I fell off some last week, but I did continue to train. Monday I did nothing and Penny and I went to Over 60s that night, which is a great way to gain weight. Tuesday I drove to Noxapater and saw some of my folks and searched for a pulpwood truck. I did, however, do a 5.02 miles walk when I came home.
Wednesday I went out on the bicycle and did 37.29 miles and some walking afterwards.
Thursday I lifted weights and worked in the yard. On the bench I did
10 X 50
11 X 60
12 X 70
6 X 80
Friday Penny and I went to Jackson which means we did lots of eating. Saturday I did 17.23 on the bike and on the bench:
12 X 50
10 X 70
8 x 80
7 x 85
The shoulder is making real gains. I now think it is going to be OK. It has only taken ten months to get it where it is now.
For the week, I walked 7.6, lifted weights two times, and cycled 54.52 miles. Next week I hope to get into the water and see if I can swim. Thank you, Jesus.
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
Monday, May 28, 2018
Chicot Clarified
With less than a week until the big event, the Chicot picture is finally coming into focus. Wilson Carroll, who along with his son Spence originally volunteered to swim in my place, verified this morning that he and his boy would indeed meet us at the boat ramp of the State Park Saturday morning and join MJ Staples as this year's swimmers.
With the swimmers set, I went ahead and set the course to go all the way to Ditch Bayou. At least. If the athletes want to turn around and stroke back, we will accommodate them, of course. The State Park to Ditch Bayou route is officially a little over 11.5 miles, but in the water it is over twelve. That will give each swimmer four miles each, no small feat, but not an overwhelming one. It will be one, I hope, we can all enjoy.
With the big boat, three swimmers, a set course, and a seasoned crew, I am looking forward to the 2018 Challenge. For a long time I mourned my inability to swim. At least for now, the grieving has passed and 'joy has risen with the morning.' I am looking forward to seeing MJ again. She came all the way from Atlanta, Georgia, last year, at her own expense to serve as the swim's Official Observer. Besides observing, she also did some support swimming with me. She was a real blessing then and remains one now.
I'm also excited to be a part of Spence having his first go at open water swimming. Who knows where this could lead. Spence is a pretty accomplished pool swimmer. Often, however, pool swimmers show little interest in "wild swimming" as our cousins in the UK call it. Once he swims his first mile in that lake, I bet he'll be hooked for life.
I especially look forward to a day on the lake rather than in it. For the first time, I will be a part of the crew. For the first time, I will spend the day on the lake with my sweet wife, Penny, who will be part of the crew. For the first time, I will get to see more of the lake than when I swim it. Swimming is a sensory deprivation kind of experience. You feel the lake, experience her embrace. You notice her changing temperatures and moods. If she grows angry, she smites you. She either lets you swim her or she doesn't; she reminded me of that last year when I had to work as hard as I could to inch forward against her waves and her wind. For a while. Then her mood changed, and she was kind to me again. She embraced me until the sun went down and the moon rose high, and we experienced one another in the dark. But despite all those intimate contacts with the lady we call Chicot, the visual joy of her astounding beauty is for the most part hidden from the swimmer.
This time I will observe her beauty. This time I will take pictures. This time I will write notes. I will see her again June the 2nd.
With the swimmers set, I went ahead and set the course to go all the way to Ditch Bayou. At least. If the athletes want to turn around and stroke back, we will accommodate them, of course. The State Park to Ditch Bayou route is officially a little over 11.5 miles, but in the water it is over twelve. That will give each swimmer four miles each, no small feat, but not an overwhelming one. It will be one, I hope, we can all enjoy.
With the big boat, three swimmers, a set course, and a seasoned crew, I am looking forward to the 2018 Challenge. For a long time I mourned my inability to swim. At least for now, the grieving has passed and 'joy has risen with the morning.' I am looking forward to seeing MJ again. She came all the way from Atlanta, Georgia, last year, at her own expense to serve as the swim's Official Observer. Besides observing, she also did some support swimming with me. She was a real blessing then and remains one now.
I'm also excited to be a part of Spence having his first go at open water swimming. Who knows where this could lead. Spence is a pretty accomplished pool swimmer. Often, however, pool swimmers show little interest in "wild swimming" as our cousins in the UK call it. Once he swims his first mile in that lake, I bet he'll be hooked for life.
I especially look forward to a day on the lake rather than in it. For the first time, I will be a part of the crew. For the first time, I will spend the day on the lake with my sweet wife, Penny, who will be part of the crew. For the first time, I will get to see more of the lake than when I swim it. Swimming is a sensory deprivation kind of experience. You feel the lake, experience her embrace. You notice her changing temperatures and moods. If she grows angry, she smites you. She either lets you swim her or she doesn't; she reminded me of that last year when I had to work as hard as I could to inch forward against her waves and her wind. For a while. Then her mood changed, and she was kind to me again. She embraced me until the sun went down and the moon rose high, and we experienced one another in the dark. But despite all those intimate contacts with the lady we call Chicot, the visual joy of her astounding beauty is for the most part hidden from the swimmer.
This time I will observe her beauty. This time I will take pictures. This time I will write notes. I will see her again June the 2nd.
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
Chicot Info
Nothing has been normal this year. Maybe there is no normal when it comes to the Chicot Challenge, but this time around things have changed and changed and changed. Finally, however, instead of going from bad to worse, they have gone from worse to bad. Uh, better, better that is.
Ocee Hunter, the manager of the Lake Chicot State Park, called me Monday morning. When I saw Lake Village, Arkansas on the screen of my cell phone, I snatched that thing up and answered as quickly as I could. They got one of their pontoon boats sea worthy and it is ours for the day of June 2. The pontoon is a plus in a number of ways.
One way the pontoon helps us is it allows for greater safety in having a big boat that is more visible and can provide a physical shield to other water craft. In past swims, I was always uneasy going under the Causeway Bridge. A lot of water traffic meets up there and during swim VI, Justin pulled the big boat up close behind me while I swam under the bridge thus physically preventing anyone from running over me.
Second, the pontoon allows more of the crew to witness the swim. The crew does a lot of work behind the scenes from publicity, to T-shirt sales, to encouragement, to prayers. Team Centerville has taken on the swim as their own baby and they work and pray for its success. And having more crew witnessing the swim is also good for the one in the water. The more eyes on the swimmer the better he or she performs. At least that is how it always impacted me.
Not only that, but with more space for more coolers, the swimmer has no shortage of storage for food. I like ice cream, but it needs a little more space than can easily be accommodated on a small kayak. Plus, the kayakers can swap out and rest their arms, low backs, and butts on the boat while someone else takes a turn at guiding the swimmer.
