Category: Brian’s Journey

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The Case of the Missing Kilometers: A Summer Running Mystery

Written May 17, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today began with ambition: a 10K run was on the agenda. Shoes laced, legs stretched, I was off. I breezed through the first 5K like a gazelle who’d had a double espresso… then promptly jogged home—not for coffee, but for a much less glamorous reason: nature called, and she wasn’t leaving a voicemail.

Mid-bathroom break, a revelation struck me (because naturally, my most productive thinking happens next to a toilet): I had only done half the distance I intended. Oops. Apparently, my brain thought it was a 5K day. Distracted? Possibly. Possessed by lazy Saturday energy? Likely.

But hey, silver lining: I usually run the same 5K loop twice for a full 10K. So, I just slapped on my shoes again and headed out for round two. Voilà! A split-level 10K.

I use the Adidas Running app to track my kilometers, pace, and whatever else it measures while silently judging my life choices. It’s a free app—yes, free—and surprisingly robust. A nephrologist (yes, kidney doctor turned running app guru) recommended it. Now both my wife and I are part of the Adidas app cult. There’s a premium version, but the free one already does everything short of making you breakfast.

Of course, the app doesn’t understand “bathroom detour logic.” It logged my run as two separate 5Ks. According to my phone, I didn’t complete a 10K—I just got wildly enthusiastic about doing the exact same 5K twice. Technically true. But also deeply unhelpful.

To be honest, I’ve felt mildly off-schedule lately. My weekends have been a flurry of activity—Indiana trips, birthday parties, unexpected chaos. My new summer routine has been more “choose your own adventure” than “disciplined athlete.” Today was, in fact, my first proper Saturday 10K since adopting the summer schedule. That explains the weird déjà vu and temporal confusion.

Why the switch-up? Simple: summers in Nashville are hot and humid. Not just “sweat-a-bit” humid—more like “is-the-air-soup?” humid. My wife, the smart one, runs at 5:30 a.m. to dodge the worst of it. Even then, she sometimes returns looking like she swam the route. If you’re thinking of running later in the day, don’t. Just don’t.

I’ve shifted to morning runs too—not just to beat the heat, but because it makes the whole day run smoother. Early run means early shower, early breakfast, and fewer “hangry while vacuuming” episodes. Trust me, those are not pretty.

Still, I’m baffled that I forgot I was doing a 10K today. Maybe it’s summer brain. Maybe I was subconsciously hoping to avoid it. Maybe my legs staged a tiny rebellion. Who knows? What I do know is that I’ve missed three Saturday 10Ks in a row thanks to life’s little curveballs, and today finally felt like a return to the groove—even if it came with a bathroom intermission.

Next week, I’ll be more focused. Or at least I’ll try not to confuse a 10K with a 5K. But if I forget again, maybe I’ll just start calling it “interval training with plumbing awareness.” Sounds fancy, doesn’t it?

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How I Outsmarted Protein Restrictions and Found My Balance (Mostly)

Written May 13, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

After mowing the lawn this morning—a chore I now count as both cardio and meditation—I had a small but glorious victory: the bathroom scale whispered the sweet news that I’ve almost reclaimed all my lost weight. Just one stubborn pound remains. One! At this rate, I may throw that pound a welcome-back party… with non-alcoholic, low-phosphorus sparkling water, of course.

For months, I’ve been running four times a week. It all began innocently enough: my wife, in her infinite wisdom (and persistence), suggested I start walking to help my brain recover post-stroke. One foot in front of the other eventually snowballed into full-blown 10K runs. I guess my brain took that as “heal or hustle.”

But here’s the kicker: the stroke didn’t just damage my brain—it also decided to throw my kidneys under the bus. That lovely discovery landed me on dialysis and slapped me with a grocery list of dietary restrictions that reads like a “no-fun” menu. Protein? Strictly rationed at 36 grams per day. That’s less than what your average housecat gets. Chicken breasts? Off the table. Protein shakes? Forbidden potions. Cheese, chocolate, bananas? Banned by the Potassium & Phosphorus Police.

