Tag: Stroke Recovery

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When Snow Is on the Schedule but Motivation Is on Hold

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Last night, I made the mistake of checking the weather forecast. There it was in bold, unforgiving clarity: snow scheduled for today. I don’t mind running in the cold, but snow running? That’s where my enthusiasm politely exits the building.

This morning, the very first thing I did was rush to the window like a weather detective. No snow yet. Victory—for the moment. The temperature had dropped, though, and it was barely going to crawl past 40°F all day.

We’ve had a suspiciously mild autumn this year. Just recently, we enjoyed a 70-degree day. I think that spoiled me. Cold now feels rude. Still, I reminded myself: at least it’s not snowing. Our neighborhood is hilly, and I vividly remember my wife and I nearly slipping just walking up the hill in front of our house on a previous snow day. Ice plus gravity is not a friendly combination.

Had it been snowing, the day’s running plans would have been instantly canceled—no debate. But since the ground was still clear, I was forced to consider actually going out into the cold. I wasn’t thrilled, but I figured that after breakfast, it might be slightly more tolerable.

Meanwhile, my wife casually goes out for exercise at 5:00 a.m., when the temperature is even lower. I still don’t understand what kind of heroic software runs her internal system.

I, on the other hand, require mental push-ups just to step outside in cold weather.

After feeding both my kitten and myself, I consulted my weather app for the optimal escape window—only to be informed that snow was still very much expected. The app cheerfully announced it would start within the hour. In other words, science had just handed me a perfectly legitimate excuse to make my run short.

And I accepted it without protest.

The exercise journey, I’m learning, is full of negotiations—with weather, with the body, and especially with the mind. A decade ago, my resistance to running was far worse. Now the resistance is mostly emotional… but I still show up more often than not.

Even a little bit of exercise counts. Even showing up mentally counts. And looking ahead at the week, both Wednesday and Friday promise better running weather—so I’m choosing not to feel too guilty today.

Sometimes progress means running.
Sometimes it means strategically retreating from snow.

Both are survival skills.

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Sunday Waffles Breakfast with Secret Jam

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

This morning, my wife asked me to make waffles. She had been drawing pancakes and suddenly decided she wanted to eat something fluffy. I, being a reasonable adult with access to a waffle maker, I accepted the mission.

So I woke up earlier than usual—early enough to sneak into the morning before my wife completed her full non-working-day routine. On her days off, she transforms into a productivity machine. One of her regular Sunday rituals is sorting ingredients for the entire upcoming week.

She plans a full weekly menu and pre-packs the ingredients into labeled bags. Monday’s bag equals Monday’s meal. It’s brilliant. It reduces waste, prevents impulse grocery shopping, and makes cooking so easy that even I rarely mess it up. The only problem? This operation completely occupies our very small kitchen.

So I waited.

Patiently.
Hungrily.
Strategically.

Once she completed her meal-kit assembly line and stepped away from the counter, I made my move and claimed the kitchen.

Our waffle maker is nearly two decades old and still performs beautifully, like a seasoned breakfast veteran. When we first moved to Tennessee, we made waffles almost every Sunday—until we realized that frequent waffles come with frequent weight gain. Since then, waffles have become a rare and highly celebrated event.

Today was one of those special days.

I sliced up some strawberries that were right at the edge of their peak deliciousness and made us two waffles each. Unfortunately, I had wildly miscalculated the strawberry-to-waffle ratio. Just as disaster loomed, my wife calmly produced a jar of strawberry jam she had made last spring—homemade, of course.

She’s created three varieties of strawberry jam in the past, including a spicy version. Sadly, I had already devoured all the spicy ones during the summer. What remained was the classic strawberry—and it saved breakfast.

After waffles and our weekly “fancy” coffee, the day drifted peacefully until lunchtime. As is now tradition, I offered to make my wife an omelet. She accepted immediately and requested two eggs instead of the usual one.

She’s been working hard on her strength training and trying to keep her protein intake high to protect her muscle mass. I took this as both a nutritional assignment and an honor.

It was one of those rare days with waffles, homemade jam, careful routines, and quiet teamwork in a small kitchen. Nothing dramatic. Nothing rushed.

Just a very pleasant Sunday.

