Tag: Running

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Cookies, Cold Runs, and Cat Chaos: A Fall Running in Nashville

Written September 15, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I decided to ignore my usual “cold-weather running schedule” and hit the road first thing. Why? Because thanks to my brain stroke, my autonomic nervous system is about as reliable as Nashville weather—completely indecisive. I have to change my running times seasonally: summer evenings, winter mornings. Today, I gambled with the cooler air.

Of course, fuel was required. Sadly, I was out of my trusty pastry bites, so I settled for one of my homemade bite-sized cookies. Sure, vegetables would’ve been the “healthier carb choice,” but when you’re staring down 5k with zero fuel, kale isn’t going to cut it. My wife won’t touch cookies before noon—she’s convinced sugar is a morning villain—but I like my cookies tiny enough that even my calorie counter barely blinks.

After the run, I realized lawn mowing season is officially over (victory dance). But before I get too cozy, the trees in our front yard have declared war—sending down waves of crunchy leaves that need collecting before they stage a full-on rebellion. Tomorrow, leaf duty begins.

Meanwhile, our kitten has been inhaling food like she’s training for an eating contest. Four servings down before lunch, and she still looks at me like Oliver Twist asking for more. At least she balances it out with exercise—her version of “cardio” is chasing a toy mouse across the living room like a furry missile.

So: no mowing, yes to leaf wrangling, cookies for fuel, and a kitten with bottomless-pit energy. Autumn in Nashville may be confused, but my day certainly isn’t.

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When Life Gives You Rain, Trade Your Mower for Running Shoes

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Written September 25, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Sometimes the universe likes to laugh at your carefully planned to-do list. This morning, it chuckled right in my face. I woke up, stretched, looked out the window—and saw rain. Again. The lawn had already staged a mutiny thanks to weeks of drizzle and warm weather, but mowing in the rain is as effective as trying to blow-dry your hair in a hurricane.

So, breakfast it was. I sipped my coffee and gave the sky my best “disappointed dad” look, hoping it would feel guilty and stop raining. No luck. And even if it did stop, soggy grass is a mower’s worst nightmare. My frustration grew—plans derailed by something completely out of my control.

Enter: my wife. She’s basically a Jedi Master of time management, trained since her teenage years. Watching me sulk at the window, she offered a simple solution: “Why not swap today’s mowing with tomorrow’s run?”

Genius. And annoyingly reasonable.

So, I laced up my running shoes and hit the pavement. And you know what? I ran better than yesterday. Turns out swapping a mower for running shoes isn’t the worst deal after all. My wife reminded me of an ancient truth: control what you can, stop glaring at what you can’t.

The lawn, of course, will get its day—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. But here’s the kicker: I secretly dread more mowing anyway. It’s autumn, the grass should be retiring by now! Every raindrop feels like nature’s way of extending lawn season just to spite me.

Still, once I made the switch, I realized my mood had already improved. Running in the rain (well, drizzle) was a lot better than sulking indoors. And yes, the lawn still looks like a small jungle, but at least I got a solid run and a story out of it.

Lesson learned? When the rain ruins your plans, don’t argue with the clouds. Just change shoes.

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Cold-Weather Running and Cookie Emergencies

Written September 14, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today officially marks the start of my cold-weather running schedule. Translation: my sneakers are now bracing themselves for frostbite, and I’m mentally preparing to turn into a human popsicle on the sidewalk.

Over the summer, I had been relying on puff pastry to keep my weight steady. Why puff pastry? Because with my kidney issues and a long list of food restrictions, flaky dough filled with my wife’s homemade jam is basically the culinary equivalent of winning the lottery. Grocery store premade dough + jam = the fastest way to eat happiness.

This summer was more fabulous than usual. I didn’t even mow weekly—my lawn got to cosplay as a wild prairie, and I didn’t complain. But since mowing season has ended, my activity level plummeted faster than a cookie jar in a toddler’s hands. So, no puff pastry this week. Instead, it was time to deal with something far more sacred: my emergency cookie supply.

Now, what is an “emergency cookie supply”? Glad you asked. Six months ago, in a stroke of pure genius (or hunger-induced paranoia), I stashed a package of ready-to-bake cookie dough in the downstairs freezer. This was a just-in-case backup plan for those dark days when the grocery store failed me or when I forgot to buy cookies—which, let’s be real, is a tragedy that no human should endure.

Being me, I even set a Google Calendar reminder to pop up six months later: Bake those cookies or banish them forever. You see, I don’t believe in freezer purgatory. If I wasn’t going to eat them, I’d at least bake them and let the house smell like victory.

So today was the day. The oven fired up, the cookies baked, and soon the upstairs smelled like a Hallmark movie marathon. Oddly, these heavenly aromas don’t tempt my wife—she’s not into sweets. (I know, I don’t get it either.) She only took half a cookie out of politeness and declared, “Not so bad.” Translation: “Thanks, but no thanks.” She’s cautious about diabetes since it runs in her family. I, on the other hand, am cautious about running out of snacks. Different priorities.

To avoid eating each cookie like it was the size of a steering wheel, I baked them extra small—bite-sized, calorie-friendly, and perfect for sneaky nibbling between runs. Mission accomplished: cookies baked, freezer cleared, snack emergency avoided.

And honestly? Nothing feels more triumphant than winning both at baking and freezer organization on the same day.

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Running the Seasons: How Nashville Weather Keeps My Schedule on Its Toes

Written August 31, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

The timing of seasonal shifts is like Nashville traffic—unpredictable, occasionally frustrating, and always in charge of my schedule. Every year, I play this little game of musical chairs with my running times. In the summer, I’m out the door around 7 a.m., sprinting before the sun decides to fry me. But when winter comes? You’ll find me jogging closer to noon, because I’d rather not reenact Frozen on the sidewalk.

Lately, the mornings have been sneakily chilly. I lace up expecting a mild breeze, only to feel like I’ve stumbled into an early winter audition. My gut tells me this week is when the seasonal baton officially passes: Friday will probably be my first “post-breakfast run” of the year. In winter, that little delay makes a world of difference—Nashville temperatures love to bounce around like a yo-yo, and waiting a few hours can turn a run from misery to manageable.

Of course, my body adds a bonus challenge. Thanks to my brain stroke, my thermoregulation works about as fast as a dial-up modem. Cold or hot, it doesn’t matter—my system takes its sweet time catching up. So I’ve become a professional “sweet spot” hunter, timing my runs and chores to avoid temperature whiplash.

At home, we keep the thermostat close to whatever’s happening outside. Once it’s above 90°F or below 55°F, we finally surrender and turn on the AC or heat. Otherwise, I try to let my body adapt naturally. Grocery stores, though, are a different beast—stepping into one during summer feels like walking into an Arctic exhibit, and my body protests the climate shift like it’s on strike.

I’ve learned that running earlier in summer helps me conserve energy. Last year, my pace actually improved as the season wore on—apparently, avoiding temperature drama frees up power for speed. These days, I’m glued to weather reports like a stock trader, shifting my running schedule and yard work around whatever Nashville decides to throw at me.

And here’s the kicker: August is technically still “summer” here. So while I’m pulling out hoodies for morning runs, I wouldn’t blink if next week brings a heatwave encore. In the meantime, I’ve penciled in mowing for Tuesday and Thursday. The cooler weather has slowed the grass’s growth compared to last year, but let’s be honest—my lawn and Nashville’s climate probably have a secret pact to keep me guessing.

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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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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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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.

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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.