Category: Brian’s Journey

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The Not-So-Great Shoe Debacle (But Progress Was Made)

Written 08/20/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I was rudely awakened—not by an alarm, but by a rebellious cramp in the back of my left thigh. A charming start to the day, really. My prime suspect? The shiny new pair of running shoes I recently introduced to my feet. It’s like they met on a blind date and instantly agreed they were not compatible.

The shoes are the same model as my last beloved pair, so in theory, this shouldn’t be a big deal. But as every runner knows, shoes have personalities. Some are loyal sidekicks, others are just fancy-looking foot traps. I guess mine are still deciding which path they want to take.

Despite the cramped beginning (literally), I laced up and hit the road. My ankles still muttered complaints from previous runs, but they didn’t outright revolt. So… small victory? The pace was slower than I’d like, but hey, I made it through the entire distance without feeling like my lower limbs were on strike. That’s progress. Limping progress, but progress nonetheless.

Honestly, I expected to be breaking in these shoes faster. I’ve already had two failed attempts at conquering a 10K with them—both derailed when my ankle started sending distress signals halfway through. But today? Today felt different. Not “I can crush a marathon” different, but “maybe I won’t need to ice my feet for an hour” different. It’s the little things.

My wife, the wise one, reminded me that all shoes need time to mold to your feet—and feet, in turn, need time to stop being drama queens. She’s right (as usual). So, I’ve decided to stop glaring at my shoes like they’ve betrayed me and start giving them the benefit of the doubt. Patience, grasshopper.

In other athletic news, my planking routine is going strong-ish. I recently had to reduce the time a bit—mainly because my abs filed a formal complaint—but I’m still going for over 3 minutes. That’s miles better than where I started (which was more like “floor faceplant after 30 seconds”).

Like everything else lately, it’s a jagged progress graph. Some days I feel like a fitness superhero. Other days, I feel like I’ve been defeated by a foam mat. But I’m learning that “hard but doable” is actually the sweet spot. It means I’m pushing myself, but not to the ER. So here’s to small wins: less foot rebellion, slightly happier ankles, and core muscles that are screaming just a little less. With a little luck—and a little more patience—Friday’s run might just feel like the start of a comeback.

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The 10K That Got Away: A Tale of Ankles, Alarms, and Accidental Discipline

Written August 18, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, both my wife and I woke up at the same time—a rare planetary alignment in our household. For her, it was her actual wake-up time. For me? It was two hours before my alarm, the sacred hour when dreams are supposed to bloom… not bloop. I tried to fall back asleep like a good little dreamer, but alas, my body had already hit the eject button.

So, naturally, I did what any sensible person does when denied sleep: I laced up and prepared to run 10 kilometers before the sun could even stretch.

You might recall that my last attempt at a 10K in new shoes didn’t quite go the distance. The shoes were brand new, but apparently, my ankles didn’t get the memo that they were identical to the old pair. (Same brand, same model—clearly not the same vibe.)

Determined to try again, I set off with 10K ambitions and a full tank of optimism. By kilometer seven, my left ankle started waving a little white flag. The sensible voice in my head—who I usually ignore—reminded me that no weekly 10K is worth a long-term injury. Especially since I watched my wife limp dramatically through that exact lesson last winter, I bowed out at 7K.

By lunchtime, I noticed muscle pain blooming like a confused flower around my ankle. My theory? Some heroic micro-muscle-tearing action is going on down there. You know—muscle damage, recovery, gain. Classic fitness folklore. If pain equals progress, my ankle deserves a medal.

What’s strange is this: the shoes are a clone of my last pair. Either they’ve been secretly replaced by a trickster model, or I’ve simply forgotten what it felt like to break in the old ones. Memory is a funny thing—especially when it’s limping slightly.

I was a little bummed to cut my run short. I only run one 10K a week, so each one feels like a test. A test of speed, stamina, and occasionally, ego. But doubling up on 10Ks would be asking for trouble—especially with my summer lawn mowing habit. One mowing session = four pounds lost. If mowing were an Olympic sport, I’d be in training camp.

Because of my kidney issues, I can’t load up on protein like a bodybuilder. My dietary rebellion? Homemade yogurt. It’s not steak, but it does its job. My weight’s been steady. My enthusiasm, less so—until this running thing took hold of me.