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Shorts Weather, Long Distance, and a 10K Victory

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today’s mission depended on one critical variable: temperature. I waited patiently for it to rise just enough to justify running in shorts—quite possibly my final bare-legged appearance of the year. Once conditions were approved by the unofficial weather committee (me), I headed out for my 10K run with one ambitious goal in mind: hit my final speed target for the year.

The last two runs were hard 5Ks, and I’d pushed aggressively for pace. Somehow, my body had recovered better than expected, which gave me hope. Dangerous hope. The motivational kind.

After the first quarter kilometer, I was well ahead of target. That early success flipped a switch in my brain: Maintain this at all costs. Each pace announcement reinforced the fantasy that today might actually be the day. Naturally, I pushed harder.

Now, the body is essentially an energy budget. Spend too much too early, and you go bankrupt before the finish line. I knew I was overspending. By the end of the first kilometer, my head start had shrunk—but I was still safely ahead, so I continued the dangerous strategy known as optimism. By the 5K mark, I had beaten my target pace by a comfortable margin.

But I wasn’t content with “comfortable.”

I wanted a new personal best 10K.
I wanted my first ever sub-9-minute-per-kilometer 10K.
And I still had half the distance left to survive.

The final two kilometers were brutal. My lead evaporated faster than my confidence during those last pushes. Every step felt like a negotiation. With three seconds to spare—three—I crossed the line under my sub-9 goal.

I did it.
New personal best.
Goal achieved.
Shorts weather honored.

For a brief moment, I considered retiring for the rest of the year. After all, it’s still early November. Why not celebrate with a well-earned vacation from running? That thought lasted exactly as long as the walk home.

Instead, I doubled down.

Next year’s goal is already on the table: shave off another full minute from my pace. Is it realistic? I honestly don’t know. But it’s achievable to try—and that’s the part that still matters most.

So on Monday, the next mission begins.

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When Muscles Protest but Motivation Wins the Argument

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today, I fully expected to fail my target pace before I even tied my running shoes. My legs were still filing formal complaints from yesterday’s effort—the direct result of pushing hard for that shiny new personal best the other day. Consecutive personal bests are a bold request of the universe, and I had already braced myself for disappointment. Pre-disappointment, if you will.

And yet… the goal refused to leave my head.

The first pace announcement came in, and to my surprise, I was slightly ahead of target after the first quarter kilometer. That tiny lead was just enough encouragement to make a reckless decision: push harder. Hope is powerful—and occasionally unwise.

For a while, it worked.

Then reality caught up. By the end of the second kilometer, that early lead had completely evaporated. My legs stiffened like they had clocked out early. I tried to push again, but my body had officially entered “no further negotiations” mode. No matter how much I argued with my pace, it refused to come back down.

In the end, I missed my target—but only by about ten seconds. I also logged my eighth-fastest run ever, which is not exactly a tragedy. I was still more than a minute faster than Monday’s run, so overall, progress was very much alive… just not wearing a gold medal today.

Now the focus shifts to recovery. My next run is a 10K, not a 5K, and that’s a different kind of negotiation altogether. Pace management over 10 kilometers is much trickier—start too fast, and the second half will collect its revenge with interest. I’ve been running for nearly a decade, and yet I still struggle with pacing like it’s a lifelong riddle.

My body condition and temperature affect my running more than I’d like to admit. Recovery is especially tricky with my kidney condition. Even after a few days of rest, it’s not unusual for my body to feel like it hasn’t fully recharged. The last two sessions were particularly hard pushes, so caution is now my training partner. I may not be improving at the speed I imagine in my head—but I am moving forward. And more importantly, I still have something to run toward. These days, the hope matters more than the stopwatch. Performance fades. Motivation, when treated kindly, sticks around.

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Warm Weather, Fast Legs, and a New Personal Best

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

As forecast, today’s weather finally decided to be kind. After nearly a week of cold and rainy misery, I was able to run in shorts again—which, this time of year, feels like winning the fitness lottery. I waited out a brief cool morning delay, and then I was off. Pure luxury.

There are fewer than two months left in the year now. I’ve already hit my original year-end running goals, so naturally, I moved the finish line. Running, after all, is highly negotiable with the weather. Temperature rules everything: my pace, my motivation, and occasionally my mood. The last few cold days were rough, and hitting my target pace felt like negotiating with gravity.