And yet, summer rolls in, bringing not just sunshine but a to-do list longer than a CVS receipt. Yard work, outdoor chores, sweating like I’m trying to grow muscles through evaporation—it’s a full-body experience. But here’s the problem: I can’t refuel the usual way. No chomping down extra calories from your friendly neighborhood protein bar.

So I get creative. Snacks become strategic. I’ve mastered the fine art of the homemade jam pastry—yes, it’s as indulgent and carefully calculated as it sounds. Ice cream also makes an occasional cameo, carefully vetted like it’s applying for a visa to enter my digestive system.

Recently, I’ve had to scale back (pun intended) my other workouts due to a rebellious shoulder. Planking? Down to once a day. The result? Surprise! Less exercise = weight gain. Turns out, my body is a finicky machine that runs on paradoxes and spite.

The shoulder is still not back to full power, but it’s slowly on the mend. So, for now, I’m sticking with the gentle path—less exercise, more patience, fewer unreasonable expectations.

One issue at a time. No need to be greedy with progress. My body isn’t a vending machine—I don’t get to press A5 and receive instant healing. But if I treat it kindly, listen to its cues, and bribe it with jam, we might just keep moving forward.

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Small Steps, Giant Wins (and a Few Flea Battles)

Written May 11, 2025

reviewed 5/24

Hello Dear Readers,

Good news: my shoulder is feeling better today! Not back to its full glory, but at least it’s no longer threatening to sabotage my every deep breath. Rest seems to be doing its job, so I’ll stick with it—doctor’s orders by way of common sense (the best kind).

Yesterday was a lovely disruption. My wife and I visited my family, and though it threw our usual routine out the window (probably landed somewhere in my sister’s garden), it was worth every minute. On our way home, we stopped by a grocery store near her place—a new battlefield for the weekly shop. The store layout was familiar enough to avoid total confusion, but alas, I forgot to grab cereal and almond milk. A breakfast betrayal. I’ll probably survive until next weekend, but this small oversight inspired a groundbreaking revelation: maybe I should start making a shopping list.

Yes, a list. Revolutionary.

My wife has always been a proud advocate of baby steps. “Kaizen,” she reminds me. Continuous improvement. (And yes, she built this website.)

For me, baby steps weren’t a motivational slogan—they were survival. After my brain stroke and subsequent surgery, many basic bodily functions simply clocked out. Skin sensation? Gone. Moving my legs? Like trying to command two uncooperative noodles. For months, it felt like I was locked inside myself. But slowly—achingly, infuriatingly slowly—I started to recover.

“Never give up,” my wife repeated like a mantra. Some days I believed her. Some days I just nodded while silently screaming. But now? Now I run 10 kilometers. Let that sink in. From immobile to 10k—powered entirely by small steps and pure stubbornness.

Eventually, my wife handed me the reins to this site. She told me people like me—stroke survivors, fighters, turtle-paced improvers—should share their stories. And she’s right. If someone like me can claw their way back into mobility and routine, maybe someone else out there won’t give up either.

Lately, my “kaizen” has taken the form of tweaking our weekly routine. I’m oddly proud of these tiny changes. They’re my breadcrumb trail to a more efficient life—though I don’t believe in a perfect routine. That’s a unicorn I’ve stopped chasing. But improvements? I’ll take all I can get.

Take laundry, for instance. Last week, I added a second wash day to deal with the stealthy flea army I unwittingly invite in every time I mow the lawn. We used to only wash clothes after Thursday mowing. But that left a two-day window for Tuesday’s flea squad to stage an escape from the laundry basket. Now I wash on Tuesdays, too—cutting their freedom window down to an hour or two. I call that a flea lockdown. (Sorry, guys. No soft landing this year.)

Back when we had a cat, she did most of the flea-fighting for us—like a soft, purring sacrifice with flea poison. But now it’s just us, the washing machine, and a growing pile of yard clothes.

So yes, these are small things: a shoulder healing, a forgotten carton of almond milk, a laundry schedule shift. But they add up. And step by step, list by list, run by run—I’m moving forward.

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Good Morning, Cardboard Chaos and Core Pain

Written May 10, 2025

reviewed 5/24

Hello Dear Readers,

Today I woke up with my body sending out what can only be described as an RSVP to the Pain Party. Most notably, my left shoulder/back area felt like it had gone a few rounds with a grizzly bear in its off-season. Every deep breath came with a charming reminder that, yes, I am no longer 22, and yes, running with sore muscles is about as fun as assembling IKEA furniture without instructions.

