep of the living room, I found the missing flashlight. With its searing 5-LED beam, I was able to revisit the monoxide box and locate the "reset" button, which finally got the stupid thing to quit chirping. But with the residual adrenaline from the search and the white-hot anger at the beeping box's acoustic designer, it took a while to get back to sleep.

I lead an exciting life, don't I? But that's not all -- My other weekend experience with misbehaving appliances came when I wanted to toast myself a nice breakfast bagel. Half of the toaster's four slice slots had burnt out about a month ago, but two slots serve well enough for the vast majority of my toasting needs, so I didn't worry about it. But this time, the other two didn't work either -- the thing was entirely dead.

You don't realize how much you depend on a toaster until it craps out. The cheap piece of junk (the white one on the left) had only lasted about three years, which seems pretty poor even for an inexpensive appliance. After all, it's not a complex device...and I'm only asking it to occasionally provide a bit of glowing warmth to brown up my bread. It doesn't have to go anywhere, endure any rough weather, or handle movement or vibration. Its failure is a bit of a disappointment.

But it was also disappointing to learn that WalMart only stocks similarly flimsy replacements. I did purchase a new one (on the right), but have very little faith that it will survive any longer than the first one did. I may be living in a nostalgic dream world, but I could swear my childhood toaster lasted the entirety of my formative years, and may still be in operation somewhere today. Oh well.

Anyway, then there's this question: Are you supposed to recycle dead toasters? And if so, where?

The good news is that I can take out my household frustrations on the swim team, and thanks to the coaching class, I now have some new ideas for additional fiendish tortures. Mwahhh haaa haa ha!

With that, I'll wish you an excellent week -- with reliable power, functional (and quiet) tools, and plenty of lumens to light your way. Have a great day!

Repeats

(Click to embiggen.)

Hmmm, I just realized that photography could be a valuable tool for a swim coach. Perhaps I should take more pix and movies and show 'em to the team.

On second thought, no -- that would require work. It's far easier just to yell at them. "C'mon you slackers, work harder!" Now that's some good coaching right there.

Aw, who am I kidding? Regardless how much energy I put into yelling and name-calling, it remains obvious that the only reason folks attend swim practice is because the low-flow showers at the Ridge are so much better for personal cleansing than the facilities people have at home. Geez.

Despite the fact that I've put years of effort into perfecting my incoherent ranting skills and foaming-at-the-mouth temper tantrums on the pool deck, our swimmers still seem to take impish delight in ignoring me and doing whatever they want to, anyway. This morning's practice was a good example: All I wanted from the team was one measly 25-yard legal swim with good form toward the end of practice. But with a series of egregious false starts, poor streamlining, unnecessary breathing, lanerope entanglements, and other sundry performance violations, they seemed determined to Curley my Moe.

Oh well. The worst practice with the Foothills Masters Swim Team is still more fun than anything else I can imagine doing at 5:30 in the morning. I'm a lucky fellow to be able to coach this group, and I know it.

And you know what? Sometimes, they DO get things right. Take a look at this photo. Notice how the Foothills swimmer (2nd lane from the bottom) is still gliding in streamline position at the front of the pack, while the rest of her heat is splashing away inefficiently on the surface? That's what I'm talkin' about.



And check out this nice stretch for the finish:



And not that this has anything to do with anything, but this photo shows how cool it is to be a lifeguard. You get to wear fuzzy slippers at work, and you get paid to watch Foothills Masters athletes perform at a swim meet. What could be better than that?

The bottom line is that life is good, my friends. And despite the fact that there are evil scumbags who try to destroy what's best about our world, we will never let them stop us from pursuing our dreams. We'll all keep smiling, striving, and improving...together.

As always, thanks for dropping by. Have a great day!

How many Brute Squad T-shirts is enough?

I was planning to do a nice photo montage from the COMSA State Championship Swim Meet, along with a detailed analysis of my own performances and a summary of the accomplishments of my Foothills Masters teammates. But it takes time to compile such a piece, and time has been hard to come by.

But numerous people have complained (more urgently than I'd think is appropriate, but...whatever) about having to look at Leonard Nimoy. So under such duress, I have decided to slap up a few photos, make a couple of half-witted observations about them, and then see if I have the energy for a complete meet review at a later time.

I kinda doubt it. But we'll see.

Anyway, I thought this was a pretty decent photo:



And I found it interesting that Reynold (AKA "Terminator") wasn't content to just crush his competition in his races -- he also felt compelled to do countless dips on the edge of the pool. The guy never stops working out!

My own personal energy wasn't quite at that level. This meet left me completely and utterly exhausted. Oh sure, I earned one more Brute Squad T-shirt, and brought home a rainbow of ribbons, but I went home wondering if it might be time to break my habit of swimming all the long events.

I have pursued that strategy for two main reasons: One is that in most years, there's ONE event that nobody else in my age group enters...so by default, I take home a blue ribbon just by swimming. Some years it's the 200 fly, sometimes it's the 200 breaststroke. I never know. This year it was the 1000 freestyle.

Yes, I know that such awards are meaningless, and there's more pride in a good effort for a 5th-place finish than there is in coasting in for 1st when there's no competition. But on the other hand, those fast guys didn't bother to show up, did they?

Now here's a real competitor.

I snapped the shutter just as Erin was giving "the look" to one of her opponents. She didn't have to use any words to get the meaning across. "You're going down, punk!"

It's stuff like that that makes these meets so much fun.

Anyway, I'll close out the day with a few other photos. Can Reynold walk on water? You decide.

The other shots are a generic view of the pool, a shot of Kim showing good breathing form, and one of my "art" shots of the lighting design in the stairwell of the facility.

I hope you enjoy them. We'll return to discussions of Mr. Nimoy and his spacefaring friends soon, I hope. In the meantime, have a great day!