#312: The Legacy Trail

I had a good long run/walk yesterday: about 5 1/2 miles on the Legacy Trail here in Lexington. This bike path opened last summer... not a good time for me to go exploring, but I wanted to do a long run on Saturday and since that's not a good morning to be tying up a treadmill in our little gym for an hour, I decided to take in the first weekend of Spring.. I woke up and checked the temp. 36°. Sad. Putzed around the house a little, hoping for a miraculous heat wave. It didn't come. At about 11:00, with the cold unchanged, I pulled on some layers and headed out into the Bluegrass Tundra for a little jog.

It's about 3/4 of a mile from my house to the two-mile marker on the trail. I warmed up with an easy walk there, then started my run/walk intervals. Well, mostly walk intervals. When sweat turns to ice on your face, you really aren't too motivated to get wet in a hurry. I walked out to mile 4, then turned around and ran intervals back. I'm not sure I accomplished much in terms of training, but it was a beautiful trip, in an arctic sort of way.

When I finally got home, my hands were stiff and numb from the cold. Need to dig out a pair of those brown jersey work gloves. I'm sure there are some in the basement. Mrs P was understandably not interested in my chilly caresses, so I took off the wet clothes, slipped on some dry clothes, and went to the office to write. Sadly, my fingers would not bend far enough to type. Gloves. Definitely. I one-finger typed my way to MapMyRUN and calculated that I had traveled 5.56 miles. Not bad for a shivering fat man. Once I could feel my fingertips again, I hopped in for a hot shower and felt better. I don't think I ate very well, though. I was pretty exhausted for the rest of the day. Most of the to-do list got bumped to Monday.

The trail is lovely. I got on at the Northside Y on Louden Ave. The course is paved, so it's great for bikers, walkers, runners, and anyone who doesn't use a motor to get around. I imagine someone in a wheelchair would enjoy the trip, too. There are mileposts every 0.2 miles, and a stone pillar marking every mile. It's still new, so there is plenty of landscaping and fresh planting going on. There are a few hills, but not many, and not too steep. Some of the scenery was sort of industrial, past parking lots and along the highway and such, but one stretch in particular winds down into the woods along Cane Run Creek. It is really lovely. Can't wait to see spring come out down there.There's a lot more of the trail than I ran. It actually starts downtown, and continues north through farms all the way to the Kentucky Horse Park. I'm not ready to take on the whole 12 miles just yet, but I intend to explore all of it over the next few weeks.

You know... once it warms up a little.

Peace,

Pennsy

#311: Spring is Here and Everybody Wants to Look Pretty

Saturday was my last race for about three weeks, so I decided to focus on the weight room this week. I warmed up with a half mile jog, then hit the dumbbells.

So I don't have big arms like
this dude. At least I have nipples.

I've been disappointed that my arms aren't big and sexy yet. This is vain and childish, I know, but when I'm flexing naked in the bathroom mirror (yes, I'm not ashamed to admit it,) I want those big bulbous triceps and hard, sinewy Popeye forearms. So I finally added curls and rope pulldowns to my routine. I did curls with dumbbells, and pulldowns with the cable machine. My arms don't look any different, but I promise you I can feel that something happened to them today.

Today, I concentrated on the upper body, by which I mean from the waist up. That includes lower back, abs and obliques (The cool "Tarzan muscles" on your sides.) It was a long workout, but I didn't take long breaks, so I got a lot done in the hour and a half I was in there. I'm starting to be able to lift heavier weights. Still not impressive, but at least not embarrassing. It's nice to see someone sit down at the Lat Pulldown machine and have to move the pin up for a change.

Tomorrow, I'll run. May even do it outside if it's as nice as it was today. Seventy five degrees, right now. Fantastic Yet, the gym was packed. I've never seen it so crowded. It was the first time the weight room felt too small to me. They were mostly slightly flabby young men who looked worried about this year's swimsuit season. I saw lots of faces I haven't seen there before, and lots of people lifting weights for the first time in a while. And I'm thinking, "Come on, people! It's beautiful out there! Why did you wait for a day like today to come inside and work out?" I thought it, but I didn't say it out loud. I'm not nearly macho enough to cop an attitude in the gym. And three months doesn't exactly make me an old timer, anyway. Fortunately, part timers usually only want to do bench presses anyway, so I just steered clear of the Smith machine and managed to avoid most of the crowd.

How not to teach manners to a newb.

Still, when a sweet young thing slaps her mat down on the floor right next to the bench where I'm struggling through dumbbell presses, and starts doing bored little crunches to the beat of whatever teen singer she's got on her iPod this week, it's hard not to drop 45 pounds on her mushy head, just to teach her some manners. But I resisted. Instead I resumed lifting weights directly above her, and when she saw what a big wuss I was, she skittered off to find a less dangerous place to scrunch.Once again, passive aggression wins the day.

Age has its privileges.

Peace,

Grumpy Old Pennsy

#310: Race to Read 5K



The Race to Read benefits
Reading Camps of the
Episcopal Diocese of
Lexington.

 It wasn’t a particularly impressive time for a 5K (3.11 miles,) but I’ll take it. I didn’t get hurt, I didn’t embarrass myself, and I finished much faster than I expected.

The 5K course at Coldstream Park is an old friend. I’ve trained there a couple of times, and raced there once before, straining both my Achilles tendons while trying to catch a couple of shapely coeds who were walking away from me when I pulled up lame. Mrs. P and Mum both agreed that it served me right. This time, I stuck to my own pace. I was tempted by neither tailwind nor tight shorts, and I finished strong.



Starting with the young'uns

 It was overcast and cold in the park at the start. It felt much colder than last week’s race, but then, we didn’t have the protection of all those buildings to keep the wind off of us. I didn’t get as much time to warm up as I should have had. Not that I could have gotten very warm anyway. Whether that caused my first mistake or not, I don’t know, but when the horn sounded, I was too far up in the pack. I set off with the speedy runners at a much faster pace than I was ready for. The start of the course is a gentle downhill slope that leads to the firs hill. That hill is not long, but it's steep and it almost put me out of the race before I had broken a sweat. I was gasping for air, so I stopped running and walked for a while, letting the speedy runners pull away so I could catch my breath and find my own pace. Once I started running again, a lot more people passed me, but I let the music on my iPod guide me. I was listing to Ali Akbar Khan playing traditional Indian music. Not the musak you hear in restaurants, but the real thing. It’s the perfect balance between contemplation and passion. I like the state of mind it helps me to find. Working hard without working hard. Give a click and hear what I mean.

After you clear that first climb, there’s a fairly long downhill run, probably about a third of a mile, (don’t follow my fractions too closely. I’m guessing.) By the time I turned the corner at the end of this slope, I was running pretty smoothly. The next mile is almost all up. There were moments when I actually thought that the directors had somehow laid out a course that only went up. The route is a loop, so I knew that there had to be a “down” somewhere, but at the mile and a half mark, you couldn’t have convinced me of it. That’s because just after I passed the 1 mile mark, the leaders flew by me running back the other way. This is always a moment that is both humbling and amazing to me. These men and women were running almost three times as fast as I was, and none of them looked as tired as I felt. About half-way up the hill, a man who looked to be about seventy cruised by looking just as strong as any of the young Turks ahead of him did. He gave me heart.



Where would Bluegrass runners
be without John's?

