Clanking Along

It was a pretty rough week -- ran five miles a week ago on Monday, then slacked off all week. Felt MS-y as hell all week, with sore muscles, dizziness, spasms, exhaustion, the whole deal. Primary doc is sending me to a neurologist for more workups.

At least the eye doctor didn't turn up anything.

But I digress. A bit of a busy week on the home front, harvesting chickens. We only had one Headless Flopper out of a couple dozen. The kids were appropriately horrified by the whole process.

Got out and ran a 5-K tonight. Felt a bit like the Tin Man, rumbling and clanking along Raponda Lake Road. It's a bit cold, wind chill dropping down to zero tonight. It'll be spring here one of these days.

A Nice Story

I don't think I'll ever make 30 years, but it's nice to see a kid who's so proud of her dad:

Last month, my dad celebrated the 30th anniversary of his running streak.

In other words, he has run every day for 10,987 consecutive days. The last time he took a pass -- he was feeling a bit sore after a marathon -- was Oct. 30, 1978.

Obsessive doesn't begin to describe it.

When he travels overseas, my dad, who is 66, plans layovers so he can get in a couple miles around the concourse, lest he miss a day to the time-zone shift. During blizzards, he wraps his feet in plastic bags, pulls galoshes over his sneakers and screws in cleats for traction. Then he waits for a snowplow to pass his front door, so he can follow in the freshly cleared path.

My father, Dr. Harvey B. Simon, practices internal medicine in Boston and teaches at Harvard Medical School. Rationally, he knows that running 10 miles a day, every day, for three decades is not great for his ever-more-creaky body. He'd never advise his patients to do it. In fact, he's written several health and fitness books stressing the virtue of moderation in exercise. And yet....

He's run with broken toes and the flu and a nasty infected heel and near-crippling back spasms. He goes out before dawn in every kind of weather; he's become such a fixture in the neighborhood that a couple times when a freak thunderstorm has rolled in, strangers have driven out to find him. They didn't know his name. They just knew he'd be out there, plodding away, and figured he might appreciate a ride home.

My dad isn't alone in this nutty obsession. The U.S. Running Streak Association lists 31 members who have been running daily for 30 years or more. The reigning champ is a running coach out of California by the name of Mark Covert. He hasn't missed a day since he was 17. He's now 57.

Every streaker has a story of inspired persistence -- or, viewed another way, lunacy. One tells of holding his catheter aloft as he hobbled out after surgery. Another ran on a cruise ship -- during a tropical storm.

Ronald Kmiec, a concert pianist in Carlisle, Mass., jogged for four days through severe chest pains, until his wife dragged him to the hospital. Turned out he'd had a heart attack. He was so determined to keep the streak alive, he asked the nurse to take him to a treadmill. She nixed that idea, and his streak ended one day short of 32 years. (Undaunted, Mr, Kmiec got right back on the road and completed his 35th consecutive Boston Marathon five months later.)

Why do they do this? All kinds of reasons. Some streakers say they commune with God during their daily runs. Others think through knotty problems at work. The run structures the day; gives a sense of order to a hectic life.

As streakers grow older, their accomplishment also represents a triumph over aging. You don't give in to aches and pains; you conquer them. You don't wallow in anxiety; you lace up your sneakers. You feel, if not invincible, at least indomitable, and it's not hard to see why; if you're still doing at 66 the same thing you did at 36, you must be doing all right.

My dad started running for health reasons after my mom ordered him to lose weight. He has a family history of heart disease, and he soon found that regular exercise kept his cholesterol and blood pressure under control. I'm sure that's one motivation for the streak.

But the main reason, truly, is that he loves getting out there in the first rays of morning, letting his mind drift, with nothing to do but take the next step. He started the streak, he says, because he got tired of spending every cold, dark morning debating with himself about whether to go out. "I figured, why waste time debating? I'd just go out every day," he says. "So I did."

When people ask why he doesn't take just one day off, he shrugs and says, "I like to run."

Asked how he's kept at it so long, he responds: "Left, right, left, right."

His stride, never all that fluent, has broken down over the last 100,000 miles to the point that he now has what the family politely refers to as a "distinctive gait." His hip hurts. He's slow. And still... left, right, left, right.

When he hit 25 years, my dad talked about pulling a "Cal Ripken Jr.," after the Baltimore Orioles infielder who benched himself one day when he was perfectly healthy, putting an end to an incredible streak of playing in 2,632 consecutive games. Mr. Ripken had wanted to end the streak on his own terms, not wait for injury to force him out. My father said that sounded good. But I knew in my heart he'd never do it.

The streak is too much a part of him.

I worry about that sometimes. He's proud of his streak, and I think his running longevity -- the fact that he's prevailed against injury, weather and all the rest -- has strengthened his spirit. He's a born optimist, but the streak has made him even more confident, even more resilient.

What will happen when it ends?

On one level, I know that's a ridiculous question. The streak does not define my dad. He still practices and teaches medicine; he still writes and edits. He and my mom take art history courses, study music, volunteer, travel.

But still, I worry.

In running -- in streaking, in particular -- my dad has found an outlet to express personality traits that might otherwise stay submerged. He's a humble and reserved man, but his streak is such a goofy accomplishment that he's given himself license to celebrate it.

For his 10-year anniversary, he threw himself a 10K race -- a "ten-athon." He carried the invitations on his runs, because he wanted to hand them out to all the friends he knew only by first name -- fellow joggers who would fall in with him for a few blocks or a few miles every week. My dad made some good friends this way; there is a true camaraderie on the streets at 5 a.m.

When I was 8 or 9, I started running with him, too -- after he'd put in 10 or 12 miles on his own. It was my best chance to spend time with him. When I flagged, he'd keep me going by recounting the latest Red Sox game in dramatic, play-by-play detail. I'm quite sure he made most of it up, but I was always riveted.

