Half Past Awesome

It was a dark and stormy night. No, it wasn’t; it was the middle of the afternoon on a perfectly average day. As the monsoon-like fury raged on, there wasn’t enough visibility to make out your hand in front of your rain-soaked face. Again, not so much; it was sunny without even a hint of clouds in the sky. The mountains were steep and rocky….. enough so that even the sure footed Dall sheep were loathe to venture higher. Actually, the whole thing took place on my dead level gravel driveway. The crevasse gave way, exposing our intrepid explorer to a sure death as the ice ax began its slow southern migration from its chiseled hold.  To be honest, the rut was like 3.75 inches deep, caused by a little rain runoff, and completely avoidable.

As I returned to a work bench in my shop, I hear a wailing cry, the kind you might expect to hear from family members when they discover Dad has driven over the beloved Shar-Poodle-Shit-Zsu on his way to work this morning. I drop the cutting torch and sprint out of the shop to find my lovely wife rolling around next to the driveway, clutching her legs as though she’d just breezed over a hidden land mine that I may or may not have placed to deter trespassers. I ask just what in the hell she thinks she’s doing, lying there when we had company coming over shortly. She immediately demands that I grab a Fresca from the shop fridge, and pour it down her throat. In case that sounds awkward, let me emphasize: SHE DEMANDS A FRESCA. “Oh, what the hell”, I thought, got her the damn Fresca, and returned to find her engaged in what looks to be Lamaze knee rolls and associated hysterical cry/laughing.

My fire department training then took over, so I engaged in our standard protocols: I took some vitals, tried to give her some supplemental oxygen, then offered to check her smoke detector and told her to wait for the ambulance. She did not find this in the least amusing. She then told me how she’d been walking back to the house, and how one ankle rolled in the rut, the subsequent over-compensation of the other and the crash landing results. Having extensive training in the medical field, I told her “stop crying. Walk it off.” We’ve all rolled an ankle or two in our time, and she’s not so special as to merit an ambulance ride or anything. Eventually, she hobbles into the house and we proceed to throw a lavish party. The kind of party that involves the use of plastic utensils, if you catch my drift.

The next day, she opts to go to the doctor, because the swelling hasn’t subsided and, as it turns out, complaining about the pain rarely heals the wound. It then comes to our attention that one ankle has a spiral fracture and one is severely sprained. That’s right (and here’s where I make the big “my bad” part of the speech): she broke her ankle in the driveway. In flip flops. So while my assessment skills were a bit, shall we say, off, you’ll forgive me if the x-ray vision is on the fritz and I missed that one. And so it began. We got the knee scooter. The crutches. And, after a particularly nasty tumble in the kitchen, a wheelchair. I’ve gotten a glimpse of The Wife at age 85. I am most amused by this development.

Karma has a way of taking a steaming dump on your lap, though, when you derive too much amusement from your spouses pain. As I’ve alluded to in other posts, I’m in the middle of training for a half-marathon, a spectacle in which I completely expect to have a massive coronary event. And, one week into her rehabilitation time, I went a little off the rails at a wedding reception, prompting my knee to go from “a little achy” to “now I can’t walk on it without a limp.” With the aid of a knee brace, we are now a pair of invalids, hobbling all over creation. I’ve had to take over most of the domestic engineering, and while I am always happy to divide the labor, I ain’t so cheerful about a solo endeavor. I limp around the kitchen, shaking my fist at The Heathens, hollering that they are LUCKY to be having Mac & Cheese yet again. In the grocery store, we are constantly asked if we were involved in a car wreck. I’ve taken to lying on a much grander scale, often replying with “Why yes, yes we were. It was a 67 car pile-up and we’re the only survivors. But I don’t like to talk about it. How’s YOUR day going?” Really, it’s rather crass, but I take the little victories where I can.

