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Below is an op-ed piece that appears in the Nov. 11, 2008 New York Times. Today I also begin a short section on Holocaust Studies in my World of Ideas class at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, and I'll provide a little information about the Treaty of Versailles which was signed in June of 1919. So I thought this might be an appropriate piece for all of us to read. Your blogmeister, DeWitt Clinton
from The New York Times
November 11, 2008
Op-Ed Contributor
A Holiday to End All Wars
By ALEXANDER WATSON
Cambridge, England
TODAY is the 90th anniversary of the armistice that ended the First World War, and it will be commemorated very differently on each side of the Atlantic and across the borders of Europe. It’s a reminder that not all “victors” experience wars in the same way, and that their citizens can have almost as much difficulty as those of the vanquished states in coping with the collective trauma of conflict.
For Americans, Veterans Day celebrates the survivors of all the nation’s 20th and 21st century wars. In France and Britain, by contrast, the mood is altogether more somber. In these countries, it is the dead who, since 1919, have been the focus of the ceremonies.
Why this difference? After all, for citizens of all three countries the date marks a shared victory. In the jargon of the time, Nov. 11, 1918, was the day of their soldiers’ triumph over “Prussian militarism,” the vindication of a “fight for civilization” and the successful finish of a “war to end all wars.”
In the years after the war, official ceremonies in the United States reflected these victorious ideals and celebrated “world peace” — it was only after World War II that the day was dedicated specifically to veterans. The touchstone of loss and suffering for Americans remained the Civil War, the world’s first industrial conflict, which 50 years before World War I had taken the lives of more than 600,000 soldiers. Memorial Day (or as it was originally known, Decoration Day) was first instituted in May during the late 1860s to commemorate these fallen.
In contrast, it was only in August 1914 that the horrors and shock of modern warfare came to Europe. The Great War, as the conflict is still known in France and Britain, was a prolonged and vicious struggle demanding the commitment of nations’ wealth and manpower on an unprecedented scale.
Over four years, armies millions of men strong clashed indecisively in horrendous conditions. For the first time on this scale, genuine home fronts formed, as civilians were targets of bombings and food blockades. British war losses, at more than 700,000 men, remain the heaviest in the country’s history. French and German dead were even more numerous, totaling 1.4 million and likely 2 million, respectively.
It was the need to come to terms with this immense loss of life that shaped European commemorations of Nov. 11. On the armistice’s first anniversary in Britain, a two-minute silence was observed at 11 a.m., the time the fighting ended; industry was shut down, traffic halted and people across the country fell quiet to remember the nation’s dead. In France, public grief was expressed more loudly, local communities gathering every armistice day to hear the names of the dead read out by a war orphan, and responding in unison, “mort pour la patrie” — “died for his country.”
Cenotaphs were built to comfort the bereaved whose relatives had no known resting place — the bodies of hundreds of thousands of men had been lost on the battlefield or eviscerated by shellfire. In 1920, “Unknown Warriors” were chosen and entombed in London and Paris; Rome followed suit in 1921.
In towns and villages more modest memorials and plaques to the fallen were erected, becoming an enduring feature of Europe’s landscape. At veterans’ insistence, Nov. 11 was declared a national holiday in France in 1922, and Germany too introduced an official “people’s day of sorrow,” or Volkstrauertag, in 1925 to honor its war dead.
Today, the commemoration of Nov. 11 varies greatly across Europe. For Poles, the holiday is not a day of mourning but rather of celebration, commemorating the rebirth of their nation in 1918 after more than a century of occupation by Austria-Hungary, Prussia and Russia. In Italy, the war dead are remembered on Nov. 4, “the feast of the fallen,” the day in 1918 that fighting came to an end on its battlefront. Across Central Europe though, the greater horrors of the Second World War have subsumed those of its predecessor within popular memory; in Germany, for example, commemoration of the Holocaust and other Nazi atrocities now takes precedence over the losses of the last century’s first conflagration.
Yet in France, where the death toll of 1914 to 1918 exceeded that of 1939 to 1945, the dead of World War I retain a strong grip on the national conscience. Across the country today, local mayors will lead remembrance services, the names of long-buried soldiers will be read out, military bands will play and citizens will sing “La Marseillaise.”
In Britain, where an estimated three-quarters of the population paused during the two-minute silence on the armistice’s 80th anniversary and where, in 2002, a BBC poll rated the Unknown Warrior as the country’s 76th greatest citizen, public memory of the war is even stronger. Visit the country (or its former dominions including Canada and New Zealand) in November and you will still see paper poppies being widely worn — a reference to the blood-red flowers which grew on the shell-torn battlefields and to John McCrae’s poem “In Flanders Fields.”
The brainchild of an American educator, Moina Michael, the poppies have been sold since 1921 to support war widows and veterans; a record 37 million were purchased in Britain in 2006. Even 90 years after the war’s end, the rites and symbols of what George Kennan termed “the great seminal catastrophe” of the 20th century retain their poignancy.
Alexander Watson is a research fellow at Cambridge University and the author of “Enduring the Great War.”
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
My Friends, Our Long National Nightmare is Over
MY FRIENDS, OUR LONG NATIONAL NIGHTMARE IS OVER
Somewhere in the hazy craw of childhood memory, I can still see Dwight Eisenhower “inspecting the troops,” a Boy Scout Jamboree somewhere in safe Republican Kansas in the late 1950’s. I’m sure, as nearly always, he “carried” Kansas in the Electoral Votes, but I do recall someone saying how he scowled at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy. I’ll admit I can still see Tricky Dick, but mostly due to the occasional documentaries on History Channel, as well as a slightly improved memory of his decision to bomb Cambodia, to prowl around in Democratic offices looking for scuttlebutt, and being somewhat paralyzed, as we all might have been who are still alive, by the Watergate Hearings.
Those Victory hands still pop up occasionally in my abdulla oblongata, or somewhere up there, when I see presidential candidates ascend or descend from planes from various political trips made across the world, or here in the U.S. I’ll admit I remember more from President Ford on Saturday Night Live, than I do of his presidency, but mostly I connect a few wires to the Fall of Saigon, and the Aftermath, which is still a nightmare.
Mostly, I remember Ronald Reagan as amusing, as someone who didn’t seem to attack civil liberties, or undermine the Constitution, though we still need to investigate more of the Iran Contra scandal, though most of us would just like to forget it, but perhaps not the Nicaraguans. For eight years we lived under his doting leadership, and though the specific days are just about as hazy as when Dwight Eisenhower walked by, we probably did not seem to revile the actor, but we tolerated him, knowing he earned the respect one has to accept for a landslide victory, or was it two?