Honestly, I never thought I’d fall for running. But here I am, haunted by the ghost of an incomplete 10K and feeling twitchy when my weekly kilometer count dips. Do I like running now? Or have I Stockholm Syndromeed myself into it? Hard to say.

Despite the ankle twinges and lost sleep, I felt like I had two bonus hours today. More energy, more time, more me. Maybe this is what my wife experiences every morning. She’s been living in the secret bonus level of the day—and I finally got the cheat code.

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Breaking in New Running Shoes: Why 5K Felt Smarter Than 10K

Written August 17, 2025

Reviewed 8/26

Hello ,Dear Readers,

This morning I laced up my brand-new pair of running shoes, ready to conquer a glorious 10K. The shoes looked sharp—clean, crisp, and full of promise—even though they’re identical to my old pair. (Funny how a new version of the same thing feels so much more exciting. Humans are weird that way.)

But here’s the plot twist: I called it quits at 5K.

The reason? A deadly combo—rising heat and the dreaded “new shoe syndrome.” My left ankle kept threatening to roll with every stride, and I wasn’t about to limp home like a tragic marathon meme. New shoes are stiff, unyielding, and about as cooperative as a cat during bath time. My wife usually ends up with blisters. I, on the other hand, get sore feet and near-miss ankle sprains. Either way, not ideal for the long run.

I’ve been down this road before. Every new pair puts me through the same initiation ritual. Still, I secretly hope that one day a new pair of shoes will turn me into Usain Bolt overnight. I’ll never forget my first authentic running shoes—the way they felt so light I swore I’d dropped five pounds just by lacing them up.

For now, my old pair graduates to “walking shoe” status, still good enough for daily steps but no longer up for the big leagues. The best part? My running app now tracks mileage per shoe. No more clunky Excel logging. It automatically records distance, pace, and ties everything neatly to the shoe’s lifespan. Pretty slick.

I’ll admit I was a little disappointed. I wanted that solid 10K, especially since recent Saturdays have been hijacked by other plans. But next weekend, I’ll try again. With the laces cinched a little tighter and the shoes a little more forgiving, I’m hopeful they’ll finally cooperate.

Until then, I’ll settle for the small win: no blisters, no twisted ankle, and a shiny new pair of shoes with their whole running life ahead of them.

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Running Shoes, A/C Battles, and the Thermostat Cold War

Written August 16, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Hello, dear readers who are either braving the heat or hoarding popsicles,

Today was supposed to be my glorious 10k day—but alas, it was sabotaged by… responsible adulthood. My running shoes, bless their worn-out soles, finally reached the “retirement” phase. The shoe store opens at 10 a.m., and by the time we returned, it was 11 a.m.—a.k.a. The Hour of the Scorching Pavement. Running then would have been more like slow-roasting my legs, so the 10k got pushed to tomorrow. Again.

Credit where it’s due—my wife scheduled this shoe store mission three weeks ago, back when I casually mentioned my sneakers were entering the “structurally unsound” stage. She took it seriously. (And I’m honestly grateful. My old shoes were starting to look like they’d been through a war zone… twice.)

Tomorrow, I will reclaim my 10k destiny. Hopefully, next week won’t need as many scheduling gymnastics. Unless some celestial event knocks out the sun or something equally inconvenient, I should be back on track.

Of course, lawn mowing is looming again—but that’s par for the course in suburban life. What’s new is that the sun seems to have accepted a part-time role as a blowtorch again. We’ve officially dipped into our precious A/C stash. We try not to go wild with it though. Our indoor temperature? A cozy 86°F. Anything below that, and we start reaching for sweaters like Floridians during a 60-degree cold front.

Fun fact: I discovered our new low-heat tolerance during a July visit to my mother’s place. She keeps her thermostat at 78°F. My wife and I? Shivering. Like… actual teeth-chattering. Meanwhile, she was probably sipping tea in a sweater, wondering why we were acting like we were in an ice hotel.

This summer feels milder than last—fewer heat waves, a few bonus cool days, and even our trees were briefly tricked into thinking autumn had arrived. Nature got punked. However, there’s a hurricane brewing somewhere near the coastline, so who knows what next week’s weather roulette will bring.

We typically reserve A/C for when it breaches 95°F, but even then, we try not to “melt our heat tolerance.” Next year, though, we’re leveling up—goodbye ancient HVAC system, hello shiny new setup with a smart thermostat! One that can actually negotiate with the outside temperature rather than stage a silent protest.

