Month: April 2025

Posted on

Spring is Here… and So is Temperature Whiplash

Written March 3, 2025

reviewed 3/17

Hello Dear Readers,

Ah, spring in Nashville—the season where the weather behaves like a toddler throwing a tantrum. One moment, it’s flirting with summer warmth; the next, it’s diving headfirst back into winter. A 10-degree (or more) temperature swing within a single day? Completely normal. Convenient? Not in the slightest.

For most people, this just means layering up or peeling off a jacket when needed. But for me, post-brain stroke, my body has lost the ability to adjust to temperature shifts efficiently. Basically, my internal thermostat is broken. You know how your body shivers when it’s cold, constricting blood vessels to keep the heat in? Or how it ramps up metabolism to warm you up? Yeah, mine missed the memo. Instead, I just sit there, fully exposed to whatever the weather decides to throw at me, feeling every degree of change like some kind of human barometer.

After years of trial and (unfortunate) error, I’ve developed a system. Step one: check the weather forecast obsessively. Step two: have an outfit formula for each temperature range. If it’s 65°F or higher? Boom—shorts for running. Below that? Long sleeves, no exceptions. Since my body refuses to regulate heat properly, my only defense is meticulous planning.

Public buildings in summer? A whole different battle. Most people walk in from the heat and sigh in relief at the air conditioning. Me? I’m bracing for the deep freeze. The temperature difference between the scorching outdoors and the arctic indoor settings is brutal. Luckily, our house is the one place where I’m safe from the extremes. My wife always preferred keeping our indoor temperature closer to the natural climate, and after my stroke, she fine-tuned it even more to make things manageable for me.

This morning was another classic example of springtime mood swings. Woke up to temperatures just shy of freezing, and now it’s warmed up to a more tolerable range. But alas, still not 65°F, which means I’m reluctantly sticking to long sleeves for my run.

Honestly, this season keeps me on my toes. Some days start at a crisp 32°F and end pushing 60°F, which means I have to time my outdoor activities with military precision. Between my morning run and any outdoor chores, I’m constantly strategizing around the temperature spikes and drops.

On the bright side, my recovery routine worked wonders—yesterday’s sore legs feel refreshed, and I’m feeling pretty strong today. Now, if only spring could pick a temperature and stick with it, that would be great. But until then, I’ll be out there, battling the elements one run at a time.

Posted on

Planking: Where Pride Goes to Die (and Come Back Stronger)

Written March 2, 2025

reviewed 3/15

Hello Dear Readers,

Ah, the sweet reward of a solid workout: muscle aches. Not exactly the kind of prize you’d frame on the wall, but a trophy nonetheless. Today, my legs are singing the well-earned ballad of yesterday’s hard-fought 10K run. Stretching is non-negotiable—unless I want to spend the day hobbling around like a wounded penguin. And trust me, that’s not the heroic look I’m going for.

While my running goals are shaping up better than expected, my planking? Well, that’s an entirely different beast. The new machine I got for planking scoffs at my previous efforts. It’s the Balrog of fitness equipment dragging me into the abyss of muscle fatigue. My body, still reeling from the betrayal, is filing official complaints. A couple of days ago, I smacked face-first into a wall of frustration. The plan had been simple: endure the pain for a week, and surely, I’d emerge victorious. But no. The abyss had other plans. No matter how much I gritted my teeth, I just couldn’t hold on long enough.

So, I made a painful decision—I cut my planking target time by a full minute. Oof.

Now, before you call it a defeat, hear me out. I’m all for pushing limits, but I also used to tell my university students that goals must be realistic. Time to practice what I preached. Setting the bar so high that I end up quitting entirely? That’s not resilience—that’s self-sabotage. A minute might not seem like much, but in the world of planking, it’s an eternity. Still, with this new machine, I have to be honest about what’s actually achievable.

Here’s how my planking sessions work: I use my smartphone on the machine to play a color ball chase game—an absolute gem of a distraction. The timer counts down, and I cling to life. The issue? My old target time, the one I used to master on my previous machine, just doesn’t translate here. But my stubborn streak refused to budge. I clung to that old number like Gollum to his precious, as if lowering it meant tarnishing my past victories. Eventually, my screaming muscles staged a full-scale rebellion, and I caved.

