Month: May 2025

Posted on

When Pace Takes a Vacation but Discipline Sticks Around

Written April 5, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s 10K was less of a triumphant dash and more of a slow-motion struggle through a vat of soup. And not even the good kind. I had high hopes, but my target pace waved goodbye around kilometer three and disappeared into the haze. Disappointing? Yes. Defeated? Not quite.

Maybe it was the hours of mowing yesterday that zapped my energy. Maybe it was the humidity clinging to me like an overly affectionate sweater. Maybe both. Either way, my legs were staging a silent protest, and I wasn’t exactly in the mood for negotiations.

Running, I’ve realized, isn’t just about fitness. It’s about strategy. And in my case, environmental diplomacy. High humidity? Slippery slope. Bone-chilling cold? My body doesn’t thermoregulate like it used to. Wind, rain, pollution? I might as well be battling the elements in a Shakespearean tragedy.

This past week, Nashville’s spring air has been more “dust and doom” than “fresh and floral.” Toss in a humidity level that could make a rainforest jealous, and you’ve got the perfect storm for a sluggish run.

But here’s the thing—I log everything. Not because I’m obsessed with stats, but because I believe in the long view. My wife, ever the voice of reason (and wisdom), tells me not to ride the emotional rollercoaster of daily metrics. “Zoom out,” she says. “Don’t get caught up in the noise.” She’s right, of course. She usually is.

She barely checks her logs, preferring to focus on the process over the numbers. For her, it’s all about clear-headedness and Stoic discipline. No drama. No spirals. No “I ran three seconds slower, therefore I’m a failure” kind of thinking. Just steady progress.

I, on the other hand, am more of a grind-it-out type. Motivation is fleeting. Vision is sacred. Discipline is king. After all, I’ve clawed my way back from a place where simply moving my limbs felt like a miracle. Now, every step I take is a quiet rebellion against the limitations I once knew.

My wife often tells me she’s proud of me. That I’m her inspiration. She reminds me that not everyone bounces back from a brain stroke and decides to chase 10Ks for breakfast. She’s gently pushing me to become even healthier than I was before—and I’ve decided to take her advice literally.

Running is more than a hobby. It’s part of my mission to keep this body functioning, thriving, and dancing its way through life. Even when the weather’s rude. Even when my pace falls short. Even when progress feels like wading through molasses.

Success hasn’t shown up lately, but I know it’s lurking out there—probably waiting for the humidity to die down too. Until then, I’ll be tweaking, adjusting, experimenting. I may have overdone it early in the year, sprinting into a wall of fatigue, but that’s part of the journey. Now, I’m learning the rhythm of resilience. One humid, hopeful mile at a time.

Posted on

Why You Should Never Leave a Burner (or a Mitt) Unattended

Written April 4, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday flirted with disaster. Picture this: thunder rolled for days, turning our backyard into a soggy jungle. I had been patiently waiting for a window of calm to tame the lawn, and when it finally came, I seized the moment like a caffeinated gardener on a mission. I mowed with determination—until our battery-powered mower gave me the silent treatment. Twice.

Fast forward through two days of yard-wrangling, and suddenly, it was time to cook. That’s when the real storm hit.

Now, in my usual routine, I like to multitask like a culinary ninja. Pot of water on the stove, shower while it boils, then toss in the pasta like I’m on a cooking show. But yesterday, in my post-mowing haze, I made a fatal error—I turned on the wrong burner. The one with the oven mitt hanging out like it owned the place.

As I was finishing my shower, my wife burst in, wide-eyed and clearly not there to compliment my shampoo. “There’s a fire in the kitchen!” she shouted. Not exactly the lunchtime ambiance we had planned.

You see, my wife works from home, partly because her coworkers treat COVID precautions like optional side quests. After being exposed twice (yes, twice!) by colleagues who showed up sick and generous with their germs, she decided home was the safest battlefield. “Protect yourself because no one else will,” she says. She’s not wrong.

So there she was, taking a break from work, checking on me—and thank goodness she did. The oven mitt had caught fire on the countertop. She sprang into action like a firefighter in yoga pants, extinguishing the flames before they spread. The alarm blared, smoke wafted upstairs, and ash floated down like confetti at the world’s worst party.

The only casualty: one very crispy oven mitt. A faithful kitchen companion of over a decade, now reduced to charcoal couture. Upstairs, ash decorated everything like a light snowfall—but the damage could have been so much worse.

I felt awful. I scared my wife, created a mess, and unintentionally cremated her beloved mitt. Lesson learned: fire and showers do not mix. From now on, I will not leave the stove unattended, even for a pasta-boiling head start. Today’s plan? Vacuum the ash, apologize profusely, and maybe buy a fireproof timer… or a new mitt. Or both. Because, as it turns out, almost burning down the house is a terrible way to make lunch.

Posted on

Certified Mail, Windy Days, and Weeds in Disguise

Written April 2, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s schedule decided to throw on a costume and pretend it was someone else entirely. The usual rhythm was shuffled because my wife had an unexpected mission: delivering an important document to a P.O. Box—for her boss, no less. Apparently, some government agencies still insist on this paper-and-ink ritual, as if the internet is just a passing fad.

To make matters more official (and more stressful), it had to be sent by certified mail. Proof of mailing, proof of existence, proof that we’re still living in 1997—take your pick. She could have asked her office staff to handle it, but she prefers the old-fashioned way: doing it herself. She says it’s paranoia; I say it’s perfectionism with a stamp.

So off she went early in the morning while I stayed behind, holding down the fort (and the coffee). She asked me to join her at the post office later, which I knew was code for: “Let’s make a mini date out of bureaucracy.”