Sure, the rest of Nashville might be chilling indoors at 72°F, but we’ve decided to embrace the sauna lifestyle… with just a splash of modern cooling when necessary. It’s sweaty, it’s strategic, and hey—it builds character. And electrolytes.

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A Plank, a Passport, and a Potentially Possessed Headset

Written August 14, 2025

Reviewed 8/25

Hello Dear Readers,

So far, today’s been a surprisingly smooth ride—like buttered toast landing butter-side up. I managed to complete my full planking session on the first try, which means, yes, my abs are mildly protesting, but nothing that resembles a full-scale rebellion. If all continues according to plan, I’ll bump up the duration on Saturday as usual. Progress: it’s slow, sweaty, and strangely satisfying.

Now, tomorrow is shaping up to be less about running shoes and more about running errands. My wife and I are off to get her passport photo taken and submit the application. Technically, I’m not required for this mission, but she insists I’m a good luck charm—which, frankly, I accept with all the smug grace of a man who once found a parking spot in downtown Nashville on a Friday.

Navigating the passport application process has been like decoding a Da Vinci manuscript while blindfolded. She’s had her citizenship for a while, but securing an appointment? That’s been the real odyssey. Nashville’s downtown office might have openings if you time it just right, but Brentwood—the promised land—only opens slots four weeks in advance, and they vanish faster than cupcakes in a breakroom.

So it was nothing short of divine fortune that she snagged an appointment in Brentwood. She’s been prepping for this like it’s the SATs—forms reviewed and re-reviewed, photo IDs printed in triplicate, and backup payment options ready in case the debit card decides to faint from stress. We even hit the bank last week for good ol’ cash. Who knew bureaucracy could be so… cardio-intensive?

On Saturday, we’re off on another noble quest: retiring my poor, overworked running shoes. My wife scheduled this grand event, naturally, and depending on tomorrow’s weather, I might reschedule my 10k to Sunday. Flexibility is the name of the game—especially when life (or clouds) throws curveballs.

As for Monday’s unexpected plot twist: my faithful headset decided it had given enough to this world. I plugged it in post-run, went to shower, and came back to… silence. No lights, no power, no signs of life. I tried CPR (aka frantically mashing buttons), then pulled out the warranty card like a determined archaeologist—only to discover the warranty had expired. Of course.

I’m now surviving on my ancient backup headset, which works about as well as a spoon for slicing steak. I ordered a replacement on Amazon, but it ghosted me yesterday. Hopefully, it arrives today, just in time for tomorrow’s thrilling adventure in passport purgatory.

Between the planned, the unplanned, and the possibly cursed electronics, our calendar is filling up faster than you can say “unexpected life admin.” But thankfully, my wife is a master planner—our weekends are usually charted out weeks ahead. It may seem rigid to some, but for me? It’s perfect. Predictable, adaptable, and only slightly sprinkled with chaos.

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When Your Muscles Stage a Mutiny

Written August 11, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Progress isn’t always a straight line—it sometimes looks more like a heart monitor. This week, my progress flatlined a little. For the first time in weeks, I missed my target running pace. Am I shocked? Not really. I raised the bar by nineteen seconds last week—that’s practically asking my legs to file a complaint with HR.

Planking told a similar story. I’ve been adding a second each Saturday, but last weekend I couldn’t hold out. Apparently, my body staged a silent protest: “One second too far, my friend.” It’s funny how the body has its own stubborn personality—it doesn’t always care about our grand ambitions.

But here’s the thing: setbacks don’t mean surrender. When my body waves the white flag, I listen. Summer already piles on the extra workouts (mowing our hilly backyard is basically CrossFit with grass). My wife used to treat mowing as cardio—me? I wisely enlisted an electric mower. With my kidney condition, I burn out faster than the average adult, so being strategic matters more than being stubborn.

So this week, instead of pushing harder, I pressed pause on progress. I kept my plank time steady, planning to master consistency before chasing another second. Worst-case scenario, I even scale it back a notch. That’s not failure—that’s maintenance mode. Sometimes, healing is the most underrated workout.

Frustrated? Absolutely. Defeated? Not a chance. This isn’t a sprint to the finish line—it’s a lifetime commitment. And if my body insists on a detour, I’ll take it. Because every pause, every adjustment, is still part of the journey forward.