My grand plan was to knock out a casual 10k before heading to my sister’s shindig this afternoon. Reality, however, had other ideas. After dragging my slightly disgruntled limbs through a 5k, I waved the white flag. Enough was enough—this wasn’t the Olympics, and I wasn’t trying to impress Zeus.

When I whined—uh, consulted—with my wife about the mystery ache, she casually mentioned it might be from my recent plank marathons. Apparently, the floor space I’ve been using is less “yoga studio” and more “cardboard jungle.” Ever since we got back from Indiana, I’ve been buried in a sorting spree of my ancient Magic: The Gathering cards. Yes, the relics of my nerdy youth have staged a comeback, occupying approximately 47.3% of my study floor. (I measured emotionally.)

Now, my wife is not a fan of clutter. She approaches “stuff” with the same energy Marie Kondo would use to evict a raccoon from a linen closet. So, naturally, I’ve been trying to downsize the collection. Thankfully, a colleague of hers wants some of these dusty treasures. Apparently, old cardboard can still spark joy—or at least a trade.

The real issue? Sorting thousands of cards takes room. A lot of room. So I’ve been planking between booster packs and binder piles like some sort of core-strengthening archaeologist. My wife suggested—read: strongly recommended—that I plank in her room instead, where there’s actually space to extend my limbs without risking a landslide of mana.

Why didn’t I take her advice earlier? Well, I’m stubborn. Also, it felt like cheating on my routine. But considering my left side now feels like it’s been betrayed by my own ribcage, I’ve rethought my loyalties. She’s probably right. (She usually is. Don’t tell her I said that.)

I cleared a bit more space today, and voila—planking is no longer a game of human Tetris. The pain has subsided after some careful stretching and a moment of self-pity. Once I finish sorting the last of the cards—hopefully by mid-May—I’ll officially reclaim my floor and return to planking with dignity (and less groaning).

Lesson learned: Sometimes it’s better to abandon your makeshift gym and just listen to your wise, clutter-hating spouse. Especially if you enjoy breathing pain-free.

Until next time, stretch wisely and store your cardboard carefully.

—Your slightly sore, slightly wiser blogger

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When Your Muscles Say, “Not Today”

Written May 8, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Sometimes, my body and I are just not on the same team. Today’s first planking session felt like trying to wrestle a walrus—slippery, slow, and strangely humiliating. As I collapsed into a heap after the first set, I stared into the abyss (okay, the ceiling) and wondered how on earth I was supposed to do three more.

For the record, I don’t do anything extreme. I jog four times a week and do 10–20 minutes of muscle training every day—respectable, not Ironman material. Yet even this modest routine requires me to walk the tightrope of “just enough” thanks to my charmingly fussy kidneys.

Protein is a particular diva in my diet. I can eat it, but only in controlled, red-carpet amounts. If I push too hard without fueling properly, my muscles start cannibalizing themselves like a badly written survival movie. Not the vibe I’m going for. So, I’ve learned to listen to my body like it’s the lead singer and I’m just the backing vocals. Some days, it hits the high notes. Today, it croaked.

Naturally, this led to the Great Plank Debate of the Day: do I quit after one and scale the whole plan back? Or do I test the waters again later and see if my body’s just being dramatic?

Several hours and one curiosity-fueled check-in later… surprise! Round two felt significantly better. Maybe the lawn mowing earlier had worn me out more than I thought. Or maybe my muscles just needed a little nap and a motivational TED talk. Either way, I was back in the game.

Session three was… fine-ish. Not glorious, but also not tragic. I rewarded myself with a brief pause and some household chores—because nothing says “active rest” like folding towels. Then came session four, powered by the holy grail of motivation: ice cream. And somehow, I did it.

This whole planking saga got me thinking—maybe I need a proper rest day in my routine. I already rotate muscle groups to avoid overworking the same area, but perhaps even my meticulous planning needs a day off. After all, I’m not a machine. I’m a human with medical fine print.