Running with me let my father indulge his screwball sense of humor. One year, we ran in a road race just before Thanksgiving, and though it wasn't supposed to be a costumed affair, my dad talked me into dressing like a chef, with a giant tin-foil cleaver. He put on a turkey costume and as per his instructions, I spent the entire 5-mile route a few steps behind him, waving the cleaver and shouting: "Come back here, you turkey!"

I haven't run with him for years, but he recently sent me a ratty T-shirt he found in my childhood room, from a road race we ran in 1983. I often wear it when I work out, and I think back with a smile on all those runs with dad.

The U.S. Running Streak Association requires members to run at least one continuous mile a day to remain on the active list. (It's all based on the honor system, but as founder John J. Strumsky Jr. asks, "What would be the point of lying?") The association also keeps an honor roll of retired streaks. As I glanced over it, the fourth-place entry caught my eye. Lawrence Sundberg, a retired schoolteacher from Farmington, Conn., had clocked a streak that lasted exactly 30 years -- from New Year's Day 1977 through New Year's Eve 2006. It looked to me like he had pulled a Cal Ripken, and when I called, he said that was it exactly.

"With something like this, either it's going to end you, or you're going to end it," he said.

Mr. Sundberg said he spent six months mentally preparing for the end, and when the appointed day came, he was ready -- though he did startle awake at 11 p.m. and briefly contemplate keeping the streak alive on a moonlit run.

In the two years since, Mr. Sundberg says he has missed just four or five runs. "I still go out at 5:30 a.m. most days," he said. "But I don't have to."

He's adjusted so well that I consider urging my dad to talk with him.

But then.... My dad likes to run. He's happy out on the sidewalk at dawn. Left, right. Left, right.

Write to Stephanie Simon at stephanie.simon@wsj.com

No. 17

The oldest boy turned 17 today. Sigh. Seems like just yesterday that I was screaming at the lost midwife at 2 a.m. on the telephone:

"You're next to a convenience store in Houston? Well thank you very much! That fucking helps us out a lot! Narrows it down to a billion, doesn't it?! But oh, wait! I've got directions. My check for you is next to another convenience store also in Houston -- you can find the fucker there!"

Lisa was in labor for oh, 35 minutes. Start to finish. Not much fun for her. Shorter, but much more intense. She wasn't terribly sociable. The midwife made it to the door just as John came out.

With the exception of a three-month stretch of colic, he's been good ever since.

No. 300

A busy, busy month.

Bought the new goat. She's an Alpine, giving us about two quarts of milk every day. Will loves the stuff. John hates it. I saved up enough milk to make a two-pound wheel of goat's milk cheddar over the weekend that's ready for aging. I'll provide a report when it's ready.

Garden worked out OK. The corn was flattened by what was left of Hurricane Ike, but we have more than 100 pints of tomato sauce canned and ready to go. We've got about 50 pints of salsa verde with tomatillos and onions from the CSA. We've got about 50 pints of carrots and about 50 pints of green beans. We've got onions, scallions, blackberries, blueberries, peaches, nectarines, celery, broccoli, bell pepper, herbs and pesto in the freezer. We'll soon have 50 broilers -- they're getting huge -- and three pigs.

I'd say we're ready for winter, but not quite.

The chainsaw blew a piston, and fixing it ran about $200. I took a few days of vacation from the Day Job to finish up this week. The blade was getting a bit dull -- that'll happen when you pinch it in a tall beech tree, like I did -- so I took it to the shop for a quick sharpening. Turns out the replaced piston now needs replacing. Ack. Anyway, at this rate, I'll have our winter wood done by April or so.

We're certainly not ready for the Greater Depression.

But it's not winter just yet, nor has the Greater Depression totally kicked off. And it is gorgeous. The leaves are peaking in southern Vermont this week:





A nice story from this week's WSJ that reminds me I need to get off my ass:

• OCTOBER 7, 2008, 9:52 A.M. ET

Crash Survivor Scores Rare Triathlon Invite

Wall Street Exec Trains for Legendary Ironman Race

• By JEN MURPHY

A.C. Morgan will line up among 1,800 other racers to test his body's physical and mental limits in Kona, Hawaii at the Ironman World Championships Saturday. The grueling race is the Super Bowl of triathlons, consisting of a 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike ride and 26.2-mile run in crosswinds that can reach 60 miles per hour and temperatures that can reach 95 degrees with 90% humidity.

A.C. Morgan

A.C. Morgan, seen during a triathlon in Rhode Island in July.

Ten years ago Mr. Morgan wasn't even sure if he'd ever walk again. A plane crash left him with two broken vertebrae in his neck and 30 percent of his body covered in burns. "I had a 50-50 shot at life," Mr. Morgan recalls. "I had to learn everything all over again -- how to brush my teeth, walk, go to the bathroom." Mr. Morgan's entire left arm was burned except for one spot. "I have a complete outline where my Timex Ironman watch was. It is the only spot on my arm where I have hair." The outline reminded Mr. Morgan of Timex's old ad, "It takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'." He called the company to pitch himself as the subject of its next ad only to discover the campaign had been discontinued. But company representatives said if he ever wanted to do the Ironman he should call back. Mr. Morgan recalls thinking, "I can't even go to the bathroom by myself."

Before the accident Mr. Morgan had competed in sprint triathlons. After physical therapy he returned to the gym five or six days a week to lift weights and ride the Lifecycle bike for 30 minutes. In 2006, Mr. Morgan found himself listening to a client describing how he had competed in the Ironman and it made him remember the Timex offer. He wrote the company to retell his story of the plane crash and his watch "tattoo." In June 2007 he received a surprising call from Herbie Calves, Timex's vice president of sports marketing, asking whether he wanted an Ironman World Championship number for 2007 or 2008. He opted for 2008.

The 38-year-old Mr. Morgan, who co-manages U.S. equity sales trading at J.P. Morgan in New York, has since reprioritized his life to focus on training. He lives in Darien, Conn., and is married with two children. He stands 6-foot-1 and weights 180 pounds.