In short, the call from Ocee was big news, good news, and motivating news. Wilson Carroll even hinted that he may be up for some swimming after all. A pontoon makes a relay possible. Theoretically it is possible to relay out of a jon boat, but I would never want to do it that way.
There are still a bunch of unknowns. What we do know is MJ Staples will swim (possible joined by Wilson Carroll), we have a big boat, and we are doing it June 2. The event will start at the State Park probably about 9:00 am and conclude either at downtown Lake Village, or at the Visitors' Center, or at Ditch Bayou.
Stay tuned.
Ocee Hunter, the manager of the Lake Chicot State Park, called me Monday morning. When I saw Lake Village, Arkansas on the screen of my cell phone, I snatched that thing up and answered as quickly as I could. They got one of their pontoon boats sea worthy and it is ours for the day of June 2. The pontoon is a plus in a number of ways.
One way the pontoon helps us is it allows for greater safety in having a big boat that is more visible and can provide a physical shield to other water craft. In past swims, I was always uneasy going under the Causeway Bridge. A lot of water traffic meets up there and during swim VI, Justin pulled the big boat up close behind me while I swam under the bridge thus physically preventing anyone from running over me.
Second, the pontoon allows more of the crew to witness the swim. The crew does a lot of work behind the scenes from publicity, to T-shirt sales, to encouragement, to prayers. Team Centerville has taken on the swim as their own baby and they work and pray for its success. And having more crew witnessing the swim is also good for the one in the water. The more eyes on the swimmer the better he or she performs. At least that is how it always impacted me.
Not only that, but with more space for more coolers, the swimmer has no shortage of storage for food. I like ice cream, but it needs a little more space than can easily be accommodated on a small kayak. Plus, the kayakers can swap out and rest their arms, low backs, and butts on the boat while someone else takes a turn at guiding the swimmer.
In short, the call from Ocee was big news, good news, and motivating news. Wilson Carroll even hinted that he may be up for some swimming after all. A pontoon makes a relay possible. Theoretically it is possible to relay out of a jon boat, but I would never want to do it that way.
There are still a bunch of unknowns. What we do know is MJ Staples will swim (possible joined by Wilson Carroll), we have a big boat, and we are doing it June 2. The event will start at the State Park probably about 9:00 am and conclude either at downtown Lake Village, or at the Visitors' Center, or at Ditch Bayou.
Stay tuned.
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
Ray 7
I went to the pastors' breakfast Friday morning. Eddie Carpenter was my first stop before I sat down with my coffee. He had no new leads on a pulpwood truck or Ray and neither did my new buddy, Jack Marshall, a United Methodist pastor who attends Wesley Biblical Seminary thus giving us a natural connection. The meal was good, and I ate bacon until I was embarrassed. But I didn't hear much of the chatter or the ubiquitous stories. My mind was on pulpwood trucks and Ray Azal.
I left North Carrollton Baptist Church about 9:00 am determined to track down the one source that I didn't find last week: Roy Blackmon. I was given a phone number at Vaiden Timber Company, but the number didn't work. They also told me that he lived off Highway 17 on Cedar Hill Ranch Road. Leaving the church, I made another slow drive down that lovely road looking for trucks and for Cedar Hill Ranch Road.
I made it to a store a few miles before you get to Lexington and stopped, went inside, and asked about Roy Blackmon and Ceder Hill Ranch Road. The lady running the store went out to her car and looked up the road on her vehicle's GPS. That showed a street in Lexington. I didn't think that was right, but I decided to check it out anyway.
Before leaving, I searched for the road on my phone. The only thing it showed was also in Lexington so I drove into town, found the street which the phone map called Cedar Drive but the actual street sign said something else. I drove the short street, and convinced that was not it, I headed back out Highway 17.
I don't know if it was an old memory or what, but I had a hunch about a road I had driven by just south of Blackhawk. A rusty old sign hung on a tree near the gravel road's ingress and egress from Highway 17. Something inside told me that was Cedar Hill Ranch Road. I drove back to there, made the turn and drove until I came upon a house to my left. I pulled in the long drive and as I approached a yard full of cars, an occupied one met me and stopped. We both rolled our windows down, and I told him my business. To my surprise, he gave me directions to Roy's trailer.
I say "to my surprise" because I am now truly shocked when someone gives me a straight answer. The suspicion I run into when I start asking questions about people is amazing. I haven't written a fraction of that. One man who has a couple of trucks gave me a false name and it took around thirty minutes and several inquiries to get that. I didn't even bring up Ray, I was just trying to get him to discuss selling a truck. Unbeknownst to him, I already new his name and he lied to me about it. Another man threatened to whip me and asked me if I was "R-I-S-ing." I told him I didn't even know what that was. He responded by asking me if I worked for the IRS. Really, that happened. Many won't say anything but just give me the evil eye. So when this fellow gave me directions, my thoughts were, "We'll see."
Just like he said, I continued down the road, went straight at the first turn, passed the redbrick church and came to some trailer houses. Was it the first or second trailer? I forgot. A short log truck sat between the two. I parked at the first residence, got out, and knocked on the door. An elderly African-American lady answered the door. When told her I was looking for Roy Blackmon, she pointed next door.
After re-parking, I stepped up onto the wood deck of the trailer next door and noticed another elderly African-American lady in a pink dress come to the storm door and open it just wide enough for our voices to pass back and forth through.
"Hi. I'm looking for Roy Blackmon."
"He ain't here right now. He should be home in about an hour."
I was surprised she admitted I was at the right place.
"The reason I'm looking for him is I want to buy a pulpwood truck, the old short wood kind. I was told if anybody had one it would be Ray."
I decided not to mention Ray Azal. If he was known here, it would be Mr. Blackmon who could help me. I'd surly get to speak with him later.
"What you gone do with one of them thangs?"
"I'm going to drive it to work, and around North Greenwood and watch people's faces when I pass by."
"You must be crazy."
"Yes Ma'am. I've been told that a time or two."
Then she just looked at me like she really believed I was a nut case. I get that reaction so often that I'm starting to believe it myself. That many people can't all be wrong, can they?"
"Could I leave a number?" I asked. "If he has one or knows of anyone who does, please have him call. I have money, and I'm ready to buy."
She took the number I had scrawled on the 3 X 5 index card and kept giving me that "you must be crazy" look as I walked to my truck. She was still looking when I backed out and onto the gravel road.
I didn't care. I drove home in joy because I was certain Roy Blackmon would ring me up as soon as he came home and got the message.
I left North Carrollton Baptist Church about 9:00 am determined to track down the one source that I didn't find last week: Roy Blackmon. I was given a phone number at Vaiden Timber Company, but the number didn't work. They also told me that he lived off Highway 17 on Cedar Hill Ranch Road. Leaving the church, I made another slow drive down that lovely road looking for trucks and for Cedar Hill Ranch Road.