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When Your Muscles Stage a Mutiny

Written August 11, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Progress isn’t always a straight line—it sometimes looks more like a heart monitor. This week, mine flatlined a little. For the first time in weeks, I missed my target running pace. Am I shocked? Not really. I raised the bar by nineteen seconds last week—that’s practically asking my legs to file a complaint with HR.

Planking told a similar story. I’ve been adding a second each Saturday, but last weekend I couldn’t hold out. Apparently, my body staged a silent protest: “One second too far, my friend.” It’s funny how the body has its own stubborn personality—it doesn’t always care about our grand ambitions.

But here’s the thing: setbacks don’t mean surrender. When my body waves the white flag, I listen. Summer already piles on the extra workouts (mowing our hilly backyard is basically CrossFit with grass). My wife used to treat mowing as cardio—me? I wisely enlisted an electric mower. With my kidney condition, I burn out faster than the average adult, so being strategic matters more than being stubborn.

So this week, instead of pushing harder, I pressed pause on progress. I kept my plank time steady, planning to master consistency before chasing another second. Worst-case scenario, I even scale it back a notch. That’s not failure—that’s maintenance mode. Sometimes, healing is the most underrated workout.

Frustrated? Absolutely. Defeated? Not a chance. This isn’t a sprint to the finish line—it’s a lifetime commitment. And if my body insists on a detour, I’ll take it. Because every pause, every adjustment, is still part of the journey forward.

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Sunday 10K in Nashville: Beating the Heat, Healing the Brain

Written August 10, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Most Sundays start slow. This one started with a Saturday do-over: a make-up 10K because errands muscled my regular schedule out of the way. Weekend life happens—birthday cakes, family gatherings, and those “we’ll do it Saturday” tasks that somehow multiply like fruit flies on ripe bananas.

In most seasons, I don’t mind the shuffle. But in summer? Nashville turns the heat up like it’s auditioning for a sauna convention. If I don’t start early, I’m basically running on a griddle. My wife solves this by finishing her workout by 6:00 a.m. I, on the other hand, am a medically certified extra-sleep person. After my brain injury, my doctor explained that more sleep is normal—healing brains are busy. Add kidneys that get tired faster than a phone on 1% battery, and yeah, I guard my sleep like it’s a rare collector’s item.

Running, though, is part of my mission to get better. Moving my legs helps my brain rewire. I’ve regained abilities since the stroke, and my doctors cheer on the consistency. I watch what I put in my mouth (not my mouse—been there), and most importantly, I refuse to give up on getting better.

Here’s the twist: I never expected to take running this seriously. At first, it was medicine—do the miles, take the dose. Then it turned into satisfaction—set a goal, hit the goal. Somewhere along the way, I started running better than pre-stroke me. I plan to keep going.

Progress hasn’t been a straight line. My pace improves overall, even if it stalls or dips here and there. Zoom out, and the trend is up—and faster.

Today’s run? Full 10K: target pace in the first half, not quite in the second. Still, I snagged my second-fastest 10K ever and nudged closer to my year-end target. I’ve got a little over three months to shave off another 4 seconds per kilometer. After this week’s wins, that feels more “probable” than “maybe.”

The biggest summer obstacle remains the Nashville furnace. Even if 7:00 a.m. starts friendly, by 10:00 a.m. it’s flirting with the high 80s. I try to outrun the sun; sometimes the sun wins. We’ve had a few mercifully comfortable days, but the heat is sneaking back next week. That’s okay. I’ll control what I can, run smart, and let the dice fall where they may.

TL;DR: Errands happen, heat happens, life happens. I’m still out there—healing, hustling, and inching faster. See you on the road (preferably before the pavement starts sizzling).

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Cooler Weather Lawn Care: Fewer Mows, Surprise Leaves, and a Poison Ivy Plot Twist

Written August 7, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

After July’s grand finale heatwave, the weather finally took a breath. We even had a day so nippy I reached for long sleeves, and my wife reported her morning runs felt… heavy. Same here—only now, thanks to the cool snap, my own runs have been downright pleasant. Bonus: the lawn hit the pause button. When I mowed this morning, I had to squint to see where I’d been. A beautiful problem.

Do I dare skip next week’s mow? Reader, I might. For a minute, I even dreamed mowing season had packed its bags. I’m not delusional; August loves a comeback tour. One warm front and the grasses will go feral again. For now, I’m enjoying the rare, guilt-free chance to close the garage and pretend the mower and I are “on a break.”