The Workout
Sponsorships allow many Ironman competitors to train full time. Mr. Morgan doesn't have that luxury. Before he began training for the race, he awoke at 4:30 a.m. to catch the 4:50 a.m. train to midtown Manhattan. Now, he wakes up at 3:20 a.m. three days a week to ride, run or swim for an hour before work. In January, Mr. Morgan hired a personal trainer who creates workouts he can download to his Blackberry. He can call her any time he has questions or needs motivation. "The other day I wasn't feeling the 22-mile run and she tells me, 'Think 22 miles plus 100% humidity on black lava.' I pay for that," he says. In addition to his morning workouts, he sometimes tacks on an additional run or bike ride after work, depending on what his trainer recommends.

On weekends, Mr. Morgan swims at his local YMCA and bikes 100 to 120 miles, followed by a 30- to 40-minute run. In bad weather, he puts his bike on a trainer so he can cycle inside while watching episodes of the HBO comedy "Entourage." According to the Ironman media guide, the average competitor trains between 18 and 30-plus hours per week: about seven miles per week swimming, 225 miles per week biking and 48 miles per week running. Mr. Morgan says his typical week sees him swim five miles, bike 150 to 170 miles and run 30 miles. To prepare himself for race day, he competed in two half-Ironmans, one in May and one in June.

Sample Workout

Mon. – Rest day

Tues.-Thurs. – 60-minute run, bike or swim

Sat. – Bike 120 miles followed immediately by a three-mile run.

Sun. – 20-mile run; swim.

Mr. Morgan hit a hurdle last October when he developed plantar fasciitis, a painful inflammation in the foot most often felt in the heel. "I can't get rid of it," he says. "You really have to walk away from [training] for it to heal, but I can't afford to." He goes to a doctor in the city once a week for laser treatment to break down the scar tissue and has also ordered custom orthotics for his sneakers. He stretches daily to ease the pain.

The Diet
Eating more and more often is Mr. Morgan's new dietetic challenge. "I could go home and eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's every night and still lose weight," he says. Mr. Morgan estimates that he has lost 15 pounds since he started training. To maintain his energy, he tries to eat every three hours. In the morning he has Raisin Bran topped with a banana and skim milk, followed by a cup of coffee and an energy bar. After his workout he has a recovery drink. He eats lunch at his desk, usually a turkey sandwich on whole wheat, which he orders in. "I probably eat chicken, vegetables and pasta seven nights a week, 365 days a year," he says.

Many athletes drastically change their diet during training. "I don't have free time to weigh everything and I'm not a bad eater," says Mr. Morgan, who instead paid Trismarter.com, a company that specializes in designing nutrition and exercise programs for triathletes, to create a diet plan specifically focused on the two days leading up to the race and the race day. He says it recommends hydrating every 10 minutes during the cycling portion. Mr. Morgan set his watch to beep every time he needs to rehydrate or refuel, ingesting calories from Gu, an energy gel, and Fig Newtons. During the run he ingests Gu every hour and drinks water or Gatorade at every mile marker.

The Cost
Tens of thousands of athletes try to get one of the coveted 1,800 spots through a lottery or by winning a spot at one of the qualifying events held around the world. "Spots are sold on eBay for up to $60,000," Mr. Morgan says. Timex covered the majority of Mr. Morgan's costs, including the $300 entry fee, and provided him with his jersey, hats, and a Timex team Trek bike.

Since January, Mr. Morgan has bought four pairs of running sneakers, costing between $80 and $110 per pair. After his wife pleaded with him, he also bought a new pair of cycling shoes, which he wears without socks. Triathlons are a gear geek's dream sport. "It's like a different version of golf," he says. "I could come home every day and go on one of 30 sites and buy a new water bottle holder or Gu or visor." Timex supplied Mr. Morgan with his bike, which could run from $3,000 to $20,000. He spends $250 a month on his personal trainer and paid $300 for his Trismarter.com nutrition evaluation. Membership at the YMCA is about $100 a month.

The Effort
Mr. Morgan says his biggest issue is time management. Making time for family and staying on top of his game at work have been a challenge. "I'm struggling to prioritize it all," he says. "My wife is so done with this." He works out at 4:30 a.m. on weekends to get in his training before his family wakes up. Mr. Morgan started at J.P. Morgan in June. "Any time you start in a new environment you have to prove yourself again," he says. "If I had been there six years it might be easier to take more luxury, but I pride myself on my work ethic and am one of the first people there in the morning."

The Benefit
Mr. Morgan's family and friends will join him in Hawaii to cheer him on. They are staying four days after the race to enjoy Hawaii. "I may not move the first two days," he jokes. Mr. Morgan says one of the professional triathletes gave him his best advice yet: "He told me the biggest waste is running down hard that last mile to the finish line. He wasn't telling me to walk but just to slow down and absorb it because I'm proving the impossible possible."

Write to Jen Murphy at workout@wsj.com

Getting My Goat(s)

Insanely busy day.

Up early this morning to clear out the rabbit shed and make room for goats. Worked in the morning.

Off at lunch to check the school bus schedule, pick up a pig bucket from the market and dicker with Gordon for fresh, local, organic wild blackberries. (My wholesale price is $3.75 for 10 ounces). Worked in the afternoon.

Wrapped up around 530p and headed to Springfield to get the girl La Mancha (Sheba) and boy Alpine (Heba). Brought them home. The border collies are in love with their new friends. The goats, not so much.

First day of school tomorrow. First fruit CSA pickup. Introducing goats to pigs. Blackberry delivery. Pick up some more pine shavings for the goat shed. Fix the pig watering bucket. Continued lots of work on the day job. It'll be a busy one.

False Alarm

No school tomorrow. It starts Wednesday for seventh graders, and Thursday for eighth through 12th graders. So, false alarm.

My boys claim they'll survive the trauma of another day of vacation.

Going to see if we can possibly pick up goats tomorrow.

Almost the Season

A question from a colleague reminds me that I haven't blogged in a while -- all manner of things going on. I'll try to list them sequentially:

*** New boss at work. Always fun trying to figure out what they want.

*** Major eruption of vegetables. We have picked 64 pounds of blackberries so far this year. We've got more than five dozen jars of carrots and green beans; a couple dozen jars of potatoes (already!); strawberry and peach jam; about a dozen jars of home-made salsa; and a couple dozen jars of bread-and-butter pickles.