But when I checked today’s forecast, I knew. Today is the day.

And my body agreed.

From the first kilometer, everything felt smoother—lighter, faster, less like I was dragging winter behind me. My running app announced my pace each kilometer like a tiny motivational coach. Each update sounded better than the last. By the end, my target pace had dropped to just under 9 minutes per kilometer. Not only did I beat my target—I crushed it. I even set a new personal best, running more than a full minute faster than my run just two days ago.

Weather is powerful. But on my cooldown walk home, curiosity kicked in. Why was today so much better?

Then it hit me—I was also a pound lighter than I was on Monday. Add in less water weight, and suddenly I was carrying about two pounds less than my last run. And while two pounds doesn’t sound dramatic, try hauling it around for five kilometers and see how heroic you feel.

Between the warmer temperatures, time-change recovery, and lighter load, everything lined up perfectly.

My last running goal for the year is simple but stubborn: finish a 10K at under 9 minutes per kilometer. I only attempt a 10K once a week, so the weather still holds all the bargaining power. A cold or rainy day can turn that goal into a negotiation with reality.

Still, I haven’t given up. There are nearly two months left in the year—and at least a few more warm days hiding in the forecast. Somewhere out there, my next breakthrough is waiting, probably wearing shorts.

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A Chilly Fall Chore and a Surprise Yard Visitor in Nashville

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today’s primary objective: leaf collection. Also known as the annual reminder that trees never clean up after themselves. Fall yard work in Nashville can be challenging since we never know what the weather will be like.

We have two enormous trees in the front yard—well, one is technically the neighbor’s tree, but its leaves have firmly pledged allegiance to our property. Since our house sits at the very end of the court, we also receive a generous donation of leaves from the surrounding yards. I like to think of it as a natural tax for living at the bottom of the hill.

For this noble task, we use a leaf vacuum. My wife tried it the other day and immediately announced it was heavy. I wouldn’t call it heavy… but after a few hours, it does begin to feel like you’re dragging around a small, stubborn elephant. Still, I try to keep our front yard as leafless as possible. It’s part pride, part stubbornness, part denial about how wind works.

Fall in Nashville is a game of weather roulette. Rain pops in whenever it feels like being dramatic, so timing outdoor work requires strategy. This morning was dry—but brutally chilly, with wind that felt personally offended by my existence. I waited until early afternoon, when the temperature finally decided to show mercy, and then I went out to tackle the day’s biggest chore.

After a few solid hours of vacuuming, blowing, and questioning my life decisions, the yard was almost clear. I was just about to celebrate when I spotted a surprise guest: a small snake gracefully slithering across our gravel patch like it had scheduled an appointment.

Of course, I wanted photographic proof. I pulled out my phone to show my wife and family. The snake, however, had zero interest in becoming an internet celebrity. By the time my camera was ready, it vanished—clearly a professional at avoiding publicity.

That led to the inevitable follow-up: What kind of snake was it? A quick round of online detective work (powered by memory and mild adrenaline) suggested it was most likely a common garter snake.

I was surprised to see a snake this time of year. Last fall, we had a small one in our garage too. My wife tried to photograph that one as well. Same result—instant disappearance. Sadly, a sudden cold spell wasn’t kind to that little visitor, and we found it a few days later.

The good news is that common garter snakes in Tennessee are harmless. Their coloring varies, but most have three light stripes running down their bodies. They’re active in spring and fall and hibernate during winter—so today’s snake was probably doing exactly what I did: waiting for the afternoon warmth before venturing out.

So yes, today was leaf duty, cold air, and a surprise wildlife encounter—all part of the deluxe Nashville fall experience. Apparently, when you clean your yard, nature occasionally sends you a live bonus feature.

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Time Change Chaos and a Kitten Boss

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Time change season is here again—the biannual ritual where humans pretend one hour is no big deal, while our biological clocks absolutely disagree. My wife and I both struggle with it. She even started adjusting a day early, as if easing into jet lag without the benefit of a vacation. Neither of us grew up with daylight savings—Japan doesn’t use it, and I once lived in a part of the U.S. where clocks remain blissfully untouched—so after decades, it still feels unnatural.