My first mile, in spite of the walk break, was 12:31. That is waaaaay too fast for me. I’m not sure I’ve ever run a mile that fast. I paid for it on the long hill. My second mile was 14:20. That’s about a minute slower than my last training run was last Wednesday. Right about then, I was passed by a young woman and a little girl. They were running together and encouraging one another. The little girl was using a technique that I’ve seen little kids use before in these races. You run run run as fast as you can, then when you’re tired, you walk for a while. When the grown-ups (or in this case, the big old Fat Man) finally catch up, you run run run again. Now “slow and steady” may work for turtles, but I’m telling you, these little hares consistently kick my butt. There’s a very influential running guru named Jeff Galloway who recommends running this way all the time. He’s been run/walk/running marathons like that for decades and claims he hasn’t had a running injury in thirty years. After watching these two ladies pull away into the horizon ahead of me, I think I’m going to take another look at his training methods.



Jake makes a friend.



The last quarter of a mile is the downhill version of that climb that nearly killed me in the first five minutes. I finished the third mile in 14:54, but I was feeling OK. Right after you pass that point, you turn out from behind some trees and you can see the finish line. People are cheering you on by the side of the road. You can see the big clock counting the seconds. The real runners are already long gone. Their cars actually passed me on the way out, but I don’t care. I feel like running. I press as hard as I can. I’m not jogging now, I’m running. This is the stride I have at night when I dream about running. When I crossed that line, I was almost sad that I had to stop.




Turning in my tag after the finish. That's how they know
they don't have to send the dogs out to find you.

  I listened for Mrs. P as I crossed, but I didn’t hear her. I told her to start looking for me at about 45:00. The clock read 42:30. I was two and a half minutes ahead of my target time. She was just putting Jake in the car and heading for the finish line when I came out of the trees. My camera crew missed my beautiful form at the end! She got a shot of me checking in with the race officials at the back of the finishing lane though. No matter. I remember. Trust me. I was beautiful.

The young lady behind me gave me a pat on the back. "You did a great job! My goal was to not lose sight of you, but you almost lost me in the last turn." I smiled and said something about how she should set more ambitious goals, but it made me feel good just the same. Although they practice a very solitary sport, I have found runners to be the kindest, most supportive people.




That? Why, yes. That is a
snot bubble. Thanks for asking.

 Where to go from here? My next major goal for the year is the Bluegrass 10,000 on the Fouth of July. That race is twice as long as this one was. To prepare, I’ll be running at least one 5K each month from now till then. Monday it’s back to the gym. More weight work. More intervals. More visits to the doc to try to get my blood pressure stabilized. Scans and blood tests and endoscopes. There’s still a long way to go. But it is so good to be on the road.

Peace,

Pennsy

#309: Tale of the Tape, Revised

	1/20/08	4/27/08	7/20/08	3/17/11	Change
Weight	405	366	357	292	(107)
BMI	49.3	44.5	42.9	35.5	(13.8)
Body Fat %	43.8	31.1	31.4	29.1	(14.7)
Lean Mass	228	231	245	207	(21)
Resting HR	87	70	68	64	(23)
Neck	19	18	18	17.25	(1.5)
Shoulders	59.5	55.5	59.5	55	(4.5)
Chest	58	57	58	50	(8)
L Biceps	15.5	16	18	13.5	(2)
R Biceps	16	16.5	19	14	(2)
L Forearm	12.5	12.25	13	11.5	(1)
R Forearm	13	13	13.75	12	(1)
Waist	59	52	50.5	46	(13)
Hips	61.5	57.5	56.5	51	(9.5)
L Thigh	29.5	30	26	27.5	(2)
R Thigh	30	30	26	28	(2)
L Calf	20.25	20	20	18	(2.25)
R Calf	20.5	20	20	18	(2.5)

My friend Linda keeps pestering me to update the numbers on the Tale of the Tape which lives in the right margin there under the fun stuff, just before you get to the things I like on Amazon. I’ve been putting it off because it’s kind of a chore. I don’t know squat about html code, and adding columns to a chart is about as complicated a task as I can pull off in my ignorance.

This timetable starts three years ago. Before cancer. Before the nut house. Before unemployment. I was in terrible shape and I knew it. I couldn’t fit in a theatre seat, my pants were size 60, and the bottom button holes on my dress shirts were torn out where my gut had busted through them. Mrs P told me about a gym near where she worked. They were having one of those New Year’s Resolution specials. I decided to go for it. I joined the gym. I started blogging about it. I lost almost 50 lbs and got into the best shape of my adult life. Then in August, everything went to hell. You know the story.

So, skip ahead two years. We’ve been through a lot in the Pennsy house since 2008. I got depressed and quit going to the gym after I lost my job. As a result, I had gained the weight back by the time I got sick. I was back in the fat pants. I couldn’t climb stairs. I was on the highway to a heart attack when a detour took me through Cancerville. You know that story, too.

The numbers are a little distorted because they don’t account for all the time I spent getting fat again, and they don’t really follow what cancer did to my body, but there are a couple of things that stick out.
I’ve lost over a hundred pounds. That’s cool. But if you look at my lean body mass, you’ll see that I’ve lost almost 40 pounds of muscle since my peak in July ’08. That’s the cancer. Well, the cancer treatment, actually. All that time I spent in bed, feeding through a tube, my body was sort of eating itself. And not just the fat: it also ate the good parts.

The small changes are hard to evaluate. I can tell that my arms are less muscular than they were, but there’s been a lot of fat lost too, especially in my upper arms. My legs are a little hard to judge because I’ve been running a lot and working them pretty hard in the weight room. They still feel flabby to me, but I can also feel hard muscle building underneath. It isn’t surprising that my neck is shrinking. They cut a big chunk out of it. It doesn’t show in street clothes, but when I press weight over my head, there is definitely a hole where my neck and right shoulder meet.

The big changes are exciting, though. Thirteen inches lost in my waist. I’ve gone from size 60 last January to 46 now. The hips (butt) are a lot smaller. I can tell those two numbers are changing every time I put my hand in my pants pockets. We just sent a lot of giant pants to the Salvation Army. Some fat man is going to be very happy. Eight inches lost in my chest? Bye bye, man-boobs. They’re not exactly gone, but I think I could appear shirtless without getting an R rating any more. In spite of the lean body mass loss, I’m please that my body fat percentage is still shrinking. That will speed up as I start building more muscles.

Finally, I’m really glad about a couple of the “invisible” numbers. First there’s my resting heart rate. 64 is awfully good for me. Better than the 87 I started with. The BMI is sort of a bogus number based only on height and weight, but the insurance companies love it. The good news there is that I’m mearly “Class Two Obese.” What a happy day it is to discover you’re no longer “Morbidly Obese.” And just imagine how I’ll feel when I finally break under 30 and I’m just “Overweight.” Maybe I’ll buy a cake.

One of my favorite numbers isn’t on the chart at all. When I was admitted to the hospital for depression back in 2009, my blood pressure was 205/168. The nurse took it three times. “That’s pretty bad, huh?” I asked. She nodded. “I can’t explain why you aren’t having a heart attack right now!” The BP is now a cool 122/70, and the doc says if I keep working out, we’ll have to start tapering off the meds soon. Losing a couple of pills a day? That’s a number I’m going to like a lot.

There are lots of things the numbers don’t tell you. They don’t tell you how much weaker I am than I used to be. I checked out my old weight room routines and it’s hard to believe I could ever move that much iron. The numbers don’t tell you how great it feels to donate my fat clothes and put on shirts I haven’t been able to close around me for three years. And they don’t tell you how good it is to be alive. I don’t need a chart to show me that. Not anymore.

I hate that it took cancer to get me back on the right track, but I don’t intend to get back on the cardiac road anytime soon. The Fat Man will be running on a different path, I promise, and for a long, long time.