Meanwhile, I tried to stick to my usual routine—well, minus the fact I got up half an hour earlier than planned. I filled the extra time pulling weeds. Yes, weeds. It’s spring, which means those green freeloaders are popping up like they own the place. Some of them were already suiting up in their cotton-seed armor. I caught them just in time before they turned into airborne invaders.

The weather? A whole drama in itself. Just a few days ago, we had a bone-chilling cold and a tornado siren serenade. Today? Practically beach weather—minus the beach. It was warm enough to tempt me into mowing the lawn, but after my morning run, I had all the energy of a sunbaked lizard. Mowing was postponed due to “low battery.”

My wife eventually returned—slightly later than expected. Something must have held her up at the office. As soon as she got back, it was time for our grand postal adventure. She likes dragging me along for these errands, claiming it’s good to “go for a drive.” Translation: “I need someone to talk to while she is driving.”

It was a nice day to be out… if you ignored the wind trying to steal your hat and slap your face with your own hair. My wife mentioned that her morning run was a battle against the breeze. And apparently, more storms are on the horizon. Classic Nashville spring: three days of sunshine, followed by tornado warnings, and then a cold snap that makes you question reality.

She’s been meaning to tackle the front yard, but weekends haven’t been kind. Every Saturday and Sunday seem to come with a side of thunderstorms, served cold and soggy. She’s also planning to repaint the washroom while it’s not scorching hot. She’s hoping to sneak that in between rain clouds, if possible.

As for me? Tomorrow’s forecast still shows mercy. I’m aiming to mow the lawn before the next act in this weather soap opera begins. Fingers crossed that the mower cooperates—and that the weeds don’t regroup overnight.

Posted on

Lawn Wars: Episode I — The Procrastinator Awakens

Written April 1, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

We had a few glorious days of summer teasing us in spring—sunny, toasty, practically begging us to throw a backyard BBQ. Naturally, that was followed by a dramatic thunderstorm that rolled in like nature’s way of saying, “Just kidding!” Now, the lawns (or let’s be honest—mostly weeds) are popping up faster than mushrooms after rain. Blink, and it’s a jungle out there.

So yes, I finally broke out the mower today for the season’s grand premiere. Was I on top of it? Not quite. Did I wait until the grass whispered “Feed me” like a scene from Little Shop of Horrors? Absolutely.

Here’s the twist: that thunderstorm didn’t just bring lightning—it dropped the temps and left the ground moist enough to make any worm feel at home. I told myself, “I’ll wait until it warms up a bit.” And, well… you know how that goes. Suddenly, it’s go-time, and I’m only halfway through the lawn before I have to switch gears to handle more urgent stuff. Classic case of chore interrupted.

Now, time management has never exactly been my superpower. My wife, on the other hand, is a time ninja. She’s been planning her days backward since elementary school—mapping out roadblocks before they even show up. She’s basically got a sixth sense for scheduling. Me? I was more of the “wing it and win it” type. Pre-stroke, I’d procrastinate and still get things done—maybe not gracefully, but hey, results matter, right?

Post-stroke, things are a bit different. I’ve gained endurance, sure, but the prep time? Oh boy, it’s like slow-cooking a brisket. And let’s not forget the weather curveballs. Outdoor tasks are more like navigating an obstacle course built by Mother Nature herself.

According to the weather app (which is only slightly more reliable than a coin toss), we’re in for more thunder, more storms, and possibly a few surprise tornado drills. There might be windows—tiny, rain-free ones—where I can sneak in a mowing session. Fingers crossed.

Nashville, this time of year, is a real mixed bag: warm one minute, thunderous the next. I think I’ve officially earned the consequences of my lawn care procrastination. Lesson learned (again): next week, I start early—even if it means bundling up and mowing in the morning chill.

Wish me luck. Or better yet, send dry weather.

Posted on

Storm Season in Nashville: A Low-Pressure Soap Opera

Written March 31, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Welcome to storm season—where the clouds throw tantrums, the wind gets dramatic, and Nashville becomes the reluctant stage for nature’s thunderous Broadway.

Just last night, we got hit with a storm that clearly wanted to be noticed. The temperature, which had been gently warming up like a pleasant prelude, suddenly dropped like a diva exiting the stage mid-performance. And the sounds! Not your usual thunderclaps—oh no. My wife described it perfectly: it was like some giant beast dragging something massive across the earth. Less “boom,” more “is-the-ground-supposed-to-feel-like-this?”

Naturally, I couldn’t let the mystery go. Why do we always seem to get these dramatic sky shows around this time of year? So I did what any mildly obsessed weather-curious person would do—I fell down a rabbit hole of meteorological research.

Turns out, spring storms are the result of a moody mix of atmospheric drama. Think of the air way up high playing tug-of-war, stretching apart like cotton candy at a fair. That pulling action is called divergence—and when it happens, it creates a kind of empty space up there. But nature? She hates a vacuum. So air from lower down rushes upward to fill that void.

As that air rises, it lowers the pressure near the ground—hello, low-pressure system. And the more dramatic that divergence up high? The stronger the low-pressure system below. These powerful systems are basically the engines that power our stormy rollercoaster rides. Two of the most notorious culprits: the Colorado low and the Texas low. When these guys hit the road, they bring a stormy buffet—rain, thunder, snow, and maybe even a tornado if the mood strikes.

And wouldn’t you know it—Nashville has been playing temperature ping-pong all week. One day, it’s practically summer, the next, I’m wondering where I put my thermal running tights.

Speaking of which, that last storm forced me to haul out my cold-weather gear for a morning run. Not glove-worthy (yet), but brisk enough to make me reconsider my life choices. The yard is still soggy, but at least it’s warming up again—just enough to avoid jacket regret while mowing the lawn.

So, yes, my curiosity led me to a surprising lesson in storm science. Who says bad weather can’t be educational?