Friday Free-For-All

Good morning! I’m so glad it is Friday! How about you?

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CARTOON: Lance

The USADA report on Lance Armstrong’s doping activity is damning. Armstrong, who dominated cycling, denies the report and claims it is a witch hunt.  Let’s be honest, his legacy will have a hard time overcoming the mountain of evidence that has been released. But even if he did dope during the Tour de France, the hope he provided so many cancer survivors is very real. As a person who has had cancer, I’ll always be grateful for the encouragement his cancer story has provided.

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The Legend of Jimmy Bob’s Talents

“Ex-lax, come here! Come here, Ex-lax.”

Not everyone would name their dog Ex-lax. But Jimmy Bob Delray wasn’t everyone. Far from it. His ex-wife Becky Lou called him, “the most difficult man on the planet earth.” It was probably an exaggeration. Becky Lou was a drama queen afterall.

Jimmy Bob broke off a piece of his beef jerky and gave it to Ex-lax. The brown, scruffy terrier cocked his head as if wondering when he would get another piece of the prefabricated meat treat. “Not unless you fetch me a beer.” Ex-lax turned and walked over to the couch. He jumped up on it and curled up and went to sleep.  Even a dog named after a laxative had to have some pride.

Jimmy Bob Delray was a renaissance man.  Too busy to work, he dabbled in the finer things in life. He could play a mean guitar and write incredible music. He was an excellent acrylic and watercolor painter. He spoke three languages and used to read voraciously. His poetry was the finest around.  There was a bright, creative light that burned in his heart. But like the servant who buried his talents, Jimmy didn’t allow anyone else to see what was inside of him.  Somewhere along the way, though, that creative light and had burned out.

His neighbors thought Jimmy Bob was a loser.  Jimmy Bob could care less what his neighbors thought. He liked his beer. And he loved his dog.

Jimmy Bob once went to a fancy school for the arts in New York. He was, what his teachers called, a child prodigy.  But something went wrong along the way.  Like a massive hungry boa constrictor choking its prey, fear slithered into Jimmy Bob’s brain and asphyxiated his dreams.  When he was 18, he dropped out and lived on the streets. He’d play guitar street corner and make enough to survive.  The New York winters were cold. Jimmy Bob turning his back on his talent was even colder.

So Jimmy Bob came home.  He packed his guitar, his few remaining things and bought a bus ticket to Mississippi Delta.  When he arrived in the town of Greenwood, he picked up a copy of The Greenwood Commonwealth newspaper and saw an add for an old hunting trailer.  He bought it and leased a few acres of land.  Ex-lax was a stray Jimmy Bob found running along Highway 49 one fateful Tuesday afternoon.  He met Becky Lou while working at the convenience store.  Becky Lou saw something in Jimmy Bob and Jimmy Bob loved the plump cashier from Belzoni. But whatever Becky Lou saw in Jimmy Bob, Jimmy Bob wasn’t giving up enough of it to her.  He came in from the bar one night and found trailer empty except for Ex-lax and his bowl.

But like the Honeybadger, Jimmy Bob didn’t care.

Jimmy Bob rubbed his gray whiskers on his chin. He graying way too early for a man of his age.  He stumbled over to the fridge to snag a mid-morning beer.

He turned around to see an old man wearing white sitting on the couch next to Ex-lax. “Fine dog you have here, son.”

Jimmy Bob scrambled for the kitchen drawer to get his pistol.

“No need for guns, boy. I mean you no harm.”

“Who are you?”

“Oh, you can say, ‘a friend’ if you’d like.”

“I don’t like.”

“Jimmy Bob, I’m here to see what you’ve done with the talents I’ve given you.”

Jimmy Bob’s suspicion that a crazy guy was in his trailer was burning red hot in his mind.  “Who are you again?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. Or what I am.  What matters is what you’re doing with your talents.”

“Becky Lou sent you.  She wants more alimony.”

“Becky Lou,” the man sighed, “wanted what everyone wants. She wants you to live up to your potential.”

Ex-lax crawled up into the old man’s lap. The old man pulled a pack of bones out of his robe’s pocket and fed the little dog.

The old man then pulled a dusty book out of his other pocket and began to read.