Peace,

Pennsy

#308: Life Isn't Fair: So What Are You Gonna Do About It?

It was a joyful weekend in some ways. Mrs P and I spent some good time together. She cheered me on through the race, We went out to dinner for some fantastic Indian food. Sunday morning we got up early and drove down to Metcalfe county for church to hear our nephew preach and pray with the family. We got to play with our little grand niece, Kayla and contribute our share to the process of spoiling her beyond all redemption.

But it was not all happy times. We visited with Brother. He is one of "The Five": the group of our family and friends who were all diagnosed with cancer within a few weeks of one another. Two of us are gone now, our cousin's brain tumor is progressing quickly, and Brother's liver cancer is inoperable. Yesterday, we sat in his bedroom and talked about what he wanted to do next. The treatment the doctor at Vanderbilt recommends is brutal, especially on a man who has been getting chemo steadilly for almost 12 months. Brother is preparing to die.

It couldn't be less fair. Brother is a preacher and a man who has worked so hard, suffered so much all his life. No one deserves cancer, but no one could ever deserve it less. So we visit with him. We pray. We weep. And we ask "Why?" "Why would God allow this man, of all men, to suffer like this? Why didn't God protect him? Why did God give him cancer?" They aren't easy questions, but I think they're fair ones.

The trouble is, I think they miss the point. Did God make this happen? Let it happen? I don't think so. I think some things just happen. We get sick. Babies are born. Storms blow. The earth quakes. Trees blossom. Things happen. We want to ask "Why?" but to be honest, what difference does it make? What if we knew why innocent kids die of famine or why good people die of cancer? What would we do with that information? Nothing. We couldn't do anything with those answers. We can learn what causes a disease, and try to combat it, but we can never find any logic in it. Not even God's logic.

So what is the right question to ask? I think it's this... "What shall I do?" "My friend has cancer. What shall I do?" "Japan is in ruins. What shall I do?" "They're breaking the unions; the levees didn't hold; sick people can't afford health care, my neighbor lost his job. What shall I do?" Or how about this one... "I'm dying. What shall I do?"

It's one thing to say you can donate money or offer a ride or drop in for a visit. It's another thing entirely to think you're going to die... to know you're going to die... and then decide what you're going to do with the time you have left. That's a decision I was afraid I'd have to make, but thank God, I never did. I don't want to be that close to death again for a long time. Brother can feel the Old Man's breath on his neck, and he has to decide. There aren't a lot of people who can help you down that dark road.

During today's Morning Prayers, I thought of one. That's why the scripture reading jumped out at me so.

Because he himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested. ~ Hebrews 2:18.

Jesus suffered his whole life. Chased from his parents home before he was born. Driven out of Israel by Herod a few days after. Harrassed by the authorities. Rejected by his people. Betrayed by his friends. Tortured to death by foreign occupiers. And all he did was preach. Serve. Heal. No one deserved to suffer less. So why did he go through all that?

No reason. It's just something that happened. What matters is what he did about it. Love is what he did. Jesus kept on loving. He kept on preaching. He kept on healing. The writer to the Hebrews says that his suffering made him able to help others who suffered. My cancer gave me knowledge, experience, compassion that people who have never lived through it can never have. But, what am I going to do about that? Brother is suffering terribly and surrounded by people in pain. What is he going to do about it?

Brother and I will both die, someday. We know that. We know it a lot better than we did a year ago. But in the meantime, there are people to love. There are tears to be shared and burdens to be eased. It may well be that, like Jesus, when we are at our weakest, God is best able to use us to bring about the kingdom in this world. Paul knew plenty about suffering in his life, and here's what he had to say about it...

And lest I should be exalted above measure by the abundance of the revelations, a thorn in the flesh was given to me, a messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I be exalted above measure. Concerning this thing I pleaded with the Lord three times that it might depart from me. And He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. For when I am weak, then I am strong. ~ 2 Corinthians 12:7-10

No matter how weak we feel. No matter how defeated or lost or unfit to serve... God can work through us. As long as we have breath, we have a chance to minister to God's creation. As long as there is life in us, God has work for us to do. May it be so with Brother. May it be so with me. May we be a blessing to those who know us in life, and to those we leave behind. And, please, God, may that be so for all of us.

Peace,

Pennsy

#307: Shamrock Shuffle 3K



Pennsy checks his watch at the finish line.
A new personal best!

2011 Shamrock Shuffle 3K
Time: 0:24:05
Distance: 1.80 mi
Avg Speed: 4.48 mph
Pace: 13:23 min/mi

What a fantastic day. I ran much better than I expected. The crowd kind of pulled me along and while most were passing me, I still ran near my fastest pace. The weather, which is often miserable this time of year, was nearly perfect. Temps were in the low 50's, the sun was shining, and we even had a tail wind for some of the last quarter mile. Mrs P was there, cheering bravely in the cool morning air - much cooler for her than for me, even with my shorts. She wept as I crossed the finish line. I didn't weep. I was too tired to weep. But man, was I happy.

On the drive home, as I chugged my Gatorade, I told her how much I loved to make her proud of me. It's such a great feeling to see her smile as she hugs me after a race, or a show, or even when I do the dishes. She looked puzzled. "But, I've always been proud of you," she told me with the candor that only old friends can share. That's when I realized that I wasn't just trying to make her proud. I was trying to be proud of myself, too.

For so much of my life, I've been unsure, even ashamed of myself. Under achiever. Overweight. Hypocrite. Hypochondriac. They've all applied at one time or another, and I've tended to hang on to them, to see myself through those dirty lenses. But I'm learning that there's another way to look at Pennsy. I pray for mercy from God. I try to be gracious and forgiving to other people. Maybe I can give a little to myself, too. Sure, I sometimes fail to live up to my own standards, but I can often exceed them beyond my own hopes. When I was very young, I was so insecure that I learned to hide behind arrogance. As I grew older, and my ego cost me more and more friendships, I exchanged arrogance for shame. I learned to judge myself, to cling to my own shortcomings as a way to stay humble. But there is a kind of false pride in judgment, even when you judge yourself. I don't have the right to condemn anyone, not even me. That's a hard lesson to learn. I can't say that I've mastered it. But every now and then there are flashes.



I just love these things.



There is great reward in setting a goal, working hard to achieve it, then surpassing your own expectations. That's something that shame can't achieve. That's a place arrogance can't reach. It takes determination. It takes will. It doesn't make you better than anyone else. But it does make you better than you were before you tried. It's something to be proud of.

I still have a long way to go: many miles to gain and many pounds to lose. Tomorrow, it's back to the gym to get stronger and faster. But today, yeah, I'm proud. And there's nothing wrong with that. The Fat Man is running. Thanks be to God.

Peace,
Pennsy

#306: Closing Time



Actors' Guild of Lexington... the little theatre that could...

 There's something very special about the evening after you close a play. If you've ever tried to act for a living, you know the sensation of "Oh, my God. What am I gonna do now?" Since I am no longer a professional actor, I don't have to panic about my next gig... at least not from a financial point of view. But even when I was relying on my actor's paycheck to live, there was something more than just the end of a job going on when a play closed.

It's like a little death. You've spent weeks, maybe months giving birth to this little person who lives for a couple hours a night on stage. You get to know them. You fall in love with them. Then one Sunday afternoon, they're gone. You don't need that walk, that voice, those words any more. It's time to let go and move on.

I always grieve a little. I've been blessed to play some great roles in my life. Saying goodbye to someone like Prospero or Tevye isn't easy. I miss them. I'll miss Shelly Levene, too. He was such a tough, frightened guy with his own strange set of ethics. He always knew what was right. He just got a little lost trying to sort out what was wrong now and then. On a personal level, Shelly was my guide back to the stage, and for that, I am grateful.

