That was the question I thought I’d be answering here today. But how can you define a person who graced the earth for nearly 97 years?
When she was born, commercial radio was a new thing. Movies were jerky, silent affairs.
She lived to collect movies on CDs and record them off an invention called TV, using something that wasn’t even imagined when she was a child: satellite broadcasts beamed straight to her backyard.
Which means there’s a lot about her I don’t know. Not that she was a closed book. It’s just that she was a book with many chapters, interconnecting in the unexpected literary tapestry of a long life, well lived.
If any of you have ever read a John McPhee book, you know what I’m talking about. He wrote in tapestries, with threads appearing and reappearing and merging into unexpected patterns.
Today, on Facebook, I invited friends to join me in taking a knee for 8 minutes and 46 seconds of silent meditation and/or prayer, starting at 6 pm PDT (for those who could schedule it) or whenever else they could, for those for whom that time was difficult.
It was an incredibly powerful experience.
I’ve been asked to repeat it on Tuesday, June 9, for those who didn’t hear about it in time on Monday, and then to repeat it every Monday for the rest of June.
The idea is simple. Set a timer and take a knee, like a football player, for 8 minutes and 46 seconds, the length of time in which George Floyd was pinned to the ground with a knee to his neck.
Or, if arthritis or other health concerns preclude that, just sit quietly on a chair or a couch. The idea is not to stress yourself, but to let yourself contemplate.
If you do take a knee, I recommend a knee pad of some kind, such as a fleece jacket, or some other soft surface. Also, this can be a bit of a balance test (especially if you close your eyes), so kneel next to a coffee table, chair, or other object on which you can steady your balance, so you can focus on prayer or meditation, rather than working not to topple over.
* Image by Zach Dischner / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0).
Today, I heard someone who sounded like a spokesperson for the Hennepin County prosecutor’s office say that the arrest of Derek Chauvin for the killing of George Floyd was the fastest in which a police officer had ever been charged for the death of someone in custody. *Photo by Fibonacci Blue, wikimedia commons.
I sometimes wonder if Donald Trump wakes up each morning asking himself: What fire can I throw gasoline on today? (*Image by Joe Ravi, Creative Commons license CC-BY-SA 3.0.)
Today, the answer was churches, which going into Memorial Day Weekend, was guaranteed to produce an explosion. And as I write this, the news isn’t just reporting on this explosion, it’s wallowing in it.
In case you were offline, what Trump did was decree that churches are “essential places that provide essential services,” and must be allowed to reopen “right now.” If any governor didn’t concur, he added, he would “override” them.
It was a classic Trumpian move, which also overrode a paper published only two days earlier in the CDC’s Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report highlighting the ease with which church services can spread the virus.
Note: This post was written nearly a week before Mary Cain published her experiences with Alberto and the Nike Oregon Project in the New York Times. This post deals entirely with the doping ban.My thoughts on Mary’s revelations are in a separate post.
Six years ago, I shared a bus ride with Alberto Salazar. It was the 2013 Chicago Marathon and we both had runners in the elite field. Security was tight, and the only way to and from the elite start was by bus. Going to the start, all went well, but on the way back, the bus driver got lost, winding up in a warren of underground parking garages. After several frustrating minutes, he halted. “Anybody want out?”
not sure which of us was quickest to shout “yes,” but Alberto and I were first
off the bus. I knew Chicago better than he did, and, with a bit of luck, led
him through underground walkways and stairwells until we emerged near Michigan
were about a mile from the elite coaches’ viewing area, so we started jogging. Alberto
was faster than me, but I’d spent the previous day scouting the finish, so I
was the one who knew where to go. For about half the way, we ran companionably
together. Then two black guys who’d gotten off the bus behind us passed by.
the Kenyan coaches are beating me!” Alberto
grumbled, and started to give chase—a problem, because the Kenyans were either
going to somewhere other than the elite viewing area, or were going or were
equally in the dark about how to find it. They overshot the turn in, with
Alberto still trying to chase them until I managed to call him back and point
him in the right direction.
the years, I’ve recalled this story many times. It is, quite simply, the
quintessential Alberto Salazar story: funny at the time, but a microcosm of the
hyper-competitiveness that would contribute, years later, to his undoing.
I wrote this article in 2009 for Running Times, and amazingly it’s still online. It’s also an evergreen topic: “The Science of Aging and Running: Why your body slows and what you can do about it.
Last spring, fresh into a new masters age group, I ran a 5K. Nothing unusual in that; I’d run spring 5Ks the year before … and the year before that … for quite a few years. The surprise was that I was 45 seconds faster than I’d been in any recent year. Age-graded, it was a massive PR.
Short course, I thought, but a couple weeks later, I did it again, then twice more. Friends were wondering about my training. “What are you doing differently?” they asked.
When I went back and looked at my training logs, the answer was surprising: I’d cut back my mileage. I’d done it simply because I was busy, but as the winter progressed, my speed workouts had responded. For masters runners, less is often more.
Aging, like injuries, is one of those things most of us prefer to deny...read more.