Fit2Fat2Fit Blog: September 9, 2014

One eye opened. The clock stared back at me and screamed 3:50. It was five freaking minutes before my alarm went off. Ugh! I debated turning it off. Sleep is always the easy path. My hand slipped from beneath the covers to reset the alarm…. no. No, I wasn’t going back to sleep. My feet swung around quickly and hit the floor. Something inspired me. Something.

People don’t quite understand how tough Paul Lacoste’s bootcamp is until they do it. It’s a very strenuous test of your physical and mental skills. You keep moving. You push yourself. And you sweat profusely.

1604802_10154222893215721_4618957819081870395_nThis morning’s workout on the football field was illuminated by the Harvest Moon. A light fog crept across the fake grass ask we did everything from running W-drills, pushups, core work, arm mechanics and sprints. The last five minutes are always the hardest. At that point, I am ready to quit.

But I didn’t. Just like I didn’t sleep in. And you want to know why?

I emceed a Biggest Loser 2 Awards Ceremony at Pearl River Resort. They are proactively helping their employees lose weight. Two years ago, 50% of their employees had diabetes. Yesterday, the group had lost over 5,000 lbs. and has lost 9,000 total. That’s amazing. And for the company it not only makes sense, it makes good dollars and cents. It was awesome seeing the winners come up and get reward checks. That’s a pretty tasty carrot dangled out in front of you.

On yesterday’s radio show, I had a lady who started a camp to help kids lose weight. The numbers of obese children in Mississippi are staggering. When kids have heart disease, something has gone off the rails.

I have complete empathy for people who struggle with weight. I gained and lost 50 pounds in a year. Mississippi has been once again named as the fattest state in the nation. But I am determined not to be a statistic. And I am trying to set a good example for my children.

That’s why my feet hit the floor this morning.

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Ode to Pip

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Pip has been part of our lives for two years now. Given a nearly impossible task of filling a Banjo-shaped hole in our hearts, she has done an excellent job. No, Pip isn’t Banjo — while she’s the same breed, she is her own dog. In fact, there is only one Border Terrier anything like her in this world, and that would be her mother Twinkie.

Pip rules Pip’s world and we’re just along for the ride.

She barks too loud. Hates the dog next door. She steals socks and passes gas. Her Alpha-dog tendencies cause her to mother my boys and sit on our heads. She thinks her name is “Treat,” because that’s the only word that will get her to come inside. She’s bullheaded, ornery, bossy and strong-willed.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

She was born at almost the precise moment Banjo died. I think his soul tried to enter her body. She would have nothing to do with it. She walked into our house at seven weeks and attacked my sons’ shoes and legs. Not much has changed in two years.

Pip is Amy’s dog. If Amy is asleep, Pip is cuddled next to her. Good dog. You figured out who to suck up to. I am a source of entertainment and food. Like I said before, it’s Pip’s world after all.

I want to thank Jim Harvey for introducing this strange little pixie into our lives. Jim owns the Blue Rock kennels where Pip came from. He graciously allowed her to enter our hearts.

She came from a very famous litter. Her brother “The Dude,” is a champion. And Pip is a queen.

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Why I take running pictures.

People always ask me, “How can you take pictures and run?”

10603510_10154600365950721_3966436821026895670_nA picture takes about 30 seconds for me to frame and take. I lift my iPhone and hit the button. If I take, say, six pictures, that’s not much time out of a two-hour run.

I also get asked, “Why do you take pictures while you run?”

Well, I am very lucky to run in some beautiful places. My normal Saturday route has trees, water and sunrises. Good stuff. Because sometimes that good stuff is hard to see while I’m running. I’m usually focused on little stuff like not dying.

Which I felt like doing today.

It was brutal. The humidity and ill-fitting shoes made it more challenging than normal. I felt like death’s step-brother had slapped me with a wet towel..

But I was running along Mobile Bay. The light from the rising sun bathed the oaks and docks with a spectacular warm glow. The water almost looked blue. Almost. My pictures from this morning are postcards from paradise — just without the sweat, burning lungs, sore toes and exhaustion.

I hope you enjoy the photos half as much as I do taking them.  You can see them on Instagram at marshallramsey.

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I challenged fear and it cried “Uncle.” I was living.

1557465_10154598060330721_8711088685036061990_nThe boat quickly tipped over and filled with water. A drag-chain wrapped around my leg. The current shot me past the overturned boat. My ankle, very much attached to the chain, nearly snapped off. Cold water surged over my face. I, thanks to a strong core, managed to sit up in the current and take a breath. And then, like Houdini, I freed myself and survived. That was three years ago. I have had a complicated relationship with water since.

Yesterday I sat out in the middle of Mobile Bay on a kayak. Yes, I had a life preserver on. But fear still caused my stomach to bob up and down like the swells ahead of me. I shoved off, paddled and headed out to sea. My fears got smaller like the shoreline behind me.