You say goodbye to the company, too. You'll work with many of these actors again. Maybe all of them. The director may cast you in something else. The crew will turn up on other shows, in other theatres. But there's a chemistry, a community that will never exist again once the last chair is stacked and the last light is struck. You'll play again, but it will never be just like this again. That's a little sad, but it's also worth celebrating.

Ours is a temporal art. The theatre exists in time, not just in space. It appears out of nowhere, then it goes away. There's nothing left to frame or print or put in a glass case. No group of artists, no audience will ever share what we have shared during our brief time together. Look, I'm not naive. Sometimes that's a good thing. Sometimes customers and performers are both glad to let the door slam behind them. But every now and then, you're glad you have a memory. You're glad you'll be able to look back and remember what it was like to walk and laugh and sing for a few hours in a world that came and went like the leaves of a sugar maple.

Glengarry Glen Ross was a beautiful tree for me. The company was a real dream team. Some of the finest actors in town, a great script, a director with terrific instincts for how to manage so unwieldy a combination of ego and talent. The crew performed flawlessly. The designers worked miracles with almost no budget, and the theatre staff were as friendly and professional as anyone could hope for. And the audiences... oh, those beautiful people out there in the dark. Every night was like making love, like dancing with a new partner. There were friends and supporters, lovers and strangers, and they all gathered hoping to be told a good story. For the most part, they seemed to feel like they got one. When acting is this much fun, you understand why they call us "players." Memorizing your lines -- that's work. But sharing a play with a theatre full of people -- that's the best kind of play I know.

So long, Shelly. You did a lot for me. More than Mr. Mamet could have ever imagined. Maybe we'll meet again one day. Maybe not. But whatever happens, I'll never forget you, old boy. You gave me back my heart.

Peace,
Pennsy

#305: Serenity



Big fish for another 24 hours...

 It's a rainy spring morning in the Bluegrass. (Thanks, groundhog, for the early respite.) My to do list if full of things that didn't get done this week, and I'm thinking the best thing to do might be to put them all off till Monday. In spite of Wednesday's high-diving exhibition, I'm still walking on air. Last night's performance was heavenly. The audience was with us right from the start. There's a feeling you get when the house is with you. They're breathing with you. They're laughing together. They aren't checking their watches or reading their programs or squeaking their chairs. One of the things I love about live theatre is the physical contact. The actors actually touch you with their voices. The same air that makes the sounds in their throats vibrates on your ears, your face, all of you. But when that tide flows in the other direction... when the actors feel the breath and life of the audience washing back over them... my God, but it's great to be in the theatre.

So, today I think I'll just drink in what's left of my small pond celebrity. Maybe sort some laundry. I need to go pick up my race bib for the Shamrock Shuffle next weekend. I really should run today, but it's nasty out and I don't feel like getting to the gym and I'm a big shot for another 24 hours and I can do whatever I want so there. Besides. I can't run till I sort some socks. I confess, I've been avoiding this chore. I actually stopped at the store on the way to the theatre last night and bought three pair of black socks for my costume so I wouldn't have to dig through that laundry basket again. Pathetic, I know, but even local celebrity is fleeting. I have to be prodigal while I still can. Come Monday, all excuses will expire.

Someone once said that there are really only two prayers: "Help me, help me, help me!" and "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" For the longest time, I thought that God wasn't hearing my cries for help. But now, all I can say is "Thank you," for the answered prayers that have fallen on me like the cold spring rain outside. Today, I am a very rich man.

Peace,
Pennsy

#304: A Little Scare

Cancer... the gift that keeps on giving. I went in to the Markey Center yesterday to pick up some paperwork. It was a request to extend my leave of absence from work. I felt a little funny about this. Most of the time I feel pretty good, like maybe I could try to go back for a few hours a week. I liked my job and the people I worked with, and I miss them.

So I'm sitting in the waiting room while Dee, the angel who calls herself my cancer nurse had the doctor sign the paper. I read a magazine. I chatted with the other patients and the ladies behind the desk. The door opened and Dee brought me the signed form. She handed it to me and told me that she would be seeing the play this weekend. I said I was looking forward to seeing her after the show. The next thing I heard was Alex, the triage nurse shouting, "Dee! Mr Johnson fell down." I was surprised to find myself on my back in the middle of the room. Actually, everybody was pretty surprised. They said I went down quite peacefully, like a tree in the forest. I hit one of the couches, knocking it a couple of feet across the floor,but judging from the ache in my shoulders, I hit it with my upper back, not my head. No cuts. No bruises. No harm done that I can tell. Dee made me sit for a long time. She brought me some juice. I wasn't clammy. My color was good. She took my blood pressure. It was 122/56. OK, so that's a problem. Once I had recovered and she was confident I was OK, Dee walked me to my car. I called my family doc and made an appointment for this morning. We'll have a long discussion about this. There are a lot of places I could have gone down where the corners aren't padded and the room isn't full of nurses. I don't want to find them. And I sure don't want to get up out of a chair on stage and find myself in the middle of a surprise intermission.

At this month's Head and Neck cancer support group, we talked about whether or not cancer "goes away." One of us had a conversation with a doctor who said something about "Well, you had cancer..." My friend stopped him and said, "No. The cells may be gone from my body, but cancer will always be a part of my life. I will always have cancer." I wasn't sure I agreed with him. I have used the phrase "I had cancer" a couple of times, and I liked the sound of it. I'd like to think that it has gone away. That I'm strong again. That I can go back to work. That I'm ready to get on my bike and win the Tour de France a couple of times. Heck, I ran three miles yesterday, and pretty close to my personal best at that distance. I'm back, baby.

And then, all of a sudden, without warning, I'm flat on my back on the floor of the cancer center, watching a nurse run across the room to see if I'm dead. I didn't even feel dizzy beforehand. I guess maybe I'm not ready to go back to work after all.

At least not yet. If nothing else, cancer teaches you patience. I know cancer will always be a part of my life. But I also know that I am going to get better. That's the hope that keeps me going. I'm not over it yet, but some day I will be. I can wait.

Peace,
Pennsy

#303: Steppin' Out For My Baby



Cancer Boy and Sugar Girl... What a team.

 One of the best things about running in organized events is the opportunity to help organizations that do great work in the community. In March, I'm running in the Shamrock Shuffle 3K for Lexington Habitat for Humanity and the Race to Read 5K for the Episcopal Disocese of Lexington Reading Camp program. Those are valuable and important organizations, but there's another one in June that strikes especially close to home.

On June 4, I'll be participating in Lexington's Step Out: Walk to Fight Diabetes. This one is personal. Three years ago, the doctors told us that Mrs P has diabetes. It's a condition that runs in her family so we half expected it to happen eventually. She checks her blood sugar, watches her diet, takes her medicine. She's doing her best to control the disease, but today there is no cure. There should be.

I'm asking folks to join Team Pennsy to raise money to fight Diabetes. We did this in 2008, and raised almost $600. In exchange, I taped up my aching ankles, (I had strained both achiles tendons trying to keep up with a pair of coeds in my first 5K a few weeks before,) and limped the walk. Then I hooted the names of Team Pennsy from the hills of Keeneland. Here's the video I made of the events of that day. Every one of my sponsors has been rich, happy, and good looking ever since. You can join that happy throng. Let's shoot for $1000 this year. Public funds can only do so much, and from the looks of things, there are going to be fewer and fewer public funds to go around. We who care about science, social services, and the arts are going to have to pick up the slack. Here's a chance to do that.