I made it to a store a few miles before you get to Lexington and stopped, went inside, and asked about Roy Blackmon and Ceder Hill Ranch Road. The lady running the store went out to her car and looked up the road on her vehicle's GPS. That showed a street in Lexington. I didn't think that was right, but I decided to check it out anyway.
Before leaving, I searched for the road on my phone. The only thing it showed was also in Lexington so I drove into town, found the street which the phone map called Cedar Drive but the actual street sign said something else. I drove the short street, and convinced that was not it, I headed back out Highway 17.
I don't know if it was an old memory or what, but I had a hunch about a road I had driven by just south of Blackhawk. A rusty old sign hung on a tree near the gravel road's ingress and egress from Highway 17. Something inside told me that was Cedar Hill Ranch Road. I drove back to there, made the turn and drove until I came upon a house to my left. I pulled in the long drive and as I approached a yard full of cars, an occupied one met me and stopped. We both rolled our windows down, and I told him my business. To my surprise, he gave me directions to Roy's trailer.
I say "to my surprise" because I am now truly shocked when someone gives me a straight answer. The suspicion I run into when I start asking questions about people is amazing. I haven't written a fraction of that. One man who has a couple of trucks gave me a false name and it took around thirty minutes and several inquiries to get that. I didn't even bring up Ray, I was just trying to get him to discuss selling a truck. Unbeknownst to him, I already new his name and he lied to me about it. Another man threatened to whip me and asked me if I was "R-I-S-ing." I told him I didn't even know what that was. He responded by asking me if I worked for the IRS. Really, that happened. Many won't say anything but just give me the evil eye. So when this fellow gave me directions, my thoughts were, "We'll see."
Just like he said, I continued down the road, went straight at the first turn, passed the redbrick church and came to some trailer houses. Was it the first or second trailer? I forgot. A short log truck sat between the two. I parked at the first residence, got out, and knocked on the door. An elderly African-American lady answered the door. When told her I was looking for Roy Blackmon, she pointed next door.
After re-parking, I stepped up onto the wood deck of the trailer next door and noticed another elderly African-American lady in a pink dress come to the storm door and open it just wide enough for our voices to pass back and forth through.
"Hi. I'm looking for Roy Blackmon."
"He ain't here right now. He should be home in about an hour."
I was surprised she admitted I was at the right place.
"The reason I'm looking for him is I want to buy a pulpwood truck, the old short wood kind. I was told if anybody had one it would be Ray."
I decided not to mention Ray Azal. If he was known here, it would be Mr. Blackmon who could help me. I'd surly get to speak with him later.
"What you gone do with one of them thangs?"
"I'm going to drive it to work, and around North Greenwood and watch people's faces when I pass by."
"You must be crazy."
"Yes Ma'am. I've been told that a time or two."
Then she just looked at me like she really believed I was a nut case. I get that reaction so often that I'm starting to believe it myself. That many people can't all be wrong, can they?"
"Could I leave a number?" I asked. "If he has one or knows of anyone who does, please have him call. I have money, and I'm ready to buy."
She took the number I had scrawled on the 3 X 5 index card and kept giving me that "you must be crazy" look as I walked to my truck. She was still looking when I backed out and onto the gravel road.
I didn't care. I drove home in joy because I was certain Roy Blackmon would ring me up as soon as he came home and got the message.
Monday, May 21, 2018
5/14 - 5/20
In a desperate attempt to reclaim the health and the life God has graciously placed in my stewardship, last week I trained like Norma Desmond preparing for her "return." Monday, I hit the road, alone, on the cycle for a 30.57 mile ride. It was very hot out and I was a bit unpleasant. My pace was an embarrassing 11.9, but I was out there fighting back against age, laziness, and a general decline.
Tuesday, I did some yard work and also took a walk. On the single walk, I went for 4.22 miles with 200 steps of shuffling thrown in. For the day I accumulated 5.12 miles.
Wednesday I went out again on the bike. Brian never rides on mid-week church night, so I left the house somewhere around 11:00 am. For breakfast, I only consumed a small bowl of cereal. Supper the night before was a mere protein shake. Yes, I am attempting to lose the belly. To make a short story long, I bonked terribly.
(Some of my international friends on Facebook have called my attention to the fact that in some English speaking countries, "bonk" carries some indelicate connotations. Well, I'm an American and here the term has a long history of referring to running out of muscle glycogen, ie, hitting the wall).
I stopped in a patch of shade in the north end of what members of the Money Road Cycling Club calls "the chute." I was done. I had exactly one gel with me. I consumed it and was taking a long pull on the water bottle when a stranger in a pickup truck stopped. Once more, to make a short story long, and to protect a good guy who broke company rules and picked me up, I accepted a ride back to town.
After the ride started, I thought it might be a good time for a bonk ride. To really run out of fuel is a most unpleasant thing, but experience has taught me that it produces a tremendous training effect. So why not do it often? If you did it several times, you would surely hate your bicycle or sport or whatever you are dong when you bonk. It is a once per season training endeavor.
I made it 33.38 miles giving me 63.95 for the week. These numbers set me to thinking and helped fuel (see what I did there?) excitement and ideas for some serious exercise later in the week.
Thursday I finally heard from Brian. We drove to Money and rode from there. It was crazy windy out but we hit it hard, in contrast to my easy pace when I was alone. We did 15.51 miles, and when done we were both happy with our performance.
Memory fails me on what I did Friday, but the big blank in my training diary tells me that working out was not a part of the day. Oh, I remember now. I spent the day looking for Ray. I need to write that up.
Saturday, Brain and I met at Bankston School about 3:00 pm and went to Money and back for 21.03. We had a strong south-west wind which made coming back a special kind of misery. I took a short walk right off the bike and then lifted some weights later in the day to finish up a real week of being back in the saddle. Literally.
For the week:
I lifted weights two times,
walked 6.89 miles, and
rode 100.49 on the bicycle.
My breathing is better; I feel better; and my outlook is better. Thank you, Jesus.
Tuesday, I did some yard work and also took a walk. On the single walk, I went for 4.22 miles with 200 steps of shuffling thrown in. For the day I accumulated 5.12 miles.
Wednesday I went out again on the bike. Brian never rides on mid-week church night, so I left the house somewhere around 11:00 am. For breakfast, I only consumed a small bowl of cereal. Supper the night before was a mere protein shake. Yes, I am attempting to lose the belly. To make a short story long, I bonked terribly.