The tomatoes haven't been totally washed out, lots of dry beans are coming up, our sweet corn is doing well, the potatoes might wind up being all right, and the chard and kale have exploded. We might do some fall broccoli, although we've got plenty in the freezer -- next to the five dozen bags of frozen pesto, celery, onion, scallions and bell pepper.

*** Quest for firewood. I took a week off just to cut firewood, and only made it five days before the chainsaw crapped out. I used a generic brand of two-cycle oil with an ethanol mix, and it ended very badly. I got maybe -- maybe -- three cords of good wood before the Dolmar blew a piston and head gasket. Repair is going to be about $260. Sigh.

*** The 50 broiler chicks are outside in the small coop. Obnoxious as hell, too. I'll be doing the universe a favor when I fill my freezer (bought a used Montgomery Ward 16 cubic footer for only $60!) with them. The 15 feather-footed bantams are still in the bathroom brooder, so I haven't yet gotten rid of the peep-peep-peep sound in the house.

*** Planning to get out Wednesday and pick up two dairy goats, a La Mancha doe and wether. They're only four months old, so it'll be a while before we get any milk. We're hoping they'll do some more clearing that the Three Little Pigs have missed. We'll breed the doe later this fall and hope for milk by early spring.

*** The kids start school on Wednesday, which means I'll be back into a morning running groove. The best thing about morning running is that there aren't any excuses; you run, and you're done. Can't put it off. And it'll be gorgeous here soon, which means I need to get going on more bike time.

*** I finished a book draft. We'll see if it's worth publishing. More about that later, though. On to the next book project ...

It's Been A While

Caramba! It's been a busy summer.

New bosses at work. Lots of things to plant, weed, harvest and feed. Fifty broiler chicks and 15 feather-footed bantams coming in the mail this week. Near-catastrophe avoided this morning; I chopped down about 100 pin cherry trees in the back pasture without knowing that they're toxic to pigs. Moved them before the leaves could wilt and pigs could get poisoned.

Going for an occasional run, but not so much lately. Hoping to take a week or so off soon and get firewood for the winter. Hoping to make more cheese; my first big cheese came out kind of dry, so we used it in the 42 servings of pesto that are now in the freezer, along with basil from the CSA, local sunflower seeds and olive oil.

Boys are being teen-age boys, skulking about at odd hours. Collies are being collies, skulking about at odder hours.

More later. It's just been Too. Damn. Busy.

Cool Stuff

So I've not been posting for a while. Busy with work. Busy with children. Busy with garden and fruit trees and bushes and other life-like things. We regret the inconvenience, as they say, and to atone, here are some very cool things:

*** Dara Torres. The woman sounds like a complete emotional basket case, but good for her for making the Olympic team at 41 -- and good news for middle-aged sloggers (and we know who we are). As an aside, I'd like my abs back. It appears she stole them:


An excerpt from the story:

UPON HEARING THAT TORRES is likely to make the Olympic team at age 41, many people have the same question: How is this possible? Kinesiologists counter with a different query: Why are you so surprised? “Dara is extremely impressive, but she’s not as unique as people think,” says Michael Joyner, a competitive athlete and anesthesiologist at the Mayo Clinic who writes scholarly papers about aging and sports. “Ted Williams hit .388 when he was 39. Jack Foster did very well in the Olympic marathon when he was 40. Karl Malone earned a triple-double in an N.B.A. game at 40. Jeannie Longo won a French time-trial championship in cycling at age 47.” Torres’s events — short swims — are also well suited to competitors of advanced age. Compared to, say, running, swimming is more technique-intensive and produces fewer injuries. Sprints are also kinder to older athletes, in that strength falls off more gradually than aerobic power. In April, at 37, Mark Foster, a freestyle sprinter in England, came out of retirement and earned a spot, for the fifth time, on the British Olympic swim team. “For those of us who pay attention to this stuff,” Joyner said, “Dara’s performance is unusual but not totally unexpected.”

So why do we assume a middle-aged swimmer must be all washed up? Because for nonelite athletes, sporting achievements fall off precipitously with age. Body composition changes toward more fat and less muscle. Strength and aerobic capacity decrease as well. But a primary reason that athletic performance degrades in adulthood is changes in priorities. People tend to devote more time and energy to jobs and families than to sports. Even committed athletes downgrade their workout goals from achieving personal bests to staying in shape. Academics refer to this reduction in physical activity as hypokinesis. The phenomenon is not limited to humans. A 1985 study showed that rats with unlimited access to running wheels exercised less as they aged. “But look at people who maintain activity levels,” says Joel Stager, a professor of kinesiology at Indiana University. “It’s a different story! A lot of what we assume is aging is just progressive hypokinesis. How many people at Dara’s age have maintained their training consistently? I’m going to say there are very, very few.”

Even childbirth needn’t be a sports-career killer. In 1972, in The Journal of the American Medical Association, E. Zaharieva published a study of 13 women who were pregnant and then competed in the 1964 Olympic Games. Most resumed serious training between three and six months after giving birth. All said, Zaharieva wrote, “they became stronger, had greater stamina and were more balanced in every way after having a child.” Last September, Lindsay Davenport was back on the pro tennis tour and winning just three months after giving birth, while in November, Paula Radcliffe won the New York City Marathon less than 10 months after having a baby.

