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.

Sue Me, I'm Sad

Stuck in Town Meeting for most of the day. Sigh. Trying to get some work done. So far, it's two big and good votes (keep a penny tax for economic development in the Valley, much needed, and throw some money to the non-profit day care center by the library, also much needed).

Lot to do today. Lisa is basically half-handed after the second hand surgery, so I'm running amok. Lots of day job things to do, animals to feed, fires to keep going, meetings to endure, miles to run.

On a sad note: If you've ever driven across Texas for hours and hours and hours, you listened to Paul Harvey. And while you might not have agreed with everything he said, the man had a voice. Calming, even while you disagreed violently with him -- something you can't really can't say about most other talkers. Here's the top half of the NYTimes obituary:

Paul Harvey, who captivated millions of American listeners for nearly six decades with his homespun radio news reports and conservative commentaries, delivered nationally on weekdays in a stentorian staccato, died on Saturday at the Mayo Clinic Hospital near his winter home in Phoenix. He was 90.

Mr. Harvey, who lived in the Chicago suburb of River Forest, died with his family at his side, Louis Adams, an ABC Radio Networks spokesman, told The Associated Press. No cause was given.

Mr. Harvey, who joined ABC in 1951, was forced to suspend his broadcasts for several months in 2001 by a virus that weakened a vocal cord, but he returned to his Chicago studio and remained on the air until recently.

In his heyday, which lasted from the 1950s through the 1990s, Mr. Harvey’s twice-daily soapbox-on-the-air was one of the most popular programs on radio. Audiences of as many as 22 million people tuned in on 1,300 stations to a voice that had been an American institution for as long as most of them could remember.

Like Walter Winchell and Gabriel Heatter before him, he personalized the radio news with his right-wing opinions, but laced them with his own trademarks: a hypnotic timbre, extended pauses for effect, heart-warming tales of average Americans and folksy observations that evoked the heartland, family values and the old-fashioned plain talk one heard around the dinner table on Sunday.

“Hello, Americans,” he barked. “This is Paul Harvey! Stand byyy for Newwws!”

He railed against welfare cheats and defended the death penalty. He worried about the national debt, big government, bureaucrats who lacked common sense, permissive parents, leftist radicals and America succumbing to moral decay. He championed rugged individualism, love of God and country, and the fundamental decency of ordinary people.

“You can almost hear the amber waves of grain,” the comedian Danny Thomas told him.

Mr. Harvey was unapologetic. “I have never pretended to objectivity,” he once said. “I have a strong point of view, and I share it with my listeners. I have no illusions about changing the world, but to the extent that I can I’d like to shelter your and my little corner of it.”

He loved human-interest stories, and the one-liners he tacked on to them. “Nudists in Lakeland, Florida, are upset that outsiders are sneaking a peek through a hole in their fence,” he intoned. “The police promise to look into it.”

Or: “A man called the I.R.S. and asked if birth control pills could be deducted. The I.R.S. worker, not missing a beat, came back and said, ‘Only if they don’t work.’ ”

Or: “White House occupants come and go. They are just like diapers. They should be changed often, and for the same reasons.”

In a format virtually unchanged over the years, his style was stop-and-go, with superb pacing and silences that rivaled Jack Benny’s. He spoke directly to the listener, with punchy sentences, occasional exclamations of “Good heavens!” or “Oh, my goodness!” and pauses that squeezed out the last drop of suspense: the radio broadcaster’s equivalent of the raised eyebrow or the knowing grin.

He was a wordsmith, too, banging scripts out on a typewriter, and rightly or wrongly was credited with inventing the terms “Reaganomics,” “skyjackers,” and “guesstimate.” Listeners came to expect stock cues: “Stay tuned for the rest of the story,” and “May I have your undivided attention for just a moment.”

More Snow. And Ice.

Took Lisa down to the hospital for her second hand surgery today. Enjoyed my first ice-slip of the entire year -- right down on the elbow. Ouch. Hurt like hell. 