(Some of my international friends on Facebook have called my attention to the fact that in some English speaking countries, "bonk" carries some indelicate connotations. Well, I'm an American and here the term has a long history of referring to running out of muscle glycogen, ie, hitting the wall).
I stopped in a patch of shade in the north end of what members of the Money Road Cycling Club calls "the chute." I was done. I had exactly one gel with me. I consumed it and was taking a long pull on the water bottle when a stranger in a pickup truck stopped. Once more, to make a short story long, and to protect a good guy who broke company rules and picked me up, I accepted a ride back to town.
After the ride started, I thought it might be a good time for a bonk ride. To really run out of fuel is a most unpleasant thing, but experience has taught me that it produces a tremendous training effect. So why not do it often? If you did it several times, you would surely hate your bicycle or sport or whatever you are dong when you bonk. It is a once per season training endeavor.
I made it 33.38 miles giving me 63.95 for the week. These numbers set me to thinking and helped fuel (see what I did there?) excitement and ideas for some serious exercise later in the week.
Thursday I finally heard from Brian. We drove to Money and rode from there. It was crazy windy out but we hit it hard, in contrast to my easy pace when I was alone. We did 15.51 miles, and when done we were both happy with our performance.
Memory fails me on what I did Friday, but the big blank in my training diary tells me that working out was not a part of the day. Oh, I remember now. I spent the day looking for Ray. I need to write that up.
Saturday, Brain and I met at Bankston School about 3:00 pm and went to Money and back for 21.03. We had a strong south-west wind which made coming back a special kind of misery. I took a short walk right off the bike and then lifted some weights later in the day to finish up a real week of being back in the saddle. Literally.
For the week:
I lifted weights two times,
walked 6.89 miles, and
rode 100.49 on the bicycle.
My breathing is better; I feel better; and my outlook is better. Thank you, Jesus.
Thursday, May 17, 2018
Back at the Office
I was at my office on Money Road.
This was the first time in I can't remember how long that I stopped at the Volunteer Fire Department in Money, Mississippi to get off my bike, cool my butt, and rest my legs. In a slow grind to what I hope is a return to some level of fitness, I was on the road, alone, in what was to date, the hottest day of the year.
I must have looked as tired as I was judging by what the driver said. I barely looked up when the Ford Bronco slowly eased into the parking lot. I did look when he asked, "You have a light?" By "light," I assumed he meant a light for a cigarette.
He was rough looking, but sweet talking. Someone sat in the passenger seat, but I could not see his or her face.
"You look tired."
"I am."
"Have a blessed day."
Then his Bronco slowly passed to my left, my peripheral vision noticing the vehicle disappear behind the building at the speed of a large snake sliding down a deep hole. That bothered me a little.
It was the slowness of it all that set off my alarm button. On that side of the fire department is a white rock drive that leads to the county road that crosses the Talahatchie River and winds west through the farmland before joining Highway 45 a few miles away.
After a bit I startled when I realized I never heard the Bronco's tires make it to the pavement. I stood up, put on my helmet and gloves. Then I heard a car door shut on the side of the building. I didn't wait to see what would happen next. In less than a second, I was on my bike and headed south. I didn't look back. I can't. Besides gaining weight easily, one of the symptoms of my advancing age is my inability to look over my shoulder.
On the bike and on the road, I felt safe. If they were after me, they could easily drive me down and take my phone and bicycle. Surely they didn't think I had money.
As I pedaled away, every car that approached from the rear I expected to be a Ford Bronco. It, they, never showed. It was the door slam that sent my caution into overdrive. If he had not slammed that door I might still be there. Why did he do it?
As I rode along and thought, it occurred to me that maybe he got out to pee and slammed to door getting back in. That makes sense.
Was I a mark or did a guy do what guys love to do: pee outdoors?
I'll never know.
Such a world.
This was the first time in I can't remember how long that I stopped at the Volunteer Fire Department in Money, Mississippi to get off my bike, cool my butt, and rest my legs. In a slow grind to what I hope is a return to some level of fitness, I was on the road, alone, in what was to date, the hottest day of the year.
I must have looked as tired as I was judging by what the driver said. I barely looked up when the Ford Bronco slowly eased into the parking lot. I did look when he asked, "You have a light?" By "light," I assumed he meant a light for a cigarette.
He was rough looking, but sweet talking. Someone sat in the passenger seat, but I could not see his or her face.
 |
| This used to be fun. |
"You look tired."
"I am."
"Have a blessed day."
Then his Bronco slowly passed to my left, my peripheral vision noticing the vehicle disappear behind the building at the speed of a large snake sliding down a deep hole. That bothered me a little.
It was the slowness of it all that set off my alarm button. On that side of the fire department is a white rock drive that leads to the county road that crosses the Talahatchie River and winds west through the farmland before joining Highway 45 a few miles away.
After a bit I startled when I realized I never heard the Bronco's tires make it to the pavement. I stood up, put on my helmet and gloves. Then I heard a car door shut on the side of the building. I didn't wait to see what would happen next. In less than a second, I was on my bike and headed south. I didn't look back. I can't. Besides gaining weight easily, one of the symptoms of my advancing age is my inability to look over my shoulder.
On the bike and on the road, I felt safe. If they were after me, they could easily drive me down and take my phone and bicycle. Surely they didn't think I had money.
As I pedaled away, every car that approached from the rear I expected to be a Ford Bronco. It, they, never showed. It was the door slam that sent my caution into overdrive. If he had not slammed that door I might still be there. Why did he do it?
As I rode along and thought, it occurred to me that maybe he got out to pee and slammed to door getting back in. That makes sense.
Was I a mark or did a guy do what guys love to do: pee outdoors?
I'll never know.
Such a world.
Tuesday, May 15, 2018
5/7 - 5/13
For the first time this whole year, I felt like I was really training. Monday, Brian and I rode. I am still so pitiful, I can't keep up with him so he does his distance and I do mine. I got 17.65 miles. We went out again Tuesday and this time I got in 18.13.
We never ride on Wednesday so I did my longest walk of the year at 3.56 and in the middle of that I shuffled 50 steps. I am going to get the running back.
Thursday I neither rode nor walked but I did do .42 working in the yard, and I also did some bench presses:
10 X 50
10 X 55
The shoulder is getting better. It will now accept a little stretching and my range of motion has improved a bitty bit. It like every three weeks I ask myself, is this better? At this rate I will be well in five years.
Friday I stayed pretty close to the house all day. I did not even go to the pastors' breakfast because I wanted to read, write, and hang out with the cats.