So how long can peak athletic performance last? Hirofumi Tanaka, the director of the Cardiovascular Aging Research Laboratory at the University of Texas at Austin, found that both elite and nonelite runners and swimmers could maintain personal bests until age 35, after which performance declined in a gradual, linear fashion until about age 50 to 60 for runners and 70 for swimmers. Deterioration was rapid from there. Tanaka also found that swimmers experienced more modest declines than runners and that swim sprinters, like Torres, experienced the smallest declines of all. At Yale University, Ray Fair, a runner and an economist, crunched statistics on aging and peak athletic performance and created what he calls the Fair Model. The model provides a table of coefficients that enable an athlete to take a personal-best time and compute how long he or she should expect to take to complete that same event at a specific point later in life (assuming he or she has continued to train at the same level). According to the Fair Model, a woman who swam a personal best 24.63 seconds in the 50-meter freestyle at or before age 35 should expect to clock 25.37 seconds at age 41. “I am struck by how small the deterioration rates are,” Fair wrote in a paper titled “How Fast Do Old Men Slow Down?” “It may be that societies have been too pessimistic about losses from aging for individuals who stay healthy and fit.”

*** Next. Russell Means profile in the Washington Post. Eh, Russell -- have your tribal people get with my tribal people and see who got screwed over first (and longest). And general note to the part of your frontal lobe that deals with PR issues: Don't call the white reporter a racist. At least, not before the story runs. Your Dolce and Gabbana shades will be mentioned.

At our first interview, over breakfast, Means was surly from the get-go. Within five minutes of shaking my hand, he accosted me for my "[expletive] white racist arrogance. There's only one reason you people came to this continent," he said. "Greed! We Indians have our spirituality. We have our land, but Americans have no culture except greed."

I changed the subject, asking Means how many Lakota backed his independence claim. "That's not germane," he barked. "In all my years of international relations, not once has anybody ever questioned my sovereignty. Even if I am only speaking for myself and my brother, and I'm not, my sovereignty exists. It's spelled out in the treaties."

Eventually, I'd learn that Means has only six or eight active Lakota supporters scattered throughout North and South Dakota. Many other Lakota quietly share his contempt for the U.S. government; some even long for a return to the hallowed days of Lakota independence. And, while Means won 46 percent of the vote when he ran unsuccessfully for Pine Ridge tribal chair in 2004, he has not endeared himself with his desperado-style secession.

*** Interesting Ben Stein column in the NYTimes on wage deflation and the price of oil. Wish it were all that simple, but it's a good point, nevertheless:

But the trend is dismal. The average private worker now earns very roughly $600 a week, not counting fringe benefits. For this worker, gasoline might well account for close to one-tenth of his or her earnings. If the price of gas goes up 25 percent, the effect is serious. To put it mildly, people making $600 a week do not have a lot of leeway on spending.

As I see it, the problem is not the price of oil generally. (I think that the price will decline somewhat before long, but the long-term trend is very much up.) The problem is the stagnation of wages. Please bear in mind that the numbers I gave are averages. Skilled workers make much more. Lawyers, doctors, investment bankers, accountants, dentists — they all make more. ( I just paid two dentists a total of more than $10,000 — I am not kidding — to have one poor old tooth get a root canal and a crown, and I’m not finished with that miserable tooth yet. I paid for 90 percent of it out of my own pocket. I do earn more than the ordinary citizen, but nothing by Wall Street standards.)

But, obviously, a heck of a lot of workers make less. Imagine what it means to minimum-wage workers for gasoline to surge past $4 a gallon.

What is to be done? The federal government can do little to make the price of oil fall in the short run, except, perhaps, for one basic thing: balance the budget. The world price of oil is denominated in dollars. The dollar is weak for many reasons, but a big one is the immense budget deficits run by our government. If President Bush and Senators John McCain and Barack Obama were to stand together in front of a camera and solemnly swear that they would balance the budget in four years, even if it required tax increases on people earning millions, the dollar would rise against the euro, and oil would fall in dollars.

*** Final cool things. Went by the co-op to get some cheese, and they were giving away Silk, which (I think) is basically soy milk. They were giving away a lot of it because it was close to expiration. So we got 35 gallons of free Silk. Bad news is, it's no good for cheese or ice cream. Good news is, the pigs love it.

Went by a flea market last week and found an extraordinarily sharp crosscut saw for $20. Also, a first-edition copy of "Remember the Alamo" by Robert Penn Warren. Sweet.

Youngest son made it to Arizona and back for the national youth leadership conference. Seemed to have a good time. Is still skeptical of adults in power. This is generally a Good Thing.

I'm off for a few days to get some serious day job stuff done.

Busy. And Busy. And Very Busy.

No kidding. Haven't posted in forever.

Been to New York. Been to Boston. Bought rhubarb. Cleared out more garden for corn, beans and squash. Fixed chicken fence. Yelled at collies. Talked with boys. Planted blueberries. Got peach and pear trees. Found a free canner driving to the feed store. Built garden trellises. Worked on a book. Lots of day job stuff.

Since I don't have any pig pictures yet, here's a cool story until then:

A post-petroleum world On this Andover farm, little worry about fuel or food prices

By CHELSEA CONABOY Monitor staff

June 15, 2008

With gas at $4 per gallon, most people in New Hampshire can feel their wallets draining along with their car tanks. Not Nelson Lebo. He doesn't have a car. He's not worried about the cost of home heating oil either. And soaring food prices? Not much of a problem. Lebo, 40, lives in a 1782 farmhouse in the woods of Andover that he has dubbed Pedal Power Farm. He heats it with wood cut from the property. He gets around on a bicycle. He grows much of his own food and buys locally otherwise. He gets his electricity from solar panels. Lebo is no typical homesteader, content to stay tucked away in the woods, living off his land. He thinks he has ideas the rest of us could use. And he's ready to share them. "I've been living in a post-petroleum world for the last 18 years," he said. "Everyone else is going to start living in a post-petroleum world next year." Lebo has been a fixture in Andover since he was hired to run Proctor Academy's environmental program in 1991. He stopped working at the private school last year because of a herniated disk, but he still manages the organic gardens there. He was a part-time dorm parent this year. But his teaching days are far from over. Let Lebo talk, and he will engage you for hours - he verges on ranting - about energy policy, American consumerism and the design principles around which he has built his life. One thing you won't hear much of is a holier-than-thou attitude.