Go to my Step Out web page to learn more about the event, and find out how you can help.

Peace,

Pennsy

#302: The Sage Lets Go of That and Chooses This

The five colors blind the eye.
The five tones deafen the ear.
The five flavors dull the taste.
Racing and hunting madden the mind.
Precious things lead one astray.


Therefore the sage is guided by what
he feels and not by what he sees.
He lets go of that and chooses this.
Tao Te Ching - Lao Tzu

Something big is changing today. A new chapter. A letting go. A taking up.



Timothy James Hull and Pennsy in
Actors' Guild of Lexington's
Glengarry Glen Ross

 Today, I open in Glengarry Glen Ross at Actors' Guild of Lexington, the theatre I love, perhaps more than any other. While I was sick, my prayer was, "God, let me live to see my wife grow old, and to play again at Actors' Guild." Tonight, that second prayer will be answered. It's time to let go of wishing, and take up the work I love most in the world.

It's hard for me to find the words to describe how I feel today. I've been trying for a while, but I just can't make it come out right.

I'm grateful, certainly. I don't recommend a brush with death to help you appreciate your life, but I have to admit that it helps. I wrestled with God daily during my illness. We still have a few things to work out. But I know that God is the one who sent the doctors and the family and friends. God inspired the prayers and the phone calls and the hot meals. God's grace allowed me to accept my situation as it was, and grace put me in the 40% of head and neck cancer patients who live through the disease. And now, God has put me in the place I love the most, in the theatre, on stage, on opening night. Yeah, I'm grateful.

And I'm in awe. I'm working with some remarkable artists and technicians. Some of them are old friends, some were born after I started my professional career. When I'm not on stage, playing with them, I sit in the house, watching them work through scenes or paint scenery or swing from ladders focusing lights. There isn't a job in the theatre that I haven't done at one time or another, and it gives me such joy to see people loving the things that I love.No theatre has an easy journey, and Actors' Guild's has been rougher than most. But she survives. It amazes me that any theatre company can endure. It gratifies me that a company I have loved so much, and given so much of myself, keeps on making theatre, against all odds and obstacles.

I'm proud. Proud of the work I'm doing on stage, and proud of the men and women with whom I'll share that stage tonight. I don't like to brag, but we are a hell of a company. Each of us has a story. Each of us has struggled to reach this place. And we carry the scars we earned in those struggles with us as we play together to tell our story. That's what I've always thought theatre is, really. A community gathering in the dark to tell stories, to share what it means to be alive. That's my job. I'm proud of that.

I'm so in love. I love the people I'm working with. We have shared so much, offered so much of ourselves to one another. I love the theatre. She has been my home, my lover, my nemesis, and my best friend since I was 10 years old. Everyone who cares for me knows that they have to share me with her, and the ones who love me best are happy to do it. And Mrs P, Most of all, I love Mrs P. She stayed by me when I was sick, She celebrates with me as I get well. She tells me she's proud when I run a little farther or lift a little heavier in the gym. She helps me learn my lines. And she never misses an opening night. She is my biggest fan. How I love sharing my work with her. How I love the embrace after a good show. How I treasure the consolation after a bad one. A teacher once told me that every play is a love story, and I believe it. My story is one about love, that's for sure.

We who love the theatre are more than her children, we are her stewards. We delight in the pleasures and rewards she offers, but we are charged with her care and preservation. What a priviledge to play on the stage that generations of artists have kept alive and thriving. What an honor to breath life into an art form whose precepts were firmly in place two thousand years before chemists stopped trying to turn lead into gold. What a joy to preserve a culture that will allow future generations of young people to wish one another "break a leg," and to chide one another for whistling in the dressing room.

My God, but I love the theatre. Thank God, I have the chance to play in her light again.

It's a great day to be Pennsy. It's a great day to be alive.

Peace,

Pennsy

#301: Where There's Smoke

So I'm walking into the gym this morning and there's a cloud of smoke hanging around the front door. Young men and women in their twenties and thirties are hanging out in the cold smoking. What does this tell me? It tells me that the gym will be filled with pre-schoolers. These smokers are people who get up early, put their kids in the car, drive them to the recreation center, send them out on the gym floor to run and laugh and be healthy... then pop out into the gray winter morning to suck on a paper tube filled with burning leaves.

OK, look. I was a smoker. I'm not anymore. I quit soon after my Dad had his second heart attack. The one that killed him. You can probably guess how a throat cancer survivor feels about smoking. But that's not what was on my mind this morning. What I was thinking about was those little kids.

They want to grow up to be like their parents, just like I did. They watch to see what it means to be a grown-up, just like you did. They imitate their parent's virtues and vices, just as we all do. So if you're a smoker, and you have kids, I have a question for you...

What kind of a stupid moron do you want your kid to grow up to be?

I know, I don't have kids. I don't know what it's like. Childless people love to give parenting advice to people who actually have children. So let me do an equal opportunity thing here. Say you don't have kids. No matter how much of a failure you may think you are, no matter how lonely or guilty or disappointed you are in your own life, I guarantee that there is someone who admires you. Someone who would like to be just a little bit like you. There is something about you that is worth imitating. You are some one's teacher.

Do you really want to teach someone to commit suicide by tobacco?

It isn't my Dad's fault that I smoked. It isn't his fault that I got cancer. Those were my choices. In some ways, I guess it was easier to imitate his vices than his virtues. I never thought I could be as good a man as he was, but at least I could be as cool as he looked as he took a long drag after dinner or flicked a butt out into the night over the porch rail. My relatives smoked. Some of my best teachers smoked. Nearly every actor I admired smoked. All the people I really wanted to be like were smokers. I chose to smoke.

I want to grab those parents outside the gym door and shake them. I want to scream, "They're watching you. They want to be like you. They want to act like you, eat like you, relax like you. Be the kind of man or woman you want them to grow up to be!" I want to scream that, but I don't. I hold my breath and I walk through the smoke and I hit the locker room. It's none of my business.

But up in the weight room, I can still hear the kids playing basketball. They're laughing and running and shouting. And not one of them has that raspy cough.

Not yet.

I want you to quit. I don't want you to have fist sized lumps cut out of you or be shot with radiation or pumped full of poison that will kill you if it doesn't kill the cancer first. I don't want to work in a theatre without you or attend a reunion without you or just watch you disappear from facebook one day, never to return. I don't want to go to your damn funeral. I want you to come to mine, after I die of old age.

So cut it out. Whether you believe it or not, someone out here needs you more than you know. We need you. I need you. Stop it.

Peace,
Pennsy

#300: Pennsy's Tricentennial Post

Yep, this is the 300th edition of Fat Man Running. I don't run as much as I used to, but then, I'm not as fat either. I intend to reverse one of those trends.

Ran two miles today at my best pace of the year, 16:28/mi. Still not up to ramming speed, but rowing at a pretty good clip for this big old boat. I ran intervals, a quarter mile lap at 4.0 MPH, then a quarter lap at 3.5. There's a little dot that blips around a track on the screen on the treadmill, that's how you keep track of how far along you are. It's funny, but when I think of distance as laps, I always think of the old cinder track back at Keystone Oaks High School in Pittsburgh. I'm sure it's some kind of red, rubber synthetic surface now, but back then it was cinders, potholes, and mud puddles. I never loved running much back then, but for some reason, I always think of that track when I run now. What a blast it would be to knock a couple miles off on it now that I can actually get around the thing.