Saturday, Brian and I had plans to ride. We were supposed to go at 4:00. Around 3:30 I began feeling uneasy and starting praying for God to take care of us. A few minutes before 4:00 Brain called and said he couldn't make it. I took a walk and did 4.03 miles with some shuffling thrown in. Also I hit the bench for
12 X 50
10 X 60
8 X 65
In addition to that I did some other gentle shoulder work. Every other day I think I am going to swim again without surgery. Then there are the days when I think I have to submit to the knife or it is all over. Is God trying to teach me something? I remain confused.
For the week, I rode 35.78 miles and walked 8.14 in addition to the weight lifting.
We never ride on Wednesday so I did my longest walk of the year at 3.56 and in the middle of that I shuffled 50 steps. I am going to get the running back.
Thursday I neither rode nor walked but I did do .42 working in the yard, and I also did some bench presses:
10 X 50
10 X 55
The shoulder is getting better. It will now accept a little stretching and my range of motion has improved a bitty bit. It like every three weeks I ask myself, is this better? At this rate I will be well in five years.
Friday I stayed pretty close to the house all day. I did not even go to the pastors' breakfast because I wanted to read, write, and hang out with the cats.
Saturday, Brian and I had plans to ride. We were supposed to go at 4:00. Around 3:30 I began feeling uneasy and starting praying for God to take care of us. A few minutes before 4:00 Brain called and said he couldn't make it. I took a walk and did 4.03 miles with some shuffling thrown in. Also I hit the bench for
12 X 50
10 X 60
8 X 65
In addition to that I did some other gentle shoulder work. Every other day I think I am going to swim again without surgery. Then there are the days when I think I have to submit to the knife or it is all over. Is God trying to teach me something? I remain confused.
For the week, I rode 35.78 miles and walked 8.14 in addition to the weight lifting.
Monday, May 14, 2018
Chicot a Go?
The Chicot Challenge over the years has been a bundle of problems, obstacles, and frustrations. Oddly, I have always welcomed the unexpected when preparing for this annual swim and viewed them as tests of faith, opportunities to see God come to the rescue. This year, not so much.
To begin with, after a successful 2017 Chicot Challenge, I injured my shoulder in late June. I held out hope for a month or two that I would heal and be able to swim again this year. I visited doctors, had shots, went through rehab, prayed, fretted, and eventually had an MRI. Finally I had to acknowledge that I would not swim Chicot in 2018. That was not a pleasant thing and my mind began to cast about for a substitute, another event to create.
A hero, however, stepped forth.
Wilson Carroll, a Jackson attorney who originally hails from Greenwood, offered to swim for me because "it is too important to let die." So that is how we planned and plotted since last February, for Wilson and his son Spence to relay a one-way from the State Park to Ditch Bayou. Then I checked with the State Park about renting their pontoon boat.
They have been trying for possibly a year to get their boat fixed. To make a short story long, they have to have three estimates before they can award any work and that has been a sticking point for them. So I turned to the private citizen who graciously loaned us his boat last year. His boat is in need of repair and he has recently had surgery preventing himself from fixing his boat. Consequently, I recontacted the State Park and the manager said he thought their boat would be ready in time. However, as of yesterday, the prognosis on their boat receiving its repairs in time are not very good.
To add to the good news, Wilson has recently had a pretty serious health issue that will prevent him from doing the swim this year. That equals no boat and no swimmer. As I bounced all of this off my wife, she said, "Why don't you contact MJ?"
Cha ching!
MJ is MJ Staples, the indefatigable marathon swimmer from Atlanta, GA who last year served as the Challenge's Official Observer. This year I have been reading on Facebook about her exploits from across the county. I sent her a message. She wants to come swim.
The boat, however, remains an issue. We can do a shorter version of the swim without a Pontoon. Not having a pontoon rules out a relay and makes a really long swim much more difficult. The point is, we plan to go ahead with Chicot Challenge VII this year in some fashion on June 2nd. The distance may even be shorter than a one way. The State Park to downtown Lake Village is about seven miles, no small feat itself. Since MJ will be swimming, I will give her the options and let her swim what she feels like doing. Team Centerville is ready to do whatever it can, and the main thing remains the main thing: fundraising for the Diabetes Foundation of Mississippi and raising awareness of the dangers of this sneaky disease. Those efforts have started but are going slower than hoped. I recently received T-shirts. They are $20.00 each and 100% of that goes to the DFM.
Please pray for Team Centerville, for our efforts, safety, and success.
To begin with, after a successful 2017 Chicot Challenge, I injured my shoulder in late June. I held out hope for a month or two that I would heal and be able to swim again this year. I visited doctors, had shots, went through rehab, prayed, fretted, and eventually had an MRI. Finally I had to acknowledge that I would not swim Chicot in 2018. That was not a pleasant thing and my mind began to cast about for a substitute, another event to create.
A hero, however, stepped forth.
Wilson Carroll, a Jackson attorney who originally hails from Greenwood, offered to swim for me because "it is too important to let die." So that is how we planned and plotted since last February, for Wilson and his son Spence to relay a one-way from the State Park to Ditch Bayou. Then I checked with the State Park about renting their pontoon boat.
They have been trying for possibly a year to get their boat fixed. To make a short story long, they have to have three estimates before they can award any work and that has been a sticking point for them. So I turned to the private citizen who graciously loaned us his boat last year. His boat is in need of repair and he has recently had surgery preventing himself from fixing his boat. Consequently, I recontacted the State Park and the manager said he thought their boat would be ready in time. However, as of yesterday, the prognosis on their boat receiving its repairs in time are not very good.
To add to the good news, Wilson has recently had a pretty serious health issue that will prevent him from doing the swim this year. That equals no boat and no swimmer. As I bounced all of this off my wife, she said, "Why don't you contact MJ?"
Cha ching!
MJ is MJ Staples, the indefatigable marathon swimmer from Atlanta, GA who last year served as the Challenge's Official Observer. This year I have been reading on Facebook about her exploits from across the county. I sent her a message. She wants to come swim.
The boat, however, remains an issue. We can do a shorter version of the swim without a Pontoon. Not having a pontoon rules out a relay and makes a really long swim much more difficult. The point is, we plan to go ahead with Chicot Challenge VII this year in some fashion on June 2nd. The distance may even be shorter than a one way. The State Park to downtown Lake Village is about seven miles, no small feat itself. Since MJ will be swimming, I will give her the options and let her swim what she feels like doing. Team Centerville is ready to do whatever it can, and the main thing remains the main thing: fundraising for the Diabetes Foundation of Mississippi and raising awareness of the dangers of this sneaky disease. Those efforts have started but are going slower than hoped. I recently received T-shirts. They are $20.00 each and 100% of that goes to the DFM.
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Please pray for Team Centerville, for our efforts, safety, and success.