But here’s the plot twist: just like Gandalf, I may have fallen, but I’m coming back stronger. The new machine allows for incremental increases, so instead of mourning the lost minute, I’ve set my time to go up by one second per day. Small, steady victories. In time, I’ll reclaim my full endurance—without the unnecessary suffering. That’s the plan, at least.

At the end of the day, progress isn’t about stubbornly clinging to an arbitrary number. It’s about tracking what I can actually do and building from there. Seeing my endurance improve, even by the tiniest fraction, is far more motivating than repeatedly failing to hit an unrealistic goal.

So, here’s to adjusting, adapting, and rising like Gandalf the White—one second at a time.

Posted on

The Grand Canyon Didn’t Break Me, So Neither Will My 10K Pace

Written March 1, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday, I was on top of the world—or at least, on top of my running game. My 5K was a total success, smashing my target pace and dipping under 9 minutes per kilometer for the first time. Naturally, my mind started racing faster than my legs: If I keep this up, I’ll be setting a whole new goal for the year!

And then came today.

While my pace wasn’t quite as speedy, I still clocked my fastest 10K yet—just a few seconds per kilometer shy of my yearly goal. Not bad, right? But it got me thinking: so many factors affect my running pace. Distance, my body’s condition on the day, the weather—whether I’m battling a light breeze or running headfirst into a windstorm. Today, it was all about the distance.

There’s a world of difference between a 5K and a 10K. Some runners barely blink at the distinction; they lace up and conquer either without breaking stride. My wife told me about her old running buddies in Canada who were exactly like that. She, however, worked tirelessly to get there—only to realize that natural aptitude plays a role too.

But she also says consistency can take you far. Maybe not to the Olympics, but certainly further and faster than you’d expect. When she first mentioned it, I brushed it off. I wasn’t that serious about running. But over the years, as I watched my progress unfold, I started to appreciate the power of steady effort.

A prime example? The Grand Canyon.

A while back, we visited, and my wife—ever the hiking enthusiast—decided we’d walk everywhere. Skip the bus? Sure. Wander the steep, winding trails? Why not? By the time we finished, we had covered well over 10 miles, including a particularly hilly section of the canyon. And yet, I felt strong. Years ago, I would have needed to sit and rest every few minutes just to try to walk again. That day, though? No problem. My endurance had improved more than I’d ever realized.

So, yeah—consistency works.

That’s why I keep running. That’s why today’s run, even if not as fast as I’d hoped, was still an essential step forward. If I put in the effort this week, next week will be even better. And who knows? By the end of the year, I might just be chasing the 8-minute-per-kilometer mark.

One step, one run, one breakthrough at a time.

Posted on

Running, Allergies, and the Scream of the Trees

Written February 26, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

After what felt like an eternal deep freeze in Nashville, the sun has finally decided to warm us up. Naturally, this means one thing: pollen. And right on cue, my wife has been sneezing non-stop since morning. It’s like a seasonal ritual—warmer weather rolls in, and she starts performing an allergy-induced symphony of sneezes.

Between sniffles, she told me a rather unsettling story from her immunology class. Apparently, the best way to cure allergies is… worms. Yes, actual worms in your stomach. The idea is that our hyper-sanitized modern lives have made our immune systems overly sensitive, so introducing a little parasite helps balance things out. While it’s a fascinating scientific tidbit, she’s understandably not rushing to swap antihistamines for a side of tapeworms. Some problems are better left unsolved.

Still, she prefers to tackle allergies with extra sleep rather than loading up on medication. Fair enough. Meanwhile, I’m celebrating this brief weather perfection by ditching my winter layers and running in shorts. Days like this—neither too hot nor too cold—are rare gems in Nashville. Perfect running weather. If my legs cooperate, I might even push my pace below my long-standing goal of nine minutes per kilometer. No promises, but a man can dream.

Unlike my wife, my sensitivity isn’t to pollen—it’s to temperature. Nashville has a talent for bouncing between extremes, making truly comfortable days feel like accidental miracles. Back when we lived in Portland and Vancouver, those mild, in-between days seemed more frequent. But while I may grumble about the temperature swings, my wife is perfectly content here. She’s lived all over—Japan, several places in Canada, different spots in the U.S.—and yet, Nashville is her favorite. Even with the pollen.