George Elder was a statesman I suppose, and though no one wants to really consider that Kuwait was a legal province of Iraq before European powers separated it from the northern provinces, shortly after WWI, I still sense that George Elder was not motivated by madness as his son would be regarding who actually owns the oil fields. So as poor as my memory is, life under Republican presidents up to George the Younger was not miserable, in fact, some of those days since Dwight must have been pretty good.
But that all changed eight years ago today. I can remember “Florida, Florida, Florida,” as Tim Russet so ably put it. And then we were off to the Supreme Court to decide who would lead us into the Age of Terror(ism). The memory of 9/11/1001 is, of course, burned, singed on all of our memories, much more than any aching memory of being overrun by North Vietnamese regular Army soldiers who captured for a few minutes one mountain top somewhere in South East Asia. Soon, without precedent (perhaps I can be corrected on this) we learned that all laws and justice, a bit to our surprise, would emanate from the White House, even if they were illegal and unprecedented.
Soon we were going to muscle our way against the world, intimidating everyone, as if we were not behind George the Younger, then we were against him. Actually I didn’t want to be behind him, or in front of him, as he was such an intimidating cowboy with such unusual swagger and smirk. Well, I’m no White House historian, but looking back, it seems like the eye of Hurricane Katrina was actually hovering inside George Bush’s Office, and so the level of devastation and destruction is nearly impossible to record, but many writers will begin the herculean task.
Our world shrank after the dismissal of the Kyoto Accords, and whether it was graft, or stupidity, or just proof that absolute power does corrupt even born again Christians, to a certain degree, (and you can decide how much), we became an old crumbling Roman Empire, with too many enemies from too many borders. But last night something changed, a sea shifted, and so without tearing up, I’m just glad to have lasted as long as we all did in our makeshift foxholes. Perhaps we can join other earthlings in learning how to live together again.
Somewhere in the hazy craw of childhood memory, I can still see Dwight Eisenhower “inspecting the troops,” a Boy Scout Jamboree somewhere in safe Republican Kansas in the late 1950’s. I’m sure, as nearly always, he “carried” Kansas in the Electoral Votes, but I do recall someone saying how he scowled at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy. I’ll admit I can still see Tricky Dick, but mostly due to the occasional documentaries on History Channel, as well as a slightly improved memory of his decision to bomb Cambodia, to prowl around in Democratic offices looking for scuttlebutt, and being somewhat paralyzed, as we all might have been who are still alive, by the Watergate Hearings.
Those Victory hands still pop up occasionally in my abdulla oblongata, or somewhere up there, when I see presidential candidates ascend or descend from planes from various political trips made across the world, or here in the U.S. I’ll admit I remember more from President Ford on Saturday Night Live, than I do of his presidency, but mostly I connect a few wires to the Fall of Saigon, and the Aftermath, which is still a nightmare.
Mostly, I remember Ronald Reagan as amusing, as someone who didn’t seem to attack civil liberties, or undermine the Constitution, though we still need to investigate more of the Iran Contra scandal, though most of us would just like to forget it, but perhaps not the Nicaraguans. For eight years we lived under his doting leadership, and though the specific days are just about as hazy as when Dwight Eisenhower walked by, we probably did not seem to revile the actor, but we tolerated him, knowing he earned the respect one has to accept for a landslide victory, or was it two?
George Elder was a statesman I suppose, and though no one wants to really consider that Kuwait was a legal province of Iraq before European powers separated it from the northern provinces, shortly after WWI, I still sense that George Elder was not motivated by madness as his son would be regarding who actually owns the oil fields. So as poor as my memory is, life under Republican presidents up to George the Younger was not miserable, in fact, some of those days since Dwight must have been pretty good.
But that all changed eight years ago today. I can remember “Florida, Florida, Florida,” as Tim Russet so ably put it. And then we were off to the Supreme Court to decide who would lead us into the Age of Terror(ism). The memory of 9/11/1001 is, of course, burned, singed on all of our memories, much more than any aching memory of being overrun by North Vietnamese regular Army soldiers who captured for a few minutes one mountain top somewhere in South East Asia. Soon, without precedent (perhaps I can be corrected on this) we learned that all laws and justice, a bit to our surprise, would emanate from the White House, even if they were illegal and unprecedented.
Soon we were going to muscle our way against the world, intimidating everyone, as if we were not behind George the Younger, then we were against him. Actually I didn’t want to be behind him, or in front of him, as he was such an intimidating cowboy with such unusual swagger and smirk. Well, I’m no White House historian, but looking back, it seems like the eye of Hurricane Katrina was actually hovering inside George Bush’s Office, and so the level of devastation and destruction is nearly impossible to record, but many writers will begin the herculean task.
Our world shrank after the dismissal of the Kyoto Accords, and whether it was graft, or stupidity, or just proof that absolute power does corrupt even born again Christians, to a certain degree, (and you can decide how much), we became an old crumbling Roman Empire, with too many enemies from too many borders. But last night something changed, a sea shifted, and so without tearing up, I’m just glad to have lasted as long as we all did in our makeshift foxholes. Perhaps we can join other earthlings in learning how to live together again.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Just in Case II
Just in Case, Chapter II
Just as everyone I see has shorter fingernails, and other signs of an expected crisis, I now realize we may have to reconsider moving to an abandoned nuclear silo, or nest of silos, to live out our days as deprived democrats. However, I do have some good news regarding the General Election. We have made new arrangements to launch a NASA space vehicle to the planet Uranus which we have heard on good authority has no RNC (Republican National Committee) offices, or even better, no lobbyists. Sadly, the planet also does not have any DNC offices, so we’d be pretty much on our own out there. So we are rounding up all those who’d like to take the life journey with us, and though we are moving into our senior years, we’re not too worried about arriving when we are over 200 years old, as the opportunities are just too great to pass up. Some of you may be wondering where we will launch, and I can say, unofficially, we have reconnoitered a downtown skyscraper scheduled for demolition and we’ve been rebuilding the launch vehicle in the old elevator shaft. Of course if the Election does go haywire sometime around the last Florida votes are counted, we realize the possibility of a few downtown buildings buckling and collapsing as we make quite a bit of boom boom as we skedaddle out of town.
We’ve actually been receiving bon voyage cards, so many are asking about our supplies for the 140 year trip. Definitely, we’re thinking of a dairy herd, as who’d want to go without cheese that long, but we do wonder how many pots and pans we’d need for a few wheels of Colby or Cheddar. We’re also thinking about a barn full of hay for our high flying mo-mo’s. I actually have some farm experience, so we’re taking a field of broccoli sprouts, as well as a number of other stable vegetables that will get us through until we land sometime in 2208 or maybe, if we’re lucky with wind speed, 2206. Right now we’re trying to figure out the formula for converting soy beans into soy burgers, but I’m sure it’ll come to us soon. We’ve also asked the local bakery if they’d supply us for say, a long trip to Uranus, with a variety of loaves, just to keep us happy and contented. Butter is no problem, as we can call upon or Holsteins to change their routine every now and then.