Friday, May 11, 2018
Ray 6
I could hardly sleep Thursday night thinking about all I had on the agenda for Friday. The 3 X 5 index cards containing phone numbers, names, and ideas were neatly stored on the nightstand beside the bed when I turned the lights out and tossed and turned trying to drift off. Not only would I be looking for Ray, but I would be scouting for a pulpwood truck to purchase. I've wanted one for decades, now I have a few bills stashed away, and I'm ready to buy.
Friday morning, I left the house at 7:30 and headed for North Carrollton where the area pastors of all denominations gather to drink coffee, tell lies, and eat good breakfast. One preacher told some elaborate tale of a watermelon thief who almost got caught, chased out of a melon patch while carrying one under each arm and a huge one balanced on top of his head.
After he finished and we all laughed, I asked him if he "would tell that if Jesus was standing right there?"
He was quiet a few seconds and then responded: "Well, I might take that watermelon off the top of his head."
While there, I talked to Jack Marshall, a Methodist pastor who has three churches on Highway 17. Years ago that road was a bastion of pulpwood trucks. If there were any still in that area, he would know. He told me about one between Carrollton and Blackhawk, and he told me to pay especial attention at Acona.
I also asked Eddie Carpenter, a Baptist pastor who seems to know every road in the county and most of the people. He gave me one name, BooJack, and some vivid directions of where to search.
When I left North Carrollton Baptist Church that morning, I decided to first search for BooJack. I followed Eddie's directions and although I never found the man, I abandoned the search after I was convinced there was no pulpwood truck on County Road 53.
Next I drove to Winona. Someone told me about a timber company there and I found it just to the right, just off Highway 82 and one block from Highway 51 as you are about to depart the town on the east side.
I stopped and went inside. I heard a man's voice boom from the back saying, "Who's there?"
"Me," I answered.
"Who's me?"
"Zane Hodge," I said as I heard his footsteps coming my way.
A forty-something man came around the corner of a hallway, stopped a few feet away, and looked me dead in the eye.
"Does anybody still buy short wood? I'm looking for a wood yard that buys short wood. I'm also looking for an old-fashioned pulpwood truck. And a man. Ray Azal." I looked at him pleadingly.
He spouted out a name and a telephone number which I dutifully wrote on a 3 X 5. I can't put my hand on the card right now, but this fellow, while he chewed on a cigar, told me this other fellow had a wood yard at Eskrige and that if anyone knew the answer to any of those three questions, this would be my guy.
After my thanks, I went out the door, cranked my truck to get the air going, and immediately placed the call. To my surprise, Mr. Eskridge Wood Yard man answered his phone, took my questions, and told me no to all three. "But I will look around and ask around and give you a call if I come up with anything."
I left on 51 and found the Vaiden Timber Company in that little town. I went inside and started asking questions. "What do you need a pulpwood truck for?" By now that question was becoming familiar, as was my answer.
"Trust me. Needs got nothing to do with it."
He told me no one buys short wood. He never heard of Ray although he did know Ezell. He said, just like the last fellow, that he had not seen a pulpwood truck in years. Then before I left, he said, "Roy Blackmon. If anybody still has a short wood truck it will be him." He gave me a phone number and told me Roy lived on Cedar Hill Ranch Road off Highway 17. I thanked him and left. Destination, Duck Hill, to the wood yard.
At Duck Hill, I found myself peering through a set of bars into a dark and cluttered office at a man sitting in a chair and loading his bottom lip full of Skoal. I used to do that back in the day. "Man, what do you need with a pulpwood truck?" he asked incredulously.
"Sir, need has nothing to do with it."
He hadn't seen a pulpwood truck in years. He did know Ezell. He did not know Ray or anyone still buying short wood. But he did give me a few tips. "South. Armstrong Timber. I think it's down around Morton or somewhere down there. If anyone buys short wood, he will or he will know who does."
Although the guy at Vaiden had not mentioned Terry, I remembered the wood yard there from 2003 when my hobby was taking pictures of the old ragged trucks that came in there to swap theirs loads for money. At Terry, the man in the office almost shouted, "What the heck do you need a pulpwood truck for!?"
"It's not a matter of need. It's a matter of want."
He gave me a look that said, he didn't understand. No one does. So I thanked him and drove away, back towards Greenwood, but I took all sorts of back roads on the way and stayed half lost most of the afternoon. I had not checked Highway 17 or Ray Blackmon. Since those are so close to home, I can check it our before next Friday. I was not discouraged. After talking with several people, you could say I struck out, but I say I marked some places and people off my list. I now knew where NOT to look.
Friday morning, I left the house at 7:30 and headed for North Carrollton where the area pastors of all denominations gather to drink coffee, tell lies, and eat good breakfast. One preacher told some elaborate tale of a watermelon thief who almost got caught, chased out of a melon patch while carrying one under each arm and a huge one balanced on top of his head.
After he finished and we all laughed, I asked him if he "would tell that if Jesus was standing right there?"
He was quiet a few seconds and then responded: "Well, I might take that watermelon off the top of his head."
While there, I talked to Jack Marshall, a Methodist pastor who has three churches on Highway 17. Years ago that road was a bastion of pulpwood trucks. If there were any still in that area, he would know. He told me about one between Carrollton and Blackhawk, and he told me to pay especial attention at Acona.
I also asked Eddie Carpenter, a Baptist pastor who seems to know every road in the county and most of the people. He gave me one name, BooJack, and some vivid directions of where to search.
When I left North Carrollton Baptist Church that morning, I decided to first search for BooJack. I followed Eddie's directions and although I never found the man, I abandoned the search after I was convinced there was no pulpwood truck on County Road 53.
Next I drove to Winona. Someone told me about a timber company there and I found it just to the right, just off Highway 82 and one block from Highway 51 as you are about to depart the town on the east side.
I stopped and went inside. I heard a man's voice boom from the back saying, "Who's there?"
"Me," I answered.
"Who's me?"
"Zane Hodge," I said as I heard his footsteps coming my way.
A forty-something man came around the corner of a hallway, stopped a few feet away, and looked me dead in the eye.
"Does anybody still buy short wood? I'm looking for a wood yard that buys short wood. I'm also looking for an old-fashioned pulpwood truck. And a man. Ray Azal." I looked at him pleadingly.
He spouted out a name and a telephone number which I dutifully wrote on a 3 X 5. I can't put my hand on the card right now, but this fellow, while he chewed on a cigar, told me this other fellow had a wood yard at Eskrige and that if anyone knew the answer to any of those three questions, this would be my guy.
After my thanks, I went out the door, cranked my truck to get the air going, and immediately placed the call. To my surprise, Mr. Eskridge Wood Yard man answered his phone, took my questions, and told me no to all three. "But I will look around and ask around and give you a call if I come up with anything."