And that, my friends, is why I haven’t posted in a while. We’ve been lucky enough to have the kinds of friends that have been bringing meals over and helping us out as I attempt to coddle (or yell) my family into well being. All of our visitors are of the mind that what we REALLY need is another lasagna, and while I’m eternally grateful for their thoughts and “help”, it’s as though they don’t even know me: not one cold Guinness has been offered as of yet. On the flip side maybe they know us too well; when you have two lame ducks limping all over the house, I’ve found it best if all parties are sober.

Uli Less Lardass, Tales of Misery the Heathens, The Wife

A sinus rhythm is defined one way as the normal regular rhythm of the heart as generated by the sinus node. This is what you want to see in a patient when an EKG is performed- five healthy waves in a single heartbeat. But like each beat of the heart, life happens in these up and down waves that define our interactions with others.

I thought about this while I was enduring the cardiac event known as “training run” today. Currently at the end of week three in a twelve week cycle of sado-masochism, I’m attempting my first half marathon in December. Back story -the event is for St. Jude’s Childrens Research Hospital in Memphis, and I committed to it for a couple of reasons; on October 18 of 2007, the beautiful daughter of a coworker of mine passed away at three years old, the victim of a brain tumor. St. Jude’s was instrumental in helping the family, and I’ve been impressed with this organization since I first learned of it. Secondly, if I am gonna do more than just TALK about being in better heart health, there’s nothing like setting a seemingly impossible goal to guilt me into running.

While experiencing undoubtedly abnormal rhythms, my mind was wandering all over the place, focusing on the peaks and valleys that happen to us at this age. The craziness knows no limits: one classmate of mine is in jail for allegedly murdering his wife in the heat of a bitter custody battle, we have folks with marriages on the rocks or ending, The Lyin’ Dutchman has ostracized each and every member of his family (except Bones), The Wife broke one ankle and sprained the other two days ago just walking down our driveway; hell, I even went nuts to a minor degree this past spring, sold off the excavating business, lost my mind and took up yoga. On the plus side, Heathen #1 is rocking kindergarten, this site has been a fulfilling outlet for my creative impulses, RoJo welcomed a baby boy into this world, Lyrical Jackass is back with an old crazy flame, Dirtbag is busy building out in the northwest, JoBoo just got him a new Harley and my first tattoo is on the horizon.

And so it goes. These various waves in our lives give it spice, meaning, passion and heartbreak. When compared to asystole (also known as “flatline”), sinus rhythm is not such a bad option, even with all the valleys. Living a flat line life would be boring, repetitive, secure to the point of mad doldrums. I’m not advocating abandoning family nor commitments, but rather, learning to accept the valleys as just another point in my life’s rhythm. Caring for a temporarily crippled wife? That’s not too bad, especially when taken in the context of having a person in my life who is willing to even be seen with me. Mile 5 of the training run today? Well, there was nothing good to say about that one, save for that it’s about 4.75 miles further than I’ve run in nearly a decade.  As the knees were snapping, the sweat pouring down like a monsoon, and the feet protesting with each stumbled step, it actually brought a smile to my face. My shuffle might embarrass the hell out of me if I ever were to witness it, but least I’m out there, and not flat-lining here on the couch. I’ll never be a runner’s runner – I know this. To survive this thirteen mile race without congestive heart failure will be nothing short of a medical miracle. But I’ll take the unknown inconsistencies of this run, this life, over the alternatives any day.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Less Lardass, Tales of Misery Bones, Dirtbag, JoBoo, RoJo, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Wife

For the last five months, I’ve endeavored to bring you glimpses of my convoluted thought process and the subsequent chaotic results. This is not an issue of happenstance; I had recently sold off my excavating business in order to spend some much needed time with my family and to pursue this whole writing experiment. With the construction market being what it was, and continues to be, the decision to sell was timely, and the rewards I’ve gained in terms of being home more often are worth more to me than I could have hoped. By focusing primarily on my fire department career and my fatherhood-like responsibilities, I’ve been able to devote the time and effort my family deserves. That’s great. And when no one is around, I hammer out some verbal missives and hope that it brings you some laughs.

