Why I Hate Running

I hate running. I have always hated running. Even when I was much younger and much faster. Hated it then, hate it now. Nevertheless, there I was this morning out on the sidewalks of Short Pump around 8 am, doing the very thing that I hate. Why?

There are many reasons. First of all, in life there are many things we do which we hate doing. I hate shaving every morning...but I kinda have to. I am in a profession which frowns upon waltzing into an appointment with a client in a t-shirt, sporting a three day growth. So, despite the great annoyance, I shave. I don’t particularly enjoy going in for a colonoscopy every five years, but I do it because...well, cancer. Running is part of my exercise routine. You can spend but so much time on an elliptical, or a stairclimber. At some point you have to mix running into the mix for cardio if for no other reason than to break up the monotony. But, after doing this off and on for the past twenty years, you would think that at some point you would come to some sort of accommodation with running. At some point maybe you would warm up to it, grudgingly admire its benefits. Nope. Still hate it.

But, I am nothing if not stubborn and disciplined, so I trudge on. I even set little goals for myself...try to beat previous times and previous distance limits...that sort of thing.

So, this morning, I sat out to try and run the 5K distance...3.1 miles in under 26 minutes. Why? I have no idea...other than stubbornness. I haven’t been able to in quite a while, for another thing, and its been ticking me off. So, off I went...

I always hate the first mile. That’s when I start arguing with myself...What are you doing, Dunnevant? You hate running. Why are you out here? You’re getting older and slower by the minute. Keep this up and before long, kids on tricycles are gonna start passing you! Somewhere on Broad Street, my MapMyFitness app shared the embarrassing news that I had completed one mile in 8 minutes and 59 seconds. Pathetic. At the time I was approaching the Chuy’s in West Broad Village. I wondered if they were open at this hour. Maybe I could stop in for a Dos Equis!!

The only thing worse than the first mile of a 5K run is the second. By this time, I’m on the back side of the lake in the Village and starting to sweat profusely because for some stupid reason I have picked up the pace. There’s that stubbornness thing again. It’s during the second mile when your hips start feeling unpleasant. Adding insult to injury is the fact that you are not even halfway done. Part of you wants to bag it, slow down and walk back to the house. But another part...the vain and stubborn part won’t allow this perfectly reasonable decision. You plow on, faster and faster.

The third mile completely blows, even worse than the first two miles put together. At the 2.5 mile post you glance at your app and see that you’ve got a shot at breaking 26 minutes. The only problem is that your hips, hamstrings and knees seem to have gotten together and plotted a coup. At the corner of Three Chopt and the John Rolfe Parkway, there’s only .18 miles to go and you find yourself in an all-out sprint up the slight incline, legs burning like five alarm chili, heart pounding in the chest, and sweating like a the barnyard turkey on Thanksgiving. As you reach the finish line you glance at the timer.....26:00. For the love of all that is Holy...are you freaking kidding me?? After all of that, I’m ONE SECOND SHORT.

This is how running works. Despite your very best efforts, despite all the discipline and stubbornness in the world, not to mention the anger one has to generate to get faster each mile...I still fall short.

On the positive side, those 673 calories I burned means I can have a cookie or two at church this morning.

Perceptive readers will have noticed that my times went way up for the remainder of my run. That’s because I stopped running...the only wise decision I made all morning. I simply walked back to the house, tired and frustrated at being so close and yet so far. But, the thing is...I’ll do it again. I’ll be out there somewhere in Short Pump arguing with myself for the first mile, bargaining with myself the second, and flailing around like a maniac down the homestretch. I’m just glad Pam doesn’t run with me. She would be mortified at my behavior. Why do you have to do everything so, so...hard??!! She has asked me this question at least a thousand times in our 35 years of marriage. 

I have no satisfactory answer.

Virginia Beach

My beloved Commonwealth of Virginia is once again in the news. And once again, it’s not because we are for lovers.

At this hour, 13 souls have perished in Virginia Beach, victims of a disgruntled long time city-government employee of the Public Utilities department. He had been fired the day before and apparently came back on Friday to exact his revenge. While at this point we don’t even know the shooter’s name or background, it boggles the mind to imagine what on earth he possibly could have done to get fired from a government job. He must be a piece of work.