Thinking today is maybe not such a good running day, after all.

Here's my fun thought du jour, courtesy of Ben Sargent:

The Skating Rink

Went for another 5-K tonight. I'm dragging in the mornings, so it seems to make sense. At least, it usually makes sense, but not so much tonight. It warmed up something wild today, temperature in the low 50s, then started raining late afternoon. It had cooled off quite a bit by 8p when I dropped 10 dozen eggs off at the market and started out running on Raponda Road. This limited my choices; I could run on an icy road, I could run in snowdrifts, or I could run in ankle-deep, muddy water.

The good news is, I only fell down once.

Based on tonight's run, I'd say mud season is coming early. I know better, though. We haven't had a single nor'easter this winter -- at least, I don't think we've had one -- which means it's going to be a rough March. Still, it feels really good to run, and it even feels really good to run in the rain. For some odd reason, running in the rain makes me feel like I'm going to be a runner again.

In other news, we're adjusting to the new chickens. We got 65 of them -- 25 production Reds, 35 Aruacanas, and five Buff Orpingtons. The first few nights were rough; the peep-peep-peep coming from the brooder in the bathroom doesn't make for great sleeping. But I'm getting used to them again.

Other animal news. The kids in the dairy goats are starting to kick. We've lost one Nigerian doe; poor girl hung herself in a hay net. My lead milk goat, North Star, miscarried. But we've still got three does in the family way, and you can feel the little kids occasionally. For some reason, they get a little more active when Stink, the famous border collie, wanders into the goat barn.

(Why is Stink famous? Check this out.)

Busy week ahead. Lisa and I went into Brattleboro today to find a jeweler who could cut her wedding ring off her finger. She hasn't taken it off forever, so it had to be cut off before her carpal tunnel surgery on Monday -- the second of two. Anyway, the jeweler directed us to the fire department, and we had a trio of firefighters snip the ring. Because this is her second surgery in the last month, she'll be dealing with roughly half of one hand. So it's going to be a busy week or two while she gets her hands back.

Held for Questioning

So I've been feeling hugely bad for the last ... hell, the last two months or so. Doctors looking into things, poking around, trying to figure what's wrong. Everything from semi-benign little owies like low calcium, thyroid imbalance and weight gain (!) to things we'd rather not talk about, places we really don't want to go.

The consistent advice that I've gotten, though, is that I need to exercise. I've been sleeping 12-14 hours per day, feeling tired all the time even so. This morning I got up and ran, 5K. At least, I started to run 5K. But I was interrupted.

Held for questioning, as it were.

I'd made about a mile down a lakefront road about 815a this morning, hoping to beat a big snowstorm and still have time to get to the hardware store for a new bathtub stopper (part of another diagnostic test. Really). It wasn't too bad; I was stumbling a bit, but there wasn't heavy tourist traffic, it wasn't too windy, and it hadn't started to snow yet. I was feeling OK, even after the three marked and one unmarked state police cars converged on me.

Understand, four state police cars in one location in Vermont can only mean one of three things: Community event with free food, lunch break, or very bad news. Predictably, it was the latter. They were looking for a short (me) male (me) in his mid-30s (me, about a decade ago) in a blue sweatshirt (me again) with a beard.

It was a bit frosty, so I was wearing a neck warmer that covered my face. I couldn't help but notice the hands on the guns. One of the morals of the story: Keep your ID with you. I handed over my driver's license and sat while they ran it. A few questions later, I was back on the road, plodding along. Turns out the aforementioned short, bearded, young male in the blue sweatshirt had been threatening an ex-girlfriend. The troopers were ... professional, but made me very happy I didn't have a beard.

Got enough health problems going on without lead poisoning.

I'll catch up more later.