Another aspect of life that’s changed is re-focusing on being healthier and slightly less inclined to clutch my chest one day and drop dead (this would absolutely occur in the most embarrassing location possible). To that end, I signed up for a, um, cycling class at the Downtown YMCA and took up some yoga and pilates, just for good measure. This provides my co-workers endless entertainment. To have gone from running heavy equipment and shooting excavation grades to signing up for a “yogalates” class and claiming to want to get home “so I can write” has led some to question my very status as a man.  By “some” I am also including “me”.

Dirt work was never a passion for me, though, not like writing is, and so it’s not as though I’m missing it that much. Sure, I miss my beloved Peterbilts and the excavator was a pretty damn cool machine to own. But I don’t miss the homeowners whining and chasing money down and getting back to the shop at weird hours and, worst of all, my oldest asking me why I’m never home. I miss hanging out with all my contractor friends and looking over a freshly graded site and knowing the job was done right. No matter how great it is to indulge the writing and get in better shape and all, I was missing working with my hands and smelling like diesel and dirt. I need that connection; to work with my hands, to shoot the bull with friends, to build something other than essays on the internet. I also need a way to pay for the ever elusive motorcycle.

And so a simple request from a co-worker was the genesis for my return to manhood. He asked if I have a welder, and the answer is yes, of course. He then asked if I could weld up a new receiver on his lawn mower trailer; I hate to say no, and he’s a friend, and I thought “what the hell, why not?” Within a few days his trailer was in my shop, the Outlaw Trucker was onsite to supervise and drink breakfast PBR’s and I was back. Back to building something. Back to creating. Back to choking on fumes and smelling of grime. In short, I was happy, and I’d found my religion again. I could take on small welding gigs, have Outlaw co-fabricate, and who knows? At the very least I’d have new material to write about, if nothing else. As for payment, I’ve decided to throw out a coffee can, and whatever folks feel the work is worth, that is what they should throw in. Coffee and beer are also accepted forms of currency. I threw the word around the firehouse wires and have had more work already materialize outta thin air. It turns out quite a few people need just a little help mending metal. I’m glad to have some side work / motorcycle money and the company all my friends bring to the shop. We drink strong mud and barley sodas, discuss the state of affairs, cuss the ignorant and praise the worthy. All in all, a pretty good way to spend some time. The re-MANonization process has begun, and I’m all for it…..as long as it doesn’t interfere with spin class.

Uli Less Lardass, Motorcycle Dreamin', Tales of Misery Outlaw Trucker, the Heathens

In order to mark my return to the firehouse after a few weeks off, I thought I’d go whole hog and work out before shift, too. This was a dumb decision. I go to stationary cycling classes (er, spin) regularly, ride to work once in a while, play some ice hockey and even go so far as to attend yoga/pilates classes once or twice a week (don’t laugh too hard till you try it. Burns like acid).  But if I really, truly want to get rid of the junk hanging off the waist, it’s got to be running, a sport I loathe with utter contempt. It’s hard on the knees, I sound like a gagging water buffalo when doing it and it looks as though I might be in the throes of a grand mal seizure when I attempt it. Nonetheless, it is the one tried and true method of getting rid of the Guinness and baconic residue.

So I gave in to my co-worker JoBoo’s demands and joined him in an attempt to “run” three miles before work. THREE MILES. Might as well have been the Battan Death March at that rate. I thought I might share my experiences as they related to what was cranking out of the ipod. The mileage/time sequence may be off, since I could barely jog, much less keep track, but you’ll get the idea.

Mile One-ish
Song: Nuthin’ But A G Thang by Dr. Dre
Turns out this is a good one for me to keep pace to. And by “pace” I mean it’s the kind of slow that you might commit a drive-by shooting to. Which is EXACTLY like the kind of crime I feel like committing within the first fifty feet of the run. Holy S#*t why in the world did I tell JoBoo I’d do this? This is stupid. I am already hurting. I want nothing more than to quit. My lungs agree that this is a good idea and demand I stop immediately. I don’t comply.