No doubt most of the conversation in the days to follow this horrific event will center around gun-control or the lack of it. What always comes to my mind when something like this happens is...What ever happened to conflict resolution skills? Sure, losing a job you’ve had for twenty plus years is no day at the beach, but who decides that the proper response is to march down to the office the next day and start slaughtering everyone in the building? What mind set is at play here, and why do so many Americans chose it?

Some will say it’s all the fault of guns...if they weren’t so easy to obtain, these kinds of crimes wouldn’t happen nearly as frequently. I can agree with this position only up to a point. Before the gun comes into the picture, the decision to commit mass murder comes first. Why? By what reasoning does someone conclude that killing 13 people is even a possibility? 

Some will suggest that pervasive violence on television is to blame. Others will claim that violent shoot-em-up video games have brought us to this place. Still others will shoe-horn their pet philosophy into the debate...It’s Capitalism, man! No, it’s racism and misogyny!!

All I know is, something has gone off the rails when human beings normal enough to hold a job for twenty years start mowing their former co-workers down in cold blood. For me, the shooter’s race, sexual orientation, or political views...or the race, sexual orientation or political views of his victims is irrelevant. What I care about is...what combination of factors is leading more and more people to come to this sort of unspeakable end? We better devote ourselves to finding out...and soon.

Of Course You Know...This Means War

If you look carefully at this bird feeder you will notice a series of scratches on either side of the feeding hole. They were put there by a tribe of squirrels which have descended upon it of late. Since the despicable tree rats are too heavy for the spring loaded rest which is designed to prevent such theft, whenever a squirrel latches on, the holes shut tightly in their rat-like faces. At which point, the fuzzy-tailed rodents are left with gnawing on the housing of the feeder, hoping to create a new hole. Thus has the gauntlet been thrown down. This intrusion cannot stand. 

Unfortunately, my trusted Daisy 35 finally gave up the ghost last winter, but before I had a chance to replace it, my friend, Chip Hewette, came to my rescue by loaning me a far superior weapon...this much heavier and manlier death machine...

Each morning, every lunch hour that I am available, and every evening, I can be found cutting a wide path of death and destruction through the squirrel community. For the most part, my aim has been true and the resulting slaughter has been highly effective in reducing the annoyance of their relentless thievery. But, tonight as I was waiting for dinner I happened to glance out onto the deck and noticed a disturbing sight. There, splayed out spreadeagle, like a sunbather at a nudist colony was a large and grizzled veteran squirrel. All four paws stretched to their full length, tail drooped lazily across the railing of the deck, his beedy little eyes half closed as if he were about to doze off for a nap. Talk about humiliation? What have I been fighting all these weeks for if not to create a climate of fear and trembling in their midst? How, after all the hellfire that Chip’s pellet gun has belched forth, could such an elderly squirrel make such a mockery of my efforts? It was as if this arrogant punk was making a statement...You think we’re afraid of you, gun man? We laugh at your air gun!!

Of course, by the time I grabbed the gun and opened the door to the deck, old gramps had hightailed it into one of the thick oak trees and was protected from my wrath. I could practically hear the lot of them giggling with their high-pitched squirrel voices. I retreated back inside to hatch a new strategy. But, despite this little display of defiance, I will not be deterred from my mission to rid my back yard of these flea-bitten rats. I will redouble my 
efforts to protect our birds, I will steel myself for whatever it takes to protect My tomatoes and Pam’s herbs from the sniveling gray menace.

To quote one of America’s greatest revenge tacticians...Bugs Bunny...Of course you know...this means war!!

Nothing New Under The Sun

Question of the day: What was your first significant memory as a child?

Early memories are difficult for me. It’s as if I made it through the first six or seven years of my life with none of them. For someone who has the ability to remember encyclopedias full of meaningless minutiae, this has always been a frustration. Why were my formative years so uneventful? At least there weren’t bad memories, right? There’s always something  to be thankful for.

