Mad Monday

No madness really, just an attempt at grabbing your attention. Monday was a long and active day, but I don't mind that. I have three day and one night class on Mondays, so that alone makes for a pretty full day. Being that the Chicot Challenge in rushing towards me like a speeding train, I felt the need to get into some water. Also being registration week, we are supposed to be in our offices all day, but since I have a night class, I was allowed to leave for a little while. Five guesses where I went. Wow, what a shot; you got it on the first try.

Yeah, I went to the catfish pond as quickly as I could. The water temperature was 68 when I waded in and 69 when I crawled out an hour and thirty-nine minutes later. For me, that is the perfect water for wet suit swimming, and I loved every second of it. I felt good and smooth and for the first time in the pond this year I got into my rhythm and roll open water swim stroke. That is one reason an open water swimmer needs to do more than train in a pool. Don't get me wrong, pool training is indispensable. It is in the pool that basic techniques are mastered. It is in the pool that basic fitness is earned. It is in the pool that speed is built. But to transfer those techniques and fitness and speed to open water requires wild swimming, as the Brits call it. Why? you ask. Because the chop is open water, however slight, causes me at least, to shorten my stroke, increase my tempo, and swim like a sprinter instead of a distance athlete. It takes some open water work to relax in a chop and lengthen the stroke and find the rhythm. I found the rhythm yesterday. It felt good.

After the swim, I rushed home to bathe and get back to work. Then when class was over I went home to change clothes and go out for a run. I did a wimpy 3.53 miles and called it a day. Monday was a long one. Monday was a good one. And Twin Rivers is pumped up. The real training is about to begin.

3/28 - 4/3

The week of 3/28 - 4/3 was a decent training block overall but far from what I really needed in the swimming category. I ran a lot, or at least a lot for me, totaling a little over 36 miles with one long run of 11+ and two multi-paced mid-week workouts. The swimming, however, was on the light side, but I did get in a two hour pool swim, and I hit the pond twice. The days looked like this:

Monday - run 3.26/swim 2,400 in the pond
Tuesday - run 6.59/swim 3,100 at DSU
Wednesday - run 3.35/no swimming
Thursday - run 6.08/swim 6,400 straight swim at DSU
Friday - run 2.75/swim 4,038 in the pond
Saturday - run 12.15/weights, upper body
Sunday - Bike trainer 22:00/run 2.29

The totals were:

Swim - 16,038
Run - 36.46
Weights - one time
Bike Trainer - 22:00
Walk - 2.97

I fell behind last year's swimming some more last week, but I am still hopeful to make it up.

My straight pool swims progressed unto 2:11 on Thursday night, my longest thus far of the year. It will go up a lot very soon.

Chicot Verses 4

We just rode by Twin Rivers after we ate lunch, my wife and I. They are pumping up the pool. Thank God. My woes have been so many that I began to question if God wanted my to continue this. I want to do it, but maybe God is saying, "No more."

Recently, however, I have had some rays of light. The Twin Rivers pool soon to come on line, the catfish ponds becoming swimable, the newly acquired sponsorship, are a few. From my point of view, none of this happened  a moment too soon. Of late I have been pondering Romans 8:28:

     And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those        who love Gad, to those who are called according to His purpose. (NASB)

If God has called me and if God does want me to do this swim, then all my problems may be problems only in my own mind. Could it be that God is holding me back from over training too early in the process? Unlike running, my swim endurance comes up quickly. I can literally do one hard practice and be in better condition two days later, sometimes one day later. Really. Maybe I should just relax and realize my all-day swim endurance is built in April and May, and without some hold back, I just might train myself into the ground, burn myself out, injure myself. Maybe. At any rate, I believe what the Bible says here and I should continue to believe God has called me to this task until I fail to pull it off.

Super Saturday

Saturday was a pretty good training day. I wanted a long run, somewhere between 10 and 14 miles. I ran 12.15 with a few pickups. The temps were a little cool for April 3, high 50s, low 60s, but that made for good running. The workout went like this:

1 - 3.11 @ 11:14
2 - .1 @ 6:00
3 - 3.11 @ 12:06
4 - .1 @ 6:34
5 - 3.11 @ 12:42
6 - .27 @ 8:11
7 - 2.34 @ 14:01
8 - walk .71
total - 12.15 running, .71 walking.