A Bad Child

Took the youngest up to Norwich College this evening to be honored as one of the top 70 middle school kids in the state. It was nice -- his principal, guidance counselor and one of his classmates were there, too. There was a little banquet and a speech by Barbara Cochran, who won the 1972 Olympic gold medal for downhill skiing.

Actually, not so much a speech as an exhortation. Do well. Work hard. Behave. Set goals. Declare victory when goals are met. And so on. A nice talk, anyway.

She finished her speech, and they started lining up the kids for photos with her and the governor. The child showed me his napkin:

"Goal: Do Not Trip On Stage and Fall On Governor."

We howled. He made it through the presentation, no tripping on stage.

Smells Like Crap

Must be crap.

Wow. Gorgeous day today. Believe I got a sunburn (too bad I'm so damn fat). Anyway, we fixed the frame of the chicken run. Didn't take as long as I was afraid it'd take. Cleaning out the inside of the run, though, was another matter. Imagine a 12 foot by 12 foot space, about six inches deep in hay, chicken crap, and chicken piss.

Oh, and it's been sitting there all winter.

I piled up about a cubic yard of the stuff before punting for the day. Went to town on the back fence, clearing brush along the soon-to-be fenceline with a pair of loppers. Shoulder was just absolutely killing me by the time it got dark.

Made dinner for the kids, did all the dishes, started everyone's laundry, and did some general sweeping, dusting and other cleaning around the house. Lisa baked bread, worked on the garden and did some cleaning. Watched the Jazz beat up on the Rox until midnight -- I think they're already done this year -- and went to bed.

More chickenshit tomorrow.

Flashback Time

Pretty busy weekend.

Got two more months of co-op hours out of the way, working cheese early Saturday afternoon and bagging late Saturday afternoon. Bad weekend for it -- the weather was just gorgeous, and I kept wanting to be outside.

Made it home in time to take Will to a school fund-raiser for his Arizona trip. Went into Keene and got a few needed items: A new wheelbarrow wheel (solid, not inflatable), a good rake, some liquid solder, and a clothesline.

Woke up late Sunday and spent pretty much all day either gardening or cleaning. The garden is coming along, slowly. We've got a space about 10 feet wide by 75 feet long, so far. It'll go another 10 feet or so, then widen out to a patch that's about 15 feet wide by 100 feet long. The problem right now is equipment: I broke a shovel handle and a pitchfork handle. I was pissed.

Fixed the electric fence. I'm hoping it'll at least shock the crap out of Stink the next time he goes chasing the ducks. He's developed a bad habit of going into the pond after them. He won't catch them, but he'll become a very stinky Stink after splashing around the pond for 30 minutes. I caught him by luck earlier this week, turning a leash into a lasso and grabbing him from about 10 feet away. Pretty slick, if I say so myself.

It was beautiful Saturday, but I wasn't so happy on Sunday. Snowing. Not accumulating, but snowing. Damn. On the other hand, it's hard to sulk about weather when you've just finished reading The Worst Hard Time, by Tim Egan. It's a hell of a story -- a man-made weather disaster on top of the Great Depression.

For those of you who don't know (which should include just about anyone who reads this blog), I went to school on the High Plains, on the southern edge of the Dust Bowl. I'm reasonably familiar with the north Texas and Oklahoma panhandles where most of the dirt got kicked up, and I've seen my fair share of dust storms. You could tell who the freshmen were at my school; their cars hadn't been sandblasted yet, and they were still trying to wear contact lenses.

Anyway, you spend any amount of time on the Plains, and you hear old-timers talk about how bad things used to be. You'd see a dust storm coming from 50 miles away, rising about 10,000 feet in the air, and some old-timer would shake his head and mention that when he was growing up, a storm like that meant everything was clear.

The Dust Bowl was such a traumatic part of growing up for so many folks that it really interested me. I'd ask relatives about the Depression, just general "what was it like?" questions. Always got the same answers. My mother's mom lived in east Texas and just muttered about how those poor folks in West Texas got the sorriest deal on the face of the planet. Grandmom (my dad's mother) lived in north Texas during the worst of it. She'd smile, and say, well, it was bad, but everyone was so poor that it just didn't matter. Granddad would just look pissed off.

My great uncle and aunt, who lived in the town where I went to school, were a little more forthcoming. Aunt Mabel would shake her head and say things like, it was just horrible and a mercy that more folks didn't die. Uncle Clendon would just look pissed off.

A few years later, when Uncle Clendon wanted to make some salient point about how I maybe needed to apply myself a little more at school, he mentioned one thing that happened to kids without college educations during the Depression. He and some friends were trying to get a job doing warehouse work in north Texas. Turns out there were four or five openings. About 100 men showed up to apply for the job. The owner didn't have time to sort everyone out, so he made it simple: Work until you drop. Last five standing get the job.

Clendon got one of the jobs. But, jeeez. Worst, hard time, indeed. I'll probably have nightmares about dust storms for a week at least.

Moving Day

One of those days where I'm going to want to get to sleep early.

Slept late, but it didn't help much. Got up, threw on some running clothes, and did six miles, which is as much as I've done in ... well, in a long time. Didn't feel too bad, other than just setting the stage for dragging most of the rest of the day.

Ran into Brattleboro for feed hay, mulch hay, rabbit food, grower pellets and corn. Stopped by the grocery and got some kid food -- cereal, pork chops (99c/lb!), ziti noodles, and all things dairy. I was tired and hungry and lusted after a couple of McD's quarter-pounders, but I had a couple of thoughts that saved me:

1. Do I really want to be this fat any longer than I have to be? and

2. Am I such a tool that I need to spend money, much less calories, on this reputed food?

No, and no.

So I came back home and gathered sap. Only about three gallons today. Either it's slowing down, or the lack of sun makes a big difference. Part of me hopes it's slowing down -- we've made three gallons so far this year, and should make a couple more. I think five gallons is a good first year.

Lisa and I grabbed old chickens from the small coop and threw them in the barn. Most weren't too pleased about it. Then, I went upstairs and put leg bands on the small chicks so I can identify them next spring and took them down to the small coop, eight at a time. They really weren't too pleased about it ... but I've got my bathroom back, anyway.