We also have plenty of room for a menagerie of beasts and fowl, so we are now scouring the far corners for some of our favorite critters. We’ve spotted rare red-beaked cranes flying through the DMZ between North and South Korea, and they’re expected, well, we’ll keep the doors open until the very last minute as we very much would like their company on our long flight. We’ve also asked our botanist friends what would transport well, so we’re making a list of plants and small growing things that we just shouldn’t do without. Oh yes, we’re negotiating right now for a truckload of bottled Evian, though it’s a bit pricy buying wholesale.
Many are wondering about our opportunities in a place where no Republicans or Democrats have ever been spotted. Of course we’ll open a listening post, in case any wish to follow our flight path, but for the most part, we expect a lot of hiking, and we’re told, on very good authority, that a herd of Blue Point Siamese are looking for a trainer, so I am taking a few extra “cat dancers” toys to see if I might apply for the position. My wife is right now packing away all of her pastels and water colors as we’ve also heard the planet is looking for a good visualist who can capture the radiant colors for a travel-to-Uranus campaign offer that is just too good to turn down.
Of course we’re packing favorite books, and yes the Tibetan Book of the Dead is at the top of our list, along with a few verses of Genesis (we like the Noah story), the Bhagavad-Gita, who couldn’t travel without that wonderful story, and of course, our subscription to The New Yorker. My wife has asked if we can’t add a few catalogs, in case we get an internet link and can do some on-line shopping as we speed by the planets.
We’ll be working right up until November 4, and we’ll even calculate a delay if the Supreme Court has to decide, again, who will capture the White House. We do have a few seats left, but please, if you do want to consider travelling with us, be sure to bring a few peanut butter and jellys as it could be a long ride. I’ve also been speculating on inviting a few young people to come aboard, something like Lot’s daughters, just in case we need to keep the population growing as we sail into our future. The details of that are still a bit iffy, as we’ve not worked out a good enticement offer. But you’re invited, so just email us your arrival plans, and I’d suggest only one piece of luggage with one carry-on please. Yes, we’re serving chocolate cookies as Midwest Express has arranged for us to buy all of their jet engine fuel, as long as we promised to take pictures of any new planetary airports for future expansion plans.
Oh, yes, of course, we’ll shut down the launch engines if enough blue states can carry us into a new era. Yes, we’d still have those lobbyists, and those nastier than usual Repubs, but perhaps we can find a way to all get along, at least until another General Election. So wish us well, be sure to vote, cross your fingers and toes, and take a few good deep yoga breaths. It’ll all work out, someway.
Just as everyone I see has shorter fingernails, and other signs of an expected crisis, I now realize we may have to reconsider moving to an abandoned nuclear silo, or nest of silos, to live out our days as deprived democrats. However, I do have some good news regarding the General Election. We have made new arrangements to launch a NASA space vehicle to the planet Uranus which we have heard on good authority has no RNC (Republican National Committee) offices, or even better, no lobbyists. Sadly, the planet also does not have any DNC offices, so we’d be pretty much on our own out there. So we are rounding up all those who’d like to take the life journey with us, and though we are moving into our senior years, we’re not too worried about arriving when we are over 200 years old, as the opportunities are just too great to pass up. Some of you may be wondering where we will launch, and I can say, unofficially, we have reconnoitered a downtown skyscraper scheduled for demolition and we’ve been rebuilding the launch vehicle in the old elevator shaft. Of course if the Election does go haywire sometime around the last Florida votes are counted, we realize the possibility of a few downtown buildings buckling and collapsing as we make quite a bit of boom boom as we skedaddle out of town.
We’ve actually been receiving bon voyage cards, so many are asking about our supplies for the 140 year trip. Definitely, we’re thinking of a dairy herd, as who’d want to go without cheese that long, but we do wonder how many pots and pans we’d need for a few wheels of Colby or Cheddar. We’re also thinking about a barn full of hay for our high flying mo-mo’s. I actually have some farm experience, so we’re taking a field of broccoli sprouts, as well as a number of other stable vegetables that will get us through until we land sometime in 2208 or maybe, if we’re lucky with wind speed, 2206. Right now we’re trying to figure out the formula for converting soy beans into soy burgers, but I’m sure it’ll come to us soon. We’ve also asked the local bakery if they’d supply us for say, a long trip to Uranus, with a variety of loaves, just to keep us happy and contented. Butter is no problem, as we can call upon or Holsteins to change their routine every now and then.
We also have plenty of room for a menagerie of beasts and fowl, so we are now scouring the far corners for some of our favorite critters. We’ve spotted rare red-beaked cranes flying through the DMZ between North and South Korea, and they’re expected, well, we’ll keep the doors open until the very last minute as we very much would like their company on our long flight. We’ve also asked our botanist friends what would transport well, so we’re making a list of plants and small growing things that we just shouldn’t do without. Oh yes, we’re negotiating right now for a truckload of bottled Evian, though it’s a bit pricy buying wholesale.
Many are wondering about our opportunities in a place where no Republicans or Democrats have ever been spotted. Of course we’ll open a listening post, in case any wish to follow our flight path, but for the most part, we expect a lot of hiking, and we’re told, on very good authority, that a herd of Blue Point Siamese are looking for a trainer, so I am taking a few extra “cat dancers” toys to see if I might apply for the position. My wife is right now packing away all of her pastels and water colors as we’ve also heard the planet is looking for a good visualist who can capture the radiant colors for a travel-to-Uranus campaign offer that is just too good to turn down.
Of course we’re packing favorite books, and yes the Tibetan Book of the Dead is at the top of our list, along with a few verses of Genesis (we like the Noah story), the Bhagavad-Gita, who couldn’t travel without that wonderful story, and of course, our subscription to The New Yorker. My wife has asked if we can’t add a few catalogs, in case we get an internet link and can do some on-line shopping as we speed by the planets.
We’ll be working right up until November 4, and we’ll even calculate a delay if the Supreme Court has to decide, again, who will capture the White House. We do have a few seats left, but please, if you do want to consider travelling with us, be sure to bring a few peanut butter and jellys as it could be a long ride. I’ve also been speculating on inviting a few young people to come aboard, something like Lot’s daughters, just in case we need to keep the population growing as we sail into our future. The details of that are still a bit iffy, as we’ve not worked out a good enticement offer. But you’re invited, so just email us your arrival plans, and I’d suggest only one piece of luggage with one carry-on please. Yes, we’re serving chocolate cookies as Midwest Express has arranged for us to buy all of their jet engine fuel, as long as we promised to take pictures of any new planetary airports for future expansion plans.