I left on 51 and found the Vaiden Timber Company in that little town. I went inside and started asking questions. "What do you need a pulpwood truck for?" By now that question was becoming familiar, as was my answer.
"Trust me. Needs got nothing to do with it."
He told me no one buys short wood. He never heard of Ray although he did know Ezell. He said, just like the last fellow, that he had not seen a pulpwood truck in years. Then before I left, he said, "Roy Blackmon. If anybody still has a short wood truck it will be him." He gave me a phone number and told me Roy lived on Cedar Hill Ranch Road off Highway 17. I thanked him and left. Destination, Duck Hill, to the wood yard.
At Duck Hill, I found myself peering through a set of bars into a dark and cluttered office at a man sitting in a chair and loading his bottom lip full of Skoal. I used to do that back in the day. "Man, what do you need with a pulpwood truck?" he asked incredulously.
"Sir, need has nothing to do with it."
He hadn't seen a pulpwood truck in years. He did know Ezell. He did not know Ray or anyone still buying short wood. But he did give me a few tips. "South. Armstrong Timber. I think it's down around Morton or somewhere down there. If anyone buys short wood, he will or he will know who does."
Although the guy at Vaiden had not mentioned Terry, I remembered the wood yard there from 2003 when my hobby was taking pictures of the old ragged trucks that came in there to swap theirs loads for money. At Terry, the man in the office almost shouted, "What the heck do you need a pulpwood truck for!?"
"It's not a matter of need. It's a matter of want."
He gave me a look that said, he didn't understand. No one does. So I thanked him and drove away, back towards Greenwood, but I took all sorts of back roads on the way and stayed half lost most of the afternoon. I had not checked Highway 17 or Ray Blackmon. Since those are so close to home, I can check it our before next Friday. I was not discouraged. After talking with several people, you could say I struck out, but I say I marked some places and people off my list. I now knew where NOT to look.
Monday, May 7, 2018
4/30 - 5/6
A couple of weeks ago I started getting out of the house and walking. I did not hear from Brian Waldrop any for the last two weeks, so I assumed he was out of town. He has a big-time job and a big-time job means you have to work. I suppose I am finally starting really to get out of the pit because I continued to stay active those weeks and even picked up the distance and intensity.
I still am searching for answers, for motivation to get my shoulder fixed. Part of me wants to say, "God fix it, or I don't swim." I do believe in divine healing. Another part of me wonders if it is my faith, my patience, or my common sense that are being tested. My replacement swimmer, Wilson Carroll, has recently been beset with some health issues. I am at a crossroads; the Chicot Challenge is at a crossroads. What to do? I contacted a couple of swimmer friends. One said no and one said nothing. I contacted my old Masters coach at DSU, the Mad Swimming Scientist. He advised me to contact Dan'l the head swim coach for DSU. Dan'l said he would ask around.
Back to the maybes. Maybe it is all three, my faith, patience, and sense that are being tested and if so, I am pretty sure I am failing on all three fronts. I did have another thought the other day, one that only adds to my confusion. I did six Chicot Challenges. This is the seventh year. Maybe God is mandating a Sabbath year. Maybe my body needs it, and God knew this is the only way I would ever take it.
All that to the side, Monday I walked 2.08 miles and did a little work at Plate City. Tuesday I walked 2.56 and the pace was a bit faster. I can feel my legs starting to change a little. They are going from pitifully out of shape to just pitiful.
Wednesday it was 2.72 and faster still. Thursday, however, I took off. I don't remember why, weather maybe or maybe I just got tied up doing stuff. But Friday and Saturday were good days. Friday I walked 2.89 and Saturday I walked 3.2. Each day my pace quickened and my fitness, in some tiny way, has improved.
For the week, I walked 13.58 miles and did some work in the yard and at Plate City. I am not paralyzed anymore, but I still lack the gumption to get on my bike alone and really ride. But I think I am getting there. At least I'm headed in the right direction.
I still am searching for answers, for motivation to get my shoulder fixed. Part of me wants to say, "God fix it, or I don't swim." I do believe in divine healing. Another part of me wonders if it is my faith, my patience, or my common sense that are being tested. My replacement swimmer, Wilson Carroll, has recently been beset with some health issues. I am at a crossroads; the Chicot Challenge is at a crossroads. What to do? I contacted a couple of swimmer friends. One said no and one said nothing. I contacted my old Masters coach at DSU, the Mad Swimming Scientist. He advised me to contact Dan'l the head swim coach for DSU. Dan'l said he would ask around.
Back to the maybes. Maybe it is all three, my faith, patience, and sense that are being tested and if so, I am pretty sure I am failing on all three fronts. I did have another thought the other day, one that only adds to my confusion. I did six Chicot Challenges. This is the seventh year. Maybe God is mandating a Sabbath year. Maybe my body needs it, and God knew this is the only way I would ever take it.
All that to the side, Monday I walked 2.08 miles and did a little work at Plate City. Tuesday I walked 2.56 and the pace was a bit faster. I can feel my legs starting to change a little. They are going from pitifully out of shape to just pitiful.
Wednesday it was 2.72 and faster still. Thursday, however, I took off. I don't remember why, weather maybe or maybe I just got tied up doing stuff. But Friday and Saturday were good days. Friday I walked 2.89 and Saturday I walked 3.2. Each day my pace quickened and my fitness, in some tiny way, has improved.
For the week, I walked 13.58 miles and did some work in the yard and at Plate City. I am not paralyzed anymore, but I still lack the gumption to get on my bike alone and really ride. But I think I am getting there. At least I'm headed in the right direction.
Thursday, May 3, 2018
Finding Ray 5
Jim said he didn't know.
That hit me like a spinning back kick to the stomach. I looked at him and hoped he would say, "Just kidding." But he didn't.
They worked together until the wood yard in Durant, Mississippi stopped buying short wood which was the way they did pulpwood back in the day. Pulpwood is still cut by wooders and bought by wood yards across Mississippi and the nation, only now it is no longer in the six foot sticks of the old days, but is bought only in lengths of sixteen feet and longer. Those eighteen wheelers you see carrying the long skinny pine trees is how pulpwood is cut and sold today. Gone are the one and two ton trucks that have the makeshift racks on the back. Those were the bottom feeders of the timber industry, entrepreneurs who took a wore out truck, put a rack on the back and hauled wood for a living or maybe just a little extra cash.
"That was around 2004, 2005 I think. When the pulpwood business as we knew it died, he just left. I didn't see him anymore. I converted my '68 two ton Chevy into a short log hauler. But Ray wanted none of that. I don't know why but he didn't."