An Afternoon in the Life

It occurs to me that late afternoons are busy. Today was typical:

I took a bucket of spoiled fruit and veggies to the pigs around 4p, then got the goats out of the shed and helped them jump the electric fence. They wandered over to share the lettuce with the pigs while I went to the car and got some mulch hay for the little pig house. It's supposed to be cold, wind chill around -15. We really don't want the pigs to come down with pneumonia two weeks before the butcher makes it here.

The pig's water tub was frozen, so I flipped the ice out and poured an eight-gallon bucket of water into it. We threw some more grain and corn into a bucket and gave that to the pigs. With the goats and pigs occupied, we moved along to the chickens and other goats.

First thing is feeding the broilers, lifting a 50-pound sack of grain and dumping about a third of it into the feeder. I also refilled the watering fount and a five-gallon water bucket for the ducks, then gave everyone a scoop or two of loose whole corn. Lisa dumped about five pounds of lettuce into the pen, and we were done with the broilers.

(Hopefully, we'll be really and truly done with the broilers soon).

We got 18 eggs out of the laying henhouse and put grain in their feeder. We gave the Nigerian goats grain, fresh hay and water, and threw about 10 pounds of lettuce to the laying hens and turkeys. Then we cleaned up the Nigerian buck's hooves -- he's got problems with his feet -- and poured a bucket of water into the laying hens' waterer.

I went to the market to get a pig bucket and scooted by the grocery. By the time I made it back, Lisa retrieved the big goats from the pig pasture and milked the doe. She also gave them fresh hay, grain and water.

Time from start to finish? About an hour and 15 minutes. And that doesn't include shoo-ing the border collies out of the way periodically.

It's Been A While

... but I've been busy. Odd how busy you can become when your company announces plans for layoffs in the spring. And unlike every other company in our industry, mine doesn't have plans for buyouts, which traditionally have eased the pain of getting fired.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Spent a chunk of this afternoon with the chainsaw, taking down a few final trees. I'll spend most of tomorrow hauling them out of the woods, dumping them on the driveway, loading them in the Outback, taking them up the driveway, throwing them out of the Outback, and stacking them underneath Will's window.

If nothing else, a good upper-body workout.

The End Is Near

Root cellaring in New York? The end, indeed, must be near ...

November 6, 2008

Food Storage as Grandma Knew It

By MICHAEL TORTORELLO

IN a strictly technical sense, Cynthia Worley is not transforming her basement into a time machine. Yet what’s going on this harvest season beneath her Harlem brownstone on 122nd Street, at Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, is surely something out of the past — or perhaps the future.

The space itself is nothing special: Whitewashed granite walls run the width and depth of the room, 16 feet by 60 feet. A forgotten owner tried to put in a cement floor, but the dirt, which takes a long-term view of things, is stubbornly coming back. “It’s basically a sod floor,” Ms. Worley said.

What’s important is that the shelves are sturdy, because Ms. Worley and her husband, Haja Worley, will soon load them with 20 pounds of potatoes, 20 pounds of onions, 30 pounds of butternut and acorn squash, 10 heads of cabbage, 60-odd pints of home-canned tomatoes and preserves, 9 gallons of berry and fruit wines, and another gallon or two of mulberry vinegar.

The goodies in the pint jars and the carboys come from the Joseph Daniel Wilson Memorial Garden, which the Worleys founded across the street. The fresh produce is a huge final delivery from a Community Supported Agriculture farm in Orange County, which they used all summer. Packed in sand and stored at 55 degrees, the potatoes should keep at least until the New Year. The squash could still be palatable on Groundhog Day, and the onions should survive till spring. Ms. Worley, who counsels and teaches adults for the New York City Department of Education, and Mr. Worley, a neighborhood organizer and radio engineer, will let their basement-deprived friends store vegetables, too.

The Worleys, like a number of other Americans, have made the seemingly anachronistic choice to turn their basement into a root cellar. While Ms. Worley’s brownstone basement stash won’t feed the couple through the winter, she said, “I think it’s a healthy way to go and an economical way.”