After some protein, I worked in the yard and lifted weights. Mostly I mowed which is how I like to lift. I do a set and then make a few rounds with the mower. I focused on the bench press and did:

18 X 100
8 X 120
5 X  140
2 X 150
1 X 155
2 X 150
4 X 140
4 X 140
4 X 140
8 X 120

On the swim pull, I did just one set of 60 X 26.5.

Later, I took Jeff to the recycle bins and we walked .49. We would have done more, but he had been outside several hours and I didn't want to over tire him.

I wish I could have swum, but there are only so many hours in a day. I was pretty pooped when Jeff and I got home. After a bath and supper, I hung out with Luvie and we watched Shane on TCM. Good day, good cat, good movie.

Second Pond Swim

I finally drive back to the fish farm and did more than run or sit in my truck. Friday, that most blessed of days, I started by hanging out with Luvie, drinking coffee, and blogging. What else is new? Finally, I dragged out of bed around ten and went for a short run. Then I packed for the pond and ran some errands before leaving town. One errand was to stop my Conerly's Shoes on Park Avenue and purchase a new pair of Hokas, which is the brand I wear exclusively. While I was in the store, I picked up something else I had been needing: a sponsor. Thank you, Gail Goldberg and Conerly's.

If you are a runner or walker in the Greenwood area, go to Conerly's and buy Hoka shoes. If you want your feet to be happy, go to Conerly's and purchase a pair of the most comfortable shoes you can ever get. I not only run in mine, but I wear my "worn out" ones, the ones I don't run in anymore, to work every day. Seriously, avoid foot problems like plantar fasciitus by giving you feet a fighting chance. Buy Hokas. Buy them at Conerly's. Buy them today.

With my new shoes on the floorboard of my dirty truck, I drove to my favorite fish pond and parked. Next, I tossed my thermometer into the water and then shot a short video. After that, it was water time. I didn't know how my muscles were going to react after the 6,400 I swam Thursday night. Turns out it was a good swim. My shoulders, which are always tight after a long swim, were loose and my muscles, which felt funny and out of sync at Masters, felt smooth and strong and fit. Go figure.

I did wear a wet suit in the 65 degree water but nothing else other than my cap, goggles, and jammer. Usually I don a rash guard under the suit which adds to the warmth but also creates a little constriction in the shoulder area. I only swam 2.51 miles, but it was fun and refreshing. The ponds are getting near that magical 68 degrees that is perfect for a suit. Oh yeah, before I left town I drove by Twin Rivers. No, it was not pumped up yet, but the fire hoses were stretched out from the fire plug to the pool so they will be doing the deed soon. Things are looking up. Thank you all who are praying for me. Don't stop. 

Cagri Is a Real Sneak

What a week.

I continue to be Sisyphus, driven to achieve the impossible, but doomed to failure. Or so it seems.

I wrote already about Tuesday's disastrous practice that left me exhausted after only 3,100 meters and what little confidence I had was shattered and stomped into the mud of my pessimism and despair. But what I didn't tell you was a little chat I had with Cagri Tuesday night. Since Thursday is Duke Morgan's (one our Masters swimmers) 73rd birthday, they both invited me to swim 7,300 meters in honor of the Duke.

"I don't have time for 7,300," I protested, still reeling from the return of all the practice squads which make getting early into the pool an impossibility. "I swim about 3,000 meters per hour, so the most I could do is 6,000."

"Well do it if that meets your training goals," was Cagri's response. A plan was born. Since my longest straight swim this year is 1:48, a 2:00 effort would put some endurance back into my swimming muscles and some positivity back into my brain.

I wanted to swim Wednesday, but after work and prep for my night class, I opted for a more time efficient run. After Tuesday I wan't even sure I could swim two hours straight, but the idea that I could make the attempt with the blessing of the coach was a real boost to my energy.

Then came Thursday. Then came the weather reports. Then came a text from Cagri about checking with DSU to see if the pool would be open. Then came a text that the pool was closing and practice was cancelled. Then came despair.

I didn't stew in my self pity too long before I asked myself, "What can I do?" The answer was to go to the pond and get some swimming in before the new storms hit. While I was packing the truck to go the the fish farm, Cagri texted again that his earlier message was an April Fool's joke. Dude, I like jokes, but that one almost put me over the edge.