Nature, meanwhile, is experimenting with costume changes. After the heat broke, our trees panicked and tossed down a few branches and leaves—an early autumn cosplay. My wife’s planning a leaf-vacuum session this weekend. She spotted the mess first; she also spotted, alas, the poison ivy last week… a little late. She mistook it for Virginia creeper, then discovered the classic truth: “leaves of three, let it be.” She washed up, but the rash still arrived like an uninvited guest. To add insult to injury, the heat in our garage partially melted her old gardening gloves (yes, actually melted). She upgraded to a pair that shields the whole forearm. When poison ivy is in the neighborhood, fashion becomes armor.

We’ve had fewer bugs this summer—small mercy—so she’d been working in short sleeves during those early, not-too-sunny hours. The rash has her rethinking that. She also ordered a tougher trimmer line; the last one snapped like spaghetti. It cost a few dollars more, but if it saves her time (and muttered monologues at inanimate objects), it’s a bargain.

As for me, my feet have been touchy—kidney issues flaring a bit—so I’m pacing myself. Still, between the two of us, the yard looks tidy. Cooler days, slower growth, smarter gear: we’ll take every advantage we can get. If the heat returns, we’ll be ready—with sleeves, stronger string, and a healthy respect for anything with three leaves.

For now, I’m calling it a win: a calm run, a nearly invisible mowing path, and the faint hope of a skipped Saturday with coffee instead of carburetors. August, behave yourself.

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From Ice Cream Regrets to Yogurt Wins: My Summer Health Hack

Written August 5, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

This summer, the scale and I have been in a tug-of-war. Mowing the lawn knocks two or three pounds off me overnight, so keeping my weight steady is like trying to hold sand in a colander. For a while, I tried to outsmart nature with ice cream—but my doctor quickly pointed out I was basically spoon-feeding myself sugar bombs.

Between high activity levels and dietary restrictions, holding on to calories is like trying to keep water in a sieve. So when I saw the scale tip just slightly above my target range, I actually felt a tiny flicker of triumph. Of course, I know the number will likely melt away tomorrow—mowing tends to rob me of 2–3 pounds overnight.

In my quest to keep the needle from sinking too low, I once leaned on ice cream. It seemed like the perfect solution: tasty, calorie-dense, morale-boosting. My doctor, however, disagreed. Apparently, three scoops of Rocky Road a day is less “nutritional genius” and more “sugar landmine.”

That’s when my wife’s yogurt came to the rescue. Every few weeks, she whips up a fresh batch—unsweetened, creamy, and miraculously not sour. Honestly, it tastes better than most store-bought kinds. She even turns it into smoothies with frozen fruit, sometimes drizzling in honey, but usually letting the fruit do the heavy lifting. It’s healthy, satisfying, and—bonus—doctor-approved.

I’ve now paired this yogurt with cantaloupe whenever my weight starts slipping. The change has worked wonders. Back in early July, I was dealing with puffy feet and a mild gout flare-up. Since switching to this new regimen, the swelling has eased, and the gout has vanished. My wife keeps asking to inspect my feet now, worried about my kidneys (which once landed me in dialysis). I hadn’t realized how much I’d kept those little flare-ups to myself until she started hovering with genuine concern.

Looking back, I’m reminded that even small changes can cause ripples—sometimes helpful, sometimes disastrous. Ice cream seemed clever until it wasn’t. Yogurt and cantaloupe, though, are proving to be a simple, sustainable win. And with my doctor allowing me an extra 20 grams of protein per day—bringing me up to a grand total of 36 grams—I feel like I’ve unlocked a dietary superpower. (If you’ve never measured out 36 grams of protein, let’s just say it makes even a small chicken breast look like a feast fit for a giant.)

The solution turned out to be much simpler (and doctor-approved): my wife’s homemade yogurt paired with juicy cantaloupe. No sugar, just fruit, protein, and pure refreshment. The results? Puffy feet and gout flare-ups—gone. Kidneys—behaving. Weight—finally staying in the healthy range.

I’ve learned that small choices matter. Ice cream caused more trouble than it solved, while yogurt and cantaloupe quietly did the heavy lifting. And with my wife still cranking out yogurt every weekend, I’ve found a strategy that’s not only sustainable but—dare I say it—delicious.