Oh, yes, of course, we’ll shut down the launch engines if enough blue states can carry us into a new era. Yes, we’d still have those lobbyists, and those nastier than usual Repubs, but perhaps we can find a way to all get along, at least until another General Election. So wish us well, be sure to vote, cross your fingers and toes, and take a few good deep yoga breaths. It’ll all work out, someway.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Just in Case
Just in Case (Plan B)
Just in case Dems are swindled (“the Bradley effect”) out of another General Election, I’ve decided to form a “more perfect union,” though I’m still struggling where to either buy or rent land for the new Capitol. Yes, of course we would have a foreign policy, and as well, something domestic, but perhaps these will not be priorities in the new Administration.
I’m currently searching on Google Maps for the closest (from Milwaukee, Wisconsin) underground nuclear silo, or nest of silos, as a possible site for the new Clintonia, as historians might refer to it someday. In many respects, this perfect union will be like a much-looked-forward-to sequel to another Governor’s “Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines” with of course creatures identified as female terminators, aka T-Xers or “Terminatrixes,” as Republicanators.
Yes, we’ll have a farm policy but to the surprise of the new electorate of disenchanted Dems, we’ll need to establish soy as the new protein base, allowing the atmosphere above Clintonia to cleanse itself of bovine gases, which may take a decade or two. (Note: we may need to sell all our beef to foreign governments to raise cash for our new Treasury, but perhaps we should keep the dairy herds, for who doesn’t like Cheese Heads? This loss of beef may disappoint carnivorous Dems, but to appease the masses, I’ve found a supply of Kikkoman soy sauce with a big distributor in Wisconsin which would add a dash of flavor to the poor legumes. Some have suggested we plant acres of broccoli, perhaps to honor another Rebublicanator, the great George W. Bush ’41, who had much to say about the cultivated cruciferous plant.
But on to the more important business of running the “perfect union.” We will form Departments and Agencies, though in a brief review of who will immediately be living in the nest of silos, we can’t have as many “heads” as our new space will be quite restricted. Our first mission, however, will be to set sail for Cuba not only due to the amiable amigos, but because the warm waters will be therapeutic to all those who suffered through the disaster known as the 08 Debacle.
I can say this with some authority that we will move the National Endowment for the Arts up to the Department level, and perhaps expect our new citizens to partake in the artistic life of the new Clintonia with more verve and enthusiasm, reading not one book every year, but possibly two. Since we’ll be producing soy beans by the ton, perhaps even able to export the little ones, we might not need an Agriculture Department, but let’s keep a slot open in Interior for someone who likes trees, oxygen, polar bears and arctic ice, some of my favorite agenda items we’ll want to defend in the next Administration.
As to Commerce, we’ll all need to know how to better add and subtract from our checkbooks, with no overdrafts anymore, as we just can’t afford it in this more “perfect union.” Perhaps we can use a TYME machine for our national bank. As to Justice, crime will diminish, I’m certain, as we’ll melt down all known weapons of both mass and individual destruction, so everyone will have to learn the art of debate and diplomacy all over again, in case they missed it in the 10th Grade! I admit I favor Al Gore for the Department of Energy. Is anybody really going to challenge that?
We can expect a new Department of Sports, and to everyone’s shock and awe, we’ll be making “triathlon” the new national sport, with everyone taking swims, rides or jogs on a much more individual, and group, basis. This will cut down the need for Health and Human Services, but we will probably have to open a few clinics for those who keep falling off of their new bikes with clip shoes, or for those who suck in too much lake water while trying to learn the Crawl. Soon the country will experience national fever for their new tri team.
We have much to do everyone. Someone should try to find a good zerox machine, but perhaps we can all stay in touch with a My Space account. Now, we do need to designate who’s cooking dinner on what nights, and who’s willing to wash up after. The little ones will need to be taken care of, so we will need lots of dads and moms to volunteer some play time on a regular basis. Anything else? Oh, I almost forgot, we’ll want to make an open invitation for Barak and his family and all of his election team to join us, perhaps in Havana, for a farewell to the old country, and a HooRaw for the new Republic. If the weather is nice, we just might make Havana our winter White House. In case the Election is favorable, however, and we all hope it will be, we’ll put all these ideas down the silo, and cap it until we face another bleak “End Times.”
Just in case Dems are swindled (“the Bradley effect”) out of another General Election, I’ve decided to form a “more perfect union,” though I’m still struggling where to either buy or rent land for the new Capitol. Yes, of course we would have a foreign policy, and as well, something domestic, but perhaps these will not be priorities in the new Administration.
I’m currently searching on Google Maps for the closest (from Milwaukee, Wisconsin) underground nuclear silo, or nest of silos, as a possible site for the new Clintonia, as historians might refer to it someday. In many respects, this perfect union will be like a much-looked-forward-to sequel to another Governor’s “Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines” with of course creatures identified as female terminators, aka T-Xers or “Terminatrixes,” as Republicanators.
Yes, we’ll have a farm policy but to the surprise of the new electorate of disenchanted Dems, we’ll need to establish soy as the new protein base, allowing the atmosphere above Clintonia to cleanse itself of bovine gases, which may take a decade or two. (Note: we may need to sell all our beef to foreign governments to raise cash for our new Treasury, but perhaps we should keep the dairy herds, for who doesn’t like Cheese Heads? This loss of beef may disappoint carnivorous Dems, but to appease the masses, I’ve found a supply of Kikkoman soy sauce with a big distributor in Wisconsin which would add a dash of flavor to the poor legumes. Some have suggested we plant acres of broccoli, perhaps to honor another Rebublicanator, the great George W. Bush ’41, who had much to say about the cultivated cruciferous plant.
But on to the more important business of running the “perfect union.” We will form Departments and Agencies, though in a brief review of who will immediately be living in the nest of silos, we can’t have as many “heads” as our new space will be quite restricted. Our first mission, however, will be to set sail for Cuba not only due to the amiable amigos, but because the warm waters will be therapeutic to all those who suffered through the disaster known as the 08 Debacle.
I can say this with some authority that we will move the National Endowment for the Arts up to the Department level, and perhaps expect our new citizens to partake in the artistic life of the new Clintonia with more verve and enthusiasm, reading not one book every year, but possibly two. Since we’ll be producing soy beans by the ton, perhaps even able to export the little ones, we might not need an Agriculture Department, but let’s keep a slot open in Interior for someone who likes trees, oxygen, polar bears and arctic ice, some of my favorite agenda items we’ll want to defend in the next Administration.