According to a September survey on consumer anxieties over higher fuel and food prices from the Leopold Center for Sustainable Agriculture at Iowa State University in Ames, 34 percent of respondents said that they were likely to raise more of their own vegetables. Another 37 percent said they were likely to can or freeze more of their food. The cousin to canning and freezing is the root cellar.

Not So Much in Vermont

Back from a week in Texas, helping out the father. Long story, but he's OK. In my absence, Lisa acquired two Nigerian dwarf goats, which are excellent for cheese. Well, the doe is great; the buck probably won't be much help, unless I want to market Stink-to-High-Heaven cheese to the masses. We'll use him as a breeder, I'm thinking.

Too much catching up to do. But I was charmed by this NYTimes piece today. It's true; I used to run in the city and was always amazed when I made it home safely. Even in Central Park. Never got beaned with a Krispy Kreme, though:

November 6, 2008

FITNESS

Road Runner Rage

By CHRISTOPHER PERCY COLLIER

JEAN KNAACK couldn’t keep a lid on it. While on a six-mile run near her home in Maryland, she raised her water bottle and expelled its contents onto the passenger-side window of a car.

Ms. Knaack, a 115-pound runner, had been jogging on the sidewalk when the vehicle had come within inches of hitting her. The driver had blindly pulled out of an adjacent parking lot, and Ms. Knaack responded with the aggressive squirt, coupled with a few choice expletives.

She did not anticipate what happened next.

The driver pulled the rest of the way out of the parking lot and into the street, whipped around in an intersection, got out of the car, and confronted her. Amid of flurry of profanities, the motorist threatened to strike her with a beer bottle. “The fact that he was so specific really scared me,” she said. “My heart rate shot sky high. I felt like I was going to pass out.”

Even though Ms. Knaack was a seasoned runner — she’s the executive director of the Road Runners Club of America — and is knowledgeable about proper training technique and nutrition, she never got the memo on what do when an angry or negligent motorist takes a workout sideways. That’s because there really isn’t one.

While road rage between cyclists and motorists has drawn some attention lately, adversity has long existed between runners and motorists “on a low level,” says Brent Ayer, the head running coach at Hood College in Frederick, Md., who, years back, was pelted with a jelly doughnut while running.

Not that it’s always the driver’s fault. “I watch runners cut through intersections, cross in the middle of the street, and crowd cars,” Mr. Ayer said. “We are not entirely blameless.”

Another Inspiration Heard From

A really inspirational story. Well-written, too.

Running for my life: 1 woman's race against time

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By LINDA STOWELL, Associated Press Writer – Sat Oct 18, 12:38 pm ET

PHILADELPHIA – The routine was the same as always — the exact way I have grown accustomed to dealing with the hours before a big race. But on that November morning last year, everything else was different.

I had awakened before the sun and come downstairs to all of my running gear, laid out perfectly the night before, exactly as planned. There it all was: bottled water, my fanny pack, gels to eat along the way, my precious iPod with its playlist calibrated just for me. Exactly as planned.

I had even pinned my number to my shirt in advance. Alone, in silence, I ate a banana and a granola bar and half a bagel. Exactly as planned.

I thought to myself: I need this routine. I need to be a robot today.

Nearly five years before this day, before I started running, I had been diagnosed with melanoma skin cancer in my left shin. Then, much later, came the thyroid cancer; they found that one looking for more melanoma. I was 51 and I had two forms of cancer. Now here I was in the middle of chemotherapy — weakened, scared, with more chemo scheduled for the following day. And I was heading out to run a half-marathon on the streets of Philadelphia.

What was I thinking?

I arrived at the starting gate and joined the pack of runners. The sun was coming up. Nearby, I could see the city's art museum, where Rocky climbed the steps in triumph so many years ago.

I never heard the starting gun, but the people ahead of me began to move.