My body metrics are moving. I was a little dismayed to see that my weight actually went up a couple pounds this week. I don't see how that's possible given the fact that I'm working out and I barely eating anything more substantial than protein shakes. Then I checked my body fat percentage. It's down significantly. I'm gaining weight because I'm building muscle! That's very good because 1) muscle burns fat all the time, not just when you're working out, and 2) muscle is heavy, so the amount of weight I need to lose goes down the more muscle I add. Sometimes it isn't what you weigh, it's what you measure that counts.

I guess I should have something profound to say for post #300. You know how sentimental I am. A lot has happened since I started writing Pennsyltuckian back in 2007. If you've been with me that long, you don't need a rehash. If not, you probably couldn't stand one. I know I couldn't. Guess I'll just say how much I appreciate the fact that you care about my thoughts here. Knowing there were folks out there on the interwebs who thought kindly about me was an invaluable support through my cancer treatment. Even now, as I work to get my body and mind back to a healthy place, your comments and kind energy help me to get through the rough spots. I am grateful for you.

There. That's as much mush as I can work up. I'll save the rest for tonight with my Valentine.

Peace,
Pennsy

#299: The Loves of My Life

Some days, the gym is like church: you don't feel like going, but you're always glad you did when it's all over. I'm just not feeling it today. There's a part of me that's purring, "Just take the day off," and I'm thinking I may succumb.

It isn't that I feel like quitting or anything. I love the work and I'm seeing results inside and out. I'm not even particularly depressed or sad or even tired. So OK, I did make myself a rubbery omelet this morning and it isn't sitting very lightly in my belly, but I think that should settle down by 1:00 or so. I'm not sore. Not discourage. None of my usual excuses apply. I just feel like hanging out at home today. I think I'm cool with that. Besides, Mrs P has a "honey-do" list for me on Saturday, and I'm thinking I might should rest up a little before that.

My Bride and I have a date tonight. Well, sort of. We're going to the theatre with a bunch of friends from the play I'm rehearsing right now. They are a super bunch of actors and men and I know we'll enjoy our evening together. I've been loving the rehearsals. We're playing Glengarry Glen Ross and it is one of the most remarkable casts I've ever been a part of. It isn't just that everyone is good, (which they are,) it's that they're so confident. They are a shockingly secure and mentally stable group of actors. I mean, usually, when you get three actors together, at least one of us is stone crazy. I'm sure there are nuts in this cast, but if they are, they don't bring it to work with them.

The whole time I was sick, I kept thinking, "If I live through this, I'm going to act again." That hope helped get me through the drugs and the radiation and the surgeries and the puking. It's the reason that the first thing I asked when my CT scan was clear was, "When can I get my teeth?" Working on the reading in January was great, and just what I needed to prove to myself that they hadn't cooked away my acting chops with all that medical poison, but now it's time to stretch my wings a little more. God has given me the chance to be an actor again. I'm not going to miss it.

When I told my therapist, Mike that I was struggling in the early rehearsals, he asked me to tell him about my character. I started to describe him, and Mike's eyes got a little wider. "You aren't doing Glengarry Glen Ross,  are you?" See, my character, Shelly Levene, is a faltering salesman in late middle age with a severe bout of depression and a desperate need to be saved. Sound like any Pennsyltuckians you know? After taking a minute to digest the ironic terror of the thing, Mike said he thought that the journey might be good for me. It's funny, but I look at it just the other way. People who don't act always seem to assume that we do this for therapy. I guess there's some truth to that, but from my perspective, my personal demons are there to serve the play. I'm always looking for ways my madness can help the character, not the other way around. Maybe this is why I find it so noteworthy that everyone seems so sane. 'Cause these characters are indisputably nuts. All that loonyness is coming from somewhere, but it's being channeled productively and I like being around it.

Mty Wife and my Art. The two great loves of my life. The reasons I decided to try and live through cancer. I feel immersed in them right now, and I have to tell you... it's great to be alive.

And just a little bit crazy.

Peace,

Pennsy

#298: Loving the Weight Room

Got some great feedback on yesterday's blog. One in particular gave me pause and a little bit of relief. Turns out that Fish Oil has anti-coagulant properties. Chances are good that my doc is going to recommend that I not take it since I'm already on Cumadin. That's a relief since I don't want to bleed to death by accident, and besides, the things taste terrible. My mouth tastes like cod liver oil for hours after choking a couple of the big things down. Thanks for the tip, Suzanne.

Right now, my legs feel like rubber bands, (that's "gumbanz" for the homies in the 'Burgh.) Had a super workout in the weight room today. I used heavier weights and did simple sets.

Exercise	Sets	Reps	Weight
Woodchopper	3	10	30
Dumbbell Deadlift	3	10	30's
Dumbbell Squat	3	10	30's
Dumbbell Chest Press	4	10, 5, 7, 6	30's, 30's, 25's, 25's
Bent Over Row	3	10	25's
Single Leg Presses	3 each side	10	100

HTML Tables

This is light weight compared to what I have done, but today, it kicked my butt. It felt great.

There was a guy doing squats on the Smith Machine behind me. He was really knocking them out. At one point, when I was gasping for air after my first set of woodchoppers at the cable machine, I heard the rhythm of his breath stop. He was "in the hole." It's what happens when you go down into a squat, and can't press back up out of it. If you're just unlucky enough, you can snap yourself in half from this position. Another lifter and I jumped in to help spot him and we got the bar back up and on the hooks. He smiled his thanks, and we all nodded. We've all been there.

Here's the thing. The guy did three more sets. He would not be deterred. He wasn't embarrassed or ashamed. He laughed it off an went back to work. He even cheered me on when I was struggling with the last few reps on my own workout.

I was never one of the jocks. I've never even been very good at being "one of the guys." But there is a fellowship in the weight room that I'm not sure I've ever experienced anywhere else. We're all at different levels of strength and fitness, but we all share some things, too. We know what it is to fail at a lift. We know how it feels to have too much weight up in the air and not be really certain how you're going to put it down without killing anyone. And we all know how great it feels to pull out that last rep when your muscles, your lungs, and your common sense are screaming at you to stop. I don't think I'll ever stop being surprised at how much I enjoy hanging out at the gym with a bunch of lifters.

Peace,
Pennsy

#297: What Goes In...

Did some tempo work on the treadmill today. I only ran a mile, but cranked the speed up to 3.4 MPH. That's about 17.5 min/mile. Not ready for the marathon yet, but closer to the pace I would like to run in March.

What Goes In...

I've been thinking about how to get my nutrition. Balanced meals are more of a challenge for me than they used to be. I have a rough time with really crunchy vegetables like broccoli and cauliflower, for example. And no matter what I eat, it takes me a long time. And things like nuts and grains are a special treat when those sharp little pieces work their way up under the bottom dentures. I guess what I'm saying is that eating is kind of a hassle. But I know I need to eat. Not just to stay alive, but to build the kind of muscle mass I'm going to need to replace all that was lost during treatment. so I've put together a sort of eclectic plan.

Protein and Other Good Stuff

This is the stuff muscles are made of. I don't eat a lot of meat, but I do try to get plenty of dairy everyday. I also mix up shakes with soy or whey powder. I can eat eggs, though they don't always taste very good because so many places overcook them. I'm good with fish, and get lots of beans and meat sauces and things. With that collection, you can see that I'm in no danger of getting too little fat, and my carbs are from cooked vegetables, pasta, and hot cereal in the morning.




Supplements and Other Chemical Stuff

I don't take a lot of muscleman stuff. I do like to have a little creatine before my workouts. It's supposed to improve my stamina. It may do that, but it also tastes like Tang, which is cool.