As to Commerce, we’ll all need to know how to better add and subtract from our checkbooks, with no overdrafts anymore, as we just can’t afford it in this more “perfect union.” Perhaps we can use a TYME machine for our national bank. As to Justice, crime will diminish, I’m certain, as we’ll melt down all known weapons of both mass and individual destruction, so everyone will have to learn the art of debate and diplomacy all over again, in case they missed it in the 10th Grade! I admit I favor Al Gore for the Department of Energy. Is anybody really going to challenge that?
We can expect a new Department of Sports, and to everyone’s shock and awe, we’ll be making “triathlon” the new national sport, with everyone taking swims, rides or jogs on a much more individual, and group, basis. This will cut down the need for Health and Human Services, but we will probably have to open a few clinics for those who keep falling off of their new bikes with clip shoes, or for those who suck in too much lake water while trying to learn the Crawl. Soon the country will experience national fever for their new tri team.
We have much to do everyone. Someone should try to find a good zerox machine, but perhaps we can all stay in touch with a My Space account. Now, we do need to designate who’s cooking dinner on what nights, and who’s willing to wash up after. The little ones will need to be taken care of, so we will need lots of dads and moms to volunteer some play time on a regular basis. Anything else? Oh, I almost forgot, we’ll want to make an open invitation for Barak and his family and all of his election team to join us, perhaps in Havana, for a farewell to the old country, and a HooRaw for the new Republic. If the weather is nice, we just might make Havana our winter White House. In case the Election is favorable, however, and we all hope it will be, we’ll put all these ideas down the silo, and cap it until we face another bleak “End Times.”
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Doomsday Machine May End Earth as We Know it With All of Us Spinning in a Black Hole, Forever
If you are interested in sub-atomic particle theory, as I am, the news of the Hadron Collider starting its engine today is too much to pass by. Many news outlets are stoking the improbable (probable) fear that our planet will be sucked into a new Black Hole that could escape from the underground Collider. For background, please scroll down this blog to March 27, 2008 for background on philosophical perspectives on this ominous day, only hours before the anniversary of September 11, 2001.
Ten things I’d like to do before being evaporated into a black hole by the Big Hadron Collider
1. Cast an early vote for the Presidential race.
2. Ride the Amtrak coast to coast.
3. Hike through Hungary with a food critic.
4. Hike the modestly difficult trails in Zion National Park.
5. Swim around Manhattan Island sans stinging jellyfish.
6. Read another good book.
7. Write another great poem .
8. Orchestrate orgasms for everyone of appropriate age.
9. Refrain from grading any more papers.
10. Review Hebrew lessons.
Ten things we might all want to do before being evaporated into a black hole by the Big Hadron Collider
1. Review rules for early voting.
2. Start digging a “black hole” shelter.
3. Contact everyone we’ve ever known and tell them how wonderful it was to know them.
4. Explore possibilities of being launched into space on a commuter flight.
5. Review rules of geometry, and, if possible, sub-atomic particle theory.
6. Invite everyone over for a feast, even if it is dark out.
7. Stop by the science store, and buy a telescope of any power, for possible gazing.
8. Make plans to move into your bank vault, if #2 is not feasible.
9. Kiss Kiss Kiss everyone you possibly can.
10. If time permits, review the Tao de Ching.
Ten things I wish I had done before being evaporated into a black hole by the Big Hadron Collider
1. Walked down and walked back up The Grand Canyon more often.
2. Held my mother and father when they left this Earth for good.
3. Visited with the Dalai Lama about human suffering with a chai latte.
4. Came in last in the Beijing Olympic Triathlon.
5. Raced on a horse in the Il Palio Festival in Siena, Italy.
6. Helped more students to write more amazingly.
7. Been chummier with my siblings.
8. Loved my sweet heart more.
9. Invested in a local Greek restaurant.
10. Talked with Socrates more.
Ten things I wish we had not done before being evaporated into a black hole by the Big Hadron Collider
1. Not elected so many Republicans into office.
2. Learned how to speak with the larger insect, bird and animal world.
3. Not invented weapons of mass destruction.
4. Not discovered ways to murder each other.
5. Not abandoned Africa.
6. Not discovered oil.
7. Not invaded countries.
8. Became better listeners and diplomats.
9. Not let a country be controlled by influential lobbyists.
10. Learned how to save the polar ice shelves.
Ten things I’d like to do before being evaporated into a black hole by the Big Hadron Collider
1. Cast an early vote for the Presidential race.
2. Ride the Amtrak coast to coast.
3. Hike through Hungary with a food critic.
4. Hike the modestly difficult trails in Zion National Park.
5. Swim around Manhattan Island sans stinging jellyfish.
6. Read another good book.
7. Write another great poem .
8. Orchestrate orgasms for everyone of appropriate age.
9. Refrain from grading any more papers.
10. Review Hebrew lessons.
Ten things we might all want to do before being evaporated into a black hole by the Big Hadron Collider
1. Review rules for early voting.
2. Start digging a “black hole” shelter.
3. Contact everyone we’ve ever known and tell them how wonderful it was to know them.
4. Explore possibilities of being launched into space on a commuter flight.
5. Review rules of geometry, and, if possible, sub-atomic particle theory.
6. Invite everyone over for a feast, even if it is dark out.
7. Stop by the science store, and buy a telescope of any power, for possible gazing.
8. Make plans to move into your bank vault, if #2 is not feasible.
9. Kiss Kiss Kiss everyone you possibly can.
10. If time permits, review the Tao de Ching.
Ten things I wish I had done before being evaporated into a black hole by the Big Hadron Collider
1. Walked down and walked back up The Grand Canyon more often.
2. Held my mother and father when they left this Earth for good.
3. Visited with the Dalai Lama about human suffering with a chai latte.
4. Came in last in the Beijing Olympic Triathlon.
5. Raced on a horse in the Il Palio Festival in Siena, Italy.
6. Helped more students to write more amazingly.
7. Been chummier with my siblings.
8. Loved my sweet heart more.
9. Invested in a local Greek restaurant.
10. Talked with Socrates more.
Ten things I wish we had not done before being evaporated into a black hole by the Big Hadron Collider
1. Not elected so many Republicans into office.
2. Learned how to speak with the larger insect, bird and animal world.
3. Not invented weapons of mass destruction.
4. Not discovered ways to murder each other.
5. Not abandoned Africa.
6. Not discovered oil.
7. Not invaded countries.
8. Became better listeners and diplomats.
9. Not let a country be controlled by influential lobbyists.
10. Learned how to save the polar ice shelves.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Waiter, There's a Head in My Soup!
Waiter, there’s a head in my soup!