I haven’t figured out the ideal plank duration yet. I know I can’t keep increasing it forever (unless I’m training for a Guinness World Record in dramatic floor-staring). One day, I’ll hit a ceiling. But for now, I’ve made peace with the idea that recovery is not weakness—it’s strategy.

Living with chronic conditions means your exercise plan sometimes needs to bend like a yoga master. So today’s lesson? When your body says “later,” sometimes it means “better.”

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When Weather Gaslights You: A Nashville Tale

Written May 4, 2025

reviewed 5/18

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, Nashville—ever the drama queen—decided to flirt with winter again. One minute we’re sweating through 80°F days, the next, it’s 50°F and somehow feels like we’ve wandered into a scene from Frozen. Yes, 50 degrees doesn’t sound frigid on paper, but after a week of borderline tropical heat, it hits like a betrayal. I call it thermal whiplash.

We recently took a trip up to Indiana to visit my dad, which should’ve been a casual northern jaunt. Turns out, Indiana didn’t get the springtime memo. It’s just six hours north, but the temperature there lagged behind Nashville’s by a good 10 to 15 degrees. We arrived confidently underdressed and promptly humbled by the Midwest’s commitment to staying brisk. Apparently, even the weather in Indiana had trust issues.

My theory? That chilly Indiana air decided it liked us so much, it followed us home like a stray dog. And now here we are—hosting winter’s encore in May.

My wife, who possesses a fully functioning autonomic nervous system (unlike yours truly), took the temperature dip in stride. While I was layering like a human lasagna, she just mumbled something about needing sleeves and kept her 5:30 AM workout routine like clockwork. The woman is basically a solar-powered Terminator—nothing stops her if it’s scheduled.

Meanwhile, I work from home and consider “schedule” more of a suggestion than a rule. My day bends around three pillars: sleep, meals, and whether it’s cold enough to make me regret my life choices. As temperatures go haywire, I adapt like a lizard seeking sun—except slower and with more coffee.

I had just kicked off my summer schedule. You know, the one where I run before the pavement becomes a skillet? That plan lasted, oh, about two days before the weather pulled a reverse card. When your body can’t regulate temperature like it used to, you don’t negotiate—you pivot. And so, back to the winter plan we go: outside chores and running only when the thermometer behaves.

As for tomorrow, it looks like I’ll be suiting up in long sleeves again. Annoying? Yes. Unfair? Absolutely. I mean, I wasn’t consulted when they set the week’s forecast. But here I am, a humble peasant bowing to the weather gods.

Still, I got my bonus chores done today like a champ. And since I recently added piano practice into the mix (because why not make life more melodious?), I’ll be squeezing that in post-shower, post-workout—basically when I’m already exhausted but slightly cleaner.

Moral of the story? Nashville weather is like a cat: beautiful, unpredictable, and completely uninterested in your plans.

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My Left Hand and the Piano: A Love Story in Progress (with Supervision)

Written 05/03/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

For my birthday, my wife gave me a pair of gifts—small in size, but mighty in purpose. One was a clever little guide that sits atop the piano keys and tells me which note is which (finally, no more pretending middle C is wherever my finger happens to land). The other? A beginner’s piano book for adults—because apparently, it’s never too late to become a clumsy Beethoven.

Naturally, this led me to the next question: Where on earth do I squeeze piano practice into my already jam-packed schedule of surviving, recovering, and occasionally pretending I don’t need a nap?

Let’s rewind a bit. Back in my younger days, I was a lightning-fast typist. A true child of the digital age, I grew up playing text-based games online, typing as if my life depended on it—probably because it did, at least if I wanted to defeat goblins in under 0.3 seconds. But then came the stroke. And just like that, my typing—and pretty much every other form of movement—hit the reset button.

My right side made a comeback worthy of a sports movie montage. My left side? Eh… not so much. It remained clumsy, uncooperative, and frankly, a little rebellious. Since walking was the first priority, I focused on my legs. Years of effort later, I can now run 10K like someone with a vendetta against gravity. But the hand? Still marching to its own awkward beat.

So I turned to my wife—who’s a piano player and my resident hand-coordination consultant—and asked for a piano book. She lit up like a major chord. I had tried piano before, somewhere around 2018 or 2019, but couldn’t keep it up. Mobility had to come first, and my left hand was still on sabbatical.