I always have plenty of water when I'm working out. My choppers get particularly dry when I run, so I keep plenty of wet nearby. Of course, gulping water while running also makes them fall out. It's a funny little tongue-juggling act that can tickle me a little, once I stop choking.

After a workout, I always try go get some quick protein like chocolate milk or even a shake from Wendy's. I used to like a cheeseburger after the gym, but burger buns are very high on the "eating's a hassle" list. I might also grab a Gatorade, though we have a couple cans of the powder at home, and Mrs P usually has a jug mixed up for me.

Pills and Other Medical Stuff

There are my prescription meds. Two for depression. Two for blood pressure. One for keeping my blood thin. The psych meds don't have much effect on my workouts, unless you count the days when I don't want to get out from under the covers. Since I started treating my high blood pressure, I have observed that my heart rate doesn't get so high. That's cool. The blood thinners are a very big deal. I've talked about the bruising I experience. I also bleed a lot more from little nicks than I used to. I grazed the inside of my ankle with the sole of my shoe while running the other day, and my sock was bloody by the time I was done. I need to be really careful about getting banged around, especially my head. The other effect the blood thinners seem to be having is that my recovery time is a lot longer. I don't know if this is true or not, but it feels that way. I see the doc Thursday, and we'll chat about this.

I have tried a couple of prescription meds to help me sleep, with modest success. The best thing I've found is Melatonin, a hormone tablet you can get over the counter. It helps regulate my sleep rhythm without the hallucinations that make Ambien so much fun, but only for the person who takes it.

I take a handful of vitamin-type stuff to make up for my imbalanced diet as well as my imbalanced life. A multi-vitamin on general principle. Vitamin C to fight off colds. Vitamin B-12 cause Mrs P says I'm supposed to, I don't remember why. Vitamin E because it helps muscle growth and is supposed to make you a tiger in the sack. The jury is still out on both counts. Glucosamine and Fish Oil for my creaky joints. Somewhere in there, some of these things are also anti-oxidants which are supposed to keep my brain from rusting, I think.
One advantage of having cancer is that you develop this whole network of medical genius-types who don't mind throwing you a freebie now and then. I run things past the nutritionist and the GP and anyone else who'll listen. I even have a friend who's a Personal Trainer who drops pearls of wisdom for me now and then. I don't know how much any of this helps, but it certainly doesn't seem to do any harm. I'll be sure to let you know if I start to change color or if anything inappropriate comes out of me.

As always, remember that Pennsy is not an expert at anything, least of all fitness and nutrition. I'm just feeling around in the dark and telling you about the things I stick my hands into. Do your own homework and consult your own experts before you decide on any kind of plan, especially with stuff you swallow.

I don't have a lawyer, but if I did, they'd probably make me say that.

Peace,
pennsy

#296: Back to the Weight Room

James Harrison also likes throwing dumbbells around.
Especially when they're from Green Bay...

One of the things I like about working out with dumbbells is the versatility they offer. you can slip easily from one exercise to another, even combining them into a single move. This allows you to make your sets last longer, and increases the cardio benefit as well. It's a very efficient way of strength training.

I resumed weight work today with a routine of my own design. I'm just not ready for the stuff in the books yet. I need to work my way up to even the beginner level. Till then, I'm doing what I can. I did 3 sets of 10 reps of each exercise with 30 second breaks between sets. I started standing up with two 15 lb dumbbells. Holding one in each hand, the combination was a squat into a curl into an overhead press. Then reverse the three movements back down to the bottom of the squat. That's one rep. These went smoothly

The next combination was on the bench in a prone position, again with a 15 lb dumbbell in each hand. I started with both weights at my chest, pressed them up, lowered them to the sides for a fly, then raised them back up. Finally, I lowered them together up over my head and then back up for a dumbbell pullover. Returning them to my chest counts as one rep.

Then the machines. I'm not a fan of the leg press, but my hips really needed the work after yesterday's run and I felt a little unsteady about doing heavier squats or deadlifts. I put 140 lbs on the machine, and pressed the foot rest all the way out. At maximum leg extension, I pointed my toes, pushing the weight just a little farther, and giving my calves some extra work. I did this combination leg-press, toe lift in three sets of ten reps, again with short 30 second rests between.

I decided to forgo woodchoppers today, I don't remember why. Instead, I did three sets of lat pull-downs on the cable machine. Tried to start at 100 lbs, but I could tell after the second rep that I wasn't going to make it. The last set at 75 was tough, but I grunted a little harder and pulled them all.

I woke up with that same old hip pain that I experienced back in December. I was determined not to let it stop me today. I warmed up with an easy walk on the treadmill, then did my workout followed by a gentle walk around the track a couple of times. When I was finished, I was a little wobbly, but not nearly as sore as when I started. When I got home, Mrs P helped me to stretch my legs a little and that helped too. I've never been one of those "No Pain, No Gain" guys, but this time it turned out that working through it was just what I needed to do. I may know more in the morning.

We had a good rehearsal today. I'm working on a production of Glengarry Glen Ross with Actors' Guild of Lexington. We ran through Act 2 today and it went more smoothly than I expected. I know about 35% of my lines which is way behind where I want to be, but not a crisis yet. As we spend less time looking at the page, we start paying more attention to one another and there are moments where you can see the play start to emerge. This is one of the great joys of making theatre and I was so grateful to be able to be there.

The day wound up at church, performing in a murder-mystery sketch for a dinner to raise money for a couple of very important local ministries. Mrs P and I both had roles. Much scenery was chewed by all.

By now, I'm pretty whipped. It's been a good day, filled with a bunch of the things and people I love. Now I'm going to try to sleep if I can, while visions of a seventh super bowl trophy dance in my head. Who knows? A little more time in the weight room and Coach Tomlin might even have a helmet for me.

Ah, what's life for if you can't dream a little?

Peace,

Pennsy

#295: You Can't Get Started Until You Start

My Therapist says not to worry about what I used to be able to do, or what I might not be able to do. Ask rather, what can I do today that is of value toward my goals? So here's my next big fitness goal. I want to run in the Bluegrass 10,000 on July 4th here in Lexington. It looks impossible. Right now, it is. I can't run 6.4 miles at any pace. I'm not sure I could walk it. But I knew I could do something.

Today, I finally got up the nerve to find out what.

The guy at the desk was friendly and gave me a good-hearted needle about my Steeler's sweatshirt. Silly man., but the warmest I've enountered there so far. It was a good start. My lucky locker, #27, was occupied, so I slid my bag into #29 and made my way up to the workout room. I got on the treadmill. I find counting laps tedious, expecially when you're trying to run miles around a basketball court. The treadmill counts for me. It also helps me to regulate my pace. I'll be better able to measure my progress. Like the business writers say, if you can measure it, you can manage it.

I ran 2 miles at 3 mph. That's a ridiculously slow pace. That's a slow pace for a walker. It took me 40 minutes, plus about 15 minutes to warm up and cool down. It was laughable, but I kept good form, and I made it all the way without any breaks. I actually surprised myself with both the distance and the duration. The other day, a half hour walk around Kroger left me spinny headed and weak in the legs. I'm going to train at that distance for a while in preparation for the Habitat for Humanity Shamrock Shuffle in March. This is a 3K (about 1.8 miles) race through the streets of Lexington on what is usually a cold and rainy morning. Sounds miserable? It isn't. I loved my last one. It was actually the last time I ran in an organized race, so it's going to be a sort of homecoming for me. After today's workout, I feel confident enough to register. Soon there'll be a new tee shirt in my drawer!

