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Rain, Appointments, and the Tragedy of a Missed Run

Written March 5, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today, disappointment takes center stage. Nothing earth-shattering—no grand betrayals, no existential crises—just a simple, frustrating reality: I have a doctor’s appointment, and it’s trampling all over my running plans. Normally, I outmaneuver these scheduling dilemmas by booking appointments on non-running days, but this time, fate (or, more accurately, my doctor’s availability) had other plans. And so, my run is officially benched.

At first, I entertained the idea of running after the appointment, a valiant attempt at compromise. But then, I checked the weather: gray skies, a steady drizzle, the kind of rain that makes the world look like it’s mourning some cosmic injustice. It’s not a storm—there are no dramatic lightning bolts to justify staying indoors—but it’s just annoying enough to sap the joy out of a run. I could still go, but do I want to? Not really.

The irony of all this is that I never used to care about running. Actually, I despised it. My wife, on the other hand, has always been an outdoors enthusiast, the type who sees a forest trail and thinks, adventure! while I see it and think, mosquitoes. Left to my own devices, I would have happily remained a devoted indoor creature, perfectly content within four walls. But the more time I spent with her, the more I found myself dragged—reluctantly, at first—into nature. Running, however, was an entirely different beast.

I started running for her. After my stroke, she worried about my mobility, my brain function, and my ability to move with ease. She saw running as a way to keep me sharp and strong. And because I saw her as someone worth listening to, I ran. Not because I wanted to, not because I had any burning passion for the sport, but because making her happy was reason enough.

Of course, she saw through that instantly. “What happens if I’m not here?” she once asked, with a look that could cut through steel. “Would you just stop?” She argued that motivation needs to be internal and that relying on external forces makes for a fragile commitment. I nodded along, pretending to agree, but deep down, I wasn’t sure she was wrong.

Then, somewhere along the way, something shifted. It crept up on me, subtle and unexpected. Running became less about obligation and more about, well… me. I started to enjoy it—maybe even need it. And now, here I am, feeling genuinely frustrated about missing a run—not for my wife’s sake, but for my own. Somehow, that motivation she kept talking about had rooted itself deeper than I realized.

Now, I sit here, staring at the window, checking my weather app like it might miraculously change in my favor. It doesn’t. The sky remains gray, the drizzle continues, and my disappointment lingers. But really, what’s the point in sulking? I could try to make up the run tomorrow—though that might throw off my Friday schedule. I’ll decide when the time comes. One thing’s for sure: next time, I’ll fight harder for a non-running day appointment. But if I have to choose between my health and my run, the run will lose. Reluctantly.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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A Birthday, A Housewarming, and a Dash of Chaos

Written February 22, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today is a bit of a whirlwind—but in the best way possible. First off, it’s my sister’s birthday, which is reason enough to celebrate. Even better, we’re heading over to her brand-new house, a place she and her family just bought. However, there’s a slight plot twist: her household has been on a merry-go-round of sickness for weeks. What is the official party status? Still a little up in the air.

She hadn’t confirmed anything earlier, but I assumed the celebration was still happening. Turns out, I guessed right—she texted this morning that we’re good to go. That means I get to see her, which is great news, and my wife—who adores our niece—is downright thrilled. She’s been working on my sister’s birthday gifts for months. Usually, she buys them early and lets them sit around like museum exhibits, waiting for their grand unveiling. This time, though, she’s been swamped with year-end work, so guess who got the honor of wrapping everything? That’s right—me. And if I do say so myself, those gifts are wrapped with precision, if not perfection.

Of course, with all the festivities, my well-laid weekend plans had to shuffle around. Running? Rescheduled. Vacuuming? Pushed to tomorrow—without a hint of regret. My wife, ever the planner, had already mapped out next week’s meals, and rather than making a separate trip, she cleverly added her bag to the grocery list. That way, we can swing by Kroger on the way home and check that errand off without a fuss. Efficiency at its finest.