Now, with the book in hand (well, mostly right hand), I’m ready to try again. It’s a fresh start. A new project. And we all know the first rule of New Projects Club: Don’t kid yourself. Saying “I’ll just practice whenever I have time” is code for “I’ll definitely forget, then panic, then pretend I never planned this at all.” So I’ve decided piano will follow my shower—clean body, clean mind, slightly damp enthusiasm.

My wife advised me not to launch into a full 30-minute Beethoven marathon right away. “Start small,” she said. “Five to ten minutes. Don’t burn out your fingers or your will to live.” Wise words. The goal is consistency, not concertos.

She also gave me The Talk about posture and form. “No slamming the keys,” she warned. “It’s not a typewriter or a drum.” Apparently, hitting a piano key too hard can cause unwanted vibrations in the other keys—kind of like when one person sneezes in a quiet room and everyone else flinches. She had to unlearn her own bad habits, and she’d really prefer I not repeat them.

So here we are: me, a slightly-used left hand, a piano, and a patient wife. I’m excited. Nervous. Slightly tone-deaf. But excited. Let’s see where this new adventure takes me—hopefully somewhere between “Chopsticks” and Chopin.

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Planking Debt and Dental Drama: A Cautionary (Core) Tale

Written April 30, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday’s schedule came with extra side quests—including an unexpected journey into the land of Root Canal—which left me with a zero on the plank scoreboard. Not a single session. Nada. Zilch.

Now, before the Fitness Police come knocking, let me plead my case. First, I was out of the house for hours because a dentist decided to drill into my soul (well, technically my tooth, but same vibes). Second, I was warned that once the anesthesia wore off, my jaw would throb in sync with my heartbeat like an EDM concert. So anything that might elevate my heart rate—say, planking—was officially off the table. Because nothing says “bad idea” quite like throbbing pain in your skull while pretending to be a human ironing board.

So yes, I had a good excuse. But I also know: excuses don’t cancel consequences. They just soften the guilt.

Today, however, was redemption day. I rolled out my mat and got to work, attempting to chip away at the planking debt like a fiscally responsible core warrior. I’ll try to sneak in more sets before the day ends, because… just because. (Discipline is mysterious like that.)

My wife once told me that missing a day of piano practice set her back a whole week. So, during her serious piano era, she would tap those keys every chance she got—like a caffeinated Mozart. But muscles aren’t like piano scales. You can’t binge your way back to strength. Hit the same muscles too soon, and you’re more likely to get a complaint letter from your own body.

Still, skipping a workout unsettles me—way more than it logically should. After my stroke, when I couldn’t move at all, I made a quiet promise to myself: if I ever got mobility back, I’d use it. Every skipped session feels like I’m letting that promise fade a little.

I’ve made peace with the past. I carry it with me—not as baggage, but as a reminder. My wife has this old car that’s nearly 20 years old. She maintains it like it’s a classic Ferrari. Not because it’s fancy, but because it’s hers. She’s grateful it still runs. I guess I treat my body the same way. It may not be shiny, but it still moves, still works, still gets me through the day—and for that, I’m deeply grateful.

I’ve never been a super athlete. I don’t sprint past people or crush personal bests on leaderboards. But I show up. I work. I move.

As of now, I’ve done two planks. The goal is to hit five today—six if I’m feeling spicy. That way, I’ll be one session closer to balancing my plank budget. And tomorrow? I’ll settle the score.

Because the only thing worse than sore abs… is regret.

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Root Canals, Cupcakes, and Calendar Fails: A Tuesday Tale

Written April 29, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s thrill? A date with dental destiny—aka, a root canal. Yes, nothing says “living on the edge” quite like your body deciding, without warning or permission, to eat your own tooth.

It all began during an innocent routine cleaning, when the x-rays revealed that one tooth had gone rogue. The official term? Resorption. My understanding? The tooth was staging a quiet rebellion and needed to be stopped before it descended into full molar mutiny.

Enter: Operation Root Canal + Crown Replacement. A heroic two-part intervention to rescue the situation. Unfortunately, my memory didn’t get the memo.