I work from home and live by my own schedule, so waking up early or late doesn’t cause any major disasters. Still, I like to keep my time consistent—mostly because my wife has a strict work routine, and I want to stay synchronized for the sake of household harmony. I allow myself just enough flexibility to keep life interesting.

This morning, however, my alarm dragged me out of sleep far too early. I remembered the time change and thought smugly, “I’ll just sleep in a little longer.” Unfortunately, this plan was immediately vetoed by our kitten, who stomped upstairs like a tiny furry manager, dropped her toy mouse onto my chest, and demanded a meeting.

My wife had already fed her hours earlier—she wakes up long before I do in order to exercise and prepare for work. Usually, once the kitten eats, she either curls back up beside me or disappears to find trouble somewhere else. But today? She wanted the morning shift on my schedule. And she wanted it now.

So Our Kitten

Ignoring her is not an option. When I try, she escalates the situation by repeatedly dropping the toy mouse onto me with the precision of a trained negotiator. Eventually, I surrendered. I dragged myself out of bed, fixed breakfast, and went downstairs for my mandatory “fetch with mouse toy” session. She observed my compliance with great satisfaction.

Honestly, she’s not the worst alarm clock. She’s on time, persistent, and offers plenty of accountability—whether I asked for it or not. And on days when I want to get a lot done, having a tiny, determined supervisor staring at me actually helps.

She is my new boss. And she’s learning her rights very quickly.

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Cold Weather Running, Frustration, and Nietzsche: A November Runner’s Tale

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

I can’t believe it’s already November. One week we’re basking in warm weather, and the next we’re suddenly living inside a refrigerator. But cold or not, I refuse to stop running. I simply layer up like an onion with cardio goals.

This morning, my fitness tracker declared I had “high energy” and was in a “cardio-ready state.” Lies. All lies. My 5k quickly turned into a comedy of disappointment.

I blasted out of the gate so strongly that by the first quarter kilometer, I was a glorious 40 seconds ahead of my goal pace. Unfortunately, by the time I hit the first full kilometer, that 40-second buffer had vaporized—like steam on a cold morning—and I was actively fighting gravity, time, and possibly physics to keep from slowing further.

My running app updates me every quarter kilometer like a friendly but brutally honest coach. Each announcement informed me that my pace was either the same or a second slower. Meanwhile, I felt like I was pushing harder than a Black Friday shopper. Yet the data said otherwise.

Cold weather is always more brutal for me. Ever since my brain stroke, my body adapts to temperature changes about as gracefully as an old computer installing a software update. So I have to be very deliberate about my clothing: too cold and I stiffen up; too warm and I overheat. Dressing for a winter run feels like preparing for a NASA spacewalk—one wrong layer and the mission goes sideways.

Even with all the challenges, I finished my 10k only 21 seconds behind my target pace. Not ideal, but far from a disaster. And I was much faster than last week’s 10k, so progress is still happening—just slowly, like a stubborn download progress bar.

Running is one of those long-term investments that requires patience… and more patience… and then even more patience. I’ve been running for nearly a decade, and while 5k used to feel like medieval torture, once I learned to run 10k consistently, the shorter distance stopped scaring me, but chasing a target pace? That always requires grit, stubbornness, and the willingness to suffer a little.

Cold days make it harder—pushing harder doesn’t guarantee results. Sometimes your body simply files a complaint.

My wife always reminds me: One day at a time. One step at a time. Every project has ups and downs, and effort still counts even when the outcome isn’t what we imagined.

Nietzsche might call today’s struggle a small act of “self-overcoming”—choosing the higher challenge instead of the comfortable shortcut. So instead of dwelling on today’s frustrations, I’m choosing to see it as another step toward a stronger version of myself.

And honestly? That feels like its own victory.

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 A Quiet Halloween With My Family, the Power of Small Traditions

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Today is Halloween—a day for candy, costumes, and the annual realization that we bought way too many treats for the number of children who actually show up at our door. My wife, ever the organized one, stocked up a full month in advance so she wouldn’t have to run to Target in a last-minute panic. We didn’t buy much this year, partly because we’ve learned our lesson: our neighborhood has fewer children than a retirement village during nap time.