Dishes, laundry, a few other things, and I'm ready for bed. But before I crash, it should be noted that We Are Trendy (Although Not in a Swiss-Family Robinson Sort of Way):

April 6, 2008
Duck and Cover: It’s the New Survivalism
By ALEX WILLIAMS

THE traditional face of survivalism is that of a shaggy loner in camouflage, holed up in a cabin in the wilderness and surrounded by cases of canned goods and ammunition.

It is not that of Barton M. Biggs, the former chief global strategist at Morgan Stanley. Yet in Mr. Biggs’s new book, “Wealth, War and Wisdom,” he says people should “assume the possibility of a breakdown of the civilized infrastructure.”

“Your safe haven must be self-sufficient and capable of growing some kind of food,” Mr. Biggs writes. “It should be well-stocked with seed, fertilizer, canned food, wine, medicine, clothes, etc.

Think Swiss Family Robinson. Even in America and Europe there could be moments of riot and rebellion when law and order temporarily completely breaks down.”

Survivalism, it seems, is not just for survivalists anymore.

Faced with a confluence of diverse threats — a tanking economy, a housing crisis, looming environmental disasters, and a sharp spike in oil prices — people who do not consider themselves extremists are starting to discuss doomsday measures once associated with the social fringes.

Really Good Journalism, Part Three

... and then I'll shut up. But this CNN Money special (America's Money) hit home, too:




http://money.cnn.com/galleries/2008/news/0803/gallery.real_stories/



Very good stuff.



Ran three miles this morning in some pretty slushy rain. Got by the feed store as it opened to buy egg cartons and bird leg bands for the chicks, plus more propane for the sap. Loaded up on eggs, had a physical terrorism appointment (and I'm feeling much better this afternoon).


Worked like hell on the day job; only took a break to escort Will to his annual checkup.

A Honking Busy Day

Yeesh.

Up at 6a. John to the bus at 630p (Will was sick). Ran 4 miles. I need to run. A lot. Getting very stout and round. Back in the car, to the feed store for hay and propane refills for sugaring. To the grocery for milk. To the dry cleaners. To the barber shop for a haircut. To the recycling center with a garbage bag of cans.

Back home, at my desk by 1015a.

Worked like a dog on the day job until 3p. Went to the library to download files, to the post office to send some work-related correspondence. Came home, took care of chickens. Hauled sap in buckets to holding tanks. Went for a walk. Back to work on the day job.

Saw geese. Felt the sun. Liked it.

Flaming Chickens, Hayseeds, Smart Collies and Rising Sap

Busy weekend; cranked out another half-gallon or so of maple syrup. Hauled trash to the dump, mailed syrup to family, cleaned house, bought bulk at the co-op. Took John to school Sunday morning at 6a to catch a van for a field trip to New York.

Headed out aroudn 8p Monday to pick John up from school and smelled something ... strange. Strange and gross. Wandered around the basement door, trying to figure out what the hell. It most likely wasn't the car (at least, shouldn't have been, since (a) the car hadn't been used all day, and (b) I put an un-Godly amount of money into fixing it). It wasn't anything inside the house, since the smell didn't get really bad until I stepped outside.

And I could see a little bit of smoke, even though it was dark.

I called Lisa, and she sniffed around before pointing at the small coop, where smoke was clearly coming out. I ran to get a big bucket of water. Very bad images of burnt chicken, etc. Got lucky, though -- a red heat lamp had fallen directly into the feeder, and the nasty smell was burning poultry feed.

Kicked snow all over the feeder and hauled it out of the coop. Ran to pick up John from the school, apologized for being late. I'm guessing a lot of my urban acquaintances wouldn't have teachers who understood perfectly that a chicken coop fire could be an issue.

I spoke with John:

"How was New York?"
"It was a good opportunity to get the hay out of my hair."
"With your hair, who could tell?"
"I'm speaking metaphorically."

Ran three miles this morning, and it's getting hot. Supposed to get up to 61 today. So after my run, I put on mud boots and sloshed down to the maples. Had 17 gallons of sap, which means we'll easily make another gallon. Yikes.

The collies will miss the snow. Their favorite game (besides the ever-popular "Chase the Duck") is to leap into the air and snap at kicked snow. We played it for a bit yesterday while I was walking to the faucet to get water for the chickens. I stopped to fill up the water bucket. Stink and Pepper just stood there, quivering. After a minute, Stink got impatient. He put his nose into the snow, flicked it into the air, and jumped up. He looked at me for a minute, then did it again, a couple more times.

I kicked snow up, and they jumped. You could see the thought bubble in Stink's head:

"What a clever human!"

Lots and lots to do with the day job.

Back on My Feet Again

Got ambitious this morning and did three very, very slow miles after taking the boys to the bus stop. It felt ... good.

And my shoulder didn't even break off. It was a bit chilly at first, around 20 degrees, but I worked up a sweat.

Busy week in kid-dom. Have to take Will to town so he can spend his birthday money on a couple of Wii games. After two years, I finally discovered a Wii at retail price and figured, hey, he's been so good for so long that he deserves it. He had a one-word reaction when he opened the present:

"Sweet!"

He's also got a student leadership meeting Wednesday night. John is going to NYC Sunday and Monday on a combined biology/Western Civilization field trip (insert your own joke here).

The first batch of maple came out great. Just no comparison between doing it yourself and buying it, none at all. It took Lisa about 20 gallons of sap to get a half-gallon of syrup. We may try again for some more this weekend. As it stands, we've got about three pints in a jar in the fridge, and bought a half-dozen tiny, half-pint gift tins for relatives.

Scary news in the world of chickens. I'm hearing that one of the larger hatcheries had an avian encephalomyelitis outbreak. If true, sucks to be them, and and anyone who bought chicks from them.

I bought one batch while I was flat on my back from McMurray; the first box arrived dead. Some doofus put them in the back of the truck in subzero weather. The second replacement batch was delivered to the wrong post office, and someone else picked them up. Instead of giving McMurray another chance to abuse me, I ordered a batch from Cackle. They've been fine so far; no evidence of AE, anyway.