“But his master answered, ‘Evil and lazy slave! So you knew that I harvest where I didn’t sow and gather where I didn’t scatter? 27 Then you should have deposited my money with the bankers, and on my return I would have received my money back with interest! 28 Therefore take the talent from him and give it to the one who has ten. 29 For the one who has will be given more, and he will have more than enough. But the one who does not have, even what he has will be taken from him. 30 And throw that worthless slave into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth’”

“Gnashing of teeth?  Kind of harsh isn’t it?”

The old man looked at Jimmy Bob and said, ” Not using your talent is a pretty harsh, too, son. And a sin.  The Parable of the Talents makes that pretty clear.  You have been given incredible gifts. Your mind is as fertile as the Delta soil. But all that grown on it are weeds.  Are you afraid of success? Of failure? Because whatever you’re afraid of, it is choking your life.”

Billy Bob opened the beer and took a long swig. Talking to some nut in a trailer wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time. “Um, ok. I get it. Now you can stay and watch the Mississippi State game or toodle on now.”

The old man’s face turned red with anger. He clapped his hands and the sky around the trailer went pitch black.  Lightning struck the oak trees that shaded the trailer, causing luminescent fireballs to light the inside of the room.  “Don’t be ungrateful of your gifts, son.”

Jimmy Bob Delray took a look at the can of beer in his hand and poured it out on the green shag carpet. “OK, you have my attention.”

The old man set Ex-lax to the side of the couch and stood up. He walked over to Jimmy Bob and put his hands on his shoulders.  Jimmy Bob felt a warmth that was indescribable. “Use your art for good, Jimmy Bob. Give others what they need and you will be given what you need.”

Jimmy Bob, feeling peace he had not felt in his 44 years, looked at the strange old man and said all he could say, “Yes, sir.”

The Delta had never seen a more giving artist.  Jimmy Bob lived to give. He donated paintings to the local library. He played at the local nursing homes. He painted a mural on the side of a building in downtown Greenwood.  He read his poetry at the local diner and even was published in the statewide literary magazine. His dog Ex-lax became a local celebrity when he had a small part in a movie being filmed in town.  Jimmy Bob turned his heart inside out and gave and gave and gave.

One day, Jimmy Bob was walking back up to his trailer when he noticed the old man was back on his porch.  “Hello there, old man. Any more parlor tricks today?”  Ex-lax was sitting in the old man’s lap wagging his tail.

The old man smiled and said to Jimmy Bob, “Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful in a few things. I will put you in charge of many things. Enter into the joy of your master.”

Jimmy Bob and the old man laughed as Ex-lax barked loud enough to be heard in Jackson.

And on that hot Delta day, a Mississippi legend was born.

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Fit-to-Fat-to-Fit Blog: Big goals

I perform better with a deadline. I achieve more when I have too much to do. I accomplish great things when I have an impossible goal set for me. I respond to a challenge.  I use “I” frequently to start a sentence.

I like big goals. And big goals seem to like me.

Otherwise I flounder.  I procrastinate. I do just enough to get by.  Success is driven by me trying to achieve the impossible.  The taskmaster of a written goal keeps me between the buoys.

Shoot for the sun. Aim for the Moon. Reach for the stars. Rise above the clouds. Set an audacious goal. And then break it into smaller, reasonable goals.

Fitness goals I’ve had in the past: A century ride on a bike. Riding all around the state of Vermont on a bike. The Peachtree Road Race (10K). A half marathon. A whole marathon. Losing 45 lbs.

I achieved them all.

Now it is time to set yet another big goal.  I need to raise my training to, as my friend Paul LaCoste says, the next level.

This morning, I ran a quick 4.16 miles and burned 676 calories. I sailed over hills like they weren’t there. My legs and joints felt amazingly well. My heart rate stayed in the 150’s.

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Thursday Free-For-All

Good morning! It’s going to be a great day.

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CARTOON: Bull

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Fit-to-Fat-to-Fit Blog: Marathon?

A strange bug was planted in my head last night: Maybe I should run another marathon.  The Mississippi Blues is coming up on January 5 and I’m at the point where I could train for it.  It’s extremely hilly and would be a stiff challenge for me.

I’m on the fence right now. My achilles tendon on my left foot is sore — I pulled it a little today on my 5.28-mile run.  We’ll see how it feels. I have to run 15 miles this Saturday. That will be my test. If I can do it, I’ll run a whole.  If not, I’ll sign up for the half.