Mile 1.2-ish
Song: The Lightning Storm by Flogging Molly
The song title is what I am hoping against hope will happen right over my head at this very moment, thereby electrocuting me and making me forget the pain in my feet and inner chest cavity. As an interesting aside, I think a homeless guy just pushed a shopping cart right by us, we’re going so slow. JoBoo doesn’t look affected in the least by this torture, making my desire to stab him reach a feverish level. I want so badly to kill him, but don’t have the energy to complete the task.

Mile 2-something
Song:  Too Much Sex (Too Little Jesus) by The Drive By Truckers
This song is totally irrelevant to the situation at hand, but I like how lost the protagonist is in the tune (spiritually speaking), because I, too, feel lost. Lost in the sense that I lost a lung somewhere around a half mile ago, and this has forced the first “walking” foray of the trip so far. I vow to only walk 1/2 a block, but in reality I would jump onto the the bumper of a bus right now and hitch a ride back to the firehouse if I could.

Mile 2-and a something-ish
Song: Gold Digger by Kanye West
Since I don’t know if what I am doing technically qualifies as “running”, I assume I am experiencing a “shuffler’s high” right now, since I am having all sorts of mental revelations. It strikes me that this song has ABSOLUTELY no chance of becoming a reality in my life, since I am worth approximately nothing financially; this fact makes me grin like a lopsided baboon as I grunt my way up the street. Also, I almost fall on my face as I try and play Tetris with the brick patterns in the sidewalk, a slightly less funny fact. JoBoo is nowhere to be seen when this happens, and it’s too bad. Perhaps he would have died of an asthma attack laughing at me, which would serve him right.

Mile 3.000001
Song: Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta by The Geto Boys
Why do I love this song in this moment? Perhaps it’s because of these lyrics:
“Real gangsta-a$$ ni##as don’t talk much/
All ya hear is the black from the gun blast/
And real gangsta-a$$ ni##as don’t run for s#*t/
cause real gangsta-a$$ ni##as can’t run fast”
I can relate on every level. I can’t talk, because I must save that energy for all of the gasping and dry heaving that is taking place at this juncture. There is no gun blast, but if someone shot me in this moment I would be in their debt for what was left of my eternity. And it is VERY true that I can’t run “for shit” nor “fast” because what I am doing is ridiculous and anything BUT running.

Mile 3.0009
Song: Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm by the Crash Test Dummies
The only good thing about this song and how it might relate is that I could no longer speak real words, and so the chorus made sense. And then I realized I don’t really like this song at all, and this is another reason I want to fall in front of the city bus that has just passed so close to my staggering corpse.

Mile 3.1
I die just a little bit in front of the firehouse, a casualty of ridiculous fitness. Time? 34 minutes and change. JoBoo laughs as I grasp at his barely sweating form mouthing “oxygen, please, for the love of God, oxygen!!” As soon as I regain consciousness, I vow to kill him.

Uli Less Lardass, Siren Songs JoBoo

Last night marked a return to the ice after a three month self-imposed hiatus. What with The Heathens in full sports swing during the hottest months of summer (brilliant), it seemed parentally prudent to take a season off from the men’s rec hockey league, give the old blades a rest. By spending some time at the gym and riding my bike to work occasionally, I’d hoped to keep in enough cardio shape to prevent a stroke from happening upon my return. It was a big mistake.

The fire department has a loosely organized team of fools who’ve decided “yeah, hockey, that sounds like a good idea.” So most of us, for the first time, decided to learn to skate, spend an ungodly amount on gear and form a team. That was about six years ago, and each season, the group grows by one or two guys until we’ve finally gotten enough to field an actual team. It’s been a blast, no doubt, complete with locker room antics and smells, road trips to tournaments and age inappropriate behavior. We may be trying to re-create our squandered youth or maybe it’s the idea of chasing other people around with a stick that appeals to the little boy in each of us. It matters not what our motivation seems to be, but the consequences of choosing ice hockey at an age when most professionals are retiring has provided more than bruised egos and bodies. It’s been the source of guffaws for every spouse or random soul who’s been down to the ice park on a Sunday night.