As I was paddling around the bay, I soaked in the beauty of the day. I saw pelicans, gulls, fish, boats and towering cumulous clouds. I heard water slapping against the hull. I got a great workout and all five senses were tickled by the bay.

I challenged fear and it cried “Uncle.” I was living.

It was a powerful metaphor for life (what isn’t?). It’s how I need to live everyday. The shore was safe. It was my comfort zone. But that’s not where adventure was. I had to slip the surly bonds of fear.

An hour later, I guided my kayak back to shore. I had punched fear in the gut. And I was better off for it.

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Outrunning victimhood

10540856_10154592233295721_8805675365841737911_nWent to bed late. Got up early. Pounded out 4.3 miles. And even with a lack of sleep, my mind was racing as I ran. What a weird couple of weeks it has been. There’s so much pain in the world. Worry wrapped around me like the humidity.

My heart beat rapidly as I slogged up a hill. My lungs and legs burned. My mind did, too.

I started thinking about my problems. Yes, I have problems. Don’t share them here — because you have your own and frankly, mine probably aren’t that interesting. I know, I know — people like to hear other people’s dirty laundry. And people like to complain. I know I do. I whined myself through some pretty good times over the past 46 years. But now I’d rather put my energy into solving my challenges instead of whining.

I kept running. A shooting star blazed across the sky. A celestial being burned to death. “Sucks for it,” I thought.

Whining. I thought about how we’ve become a nation of victims. You hear it on talk radio, cable TV, in newspaper columns, on social media, in cartoons and around the water-cooler. I know your mind automatically goes to someone else when I say that, but I mean all of us. Me, included! And both sides of the political aisle cater to victimhood. “It’s not fair!” has almost replaced “In God We Trust” on our currency. Then thought of my grandparent’s generation. They had the Great Depression and World War II. I know they probably felt sorry for themselves at times, too. But they couldn’t for long. They’d starve or worse. You see, the Germans and the Japanese didn’t want a group hug.

Sweat trickled down my forehead and into my eye. Running in August in Mississippi is always like running through warm syrup.

I thought back over the past few years. I’ve had a lot of blessings. And I’ve had a lot of bad stuff happen. And I’m embarrassed to admit I hosted a few pity parties along the way. I honestly thought I was a victim. But if I step back and honestly take personal responsibility for my life, I realize I played a big part in what happened. I should have learned from it instead of complaining. I should have taken positive action and maybe it wouldn’t have happened in the first place. But I didn’t. Now, I am embracing change. I will succeed.

But like my running, that takes discipline, a plan and effort. And that’s harder than complaining.

This weekend I am reading Coach Bill Courtney’s (from the documentary Undefeated) book Against the Grain. It has already fed me with plenty of food for thought. Nourishing food. Food for the soul. Soul food that I need to be a better father, employee, entrepreneur, husband and friend.

I got to mile 4.3, walked in the door and lovingly greeted my family. I leaned into my life and started my day. It was time to make today special.

And so far, it has been awesome.

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My cancer story

melanoma-abcd

Got a note from Nancy on Tuesday. Her sister-in-law’s melanoma has come back. She wrote, “Within a few days, she got a diagnosis that none of us wanted to hear. The melanoma was back. It had spread to her brain and lungs. The prognosis is very grim.”

I caught my breath. And said a long prayer for her sister-in-law. And her whole family.

It’s the third note like that I’ve received in as many weeks.

There but for the grace of God go I.

Yes, I am a melanoma survivor. But my survival isn’t’ a story of great struggle. It’s one of early detection. I’d be dead if I hadn’t been persistent and taken control of my own medical care.

Instead, I’ve been given 13 more years of life. Thirteen lucky years.

In 1999, I attended a cartoonist convention. A fellow cartoonist had been diagnosed with melanoma. As I spoke to him, I looked at the moles on my arm and felt a knot in my stomach. It had been at least six years since I had been screened. And as far as I knew, melanoma was an Italian lounge singer.

So I did what most people do: I picked a dermatologist from the phone book (remember those?).

The doc was a nice enough man. But I could see his eyes glaze over when he looked at the moles on my back. It was like he was staring at the stars in the sky. I knew he wasn’t focusing on just one.
So I paid my $45 (it was 1999) and moved on.

But I still had the knot in my stomach.

I then went to my primary care doctor. He saw one that looked a little weird (a scientific term) and did a punch biopsy. A punch biopsy is where a small part of the mole is “punched” out and studied under a microscope. The only way a pathologist can know a mole is a melanoma is when it is looked at his way. The pathology report came back and said my mole was dysplastic. I had NO idea what dysplastic was and thought it was like “paper or dysplastic.” But what it really meant was that some of the cells were changing. On a seriousness scale of 1 to 10, it was a 6.