But, everyone has a first memory, and I am no exception. I was five years old. I was playing outside in the middle of the day when I was surprised to see Linda and Donnie walking up the driveway, oddly home from school early. It was November 22, 1963. President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas, Texas. Chesterfield County schools had decided to send everyone home for the day.

Of course, as a five year old, I didn’t comprehend much, but I did sense that whatever it was, it was important. I remember my mother running out of the house to hug them tight. I remember going inside and Mom making sandwiches for us...everyone talking in hushed tones. We had no TV, but the radio was on WRVA and even their voices sounded strange, clipped and shaky. Thats about all I can recall from that day. Something big had happened and I could feel it.

Five years later, brother Bobby would be killed in a hotel in Los Angeles. I watched it live as a ten year old, seated on the floor of my grandmother’s trailer, on a black and white television with rabbit ear antennas sprouting upwards forming a V...for violence. Earlier that same summer, Martin Luther King had been shot. I didn’t see it on television but I remember everyone talking about it. The grownups seemed worried, distraught at the direction the country was headed. There were riots, black kids throwing rocks, white kids carrying signs, angry about one thing or another. I had no profound insights about it all as a ten year old kid who’s primary passion, despite social upheaval, remained...baseball. But, I do remember feeling unsettled. The world was suddenly a strangely unpredictable place. Everyone seemed furious and fever-pitched.

Which goes to show you just how wise King Solomon actually was when he said, There is nothing new under the sun.

Something Beautiful

It was starting to get dark and I was getting stiff from the six hour drive to Columbia as we sat eating our Firehouse subs at a picnic table in Congeree National Park. It was our first time seeing the famous synchronized fireflies that our son-in-law had been so instrumental in promoting. Tonight, Jon was not a ranger. He was just my daughter’s husband in street clothes, leading his church small group on an outing at the park. But, in uniform or not, he was busy answering our questions and telling us what to expect once it got dark. Thousands of what I have always called lightening bugs were about to come together, and for reasons that are not entirely understood, start flashing their lights...all at the same time. He explained the rules...no cell phone usage, no cameras...they wouldn’t do us any good anyhow since their shutter speeds aren’t fast enough to capture the sight. 

People began to show up and stream through the entrance to the special viewing trail that Jon had devised and help cut through the low lying and heavy thickets. At the gate, people who had flashlights were given strips of red cellophane and tiny rubber bands to cover them and told to only use them pointed down at the ground, that unnatural light would throw off the synchronization. The trail itself was lit by cellophane covered lamps along the ground on either side of the trail, and cordoned off by glow in the dark rope. The early arrivals had staked out spots for themselves at the chairs and picnic tables that had been set up in random spots along the trail, most of them with huge special cameras atop tripods, waiting for the perfect shot.

I was getting impatient, a frequent affliction of mine, waiting for something to happen. This was Columbia, after all...in late May. It was hot and getting more humid by the minute. I was waiting not only for the fireflies to arrive, but their distant cousins...mosquitoes... to make an appearance. As more and more people began to arrive, I felt that familiar sensation that comes over me at times like this. Whenever I am waiting for some long awaited event, or some over-hyped big thing that people have been telling me I just have to see, I become detached and cynical, sometimes to the point of becoming determined not to be impressed. It’s part of my nature, I suppose, and not a very attractive part, this contrarianism.

When we finally got in line and made our way to Jon’s suggested vantage point, it was still dusk, not quite dark. The fireflies were visible now but not an impressive number of them and not yet snyched up. I could feel the jaded cockiness coming to the surface. I remember thinking, Are you kidding me? I came all the way out here for this?

Then, around a quarter to nine, about the time that the last glow of the setting sun was disappearing from the horizon, something clicked. Suddenly their numbers swelled, and the darkening woods began to pulse with white light. These were not the lightening bugs of my youth, which blinked slowly and whose color was more a greenish yellow. These fireflies were bright white, almost like LED lights and their flash was like Quicksilver. I was mesmerized. And then I noticed it...the silence.