Thanks to post-trip brain fog, I merrily began my Tuesday—running errands, mowing the lawn, blissfully unaware I was supposed to be horizontal in a dentist’s chair. That illusion ended with a phone call: “Hi, are you on your way?”

Cue the wallet grab, a half-jog-half-panic-sprint to the clinic, and a fashionably late arrival, 15 minutes behind schedule. The drama begins.

The procedure itself wasn’t painful—modern dentistry is surprisingly gentle. Even the needle was considerate enough to come with a numbing warm-up act. Mostly, it was just an awkward hour of impersonating a yawning statue while a dental team played a symphony inside my mouth with tiny instruments.

Post-procedure, I emerged a bit disoriented but victorious. Naturally, I rewarded myself in the most responsible adult way possible: cupcakes. (Yes, plural. Stress management is real.)

Despite the pre-procedure anxiety and the frantic dash to the dentist, the worst part was honestly the guilt of forgetting the appointment—thank you, Google Calendar, for not saving me this time. But the tooth drama was caught early, and that’s something to chew on (gently, of course).

Back home, I resumed mowing, showered like a civilized human, and whipped up dinner. As for the cupcakes, I did offer one to my wife. She declined. So I ate both. No regrets. They were spectacular. Her loss. My gain—literally, considering I’ve been losing weight unintentionally. Cupcake therapy: highly recommended.

April has been… eventful. Between the Indiana trip and spontaneous dental sabotage, it’s been a wild ride. But May is knocking, and so is my birthday, hopefully with fewer drills and more frosting.

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Wolves, War, and a Whiff of the Divine: A Weekend in Tippecanoe Territory

Written April 28, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

My wife and I just got back from our trip to visit my father—successfully, I might add, which is more than I can say for the general state of our lawn. But forget the grass—this trip’s highlight was a double feature of historical drama and lupine charm: the Battle of Tippecanoe site and Wolf Park, both nestled in the flat but surprisingly rich plains of Indiana.

Now here’s the kicker: I spent my entire high school career in West Lafayette, lingered after college, and even circled back post-grad. Yet I had never visited either attraction. Apparently, I had to move away and return as a tourist to see what was in my own backyard. Classic.

Wolf Park was our first stop, and I confess, I was initially skeptical. The wolves live in a vast, protected enclosure—with rivers (yes, plural), open fields, and enough terrain to host a decent reenactment of The Revenant. From the visitor’s area, though, you can’t see much. And Indiana, true to form, doesn’t offer any dramatic peaks for convenient wolf-spotting.

Thankfully, my worries were as unfounded as a Bigfoot sighting.

After admiring some curious red and grey foxes lounging in smaller enclosures like furry aristocrats, we spotted our first wolf. He had just finished a casual swim across one of the rivers (because apparently, that’s his cardio routine) and decided to stretch out in the sun like a seasoned retiree in Florida. My wife lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

Then came Timber—a silver-white vision of a wolf with a name straight out of a wilderness novel. My wife stared in awe and launched into a nostalgic monologue about a book she adored as a child by Ernest Thompson Seton. In most stories, wolves are the villains—slinking in shadows, blowing down houses—but this book had made her see them differently: noble, misunderstood, and incredibly majestic.

We got lucky—two wolves ventured close to the fence and, just when we thought it couldn’t get better, one of them howled. Right there. Close enough to give you goosebumps. I caught it on video, naturally, because if a wolf howls in a park and no one posts it online, did it even happen?

Since then, my wife has been drawing wolves a lot. Wolves lounging. Wolves howling. Wolves that could probably beat us at chess if they had thumbs. She was enchanted. And honestly? So was I.

These weren’t wild wolves, sure—but that didn’t diminish the experience. There’s something ancient about being near them, something that brushes up against the mythic. My wife often mentions how in Japanese tradition, nature isn’t just nature—it’s sacred. You tread lightly because you never know when you’re walking through a god’s living room. Every time she says that, I flash to Greco-Roman myths. Turns out, the gods of Olympus and the spirits of Shinto might have been sharing notes.

And maybe that’s the heart of it. Strip away the noise—the phones, the emails, the doomscrolling—and you’re left with something quiet, wild, and oddly familiar.It was a good trip. No, scratch that—it was a soulful trip. And I’m already wondering when we can go back.