But a whole would be a nice fit-to-fat-to-fit bookend.  The last marathon I ran was October 31, 2010. Then I gained 55 pounds by December 31, 2011.  Now I have lost the 55 pounds.  It seems fitting.

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Eagle’s Flight

As far as he could see, tons of steel hurled down the interstate at 70 mph.  The sheer insanity of it all should have been enough to wake him up.  But Franklin G. Harrison still drank his coffee. Lots of coffee. You can never have enough caffeine when facing Atlanta traffic.

A lady in a Honda Accord cut in front of him, nearly causing a multi-car pileup.  Her Pro-Life bumper sticker obviously did not refer to her driving ability.  He laid on the horn and got a middle finger in return.  “How sweet,” he thought.  A Dodge pickup weaved around two other cars, nearly causing another wreck.  Apparently it was “International Test Your Airbags” day and someone forgot to tell him.

Downtown Atlanta loomed in the distance.  Its buildings twinkled like fingers in a sequined glove.  He looked at the clock in his 2005 Impala.  It was 5:30 a.m.  Real rush hour was about to begin.  He had to get to the airport on time and was thankful the worst part of his drive down I-75 was now behind him. He zoomed past Turner Field and thought of all the amazing Braves games he had seen there.  He had been the clay and Atlanta had been the potters wheel.  His life was shaped by his time in the ATL.  But like Chipper Jones, it now was time to go.  It was time start the next chapter in his family’s life. The traffic reporter on the AM station reported a wreck on Camp Creek Parkway near the airport.  Life makes it tough on those who are trying to change it.

The Great Recession had hit his family with two body blows. First he lost his job his well-paying middle-management job at the big corporation. And then he lost his house.  The idyllic life his family had lived in the suburbs had turned into a big, fat pumpkin when the  economy struck midnight.  It would have been easy to curse everyone from the stockholders to his boss to even his co-workers.  But to him it was ancient history. While the potters wheel had shaped him, getting laid off had been the kiln that had fired the clay. He was harder now. More tough. Unbreakable. The day he had been let go, he walked up Kennesaw Mountain prepared to jump from the highest rock he could find.  He looked out at the Atlanta skyline in distance then at the ground below.  An eagle’s cry woke him out of his trance. He looked up and saw the majestic bird flying overhead.  It represented true freedom. His left foot and then right stepped back from the ledge.

Four thousand Americans had died on that Civil War battlefield. The bloody ground was not going to take another life.

He came down off that mountain and reinvented himself. He took a new approach with his wife. He spent more time with his daughter and son. He gave generously to his community.  They rented a smaller house in a good neighborhood. He cut up his credit cards and worked hard to repay his debtors. He began to write. And write well.

And ad for a politician came on the radio.  His soothing voice promised how he was going to make life so much better.  Franklin laughed. He knew the truth.  That change started with him. Not from Washington, D.C.

He pulled into the outer lot of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.  The giant white birds lifted off nearly continuously, taking their cargo to new beginnings and old reunions.  Franklin adjusted his tie as he grabbed his bag.  A big white bird was about to take him and his family on the next chapter in their lives.  In New York City, a publisher waited with a contract that would change everything. Because Franklin had been pushed out of his comfort zone, he began a successful career as an author.

His greatest failure had led to his greatest success.

His first book was called “Eagle’s Flight” and was dedicated to the raptor who flew over a particular North Georgia mountain. It went on to become a New York Times best seller and a box office smash starring Liam Neeson.

As Franklin G. Harrison sat on the cramped flight to LaGuardia, he pulled out a piece of paper and wrote this note to his former boss:

Dear Jim,

I know your decision was based purely on numbers. You had to make certain cuts to make your bonus. And I wanted you to know there are no hard feelings.  In fact, I wanted to take this moment to thank you. Because you made the decision you did, I’m now well on my way to becoming a bigger success. I could not have done it without you.

Thanks,

Frank

As the Boeing 757 leapt off the fourth runway like an eagle, Franklin looked down on his former life and smiled. The rising sun reflected off the golden dome of the Georgia Capitol and beamed off the glass of his former office building. He smiled, pulled the window shield down and fell into deep sleep.  And he dreamed as an eagle’s flight took him to a new and better life.

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Wednesday Free-For-All

Good morning! Another great day is ahead. What’s up?

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CARTOON: Jackson’s water

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