One small concern: my wife pointed out that lingering too long at my sister’s might not be the best idea, given their recent bout of illness. Fair point. Usually, my brother-in-law takes charge of the kitchen—he’s a fantastic cook and loves whipping up meals for any and all occasions. But this time, they’re playing it safe with Chinese takeout. As for dessert? That’s covered. I baked a cake yesterday, and it’s ready to steal the show.

Now, let’s talk about my wife’s relationship with time—she fills every minute of the day like it’s a carry-on bag that absolutely must fit in the overhead compartment. Even on a day like this, her schedule is packed. She’s up at an ungodly hour, claiming it makes her more productive. And honestly? It works. The woman does not stop—unless she’s ill (which is rare because she’s extra careful about germs, mostly for my sake). I, on the other hand, take a more… measured approach. I know exactly what I need to get done this weekend, and I’m confident it’ll all be wrapped up smoothly.

For now, though, the to-do list can wait. We’re off to celebrate, see the new house, and enjoy some cake. Priorities, right?

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 Snow Day Struggles: Running Plans Thwarted, but Perspective Gained

Written February 19, 2025

reviewed 3/2

Hello Dear Readers,

Well, there goes my run—canceled, thanks to a generous overnight delivery from Mother Nature. Snow blanketed everything, and with temperatures stubbornly hanging below freezing, it’s not melting anytime soon. Schools across Nashville have shut their doors, throwing parents into chaos. Do they brave the roads and head to work, or do they scramble to find last-minute childcare? The great snow day debate. It’s a logistical nightmare for many, but keeping kids safe comes first.

For us, though? Not exactly a crisis. My wife works from home now, a far cry from her former 80-hour-a-week, always-on-the-move lifestyle. She used to thrive on that pace—until I nearly died from a brain stroke. That changed everything. She still brings it up sometimes, but I know there’s a lot she doesn’t say. She doesn’t need to. The shift in her priorities says it all. These days, she avoids crowded spaces, dodges anyone who so much as sniffles, and keeps a close eye on me. To most people, I probably look fine—no obvious signs of past medical issues. But my kidneys are still compromised, and something as minor as a cold could spiral into something serious. My wife knows that. And she never forgets.

Truthfully, I don’t blame her. I worked hard—really hard—to regain as much function as possible. The last thing I want is to put my family through that kind of fear again. Once was more than enough.

Remote work has been a game-changer for her. Some people hate it—too many distractions, not enough structure. But for her? It’s perfect. She thrives on creating processes, developing automation, and solving complex problems that most people wouldn’t even know where to begin. Nothing really breaks her focus. Well, almost nothing. The fear of my near-death experience still lingers in the background, even if she doesn’t always talk about it. Instead of letting it paralyze her, she adapted. If she can’t erase the fear, she can at least manage it—and working from home is part of that strategy.

As for me, I have mixed feelings about today’s forced break. On one hand, I wasn’t exactly excited about an hour-long run in below-freezing temperatures. On the other hand, I don’t like missing scheduled runs. Skipping throws off my rhythm, and I know how easily one missed workout can turn into two, then three. But if I can’t run, I can at least make myself useful.

Shoveling it is. Not the full driveway—that’s asking too much—but enough to clear a path for any brave delivery drivers attempting to make their rounds. Amazon doesn’t care about the weather, and I’d rather not have packages stranded in a snowbank. It’s not the workout I planned, but it’s still movement, and at least it gives me an excuse to step outside.

So, no run today. But I’ll survive. And hopefully, so will my perfectly timed book order.

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Running Through the Chill: A Battle Against Nashville’s Winter

Written February 19, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

February is nearly in the rearview mirror, but Nashville isn’t ready to let go of winter just yet. The city seems determined to keep us wrapped in layers, clinging to the cold like an overzealous guest who refuses to leave the party. And now, just to keep things interesting, the forecast is throwing snow into the mix. Whether it actually happens or not is anyone’s guess, but I wouldn’t put it past the weather to surprise us.

Now, I don’t mind a crisp winter run—cold air is invigorating, after all—but snow? That’s where I draw the line. My neighborhood is already an obstacle course of hills, one of which looms in front of my house like a miniature Everest. Running on it when it’s dry is a challenge. Running on it when it’s covered in snow? That’s not a workout; that’s an audition for an injury.