I clicked my iPod. My song came on — "Gonna Fly Now," Rocky's inspiration. Appropriate for Philadelphia, for this race and for me. The tears started coming, as they often do when I begin a run. I brushed them away because I didn't want to irritate my contacts.

And then I ran. Exactly as planned.

I was running for my life, in a sense, though I knew that competition was really unfolding inside my body, far beyond my control. I was running in affirmation, in defiance. I was running to prove that I could, to show that I was not defined by the clusters of renegade cells that were growing within me.

To deal with something in my life that has not, in any conceivable way, gone exactly as planned.

___

I haven't always been a runner. Cancer made me into one.

Two cancers, actually. They're unrelated, which is good. There are two of them, which isn't.

The National Cancer Institute estimates that among the 10.1 million cancer survivors that were alive as of January 1, 2002, about 8 percent had more than one form of cancer diagnosed between 1975 and 2001. Three cancers is "almost unheard of," one doctor told me. I guess I should be thankful for that.

This year, 62,480 cases of melanoma, the most serious form of skin cancer, are expected in the United States and 37,340 cases of thyroid cancer. While my melanoma was a recurrence, I still saw it as unfair: Fewer than 100,000 people in this country got one of those cancers; I, a regular tennis player and nonsmoker, got both.

The melanoma begat two surgeries — one to take it out and one to make sure it hadn't spread. What's more, I was informed that I could develop lymphedema, a sometimes painful swelling of the leg due after surgery that happens because the lymphatic system has been compromised.

"Unless you want a fat leg, stay on the couch with your leg up. No running and very limited exercise," one oncologist, considered among the best melanoma doctors in the world, told me.

Then, I was not a runner. I'd been intrigued by it and thought I might try it someday — whatever someday might mean. But to be told, at 46, never to run, made me realize that I was too young to be sentenced to a lifetime on the couch.

So I took up running. I started slow and short, built up, pushed myself, gained endurance. I won't say it was easy, but I won't whine, either. I ran my first 5K a year later, then a 10K, then two half-marathons.

My decision to take up running produced varied reactions from my doctors. Most were supportive. Some were concerned. One shook his head and told me not to do it. My brother Bruce, a crack marathon runner, said what many others echoed: Go for it. If you can't do it, your body will tell you so.

His words reassured, but only to a point. Because somewhere along the way, I had stopped trusting my body.

___

When it came to running, at least, my body didn't betray me. So I ran. And then I ran some more.

As I did, I felt thankful that the drugs and surgery hadn't stopped me. And as I ran my physical and metaphoric races, I began to realize that my chosen sport and unchosen condition shared many of the same traits.

Runners, for example, seem to have their own language — PR/PB (personal record, personal best), chip time (finishing time recorded by a small electronic chip), and distances of races like 5K, 10K and of course the 26.2-mile marathon. Cancer, too, has its own language, and terms like PET scan vs CT scans (imaging tools that help doctors pinpoint the location of cancer), stages of cancer, clinical trials and recurrence have become daily conversation points for me.

Runners cheer each other on. The fast ones who finish first populate the sidelines, cheering for those of us still running. Cancer patients do the same thing. During long and frightening days in the cancer center, you see people holding hands and clinging to each other.

Me, I usually huddle in the corner with my work e-mail, trying diligently to forget where I am. When I do talk to my fellow patients, I always hear good news — like the guy with lung cancer who was there alone because his wife couldn't handle it. He wasn't complaining; he was focused on his next vacation and on a recent Eagles game he'd seen.

His goal was not to worry his wife. Mine was more finite. I wanted to race and, like any runner, to win. And I did.

OK, it wasn't winning in the traditional sense. I didn't come in first that day last November; in fact, I crossed the finish line that day way in the back. But for me, it was a more towering personal victory than I could ever have imagined.