Do you faint in your soup bowl after donating blood? I usually do, in fact, I’ve been asked by one organization to never show up again, for I not only fainted on the cot while giving blood, but passed out later into the chicken soup. Physicians tend to call this phenom a vaso vagal syndrome or an even more syncopated term, a vaso vagal syncope.
A few days ago I had a real major syncope as I was minding my own business lying peacefully in a state of post spinal and general anesthesia as 70% of my pesky prostate had just been removed, when out of nowhere, really, nowhere, my heart beat and blood pressure starting dropping precipitously into never never land, and the nurses had to call in a quick response team. Of course I was all clammy, with my eyes rolling around in the back of my head, but other than that I was pretty peaceful. Everyone around me was not. Lots and lots of white coats. I was pulled back to this earth by an injection of atropine, and with that I resumed a “normal” heartbeat of about 44 beats. “What happened?” I asked. Dumb question. It’s a question I’ve been wondering about lately, for I’ve been fainting near pools of blood most of my life.
In high school I tried organizing a blood drive for my dad’s church or perhaps for a school event. Everything was going fine, at least in my distant memory of the early 1960’s, but I do remember landing in the soup bowl and being fished out by very kind blood donors. Years later, standing in line for a blood donation at college, I could hear the simple questions being asked of every student donor, and one question caught my ear, “have you ever fainted?” Of course I had had only one incident, but by the time I was seated for the “interview,” and the question asked, I bravely but oddly said no, then landed on the floor. I was not asked to return. My short life as a donor had a terrible track record. I pretty much gave up the idea, until a synagogue was sponsoring a blood drive, and surely an incident (really two) as a youth could not linger all the way into mid adult life, so I bravely volunteered, and wasn’t asked if I ever fainted. While on the bed giving blood, I left earth again. After being called back, what could be more refreshing than some hot chicken soup? Waiter, there’s a head in my soup!
Years ago, while exploring the writing life in Bowling Green, Ohio, I had a tooth extracted. The shock of losing an important body part was quite stressful, so I closed the door of our bedroom and just tried to accept the bloody hole in my mouth. I was quite good in the dentist’s office, with all of the right sedatives to dull the pain. My wonderful wife suggested as a pick me up, let’s go out for dinner. These were the pre-tofu days, when we were still licking our lips over baby back ribs. It was a wonderful evening, and the entire restaurant was doing great business on a Friday night. My wife decided to freshen up in the ladies’ room, and when she returned, our entire table had been cleaned of all unfinished dishes and drinks, as I had, Oh No, landed face down in the baby backs. Obviously, I was the town drunk, so management cleaned up the table, and me, and had propped me up against a bench near the exit door. The waitress was all smiles, and said our table had been “taken care of.” My wife didn’t quite know what had happened, but realized I had once again, aimed for the chicken soup, this time, a slower reaction to the surgical procedure of the afternoon.
So it’s like this, pretty much all my life, yet whenever it happens, I hardly know what’s going on, but others are certainly responding around the maelstrom. I’ve had other moments. I still recall getting an inoculation in a doctor’s office in Milwaukee years, even decades ago, and after the injection, the doctor left and said I could wait a few moments if I wanted to. He left, and later nurses found me on the floor, looking for soup I guess. They propped me up, and then left the room knowing I was okay; a few minutes later, they found me slumped all the way over in my chair. This happened years before the synagogue blood bank night. I admit I do get a little light headed when checking out the sales on the lowest shelf, and sometimes coming out of long yoga positions with my head way below my heart, if I come up to fast, well, I just look for a close wall.
But last Wednesday night I’ll admit was a doozy. But probably not any more of a scare for the hospital than when I went in, years ago, for a simple colonoscopy. After what I thought was a perfectly safe “black out” sleep, I was awakened by the attending physician who said, “We thought we lost you!” I calmly remarked “where did I go?” The procedure hadn’t even started, as I was given a good dose of Demerol. Now I wear a necklace with the good words, “no Demerol.” I had crashed so to speak, but in medical terms, I “experienced” an a systole. Flat liner. I’m not sure how long I was flat lined, but I still have some consciousness, so it couldn’t have been too long, right? Reaction to Demerol, right? But the attending doc might want to consider the old vaso vagal syndrome. The next time I went in for the same test five years later, the same doc said we’re going to do something different today. I actually got a little medicine that increased my heart rate, so I wouldn’t “drop” again into no no land. Things went swimmingly that time.
So, after my prostate was adjusted accordingly with a 70% reduction, I assumed we were all on green lights, but without anyone advising me otherwise, I did go all clammy, I did start flapping my arms, I did roll a few eyes, and then another black out, without soup. If this syndrome of mine should continue, I have been offered a tip-top table to experiment on, where the cardiologist places me on a surfing board completely horizontal, then vertical, then horizontal. Cool, kind of like the Gravitron ride at the circus where the drum is spinning so fast, the floor drops out from everyone’s feet. Then the skin sort of does the Mach 1 thing of flapping in the wind. Very cool. I might have to try it if this syndrome persists, but usually this occurs when I notice blood pools coagulating.
P.S. The pee is flowing like never before, at least in recent memory. The BPH or benign prostatic hyperplasia is pretty much gone. The surgical procedure, TURP or Transurethral (yep, that’s up the penis) Resection (yes, a creative word for removing organ matter) of the Prostate went very well. I didn’t stay awake to consult on this one. Before, the “stream” was like a garden hose after the water was turned off. Now, the stream is something like a red fire hose, and it feels like it, too. Strange how one can laugh while doing something so human.
Okay, enough of this. Next time will be visiting on something much more civilized.
Do you faint in your soup bowl after donating blood? I usually do, in fact, I’ve been asked by one organization to never show up again, for I not only fainted on the cot while giving blood, but passed out later into the chicken soup. Physicians tend to call this phenom a vaso vagal syndrome or an even more syncopated term, a vaso vagal syncope.
A few days ago I had a real major syncope as I was minding my own business lying peacefully in a state of post spinal and general anesthesia as 70% of my pesky prostate had just been removed, when out of nowhere, really, nowhere, my heart beat and blood pressure starting dropping precipitously into never never land, and the nurses had to call in a quick response team. Of course I was all clammy, with my eyes rolling around in the back of my head, but other than that I was pretty peaceful. Everyone around me was not. Lots and lots of white coats. I was pulled back to this earth by an injection of atropine, and with that I resumed a “normal” heartbeat of about 44 beats. “What happened?” I asked. Dumb question. It’s a question I’ve been wondering about lately, for I’ve been fainting near pools of blood most of my life.