I learned this the hard way a few years ago. It was the day before Christmas, and my wife and I had grand plans to deliver small gifts to our neighbors. Simple enough, right? Wrong. The snow had turned the streets into a treacherous, ice-covered battleground. Every step felt like a high-stakes balancing act, and we spent more time trying not to wipe out than actually walking. Since that day, I have made a firm rule: running on snow is a terrible idea. The whole point of running is to stay healthy, not to end up in a cast.

That said, I’m not letting the cold stop me. I still plan to hit my weekly running target, snow or no snow (preferably no snow). Last summer was brutal—I struggled through one of the hottest seasons I can remember, dragging myself through heat so intense it felt like I was melting. But those struggles paid off. In November and December, I pushed hard to hit my year-end distance goal, and in the process, I did something unexpected—I got faster.

Now, every time I run, I shave a little more off my pace. I’m within five seconds per kilometer of my end-of-year target, and that progress fuels me. My wife is impressed whenever I show her my running logs, and honestly, that extra bit of admiration is a great motivator. It’s always nice to have a cheering section, even if it’s just one person.

Of course, I know not every run will be great. Some days will be slow, some will be frustrating, and some will make me question why I do this to myself at all. But I’ve learned that bad days are just that—days. They don’t define the journey. The key is to keep moving, keep improving, and not expect progress to happen overnight.

So, I’ll keep running. I’ll keep chasing my goals. But if the snow does show up tomorrow? Well, I’ll be watching it from inside with a hot drink in hand.

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Rain, Rogue GPS, and the Mysterious Vanishing Kilometers

Written February 16, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Some runs feel like a victory lap. Others? A battle against the elements, technology, and one’s own patience. Yesterday’s run firmly belonged in the latter category.

It all started with rain. Not the cinematic kind, where you look heroic, sprinting through a storm with determination in your eyes. No, this was the persistently annoying variety—too light to justify quitting but steady enough to be irritating. I ran anyway, determined to get my usual 10k in. The universe, however, had other plans.

About halfway through, I glanced at my running app and noticed something was off. It had only logged one kilometer. One. I had covered at least five. I stopped, restarted the app, and, like any stubborn runner with a love-hate relationship with technology, decided to run another 5k just to make sure the second half was tracked correctly. It worked—sort of. The second 5k showed up fine, but the first half of my run had been swallowed into the digital abyss, never to be seen again. And just like that, my running records were now permanently haunted by a mysterious missing 4k.

Curious (and mildly exasperated), I looked into why this happened. Turns out, GPS signals don’t always play nice with rain. While light rain doesn’t do much, heavier rain can scatter the signals enough to make devices struggle. That explained my app’s refusal to acknowledge half my workout. The logic makes sense, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating when you’re staring at an incomplete run in your stats.

Now, if you ask my wife, she’d say I shouldn’t even be looking at the daily numbers. “Look at the long-term progress,” she always tells me. “People get discouraged when they fixate on single-day stats. That’s how they end up quitting.” She had to learn that lesson the hard way—being results-driven meant she used to stress over every little fluctuation. Me? Not so much. I like having numbers, but I don’t let them dictate my mood. Still, I see her point. If a missing 4k had the power to make or break my commitment to running, I probably wouldn’t have lasted this long.

At the end of the day, my legs still got their workout, my heart still did its thing, and the health benefits remained intact—regardless of what my app said. It’s a minor annoyance, sure, but it’s not like my fitness depends on perfect tracking. That being said, I won’t pretend I wasn’t tempted to manually add the missing kilometers just to restore my stats. I resisted. (Barely.)

So, the moral of the story? Rain happens. Technology fails. And sometimes, you just have to run another 5k out of sheer stubbornness. But in the grand scheme of things, what matters isn’t a missing stat—it’s the habit, the discipline, and the fact that I got out there in the first place. And if I ever need proof, my sore legs will be more than happy to remind me.