I got on the scale last night. I now weigh 291. Just over 100 pounds less than I did last April, the day of my surgery. If you're tired of that spare tire, and want to try my $1500 a pound weight loss program, call 1-800-CARCINOMA Our counsellors are standing by.

Yes, the weight loss is the silver lining of this whole thing. I am now a recovering food addict, not likely to ever relapse unless I develop a taste for drinking bacon grease. Wouldn't it be crazy if cancer saves me from having a heart attack?

When life gives you tumors, make lemonade...

Peace,
Pennsy

#294: Our Day in Court

The bank is gonna take our house back pretty soon. A year ago, this would have been an unimaginable tragedy. But cancer put some things in perspective for us. We aren't happy about the debts we can't pay or the things we're losing, but being alive to lose them is a pretty decent consolation.

We won't be living in the Honda down by the river. Our family is helping us through things. We will have a place to live and a place to keep some of our stuff. The safety net is there and waiting. 2011 will be another season of change for us. When we got married, Mrs P promised that we'd never be bored. Anyone who knows her knows she is a woman who keeps her word.

We are behind in our mortgage. By a long way. I'm not prepared to go through all the financial details in this space. Suffice to say, the past two and a half years have put a real dent in our emergency funds. The stone is now bloodless. Naturally, the bank is concerned about this. They've invested quite a bit of money in our house, and they'd like to see a monthly return on that investment. How do we know this? Let's just say they've been keeping in touch. We hear from them several times a day, seven days a week. They did take Christmas and Thanksgiving off, which I'm sure their tele-collection people appreciated. I know I did.

I feel bad for the people who have to make those calls. I mean, they chose their jobs, and they have to live with that choice. It's not a job I would do, but it still must be a hard gig. A lot of the people they call must have stories like ours. Lost jobs. Benefits gone. Medical bills. They have to feel some of that hurt, but they also have a script to follow. Their job is to get the money. Even when it obviously isn't there.Believe me, we've met a lot of these people in the past year, and while a few of them are jerks, ("Well, if he's so sick, maybe your husband should go back to the mental hospital,) most of them really seemed to want to help us resolve things. It's just that neither of us has the power to conjure money out of thin air. So today, we wound up in court.

Life among the grown-ups has never been a comfortable place for me. I have always chosen a more quirky, bohemian crowd. I mean, when it was time to go to college, I chose to study techniques for playing Shakespeare instead of learning how to get a grown-up job. I don't regret that choice, but there are times I wish I had been a lawyer or a lottery winner or something. I put on my suit, the one that fit me a hundred pounds ago, and Mrs P put on her "goin' to court" outfit. We drove down to the courthouse in a light snow. The air was cold, but not frigid. Though I was wearing my overcoat, a lot of the grown-ups with briefcases were dressed in just suit coats. The courthouses in Lexington are huge, Stalinist looking edifices, organized around a huge, empty square. Though there are a couple of fountains and a tree or two, it is mostly a big empty space that the wind rips through on days like this. We managed to find the right building from among the federal, circuit, and district courts. As we walked down the ramp toward the door, I could hear the "click click click" of a pair of expensive sounding heels behind us. I'm sure there are a lot more heels in the courthouse than there used to be, but I couldn't help but notice that most of them are very skinny this year. I guess even an attorney likes to feel pretty sometimes.

At the door, we went through a metal detector. I put my keys and cell phone into the dirty little plastic tub and the conveyor belt carried it through the X-ray gizmo. Though the only metal on my body was the buckles on my suspenders, I still set off the buzzer and a man with a wand waved at me a couple of times.No pat downs though. I was relieved. He was not a particular handsome fellow and his hands looked rough. I recovered my irradiated phone and keys, and we found our courtroom.

Everything is big in this building. The doors are tall, the stairs are wide, and the ceilings are very high. I guess this is all supposed to inspire a feeling of awe. It just made me think about how expensive it must be to heat the place. There are benches in the hall outside the courtroom, big enough for four normal sized people to sit. There was only one empty place, because a venerable looking lawyer had spread his papers and briefcase out across the seat. I let Mrs P sit, since she was functioning as our voice in this venture.

Mrs P has had to take over a lot of our affairs in the past year. There's a lot I don't know about any more. If I'm honest, I have to admit that there's a lot I would rather not know, too. I feel a lot of guilt about the situation we're in. She has taken a much more sensible attitude toward the whole thing. She had saved all the letters, all the denials of help, all the advice from experts telling us that we were screwed. We gathered tax returns and medical bills, and together we wrote our long sad history since I lost my job back in 2008. She is armed with quite a stack of documents. She also watches a lot of Law and Order, so she knows how to say things like "Your Honor" and "May we approach?" and stuff like that. I knew that we were in good hands.

Meanwhile, back out in the hall, people were gathering. Now and then, someone would tug the big brass handle on the big oak door. It was still latched. A large family in blue jeans and sweat shirts were in a circle, listening to a lawyer's advice about something. A lady tried to make a couple of phone calls on her cell, then jumped up, cursed, and walked off talking to herself about someone who was going to miss the meeting if she didn't get her ass there pretty soon. People in nice suits started gathering, and there was the sound of the lock on the big door opening. They started filing in. I asked Mrs P if we should join them, or wait to be called. She said we should wait. Then we noticed some civilians had started filing through, so we gathered up all of our paperwork and made our way into the courtroom.

I had been in this room before. Several years ago I was on the jury for the trial of a kid who had been pulled over for DUI. Though the police said that he looked drunk, and his lawyer appeared to be a stammering idiot, we voted not guilty because there was no hard evidence of his condition. I was hoping there was a little of that merciful energy left in the room. The judge came in looking friendly and kind. He began to read the docket, and I noticed something a little creepy. Nearly everyone who answered appeared to know what they were doing. They were talking about continuances and motions and objections and stuff. These people all had lawyers! We had a stack of papers and Mrs P's experience as a social worker testifying in child welfare cases. Well, and all those Law and Order episodes. Hearings were scheduled. Settlements were announced. People in suits and skinny heels came and went. Mrs P said I looked like a deer in the headlights. I wasn't surprised, since that's how I felt. Oh, my God, we were representing ourselves in a court of law. That never works out in the movies. The judge finally called our case. "Super Big International Corporation v The Pennsy family." We stood up like school children and Mrs P said, "Here, your Honor." She sounded like she knew what she was doing. I hoped the judge didn't think she was an actual lawyer. We were counting on his pity, not his professional respect.

By coincidence, the bank's lawyer was sitting right next to us. He made some kind of motion, but the judge said that he intended to schedule a "conciliation hearing" in his chambers. He explained to us that we will have a few more weeks to do some more paperwork, then sit down with him and the bank's lawyer to come to some sort of resolution. I said "Thank you, sir," instead of "Your Honor," and I felt every lawyer in the room give an inaudible gasp. A breech of etiquette! The judge pretended not to notice. The pity thing was working. Mrs P then asked if we could be dismissed, (I was so proud of her.) Out in the hall, we talked with the bank's lawyer for a few minutes. He was young and friendly. He explained what we should expect. Mrs P showed him our paperwork. He was politely impressed. Then, he gave us his card to call him if there was anything we wanted to talk about. I was confused by all this. I thought he was supposed to be a bad guy and our opponent and everything. I guess that he is, in a way. Those things are sometimes pretty hard to discern among the grown-ups.

So, we came away feeling like things hadn't gone terribly. Mrs P was wonderful. The judge was merciful. The plaintiff's attorney was helpful. I was pitiful. We all played our parts convincingly, I thought. And we have at least another couple of months before they come and change our locks. All in all, I guess we got our day in court. Something tells me, we may get a few more.

Peace,
Pennsy