Funny enough, her allergies only started after we moved to British Columbia. Then, in Portland, it was even worse—like a never-ending pollen parade. I used to think the Pacific Northwest was peak pollen country, thanks to all those trees. Yet somehow, even here, where we don’t see those same towering forests, the pollen finds us. For me, it’s a year-round struggle. For her, it’s spring and fall.

Speaking of pollen, she mentioned that Japan is expecting an especially rough season this year. According to her, pollen is basically trees screaming for help. When forests are overpopulated with aging trees, they try to produce more young ones, blasting the air with pollen in the process. In a balanced ecosystem, natural tree cycles would take care of this, but human intervention has thrown things off. Too many fast-growing trees like pines were planted after aggressive deforestation, and now, some older trees are being preserved way past their natural lifespan. The result? More pollen than anyone signed up for.

Of course, she takes everything with a grain of salt. She avoids social media feeds, especially when it comes to environmental topics. Too much noise. Too many hidden agendas. And honestly, she’s not wrong.

So here we are—pollen in the air, the trees in distress, and our bodies struggling to keep up. Is it us, or is it the world around us? Maybe both. Either way, I’ll keep running through it, and she’ll keep sneezing through it. Nature does what it wants, and so do we.

Posted on

A Comedy of Errors: My Morning Adventure in Forgetfulness

Written February 25, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning was a disaster of my own making—an entirely avoidable one, at that. It all started with a simple yet catastrophic decision: going back to sleep.

My wife had to leave early for work, so I woke up with her, saw her off, and then—because I am, at times, my own worst enemy—I crawled back into bed. When my alarm rang at its usual time, I reasoned that there was no immediate need to rise and shine. Why rush? The world could wait. I could bask in the warmth of my blankets for just a little while longer.

Ah, but then—the horror! Like a bolt of lightning, it struck me. I had an appointment at the phlebotomy lab. This morning. In a moment, I went from blissful comfort to full-blown panic mode.

Suddenly, I was a man on a mission. Breakfast was a frantic affair—more a feeding frenzy than a meal. I barely finished swallowing before summoning an Uber to whisk me across town. Somehow, by sheer force of will (and the generosity of traffic lights), I arrived roughly on time. My reward? A needle in my arm and the satisfaction of knowing I had narrowly avoided disaster.

The Saga of the Quarterly Lab Visit

This whole lab ordeal isn’t a weekly thing, thank goodness. It happens once every three months—a fun little prelude to my nephrologist appointments. The lab used to be conveniently located within walking distance, but those were the good old days. Now, thanks to the ever-evolving world of healthcare logistics, both my doctor’s office and the lab have migrated to opposite ends of the city. Since my wife was at work, Uber was my chariot of choice.

A Kidney’s Hard-Won Victory

Once upon a time, my kidneys were in such dire shape that a transplant was on the horizon—stage five of kidney disease, the final boss level. But through some miracle of discipline (and possibly sheer stubbornness), I clawed my way back to stage three. Even my doctors were impressed. Kidneys don’t just bounce back like that. It’s been an uphill battle—strict diet, exercise, a truckload of medication—but I intend to keep it that way. If my kidneys have fought this hard, the least I can do is not sabotage them.

The Curious Case of the Urgency-Driven Wife

Speaking of discipline, my wife operates on a completely different level. She thrives on urgency. More time? Not helpful. More deadlines? That’s where she shines. She has goals stacked like dominos—lifelong ones, yearly ones, monthly ones, and even daily ones. Meanwhile, I apparently struggle with remembering a single appointment that’s been on my calendar for months.

A Morning Lost in Translation

In my defense, I used to have a built-in scheduling assistant—my wife. For years, she managed my appointments with an efficiency that I now recognize I took for granted. But since 2017, I’ve been the proud (if slightly forgetful) owner of my own calendar. And today, that system failed spectacularly. I’m fairly certain I ignored every phone alarm. Maybe I was half-asleep. Maybe I was just being me.

The Aftermath of Chaos

Once I got back home—blood drawn, dignity slightly bruised—I tried to restore order to my day. I worked out, did my language practice, and checked off my morning to-do list. By some miracle, I still had time before dinner prep to catch my breath and, of course, write about my self-inflicted chaos. What is the moral of the story? Maybe don’t ignore your alarms. Or better yet, don’t trust a half-asleep brain to make scheduling decisions. It does not have your best interests at heart.