In high school I tried organizing a blood drive for my dad’s church or perhaps for a school event. Everything was going fine, at least in my distant memory of the early 1960’s, but I do remember landing in the soup bowl and being fished out by very kind blood donors. Years later, standing in line for a blood donation at college, I could hear the simple questions being asked of every student donor, and one question caught my ear, “have you ever fainted?” Of course I had had only one incident, but by the time I was seated for the “interview,” and the question asked, I bravely but oddly said no, then landed on the floor. I was not asked to return. My short life as a donor had a terrible track record. I pretty much gave up the idea, until a synagogue was sponsoring a blood drive, and surely an incident (really two) as a youth could not linger all the way into mid adult life, so I bravely volunteered, and wasn’t asked if I ever fainted. While on the bed giving blood, I left earth again. After being called back, what could be more refreshing than some hot chicken soup? Waiter, there’s a head in my soup!
Years ago, while exploring the writing life in Bowling Green, Ohio, I had a tooth extracted. The shock of losing an important body part was quite stressful, so I closed the door of our bedroom and just tried to accept the bloody hole in my mouth. I was quite good in the dentist’s office, with all of the right sedatives to dull the pain. My wonderful wife suggested as a pick me up, let’s go out for dinner. These were the pre-tofu days, when we were still licking our lips over baby back ribs. It was a wonderful evening, and the entire restaurant was doing great business on a Friday night. My wife decided to freshen up in the ladies’ room, and when she returned, our entire table had been cleaned of all unfinished dishes and drinks, as I had, Oh No, landed face down in the baby backs. Obviously, I was the town drunk, so management cleaned up the table, and me, and had propped me up against a bench near the exit door. The waitress was all smiles, and said our table had been “taken care of.” My wife didn’t quite know what had happened, but realized I had once again, aimed for the chicken soup, this time, a slower reaction to the surgical procedure of the afternoon.
So it’s like this, pretty much all my life, yet whenever it happens, I hardly know what’s going on, but others are certainly responding around the maelstrom. I’ve had other moments. I still recall getting an inoculation in a doctor’s office in Milwaukee years, even decades ago, and after the injection, the doctor left and said I could wait a few moments if I wanted to. He left, and later nurses found me on the floor, looking for soup I guess. They propped me up, and then left the room knowing I was okay; a few minutes later, they found me slumped all the way over in my chair. This happened years before the synagogue blood bank night. I admit I do get a little light headed when checking out the sales on the lowest shelf, and sometimes coming out of long yoga positions with my head way below my heart, if I come up to fast, well, I just look for a close wall.
But last Wednesday night I’ll admit was a doozy. But probably not any more of a scare for the hospital than when I went in, years ago, for a simple colonoscopy. After what I thought was a perfectly safe “black out” sleep, I was awakened by the attending physician who said, “We thought we lost you!” I calmly remarked “where did I go?” The procedure hadn’t even started, as I was given a good dose of Demerol. Now I wear a necklace with the good words, “no Demerol.” I had crashed so to speak, but in medical terms, I “experienced” an a systole. Flat liner. I’m not sure how long I was flat lined, but I still have some consciousness, so it couldn’t have been too long, right? Reaction to Demerol, right? But the attending doc might want to consider the old vaso vagal syndrome. The next time I went in for the same test five years later, the same doc said we’re going to do something different today. I actually got a little medicine that increased my heart rate, so I wouldn’t “drop” again into no no land. Things went swimmingly that time.
So, after my prostate was adjusted accordingly with a 70% reduction, I assumed we were all on green lights, but without anyone advising me otherwise, I did go all clammy, I did start flapping my arms, I did roll a few eyes, and then another black out, without soup. If this syndrome of mine should continue, I have been offered a tip-top table to experiment on, where the cardiologist places me on a surfing board completely horizontal, then vertical, then horizontal. Cool, kind of like the Gravitron ride at the circus where the drum is spinning so fast, the floor drops out from everyone’s feet. Then the skin sort of does the Mach 1 thing of flapping in the wind. Very cool. I might have to try it if this syndrome persists, but usually this occurs when I notice blood pools coagulating.
P.S. The pee is flowing like never before, at least in recent memory. The BPH or benign prostatic hyperplasia is pretty much gone. The surgical procedure, TURP or Transurethral (yep, that’s up the penis) Resection (yes, a creative word for removing organ matter) of the Prostate went very well. I didn’t stay awake to consult on this one. Before, the “stream” was like a garden hose after the water was turned off. Now, the stream is something like a red fire hose, and it feels like it, too. Strange how one can laugh while doing something so human.
Okay, enough of this. Next time will be visiting on something much more civilized.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Stinging Jellyfish Attack New York City Triathletes
Stinging Jellyfish Attack New York City Triathletes
Though it reads like a seedy headline from the National Enquirer, this time, the truth was floating and bobbing in the warm waters of the Hudson River on July 20 for the annual New York City “Olympic Distance” Triathlon. This year I arrived much earlier for the swim start, and was much less panicked due to the efforts of my niece who also raced on Sunday. Looking out onto the river, men in my group leaned over the edge and noticed the bobbing pink-red lion’s mane jellyfish, and said with great confidence, one of the wise swimmers said, “Oh those guys, they won’t sting. You believe me right?”
I wanted to. I really wanted to, as I still have some residual trauma from a man-o-war sting operation off the coast of Miami when I was a kid. The pain was so intense, so shocking, that I was sure I’d been chunked in two by a shark. But the overconfident triathlete was wrong this time. They did sting. And they stung hundreds of the swimmers, but luckily, I did not irritate any of the jellyfish, and had actually forgotten them as I was trying hard to keep up with my own swim strokes as well as swinging arms and legs to my right, my left, my rear, my feet, and way too close for proper lane etiquette. The early swimmers (I started at 5:59 a.m.) had a stronger current, so I recorded a WR of 23:57 though in the pool where I train, the same swim sans jellyfish would have taken 45 minutes minimum.
Unfortunately, one triathlete, from Buenos Aires, was pulled unconscious from the Hudson. An initial autopsy was inconclusive, but many of the triathletes wondered if he was stung multiple times, or had an allergic reaction, or simply was overheated in his wet suit waiting for his start time. I’d never heard of deaths in triathlons, but of course they occur in longer leg races, with one dying earlier in the year in the New York City marathon trials for the Olympics. Surprisingly, five others have died in triathlons this year, all in the water. Oddly, I did not know any of this was happening until I was visiting with my step-nephew who was also in the race.