My mind was turning in circles. Two thousand four was about the time I went to Steen Hill Road only to find Ray gone and his little cabin a pile of ashes. Were the two events connected? Another question I wanted to ask Ray.
"If I had to guess," Jim started back up, "I'd say he's in South Mississippi."
"Why?"
"There are only a couple of wood yards left that still buy short wood. He's hauling for one of those. Or working for or with someone who is. I'll bet you. That's all he ever wanted to do to make money."
"Do you have a name, a wood yard, where I can go and look for him."
He was silent a few seconds.
"Naw. But I heard there was a couple of 'em left down there somewhere. I tell you who would know. Go to the wood yard in Durant and ask them."
"Where in Durant?"
"It's on Highway 51 just north of town. Going north it is on the right. You'll be coming south so it will be on your left. If you get into town, turn around and go back just a little ways. You'll see it. I bet those folks can tell you. You find a wood yard in Mississippi that buys short wood and you find Ray."
So I shook his hand, thanked him, and left.
I was several miles down the road before I realized that I never asked him about Ray's age. I never asked all those questions about how he was known for generations and he never seemed to get any older. How could I forget? Duh!
I drove home, booted my computer and tried to plan out the next Friday. Fridays used to be dedicated to swimming. Now they were given to searching for Ray.
I found Durant on the map and tried to see where the next wood yard might be. Then I did some googling and got numbers for pulpwood buyers and timber companies all over the state. Then I formed my plan. I would go to the pastors' breakfast in Carrollton next Friday morning. Some of those guys lived around there and they might know about the pulpwood business. I could ask them some questions. Then I would drive to Winona, get on Highway 51, and make phone calls while I drove to Durant. After Durant, the next wood yard that I knew about was in Terry, Mississippi. If my phone calls didn't yield results, I would drive there. Maybe. At least I would spend the day looking, calling, asking questions.
That hit me like a spinning back kick to the stomach. I looked at him and hoped he would say, "Just kidding." But he didn't.
They worked together until the wood yard in Durant, Mississippi stopped buying short wood which was the way they did pulpwood back in the day. Pulpwood is still cut by wooders and bought by wood yards across Mississippi and the nation, only now it is no longer in the six foot sticks of the old days, but is bought only in lengths of sixteen feet and longer. Those eighteen wheelers you see carrying the long skinny pine trees is how pulpwood is cut and sold today. Gone are the one and two ton trucks that have the makeshift racks on the back. Those were the bottom feeders of the timber industry, entrepreneurs who took a wore out truck, put a rack on the back and hauled wood for a living or maybe just a little extra cash.
"That was around 2004, 2005 I think. When the pulpwood business as we knew it died, he just left. I didn't see him anymore. I converted my '68 two ton Chevy into a short log hauler. But Ray wanted none of that. I don't know why but he didn't."
My mind was turning in circles. Two thousand four was about the time I went to Steen Hill Road only to find Ray gone and his little cabin a pile of ashes. Were the two events connected? Another question I wanted to ask Ray.
"If I had to guess," Jim started back up, "I'd say he's in South Mississippi."
"Why?"
"There are only a couple of wood yards left that still buy short wood. He's hauling for one of those. Or working for or with someone who is. I'll bet you. That's all he ever wanted to do to make money."
"Do you have a name, a wood yard, where I can go and look for him."
He was silent a few seconds.
"Naw. But I heard there was a couple of 'em left down there somewhere. I tell you who would know. Go to the wood yard in Durant and ask them."
"Where in Durant?"
"It's on Highway 51 just north of town. Going north it is on the right. You'll be coming south so it will be on your left. If you get into town, turn around and go back just a little ways. You'll see it. I bet those folks can tell you. You find a wood yard in Mississippi that buys short wood and you find Ray."
So I shook his hand, thanked him, and left.
I was several miles down the road before I realized that I never asked him about Ray's age. I never asked all those questions about how he was known for generations and he never seemed to get any older. How could I forget? Duh!
I drove home, booted my computer and tried to plan out the next Friday. Fridays used to be dedicated to swimming. Now they were given to searching for Ray.
I found Durant on the map and tried to see where the next wood yard might be. Then I did some googling and got numbers for pulpwood buyers and timber companies all over the state. Then I formed my plan. I would go to the pastors' breakfast in Carrollton next Friday morning. Some of those guys lived around there and they might know about the pulpwood business. I could ask them some questions. Then I would drive to Winona, get on Highway 51, and make phone calls while I drove to Durant. After Durant, the next wood yard that I knew about was in Terry, Mississippi. If my phone calls didn't yield results, I would drive there. Maybe. At least I would spend the day looking, calling, asking questions.
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
4/23 - 4/29
Last whinny post. I think. I hope. I pray. Really not too much of a whine this time. Although I did not do much, I did get out of the house a few times and move my body after work. It used to be so easy. There is an old say, "Nothing succeeds like success. Well, the opposite is also true. Nothing fails like failure. For about ten months now it has been failure and failure and failure. I have grown good at it. Several times I have thought I was climbing out of the pit, starting to reclaim my motivation, my energy, my health. Now maybe I really am.
Monday I took a short walk (.75 miles), and once more started on the bench press and other gentle shoulder exercises. I did 7 X 45. The bicep tendons, which don't cause much pain anymore, were tight and a little painful at the bottom of the move.
Tuesday, I once more walked a long .75 and did 12 X 45 on the bench press.
Wednesday I took the walking all the way up to .95 of a mile, and I took the bench up to 13 X 45.
Thursday the walk was .91, cut short because of pain in my foot. I did, however, do two sets of bench presses: 13 X 45 and 10 X 50. Ain't I strong.
I took Friday off because of the foot pain. Saturday Penny and I went to Kosciusko with the Johnson and the McLeans. We had a swell time and My Garmin read 3.14 at the end of the day.
So I walked five times, and I feel way better. Thank you, Jesus.
Monday I took a short walk (.75 miles), and once more started on the bench press and other gentle shoulder exercises. I did 7 X 45. The bicep tendons, which don't cause much pain anymore, were tight and a little painful at the bottom of the move.
Tuesday, I once more walked a long .75 and did 12 X 45 on the bench press.
Wednesday I took the walking all the way up to .95 of a mile, and I took the bench up to 13 X 45.
Thursday the walk was .91, cut short because of pain in my foot. I did, however, do two sets of bench presses: 13 X 45 and 10 X 50. Ain't I strong.
I took Friday off because of the foot pain. Saturday Penny and I went to Kosciusko with the Johnson and the McLeans. We had a swell time and My Garmin read 3.14 at the end of the day.
So I walked five times, and I feel way better. Thank you, Jesus.
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