There aren’t many places in this world anymore that involve large numbers of human beings...and silence. Even in churches, where people used to gather to be quiet, there is always some sort of buzz. Libraries are still quiet I guess, but who goes to libraries anymore? But, here I was, in the middle of the woods...in a swamp, surrounded by hundreds of strangers in tight quarters in now total darkness...and suddenly everyone was hushed by the moment. Suddenly, no one felt it appropriate to speak above a whisper. Why? No one had warned us that loud noises would make the fireflies go away or get out of synch. Still, everyone seemed to somehow know that silence was the proper response for this moment.

After a time of gawking, we decided to move along the trail. By that time it was pitch black, the almost complete lack of man-made light had cast a black blanket over the world. We inched along, holding on to one another, glancing down only to find the cellophane covered trail lights and the dim red glow that assured us that we weren’t wandering into the swamp. The fireflies were on both sides of us now, blinking, blinking, blinking. The only disturbance was some girl who tried to take a picture with her cellphone. The flash of it exploded like a bolt of lightening and a murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd. It never happened again. There’s always at least one idiot.

As we stumbled along in the darkness, carried along by each other and trust in what we could not see, it occurred to me that the assembled crowd had absolutely nothing in common except our humility in the presence of this mysterious beauty. There were Christians, non-Christians, several different races, democrats and republicans, meat-eaters and vegetarians...all of us brought down from our high horses for a while, humbled and silenced by something that no one can quite explain...synchronized fireflies. If you believe in God, it was if he was saying to us...Here, slow down for a minute. Rest with me for a while. Let me show you something beautiful.

Getting Ready

Back to work. After a week away, it’s time to find out all I’ve missed at Dunnevant Financial. Thanks to my intrepid assistant, I already know plenty...enough to know that I’ve got a lot to do over these next two weeks. Pam and I will be (finally) celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary from the 12th thru the 16th of June down on Isle of Palms. Then it will be back for two more weeks of work, then my reward for spending 36 years in this business—I take the month of July off—first, a week on Hatteras Island with my large, unruly family, then MAINE.

Speaking of Maine, yesterday, the owner of Loon Landing (who I am shamelessly ingratiating myself with for the purposes of convincing her to eventually sell me the place) sent me a photo of the dock they had just put back in the water...with the enticing tag line..getting ready. They always open the place on Memorial Day weekend. I drooled over this picture the rest of the day...

In no time at all, I will be a semi-permanent fixture on the end of that dock, interrupted only by the occasional kayak trip to my favorite fishing spot or a jaunt into Camden for pancakes and shopping.

Counting the days...

A 30 Year Old Son

Today is my boy’s 30th birthday. He is, of course, no longer a boy, having become a man years ago without my permission or consent. This is the way of the world, the current of life, ever forward, always grasping around the bend for the next thing, making what came before harder and harder to remember, eventually even to comprehend. This is altogether proper. The excitement of life is always in what is to come, never what was before. And yet...when it comes to my kids, no matter how far they progress or how much they accomplish, my heart’s image of them remains frozen in time. In Patrick’s case it’s this...

All those years ago he depended on us for everything. He had very little choice when it came to what he wore or what he ate. His plans for the day were what we said they were...and he was, for the most part, cooperative and compliant. Now, he wears what he wants, eats what he wants and makes his own plans. More importantly, he’s doing it all by his own devices and with his own money. I am overwhelmingly proud of him.

But, am I the only parent out there who secretly wishes he could go back in time for just one day? Am I the only one who wishes he could sit with him on that bench in Maine watching him drink his hot cocoa one more time? Am I the only one who wishes he could lift him up to put the angel on the tree again, or watch him racing his sister on the beach in Nags Head at sunset one last time? Of course, there are many things about the old days that I’m glad are dead and gone...the constant financial pressures, the relentless anxiety about their developement, the nagging fear that we were doing it all wrong and that they would grow up to be worthless, ungrateful brats. That pit in your stomach every time you watched them walk up the sidewalk into school...

So, today, I celebrate my son, and the amazing man he has become with great pride and no regrets...

...but I would give anything to be able to hold him in that Tigger suit one more time.