The transition area (one of two) had about 1500 look alike bikes, so we had to practice what our area would look like when gasping for air with half a wet suit clinging to the bottom half. In Transition One, the trick is to get the wet suit off, the helmet on, the shoes on with or without socks, and run with bike until a nice volunteer says you can mount for the ride. Try doing that when you are out of breath. Races are often lost in the transition area, and of course, I was a bit slow, but once out on the West End Highway, I started to remember the climbs and descents (nothing like the Tour de France, of course, but a climb for an old guy is still a climb). My niece and I concluded that the Department of Transportation had actually altered the terrain since last year, and even the year before as it was much hillier than either of us remembered. But I sense the road was just the same, our memory just a bit poorer as we are placed into older and older age groups. This year, I wasn’t as terrified descending one of the long climbs at 35 mph, but I still wondered about what I would do if I hit an unidentified object and began to sail away from my bike. But that didn’t happen, so we both pushed as hard as we could through the route, and finally came back to our transition area (again!) to dismount, and get ready for the run to Central Park.
This was the most grueling part of the race, as who wants to run their best time after a long swim and an even longer bike ride, but the stakes were high, as I was trying just to match my time from last year, or improve by a second or two. Just as with the bike ride, the route seemed longer than last year, but I sense it was just fatigue and exhaustion setting in, and of course, the temperature was in the mid 80’s for most of the triathletes. A far too cheery volunteer greeted us at mile 3 and said this was “his hill” and it felt much more of a demanding grade than last year, but I knew that if I could get to the north end of Central Park, then most of the remaining kilometers would be a descent, but that also was a fuzzy memory. Someone passed by me (actually hundreds passed by me on their way to the finish), a young woman who saw my Wisconsin triathlete outfit, and said she was from Wauwatosa, a suburb of Milwaukee. How often does that happen?
But the person that kept me on pace faster than maybe last year was actually my niece who started about 15 minutes after my start, and our agreed upon signal was hearing “Hey Uncle De I’m right behind you.” Then we would sprint into the finish line together as champions. So when the flags started appearing, and the well wishers’ whoops got louder and louder, and I heard no “Uncle De…,” I decided I had about 2 minutes of sprint air left, so I picked up my pace from a fast jog and decided to try and pass a few ahead of me. What a thrill that was, as I was usually the person who heard “passing on your right” most of the route. It’s quite amazing what a race like this can do. I ran across the finish line a little better than last year, and was greeted with a medallion (everybody gets one), an icy cold towel, and a commemorative ball cap and the best cold bottle of iced water I’ve ever tasted. What a great way to see 31.93 miles of New York City in three hours, thirteen minutes and 50 seconds!?
Though it reads like a seedy headline from the National Enquirer, this time, the truth was floating and bobbing in the warm waters of the Hudson River on July 20 for the annual New York City “Olympic Distance” Triathlon. This year I arrived much earlier for the swim start, and was much less panicked due to the efforts of my niece who also raced on Sunday. Looking out onto the river, men in my group leaned over the edge and noticed the bobbing pink-red lion’s mane jellyfish, and said with great confidence, one of the wise swimmers said, “Oh those guys, they won’t sting. You believe me right?”
I wanted to. I really wanted to, as I still have some residual trauma from a man-o-war sting operation off the coast of Miami when I was a kid. The pain was so intense, so shocking, that I was sure I’d been chunked in two by a shark. But the overconfident triathlete was wrong this time. They did sting. And they stung hundreds of the swimmers, but luckily, I did not irritate any of the jellyfish, and had actually forgotten them as I was trying hard to keep up with my own swim strokes as well as swinging arms and legs to my right, my left, my rear, my feet, and way too close for proper lane etiquette. The early swimmers (I started at 5:59 a.m.) had a stronger current, so I recorded a WR of 23:57 though in the pool where I train, the same swim sans jellyfish would have taken 45 minutes minimum.
Unfortunately, one triathlete, from Buenos Aires, was pulled unconscious from the Hudson. An initial autopsy was inconclusive, but many of the triathletes wondered if he was stung multiple times, or had an allergic reaction, or simply was overheated in his wet suit waiting for his start time. I’d never heard of deaths in triathlons, but of course they occur in longer leg races, with one dying earlier in the year in the New York City marathon trials for the Olympics. Surprisingly, five others have died in triathlons this year, all in the water. Oddly, I did not know any of this was happening until I was visiting with my step-nephew who was also in the race.
The transition area (one of two) had about 1500 look alike bikes, so we had to practice what our area would look like when gasping for air with half a wet suit clinging to the bottom half. In Transition One, the trick is to get the wet suit off, the helmet on, the shoes on with or without socks, and run with bike until a nice volunteer says you can mount for the ride. Try doing that when you are out of breath. Races are often lost in the transition area, and of course, I was a bit slow, but once out on the West End Highway, I started to remember the climbs and descents (nothing like the Tour de France, of course, but a climb for an old guy is still a climb). My niece and I concluded that the Department of Transportation had actually altered the terrain since last year, and even the year before as it was much hillier than either of us remembered. But I sense the road was just the same, our memory just a bit poorer as we are placed into older and older age groups. This year, I wasn’t as terrified descending one of the long climbs at 35 mph, but I still wondered about what I would do if I hit an unidentified object and began to sail away from my bike. But that didn’t happen, so we both pushed as hard as we could through the route, and finally came back to our transition area (again!) to dismount, and get ready for the run to Central Park.
This was the most grueling part of the race, as who wants to run their best time after a long swim and an even longer bike ride, but the stakes were high, as I was trying just to match my time from last year, or improve by a second or two. Just as with the bike ride, the route seemed longer than last year, but I sense it was just fatigue and exhaustion setting in, and of course, the temperature was in the mid 80’s for most of the triathletes. A far too cheery volunteer greeted us at mile 3 and said this was “his hill” and it felt much more of a demanding grade than last year, but I knew that if I could get to the north end of Central Park, then most of the remaining kilometers would be a descent, but that also was a fuzzy memory. Someone passed by me (actually hundreds passed by me on their way to the finish), a young woman who saw my Wisconsin triathlete outfit, and said she was from Wauwatosa, a suburb of Milwaukee. How often does that happen?
But the person that kept me on pace faster than maybe last year was actually my niece who started about 15 minutes after my start, and our agreed upon signal was hearing “Hey Uncle De I’m right behind you.” Then we would sprint into the finish line together as champions. So when the flags started appearing, and the well wishers’ whoops got louder and louder, and I heard no “Uncle De…,” I decided I had about 2 minutes of sprint air left, so I picked up my pace from a fast jog and decided to try and pass a few ahead of me. What a thrill that was, as I was usually the person who heard “passing on your right” most of the route. It’s quite amazing what a race like this can do. I ran across the finish line a little better than last year, and was greeted with a medallion (everybody gets one), an icy cold towel, and a commemorative ball cap and the best cold bottle of iced water I’ve ever tasted. What a great way to see 31.93 miles of New York City in three hours, thirteen minutes and 50 seconds!?
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