Tag: Running

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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.

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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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 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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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.