I wish I could accurately describe the pain that surged through my beaten down corpse after one measely game. You ever see one of those unfortunate armadillos that is laying toes up on the highway with parts scattered all over? I would wager it felt a little something like how that thing looks. Pre-game, we all laced up in the locker room and gave each other the expected razzing over creaky joints and achy bones, while the hockey rookies looked around nervously, as though maybe this decision to play a game that involves this much safety equipment was a pretty stupid one. We stumbled out onto the ice to the capacity crowd of, I counted, fifteen spectators. And two brutal hours later, we limp-skated off, the five remaining die-hard fans laughing themselves into asthma attacks. It’s hard to sell hockey in bass fishing and turkey killing country. My own wife won’t even waste her time going to the rink, insisting “it’s cold in there.” How can I argue with that?

As for me, I think the reason I like hockey so much is that it embodies much of the same code of conduct as the firehouse. You got guys that you would never trust with your daughter but that you intrinsically trust with your own safety; the rink provides an environment in which people who have no other common denominator get together to enjoy the harassment and shenanigans that hockey provides. We cajole and congratulate with equal enthusiasm, we sit around and complain about one another; it’s as close to the kitchen table in a firehouse as I can find. I may suck at hockey, but I am damn good at drinking beer, a common post-game decompression strategy that we employ frequently. And despite the fact that we all look like a pack of escaped mental patients having meth fits out on the ice, there is nowhere else I can have that much fun while dancing that close to a cardiac event, save for a good house fire.

I think the bruises are worth it.

Uli Amigos, Less Lardass, Tales of Misery Add new tag, the Heathens, The Wife

Indisputable Fact Number One: firefighters are their own worst enemy. The same air of stubborn confidence that makes us wade into the middle of stupidly dangerous situations also breeds a viciously complacent attitude when it comes to our own health. Therefore, it is no surprise at all that heart attacks are the number one killer of my peers nationwide. When you factor in the stress effects of being roused at 0300 hrs. from a comatose-like sleep by the alarms clanging like mad, the adrenaline rush and subsequent crashes and combine that with a piss poor diet whose most important ingredients are “hot, brown & plentiful” and “cheap”, you’ve got a recipe for cardiac chaos.

This is not to say that there aren’t quite a few of my co-workers who are fit, lean and leading the kind of healthy lifestyle that makes me just a bit nauseous. You know the kind: before taking a bite of any meal, they want to know if the lettuce was harvested within the last three days, and HOW it was harvested and just what IS the caloric content of a stalk of Romaine? And God forbid they tip back a beer, as though it were the unspeakable dietary equivalent of stomping a kitten on a sidewalk. I kinda hate those people.

But I also realize that it is the acme of hypocrisy to say I am capable of performing some of the more demanding physical aspects of the job while not making much of an effort AT ALL to stay in good shape. I’d rather sit on my keister drinking coffee with friends in my shop, all the while thinking I possess the stamina of my seventeen year old self. And, left to my own devices, my workout routine gives me the motivation factor of a sloth on Quaaludes. A little here, a little there, a cup of coffee, and HEYYYY! what’s that over there? Something to distract me? Homeless people fighting in the street? It doesn’t take much. And while I’d like to think I could lift a bus up off of a baby stroller (how did THAT scenario ever make it’s way to the public lexicon, anyways?), the truth is that I needed to get off my ass before a ten pound dumbbell was responsible for my demise.

Indisputable Fact Number Two: I hate running. I’ll do it if I have to but I always imagine I look something like a sweaty, grunting musk ox lumbering down the trail. That, and I always get passed by 90 year old health freaks who give me an even worse complex; I’d kick at ‘em, but no doubt I’d break my foot on their oxygen bottle. No, I prefer to get my cardio on  my mountain bike or playing ice hockey or running to the fridge to grab another Guinness. And so, in a supreme moment of odd and testosterone-free behavior, I decided to try a spin class. I told no one. I was secretly hoping to find out that it was as stupid as I’d perceived it to be every time I saw a class in session. That would segue nicely into another round of putting off getting all “healthy” again. Having been in work environments ranging from the oil rigs of Alaska’s North Slope to running a D-9 bulldozer in a rock pit to the hairy knuckled confines of a firehouse, there was no way I could actually benefit the sheer wussiness of riding a bike that goes nowhere while a bubbly instructor gleefully calls out sequences over some techno-crap music. I went prepared to hate in a big way.