I still had the knot in my stomach.

So I went to another dermatologist. He didn’t see anything that really worried him but said if I wanted anything off, I could go see a plastic surgeon. He handed me his card and I filed it away.

I still had the knot in my stomach.

Two months later, my wife told me, “Go see the plastic surgeon. Now” And I did. (her footprint is still on my butt.) Dr. Kenneth Barraza took one look at my back and went ashen. (I want to play poker with him.) “That one has to come off immediately.” It was the mole that had been previously biopsied. He did a minor surgical procedure where he removed the mole and stitched it up. The pathology report came back saying the previously dysplastic mole was now a melanoma in situ. I panicked.

I thought “in situ” meant “by coffin.”

But what it really means is “in place.” It’s 100% curable because the melanoma is still growing outward not downward. A melanoma eventually grows downward like a carrot’s tap root and will punch through the dermis layer of your skin. The deeper the cancer cells go, the tougher your odds are. You don’t want it spreading to your lymphatic system, for example.

I, of course, freaked out. “Skin me,” I said to him. “I want them all off.”

Not practical. Dr. Barraza doesn’t use a potato peeler. But he did start cutting off six to seven of my worst-looking moles every six months. They all came back severely dysplastic. I have dysplastic nevi (mole) syndrome. My odds of a getting a melanoma are higher than the population’s. (and I am a pasty dirty-blonde with blue eyes.)

In 2001, he was removing only two moles. I was on the table and he saw one out of the corner of his eye that didn’t look good to him. He removed it and on April 17, 2001, I got the call. It was the day of the Mississippi Flag Vote and I had been getting hate calls all day long. At 5:30, the phone rang one more time and Dr. Barraza said, “I’m sorry. You have a malignant melanoma.”

Oh #$%.

Two days later, I was in Baptist Hospital for major surgery. I had a Sentinel Node Biopsy and a good chunk of my back removed. Eight more moles were removed and two lymph nodes (the sentinel nodes) were excised. I was shot with radio active dye and left with a six-inch scar on my back.

But I was alive.

The good news was that they had gotten it all and it wasn’t that deep. Because it was caught early, my chances of 5-year survival were in the 90 percentile range. That’s better than driving in Atlanta. Of course, I wanted to live longer than five years. I had a two-year-old.

My life was changed forever.

If a mole is asymmetrical, has a irregular border, is black, itches, bleeds, is bigger than a pencil eraser, please don’t hesitate to get your doctor to look at it. Find a free screening. Look up a dermatologist. If you have a knot in your stomach, please listen to your gut. And learn about your situation. Being able to carry on a conversation with your doctor is so important. They aren’t Gods. They are people. Busy people. You have to be able to communicate with them. Your life depends on it.

My scar has faded. I’ve had 75 moles removed, three melanomas (two in-situs) and about 60 dysplastic nevi. I’m really not sure why I am still here. But I am. And my mission is to help at least one other have opportunity for life that I was given.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to say a prayer for Nancy’s sister-in-law. And that someone will find a cure for this monster soon.

UPDATE: Nancy Jordan (who wrote the note) died yesterday in a terrible car wreck on Highway 49. My prayers go out to her family, friends and students. Life is too damn cruel sometimes. Hang on to those you love and don’t take anything for granted.

 

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Fit2Fat2Fit Blog: September 4, 2014

Fried-Chicken-LegI am on acid.

Lactic acid that is.

You know, the byproduct of anaerobic exercise. The stuff that makes your muscles hurt like a son of a biscuit eater after you exercise. Poke me in the tit and I will fall to the ground. Make me sit up and I’ll cry. My leg cramped at 3 a.m. I kicked the dog off the bed and across the room.

Welcome back to training Marshall. And P.S. You are getting old.

But misery loves company — and I had plenty of it this morning. People were walking like they had a hot poker poked up the arse. And did I mention today was leg day? I can’t convey the joy I felt about that.

The weight room brought leg and shoulder exercises. Squats, upright rows, leg machines, etc. I was glad we started there. Sure I got a good workout but I also had the opportunity to stretch more.

I never stretch enough. What is it about stretching that makes us want to skip it? A loose muscle is a happy muscle.

Then we went out on the field (and into the syrupy humidity).

Ever push a board across a football field? Well I have and I did it again this morning. Added some squats and calf raises, too. (I should have calves for days before this whole thing is over.) And remember the leg that cramped last night? Well it said a hardy “#$% you,” to me as I was doing those calf raises.

Through the four stations, we ran the Gauntlet (running up and down the stairs of the stadium), did more leg exercises with Coach Clark. We did football-style drills where we backpedaled, too. It was legapalooza.

Like I said, it was leg day.