Gotta get cranking on some work.

Play and Not So Much Play

Will's opening night play, "The Rivals," was tonight. He did wonderfully as Sir Anthony Absolute. And no, I am not biased.

Here's wishing some folks on Wall Street had his acting chops, courtesy of the WSJ. By my reckoning, the Federal Reserve has not a great amount of cash left to keep things going. I'm hoping the Bear Stearns meltdown is the last, but seriously afraid it's just another mile marker. This is getting bad:


Debt Reckoning: U.S. Receives a Margin Call
By LIZ RAPPAPORT and JUSTIN LAHART March 15, 2008; Page A1

The U.S. is at the receiving end of a massive margin call: Across the economy, wary lenders are demanding that borrowers put up more collateral or sell assets to reduce debts.

The unfolding financial crisis -- one that began with bad bets on securities backed by subprime mortgages, then sparked a tightening of credit between big banks -- appears to be broadening further. For years, the U.S. economy has been borrowing from cash-rich lenders from Asia to the Middle East. American firms and households have enjoyed readily available credit at easy terms, even for risky bets. No longer.

Recent days' cascade of bad news, culminating in yesterday's bailout of Bear Stearns Cos., is accelerating the erosion of trust in the longevity of some brand-name U.S. financial institutions. The growing crisis of confidence now extends to the credit-worthiness of borrowers across the spectrum -- touching American homeowners, who are seeing the value of their bedrock asset decline, and raising questions about the capacity of the Federal Reserve and U.S. government to rapidly repair the problems.

Global investors are pulling money from the U.S., steepening the decline of the U.S. dollar and sending it below 100 yen for the first time in a dozen years. Against a trade-weighted basket of major currencies, the dollar has fallen 14.3% over the past year, according to the Federal Reserve. Yesterday it hit another record low against the euro, falling 2.1% this week to close at 1.567 dollars per euro.

Lenders and investors are pushing up the interest rates they demand from financial institutions seen as solid just a few months ago, or demanding that they sell assets and come up with cash. Banks and Wall Street firms are so wary about each other that they're pulling back. Financial markets, anticipating that the Fed will cut rates sharply on Tuesday to try to limit the depth of a possible recession, are questioning the central bank's commitment or ability to keep inflation from accelerating.

There are other symptoms of declining confidence. Gold, the ultimate inflation hedge, is flirting with $1,000 an ounce. Standard & Poor's Ratings Services, a unit of McGraw-Hill Cos., predicted Thursday that large financial institutions still need to write down $135 billion in subprime-related securities, on top of $150 billion in previous write-downs. Ordinary Americans are worried: Only 20% think the country is generally headed in the right direction, nearly as low as at any time in the Bush presidency, according to the latest Wall Street Journal/NBC News poll1.

"Clearly, the whole world is focused on the financial crisis and the U.S. is really the epicenter of the tension," says Carlos Asilis, chief investment officer at Glovista Investments, an advisory firm based in New Jersey. "As a result, we're seeing capital flow out of the U.S."

Getting Back in the Saddle

It's been a slow process. Good Lord, I'm tired. Takes a lot to get through the day. Still, I've got about 75 percent range of motion in the shoulder, and we're starting to strengthen it a bit. Still gonna take a long time to get back to normal. A few weeks more before I can run again.

Parent-teacher conferences tonight. Two honor roll kids. Who knew? The youngest, who's pretty much a perennial honors student, was bragging all over the oldest. All things considered, not a bad night at all.

Here's my read du jour before I get to bed:

Clothesline rule creates flap
Advocates in 3 states fight ban, cite energy savings
By Jenna Russell, Globe Staff March 13, 2008
CONCORD, N.H. - They say they only want to protect their "right to dry." And in three New England states, advocates for clotheslines - yes, clotheslines, strung across the yard, draped with socks and sheets - are pushing for new laws to liberate residents whose neighbors won't let them hang laundry outside.

Homeowners' associations, which enforce bans on clotheslines at thousands of residential developments across the country, say the rules are needed to prevent flapping laundry from dragging down property values. But in an age of paper over plastic, as people try to take small steps to protect the environment, more residents are chafing at the restrictions. And some lawmakers in Vermont, New Hampshire, and Connecticut are taking it a step further, seeking legislation that would guarantee the freedom to let one's garments flutter in the breeze.

"People think it's silly, but what's silly is to worry so much about having to look at your neighbors' undies that you would prevent them from conserving energy," said Vermont state Senator Dick McCormack, a sponsor of "right to dry" legislation. "We're not making a big deal over clotheslines; we're making a big deal over global warming."

If successful, the measures in Vermont and Connecticut would be the first in New England, and among the first in the country, to protect the age-old custom of air-drying laundry. (The proposal in New Hampshire died in committee, but proponents say they plan to try again next session.)

In a society where most people own dryers, the idea of clotheslines seems to have retained its broad popular appeal. Tide detergent comes in a "clean breeze" scent, described as "the fresh scent of laundry line-dried in a clean breeze," and the signature creations of Yankee Candle Co. include "clean cotton," a scent that evokes "sun-dried cotton with green notes, white flowers, and a hint of lemon," according to the two companies' websites.

In some minds, though, clotheslines connote a landscape of poverty rather than flowering fields. Opponents of the proposed legislation say homeowners' groups have the right to protect property values by forbidding practices they consider unsightly, such as storing junk cars in driveways - and hanging wet laundry outside.

"If you imagine driving into a community where the yards have clothes hanging all over the place, I think the aesthetics, the curb appeal, and probably the home values would be affected by that, because you can't let one homeowner do it and say no to the next," said Frank Rathbun, a spokesman for the Community Associations Institute, a national group based in Virginia that represents thousands of homeowner and condominium associations, many of which restrict clotheslines.

The institute encourages environmentalism, "But we believe the homeowners in each association should determine the rules under which they live," Rathbun said.