My wife still feels a little sad about it. Back when she lived in Canada, she used to get over 130 eager trick-or-treaters in a single night. Meanwhile, in Portland, we got zero. Nashville is somewhere in the middle—technically there are children, they just don’t seem particularly motivated to walk to our house.

Since supply far exceeds demand, each tiny visitor gets the full VIP candy upgrade. But tonight, the doorbell barely rang. Maybe kids nowadays collect candy with efficiency—three neighborhoods, one Tesla-chauffeured parent, and they’re done. Or maybe the cold weather scared them back into their cozy living rooms. Either way, we were ready; they were not.

My nieces, on the other hand, were thrilled. My sister started sewing her daughter’s costume in August. August. That is Olympic-level parenting. She loves crafting, so Halloween is basically her personal Super Bowl.

I don’t wear a costume, but seeing kids dressed up always brings back happy memories from my childhood—when Halloween meant adventure, sugar, and a truly questionable amount of independence. But tonight, with even fewer visitors than last year, I eventually turned off the porch light and declared the event officially concluded.

In better news, our cat had a fantastic Halloween. We got her a festive Halloween-themed collar, and she strutted around as if she were the CEO of Spooky Season. My wife has already purchased a Thanksgiving-themed one, too, so clearly the cat is celebrating more enthusiastically than we are. I took some photos to send to friends and family. When your cat is basically your child, this is entirely acceptable.

Halloween is also my toothbrush-switching day. My birthday sits exactly six months away, so it works as a built-in reminder. And when I change toothbrushes, I also check the thermostat batteries and the smoke detectors—basically a seasonal home maintenance celebration.

After my brain stroke, I had to rebuild my habits from scratch. Memory becomes unpredictable when your brain has taken a hit. My wife helped me retrain my routines, one slow step at a time. In the beginning, my hands didn’t cooperate well, so even simple tasks felt like climbing a mountain. But I kept going. Today, I’m proud to say my routines are stronger—and more intentional—than ever before.

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A Day of Small Chaos and Sweet Rewards

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

I woke up this morning to the gentle sound of rain tapping on the window—nature’s way of saying, “Good morning, here’s a free car wash for your soul.” My wife informed me that earlier, it had been raining so hard that she abandoned her morning workout. This is shocking because she usually treats her exercise routine with the seriousness of a NASA launch checklist. If she skips, something dramatic has happened. And yes—when I peeked outside, I understood. It was cold, gloomy, and the kind of rain that makes even Halloween candy nervous.

Today was also my “second attempt” at a dentist appointment—because I completely missed the first one. (If Forgetfulness were an Olympic sport, I’d have a medal by now.) My wife kindly offered to drive me, even though the clinic is within walking distance, but my weather app swore on its digital life that the rain would stop. And for once, it didn’t lie. Several hours later, the rain paused, and I set off on foot.

I told my wife I didn’t need the ride, and since she was on a work call, I quietly snuck out of the house like a teenager breaking curfew—except I was headed to get my teeth cleaned, not to a party.

The appointment went smoothly, but as soon as I stepped outside, the sky decided to rejoin the conversation. It started raining again on my way home. This was inconvenient, because my grand plan was to run right after the dentist. My schedule was already wobbling like a badly balanced washing machine, so I knew I had to get home and sprint back out immediately.

Luckily, the rain downgraded itself from “dramatic monologue” to “occasional sprinkle.” Still, it was cold enough to remind me it is indeed autumn. After 30 minutes of running in this half-rain, half-air situation, I was soaked, chilled, and squinting through water-speckled glasses, which is perhaps the least aerodynamic condition imaginable. I didn’t hit my target pace, but I was close enough to blame it on meteorology with dignity.

Now, here’s the best part: every time I go to the dentist, I treat myself to a cupcake from the bakery nearby. Tradition is important, after all. I asked my wife if she wanted one, but she declined—as she usually does. She does not share my passionate, borderline-philosophical relationship with sweets. Her loss, I say. I thought about that cupcake during my entire run like it was the Holy Grail. And yes—I ate it after my shower, and it was spectacular.

One dentist appointment down. Another one set—six months from now. This time, I saved it in my Google Calendar with enough alerts to wake the dead. May I never miss it again.

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