My close friend awaited me at the finish. Around the country, my parents, sister and brother were tracking me on the race's Web site. When it crashed, my sister tracked down my friend to find out how I was, how I looked and if I had finished. My brother the doctor, my brother the marathoner, told me later that he was "sweating bullets."

Early this year, two months after I finished the race, I finished chemotherapy. My first post-chemo scan was in April. I would have done just about anything for positive news. And I thought I had done everything right.

On April 15, exactly one year from the first recurrence, the scan showed "uptake" — one of the words thatcancer patients don't want to hear.

It means doctors are seeing "something" — maybe scar tissue, maybe a reaction to the shots, perhaps more cancer. In my case, the uptake was in both the thyroid and melanoma sites. That meant it could be a simultaneous recurrence of both cancers. Every doctor I spoke to said that would be all but unbelievable. And yet suddenly possible.

The news came back a few days later. The good: I did not have both cancers again. And the bad: The melanoma was back.

A day later, I ran. It had become what I do, how I fight back, how I shake my fist and press forward despite feeling like an unseen enemy is always following, always chasing.

It was a local race, only five miles, and I finished. I knew, however, that my metaphoric run — the one against an unseen enemy that just wouldn't go away — was only gearing up.

During the Chicago Marathon last year, which was held in brutal heat, a young man dropped to his knees a half mile before the finish line. Another runner ran by him, stopped, took a few steps back and said something to him.

The first man struggled to his feet. Together, they ran to the finish line.

I still wonder what the runner said to the man who was down that inspired him to get back up. I could use some of that.

___

I began this story with a run, and I end it with one. But first I must tell you about what happened in between.

It is not a happy ending. But neither is it entirely bleak, and in that I find hope.

For me, the summer of 2008 was not a good one. From May to August, I did not run at all. Radiation therapykneecapped me and a debilitating round of chemo made sure I stayed down. For the first time, I lost a significant amount of weight — 15 pounds.

I now feel as if I know what it's like to be in a coma. I called in sick for four days — something I never do — and slept for 15 hours each day. Nothing I ate stayed down.

I was enveloped by my illness. It was controlling me. The fatigue was so intense, the sleep so deep that it was as if a chunk of my life was sucked away. I rose only to take a shower. One afternoon I tried to make tea and slept through the kettle's whistle. I awoke to the kettle burned dry to the stove and belching smoke. I had few conversations; that took too much energy. A trip to the grocery store was overwhelming.

One night around 5 p.m., as I was getting back in bed and closing the shades, I saw neighbors firing up their grills for a summer dinner. I felt as if I was slipping away from the world I knew. I would ask myself: Is this what it's like to die?

One recent day, I met with my doctors. They told me I looked frail. I felt frail. But I responded in a way that, by now, will probably not surprise you:

I ran.

The morning I did, in August, was exactly three months after surgery and 19 days after my treatment ended.

What, I wondered, would happen? I felt slow and stiff. I felt thankfulness and I felt hope — hope that I could do the run after all, hope that the drugs had worked and the cancer was gone.

I powered up my iPod. The same song came on as I had heard during that run last year — a day that now feels as if it happened a lifetime ago. I listened to the lyrics, and they penetrated my brain:

"Won't be long now. Getting strong now. Gonna fly now."

My goal was to run a half-mile without stopping — a small goal in the running world but a big one in the universe I now occupied. The one that mattered most.

I ran two miles. Yes, it took more than a half hour. Yes, it was difficult. But I expected it to be harder. And I didn't expect it to be quite so ... exhilarating. I was not shuffling around, not in a hospital bed or sick from drugs or closing the blinds at 5 p.m. and leaving the world behind. I was outside, and I was running.

I wish I could tell you that the surgery and the drugs worked. But I don't know yet if that's the case. I am setting smaller goals these days, in both my running and my life. My aspirations are more compact than they once were, but they still loom large. My reach, I hope, still exceeds my grasp.