I loved it.

Crap. Now what?

Uli Less Lardass, Tales of Misery

There are only so many heartbeats that each of us are assigned in this life; how we use them is completely and totally up to us. Whether we choose to waste them at a rapid pace by activities such as “exercise” or we choose to maximize our life time-schedule by sitting on our collective asses, it is a purely autonomous decision. At least, that is the theory put forth by a former co-worker, who described this life philosophy to me while consuming his daily dollar Whopper lunch. Amazing what we can learn in a firehouse.

I’ve had a torrid affair with the gym myself. In days past, it was a habit as a means of staving off the effects of aging, Midwestern cuisine and the maddening expansion of the waistline.  Then along came family and all the so-called needs they needed fulfilled. I’d go through jags where the gym was a middling priority, abandoned as soon as the Next Great Endeavor was attacked. And outside of the weekly hockey game and momentary fits of chasing the boys around the homestead, the affair waned while the pant size waxed.

In its latest manifestation, my relationship with the gym has been in dire need of a motivational factor. To most people this would involve getting hooked up with a great yoga-lates class and taking cues from all the fit and trim and beautiful people. Maybe this might involve getting some P-90X routine or perhaps a new Super Gazelle Strider Machine, complete with healthy fitness models telling you that, yes, you too can look like them in an incredibly short period of time.

This is not for me. These people, all ripped, cut and mad about abs generally serve to UN-inspire me. They’re already where I want to be, and in my insatiable desire for instant gratification this seems like a near-impossibility. There is no need for them to even be there, save to humiliate me. No, I FOUND my motivation: those poor souls worse off than me, sweating like Northside hookers at Confessional, truly swerving close to crashing into a real cardiac event. And in no way do I mean this as a slam or slight; these folks are attempting to honestly affect change their life. I admire the living crap out of how they are not there to impress the opposite sex, that there is no meat market aspect to their presence at the gym.  Maybe the pessimist in me finds solace in a half-empty glass. That sense of half empty means potential. Means hope.

As I watched some half-crazed sweathog pound his way around the track, I felt this sense of admiration grow with each lap he made in front of my bike. There he was, gallons of liquid fat emanating from his pores, lap by lap, taking real control of his health and his future. He’s willing to risk possible stroke in his efforts. I found myself cheering him on with each 1/7th of a mile wanting to raise my fist to him and shout “KEEP ON KEEPIN’ ON, BROTHER! YOU GOT THIS THING!” I have no doubt that had I said that, he’d have come over and stomped me into a puddle of liquid waste; plus, it might seem like I was being rude. THIS is the kind of ad campaign that the YMCA needs to be running with real people like you and me and my (unbeknownst to him) new workout partner. Losing 1/4 to 1/2 of a percent of body fat is of no consequence to me…..this man dragging his caboose round and round in front of me has triple digit weight loss goals, and he’s there day after day, distancing himself with each pace away from the inevitable diabetic loss of limbs.

So there we have it. Outside of an admiration of Chuck Norris being Chuck Norris, I never again want to see some fit celebrity hawking the latest crunch/reclining device. It serves no purpose other than to repulse me when I read about how Madonna’s hybrid Tantric-Kabbalah-Step routine has resulted in her looking like a freakishly strong heroin junkie. I envision a future where one day, it’s Al Roker versus Willard Scott in a foot race through Central Park while trying to broadcast the weather, each in the throes of arrhythmic spasms; that’s motivation, my friend.

I don’t know if my new workout partner knows the kind of inspiration he’s providing me, since he doesn’t even know who in the hell that is shaking his fist at him with each passing lap. I think I might need to work on my socializing skills. Maybe I’ll bring it up, post workout, when I see him down at the doughnut shop

Uli Less Lardass