To make a short story long, I made it into the water at 6:22 and swam until 8:33. I was a little disappointed in my pace, only getting 6,400. But that is my longest of the year both in terms of time and distance. I got a good workout and exited the pool with the calmness of soul I have walked without for much of this year. I have a little hope again. I can still do this. 

Roy Ray Hodge

I don't know much about him having never met the man and only hearing his story several times removed from the source. Like my great-grandfather, George Henry Quinton, my uncle, Roy Ray Hodge, was reported to have made an epic journey, a life threatening one which involved a long and difficult trek on foot. Also like George Quinton, I only know the skeleton of his story, and I'm not sure how much of that is accurate.

Dad never said much about him. Unlike his brothers, he had a middle name. My dad was just Roger Hodge. My uncle CD was just CD until the military made him turn those letters into initials and he legally became Charles Dale. He, Roy, was older than my father by several years, and as a boy I think he and his other brothers-- there were six boys in that family-- were mischievous, adventurous, bad. Really bad. Those older boys stole chickens, scrap iron, and watermelons. They stole the chickens to sell so they could buy sugar to make home brew. They smoked cigarettes, drank their homemade beer, fought with fists sometimes for fun and sometimes in anger. Once they ran away from home because they didn't want to chop cotton and then had to chop cotton to earn enough money to get back home. That's just the little bit of what Dad told me. 

I learned more from my uncle CD. Dad, CD, and I were in his truck one day a dozen or fifteen years ago, and though I can't remember where we went or why, I do remember vividly some of the things they had to say that day. I remember because they struck that cord deep within me, that part of me that yearns to connect with my ancestors. The older I become, the stronger that part of me grows. CD began to talk about their youth, and my uncle let things out that day which Dad had never told me and though my uncle wasn't known for always telling the truth, I took my father's lack of correction as consent that CD was telling God's sanction.

I learned more about the grandfather I never met, who died before I was born. He is the one I thought I knew a bit about because Dad had talked of him often. I learned things that day that left me stunned, silent, and somewhat sad. But it is not he I wish to write about now, rather his son Roy. I learned one thing about Roy that also left me stunned, silent, and sad. 

The chief thing I learned about Roy was why he left home. Maybe other reasons were involved, but CD spoke of a fight, a physical confrontation between my grandfather and his son which resulted in the son standing over the father with an ax in his hands raised above his head. After deciding not to chop his dad's head off, he threw the ax down, climbed over a barbed wire fence that marked the property line, and walked away in silence. The family never saw him again.

He joined the United States Marines in part because a war was ongoing and in part, no doubt, to get away from home. Maybe there was the idea of adventure involved also. Their world had been small. Dad once told me that as a boy he thought the world ended just outside Estes Switch, Mississippi. I wish I could ask him, Roy, about these things myself.

Roy's home-leaving adventure took him to the Pacific Theater of World War II to some funny sounding places that I wonder if a boy from Estes Switch could even spell, exotic islands like Guadalcanal and others. I wish I knew more about his military service. I do know he was taken prisoner by the Japanese. My aunt Mary, who is younger than Dad and was still living at home when all of this took place, remembers the little cards that were mailed home from time to time saying he was well, was being treated nicely, and little else. She, Mary, is the one who told me that Roy had been in the Bataan Death March.

That really got my attention. How I wish I could confirm that and could discuss the journey with my long dead uncle. Like George Quinton's foot journey from Utah to Mississippi, I want to know more, I want details, I want to hear about it firsthand with my own ears. But like George's journey, the means of learning more are no longer within my grasp.  

My mother did some sleuthing on the internet and found that Roy is officially listed as "missing in action." The story Dad and Mary told me is that Roy was placed on a Japanese ship for transport to the mainland to be used as slave labor. Against the Geneva Convention, the ship he was on was not flying a flag that was to mark it as a vessel bearing prisoners. The Allies sank the ship and inadvertently killed over a thousand of their own, Roy being one of them. 

Today Roy is a faded photograph on a wall in my aunt's house, a hole in my heart, and a cluster of question in my head. The handsome but lost son has a headstone in the little cemetery at Flower Ridge United Methodist Church near Louisville and outside the now defunct Estes Switch. But his bones lie somewhere on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean far far away from a barbed wire fence he climbed over in Winston County proving to my dad and himself that the world doesn't end just outside of Estes Switch, Mississippi.