I'd be lying if I told you my future wasn't cloudy. But aren't all futures? My two races are, today, being run in parallel fashion. I am racing against cancer and against my own clock. Under the most adverse of conditions, I am becoming a decent runner.

Few things unfold exactly as planned, it turns out. And now, though I am weakened, I am stronger, too. I can handle more, appreciate more, understand more about the world around me. I can cope with the unknown, too; I'm not happy about it, but I am capable.

And I fight. It's an old metaphor, but it's all I have. I'm fighting to become a runner and a healthy person, and giving up either fight is not an option. I may be in the back of the line for the moment, but I am running two races. I am a dedicated runner now, and I plan on finishing both.

Exactly as planned.

Mild Aggravation

Busy weekend. Started on the pig winter house. Lost the tape measure somewhere. Also lost the hose nozzle that goes to the pig pasture. And lost two chickens -- it looks like a fisher cat peeled back some of the poultry wire around the coop and killed them. I stapled it up as best as I could, but suspect I won't sleep too well tonight, listening for clucking roosters.

Gotten reacquainted with another book project tonight. More when there's a contract. I suspect I'd better sell books for pleasure before people start buying them for fuel.

Down into the 20s tonight. The cold is coming.

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.

Harvesting

Harvesting potatoes, tomatoes, beans and carrots. While trying to keep goats out of harvest.

Taking goats for long walks. Fence charger blew up during the last storm. Enough voltage to keep pigs inside the pen (thank God) but not so great for goats.

Dealing with crazed tourists wanting more green eggs. I offered to hook them up to a battery charger to amp up production. They wanted to know if that would actually work.

Columbus Day Weekend. It's the second -- or maybe third -- craziest-making holiday of the year.

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

Is It Just Vermont People?

We're off to look at another goat this weekend. But here's something interesting from today's Wall Street Journal ...

For every person paralyzed by fear or blissfully in denial, there was another leaping into action to preserve what amounted to the fruits of a lifetime of work.

Carolyn Sloane, a 43-year-old paralegal in Wallingford, Vt., officially marked the end of the bull market by investing in cows. Ms. Sloane has been playing the stock market since 1989, but the rattling of Wall Street, she said, gave her a "desire for hard assets." She recently sold all of her stocks and bailed out of mutual funds, and put part of the money in certificates of deposit. But she also wanted the kind of assets she could see in her own yard, so she bought three cows, two of which were delivered on Sunday.

"This is my commodity play," she told perplexed relatives.

Her plan is to breed the cows, black-and-white Belted Galloways.

"When they have offspring, that's your dividend."

An Update

Feels like forever since I've blogged.

They say dogs become a lot more like their owners over time. This is probably true, unless you own border collies. Then, I suspect, you become a lot more like your dogs over time. Today was very much a Pepper sort of day.

Woke up around 545a, giving myself time to take a shower. Dropped the boys off at school and was in Brattleboro by 730a. Picked up some groceries and bought a couple of new tires to go with the snazzy new windshield I needed to pass inspection. Drove by the feed store on the way out of town and picked up eight bags of pig, chicken and goat feed.

Home by 930a, at the inspection station by 10a, where I realized ... I didn't have my registration.

Most non-border collie humans would've punted. Gotten it another day. Nope. I ran into Bennington, on the other side of the state, and got the car registered. Stopped by Wal Mart to grab a new pair of jeans and some miscellaneous things -- new oven light, drinks for the kids, light bulbs, etc. Home by noon, plugged away on the day job until 6p, chasing stuff in circles. Fed chickens and got two dozen eggs. They've been on a tear this week.

Ran out with Lisa to get the pig bucket -- pumpkins, corn tortillas, tomatoes and lettuce, a real cornicupia! Fed pigs, fed goats. Back to the day job for a few hours.

Hell, I wish I just had to chase sheep.

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 ...

No Country for Middle-Aged Men

... just watched "No Country for Old Men" on DVD.

Wow. I'm having West Texas flashbacks.

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.