It’s the end of week one. My line, Line 2, has gelled. We have good, hardworking athletes who push hard and motivate. We also know when to joke and when to be serious. I expect the next 11 weeks to be really fun. Really.

Just don’t poke me in the tit.

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The Dare: How one professor looked me in the eye and made me better

1609719_10154513536340721_800321161670756330_nI lugged my book bag up to the second floor of the University of Tennessee’s Humanities Building on that beautiful spring day. It was the last semester of my senior year and I had senioritis big time. The sky was blue and the dogwoods were bursting like popcorn across Knoxville. My speech professor had gray hair and commanded the very tan and drab classroom with authority. She walked willfully as she handed out graded exams. It was our first grade of the class — I knew I had done well. She finally got around to me and placed my paper on my desk. I looked down at my paper and saw a very prominent “95%.” YES!!!!

But my joy popped like a balloon when Dr. Faye Julian looked me square in the eye and said, “You can do better than that.”

“Um, yes, ma’am.”

I guess I could have argued, “WHAT? It’s an A…” But I didn’t. At that moment, the best professor I’ve ever had lit a fire in me. I responded to her challenge. I did better.

See, Dr. Julian believed in my talent. She knew I what I was capable of and challenged me to achieve it. And I rose to her dare.

How many people are like that in your life? How many people expect your very best? And an even better question is this: Are you like Dr. Julian? Do you bring out the best in other people?

I drew Dr. Julian the other day. She’s in a really neat print I did for UT’s College of Communication & Information. You see, Dr. Julian went on to become its Dean before she retired. And I look forward to seeing her again soon.

She saw me speak a few years ago and agreed that I had done better. I, of course, asked her if I was her favorite student. She smiled impishly and said, “Nah. Peyton Manning was my favorite.”

I laughed and wondered, “Did she challenge him to do better, too?”

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Ramsey Roots

photo-copy-23My cousin Dave did some amazing genealogy work on the Ramsey family. It’s an intriguing read because we never really know much about our families except for a generation or two. It’s like a whole world has been opened up to me. I’m sitting here smugly knowing that I had a great great great grandfather named Benjamin Franklin Ramsey.

How cool is that? Benjamin Franklin Ramsey.

Well, not really that cool at all. But it’s amazing for me to see all these names in front of me. And I wonder. I wonder what ol’ BF Ramsey was like? Did he look like me? Was he artistic. I now know his name. And his wife’s name. But I really don’t know much more than that he lived and died.

My great great grandfather on my dad’s side was J.C. Eckles. I do know about him thanks to his memoirs. J.C. left his mark on Mississippi after the Civil War (and during it, but that’s another story.) He was a Methodist Circuit Rider in North Mississippi and co-found Wood College in Mathiston. He had two daughters, one who was my very talented great grandmother. But he also had a son. A son that I didn’t know about until I saw his grave.

J.C. Eckles, Jr. died at the age of 21 of appendicitis.

According to my dad, he was a very talented and popular young man. He went to college and died on a baseball field from an attack of appendicitis. All that talent. All that potential. Gone. My dad has my great grandmother’s locket. Inside of it is John Charles’ picture. I gasped when I saw it.

My oldest son strongly favors him.

In 150 years, maybe one of my decedents will look back and find my name. I wonder what he will discover about me. Will he find any trace of my existence on earth beyond my name? Probably not. But it makes me wonder what he’ll think about ol’ TM Ramsey.

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Fit2Fat2Fit Blog: September 3, 2014

If you’re not early, you’re late.

Show up at 5 a.m. and Paul Lacoste will tell you to go home. From 5 a.m. until 6 a.m., you’re his. You turn yourself over to his training program and his coaches. He sets up the exercise. You do them. You go home tired.

Run1Today was my second day of training and I’m sore. In fact, you could poke me in the chest and I’d fold like a cheap tent. My ancient muscles have tiny rips in them and now are healing — which, of course, is how you get stronger. My line, Line 2, started in the weight room. My partner John is a great athlete and pushes me (probably more than I push him). We did our two sets of ten, working on arms and shoulders. There was no easing up today. There is no easy day.

Outside, we kept moving. The whole idea of the training is to keep your heart rate elevated for the whole hour. For four stations, my legs kept me on the move. (And my arms as I bear-crawled through 20-yards worth of cones) We ended with a 200-yard sprint and a 40-yard backwards walk. Then a cool-down stretch.

I’m going to approach the next 12-weeks this way: I will make the most of every exercise. I will push myself as hard as I possibly can. And I will help and encourage my teammates when I see they need it.

Sure, you can show up, go through the motions and walk off the field with a little in the tank. But if you throw yourself into each exercise, you will see huge results.

Show up. Bust your butt. Reap the rewards.

What a great metaphor for life.

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